Quiet Rot

by dellscape

Summary:

They say the stadium is safe. Fenced in. Fortified. Full of silence and burnt coffee.
Abbys's used to the routine-watch rotations, empty stares, and cigarettes that taste like regret. But when a new girl arrives, bruised but biting back, something shifts. She doesn't speak unless she has to. She won't say her name. And Abby can't stop watching her.

In a world where everyone's lost something, maybe curiosity is the last dangerous thing.

But asking questions can get you killed. Or worse-attached.

Erm Idk where im going with this story now im just going where the wind takes them lol

Chapter 1

Chapter one: After Boston

_____________________________________________________________________________

Your legs were growing heavy. Each step sank into cold, wet earth, the rain turning the dirt trail into thick sludge. Mud clung to your boots and soaked the cuffs of your pants. You sniffled, trying not to shiver. The cold had crept in fast—almost as fast as you'd left Boston.

Your brother trudged beside you, his hand tight around the strap of his rifle. Frank was thirty-four, nearly a decade older than you. It was still strange sometimes, knowing you came from the same bitter, absent father.

"Almost there," he muttered.

His voice was rough like your dad's—gritty, tired. He even walked like him: slow and calculated. Frank stood around 5'10, a solid 198 pounds of muscle-lean.

You glanced over. "Do they know we used to be FEDRA?"

Your voice cracked, your throat raw from the cold. Speaking hurts.

Frank looked at you, turning slightly as he walked. "Maybe. I think just the leader... fuck, what's his name? Isaac. Yeah. Just him."

You nodded but didn't say more. Questions stirred, but none felt safe to ask. You bit your chapped bottom lip and kept walking, each breath heavy in your chest.

It had been a long time since you'd been in a real city—since before you and Frank slipped out of Boston and never looked back.

Suddenly, blinding white beams cut through the darkness. A wall of flashlights—at least twenty—aimed directly at you.

You froze.

"STATE YOUR NAMES!" a voice barked from beyond the lights—male, sharp, and not fucking around.

Frank raised his hands slowly. You followed. "Frank and Jo!" he called back.

There was a pause. Rifles lowered. One of the soldiers spoke into a walkie.

"We've got two trespassers at Gate 2. Frank and Jo."

Then a response crackled through the static: "Let 'em in."

The soldiers chained you and your brother's hands behind your backs. You didn't argue, there was no way to fight out of this. Frank didn't seem worried so you figured this is where you were supposed to be. Or you'd hoped this is where you were supposed to be.

As your head remained down as they walked you through the FOB the sweet rain drizzled through your lips. You looked up from a second and the soldier holding your chains pushed it back down.

"Eye's down." His voice was rough.

His hand landed on your head—heavy, steady, and somehow eternal. For a second, it felt like time collapsed under the weight of that touch. Flashbacks hit you in a rush: Boston. Your mother's face. Friends you hadn't seen since the bombings. The screams. The smoke.

You flinched, but his rough palm stayed firm, guiding you forward.

The elevator swallowed you. Metal walls, flickering light, the grinding hum of motion. You hadn't been paying attention to the path you'd taken—again. Your heart jumped. Shit. What if you needed to run?

The elevator stopped with a jolt.

"Leave 'em here," said the same deep voice you'd heard over the walkie.

You looked up slowly.

Isaac.

Older than you expected. Weathered. No-nonsense carved into every line of his face. His stare was unreadable. You stood frozen, dripping and miserable—wet hair plastered to your cheeks, your clothes cold and clinging to your spine. You sniffled, trying to compose yourself.

Frank cleared his throat and spoke first. "Sir—"

Isaac lifted one hand, silencing him without a word. His eyes scanned the both of you.

"FEDRA, huh?"

His tone wasn't accusatory. Just... flat. Like he was filing you into some mental cabinet.

He stepped closer, and you instinctively tensed. Your eyes followed him, uncertain of whether he was going to shake your hand or slit your throat.

Isaac let out a short, humorless chuckle.

"Let me guess... the Fireflies wouldn't take you?"

Frank stepped in fast, cutting him off. "There are no more Fireflies, sir. They're gone."

You blinked at your brother, wide-eyed. He wasn't wrong—but the way he said it...

Isaac's expression didn't change. He studied Frank in silence, and your stomach twisted with it. Acid burned the back of your throat, and you forced it down with a dry swallow.

"I've got Salt Lake people here," Isaac said, his voice low but heavy. "They'd be real unhappy to find out FEDRA rats were walking around inside our walls."

His tone didn't need to rise. It pressed against your chest like a boot heel.

Frank gave a sharp nod. "We understand."

You glanced at him again. What the hell is he doing? The way he spoke—blunt, too familiar—it felt reckless. Disrespectful, even. You tried to read his face, but his eyes stayed locked on Isaac like this was just another checkpoint.

Their conversation melted into background static. Your mind drifted, unwillingly, to Boston. The checkpoint shootings. The food shortages. Children starving. Women crying for water. Soldiers—like you—pulling triggers on crowds— on families.

Would this place be any different?

A voice pierced your thoughts.

"Jo."

You blinked.

"Jo."

You blinked, pulled out of your spiral.

Isaac's eyes didn't flinch. "If you're here, you work."

Your stomach twisted. You nodded, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, sir."

______________________________________________________________________________

Your clothes clung to your skin, heavy and damp. Every step echoed with a sharp squeak from your boots against the floor. You followed Frank in silence, down winding halls toward your assigned quarters. He walked ahead, quick and calculated, eyes always forward.

What was he thinking? He hadn't spoken much since the gate. The two of you had grown distant ever since Boston fell, and whatever was left between you felt more like duty than blood.

Inside the apartment, Frank finally stopped and turned.

"Jo, listen to me." His voice was firm, too much like your father's. "You can't fuck this up. Do you hear me?"

He stepped toward you.

You crossed your arms, nodding. "I hear you," you said, barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, jaw tight. "Jo... We had to travel across the goddamn country because no one else would take us. Do you fucking understand that?"

His voice cracked just slightly as it rose—not out of panic, but out of worn-down frustration. It sent a chill down your back.

FEDRA had hardened Frank in ways you hated seeing. He did things in Boston no one should have had to do. And though he never talked about it, you'd hear him crying in the middle of the night—soft, strangled sounds he always denied.

"I promise, Frank," you said, your throat aching. You just wanted out of your wet clothes.

He looked you over. "Go shower. Meet me in the mess hall in twenty. We'll eat. Don't talk to anyone."

You nodded and grabbed the bag a soldier had handed you earlier—clean clothes, boots, toiletries. Already better than Boston.

You stepped back out and crossed the hall toward the communal showers. You'd done this before, back in the QZ, but it still made you anxious. You'd lost weight since the journey, and your body felt like a shell: weak and aching

Just as you reached the corridor, a tall figure stepped out of an apartment door down the hall.

She was built like a tank—broad shoulders, strong frame, blonde hair pulled back tightly. Her presence made the space feel smaller.

You didn't mean to, but you stumbled a little, eyes catching hers. "Sorry..." you mumbled, dipping your head.

She didn't move. Just folded her arms and stared. "Haven't seen you around."

Her tone wasn't unfriendly. Just... observant. Measured.

You said nothing. Just kept walking, remembering Frank's voice in your head: Don't talk to anyone.

From behind you, you felt her eyes linger, curious.

You shook the nerves out of your head as you reached the showers.

The room echoed faintly with water splashing on tile, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of whispers—or the feeling of eyes. You kept your head down, swallowing your shame as you slipped off your clothes. They peeled away from your skin, stiff with dried sweat, mud, and days of rain. You hung your bag on a nearby hook and stepped toward one of the stalls.

You were caked in filth. Dirt clung under your nails, in the creases of your neck, down the backs of your knees.

You twisted the knob.

The pipe groaned, squeaked—and then water sputtered out. A beat later, it flowed steady and strong.

Rain-fed irrigation system, you thought, recognizing the setup. Smart. Sustainable. But then—

You gasped.

The water was warm.

You stepped back, arms folding over your chest on instinct. It had been so long since warmth touched your body that it felt unnatural. Your breath hitched as steam curled around your face. Slowly, you eased under the spray, turning the knob all the way up. Warmth spread over your bruised ribs and aching shoulders. You closed your eyes and let it soak in.

A voice whispered nearby. You opened your eyes just enough to see a woman—maybe your age—giving you a strange once-over from the next stall over. Her stare wasn't cruel, just... curious. You turned away without a word, pressing your palm to the cold tile.

Eventually, the dirt washed away. You dried off and slipped into the clean clothes from the bag Isaac's soldier had handed you. The fabric smelled sterile—like it had never been touched. The new boots fit snugly, your toes pressing against the firm leather. You ran your fingers through your wet hair, then tied it into a neat ponytail.

Your stomach growled.

You made your way to the mess hall, boots clicking softly on concrete. The scent of food—actual food—hung in the air like something sacred. Your mouth watered.

You spotted Frank sitting alone in the far corner, hunched over a table with two trays of food. His hands were pressed against his mouth, elbows resting on the metal. His eyes tracked you the second you walked in.

The mess hall buzzed with low conversation, clinking utensils, and shuffling boots. Your eyes skimmed the room—and caught on her.

The tall brute from earlier. She stood near the back, a tray in hand, talking to someone in a low voice. Her hair was tied back tightly, jaw square and set. Even from across the room, you noticed the permanent curve of her lips—like a frown was stitched into them. She was striking. Sharp.

You sat down across from Frank.

"Don't talk to her," he said immediately, voice low but biting. "No talking, Jo. Not to anyone. Especially her."

You frowned. "I got it," you muttered.

Your hand reached for the spoon.

Clatter.

Frank smacked it out of your hand with a flat palm, then pointed a finger at your face.

"No bullshit," he said, staring at you with hollow eyes. "Not here. Not now."

He looked exhausted. His shoulders sagged like the weight of the last year was finally catching up with him.

You didn't speak.

You just nodded, picked up the spoon, and stared down at the food.

The stew was thick—beef and potatoes, the kind that actually smelled like food. Your spoon clinked against the metal tray as you ate fast, barely tasting it. Still, it was better than anything you'd had back in Boston. Hot, seasoned, filling. Your stomach twisted, unused to real food, but you didn't slow down.

The mess hall was dim, lit by harsh overhead lights that buzzed faintly. The stale air carried the mingled scents of sweat, cooked meat, and metal trays. Around you, low murmurs and clinking cutlery filled the space.

Ten minutes passed in silence.

Frank finally broke it. "I have to meet with Isaac again," he muttered, voice low and sharp. "Finish eating. Go upstairs. Keep your mouth shut."

You shot him a glare but said nothing. He gave a curt nod and left, boots thudding away.

You exhaled, stabbing at a soft potato and chewing it slowly, flattening it against the roof of your mouth.

Then—thud.

Someone dropped into the seat across from you.

You didn't look up immediately, but you felt the weight of her gaze.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, with powerful forearms folded over her chest. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight, no-nonsense.

She didn't say anything at first—just watched you, eyes narrowing slightly.

You swallowed the bite in your mouth, finally meeting her gaze.

That's when the old bitterness flared up—the FEDRA edge, the QZ bile—the poison you'd promised you'd keep inside.

"Fuck you asking for?" you snapped before you could stop yourself.

Her lips twitched, almost a smirk, but her voice was low and rough. "You're new."

You nodded, jaw clenched tight.

She tapped her fingers once on the table, then looked away, her eyes still lingering on you. Without another word, she stood and walked off.

The message was clear.

I'm watching you.

______________________________________________________________________________

You walked back toward your quarters through the dim, cavernous tunnels of the stadium's interior. The concrete walls were cracked and stained, with pipes overhead dripping water that echoed in the vast, hollow spaces. Faint flickers from hanging bulbs barely lit the path ahead, making the shadows stretch long and menacing.

Ahead, you caught sight of that same brute again—blonde, broad-shouldered—slipping into her quarters with a man you hadn't noticed before. He was taller than her, with sun-kissed skin and a thick beard framing his jaw. Their voices were low and clipped, barely carrying through the stale, recycled air.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to catch their words, but all you heard was hushed murmurs swallowed by the cavernous space.

You turned and pushed open the heavy metal door to your own quarters, stepping inside. The room was small and spartan—a single cot pressed against the wall, a battered metal locker, and a narrow window barred with rusted mesh that let in a sliver of muted light. The faint smell of sweat, damp concrete, and dust hung heavy.

You sank onto the cot, eyes flicking to the door as Frank entered, boots clanging softly on the metal grating floor.

Without a word, he moved to the rear exit that led to the stadium's outer perimeter—dog cages lined the hall, their occupants restless and growling. Laundry hung from thick wires strung overhead, and beyond the door you could hear the faint rustle of crops growing in a small patch of soil reclaimed within the broken stadium seats.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, offering one to you. You accepted, the flame briefly illuminating his weathered face before darkness swallowed it again. Leaning against the railing by the stairwell, you both inhaled the sharp smoke.

After a long drag, Frank's voice cut through the silence.

"Talk to anyone?"

You stayed quiet, dragging on the cigarette slowly, weighing your words.

He scoffed, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Jo, what the fuck?"

You shook your head, exhaling smoke in a thin line. "Wasn't much of a talk," you muttered, voice rough.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the dimness. "You can't shut down here. People in the stadium don't wait for you to open up. You make your place or you get pushed out."

You swallowed hard, jaw tight.

He took another drag, his tone softening just a fraction. "I'm trying to keep you safe. You gotta keep yourself safe too."

The stale air hung between you, thick with unspoken fears and memories echoing from the world outside these cracked walls.

"Guess the talk with Isaac went well, huh?" you teased, nudging Frank playfully.

He stood stiff against the railing, stone cold, no trace of humor. Your smile faltered.

"Jo, I'm serious," he said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm not saving you here like I did in Boston. If you fuck up, that's on you."

You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. Your gaze drifted down to the farms sprawled across the bottom of the stadium—small patches of green pushing through the cracked concrete. Soldiers moved methodically among the rows, tending to the crops with practiced efficiency.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of that brute again, descending the stairs with her roommate. Their presence was like a shadow—sharp and heavy. She glanced up at you briefly, her stare cold and unreadable.

Frank followed your gaze and nodded toward her. "Top soldier. Both of them. Don't say anything to them except a quick 'hi' and 'bye.' Got it?"

He spoke through the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

You exhaled and pushed off the railing, the weight of the warning sinking in. The brute's eyes flicked to the cigarette in your hand, her glare sharp enough to burn.

God, what's her fucking problem? your thoughts screamed.

Frank nudged your arm hard, breaking your train of thought.

"Jo." He stubbed out his cigarette, voice low but firm. "No shit to them, got it?"

Without warning, he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him. His fingers pressed hard against your jaw—enough to hurt, enough to make his point.

You didn't flinch. Just nodded once, then turned away.

Frank went back inside, leaving you standing there, smoking and watching her eyes that weighed heavy with something you couldn't quite place.

________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 2: Chapter two: Smoke

Summary:

Joan wakes in the early hours to find Frank locked in the grip of a brutal nightmare. When she approaches to calm him, he reacts violently in his sleep, hurling her across the room. Though he immediately apologizes, the incident leaves both of them shaken—reminders of their trauma sitting heavy in the dark. Joan, unable to fall back asleep, heads to the mess hall and then outside for a cigarette. In the chill of early morning, she unexpectedly crosses paths with Abby. Their brief, cold exchange at the livestock pens is tense but unresolved, each woman holding something back.

Returning to the quarters around dawn, Joan finds Frank furious, terrified by her unexplained absence. The confrontation turns into a deeper emotional reckoning, revealing their frayed sibling bond and the weight of the past they carry—particularly Frank’s sacrifice back in Boston to protect Joan from a FEDRA prison. Their explosive argument is interrupted by Abby, who barges in uninvited and confronts Joan about her secrecy and behavior. The interaction escalates quickly into a physical fight, each woman unleashing buried pain and rage. Just as things turn dangerous, Frank intervenes, pulling them apart and sending Abby away.

You woke at three in the morning to the sound of Frank tossing in his bed. The rustling was sharp, panicked. You blinked through the darkness, eyes adjusting as the pale green glow of the emergency light lit his sweat-soaked body. You had taken the cot—again—so he could get a decent sleep. But tonight, that didn't seem to matter.

You sat up slowly, hair sticking to your cheek. Frank was shivering, mumbling something broken beneath his breath.
"Please, no. No, no..."

His voice was cracked and small, not like him at all.

Your bare feet hit the cold wooden floor with a light thud as you crossed to his side, crouching low.

"Frank?" you whispered. "Hey... Frank—"

You didn't even get to shake him. In one breathless motion, he gasped awake and had his hand around your throat, eyes wild, haunted, disconnected. Before you could speak, you were airborne.

The floor hit your ribs like a brick wall.

You coughed, stunned. The pain bloomed quickly, but the adrenaline dulled it. You blinked up just in time to see him scramble toward you, guilt already swimming in his eyes.

"Shit, Jo—I'm so sorry—I didn't—fuck, I didn't mean to—"

His voice cracked as he reached for you, his tears falling fast, hot, one splashing your cheek.

You lifted your hand slowly, palm out, not to push him away—but to stop him from spiraling. Your voice was calm, barely above a whisper.

"Nightmare?"

He nodded once, sharp, jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to slow his breathing.

He offered you his hand, pulling you gently to your feet. You thought about hugging him. Really thought about it. But it had been so long since either of you had done that. Maybe it would've just made it worse.

He shook his head and crawled back into bed, turning away from you.

You watched him for a second longer, then sighed as you pulled on a pair of cargo pants over the boxers you wore to sleep. Your green coat hung by the door. You slipped it on, the canvas brushing against your arms like a memory. You laced your boots with quiet fingers.

When you turned back to let him know where you were going, he was already asleep again—soft breath, peaceful now, like nothing had happened.

The air outside your quarters bit at your cheeks. The hallway was dim and silent, and the cold in your bones settled deeper with every step. You pulled your coat tighter, your breath visible in the low light as you made your way toward the mess hall.

You needed something warm. Or at least something still.

The mess hall had a couple of early patrol soldiers scattered at tables, hunched over trays of powdered eggs and weak coffee. Their eyes followed you as you walked in—silent, suspicious. It was obvious you weren't up because of assignment. You didn't have the look of someone gearing up for a shift. You had the look of someone who couldn't sleep.

You walked over to the stained metal coffee dispenser, the spout creaking as you filled one of the chipped mugs. The steam curled up into your face, but it didn't do much to warm you. You sat at a table near the back and cradled the mug in your hands, letting the heat sink into your fingers.

You didn't even like coffee. You took a slow sip anyway, the bitter burnt taste making your nose scrunch. It was thick and sour, like someone had made it from the ashes of yesterday's batch. Still, you drank it, just for something to do.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you fished around—empty. No smokes. You sighed through your nose, pushed yourself up from the table, and headed to the far end of the mess where supplies were sold for rations.

A woman sat behind the counter, half-asleep herself. She looked up as you approached, eyes narrowing slightly at your rumpled appearance.

"Hey..." Your voice cracked from the cold and sleep. "Got any smokes?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Two rations each," she said, her voice barely above a mutter.

You rolled your eyes and handed over the slips. "Thanks."

You stepped out through the stadium doors into the early morning chill. The air was damp, sky still dark, though a faint line of grey was blooming on the horizon. You made your way to the outer fields, where the livestock pens sat in silence—cows shifting in their sleep or chewing mindlessly in the quiet.

You leaned on the fence, careful not to press too close to the barbed wire looped around the top. With one hand, you brought the cigarette to your lips, struck a match, and inhaled deeply. The first drag hit your chest hard, and you let the smoke pour out slowly.

The world was still. For a second, it felt like it might stay that way.

Then she walked by.

Her braid was tight, tucked under the collar of a worn WLF jacket that clung snug around her frame. She looked like she'd just come off a shift or maybe hadn't slept at all. It had been a couple days since you'd last spoken—if you could even call it that.

She stopped at the fence beside you, arms folded across her chest, eyes scanning the grazing cows beyond the barbed wire.
"Got an assignment?" she asked, her voice low, a little hoarse.

You shook your head, still dragging on the cigarette.

She nodded, almost to herself, and clicked her tongue once. "Where you from?"
This time, she turned toward you, waiting.

Another shake of your head. Your boot pushed a half-moon into the wet earth. You weren't in the mood. Maybe you never were.

She exhaled through her nose, not frustrated exactly—just done trying. "Alright," she muttered, but stayed beside you anyway.

You both stood there a moment, just the sounds of cows shuffling, a distant echo of voices off the stadium walls.

Then a voice rang out from near the artillery exits—where they stored the guns, the trucks, where the WLF trained in bursts of fire and barked orders.
"Abby!"

It was the tall guy—Manny. His voice curled around her name with that laid-back confidence he always wore like armor. He jogged up, rifle slung over his back, grin already forming.

He gave you a once-over, eyebrows raising slightly. "Who's this?" he asked, mostly toward her but with a glance your way too.

Abby shrugged. "Apparently it's a secret." She didn't look at you, but you could feel the weight of her glance at the corner of your vision.

You kept staring ahead, cigarette back between your lips. Your face didn't move.

Manny smirked, but didn't push it. "We gotta go. Patrol starts in ten. We're heading to sector six." He looked back and forth between the two of you, then gave Abby a look like he wanted to say more but didn't.

He started off, calling a half-hearted joke over his shoulder in Spanish.

Abby lingered a second longer.

Then she nodded once—to herself maybe—and followed after him, boots squelching in the wet dirt.

You stayed by the fence. Smoke curling out of your mouth, eyes still forward.

______________________________________________________________________________

You arrived back at your quarters around seven a.m., the city's smoky aftertaste still clinging to your clothes. The moment you closed the door, your brother was in your face.

"Where the fuck have you been, Jo?" His voice cracked as he grabbed your arm, fingers digging into your jacket. You could hear the panic straining beneath the anger. He looked like he hadn't slept all night—eyes red, jaw tight.

You shook your head, voice rough from smoke and hours of walking. "You woke me up. Threw me to the ground. I needed air."

"For four fucking hours?" he snapped, stepping back like he didn't trust himself not to yell louder. He looked away, jaw clenched so hard it might've hurt.

You dropped onto the couch, exhaling like your bones had been carrying the weight of a tank. Stretching your arms over your head, you let your body melt into the stained cushions.

He stared at you for a moment longer—like he was searching for something in your face—but whatever it was, he didn't find it. He scoffed, shook his head, and left, letting the door slam behind him.

Good.

You didn't care where he was going. Just that he was gone. You laid back, one arm draped over your eyes, and let your body go slack. The world faded. The fear. The fire. The weight.

A knock slammed against the wooden door, jerking you out of the shallow haze of your hour-long nap.

You groaned, swinging your legs over the side of the couch. Your back popped loudly as you stood, muscles tight and sore from the long walk back. The knock came again, louder this time—impatient.

"Jesus," you muttered under your breath, stumbling toward the door.

When you opened it, there she was.

Abby Anderson.

Leaning against the frame like she had nowhere better to be. Her arms were crossed over her broad chest, muscles tensed beneath the sleeves of her uniform. Her gaze swept over you—slow, deliberate, like she was reading your whole life from your posture alone.

You blinked. "Need something?"

Your voice came out lower than expected, a mix of exhaustion and tension knotting your throat.

She stared at you for a moment before speaking. "What's your name, soldier?"

Her voice had that trademark weight to it—stern, sharp-edged, like steel that's seen war. You felt it settle in your bones.

"Jo," you answered plainly, jaw tight.

Abby nodded once, sucking her teeth. "Jo," she repeated like the name tasted wrong. "Alright."

There was something in her tone—biting, dismissive. You didn't like it.

You went to close the door, but her hand shot out, calloused fingers wrapping around the edge like a vice. She pushed it open again and stepped inside without asking.

You stared at her, arms crossed now, chest rising and falling a little faster. "Can I fucking help you?"

Your words came out sharp, spitting fire to mask the discomfort pooling in your stomach.

Abby didn't flinch. She sat on your couch like she owned the place, spreading out like there wasn't tension slicing the air between you. Her boot tapped against the floor.

"What's your deal, Jo?" she asked, head tilting slightly. "You disappear for hours. You're new, you don't talk to anyone. You look like hell. So, what's your story?"

You stared at her, silence thick. You wanted to tell her to leave, to mind her own business—but something in her eyes held you in place. Not cruelty, not even authority—just scrutiny. The kind that could either cut you open or call your bluff.

Finally, you huffed, looking away.

"You always barge into people's rooms like this, or am I just special?"

A beat passed. She almost smirked.

"You're special," she said flatly, voice unreadable.

You didn't know what pissed you off more—her presence, or the fact that, deep down, part of you wasn't sure you wanted her to go.

You eyed her for a long beat, then grabbed her arm hard.
"Out." Your voice was cold, no room for argument.

Abby yanked her arm free like it was nothing. "I'm being nice," she said, voice low but cutting straight through you.

You didn't flinch. "Nice? You barged in here. Fuck off, Abby. I'm not interested in conversation with selective brutes."

She studied you for a moment, then chuckled darkly. "What's your brother's deal? Always man-handling you like you're some damn kid?"

Your stomach twisted with anger—this was the first time in a while you'd let yourself feel it. You'd been biting back everything, swallowing it all down. "What's your deal? Not like you've got any family to be making those judgments."

You watched her face carefully. There was a flicker—maybe surprise, maybe something else—but she stiffened and pointed a finger at you.

"Watch your fucking tone," she snapped.

The words hit you—she didn't have family.

And before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out. "Don't get pissy with me because you don't have any family," you spat, teeth clenched.

Her chest rose and fell faster, breaths shallow. You saw it. Maybe you shouldn't have said that. Maybe you shouldn't have cared.

You stared at her, breath caught, heart pounding, unsure where this was going next.

A cruel smirk twisted your lips, the cold part of you—the part trained by FEDRA to strip people of their humanity—surfacing without warning. The part Frank begged you to keep locked away.

You snarled, your voice low and sharp, slicing through the stale air. "Or what?"

Abby's sharp eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing her strong features. She stepped forward deliberately, the heavy thud of her boots against the concrete floor echoing in the quiet room. Her breath was hot, ragged from tension, close enough that you could smell the faint musk of sweat and smoke clinging to her jacket.

"Don't start this with me, soldier," she warned, voice like gravel scraping over stone—harsh, unapologetic, and dangerous.

You furrowed your brow, adrenaline spiking. "Fuck away from my face," you spat, pushing her hard.

Abby stumbled back but recovered quickly, muscles tensing like a coiled spring. Her jaw clenched, and she let out a low, humorless chuckle that didn't reach her eyes.

"You want to push me?" she said, voice dropping even lower, deadly calm. "I'll break you before you even blink."

She took a step forward again, towering over you now, but there was something more in her gaze—an unspoken challenge, maybe even respect hidden beneath the rough edges.

"This isn't Boston," Abby added, voice cold as steel. "Out here, you don't have the luxury to play tough. You'll learn that fast—or you won't learn at all."

Her words hung heavy in the silence, the threat and truth mingling like smoke in the air.

You eyed her skeptically, anger thick in your throat. "How'd you know I was from Boston?" Your voice was rough, edged with suspicion and bitterness.

Abby smirked, that ruthless confidence cutting sharp through the air. "Isaac's top soldier," she said coldly. "I know everything about everyone."

She leaned in close, breath hot against your ear. "Especially the ones who think they can just show up and act tough."

That whisper sparked the bitter, trained edge inside you—the FEDRA part Frank warned you to bury.

Without thinking, your fist shot out—hard and fast—landing square on her mouth.

Abby stumbled back, hand flying to her lip, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Blood welled between her fingers.

But before you could react, she was moving faster than you expected.

Her fist slammed into your ribs with a brutal crack, the air whooshing out of your lungs.

"You hit like a damn rat," she growled, voice low and dangerous.

You grabbed her hair and pulled her to the ground.

What Abby hadn't counted on was that FEDRA trained you to fight dirty. Their tactics were military but rough around the edges—less polished, more ruthless than the disciplined WLF style.

Without hesitation, you snatched a metal cup off the nearby table and slammed it hard against her cheek. The sharp clang echoed through the room as the cup left a shallow, stinging scratch across her skin.

Abby's eyes flashed with pain and surprise, but she didn't hesitate. In one swift motion, she grabbed your throat, her fingers digging in with unforgiving strength. Before you could react, she yanked you down to the cold floor with a brutal force.

She had you pinned beneath her, her knee pressing hard into your chest, making it difficult to breathe. Her grip tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so you were forced to meet her cold, furious gaze. Blood from her split lip dripped slowly, smearing across your cheek like a dark, mocking trail.

"Are you fucking done?" Her voice thundered, raw and heavy with menace as she pulled your hair harder, sending a sharp sting through your scalp.

You winced but didn't back down. Gathering what little defiance you had left, you spat in her face.

The sound of the apartment door slamming open cut through the tense air.

Frank stood in the doorway, dropping his bag with a heavy thud. He sighed, exhaustion and anger tangled in his voice. "Are you fucking kidding me, Jo?"

Before you could react, he stepped forward and yanked you free from Abby's grasp. He threw you roughly onto the couch, then planted himself firmly between you and Abby.

"Outside," he barked, motioning for her to follow him. She hesitated but obeyed, the door closing behind them with a sharp click.

You sat up, clenching your fists as you heard muffled voices from beyond the door.

"I'm sorry," Frank murmured quietly.

You strained to catch Abby's reply but only heard indistinct murmurs, the words lost in the distance.

When Frank returned, his face was stormy, his voice low and rough as he growled, "I'm gonna fucking kill you."

You rolled your eyes just as a sharp slap landed across your cheek, the sting burning fresh.

You touched your cheek, the burn stinging more than the pain itself. Your eyes locked onto Frank's, fierce and unyielding.

"Don't you fucking dare," you spat back, voice low and dangerous. "You're the last person who gets to lay a hand on me like that."

Your breath came hard, chest rising and falling, but you didn't back down. The anger simmering inside you wasn't just about the slap — it was everything else too: the pressure, the fear, the constant battle to survive.

"Get it through your head — I'm not your damn child," you said, voice shaking with emotion. "If you want to keep me safe, start acting like it."

Frank sighed heavily and shook his head, the weight of everything bearing down on him. "I'm not going down for you again, Jo." His finger jabbed at you, sharp and accusing.

You licked your chapped lips, the dry skin cracking slightly, and sank onto the couch with a heavy sigh. "I told you back in Boston, you—"

His voice cut you off like a thunderclap, booming over your words. He loomed over you now, chest heaving, veins taut in his neck. "I didn't what, Jo?!" His hands clenched into fists at his sides, shaking with fury. "If I hadn't taken the fall, you would've been tortured in that fucking FEDRA prison, okay? Is that what you want?" His eyes searched yours, waiting for an answer.

You bit your nails nervously, the habit betraying your usual tough exterior. Your voice softened, trailing off, "Why'd you even bring me here?"

Frank let out a frustrated grunt, nearly yelling again, "Are you fucking stupid, Jo?!"

Jo swallowed hard, her eyes flickering away from Frank's burning gaze. Her voice was low, rough from days of strain, but steady.

"I don't know... Maybe 'cause I don't want to be alone out there. Maybe 'cause you're all I've got left." She paused, biting her lip as the words felt heavy.

"But I'm tired, Frank. Tired of running, tired of fighting just to survive. I don't want to end up like them..." Her voice cracked, the pain slipping through the cracks she usually kept locked tight.

She looked up, meeting his eyes again, fierce but raw. "I don't want to lose you too."

Frank sighed heavily, the sound carrying the weight of all the battles they'd fought—both outside and within. He sat down beside her, the cold metal bench pressing under them, and rested a firm, steady hand on her back. The simple touch was unfamiliar, yet it sparked a fierce heat deep inside Jo's chest. Her throat tightened, and she fought the sudden sting of tears threatening to spill.

"Tomorrow," Frank's voice was softer now, stripped of its usual hardness, "when things cool off... you go to her. You apologize."

Jo drew in a slow, shaky breath, the heaviness in her gut pressing down. She didn't want to admit she was wrong—not yet—but she knew it was necessary. The stubborn pride she carried had to bow, if only to keep the fragile peace around them.

______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 3: Chapter Three: Apologies and Patrol

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The next morning, Jo woke with a dull ache threading through her muscles, remnants of last night's chaos pulsing beneath her skin. The dim light filtering through the barred window cast long shadows across the room, dust motes dancing in the cold air. She sat up slowly, shoulders stiff, her mind swirling with thoughts she couldn't shake.

Pulling on her worn boots and the green coat that had become her armor, she pushed open the door to the corridors of the stadium. The halls were quiet except for distant footsteps and muffled voices of early risers preparing for the day.

Jo sat in the mess hall, the bitter taste of coffee lingering on her tongue. Her fingers drummed absently against the rough wooden table, heart still pounding from the night before. The weight of Frank's words settled heavily on her shoulders. She wasn't sure if she was ready to apologize, but she knew she had to try.

Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Abby. The other woman was sitting alone near the far end, her posture rigid but somehow calm. Jo swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed herself up, boots scraping softly on the floor as she made her way over.

Abby looked up, eyes sharp and unreadable, as Jo stopped in front of her.

"Look," Jo began, voice rough but steady, "about last night — I was out of line. I'm sorry."

Abby's gaze didn't soften, but she nodded once. "You've got a lot to learn. Around here, respect isn't given. It's earned."

Jo bit her lip, the old anger flickering in her eyes like a dying flame. "Okay."

Abby raised an eyebrow at the clipped response. Her arms were crossed, biceps tense beneath her WLF tank, but there was curiosity behind her stare now — not just suspicion.

"Okay," Abby repeated, slower this time. Her voice dipped slightly, not soft exactly, but less sharp around the edges.

Jo shifted her weight, then lowered herself into the seat across from Abby. Her movements were cautious, not out of fear — more like someone stepping into uncertain water. She studied Abby's face, trying to read something in those hard features.

"My full name is Joan," Jo said suddenly, the words catching at the back of her throat. She looked away as she added, "Not that anyone really calls me that anymore."

Abby exhaled through her nose, a short, almost tired sound — but not dismissive.

"Joan," she said, testing it like a weight in her mouth. Her gaze lingered on Jo's face, not hostile now but probing. "You don't strike me as a Joan."

Jo smirked a little, eyes still averted. "Yeah. Get that a lot."

Abby leaned back slightly, letting her arms fall to her sides. "Right," she said, almost like a truce offering. Then she added, "I like it."

Jo's smirk faded, replaced by something rawer — respect, maybe. Or just relief that Abby hadn't dismissed her outright.

"I'll try to remember that," she said quietly.

Abby studied you for a long moment, her gaze steady and unreadable. It was the kind of look that pinned you in place—like she was sorting through everything you'd ever done, said, or thought, and weighing it. You shifted under the intensity of it, but something in her expression—controlled, composed, quietly powerful—made it impossible to look away.

She was beautiful, but not in a delicate way. There was something raw and real about her—the light freckles scattered across her face, the strong curve of her jaw, full brows furrowed ever so slightly in thought. Even the way her mouth settled into a slight, thoughtful pout was unfair. She looked like someone carved by function and refined by war.

You swallowed.

"You've got patrol today, right?" she asked, voice low but firm.

You nodded, still tracing the details of her face like your eyes didn't quite want to leave.

"I'll be with you. We're heading to Sector Four." She leaned back slightly as she spoke, arms crossing in front of her chest with ease, like she'd done this a thousand times before—and probably had.

Your heart skipped. Patrol with Abby. So she was the top soldier Frank had talked about. You'd hoped, but now...

Her voice pulled you out of it. "Meet me at the shooting range in ten."

Then she stood without another word. You opened your mouth—maybe to ask something, maybe just to hear her speak again—but she was already walking off, boots hitting the floor in calm, even strides. Gone.

______________________________________________________________________________

Your boots squeaked against the linoleum as you made your way down the hall toward the shooting range. Distant gunfire cracked through the air like thunder, echoing from behind the heavy door ahead. You stopped at the armory window, where the soldier behind the glass barely glanced up before sliding over the clipboard. You signed your name and checked out a pistol, a scoped semi-auto rifle, and the double-barrel shotgun you'd brought with you when you joined the WLF. The other weapons were on loan—but that shotgun, that one was yours.

You pushed open the door to the range. Abby was already inside, posted up at one of the lanes. She glanced over her shoulder, then returned her focus to the target downrange.

"Headphones on," she barked, her voice low and scratchy. "I wanna see what you're working with before we head out."

You didn't argue. Just nodded and slipped on the earmuffs. The world fell into muffled silence, save for the weight of your own breath and the solid heft of the pistol in your grip. You hit the button, sent the paper target sliding back, and took aim.

You weren't perfect—but you weren't green, either. Your grouping was decent, even clean. Three points below Abby, if the numbers on the board were correct.

She leaned into your booth with a smirk tugging at her lips. "Not everyone can be perfect like me," she muttered. You caught the glint in her eye—Abby liked to win. Maybe a little too much.

You followed her out of the range, both of you grabbing ammo and supplies from the prep room. You tucked a few pipe bombs into your pack, securing them next to your shivs. She noticed.

"I'm driving," she said curtly as she swung into the driver's seat of the truck.

You didn't fight her on it. Just got in and buckled up.

The gates creaked open behind you. The truck rumbled forward, tires crunching over ruined pavement and creeping vines. The city outside the walls looked like it had been clawed apart and left to rot—buildings like skeletons, trees fighting through the cracks, the sky hanging low and grey.

Abby tapped the steering wheel absently as she drove. You sat beside her, checking over your gear, making sure everything was in reach. You even slipped a couple of extra shivs into her bag when she wasn't looking.

"This run shouldn't be anything crazy," she said, her voice cracking. "Don't waste your gear."

You shook your head. "Better safe than sorry."

At that, a faint smile crept onto her lips. You caught it. You didn't say anything.

But you saw it.

You'd driven a couple miles west of the FOB. The scenery blurred past your window—tall grass, rustling trees, the occasional deer darting off into the brush. Then, out of the corner of your eye, something moved.

A horse.

Without a second thought, you pushed forward, crawling through the tight middle window and out into the truck bed, rifle already in hand.

Abby's voice cut through the wind. "What the hell are you doing?"

You didn't answer. You steadied your aim.

Boom. A single shot cracked through the air. A Scar tumbled from his saddle like a rag doll.

Abby didn't ask again—she slammed her foot on the gas. She understood now.

The truck jolted forward as you knelt in the bed, bracing your legs. You reloaded quickly, fired again. Missed. Adjusted. Hit. You were clearing them fast, taking out stragglers before they had a chance to regroup. You could hear the whispers—Scar voices in the trees, in the wind.

This was an ambush, and you'd beaten it.

"You're a pretty good shot," Abby called over her shoulder.

You didn't answer. No time. You felt it rising in your chest—panic, old and bitter. Boston surged back like a wave: blood in the snow, bodies under collapsed buildings, screams under your boots.

You tried to breathe.

Then something seared past your arm. An arrow.

You gasped as it hit your shoulder. The pain bloomed fast. You grabbed the shaft and yanked it out with a groan.

"Shit!" Abby shouted from the cab. "Keep 'em down! FOB's dead ahead!"

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your blood soaked through your jacket and smeared your fingers as you steadied the rifle again.

Another shot. Another memory buried. You kept firing.

When the last one dropped, you finally exhaled.

The gate loomed ahead and opened just enough to let you in. You slumped as the adrenaline faded.

Abby leaned out the driver's side window. "Got one injured!"

Before you could climb out of the truck bed yourself, she was already helping you down, ignoring your half-hearted protest. Her arm wrapped around your waist with practiced strength.

"C'mon. Med tent's this way."

You limped beside her as your shoulder throbbed, leaving a red trail behind you.

"Nora's my friend. She's good," Abby said, voice gentler now. "You'll be alright."

You just nodded and sat down on the cot. The pain hadn't fully hit yet.

"Hey, who've we got here?"

The voice was raspy, slightly amused. A lean woman with warm brown skin and curly hair pulled back under a bandana stepped into view, her WLF patch barely visible under her jacket.

You gave a slight smile in greeting, but it faltered as you peeled off your damp jacket. The fabric stuck to your skin from blood and sweat. Slowly, you tugged your shirt over your head, exposing the jagged wound across your shoulder. Just your bra now—your breath hitched.

The blood had soaked through everything. It looked worse than it felt until the cold air hit your skin.

Abby crouched beside you, her hand finding your knee. Her fingers were rough but warm. She caught your gaze, anchoring you. "This is Nora," she said quietly.

Nora stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly as she examined the gash. "Shit," she muttered. "Alright. This is gonna sting."

She grabbed a bottle of alcohol and a clean cloth. The moment it touched your skin, fire spread through your nerves.

You gasped—vision swimming—Boston came rushing back. Screams. Sirens. That alley. Blood everywhere.

Your body moved before you could think, shoving Nora's hand away with a choked cry.

"Hey," Nora said quickly, hands up in peace. She didn't flinch. "I know it hurts, but we've gotta clean it, alright?" Her voice was calmer now, more patient.

You nodded, barely. Breath tight. Vision blurring again.

Abby's hand hadn't left your knee. You felt her eyes on you—steady, concerned, but not pitying.

Nora worked quickly after that, pressing gauze and threading the needle like it was second nature. The pain dulled to a throb.

"Anywhere else?" she asked, glancing over your body.

You shook your head. "I... I don't think so." Your throat burned from the panic.

"Alright," she said with a tight smile. "You're all patched up then."

Nora started packing away the supplies. Abby remained beside you, her hand steady, her silence saying more than words ever could.

Abby stood and motioned for you to come outside with her. You got up and followed.

As you both leaned on a truck, she folded her arms.

You broke the silence. "Got any smokes?" Your voice cut through the stillness.

Abby shook her head and leaned on the railing. "I don't... smoke." She said it firmly—maybe a little judgmental. She seemed uptight.

You nodded and bummed one off the mechanic working on the truck beside you.

Lighting a match, you took a long drag of the cigarette, standing side by side with Abby.

There was a long silence. You could hear her breathing, the subtle fidgeting of her hands picking at her nails.

You finally spoke, your voice smoky, "Thanks for helping me to the med tent."

Abby nodded, eyes watching the way you smoked. You felt the burn behind your eyes from lack of sleep. Your body leaned heavier against the railing, a long sigh slipping from your lips.

Her voice broke the quiet again. "For dinner... you can sit with my friends and me." There was hope in her voice.

You shook your head. "Nah... I can't."

Abby furrowed her brow, that familiar steel settling back into her features. "Yes, you can," she said, no room for argument in her tone. Still, her hand landed gently between your shoulder blades, rubbing in slow circles—a rare softness from her. Without another word, she turned and walked back toward the FOB, her voice trailing behind her like a command wrapped in comfort. "Be back soon."

You lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, watching the last trace of her braid disappear through the gate. What the hell was she doing? You didn't have a post today, and as far as you knew, neither did she. Probably off kissing Isaac's ass, you thought bitterly—wouldn't be the first time the top soldier got special treatment.

You wandered the edge of the FOB, shoulders hunched, hands buried in your jacket pockets as the wind bit at your cheeks and turned them raw with cold. You watched boots trudge through the gravel, voices bark orders, and the low hum of tension that never really left this place settled around you again.

Then, Abby returned. This time with someone else—Manny. You'd seen him in passing: loud, cocky, a little too charming for his own good. His rifle was slung carelessly over his shoulder, and his smirk was already halfway there before he even spoke.

"Jo," he greeted, his accent rich and smooth as worn leather. "I'll be driving back with you two." He nodded toward the truck, already climbing into the driver's seat like he owned it.

Abby turned to you and jerked her thumb toward the passenger door. "You, up front."

You scrunched your nose, shaking your head as a dry laugh escaped. "No fucking way. We're gonna get ambushed again, and you know it. You need two people covering the truck bed."

Abby exhaled sharply through her nose and rubbed at the bridge of it like she was already getting a headache. Her mouth opened for another stubborn retort, but Manny cut in before she could strike.

"She's right, Abby. Stop bitching." He leaned out the driver's side window and waved you toward the back like it was settled.

Abby bristled. "She's injured, Manny."

He laughed under his breath, not unkind. "So are half the people out here, Abs. Don't coddle her."

You could tell she didn't like it—not the decision, not being overruled. Her jaw ticked, but she didn't say anything else. She just turned and climbed into the truck bed, arms crossed tight over her chest. You climbed into the truck bed, the metal cold against your palms.

Fine. Let her be mad.

But part of you noticed it anyway—how she watched you, even as the engine roared to life.

____________________________________________________________________________

You drove east of the FOB to get back to the stadium. Hunger curled in your stomach as you realized it'd been hours since you'd last eaten. You sighed, glancing around, rifle in hand.

Abby watched you closely from across the truck bed.
"Cold out today," she said, a little awkward.

You swallowed and let out a breathy laugh. Was she serious?

"Yeah... real cold," you murmured, eyes drifting behind her. You caught sight of Manny peeking at the two of you through the rearview mirror. Both he and Abby were acting strange—quiet, fidgety. The air between you felt thick with something unsaid.

Then, just as quickly as the moment started, the sound of hooves thundered in the distance.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. You grabbed Abby and pulled her down to kneel in the truck bed beside you. She smelled like pine and sweat—sharp and earthy. Good.

"Hear that?" you whispered, breath close to her ear. "Hooves."

You pressed a finger to your ear, signaling her to listen. Abby nodded, eyes sharpening. She turned and leaned toward the small window connecting the bed to the front seat.

"Manny," she called. "Scars—two o'clock."

You spotted one and fired—BOOM. Clean shot to the head. Whistling followed, that eerie signal they always gave.

You didn't flinch.

You kept firing, falling into that cold, mechanical focus. Abby caught the rhythm quick, her gun thundering beside yours.

You took a second, grabbing pipe bombs from your bag and lobbing them into the incoming group. The explosions shook the earth, and you tried not to flinch as horses screamed and legs blew clean off. A sick pit formed in your gut, but you shoved it down. No time.

You fired until there weren't many left. Enough space to get away.

You didn't even know why you were fighting them.

Manny slammed on the brakes just as five Scars burst from the skeletal remains of a crumbling storefront. Without hesitation, you vaulted over the side of the truck bed, landing hard beside Abby. The momentum barely registered—adrenaline drowned out everything but survival.

The first Scar didn't stand a chance. You brought a brick down onto his temple with a wet crunch, the force jarring your arm. In your periphery, Abby was already locked in a brutal clash, her pipe cracking bone with precision, her grunts sharp and focused.

Another charged. You met him head-on, fists flying with a kind of desperate rhythm. You struck until he dropped to his knees, blood dribbling from the jagged mess of his mouth. He looked up at you, face mangled and trembling, his eyes wild with pain and pleading.

"Please... I have a son..." he rasped, voice cracked and broken. His shattered teeth rested near his knees—knocked out by your earlier blows.

You froze. Your breath caught painfully in your chest.

Boston.
The prisons.
The screaming.
The man who wouldn't give a name.
He'd begged like this too.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The world narrowed to the bloodied man kneeling before you—he wasn't the one from Boston, but for a second, he might as well have been.

You didn't see Abby approach, but you felt her presence—steady, aware. She took one look at your hesitation, and that was all the Scar needed. With a choked cry, he pulled a rifle from beneath his coat and fired wildly.

The bullet missed.

Abby didn't.

A single shot rang out. The man's body jerked, then collapsed.

Smoke curled from the barrel of Abby's rifle. Her eyes flicked to you, hard and unreadable.

"You let your guard down," she said quietly.

There was a long silence.

The wind carried the stench of blood and ash. The others were already dead. It was over. But your heart was still pounding—not from the fight, but from the memory.

And from the look Abby gave you—part disappointment, part warning.

You nodded, swallowing whatever excuse you had. There wasn't one.

Just a haunted echo.

____________________________________________________________________________

You and Abby stood in the aftermath, the alley quiet now except for the clatter of a loosened trash can lid spinning to stillness. The man at your feet wasn't moving. Neither was the one slumped near the wall. Your knuckles ached. So did your jaw. You felt the sting of something—your own blood or someone else's—you didn't check.

Abby exhaled hard, chest heaving, sweat streaking the grime on her face. Her eyes flicked to you, then away.

"Truck'll be waiting," she muttered.

You didn't answer, just followed her when she turned, boots crunching over glass and wet paper. Every step made your ribs scream. She moved like her bones were grinding together, shoulders squared too tightly, hands still balled into fists at her sides.

You climbed into the back of the truck again. No words. Not even when the engine stuttered to life. Not when Abby sat opposite you, staring down at her bloodied palms like she was trying to memorize them. You caught her looking at you once—just once—but she looked away fast.

The city blurred by. The deeper into the zone you went, the more it looked like everything else: gray, rusted, rotting. Like nothing had ever really been alive here. You leaned back against the cold metal siding, closing your eyes just long enough to feel the nausea fade.

By the time the stadium gates came into view, the sun had dipped low enough to make the sky look bruised. Soldiers moved around the entrance, not even glancing your way. You both looked like shit, and that meant you'd done your job.

The truck rolled to a stop. Abby was out before you could shift. You followed slower, legs stiff, heart weirdly loud in your ears.

Manny spotted you from near the mess tent. "Dios mío," he said, eyebrows shooting up. "You two look like you crawled through hell."

No one laughed.

Abby didn't even look at him. She just kept walking.

You stood there for a second. Watching her retreating back. Watching the way her fists were still clenched, like she didn't know how to let go.

You swallowed hard. Your mouth tasted like pennies.

Then you turned and followed.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four: Whiskey

______________________________________________________________________________

You trailed behind her, a few steps behind, your boots crunching quietly over the broken gravel. It was pathetic—how close you wanted to be to her after everything. Like some stray dog chasing heat. You didn't even understand it fully. Just that being near her steadied something that had started shaking again in your chest.

Fuck, you thought bitterly. Get a grip.

Abby's pace was sharp, shoulders tense. She didn't look back once—not until she abruptly stopped near a tucked-away corner of the old stadium, where the concrete walls swallowed most of the outside noise. She spun around, her braid swinging slightly with the motion, her chest rising and falling in controlled breaths.

"Why did you hesitate?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip.

You froze. The air between you crackled with heat—anger, confusion, guilt. Her question rang in your ears. Not a question, really. A demand.

Your mouth opened, then closed again, the words slipping and scrambling in your throat. There was no good answer. Not one she'd accept. Not one you wanted to say out loud.

Abby took a step closer, her eyes locking with yours—sharp, interrogating. She gave you that look—the one that stripped away all the bullshit and left only the raw truth.

You didn't flinch, but your heart did.

You swallowed, jaw tightening. "He begged," you muttered, eyes flicking down to your boots. "Said he had a kid."

Abby didn't say anything. Her eyes were sharp, but her expression softened slightly—barely. Just enough to notice.

You looked up at her again, anger creeping in to mask the guilt sitting heavy in your gut. "He looked like someone I... someone from Boston." The words clawed their way out yout ired to stuff them in. "Someone I hurt. Back when I was just doing what FEDRA told me to do."

There it was. Not the full truth. Not even close. But a sliver. Enough to taste the rust in your mouth.

Abby's voice came quieter now, but it still held steel. "You think we don't all have ghosts like that?" She stepped in close again—not to threaten this time, but to mean something. "Out here, hesitating gets people killed. Gets you killed. Gets me killed."

You stared at her, something rising in your throat—anger, or guilt, or something that had no name.

"I didn't mean to—" you started.

"But you did," Abby cut in. "And you can't let it happen again."

You looked at her, blinking past the heat building behind your eyes. It crawled up your throat like smoke—bitter, burning. And for a moment, you hated her. Not because she was cruel, or loud, or even wrong—but because she looked at you like she understood. Like she'd seen this shame before.

Abby stood still, arms folded across her chest, her posture rigid but her expression unreadable. The faint scrape of her gloves against the fabric of her jacket was the only sound between you.

Then, quietly, she exhaled through her nose and shook her head. "What would FEDRA have done... if you hesitated like that?"

Her voice wasn't sharp—not yet. But it had weight. It landed like something she didn't want to say but needed to.

You swallowed hard. Your mouth was dry, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Your eyes dropped to the broken pavement beneath your boots. You could almost hear Boston in the cracks—hear the screams behind cell bars and the metal clank of hallway doors.

"Abby..." you murmured, the name barely leaving your throat.

But she lifted her hand, fingers firm in the air. "No," she said, more solid now. "Tell me."

You hesitated. The silence was thick and heavy between you, the cold air biting at the back of your neck. You licked your chapped lip, the skin split and still stinging.

You forced the words out like pulling teeth. "They'd... probably torture me. Make an example of me. Beat me until I didn't flinch again."

Your voice was low, hollow. You couldn't look at her when you said it. You stared out toward the treeline instead, watching the wind cut through dead branches.

A beat passed.

Then Abby's voice came, steady and low:
"And did it work?"

That stopped you cold.

Your voice came out of your mouth before you could think. "At the time.. Yeah." You swallowed hard.

Abby's eyes trailed over your body and she nodded.

______________________________________________________________________________

The clatter of spoons against metal trays jolted you from the fog you'd been drifting in since Abby's words. You blinked, the low hum of the mess hall finally registering—the shuffle of boots, the dull roar of tired conversation.

A tray clanked in front of you. Abby slid into the seat beside you like it was second nature.

Across from you, Manny raised his brow mid-bite, his gaze flicking to your shoulder.
"You good?" he asked, voice smooth and warm, like it could melt into the din.
You nodded, grabbing your spoon with a stiff hand. "Fine," you mumbled, choking down a lump of bland potatoes that stuck to your throat like glue.

Abby sat close, not speaking. But you felt her attention shift.

Then you saw it too.

Her eyes—subtle at first—followed someone entering from the main doors. A tall man, blonde, stubble clinging to his jaw. He walked toward the food line with a lazy sort of confidence, like he belonged everywhere. And Abby... watched him.

Not like she watched the room. Not like she watched you.

Something different flickered in her gaze—quiet and longing. Familiar.

It knotted in your chest like wire.

She looked at him like... like you wanted her to look at you.

No.
You tore your eyes away, trying to shake the thought loose. You exhaled through your nose and stabbed another bite of food, your appetite already gone.

Manny had caught the look too.

"Owen," he said casually, like the name meant something obvious.

You gave a tight nod, eyes fixed on your tray.

"He's one of ours. From Salt Lake." Manny sipped from his battered metal cup, watching you over the rim.

Abby didn't look at either of you. She tore her bread in half with more force than necessary.
"Owen's a tool," she muttered, chewing like she was trying to grind her irritation into dust.

You didn't know what that meant, or if it was meant for you. But it didn't stop the way your stomach twisted.

Manny let out a lazy chuckle, pushing his tray forward a few inches. "Come on, Abby... I'm tired of the bullshit."

Abby didn't return the smile. Her jaw tensed, and she leveled him with a cold, flat glare. "It's not bullshit," she muttered, her voice sharp and low. She tore a piece of bread from her tray and shoved it into her mouth like the conversation was done. You caught the faintest grunt under her breath before she swallowed, her eyes still burning.

You glanced between them, feeling the tension thicken like fog. You didn't ask questions. Whatever history lay beneath their words wasn't yours to pick apart. Not tonight.

Their quiet bickering faded into background noise as your fingers slid into the inside pocket of your jacket, feeling for the familiar crinkle of a cigarette pack. Nothing.

Damn.

You stood abruptly, your metal tray scraping harshly against the table. Abby's head snapped toward you, brows drawn tight.

"Where are you off to?" she asked, voice low, but there was something almost... concerned in her tone.

You shook your arm free from her light grasp, not meeting her eyes. "Gotta smoke."

She didn't argue. Just nodded once and turned back to her tray, but you felt her eyes linger on your back as you walked away.

Manny gave you a small nod, lips still tugged into that easygoing half-smirk he always wore. You returned it faintly and kept walking.

The convenience "store" was just a metal-framed window with peeling paint, wedged into the wall near the hallway that led back to quarters. A woman sat inside, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, bundled in a WLF jacket two sizes too big.

She didn't bother sitting up. Just tilted her head in your direction and croaked, "Smokes?"

You gave a tight smile and nodded, reaching into your pocket for the ration slips. She took them without another word and handed you the pack with practiced disinterest.

You tucked it into your jacket, nodding your thanks, and stepped back out into the cool evening air—hoping the smoke might burn the questions out of your brain.

You struck the match against the sole of your boot, the flame flickering in the wind for a second before catching. The tip of your cigarette sizzled as you brought it to your lips, the burn instant and familiar. You inhaled slow, like it might fill something hollow inside you, then leaned forward against the cold metal railing outside the mess hall.

Your hands clasped together, fingers tight like they might hold you together too. Below, the quiet hum of the base carried on — bootsteps echoing, low murmurs drifting through the chill. But up here, in this moment, it felt like the world had gone still.

You exhaled a heavy stream of smoke through your nose and looked down at the concrete. That tug in your chest — the one you'd been ignoring all day — clawed its way back up. Heavy. Inevitable.

No.

You clenched your jaw, grinding your molars as if you could crush the feeling down. You didn't feel that way. You couldn't. You wouldn't.

You hated Abby Anderson.

The way she looked at you like she saw too much. The way she didn't flinch when you pushed, even when you wanted her to. The way she didn't let you hide behind silence or anger.

You hated her strength. Her calm. Her stupid sharp braid and the stupid way she rubbed your back earlier like she gave a damn.

You took another drag, this one harsher, your lungs aching.

You refused to like her.

So why couldn't you stop thinking about her?

The door creaked open behind you, hinges whining like they hadn't been oiled in years.

Frank stepped out, his broad frame filling the doorway. He looked tired—he always looked tired—but there was something softer in his expression tonight. His boots scraped against the concrete as he came to lean on the railing beside you, arms crossed over his chest.

"Heard you got hurt," he said, voice low, eyes fixed somewhere in the dark beyond the stadium lights.

You shrugged, dragging the cigarette to your lips. The ember glowed red for a moment. "Just an arrow. Not bad."

Frank let out a dry chuckle and nodded, the corners of his mouth tugging up before falling flat again. His head dipped slightly, eyes avoiding yours. "I met someone..." His voice cracked mid-sentence, but he didn't try to finish. He didn't need to. You got the gist.

You gave a half-hearted nod, lips pressing into a tight line. Ew, you thought, with no real heat behind it. That weird, protective disgust you always had when he got like this—it came and went like a storm.

Frank exhaled through his nose and pushed off the railing, the weight of something new pulling him away. He didn't say goodbye. Just gave you a nod and disappeared down the walkway, boots echoing as he vanished into the quiet.

You stood there for a beat longer, the smoke from your cigarette curling into the cold air.

And then the thought hit.

You'd be alone tonight.

A slow grin crept onto your face.

More than enough time to break out the bottle stashed under your cot.

Yeah. Fuck yeah.

______________________________________________________________________________

You were half a bottle deep. Maybe more.

Hiccups burst from your throat like unwanted laughter as you sat on the floor, your back slumped against the side of your cot. Your vision swam—walls tilting ever so slightly like the world was slipping sideways. The bottle of shitty bootleg whiskey gleamed in the dim light, amber and damning.

It had been a long time since you drank this much.

A knock at the door made you flinch. You blinked blearily toward it, slow to register the sound. Another knock. Sharper.

You stumbled upright, one hand gripping the edge of the desk for balance as you made your way over. Your shoulder throbbed, your ribs ached—but none of it mattered right now. You opened the door.

Abby stood there.

Her expression was unreadable at first—then her nose crinkled the moment she took in your breath, your flushed cheeks, your stupid drunk smile.

"God," she muttered under her breath.

You cocked an eyebrow, grin spreading across your face like syrup. "Hey, Abigail," you said far too cheerfully, the name rolling out of your mouth like a drunk joke.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly regretting this decision. "We have patrol tomorrow. Early." Her voice rasped low in her throat, firm, flat. Trying not to react.

You giggled, then hiccuped again. "Ya came ta... tell me... personally," you slurred, leaning against the doorframe like it might float away.

Abby didn't answer right away. Her jaw clenched, eyes scanning you—taking in your mussed-up hair, the wrinkled shirt, the whiskey stain on your knee.

Abby leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing over her chest as she looked you over.

"Really?" Her voice was dry. "This is how you spend your nights now?"

You blinked, lips still curled in that stupid smile, and leaned against the doorframe opposite her—barely catching yourself from sliding down it.

She didn't wait for your answer. "You're sloppy. We've got patrol in five hours. You're gonna reek like a bar mat and get both of us killed."

Her words should've stung. Maybe they did. But her voice wasn't angry—it was tired. Like she'd seen this kind of spiral before and didn't know what to do with it.

You hiccuped again, and something in your chest clenched. "I was just..." you waved vaguely, the bottle still dangling from your hand. "Blowing off steam."

Abby tilted her head, studying you like she was trying to figure out if that was bullshit or if it made her mad. Maybe both.

"Next time, do it with less whiskey and more sleep."

She didn't move from the door, didn't make a joke, didn't smile. Just stood there, that familiar furrow in her brow softening the longer she looked at you.

"Get some water in you. And don't be late."

Then she turned, disappearing down the hallway without another word—boots heavy against the floor, like she was trying to leave the conversation behind.

You hiccuped again, tipping the bottle slightly as your head lolled back.

"Water, shmater..." you called after her with a crooked grin, voice sing-song and slurred.

Abby's boots stopped cold on the concrete. You watched her spine stiffen, her head turning slightly—like she couldn't believe what you just said. She turned fully now, jaw tight, brows pulled low in disbelief.

"What?" she snapped, sharp and quiet.

You giggled, hiccuping again as you leaned on the doorframe for support. "C'mon... you didn't come all this way to nag, did you?"

Her eyes narrowed.

And before you could blink, she was striding back toward you, her boots thudding low and heavy. She stepped inside without asking—without hesitating—and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

"Jesus, you stink of whiskey," she muttered under her breath, scanning the half-empty bottle dangling from your fingers.

You took a wobbly step back, bumping into the arm of the couch, and plopped down with a dramatic sigh. "It's been a long day," you said with a grin, legs stretching out in front of you like a lazy cat. "S'posed to unwind, right?"

Abby didn't laugh. She stood there for a moment, arms crossed again, watching you—like she was trying to figure out whether to shake you or sit beside you.

Finally, she let out a quiet sigh through her nose.

"You're gonna hate yourself in the morning."

You blew her a kiss.

Abby rolled her eyes. "Don't make me babysit you."

But she didn't leave.

Instead, she stepped over your legs and walked into the kitchen, opening cabinets until she found a cup. She filled it with tap water and returned, shoving it into your hands without ceremony.

"Drink," she said flatly.

You squinted at it. "You like bossin' people around, don'tcha?"

Abby didn't answer. But you could see the edge of a smirk trying to tug at her lip as she turned away, leaned on your counter, and stayed.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five: Hungover Patrol

You leaned back into the couch, the cushions swallowing you whole. Your limbs were heavy now, the heat of the liquor no longer a thrill but a slow, sinking weight in your chest. The room pitched softly with each blink, like the world couldn't quite decide which way to spin.

You took a shaky sip of water, the cool metal of the cup grounding you for just a moment.

Abby watched you from across the room, arms crossed, her brow creased—not with judgment, but with something closer to concern. Her silence filled the space like a low hum, waiting for the words to settle.

"Why'd... ya come 'ere..." you mumbled into the cup, the hiccup punching through the middle of the sentence.

She let out a small breath of a laugh—barely audible. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, voice lower now, the edge sanded off it. "About today."

You tilted your head toward her, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to keep her in focus. She looked oddly out of place in your dim little apartment—like something built for war left standing in a place meant for rest.

"I shouldn't've been so cold to you," she added, shifting her weight. "But you can't let your guard down like that."

Her words weren't sharp, but they hit anyway. Your throat clenched.

And before your mind could stop your mouth, the words tumbled out in a slurred spill: "It's just..."

You groaned, pressing your hand to your forehead. Abby stayed quiet, watching you, waiting.

"Boston was a... fuck, it was so awful," you rasped, voice cracking as the memories clawed their way back up. "I saw that guy and it just—he looked like the man I didn't kill. The one in the prison. The one who begged. And I didn't kill him, I just... I just watched them do it."

You swallowed hard, bile rising behind your teeth. "And today I froze. Just like I did then."

The confession left you hollow, like something had been scooped out of your ribs and tossed on the floor between you.

Abby's expression didn't change much, but her eyes softened. She took a slow step closer, then another.

"You're not the only one who's hesitated," she said quietly.

You blinked up at her, unsure if you'd heard her right.

Abby lowered herself onto the arm of the chair across from you, elbows resting on her knees, posture stiff—like even sitting was a calculated decision.

"There was someone," she started, voice steady but low. "Took my dad from me."

Her jaw clenched as she stared past you, somewhere far off. "I dragged my crew across the fucking country to find him."

She paused. Swallowed. You could tell she didn't say this often.

"He earned what he got. I don't regret that," she said flatly. "But there was this girl... she showed up, and I froze. Just for a second."

Her voice tightened. "Didn't expect that. Didn't like it either."

Abby exhaled hard through her nose. "Didn't eat for a week. Couldn't sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw her."

She finally looked at you, gaze sharp but honest. "So yeah... I get it."

You let out a slow, trembling breath.

Then you looked down at your water and whispered, "I'm sorry."

A silence stretched out between you—thick, but not uncomfortable.

Finally, Abby leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "You feel like shit because you still have a conscience. Don't lose that. People here... they don't all have one."

You nodded slowly, letting her words settle. The room was still spinning.

Your body slumped against her without warning, gravity and exhaustion pulling you into her shoulder. You meant to move—to push yourself away, to reclaim some dignity—but your eyes closed before you could think twice.

The next morning.

Light stabbed at your eyelids—sharp, pale streaks of early sun slicing through the cracks in the curtains. You groaned, head throbbing like a war drum. The metallic taste of last night still clung to your tongue.

Something warm shifted beneath you.

Your eyes blinked open slowly... and met hers.

Abby.

Her face was close—too close—eyes half-lidded with sleep, her jaw slack, her hair tousled in a way you'd never seen. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft but raspy, full of gravel and morning.

"Hey, soldier."

Your heart skipped. Then sank.

You followed her gaze down to the wet patch of drool you'd left on her shoulder.

Fuck.

You bolted upright, nearly slipping as your hand flew to your forehead. The hangover hit you like a freight truck. "Shit..." you muttered, cradling your skull.

Behind you, Abby chuckled—a low, amused sound that cracked through the silence like warm static.

"Told you you'd regret it in the morning," she said, standing and stretching, the quiet pop of her joints echoing off the walls.

You blinked hard, still groggy, your thoughts scrambled and sticky. You looked at Abby again—really looked this time—eyes scanning her collarbone, her shirt, her arms, checking for... something. Anything.

"Did we...?" you asked, voice hoarse and cautious.

Her face twisted with sleep-laced laughter. "What? No. Oh god—no." Her chuckle broke the morning silence like gravel skipping over pavement.

You exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and cracked an awkward smile, heat blooming up your neck. "Right. Of course." You rubbed your hand over your face, trying to hide the blush creeping into your cheeks.

She was still looking at you, and now her expression shifted—firmer, her voice flat. "I'm straight, Jo."

There was no hesitation. No softness.

But the way her eyes lingered on yours a second too long, the way her jaw flexed like she wasn't sure she believed it herself... that left something hanging in the air.

You swallowed again and gave a stiff laugh. "Yeah. No—totally. I wasn't—I didn't mean—"

Abby said nothing, just stood and turned her back to you, pulling her jacket from the chair. "We've got patrol in thirty. Better not still be drunk," she muttered, voice clipped.

The moment passed, but your skin still burned from it.

_____________________________________________________________________________

You scrambled after Abby, your boots uneven on the concrete, shirt wrinkled and clinging to your whiskey-sweated skin. The stink of last night clung to you—sharp and sour. Your hair was a disaster, falling into your face like you'd just rolled out of a bar fight. Meanwhile, Abby was already halfway across the courtyard, her braid tight, uniform crisp, not a thread out of place.

You huffed and leaned against the cold wall, your stomach turning with every step. The whiskey clawed up your throat like it was trying to escape.

Abby turned, eyes narrowing as she took you in.

"Goddamn it," she muttered, her voice sharp enough to cut steel. "I told you you'd be too hungover."

You tried to wave her off, wiping sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, but your gaze snagged on her again. The way her shirt hugged her waist, the clean slope of her back under that jacket—how the morning light caught on her braid, the same braid your head had been resting against hours earlier.

Your cheeks flushed. A sudden heat crawled up your neck. You tried to mask it, but Abby caught the shift—her eyebrow lifting with quiet suspicion.

"What?" she said, voice flat but probing.

You shook your head too quickly. "Nothing," you croaked, your voice cracking like your pride.

She stared at you for a long second, eyes scanning the tired hangover sagging off your face, then snorted and turned back toward the truck.
"Try not to puke in the truck," she muttered, climbing up with the usual heavy-footed confidence.

You groaned and followed her in, settling across from her in the back as Manny climbed into the driver's seat. The engine rumbled beneath you, each bump and jolt turning your stomach over like a washing machine. You felt your face go cold, sweat beading on your upper lip.

Abby noticed immediately. Her eyes went wide with horror.
"Don't—" she pointed frantically at the side flap, her voice pitching higher than you'd ever heard it. "Not in the truck! Out!"

You didn't even have the strength to argue. You threw your upper body out of the open flap just in time, retching violently into the wind. Your stomach emptied in one long, painful heave, the sound drowned by the roar of the road.

Behind you, Manny howled with laughter.
"¡Dios mío! Abby, you look like you're gonna puke next!"
He banged his hand on the steering wheel, barely able to keep the truck straight.

Abby turned away from you, scooting as far as she could to the other side. "I told her not to drink that much," she grumbled, nose wrinkled. "I hate puke. God, it's worse than infected guts."

You finally pulled yourself back in, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, pale and dizzy. "Still... worth it," you wheezed.

"Not to the rest of us," Abby snapped, scooting farther, but there was a slight smirk on her lips now.

Manny looked at you through the mirror, still chuckling. "Next time, drink some water before you down half a bottle of whiskey."

You grunted, collapsing against the truck wall. "Next time, shoot me instead."

Abby stood across from you in the back of the truck, her gloved hands wrapped tightly around her rifle, knuckles pale beneath the leather. Her eyes were steady, scanning the treeline ahead—until they flicked to you.

You caught her gaze for a beat too long. The air between you tightened. Your lips curled into a weak, crooked smile despite yourself, and she didn't look away. That stare—solid, unreadable—settled somewhere in your chest and twisted hard.

You turned your head quickly, cursing under your breath.
Get it together.
Even hungover and dry-mouthed, she still made your pulse skip. You hated that. Hated the way your stomach fluttered like you were fifteen again, like she hadn't made it crystal clear this was nothing. Nothing but proximity and maybe a little shared trauma.

And yet.

You gripped your own weapon tighter, trying to shove the thoughts down as the truck bounced over cracked road and broken asphalt. Around you, the squad grew quiet, a hush falling over the truck bed like a fog. Everyone knew the silence meant something was ahead.

You cleared your throat and looked left—where the trees thinned just enough to catch movement if it came. Whether it was scars or infected didn't matter. The outcome would be the same. Blood, noise, death.

You took a long breath, jaw tight, forcing your thoughts back to the task at hand. Abby crouched now, elbow on her knee, gun up.

You mirrored her.

Back in soldier mode. Back in control.

Or at least trying to be.

You couldn't help it. Your eyes dragged over Abby again—how her muscles moved under her shirt, the firm curve of her chest rising and falling with each breath, the way her hips shifted with the rhythm of the road. Then lower, where her pants stretched snug over the shape of her—

A pair of eyes in the rearview mirror caught yours.

Manny.

He raised a brow and gave you the smuggest grin you'd ever seen. A wink followed, like a silent "I see you, cabrona."
Your heart lurched into your throat.
Shit. Shit. Shit.

You glared at him in warning, mouthing, Don't you dare.
He just chuckled to himself, shaking his head like he'd just stumbled across the best gossip in the world.

Before you could wallow in embarrassment, a shrill screech cut through the air—then another.

A blur of movement.
Infected.

A horde burst out of a collapsed building on the right—dozens of them sprinting, eyes wide, arms flailing, shrieking as they charged your truck.

"¡Mierda!" Manny cursed, hands tightening on the wheel.

Abby was already moving, banging her hand on the roof of the cab. "Up the hill! Go—now!" She barked the order to Manny, then turned to you. "We hold them back!"

You didn't hesitate. Rifle in hand, you crouched low in the bed of the truck beside her. You pulled the pin on a pipe bomb, hurled it toward the oncoming swarm, the explosion tearing through three runners mid-stride.

Abby fired in clean, methodical bursts, every bullet purposeful. You did your best to mirror her precision, but your clip was running dry.

"Shit—" you hissed, fumbling for another mag.

Abby threw another pipe bomb into the swarm below, the explosion lighting up the hill for half a second with fire and limbs.

"Are you fucking serious?!" she snapped, eyes wide, voice ripping through the chaos. The sharp crack of a clicker's scream echoed back, but she didn't even flinch. Her fury was locked on you.

You blinked at her, heart racing. Your stomach was already doing somersaults from the hangover, but now it turned to lead.

"I—I forgot ammo," you muttered, barely audible over the roaring truck and screeching infected.

Abby stared for a second, like she couldn't believe it. Then she barked out something between a laugh and a curse. "Christ, Joan—now?!"

You ducked behind the cab as something—maybe a piece of a cinderblock—slammed against the side of the truck. Manny's knuckles went white on the wheel as he swerved to avoid it.

"She forgot her ammo!" Abby shouted over the chaos, exasperation clear in every syllable.

"Seriously?!" Manny's voice cracked through the cab. "You two owe me so many drinks if I live through this!"

You fumbled in your pack, grabbing the last few pipe bombs, fingers trembling as you yanked one free and tossed it. The boom shook the frame of the truck bed. You heard infected limbs hit the ground like sacks of meat.

You looked at Abby, breath ragged. She didn't say anything, just shook her head and went back to firing, jaw clenched so tight you could see the vein in her neck pulsing.

And for the first time in a long time, you genuinely wondered if you might die.

Manny's knuckles were white around the wheel, steering with a soldier's desperation as the engine roared uphill. The road was barely a road anymore — a mess of broken asphalt and overgrown roots, every bump rattling your spine.

The infected were gaining.

You turned to look — a sea of them, snarling, sprinting, stumbling. It felt like the whole world behind you was on fire.

"Hold on!" Manny shouted.

The truck lurched as it hit the top of the hill—then dropped.

It slammed down hard into a collapsed structure, the metal shrieking as the front half of the vehicle folded inward. Glass exploded, a wet crunch rang out—and then Manny was gone.

He was gone.

You barely registered the sound of him being pulled through the shattered windshield, his body tumbling into the dark rapids below. The truck jolted again, tossing you and Abby into the bed. You landed hard on your side, air punched out of your lungs. Abby's shoulder slammed the wall with a sickening thud.

"Manny!" you screamed, scrabbling to the edge, eyes searching the foaming water below. No sign of him. Just the echo of the river and the growing snarl of the horde.

Abby grabbed your collar and yanked you back. Her eyes were wild but focused—always focused. Blood was dripping down her temple.

"No time!" she barked. "We gotta go. Now!"

She shoved a rifle into your hands and slung the gear bag over her shoulder in one swift motion. You could already hear them — the screeches, the wet slap of feet on earth, the crashing of bodies tearing through debris.

You stumbled over the bent tailgate, following her into the smoke and ash of what was left of the world, heart pounding, lungs on fire, ears ringing with the possible loss of a friend.

You and Abby burst into the ruined building, your boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater and broken plaster. The heavy metal door screeched shut behind you. Together, you shoved a collapsed bookshelf and a cracked vending machine in front of it, the screech of metal-on-tile echoing through the darkened space.

Upstairs, the second level was just as unstable—exposed beams, collapsed drywall, and the stench of mildew heavy in the air. Abby turned to you, panting.

"Split up. Sweep for infected. Meet back here when it's clear," she said sharply, already checking the magazine on her rifle.

You nodded, shoulders tight. You hoisted your shotgun, double-checked your sidearm, and cursed under your breath—four bullets left. Stupid. So stupid.

The hallway swallowed you in shadows as you moved. Muffled wind blew in from a shattered window, making the ruined curtains sway like ghosts. Every step echoed. Every corner felt like a trap.

Outside, through the gaps in the wall, you watched the horde below disperse. They were giving up, filtering into nearby buildings like a swarm with no direction. You exhaled, a long, shaky breath—relief laced with dread.

Then your stomach flipped.

You stumbled to a rusted filing cabinet, yanked open a drawer, and hurled bile into it. Your throat burned. Your knees felt weak. You barely had time to wipe your mouth before you heard it—

That sound.

Wet, skittering limbs. Low, chittering breath.

Stalkers.

The worst kind. Smart. Fast. Quiet until they weren't.

One came at you from the dark, its body twisted and wet, moving on all fours like a feral animal. You screamed as it crashed into you, knocking you flat onto your back. The shotgun skidded away. You fumbled for the knife in your belt as two more rounded the corner, snarling.

They bit and clawed, teeth catching fabric. You kicked and writhed, hand slipping on blood-slick steel.

Then—boots. Heavy, fast.

Abby.

She tackled the first one off of you, jamming her blade into its eye with a grunt. Her breathing was ragged, furious. She turned, stabbing the next in the throat and slamming her boot into the last, pinning it long enough to finish the job. The room reeked of infected blood and rot.

You gasped for air as she pulled you upright, gripping your jacket tight. Her face was twisted with effort, her nose wrinkling.

She turned to the open drawer.

"...Is that—" she started, her voice trailing off as her eyes darted to you, her expression somewhere between disgust and disbelief.

Abby shook her head, wiping blood from her hands onto her pants as she turned to you. "Are you bit?" Her eyes scanned you from head to toe with sharp precision, like she was trained to look for wounds even you couldn't feel yet.

You patted your arms, your ribs, your thighs—still whole. "No... no, I'm good," you muttered, breathless.

She nodded once but didn't drop her guard. "I think that was the last of them. Upstairs looks like it used to have a squatter—we can hunker down there for the night." Her voice was calm but decisive, already slipping back into that soldier mindset, always three steps ahead.

You shook your head stubbornly, the sting of bile still in your throat. "No. We have to find Manny." The words came out sharp. Desperate.

Abby's jaw clenched. Her hand was still gripping your jacket, holding you in place with an authority that made your heart jump. "It's too dangerous right now. You know that," she said, her voice low, steady. "We'll go first thing in the morning. Manny's smart—he'll be okay."

You didn't believe it. Not really. But something in her tone made it impossible to argue.

You followed her up the stairwell—half-collapsed and groaning under its own weight—until you reached the top floor. The space had been used before. There were two sleeping bags, old cans, half-burnt books stacked near a barrel lined with ash. A few bricks and scraps of wood lay nearby, like someone had tried to make it feel like home.

Abby dropped her pack with a heavy thud, checked her ammo again, and moved toward the window to scout. The last rays of daylight filtered through the dust and broken glass.

You stood in the doorway, soaked in sweat and grime, unsure of where to put your thoughts now that the danger had passed.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six: Hunger

The sky had dimmed into a bruised purple by the time you made it to the upper floor. The wind howled through shattered windows, and every corner of the room smelled like rot and old smoke. You dropped your pack beside a half-crushed dresser, the exhaustion settling into your bones like concrete.

Abby didn't say much as she secured the last barricade and checked the door one more time. She was all muscle and method, always moving, always checking, like if she stopped too long everything would collapse.

Your stomach still churned from earlier. The remnants of adrenaline and bile clung to your throat like smoke.

"Here," Abby muttered, tossing you a half-empty water bottle from her pack. Her voice was tight, her jaw set like stone. "Rinse out whatever's left."

You caught it, your fingers brushing hers for a second too long. She didn't pull away.

You drank slowly, trying not to gag. Abby sat across from you on a broken office chair, elbows on her knees, head hanging low like the weight of the day finally got to her. Her silhouette was sharp in the firelight—so strong, so solid—and yet something about her felt...fragile. Like if you looked too long, she might crack open.

Outside, the rain started again—slow and steady, pattering against the boarded windows. It was the only sound for a long time. Just the fire and the storm and the quiet between you.

Then she sighed. That kind of sigh that deflates the whole body.

The rain tapped gently against the broken windows of the abandoned storefront, mixing with the crackle of the small fire you'd built in a rusted barrel. Water dripped steadily from a cracked ceiling tile nearby, and the cold crept in through every seam of your clothes.

Abby sat beside you on a half-rotted crate, her arms resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Her voice was low and tired when she finally spoke.

"Can't believe the damn truck gave out on us."

Her jaw was tight with frustration, but there was something softer in her expression—an exhaustion you'd come to recognize. You watched her for a moment, the firelight flickering across her freckled cheeks, casting warm shadows against the curve of her jaw. Her lips parted like she was about to say something more, but nothing came.

Without thinking, you shifted closer—just a few inches, enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Your knee brushed hers. Then your hand did too.

You stiffened.

But she didn't pull away.

Your breath caught in your throat as she finally turned toward you, her gaze locking with yours. There was something behind her eyes—something unreadable but heavy. The kind of silence that hangs just before a storm.

She swallowed.

And in one slow, careful motion... she leaned in.

You didn't move. Couldn't. The air between you felt electrified.

Then her lips brushed yours—hesitant at first, like she wasn't sure she'd be allowed. But you didn't stop her. You didn't even breathe.

The kiss deepened a second later, slow and unsure, but warm. Real.

For one brief, aching moment, there was no war. No ghosts. Just her mouth on yours, and the steady pulse of rain outside the walls.

The hunger hit you fast—fierce, unexpected, like it had been building under your skin for months.

You reached for her, hands framing her jaw, fingertips trembling. Abby didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned into your touch, her breath catching right before her lips crashed against yours again—deeper this time.

Her tongue brushed softly against your bottom lip, asking, not demanding. You parted your lips for her.

Your fingers tangled in her braid, undoing it without thinking, needing to feel all of her. Her hair slipped through your hands like thread, and she groaned into your mouth as your tongues moved together, neither of you backing down. It was heated, desperate—a silent battle for control and surrender.

You pulled your shirt over your head, discarding it without a thought. Abby's hands found your waist just as yours tugged at the hem of hers. She let you strip it off her shoulders, her skin warm beneath your touch.

You climbed into her lap, lips trailing from the curve of her jaw down to the side of her throat. Her breath hitched, one hand gripping your thigh, the other lost in your hair.

Her voice came low, strained. "Fuck... be gentle."

You paused. Just for a second.

But the ache inside you had momentum now—months of tension, of watching her from a distance, of pushing and pulling and resisting the obvious. You pressed your lips to the hollow of her collarbone, your hand exploring the curve of her ribs, her breath stuttering under your palm.

She shifted beneath you, her hips bucking slightly, eyes squeezed shut as you moved against her.

You slipped her belt off in one smooth motion, the metal buckle clinking faintly as it hit the floor. Abby's head tipped back, her breath escaping in a soft gasp. Her ears flushed pink, the color crawling down her neck and over her cheeks.

It was jarring—in the best way—to see her like this. Vulnerable. Quiet. She was always the one in control, always focused, grounded, dominant. But here? With you? The balance had shifted. You held it now.

You moved slowly, deliberately, slipping your hand under the waistband of her pants. Her thighs tensed beneath your touch. She turned her face away from you, biting down on her lip so hard it nearly drew blood.

Not a chance.

You gently took her chin between your fingers and guided her back to you, your grip firm but careful. You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear, your voice just a whisper.

"Look at me."

Her breath caught. When her eyes met yours, they were glassy with heat, her pupils blown wide. You watched her as your hand moved lower, brushing against her wet slit. Then gently, you pushed a finger into her. She gasped, hips shifting with instinctive need.

You pressed a kiss to her mouth, soft and slow, a contrast to the growing tension between you. Her fingers gripped your sides, grounding herself as her body rocked gently against your movements, her breathing growing uneven.

Every sound she made, every flicker of hesitation, only pushed you further into the moment.

You broke the kiss with a slow breath, letting your lips linger near hers just a moment longer. Abby let out a soft, impatient whine as you trailed lower, pressing hot, deliberate kisses along the curve of her jaw and down the line of her throat.

You could feel her pulse fluttering beneath your lips.

She shuddered as you bit gently at her collarbone, your mouth marking her with quiet, possessive affection. You made your way down, slow but certain, until your lips closed around her breast. Her skin was warm and flushed, her nipple pebbling beneath your tongue.

She gasped, her back arching into your mouth as your fingers continued their rhythm —pumping in and out of her, curling just enough to draw another breathy sound from her lips. Your free hand toyed with her other breast, thumb circling lazily.

The air was thick with heat and the scent of sweat and skin.

You felt her tighten around your fingers, the way her stomach fluttered and her thighs trembled. When your teeth grazed her nipple, her body jolted, a sharp cry escaping her—but you soothed it with the gentle sweep of your tongue.

You moved lower, slow kisses dancing down her torso, tracing the lines of muscle across her stomach. She was breathtaking—strong and soft in all the right ways. Your breath ghosted over her lower belly, and just as you started to descend further, her fingers tangled in your hair, stopping you.

"Wait..." she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, but insistent.

You looked up.

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her eyes wide, vulnerable in a way you hadn't seen before. Sweat clung to her temples, and the hand in your hair trembled slightly.

You paused, the tension between you still heavy, your hand resting gently on her thigh.

"...You okay?" you asked softly, searching her eyes for any sign she wasn't.

Abby leaned her head back, her breath stalling in her throat before she finally let it out in a long, heavy sigh. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling, then away from you entirely. The firelight flickered across her skin, but she seemed to be somewhere else—retreating into her own mind.

Her fingers, still knotted in your hair, trembled slightly before releasing you.

"I've never done this..." she murmured, her voice low and raw. Her jaw clenched as she struggled for the words, the kind she never let herself say out loud. "Not with a girl."

She turned further away, shoulders tense like she expected you to mock her or laugh, to pull away.

"I was sure that I'm—" She bit the words off like they tasted wrong. Shame crept over her face like a shadow.

You sat up, heart still racing, and gently brushed her shoulder with your knuckles. "You thought what?" Your voice is softer now. No teasing. Just curiosity... concern.

Abby finally looked back at you. Her eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, were wide and glassy now—like a storm had passed through them.

"I thought I was straight," she said quietly, her lip twitching like the words hurt. "But now I don't know. Because with you, it's different. It's real. And that scares the shit out of me."

She dropped her gaze to her lap, fists clenched like she was bracing herself for rejection.

You shushed her gently, your fingers reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was soft and messy now, streaks of blonde catching the firelight like threads of gold. She looked different like this—unguarded. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

"That's okay," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "If you liked it... if you want this... Abby, you seemed—" You caught yourself, biting down the teasing edge that nearly slipped out. Now wasn't the time.

You sighed instead, voice thinning with a quiet ache. "You've only been with Owen, right?"

She nodded without lifting her head, her fingers sliding into her hair, elbows on her knees. The silence stretched long enough to sting. You knew she still loved him. You could see it in how her jaw tensed at the mention of his name, how she wouldn't look at you.

Still, you watched her.

"Maybe we could just forget the rest of it?" you said softly. "Just... enjoy what this is. Whatever it is. No pressure, no labels. Just... here. Now."

You paused, heart thudding.

"Do you want that?" you asked, your eyes searching her face with quiet hope.

She nodded, slow and deliberate, before leaning toward you again. Her breath was shallow, her brows furrowed with something unspoken. You caught it—a glimmer in her eyes. Not just want, but something else beneath it. Grief, maybe. Or memory.

As your lips met again, softer this time, your mind strayed even while your body stayed present. Did this hurt her? Feeling warmth, closeness—love, maybe—all tangled up in something as raw as this? Was it too much at once? You tasted salt and realized it wasn't just your thoughts unraveling.

She was crying.

You tried not to react too suddenly, letting her set the pace. Her tongue slipped against yours, searching, needy. But your hand moved with care, guiding her down gently until she lay beneath you. You trailed feather-light kisses across her cheekbones, her eyelids, her jaw.

One tear slid from the corner of her eye, catching the firelight. You brushed it away with your thumb, your hand cupping her face like it might fall apart otherwise.

"Hey," you whispered, barely a sound. But before she could answer, before the moment broke, you kissed her again—slow, steady, grounding.

You didn't want her to explain. Not now. Just to feel safe. Wanted. Chosen.

Your tongue tangled with hers, messy and breathless, every kiss pulled deeper by the need that had been simmering between you for months. Abby's hands were softer than you'd imagined—calloused, yes, but gentle, grounding you with every brush of her fingertips across your shoulders.

You ran your fingers through the loose strands of her hair again, catching the way they curled from the sweat on her neck, and let your hand trail down her body with deliberate slowness. When your fingertips teased along her slick slit, she gasped—hips twitching upward like her body was begging without permission.

That was all the invitation you needed.

You slipped down between her legs, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. You paused halfway to circle your tongue gently over her hipbone, savoring the way her muscles tensed beneath your mouth.

In one swift, confident motion, you peeled her pants down and off, revealing trembling thighs flushed and twitching with anticipation. You placed your palm gently on the inside of one, coaxing them open, your thumbs brushing softly across the skin.

She was soaked.

"Tell me if it's too much, okay?" you whispered, your voice low and reverent against the heat of her center—your breath fanning over her sensitive clit, watching her twitch at the sensation.

Abby gave a shaky nod, her teeth catching her bottom lip, one hand sliding into your hair. Her fingers didn't pull—just rested there, like she needed the anchor.

Then you leaned in.

In one smooth motion, you took her sensitive clit into your mouth, letting your tongue swirl soft, deliberate circles over it. Abby's grip on your hair tightened instantly, fingers curling with instinct.

Her back arched, a tremor running through her as sweat began to sheen along her skin. The flush across her cheeks had deepened, her breaths coming faster—ragged and uneven.

You didn't let up. You flicked your tongue over her again and again, finding the rhythm that made her hips jerk, the spot that made her moan so loudly she had to slap a hand over her mouth to muffle it.

You steadied her, both hands gripping her thighs firmly—grounding her even as her body threatened to lift off the floor from sheer tension.

Sliding one hand away, you pressed a finger into her slick heat. She gasped, the sound broken and breathless.

"F-Fuck, I can't..." she whimpered, her voice shaking.

It was devastatingly beautiful—watching Abby like this, trembling beneath you. The same woman who commanded entire squads, who fought with calculated power and fierce control—now unraveling in your hands, undone by pleasure.

You let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating against her as your tongue circled slowly over her sensitive clit. Each movement was deliberate—teasing, savoring her reactions.

Then you paused, just long enough to slide your finger deep into her, watching as her body responded. Her brows furrowed, her lips parted in a trembling gasp that made your own breath catch.

"Don't look at me like that," she rasped, her voice low and frayed with pleasure.

You smirked but didn't answer, choosing instead to lower yourself again—tongue and fingers working in tandem, drawing another shaky cry from her lips.

She jolted beneath you, her hips rolling uncontrollably as you kept your pace. Her hands gripped whatever she could—your hair, the edge of the cloth, the fabric of her own shirt.

With care, you slid a second finger inside, stretching her gently. She was tight and dripping for you, and your fingers curled, exploring until you felt her clench—there.

That sensitive spot deep within, the one that made her entire body jolt like you'd hit a fuse. Her breath hitched. Her thighs shook. You pressed in just right, again and again, coaxing her closer to the edge.

Abby let out a strangled cry as she came—her legs trembling violently, stomach tight, the muscles in her thighs clenching around your shoulders. One hand fisted hard in your hair, anchoring herself as the waves of pleasure rolled through her. Her whole body arched as if she were trying to outrun the intensity—but you didn't let up. Your pace stayed steady, coaxing every last tremor out of her.

"Shit—stop—" she gasped, breathless and shaking. She pushed at your head, her palm firm but not unkind, and you relented instantly, pulling back just enough to give her space.

She collapsed back against the pile of sleeping bags, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. Sweat glistened on her brow, a soft flush still lingering over her cheeks and chest. You reached up to wipe your mouth, but before you could, she surged forward.

Her lips crashed into yours with a force that knocked the air from your lungs—raw, messy, desperate. The kiss tasted like salt and skin and something more aching beneath it. You gasped against her mouth, startled, as she pushed you back, pinning your body beneath hers in one fluid, practiced motion.

Abby straddled you, one arm braced beside your head, the other trailing boldly down your stomach. Her pupils were still blown wide, the firelight dancing in her eyes as she stared down at you, smirking—still catching her breath.

"No way I'm letting you get away with seeing me like that," she growled softly, voice still husky with the remnants of release. Her fingers brushed your waistband, teasing just under the hem. "Not without paying for it."

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: Need and Fury

There was something primal in her now—something unshaken even in the aftermath of pleasure. Her hands were steady again. Focused. That soldier's edge hadn't vanished; it had just surrendered, for a moment, to something gentler.

Now it was back.

And it was aimed at you.

You let out a soft moan the moment her fingers hooked into your waistband and tugged your pants down your thighs. The cool air rushed across your skin, and you felt suddenly exposed in a way you hadn't expected—not just physically, but emotionally. Abby's eyes were on you now, and her gaze was hungry, focused, reverent.

You flushed under the weight of it.

She leaned down and kissed your neck, her breath warm against your skin. The softness of it made your chest tighten—not from nerves, but from the way her touch burned straight through your armor. You wanted this. God, you wanted this. But some buried voice whispered shame in the back of your mind, the old guilt and doubt rearing up.

She didn't give those thoughts room to grow.

Abby's hands moved to your chest, slipping under your bra and pushing it upward until your breasts spilled out, flushed and sensitive in the cold air. Hers were smaller, leaner, shaped by years of weight and war—but she looked at you like yours were a miracle. Her mouth closed around one nipple, her tongue circling with slow, deliberate attention. You arched your back, a gasp escaping before you could stop it.

The sound made her smile against your skin.

Without warning, her hand slipped down between your thighs, her fingers pressing firmly into your core. She didn't tease—didn't ease into it like you had with her. Two fingers entered you at once, thicker than your own, and your breath caught in your throat as your hips jerked. There was a stretch, just bordering on pain, but her other hand was grounding you, braced at your waist.

"Too much?" she murmured, her voice low and husky against your skin. But she didn't stop moving. The rhythm of her fingers was confident, controlled, pressing deep with each thrust like she already knew what you needed.

You winced, but you didn't ask her to stop.

Because buried under the ache was something sharper—pleasure pulling tight at the edge of your nerves. You clenched around her, your body struggling to keep up as she pushed you toward that tipping point with practiced precision. You'd never seen this side of her, and now you weren't sure how to handle it.

You weren't the one holding control anymore.

And god, it made your head spin.

Your legs trembled as the pleasure overtook you—fast, intense, almost too much. But how could it not? The way Abby's muscles flexed with each motion, the press of her mouth on your skin, the chill in the air meeting the heat of her breath—it overwhelmed you.

You gasped, back arching, her name barely a whisper on your lips. She didn't let up. If anything, the rhythm of her fingers only grew more focused, drawing circles that found every nerve you didn't know how to ask her to touch. Your breath broke into sharp, uneven sounds as your body gave in, shaking beneath her.

She didn't pull away when it ended. She stayed close, her breath steady, her presence grounding you. And then, slowly, she shifted lower, lips tracing a hot path down your stomach.

You stirred with a sharp gasp. "Wait—" Your hand moved to stop her, but she paused only long enough to murmur against your skin.

"I need to taste you."

The words were low, rough around the edges—like they tore out of her without permission. You froze, the heat of her breath against your most sensitive spot making your head tip back. The tension in your limbs melted into surrender.

She moved carefully, but her hunger was evident in the way her hands anchored your hips, in how her mouth claimed you—soft at first, reverent. Your fingers threaded through her hair, clutching tight as the sensations overtook you. She read you like a map, tongue moving in deliberate patterns, her fingers still inside, coaxing every sound from your throat.

You tried to hold still, but your hips rolled toward her instinctively, needing more. When it crested again, your whole body stilled in the quiet before the fall—then came the shuddering waves, and you collapsed into her hands.

She drew back only when she felt you go limp, her mouth brushing your inner thigh before she climbed back up to you. Your body was flushed, breath ragged.

Without a word, she brought her fingers to your lips.

You blinked, then took them into your mouth, tasting yourself on her skin. She watched you, breath still uneven, eyes dark with something unspoken.

"You taste like heaven," she whispered, her voice hoarse as her forehead leaned against yours.

______________________________________________________________________________

The fire had burned low, its last embers pulsing faintly in the barrel like a dying heartbeat. Outside, the storm had quieted to a soft, persistent drizzle, tapping against the broken glass in the windows like fingertips tracing scars left long ago.

You lay beside her, still catching your breath, your skin warm from her touch, nerves still humming like struck wires. Abby was flat on her back, one arm behind her head, the other resting over her stomach. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling—on the crumbling lines in the plaster, as if they held some secret she hadn't yet figured out.

The silence between you wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Full. Like both of you were afraid to speak and let the moment dissolve.

Your fingers brushed against hers under the edge of the sleeping bag. Not holding. Just there.

She didn't move, didn't flinch. But her fingers twitched, like she almost reached for you.

Then she exhaled a slow, controlled breath, like she'd been holding it in for years.

You turned toward her, head resting on your rolled-up jacket. The way the firelight flickered along her jawline, her bruised lips, the faint crease in her brow—it all felt impossibly human. And for a second, you felt brave enough to say something real.

"You did good," you said softly, barely more than a breath.

Her jaw tightened. A moment passed.

"...Thanks," she muttered, eyes still on the ceiling. Her voice was scratchy, low. Vulnerable in the way only Abby could be—like it cost her something to let you hear it.

You nodded, resting your head back. The corner of her mouth twitched just a little. Not quite a smile. But something.

She finally turned her head to look at you. Her eyes scanned your face, unreadable. Then, she rolled onto her side, her body facing yours. Her fingers brushed over your wrist once, deliberately, before pulling back.

"We should sleep," she murmured, her voice rough but quieter now. "We move at sunrise."

You watched her close her eyes, lashes shadowing her cheeks, freckles fading in the dim light. She looked peaceful—for once. Like the armor she always wore had slipped, just a little.

You let your hand rest where hers had touched you, still feeling the ghost of her warmth.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The soft gray light of dawn crept through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the cold concrete floor. Smoke still lingered faintly in the air from the fire that had burned low through the night, its embers now just a dull red glow in the rusted barrel.

You stirred as a hand nudged your shoulder.

"Up," Abby murmured.

Her voice was low, still rough with sleep, but it carried its usual command. You blinked blearily, vision adjusting. Abby stood over you, shirtless, the outline of her back catching the weak morning light. Her hair was a wild mess, half untangled from your fingers the night before. She didn't look at you as she tugged her shirt back on, her movements efficient, practiced.

You sat up slowly, your throat raw from the whiskey and vomit of the day before. Every muscle ached, but a dull soreness deep in your hips reminded you of the night you'd shared with her. A flush crawled up your neck—heat, shame, longing. It tangled in your chest and refused to settle.

Abby crouched by her bag, pulling her rifle over one shoulder and a worn jacket over her arms. As she stood, she began braiding her hair back—tight, quick, mechanical. You watched her fingers work, wondering if they remembered you.

You dressed in silence, the air heavy between you. The intimacy of last night felt like a ghost in the room—present, but invisible. You tied your hair back into a low ponytail, trying not to wince at the soreness still lingering.

She finally turned to face you, eyes scanning you up and down. There was no softness in her gaze. No warmth. Just that hard, soldier's focus she always wore like armor.

You searched her expression for something. A flicker of affection. A hint of hesitation. Anything.

But her face remained unreadable.

She adjusted the strap of her backpack. "Let's move. We'll search the riverbanks for Manny."

You gave a short nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

And as you followed her out into the gray morning, you knew—whatever last night had meant to you, it hadn't changed what you were to her.

Not yet.
But maybe not ever.

______________________________________________________________________________

You walked in silence beside Abby, your boots sucking at the wet, muddy earth as you followed the river's edge. The early morning chill bit through your jacket, and each step sent cold creeping up your spine. Late fall clung to the trees with bare fingers—what few leaves remained were slick with rain, clinging to branches like dying memories.

Neither of you had spoken since you left the building. The awkward quiet stretched thin, heavy with everything unspoken. The ache in your thighs from last night wasn't just physical—it was emotional too. You didn't know where to place your feelings, and Abby sure as hell wasn't helping. She walked ahead of you now, rifle slung tight to her back, her broad shoulders tense beneath her jacket.

Then she stopped short.

You nearly bumped into her before you saw it, her head tilted, her eyes scanning something just out of your view. You followed her gaze. She crouched and pointed.

"Smoke," she murmured.

Sure enough, a faint gray column curled above the treetops about a quarter mile downstream.

Your heart stuttered. "You think it's Manny?"

Her expression didn't change. "Could be."

She leapt down off a ragged slope, her boots crunching against the loose gravel as she landed. You followed quickly, nearly slipping in the slick mud. Abby motioned for you to keep low, and the two of you ducked into the high grass that lined the riverbed.

Your bodies were close again—close enough that her warmth reached you through the damp. You tried not to think about it. But it was hard not to when your shoulder brushed hers with every crouched step forward. Her presence pulled at you, tugging thoughts you didn't want to deal with right now.

Abby raised a hand and brought a finger to her lips, eyes locked ahead. Her jaw was tense, focused.

You crept forward together, through reeds and brambles and cold mist. The smoke was thicker now—coming from behind a collapsed bridge up ahead. Just over the rise.

Your breath hitched.

She turned to you, low and steady. "We circle left. Quiet. No sudden moves."

You nodded, heart hammering.

You weren't sure what waited over that hill.

But you knew it wasn't going to be simple.

You crept in from the opposite side of the clearing, mirroring Abby's path through the tall grass. Your hands trembled slightly as you double-checked your rifle.

Two bullets.

You cursed under your breath, heart pounding as you reached for your knife, making sure it was within easy reach. If this went sideways, it would come down to steel and instinct.

Abby caught your eye from across the field. She gave you a tight nod—nothing flashy, just a signal. Ready.

You nodded back.

Together, you inched closer, keeping low behind a stack of moss-covered rubble that overlooked the camp.

There they were.

Seven of them. Seraphites.

They sat huddled around a campfire, eating what looked like roasted roots and small game. Their voices were low, quiet—casual, like they didn't have a care in the world. But their weapons were close, within reach. You recognized the carved bows and the scars on their faces, the eerie way some of them spoke in murmurs, like prayers.

And then you saw him.

Manny.

He was tied to a rotting post, his body slumped forward, dried blood streaked across his temple. A strip of cloth gagged his mouth, and his hands were bound behind his back. For a moment, panic took over your chest—until you saw his chest rise.

He was breathing.

You exhaled slowly, relief and rage rising in equal measure. He was alive, but barely. You looked at Abby. Her entire body had gone rigid.

Her eyes were locked on Manny—but she wasn't blinking. Something in her expression darkened. You knew that look. It meant violence was about to follow.

You looked back at the Seraphites. Why were they just... waiting?

Seven of them. Fully armed. Eating like they had time to waste. Were they waiting for someone?

Or something?

Your grip on your knife tightened as you scanned the camp one more time, heart in your throat.

This wasn't just bad.

This was about to turn deadly.

You saw Abby's jaw tighten like a vice before she moved, slipping into the camp without hesitation.

You froze—just for a moment—then followed.

This was the first time the war between the WLF and the Seraphites had truly meant something to you. Manny had been nothing but kind. He never judged you, never treated you like dead weight. You knew his father was sick back at base. If he didn't make it back...

You clenched your fists and pushed forward.

Abby was a machine—efficient, brutal. She crept behind the nearest Seraphite, one hand over his mouth, the other driving her knife into his throat. Before his body even hit the dirt, she raised her pistol and took out two more with clean, muffled shots. Then she slit the throat of the man she'd been holding.

Four gone. Just like that.

You moved in from the opposite side.

The last three hadn't noticed you yet. You raised your rifle, sighted the closest one—bang. His head snapped back.

The other two turned, just in time for your shotgun to roar. One dropped instantly.

The last one wasn't so lucky.

Your shot tore through his thigh, shredding muscle and bone. He hit the ground screaming, blood pooling fast around his broken body.

Abby was on him in seconds, grabbing the collar of his cloak and dragging him across the dirt like a sack of meat. She slammed him against a tree.

"Why the fuck did you leave him alive?" she barked, motioning to Manny. "What were you planning?"

The Seraphite whimpered, his face twisted in agony. "W-we were just—waiting... they said someone was coming—please—"

You ignored him, your eyes already on Manny.

He was barely conscious, but breathing. You rushed to him, yanking the ropes loose. His body slumped forward before he caught himself, blinking hard as he tried to process what was happening.

"¿Jo...?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and cracked. You helped him to his feet, letting him lean on you as he grabbed his sidearm and pack.

Abby's voice snapped behind you again—louder this time.

"What were you waiting for?"

The Seraphite just sobbed.

And something in you cracked.

The frustration. The fear. The emptiness in Abby's eyes that morning. The war. The ghosts you kept carrying.

You stepped forward and drove your knife into the man's shoulder—deep enough to hear the crunch of bone.

He shrieked.

"What were you planning?!" you screamed in his face, your voice ragged with fury.

You didn't feel heroic.

You felt feral.

The man choked on his own breath, tears cutting through the dirt on his cheeks.

Behind you, Manny muttered something under his breath in Spanish, and Abby didn't say a word. She just watched you—expression unreadable, lips slightly parted like she was seeing something new in you.

Or maybe something she recognized.

Your vision blurred. Everything else fell away.

The rage—deep, old, and familiar—came up like bile, swallowing thought, mercy, and reason.

The FEDRA in you surged.

You grabbed the Seraphite by the collar and punched him square in the face. His head snapped back, cracking against the bark with a sickening thud. His teeth scattered in the mud like broken chalk.

"Who's coming?" you screamed, voice cracking.

He didn't answer—just whimpered, blood bubbling at his lips.

Without thinking, you shoved your thumb into the gaping wound where your knife had torn into him. He howled. You pushed deeper—feeling cartilage snap, the wet slide of bone separating under your pressure.

Abby was suddenly behind you, hands tight on your shoulders.

"Jesus, Jo—" Her voice was strained. Not angry. Not horrified. Just scared. "We gotta—fuck—we gotta go."

You didn't let go.

You ripped your hand away and grabbed his head, slamming it against the tree once—twice—again.

"WHO IS COMING?" you roared, spit flying from your lips, the sound breaking through the trees like gunfire.

The Seraphite choked on blood, his words dissolving into panicked sobs. He couldn't speak anymore.

You raised your hand again—but someone grabbed your wrist.

Manny.

His eyes locked onto yours, blood on his chin, his chest still heaving from pain and adrenaline.

"Jo."

You froze.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Regret

His voice wasn't commanding. It wasn't begging.

It was tired. Gentle. Like someone reaching out from inside a burning house.

"Let's go."

For a second, no one moved.

Then slowly—mechanically—you let your fingers loosen. The man slumped forward, unconscious or dead. You couldn't tell. Didn't care.

Your breath came in shallow bursts. Your hand throbbed. Your vision swam.

You looked at Abby. She didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

Her eyes said it all.

The guilt settled in your gut like a rock.

You barely met Abby's eyes as you grabbed your pack and fell in step behind them. The forest swallowed the three of you whole, branches cracking beneath your boots as you followed the sound of the riverbed. Your pulse thudded in your throat, uneven and hot. Every breath scraped your chest.

Then—whistles.

Sharp. Familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the trees, voices rang out. Shrill, startled cries. A scream. "Oh my god!"

The Seraphites had found the aftermath.

Manny turned his head sharply. "Keep moving—don't say a word."

You nodded. The base wasn't far now. You just had to get over the ridge.

That's when you heard it.

Clickers.

You turned in time to see three of them hurling themselves over a fence like wild dogs. Their screeches pierced the early morning air, heads jerking erratically as they locked onto you.

"Motherfucker!" you cursed, your voice hoarse.

You barely had time to think. You yanked a thick branch from a low-hanging tree and smashed it into the nearest one's head. It reeled back, but didn't fall. You kicked its chest, knocking it to the ground, then stomped down on its face, over and over, until it stopped twitching.

One bullet left. Just one.

Your hands shook as you backed away, fumbling for anything you could use.

Another clicker lunged.

You didn't hesitate.

You drove your knife into its throat, using your full weight to drag it down with you. Blood splashed hot across your sleeve, its gurgled scream dying as your blade twisted deep.

Abby and Manny fired from your flank—sharp, precise shots ringing through the trees.

"RUN!" Manny shouted. "More from the north!"

You spun toward the treeline—and there it was.

The guttural roar of an engine.

A WLF truck burst from the slope, tires grinding wet earth. The headlights flared through the mist—and at the wheel, you saw him.

Owen.

He leaned out the window, rifle braced across the side mirror. His eyes found Abby, then you. His jaw clenched.

"Get in!" he shouted.

Two WLF soldiers you didn't recognize fired from the flatbed, spraying lead into the wave of infected closing in. The air buzzed with gunfire and screams.

You ran—full sprint—heart hammering as your boots slipped in the mud.

Behind you, the forest roared with chaos.

But for a second, all you could see was Owen.

You grabbed Abby's hand first, yanking her up into the crowded flatbed as bullets cracked through the trees. She landed hard beside you, knees buckling slightly, but you were already reaching down again.

"Manny—c'mon!"

He was halfway up when a clicker lunged from the side and clamped its filthy hands around his leg. Manny screamed, kicking furiously.

You didn't think—you just moved.

Your knife plunged into the clicker's neck with a sickening crunch, warm blood gushing down your wrist. It shrieked and spasmed, still clinging to him. With a final shove, you sent it tumbling off the tailgate just as Owen hit the gas.

The truck lurched, tires spinning in the mud as it roared through the trees.

You collapsed against the side railing, chest heaving, trying to steady your breath. Your heart pounded like it was trying to escape your ribs. Everything stung—your throat, your muscles, your memory.

Across from you, Abby clutched her rifle, jaw tight, knuckles white.

You looked past her—to the cab.

Owen's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. Just for a second.

His gaze lingered.

She didn't return it.

A man in the passenger seat turned around, rifle braced across his lap. His face was tense, his voice even tenser. "Any of you bit?"

You, Abby, and Manny all shook your heads, checking yourselves quickly. Your hands fumbled at your collar, your sleeves, your side. No blood that wasn't yours. No burns. No bites.

"We're clean," Abby muttered, voice gravelly.

The soldier nodded, but didn't look convinced.

You leaned back against the truck wall as the engine roared on, the forest whipping by.

And then—finally—you saw it.

The tall fences. The lookouts. The old floodlights still faintly glowing in the early dawn.

The FOB.

Relief flooded your chest.

______________________________________________________________________________

You crossed through the outer gates of the FOB just as they slid shut behind the truck with a metallic clang. Guards stood at attention, and the usual chaos of returning patrols surrounded you—soldiers barking reports, dogs barking back, and the low hum of generators buzzing beneath it all.

Abby turned to you, breathless, pulling her braid tighter as she gave you a small smirk.

"Don't get too comfy," she muttered, her voice rough from exhaustion. "Once we gear up, we're heading back to the stadium."

You let out a long, tired groan and rubbed your face, dirt and dried blood clinging to your palms. "Just let me breathe for like... five minutes, Abby."

Her smirk widened for a second, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Owen pulled the truck into park, engine rattling to silence. The three of you climbed out, boots hitting gravel. Manny hopped down beside you, stretching his shoulders with a wince and a yawn.

"Qué mierda," he muttered, patting his sore ribs. "Next time, I'm driving."

You didn't laugh—but Manny did for both of you.

You caught it then—Owen falling into step beside Abby, his hand brushing hers for just a second before pulling back. His eyes trailed over her, quiet and possessive in that way you were starting to recognize.

You stiffened.

Manny noticed.

He nudged your arm, his voice low. "Relax," he whispered. "You're still breathing, right?"

You stared at him for a beat, your stomach twisting.

"I'm fine," you muttered, not convincing anyone.

Together, you moved through the FOB's narrow corridors. You passed groups of WLF soldiers finishing their own runs—some slumped against walls, some shoveling down rations, others checking weapons and barking for medics.

"Jo, Abby—report in at the depot when you're done resupplying," someone called behind you. You lifted a hand in acknowledgment, but kept walking.

You stopped by the armory, quietly reloading. The familiar weight of your rifle felt steadier now. You loaded shells into your shotgun with deliberate fingers.

You could feel her gaze before you even looked up.

Abby was watching you from across the room, standing beside Owen. She didn't say anything. Just... watched. Her eyes were unreadable—heavy. Like she wanted to say something but didn't know how.

You didn't look back.

You slammed the last round in and holstered the gun, your jaw tight.

"Ready?" Manny's voice was softer now, almost hesitant, as he motioned toward the loading trucks waiting to head back to the stadium.

You nodded once, eyes still on the floor.

"Yeah," you said. "Let's go."

A soldier with a clipboard was already grilling Manny, jotting notes as he described the ambush. Manny's tone was unusually serious: no jokes, no smirks. You stayed quiet, leaning your weight against the side of the truck, your ribs still sore, your mind even sorer.

Abby stood beside you. Her shoulder brushed yours for just a second—intentional. "Think I should drive instead?" she said with a faint smirk, trying to make light of what had happened.

You didn't answer.

Your jaw clenched as you watched Owen on the other side of the yard, still staring. His eyes lingered on Abby in a way that made your stomach twist. Possessive. Familiar. Like he still thought she was his.

You reached for a soldier posted at the gate, holding out two fingers. "Got a spare?"

He wordlessly handed you a cigarette and a lighter. You lit it with a shaky hand and took a deep drag, letting the burn settle deep in your lungs. It was grounding. Temporary peace in a place that had none.

Abby shifted beside you, her eyes skating across your profile. She could feel the distance now—how you wouldn't look at her. She opened her mouth like she might say something, but didn't.

She just stared.

You stayed facing forward, eyes fixed on the fog rising off the treeline. You exhaled smoke and silence.

Finally, she muttered, barely above a whisper, "You okay?"

The question hung in the air between you like smoke. And like smoke, it stung.

You didn't answer that either.

Manny finished talking with the clipboard soldier, his tone low and clipped, then swung into the driver's seat with a grunt. You slid into the passenger side without a word, ignoring the ache deep in your thighs and the heaviness in your chest. Abby hopped into the flatbed behind you alone.

You caught her reflection in the side mirror.

Her lips were slightly parted, brows drawn tight, a little pout forming as she stared down at her hands. Her fingers were fidgeting—something you'd only seen when she was lost in thought or trying not to feel something too deeply. She looked small back there, folded into herself.

You took a long drag of your cigarette, the paper crackling softly as you filled your lungs. Manny glanced at you sideways, his gaze sharp beneath his lashes. He could feel the shift in the air between you and Abby thick, quiet, bitter.

He started the engine, the truck rumbling underfoot, but didn't shift into reverse yet.

Instead, he turned fully to you.

"Jo. Flatbed. Now."

You blinked. "What?"

His expression didn't waver. "Not a request. Too many Scars out there, they hit the roads now. You think I'm risking both your asses because you're in a mood?"

You clenched your jaw. "I'm fine right here."

He narrowed his eyes and spoke through his teeth. "Get your ass in the back. Don't make me pull rank."

A long breath hissed out of your nose. You flicked the cigarette out the window and crawled through the small gap behind the seat, careful not to look at Abby as you climbed out into the flatbed.

You sat across from her, stretching your legs out wide, deliberately casual. She wasn't looking at you. Not at first. Her eyes were scanning the treeline, her rifle balanced across her lap. You noticed how her thumb kept tapping rhythmically against the trigger guard nervous energy she couldn't shake.

Then she looked at you.

Your gaze met hers, sharp and fast like a drawn arrow. For one aching second, neither of you looked away.

Then you did.

You turned your head to the trees, swallowing the lump in your throat.

She didn't say a word.

But the silence between you said plenty.

You swallowed hard as the atmosphere shifted. Morning fog curled over the road like smoke, softening the world in a way that made everything feel eerily still. The truck rattled quietly beneath you, tires hissing over damp earth.

No one spoke.

Manny sat behind the wheel, unusually focused. His usual easy charm had dulled into something tense, like even he knew this silence wasn't meant to be filled. Abby sat across from you in the bed of the truck, her arms resting over her rifle, eyes darting across the trees as they passed. Alert. Cold. Professional.

Your thoughts were nowhere near the road.

They spiraled.

Back to last night—her breath against your neck, the hunger in her touch. Her voice low and ragged when she said, "Fuck... be gentle."
And then the way she had turned away from you after, like it hadn't meant anything. No whispered promise. No warmth.

Just silence.

Your chest ached. Not from the bruises or the strain, but from her. From the weight of wanting something she wasn't sure she could give.

"I'm straight, Jo." That's what she'd said. But what she did—what you did together—told a different story. No one did that just to experiment. No one trembled under your hands like that without feeling something real.

But Owen still lived in her head. You saw it—when his name came up, when he looked at her like he still owned a part of her. The way she wouldn't meet your gaze afterward, but had no problem stealing glances at him. Her face softened for him in a way it hadn't for you not this morning. Not yet.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tasted blood.

You thought about her mouth on yours, about how she tasted on your tongue. About how she held your hips down like you might float away if she let go. Your eyes stung.

There'd been no kiss when it ended. No arm around your waist. Just the scraping sound of her belt, the sound of her tying her boots again like she was suiting up for war.

She was always suiting up for war.

You turned your head, eyes falling on her face. She didn't look back.

You hated Owen. Hated the way he could still get under her skin without even trying. Hated that you weren't what she wanted. Not really. Not yet.

Your hand clenched in your lap, trembling slightly.

Fuck, you thought. Why did it have to feel like this?

You caught Manny's eyes in the rearview mirror. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave you half-concerned, half-knowing said enough. He'd seen the tension between you and Abby. Felt it, probably. His brows knit just slightly before he returned his attention to the road.

You sighed and glanced at her.

Her fingers were drumming softly against her knee, a nervous habit you'd seen before. She wasn't looking at you, not yet. Not really. But when her hand tapped against your leg, her voice came low, trying to sound casual.

"It's Wednesday," she said. "Means breakfast'll be decent. They usually do the porridge with those dried berries."

You blinked at her.

That's what she had to say? After everything? After last night?

You didn't respond right away. Your mind was still tangled in memory, her flushed face beneath you, the way her breath had caught on your name, the way she'd begged without meaning to. That version of her felt so far from this one. This quiet, composed soldier now pretending like nothing had happened.

Small talk?

Really?

Your heart sank. She was retreating. You knew that much. Putting up walls like she always did when things got too real.

You turned your eyes forward. The stadium loomed in the distance now, massive and gray, cutting against the skyline like an old scar.

"Yum," you muttered flatly.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her glance at you. Her expression shifted, brows twitching downward. Confused. Maybe a little hurt.

But she didn't say anything.

She just looked down at her hands and stayed quiet.

___________________________________________________________________________

There it was—the stadium gates, looming ahead in the morning haze. Familiar figures moved along the walls, rifles slung, eyes alert. The air was thick with the scent of smoked fish, gunpowder, and motor oil: home, in the way war makes anything feel like home.

You passed the fish tents on the lower level, where a few WLF soldiers shouted orders over the hiss of frying pans. Your stomach growled. Everything from the past 24 hours pulsed behind your ribs adrenaline, hunger, confusion.

Once inside the stadium proper, the three of you made your way up toward the mess hall. Conversations buzzed in low tones, boots echoed on concrete, and you kept your eyes on the back of Abby's neck as she walked just ahead of you. She hadn't looked at you much since the truck.

Inside, the mess hall smelled of steam and salt. The line was short this early, and a soldier with gloves slopped porridge into a metal bowl on your tray without a word. You grabbed a bruised apple and a tin of instant coffee.

You sat across from Manny and Abby at one of the long metal tables. The food was hot—scalding, really—but you welcomed the sting on your lips. Better that than letting your mind spiral.

Manny glanced between the two of you. Then, finally, he broke the silence.

"So," he said, stabbing his spoon into the porridge. "What happened after we got separated yesterday?"

His voice was low, casual on the surface, but you caught the glint of curiosity in his eyes as they flicked to your neck, right where Abby's mouth had been.

Abby didn't flinch. She stared into her bowl, her jaw tight. "We holed up in a building just off the river. Waited out the night. Left at dawn to find you."

Manny raised a brow. "Right."

You nodded along quietly, shoveling another spoonful into your mouth. You needed something to do with your hands—something other than reach for Abby or light a cigarette. You hated the way you still felt her on your skin.

Manny gave you a knowing look, but didn't press. You were grateful for that.

You finished your bowl and stood up, your mouth still full. "Gonna smoke," you muttered around a spoonful, not waiting for a response.

As you pushed open the mess hall door and stepped into the open air, the cold hit you like a slap. You paused for a second—and that's when you saw them.

Abby and Manny, just beyond the corner of the building, voices hushed but tense. Her arms were crossed, his hands thrown up in frustration. You couldn't hear the words, but you didn't need to. It didn't take much to guess.

Your chest tightened. You looked away, fumbling for the cigarette in your coat pocket with trembling fingers. You lit it with a shaky hand and inhaled deeply, letting the burn in your lungs distract from the heat behind your eyes.

Then the tears came—slow and silent. You turned your head toward the wall, eyes fixed on nothing, and let them fall. Everything hit you at once. The ambush. The screaming. Manny's blood on the rocks. The dark room. Abby on your tongue. Her walking away like none of it meant a goddamn thing. The Seraphite's screams. Your own.

You exhaled hard, smoke curling out of your mouth as you sniffled and wiped your eyes with the back of your sleeve.

"Where've you been, Jo?"

You flinched slightly, then looked over your shoulder. It was Frank, leaning against the railing like he'd just wandered out of the fog. His tone was soft, the kind of softness he only ever used with you.

You let out a weak chuckle, not turning your head. "Nowhere. And back."

He nodded like he understood, his eyes scanning the edge of the stadium. "That kind of day?"

You took another drag, let the silence stretch.

"Wanna talk about it?" he offered, voice quiet again.

You shook your head. "Later. I think I need a drink again."

He sighed. You could hear the disappointment settle in his chest.

"Not now, Jo," he said. "Not after yesterday. You showed up to patrol hungover. Everyone saw."

You looked down at your boots. The cigarette trembled in your fingers.

"Nice," you muttered, voice hollow with shame.

Frank pushed off the railing with a grunt, the boards creaking under his boots. He clicked his tongue, casting you a side glance. "I know you like her, Jo."

His voice was low—not teasing, just honest. Too honest.

"I can tell," he added, softer now. "What happened?"

You stared down at the half-smoked cigarette in your hand, the ash trembling on the edge. Your throat tightened as you shook your head and pinched the bridge of your nose.

"God, Frank... you know what happened." Your voice cracked, the words breaking loose like a dam. Another tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Frank nodded quietly, his jaw working. He didn't look at you.

"You know... her history with—"

"I know, Frank," you snapped, sharper than you meant to be. You wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, smearing the dampness across your skin. The smoke stung now.

You turned your gaze out over the stadium, watching the soldiers move like ants below. Somewhere out there, Abby was walking away—again. Heading to the armory? The kennels? Maybe straight to Owen.

Frank finally exhaled, adjusting the strap of his rifle across his shoulder. "I got patrol. Be back late. Probably crashing at Dana's—don't wait up for me." His voice faded as he stepped down from the platform.

And just like that, you were alone again.

You let the cigarette burn down to the filter in your hand before flicking it into the barrel beside you. Your chest ached with the kind of hollow that didn't go away with sleep.

Abby.
Her calloused fingers.
The heat of her skin.
Every freckle, every scar, every bruise on her body—mapped in your memory.
The way her breath stuttered when she came, like she'd never been touched like that before.
Not by Owen.
Not like that.
Not like you.

And yet... it still wasn't love.
Not from her.
She touched you like it was survival. Like it was muscle memory. Like it didn't mean anything.

You'd touched her like she mattered. Like she was more than war.
And she'd kissed you like a mistake.

You let out a long, ragged sigh, eyes burning. Then, without another word, you turned and slipped back into the mess hall.

No one looked at you, but you could feel the stares. You reeked—of cigarettes, blood, sweat, and heartbreak.

Without a word, you grabbed a clean shirt from the quartermaster's corner and headed for the showers.

It was the only place left where no one expected you to talk.

Chapter 9: Confrontation

_________________________________________________________________________

You undressed quietly in the corner, peeling off the layers stiff with dried blood, sweat, and river mud. The locker room was dim, lit only by the flickering fluorescents overhead. You slipped under one of the industrial faucets, bracing yourself as the steaming water hit your raw skin. A gasp escaped your lips as the heat cut through the chill that had burrowed deep into your bones since yesterday. You planted one hand against the tile wall, the other gripping your waist, trying to hold yourself together.

The water pounded against your back like a punishment.

You didn't hear the door open over the hiss of the shower until a familiar voice rang out behind you.

"See you later, Manny!" Abby called.

You tensed.

Of course. Of course she'd be here—pristine as always, even after everything. Always controlled, always composed, while you were still shaking from the night before.

You kept your eyes forward, forehead resting against the slick tile, willing her to pick a different stall. But instead, she stepped right up to the one beside you. Her presence radiated heat, stronger than the water.

There were ten other free showers. She picked the one next to you.

You didn't say a word.

She reached up to adjust the pressure knob with that familiar sharp twist, and the sound of her own water joined yours. You felt her gaze before she spoke.

Then, she nudged your arm—firm but not aggressive—and her voice cut through the steam. "Why are you avoiding me?"

You turned your head slowly, water streaming down your face, eyebrows drawn together in disbelief. "Now?" you snapped. "You're asking me this now?"

She smirked. That same maddening, unreadable look she wore when she was trying not to flinch. "So what?"

You stared at her. Water dripping off your chin. Her face was calm, but her eyes gave her away—red-rimmed, puffy, like she hadn't slept. Like maybe the night before rattled her too, even if she'd never admit it.

There was a long silence, the only sound the dull echo of water slapping tile and the hollow ache in your chest.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to pull her close. You didn't know which one would hurt more.

Abby sighed and leaned her shoulder against the cold tile, letting the water run down her back. She didn't say anything right away—just watched you, waiting for you to say something first. Her silence felt like a challenge.

You finally turned to face her, your arm shaking as you pointed a finger at her, water trailing down your bare chest. "You're acting like nothing happened," you spat, your voice cracking as a lump swelled in your throat. "Like that night didn't mean anything."

A tear slipped down your cheek, masked by the stream of the shower.

Abby's eyes flicked downward, jaw tightening. "Jo..." she said softly, her voice low and cautious.

But it wasn't enough. You snapped, words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I know Owen never made you feel like that," you hissed, your tone caught between fury and heartbreak. "But you still trail after him like some loyal dog—like I was just a mistake to get out of your system."

Her eyes widened, stunned. "Excuse me?" she said, stepping forward. There was a flash of hurt on her face, quickly masked by defensiveness. "You don't get to say that."

You scoffed and looked away, wiping your eyes roughly. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Abby. You can lie to everyone else. But not me. Not after what we did."

The air was thick with steam and tension, your words still echoing off the walls. Abby's chest rose and fell, her brow furrowed hard as if she was trying to find the right thing to say—something that wouldn't make it worse.

You shook your head slowly, your voice cracking with bitterness. "Fuck you, Abby."

You didn't wait for her to respond. You turned the water off in one abrupt motion, steam rising off your skin as you grabbed a towel and dried off in silence. She stayed still, back against the wall, exhaling hard like she was bracing for an aftershock.

But you didn't give her one. You dressed fast, still dripping, your hands fumbling with your shirt as rage rattled in your bones.

Your boots squeaked on the tile as you stormed out of the showers and into the hallway, not caring who saw you.

Then you saw him.

Owen.

Standing casually by the hallway entrance like he owned the air you breathed. His arms were crossed, brows lifted slightly in that way that always felt smug, even when he didn't mean it to.

You didn't even slow down.

You shoulder-checked him hard as you passed, your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He stumbled slightly, turning after you. "What the fuck?" he snapped, clearly caught off guard.

But you didn't look back.

You kept walking like the place was on fire.

You slammed the door to your barracks apartment so hard the frame rattled. The echo bounced back at you like a taunt.

"Fuck!" you shouted, your voice raw.

The nearest chair—a rickety old wooden thing—caught your eye. You kicked it hard. It toppled and cracked against the floor, skidding into the wall with a hollow thud.

Your breathing was erratic as you rubbed your face, trying to calm the boiling in your chest. It didn't work. Your hands dropped, twitching. You dropped to your knees and scrambled under the cot, throwing aside a pair of boots and a crumpled jacket.

Frank had hidden your stash. You knew he had.

You tore through the room in desperation—checking drawers, yanking open the closet, flinging open cabinets like the bottle might be hiding behind the protein packs and canned peaches. Nothing. Not a goddamn drop.

The panic was setting in now, sitting right on top of the grief. Your jaw trembled as your hands balled into fists.

You stormed out the door and down the corridor, feet pounding, fists tight. You didn't care how loud you were. You didn't care who saw.

You slammed your fist against the door of Manny and Abby's place. Lucky for you, it was Manny who answered.

He blinked at you, eyebrows lifting at the sight of your flushed face and glassy eyes. "Jo," he said, trying to keep it light. "Where's the fire?"

"Got any liquor?" Your voice came out strained, like it had been dragged through gravel.

His mouth twitched into a smirk—hesitation in his eyes, though. He stepped aside anyway. "C'mon in."

It was barely 10 a.m. The sun hadn't even fully cleared the top of the stadium, but none of that mattered. Not to you. Not right now.

He handed you a bottle of something brown and unlabeled, probably swiped from a trade caravan. You hugged it to your chest like a life raft and took a long, desperate swig. It burned like acid going down, but the heat in your gut dulled the edge, if only for a second.

"Jo—hey, slow down," Manny said, moving to grab the bottle from you as you tipped it again. He pulled it gently from your grasp, frowning. "You trying to blackout or what?"

You stumbled back against the wall and slid down it, landing hard. Your head dropped to your knees, arms wrapping tight around your legs.

Your voice cracked on its way out. "Fuck... Manny..." A sob broke free before you could stop it. "I don't know what to do."

Manny didn't press at first. He sat down across from you, legs crossed, elbow resting on one knee. His tone was quiet. Not teasing. Not nosy.

"Jo," he said again, softer this time. "What happened?"

You sat there for a moment, the silence thick between you. The smell of dust and old wood lingered in the air, and the only sound was the soft clink of the liquor bottle as it settled on the floor between you.

You finally lifted your head. Your eyes were rimmed red, lashes wet. You wiped your face with the back of your wrist, smearing salt and frustration.

"I thought..." you started, voice cracking. "God, Manny, I fucked her."

Your voice was barely more than a whisper. You laughed bitterly at yourself, one breath too close to a sob.

Manny didn't say anything right away. His brows furrowed. He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.

"Abby?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "Yeah. Abby."

There was no judgment in his voice. But there was weight.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Shit..."

You laughed again, hollow. "I know. I know what you're thinking. She's not—she doesn't—whatever. I don't know what it was. But I wanted it. I think she did too."

Manny looked down at the floor, processing. "She still loves Owen," he said carefully. Not as a jab—just truth. The kind that stings.

"I know," you snapped, too quickly. Then you softened. "I know," you said again, quieter. "She said she was straight, Manny. But that night? That wasn't nothing."

He nodded slowly, eyes on you. "And in the morning?"

You swallowed hard. Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. "She barely looked at me. Didn't even—she just went cold. Like it didn't happen. Like I didn't mean anything."

There was another long pause. Then Manny leaned back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling.

"She does that," he murmured. "Shuts off when things get real."

You turned your head toward him, pain sharp behind your eyes. "What the hell do I do with that, Manny?"

He looked over at you again, and his voice was firm. "You breathe. You get your shit together. You go to training tomorrow."

You blinked at him, startled. "What?"

"I'm not saying she didn't feel something," he said gently. "I'm saying if you keep looking at her for something she can't give, it's gonna eat you alive."

You closed your eyes. The burn in your chest had nothing to do with the liquor.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Okay."

You shook your head, your hands lingering there, fingers clutching at nothing. "I want her to want me..." you whispered, then broke into another sob, burying your face against your knees.

Manny was quiet for a moment. You heard the soft creak of the floorboards as he shifted closer, his tone gentler than usual.

"I know," he said. "I know, Jo."

You laughed bitterly through your tears. "No, you don't. She looks at him like he's still everything. And me? I was just..." You trailed off, unable to finish.

"A fuck?" Manny said quietly, finishing it for you.

You winced.

"But," he continued, "maybe not just that."

You looked up, eyes puffy, throat raw. "You saw the way she looked at him."

He nodded. "Yeah. But I also saw the way she looked at you, when she thought no one was watching."

You froze.

"She looked scared, Jo," he said. "Not disgusted. Not regretful. Just... scared."

"Of what?" you breathed.

"Of you," he said with a sad smile. "Of what you make her feel."

You stared at the wall, your heartbeat slowing into something heavy and dull.

Manny leaned back, the bottle resting on the floor between you. "You ever think that maybe... she's never let herself want someone like you before?"

You shrugged weakly. "Doesn't change the fact she still wants him."

He nodded. "Maybe. But she let you in. That means something."

You didn't reply. You couldn't. The words settled into your chest like bricks.

Manny gave your shoulder a gentle nudge. "C'mon. You're still you, Jo. Don't let her make you feel like that."

You wiped your face, slower this time.

"...Thanks," you whispered, voice hoarse.

He stood up and ruffled your hair, just enough to be annoying. "Don't thank me. Just don't drown yourself in booze tonight, yeah? Go to the gym. Hit the bag. Scream into a pillow. Something."

You let out a breath, the smallest of smiles twitching at the edge of your lips. "No promises."

"Yeah, well," he grinned. "Figured."

He grabbed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. "I'll catch you later, Hermana. You need anything... you know where I'm at."

You watched him go.

And when the door clicked shut, the apartment was quiet again.

_____________________________________________________________________________

You'd forgotten this was Abby's place too when you drank down the last burning mouthful from the bottle. The warmth in your stomach was quickly turning sour. You sank to the floor and let your back hit the wall with a dull thud, curling your legs in. The room swam. Your limbs felt like sandbags. You didn't care. Not about the hangover coming, not about the ache in your chest. Just silence. Numbness.

At some point, time slipped away. You might've slept, or blacked out. Everything was distant until the sharp nudge of a hand stirred you.

"Jo?" a familiar voice cut through the fog. Abby.

You opened one eye and squinted up at her. She was crouched in front of you, her brows pulled tight with something between concern and confusion. Her hair was damp—probably from training—and she was still in her tank top, the one stained faintly with gun oil near the hem.

She picked up the empty bottle beside you. Her fingers curled around its neck like it offended her.

"Are you... drunk?" she asked, inspecting the label. Her voice wasn't angry. Just... weary.

You sat up with a groan, your head pounding like it was caught between two bricks. Your stomach swirled, and your mouth was cotton-dry.

She sighed and scanned you like she was counting injuries. "Jo... how long have you been here? It's almost 7."

"I don't..." You swallowed bile and rubbed your temple, blinking hard. "I don't fuckin' know."

Abby stood up, shifting her weight as if unsure whether to scold you or help. "Let's get some food in you. You look like shit."

She reached down to grab your arm, but you flinched away and shoved her hand off, your voice slurring and cracked, "Don't touch me, you bitch."

The words dropped like a hammer between you.

Abby stiffened. Her hand lingered mid-air before she let it fall to her side. She looked down at you—jaw tight, nostrils flaring—and for a second you thought she might just walk away. But she didn't.

Instead, she crouched down again, a foot of space between you now. She spoke low and calm. "I'm not gonna fight you, Jo. I get it—you're angry. You're hurt. But you can't just tear yourself apart like this and expect it to fix anything."

You scoffed and turned your face away, a bitter laugh catching in your throat. "Easy for you to say."

Abby didn't reply right away. The silence sat heavy.

Then, softly: "I didn't feel chosen, Jo. Not for a long time."

You turned back to her, eyes glassy. "Then why'd you leave me feeling like nothing?"

Her face twisted, like you'd punched her in the gut. But she didn't deny it.

Instead, she said quietly, "Because I didn't know how to be honest with you."

The light in the room had faded into evening shadows. Abby stood again, backing up a step.

"I'll make something," she said, nodding toward the kitchen. "If you're sober enough to eat it, you're welcome to stay. If not... sleep it off. I'm not gonna kick you out."

She walked off without waiting for a reply.

You slumped back against the wall, head heavy, your body sinking into the floor like it wanted to vanish. The burn in your throat was gone now—replaced by that bitter, creeping clarity. Sobriety. You hated it.

Your limbs ached as you dragged yourself upright. "I'm gonna smoke—"

"No," Abby's voice cut through the air, sharp and unwavering. "Enough with the smoking, Jo. Sit down."

You blinked at her. There wasn't anger in her tone, not exactly. Just a tired sort of finality. The kind that didn't leave room for argument.

You sighed, defeated, and flopped down onto the couch. It creaked beneath you. Your fingers picked at a loose thread in the fabric, unraveling it slowly. Anything to avoid looking at her.

In the kitchen, Abby moved with a soldier's rhythm—practical, methodical. You heard the clatter of a pot being lifted, the low hiss of a stovetop burner. The smell of something spicy and familiar began to drift in.

"Manny made this a couple days ago," she said. Her voice was low, measured. "Chili. Still good, I think."

You gave a small nod, your eyes still on your hands. "Cool."

There was silence again—only the low bubbling of chili and the occasional clink of her spoon scraping the pot. You glanced at her, back turned to you as she stirred. Her shoulders were tense. Always tense.

You swallowed. The quiet was unbearable.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked, barely louder than a whisper.

She didn't turn around. "Because you're a mess. And I don't like seeing you that way."

That stung more than you expected.

"You didn't seem to care this morning," you muttered.

Abby finally looked over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "That's not true."

You shook your head. "Then why'd you shut down like that? After everything we... you iced me out like it never happened."

Abby turned off the burner. The room went quiet but for the low hum of the lights. She took a deep breath, and finally brought over two bowls of chili. She set one down in front of you, but didn't sit.

"It did happen," she said, voice low but sure. "But that doesn't mean I know what to do with it."

You scoffed, picking at the spoon. "So what? I'm just your distraction? A good time in a bad week?"

She flinched at that. "No. Don't twist it like that, Jo."

You looked up at her—eyes bloodshot, voice trembling. "Then what am I to you, Abby?"

She sat across from you finally, resting her arms on her knees, the bowl untouched. She looked tired, her freckles faded in the low light, the muscle in her jaw twitching like she was holding something in.

"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But you're not nothing. I just... I've spent so long keeping people at a distance. I don't know how to let someone in without screwing it up."

You nodded slowly, lips pressed tight. "Then maybe let me decide if I want to risk getting screwed up too."

There was a moment of silence. Abby blinked slowly, like the words were settling into her chest. Then she pushed your bowl an inch closer to you.

"Eat first," she said softly. "Then we'll talk."

Chapter 10: Honesty

You picked up the spoon, stirring the chili without much appetite. It was warm, familiar. You forced a bite just to give your hands something to do.

Across from you, Abby sat rigid, her eyes on the floor like she was bracing herself.

After a long silence, she spoke—quiet, clipped. "You shouldn't push yourself like that."

You glanced at her. "With the drinking?"

She didn't answer right away. "With everything."

You sighed. "It's just... hard to stop."

She nodded once, like she understood too well.

"You scared me, Jo," she said, almost too low to hear.

You blinked. Abby never said stuff like that.

"I'm fine," you muttered.

"Doesn't look like it."

You clenched your jaw and looked away.

Another beat of silence.

"Last night..." she started, then paused. "I wasn't planning for it to happen."

You gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Got that loud and clear this morning."

She didn't flinch, just rubbed a hand down her face. "I don't know how to handle this stuff."

You looked at her then. She wasn't dodging—she just didn't have the words.

"I'm not asking you to handle anything," you said. "I just wanted to matter. Even for one night."

Abby stood slowly, took your empty bowl, and rinsed it in the sink.

She didn't turn back when she said, "You do."

You stared at her back as she rinsed out your bowl. The overhead light flickered slightly, catching the tightness in her shoulders. She gripped the sink's edge like she might break it, her breath hitching before a heavy sigh fell from her chest. It didn't sound angry. Just... tired.

You didn't say anything. Neither did she—not for a while.

Then, quietly, she said, "Jo."

You shook your head before she could continue. "Don't."

Your voice cracked, brittle like glass underfoot.

Abby dried her hands and turned. Her footsteps were soft, but deliberate. She knelt down in front of where you sat, brows drawn together. Then, before you could react, her calloused palms cupped your jaw and she kissed you.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just... there.

You flinched and pulled back like you'd been burned. "What the fuck, Abby?"

You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. Your voice wasn't angry—just confused. Raw.

Abby didn't move away. Her eyes searched yours, lips parted, like she didn't quite know what she was doing either. "I know," she whispered. "I know I... messed it up."

She swallowed hard and touched your face again, gentler this time. "I should've said something. I should've—" she cut herself off. Her voice wavered. "I didn't know what to do after. So I didn't do anything. That's on me."

The vulnerability in her voice caught you off guard.

You stared at her for a long moment, heart twisting. You remembered how she cried last night, the way her mouth had trembled against yours, the way she'd gripped your wrist like she was afraid to let go. None of that felt fake. None of it felt meaningless.

But still... something wasn't right.

You looked away. She let go.

The distance came back like a cold draft between you.

Your face twisted in pain as Abby sat down next to you. You turned toward her, voice trembling, rough with exhaustion and heartbreak.

"No. You don't—" you swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight, "you don't get to act like this makes it better."

Abby stared at you in stunned silence, her brow furrowed, lips parted like she was about to speak—but nothing came out.

"You used me, Abby." Your voice cracked under the weight of it. "I'm not—I'm not a fucking rebound."

She reached out, a tentative hand brushing your knee. "Jo, I didn't—"

You slapped her hand away like it burned. Your breath hitched as you stood, pacing the room now.

"I know you didn't mean to fuck me," you spat, venom in your voice, but grief underneath. "I know you didn't mean to put your fucking fingers in me, didn't mean to make me feel like I was the only person in the world for five minutes—just long enough for you to forget about him."

Your voice echoed through the apartment, raw and cracked open, the air thick with the things neither of you had dared to say.

Abby stood as you did, her broad frame tense, arms hanging stiff at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them.

Her mouth opened—then shut. She looked like she was trying to hold something back, like she didn't trust herself to say it right. Her voice came out low, edged with hurt. "That's not fair, Jo."

You laughed bitterly, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "No? You wanna talk about fair? What is fair, Abby? That I get to fall asleep feeling like I meant something, and wake up to you braiding your hair like I was a fucking pit stop?"

She flinched at that, looking away. Her jaw clenched.

You kept going, too far gone to stop now. "You think I didn't see the way you looked at Owen? Still do. You're not over him. You're still his. And I'm just the dumb girl who made you feel something for one goddamn night."

Abby stepped toward you, her voice suddenly harder, more defensive. "You think this is easy for me? You think I wanted this to happen?"

You stared at her, stunned.

She ran a hand down her face, then gestured vaguely between the two of you. "I'm trying, Jo. I'm figuring it out. And yeah—I messed up. I should've said something this morning. But don't stand there and act like none of it meant anything to me."

You swallowed hard, breathing ragged. For a second, the room went quiet except for the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

Abby's eyes finally met yours—full of something raw and unspoken. "You weren't a rebound. You're not a mistake. But I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not like you."

You shook your head, a hand resting over your mouth as you thought through Abby's words. Tears formed in your tear ducts. "Not like me? Huh?"

You let out a cruel laugh. "Well I'm not like you, Abby. I don't run after men who have pregnant girlfriends. " You bit your words at her.

Abby flinched. Just slightly. But you saw it—saw the way your words landed, saw her shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes dropped to the floor.

"I didn't ask for this to happen," she said finally, her voice low, almost ashamed. "With you. It just... it happened, Jo."

You shook your head, the bitter laugh bubbling up again.

"No, it didn't just happen. You let it happen." Your eyes burned into hers. "You kissed me. You touched me like you meant it. You let me see you. And then you woke up and put that armor right back on like none of it fucking mattered."

"I didn't mean for it to feel like that," Abby said, quieter this time, her voice catching. "I panicked. You were—God, Jo, you were too much. It scared the shit out of me."

You scoffed and turned away, your hand dragging through your sweat damp hair.

"I was honest, Abby. I showed up for you. I saw you—every scar, every crack. And you made me feel like I was something dirty you had to wash off." You looked back at her, voice shaking.

"If that's what I am to you—just something you needed to get out of your system—say it now, and I'll be out of your life." You swallowed.

Abby stood up slowly, like every word you'd said weighed down her limbs. She didn't reach for you again this time. Her hands were clenched at her sides, jaw tight.

"You think I wanted to hurt you?" she said, voice rough. "You think I don't lie awake that night wondering why the hell I keep breaking everything I touch?"

You stared, silent, chest heaving.

"I don't know what this is—what we are," she continued, shaking her head. "But I didn't use you, Jo. I didn't lie to you. That night... it meant something to me too."

You blinked, her words like a gut punch.

Abby took a step closer, but still didn't touch you. "I'm just not good at this. I've never been good at—at softness. Or letting people stay. But I didn't walk away because I didn't care. I walked away because I do."

Her voice cracked. "You scare the shit out of me."

For a long moment, there was only the sound of both your breathing. The hum of the base outside your window. A muffled laugh from some patrol down the hall. Life moving on around you.

But here, between the two of you, everything had stopped.

You stared at her with bloodshot eyes, your breath catching in your throat. Everything about her, her broad shoulders, the calloused hands still twitching at her sides, the guarded glint in her eyes—felt like too much and not enough all at once.

"I'm gonna go," you said, your voice breaking like thin ice underfoot.

Abby didn't stop you. She just sat back down on the worn couch, elbows on her knees, her gaze dropping to the floor like it held some answer neither of you could find.

You grabbed your coat off the hook by the door, fumbling with the zipper as your fingers shook. The apartment felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.

Your boots thudded heavily across the floor as you made your way out, not daring to look back.

The hallway outside was cold. Sterile. You leaned against the wall for a moment, sucking in air like you were surfacing from a deep dive. Your chest ached. Your eyes stung.

You needed to breathe.

You needed space.

You needed to forget the way her lips trembled when she almost cried... and the way she hadn't asked you to stay.

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Chapter 11: Blood

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It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since Abby last touched you.

Two weeks since you felt her lips pressed against yours, her hands gripping your skin like she was afraid you'd vanish.

Two weeks since the fight—the yelling, the silence, the slam of a door.

You had avoided her like a plague. And she, true to form, didn't chase after you. Maybe that hurt the worst.

You sat up in your cot, spine aching from restless sleep. The thin mattress had long since lost its comfort. Frank was already moving around the cramped apartment, pulling his boots on, methodical like always. His back was turned, but you could feel the weight of his eyes the moment he spoke.

"When are you gonna tell me what's going on?" he asked, voice laced with a quiet frustration that had been building for days.

You swallowed, your throat dry and raw from sleep—or from the cigarettes. Or both. You dragged a hand down your face and exhaled slowly.

"Frank..." you started, the word barely holding itself together.

He turned, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Look, I don't care if you tell me or not. Just... whatever this is—" he gestured vaguely toward you, "—keep it calm. No more hostility. We all notice."

He didn't wait for an answer. The door creaked open and shut with a dull thud, leaving you alone in the heavy silence of the room.

You hadn't spoken much to Frank lately. He'd fallen into rhythm with stadium life: running patrols, joking with the others, seeing some girl from the infirmary. He was adjusting.

You weren't.

You stepped over discarded gear to the rusted sink and poured yourself a glass of lukewarm water. It tasted like copper and dust. You checked your watch—7:02 a.m. The mess hall would already be crowded.

You pulled on a black shirt, its fabric stiff from dried sweat, and your baggy patrol pants. Your WLF jacket still smelled faintly of gun oil and the forest. Winter was creeping in now—your breath clouded the glass as you passed the window. You wrapped your red scarf tight around your neck, tucking your chin into it as you headed out.

The scent of powdered eggs and smoked meat greeted you before the mess hall even came into view. You joined the slow-moving line, boots crunching against salt-streaked concrete.

Then you saw her.

Abby.

She sat beside Manny, hunched over her tray. Her brows were furrowed, picking apart a slab of overcooked ham like it was a puzzle she couldn't solve. Her hair was tied back in a braid, strands sticking to her neck with sweat. She looked tired.

Her eyes lifted.

Met yours.

For a second, time stopped. Her expression didn't change—no surprise, no anger, not even the soft guilt that had haunted her face in the days after. Just... stillness.

You looked away first.

Your stomach turned. The line crept forward but your appetite had already fled. Then you saw Owen walk across the mess hall, tray in hand. He sat beside her without hesitation. Abby didn't flinch, didn't even shift.

You stepped out of line.

You made your way toward the front kiosk, nodding at the tired-looking woman who manned it. "A pack, please."

She barely looked up, sliding the smokes across the counter as you handed over your ration card.

Outside, you lit one with trembling fingers. The wind bit at your skin, but the burn of nicotine was familiar. Grounding.

You leaned against the concrete barrier, staring out across the fog-draped perimeter. The sky was gunmetal gray, the same as every other morning. But something about today settled in your chest heavier than most.

You were unraveling.

No sleep. No food. Just patrols, bottles, smoke, and the slow gnawing ache that Abby had left behind in your ribs like shrapnel. Patrol leaders stopped asking questions. The way you took out your rage on Seraphites and infected alike... they just let you.

But Frank saw it.

Abby probably did too.

And you hated that even now, you wanted her to care.

Your fingers ached as the cold bit into them, knuckles stiff under the gray sky pressing down over the stadium. The cigarette trembled between them, half-burnt, ash hanging from the tip like it couldn't decide whether to fall. But your mind wasn't in Seattle anymore. Not with Abby. Not with the fight. Not with the ache in your chest that hadn't let up in two weeks.

It was Boston now.

The barracks had always been cold. Cold food, cold walls, cold people. But Terra—Terra had a heat to her. Not warmth. No, warmth implied kindness. Terra burned.

You could still see her clearly: long, jet-black hair parted perfectly down the middle, always tucked behind one ear. Her olive skin flawless under the flickering fluorescents of the FEDRA dorm halls. She wore her cruelty like eyeliner—sharp, precise, intentional.

She never said she loved you. Not once. But she'd kiss you when no one was looking. Touch your thigh under the mess hall table. Whisper things in the dark that made you feel like you meant something. And then pull away when the sun rose.

Different than Abby. So different. But somehow, the hurt felt the same.

You leaned against the cold metal siding of the mess hall, letting your weight sag into it. The smoke hit your lungs, bitter and familiar. You hadn't let yourself think about Terra in a long time. Not since the last time you said her name aloud, screaming it into a dark street with your fists clenched and your heart ripped open.

Your last fight with her had been brutal—words flung like bricks. You'd been cruel. You told her you hoped she'd get reassigned, hoped she'd never come back. Hoped she'd just die and be done with it.

Then she did.

She bled out in your lap on a busted-up corner of downtown Boston after a routine FEDRA patrol went sideways. Shot in the stomach, wide eyes staring up at the smog-choked sky. Your hands had been useless, trying to shove the blood back in like it could fix anything. You remembered screaming for help. No one came. Just the sound of distant sirens and the metal-on-metal rattle of distant infected slamming against chain-link.

You closed your eyes, exhaling smoke through your nose. The wind swept across the stadium and rattled the scaffolding behind you.

"Shit," you whispered to no one.

You didn't cry for Terra when it happened. You were too angry. You hadn't cried since... until Abby.

And now? You were right back here. Shaking in the cold. Wanting someone who didn't know how to love you the way you needed.

A tear slipped down your cheek as you stubbed out the cigarette on the metal railing. You thought it might help—thought maybe the smoke could burn through the ache in your chest. But it only made your throat tighter.

You glanced down at the rest of the fresh pack, hand-rolled, smuggled in by someone who owed you a favor. For a second, your hand hovered over it. Maybe another. Just one more. Maybe that would help.

But it wouldn't. You knew that now.

Your eyes blurred again as warm tears fell to the cold concrete. They left faint, dark circles against the pale frost forming on the edge of the walkway.

This wasn't like Terra.

Abby... Abby cared. You knew she did. She wasn't cruel. She didn't play games the way Terra did. So why the hell did it still hurt this much?

She hadn't pushed you away. Not exactly. She hadn't said she didn't want you.

She just hadn't chosen you.

You wanted her to forget Owen. To look at you the way she used to look at him. Wanted to be enough to erase the shape he carved into her heart. But no matter what you did—what you gave—there was always something in her eyes when she looked at him. Something you couldn't compete with.

You wiped your face with the threadbare sleeve of your jacket, the fabric damp from the morning frost. The gesture felt useless. The tears just kept coming.

Your mind tumbled backward again, to Boston. To the days when you still wore a uniform like it was armor, and the world had clearly drawn sides. Right and wrong. Order and chaos. FEDRA or Fireflies.

You were out on a patrol. The city was gray that day, same as always, but your gear felt especially heavy. Too big for your frame, rubbing raw under your arms. You remembered the way your rifle slipped on your shoulder, the strap too loose no matter how you adjusted it.

And you remembered Daniels.

He was your friend. Had been since you were both barely old enough to hold a gun. He caught up with you on patrol that day, pulled you aside in the alley near the quarantine fence.

"I'm leaving," he whispered. "Fireflies. Marlene's sending me to Salt Lake. They've got something big planned. Real change."

You begged him to shut up. To not say it out loud. Not to tell you.

Because the second he did, you had no choice.

You turned him in. If you hadn't, it would've been you in the cell next to him. Or strung up in the middle of the square. You told yourself it was survival. But survival doesn't feel like this.

They didn't just arrest him. They handed him to you.

They told you to make an example out of him. Said it would prove your loyalty. Said it would keep others in line.

You burned him alive.

You remember his screams more than his face. The way he begged you by name. The way the other soldiers laughed when you hesitated. The way they watched.

The smell clung to your uniform for weeks.

You gripped the metal railing now, knuckles white, as the memory passed through your body like a fever. Your shoulders shook as your breath caught in your throat—sharp, uneven gasps that made your chest ache. You couldn't stop the tears anymore. They just kept coming, slow and quiet.

You needed to get the thoughts out of your head—burn them out if you had to. With Frank cutting off your alcohol privileges after too many close calls, the only thing left was to throw yourself at something that could hit back.

Your fingers were stiff with cold as you rubbed your face, trying to steady your breath. It came out ragged. Your cheeks were red and puffy, and your eyes were swollen from crying, but you didn't care. You pushed open the door to the mess hall, boots thudding against concrete.

That's when you saw her.

Abby sat across the room beside Manny and Owen, a half-eaten bowl of something steaming in front of her. She looked up as you passed—just a flicker—but it caught you hard. You met her gaze for the briefest second. She looked like she wanted to say something. You didn't give her the chance.

You stormed down the corridor toward the armory, passing soldiers gearing up and handing in post-patrol reports. The smell of oil and metal hung thick in the air. You approached the desk and slapped your hand on the counter.

"Give me a patrol," you said, your voice flat and hoarse. "Let someone take a break."

The man behind the desk—some logistics guy, maybe Jonas—looked you over, eyes lingering on your face a beat too long. He didn't ask questions. Maybe he'd seen enough burned-out cases like you to know better.

He slid you a rifle and sidearm and scrawled your name over Denise's slot. "Group Four's short," he muttered. "You'll ride with them. Don't get creative out there."

You nodded and turned on your heel. A few minutes later, you found the squad loading up at the south gate checkpoint—three soldiers you'd never worked with. Denise handed you her radio with a brief look of concern.

"You sure?" she asked, eyeing the bags under your eyes.

You just gave her a shrug and climbed into the flatbed without another word.

The truck smelled like gasoline and wet wool. One of the soldiers—a lanky guy with a shaved head—lit a cigarette and glanced at you. You offered him one without speaking. He took it, nodding a silent thanks.

As the truck rumbled to life beneath you, you took a long drag, the smoke biting into your lungs. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tucked your coat tighter around you. You didn't know where you were headed, but it didn't matter. You weren't out here to complete a mission.

The truck barreled down the western road, tires grinding against damp concrete as the wind bit into your exposed knuckles. You didn't ask for details, but you figured you were heading toward Base Six. The route felt familiar—wide-open stretches and overgrown intersections long claimed by moss and rusted-out cars.

Then it hit.

A sharp thunk cracked against the side of the truck, just above your shoulder. Wood splintered as an arrow buried itself in the paneling. Everyone ducked. The driver cursed, swerving as more arrows followed like angry wasps.

You ducked beside the lanky soldier you'd given a cigarette to. His face was pale but steady.

"You take left, I take right," he rasped, already cocking his rifle.

You nodded. No hesitation.

You swung your body over the edge of the flatbed and dropped low, rifle in hand. The world narrowed—your breath slowed, your aim tightened. One, two, three shots—clean, perfect. Heads dropped like overripe fruit. The truck screeched to a stop just outside a crumbling corner store, its shattered windows revealing a flicker of firelight inside.

A Seraphite camp.

You didn't wait for orders. You and the others split, moving through the wreckage-strewn lot. You slid past a rusted car, heart pounding not with fear—but rage. There were at least fifteen of them inside, maybe more. You didn't care.

Something in you snapped.

You sprinted up behind the closest one, wrapped an arm around his neck, and used him as a shield as you fired over his shoulder—three shots, three kills. Then you slammed your pistol into the side of his head and dropped him where he stood.

Whistles shrieked through the shop—sharp, birdlike cries from the Seraphites. You heard them scrambling, drawing bows, shouting prayers. One of them—a huge brute with scars painted across his face—charged from behind and slammed a hammer into your back. Pain exploded through your ribs as you hit the ground hard, wind knocked clean from your lungs.

But you got up.

You tackled him, driving your shoulder into his gut, slamming him into a shelving unit. It collapsed with a crash. You straddled him and brought your pistol down on his face. Once, twice—blood burst from his mouth.

And then you saw it.

His eyes. His face. Daniel.

You froze.

The haze of war blurred with memory. You were in Boston again, years ago—before Salt Lake, before the stadium, before everything. Daniel, begging you not to turn him in. Telling you about the Fireflies. About Marlene. About hope. And you'd crushed it in front of him.

He had screamed.

The man beneath you was gasping for air, but you couldn't stop. You were sobbing now—deep, guttural sounds as your fingers wrapped around his throat.

"I'm sorry," you gasped, over and over. "I didn't mean to— I didn't mean to let them—"

His eyes rolled back. He stopped struggling.

You didn't stop.

You slammed your fist into his face again and again. "Why did you tell me, Daniel? Why did you tell me?!" The words tore out of you like splinters.

Arms wrapped around you—tight, dragging you off the corpse. It was the lanky soldier, his voice steady but urgent. "We gotta go. Now."

You stumbled out of the shop with him, vision foggy and breath ragged. Then—

Crack.

Your body jerked forward. A searing pain bloomed through your abdomen. You looked down.

Blood.

A bullet had found you—clean through the gut. You staggered once, twice, then collapsed, the cold earth greeting your cheek as your vision tunneled.

Voices blurred above you. The world dimmed.

And then, nothing.

Chapter 12: Recovery

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There was a dull hum in your ears, like the world had gone underwater.

A voice pierced through the fog—familiar, sharp. "Joan."

You blinked against the harsh light of the med tent ceiling, your eyes struggling to focus. A dark figure hovered above you, her face coming into view.

Nora.

Her brow was furrowed, eyes scanning your face. "Joan? Can you hear me?" she repeated, snapping her fingers twice near your ear. The smell of antiseptic burned your nostrils. Your mouth tasted like old blood and rusted metal.

You groaned, throat dry and ragged. A nod was all you could manage.

"Good," she muttered, a sliver of relief in her voice. "You took a bullet to the gut, tore through soft tissue but missed anything vital. Lucky you were close to the FOB or you'd have bled out in the dirt."

You turned your head weakly. To your left, a tray of medical tools sat stained with your blood, thread still strung through a needle. You tried to move, but your torso burned—white-hot pain radiating from your abdomen. You winced, teeth clenching.

"Don't—don't move," Nora said quickly, placing a steady hand on your shoulder. "You're running on adrenaline and dumb luck. You need to rest."

Her voice faded as exhaustion crushed down on you. Your vision swam, her words melting into a wash of noise as the pain finally gave way to unconsciousness.

The next time you opened your eyes, the world was quieter—softer. The constant movement of the field hospital had dulled to a distant murmur behind canvas walls. The light filtering through the tent ceiling was faint and cold.

You were in the far corner, tucked into a cot beneath scratchy wool blankets. The air stung your throat with its chill, and your skin felt fever-slicked.

Beside you, slumped in a folding chair, arms crossed and head back, was Frank.

Your voice was barely more than a croak. "Frank?"

He startled awake instantly, eyes wide as he leaned toward you. "Jo? Jesus Christ—" He stood up quickly and crouched beside the cot. "You're awake."

You tried to sit up, groaning through clenched teeth. "How long...?"

He placed a hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you back down. "Don't push it. You've been out a while."

Your brain fumbled for timelines. "A week?" you asked, blinking slowly.

Frank's face softened, and he let out a breath like he'd been holding it the whole time. "Try a month. You had a fever that wouldn't break. Infection set in deep—Nora nearly lost you twice."

You blinked at the ceiling, throat tightening. A month?

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, sitting down again. "You scared the hell out of us. Abby's been... she's been coming by. A lot, actually."

That made your stomach twist—painful in ways that had nothing to do with stitches.

You stared up, silent.

"Abby?" you rasped, barely able to lift your head.

Frank nodded. "She's been worried sick about you." His voice was quiet, tired. "Nora told her what happened right after they brought you in."

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, his hand reaching out to push damp hair from your forehead. His palm was warm—grounding.

"I've got patrol," he said, hesitating as if he didn't want to leave you. "Try to get some more rest, alright?"

You gave him the barest nod and let your eyes fall shut again. The weight of everything—the pain, the fever, the memory of your own screaming—pulled you under like a tide.

It was hard to tell how long had passed when you next woke, but the light outside the med tent had softened, more gold than gray. You stirred as the curtain rustled, and Nora entered, carrying a small tin bowl between her hands. Steam curled from the surface—chicken broth, maybe. It smelled like salt and canned hope.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she said, her voice warm. She set the bowl down and gently slid a hand behind your back. "Think you can sit up?"

You nodded faintly, and she helped ease you upright with practiced hands. The movement pulled at the healing wound in your side—fire lit up behind your ribs—but it was bearable. Barely.

"Good," she said, grabbing the spoon and scooping some of the broth toward your lips.

You took a sip. The warmth stung your cracked lips, and you coughed on the swallow. Shaking your head, you leaned back.

"I'm not hungry," you murmured.

Nora's expression softened with concern, but she didn't argue. "Alright. It's here when you're ready." She set the bowl on a crate nearby and sighed. "You're getting discharged tomorrow, by the way."

Your stomach twisted with embarrassment. You'd been out for weeks, helpless. Weak. Nothing like the soldier you tried to pretend to be. You nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

Nora touched your shoulder before slipping through the curtain, leaving the space dim and quiet.

You leaned back slowly, about to lie down again—when the curtain shifted.

She stepped through like a ghost you hadn't dared summon.

Abby.

Her silhouette in the pale light made your breath hitch. She looked... wrecked. Her usual posture—strong, sure, squared shoulders—was slightly collapsed, her hands clenched at her sides.

You couldn't speak. You just stared.

Your heart thundered in your chest, your pulse suddenly alive in your ears.

Abby took a slow step forward. Her voice barely above a whisper: "Hey."

You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on her silhouette like you still weren't sure she was real. "...Abby."

Your voice came out hoarse, cracked from disuse and dehydration.

She sat gently on the edge of the medical cot beside you, her hands planted between her knees, gaze tracking your face with caution. "You look better," she said, voice low—careful.

You gave a small nod, eyes flickering away. The words wouldn't come. Your mouth opened, but nothing formed. It felt like your throat was full of barbed wire.

Abby's brows drew together as she glanced at the untouched soup beside you. "You have to eat, Joan." Her voice was firm, clipped—defaulting to the command tone she wore when someone was bleeding out or disobeying orders. But underneath it, there was something gentler. Worried.

You knew what she saw. The sharp angles of your collarbones under your shirt, the sunken shape of your cheeks. You hadn't seen yourself in a mirror, but you didn't need to. You remembered this feeling—how your body used to feel after weeks of grief in Boston, when you wasted away like you were trying to disappear.

You nodded weakly and reached for the bowl.

But her hand caught yours.

"Let me help you," she murmured.

You froze. She moved closer, her thigh brushing yours, and picked up the spoon.

One slow, careful scoop at a time, she lifted the broth to your lips. You sipped quietly, cheeks burning. Her eyes didn't leave yours. Neither of you spoke.

The metal spoon clicked softly against the side of the bowl. The cot creaked beneath your combined weight. Your heart was hammering so hard it made your ribs hurt.

Her hand was steady, even though yours trembled. There was something devastating in the way she focused on the simple task—like she had to put all her effort into not saying everything else.

She offered the last spoonful, and you took it without looking away from her.

The silence between you was deafening. Not cold. Just... heavy. Full of the things you both still hadn't said.

She lowered the bowl into her lap and finally spoke.

"Jo..." Abby's voice barely made it past her lips, tight and trembling at the edges.

But you didn't let her finish.

The tears came suddenly—hot, fast, falling like rain you'd been holding back too long. You turned your face away, wiping at your eyes with the edge of your sleeve, breath hitching. "Sorry," you mumbled, humiliated by how quickly you cracked open.

Abby didn't hesitate. She leaned in and gently cupped your face, her calloused thumbs brushing under your eyes, smearing the tears before they could fall farther. Her touch was firm, but tender.

"Don't be sorry," she murmured. "Please."

There was a beat of silence. She hesitated, eyes scanning yours for permission, then spoke again, quieter this time. "On patrol... you were with Gavin. He told me when you took out that Seraphite, you—" she swallowed, her brows pulling together. "You called him Daniel. Said some stuff I didn't understand."

Her hand lingered on your cheek. "What was that, Joan?"

You looked down at your hands in your lap. The IV in your arm tugged faintly as you shifted.

"Daniel..." you started, voice hoarse, "was my friend. Back in Boston. We grew up together in the barracks. When he told me he was joining the Fireflies, I... I turned him in." You swallowed hard. "I didn't want to. But FEDRA... they said if I didn't, I'd be next."

Abby sat still, listening. Her eyes didn't flinch away.

"They made me torture him," you added, barely audible. "Said it'd prove my loyalty. I didn't even get to look away."

Abby's expression was unreadable. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

"Sometimes," you said, blinking hard, "I still see his face. Every time I—"

"I get it," she said gently. "You don't have to keep going."

The two of you fell into silence again. You could hear the tick of the analog clock on the far wall, the soft hum of the medical equipment. Abby's hand was still resting just barely on your knee, grounding you.

After a while, she finally spoke again.

"I should've talked to you that day," she admitted. "When we got back. You looked awful. I knew something was wrong, but I—" her voice faltered. "I didn't know how to talk to you."

You gave a breathy, bitter laugh through your nose. "Let's not talk about that," you murmured, your voice thin.

Abby looked at you a second longer, then gave a soft nod. "Okay. Not now."

She stayed beside you, quiet. You didn't push her away this time.

_________________________________________________________________________

Two months blurred past you like rain on glass.

Frank had taken you home from the med tent, quiet and careful. The days bled together—fever dreams, aching ribs, the metallic taste of antibiotics. You couldn't even look in the mirror most days. But slowly, painfully, your body knit itself back together.

And finally, this morning, you woke up and didn't feel like death. No fever. No fog.

Just you. Alive.

Nora had cleared you herself, smiling softly as she scribbled on your chart. "Go on," she said. "But don't do anything stupid for at least another week."

You nodded, practically floating out of the medical tent. The world felt new again—the crisp air, the sting of winter on your cheeks, the weight of your boots on dry dirt. You were allowed to move freely again. You could smoke again.

You could feel useful again.

Your first stop wasn't breakfast. It was the little shop tucked beside the mess hall.

The woman behind the counter looked up from a box of folded linens. Her eyes squinted slightly. "Been a while," she muttered, already pulling a familiar pack from under the shelf.

You reached for your ration card, but she held up a hand. "On me," she said simply.

You stared for a second before nodding, touched by the small kindness. "Thanks," you mumbled.

You slipped outside into the courtyard, your hands eager, your steps almost a skip. You had the cigarette between your fingers, lighter in your other hand, when you heard her voice.

"Thought you'd quit those after being off 'em for so long."

Abby.

She stood near the edge of the courtyard, sunlight catching in the soft strands of her pulled-back hair. Her arms were crossed loosely, and for once—for once—she was smiling. Really smiling. Not the tight smirks or polite nods she gave around the base. This one crinkled at the eyes.

You blinked, stunned by it.

You exhaled a breath and struck your lighter. "It's why I decided to survive," you said with a crooked grin, the cigarette flaring to life. "Knew these'd be waiting."

She chuckled, shaking her head as she walked over.

For a moment, neither of you mentioned the past two months. Not the recovery. Not the silence.

Just the smoke in the air, and the fact that—for the first time in what felt like ages—you both could breathe.

She walked beside you, her boots crunching over patches of thawing frost and slick mud. The late winter air hung thick and damp, the ground soft beneath your soles—just enough warmth to hint that spring was coming, but not soon.

Neither of you spoke for a while. It was the kind of silence that usually sat heavy, but today it felt oddly light. Not tension, not quite comfort—just something in between.

Abby cleared her throat.

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye. She looked almost... awkward? Her shoulders shifted, her hand brushed her neck like she didn't know what to do with it. "Thought I'd celebrate your survival," she said, voice rough with hesitation.

That made you pause mid-step. Abby Anderson, nervous?

You flicked ash off your cigarette and side-eyed her. "I'm listening."

A crooked smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Movie night?" she asked, and for a second—just a second—her hand twitched like she wanted to reach for yours but didn't.

You took another drag, letting the smoke sit between your teeth before exhaling slowly. "Yeah, fine," you muttered.

Her smile widened, and it was strange—too genuine, too bright. You gave her a long look.

"Why are you so happy?" you asked, almost suspicious.

Abby blinked and looked at you like she didn't expect the question. "I'm happy you're better," she said simply. "You haven't exactly been... around. Not since the med tent."

Her voice softened near the end. You could hear the weight under it—guilt maybe, regret, or just unspoken things hanging between you like steam in the cold air.

You didn't know what to say, so you didn't. You just nodded and let her fall in step beside you as the two of you wandered through the outskirts of the stadium.

She was acting different.

And it scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Chapter 13: Touch

Summary:

SEX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

___________________________________________________________________________
You waited until seven to head down the hall to Abby’s apartment, your palms sweating slightly despite the chill in the air. You knocked softly, and when she opened the door, you paused.
She stood there in a loose-fitting black t-shirt, the neckline stretched just enough to show the curve of her collarbone. Her standard green patrol pants were rolled at the ankle, and her feet were bare but for a pair of mismatched purple socks. Her hair was down — unbraided, loose, and a little frizzy from the humidity — and it nearly took your breath away.
You, dressed in a white patrol tank and the same loose cargo pants from earlier, stepped inside and slipped off your boots. Your own socks, faded green and black, hit the cold floor with a soft slap.
“Hey,” she said, voice low and easy. She gave you that little half-smile she only wore when she wasn’t sure if you’d smile back.
“Hey.” You tried to sound casual, but your heart was thudding.
Her apartment smelled faintly like gun oil and cedar soap, and the soft hum of the space heater filled the silence. Abby walked over to the small TV and VCR unit she’d rented from the WLF library — one of the few comforts allowed at base — and knelt to slide a VHS tape into the player.
“Blue Valentine,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at you. “Total tearjerker. Thought it was your style.”
You blinked. “You’ve been spying on my style?”
She smirked and patted the couch. “Come on, before the tape eats itself.”
You sat down next to her. The couch was small — standard-issue and lumpy — so your thighs touched right away. You tensed, not expecting that kind of closeness. Abby either didn’t notice or pretended not to. She settled in, warm and solid next to you.
As the movie started, she slowly let her arm fall behind you on the cushion. Her fingers brushed your shoulder, tentative. Not possessive, not teasing — just... there.
Thirty minutes passed, but you couldn’t tell anyone what was happening on screen. Your pulse was hammering in your ears. Every time Abby shifted or breathed, your senses snapped to attention. Her touch, though light, grounded you — or maybe unmoored you entirely.
Then her fingertips started tracing slow, barely-there circles against your upper arm. You swallowed, hard.
What the hell is this?
Abby’s fingers brushed your jaw, tentative. You felt her looking at you — really looking at you, and your breath caught.
“Joan…” she whispered.
You turned your head just slightly, eyes searching hers. That ache you’d been trying to kill with cigarettes and silence roared back into your chest.
Then she leaned in.
And you didn’t stop her.
Her lips met yours, careful at first, almost afraid. You kissed her back like it might be the last time. Like you needed it just to keep breathing. Her hand slid to your neck, warm and firm, grounding you.
But something twisted in your chest.
When she pulled back, your lips still tingled, but your eyes burned.
You swallowed hard. “Don’t… don’t kiss me like that unless you mean it.”
Abby froze, her hand still on your cheek.
“I can’t do it again, Abby. I can’t be the one you go to when Owen’s not around.”
She blinked slowly. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
“I know,” she said. “That’s not what this is.”
But you didn’t believe her. Not yet.
Even though it ached in places you hadn’t touched in weeks, you didn’t care. You kissed her again—slow, deep, desperate. The taste of her breath, the soft pull of her lips against yours—it was all so painfully familiar it almost brought you to tears.
You threaded your fingers into her loose hair, tugging gently. It spilled around your face like a curtain, trapping you in her scent—pine resin, gun oil, and the cold bite of the wind. “I missed you, Abigail,” you murmured against her mouth.
Abby pulled away just far enough to press trembling kisses to your cheeks. “I missed you too, Joan,” she whispered, her voice cracking at the edges. Her hands cupped your jaw, as if anchoring herself there with you.
Then she moved—pressing you gently back into the couch cushions, climbing over you like she was afraid you’d vanish if she blinked. Her thighs framed yours, solid and warm. She kissed you again, this time deeper, with something like apology in the motion. Her tongue brushed your bottom lip, asking. You opened for her.
You gasped softly as her body settled against yours, her hips moving just enough to make your breath hitch. She let out a quiet sound—more exhale than moan—and you felt it vibrate against your chest. Her fingers slid down to your waist, grounding herself there like she always did in a firefight. Like you were something to hold on to.
And then she said it—words thick with breath and need.
“I want to be yours.”
Your eyes snapped open, and for a heartbeat, your body stilled under hers.
You sat up slightly, gently pushing her back just enough to see her face. “Where is this coming from?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.
Abby blinked, her face flushed, hair messy around her shoulders. Her expression cracked at the edges. “I thought that was it for you, Joan,” she said, voice low. “You were burning up. Fever every night. I kept thinking—fuck, if she dies, I never told her what I meant to. I never fixed it.”
Her eyes dropped to her hands, still resting at your waist.
“I know I hurt you,” she said. “Back then… I was scared. Of what I felt. Of what it meant. I told myself it was nothing, just a mistake, but…”
You didn’t need more. You didn’t want more. You reached for her, kissing her again—not to silence her, but to say you were still here. That you heard her.
This time, when she kissed you back, her touch was different—careful. Her fingers brushed your cheeks, your collarbone, the line of your ribs under your shirt. She peeled your shirt away like it was something fragile. Reverent.
“So beautiful,” she whispered.
When her mouth found your chest, it wasn’t rushed or rough like before. Her lips moved with intention. Soft, steady. Her hands held you like she meant to stay.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you let her.
Abby’s mouth was warm against your skin, her lips trailing slowly, reverently, as if reacquainting herself with every part of you. She moved with a kind of focus that made your breath catch—no rush, no roughness—just deliberate, quiet need. Her hair brushed your ribs as she kissed down your stomach, her fingers tracing a slow path beneath the hem of your pants.
She paused, looking up.
“Can I?” Her voice was hushed, deepened by breath and something raw behind her eyes.
You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. Abby didn’t move until you whispered, “Yes.”
A smirk twitched at her lips, not teasing—something more vulnerable, like relief. She undressed you slowly, pressing kisses to the insides of your thighs, hands holding you steady. The cold air on your skin contrasted sharply with the heat of her touch.
Her mouth met you gently, and your body jolted—soft, involuntary. You brought your hand to your mouth to stifle a sound, but she caught you.
Abby kissed her way back up to your face, brushing your hand away with hers.
“I want to hear you,” she whispered, her voice low and grounding, her breath hitting your lips.
She kissed you again—slow, full of something you hadn’t felt in weeks. She peeled off the rest of her clothes, her skin damp with sweat, her breath ragged as she shifted over you. Your thighs brushed, hips meeting in the quiet space between words.
The sensation made your body tremble. You gasped softly into her mouth, clinging to her as she began to move. Abby moaned quietly, breath warm against your jaw. “Feels good?” she murmured, kissing you again before you could answer.
Your hips pressed up, chasing more, needing more. Her name left your mouth like a sigh.
"Don’t tease me," you whispered, voice shaky.
Abby let out a low laugh, her forehead pressed to yours. "You’re so damn impatient," she breathed, brushing her knuckles over your ribs. "Been thinking about this since the day I left your door."
When she finally gave you what you needed, her touch was slow, unshakable. She watched your face as she moved—committed to every flicker of emotion, every breath. You met her eyes through the haze of pleasure, cheeks hot, chest heaving.
“Good girl,” she whispered, breath hitching.
And you broke—under her voice, her gaze, the way she said it like you were something sacred.
Abby’s mouth moved lower, her breath warm against your skin as she kissed slowly down your inner thigh. You were already trembling beneath her, the anticipation tightening every muscle in your stomach. Her lips brushed just beside where you needed her most—deliberate, gentle, reverent. When her mouth finally met you, you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped, your hips lifting slightly off the couch.
She circled her tongue with aching slowness, drawing quiet sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make. Her hand moved up between your legs, and you felt the soft pressure of a single finger sliding into you—carefully, without urgency.
It wasn’t like before.
There was no rush, no chaos—just Abby being careful, present, like she was learning your body with new hands. She moved slowly, steadily, building heat without forcing it.
Then her mouth lifted just enough to speak, her voice hushed and breathless. “Can you take another?” she asked, eyes watching your face for the smallest sign.
You nodded, biting your lip, already breathless.
She kissed your thigh once more before gently slipping in a second finger, her rhythm deepening. Her mouth returned to you, and the pressure of her tongue made your breath catch.
Your body arched, a soft cry torn from your chest as the tension broke inside you. “Abby,” you whispered—then louder, almost desperate—“Abby.”
She smiled against your skin, not smug, but quiet—touched by the intimacy of the moment. She kept her hand steady until you’d ridden out the last waves, then slowed and finally stilled.
You felt her weight shift as she crawled up to meet you, brushing strands of hair out of your face. You were still trying to catch your breath when she kissed you again—soft and unhurried, as if anchoring you back into yourself.
Abby tucked her arm beneath your shoulders and pulled you close. One hand ran lightly down your arm, calming the tremble that lingered.
“You’re okay,” she whispered.
You let your gaze wander up to her face, studying the way the moonlight caught in the strands of her hair. “What about you?” you whispered, voice barely there.
She chuckled softly, and instead of answering, pulled you gently on top of her. Her arms wrapped around your back, anchoring you, and for a moment, the only sound was the breath shared between your lips.
You didn’t waste any time.
This time, you were the one chasing, pressing your mouth to hers with an urgency that surprised even you. Your lips parted on a sharp inhale through your nose, grounding yourself as you shifted to kiss down her throat. You felt her heartbeat through her skin—steady and strong—and it made your own pulse stutter.
Her fingers moved to your hair, tugging the elastic free, letting the strands tumble around your shoulders. Her eyes flickered up at you through half-lidded lashes as your mouth moved lower.
You stopped at her stomach, teeth grazing skin before you gave in to temptation and left a mark—firm, possessive. She gasped, startled, then laughed breathlessly, the sound soft and unguarded.
When you reached her hips, your hands steadied her thighs. You placed open-mouth kisses along her hipbones, lingering as you watched her muscles twitch beneath your touch. Every flex, every breath, every tremble told you what she needed more clearly than words.
She bit her lip, hips rising toward you with growing desperation. You could feel the tension in her thighs, the quiet plea in the way her hand gripped the couch cushion beside her.
Then you heard it.
“Don’t—” Her voice was strained, trembling. “No teasing.”
You nodded once, unable to hold back your smile, and let your mouth meet her fully. She was already soaked, her body more than ready for you. You worked her slowly, then gradually quickened, your tongue moving in the rhythm you remembered from before—the one that made her breath catch and her hands go searching for something to hold.
When you slipped a finger inside her, it was gentle, thoughtful. Her body welcomed you instantly, and within seconds, she began to tremble. You barely had time to register it before her body arched, a sharp cry leaving her lips.
Her hand flew to your hair, gripping tight as her hips bucked hard against your mouth.
“God—” she gasped, voice shattering at the edges. Her thighs tightened around you, muscles taut with the force of release.
You looked up, breath caught in your throat. Her abs were flexing with each wave, her chest rising and falling, her jaw slack, lost in the aftershocks.
She was beautiful—completely undone, wild with pleasure—and the image of her like this, trembling beneath your touch, would stay with you forever.
You finally pulled away once her thighs went slack, her breath still shaky in the silence. Climbing up slowly, you settled your body over hers, your bare skin meeting the warmth of her chest. You pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she exhaled against your neck — a breath that trembled like the last gust of a passing storm.
You laid your cheek over her collarbone, listening to the echo of her heartbeat under your ear. Still racing. Still real.
Neither of you said anything.
There wasn’t anything to say — not yet.
The world outside could’ve been burning. Right now, all you knew was her scent on your skin and the steady, grounding pressure of her fingers running through your hair. Slow. Careful. Like she didn’t want to stop touching you, not even for a second.
Your eyes fluttered shut as your breathing slowed, your body finally giving into the weight of everything. You were hazy, half-lost in the warmth of her, still tasting the salt of her skin on your lips.
And just before you drifted off completely, you felt her lips brush the crown of your head.
Nothing was promised. But in that moment, you were hers, and she was yours.
And sleep took you both.

Notes:

SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX

Chapter 14: Guilt

Summary:

uh... pain :(

______________________________________________________________________________
The pale morning sunlight brushed softly against your eyelids, rousing you from the warmth of sleep. You stirred, instinctively reaching out to the space beside you—empty. Cold.
Abby.
Your mind lit up with alarms, flashing images of her vanishing again, of another morning like the one before—her back turned, your chest hollow.
But before the spiral could settle in your ribs, a hand touched the crown of your head. Gentle. Familiar.
“Morning,” Abby’s voice said, soft and low.
You blinked and sat up, the blanket falling from your shoulders. She was already dressed—olive green patrol shirt half-buttoned, hair braided back the way she always wore it before a shift. Her boots were laced, her belt strapped. She looked like she was already halfway out the door.
You sighed, breath catching in your throat.
There still wasn’t a resolution.
You’d made love—if that’s what it even was—but no words had filled the silence afterward. No apologies. No answers. What were you two?
You weren’t okay with just being friends who fuck.
Then, she leaned down and kissed your forehead.
Just a brush. Like it meant everything. Or nothing.
You stood without a word, grabbing your clothes from the night before and dressing slowly. Abby watched you as you pulled on your boots, her hands fidgeting at her sides.
“Where are you going?” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
You held up the crumpled pack of cigarettes from your coat pocket.
She sighed as you opened the door.
She hated that you smoked. You knew that.
But you needed the air. You needed something.
The cold hit your lungs as you stepped outside. Seattle rain had replaced the last remnants of snow, drizzling lightly in the overcast morning. Your breath clouded the air in pale mist as you lit the cigarette, the flame flickering briefly in the wind.
You leaned against the outer wall, the world feeling gray again.
Your thoughts wandered back to the way she held you last night—the way her mouth trembled against your skin, how careful her hands had been. She’d touched you like she was afraid to break something she still loved.
But love wasn’t enough.
Where do we go from here?
The question coiled in your chest like a slow burn.
You looked down at your boots—untied, damp at the toes. You hadn’t bothered. Not really.
Turning slightly, you glanced into the apartment window.
Abby stood at the small stove, shoulders tense. Steam billowed up from a pot. When she caught you looking, she smiled—timid, unsure—and gave you a small wave.
You exhaled slowly, flicking ash off the end of the cigarette. Was this her way of trying again? Of starting over?
You hated that you held grudges. Hated how, even now, your chest still braced for her to disappear again.
You crushed the half-smoked cigarette under your boot, the ember hissing in the wet concrete, and turned back inside.
The warmth hit you gently. Abby was placing two chipped bowls on the little table.
You hung up your coat without saying anything.
“What’s this?” Your voice came out quieter than you expected.
She didn’t meet your eyes. “Oatmeal.”
She sat and took a bite, then immediately winced, sticking out her tongue. “Shit—it’s hot.”
You watched her fan her mouth dramatically, and despite everything, a soft chuckle escaped your lips.
She was such a dork. A charming, infuriating dork.
You slid into the seat across from her and took a cautious spoonful. It wasn’t terrible. Not great either. But warm. Filling. Thoughtful.
A silence settled between you—not tense, just thick.
There was something she wanted to say.
You could feel it in the way she avoided your eyes.
And you weren’t sure if you were ready to hear it.
The oatmeal was too hot. Too thick. It clung to your throat like wet concrete. You tried to swallow it down anyway—like you’d done with worse things.
Abby sat across from you, hunched slightly, her spoon moving slower now. She could feel it too. The tension creeping up your neck. The way your shoulders had gone rigid.
You weren’t looking at her. You were staring down into your bowl like it had all the answers you couldn’t ask out loud.
Why now?
Why not then?
Why did it take bleeding out on a cot for her to act like this?
You choked it back. The questions. The ache. The sting of how sweet she was being now. Like tenderness was a faucet she could just turn on when it suited her.
Your jaw clenched. Your spoon clinked hard against the metal bowl.
Then it slammed down. Loud. Sharp.
Abby flinched.
"Why, Abigail?" Your voice cracked through the stillness. Louder than you meant. Louder than you wanted.
Her eyes snapped up, wide with confusion. "Why what?"
You scoffed, a bitter laugh bleeding out of you as you shoved the bowl down the table.
"Why are you being so fucking nice to me?" you snapped. "What happened—Mel pop out that baby finally? You done babysitting her guilt?"
She blinked. Your words hit her like a slap. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked down.
You hated the way it made your chest ache.
She was hurt.
Good.
No—fuck. Not good.
Now you were quiet. Now you were the one scrambling to justify your fury.
Your voice rose again before you could stop it. "Now you're quiet?!"
Abby's voice was barely above a whisper. "Jo..." She swallowed. "I thought you were gonna die. I didn’t know what to do. I—I’ve been trying to do better.”
You slammed your hands against the table so hard the bowls jumped.
"So I have to almost die for you to give a shit?! That’s the price of your love? A high fever and a fucking toe tag?!"
Abby’s eyes glistened—really glistened. Not with anger. With guilt. Maybe shame. But she didn’t fight back. Not this time.
That made it worse somehow.
You stood, heart pounding. Your coat felt too heavy as you yanked it from the hook.
"I am so stupid," you spat, struggling with the laces on your boots. "Stupid for thinking this was ever anything more than whatever this is. Whatever you want it to be.”
You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t.
She whispered, “Jo, please—”
But the door slammed before she could finish.
______________________________________________________________________________
There’s something wrong with me.
The thought echoed in your skull like a gunshot, sharp and reverberating. You sat hunched over on the cold concrete steps outside the mess hall, elbows on your knees, fingers trembling around a cigarette that had gone stale in the wet air. The same rusted railing was digging into your spine. Same corner of the compound. Same bad habit burning slow between your lips.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
You took a drag, held it in your lungs until it hurt, then exhaled with a slow hiss. Smoke coiled into the damp morning, curling like the regret sitting heavy in your chest.
Your mind, traitorous as always, dragged you back to her.
To Terra.
To the day Boston swallowed what was left of your soul.
It was raining that day. Not the kind that washed things clean. Just enough to soak through your clothes and make the concrete stink like mildew and rot. She was halfway down the street when you came barreling after her, your boots slamming into puddles, echoing through the alley.
“Terra!” you’d screamed, voice cracking like glass. “You’re fucking pregnant?!”
She turned on you fast, wild-eyed and soaked to the bone. Her jacket hung loose off her shoulders, her belt still undone from your bed. Her mouth twisted into something cruel.
“Did you really think I could love a drunk, washed-out FEDRA lapdog?” she shouted. “A fucking loser lesbian?”
Your vision had gone white around the edges. You grabbed her by the arm, too tight. You felt the tension in her shoulder before she even yelped. "Tell me who it was," you’d hissed.
"You’re hurting me!" she’d gasped, voice going small.
But back then, you didn’t care.
Back then, you were every fucking thing they made you to be.
Then came the slap.
Loud. Wet. Final.
The mark you left on her face stayed with you longer than any scar they’d carved into you in training.
“Fucking whore,” you’d spat at her as she clutched her cheek, brown eyes wide and shining. Her skin was olive and soft, and you ruined it with red. With violence. With your own goddamn shame.
You pulled yourself out of the memory when the steps creaked beside you.
Frank.
He sat down slow, careful not to startle you, his elbows matching yours on his knees. You could feel his heat before he said anything. The way he always gave you a moment. One breath. Then another.
“Where were you last night?” His voice was calm, casual.
You stared ahead, lips parting. “Abby’s,” you said quietly.
He nodded like he already knew, reaching into his jacket pocket for his own smoke.
“She showed up at our door. Crying.”
Your head snapped toward him. “She—what?”
Frank shrugged and lit his cigarette with a practiced flick. “Yeah. Standing there like someone kicked her dog. Said you left. Just stood there for a second and walked off.” He puffed once, then held the cig between two fingers and offered it to you.
You blinked, stunned. Your stomach churned.
She cried?
“Caught you,” Frank said, smirking faintly. “Now you gotta talk.”
You took the cigarette, hand brushing his in that silent way you both shared. A kind of truce. You brought it to your lips, letting the silence wrap around your shoulders like a too-thin blanket.
You didn't want to talk. But you knew you needed to.
Because maybe there was something wrong with you.
You let out a long sigh, watching the smoke swirl before it disappeared into the morning drizzle. “Did she really show up at our door, Frank?”
He let out a dry chuckle, voice rough from sleep and cigarettes. “Fuck no. But I caught you slippin’. Now talk.”
You glared at him sideways, lips pulling into a thin line. He looked like shit. His stubble had grown into a full, uneven beard, and his hair was longer than it should be—messy, unwashed. There was a healing gash above his temple, still raw and red. The resemblance to your old man made your stomach turn.
Frank was a better man than your father ever was. But right now, he was a mirror you didn’t want to look into.
You took a slow breath, grounding yourself. “Before I got hurt,” you started, voice low, “me and Abby... we slept together.”
Frank arched a brow, but didn’t say anything. Just nodded for you to go on.
You shifted on the steps, suddenly hyperaware of how damp the concrete was beneath your thighs. “After that... she went quiet. Distant. It hurt—felt like Terra all over again.”
His groan was immediate, exasperated. “Terra fucking sucked, Jo.”
You gave a weak nod, eyes still on the cigarette burning between your fingers. “I know. But it still fucked with my head.”
Frank took a drag, then muttered, “Well, last person Abby was with was Owen, right? Jordan told me that was, what—two, three years ago? Probably been a minute for her.”
You held up a hand to stop him. “It’s not about Owen.”
He went quiet.
“It just... hurt,” you admitted. “I felt used. Like I was this warm body she could crawl into when it was convenient. And I know it’s not fair, but that’s how it felt. So I pushed her away. Then I got hurt on patrol, and we didn’t talk for weeks.”
Frank exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re too sensitive, Jo.”
You turned toward him sharply, but he held up a hand before you could snap back.
“I don’t mean it like that,” he said, voice a little softer now. “I mean... you feel everything too damn loud. Like your skin’s inside out.”
You blinked, startled by the accuracy of it.
“I just don’t know what to do with it, Frank.” Your voice cracked.
He didn’t argue. Just leaned in, shoulder bumping yours.
“Maybe you do know what to do with it,” he said quietly.
You stared at the ground.
“Go talk to her,” Frank muttered, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “Say what you’re scared to. Or don’t. But stop acting like pushing her away is keeping you safe. It’s just making you lonelier.”
You groaned and put your head in your hands, elbows resting on your knees. The rain tapped softly against the metal awning above you, steady and cold like your thoughts.
“I’ve been thinking about her a lot… Terra,” you admitted, voice muffled by your palms.
Frank gave you a look out the corner of his eye. His mouth pursed tight, jaw ticking once before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Why?” he muttered, like the thought alone pissed him off. “She was a fucking cunt.”
You huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I know she was Frank. But…” You trailed off, heart catching in your throat. “I really loved her.”
Frank leaned forward, rubbing his palms together slowly like he was warming them from the inside out. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared out at the muddy field beyond the livestock pens, eyes narrowed like he was searching for something in the fog.
“She broke you,” he said flatly. “You remember that, right?”
You nodded, jaw clenched. “I know. But it’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple,” he bit back. “You gave her everything and she spit in your fucking face.”
Your tongue ran over the back of your teeth. You wanted to yell at him. Tell him he didn’t get it. But he did. He’d watched it happen. He’d carried you home from that fight, held you while you shook, while you puked up a bottle and a heartbreak on the same night.
“I know what she did,” you muttered, quieter now. “But I think… maybe I keep thinking about her because I’m scared Abby’s gonna do the same thing.”
Frank let that hang between you. His face softened—barely—but you saw it.
“She’s not Terra,” he said finally. “And you’re not who you were back then.”
You sighed, flicking ash off your cigarette and watching it crumble to the concrete below.
“She’s different,” you agreed. “But I’m not sure I am.”
Frank leaned back on his palms, looking up at the thick gray clouds overhead. “You’re still here, aren’t you?” he said. “You didn’t drink yourself into the dirt. Didn’t run off. Didn’t hit her.”
The silence between you stretched.
“I saw how she looked at you the other day,” Frank added. “Like she thought the sun rose and set on your fuckin’ heartbeat.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. Not embarrassment—fear.
“Then why’d she leave me after we slept together?” you asked.
You crushed the cigarette under your boot, the ember fizzing out on wet concrete. Your voice cracked on the exhale.
“I think I wanna forgive her.”
Frank didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. He scoffed—low and bitter—as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Jesus, Jo.” His voice was flat. “You think she’s the one who needs forgiving?”
You turned to him, brows pulling.
He shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “She showed up, didn’t she? After everything? After you ghosted her, screamed at her in front of half the barracks, slammed a door in her face? Hell, I had to pull her off you when you two damn near leveled the apartment.”
You looked away, throat tight.
He kept going—his tone low, pointed. “You’re walking around acting like you’re the one bleeding when she’s the one who came to me crying. Abby. Crying. Said she thought you were gonna die from that bullet wound.”
The words hit like a kick to the ribs.
“She’s been patient. She’s been trying. She made you fucking breakfast, Jo.” His voice cracked slightly. “And what did you do? Spit venom. Ran off like a coward. Again.”
You blinked down at your boots, jaw clenched.
Frank leaned back, the old pain creasing his brow. “If you really wanna fix this... you don’t need to forgive her. You need to apologize to her.”
You looked up at him slowly.
His eyes softened just a hair, enough to remind you this was coming from care, not cruelty. “You wanna stop being like him?” he added, a quiet nod toward the memory of your father. “Then stop waiting for people to clean up after you.”
He stood, joints popping as he stretched.
“You deserve something good, Jo. But she does too. And right now?” He looked down at you with tired, honest eyes. “You don’t deserve her. Not yet.”
He walked off without another word.
You sat there, the smoke of your guilt curling around your ribs, and the morning light creeping over the stadium like it was watching.
I hate that Frank is always right
______________________________________________________________________________
You took the day to let things cool off, letting the rain soak through your jacket during patrol, hoping the cold might numb whatever was still clawing at your insides.
When you finally came home, the stadium lights were dimmed to their usual half-glow. The barracks hall echoed faintly with distant laughter and the clatter of trays in the mess.
You stepped into your shared unit and were greeted by the familiar smell of boot leather, mildew, and Frank’s cheap-ass soap. He was sprawled across the battered couch, shirtless, legs kicked up on the table like he didn’t give a shit about posture or decency. A dog-eared paperback rested on his chest, upside down. It was probably one of the romance novels someone smuggled in and he pretended not to like.
You scrunched your nose as you unlatched the door. “Jesus, you’re like a frat house had a stroke.”
Frank looked up over the top of the book, his eyes scanning your face. His expression shifted the second he read your silence. He sat up slowly, setting the book aside.
“You apologize?” he asked flatly, voice low.
You shook your head, kicking the door shut behind you.
Disappointment cut across his face like a switchblade. “Are you fucking stupid, Jo?”
The words hit harder than usual—not because he yelled, but because he didn’t. Just sharp, clipped. Frank might’ve been the better man between the two of you, but he still carried your father’s thunder when he needed to.
“I wanted things to cool off,” you muttered, yanking your boots off. Your socks squelched on the floor.
He scoffed, dragging his palm down his face like he could wipe the frustration off. “How are you so bad with women and you’re a fucking woman?”
You gave him a glare, but it didn’t hold. The tension in your body sagged like your shoulders had been carrying a weight since sunrise.
“She made me feel like I didn’t matter, Frank.”
“She didn’t,” he said. “You just decided that’s what it meant.”
You stared at him. The honesty in his voice gutted you.
You huffed anger eating at you, “why are you taking her fucking side frank?”Your voice rang out.
Frank didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice either. He just narrowed his eyes at you, like he was seeing something behind all your fire.
“I’m not on her side, Jo. I’m on yours.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, mug forgotten between his hands.
“But here’s the thing — sometimes, your side is the one fucking it all up.”
Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t speak. Not yet.
Frank kept going, low and even. “You want everyone to fail you so you can keep being angry. It’s safer, right? Being mad’s easier than getting hurt again.”
He pointed at you now, not hard — just firm. “But if you keep pushing people away every time they get close, don’t act surprised when there’s no one left.”
He huffed, and you shifted uncomfortably, heat blooming under your skin.
“If this is real,” he said, “and she’s just leading you on, then what? You get to scream, throw a punch, cry it out, and then drink 'til you can't remember your own name?”
He clicked his tongue and leaned back into the couch, grabbing the dented mug beside him.
“You’ll storm out, suck down a cigarette like it owes you something, come back smelling like rain and ash, pick a fight with me, and wait for me to give in and hand you the bottle. Isn’t that the ritual?”
Your cheeks burned hot. “Don’t act like I’m being Dad,” you snapped, venom rising fast in your throat.
Frank gave a bitter laugh into his mug, eyes hard over the rim. “Then stop acting like him, Jo.”
Your stomach turned. You shot up and shoved your boots back on with shaking hands.
“Fuck you, Frank!” you barked, throat tight.
He didn’t flinch. He just watched you.
“Where you going, Jo?” His voice was low, quiet now—dangerous.
You didn’t answer. You grabbed your coat and reached for the door.
His next words stopped you cold.
“More liquor?”
It echoed in your skull like a gunshot.
Your fingers froze on the doorknob. The silence stretched.
Rain hit the windows in soft, steady rhythms. You could hear Frank shift on the couch behind you. No smugness in his posture. No gloating. Just concern disguised as exhaustion.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said, softer this time. “But if you keep acting like nobody gives a shit, eventually... you’ll make it true.”
You stood there, back turned, the weight of every bad decision pressing down on your shoulders.
What do you do now?
“So where ya going, Jo?”
Frank’s voice had dropped to something gentler—less bark, more bone-tired concern. You glanced over your shoulder.
He was slouched on the couch again, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest, but his green eyes were pinned to you, sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to the corners.
His brows lifted, waiting.
You hesitated. Took a breath.
“I’m going—” your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “To talk to Abigail.”
A beat passed. Then Frank let out a long sigh, setting his mug down with a quiet clink.
“Finally. Fuck.” He huffed out a laugh, like he'd been holding it in for a week, and picked his book back up. “Go easy on her, yeah? And maybe... don’t lead with screaming this time.”
You gave a dry half-smile and shook your head.
“No promises.”
He snorted without looking up. “That’s my girl.” A pang hit your chest. Frank was sweeter than your dad but sometimes, he sounded just like him.
The air felt different as you opened the door—like the kind of cold that didn't bite this time, just cleared your head.
This time, you weren’t storming out. You were just walking.

Chapter 15: Trying

______________________________________________________________________________
Your knuckles barely touched the wood.
A soft knock—nothing like the way you'd left.
Inside, you heard shuffling. A breath. Then the dull sound of feet on concrete.
The door creaked open.
Abby stood there, hair unbraided and hanging loose, strands sticking slightly to her temple. Her eyes were puffy, rimmed red like she hadn’t slept—or like she had cried and didn’t want you to know.
Fuck.
You swallowed hard.
“Can we talk?” Your voice came out quieter than expected. Almost shy.
Abby’s eyes narrowed. Her words were clipped, defensive—armor back on. “You come to yell at me for making you breakfast again?”
Steel. Cold and practiced. Back to being a soldier.
I deserved that.
You shook your head quickly. “No. No… Abigail—” Your voice cracked, and you looked down, trying to steady it. “Please.”
She stared at you for a second. Then sighed through her nose, stepping aside.
"Come in."
You entered slowly, tension still clinging to your shoulders. The apartment was warmer than outside, but the silence was sharp, tense. A half-eaten bowl of oatmeal sat forgotten on the counter. A kettle steamed behind it, hissing softly, like the room was holding its breath.
Abby didn’t look at you as she closed the door behind you.
“I meant what I said,” she murmured without turning. “I didn’t know how to… show up. Not after everything. But I was trying, Jo. I’ve been trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“I know,” you whispered.
She turned then, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she was holding herself together with pressure alone. “Then why the hell’d you treat me like I was just… playing with you?”
You didn’t have an answer. At least, not one that made sense out loud.
“I got scared,” you said finally. “You were quiet. I panicked. And I said a lotta shit I shouldn’t’ve.”
She scoffed, her jaw tightening. “Yeah. You did.”
Another beat of silence.
“I’m sorry,” you said. You forced yourself to look at her. “I mean it.”
Her brows knit. “You’re not just here because Frank guilted you?”
You smirked faintly. “No. Though he did call me a dumbass like, four times.”
A flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips, but it didn’t hold.
“I don’t wanna fight anymore, Abby,” you added, voice quiet again. “Not with you.”
The kettle squealed, piercing the air between you. Abby turned it off without a word.
When she faced you again, her voice was quieter.
“You hurt me.”
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
The air hung thick and heavy in the space between you—like dust settling after a storm.
You exhaled and sank onto the couch, fingers tugging at the loose hem of your worn shirt. “There was someone once,” you murmured, voice rough. “Someone I really loved.”
Abby didn’t answer, but you heard the rustle of her moving at the counter. She was making coffee—instant, the kind rationed out in little vacuum-sealed bricks. It tasted like dirt and rot but passed the time, gave your hands something to do.
She glanced over her shoulder, her brows barely lifting. Listening.
You stared at the concrete floor. “Her name was Terra,” you continued. “Back in Boston.”
Abby said nothing as she poured the hot water. You could hear the metal of the spoon clink against ceramic.
“She was… something else,” you said with a bitter chuckle, eyes unfocused. “Knew exactly how to keep me close, how to gut me without a knife. Played with my head like it was a goddamn game.”
Abby walked over and held out the chipped mug. You took it. The smell was rancid. Still, you sipped it, the heat burning your tongue, masking the shake in your fingers.
“She cheated on me,” you said, staring into the sludge. “Got pregnant.”
A pause.
Your throat felt like it was closing. You braced yourself.
“I hit her.” The words landed like stones. “Last fight we had, I slapped her clean across the face.”
Abby didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil. Just listened.
“We’d… fuck in private. Scream in public. Sometimes the other way around. It was chaos. I thought that was love, you know?” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed it down with more of the coffee. “She twisted me up so bad, I didn’t even recognize myself by the end.”
You set the mug on the table, gripping your knees. “I can’t do that again. I can’t be with someone and feel like I’m drowning.”
Abby knelt down in front of you then, gently reaching for your hand. You let her take it.
“You’re not with her,” she said softly. “And you’re not that person anymore.”
Your eyes lifted to meet hers.
“I want to do this right,” Abby added. “But only if you want to, too.”
The silence was softer now. Warmer. A beat passed before you answered:
“I do.”
She nodded slowly, her thumb stroking the back of your hand—calloused and warm. “Okay then, Jo,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “You have to talk to me. Really talk.”
You gave a stiff nod, throat thick. You swallowed hard, like it might make the truth go down easier.
Her eyes searched yours for a moment before she added, “And… you’ve gotta stop drinking.” Her voice cracked just slightly on the edge of the sentence. “It makes you… not yourself.”
You sighed and looked down at her hand wrapped around yours. “Fine,” you murmured. “But I’m not quitting smoking.”
A laugh slipped out of both of you, the tension cutting just enough to breathe again.
Abby leaned her forehead against yours. “Fine. Keep the cigarettes. But let’s work on the drinking, okay? Together.”
You nodded, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you let yourself feel the weight of her closeness. The smell of rain still clung to her skin. She was warm. Solid.
“Okay,” you whispered.
“Okay,” she echoed, like a promise.
You both sat there in the quiet hum of the apartment—the distant echo of boots down the hallway, the gentle creak of old pipes, the mug of coffee still steaming beside you.
It didn’t fix everything.
But it was a start.
You said your goodbyes to her so she could rest for the night. You kissed her softly and headed back to your place.
______________________________________________________________________________
The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thunk. The apartment was dim, lit only by the yellowish glow of a desk lamp near the kitchen. Frank didn’t even glance up—just lazily flipped a page of the beat-up paperback in his hands, sprawled out on the couch in his usual mess of rumpled blankets and half-zipped gear.
“How’d it go?” he drawled, voice half-bored, half-curious as he licked his finger to turn another page.
You hovered awkwardly near the door, your hand still resting on the knob like you weren’t sure whether to stay or bolt. “Good, actually,” you said, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.
Frank’s eyes flicked up, squinting over the edge of his book. “Yeah? What’d you say?” There was a teasing note to his tone—taunting, like he was talking to a little sister who just admitted she liked someone.
You rolled your eyes and made your way across the room. With a heavy sigh, you dropped yourself unceremoniously on top of him, knocking the book halfway off his chest.
“Jesus, Jo,” he grunted, scooting to make room.
You didn’t answer. Just let your head fall against his shoulder. “Told her about Terra,” you mumbled.
That got his attention. His brows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to show he was impressed. “Really?”
You nodded against his shirt. “Only a little bit. Enough to... open something up, I think.”
Frank let out a low whistle and leaned his head back against the couch. “Well, shit. Look at you.”
You smacked his stomach without looking up. “Shut up.”
He snorted and gave your knee a gentle nudge. “Proud of you, though.”
You both sat there for a moment in rare silence, the kind that felt full instead of empty. You could hear the pipes groaning softly in the walls, the buzz of the light above, the occasional shout echoing from the hallway. A normal night.
But something in you felt a little less heavy.

Chapter 16: Memories

___________________________________________________________________________
You jerked awake, heart pounding, the tail end of another nightmare coiled tight around your ribs. Your shirt clung to your chest, damp with sweat, and the sting of old grief buzzed behind your eyes. For a second, you weren’t in the stadium—you were back in Boston, in blood-soaked alleys and dim-lit barracks.
A rough hand rested on your shoulder, grounding you. Frank stood over you, bleary-eyed, shirt damp from his own restless sleep.
“Jo,” he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse. “You okay?”
You blinked up at him, your breath still shallow. The pale blue morning light cut through the slats in the window, making the lines on his face deeper. Frank looked older lately—more than thirty-four. The violence of years on patrol, the loss, the drinks he’d put down and the ghosts he hadn’t, were all etched into his skin.
You nodded numbly, swallowing past the dry burn in your throat. “Yeah,” you managed. Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—scratched up, worn thin.
You swung your legs off the cot, joints creaking in protest. The cold in the room bit at your bare arms. Still half-dressed, you tugged your uniform pants on over your boxers and threw your jacket on, the same faded olive one you’d worn all week. The shirt underneath was wrinkled, and your socks were mismatched—same ones from last night. It didn’t matter.
Frank, already sitting back on the cot, passed you a small box of matches.
“Gonna smoke?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
You nodded. Words weren’t really your thing this early.
The hallway was quiet, the scent of mildew and worn boots hanging in the air. Outside, the stadium’s chill wrapped around you like a reminder—of where you were, and everything you still carried. You lit the cigarette with a flick of the match, shielding the flame from the soft wind curling through the corridor.
You leaned against the metal railing overlooking the lower deck of the FOB. The sky was still dark enough to make the floodlights hum with importance, though dawn was coming up over Seattle’s ruined skyline. You exhaled slowly.
You hadn’t seen Abby much this week—not really. A wave from across the mess hall, maybe. A glance during shift change. Always out on patrol, always moving. You told yourself she was busy. You told yourself not to read into it.
But you missed her. Missed her more than you wanted to admit.
The smell of pine and gun oil haunted you even now, clinging to memory. Her touch, her mouth, the sound of her voice cracking when she called your name that night in the med tent.
You took another drag, trying not to feel the ache in your chest.
Trying not to want her as bad as you did.
You finished the cigarette and flicked the butt off the railing, watching the ember fade midair. Patrol today was with Abby again—finally. Just the two of you. A routine infected sweep near an old storefront that had been flagged for maintenance. You hadn't had alone time since you made up. A part of you was eager. A deeper part was terrified.
Back inside, Frank’s cot was empty—already off grabbing breakfast, or maybe avoiding your moods.
You pulled your gear together half-distracted, the fabric of your undershirt still wrinkled from sleep. You checked the time: fifteen minutes until truck deployment. Abby would already be waiting down in the motor pool. She was always early. Always precise.
As you tightened the straps on your backpack, something slipped loose from the side pouch and fluttered to the floor.
The photo.
You picked it up slowly, as if it might burn you. It was weather-worn, corners curled with age. A snapshot from Boston: you and Daniel on the steps outside the QZ barracks. Both of you too young to know how doomed you were. A cigarette hung from his lips, a bottle raised in a mock cheer. His arm slung over your shoulder like it always used to be. You were laughing—really laughing. Hair short, jaw soft, eyes unscarred.
Your thumb brushed his face. Your chest clenched.
"Does your ghost have to haunt me every damn time?" you muttered.
You barely had time to shove it onto the table before a knock sounded at the door.
You opened it.
There she was.
Abby stood in the morning light, already dressed down in her gear—WLF jacket tied around her waist, olive fatigues and her dark top damp from the dew. Her braid was tighter than usual. Her face still tired, but when she saw you—she beamed.
“I missed you,” she said, brushing your forehead with a kiss before you could answer.
Your breath caught in your throat, and you managed a small nod. “Missed you too.”
She stepped inside casually, shedding her jacket and tossing it over the arm of the couch. You busied yourself by rechecking your bag, adjusting nothing in particular.
Then—
“Who’s this?” Abby asked.
You turned. She had the photo in her hand, her thumb barely grazing the edge like she was afraid to smudge it. There was no judgment in her voice. Just curiosity.
You swallowed, voice thin. “Daniel.”
She nodded, memory flashing behind her eyes. “From Boston?” she asked gently.
You nodded again, barely audible. “Yeah… we were seventeen when that was taken.”
She looked at it for another moment, then at you—waiting, but not pushing.
“Let’s get going.” You said Slipping your coat on then your backpack.
Abby handed the photo back without a word, her eyes lingering on your face longer than on the memory.
You set it down carefully, like it might crumble. “He was the first person who really saw me. Before everything… before I became this.”
Abby leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, her brow furrowed. “You’re still you, Jo.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah.”
There was a silence that didn’t feel heavy this time—more like space being made for truth.
She spoke softly. “He mattered to you. You don’t have to pretend he didn’t.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I still hear his voice sometimes. When I get scared. When it’s quiet. It's not even words, just… tone. Like a hum in the back of my skull.”
Abby stepped toward you, her boots thudding dully against the old stadium flooring. She stopped just in front of you.
“You don’t have to carry all of it alone,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
You met her eyes. They were soft again—not the soldier’s eyes. The ones you first fell for. The ones that cracked open when she held you on movie night, when she sobbed on your shoulder in the mess hall, when her hands trembled after your stomach was stitched.
“I’m trying,” you admitted.
“I know,” she replied. “So am I.”
There was a long pause, one that almost led to a kiss. But then a voice crackled over the loudspeaker from outside:
“Truck Three—Patrol Sector Four. Report to motor in five.”
You both flinched.
“That’s us,” Abby said, stepping back reluctantly.
You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “Yeah.”
As you moved toward the door, she followed beside you. Close but not touching. Not yet.
Just as you reached for the handle, she spoke again.
“Jo.”
You turned.
She hesitated. Then:
“Let’s watch another movie when we get back.”
You blinked, surprised at the lightness in her tone.
You gave a small smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The corridor that led to the motor pool buzzed with low chatter and the clink of gear being strapped down. The walls were damp from the morning mist that still clung to the air outside. You and Abby walked side by side down the grated steps, boots echoing off the metal, the silence between you companionable but still crackling with unspoken things.
When you stepped into the garage, the acrid scent of gasoline, rubber, and dust filled your lungs. The WLF's trucks were lined up in two rows, each one checked over by mechanics in patched jackets and oil-streaked hands. It was still early, but the base hummed like a hive already mid-shift.
You approached the sign-out station. The soldier at the desk—Carter, you thought his name was—looked up and gave a nod.
“Patrol Sector Four. Just the two of you today,” he said, handing over a clipboard. “Light infected. Maintenance sweep and check for any new growth in the shops around 12th.”
Abby leaned on the counter, skimming the route. “Standard protocol?”
Carter nodded. “Yeah. Just report in by 1600.”
You reached for your gear bag, unzipping it to double-check your supplies. Pistol, spare mags, switchblade, field med kit, your old battered water canteen, half a protein bar from a couple days ago.
Abby was already at the truck—Unit 3—popping open the rear gate and slamming a box of ammo down beside the mounted radio.
You joined her, hoisting your rifle and checking the chamber. Clean. Ready.
She glanced at you, then at your hands. “Still steady?”
You rolled your eyes and smiled faintly. “Always.”
She grunted approval, then climbed into the driver’s side. You slid in beside her, slamming the door behind you. The interior smelled faintly like motor oil and pine—her scent, still soaked into the upholstery from so many long days in this seat.
Abby started the engine, and it growled awake beneath you. As she pulled the truck out of the motor pool, the rising stadium behind you was swallowed by rain. A drizzle slicked the windshield, streaking the early sunlight into gold and gray.
You sat in silence for a while, watching the world pass beyond the foggy glass. Buildings like skeletons. Trees reclaiming the roads. The kind of quiet only post-apocalypse could offer—too still, too honest.
Eventually, Abby spoke, her voice low over the hum of the engine.
“Glad you’re here.”
You didn’t look at her, but your fingers brushed the side of her thigh. Just for a second.
“Me too.”
You drove in silence through the broken skeleton of Seattle, the concrete bones of the old world towering and cracked. Rain had started again—soft at first, like a breath, then steadier. The kind that soaked into your collar and made the air smell like rust and rot.
You wanted to reach for Abby, to kiss her knuckles where they rested on the steering wheel, but you knew better. Patrol came first. Always.
She pulled the truck up near a half-collapsed warehouse, its metal siding peeled back like a can. The engine sputtered quiet and she turned to you, her eyes warm but alert.
“May our survival be long,” she murmured, brushing a kiss against your cheek.
You rolled your eyes, exhaling a laugh. “May our death be swift.”
You both stepped out of the truck, grabbing your packs and weapons. Abby slung her rifle over her shoulder with practiced ease, boots thudding heavy on wet asphalt. You followed, your pistol holstered, machete strapped tight to your back.
The interior of the warehouse was dark and musty. Glass crunched under your boots. You heard them before you saw them—runners, maybe ten, their groans echoing against the steel walls. When the horde broke from the back corridor, it was muscle memory.
You and Abby moved like water.
Shots fired. Bodies dropped. The air filled with the stench of blood and cordyceps.
“Clear,” Abby said, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, already flipping open her logbook.
You swept your flashlight over shattered crates and splintered desks. That’s when you heard it.
A sob.
Quiet. Human.
You moved toward it, heartbeat spiking. Upstairs, wedged in a corner behind a broken desk, was a man. He was soaked in blood. A clear, angry bite marked his thigh, pus already leaking from the wound.
He looked up at you, eyes wild. “Please,” he choked. “Please… my kids are waiting. I didn’t mean to—I was just looking for supplies. Please don’t—”
Daniel.
His voice. His desperation. You blinked, but you weren’t in Seattle anymore. You were back in Boston. Back in that basement with Daniel’s blood on your hands.
You staggered back, collapsing hard against the floor, vision tunneling. Your breath caught in your throat as the man crawled toward you, leaving a red trail.
“Don’t let me die like this!”
He grabbed your coat, shaking it, his voice splitting into sobs. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just trembled.
“Jo!” Abby’s boots slammed against the stairs as she rushed in.
She yanked the man off you and raised her pistol without hesitation.
“No!” you screamed, lunging between them. “Don’t!”
Your hands clutched her jacket, your body racked with sobs.
“He’s bit!” she shouted, fury and fear twisting in her voice. “Jo, we can’t save him!”
“You can’t—you can’t—” You were gasping, repeating the words like a broken prayer.
Abby hesitated. Just for a second.
Then she pushed past you gently and fired.
The man’s head snapped back. Silence followed. A brutal, suffocating silence.
You dropped to your knees. The warmth of his blood still clung to your hands. Your ribs heaved. Your palms smacked the floor.
“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Abby knelt beside you, her voice low, shaken. “Jo.”
But you didn’t hear her. Not really.
Because all you could hear was the echo of Daniel’s voice, and your own screams ricocheting off cold concrete.
You weren’t in Seattle anymore.
The damp rot of the building vanished, replaced by the mildewed concrete and harsh fluorescents of a FEDRA basement. Your ears rang with the memory of metal doors slamming shut. You blinked and there he was—Daniel, tied to the chair, wrists raw from zip ties. A FEDRA soldier loomed behind him, gripping his shoulders like he was nothing but meat.
“Jo, please,” Daniel begged, voice trembling. “Don’t do this. We can get out of here.”
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Your hands shook as you stared down at the metal pipe—your reflection fractured along its rusted length.
His voice cracked again, softer this time, childlike. “Jo…”
It sounded like the first time he scraped his knee at the QZ pond, when he ran to you crying with a frog in his hand. Not twenty anymore. Not a threat. Just a scared kid.
Your breath hitched. You clenched your jaw. But your body moved like it wasn’t yours.
The soldier beside you sneered. “Don’t be a pussy, Joan.”
You flinched as they shoved something heavier into your hands. A Molotov. Already lit.
Daniel screamed. “Please—Jo, please no!”
Your vision blurred. Smoke and guilt filled your lungs. And then you threw it.
The fire swallowed him. His screams became part of your bones. You vomited on the floor, bile and sobs burning your throat.
You were back in the ruined building—collapsed on the ground, trembling, unable to breathe.
“Jo?”
Abby.
Her hands gripped your face, firm but tender. You didn’t even realize you’d been screaming. Her voice pushed through the static in your ears, anchoring you.
“Jo, look at me.” Her voice broke. “You’re safe. You’re not there.”
But Daniel’s name kept tumbling from your mouth, choked and frantic, until Abby pulled you against her chest.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she whispered into your hair, rocking you as your body shook.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The truck’s engine rumbled low as Abby drove through the ruined streets of Seattle. You didn’t speak. Neither of you did. The silence sat heavy between you, but Abby’s hand found your thigh, grounding you—reminding you of now, not then.
Your fingers twitched near hers, but you didn’t move. The memory of that man’s eyes—the way he screamed, how his voice sounded like Daniel—still echoed in your skull. You kept your eyes out the window as mist coated the glass. Rain, light and cold. Typical spring in Seattle.
The truck bumped down the ramp into the stadium garage. Abby parked and turned the engine off. You unbuckled your seatbelt slowly, your fingers numb.
Her voice was gentle. “Movie night still happening?”
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t meet her eyes.
Then, after a beat: “Yeah. I’ll be over at eight.”
She brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, the pads of her fingers warm. “Okay.”
You got out before your body could betray how badly it wanted her to stay.
She returned your artillery for you—of course she did—and you drifted down the familiar path toward the livestock fencing, the cigarette already between your lips. It caught on the first strike of the match. That first inhale seared your throat. Good. You wanted it to burn.
The cattle lowed distantly. Somewhere above, someone was laughing.
You tapped your boot against the fencing. The craving curled in your gut like a worm. One drink. That’s all it would take to shut the noise off. You’d done two weeks—hell, that was a record.
You closed your eyes and took another drag, longer this time. Held it in.
“Don’t think,” you muttered under your breath. “Just get to eight.”

Chapter 17: Relapse

You leaned against the rusted railing just outside the gate, fingers twitching restlessly as the cigarette burned low between them. Your eyes scanned the field, catching sight of Abby near the quartermaster's post.
She was laughing.
And not just laughing—leaning in, shoulder brushing someone else’s. Your stomach dropped the moment you saw who it was.
Owen.
His hand lingered too long on her arm, the familiar way he looked at her stirring something primal in your gut. You turned away sharply, pinching the bridge of your nose until the pain distracted you from the jealousy threatening to eat you alive.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.
You didn’t wait to see how it ended. You walked back upstairs, your boots heavy against the concrete. The apartment was still empty—Frank out on extended patrol again—and you welcomed the silence. It let you fall apart without an audience.
You dropped your bag and collapsed into the chair at the table. The air was thick with the familiar smell of your place: gun oil, sweat, and expired coffee. You pulled out the folded bundle of old photographs, your fingers tracing the edges before spreading them across the table.
The first was of your mom. You barely remembered the day it was taken—her smile glowing, a chipped mug in her hands. Her Firefly necklace hung just under her collarbone, mostly hidden. You exhaled slowly. It still hurt, after all these years.
Next was a photo of Frank and Georgia, his arm wrapped proudly around her waist as she kissed his cheek. You sat beside them, younger, your hair messy, laughing with Cleo—gorgeous, fierce Cleo. You hadn’t spoken her name in months. Not since she died. Not since you watched the light leave her eyes.
Your throat tightened.
You weren’t ready to cry.
So you looked at the cot.
There, barely poking out from underneath, was the brown bottle. The same one you’d pushed away for weeks. The same one Frank kept untouched—for you.
Your fingers hovered above it.
Just one drink. Abby won’t notice. One sip to calm down. Just something to quiet everything.
Your hand closed around the neck of the bottle.
The cap creaked as you twisted it.
The door creaked open behind you, slow and ominous. Rain tapped the window like a warning.
Frank stepped in, silent at first. He shut the door gently—like raising the curtain on a quiet funeral. His boots squelched against the floor as he peeled off his soaked coat, his eyes already on the table.
“You know it’s not gonna help,” he said, voice worn and low, like the last drag of a dying fire. It wasn’t anger. It was fatigue—the kind that came from seeing too many people make the same mistake.
You didn’t look up.
He walked past you and sat down across the table, the air between you thick and holy. His eyes dropped to the bottle. Then to the photographs. He picked up one—Georgia smiling, his younger self kissing her cheek. A different world.
“You’re the talk of the stadium,” he muttered, thumbing the edge of the photo like a prayer bead. “Abby had to report your panic attack.”
You winced. “It wasn’t—”
“She told me, Jo.”
Your voice caught in your throat like gravel.
Frank leaned back, the chair groaning beneath his weight. “I’ve seen that look before,” he said, nodding toward the bottle. “My dad had it. I had it.” His finger tapped the table once, like a gavel. “That whisper in your ear telling you it’s just one drink. Just a sip. Just a little comfort.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to argue, but there was nothing to say. The whisper was real. And it sounded like you.
“I know what today brought up,” he continued. “That man in the stairwell. Daniel.”
You flinched, the image rushing back—Daniel's screams, the fire, the heat, the guilt.
Frank shook his head slowly. “Jo… I know what it’s like to want to shut it out.”
He gestured to the bottle.
“But that thing doesn’t hold you. It buries you.”
The silence between you cracked open.
He leaned forward, eyes sharp now, full of something ancient and earned. “You think that bottle gives you control? It doesn’t. It’s a liar. A slow, patient one.”
You swallowed hard, but your hand hadn’t moved. The bottle still sat between you, pulsing like a warning light.
Frank looked at you—really looked—and for a moment, you saw all the wars he’d fought. The ones outside. The ones inside.
“You’re better than him, Jo. Better than who he turned you into.” His voice went soft. “If you want to crawl out of hell, you can. But you don’t get to bring that with you.”
Rain drummed louder. The room felt small, sacred, like a confessional.
You looked down at the bottle. Your fingertips brushed its glass neck.
You sighed, brow furrowed, and gave in.
The bottle tilted in your hand.
One drink.
The burn ripped down your throat like acid, and you coughed into your fist, eyes watering.
Frank watched, unmoving. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a damn thing until your breath evened out.
Then, with that same tired rasp he always carried at the end of a long day, he said, “Well?”
You stared down at the grain of the table, trying not to cry. “Still feel like shit.”
He let out a humorless laugh—dry and broken. “That’s about right.”
He reached across the table and picked up the photo of Daniel. His rough thumb brushed the edge of it. The smile on Daniel’s face—youthful, alive, trusting—glowed faintly under the flickering ceiling light.
Frank's eyes softened, the laugh lines etched deep. “What would Daniel think?” he asked, voice low. “He was a good kid.”
You clenched your jaw and looked away.
“I know he hurt you,” Frank continued, holding the photo like something fragile. “But he loved you too. Anyone could see that. Even me.”
You looked at your hand. The one that held the bottle. The one that threw the molotov.
“I think about the way he screamed,” you whispered. “I hear it every night.”
Frank nodded, slowly. “I know you do.”
He set the photo down gently. Like it was a headstone.
“But the thing is,” he said, “he wouldn’t want you turning into the worst version of yourself because of him. I think he’d rather be a ghost than your excuse.”
You pressed your palms into your eyes, your voice trembling. “I don’t know how to carry it, Frank. I don’t know how to live with it.”
“You don’t live with it,” he said. “You live despite it.”
A long silence settled over the room. Heavy. Sacred.
Then Frank stood, the chair scraping softly behind him. “You fucked up tonight,” he said plainly.
He ruffled your hair on the way past, like a brother would.
“Try again tomorrow, Jo,” he said at the door. “Try better.”
And then he was gone.
You sat alone, the bottle still half full. The photo of Daniel staring up at you like a mirror.
The cigarette you lit afterward didn’t taste right.
Nothing did.
You usually didn’t smoke inside.
You liked the cold—liked the feeling of real air hitting your face, grounding you, reminding you that you were still alive.
But today, the bottle whispered louder than the wind ever could.
You couldn’t move from your seat.
Not even to open the window.
Your hand shook as you lifted the bottle again, tilting it back. The burn clawed down your throat and settled hot in your empty stomach. It didn’t help. Not really.
But you did it again.
And again.
You weren’t sure when the tears started—only that they came fast. Hot and heavy. You didn’t even try to stop them. They tore out of you in violent sobs, gut-wrenching and ugly, the kind you hadn’t let yourself feel in months. Not since the med tent. Not since before the WLF.
You pressed your head into your hands, forehead against the splintered edge of the table, and cried like something in you had finally cracked open.
Your voice echoed in the quiet apartment—loud, unfiltered grief spilling out in broken syllables and gasps. It filled the space where Daniel used to laugh, where Terra used to yell, where you and Abby had touched and fought and tried.
You lifted your head just enough to drink more.
The room blurred. The bottle slipped in your grip but you held on.
You weren’t even sure what you were drinking anymore. You just wanted it to stop.
The thoughts. The memories. The weight.
You stumbled to the couch, dragging your legs like they didn’t belong to you.
The bottle came with you, still clutched tight like a lifeline made of glass and poison.
You collapsed sideways, the springs groaning under your weight. The bottle sloshed in your grip but didn’t spill. You rested it against your chest, like a second heartbeat.
And then—
Sleep.
Not rest.
Not peace.
Just the heavy, black nothing of unconsciousness.
You dreamt of Terra.
And for once, you were glad it wasn’t Daniel.
But Boston still clawed at your subconscious, dragging you back to a time when your skin felt too tight for your body and rage filled the hollows where love used to live.
Your boots slammed against wet pavement, your fists clenched. You stormed up the chipped stairwell to Terra’s quarters—same building, same broken front light flickering above the door. The wail of a crying baby echoed from inside.
You banged on the door, once, twice.
No answer.
The sound of your shoulder crashing through the wood echoed like gunfire.
Inside, time stopped.
Terra stood in the corner, hair a mess, clutching the baby against her chest—her bare shoulders shaking. Nathan was half-dressed, scrambling backward from the bed.
Your hand was already on the pistol, the metal cold against your palm, your eyes hollow.
“I told you never to come back here,” you growled.
Nathan’s lip quivered. He wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t even close. Just another body with a heartbeat who fucked up your life.
You stepped forward and cracked the butt of the gun into his temple. He went down like a sack of flour, groaning as blood trickled down his face.
Terra screamed, the baby cried louder.
But you couldn’t hear any of it.
You rounded on her, eyes wide and wild. She clutched the baby tighter, stepping back, but you followed—whiskey on your breath, grief in your teeth.
“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shredded raw. “I wish you were dead.”
You didn’t remember what she said back.
You only remembered your hand swinging.
The crack of knuckles on skin.
Again. And again.
Until arms were pulling you away.
Frank’s arms.
You could still hear him yelling your name. Could still feel his strength as he hauled you off her, your fists still swinging, your chest heaving like you’d been drowning in your own rage.

"Jo."
The voice pulled you up from the depths.
You blinked hard, breath stuttering in your chest. Your eyes were wet—again. This was becoming routine. You wiped at your face, the salt stinging your skin.
Abby sat beside you on the couch, her presence steady. Her brows were creased with concern, her hand warm and grounding on your thigh.
“You were talking in your sleep,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Crying, too.”
Your mouth was dry. You swallowed hard.
“Sorry,” you muttered.
She shook her head gently. “Don’t be. Just… what was it about?”
You looked at her. Her eyes were open. Kind. No judgment, just... waiting.
“I saw her again,” you rasped. “Terra. The baby. Nathan.”
A long pause settled between you. Abby didn’t press. She just kept her hand on you. You didn’t deserve it—but it was there anyway.
“I wasn’t… good to her,” you added quietly. “Not even close.”
Abby let the silence breathe for a moment. “You were hurting,” she said. “That doesn’t make it okay. But I know what pain turns people into.”
You looked at her, eyes burning again.
And still, she stayed.
Abby broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of.” Her words hung in the stale air like dust catching morning light.
You watched her, quiet, letting her speak.
She shifted, her elbows resting on her knees. A long sigh escaped her lips before she continued, voice cracked and raw.
“I told you about my dad. The man who—” She stopped herself, biting the inside of her cheek. “I know I said I killed him… but the girl who was there—”
Her fingers ran through her hair, dragging tension with them.
“She screamed. God, the way she screamed when I—”
Her jaw clenched. “Sometimes I still hear it.”
You sat up, gently placing a hand between her shoulder blades. Her breath hitched under your touch.
You didn’t ask for more details. You didn’t need to. You could see it in her face—the blood she still felt under her nails. The way the world kept pulling both of you back into the past.
Abby looked at you then, eyes red-rimmed and searching.
“What did you do to Terra that’s got you so… holed up?”
You inhaled sharply through your nose and nodded.
“She was complicated,” you murmured. “Didn’t have anybody. Orphaned young, grew up bouncing through the QZ system.”
You ran your thumb over your trembling fingers.
“Daniel got us together. He’d just started seeing Chloe, and Chloe pulled Terra in. She was magnetic. Smart. Messy. Beautiful in that way that made you think maybe you could be better.”
Your throat burned. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or the remnants of whiskey, still sour in your belly.
“But we weren’t good for each other. We weren’t anything close to good.”
You took another shaky breath. Abby was quiet beside you, her gaze steady, unreadable—but open.
“Look, Abby—I…” you stopped yourself, voice catching. “She had a baby. With this guy, Nathan.”
Abby nodded slowly. “Right. Cheated on you.”
You swallowed, and as the words formed, the memory bled back like rot seeping through floorboards. You didn’t just remember it—you saw it.

It was a week after you’d beaten Terra bloody, and the guilt hadn’t kicked in yet—not fully. Just a numb kind of rage that followed you like a second skin. You’d been drinking since noon that day, gnawing on old regrets and the bitterness of seeing her hold someone else’s baby. The bottle had made you mean. Smoking made you sharper. And that night, it made you dangerous.
You stood in front of her quarters, the plywood that served as her door half-hinged, crooked. You pounded your fist against it with shaking knuckles.
Nathan opened the door, his shirt barely on, eyes bloodshot. “What the fuck do you want?”
You didn’t answer. Just raised your arm and pointed, like you were calling a shot.
“He’s a Firefly,” you said, voice cold and low, eyes trained on his. “He’s been recruiting. Got pamphlets under the mattress.”
Two FEDRA soldiers you’d tipped off ahead of time moved in without question. They forced his arms behind his back and dragged him onto the rain-slick concrete. He didn’t fight. He was too confused. Too stunned.
“What the fuck—what the fuck, man!?” Nathan screamed, thrashing as cuffs bit into his wrists. “I’ve never—I got a kid!”
Terra had just turned the corner with Chloe when it happened.
You watched her expression collapse in real time. Her face drained white as she dropped her satchel. “What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed, rushing forward. “Joan!”
You didn’t flinch. “Told you what would happen.”
Chloe stepped between you and Terra. “Are you fucking serious right now? What the hell is wrong with you?” She looked at you like you were something she didn’t recognize. “You planted that shit, didn’t you? That’s how you always win, right? You fucking cheat.”
Terra dropped to her knees beside Nathan as he was hauled away. Her baby wailed in the carrier strapped to her chest. “No no no,” she sobbed, grabbing at the concrete like she could dig through it. “He didn’t do anything, Jo!”
But you just stood there, shaking, the weight of the lie settling on your shoulders like a wet blanket. Your own rage didn’t feel triumphant anymore. It just felt... sick.
Frank arrived seconds too late. He had seen the commotion from across the QZ and ran up with his coat flapping. “Jo—what the hell did you do?” he demanded.
You turned to him and shrugged. “Took care of a problem.”
He stared at you, disbelief painted across his worn face. “That’s not taking care of anything.”
He looked over at Chloe, then Terra crumpled on the ground, and he muttered, “You’re turning into the same bastard who raised you.”
That one hit harder than the booze.
Later that night, you came home and found your mother already waiting. She had the Firefly pendant hanging out over her sweater, fingers tight around a mug of tea.
She didn’t even look at you.
“I heard what you did,” she said. “You used their name. Lied.”
You blinked. “He deserved it.”
“He deserved a trial, not a lie,” she said flatly. “You know what they do to Fireflies, Jo. You know what happens when we get caught. And you gave that man a death sentence. Over a broken heart.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just stood there, shoulders hunched under the weight of everything you’d been trying to outrun.
That was the first night you blacked out so hard you didn’t remember crawling to bed. But Frank had told you in the morning that you cried in your sleep.
Same way you did now.
Your eyes flickered up to Abby, the warm glow of the overhead lights in the apartment casting amber shadows across her face. You were back in Seattle—back in the stadium, the WLF base—but it felt like you'd never really left the ruins you’d both crawled out of. You hadn’t realized how much you’d spilled out until you saw the way Abby was looking at you. Not angry. Not pitying. Just there.
“Joan,” she said, voice low and careful, like the name itself might shatter something in you if she spoke it too loud.
You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “I don’t think like that anymore. I know your dad... I know what he did mattered. He wasn’t...” Your voice cracked. “He wasn’t the villain I was raised to believe he was.”
Abby didn’t interrupt right away. She watched you, her brows knit together with something unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “That was then. We were kids, just on different sides of a war we didn’t start.”
You gave a weak nod, throat tightening. “My mom was Firefly brass. Real loyal. She’d blow up checkpoints while I was patrolling for FEDRA. She’d tell me the day before—‘Don’t take East 26th tomorrow,’ or ‘Stay off patrol shift B.’ That was her way of loving me. A heads-up.”
Abby blinked, the gears turning behind her eyes. “You were... in Boston, right?”
You nodded. “Yep.”
She shifted closer, her knee nearly brushing yours. “Frank’s your half-brother?”
“Different mom,” you murmured. “His died when he was a kid. My dad... moved him into our place a few months later like it was nothing. My mom resented him at first. But she took care of him.” You glanced at the floor. “We all survived however we could.”
Abby let that hang between you. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full. Full of things that didn’t need to be explained.
“Thank you for telling me that,” she said, a little softer now.
You gave a brittle smile, your voice cracking again. “I’m sorry I got drunk. Again.”
Her eyes didn’t flinch. “Thank you for talking to me, Joan. For not shutting me out. You could’ve lashed out, but you didn’t.” She reached for your hand—rough fingertips grazing your knuckles—and gave it a gentle stroke. “You trusted me.”
You swallowed hard. Her touch didn’t burn, didn’t judge. It grounded.
“I'm trying,” you whispered. “I really am.”
“I know,” Abby said. “I see you.”

Chapter 18: Sweet

You sighed, head tipping back against the wall behind you as you looked up at Abby. The room had quieted, shadows long and warm in the soft stadium lamplight. You glanced at the old digital watch on your wrist—nine o’clock.
“Can we still watch a movie?” you asked, your voice tentative, a little raw around the edges.
Abby nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned in slowly, her hand rising to your cheek, brushing a strand of hair back. The calluses on her fingers were familiar now—gentle even when she didn’t mean them to be.
“Actually, Jo,” she said, her voice lower now. More certain.
She paused—and you felt your heart leap up into your throat. That name, the way she said it, it sounded like a vow.
“I want you to be my girlfriend.”
You blinked. The air between you went still. Like the whole base outside had gone silent.
“What?” you breathed, the word barely making it past your lips. Your voice cracked.
Abby gave a shaky little exhale, but her thumb stayed steady on your skin.
“I mean it,” she said. “I think I love you. Even when you’re being impossible. Even when you’re spiraling or picking fights.” She gave a dry little laugh. “And you are a handful, Jo.”
You couldn’t help it—you let out a soft chuckle, barely there, the weight in your chest lifting just enough to let a sliver of joy in.
“Oh,” you said, because it was all you could manage.
But the look in your eyes said more. The quiet thawing of something frozen.
Abby smiled, just a bit, and leaned her forehead against yours. “We can still watch the movie,” she whispered. “But I meant what I said.”
You nodded slowly, heart thudding hard against your ribs. “Okay.”
You didn’t know how to tell her you loved her.
You’d spent so much time pouting—resentful that she hadn’t given you what you were too afraid to ask for. What you hadn't even known how to give yourself.
Your mind wandered back, uninvited, to that first time. The night you first had sex. How volatile you’d been—half-drunk, fully wounded. How you pushed her away and pulled her close in the same breath. How angry you were that she hadn’t said she was yours, even though you hadn’t said it either.
You’d been impossible. Self-sabotaging. And she’d still come back.
The bile burned in your throat as you stepped out into the stadium hallway beside her, heart racing. Your feet felt too loud on the concrete. Abby was quiet, leading you to her apartment with a calm you didn’t deserve.
When she opened the door, her place was already dim and cozy. The TV was on—menu screen glowing soft against the far wall, waiting.
You stood just inside, mouth dry. You stared at her back as she locked the door.
“Abby.” Your voice cracked—barely a whisper.
She turned, brows raised.
“I love you too,” you blurted. It came out clumsy, rushed. Your face went hot with embarrassment.
Abby let out a short, warm laugh—shoulders relaxing.
“I know, Jo,” she said, voice low and full of quiet pride. “I’ve known.”
She stepped toward you, closing the space between you with ease. Her hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you forward just enough that your forehead brushed hers.
“You didn’t have to say it,” she murmured. “But I’m glad you did.”
Her lips met yours.
Gentle. Soft. Unhurried.
She tasted like ChapStick and spearmint, like someone who cared enough to take care of herself—and maybe now, you too. Her lips were smooth, warm against yours.
Not like yours—cracked from dehydration, rough from too many cigarettes and too much whiskey. Your breath still carried the ghost of bile and regret, but she didn’t flinch. She kissed you anyway.
You sighed into her, your shoulders slowly relaxing as your brow unknotted and your body surrendered to the quiet safety of her touch. She always knew how to steady you without saying a word.
Her hand moved up, threading through your wild, tangled hair, her fingers gentle but firm. She guided you down with a tilt of her chin and a nod toward the couch.
You didn’t hesitate.
You straddled her lap, your legs on either side of her thighs, and kissed her again—this time more urgently, as if she might disappear, as if you were afraid the world would end before she could kiss you back. You cupped her face, your palms brushing against her sharp jaw, thumbs stroking beneath her eyes like she was something holy.
Her hands found your hips instinctively, steady and grounding. You leaned in closer, chest against hers, breath mingling, and reached for her braid.
You pulled the band free.
Abby gave a quiet exhale as her braid unraveled in your fingers, chestnut strands falling loose around her face in soft waves. You stared at her—just for a second—your breath catching.
God, she was beautiful like this. Wild and free, the sharp lines of her muscles softened by the curtain of her undone hair. The world had taken so much from both of you, but this? This moment felt like it was yours.
Like she was.
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” you whispered.
Your voice was small, almost afraid of its own honesty. Your face flushed hot the moment the words left your mouth, and you instinctively looked away—until Abby’s hand gently guided your gaze back to hers.
Her blue eyes searched yours, steady and unblinking, like she could see right through to whatever broken pieces were still hiding beneath the surface.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled—soft, almost shy—and let the silence settle between you like a blanket.
“I’m so glad you let me in, Joan,” she finally murmured.
Then she kissed you again—slow, intentional, like she wasn’t in any rush.
You let yourself melt into it, then pulled away just enough to rest your forehead against hers before shifting and nestling into the curve of her neck. Your arms wrapped around her middle, and for once, you allowed yourself to just breathe.
She smelled different today—clean, calm. No trace of gun oil or sweat or the reek of survival. Just pine and mint.
You chuckled softly against her skin, your breath warm on her throat. She shivered beneath you.
“You shower before I came over?” you teased.
She nodded, just barely, and you felt her smile against your temple.
You pressed a kiss to her neck, lips brushing the delicate skin just below her jaw.
“What?” you murmured. “Planning to seduce me?”
You leaned back just in time to catch her face turning red, the tips of her ears flushing too.
And it hit you: Abby Anderson, the woman who’d ripped men apart with her bare hands, who could carry the weight of the world on her back—was blushing because of you.
This time, you didn’t have sex with her.
You just let her hold you.
Her arms wrapped around you with a strength that never felt suffocating—only safe. You lay curled into her chest, your body pressed against hers, and felt the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath your cheek. One of her hands stroked slowly along your back, her fingers tracing lazy, soothing lines down your spine. She wasn’t trying to fix you. She wasn’t expecting anything from you.
And still, her touch said everything.
You’d never had this before. Not really. Not like this. Not without it costing something.
You didn’t feel like you deserved it.
But you didn’t make her stop.
That voice in the back of your head—the one that always tried to tear holes in anything good—whispered that you didn’t want this. That you’d leave. That you’d ruin it like you ruin everything.
But for once, you ignored it.
You let yourself ask for what you wanted without saying a word. You decided—just this once—not to think about what would happen tomorrow. Not to think about whether you were good enough. Or whether she’d still want you next week.
You just... stayed.
Your face found the soft hollow of her neck, where the scent of pine and mint still lingered faintly on her skin. Your breath slowed to match hers. Her fingers moved gently, over and over again, grounding you in a quiet rhythm.
And with your eyes closed, you let yourself believe this moment was yours.
Even if just for tonight.
Because you had never asked for anything in your life. Not really.
Not love. Not comfort. Not safety.
You never felt like you deserved anything like this.
But now—lying in her arms, breathing in her warmth—you were greedy.
You wanted this. Her.
And you couldn’t give her up.
Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.

___________________________________________________________________________
Your eyes fluttered open in the early morning quiet.
Abby’s hair was the first thing you noticed—golden strands brushing softly against your cheek, warm from sleep. You could hear the slow, steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear. She was still asleep, her arms curled protectively around you, her chest rising and falling with each quiet breath.
You’d fallen asleep there—on her chest, in her arms—and for the first time in a long time, your sleep had been dreamless.
Safe.
As you shifted slightly, Abby stirred under you. You sat up just enough to look down at her face.
The sunlight from the small window behind the couch crept in at just the right angle, catching on the freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose. Her brows twitched faintly in her sleep, lips softly parted in a subtle pout. You noticed something you hadn’t before—she ground her teeth, even in rest. Jaw clenched, like her body couldn’t fully let go even here.
The light deepened the golden tones in her hair, illuminating the soft waves that spilled across the couch pillow where her braid had come undone the night before.
She smelled like a clean forest—pine, mint, something just barely floral. It lingered in the air like it belonged to her alone.
You smiled softly and eased off her as gently as you could, wincing when the couch creaked beneath your weight. She mumbled something you couldn’t make out but didn’t wake.
You grabbed your jacket, tugged on your boots with quiet effort, and figured the least you could do was get her breakfast. Maybe even that bitter black coffee the two of you always claimed to hate, but drank anyway. Some kind of tradition by now.
You opened the apartment door and stepped into the hallway, rubbing sleep from your eyes—
—and walked straight into someone.
You jerked back instinctively.
It was Owen.
He blinked, surprised to see you—eyes darting from your face to the door you’d just come out of, to the slightly rumpled collar of your shirt.
“Jo,” he said, tone flat but not cold. More like he already knew.
You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but the words got stuck behind your teeth.
He just stared at you.
Then glanced at the closed door behind you.
Your mind raced, your heart pounding harder with every second.
Why was Owen coming to Abby’s door?
You tried to speak—to throw out one of your usual cold comments—but nothing came. Your throat was dry. Too dry. The words wouldn’t form.
You swallowed hard, eyes scanning him up and down. His clothes were rumpled, like he hadn’t slept well. His beard was overgrown, and he looked… off.
“What are you doing?” you asked, voice low, shaky.
You hated how small you felt in front of him. Owen was tall—broad—and even though he didn’t move like a threat, his presence grated on you. You wished you had Abby’s height. Her power. Her calm.
He looked down at you, frowning, hand pushing through his unkempt hair. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke.
“Nothing,” he said. Then, after a pause that dragged just a little too long: “Looking for… Manny.”
He nodded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Manny’s not here,” you said quietly.
He nodded again. “Right.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked off down the hall, his boots echoing against the concrete.
You stood frozen in the doorway, watching him disappear around the corner.
Your eyes narrowed, suspicion prickling at your skin.
What had been his plan?
Why this door? Why now?
And what would’ve happened if you hadn’t answered it first?
You shook the thoughts away. Don’t be jealous, Jo. They’re friends. She said she loves you.
But that small part of your brain that hated itself so much ran circles around the part of you trying to be different.
You walked toward the mess hall, your boots echoing in the still-sleeping stadium. The halls were mostly empty at this hour—just after five in the morning. Dim overhead lights buzzed quietly, flickering every few feet with old wiring and poor maintenance. You shoved your hands deep into your jacket pockets, trying to shake the image of Owen from your head.
You figured you had time to smoke before Abby woke up. Neither of you were scheduled for early patrol, and besides… you needed a minute to yourself. To breathe.

Chapter 19: Dripping

Summary:

SCISSOR PARTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You sighed as you pushed open the heavy metal doors leading outside, the cold air biting at your cheeks. The courtyard was quiet, silent except for the soft rustling of wind against the tarps and makeshift structures. You lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating your face.
You took a long drag. The smoke filled your lungs like a bitter exhale of all the shit you were trying to bury.
But then Abby flashed through your mind.
Her blonde hair, the way it fell over her shoulder in loose waves last night—like silk, like something untouched by the world. Her arms wrapped around you. The solid weight of her chest beneath your cheek. Her breath slow, grounding.
You choked a little on the smoke, coughing it out between dry laughs.
You stubbed the cigarette out on the rusted railing, your fingers trembling slightly as the nicotine buzz fought with something electric already pulsing through your veins. You felt alive, like you were teetering between panic and peace. And for once, you didn’t want to run from it.
You headed into the mess hall. The place smelled like damp wood and old instant coffee—burnt and sour. You found a couple of half-filled trays of oatmeal under the heating lamp, still warm. You scooped two bowls and wrapped them in a cloth napkin for the walk. Then you grabbed a tin of the shitty expired instant coffee Abby always pretended to hate but still drank with you every time. You didn’t even know why you grabbed it—it just felt like something hers.
You carried everything back through the quiet halls, your footsteps softer now.
When you reached her quarters, you opened the door slowly.
Abby was still asleep on the couch, one arm curled above her head, the blanket barely covering her waist. The soft morning light pooled around her like water. Her hair splayed out across the pillow in sunlit strands, her face relaxed, lips slightly parted.
You smiled, setting the oatmeal down gently on the counter.
She stirred in her sleep.
You didn’t bother with breakfast.
You crossed the room, climbing back onto the couch, careful not to wake her too much. You lay across her chest again, your body fitting there like it was made for it. Her warmth seeped back into you, and you exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
She scrunched her nose, eyes still closed. “You stink,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
You chuckled, nuzzling into her neck, pressing your scent into her skin like a mark. “Yeah,” you whispered, “I know.”
She groaned softly, not really complaining.
“I got us breakfast,” you added, your voice low, warm. “From the mess hall.”
She gave a lazy nod, one hand lifting to find your head, her fingers threading through your messy hair.
She didn’t say anything else. Just touched you.
Then her hands slid under your shirt, fingertips calloused from years of rifles and weightlifting, but gentle—so goddamn gentle. One hand cupped your jaw, turning your face toward hers.
She kissed you.
Even her morning breath, somehow, didn’t matter. It was warm and real and her. There was something so human about it—no pretense, no masks. Just the quiet honesty of Abigail Anderson wanting you like this, in the dim stillness of morning.
Her other hand gripped your waist with a strength that made your breath hitch. Not rough. Just needy. Anchored.
You caught on quickly to what she wanted from you—what she needed. The unspoken question in her hands, in her lips. And for once, you didn’t hesitate.
You nodded wordlessly and climbed over her, straddling her thighs. Her eyes drank you in, hunger flashing behind the blue.
You made quick work of her clothes. Her pants came off with a tug, her shirt over her head and tossed to the floor, revealing the full breadth of her.
She was wide awake now, her back pressed into the couch cushions, gaze locked to yours like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
You leaned down and kissed her neck—slow, open-mouthed kisses that dragged across her pulse. Her breath caught under you.
When you pulled back, your eyes traced her figure in the gold-tinted light slipping through the blinds. Her stomach rose and fell beneath you, muscles defined, the softness of morning making her seem almost unreal. Her skin held a few scars—faint, healed—but beautiful all the same.
She reached up, fingers hooked into the hem of your shirt and yanked it off. Then she looked at you, lips parted. “Pants too,” she whispered, not a request.
You smirked and slipped them off, piece by piece, watching the way her eyes followed your movements.
And then, for the first time, you really looked at her.
Just below her navel, a faint trail of golden hair caught in the sun’s light—a blonde happy trail so pale it was barely visible except at this angle. You hadn’t noticed it before. The detail made something tighten in your chest.
You chuckled softly, your hand brushing along her stomach, fingers grazing that little trail like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to give you.
“What?” she asked, breathless.
“Nothing,” you murmured. “You’re just… golden everywhere.”
That made her smile—but it didn’t last long. Because when you leaned down and kissed her again, it was slow, molten. You kissed her like you had all the time in the world.
She deepened the kiss, tongue brushing yours, her hand sliding up your back. This time, she was the impatient one.
And you were more than ready to give her everything she asked for.
Abby’s breath hitched the second your lips found her neck again. Her skin was warm, slightly damp with heat, and she tasted faintly of salt and mint. You kissed her slowly at first—deliberate—and then again, rougher this time, as your hand slid up from her stomach.
Her muscles tensed beneath your touch.
Your palm moved higher, fingers splayed across her ribs before cupping her breast. The moment you touched her there, she arched into you, hips lifting slightly off the couch.
“Joan,” she breathed—barely a moan, more like a plea.
And god, her voice—husky and cracked with want—made something twist hot and hungry inside you.
Her moans always caught you off guard. For all her strength, for all her brute power and stoic presence, Abby made the sweetest, softest sounds in moments like this. Little squeaks, shaky gasps, delicate whimpers that spilled out like secrets she didn’t mean to tell. She was secretly so feminine, so soft in your arms.
You huffed into the crook of her neck, biting down gently as your body moved against hers.
You ground your hips into hers, legs entwining into a tight X-shape, pulling her into you. The two of you were soaked, clinging, making the friction searing. The pressure was just right, heat blooming at your core, pooling between you both with every movement.
Your breath came harder now, ragged, mouths brushing as you kissed her again—open-mouthed, tongue slow and deep.
Abby’s nails dug into your back, sharp crescents pressing into your skin like anchors. She held you steady as you rocked together in sync, each roll of your hips met with her breathy gasps.
Her brows knit upward, lips parted as her head tipped back into the couch cushion. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling as her eyes rolled back just slightly, lost in the sensation.
Her thighs clenched around you.
Her entire body was tense and trembling under you, sweat beginning to collect where your skin touched hers. Her hands slid down to your hips, gripping them like she needed something to hold onto.
You whispered her name against her jaw.
Then you moved your hand between you, slipping your fingers over her clit.
Feeling her throb
She gasped—sharp and real—and her hips bucked into your touch.
You kissed her again, slower this time, matching the rhythm of her breath as her sounds grew more desperate. Each whimper melted against your mouth, and you drank her in like something sacred.
Your hand slipped lower, fingers brushing through slick warmth. The moment you entered her, both of you gasped.
You weren’t prepared for how ready she was. Your middle finger sank into her with ease, her body welcoming you in, wrapping around you like she'd been waiting—aching—for this.
Abby whimpered, high-pitched and shaky. Her thighs instinctively tried to close around you, but your hips pressed forward, keeping her open. Holding her there like a flower blooming beneath your touch.
She turned her head away, breath catching. Her ears flushed deep red, and she bit her lower lip to stifle a small squeal. The sound hit you like a lightning strike—so unlike the soldier everyone else saw. This was herself, raw and unguarded, and she was giving it to you.
You slipped in a second finger.
That undid her.
She cried out softly, her hips rising to meet your hand, her body pulsing with need. Her rhythm met yours instinctively, her movements growing messier, wetter, more frantic. Her slick coated your fingers, running in warm rivulets down your knuckles.
You leaned into her neck again, your breath hot against her skin.
You curled your fingers, searching, feeling her tighten, until—
There it was.
“Joan!” she squealed, voice catching on the edge of a sob, hands fisting into the cushions beneath her as her whole body shook.
“There you go,” you whispered, your voice a soft breath, filled with awe.
Her back arched beautifully, head thrown back, chest rising as waves of pleasure rippled through her. You didn’t stop until her hands reached for you, trembling, pulling you closer.
You kissed her, deep and slow, never losing the rhythm in your hands. She was still trembling from the last wave, body flushed, skin slick with sweat—but it wasn’t enough for you.
You were greedy.
You wanted more.
You wanted to see Abby—the indestructible soldier, the fearless leader—break under your touch. You wanted her to cry out, to whimper, to shake until she had nothing left to give.
You leaned down, your lips brushing her ear.
“I love you, Abigail,” you whispered.
The words weren’t calculated—they just slipped out, thick with heat and truth.
Abby choked on a moan, her voice faltering. “I—ah! Ahh!”
Her whole body shuddered as her legs clamped tight around your waist, trying to slow you, to stop you—but you didn’t let her hide. You opened her back up with a firm press of your hips and deepened the motion of your fingers, curling up just right, reaching that place inside her that made her lose herself.
Her hands flew to the couch cushions again, gripping them like lifelines.
“Joan! I can’t—I can’t!” she gasped, her voice cracking like she was on the edge of tears.
You kissed her collarbone, the edge of her jaw, and then slowly pulled your fingers out. She let out the tiniest broken whine, her body jolting at the loss.
“You’re doing so good,” you murmured, lips grazing her stomach.
She was still shaking as you kissed lower, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her abdomen. You traced her happy trail again, leaving glistening circles with your tongue along the pale golden hair that led you lower.
You paused just above her slick heat, letting the anticipation coil between you.
Then you looked up at her—flushed, breathless, her arm slung over her eyes, chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts.
And you smirked.
You lowered your mouth to her slowly, deliberately.
Taking her slick wet heat into your mouth slowly as you looked up at her.
She bucked slightly, her hips twitching as your tongue began to move, slow and cruel in its precision. Circles. Gentle, rhythmic, unrelenting.
She throbbed against you, her thighs shaking, breath catching in little half-gasps. Her hands scrabbled against the couch cushions again, unsure where to go, what to hold.
Her head tilted back sharply, mouth falling open.
“F-fuck—Joan!”
Her voice was barely a whisper now—thin, shaky, like her body was trying to keep up with the flood of sensation.
She let out a helpless little squeak, trying to stay still, but failing beautifully.
And you didn’t stop.
You wanted to unravel her completely.
And you were.
You felt her wetness pulse against your tongue, warm and endless, spilling out as your fingers and mouth worked her open. You circled her most sensitive spot slowly, deliberately, your mouth never breaking contact with her heat.
Her hips bucked hard into you.
“Joan!” she cried out, louder this time—sharp and breaking.
Then she came again.
Her body trembled violently, thighs clamping around your head. You moaned against her, the sensation of her throbbing, pulsing around your tongue sending shockwaves through your own body.
You pulled her hips tighter to your face, not letting her go. She tried to squirm, tried to twist away, but you held her there, mouth locked to her as you consumed her completely.
Your moans vibrated through her, adding to the overstimulation as she rode it out, helpless beneath you.
She was wild now—thrashing gently, fingers tangled in the blanket, her voice reduced to incoherent whimpers and soft, broken curses. Her chest heaved. Her body shook with aftershocks.
She tried to push your head away, fingers slipping through your damp hair, breathless and desperate.
You finally let up, slowly, your lips slick and flushed, breath coming in gasps. A thin trail of spit connected you to her swollen, glistening clit.
“You taste so good,” you whispered, voice hoarse and soaked in heat.
Abby looked down at you with wide, hazy eyes, her cheeks flushed, her forehead damp with sweat. Her chest still rose and fell like she’d just survived something catastrophic.
She tried to speak—but the words caught in her throat. All she could do was stare at you, lips parted, as if she couldn't believe you were real.
You whimpered, your own hips grinding down against the couch beneath you—chasing friction you couldn’t ignore. Every part of you burned. Your skin buzzed with hunger, your body tight with need, but none of it compared to what you felt between her thighs.
Your fingers gripped her thighs harder now, your nails digging crescents into the soft muscle there as you leaned back in and kissed her slick heat again—long and slow, tongue dragging deliberately over her sensitive flesh.
She shivered, her breath catching, one hand curling into the pillow behind her head.
You pulled back just slightly, your lips wet and trembling, your face flushed pink with exertion and lust. Your chest heaved, mouth open as you gasped into the space between you, staring up at her like she was something holy.
“More, Abigail…” you whispered, voice desperate, thick with ache. You didn’t even try to hide how wrecked you were. “I want to taste you more.”
You were breathless with it. Dazed. Your pupils blown wide as you looked at her—dripping, spread open before you, her skin glowing in the morning light.
Abby’s eyes locked with yours, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard. Her chest was still rising and falling, trying to find some rhythm to her breath, but you could see it in her face—the way her lips parted, the way her brow twitched.
She looked undone.
“Jesus, Joan,” she whispered, her voice somewhere between disbelief and awe.
She looked at you like you were something dangerous.
“I can’t,” Abby gasped, laughing breathlessly as her head fell back into the pillow. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts, body slick with sweat and twitching with aftershocks.
You smiled into her thigh, lips still swollen, flushed with heat. But you weren’t done. You leaned down and kissed her slick heat once more—softly this time, a final reverent kiss like a punctuation mark.
She let out a sharp gasp and reached down, laughing harder now as she gently pushed your head away. “Joan—fuck—I can’t. My God.” Her voice was cracked and breathless, the laughter tangled with disbelief.
You let her pull you up, let her bring your body flush against hers. Her arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you tight. Her lips found yours—hot and trembling, still tasting of sweat and sweetness and salt.
When she pulled away, her brows furrowed. “I wanted to—” she began, voice fragile.
You shook your head and hushed her, brushing your thumb across her cheek.
“Seeing you like that…” you whispered, swallowing hard as your eyes traced her flushed, glowing face, the strands of damp blonde hair stuck to her forehead, her chest still rising under you. “That was enough for me.”
She blinked at you, lips parting.
You looked down at her again, at the soft curve of her mouth, the heat still in her cheeks. Her blue eyes met yours, wide and bare, and for a moment it felt like you were both suspended in something too heavy to name.
Then she nodded—just once—and leaned in to kiss you again, slower this time, no urgency left in it. Just gratitude. Just connection.
The truth was, you hadn’t needed anything else.
You just wanted to watch her.
Seeing Abby come undone beneath you—hearing her whimper, feeling her tremble, watching her shake in the thick grip of pleasure—it was like a drug.
The way she trusted you enough to lose control, to fall apart in your hands… it made you high.
And you weren’t sure anything else in the world could ever compare to that.

Chapter 20: Swallow

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You didn’t know when, exactly, sleep had pulled you under. The last thing you remembered was Abby’s hand stroking your hair, the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath your cheek. Everything after that blurred into warmth and silence.
Now, the morning air was cooler. Dim light poured through the cracked blinds, streaking her skin with gold. You blinked the sleep from your eyes, then slowly peeled yourself out of her arms, careful not to stir her.
She murmured something unintelligible, shifting in her sleep. You pulled the blanket up over her bare shoulders, covering her body completely—just in case Manny wandered in. The thought made your stomach clench. You didn’t want anyone seeing her like this. Like yours.
You dressed quickly—shirt, jacket, boots—then lingered at the door for a moment, just watching her. Her face was peaceful in sleep, the furrow in her brow finally relaxed. You didn’t know how long that peace would last, but you knew you’d fight tooth and nail to protect it.
Your body was buzzing—partially from the high of earlier, partially from withdrawal.
You needed a cigarette.
You made your way through the echoing halls of the stadium, hands shoved deep in your pockets, shoulders hunched. The quiet was thick. Most of the base was still asleep, save for a few soldiers heading out to early patrols, boots thudding against the concrete. It was only Eight.
You slipped into the mess hall, the smell of reheated food and burned coffee hitting you like a wave. Empty, save for the buzzing overhead lights and the soft hum of a vending machine in the corner.
You grabbed a new pack from your stash in the kitchen drawer—Frank had taught you to keep extras hidden—and were halfway through lighting one when—
“Jo.”
The voice came from behind you. Cold. Controlled. But something in it burned.
You turned slowly, cigarette between your lips.
Owen.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark. His jaw was tight, beard scruffy, and he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
He nodded toward the hallway behind you. “Did you come out of Abby’s place?”
You studied him for a moment, unblinking.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Your tone was clipped, skeptical. Why the fuck did he care?
Owen’s jaw ticked. He looked away, swallowing hard. “What, uh… is Abby awake?”
You narrowed your eyes.
“No.”
The word came out sharper than you intended, like a warning.
He nodded again, looking down at the ground like it held the answer to something. But there was too much behind his silence—too many things left unsaid, and you weren’t in the mood to let them fester.
You took a slow drag from your cigarette, smoke curling lazily from your lips.
“Why?” you asked flatly.
Owen looked up, and his eyes—god, there was something ugly in them. Something bruised.
“She tell you everything?” he asked, voice low.
You tilted your head, already feeling the pressure in your chest rise. “About what?”
He scoffed and stepped forward. “About me.”
You stayed still.
“She tell you what we’ve been through?” he asked. “What we survived together?”
You took another drag. “She mentioned you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants. That about cover it?”
His mouth twitched—half a smirk, half a snarl.
“You really think this thing between you and her is gonna last?” he asked. “You think she wants someone like you?”
You stared.
And the fuse lit.
You knew. You weren’t stupid. You’d pieced it together weeks ago—months, maybe. Abby and Owen had still been fucking behind Mel’s back, even while pretending things were done. It was all over their body language—how she flinched when Mel touched her shoulder, how Owen stared too long, said too little.
But you also knew it had ended. You could feel it—how something in Abby had shifted the night she let you in. The way she touched you, like she was afraid and brave at the same time. The way she needed you.
You’d felt it in her bones when you kissed her scars.
Still, you could see it in Owen’s posture now—the slump in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes looked past you like he was trying to remember the shape of her skin.
He missed her.
Of course he did.
She was Abigail Anderson.
How couldn’t he?
Your throat tightened. You brought the cigarette back to your lips, took a slow, dragging inhale. The smoke stung your lungs, but you needed the sting. You needed something to hold onto besides the rage crawling beneath your skin.
Your voice was quieter than expected when it came out, but firm. Controlled.
“That’s not your business.”
Owen let out a bitter laugh—more breath than sound. “No? After everything I gave up for her?” His voice cracked, bitter at the edges. “After all the shit we’ve been through?”
You turned your head, exhaling smoke in his direction.
“She chose to stop,” you said evenly. “And she didn’t run back to you, did she?”
His eyes flicked up, sharp.
“You think you’re different? Think you’re some fucking savior?” He stepped closer, teeth clenched. “You’re not. You’re just a new wound she doesn’t know she’s bleeding from yet.”
The cigarette burned down to your fingers.
You flicked it away, the embers skipping across the floor like sparks before a fire.
Then you stepped into him, your face inches from his.
“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” you growled.
He didn’t back up.
“Why not?” he spat. “Because you’ve got your moment in her bed? You think that makes you special?”
Your blood roared in your ears. Your fists curled at your sides.
“You don’t know a fucking thing about what I have with her.”
He leaned in closer, lips curled. “You’re not the first person to love her, Joan.”
“No,” you snapped, voice rising. “But I’m the first one who didn’t take her for granted.”
That did it.
Owen shoved you. Hard.
You stumbled back a step—but you didn’t fall.
You came back swinging.
Your fist cracked hard against his cheek.
The sound echoed in the empty mess hall—skin against bone, followed by the dull thud of his boots shifting under him. His head snapped sideways, jaw jerking from the blow, but he didn’t go down.
Owen stumbled back a step, wiped his mouth, and looked at you with something between shock and satisfaction.
You’d drawn blood. But he was stronger. You knew that.
It had been a while since you fought a man, not since FEDRA. And your body—still recovering, still not where it used to be—wasn’t built to keep up with his bulk. You’d healed, but your strength came in bursts, not endurance. He had the advantage.
And he knew it.
He snarled and swung wide.
The hit connected squarely with your face. A white flash burst behind your eyes as pain bloomed across your nose. You stumbled back, hand flying up too late.
“Fuck!” you cried out.
Warm blood gushed immediately, spilling past your lips and down your chin. The metallic taste hit your tongue before the sting had even registered. You swayed, head spinning.
Owen didn’t wait.
He lunged forward, hands grabbing at your hair, and slammed you down onto the tile floor. The breath ripped out of your lungs with a grunt. Your back cracked against the concrete, your shoulder screaming in protest.
“She’ll be back to me before you know it,” he hissed, crouched above you like a predator. “Abby is mine.”
You coughed—blood pooling in your mouth—and glared up at him, hate pulsing behind your eyes.
You spat.
A thick, red glob landed on his shirt, streaking his collar.
Your voice was raw, barely more than a whisper, but it hit like a bullet.
“Not anymore.”
Owen’s eyes flared. He scoffed—sharp, disbelieving—but before he could lunge again, a hand yanked him back hard by the collar of his jacket.
“Back the fuck up.”
Frank.
You blinked through the haze of pain and blood, watching your brother step between you and Owen like a wall of heat.
You’d never seen him like this.
Frank wasn’t the type to explode. He was measured. Quiet. The kind of guy who bit his tongue until it bled just to keep the peace.
But not now.
Now he looked murderous.
His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. His knuckles were already white before the punch even landed.
It happened fast—one hard hook to Owen’s jaw that snapped his head sideways. The sound echoed through the mess hall, sharper than your own punch, and far less restrained.
Owen stumbled back, nearly losing his balance.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Frank shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to keep his fury in check. “Before I finish what she started.”
Owen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide—surprised, maybe, or humiliated. He looked at you one last time, blood on his lips, but he didn’t say a word.
He backed away slowly, then turned and disappeared through the swinging doors, leaving a trail of tension behind him like smoke.
The moment he was gone, the adrenaline left your body all at once.
You slumped forward, arms shaky, your nose still bleeding steadily. You felt it dripping down past your chin, soaking the front of your shirt, warm and relentless.
Frank was already kneeling beside you, his hands on your shoulders, voice soft now. “Shit, Jo. Look at me.”
You groaned, hand pressed to your face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he said, his voice strained with worry. “Jesus—your nose…”
He gently helped you sit up straighter, then slid one arm under yours to lift you off the ground. Your legs wobbled, but he steadied you.
“I’ve got you,” he muttered. “Just breathe.”
You leaned into him, blood still leaking down your shirt, mixing with sweat, rage, and something bitter you couldn’t name. You hadn’t even realized you were trembling until you felt his grip tighten.
For the first time in a long time, your brother was holding you up.
And for the first time in even longer, you let him.

Chapter 21: Complication

Summary:

oatmeal curse lol

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You stood over the rust-stained sink, the overhead fluorescent light buzzing quietly above you. Cold water pooled in your palms as you splashed it across your face, the sting of it waking up every nerve.
Blood swirled down the drain in thin ribbons, bright red mixing with pinkish suds. You winced, the pain sharp and seated deep in the bridge of your nose.
“Fuck…” you muttered, gripping the edges of the sink until your knuckles whitened.
From behind the open bathroom door, Frank’s voice drifted in—calm, low, like he didn’t want to startle you.
“You hangin’ in there?”
He stayed just outside the threshold. You knew he was being careful—not because he didn’t trust you, but because he didn’t want to make the other women uncomfortable. He’d always been like that. Conscious. Quietly respectful. The kind of man who’d rather sleep on the floor than risk seeming like a creep.
You appreciated it more than you could say.
“Yeah,” you called out hoarsely. “Just trying not to bleed out all over the sink.”
You glanced at yourself in the cracked mirror. Your face was a mess. The bridge of your nose was swollen and red, though thankfully not broken. Your lips were chapped and stained with dried blood, and your shirt was soaked—dark crimson seeping into the fibers like paint.
You opened a stall, grabbed a wad of toilet paper, and carefully stuffed it up your nostrils with a wince.
Frank cleared his throat gently from the hallway. “So… what’s the verdict?”
You scoffed as you stepped out of the bathroom, your voice dry. “Gonna have to just plug it up.”
Frank turned to see you and immediately let out a quiet snort.
You narrowed your eyes.
“What?” you asked, deadpan.
He held up his hands, trying not to smile—but failing. “Nothing. You look great.”
You shook your head, half laughing, half miserable. “What do I tell Abby?”
That stopped him.
His expression softened. His hands dropped to his sides.
You could see the thought run across his face—You shouldn’t have to tell her anything. She should’ve heard it.
But he didn’t say that.
Instead, he said gently, “Start with the truth. The rest can wait.”
You sighed, long and heavy, and leaned back against the wall beside him. The cool concrete soothed your spine, but your face still throbbed with heat and blood.
Frank stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, eyes tracking your movements like he wasn’t sure if you were going to fall over again.
You looked at him, voice hoarse. The dried blood had crept down the back of your throat, making your voice crack around the edges.
“Why do you think Owen lashed out like that?”
The words came out flat, brittle. You weren’t fishing for pity. You just… didn’t get it. Or maybe you did. Maybe you just didn’t want to admit it out loud.
Frank was quiet for a moment.
Then he exhaled through his nose and looked at you, face unreadable. “Honestly?”
You nodded once, slow.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I think... he lost something and he doesn’t know how to grieve it.”
You frowned, not liking how gentle he sounded. “Abby’s not dead.”
“No,” Frank said, “but she doesn’t belong to him anymore.”
You blinked, chewing that over, the toilet paper in your nose suddenly feeling childish.
Frank shrugged. “Owen’s used to Abby orbiting him. Even when they weren’t together, she still… hovered close. He got comfortable in the gravity of that.”
Your jaw clenched.
“He saw you,” Frank added, voice low, “and realized he’s not the center anymore. And some men—especially the weak ones—don’t know how to handle losing power. So they swing.”
You swallowed thickly.
The silence hung between you for a beat, thick and uneasy.
Then Frank looked at you again, softer this time. “Doesn’t make what he did okay. But you asked.”
You looked away, breathing through your mouth. You hated how much it made sense.
And you hated even more that part of you still wanted to hit him back.
That small, hot coal of violence still burning in your chest—the part of you that craved the sound of bone splitting under your knuckles again. Not because it would help. Not because it would fix anything. Just because it would feel better.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to cool down.
Then, carefully, you reached up and pulled the balled-up toilet paper from your nose. It came out dry and stiff, stained a dark rust-red. You winced. The bleeding had finally stopped, but your face still throbbed in dull pulses.
You glanced down at your shirt—splotched with smeared blood, faded now to a sickly pink. You pulled your coat closed over it, trying to hide the mess. Trying to look… normal.
Whatever that meant anymore.
Your voice was quieter this time, like you didn’t quite trust it. “Should I still go see Abby?”
You didn’t look at Frank when you said it. You couldn’t. Guilt pooled in your gut, sticky and cold.
You cursed yourself, your hands balling into fists in your coat sleeves. Why the fuck did you bring her breakfast? Why did you pretend this could be soft?
Like you weren’t still the kind of person who broke things.
Frank was quiet for a moment. You could hear the way he shifted, the way his boot scraped lightly on the floor. He was thinking—choosing his words carefully.
“Do you want to see her?” he asked.
You hesitated. Then nodded once.
“Then yeah,” he said simply. “You should.”
You looked up at him, brows tight, eyes still raw.
“But what do I say?”
Frank shrugged. “I mean… if you’re gonna show up looking like that, might as well lead with breakfast.”
You gave him a look, nostrils still speckled with blood.
He grinned. “Really lean into the pity angle. ‘Hey Abby, sorry I look like roadkill, but I brought oatmeal.’ That kind of thing.”
You huffed through your nose. A bad idea. “Fuck—ow.”
Frank winced, biting back a laugh. “Dumbass.”
You shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “You’re a dick.”
“Yeah, well. You look worse.”
You paused, exhaled, eyes flicking down the hall toward Abby’s place.
“What if she’s pissed?” you asked, quieter now.
Frank shrugged again, casual. “Then she’s pissed. She’ll get over it.”
He gave you a pointed look. “You showing up still means more than hiding in here bleeding.”
You nodded, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth and swallowing your embarrassment like it might stay down this time.
You hated losing fights.
You hated even more that you’d let Owen get under your skin, that you’d swung first. That you’d gotten wasted the night before, made love to Abby like she was something breakable—and now here you were, showing up to her door with a busted face and blood on your shirt.
You’d given her something soft and sacred, and then followed it up with a fistfight.
God.
You muttered it in your head like a curse, dragging your hand across your face as you turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The room was dim, soft daylight filtering in through the slatted blinds. Abby was sitting upright on the couch, hair tousled from sleep, one hand rubbing at her eye. She looked like she’d just woken up—shoulders bare under the blanket you’d pulled over her earlier, eyes blinking into focus.
You didn’t say anything.
Your back was to her as you closed the door quietly behind you. You slipped your coat off, careful not to flash the blood-stained shirt beneath it, and bent down to unlace your boots.
The silence between you stretched, heavy.
You could feel her eyes on you.
You didn’t turn around right away.
She watched you for a long minute, and when you finally straightened up and looked over your shoulder, her expression was unreadable—but alert.
She saw you. All of you.
“Joan?”
Her voice was hoarse, low. Not confused—concerned.
You turned, slowly.
The moment her eyes met your face—your swollen nose, the cut on your lip, the forming bruise under your eye—she went still.
Her spine straightened. Her hands dropped the blanket. And for a second, she didn’t say a word. She just looked.
Like she was trying to figure out if she was dreaming.
Then:
“What the fuck happened?”
Her voice wasn’t loud—but there was weight behind it. Controlled panic. A warning in her tone, but not aimed at you.
You swallowed hard. Your throat burned.
“I’m fine.”
Her jaw tensed. “I didn’t ask that.”
You blinked. Your hands clenched into fists without meaning to.
She stood up, slow, legs still steady from years of training. She crossed the room with the same precision she used on patrol—quiet, measured, dangerous if pushed.
You didn’t step back, but your breath hitched when she got close. She was scanning your face like she needed to memorize every cut.
“Who did this?”
You exhaled through your nose. Winced. “It’s not—”
“Jo.”
Her voice dropped, firm.
You hesitated. Then said it.
“Owen.”
Abby went completely still.
You watched it flicker across her face—recognition, disgust, guilt, rage—all in the space of a breath.
“Jesus.” She ran a hand over her face. “When?”
“An hour ago. Maybe less.”
She took a step back like the information physically hit her.
“You get into it with him over last night?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Then you nodded. “Guess he didn’t like seeing me come out of your place.”
Abby looked away, her jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping beneath her skin. She muttered under her breath—more to herself than to you.
“Fucking idiot…”
You ran your tongue along your sore gums and shifted your weight.
“It’s my fault things got heated,” you said quietly. “I egged him on. Threw the first punch.”
Abby’s eyes snapped back to you. She stared for a long second, unreadable.
You couldn’t tell if she was angry or just tired.
You didn’t really want to know.
Your eyes drifted—traitorous, searching for anything else to look at—and you caught the curve of her collarbone, the blanket slipping low on her hips. Her skin was bare. Her muscles still carried the softness of sleep. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a messy curtain, golden strands catching the morning light.
She was so fucking beautiful it hurt.
Your gaze moved slowly down her body—too long, too obvious—and she furrowed her brow.
“Jo.”
Her voice snapped. Not harsh, but sharp. A warning.
You blinked and looked away, heat creeping up the back of your neck.
“Sorry,” you muttered.
She sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around herself as she stepped back, like she needed the barrier.
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” she said, her voice cracking slightly around the edges. It wasn’t anger—it was guilt.
You looked at her again, slower this time, eyes on her face.
“I know,” you said. “It was… in the moment.”
You didn’t know what else to say. The truth was, part of you wanted to hurt him. Not just for what he said, but for what he used to be to her. And maybe that scared you more than the bruise blooming on your face.
Abby looked at you like she knew that. Like she saw through all of it.
But she didn’t press.
She just nodded once and said quietly, “You need to sit down.”
Abby didn’t say anything after telling you to sit.
She turned away instead, walking toward the pile of her clothes half-crumpled on the floor. The blanket slipped from her shoulders and you tried not to watch the way her back moved, the muscle beneath her skin, the ghost of this morning still clinging to her. You could see the sweet marks you lef ton her this morning, when the sun was barely up.
She dressed in silence.
Not rushed. Just… distant.
You sat down heavily on the couch, wiping your nose with the inside of your sleeve. The blood had stopped, but your pride still throbbed like a second heartbeat under your skin.
Abby pulled her shirt over her head, tugged her boots on.
Still no words.
You watched her from the corner of your eye, then finally said, “You mad?”
Her hand paused on her laces. “No.”
It came fast. Too fast.
You waited. But nothing followed.
“No?” you echoed.
She sighed—deep, almost tired. “I’m not mad at you.”
That should’ve felt like something. It didn’t.
You nodded slowly, eyes falling to your busted knuckles. The skin there was split, crusted with dried blood, bruises blooming purple under your skin. You flexed your fingers and winced.
You felt skeptical—tired, but wired underneath.
The timelines lined up. You’d done the math already. The first time you fucked her… she’d still been sleeping with him. You’d known it the moment she woke up distant, lips pressed into a thin line, her body there but her mind somewhere else.
You knew why.
Owen was part of her past. A piece of herself she wasn’t ready to let go of yet. You knew she’d been scared—scared to close the door on him, even if she didn’t want to open it again.
But there were still things you didn’t know. Parts she hadn’t offered. Maybe never would.
The silence between you grew thick. Oppressive.
Heavy like humidity—like it was pressing down on your chest, trying to fold you in on yourself.
“I didn’t plan to fight him,” you said quietly. “He just…”
You trailed off. Words felt useless.
Abby didn’t finish the sentence for you.
When you finally looked up again, she was facing the window, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight. Her eyes weren’t on you. They weren’t on anything. Just fixed somewhere out in the distance—miles past this room, this day, maybe even past you.
“He’s not worth it,” she said, flat.
You let out a short, humorless scoff. “I know.”
She turned then, slow and careful. Her face was unreadable.
“I just didn’t think you’d really hit him.”
That landed harder than the punch Owen had thrown.
You blinked. “I didn’t think he’d fucking push me.”
Abby flinched—just barely. Her voice rose without meaning to. “I know.”
She caught herself, closed her eyes, took a breath through her nose. When she spoke again, it was quieter.
“I know.”
Silence again.
“I just…” she shook her head, hair falling into her face. “I’m not used to people jumping in for me.”
You watched her for a long moment. Really watched.
“I wasn’t trying to be a hero,” you said.
“I know.”
You both stared at the space between you like it might collapse if either of you stepped into it.
Then Abby turned again, picked up the old rag from the table—the one she used on patrol to wipe sweat off her neck—and tossed it toward you without turning her head.
“Clean your face.”
You caught it and gave a soft scoff. “I did earlier.”
She finally looked at you, sharp this time. “Well, you’re bleeding again, Joan,” she bit out.
Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it cut. It was the edge of something else. Frustration. Guilt. Fear. You weren’t sure.
She grabbed her rifle, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
You didn’t stop her.
But you knew where she was going.
Abby didn’t yell. She didn’t shut down. She just moved. Took on an extra patrol. Grabbed something heavy to carry, a route to clear, a weight to hold so she wouldn’t have to sit with this—with you.
You weren’t supposed to take it personally.
But you did.
And it stung.
___________________________________________________________________
You slammed the door shut behind you, the sound echoing through the apartment like a warning shot.
Frank sat up from the couch immediately, his posture stiff. He took one look at your face and sighed through his nose.
“Guess it didn’t go well,” he said, jaw tensing.
You shook your head, already heading for the kitchen table. You dropped into one of the old wooden chairs with a creak, slouching like the weight of the entire morning was dragging you down.
“Fuck no.”
Frank stood slowly, his eyes never leaving you. “What happened?”
You scoffed, leaning forward on your elbows, your arms crossing over your stomach like they might keep something from spilling out.
“She was—” you hesitated, jaw clenching. “I don’t know.”
Frank exhaled sharply and looked away, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“No shit she’s upset, Jo,” he muttered, voice tight. “She heard her ex and the girl she just slept with throw punches over her. You think that’s a good morning for anyone?”
You rolled your eyes, wincing from the pain. “She didn’t have to be such a bitch about it.”
Frank turned back to you, scoffing once, and his tone changed fast.
Click.
There it was.
“Really, Jo?” His voice rose. “Are you fucking stupid? Actually—are you a fucking idiot?”
You looked up at him, blinking like you hadn’t expected the shift.
He stepped closer, pointing toward you like it was all piling up.
“How do you keep fucking this up?”
You didn’t respond.
“She’s not mad at you,” Frank said, voice sharper now. “She’s mad at Owen. At the whole fucking situation. At herself, probably. Jesus, Jo.”
He was pacing now, hands flexing as he tried not to lose it completely.
“Imagine if Terra were still alive,” he snapped. “And she beat the shit out of someone for you. Would you want to look at her all bruised and bloody and think you were the reason she got hurt?”
The mention of Terra made something cold settle in your chest.
You didn’t say anything. Just stared at the table.
Frank finally stopped moving. He sighed hard, wiped a hand over his face, and softened—just slightly.
“She’s not mad at you,” he repeated. “She’s just scared.”
You sat there, letting it sink in.
Then, finally, you nodded. “Oh.”
You looked down at your hands, the split knuckles, the dried blood you hadn’t washed off completely.
You felt small.
“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” you mumbled.
Frank didn’t say anything.
But you felt him sit across from you, the chair creaking under his weight.
His arms folded over his chest. His knee bounced restlessly.
“You have to make it up to her, Joan.”
The full name landed like a warning shot. His eyes were sharp, his jaw tight. The kind of look he gave you when you were skating too close to the edge.
“Jo,” he added, leaning forward a little, voice lower. “She really likes you.”
You swallowed hard. The taste of blood was still in the back of your throat—metallic, sour. You shifted in the seat, staring down at the dull stain on your shirt.
“I know,” you murmured.
Frank exhaled and rubbed his hands down his thighs. “Don’t fuck it up.”
You nodded.
“I mean it.” He saw the twitch in your brow, the way your jaw ticked. “You can’t fight Owen again.”
You snorted softly, rolling your eyes. “Well why not?”
Frank’s head dropped back with a groan.
“Jesus, Jo.”
“What? He grabbed me.”
“Yeah. And you decked him. You want Abby to come home and find both of you missing teeth? You think that’s what she wants in a partner?”
“She’s with a soldier.”
“She wants peace, not a goddamn cage match.”
You didn’t answer.
Frank leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.
“Look,” he said, calmer now. “I’m not saying you didn’t have a right to swing. I’m saying you already did it. You made your point. Now stop swinging.”
His voice gentled a bit more.
“Let her come to you. Give her a second.”
You looked at him, finally meeting his eyes.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.
But he was trying. Trying to help you not burn this down.
“But why is she being so distant?” you groaned, dropping your head onto the table with a dull thunk.
Your voice was muffled in your folded arms. “I mean, I got hit for her.”
Frank didn’t answer. You heard the creak of the chair as he leaned back.
“And why did she have to still be naked when she was mad at me?” you mumbled, voice half-bitter, half-desperate. You stomped your foot under the table like a frustrated teenager.
Your brain wouldn’t shut up—replaying the way the blanket had slipped, the golden skin of her back, those perfect dimples above her hips. How her muscles moved when she crossed the room like she wasn’t even trying to look good—but she did.
God, she did.
You let out a strangled sound into the table. “That wasn’t fair.”
Frank snorted.
You lifted your head, shooting him a glare. “What?”
He raised a brow. “You’re bleeding from the nose, humiliated, and sulking like a kid with a crush.”
You wiped your face with your sleeve again, muttering, “I do have a crush.”
Frank cracked the smallest smile. “Yeah. No shit.”
You both laughed—short and dry, but real. It cut through the weight hanging in the air, even if just for a second.
He let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair, rocking it slightly on two legs. “So…” he said slowly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Things are getting serious then?”
You puffed out your cheeks, then exhaled hard, rubbing at the dried blood under your nose.
“We said ‘I love you’ yesterday,” you admitted flatly.
Frank nearly tipped the chair forward with how fast he sat upright. “You’re lying.”
You shook your head, eyes wide. “Swear to God.”
“No.” He pointed at you, accusing. “You don’t do that.”
“I know.”
“You don’t say that.”
“I know.”
He blinked like you’d just told him you were marrying her tomorrow. “What the fuck did she say?”
“She said it first,” you said, softer now. “Asked me to be her girlfriend.”
Frank sat back again, arms folding as his mouth opened—but nothing came out.
Then finally: “Jesus Christ, Joan.”
You gave a sheepish smile, picking at the dried blood on your knuckle. “Yeah.”
Frank looked at you, the teasing fading from his face. His expression dropped, like he’d just remembered something heavy.
“Well,” he said, voice low. “Georgia’s pregnant.”
The words landed like ice water down your spine.
“What?” you asked, sharp. Your whole body went cold.
He nodded, jaw tight, biting his lip like the words had been waiting on his tongue for days. “Yep.”
You stared at him. “What do you mean?”
Your brow furrowed so tight it hurt. You felt a thousand thoughts try to fire at once—none of them sticking. Just a dull buzz of confusion and dread behind your eyes.
Frank looked away, his thumb rubbing anxiously at a scar on his knuckle.
“She told me two days ago,” he said finally. “Didn’t think I should bring it up while you were busy…” His eyes flicked toward your face, then the dried blood on your shirt. “Falling in love and getting your ass beat.”
You blinked, still stuck on pregnant.
“And it’s yours?” you asked, dumbly.
He shot you a look. “No, Jo. We broke up a while ago. I think it’s someone new.”
You blinked, letting the weight of it settle between you. The room got quiet—just the distant hum of stadium lights buzzing overhead.
Still, something in your chest pinched. Old ache. Familiar. You knew that feeling—watching someone you once loved move on, build something new without you.
“Then why’d she tell you?” you asked, voice low. You swallowed hard. “If it’s not yours?”
Frank sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling like he was already tired of the memory. “Because she found out I fucked Barbara.”
You made a face like you'd just smelled a corpse. “Ew. Barbara?”
He scoffed. “Okay, Joan, thank you for that thoughtful reaction.”
You grinned a little despite yourself. “She’s got the energy of an old lady”
“She’s got great arms.”
You gagged dramatically.
Frank laughed. “I’m just saying—Georgia was pissed. Guess she thought I was still hung up.”
You tilted your head. “Are you?”
He paused.
Just for a second.
Then: “Not in a way that matters.”
He tapped the table twice with his knuckles, then pushed up from his chair with a grunt.
“So if she comes around looking for me,” he said over his shoulder, “tell her to fuck off, alright? I’m not a stepdaddy.”
You barked out a laugh. “You’d be the worst stepdad.”
He pointed at you like he agreed. “Exactly.”
You smirked. “I’ll pass along the message.”

Chapter 22: Abby

Summary:

This is Abby's Pov :3

___________________________________________________________________________
Abby:
You stop just outside the apartment door.
Hand still on the knob. Muscles locked.
Go back in there.
You don’t. Instead, you breathe in hard through your nose and drop your hand. The urge stays. Heavy in your chest. But you do what you’ve always done—bite it back and move.
You walk fast toward the trucks. Toward something that makes sense. Toward orders and structure and fuel tanks that don’t ask questions.
At the motor pool, Manny’s already there signing something. He looks up, spots the tension on your face before you say anything.
You toss him the keys. “You drive.”
Your voice is too sharp. You hear it and don’t care.
You climb into the passenger side. Slam the door a little too hard. Your rifle’s heavy in your lap—something solid to keep your hands busy.
Manny exhales, long and slow through his nose. “What happened, Abs?”
You keep your eyes forward, start loading a fresh mag with stiff fingers. “I think I should’ve stayed alone.”
He snorts. “Were you ever, though? You used to sneak off all the time just to—”
“C’mon, Manny.” You don’t raise your voice. Just cut him off.
He lifts a hand in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Damn.”
The engine hums. You listen to the tires roll over broken pavement.
Outside, the stadium fades into tree line. You don’t look back.
You tell yourself it’s just another patrol.
But your knuckles stay white around your rifle the whole drive.
You don’t say much the whole drive.
Manny hums under his breath to fill the silence—some old track that used to play in the stadium gym—but you don’t ask what it is.
You’re too busy trying not to think.
Not to think about the blood on Jo’s face.
Not to think about how fast you wanted to clean it off.
Not to think about how Owen looked at you like he still had a claim.
The gate guards wave you through.
“You wanna take east or west?” Manny asks, pulling the truck into a slow stop near the fence.
“West,” you answer without hesitation.
It’s the longer route. Good. You need time.
You hop out, boots crunching against damp gravel. You sling your rifle, adjust your vest. Manny follows behind, shoulder to shoulder.
A breeze cuts across the brush and you pull your hoodie up. Neither of you speaks for a minute.
Finally, he breaks.
“She’s the reason you’ve been acting like this, huh?”
You don’t answer.
“I mean, I figured,” he continues. “She’s not subtle.”
You glance at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Manny shrugs. “Just saying. She looks at you like you hung the moon.”
You huff through your nose. “She also punches people.”
He raises a brow. “Yeah, well… so do you.”
You don’t have a comeback for that.
The two of you keep walking. The stadium fades into treeline. It smells like wet moss and rusting metal—home, in a weird way.
“She loves you,” Manny says, voice quieter now.
You tighten your grip on the rifle.
“I didn’t ask,” you mutter.
“No. But I figured someone should say it out loud.”
You stop.
“I’m not good at this,” you say, and it’s barely above a whisper.
He nods, doesn’t push. Just looks at you.
“She got into it with Owen,” you add, eyes fixed on the treeline. “Because of me.”
Manny scoffs. “Yeah, well… that guy’s been hanging on too long anyway.”
You shoot him a warning glance, but he keeps going.
“You’re allowed to move on, Abby. Even from Owen.”
You don’t answer. You just start walking again.
Manny’s accent was too comforting. He was your rock, you didn’t know what you’d do without him.
But this time, when you scan the horizon, your shoulders sit a little looser.
You and Manny cut through the narrow trail that loops the west perimeter. It’s overgrown in places—brambles grabbing at your sleeves, the air thick with that mildew-dirt smell that clings to this part of the city. You’re glad for it. Makes it easier to keep your head down.
The wind shifts. Carries something sharp with it.
You pause. Hold up a hand.
Manny stops behind you, immediately silent.
There it is again—a faint rasp. Wet. Guttural.
You step off the trail and kneel behind a half-collapsed chain-link fence. Just ahead, maybe thirty feet out, a lone runner twitches in the weeds, scraping at a metal barrel.
Its legs are shredded. One arm limp. Slow and broken.
You raise your rifle.
“Let me,” Manny says behind you.
You wave him off. “I’ve got it.”
You aim, exhale. Squeeze the trigger.
The round hits square between its brows. The thing crumples in a heap of rot.
Stillness returns.
You lower your gun and wipe your thumb across your jaw. You don’t realize you’re shaking until you hear the click of Manny’s safety behind you.
“You good?”
You nod.
He doesn’t believe you. You don’t blame him.
____________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________
The rest of the patrol is quiet. Not silent, just… thick. Like everything you’re not saying is hanging in the air between you, just out of reach.
When you make it back to the truck, you let him drive again.
The sun’s lower now, haze cutting through the trees in golden lines. The kind of light Jo would say looked cinematic. The kind that made her stare a little too long. Like she saw something in it.
You rest your arm against the window. Let your fingers drum against the glass.
“You gonna talk to her?” Manny asks after a long silence.
You don’t answer right away.
Finally: “I want to.”
He glances at you, then back at the road. “Then do it.”
You shift in your seat. Your chest feels too small for your ribs.
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“She can take it.”
You nod slowly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Manny chuckles beside you, light but edged.
“Abby, enough with the bullshit. C’mon.”
He shifts in his seat to face you a little more. “Just be honest with her. Tell her about Owen. Tell her it’s been over for a while.”
You keep your eyes on the road ahead, even though it’s just more trees, more rusted-out cars, more nothing.
“It’s not that simple,” you mutter.
He huffs. “Yes, it is. You just make it complicated.”
You glance at him, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s known you too long. You hate that he’s right.
You sigh through your nose and rest your temple against the cool glass.
“Owen and I…” You pause. “We were never simple. And we didn’t end clean. I didn’t know how to let him go. Not really.”
Manny nods like he’s been waiting for you to say it out loud.
“So don’t lie to Jo about it by staying silent,” he says, softer now. “She already knows something’s off. You think she can’t tell?”
You flinch at that.
She could tell. Of course she could. She looked at you this morning like she was holding her breath.
“She deserves to know it’s done,” he adds.
You swallow. “It is.”
“Then tell her.”
You lean back into your seat, tension riding up your neck.
“I don’t want her to think I only chose her because Owen stopped being an option.”
Manny lets that hang in the air for a second. Then he laughs once, dry. “Abby… Jo would never think that.”
You almost say I would.
Instead, you tap the window with your knuckle and mutter, “Take the long way back.”
He doesn’t question it.
_________________________________________________________________________
The truck rattled back through the stadium gates, wheels crunching over gravel and broken glass. You exhaled through your nose and tapped your thumb against your index finger—a tick your dad used to tease you about.
“What’s wrong, Abs? Got nervous fingers again?”
You could still hear his voice in your head. It made your stomach tighten.
Seattle's sky was its usual overcast mess, but the late sun broke through just enough to cast long shadows over the worn-down bleachers and rain-slicked concrete. The smell of old steel, rot, and dogs hit you as soon as the gates rolled shut behind you. Normal. Familiar. Not comforting.
You shut your eyes for a moment. Counted to five in your head.
When Manny eased the truck to a stop near the mess hall loading zone, you popped the door open before the engine even cut off.
He climbed out with a grunt and slung his pack over one shoulder. You stayed seated.
He clocked your silence instantly.
“You should go talk to her, Abs,” he said, leaning his arms on the window. His tone wasn’t pushy, just matter-of-fact. He wasn’t wrong. He never was, when it came to your messes.
You stared past him, out toward the training yard. A couple soldiers were practicing knife throws. You watched the blade sink into plywood over and over, steady and clean.
You nodded once, jaw tight. “Let’s get lunch first.”
Manny gave a knowing little laugh. “Yeah, level your head.”
You knew it wasn’t really about the burrito.
It was just something to hold. Something to chew on while your thoughts did laps around the same loop. You didn’t want to talk, and Manny, thank god, respected that. He walked beside you with his own food, both of you moving like ghosts through the halls of the stadium.
The mess hall was mostly empty by now. Only the late-shift stragglers and a couple of younger recruits sat hunched over trays. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming in that dull, tired way they always did. You grabbed whatever they handed you—some lukewarm wrapped thing—and moved on.
You didn’t sit.
You both leaned against the railing outside the mess hall, looking out over the sun-baked asphalt and the rust-stained metal containers lining the walls. You chewed out of habit, not hunger. The food tasted like glue and regret.
Manny didn’t say anything until the silence started to curdle.
“So,” he said, mouth half-full. “You and Jo…”
You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”
“Alright,” he muttered, holding up a hand. “Just making conversation.”
Your jaw ached from clenching. You swallowed hard, then went for another bite—just to keep from saying something you couldn’t take back.
And then—like the universe was playing a sick joke—you saw her.
She was across the walkway, just outside the dorms. Her door half-open, her hair wet and clinging to her cheeks and shoulders like melted wax. She must’ve just showered. Her hoodie was a faded grey, sleeves rolled up, collar fraying. Her jeans hung loose on her hips, cuffed sloppily above her unlaced boots. She looked… healthier. A little less ghost, a little more Joan.
You’d been keeping tabs. Making sure she ate, slipped her rations when she wasn’t paying attention, dragged her to the training mats when you could. She always acted like she didn’t notice, but you knew she did. You weren’t exactly subtle.
She turned, eyes sweeping the hall—and landed on you.
Those big brown eyes. Always wide, always a little startled. Like a deer, sure, but not fragile. Just alert. Like she’d bolt at the first sign of danger—but fight like hell if cornered.
You froze mid-chew.
Manny turned around, saw her, and smirked. “Uh oh.”
You shot him a look, mouth still full.
Joan stared back at you. Not angry. Not happy. Just... watching.
Her hair, dark chestnut and dripping wet, caught the glow of the overhead lights. It framed her face in sharp little angles, and you suddenly couldn’t remember how the hell to breathe right.
You swallowed too fast and coughed into your elbow.
“Shit,” you muttered.
“Burrito breath?” Manny offered dryly.
You didn’t answer. You just kept staring at her, feeling the way your chest ached—not from guilt this time, not entirely. From something else. Something quieter. Sturdier. Something that scared you a little more.
Joan lingered a second longer at her door, then disappeared inside.
The door clicked shut.
You dropped the rest of your burrito into the trash.
Manny raised an eyebrow. “So… are you gonna talk to her?”
______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 23: Undone

Summary:

back to Jo :)

______________________________________________________________________________
Your throat tightened as you shut the apartment door behind you.
You wanted to run to Abby. Apologize. Maybe cry. Tell her everything. Tell her how stupid you felt for fighting Owen, how sorry you were, how much she meant to you. You wondered if she’d seen your bruises yet—if she’d noticed they didn’t turn out as bad as they looked. Maybe she thought you were tougher than you were.
But she hadn’t come after you.
You scrubbed a hand down your face and forced yourself to breathe through the ache in your ribs. You weren’t going to break down now. Not again.
Then—
A knock at the door.
You paused mid-step, heart lurching in your chest.
You opened it.
And it wasn’t Abby.
It was Georgia.
She stood there in the narrow hall, the flickering ceiling light casting a sickly yellow tint over her skin. Same height as you, give or take an inch, but something about her felt heavier. Not physically—she wasn’t bulky, not wiry either. But older. Worn. She had the kind of tired etched into her face that only came from surviving too many winters, patching too many bullet wounds, and watching too many people bleed out.
Her hair was a dusty ginger, the kind that stuck to her face with static whenever she was sweating, and it always looked like it had been tied back and forgotten. Freckles scattered across her cheeks like ashes.
You hadn’t spoken to her much. Only seen her around the med tents, her sleeves always stained, hands always moving. She wasn’t cold, but she wasn’t warm either. She existed in that space where all the medics lived—detached enough to stitch up your wound without flinching, but present enough to know exactly where it hurt.
She looked at you now, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Frank here—”
You cut her off without thinking. “No.”
Just that. No.
Your voice was flatter than you expected, but firm. Like it had come from a deeper part of you than you were ready to acknowledge.
Georgia didn’t blink. She just stared at you, her dark blue eyes narrowing a little. She didn’t flinch. Didn't fidget. Just stood there in her WLF jacket, the name tag long worn off, a faded patch where it used to be.
You stayed in the doorway, your bruised knuckles throbbing faintly, your body tense. You weren’t sure what she was about to say next—but you weren’t in the mood to play nice.
“Your face is bruised,” Georgia said, her voice low but clinical—like she was back in the med tent, rattling off someone else’s injuries. “Did you get trea—”
You cut her off, sharper than intended. “I’m fine, Georgia. Frank doesn’t want to see you.”
You didn’t wait for a response. You shut the door in her face before she could open her mouth again.
The echo of it—metal frame, cheap hinges—rattled through the apartment louder than expected. You stood there for a beat, hand still on the knob, breathing hard.
You weren’t mad, not exactly. Just… frayed.
Your temples throbbed. The spot beneath your eye pulsed with a dull ache, and your knuckles stung where they’d split open against Owen’s jaw. But none of that hurt half as bad as the thought of your mouth saying something cruel to Georgia just because she reminded you of Terra.
You could feel it happen sometimes—your mind stitching the two of them together without permission. Georgia’s pinched tone, her stiff shoulders, the way she said your name without softening it. It felt too familiar. Too her.
You clenched your jaw, squeezed your eyes shut.
No. Not the same. Don’t go there.
You were trying to be good.
For Abby.
_____________________________________________________________________________
It had gotten late.
You tossed and turned in your cot, the springs creaking beneath you, the thin blanket sticking to your skin with sweat. The room was cold. Your thoughts were worse.
You wore just a black tank and a pair of boxers—soft, loose, but they hugged your hips in a way that used to make you feel powerful. Now, they just felt like someone else’s clothes on someone else’s body.
Frank wasn’t home tonight.
And the bottle whispered from across the room like a friend you swore you’d stopped answering. You stared it down for twenty minutes, biting your nails, counting ceiling cracks, breathing through the burn in your chest.
Finally, you grabbed your boots and shoved your feet in barefoot. No socks. Didn’t care. You needed to go.
You stepped out into the hallway. A spring chill clung to the concrete walls, still wet from a recent rain. You flinched. Goosebumps rose along your arms. You’d forgotten how thin your pajamas really were.
You found her door.
You hesitated for half a second, heart thudding like it always did now when you thought about seeing her—especially after everything. Then you raised a fist and knocked.
The door creaked open.
Abby stood there, wearing only a pair of faded joggers and a gray tank. Her braid was messy, like she’d fallen asleep reading and forgot to finish tying it back. The shadows under her eyes were darker than usual.
She blinked at you once. Then looked you up and down.
“Skimpy outfit,” she muttered, voice husky with sleep but tinged with something warmer. A tease.
You rolled your eyes. “Can I come in?”
She hesitated—just for a second—then stepped aside, nodding. “Yeah. Manny’s out.”
You stepped in. The warmth of her apartment hit you instantly. You hadn’t realized how cold you’d been.
You sat on her couch and grabbed the nearest blanket, wrapping it around your shoulders like armor. It smelled faintly like her—mint, pine, a hint of old sweat and gun oil.
Your fingers trembled as you tucked them beneath the fabric.
Abby leaned on the wall near the window, arms crossed, watching you. Not judging. Not smiling either. Just… waiting.

You looked up at her from where you sat, your knees drawn up under the blanket. The words crawled out of your throat before you could stop them.
“I don’t like this.”
Abby’s shoulders dropped. The hardness in her posture loosened.
“Me either,” she said quietly.
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat burning on the way down. You sank deeper into the couch cushions, feeling small in your own skin.
“You mean so much to me, Abby,” you said, barely above a whisper. The kind of whisper that hoped saying it wouldn’t make it feel more real.
She didn’t answer right away. She just shook her head—like she was trying to shake something off. Her expression shifted, something soft blooming in her features.
Then she stepped forward.
Her pajamas were simple—nothing new—but on her, they looked like warmth itself. The tank clung to her broad shoulders, exposing the curve of her biceps, faint freckles dusting her upper arms. Her pants hung loose on her hips, worn at the seams. She always looked strongest in quiet moments.
She sat beside you and pulled you in with one hand at the back of your neck, gentle but firm.
“I’m not mad at you,” she murmured. Her voice was low, grounded. Real.
You leaned into her shoulder, breathing her in. That same scent again—clean and earthy. Pine and sweat and something sweeter you couldn’t name.
You nodded against her collarbone.
“Thank you.”
The words hung there, small but heavy. You weren’t sure if they were enough, but they were all you had in the moment.
She cupped your chin with a firm, calloused hand—those fingers rough from years of rifle grips and climbing concrete—and tilted your face up toward hers. Her thumb brushed your jaw as her lips met yours in a kiss so soft, it nearly broke you.
“You come to my place…” she murmured against your mouth.
Her eyes drifted downward, slow and deliberate, lingering just a second too long at your chest. You felt the heat rise up your neck. Your tank top wasn’t doing much to hide the shape of you beneath, and you hadn’t exactly dressed for modesty. You weren’t sure if it had been subconscious, or if part of you wanted her to see you like this.
“Dressed like that,” she added with a crooked smile.

Chapter 24: Salt

Summary:

rubbing my hands together like a fly writing this ngl

She kissed your neck next—lazily, like she had all the time in the world to taste you. Her lips pressed to the skin just beneath your jawline, then your collarbone, the spots that made your breath hitch without warning.
“With whispered apologies,” she said between kisses, her breath warm against your throat.
Her hand slipped to your side, then your waist, coaxing you gently down onto the couch like you weighed nothing. The blanket fell from your shoulders as your back met the cushions, and Abby hovered over you, her hair falling in soft waves around her face, lit faintly by the warm amber glow of the single lamp in the room.
You felt small under her, but not weak. Not anymore.
“With such sweet words,” she murmured, nipping at your neck—just enough to make you gasp.
Her voice dipped into something lower, rougher, something that made your pulse quicken.
“Are you trying to drive me crazy, Jo?”
Her eyes met yours again—hungry, but full of restraint. Waiting for you
You were at a loss for words.
You’d seen Abby strong. You’d seen her bruised, bleeding, broken. But you’d never seen her like this—starved, focused, undone by want. Like your very presence scraped something raw in her.
She crushed her lips into yours, not tentative this time but claiming, as if she’d finally allowed herself to take what she wanted. Her hand slid beneath your tank top in one smooth motion, fingers finding the curve of your ribs, then higher—palming the soft weight of your chest with a touch that was both reverent and hungry.
You gasped as her thumb brushed over your nipple, already hard from the tension between you, and she moaned into your mouth at the sound you made.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” she murmured, her breath shaky.
She rolled her hips against yours slowly—so slowly it sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel her through the thin layers of fabric between you, her warmth, her need.
You clung to her, fingers digging into the cotton of her shirt, anchoring yourself. Your pulse thundered in your ears.
Her forehead dropped to yours, and she took a shaky breath like she was trying to steady herself.
“You drive me fucking insane,” she whispered.
Her voice trembled—like she was still scared to admit it. Like loving you this much hurt.
You gasped and kissed her again, lips parting around the need that surged like fire under your skin. The cold air in the room had long stopped mattering—your body burned too hot, chasing every place she touched, every place she hadn’t yet.
Abby cupped the back of your head, holding you there as her hips kept their rhythm against yours—slow, controlled, devastating. The fabric between you was drenched now, clinging to overheated skin, no longer a barrier but a reminder of just how much tension you were both holding.
You whimpered, helpless against it. “Abby…”
Your voice cracked, soft and needful.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her hand slid up your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek as she tilted your head to the side, mouth claiming the pulse at your neck.
Each kiss trailed lower—featherlight and deliberate—until her lips grazed your collarbone, then the space between your breasts. You sucked in a shaky breath, heart hammering.
When her hands hooked into the waistband of your shorts and began to slide them down, instinct made you close your legs. You were soaked—too soaked. Embarrassment curled in your gut like heat.
But Abby just let out the softest laugh.
That low, teasing chuckle of hers.
She settled between your legs and gently pried them open, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re beautiful,” she said, voice low and certain.
You watched the muscles in her arms flex as she held you, bracing herself with one hand beside your hip, the other resting on your thigh. Her strength never frightened you—it grounded you. You trusted her with every part of you.
Then, slowly, reverently, she began to lower her mouth.
Her breath was warm against your skin. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, even as you trembled beneath her.
And when her lips finally touched you, everything inside you unraveled.
Her piercing blue eyes locked on yours as her tongue swirled around you, deliberate and slow. Your back arched off the couch, a breathy whimper escaping your lips. You were trembling—sensitive, overwhelmed, unable to hide the way she unraveled you piece by piece.
She chuckled against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.
Electric heat shot through your limbs as you swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure, but the way her arms wrapped around your thighs, the strength of her hold—it was too much. You tried to look away, bashful, your body twitching under her touch.
Then you heard it: the soft snap of her fingers.
“Look at me,” she commanded, voice low and rough. “I want your pretty eyes on me when you cum.”
That was it. That was what broke you.
Your voice cracked on her name as you clutched the blanket beneath you. You couldn’t stop the way your hips pressed up into her mouth, desperate for more, greedy for her. She didn't look away—not for a second.
Her mouth moved faster, more focused now. You cried out, fingers digging into the couch cushions as you came apart beneath her.
You felt yourself tighten and twitch, you bucked your hips into her mouth as she held you down firmer. You came into her mouth and she watched you through piercing eyes the whole time.
When it was over, your chest rose and fell in shudders. She rested her head gently on your thigh, pressing a small kiss to your skin, her breath cooling your flushed core.
“You okay?” she asked, lips brushing your leg.
You could barely nod. “You’re insane,” you whispered, voice still trembling.
Abby smiled softly and climbed up to lay beside you, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You started it.”
Her mouth found you again, and your entire body jolted with a squeal you couldn’t bite back. She chuckled low into you, the sound vibrating straight through your core.
“Abby—” you whimpered, breath hitching in your throat.
She gently tapped your thigh with her hand. A firm, quiet command.
“Take it,” she murmured into your soaked heat, her voice low and husky, almost reverent.
Your eyes rolled back as her tongue circled you—slow at first, like she wanted to savor the way you came undone. You felt her shoulders tense between your thighs, the strength in her body holding you down as you writhed.
Your hips jerked against her mouth, desperate for more, but she stayed steady, tongue tracing precise, delicate shapes that made your head spin.
You bit your lip hard, trying to keep yourself from screaming, from sobbing out how much you needed her. A sharp sting bloomed where your teeth met skin, but it grounded you, just barely.
Her hands slid up your thighs to grip your hips tighter, holding you in place. She never lost rhythm.
You tasted iron in your mouth from biting down too hard, but the pleasure flooding your body made you forget where you were. Made you forget your name.
Every time you tried to squirm away from the intensity, she pulled you back, devouring you with that look in her eyes—like you were the only thing in the world worth worshiping.
She finally pulled away, her lips swollen and slick with you, catching the low light of the room. You laid there, trembling, breath shallow, your chest rising and falling like you'd just run miles. She didn’t give you space—not yet.
Abby smirked as she pressed slow, possessive bites along the soft inside of your thighs. “I love watching you,” she murmured, her voice like velvet and grit all at once.
You turned your head, flushed and half-lost. “You’re insane,” you whispered through the remnants of a laugh, your voice wrecked and shaky.
She looked up, smirk fading into something softer. “Yeah,” she said, running her hands up your hips, fingers resting on your stomach like she was afraid to let go. “Only for you.”
You reached down and pulled her up toward you, kissing her forehead first, then her cheek, then finally her lips. You tasted yourself on her. The tenderness of it nearly broke you.
“Abby,” you whispered against her mouth. “Why do you make me feel like this?”
She kissed you back slower now, her body heavy on yours, warm and solid and real. “Because I see you,” she said, breath shallow. “Even when you think you’re hiding.”
You bit your lip and looked at her, overwhelmed. “Stay with me. Just for tonight. Just like this.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” she said, laying down beside you and wrapping her arms around your body like a second skin.
You tucked yourself into her chest, legs tangled, heart thudding with something close to peace.
But you felt her heat on you, and you kissed her again.
She mumbled into your lips “Its ok–”
You stopped her and shifted your weight now you straddled her. You couldn't stand being the only one. You honestly didn’t care if you had any pleasure, it was enough seeing Abby's body shake and see stars.
But then her hand grabbed you by your neck squeezing slightly as your hips ground into yours again. “Not enough?” She said with a growl.
Your eyes widened and you shook your head “your–”
Her lips smacked into yours pinning you under her again.
You didn’t argue as you felt the soaked fabric of her pants touch your bare heat.
You gasped as her finger entered you, rough. Her lips were on yours, kissing you with her tongue in your mouth. “Im sorry–” She muttered, “Im gonna be rough– youre just so–”
Her second finger slipped in without warning and you winced not prepared for the stretch. Abby's fingers were thick and calloused.
You whimpered and she pumped them in and out of you quickly, rough. “Im sorry–” She mumbled into your mouth again, “I’m sorry baby take it for me take it–”
Her words ate through the marrow in your bones.
She was pleading into your mouth, her breath warm and ragged, her fingers working you with a rhythm that made your spine curl.
You gripped the blanket beneath you, knuckles white, breath hitching as each thrust seemed to reach somewhere deep inside you—where emotion and sensation blurred.
“Abby—” you gasped, voice cracking as you tightened around her hand.
“Like that, baby,” she whispered against your lips, kissing you through it. “Good girl, c’mon—”
The words unspooled something electric in your chest. You clung to her, desperate, shivering under the weight of it all.
You shook as you came, unraveling in her hand, your body curling inward as your nails dug into her shoulders, leaving red lines across her biceps. A squeal tore from your throat, and your breath broke into shallow, ragged gasps.
She smiled as you collapsed back, easing her fingers out of you. You were still trembling when she brought them to your lips.
“Clean up,” she murmured.
You did without hesitation, licking yourself from her hand like it was instinct. That was it.
You surged forward, tackling her onto the mattress with a growl.
“Take your fucking pants off.”
She laughed under her breath, eyes glinting as she slid them down her hips. You straddled her, already grinding yourself against her with raw, desperate movement—slick on slick, nothing between you now. The friction lit every nerve.
She gasped, grabbing at your hips. “Joan—slow down.”
But you didn’t. You pressed your forehead against her shoulder, jaw clenched, riding the edge like something was trying to claw its way out of you.
You moaned into her chest, breath hot against damp skin as your sweat-slicked forehead pressed into her shoulder. Your hips rolled against hers, harder this time, the friction sharp and relentless. Her hands dug into your hip bones, trying to slow you down.
“Joan—slow—” she tried again, voice breathless.
But you didn’t. You pulled away, lips dragging down her stomach until your mouth found her heat. You were too far gone to be gentle. The taste of her had you dizzy, wild. She yelped and slapped a hand over her mouth.
You answered her with one finger sliding into her, deep and fast.
She shook beneath you, hips bucking up, her voice cracking as she tried to stifle it. “Joan, c’mon—God—”
You tried to breathe through it, to find rhythm, but it was no use. The need in your chest burned too hot, too fast. You wanted to watch her fall apart. You needed to be the one to do it.
Her hand grabbed your hair–hard.
Her hand tangled in your hair—hard. The sting of it only made you hungrier. Your tongue worked her slick in desperate strokes, and your eyes locked on her face, watching her try to squirm away from the overload of sensation.
You slid in another finger without warning.
Her back lifted off the bed. She gasped, a sound caught between a sob and a moan, as your thrusts got rougher—rougher than she’d been with you.
“Please, Joan—please—God, don’t stop—”
There it was. That break in her voice. The way she surrendered to it, the way her body moved with your rhythm, fighting and begging at once.
You felt her pulse around your fingers, her breath catching. You didn’t let up.
Then it hit her.
She screamed—raw, beautiful—as her back arched and her thighs clamped tight around your head. You kept going through her climax, chuckling softly against her as she shook.
But then her hand pushed at you, her voice cracking with overstimulation.
“That’s enough, Joan!”
You finally pulled back, your lips and chin wet, breath heavy. She collapsed back into the bed, body twitching, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.
You laughed and licked your fingers clean.
You laid next to her, your chest still heaving, body coated in a fine sheen of sweat. The air in the room was thick with heat and salt and breath, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.
You opened your arms and Abby crawled into them without hesitation, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks. You tucked her in against you, letting her rest her head between your breasts, your arms wrapping around her like a shield.
She melted into you, all muscle and soft weight, her breath warm on your skin. One of her arms draped over your stomach, the other pressed under her cheek. You could feel the thump of her heart still racing against your ribs.
Then, a quiet sob broke through her lips — barely a sound, but enough for you to feel her shoulders tighten.
You looked down, instinctively brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. “Hey,” you murmured gently. “You okay?”
Abby rubbed her eyes, embarrassed. “That was just… really good,” she said with a laugh that cracked in the middle. She sniffled and smiled, eyes glassy but no longer sad. Just full.
You both laughed softly, breath mingling in the space between.
“Yeah?” you whispered, brushing your lips across her forehead.
She nodded into your skin.
You stroked her hair slowly, carefully, like you might tangle it with too much force. Her scent lingered on your fingers—salt, gun oil, and something warm and wild that was uniquely Abby. You wanted to bottle it and keep it in your pocket for when things got bad again.
She was quiet now, her body slowly calming in your arms. And for a moment, the war outside the walls didn’t exist. There was just her, soft and sleepy and safe in your hold.
You whispered, “I’ve got you,” even though you both knew she didn’t need anyone to have her.
But she didn’t pull away.

Chapter 25: Closer

__________________________________________________________________________
You woke to the sound of shifting blankets and the faint creak of the mattress springs. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered gray light pouring in from the window, casting shadows across the modest room.
Abby was already up.
She sat at the edge of the bed, back to you, bare shoulders flexing as she pulled her hair into a low braid. Every muscle in her back moved with purpose—taut, scarred, and beautiful. You watched in quiet awe, your breath still heavy with sleep, heart stumbling in your chest.
Then she spoke.
“I’m taking you to training.”
Her voice was clipped—no room for argument.
You furrowed your brow, the words hitting you before you were fully awake. “Why?”
She turned, face still serious, and pointed at your cheek, where the bruise had bloomed deep purple beneath your eye.
“Got your ass beat too easy,” she said flatly. A smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Can’t have that happen again.”
You swallowed, heat creeping up your ears. Her tone wasn’t cruel—but it still stung. Your pride flared like an old wound.
You hated how embarrassed you felt. Hated that the shame hit harder than Owen’s punch had. You sat up, the blanket falling from your shoulders, and didn’t say anything at first.
She was already standing, slipping on a sports bra, her arms flexing as she adjusted the band around her ribs. You tried not to whine at the sight, your tongue caught behind your teeth. The shadows of the early morning light cut down her torso, tracing the line of each muscle like ink on parchment.
Your disappointment must’ve shown on your face, because she glanced at you as she reached into a nearby crate and tossed something at the bed.
“They’re from before I bulked up,” she said, nodding toward the worn, faded T-shirt and joggers. “Should fit you fine.”
Her voice was casual—too casual. You blinked at the clothes in your lap.
So much for the slow, soft morning you had imagined—your head on her chest, fingers tracing faded freckles, maybe another round with her hand tangled in your hair.
Instead, she was already in motion, grabbing her boots, strapping her knife to her hip, shifting back into soldier mode like nothing had happened between you last night.
You exhaled hard through your nose, biting back your disappointment. “Great,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.
You got out of bed, the chill in the air biting at your skin. Your tank from the night before was wrinkled and tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed. Her boxers were half-draped over the couch. You picked up the scattered pieces of your clothing, the remnants of last night’s chaos, and got dressed quietly.
The air between you wasn’t cold, not exactly. But it wasn’t warm either.
And all you could think about was how badly you wanted to touch her again—just to see if she’d let you.
This time, you gave in.
She was at the sink, filling a tin cup with water from the purifier—shoulders bare, back flexing, the faded strap of her sports bra crossing over the freckles on her spine.
You walked up behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, pressing your cheek between her shoulder blades.
Screw it. Be selfish.
You nuzzled into her skin, voice muffled by her warmth. “But Abby—”
She turned her head, glancing at you over her shoulder with an expression like you’d just sprouted antlers.
Your eyes met hers, wide and pleading. You didn’t try to hide it.
“Touch me again,” you whispered into her back, your voice soft, tinged with a playfulness you hadn’t let yourself express in weeks.
Abby let out a quiet, amused huff. She twisted slightly in your arms and gently pried your hands off her stomach. “Joan,” she said, smirking, “I’d love to. But we have to train.”
You groaned like a child denied dessert, slumping backward and dragging your feet toward the pile of gear by the door.
She turned back to her water, taking a long drink as you yanked on your boots with exaggerated defiance.
“I want to fuck, okay?!” you shouted dramatically, arms spread out like a martyr. The echo bounced off the concrete walls.
Abby nearly choked on her drink. She looked back at you, brows lifted, mouth fighting a laugh. “What?”
You crossed your arms and looked away like a sulking teenager. “I don’t wanna go to training.”
There it was. Your guard, gone. All your sharp edges, dulled. You weren’t trying to be the hardened soldier anymore—not in this moment. Just someone who wanted the woman she loved to see her, to choose her, maybe hold her for a little longer.
Abby took a slow breath, cup still in hand.
Then she chuckled. “Joan.”
You peeked at her from under your lashes. “I don't want to go.”
She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “I’ll touch you extra sweet later if you do.”
You grinned. “Fine.”
______________________________________________________________________________
Abby walked beside you, her steps steady and unhurried. Your arms brushed every few paces—just enough to remind you she was there, solid and warm and unshaken by the awkward silence you'd wrapped around yourself like a second shirt.
She wore her usual training gear: a sun-faded muscle tee clinging to her frame, dark with sweat around the neckline, and a pair of black straight-leg sweats cuffed at the ankle. Her boots thudded softly against the concrete as she moved with the kind of quiet confidence that made people clear a path without needing to look up.
You, on the other hand, felt like a misplaced civilian next to her. The old tank top she’d tossed you earlier hugged your chest a little too tight—Abby was broad, yeah, but she’d never been as busty as you. It tugged across your sternum when you walked, made you feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like you were trying too hard to fit into something not built for you.
The fabric still smelled like her.
Your arms didn’t look like hers—hers were sculpted from war and weights, deliberate power packed into every inch of muscle. Yours felt... soft in comparison. Functionally lean, sure, but not like that. Not Abby Anderson strong. And you knew the gym was her kingdom. She didn’t walk into it—she owned it.
And now you were about to train there. With her. Like you belonged.
Your boots slowed as the large double doors to the WLF gym came into view, flanked by rust-stained cinderblock walls and posters that had long since peeled at the corners. A few younger soldiers jogged by on the far side of the hallway, laughing too loudly, stinking of B.O. and competition. The distant clang of metal-on-metal echoed from inside the gym like an alarm bell.
Your heart leapt up into your throat.
It smelled like rubber mats and sweat and chalk in there. Like testosterone and tension and too many memories of trying to prove yourself when no one was watching. You paused just outside the doorway, suddenly unsure.
Abby stopped beside you, noticed immediately.
Her tone softened—just a touch. “You alright?”
You nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just haven’t been here in a while.”
She squinted at you, assessing. Then, without a word, reached out and tugged the hem of your tank top straight, smoothing it over your ribs like it was armor.
“There,” she muttered. “Now you’re ready.”
And just like that, she walked inside.
You stood there for a moment, your heartbeat hammering in your chest. The gym doors had barely closed behind her, and you already felt the weight of the space. Cement floors. Rusted dumbbells. Worn-down mats that smelled like old sweat and bleach. The place reeked of routine, discipline, and something else—something that was hers.
You exhaled slowly through your nose and stepped in.
It was quiet—mostly. A couple of WLF soldiers in the corner grunted through reps, the clink of metal hitting metal breaking the silence now and then. One guy jumped rope in the far corner, his breath sharp and rhythmic. But it was nothing like the chaos of the mess hall or the noise of the training yards. In here, people worked. In here, Abby was carved out of steel and expectation.
She stepped onto the mats without waiting for you, tying her braid tighter as she turned and pointed to the spot beside her.
“We’re gonna stretch first,” she said, matter-of-fact.
You nodded and joined her. The mat squished slightly under your boots as you mirrored her, pulling your right arm across your chest until your shoulder cracked. You hissed a little through your teeth, more from nerves than pain. Then you switched arms, and your eyes flicked over to her—graceful in a way that didn’t look like grace. More like precision. Every movement controlled. Every muscle engaged.
You bent forward, stretching your hamstrings, hands grazing your shins as your back creaked from last night’s tossing and turning.
“You look good bent over,” Abby muttered.
You snapped upright so fast you nearly lost your balance.
“We’re in public,” you hissed through gritted teeth, eyes darting toward the guy lifting weights nearby.
Abby just shrugged, unbothered, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips. “So?”
You stared at her, face hot, but the corner of your mouth tugged into a reluctant smirk.
She walked over to the weight rack and handed you a pair of twenty-pound dumbbells—scratched and cold to the touch. Then she grabbed the fifties for herself like it was nothing.
“We’ll do arms today,” she said casually, stepping in front of the mirror.
You nodded again, wordless, trying not to let your thoughts spiral.
The tank top she’d loaned you clung tighter than expected—especially across your chest. Your arms looked soft compared to hers, your stance less solid. She moved like she belonged here. You felt like a visitor in her world.
But you lifted anyway.
One curl. Then two.
She caught your eye in the mirror and smiled. “There you go.”
Her voice was low, steady. Like she was trying not to push, not to overwhelm. But you could feel her watching you. Not just your form. You.
And despite yourself, that was enough to keep going.
The metal bit into your palms more than you expected. You hadn't lifted in weeks—not properly—and twenty pounds felt heavier in front of Abby than they ever had on their own.
You curled them up anyway. One rep. Two. Your form was okay, but you could feel your elbows flaring out too wide.
Abby watched you out of the corner of her eye as she finished her own set, her fifties rising and falling like they weighed nothing. Her biceps bulged with each movement, her expression calm but focused.
“Keep your elbows tighter to your ribs,” she said, not harshly. Just... correctional. Soldier mode.
You adjusted. It felt better.
“Better,” she muttered.
You both moved through three sets—alternating between standing curls and hammer curls. Sweat gathered at the back of your neck, and your arms began to tremble slightly with each rep.
Abby dropped her dumbbells with a soft thud and motioned toward the benches.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing a pair of 35s. “Chest press.”
You followed her, wiping your hands on your thighs. She laid back on the bench like she’d done it a thousand times—and she probably had. You sat on the one beside her, grabbing the 20s again, and eased yourself back.
The ceiling was cracked above you, a spiderweb of old leaks and patches. Somewhere across the room, a barbell dropped with a clang, but all you could hear was Abby’s voice.
“Bring them down slow. Elbows at ninety. Don’t bounce.”
You obeyed, lowering the dumbbells until they hovered near your chest. Then pushed up. It was hard to focus with her right there, counting her own reps softly, sweat glistening along her collarbone.
You swallowed.
“Five more,” she said. Not looking at you. Not smiling. Just being there, beside you, steady.
You knocked out five more, grunting on the last one, arms shaking. When you dropped the weights to your sides, you saw her glance over.
“You did good,” she said.
That was all. But it was enough to spark a flicker of pride in your gut.
“Let’s finish with back.”
You followed her to the cables. They were old and a little rusted, but they worked well enough. Abby adjusted the weight with a loud clunk, then grabbed the handle and pulled it down to her chest in a perfect lat pulldown. Her arms flared. Her back muscles shifted like tectonic plates.
You stared.
She arched a brow at you. “Your turn.”
You picked a lighter weight and sat down, mimicking her posture. Abby stood behind you now, one hand resting gently on your shoulder to adjust your alignment. Her fingers were warm even through the fabric.
“Lean back a little. Pull with your elbows, not your hands.”
You did, and the movement clicked—tightening through your shoulders, lats engaging properly.
“Perfect,” she said. Her voice was closer than before. “I’m impressed.”
You flushed, but didn’t answer.
You cycled through more back work—seated rows next, then bent-over dumbbell rows. By the end, your body trembled. Abby barely looked winded.
She tossed you a water bottle from her bag. “Drink.”
You nodded, panting softly, your arms jello.
“See? You didn’t die,” she said with a smug smirk.
“Barely,” you groaned, tipping the water bottle back.
She watched you as you drank, her eyes trailing the line of your throat as you tipped the bottle back. Her gaze lingered a second too long, and you felt it—like heat blooming low in your stomach, slow and stupid.
Despite the soreness in your legs, the burn in your lungs, and the bruised ego from struggling to keep up, you flushed. You wished she’d stop looking at your body like that. It made you feel both exposed and greedy—like you wanted her to look forever and never stop.
Abby zipped her backpack with one sharp tug. “We’re gonna jog the stadium, then hit the gun range.”
You nearly choked on the last sip of water. “What?! You said we were done!”
She slung the pack over her shoulder and smirked. “I never said we were done.”
You groaned, dragging your feet after her as she turned toward the outer corridor. The wind was sharp out here, lifting the smell of damp earth and livestock from the cattle yard. Cows mooed lazily behind chain-link fencing. Dogs barked nearby—muffled and distant but constant. Patrol groups filed in and out of the loading docks, their voices blending into the low hum of stadium life.
The track path was uneven, the concrete cracked and patched over from years of wear. You jogged beside her, trying to find a rhythm, but Abby was like a metronome—steady, unbothered, annoyingly perfect. Your arms brushed now and then. Her presence was grounding, even if it made your insecurity bubble up again.
You hated how your breathing got jagged before you were even halfway through. The tank top she’d lent you was too tight around your chest, and every step made it more obvious how out of shape you were. Abby looked like she could do this all day.
By the time you rounded the west curve of the stadium wall, your chest burned. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts. Sweat clung to your temples. A stitch stabbed at your side.
A mile in, you broke.
“Fuck—” you gasped, bending over with your hands on your knees. Your heartbeat throbbed in your ears.
Abby circled back, grabbing your arm to keep you from collapsing further.
“C’mon,” she urged. “Keep up.”
“I need a second,” you coughed, voice ragged as your lungs begged for a break.
She let out a long sigh, wiping her brow. “You gotta stop smoking, Jo.”
You rolled your eyes. “Never.”
But she didn’t let it go. She stepped in front of you, peering down at your flushed face. Her expression shifted—still tough, still Abby, but gentler.
“You haven’t smoked yet today.”
You blinked at her.
She was right.
You hadn’t even noticed. Not during breakfast, not before training, not even when you left your apartment feeling like the world was falling apart. You hadn’t reached for one, not once.
Her words weren’t an accusation. They felt more like a reminder. A hope.
You swallowed hard and looked away. “Don’t make it a thing.”
Her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Too late.”
She tossed you another water bottle from her pack and turned back toward the track. As she walked ahead, you stared after her for a moment, heart pounding—not from the run, but from the way she looked at you like you could still be someone better.
“Joan!” she called, already jogging again.
You groaned, shoved the water bottle in your waistband, and took off after her.
You struggled to keep up, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your lungs scratched against your ribs like they were trying to claw their way out, and the soles of your boots slapped against the cracked path in uneven rhythm.
Finally, when you were close enough to be heard, you rasped out through clenched teeth, “I hate you right now.”
Ahead of you, Abby tipped her head back with a bark of laughter—an unrestrained, genuine sound that bounced off the concrete stadium wall. She was barely out of breath, her pace only slightly slowed, arms relaxed at her sides like she’d just stepped out for a walk.
You hated how easy it was for her. Hated it, and envied it, and kind of wanted to kiss her for it.
You reached the end of the loop and nearly collapsed onto the nearest railing, your hand slapping against the sun-warmed metal for support. The rusted bar creaked under your weight as you hunched over, your breath wheezing in and out.
The late morning sun had crept higher in the sky, burning off the mist and replacing it with a dry, sticky heat that clung to your skin. Sweat beaded along your brow and trailed down your back. You pressed a hand to your aching side.
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” you groaned, dropping to a crouch. Your muscles protested instantly, legs trembling beneath you.
Abby laughed again—really laughed this time. Her whole chest moved with it, the kind of belly laugh that made her eyes squint and her nose crinkle. It was the sound of someone enjoying themselves far too much at your expense.
You glared up at her, cheeks flushed and jaw slack. “Glad I could entertain you,” you muttered, your sarcasm wheezing out between gasps.
“We’ll be out here again tomorrow,” she said casually, wiping sweat off her neck with the hem of her shirt. Her abs flashed beneath it—taut, pale, unfair.
You gave her a look like she’d just slapped you. “Fuck no.”
She smirked and crouched beside you, draping a muscled arm over her knee. “Oh yes.”
You stared at her, panting, your whole body radiating heat and protest. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“If I wanted to kill you,” she said with a wink, “you wouldn’t be walking right now.”
You opened your mouth to fire back a snarky retort, but all that came out was another wheeze.
She chuckled again, softer this time, and handed you a half-full water bottle from her backpack. “You’re doing better than you think.”
You looked at her, squinting against the sun, and took the bottle without a word.
The truth was, hearing her say that—even just those few words—made your chest ache in a completely different way.
“Gun range,” she said, pulling you up with one strong arm. “Then shower.”
“No—” The protest caught in your throat as her hand connected with your ass in a sudden, playful slap.
Your body locked up, eyes darting around like someone might’ve seen—even though it was just you two now. Still, your face burned crimson.
“Abby, there—”
She silenced you with her mouth, lips hot and hungry against yours. The kiss was quick, firm. Not soft. Not apologetic. It sent a jolt right through you.
When she pulled away, she wiped the sweat from your forehead with her thumb, then gave a cocky grin. “Let’s go.”
Her fingers brushed along your hips as she stepped around you.
You just stood there blinking for a second, brain static. What the fuck was that?!
You were still short of breath as you followed her toward the gun range, her sweat-slicked back glinting under the high sun. You both smelled like heat—like the gym, like earth and metal and salt. The kind of scent that clung even after soap.
She opened the steel door for you, letting the acrid sting of gunpowder hit your nose instantly. The pop-pop-pop of fire from other shooters echoed in the concrete corridor, distant but sharp.
She handed you a pair of earmuffs, then tossed some your way for backup. “Gonna need these, sharpshooter.”
You both stepped into one of the narrow booths. Rows of targets lined the far wall, some paper silhouettes, some recycled mannequins full of old bullet holes and duct tape. You picked up your usual rifle—worn but reliable—and chambered a round.
Abby leaned against the stall wall, arms crossed, that same smug look on her face she always got when you two sparred in anything. “Last time we were here, you missed six shots. I beat you by ten points.”
You huffed and adjusted your grip. “Yeah, well… I was distracted.”
“Oh?” Her brow arched, and she bit back a grin. “What distracted you?”
You leveled the rifle at the paper silhouette ahead, but the truth was—right now, same as then—you couldn’t stop thinking about the way her hands felt on your hips. Or the way her mouth tasted after running. Or how easily she could disarm you with a single laugh.
You took a deep breath. Focus. Don’t let her win again.
“Let’s see if you can actually keep up this time,” she teased, raising her own rifle and aiming with practiced ease.
The crack of her shot rang out sharp and clean. Dead center.
Show-off.
You narrowed your eyes, raised your gun, and steadied your breath.
Game on.
You shot the target dead center.
Your eyes lit up, and though you didn’t say anything, you let a quiet, smug grin creep across your face.
Abby leaned casually against the booth’s divider, arms crossed. “If I win, you do my laundry and dishes.”
You scoffed. “What do I get if I win?”
She smirked without missing a beat. “I get to tie you up.”
You stared at her, brow furrowed. “I fail to see how either of those benefits me.”
She laughed, ducking back into her stall as more gunfire echoed around you. “So it's a deal?”
“No!” you called back, squeezing off another shot at your mannequin.
The scoreboard had you tied—30 to 30. Your hands tensed around the rifle.
But her words nagged at the edge of your mind.
Why does she want to tie me up?
That thought threw your rhythm. Your next shot missed just left of center.
“Fuck,” you hissed.
You heard her laugh—that laugh. Low, smug, victorious.
She landed another bullseye.
Fucking Abby.
You stared down your remaining rounds. Laundry and dishes? Or… getting tied up?
You weren’t sure which was worse. Honestly, Abby was so meticulous, doing her laundry felt more like a science experiment than a chore.
You groaned and focused, emptying your clip with tense precision. Then you pressed the button, letting the target crawl closer with a mechanical hum.
Abby won.
She was grinning like a smug bastard when she met you by your booth.
“Knew I’d win,” she said, slinging her rifle and leaning in close.
You rolled your eyes, already dreading the way she'd fold her shirts with military precision and hover behind you while you scrubbed pans.
But then she stepped into your space, plucked the ear muffs off your head slowly, and leaned in, voice low.
“I’ll make you a trade,” she murmured. “Just the laundry… and let me tie you up. I’ll excuse the dishes.”
Then, with a grin, she licked your ear.
You froze.
A shiver crawled up your spine.
“…Whatever,” you muttered, trying not to combust on the spot.
“Let’s rinse off,” Abby muttered, sniffing her armpit with a grimace. She leaned in toward you and took a dramatic whiff of your shoulder. “Oh shit—yeah, let’s rinse off.”
You scoffed and elbowed her. “It’s not that bad.”
She laughed—full, unfiltered—and the sound bounced down the corridor as she slung her towel over one shoulder. Her hand brushed your lower back as you walked, not quite a push, not quite a touch—just enough contact to keep you flustered.
The hallway was dim and concrete-cold, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. You passed a few soldiers on your way to the communal showers, but no one paid you any mind. They were used to the sight—Abby and Joan, always shoulder to shoulder lately.
Still, something felt different.
What the hell had gotten into her today?
She was more playful than usual. Looser. Bolder. Not in the way she got during patrols—hard-edged and tactical—but like something was cracking open under her skin and letting a little light through.
You were used to Abby being composed. Controlled. But this?
This was Abby with her hair down, teasing you between sets, whispering promises after rifle shots, slipping fingers down your spine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your heart thumped harder as you neared the showers.
The metal door groaned as she pushed it open for you, steam curling out from the vents above. The room inside was tiled, wet, with several curtainless stalls and a bench along the far wall piled with faded towels and empty shampoo bottles.
“Ladies first,” Abby said, giving your back a gentle shove.
You stepped in, biting back a smile.
___________________________________________________________________________
The hot water drummed over your shoulders, loosening the ache in your arms and back. You exhaled through your nose, the steam clouding around your face, thick and soothing. Your hair clung to your skin, plastered along your spine like a second layer.
You glanced sideways.
Abby stood a few feet away under her own showerhead, her arms braced against the tile wall as the water poured over her. Her blonde hair had come loose from its braid and now hung in wet strands around her shoulders. The scars on her arms and back caught the light—memories etched into muscle. She looked tired, but strong. Always strong.
You didn’t mean to stare.
But you did.
The way the water streamed off her collarbone. The way her fingers moved as she scrubbed soap over her arms. The quiet rhythm of her rinsing, eyes closed, like she was someplace else for a moment.
Then she looked up.
Your gaze snapped to meet hers.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact. Just tilted her head slightly and gave you that lopsided, knowing smile.
Shit.
She stepped toward you, water still trailing down her bare frame. Not rushed—just deliberate. Confident.
You felt the cold tile at your back before you even realized you’d moved.
“Joan,” she said, voice low, playful, “what on earth are you staring at?”
Your throat tightened. Your eyes dropped for a second—chest, shoulders, arms—before flicking back up to hers. Your breath hitched.
You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
Abby just grinned wider, leaning in a little. Not to press—just to be close. Close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off her despite the water.
“Thought so,” she said, and turned back to her stall.
You stayed there against the tile, heart hammering, water still running, skin burning for a whole different reason.
You washed yourself trying to not seem like a babbling freak at the sight of abby.
Why are you acting like this?
The thought spiraled through your head as you reached for your towel, the steam clinging to your skin like regret.
You dried off in silence, scolding yourself for letting your stare linger too long. This wasn’t some daydream. This was the stadium. The WLF. Your life. Abby.
She didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she did and just didn’t say anything. She never said anything unless it mattered.
Still wrapped in your towel, you sat on the bench, watching her dress without meaning to. Her back was to you, muscles shifting under her skin like a map of everything she'd been through. Her shoulder blades flexed as she tugged her shirt down, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing the scars—old ones, fresh ones, some you remembered bandaging.
You looked away quickly and busied yourself with getting dressed.
A black tactical shirt and standard patrol pants. Same as hers. Same as half the stadium. It should’ve made you feel invisible, like part of the crowd. But next to Abby, it only made you feel small. Her clothes clung to her form like they belonged there. Yours… just felt like fabric.
You slipped your boots on in silence. Abby tied her laces, arms resting on her knees, brow furrowed like she was already a mile ahead in her head.
You glanced at her again—because you couldn’t help yourself—and the guilt curled tight in your stomach.
Pull it together. You weren’t here to fall apart over a glance in the shower. You were here to prove you could keep up. That she hadn’t made a mistake letting you in.
She smirked and pressed a kiss to your head as she stood up, the weight of her touch lingering like heat even after she moved away.
You blinked, watching her in quiet disbelief.
What is going on with her? You rubbed your wrist, trying to play it cool, but the inside of your chest was starting to buzz. She was being so... sweet. Not teasing. Not playfully withholding. Just soft. Present.
It was starting to freak you out.
You broke.
“Okay—what is going on?” you asked, trying not to sound too cranky, though your voice still cracked a little. You were missing those cigarettes bad.
She chuckled and tilted her head like she hadn’t the faintest clue what you were talking about. “What?”
You gave her a look—eyebrows raised, mouth tight. “You’re extra nice today.”
She let out a small laugh, her eyes scrunching with it, like it caught her off guard. Then she shrugged and leaned back against the locker bench, arms loose across her knees.
“I’m enjoying personal time with my girlfriend.”
You froze.
Your ears buzzed.
“…Huh?” It slipped out dumb, not at all how you meant it. Like your brain had short-circuited somewhere between my girlfriend and personal time.
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t call you out for it. Just smiled again and squeezed your shoulder with her big calloused hand, grounding you before your head could spiral off completely.
“We’re spending time together. Doing stuff I enjoy. I’m having a good time,” she said simply.
Then—another kiss. This one just on your cheek. Barely there. Gentle.
You swallowed hard.
“Oh.” You blinked. Your throat tightened with something complicated. You weren’t sure what to say to that. Not really.
Part of you wanted to lean into her, wrap your arms around her, and let yourself believe it was that simple—you, her, good time. But another part of you didn’t know what to do with the word girlfriend spoken out loud like that. Not after everything. Not when your hands still shook sometimes and your past felt like it was sitting in your lungs.
She didn’t push you. She just grabbed her gear bag and slung it over her shoulder, like it hadn’t even been a big deal.
Like she didn’t just crack something open inside you.
“C’mon,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll even let you pick where we eat.”
You stood there a second longer, the echo of my girlfriend bouncing around your ribs, before you followed her out into the corridor—heart thudding too loud in your chest.
Your boots thudded softly against the concrete. The air smelled like rust and smoke, and somewhere in the distance, someone shouted for a patrol rotation.
You narrowed your eyes at Abby’s back as she walked ahead. “There’s only two choices, mess hall or smoked fish tents.”
She let out a low laugh, not even turning around. “Yeah, and if you keep it up, I’ll be picking between the two.”
You groaned and picked up your pace, falling back into stride beside her. The backs of your fingers brushed together once, and you wondered if she noticed. She did.
She turned slightly. “So?”
You nodded, chewing your lip. “Fish tent,” you said, then hesitated. “Only if you like fish—wait, you do, right? We can do mess hall if you don’t, or—”
She cut you off with a grin, that dimple making a rare appearance. “Cool. Maybe we can trade some of those cigarettes you’re quitting for fruit.”
You blinked. “I’m not quitting!”
She stopped walking just long enough to grab your hand in hers. It was warm—surprisingly soft between the callouses—and she squeezed your fingers without breaking stride. “Yeah, but I’m your girlfriend and you love me.”
You squinted at her, brow raised. “Okay, yeah, but I also love smoking.”
She threw her head back and laughed again—real, throaty, not just a smirk or an exhale. She had the kind of laugh that filled space like it belonged there.
“Mmm, yeah,” she teased, bumping your shoulder with hers. “But I really want some of those grapes they grew in the greenhouse. So... which do you love more?”
You faltered a half step.
There was something about the way she said it. The way her nose scrunched just a little when she smiled, like she was trying not to look too proud of herself. The way she was actually joking with you. Flirting with you. And not in the sarcastic, post-mission, tension-laced way you were used to. But like this was easy. Comfortable. Like she wanted you to smile.
Your stomach twisted in the good way.
You stared at her, lips parted like you might try to answer, but nothing came out. Because truthfully? You didn’t know what you loved more. Or maybe you were just scared to say it out loud.
She didn’t press. She just led you toward the smell of grilled fish and greenhouse herbs, still holding your hand.
You let her.

Chapter 26: Grapes

___________________________________________________________________________
The fish tents sat just past the southern gates, where the trucks rumbled in and out for patrol drop-offs and trade deliveries. The air smelled of salt, smoke, and citrus wood—someone must’ve been burning dried rinds again to mask the stench of gutted fish.
This area always felt like another world compared to the cold steel of the stadium. It was almost warm here—almost normal. Kids darted between stalls, someone plucked strings on a broken guitar near the wall, and the makeshift market buzzed with quiet conversation. Tarps flapped lazily in the breeze. Hand-painted signs read things like “DRY SALMON—2 BAGS” and “BONE BROTH FOR TRADE.”
Boston had never had anything like this.
Abby stood beside you, scanning the rows like she was surveying some long-lost kingdom. She pointed toward the greenhouse crates lined in burlap, her eyes catching a flash of purple beneath the leaves. “Looks like they did good in the greenhouse,” she said, voice low with delight.
You hadn’t known she liked fruit that much. You didn’t even think they’d grown grapes this season.
She elbowed you gently. “I want those ones. I’ll get the fish.”
There was no negotiation in her tone. She didn’t even check if you had anything left to trade—just assumed you’d part with whatever you had. That you loved her more than your smokes.
And fuck. She was right.
Abby walked off toward the salmon crates, already unzipping her bag, and you made your way to the fruit stand. The guy running it had slicked-back hair and a rust-colored bandana. He nodded when you approached.
“One…” you started, glancing back at Abby.
She was crouched beside a crate, inspecting cuts of fish, her brows furrowed like she was analyzing a map. There was this stupid sparkle in her eyes, a rare glint of unfiltered joy you’d only seen a few times. And somehow, it was over fucking grapes.
You sighed and turned back to the vendor, your voice dropping.
“Two bunches, please.”
He didn’t ask questions. Just raised an eyebrow at your payment.
You handed over the rest of your cigarette pack.You’d been rationing it for a week, flipping it between your fingers every night like a prayer. Gone now.
“Good trade,” the vendor muttered, wrapping the grapes in cloth.
You didn’t answer. You just clenched your jaw and walked back toward Abby, the fruit warm in your palms, your lips tight with the bitter taste of sacrifice.
But she was grinning when she saw you, already holding a bag of dried salmon over one shoulder.
And somehow, it almost felt worth it.
“Let’s eat by the creek,” Abby said, her voice a little lighter than usual. The corners of her mouth pulled up into something real—a smile that reached her eyes.
You cocked a brow, not sure if you heard her right. “Why?”
She leaned in, her breath warm where it brushed your cheek. “Because it’s a date.”
A date?
You blinked.
That word—it didn’t belong in your world. Not anymore. Not really. You’d never been on one. No one did that in this world. Not with intention. Not without ulterior motives. People hooked up, shared shifts, shared beds when they were lucky, but not… dates.
Still, the word echoed in your chest like a bell struck in an empty church.
You thought back to a magazine you’d found on a FEDRA patrol years ago—one of those glossy ones with women in sundresses, couples laughing over brunch, men with stupid haircuts and white teeth. You’d stared at the pages for too long, wondering what it must’ve felt like to live in a world where someone planned a moment with you just to be with you.
You wondered if people were gay back then too.
You nodded slowly, the word catching in your throat. “Okay.”
She smiled again—big this time—and you followed her as she led the way down a gravel path, past the rusted fencing and out toward the edge of the compound.
The creek wasn’t far, just beyond the outer crop rows and compost pits, where the trees were thinner and the sun hit the water in long glints. The faint gurgle of it running over rocks cut through the noise of the stadium until it was just the two of you, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the embankment.
You scanned the tree line. Always scanning. Always half-waiting for something to go wrong. You shifted a little so you could reach your gun if you had to. Abby didn’t comment. She never did.
You pulled the cloth-wrapped bundle from your jacket pocket and handed her the grapes.
Her face lit up like she hadn’t seen real joy in weeks. “You got me two?”
You kept your lips pressed together, trying not to let your own smile betray you. You shrugged like it was nothing.
But she wasn’t fooled.
“Did you trade all of your cigarettes?”
You rolled your eyes, looking anywhere but her.
She teased, sing-song and smug, “For me?”
Your sigh came sharp through your nose. “Yes. For you.”
Abby laughed, that warm, belly-deep sound that always caught you off guard. She popped a grape into her mouth and chewed with closed eyes, like she was savoring it. “These are good,” she murmured.
You didn’t say anything. You just watched her.
The way she leaned back on her palms, sunlight cutting along the line of her jaw. The way the breeze tangled in her damp hair. The way she savored something so small, like it meant more than just fruit.
She handed you a piece of smoked fish, still warm from the foil, and you took it without a word. The two of you ate in silence—just the sound of the creek trickling by and the occasional cry of a gull overhead.
Fish and grapes.
You chewed slowly, the flavors oddly good together, but still—weird lunch, you thought to yourself. Abby didn’t seem to mind. She polished off her grapes like they were some delicacy from before the outbreak.
When you were done, she leaned back on her palms, soaking in the sun. You stayed quiet, eyes tracking the horizon. Everything felt suspended for a moment—soft, still, like this pocket of the world didn’t quite belong to the rest of it.
“I really want a cigarette,” you muttered.
Abby burst out laughing, head tilted back, golden strands of hair falling from her loose braid.
You side-eyed her, lips twitching. “It’s not funny.”
“It is,” she said, still laughing. She leaned in and kissed you without warning—short, sweet, a brush of lips that made your chest tighten. “Too bad.”
Of course she always got her way.
You grumbled and stood, brushing crumbs off your pants as the two of you started the walk back toward the stadium.
“Okay,” she said, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “We did what I wanted today. What do you want?”
She bumped your shoulder, playful.
You let out a slow sigh, trying to think. Before you could open your mouth, she cut you off with a grin.
“And no smokes.”
You groaned, louder this time. “I guess… sex?”
She looked at you, incredulous—and then burst out laughing again. “Sex?”
You nodded with complete sincerity. “It’s been, like… a day.”
She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “You’re insatiable.”
“You’re hot,” you shot back, deadpan. “That’s not my fault.”
Abby shook her head and looked away, still grinning. “How about something else? Anything else you’ve got in mind?”
You paused, then looked ahead, chewing your lip.
“...Can we just lie down together for a bit? Like, nothing heavy. Just you. Me. Maybe your arm around me.”
She slowed down a little, gaze softening as she glanced over.
“Yeah,”

Chapter 27: Nightmares

_______________________________________________________________________
Your head rested against Abby’s chest, her slow, steady hum reverberating through your bones like a lullaby. The room was warm but dim, lit only by the stray gold from a sunset slipping through the blinds. She was reading—something with yellowed pages and a bent spine—and the cadence of her breath, her occasional page-turn, the subtle brush of her fingers on your shoulder, kept you tethered.
You didn’t want a movie. You didn’t want music. You didn’t want to move at all.
You just wanted her.
Just the stale, quiet peace her presence offered. The soft drape of her arm across your back. The silent understanding.
You’d been like that for nearly two hours—no words, just breathing.
You shifted slightly, tucked your face deeper against her collarbone, and let out a deep sigh. Her hum didn’t stop. Neither did the warmth of her.
Eventually, sleep found you.

You were dragged back to Boston.
Concrete. Frost on the edges of metal grates. The sting of winter wind needling through your jacket.
Cleo was beside you. Always was, in this memory.
Your boots hit the pavement in uneven steps. You were drunk, again. A cigarette hung limp from your lips, the ember flickering with every exhale.
“Terra hates you now,” Cleo said. Her voice was blunt, unsparing.
You didn’t look at her. You just dropped yourself onto the crumbling steps outside the FEDRA detention wing and ran a hand through your short hair—how it used to be, cropped close on the sides, messy on top. Your fingers shook slightly from withdrawal or adrenaline. Or both.
You didn’t respond. Just stared past her, your eyes ringed in deep, dark hollows that no sleep could fix.
Cleo didn’t follow when you went in.
The hallway smelled like piss and bleach. The kind of industrial scent that never fully masked what came before it—blood, vomit, rot. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering slightly. You passed cell after cell, some silent, others filled with murmured prayers or frantic sobbing.
You stopped at Nathan’s cell.
Two FEDRA guards stood outside. They didn’t even look at you—just nodded and opened the door.
He was tied to a chair, head hanging low, arms slack at his sides. One eye was swollen shut. His lips were cracked, bleeding. He was shirtless, ribs poking through sickly skin. A pool of sweat collected under him, mixed with old blood.
You knelt, tapped his cheek lightly. “Wake up.”
He stirred, groaning. “Please… Jo…”
Your fist met his cheek with a brutal crack. His head snapped sideways.
Every day, they sent you back to him. Called it “training.” Called it “loyalty testing.” Called it “practical experience.” But it wasn’t.
It was a gift.
A sick little trophy from the FEDRA commander who knew you’d lost everything.
You lit a cigarette and exhaled into his face.
“Where are the Fireflies, Nathan?”
He sobbed. “Jo, I told you—I don’t know.”
You laughed. Bitter. Hollow. You crushed the cigarette into his shoulder. His skin sizzled. He screamed.
“Where,” you said coldly, “are the fucking Fireflies?”
No answer. Just shaking.
You stood up and delivered a punch—knuckles to jaw. Again. Again. Again. His chair creaked beneath him, legs scraping against the tile.
And still—no names.
He knew about your mother. Knew Cleo and Daniel were Fireflies. He had enough to buy his way out of here. Enough to watch you rot in his place.
And yet he never said a word.
Maybe Terra begged him. Maybe guilt stopped him.
Or maybe—
Maybe he was better than you.
The thought hit harder than your fists ever did.
The cold concrete beneath your boots echoed with every step as you paced back and forth in the cell. Nathan lay on the ground, blood staining the floor beneath him, his own piss pooling under him, and yet something in you held back from striking him again. You could feel the weight of your past pressing down on you—too many decisions made, too many lives lost. But even now, in the aftermath of what had just transpired, a part of you could still hear the echoes of your mother’s voice, the one you tried to forget.
You couldn’t do this anymore.
The door to the cell opened with a low creak. Without a word, you stepped out, letting the cool air of the hallway wash over you. The feeling of being trapped, confined, suffocating—it was never far from your mind.
Then you saw her.
Terra. Her eyes locked on you, wild with desperation, as she sprinted toward you. She reached you in seconds, grabbing you by the collar and yanking you toward her. Her breath was hot and ragged against your face as she snarled.
“Let him out, Jo!” she screamed, shaking you. You didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just stared at her. The world seemed to fall away, the buzzing in your ears drowned out by the thundering of your pulse.
Terra’s grip tightened, but then, in a whisper, her voice dropped, slow and venomous. “I’ll fucking tell them about your mom.”
The words hit you like a gut punch, a flood of memories crashing through the cracks you’d worked so hard to seal. Your mother—the Firefly. The betrayal, the guilt. Terra knew. She knew everything, and it was enough to tear apart what little thread of control you had left.
You shoved her back into the nearest alley, your anger rising like a storm. With one hand, you slammed her against the brick wall, the sound of her breath catching in her throat. The world felt small, the shadows closing in, but all you could hear was the venom in her voice.
“I’ll kill you,” you growled, your voice low enough that no one would hear.
Her eyes welled with tears, and for a brief moment, something in you wavered. But then she spoke again, her voice thick with fear, with knowing. “Tell them he’s just a low-level Firefly, Jo. Let him go. You know what they’ll do to you if they find out.”
You slapped her. Hard. Her head snapped to the side, but the anger didn’t leave her face. “Fuck you,” you spat, your voice seething with rage.
Weeks passed, each one like a weight pressing down on your chest. Terra’s eyes followed you everywhere. Every time you came back covered in Nathan’s blood, she would be there, glaring at you from across the room. Her gaze burned into your skin, a constant reminder of the broken pieces you tried so hard to hide.
One evening, you returned home, exhaustion weighing heavily on you. The smell of your mother’s soup—thick, bland, and somehow comforting—filled the air. The rations were low, and you both knew it was just a matter of time before you’d be scavenging again.
You and Frank were the high-ranking soldiers in the family, and because of that, you got the kitchen. The privilege of warmth in a world so cold.
Suddenly, a loud bang at the door broke through your thoughts. The heavy pounding vibrated through the walls, the force of it enough to make your pulse race. You exchanged glances with Frank and your mother, your hearts in your throats.
“What the fuck?” You gasped, your voice betraying the panic bubbling beneath your calm exterior.
They didn’t even knock. The door swung open, and men in military gear stormed in, shoving your mother to the floor. Her necklace—a simple, silver chain that she’d worn for years—was yanked from her neck, leaving a gash across her skin. She cried out, but the men didn’t care. They grabbed her roughly by the arms, dragging her toward the door.
Frank yelled, struggling against the men, but they cuffed him too. The scene unfolded like a nightmare, the sound of Frank’s anger and your mother’s cries echoing in your mind.
You stood frozen for a moment, your world spinning. This wasn’t happening. Not now, not like this. But it was happening, and you had no choice but to watch it unravel.
You didn’t remember the ride to the prison.
Just the way your cuffs bit into your wrists. The sting of cold air on bloodied skin. A soldier had cracked you across the jaw before you even made it through the gates—something about making an example.
Your head rang, vision pulsed. By the time they chained you to the chair, your shirt was soaked in sweat and spit and whatever else you couldn’t name. You tasted copper. Your ears buzzed.
They took their time with the others.
You were the last.
The first blow came fast—fist to your stomach, air ripped from your lungs. Then your ribs. Then your face. Over and over. One of them laughed when you started to cry.
“Didn’t peg this one for a crier,” he muttered. Another one called you a coward.
But you didn’t beg. Not once. You kept your mouth shut.
You knew what they wanted.
You knew who they really wanted.
By the time the commander arrived, your lip was split, your eye swollen shut, and you could barely keep your head up. He called off the others, gave you a sharp nod like he’d just seen something valuable in a pile of shit.
“Loyal,” he said.
You didn’t respond.
He led you—unshackled—to a separate holding cell. Your legs almost buckled. The iron door clanged open.
Frank was inside.
Shirtless. Barely conscious. His body was… wrong. Skin mottled with bruises, burns arcing over his shoulders and chest like lightning strikes. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and his mouth was caked with dried blood.
You just stood there.
Your throat closed up.
“Just do what they say, Jo.”
His voice was barely a whisper, but it gutted you. Not because of the words—because of how calm he sounded. Like this was always going to happen. Like he’d decided something you weren’t part of.
The commander handed you a metal pipe.
You didn’t move.
“Hit him,” the man said.
You looked down at the pipe. Then at Frank.
Your best friend. Your brother.
Another blow landed—this time to your back. The soldier behind you. You stumbled forward.
“Hit him!” the commander barked again.
You did.
One strike across Frank’s jaw. His head snapped to the side.
You cried as it landed.
“Harder.”
Another hit. Louder this time. Metal on skin. On bone. You didn’t even know where you struck. Just that Frank flinched. He didn’t scream.
You didn’t know how many more times they made you do it. Two? Three? Enough to make you hate yourself for years.
Eventually, they let you go.
Blood on your hands. Frank’s blood. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
They gave you back your uniform like it meant something. Like you hadn’t just betrayed the only person who’d ever been family.
You stepped out into the sunlight and collapsed to your knees.
Because there she was.
Your mother.
Hanging in the square.
Her body limp. Her coat still buttoned. Her boots still tied. They’d cleaned her up to make a point. Made her neat so the crowd could stare without guilt.
And they did stare.
You screamed until your voice broke. Until the sobs overtook you.
And then something in you… snapped.
You saw red.
You saw Terra.
Terra’s face flashed through your mind—and then everything went white.
The rage was too loud for thoughts. Too loud for fear. It drowned out your limp, the ache in your ribs, the sting of blood caking your eye. You stalked through the alleys of the QZ like a wraith, body wrecked but moving with purpose.
No one stopped you. No one even looked twice.
There’d been another public hanging that morning. The square was still scattered with blood-soaked flyers and half-eaten rations, the air thick with burned paper and the tang of rust. People were busy pretending not to see.
And you—
You were hunting.
You found her on 8th and Willow, outside the old ration depot. She was bent at the waist, tying something to her boot. Alone.
You didn’t think.
You grabbed her from behind and slammed her into the brick wall, your hand clamped over her mouth. She let out a muffled yelp, kicking, twisting—trying to see who had her.
Then she did.
“Joan—?”
Her voice cracked. Recognition hit fast, then panic.
She tried to run. You shoved her back into the wall.
You were smaller than her. But stronger. Today though you were injured giving her leverage. You had no business overpowering her—not after everything you’d just survived. But rage made you strong. You could still taste Frank’s blood. Still see your mother’s boots swaying in the air.
You hit her.
Flesh. Bone. Again.
“Stop!” she choked out, trying to shield her face. “Joan, please—!”
You didn’t stop.
You hit her until your knuckles split open again. She screamed, pulled her knife from her side pocket, and drove it into your thigh.
Pain bloomed, hot and white—but you didn’t even flinch.
You reached down. Your hand found a chunk of brick shattered near the base of the alley wall. You raised it. Just one blow to scare her, you thought. Just to make her understand.
But her eyes met yours—
And all you saw was betrayal.
You swung.
Crack.
She collapsed to the ground, blood already pooling at her temple. Her chest rose once. Then again.
Your breath caught.
You waited for her to move.
To sit up. To curse you out. To do something.
But her eyes… stayed open.
Wide. Glassy. Still.
The blood kept spreading, seeping into the cracks of the concrete like it belonged there.
You dropped the brick.
“Jo?!”
Cleo’s voice rang out like a gunshot in your mind.
Your eyes snapped open. The ceiling blurred above you. Sweat poured into your lashes. Your breath came in shallow gulps, chest rising too fast—like you’d just sprinted miles.
“Jo!”
This time it was real.
Abby.
She was crouched over you, one hand pressed firmly to your forehead, the other gripping your wrist to ground you.
“Hey. Hey, hey,” she whispered, like she was taming a wild animal. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Her forehead pressed to yours. You could feel her pulse—steady and strong—against your temple. Your own heartbeat was all over the place, ragged and offbeat.
You were shaking.
Everything in you was trembling—your fingers, your jaw, the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t stop seeing it. Couldn’t stop hearing the crunch of bone, the way Terra’s eyes went glassy, or how Frank never screamed when you hit him.
Abby kissed your forehead gently, her lips lingering for a second. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to.
You sat up slowly, burying your face in your hands, elbows on your knees. Your breath hitched again and you wiped your palms over your cheeks even though there were no tears—just sweat. Shame.
Abby stayed next to you, silent, watching with wide eyes. Her body was tense, but her voice stayed soft. “Was it a bad dream?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You could barely speak.
Abby nodded like she understood anyway, and pulled you into her arms. She didn’t rush you. She didn’t ask what it was about. She just held you.
The silence stretched.
Then finally, you found your voice, cracked and raw:
“I need to talk to Frank.”
Your words hovered in the room like a loaded weapon.
Abby pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes scanning your face for something—maybe permission, maybe truth. But she didn’t stop you. She just nodded once.
“Okay.”
You got up.
Your legs still felt hollow, like your bones had been scraped clean, but you dressed anyway—mechanical. Abby stood too, watching from the corner of the room, her hands curled into light fists like she wanted to do something but didn’t know what.
You didn’t say thank you.
You didn’t look her in the eyes.
You just walked out the door.
____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 28: Honesty

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You wanted to get better.
You wanted the craving for liquor out of your bones, out of your blood. You wanted the guilt out of your teeth, the memories out of your gut. But it wouldn’t leave. Not until you said it.
He didn’t know. Frank didn’t know what you’d really done.
Not yet.
You found him in the mess hall, elbow-deep in a bowl of watery stew, laughing at something someone said across the table. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair was wet—probably fresh off patrol. His face looked tired but soft. Still alive. Still here.
You grabbed his shirt and tugged. “Need to talk.”
Your voice came out lower than you expected—gravel pressed into sand. He looked at you, eyebrows narrowing, and he must’ve seen something in your face because he stood without finishing his food and followed you out without a word.
You didn’t stop until you reached the courtyard’s far corner, past the old burn barrel and the abandoned picnic tables. The late-afternoon light was low, streaking gold across the cracked pavement. Your hands shook. From the memory. From withdrawal. From everything.
Frank leaned against the wall and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “You pacing like that’s making me nervous,” he said, striking a match. “You wanna talk, talk.”
He lit it. Took a drag. Blew it sideways.
Then, wordlessly, he held it out to you.
Your mouth twitched.
You stared at it for a long second before shaking your head, sharp and sure. “Quitting. For Abby.”
His eyes went wide. “You are so pussy-whipped.”
He said it with a grin, and it made something deep in your chest jolt like a rusty hinge. Still—he watched you. Smoke curling from his lips. Waiting.
“Do you remember the day we were captured by FEDRA?” you asked, finally.
Frank blinked slowly, his gaze drifting toward the far wall like he could still hear the boots and shouting. “Yeah,” he said, his voice lower now. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”
You nodded, throat dry. “What did you tell them? To get me released?”
He looked down at his feet. A beat of silence passed. Then he sighed. “That…” He cleared his throat. “Mom and I hid it from you. Everything.”
You stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he muttered, “she turned herself in for you, Jo. Said you didn’t know anything. Said you were loyal. She handed over intel, let them believe she was the only one with ties to the Fireflies.”
Your jaw locked. You could feel your nails digging into your palms.
“She did it to protect you.”
You looked away, toward the chain-link fence that rattled every time the wind blew wrong. You still liked the way Frank said mom. Like she was his, too. Like the three of you had ever been a real family.
You swallowed hard.
“I framed Nathan,” you said.
Frank didn’t react. Just watched you.
“I planted a Firefly map in his pack. Took one from Mom’s stash. Put it under his bed. After I hit Terra…”
Your voice faltered. His brow furrowed.
“She cheated with him. And then she laughed at me like I was nothing. Like I was always gonna be nothing.” You shook your head. “I lost it.”
You looked up, your eyes rimmed red. “I killed her, Frank.”
His jaw twitched.
“She stabbed me. I hit her with a brick. Once.” You paused. “Twice. She didn’t get up.”
Frank took a long, slow drag. Exhaled. Then he ran a hand through his hair and looked at you—really looked at you.
“You came out of that prison covered in blood,” he said. “Didn’t speak for three days. Didn’t cry either. Just sat there. Hollow.”
You said nothing.
“They made you come back every day for weeks and torture me.”
Frank’s voice cracked as he said it. His eyes were on the ground, fingers trembling slightly as he brought the cigarette to his lips again. The nicotine hissed in the air between you.
He exhaled slow, jaw clenched. “But—goddamn it, Jo. What the fuck.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted upward, out toward the heavy gray sky above the courtyard fence. Clouds hung low and unmoving. You crossed your arms, bracing against the weight of what you’d done.
“I was angry,” you said finally. “I saw Mom hanging in the square, and I just—snapped.”
Frank shook his head, short and bitter. “What happened to her kid?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know.”
That wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. After Terra was gone, FEDRA cleaned up the body. Quietly. Her quarters were cleared out by the next morning. No ceremony. No word. No trace of a child left behind. Just gone.
You started to say that, but Frank spoke first.
“Nathan died.”
You blinked. “What?”
He looked away, eyes narrowed on the cracked pavement like he could read the past in it. “The day Terra turned us in. He died in the prison. Didn’t make it through the seventh night.”
A strange silence fell over you, thick and buzzing.
You tried to breathe. Tried to feel something, anything.
“That’s fucked up, Jo.” His voice was quieter now. Not angry—just tired.
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
He scoffed and rubbed his face, cigarette burning down to the filter. “I thought Terra was just a bitch, Jo. Just a dumb girl who got you into trouble. But this? You never said a word. You let me think she disappeared. You let me carry that grudge, and you—”
He stopped himself. His throat worked around the next words like they tasted bad.
“She was a person, Jo.”
“I know,” you said again, this time quieter.
You looked at your hands, shaking. From withdrawal. From memory. From the sharp sting of his voice cutting through you.
You didn’t expect forgiveness. But hearing her name in Frank’s mouth—like she still mattered—twisted a knife somewhere deep.
Frank flicked his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. Then he looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.
Then he walked away, leaving you in the silence.
_____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 29: Owen

Summary:

Owen's pov

_____________________________________________________________________________
Your boots crunched over the cracked asphalt of the courtyard. You hated the stadium. The way its walls loomed like a cage. Like a reminder. You weren’t built for this life anymore—marching in step, pretending there was a purpose. You kept your head down, hands in your jacket, just trying to make it to the gate.
Tonight you’d disappear into the aquarium. Have a sip of that prime hooch you made. Let Mel talk about Alice’s latest training. Pretend, just for a little while, that Seattle wasn’t rotting from the inside out.
But her face still crept in. Freckled. Bloody. Unforgiving.
Ellie.
No matter how many times you tried to shut it out, it always came back to her.
You rounded the corner and stopped. Not by choice.
It was Joan.
She didn’t see you. She was talking with Frank—her voice low, tense. There was a shake in her limbs, like she was trying not to fly apart. You started to move past. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop.
But then you heard it.
“I framed Nathan.”
You froze.
Nathan?
Your brow knit. Manny never mentioned Joan knowing anyone named Nathan. But that name—.
“I planted a Firefly map in his pack. Took one from Mom’s stash. Put it under his bed. After I hit Terra…”
You turned slightly, staying in the shadow of the corridor. You didn’t mean to listen—but you couldn’t not.
Terra.
That was Joan’s ex. Manny said it in passing once. Just some girl from Boston, long gone. But Joan’s voice—raw and low—cut through the static in your brain.
“She stabbed me. I hit her with a brick. Once. Twice. She didn’t get up.”
Your blood ran cold.
No one was around. Just the quiet wind kicking up grit, and their voices threading through it like ghosts.
Frank was silent.
“What happened to her kid?” Joan asked.
Her kid?
You felt dizzy. Your gut twisted. Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
“I thought Terra was just a bitch, Jo. Just a dumb girl who got you into trouble. But this? You never said a word. You let me think she disappeared. You let me carry that grudge, and you—”
Your fists clenched. Terra was a Firefly. That’s why she was on your radar all those years ago. She had intel. She had contacts. She had a kid. And Joan—Joan had buried it.
Covered it. Killed it.
Abby was sleeping next to that?
No.
She wasn’t just some WLF recruit. She was one of them. A FEDRA rat. A torturer. A liar. And now she was in Abby’s bed like none of it ever happened?
You took a shaky breath and turned on your heel, moving fast, your boots thudding louder than they should’ve. You didn’t know what you were going to say yet. But you were going to tell Abby.
She had to know.
And maybe—just maybe—you could save her from the wreckage before it crushed her too.
______________________________________________________________________________
Your knuckles hovered over the door longer than they should’ve.
You knocked once—sharp, deliberate. No answer. Again, harder this time.
Footsteps thudded on the other side. Manny cracked the door open, his brows pinched.
“Owen?” he said, voice low, eyes narrowing.
From behind his shoulder, Abby looked up. Her voice was quieter than usual. “What’s going on?”
She was in her old tank top—one of yours, if you weren’t mistaken—and those gray patrol pants you’d lent her a lifetime ago. Something about it made your stomach twist. You shoved it down.
“I need to talk to both of you,” you said.
They let you in without question.
You dropped onto the edge of the couch like your legs might give. The words sat in your chest like hot metal. You looked between them. Your throat was dry.
“Do you guys know Joan was FEDRA?”
Silence. Manny’s eyes snapped to Abby like she was supposed to explain everything. She didn’t.
Abby let out a breath and dragged her hands over her face. “Owen…” she warned.
Manny’s voice cut in, sharp. “Abs. Tell me he’s wrong.”
Still, she said nothing.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. Your voice dropped, low and cold. “Abigail. Who was Nathan?”
That made her look at you.
“Why do you care?” she asked, defensive now, her arms crossing like she already knew where this was going.
Manny looked between you both, frowning. “Who the fuck is Nathan?”
Abby sighed, her voice brittle. “He was… some guy Terra cheated on her with. She got pregnant. It was a mess.”
She shrank into the cushions. You watched the way her jaw clenched. Defensive. Protective. But she didn’t know the whole story.
You swallowed. “How’d it end?”
“What’s this about, Owen?” Manny said, voice rising now. He was already on edge—his loyalty to Abby ran deep, and anything threatening that pissed him off fast.
Abby rubbed her forehead. “Terra and Joan had a fight. Things got violent. Joan was discharged from FEDRA after that. But it’s not what you think.”
You scoffed. “No? Because I heard her say it. I heard Joan tell Frank she framed Nathan. Took a Firefly map from her mom’s stash, planted it in his gear.”
Manny's brow furrowed, like the puzzle was just starting to click.
“She beat Terra,” you continued. “Stalked her through the QZ. Said she hit her with a brick. Said… she didn’t get up.”
Abby stared at you, stunned. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
You shook your head, unable to hide the disgust in your voice. “You’re sleeping with a FEDRA rat, Abby. A Firefly killer.”
“Shut the fuck up, Owen,” she snapped, standing now. “You don’t know what she’s been through.”
You stood, too. “No, but I know what we’ve been through. You remember Salt Lake? What we fought for? And now you're fucking someone who hunted us down in basements?”
Manny stepped between you both, arms out. “Enough! Enough.”
You took a step back, hands shaking.
“I thought we were honest with each other,” you said, quieter this time, looking at both of them. “You kept this from us?”
Abby’s face twisted—something between fury and shame tightening her features. “She…” Her voice caught in her throat. She sank down onto the couch, hands clasped between her knees. “She never told me that.”
You stared at her. “Why would she?”
No one had an answer.
Manny sat down with a groan, rubbing his jaw like he was holding something back. You followed, your boots heavy against the floor. The three of you sat in a growing silence, the kind that thickens the air. The walls creaked. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.
You didn’t know how much time passed before Abby finally broke it.
“Are you sure that’s what she said?” Her voice was quiet. Flat.
Manny snapped, “Abby, come on. You knew she was FEDRA. You know what they did. What they are.”
“She’s not—” Abby shook her head, as if she could rattle loose the truth she wanted. “She’s not like them.”
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “We had to run halfway across the fucking country to save your dad. To make a cure. Because of people like her. Because FEDRA would’ve lined us up and shot us for it. Shot him.”
Abby tensed, her shoulders rigid. “Don’t—”
“No, Abby,” Manny cut in, his voice rising now. “Are you serious right now? She framed a Firefly. Got him killed. She beat a girl to death in the middle of the QZ. And you’re just… what? Sleeping next to her like it doesn’t matter?”
She looked down, jaw clenched. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her old patrol pants. The ones Owen had given her.
“She’s different now,” she whispered.
Manny scoffed, standing up again. “That’s what they always say.”
You watched her for a long moment. The strong, unshakable Abby Anderson—reduced to silence by the weight of what she didn’t want to believe.
“You’re not the only one who lost people,” you said.
A knock hit the door.

Chapter 30: Accusations

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Your fingers trembled as you hovered at the door, hesitating after your second knock. The chill in the hallway bit at your knuckles — night air slipping through the drafty corridors of the upper stadium. You tugged your jacket tighter.
Abby wouldn’t be asleep yet… right?
You hadn’t left things well earlier. You knew that. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, but it sat in your stomach all dinner like a swallowed stone. You needed to explain. To say the right thing.
The door creaked open.
Manny stood in the frame. His usual smirk was gone. His body blocked most of the doorway, but even in the low yellow light of the apartment behind him, you could tell something was off.
“Joan.”
He never used your full name. It was like a slap.
You blinked. “Hey, can I—”
You tried to lean around him, to see if Abby was inside.
“No.”
He started to close the door.
You caught it, palm flat against the old metal, heart pounding. “No?”
From inside, you heard muffled voices — one of them unmistakably Owen’s, sharp and angry.
You froze. The way your name sounded in his mouth—like a curse.
“What the fuck?” you whispered, stepping forward. Manny let the door go reluctantly, and you slid past him into the room.
It was dim inside. A candle burned low on the dining table. Abby was seated on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Owen stood near the window, arms crossed like he was holding himself together.
You looked between them, trying to read the room.
“What's—what are you guys doing?” you asked, voice cracking in your throat.
No one answered.
Owen’s eyes sliced through you like broken glass.
Manny stepped away from the door, his jaw clenched tight.
Abby didn’t look at you.
She didn’t even look at you.
“You wanna tell them, Joan?” Owen’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.
You blinked, your pulse spiking. “What?”
Manny scoffed from the couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward to stare at you — not like a friend, but like a stranger trying to make sense of something awful. “Joan,” he said, voice tight. “I trusted you.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. You took a step back, instinct clawing at your spine. “What are you talking about?”
Owen let out a short, humorless laugh. “What happened with Nathan, Joan?”
Your stomach dropped.
He tilted his head, dark eyes boring into you. “Go ahead. Tell us what you did.”
You looked at Abby, hoping for something—anything. But she still hadn’t moved. Her knuckles were white against her knees. Her jaw clenched.
“He—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat. There was a ringing in your ears now, the silence in the room pressing down around you like a vice.
“He was just a guy. He—he got involved with Terra, and I—”
You stopped.
“You had him murdered,” Owen snapped.
It landed like a gunshot. You flinched.
“I didn’t—” You shut your eyes, chest heaving. “At the time, I thought—”
“At the time?” Manny’s voice rose. “You mean when you were FEDRA? Hunting people like us? Like Abby’s dad? Like us?”
You turned to him, stunned silent. His face was hard—no sign of the easygoing guy who used to slap your back after patrol, who brought you extra rations when you were hungover.
“I was a kid,” you whispered. “I didn’t know anything—”
“That’s bullshit, We were kid’s too! Nathan was a kid.” Owen snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You framed Nathan with a Firefly map, Joan. You planted it in his bunk, that’s calculated.”
Your mouth was dry. “Isaac told me to leave it buried.”
Manny’s eyes widened slightly. “Isaac knew?”
“I was a kid,” you said again, desperate this time, but it didn’t hold. Not against the wall of fury building in the room.
Abby finally looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice brittle. “You told me you were trying to be better. That you’d changed.”
You met her gaze. “I am trying. That’s why I told Frank. I’m trying to come clean.”
Owen stood now, walking toward you slow and deliberate. “Then come clean.”
Your throat tightened. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to admit you’re not who you pretend to be,” Owen hissed.
Abby stood, voice trembling. “Stop.”
All of you turned to look at her.
Owen looked at you, “Tell us what happened, the whole truth front to back.”
You shook your head.
She looked at you like she didn’t recognize you anymore.
“Just… stop.”
Her eyes trailed up your face, they were blood shot and tears fell on her cheeks.
You shook your head and sat down slowly. “Okay. I’ll– tell you.”
The room went silent.
No one breathed.
You could hear the hum of the base generators through the walls, the occasional distant clang of metal echoing through the stadium corridors. It all felt far away — like you were underwater, like this moment was happening outside of time.
“Where do you want me to start?” you asked quietly, your voice barely carrying.
Owen’s jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted you to explode — like he needed you to fight back so he could justify whatever violence was brimming behind his eyes. So he could justify hating you.
But you didn’t explode. Not this time.
Manny leaned forward, his voice gruff but steady. “Nathan. Start with him. The man you framed.”
You swallowed hard, your gaze falling to the scuffed concrete floor.
“I was seventeen,” you began. “FEDRA had me stationed in the Boston QZ, rotating between patrol and intel. I wasn’t a grunt. They trusted me.”
You glanced at Abby — she wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“Terra…” You blinked fast, grounding yourself. “Terra had been sneaking around. I knew something was off. Then one night, she didn’t come home. I followed her. Found her with him.”
You dragged in a shaky breath.
“She was pregnant,” you said, voice dull. “Told me she loved him.”
Manny exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.
“I snapped. Not outward. Not at first. I waited. A week later, I took one of my mom’s old Firefly maps — she still had a stash hidden in our apartment. I planted it in Nathan’s pack, under his cot. Just enough to flag him as a sympathizer.”
You paused. Nobody said a word.
“They pulled him in that night. Dragged him through the street like he was infected. I thought they’d scare him, rough him up, maybe send him out to the Wall for a week.”
You looked up slowly, meeting Owen’s stare.
“But he didn’t come back. He died in holding. They beat him to death–I had– we beat him eventually to death.”
Abby’s head snapped up.
“I didn’t know that would happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. But I never told them he was innocent, either.”
“You let him die,” Owen hissed.
You nodded, because there was nothing else to say.
“I told myself he was a traitor,” you added numbly. “That he deserved it. I told myself Terra deserved what came next, too. But that was a lie.”
Manny stood, walking to the far side of the room. His hands were clenched into fists.
“She stabbed me,” you continued, your voice growing hoarse. “When I confronted her. Said she’d figured out what I did. I was bleeding, dizzy. I saw a brick on the ground.”
You closed your eyes.
“I don’t remember how many times I hit her. I just remember when she stopped moving.”
Abby looked sick.
Silence again.
Just the slow thrum of blood in your ears, and the crushing weight of what you’d said settling over the room like ash. Every breath felt loud. Every heartbeat like it could echo off the concrete walls.
Manny was the first to speak.
“Your mom,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Why did she have Firefly maps?”
You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, trying to clear the tears without drawing more attention to them. Your voice came out hoarse.
“She was a Firefly,” you murmured. “Her name was Sadie.”
Owen’s brow twitched. His eyes sharpened like a hunter recognizing a scent. “Sadie what?”
You hesitated. It felt like saying it would rip something open.
“Sadie Mercer,” you said, the name leaving your mouth like a confession. “She was close with Marlene. They worked together… before Salt Lake.”
The air shifted. Like everyone in the room had inhaled at once but forgot how to let go.
“What?” Abby’s voice cracked.
You looked at her. “She stayed behind in Boston. Her job was to feed intel to Marlene. FEDRA was closing in. They were hunting the Fireflies hard in the QZ.”
You waited.
No one moved. Owen’s mouth opened but didn’t speak. Manny’s jaw tightened.
“They killed a whole cell trying to find her,” you went on. “She blew checkpoints to keep patrols off Firefly routes. Let me know where not to be when she planned it… So I wouldn’t get caught in the blast.”
They stared at the floor like they could still see the bodies.
You opened your mouth, but no one wanted to hear excuses. Not now.
“She made me swear not to tell anyone. She was already marked. Any suspicion and they’d kill her. Or me. Or Frank.” You looked up. “You think I chose to be FEDRA? I was born into it. They branded me before I even knew what it meant.”
“You still helped them,” Owen snapped, leaning forward like the words had been clawing at his throat. “You tortured Frank. Killed Terra. Got Nathan murdered. Don’t fucking hide behind your mom.”
You took it.
Let it land. Let it burn through you.
You didn’t flinch.
But you felt it.
“I did what I had to do,” you muttered, voice low, more gravel than air.
Abby’s voice cut through next—quiet, but firm. “You didn’t have to frame him though, Joan.”
You exhaled through your nose. “I know. But—”
“No,” Manny said, his voice laced with a restrained fury you hadn’t heard from him before. “You could’ve joined the Fireflies. We all did. You knew people. You knew what FEDRA was doing. But you stayed.”
He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.
Owen was the one who couldn’t sit still. He stood, pacing once before turning on you. His lip curled like he tasted something rotten.
“I think you should go,” he said.
And there was no room left in his voice. No questioning. No debate. Just the line.
Abby didn’t stop him.
Manny didn’t either.
No one said your name.
You stood there in your boots like they were bolted to the stadium floor. You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. Just silence. Just the rustling of some tarp down the hall, the hum of distant conversation, the sound of a single piece of you fracturing clean in half.
And then you turned and walked out.
______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 31: Rock Bottom

Summary:

TW THEMES OF SH DRUG USE

______________________________________________________________________________
Your hands trembled violently as the bottle sat in your lap—half-dusted with old dirt, the label peeled away, just enough left inside to ruin you.
Tears wouldn’t stop coming. Hot. Stinging. Streaming down your face like they’d been waiting weeks for permission.
You hadn’t taken a sip yet.
Your fingers curled around the worn handle of your old knife. It felt heavier than usual—like it knew what you were about to do. You slid it from its sheath with shaking hands and pressed the cold steel into the soft meat of your arm, just below the old scar you kept hidden under your sleeve.
Shut up.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
You sliced. Not deep. Just enough.
Blood bubbled out slowly, seeping down your arm and pooling on the dusty floorboards.
You gasped.
God, you hated it. Hated the way it stung, the way your muscles spasmed, the thick warmth of blood crawling down your skin. You hated that it worked. That it silenced the screaming in your brain long enough to think again.
But you couldn’t stop.
Your knees buckled as you slid down beside the couch, your back hitting the edge. The bottle came with you.
Your breath hitched. Then—
Fuck it.
You took a long swig. It scorched your throat on the way down, your stomach lurching almost immediately in protest. But you kept going.
Another.
Another.
Another.
The bottle emptied faster than you expected. You blinked at it in your hand like it had betrayed you.
Your body buzzed, fingers numb. Your lips burned from how fast you tore through four cigarettes, barely pausing to breathe between them. The room spun, smoke curling like ghosts around your face.
Then the retching came.
You vomited hard—onto your boots, the rug, your sleeve. You barely turned your head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Your own laugh slipped out bitter and broken.
You stumbled toward your cot, one hand bracing against the wall. You remembered the pill bottle. Painkillers. Left over from the stitches on your leg.
You didn’t want to die. Not really. Just… stop feeling like this.
You dry-swallowed one, then another. Chewed one out of frustration.
You collapsed onto your side, forehead sticking to the floor, bile on your lips.
The light buzzed overhead, flickering once.
You didn’t move.
Vomit spilled out of your mouth again.

 

Your eyes slipped shut, the liquor and painkillers dragging you into something worse than sleep.
And there she was.
Cleo.
Your last day in Boston.
The sky had been overcast—humid, suffocating. The kind of air that stuck to your skin and made everything feel heavier than it was. You’d stopped caring about the weather weeks ago. Or showers. Or food. Your ribs pressed hard against your shirt, collarbones jutting out like they were trying to escape your skin. Your FEDRA jacket, still stained from last week’s patrol, hid the cuts climbing up your arms in rows. You smelled like sweat, vomit, and whatever was left in the bottle by your cot.
Cleo had been the one to shake you awake.
“Jo.”
A whisper first. Then harder—“Jo.”
Frank was in the hallway already, throwing supplies into his go-bag. The plan had been in motion for days. Everyone knew this was coming. Boston was a sinking ship, and you were all rats scrambling off the edge.
“Get the fuck up.” Frank’s voice was sharp as he yanked you by the arm. You hit the floor hard and blinked through the fog of your hangover.
The world spun. The lights flickered above. You blinked. Cleo was already strapping a pistol to her thigh.
“Jo,” she said again. Quieter this time. Not angry—just tired. “We gotta move.”
You stumbled into the hallway barefoot. Forgot your boots. Forgot your rifle. Just had your old rusted knife tucked into your waistband.
Frank stared at you, livid. “Are you kidding me?”
Your mouth opened but nothing came out. Just the dry taste of bile on your tongue.
Cleo turned back, frantic. “I’ll grab it,” she said, already darting through the busted front door into the shadows of the old duplex.
You remember the way the air felt different that day. Charged. Like something was waiting in it. A wind chime rattled from a porch somewhere down the block. A dog barked, then stopped.
You were too slow to realize the silence had shifted.
Cleo reappeared in the doorway, rifle in hand. She tossed it—
SPLAT.
It hit you before the sound registered. A fine mist. Warm. Wet.
You stared at her face, or what was left of it. Blood sprayed across your jacket. Grey and red clung to your collar.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t even breathe.
The sniper round had come from the corner watchtower. FEDRA had found you. Probably had been watching for weeks.
Frank grabbed your arm again—“Run!”—and this time you didn’t stumble.
You ran.
Down the alley. Over broken fences. Through the weeds that had overtaken the back lots. Gunfire echoed behind you, but you didn’t look back. You couldn’t.
Not at the porch. Not at the pieces of Cleo on the concrete. Not at the rifle still clutched in her twitching hands.
The city blurred behind you. Boston burned as you crossed the threshold into the wild—where the trees swallowed the noise, and the forest didn’t care who you were.
But you did. You always did.
You jolted awake with a violent heave, your stomach lurching before your brain could catch up.
The bile burned up your throat and splattered onto the floorboards—hot, acidic, reeking of rot and whiskey. You gasped for air between the spasms, coughing until your ribs hurt. Everything spun. The lights overhead—if they were even on—blurred into an oily smear. You blinked and tried to sit up, but it was too late.
You had pissed yourself at some point. Cold now, sticky against your thighs.
Didn’t even remember doing it.
You collapsed again into the couch, vomit matting your hair to the cushion, chest heaving. The bottle was still on the floor. Empty. You didn’t remember finishing it. You barely remembered opening it. You closed your eyes again.
And the dreams returned.

Sixteen again. Boston QZ. Chain-link fences rattling in the breeze. You stood behind the old sanitation yard, far from patrol routes. Your jacket sleeves were rolled up, a bruise peeking from under one. You passed a cigarette back and forth—half crushed, half stolen.
Terra.
She wore that dumb orange windbreaker you used to tease her about. Her eyes caught the light that day. You remembered because they never did after that.
“I like you a lot, Terra,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
She clamped her hand over your mouth. Playful, maybe. But firm. “You know this is just between us, right?”
The words sank. Sharp. Deep.
You nodded anyway. What else could you do?
Then she kissed you, and you let it mean more than it did.

Seventeen.
Before the sneaking around. Before the bruises that weren’t from patrols. Before the rumors and the whispers and the name Nathan.
You’d just had sex. Again. You’d lost count. There was always something desperate about it, like neither of you knew what else to do with your sadness. You lay on her mattress, the fan clicking overhead, cheap QZ cigarettes curling smoke to the ceiling.
She stared out the window. “Sometimes I wish you were a guy,” she said, flat. Distant.
It hit harder than anything in training.
You swallowed. “Well… I’m not.”
She didn’t look at you. Just kept smoking. Like maybe if she ignored you hard enough, you’d become something else.

You snapped awake again.
No vomit this time. Just dry heaving. Your stomach clenched, trying to drag out what wasn’t there.
The room stank. Urine. Bile. Burnt tobacco. Sweat. You could taste the rot in the air.
You fumbled for your knife—slippery in your grip—and sliced your arm again. The sting grounded you. Sharp, immediate. Blood dribbled down your wrist, dripping onto your pants. You didn’t care.
“Get out of my fucking head, Terra,” you muttered to the darkness.
Your voice didn’t echo. The room was too dead for that.
You grabbed a cigarette, shaking as you lit it. Drew deep. Hard. Fast. The burn in your lungs gave you something to hold onto.
You sank back into the filth—blood, piss, and memory—and let yourself drift again.
______________________________________________________________________
“I don’t want him at my damn house.”
Your father's voice was slurred and sharp, cutting through the thin walls like a switchblade.
You were twelve again. Small, wiry, curled behind the hallway bookshelf with your knees pressed to your chest. Your breath held.
He reeked—sweat, piss, and cheap whiskey soaking through his tank top. He stood in the doorway with an empty bottle still clutched in one hand like a weapon. His face was red and wet with heat.
“Greg, I’m not his fucking mother,” your mom snapped from the living room.
Her voice was steel. Even then, she knew how to survive men like him.
He pointed a crooked finger at her, swaying. “I’ll fuckin’ tell on you,” he barked.
Tell what? You weren’t even sure what secrets he thought he had. Your mom didn’t even blink. She just looked past him, toward the door.
And then Frank stepped in.
Twenty-two, maybe. Rail-thin and shaken, still carrying the weight of whatever place he'd come from. He had one backpack slung over his shoulder, a busted eye, and dried blood along the bridge of his nose. He didn’t speak.
Back then, he was clean-shaven. Still had soft features. Didn’t smoke yet. His hands shook as he stepped inside.
You remembered how small he looked next to your father. But also—how different.
You peeked through the bookshelf and saw your mother cross the room. Despite everything, she opened her arms and wrapped them around Frank without a word.
Her hair was short then, curled tight in a bob. She wore her old FEDRA windbreaker even in summer. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, dirt caked under her nails. She worked in the kennels back then—low-level assignments to stay invisible. Her job let her blend in with the grunts. Feed the dogs, clean their pens, walk them during drills.
But she listened. Every shift. Every whispered conversation. She brought home knowledge like it was contraband.
She held Frank tight.
No one spoke.
You stayed hidden, watching as your mom gave Frank a glass of water and pointed toward the couch. That night, he slept in the same clothes. You could see the bruises up and down his arms when the sleeves rolled back.
You never forgot it. The silence. The quiet violence in the air. The way your mom never once asked Frank what happened—just treated him like he was already one of you.
And he was.
He always would be.
Weeks passed before you finally spoke to Frank.
It was over a quiet breakfast—porridge again. Your mom had scraped together what she could: a little powdered milk, stale oats, dried fruit if she was lucky. You sat around the dented tin table, chipped enamel mugs steaming with lukewarm water.
You were thirteen then. Still small, still soft-spoken.
“Remember when I used to go to our dad’s?” you asked, picking at your bowl.
Frank looked up from his spoon. His face had healed some—less bruising, but the shadows under his eyes never really left. He studied you for a moment, then chuckled quietly, nodding.
“Yeah. I remember.”
You smiled, bashful, and tucked your chin.
After that, things started to shift. He began walking you to QZ school in the mornings, pretending like he just happened to be headed that way. You’d catch him leaning against the fence sometimes when the bell rang, arms crossed, waving when you stepped out. It made the other kids curious—some even jealous. You had someone looking out for you.
A few times, when rations were good, he even helped you with your homework by lantern light. You didn’t know how rare that was, having someone like that. Not then.
Two years later, everything cracked.
You were fifteen. And angry.
Frank had started getting called into longer patrol shifts—half a day sometimes, overnight others. He came back each time more worn down, more distant. His boots would track in dust and dried blood. His shoulders always slumped under the weight of his gear. Still, he tried to keep the quiet peace in the apartment.
But you were restless. You wanted to help. You wanted out of the waiting. The helplessness.
“If I do patrols, we can get more rations,” you snapped one morning, the spoon in your hand rattling the side of your bowl.
Frank didn’t look up. He just kept eating.
“No, Jo,” he said calmly, shaking his head. His voice wasn’t harsh. Just firm.
You slammed your hand on the table. “Why not?”
He finally looked at you—eyes dull with exhaustion.
“Because you’re not joining FEDRA.”
There was no room for debate in his voice. Just this tired, crumpled hope that you wouldn’t do it.
You stormed out, stomping your boots on the cracked linoleum. You didn’t say goodbye.
And by the end of that week, your name was on the enrollment list.
They gave you a uniform that didn’t fit and a plastic ID badge that felt heavier than it should’ve. You thought you were helping. You thought you were finally pulling your weight.
But sometimes you wondered if that was the moment everything started to rot—from the inside out.
And you wished, more than anything, that you had listened to him.
__________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 32: Cleaning up the mess

__________________________________________________________________________
“Oh fuck.”
Frank’s voice pierced through the haze like a knife.
Your eyes cracked open. The morning light poured through the cracked blinds in painful slants. Dust floated in the golden beams like fallout.
“Jo.” His voice was closer now, sharp and urgent. “Jo!”
You groaned, barely above a whisper. “Stop it… five… more minutes…”
Then came the shake—hard, jarring. You jolted upright, heart lurching.
“What?” you rasped.
The world reeled. Your head spun. Your vision blurred for a second before focusing on the horror.
Puke crusted your shirt, clung to your hair, and pooled under your cheek on the floor. The smell of bile and piss was thick in the air. Blood smeared your arm, streaked down to your wrist in tacky lines where you’d cut yourself again. The cuts stung now, inflamed and sloppy. Your pants were soaked through, cold against your skin. A dozen cigarette butts lay scattered like fallen teeth—burned to the filter, some half-smoked and still smoldering.
And in the middle of it all, Frank knelt beside you.
His expression wasn’t angry.
It was worse.
Blank. Numb. His brows were pinched in this awful way, like he was trying not to cry or scream or throw up himself. His hand hovered near your shoulder but didn’t land.
Your mind scrambled backward, trying to piece together the night before. The bottle. The pills. The blade. Terra’s voice in your head. Cleo’s face. Abby walking away. Owen’s disgust. The silence. The shame. The cigarette you lit even after you bled.
Fuck.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Just air. Just regret.
Frank’s eyes met yours. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask questions.
He stood.
And without a word, he turned, walked across the room, opened the door.
And left.
He didn’t slam it. Didn’t look back. The door clicked shut behind him with this eerie finality that felt like it echoed down every hallway in your chest.
You were alone.
Again.
You tried to stand.
The room tilted violently as your legs gave out. The floor rushed up to meet you again. A sharp jolt rattled your knees, but all you could focus on was the lurch in your stomach. You clamped a hand over your mouth, too late.
Vomit spilled between your fingers, hot and sour, splattering across the wooden floorboards and soaking into the edge of a discarded blanket. You gagged again, body seizing with it.
The door burst open.
Frank.
He stood frozen for half a second, taking it in—your hunched figure, the blood drying on your arm, the empty bottle near your feet, the filth. Then he moved. Fast.
“Okay, okay—” his voice was low, trying to keep it together, even as he gagged, “here.”
He shoved a dented trash can into your arms and you retched into it violently. Your stomach had nothing left to give, but it kept trying. Dry heaves. Acid. Shame.
Frank crouched beside you, using a ratty towel to mop up the puddles on the floor. His own breath hitched as he tried not to puke.
“I saw—” he gagged. “Abby, she—she talked to—”
He didn’t finish. Instead, he yanked the trash can out of your hands and puked into it himself. The sound of it echoed in the small apartment. “Holy fuck, Jo,” he rasped.
Frank gagged again, bending down with a towel, muttering, “Oh my god,” as he tried to mop up the floor.
You vomited again into the trash can.
He handed you another towel, gagging again.
“Jo, I—fuck.”
He crouched. “I saw Abby—” he gagged mid-sentence, then full-on retched into the same trash can you’d just used.
“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed, spitting into it. “I’m gonna throw up again.”
You stared at him, dazed. “You are throwing up.”
He pointed a finger at you, half-laughing and half-gagging. “Don’t fucking correct me—holy shit, your hair smells like vomit and cigarettes.”
He gagged again.
You turned your head slowly, brow furrowed. Eyes rimmed red. You hadn’t even processed what he’d said—what he’d seen.
“I can’t sit in here anymore.”
Frank stood and grabbed your arm. Not harsh. Not rough. Just… urgent.
You didn’t fight him.
He half-carried you down the hallway, past the bunk cots and mess of blankets, ignoring the few WLF soldiers who paused to stare. He shoved open the door to the communal showers and barked, “Clear out.”
A few mumbled protests. One glance at his face and they scattered.
He led you to the furthest stall. No door. No curtain. Just rusted tile and a busted showerhead that still worked if you twisted the knob just right.
He turned his back to you, hand covering his eyes. “Get in. Now.”
Your hands fumbled with your soiled clothes. Everything stank—vomit, blood, sweat, the stale smoke on your breath. You peeled it off, piece by piece, and stepped into the freezing spray. It hit your skin like needles.
You gasped.
Frank didn’t move. Didn’t look. Just stood on the other side of the wall, keeping his voice steady as the water pelted you.
“I saw Abby.”
The words hit harder than the water.
You pressed your forehead to the wall.
“She looked like shit,” he continued, voice softer now. “Like she’d been crying. Said she didn’t know what to do with you anymore.”
The water ran down your spine.
“What happened?”
You didn’t say anything. Just let the shower wash the filth off you—what it could, anyway.
The rest was still under your skin.
He repeated himself, firmer this time.
“Joan.”
Your full name. Not Jo, not kid, not shithead.
That meant he was serious.
He crouched by the shower wall, arms resting on his knees, still catching his breath from earlier.
“What happened?”
His voice was tired. Not angry. Just… disappointed. Heavy.
You couldn’t look at him. Steam rose off your shoulders as the warm water flowed over your skin, trying to rinse away what couldn’t be scrubbed clean.
Your voice cracked. “Owen was talking. Asking questions.” You sniffled hard, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. “He cornered me. I told them. About Boston. About Nathan. About… Terra.”
Frank didn’t respond right away. You could hear him shift, the creak of old tile beneath his boots. Then, finally:
“Everything?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You sucked in a shaky breath. “Most of it.”
That hung between you. Heavy like mold in the walls, like rot in the bones of this place.
Outside, boots echoed down the hall—some soldier changing shifts or getting back from patrol. You blinked at the sound, feeling small. Exposed.
“Jo…” Frank started, then trailed off.
You wanted to scream.
You wanted to cry.
But all you could do was press your forehead to the cold, rust-specked tile and let the water pour over you, hiding your tears, hiding you.
Shame clung to your skin thicker than the blood or the bile.
Then—
Your stomach twisted again. You heaved forward violently, choking out what little was left in you.
A thin stream of watery vomit hit the shower drain, splashing faintly before swirling away with the rust-colored water.
“Oh fuck, Jo—c’mon,” Frank’s voice gagged from beyond the wall. You heard him stumble out, the echo of boots scuffing on concrete.
“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed. “Smells like a rotting deer in here.”
You barely registered the door open again. Muffled voices. Then—
“Joan?”
You flinched at the sound.
Abby.
Her voice was gentle—softer than it had any right to be. But it carried that same weight, that commanding presence, even in a whisper.
“Oh god,” she muttered under her breath as she stepped into the locker room, boots crunching over salt-dried tile.
You retched again, your ribs aching as you bent forward. The mix of vomit, cigarette ash, and blood clung to everything.
Abby paused just beyond the wall of the showers. You didn’t have to see her to feel the shock hit her—like she’d been punched.
“The smell...” she murmured. Her voice cracked. “What did you do?”
Her footsteps were quiet as she approached, careful, as if you might collapse or bite or both.
She didn’t touch you. She didn’t flinch.
But you felt her eyes as they drifted down to the half-healed cuts on your arm.
The faded ones. The fresh ones.
All of it, laid bare beneath the flickering overhead light.
She swallowed.
And you snapped.
“Just go,” you rasped.
Your voice was hoarse, cracked.
“You don’t want me. I’m horrible. I’ve done horrible shit.”
There it was.
The confession.
You didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.
The silence sat like a wound.
Then Abby exhaled slowly.
“Look—” she said, voice thick. “Yesterday was...”
She stopped herself, rewinding, choosing her next words carefully.
“I want to talk about it, Joan.”
She stepped a little closer, still not touching you. “I’ve done stuff too. Things I—I’m not proud of either.”
You finally turned your head.
Water streamed down your cheeks, mixing with tears you couldn’t hide anymore.
There was pain in her eyes. Guilt. Recognition.
You sat curled on the cold tile, naked, soaked, and shaking. The flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting you in harsh, clinical strips of shadow and shine.
Your arms wrapped around your shoulders instinctively — not from the cold, but from shame.
From the way Abby looked at you.
She stood just a few feet away. Boots wet. Breath shallow.
You caught her staring — not at the blood, or the cuts — but at you.
All of you.
You turned your face away.
Then, without a word, she stepped forward and shut off the water.
It left the room in an eerie quiet. Just the sound of water dripping from your hair onto the tile.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
“I need to—” her voice caught. She steadied herself. “I need to hear the whole story, Joan.”
You flinched. Not from the cold this time.
You reached for the towel and stood, slow and unsteady, wrapping it around yourself like armor.
“I told you—” your voice cracked from dehydration, exhaustion. “I told you the whole—”
Abby raised her hand. Not harshly. Just… enough.
“No.” Her voice was low. Firm. “All of it. Why you joined FEDRA. What happened in Boston. Everything.”
You looked at her, really looked. And for a moment, there was no fury on her face. Just something harder to name.
Need?
Dread?
She wasn’t asking for an excuse. She was asking for the truth.
Maybe to stay. Maybe to go.
Your throat burned like fire.
But still, you nodded.
You walked up to Abby’s apartment beside her, still dripping in shame and leftover soap.
Frank had parted ways at the bottom of the stairs, but you saw him linger in the corner of your vision — pacing like he didn’t trust himself to walk away completely.
Your sleeves clung to your skin, damp and stinging where they rubbed against half-healed cuts.
You didn’t dare scratch. Not in front of her.
Inside, the apartment was quiet. Lived-in. Manny was gone.
You sat down slowly on Abby’s couch, the cushions firmer than you remembered. Maybe it was just you — the tension in your body turning everything to stone.
Abby handed you a cup of water without a word. You took it. Drank half. Spilled a little.
She sat beside you. Not close enough to touch — not yet.
“Okay,” she said, her voice steady but far from cold. “When did you decide to join FEDRA?”
You stared at the water, watching it ripple in your hands.
“I was fifteen.” Your voice came out dry, like it had to push past years to get to the surface.
“Rations were running low. FEDRA gave extra to soldiers.”
She nodded slowly, waiting.
You paused. Took another sip. The cup trembled slightly.
“Frank told me I wasn’t allowed to.”
Abby’s brow furrowed, eyes locked on your profile. “What do you mean?”
You exhaled, long and shaky. “Frank moved in when I was twelve. My mom took him in after his mom died. He was like—he is—my brother. But he was already in uniform by then.”
You glanced toward the floor.
“He worked patrols. Double shifts sometimes. Just to make sure we had enough to eat. He used to bring home scraps from the officer’s mess and say he ‘found it.’” You gave a humorless laugh. “I didn’t want him to have to work so hard.”
Abby said nothing. You could feel her gaze—sharp but not unkind.
“I thought if I joined up, if I helped… we’d be okay. Mom didn’t argue either. Not out loud. She just… hugged me longer that night.”
You paused again, then added quietly:
“She didn’t want me to end up like her.”
Abby furrowed her brow, “A firefly?”
You nodded slowly, staring at your hands.
“I wanted to join the Fireflies when I was younger. Thought they were brave—heroes, y’know?”
A dry smile cracked across your face. It didn’t last.
“But as I got older… it just felt like a fantasy. Something only people without anyone to feed could afford to believe in.”
Your voice grew quieter.
“To scrape by, to actually survive… FEDRA seemed like the better option. The safer one.”
You glanced toward Abby. She didn’t interrupt.
“In school, they taught us… different things. Sanitized history. Rebels were murderers, terrorists. You get that drilled into you enough, it sticks—even if you know better.”
She gave a small nod, her expression unreadable.
You hesitated, then added, “My mom offered to get me in with her friends—Fireflies. Said they needed smart kids, good ears. But I said no.”
A long beat of silence.
“Honestly?” You looked down at your knees. “Most of my friends joined FEDRA when I turned fifteen. I followed them. Not because I believed in it. Because I was scared. I didn’t know how to live in a war. I just wanted it to stop.”
Abby breathed out softly, letting the words settle.
Then she asked, “Tell me more about your mom.”
You clenched your jaw, the taste of bile already creeping up your throat. But you answered anyway.
“What part?”
There was hesitation in her voice when she replied, “What did she say about you… killing Terra?”
Your stomach turned. That was the one piece you hadn’t handed over.
“She—” You blinked, steadying yourself. “She didn’t get the chance.”
Abby looked at you, a crease forming between her brows.
You swallowed hard. “Terra told on us. After I planted the map under Nathan’s bed. She found out—told me I had a week to fix it, to get him released. Thought I had pull since I was FEDRA.”
You shook your head. “I didn’t. Not really. All they did was let me torture him. And when he wasn’t released, she told command about my mom. About the maps, the intel she was sneaking out. All of it.”
Abby was still. Her face unreadable, but you could feel something churning behind her eyes. Maybe it was anger. Maybe grief. Maybe both.
“They hanged my mom the next morning in the square,” you said again, your voice barely holding. “Frank and I… we were tortured the night before. They came to our door, no warning, no questions. Just dragged us out like animals.”
You could still feel the burn of zip ties on your wrists. The taste of blood in your mouth. The reek of that cement room.
“Frank… he took the fall for me,” you whispered. “He lied. Said the map was his. Said I didn’t know anything.”
Your throat burned. You didn’t know if it was from the tears or the rot still clawing through your hangover.
Abby didn’t say a word. Just watched. Still, somehow, it didn’t feel cold. Just heavy.
“She didn’t know I killed Terra,” you said, quieter now. “Because by then… she was already gone.”
You folded forward, elbows on your knees, hands laced over the back of your neck like you were bracing for a blow.
“I didn’t even get to tell her goodbye.”
The words fell like stones between you both.
You took in a sharp, shuddering breath. Your ribs ached from earlier. Or from the past. You couldn’t tell anymore.
“When I looked up at her,” you went on, barely getting the words out, “after they let me out… after I’d been forced to beat Frank’s face in with a fucking pipe—” Your voice broke. “I couldn’t think straight.”
Abby blinked slowly, nodding once. Not forgiving. Not yet. But listening.
“I ran Terra down that same day,” you said, your voice trembling. “She was walking like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just sentenced my mom to die.”
You swallowed. Your mouth was dry. The memory was too loud, too close.
“I shoved her against a wall. Didn’t even let her talk. Just… started hitting her.”
Your fingers gripped your scalp. “I didn’t think she was going to die.”
You felt the truth of that settle inside you. Like something permanent.
“I just wanted her to feel it.”
The silence was unbearable. You didn’t look up. You didn’t dare.
Abby sat stiffly beside you on the couch, her elbows on her knees, fingers tangled and fidgeting. The dim glow of a lantern cast both of your shadows long against the wall.
She finally spoke. “What you did—” She paused, voice strained. “It wasn’t right.”
You felt your stomach clench.
“But…” she continued, softer now, “I get why you did it.”
The words didn’t feel like forgiveness—but they didn’t feel like condemnation, either.
You sunk into the couch, arms wrapped tight around your ribs. Your empty stomach burned against your skin. Shame was a second skin now. A thick, suffocating layer.
“I’m the reason Cleo died too,” you muttered.
Abby’s head snapped toward you. “Cleo?” Her voice had a flicker of alarm in it.
You nodded, slow and tired. “Daniel’s girlfriend. My friend. She introduced me to Terra. She always came back to me—even after I turned Daniel in.”
Abby’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“I was scared, Abby,” you said. The words came fast, brittle.
“Why?” she pushed, more gently this time.
You stared at the water stain on the ceiling. “It was right after my mom died. Everything was crumbling. FEDRA was shooting people in the street for even having Firefly tags in their home. You didn’t even have to be caught doing anything. Just affiliated.” You paused. “He told me… in the middle of the QZ, like it was nothing. Like he could just leave, and I’d be fine.”
Abby didn’t interrupt.
You swallowed. “Cleo… she was supposed to make it out. We all were. Frank had the route planned, he even packed our bags. We made it to the last safehouse, barely. I was a fucking mess. Drunk every night, hungover every morning. I couldn’t even stand up straight without vomiting.”
Your throat felt raw now, like it had been scoured with steel wool.
“I forgot my rifle,” you said, flat. “At the last stop. I left it under the bed like a dumbass. When Frank noticed, I couldn’t even think straight enough to go back. Cleo didn’t even hesitate. She said, ‘I got it.’” Your jaw trembled. “She ran inside. And then—”
Your voice broke.
“She stepped back through the doorway. And a sniper blew her fucking head open.”
Abby closed her eyes.
You let out a bitter laugh, harsh and thin. “That’s on me.”
“That’s not your fault, Jo,” Abby whispered.
You shook your head. “If I wasn’t drunk, she never would’ve had to go back. I should’ve been the one. I should’ve died.”
The lantern crackled. Somewhere in the distance, you heard the whine of stadium pipes struggling to push water through rusted lines.
You let the silence fall again. But this time, you weren’t alone in it.
Abby didn’t say anything—she just reached for the edge of the blanket on the couch and draped it around your shoulders. Her hand lingered for a second, warm and firm.
You looked away, ashamed, as Abby wrapped her arms around you. Her body was warm—solid, grounding. The weight of her touch steadied your breath, even as your heart felt like it was bleeding out into the silence.
Her chin rested gently on your shoulder for a moment. You could hear the steadiness of her breath, the faint crackle of the lantern beside the couch, and somewhere far off, the murmur of soldiers changing shifts on the stadium floor.
Your voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. “Is this it, then?”
Abby pulled back slightly, her brow furrowed. “What?”
You sighed, couldn’t meet her eyes. “Us. Is this where it ends?”
For a heartbeat, she didn’t say anything. Then she shook her head, slow and certain.
“No, Jo.” Her voice was firmer now. “What you did… I’m not saying it’s okay. I won’t pretend it didn’t fuck with me. But—” she exhaled, rubbing a hand along the back of her neck, “I know you weren’t in your right mind back then. I know what it’s like to live in survival mode. I’ve seen what it does to people.”
You glanced at her.
“The Jo I know now,” she continued, “would never do any of that. But back then…” She trailed off, then met your eyes. “Back then you were drowning. And no one threw you a rope.”
She reached out again, touching your hand. “I see you trying now. I see you fighting for it. For change. For me.”
You swallowed hard.
She looked down, jaw tight. “I haven’t always done the right thing either. I’ve hurt people. I’ve made calls I still have to live with.” Her voice dipped lower. “You think I don’t carry ghosts too?”
You nodded slowly, your eyes stinging.
You didn’t need her to say I forgive you—not yet. Maybe not ever.
But this?
This was enough for now.
You leaned into her shoulder, letting yourself breathe in the scent of her skin—gunpowder, soap, and something soft underneath. Something that always reminded you of safety.
And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you were allowed to hope again.
______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 33: Solutions

You woke up to shouting.
Not just raised voices—fighting.
Your body jerked upright on instinct. The room spun. Your head throbbed. But then you heard it:
Abby.
Manny.
And… Owen?
You pushed yourself upright, bracing against the couch as your ears sharpened, tuning into the storm just beyond the door.
“You don’t fucking understand what happened!” Abby’s voice, sharp like a whipcrack.
“You’re really gonna let this break everyone apart?” Owen snapped back, frustration bleeding through.
Silence, then Manny’s voice—quieter, but still tense.
“How do you even know that’s the truth, Abs?”
“Then why don’t you two go ask Frank?” Abby shot back. “He was there for all of it.”
Your stomach dropped like a brick in your gut.
Frank.
The door creaked open. Light spilled in. Owen hovered over you, his face tight with unreadable emotion.
Abby stood behind him, arms crossed, but her eyes were softer than you expected.
“Where’s your brother?” Owen asked. His voice was low. Cold.
You rubbed your face, disoriented. “I don’t fucking know,” you muttered, sitting up. “Probably the mess.”
Manny was already on it. He cracked the door wider and peeked down the hall.
“He’s there. Saw him earlier.”
The four of you headed out together. You were still pulling on your jacket as you walked. The inside stuck to your bandaged arm. The ache in your gut wasn’t just from hunger—it was dread, rising in waves.
The mess hall buzzed as always. The clatter of tin bowls. The drone of tired laughter. And there he was—Frank.
He sat near the corner with two younger patrol recruits, eating slow and steady like he always did, laughing at some dumb joke.
Until he saw you.
His whole posture changed in an instant. His eyes flicked to Manny, to Owen. And then to you.
Manny didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Frank. You need to talk.”
Frank stood, slow. His jaw clenched.
“The fuck’s going on?”
You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
“Outside,” Owen said, his voice firm. “Now.”
Frank glanced around the mess. A couple soldiers paused to watch. One of the girls at his table tensed, like she thought a fight was about to break out.
Frank rolled his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath, and followed you all out.
You ended up back in the same courtyard where you’d confessed it all. The air was cooler now. Sky overcast. Someone had left their cigarette butts smoldering on a nearby bench.
Frank lit his own. Took a long drag.
“Alright,” he said, exhaling slow. “What the hell is this?”
Owen’s jaw clenched, desperate to be right about you. His voice sharpened.
“Terra—what happened with her?”
Frank let out a loud, theatrical groan, tossing his head back like he’d just been asked to recite an opera.
“Oh my fucking god. Are we seriously still on this?”
The others stared at him.
Frank took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke with the patience of a man who’s had to babysit idiots before.
Owen didn’t flinch. He was locked in.
“Tell us what happened.”
Frank raised an eyebrow.
“I’d love to, really. But I was a little busy getting my shit kicked in by FEDRA guards while Joan was probably crying blood and choking on guilt. So unless the prison walls were whispering secrets, I got jack.”
He looked at Owen, then at Manny. “All I know is what Jo told me. And frankly, I don’t see her sitting around lying about her trauma just to impress you.”
Owen’s fists curled again.
“So she could be lying.”
Frank blinked. Then gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“Yeah, totally. Makes perfect sense. She faked a breakdown, sliced up her arms, pissed herself, vomited her soul out, and nearly drank herself into a coma—just to cover up for a lie she could’ve avoided by running off like every other asshole in this city.”
He flicked ash into the dirt, his tone cooling.
“Why would she lie, Owen? Really. You think Jo’s dumb enough to confess murder, addiction, and betrayal just for fun?”
The silence stretched.
Frank leaned back against the wall, looking tired now.
“None of us are clean. We’ve all got blood on our hands. Some of us just wear gloves and pretend they’re white.”
You looked away as you leaned on the cold metal railing, the rusted edge biting into your arms. Below, the stadium buzzed with normalcy—dogs barking, someone laughing near the mess hall, boots clanging on catwalks. But up here, everything felt wrong. Too still. Too exposed.
Frank always made sense in situations like this. Even when everything was chaos, he was a compass pointing true north—tired, beaten-up, probably bitter as hell—but steady. Grounded.
Manny broke the silence first, his voice soft, unusually gentle.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Jo?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just stared down at your boots, scuffed and covered in stadium dust. You used to love the way Manny said your name—how his J’s hit like little waves, his accent always curling just slightly around the vowels. It used to comfort you.
But now? It just stung.
You shrugged. What else could you say?
Frank turned to him, eyes sharp.
“It wasn’t your business,” he snapped, voice cutting the air like wire.
The tension climbed, but Frank didn’t let it fester.
He waved both Manny and Owen off with a quick flick of his hand like they were nosy pigeons.
He waited until they were gone before turning back to you. Then walked you to the far corner of the catwalk, where no one could hear you breathe.
“This is—” you started, the guilt hitching in your throat.
But Frank just wrapped you in a hug.
Tight. Warm. The kind that made your knees want to give out. He smelled like smoke and leather and too many years of bad decisions.
“I’m so happy you’re in drama,” he muttered into your shoulder.
You shoved him away with a sharp laugh.
“What?!”
He grinned, wiping at his face like he wasn’t suddenly misty-eyed.
“Means you made a real friend. Got someone who pisses you off and drags you through hell and still comes back for you.”
He glanced back toward the direction Abby had gone.
“That girl’s either in love with you or clinically insane. Honestly? Could be both.”
You didn’t say anything. Just let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like days.
The wind carried faint hints of soil and gun oil. The stadium buzzed in the distance—someone hammering, dogs barking near the kennels—but up here, it was just you and Frank again.
You sighed, running your hands down your sides, settling them on your hips.
“How the hell do I deal with Owen?”
Frank barked a laugh, dry and sharp.
“You don’t.”
You gave him a look, but it softened when your thoughts drifted—Abby. Her voice, her eyes last night. The way she still held you like something worth saving.
You clicked your tongue.
Frank nudged you, then handed you something—six wrinkled, dirt-dusted cigarettes tied in twine. And a paper bag.
“Go get her grapes.”
You blinked. “Grapes?”
“Apologize for not being honest earlier,” he added, stuffing the cigarettes into your coat. “Tell her you’re a mess. Bring a peace offering. Women love fruit.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Her idea of me’s been shattered, and you want me to show up with produce?”
Frank shrugged like it was obvious.
“Hey, I once made up with a girl by giving her a jar of pickles. Don’t underestimate the power of snacks.”
He tilted his head. “And she’ll appreciate it. It means you were thinking.”
You scoffed, but didn’t argue. Frank somehow always had seven women orbiting him and not a single one tried to kill him. That had to mean something.
You made your way down through the main floor, past the mess hall, toward the garden tents tucked beside the old fishery. The smell of compost and rosemary lingered in the air. You traded three of the smokes Frank gave you to a wiry girl at a produce stand for a crinkled paper pouch of greenhouse-grown grapes.
They were slightly bruised. But still sweet.
You walked the rest of the way to Abby’s apartment, your boots echoing against the concrete stairwell. Your stomach twisted. You wished you had more than fruit in your hand.
You knocked once. Then again.
She answered.
Her eyes were puffy. She’d been crying—maybe fighting again. Maybe just tired.
You lifted the bag. Your voice came out small.
“I got you something.”
Her brows knit at first, then slowly loosened. You saw her mouth twitch, biting back a smile she didn’t want to show. Her face flushed faintly pink.
She stepped aside without a word.
“Come in.”
You stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floor under your boots echoing through the quiet apartment.
Abby closed the door behind you.
“Grapes?” she asked, one brow arched.
You nodded, setting the small bag on the table. “You said you liked them.”
She let out a breath of a laugh—like she couldn’t quite believe it. Not in a mocking way. More like something warm cracked through the tension.
“What?”
You gave her a tired smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest.”
You saw it hit her—those words. Her eyes didn’t harden. They softened. But still, she raised a hand.
“I don’t care who you used to be,” she said, cutting through your apology like a scalpel, but not cruelly. Just… truthfully.
You blinked. Her words landed like a fist to your chest—but gentler somehow. Stunned, you met her eyes. That same bright, steel-blue you used to catch in glimpses across training fields and crowded hallways. Now she was right in front of you.
Your breath hitched.
She stepped closer, slow, like she wasn’t entirely sure you’d let her—but you didn’t flinch.
She raised both hands to your face, fingers rough from callouses but impossibly tender now. Her thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, against the faded shadows of everything you’d been carrying.
She kissed you.
Soft.
Not desperate. Not fiery.
Just real.
When she pulled away, her forehead rested against yours.
“I only care about who you are now,” she whispered into your lips.
The words cracked something open in you. Your breath hitched. The weight of everything — Boston, Terra, the pills, the blood, the bile — lifted just enough for you to feel the shape of her mouth again. Your hands, trembling and unsure, found their way to her waist.
You didn’t mean to — it just happened. The way she leaned into you, the heat of her breath, the way she kissed you like she meant it this time.
Abby paused. Looked at you.
You braced for her to pull back. To change her mind.
But instead, without a word, she pushed you down gently onto the couch. Her hand gripped your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.
“I missed you,” she murmured, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it — almost like it embarrassed her to admit it.
She pulled her shirt off in one smooth motion. No hesitation. Just intention.
You followed her lead, shrugging out of yours, your skin prickling at the sudden shift in temperature. The two of you met again, your mouths crashing softly, slowly. Her bra brushed yours, and for a moment, everything else faded — the guilt, the shame, the fractures between you.
Just her heartbeat. And yours, finally slowing.
You exhaled against her collarbone, holding her tighter than you meant to.
She didn’t pull away.
Her lips lingered on yours for a moment longer before trailing slowly up to your jaw, then to the edge of your ear. Her breath was warm, sending a shiver down your spine.
“You know…” she whispered, her voice still husky from pleasure, “don’t think this gets you out of doing my laundry.”
You blinked. Pulled back just slightly to look at her. “What?”
Abby grinned—lazy and flushed—before leaning back in, her nose brushing the curve of your ear. You could feel the smirk in her voice.
“I want to try something,” she murmured. “Something that’ll make me feel better.”

Chapter 34: Repeat

There was a glint of mischief behind her words. That same playful authority she carried when training rookies or dragging Manny out of trouble. But here, in this space between your bodies, it felt charged in a new way—intimate.
You raised an eyebrow, heart still fluttering. “Better than that?”
She laughed softly, chest shaking beneath you. “Different kind of better,” she said, her fingers curling gently around your waist as she pulled you back down against her. “You’ll see.”
Abby took your hand and walked you over to the bed—but didn’t sit beside you. Instead, she guided you down with firm, steady pressure to your shoulders. You sat, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and confusion.
She crouched near the foot of the bed and pulled out a small box from beneath the frame.
When she opened it, you saw coils of rope—neatly bundled, worn in. Her fingers moved with familiarity as she picked one up and held it between you.
“I’ve thought about this for a while,” she said, her voice low, calm. “I think this would really make it up to me.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“Rope?” you echoed, heart skipping a beat.
Your face flushed before you could stop it, heat rising up your neck to your ears. She noticed. Of course she did.
Abby smirked, eyes glinting with quiet satisfaction. “Yep.”
There was no teasing lilt in her tone. Just confidence. A grounded kind of command.
You hesitated for only a second before you nodded. Not out of submission—out of trust. Because whatever this was, whatever Abby had in mind, you knew you were safe in it. And maybe that’s what made your pulse race even more.
Honestly, you were just relieved that things felt okay between you again. That the air between you was warm, charged, not filled with silence or regret.
She grabbed a wooden chair from the corner of the room and motioned for you to sit. You did so carefully, heart thudding.
Abby moved behind you without a word, her presence solid, grounding. The rope slid against your wrists as she tied them behind the back of the chair—secure, not cruel. The fibers were rough, but not painful.
You stiffened instinctively, nerves prickling at the surface. This was new. This was vulnerable.
Your breath quickened.
Then Abby knelt in front of you, her hands gliding down your thighs. The rope tugged against your wrists with even the smallest movement, a quiet reminder that you were no longer in control.
“Abby…” you said quietly, bashfully. Your voice barely more than a breath.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she kissed your thighs through your pants—slow and deliberate—her lips pressing heat through the fabric. Then her teeth found the waistband, tugging playfully.
When she looked up at you, her face was soft, but her eyes were sharp. Steady.
“You weren’t supposed to smoke or drink, Jo,” she said, voice low and firm.
You swallowed hard. “I know but—”
She exhaled, and her hands tightened just slightly around your hips.
“Next time,” she said, gaze locked with yours, “tell me. So I can take your mind off it.”
She reached up, unbuttoning your pants with slow, deliberate fingers. You shivered as her knuckles brushed against your skin.
The room felt impossibly quiet—except for your breath, and the rush of blood in your ears.
You tried to slow your breathing, but it was nearly impossible.
Your heart was pounding like it was trying to crawl out of your chest.
Earlier, you were convinced it was over—that you’d lost her. That Abby would never touch you again, never look at you with softness in her eyes, never hold you like you were hers.
And now, here she was.
Kneeling in front of you.
You, tied up and helpless. Her, calm and in control.
It electrified every inch of your skin. Every place she touched felt like fire trailing along your nerves. The rope bit gently into your wrists with every twitch, every tremor, and it made the moment feel real—anchored in something beyond lust.
You bit your lip hard as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your pants and tugged.
“Lift your hips,” she said, voice firm, almost casual.
You obeyed instantly—wordlessly—lifting your hips just enough to let her slide your pants down. She moved slowly, deliberately, her fingers dragging across your skin as the fabric slid lower.
Your underwear came with them.
And suddenly, you felt exposed. Stripped bare in a way that was far more than physical.
You instinctively tried to close your legs, knees shifting together out of reflex.
But Abby wasn’t having it.
Her hands slid up your inner thighs, slow and steady, and she gently pushed your knees apart again. Her touch was patient, but purposeful. Your legs trembled under the pressure.
“What's gotten you so sensitive, Jo?” she whispered against the curve of your hip.
The breath of her words made you flinch. You jerked a little in the chair, tugging against the rope.
Your wrists flexed, but there was no give.
Abby chuckled low in her throat.
“Don’t make me tie your legs too,” she teased, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your thigh.
The contrast between her words and her gentleness made your head spin. Her mouth was soft, reverent. Her hands remained steady, spreading you open like she was unveiling something sacred.
And you were shaking—not from fear, but from the overwhelming ache of wanting.
Of being wanted.
You were already whimpering as Abby peeled your legs open again, her palms steady on your trembling thighs.
Normally, you liked having control—loved it. Pleasuring Abby, watching her collapse under your touch, seeing the strongest person you’d ever met come undone just for you… that was your high. Your drug.
But this?
This side of her—confident, commanding, hungry—had you unraveling.
She didn’t have to say much. Just her hands holding you open like you were something to be devoured, the way her mouth ghosted over your skin, her breath hot and measured—it made your whole body feel like it was teetering on the edge of something dangerous and beautiful.
You could fall over at any second.
Abby chuckled lowly as she kissed slowly up your thigh, taking her time, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin. You were already soaked—aching—and the cool air brushing against your exposed heat only made the pulsing worse.
Then she pulled your hips toward her just slightly, hands firm.
And she kissed your slick opening.
Just once.
Your body jolted, a high-pitched squeal escaping before you could stop it. You writhed slightly, the rope tugging at your wrists again as you tried to stay grounded.
“Already?” she murmured, raising one brow, a smirk tugging at her lips as she looked up at you from between your legs.
You turned your head away, biting your lip hard. “Don’t,” you whispered, voice shaky with embarrassment.
Your cheeks burned.
But Abby only laughed softly—fondly.
Then, without warning, she took you into her mouth.
She let out a deep moan as she did, the vibration shooting straight through your core like lightning. That sound—Abby moaning for you—made something primal snap inside you.
Your head tilted back hard, your breath caught. You bit your lip so hard you nearly tasted blood, doing everything you could to hold back the desperate noises clawing at your throat.
Her tongue swirled around you slowly—painfully slow—dragging and teasing, savoring you like she had all the time in the world.
And still, her hands stayed firm on your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you hers.
Abby pulled away slowly, her lips glistening with your slick. Her breath was warm against your thighs, and when you looked down, you saw her mouth—wet, flushed, open just slightly like she wanted to go back in.
Your whole body trembled, your lip still caught between your teeth, jaw tight as you fought to keep control.
But Abby wasn’t having that.
She spread your legs further with firm hands, your muscles twitching under her grip.
“You know,” she said casually, her voice playful but edged with warning, “if you keep holding back your pretty noises…”
She dragged her thumbs up your inner thighs, then let them settle near your hips.
“…I won’t keep going.”
Your breath hitched—a ragged sigh escaping your lips despite yourself. Her words shot through you, burning down your spine. The tease. The threat.
It made you dizzy.
Abby raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Joan?” she murmured.
She slid forward again, her face now just inches from your center.
“Do you understand?” she asked, her voice dipping into something sultry and low—like silk sliding over skin. Her blue eyes looked up at you, dark and wide and impossibly soft. Like a question and a command all at once. Like a puppy… or a wolf just waiting to devour.
You nodded—breathless, helpless.
“Good,” she said with a smirk, and without another word, she took you back into her mouth.
Your body jolted.
“Fuck–” you cried out, your head snapping back, hips bucking against the chair. The ropes tugged tight against your wrists as you writhed, your thighs twitching around her face.
You were a mess now—a whimpering, gasping, squirming mess—and she loved it.
Her tongue moved in steady, unrelenting strokes, and each time her mouth sealed around you, the pleasure twisted higher. You could barely breathe, barely think.
“Abby!” you squealed. “Untie me—c’mon, no fair!”
She laughed into you, a deep, throaty chuckle that vibrated against your most sensitive place—sending shockwaves up your spine and down through your legs.
Your knees buckled outward as your whole body shook, the orgasm building inside you like a wave threatening to break everything in its path.
And still, Abby didn’t stop.
Your climax hit like a crashing wave—sharp, sudden, and all-consuming.
You cried out, voice thin and desperate, your whole body shaking under her. Your legs spasmed around her shoulders as her thumb gently traced soothing circles into your thigh, grounding you, even as everything inside you came undone.
But she didn’t stop.
You were panting, wrung out, trembling—and still her tongue moved, faster now, unrelenting and focused. The sensation jolted through you like electricity, pleasure twisted into something sharp.
“Abby—” you gasped, your voice barely holding shape. “That’s—enough—”
But she didn’t let up.
Her hands tightened on your hips, keeping you right where she wanted you. Your body twitched violently, trying to pull back, your wrists pulling uselessly at the rope as you sobbed out a half-moan, half-laugh, overwhelmed.
“Abby, please—”
She didn’t respond. She moaned into you.
And that was all it took.
You came again—your second orgasm tearing through you without warning. You screamed as the pleasure cracked you open, your body convulsing under her mouth. Your spine arched hard, veins visible in your neck as you gasped for air.
“A—again, I’m coming—” you managed, voice broken.
Her grip only tightened.
You spilled out onto the wooden seat beneath you—your wetness mixing with her spit, streaking down your thighs, dripping onto the floor in long, glistening strings. Your skin glowed with sweat, every muscle trembling, overstimulated and undone.
“Abby, okay—okay, please—”
Your voice cracked, high and pleading. You tried to pull away, but your legs were weak, shaking uncontrollably.
Still she shook her head, tongue locked on you.
You whimpered—throbbing, hypersensitive, gasping through every heartbeat that pulsed between your legs. You could barely form thoughts, let alone words.
And then it hit you again.
Your third climax ripped through you harder than the last, your entire body convulsing. Your thighs trembled. Your wrists ached against the bindings. You squealed—a ragged, animal noise—trying to break free from the relentless heat of her mouth.
Three times. That was more than enough. That was more than you’d ever—
But she didn’t stop.
She kept going.
Your body jerked, twitching uncontrollably, as her tongue pressed harder, faster, more intense with every cry. You squirmed, begged, fought against the ropes.
“Abby, enough—please, please, I can’t—” you sobbed, your voice barely more than a shattered whisper.
She laughed into you—low, dark, and just a little cruel.
And you broke again.
You whimpered through your fourth climax, your body convulsing in place, overstimulated beyond sense. Your breath came in short, shattered bursts, barely enough to keep you grounded.
“Abby—please…” you begged, voice cracking as tears spilled down your cheeks.
Five.
She moaned into your heat, her back arching outward as if the taste of you gave her relief, not just you. It only pressed her firmer into you.
Six.
Your head snapped back, and a squeal punched out of you from somewhere deep in your gut. It didn't even sound human.
Seven.
Her finger slipped inside you, slow and deliberate at first, then desperate, pumping in rhythm with her tongue.
Eight.
“Abby, I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—” you cried out, truly unraveling now.
Nine.
She shook her head, chuckling, then pushed a second finger in beside the first. You gasped, your whole body clenching.
Ten.
You tried to thrash, tried to buck away, but she had you completely pinned. The ropes pulled taut at your wrists with every frantic jerk. She gave you no breaks. No time to breathe. No time to even think.
Eleven.
Her evil smirk was felt against you more than seen, her mouth slick with your mess. Your legs gave out, shaking, trembling in her grip.
Twelve.
You were babbling now, unable to form words—just broken, cracked moans and trembling sobs. You weren’t speaking anymore. You were pouring out.
Thirteen.
Then her hand moved lower, and she pressed a third finger somewhere new. Your third hole.
You squealed, spine arching.
“Wait—” you cried, but it lit something electric through you—impossibly intense. Your legs locked, your core squeezed tight, your mind scrambled.
Fourteen.
You shook, fresh tears falling as your body clenched and released against her hand and mouth.
Fifteen.
Your thoughts were a blur, flashing in fragments: How many times is she going to make me cum? Why does it feel better every time? I’m going to fall apart.
Sixteen.
She moaned against you again. Her lips didn’t leave you. The sound vibrated into your body. You squelched around her.
Seventeen.
Your voice cracked. “Abby—too much!” you sobbed.
She didn’t answer.
She shook her head and kept going.
Eighteen.
You screamed and folded forward, every inch of you trying to retreat. In response, her tongue and fingers sped up, brutal in their rhythm.
Nineteen.
You shook violently, body trembling, every hole throbbing, and the sensation overwhelmed you. You cried out again, not knowing if it was pain, pleasure, or both.
Twenty.
And then, finally… she pulled away.
Her lips and chin glistened, her breathing heavy.
“How many was that?” she asked, almost amused, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
You blinked at her through hazy, tear-blurred eyes. You were twitching, still shaking in the chair, your breath rattling as it escaped your lungs.
You shook your head, sniffling. “I… I don’t know.”
Your voice was a broken whisper. A ghost of yourself.
And still, she looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“You don’t know?” Abby asked, her voice low and teasing.
She stood in front of you, towering slightly, the light behind her catching the sheen of sweat on her chest, the flush on her cheeks. Her smirk was slow, curved with satisfaction—and just the faintest hint of menace.
You shook your head, body still twitching with aftershocks, your breath hitching as your eyes struggled to stay focused. Your voice came out hoarse, trembling:
“N–no, I…”
But before you could finish, she stepped forward and gently grabbed a fistful of your sweat-damp hair.
Not hard. Just enough to tilt your head up—force your eyes to hers.
Your lips parted. Your body froze.
She leaned over you, breath warm against your forehead.
“Then maybe,” she whispered, “we’ll have to go again.”
Your heart stuttered in your chest.
She looked down at you with something ravenous in her eyes—but there was also something else. Pride. Admiration. She didn’t just want to wreck you—she revered the way you let her.
You whimpered softly, your body still bound to the chair, aching, used, loved.
And you couldn’t help it—you nodded.

Chapter 35: The other one

Summary:

This one is short because a tornado siren is currently going off lol

She took you into her mouth.
Your hips bucked violently, your whole body twitching in the chair.
“Abigail!” you cried out, broken and hoarse.
Twenty-one.
She moaned into you, and it made everything sharper. You felt her muscles flexing as she worked you with her mouth and hands like she was sculpting you from the inside.
Twenty-two.
You shook. A full-body tremble. You weren’t sure you could do this again.
Twenty-three.
The tears returned—hot and fast.
“I—it hurts!” you sobbed.
Twenty-four.
She chuckled into you, that low, evil laugh vibrating straight into your nerves. Her tongue flicked faster now, relentless.
Twenty-five.
She pulled away and you gasped in relief, chest heaving like you’d just surfaced from drowning.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she cooed, slowly dragging her fingers against your inner thigh, “but you taste so good.”
Then her mouth was back on you before you could even brace.
Your back arched. You shook so hard the chair squeaked beneath you.
Twenty-six.
And then… you lost track.
You weren’t counting anymore.
You weren’t thinking anymore.
You just sat there, twitching and taking it, whimpering broken sounds, unable to form words.
Her fingers pumped into you. Her tongue was a blur. Your head fell back, your mouth open, eyes rolled. You moaned from somewhere deep and uncontrollable.
Finally—after what felt like forever—she pulled her fingers out.
You barely noticed her bring them to her mouth.
But you heard it. The slow, obscene sound as she sucked all three clean.
You sighed, body limp, slumping in the ropes. Your wrists throbbed. Your legs wouldn’t stop shaking.
Abby moved around you and gently untied your wrists. The rope fell away, and before you could collapse, she caught you—pulling you close, holding you against her warm body.
You swallowed, sniffled, the relief flooding you all at once. “That was—”
She grabbed your hair again—this time harder, dominant, possessive.
Her eyes bore into yours.
“On your knees.”
Your heart leapt. You nodded and obeyed, your muscles barely holding you up.
She unbuckled her belt, pulled off her pants, and stepped closer.
She guided your mouth to her with both hands.
Placing your mouth onto her soaked clit.
“Touch yourself,” she commanded, breath heavy.
You whimpered and obeyed, your hand sliding down, your fingers slick.
You sighed as her grip in your hair tightened, guiding you where she wanted you.
Your tongue swirled slowly, then faster, and she shook.
Her hips moved against your mouth, steady and demanding, guiding you with every desperate roll. You moaned into her, the taste of her flooding your tongue, your own hand between your legs working frantically as your hips bucked in tandem with hers.
You loved how rough she was with you—how tightly her fingers tangled in your hair, holding you down like she couldn’t bear to let go. The sharp pull at your scalp only drove you deeper into her.
“Joan—” she gasped, voice breaking apart, “God—good baby, like that—”
Her body shook above you, her thighs tightening, trembling.
And then she came.
You felt the moment it hit—her breath hitching, hips stuttering forward as she cried out and finally, finally released into you. Her hand slipped from your hair as she collapsed downward, squatting beside you and wrapping her arms around your shaking frame.
She pulled you close, kissing your forehead, chest still heaving.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, voice wrecked and raw.
You smiled through your haze, your muscles limp and your head resting against her shoulder.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, barely audible.
She didn’t wait. She flipped you gently, firmly—rolling your exhausted body forward until you were on your hands and knees, your arms barely strong enough to hold you up.
“Please,” she gasped, “just take it, baby.”
You heard her behind you—her low exhale. Her breath sharpening again.
“O-kay,” you whispered again, barely able to speak.
Her fingers slid inside you rougher than before. Not cruel, but enough to ache. Enough to make you gasp out loud.
Pain, pleasure, overstimulation—everything blurred.
Then you felt it.
Her mouth.
On your hole… Your puckering asshole.
You squealed, loud and helpless.
“Abby!”
She chuckled low into your skin.
You cried out again, and your climax hit like a storm you couldn’t outrun. Your arms buckled. Your body collapsed into the floor, but she didn’t stop. Her mouth and hands held you in place as you twitched, whimpered, and came completely undone.

Chapter 36: Ricochet

Summary:

:3

_________________________________________________________________________
Abby’s room, which usually smelled faintly of pine and mint—the clean, earthy scent you’d come to associate with her—was now heavy with the thick, unmistakable perfume of hours of passion. Sweat, breath, heat. Skin on skin. The air was damp and warm, like the remnants of a storm.
The floor beneath you was cold, the wood unforgiving against your flushed, overstimulated body. Your limbs trembled with aftershocks, your legs sprawled limply, your wrists raw from rope marks. Every nerve still buzzed faintly, like you were caught in the lingering echo of her voice and her hands and her mouth.
Abby held you from behind, her chest slick with sweat against your spine. Her arms were wrapped tightly around your stomach, grounding you. Her fingers stroked slowly, rhythmically, up and down your bare back—tracing the dips of your spine, the swell of your shoulder blades. Her touch was different now. Not possessive. Not dominant.
Just… hers.
“Was that too much?” she asked softly, her voice hoarse and frayed at the edges, laced with the remnants of pleasure and exertion.
The question hung in the air like smoke.
You didn’t answer right away. Your body still felt like it was vibrating, like your soul had left and was slowly finding its way back. You could hear her heartbeat against your back—slow, steady, anchoring you in reality.
You swallowed, then shook your head.
“I… liked it,” you whispered.
The words were soft. Shy. Like they barely wanted to exist.
But you meant them.
Even through the exhaustion, even through the ache and overstimulation and tears—you had never felt so claimed. So known. So close to someone.
Abby pressed her lips against your shoulder, a long, warm kiss that lingered. She didn’t say anything right away. Just held you tighter.
You turned your face slightly, eyes fluttering half-closed. Your cheek pressed against her bicep, the skin there still damp and warm.
Her fingers kept moving along your back. Soothing. Worshipful.
“I’ve never let anyone do that to me,” you admitted, barely louder than a breath.
Abby nodded against your neck, nuzzling in.
“You did so good,” she whispered. “You gave me everything.”
You smiled, eyes prickling with the last of your tears.
And for the first time in forever, you felt safe.
Sleep took you both, right on the floor.
______________________________________________________________________________
The morning sun crept in slow golden ribbons across the walls, tracing gentle patterns across your face. Light brushed over your eyelids, warm and lazy, and you stirred with a soft inhale.
Your eyes fluttered open.
And for a moment, you didn’t remember where you were.
But then you felt her.
The steady rise and fall of Abby’s chest against your back. The warmth of her arm draped over your middle. The weight of her leg tangled with yours beneath the blanket. Her presence was quiet and heavy like gravity—anchoring you, holding you still.
And that’s when it hit you:
There had been no nightmares.
No screaming.
No sweat.
No ghosts clawing through your sleep.
Just her.
She was holding your peace in her arms like she’d always known it belonged there.
You shifted slightly, your body still buzzing faintly from yesterday’s intensity. As you turned over, you were met with a pair of soft blue eyes already on you.
Abby was awake, her gaze tracing the edges of your face like she wanted to memorize you.
“Hi, Joan,” she whispered.
Two simple words—and they hit like a brick wall to your chest. You wanted to scream from how soft they were.
You nodded in response, your throat dry and sore—probably from the crying, the moaning, the begging.
You tried to flip over to lay on her chest, chasing that warmth—and then it hit you.
A pang of pain.
Deep. Low. Radiating through your hips and into your thighs.
You winced and let out a breath through your teeth.
Abby’s brow furrowed. “Joan?” she asked gently, concern creeping into her voice.
You chuckled, voice scratchy. “So sore…” you muttered, a little dazed, a little awed.
Abby stared at you for a second—then burst out laughing.
It was the kind of laugh that came from her gut—unfiltered and warm. She wrapped her arms around you, pulling you close until your cheek was pressed against her chest and her heartbeat filled your ears.
“Yeah, that’s on me,” she said, grinning.
You let your eyes close again, basking in the comfort of her heartbeat, the curve of her shoulder under your cheek, the afterglow in your bones.
You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want the moment to end.
And you were okay with the soreness.
Because it reminded you this was real.
She was real.
And she was still here.
“We should get off the floor,” Abby whispered against your temple, her voice still thick with sleep and affection.
You let out a little groan, your cheek still pressed to her warm chest. “I don’t want to,” you mumbled, nuzzling deeper into her skin.
She let out a soft laugh through her nose. You felt it more than heard it.
“I have patrol with Manny, Joan.”
You grumbled again, dragging your arm across your eyes like a stubborn child. “Let him go without you…”
“Nice try.”
Even so, she was gentle as she slowly guided you up. Her arms cradled under your ribs and back, lifting you carefully—mindful of your soreness. You winced the moment your hips shifted.
God bless the rotation schedule, you thought. At least today, you weren’t on duty. The idea of kicking a runner in the face while your thighs still trembled from last night made your entire spine want to fold.
You sighed as she laid you down onto the bed, your muscles aching as you adjusted into the soft mattress. The sheets were cool and clean, and the faint smell of Abby clung to them like a comfort spell.
She bent down and pressed a kiss to your forehead—warm, lingering—and then she stood.
You watched her as she got dressed.
There was something mesmerizing about it. The way she moved with quiet purpose, each motion efficient and familiar. Her back curved in the morning light as she sat at the edge of the bed to braid her hair, her fingers working quickly. You watched the dark blonde strands weave into one another like muscle memory, perfect in seconds.
She rose again and slipped on her bra with practiced ease, and it felt like someone reached through your chest and squeezed your heart. The way her body moved, the flex in her arms, the cut of her waist—everything about her was articulated.
Her black muscle tee followed, clinging to her torso, framing her strength. Then her olive-green patrol pants. Her boots, scuffed and perfectly broken-in. Her usual uniform—practical, intimidating, her.
She grabbed her pack from the corner, slinging it over her shoulder.
Before leaving, she leaned down again and kissed you—slower this time, like it had weight. Like it was meant to hold you through the hours you’d be apart.
“I’ll be with Manny today,” she said, brushing your hair back with her knuckles. “I’m gonna talk some sense into him.”
Her voice was calm, even. But you heard the quiet steel behind it.
You nodded wordlessly, eyes fluttering closed again, your body already sinking deeper into the sheets. She lingered a second longer, watching your face, like she didn’t want to leave—but then she turned.
You heard the door open, then click gently shut.
And you flipped over, curling into the warmth she left behind.
Sleep pulled you under again before you could miss her too much.
____________________________________________________________________________
When you finally woke up, it was mid-afternoon. The golden light through the blinds had shifted warmer, softer. You blinked against it, groggy, but more whole than before.
Your body still ached, but not as badly. You stretched—carefully—and sighed as you sat up. Your muscles pulled, but the sharp soreness in your hips had settled into a deep, humming ache. Manageable. You could move.
You pulled on your clothes slowly, grabbing from Abby’s old drawer—the one with her pre-bulk shirts, soft from age and looser around your frame. You figured she wouldn’t mind. You’d worn them enough in secret already.
You walked to the mirror and caught sight of your reflection, pausing mid-motion as you dragged your fingers through your long, tangled hair.
You scoffed.
You hated it long. It clung to your sweat, stuck to your neck when you were training, got caught under the straps of your rifle. It didn’t feel like you. It felt like someone you used to pretend to be.
But then a thought stabbed at your gut.
Would Abby be mad if you cut it? She’d only ever seen you this way—long brown waves, always a little messy, always there. Would it feel like erasing someone she loved?
You frowned, staring at yourself. The hair didn’t look like hers. It didn’t look like you either.
And just like that—you were done thinking about it.
You grabbed your belt knife and slipped into the bathroom down the hall.
The light in there was harsh, flickering slightly. You stood in front of the cracked mirror, took one breath, and cut.
The first chunk came off jagged. Uneven. But the relief was instant. The weight lifted—literal and otherwise.
You hacked through the rest quickly, no technique, just instinct. The brown strands fell into the sink like molted feathers. You tied what was left into a stubby little nub at the base of your skull. Messy. Crooked. But you. Closer to who you’d always been under it all.
You stared at yourself.
Wounded. Hollow-eyed. But lighter.
You scooped the hair into a paper towel and tossed it in the bin without a second thought.
The walk to the mess hall was quiet. Just the sound of your boots, your heartbeat, and the slow, gnawing return of anxiety. Your stomach grumbled, but your nerves were louder.
As you stepped into the line, the murmurs hit you like a slap.
“Heard Manny, Abby, and Mel got caught up by some Scars,” someone said at a nearby table, voice low but not low enough.
Your heart stuttered.
The second person scoffed. “Nah. Not Abby. She’s like a fuckin’ tank.”
You didn’t breathe.
It had always been a possibility. The field was never safe. Patrols turned to gunfights in seconds. You knew it. But that knowledge was distant until it wasn’t.
And right now—it wasn’t.
Your appetite vanished.
She hadn’t said what sector she was assigned to. Hadn’t said how long she’d be out. All you could do was hope it was all just talk. That she was fine. That someone had confused a rumor with truth.
You stepped out of line and walked toward the back exit of the hall, hands stuffed in your pockets.
You lit a cigarette as soon as you hit the open air, fingers trembling with the lighter.
You weren’t even supposed to be smoking.
But right now, that didn’t matter.
All you could do… was wait.
Wait for her voice in the hall.
Wait for her boots on the concrete.
Wait for the woman who held your peace in her arms like it belonged to her.
And hope—
That she’d come back to you.
You sat on the edge of the concrete steps just outside the stadium, cigarette pinched between trembling fingers. The sky overhead was that muddy grey-blue color that only came around late in the afternoon—like the sun was trying to push through, but the clouds weren’t having it. You could hear the faint metal groan of the wind pressing against the fencing that lined the outer perimeter, a soft clang every now and then when something loose caught the breeze.
The air smelled faintly of rust and wet dirt, thick from a recent rain. In the distance, kids laughed faintly near the greenhouse tunnels, their joy dulled by the anxious white noise in your skull. Everything around you moved in slow motion. People walking the pathways. Voices behind closed doors. A door creaking open somewhere.
And still—no Abby.
You pulled from your cigarette again, the tip burning too fast. Your leg bounced beneath you.
Then a warm hand landed on your shoulder.
“Light me up,” came Frank’s voice.
You turned slightly, your eyes finding him—worn and broad-shouldered, hoodie half-zipped, cigarette already resting between his lips. He leaned into your lighter, waiting.
Your hands shook as you sparked it to life, the flame flickering too weak at first. He raised a brow but didn’t say anything, just cupped his hands around yours and lit up.
He took a long drag, exhaled slow.
“What’s got you like that?” he asked, glancing sideways. “Other than yesterday.”
You swallowed hard. The cigarette tasted bitter, but it gave you something to do with your hands. Your body felt like it was made of bricks—heavy, aching, slow to respond.
“Someone said Abby got caught up,” you said quietly. “With Manny. With Mel.”
Frank pursed his lips, the corners of his mouth tightening as he blew smoke upward. He didn’t answer at first. Just stared out over the lot, where the rain had collected in oily puddles that shimmered beneath the overcast sky.
He shook his head, sighing.
“You knew that could happen, Joan.”
His tone wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t comforting either.
And that made something inside you twist.
You scoffed, too fast, too sharp. Your voice came out biting—more than you meant it to. “I know that, Frank.”
He raised his hands in a slow surrender, stepping back half a pace. “Alright. Just sayin’.”
The two of you stood there in silence for a moment, smoke curling between your bodies like the nerves you couldn’t name. The distant sound of the gate clanking open somewhere far across the stadium reached your ears—and both of you turned slightly toward the sound.
But it wasn’t her.
Not yet.
You sighed and dropped your head into your hands, your elbows resting on your knees as the cigarette burned down between your fingers. The smoke curled around your wrists, disappearing into the cold afternoon air.
Still, Frank said nothing. Just stood there beside you, steady and quiet, like a worn-down statue that had seen too much but wasn’t going anywhere.
Eventually, without a word, you leaned into him.
It wasn’t much—just your shoulder brushing his. But he didn’t pull away.
You stared at the ground, trying to breathe. Trying to think about anything else. You counted the cracks in the concrete. You watched the ash flake off your cigarette and dissolve into the wind. You traced the outline of the door across the plaza, hoping—praying—it would open.
It didn’t.
Frank stood there with you for what must’ve been an hour.
Eventually, he gave a small grunt and shifted his weight, stepping back.
“I’ve got patrol,” he said, flicking the end of his cigarette away. “Relax, Joan. Abby’s tough. You know that.”
You did.
God, you did.
But that didn’t stop your hands from trembling.
You nodded, barely.
Frank didn’t say anything else. He just clapped a hand on your shoulder—brief, grounding—and walked off toward the south gate.
You stood there for another minute, alone, before the buzzing in your skull got too loud again.
Without even thinking, you turned and headed toward Abby and Manny’s place.
Your boots were quiet on the concrete.
You moved on instinct.
You reached the door and pulled a pin from your waistband. The lock was easy—Abby always said she trusted people too much to deadbolt it—and it clicked open with a subtle snap.
The apartment was dark and still. You stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you.
It smelled like her.
Like cedar soap and pine and something faintly smoky—like gun oil and fabric softener and home.
You walked across the space slowly and sat on her bed, sinking into the familiar give of the mattress.
And then you waited.
Your knee bounced in rhythm with your heartbeat.
The silence pressed in from all sides.
You didn’t cry. Not yet. You were too tired.
You just sat there in her room, your jaw clenched, hands twisting in your lap, trying to pretend you weren’t listening for footsteps.
Trying to pretend that you didn’t feel like the world would end if she didn’t come back.
______________________________________________________________________________
You had no idea how much time had passed. The afternoon light had long since melted into a dull, blood-orange dusk. You hadn’t moved from Abby’s bed. The bounce in your knee had stopped hours ago, replaced by a quiet kind of panic that sat heavy in your gut.
Then the door slammed open like a gunshot.
You jolted upright as Abby stormed through, fire in her eyes and a loaded backpack in her hands. Manny was right behind her, the door swinging shut with a loud clang.
“What if he’s dead?!” Abby growled, her voice like gravel. Her hands were shaking as she yanked open a drawer, tossing out supplies without care.
“Abby, you can’t just go after him!” Manny tried, stepping in her path, but she shoved past him. He looked panicked—torn—but Abby was already lost to whatever fire was burning inside her.
Your voice came out before you could stop it.
“Abby?”
She didn’t even glance your way.
She dropped to her knees by the cot and shoved a medkit into her pack with practiced precision. Her face was hard, unreadable, her braid slung low across her shoulder like a soldier going into battle. You stood up slowly, stunned, as Manny turned toward you. His eyes flicked over your face with something close to guilt—maybe even pity.
“What—what’s going on?” you asked, your throat dry.
Abby didn’t stop moving. She shoved you gently aside to reach under the bed. “Not now, Joan. I have to go.”
You stumbled back a step, blinking. “What? What are you talking about?”
Manny looked down, rubbing the back of his neck like it physically hurt to say it. “Danny was shot,” he muttered. “Owen did it. She’s going to find him.”
Everything stopped.
You stared at Abby—her face set, her hands cinching her backpack shut, her whole body thrumming with purpose. She looked like a storm barely held together by skin.
You shook your head, unable to catch up. “You can’t just—”
But she was already zipping her jacket, slinging the pack over her shoulder like this was just another patrol. Like you hadn’t spent the night wrapped in each other. Like you didn’t exist.
“Abby!” you called, louder this time, but she was gone. The door banged shut behind her and Manny, cutting off your words like a slammed fist.
Silence filled the apartment again.
You stood there, breath caught in your throat, staring at the door like she might come back through it.
She didn’t.
And that’s when it hit you—how ridiculous you looked. Dressed in her old pre-bulk clothes that hung awkwardly off your frame. Your freshly chopped hair stuck out in uneven clumps from the tiny ponytail you’d tied. You looked like some lovesick fool waiting for someone who’d already made up their mind.
The ache in your stomach twisted deeper. Embarrassment flushed your skin.
You were alone again.
And this time, she hadn’t even said goodbye.
___________________________________________________________________
You’d spent the rest of the day tangled in her sheets, face pressed into the pillow she’d last touched.
Manny never came back. Not even a knock. Just silence.
Eventually, the sun rose again, indifferent.
Your body begged you to eat, but your legs moved toward the mess hall instead. You were still in Abby’s old clothes—her loose, faded black tank and the green pants that hung off your hips like they didn’t belong to you. Because they didn’t.
You opened the metal door to the courtyard. The cold kissed your arms. You lit a cigarette.
The smoke clawed down your throat like regret.
How would you find her now?
She ran back to him. To Owen.
Like you’d never touched her.
Like your hands had never been inside her.
Like she hadn’t said she loved you—twice.
Maybe it wasn’t like that.
They were friends for a long time. Had a whole childhood together in Salt Lake.
You don’t know what it meant to her.
But the ache still came. That familiar, hollow stab in your chest.
The pain of being a woman when you didn’t want to be.
You hated the softness of your chest, the weight of your breasts under Abby’s tank.
You hated the way your body reminded you—every month, without fail—that you would never be what your girlfriends needed.
You’d never be him.
Never press into them like he could.
Never make them feel full the way they said they liked.
You could only love them. Not be enough.
Your stomach twisted. You inhaled again, too deep this time—your eyes watered.
And then… the door behind you groaned open.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.
He was always there when the guilt crept in like rot.
Like he could smell it from a mile off.
Frank.
“You cut your hair.”
Frank’s voice came low and firm, the kind that didn’t need to say much to hit hard.
You didn’t answer.
Your throat burned, and the tears that had been building behind your eyes began to sting—slow and acidic, like punishment.
“Joan,” he tried again, softer this time. Just above a whisper.
You shook your head, squeezing your nose between your fingers, trying to hold it all in. But it spilled out anyway.
“Fuck.”
He stepped closer and rubbed your back, his hand broad and warm through Abby’s old tank top. You knew he’d heard. Everyone probably had by now. Word moved faster than people did in this place.
Your freshly cut hair clung to the sweat at your nape, side bangs greasy and unflattering. You didn’t feel like yourself—you felt like someone who made a mistake. Someone who got left.
You sniffled, voice cracked open and raw, “What do I do?”
Frank let out a slow exhale, staring off at nothing. “Depends on what she does.”
You looked up at him, your lip trembling. You both knew what he meant.
What could be happening right now—what might already have happened.
You swallowed hard. “I can’t go after her.”
He shook his head slowly, jaw tight. “No, you can’t.”
So you didn’t. You just stood there beside him, two ghosts on a crumbling porch, smoke curling in the air.
Neither of you spoke again for a long while. You just watched the morning dew rise in steam from the cracked pavement. Watched as it all evaporated—just like her.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The day passed like smoke—thin and useless. You picked at your bowl of lukewarm soup in the mess hall, eyes dull, brain heavier than your limbs. Conversations buzzed around you, but none of them landed. Until one did.
A voice, faint but sharp enough to cut through fog:
“...heard Abby’s detained at the hospital.”
Your spoon clattered into the bowl.
Your body moved before your thoughts could catch up.
You bolted out the mess hall doors, not bothering to clean up, not caring who was watching. Frank was out on patrol. He wouldn’t be there to stop you—or worse, ask questions.
You stole a truck from the stadium. Just like that. No clearance, no radio, no plan. Just white-knuckled desperation wrapped around the steering wheel as you sped recklessly across the slick, half-decayed roads of Seattle. You weren’t thinking about fuel. Or supplies. Or the rain that started to sheet sideways. All that mattered was Abby.
The road ended in sludge. You parked two blocks out and trudged through the swampy gray world, your boots filling with rainwater, denim sticking to your thighs. The Seattle hospital loomed ahead—weathered, skeletal, and humming with electricity like a wounded animal.
You approached the gate like a ghost.
A soldier recognized you. “Joan? What the hell are you doing here?”
Your voice came out shaking. “Where is Abby?”
He looked down. That was all it took. Your stomach sank into your knees.
“She’s being brought back to Isaac.”
You grunted and spun, kicking a rusted metal cabinet so hard it toppled with a crash. “No! I need to see her!”
The commotion drew more attention. Boots thundered down the hallway. Three soldiers emerged.
“Abby’s not here?” one of them shouted.
Then—
BANG.
The soldier you'd just spoken to collapsed instantly. His blood sprayed in a mist across your face and shoulders, his brain smeared down your sleeve.
You didn’t scream. You froze.
“TRESPASSER! SCAN THE AREA!”
Your instincts dragged you to a pile of old supply crates and tarps. You ducked low, chest heaving, heart thudding against your ribs like a warning drum. The stench of mildew and rust filled your lungs.
From your hiding spot, you saw her.
A girl—your size, maybe smaller—moving like a ghost dipped in rage. She tore through the soldiers like they were mannequins, her movements precise, brutal, unforgiving. Not one of them got a shot off before hitting the floor.
You knew violence. But this wasn’t violence. This was vengeance wrapped in a body barely holding itself together.
You clapped a hand over your mouth. If she turned your way—
If she saw you—
You didn’t know what she’d do.
You heard a door slam. Fast, hard.
Footsteps—rushing, pounding up the stairs.
You didn’t move at first. Just sat there, crouched behind stacked medical crates in a pool of someone else’s blood. Then, when the weight of silence settled over the hallway, you finally let out a breath. A ragged, trembling exhale that burned your throat.
She was gone. Whoever she was. The one who did all this.
And Abby wasn’t here.
You swallowed thick, sour air and stumbled to your feet. Your legs ached from tension. Your shirt stuck to you, soaked in sweat and someone else’s brains. You didn’t look back as you bolted from the hospital. You didn’t check for danger. You just ran.
The trip back was a blur—rain still pouring, mixing with the blood on your arms, turning everything gray and sticky. You didn’t care about the road. You didn’t care about the engine rattling under you as you pushed the truck to its limit. All you could think about was her.
Why was she being detained?
Why hadn’t she come back?
What happened in that hospital?
It wasn’t until the gates of the stadium came into view that your body registered the pain—your spine throbbing from hours hunched over the wheel, your eyes dry and hot. You slammed the brakes and half-stumbled out of the truck, barely upright.
And then—arms.
Familiar arms.
Frank.
He caught you like a bear trap.
“Joan! Are you fucking kidding me?!” His voice thundered, half in fury, half in raw relief.
You pushed against him, wild and snarling, like a dog caught in a snare. “Let me go—”
“No!” he shouted back, dragging you toward the back lot where a WLF truck was idling. “You don’t get to do this. Not again. You have no idea what’s going on out there, Jo—”
“I do!” you barked in his face. “Abby—”
He shoved a half-full pack into your chest. You looked down. It was yours. Packed. Ready.
You blinked at him, your mouth trembling open.
He sighed, exhausted, angry, scared. “Isaac’s rounding people up. You’re on assignment. We’re heading to the marina. You wanna find Abby?” He shoved the door open, pushing you toward the passenger seat. “Then follow the fuckin’ orders, and pray to God she’s still breathing.”
You climbed in, numb. Your fingers tightened around the pack. It smelled like the inside of Abby’s apartment. You didn’t ask if he packed it out of faith or fear.
Frank peeled away from the base, and you looked back over your shoulder at the stadium, already fading behind the rain.
Day Three.
And everything was falling apart without her.
_____________________________________________________________________________
BANG.
The sound tore through the humid air like lightning cracking bone.
The marina was up ahead, shrouded in mist and salt air, its silhouette flickering behind rows of concrete and metal fencing. You could feel the storm rolling in—thick gray clouds stretching over Seattle’s skeletal skyline, a hush falling over the city like a held breath.
BANG.
The windshield shimmered as the sniper’s round tore through the air just a few feet from the truck. You could see it—just a faint blur of motion—and then the sudden pop as it hit something behind you, a burst of sparks and splintered stone.
BANG.
“C’mon guys!” a voice shouted—familiar. Too familiar.
Manny.
He waved his arm from behind cover, motioning you forward. You moved before thinking—wiping your face with your sleeve and stumbling out of the truck like some idiot kid trying to chase a dream in a war zone.
BANG.
The shot slammed into something close. Too close. The boom of it made the air tremble in your chest.
You turned—and Frank was falling.
Time stretched.
His arms were still around you—tight, protective, like a last reflex. He collapsed backward, his weight dragging you down with him, and the sound that came from you wasn’t a word, wasn’t even human. Just raw noise. Horror.
“FRANK!” you shrieked.
You dropped to your knees, cradling his head, your palms smearing red through his curls, through the back of his skull. His eyes blinked once. Maybe twice.
Then nothing.
Your throat split with another scream, high and ragged and long—long enough to rip something deep inside you.
A soldier dove in, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you behind a broken crate, his voice muffled by the ringing in your ears. “Get down! Stay low, dammit—!”
You fought him, struggled, clawed back toward Frank’s body, toward the warmth rapidly fading under the wet fabric of your shirt. You tasted copper in your mouth—his blood—and sobbed so hard your vision blurred.
A hand slammed over your mouth, pressing your back into the crate. Manny.
“Joan!” he hissed. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, panic in his eyes.
You looked at him, your tears hot and endless, pooling at your chin.
“What the fuck are you doing?! We gotta go!”
You couldn’t speak. You shook your head, mouthing her name. “Abby...”
His jaw clenched hard. “Stop it.”
“Abby,” you sobbed again, shaking. “I have to—”
Manny’s hand clamped harder over your mouth. “She fucked Owen, Joan. She went to the aquarium. It’s over.”
That broke something in you. The words scraped against the inside of your skull like razors. She fucked Owen. Just hours after she held you. Just hours after you held each other. Your mouth went slack under his hand.
Then—
BANG.
The soldier who had dragged you behind cover crumpled. A hole through his cheek, splatter catching your boots.
BANG.
Another soldier dropped. Blood pooling fast on the pavement.
You looked at Manny. He looked at you.
Move.
You didn’t think. You ran for the truck, threw yourself into the driver’s seat, and slammed your palm onto the ignition. The engine roared to life, and you floored it.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Rounds pinged against the truck, tearing through the side mirror, denting the fender, chipping through the passenger door. Metal screeched.
Frank. Abby. Frank. Abby. Frank. Abby.
Your thoughts spiraled, crashing into each other like cars on black ice. Blood soaked your hands, your shirt, your legs. The smell of gunpowder burned in your nose. The steering wheel shook beneath your grip as you bolted down the street, headlights slicing through rain and smoke.
Everything blurred.
And the last thing you saw in the rearview mirror—
Was Manny.
Still ducked behind cover.
Still shouting your name.

Chapter 37: Aftershock

Summary:

Woah okay this chapter has heavy details of death and grief. Just a quick trigger warning!

_______________________________________________________________________
Seattle — Day Three. Dusk.
The rain hasn’t stopped for hours.
You wrestle the truck uphill, knuckles tight on the wheel as water streaks across the cracked windshield. The engine stutters beneath your feet—choking, gasping—and finally dies before you reach the top. You shove the door open, and the moment your boots hit the ground, they’re swallowed in mud. Rain spatters your face, clinging to your lashes, soaking through Abby’s old shirt until it sticks to your skin like wet gauze.
From here, you can just make out the Ferris wheel across Elliott Bay—jagged, skeletal, reaching into the storm like the bones of some forgotten god. The wind howls between the buildings. Seagulls scream above. Every breath you take tastes like salt, like the sea is decomposing around you.
You don’t know where the aquarium is. Just that it’s somewhere near the water. You’d hoped the truck would get you closer, but now it’s useless—just another corpse among many. You don’t have food. You don’t have a plan.
And Frank is dead.
His face flashes behind your eyes again—his arms around you, his voice in your ear. The gunshot. The warmth of his blood against your cheek. The weight of him going slack. The way someone pulled you off him before you could even say goodbye.
You blink fast, but the tears come anyway, mixing with the rain as it pours off the brim of the roof above you.
You glance around, heart thudding like a hammer in your ribs. A run-down building crouches near the slope’s edge—its wooden siding warped and salt-bleached, barnacles clinging to the bottom where the sea once kissed it. A shattered sign still swings in the wind: Seawatch Tours.
It’s something.
You force your body up the moss-slicked stairs, shoulder the broken door open, and step inside. The air hits you like mildew and mold, thick with seaweed. You walk past collapsed beams, shattered glass, and a waterlogged tourist map curled on the ground—Explore Puget Sound!
You drop to your knees behind an overturned filing cabinet. The floor is damp. Everything smells like old rope and brine. You pull your legs to your chest and wrap your arms around them, trembling.
Your mind won’t stop spinning.
You think about Abby. About the way she walked out. Didn’t even look at you. Just grabbed her gear and left with Manny like you were nothing. Like he mattered more than everything you’d been through together.
You don’t know what happened between them. Not really. Maybe it was a kiss. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was everything you’re terrified to admit.
You rest your forehead on your knees and try to breathe through the sick twist in your gut.
You remember the first night in a place like this—cold and abandoned. Abby laughing, kissing you, holding you like the world outside didn’t matter. That first night, her body against yours. Her voice moaning your name.
How did it all fall apart?
You clench your jaw. You don’t want to go back to the stadium. There’s nothing for you there now. Not without Frank. Not after what happened.
Your fingers dig into your arms. You wish you had something—anything—to dull this pain. A cigarette. A drink. Frank’s stupid flannel hoodie.
But all you have is the wet shirt clinging to your back and the sound of the rain bleeding through the broken ceiling.
You press your face against your knees and try to remember how Frank smelled when he hugged you. Leather, cheap soap, and something warm—like safety you didn’t deserve. You try to hold onto that. Because everything else is slipping.
You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling behind that rusted cabinet. Your throat burns. Your skin is tight from dried salt and rain. The sun starts to rise, pale gold bleeding through a curtain of thick, coastal fog. The storm has passed, but Seattle’s damp still clings to everything. Even your grief.
You rub your eyes raw and get up, limbs stiff. You swing your pack over your shoulder—it’s too light. No food. No water. Just a half-dead flashlight, a knife, and your pistol with fifteen rounds. Your stomach twists, both from hunger and dread. But you push forward. You have to.
You climb back up the mossy hill where the truck died, its engine now cold, its body streaked with blood and rain. You scramble onto the hood and squint toward the shoreline. There it is.
The ferris wheel.
It juts from the gray like a broken rib, tilting over Puget Sound. The glass-and-metal sprawl near it—curving, weather-worn architecture—must be the Seattle Aquarium. The place Abby mentioned. The place she might’ve gone back to. If she didn’t leave with Owen. If she didn’t give up on you.
You drop down into the mud again with a wet squelch. It coats your boots. Soaks your socks. You mutter a curse and start walking, the wind cutting through Abby’s old sweatshirt like knives. Your legs ache with every step.
It’s got to be at least twelve, maybe fourteen miles to the waterfront. On foot. Through hostile territory.
You follow the overgrown I-5 corridor south—cars stacked like tombstones, trees cracking through concrete, water pooling in broken asphalt. Crows scream from a collapsed billboard. You spot the broken skyline ahead—Seattle’s bones, twisted and choked by nature and war. Everything feels ghosted.
You pass bodies slumped against walls, bloated from rain. Some fresh. Some rotting. You don’t stop to look at their faces.
A gutted WLF checkpoint lies ahead. A splintered watchtower leans into a collapsed barricade. Blood trails stretch along the pavement. A bootprint smudged in red. You crouch low, listening.
You hear the wind. A crow’s caw.
Then—you hear it.
Clicking.
Not far.
You duck into the husk of a liquor store, your hand shaking as you grip your pistol. The smell of rot and mildew coats the air like poison. You hold your breath as the sound moves past—the soft scrape of feet and the stutter of inhuman breath.
You wait. Then you move.
You follow alleys and service roads, avoiding the wider streets. Fliers from Isaac’s command whip through the wind. “RESTORE ORDER.” “THE WOLF KEEPS YOU SAFE.” They’re half-buried in trash and mud.
You pass a mural on a brick wall—painted hands reaching for the sky, a WLF logo slashed through by red lines. “LIARS” written beneath it in thick Scar script. A warning.
You’re deep in contested ground now. Could be Scars. Could be Wolves. Could be worse.
The sound of the waves grows louder as you approach the edge of the city. Rusted signage tells you you’re close. Waterfront Park. You see the skeleton of the aquarium now, closer than before. But between you and it is Elliott Bay—and the streets leading there are low and half-flooded. You’ll have to go around, maybe past Pike Place. Through Scar-infested back alleys. Risky.
You pause on a rooftop, catching your breath. The cold makes your fingers ache. Your whole body aches. Your heart does, too.
You look toward the aquarium again. It’s so close now.
Maybe she’s there.
Maybe Owen’s there too.
Maybe you’ll get your answers—or maybe you’ll just get more ghosts.
But still… you walk.
You reach the edge of a rail yard—rusted tracks stretching into the mist like forgotten veins. Old freight cars sit motionless, their paint peeled and streaked with grime. You don’t hear anything. No birds. No distant echo of patrols. No cult-like chants from the Seraphites. Just the low whisper of wind weaving through shattered windows and corroded metal.
You pause, breath puffing visibly in the damp morning air. Where the hell were the Scars? You think back to what Frank was trying to warn you about. Isaac’s plan... the assault on Scar Island. Did something go wrong? Were they all dead now—WLF and Scars both?
You adjust your pack and trudge forward. The tracks are slick with algae and pooled rainwater. Weeds grow between the ties. You reach the fence—a towering one with barbed coils at the top—and curse under your breath. Abby always boosted you over fences like this. She made it look easy. Her strong hands gripping your waist, the way she'd grin when you stumbled over the edge. You blink hard.
Then—hands.
You’re yanked back, spun around, and met with a snarling face. A runner. Yellowed teeth flash before your eyes as it lunges. You scream and thrust your knife upward into its throat. It collapses on you in a heavy, twitching heap.
Thudding—more of them. Shuffling feet, guttural groans echo out of a nearby maintenance shed. No time. You don’t check your arms for bites—you just run.
You reach the fence and hurl yourself at it. Your fingers scramble for grip. You get a foot in the chain-link and start climbing—but something grabs your ankle. Another runner. You shriek and kick wildly, your boot slamming into its face again and again until it lets go. You haul yourself over the top and fall hard to the other side, the wind knocked clean from your lungs.
You’re gasping when another figure tackles you. This one’s bigger—fresher. Its fists crash into your ribs. You shove upward, knife meeting soft neck, and it sputters a wet choke.
Your chest heaves. You look up. Another infected is coming, fast.
You don’t think. You sprint for the edge of the yard. Beyond the broken barrier, the Puget Sound stretches out gray and churning.
You dive.
The water swallows you whole.
______________________________________________________________________________
You thrash against the waves, gasping, arms burning. They aren’t strong, but you’ve never been a good swimmer. Each stroke feels like dragging a corpse. Your backpack threatens to pull you under, but you refuse to let it go. It's everything you have left.
Your fingers claw at slippery rock and ruined concrete until finally—finally—you drag yourself onto shore. You collapse onto your side, choking seawater, your chest heaving.
Ahead, looming and salt-stained, the building stretches over you like a monument to something long gone. SEATTLE AQUARIUM—the faded letters curl across the warped facade. Green moss clings to cracked stone and rusted signage. A gull screams overhead.
You roll onto your back. The sky’s a bruised gray, and the sun barely breaks through. Salt bakes onto your skin. You feel it in your lashes, your lips. You could sleep here, just for a second.
But the wind shifts. And that smell hits you.
Decay.
It seeps out from the cracks in the glass, under the warped doorframes. The humid, metal-rich stench of blood and rot. You sit up slowly, every nerve in your body screaming.
Abby.
You bolt toward the entryway. The door creaks when you push it open, a long, groaning moan that echoes off the empty walls. You expect voices. Movement. Something.
Instead, the quiet hum of death.
The air inside is damp, warm, heavy. Pools of old blood cling to warped floorboards. Mold spreads like bruises along the curved walls of the former exhibits. Algae paints the tanks a sickly green, and the scent of rotted fish and seawater wraps around everything like a film.
You pass through a hallway of murals, faded whales and otters swimming above your head, and then stop cold.
Alice.
The dog lies sprawled, unmoving. Her fur is matted with blood, her belly still. You remember how she used to press up against your leg after patrols, her tongue warm on your palm, her eyes always seeking Abby’s command. You kneel beside her and press a trembling hand to her side.
Gone.
You whisper an apology and move on.
And then you find them.
Mel’s body is curled on the floor, her arms draped protectively over her stomach. Her shirt is soaked through with blood, a dark stain across her lower abdomen. The way she lies, you’d almost think she was just sleeping—if not for the gaping, crusted wound in her neck. Her lips are parted, her eyes glassy. Her belly is rounded.
Pregnant. She was pregnant.
You don’t realize you’re crying until a tear falls onto the floor beside her.
Owen is slumped near her, his back against the wall, a long smear of blood trailing down beside him. His eyes are closed. There’s a gun nearby. You take a slow step forward. His face is bloated, pale, the skin starting to peel from the humidity. Flies buzz in the corners of the room, slow and lazy.
You exhale, guilt and relief coiling together.
Abby isn’t here. At least… she isn’t with them.
A room nearby is cracked open—storage maybe. You recognize it from Abby’s stories, how she and Owen used to hole up here when the world outside was too loud.
You step inside. Dust and bloodstains coat the shelves. The walls are lined with torn maps, scattered notes, empty cans. You rifle through a crate and find it: Owen’s journal. The leather cover is sticky with dried blood.
You flip past sketches of the coast, messy diagrams of boats, and then—names.
Joan.
Your name.
His handwriting scrawls fast and frantic. Rambling.
“She doesn’t get it. The way she talks to Abby like she owns her. Like she could ever understand what we’ve been through—what we lost. She’s pretty, sure. Charismatic. Abby sees something in her. But I can’t stand the way she looks at her. I see it. I see what she wants from her.”
You keep reading.
“Abby doesn’t know how she changes around Joan. Soft. Quiet. She didn’t look at me that way. Not even before Jackson. Not even back then.”
You turn the page, and it gets worse.
“I thought I pitied her at first. But now… it’s hate. I hate that Abby smiles at her. That she talks in her sleep about her. That she held her hand in front of everyone like it meant something.”
Your hands tremble.
The last pages talk about Santa Barbara. A boat he’s been working on. A plan.
Fireflies. Santa Barbara. They’re out there. Abby doesn’t believe me. But I’ll make her come.
Of course.
You clench your jaw and stuff the journal into your bag. You steal whatever’s left—food packets, spare shirts, Mel’s knife, Owen’s sidearm. You whisper an apology to them both as you leave.
Out on the dock, you search the broken piers and tangled ropes.
No boats.
You squint across the water. The marina’s a few miles out. You’ll have to walk.
You shoulder your pack and start heading down the shoreline.
Seattle is behind you now.
And Abby is somewhere out there.
Waiting. Or not.
Either way, you’re going to find her.
__________________________________________________________________________
You leave the aquarium with your hands full and your chest hollow.
The salt has dried stiff on your clothes, crusted at your collar, the fabric scratching at your neck. Your boots squish with each step, soaked through from the swim. You don’t even bother wringing your socks out anymore.
You just walk.
Out the broken double doors of the aquarium. Past the blood-slick floors where Mel's lifeless body bloated like a balloon, where Owen’s eyes had clouded over in mid-regret. You don’t look back. You can’t.
Not at Alice’s body, not at the flies gathering on Mel’s stomach. Not at the blood, black now in the fluorescent lighting.
You just walk.
The sun is dipping low again. You can feel it on the back of your neck. The same golden haze creeps over the city, stretching shadows between buildings, catching glass shards like dying stars. You curse under your breath.
If you hadn’t frozen up yesterday—hadn’t sat behind that rusted cabinet like a ghost—you could’ve gotten a head start. You could’ve gone back to the Marina and maybe found a way out. Maybe a boat.
But the sun’s already halfway down. And the path to the Marina’s too long in the dark.
So you turn around. Back the way you came.
Back to the old building.
It’s a limping walk through wet concrete and moss-choked alleyways, the kind of quiet that hums in your ears. You pass the rusted fence you slipped through yesterday. You recognize a twisted rebar like a jagged finger pointing the way. The streets are empty. You don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
You chew jerky as you walk, not because you’re hungry—your stomach’s a knot—but because it keeps you awake. Present. Focused.
Eventually, you see it again.
That broken husk of a building. Half-eaten by time, crouched against the hill like it’s ashamed to still be standing. Ivy strangles the outer walls. One window’s completely missing.
You duck through the half-hinged doorway.
The smell hits you first. Damp rot and mildew. A little of your own sweat, still clinging to your old blanket on the floor. The space is quiet. Still. But not safe.
Nothing feels safe anymore.
You don’t even bother lighting anything. You don’t want to see. You find your way by memory—each cracked floorboard and loose tile familiar underfoot.
You sit back down behind the same rusted cabinet.
The one that listened to you cry last night.
You lean your back against it, knees pulled to your chest, chewing slowly as the sun finishes dying beyond the city. You think of Abby again. Of the way her mouth moved when she was focused. Of the way she helped you over fences, effortlessly boosting you up like you weighed nothing.
You press your forehead to your knees.
How far ahead was she now?
Santa Barbara felt like another planet. You didn’t have a boat. Or a map. Or even a plan.
All you had was a backpack with stolen supplies and Frank’s voice echoing in your ribs like a phantom.
The silence thickens. You curl tighter. Sleep comes slowly, wrestled down through every ache, every image of Frank’s body slumped over yours. His blood still sticky in your memories.
Tomorrow, you’ll go back to the Marina.
Tomorrow, maybe you’ll find a way out.
But tonight—you just breathe.
________________________________________________________________________
Your eyelids flutter, and for a moment, there’s water.
A face—Frank’s—drifting just beneath the surface like a reflection warped by movement. You try to stay in the dream, to catch him before he slips away. But the light tugs you up too fast, too cruel.
You wake with a shallow gasp, spine screaming against the concrete floor. The cold bites through your salt-stiff shirt. You ache everywhere. Your lower back, your neck, your hips. It’s like your body is mourning before your brain can catch up.
You’d take a dozen night terrors if it meant seeing him again. Even just a whisper of him. But sleep stole him away, and now morning offers nothing back.
You sit up slow. Your back cracks with the motion. You wince, reach for your pack. The water bottle's half-full—more than you remembered. You drink in cautious sips, letting it soothe the raw inside of your throat.
Your stomach twists. It’s not hunger anymore, it’s something more hollow than that. You chew a piece of jerky, enough to kill the ache. It's rubbery and tough, and it tastes like nothing.
You shift your backpack onto your shoulders. The fabric chafes, gritty with dried seawater. You can still smell the bay—rust, fish, rot. But nothing smells like Abby anymore.
Her scent is gone from your clothes. Gone from your skin. Like she never touched you at all.
The sky above is overcast, dull gray bleeding into pale blue. You blink toward the road, where moss has overtaken what used to be asphalt. Just ahead: the Marina.
You recognize the slope. The bullet-pocked guardrails. The scorched trees. The air is still damp here, still smells like gunpowder and blood. You remember the sound of the gunshots echoing off the docks—BANG. BANG. BANG. It rings in your ears now like tinnitus.
Frank’s body is still here.
You climb the hill. Each step drags heavier than the last.
And there he is.
Frank’s body is sprawled on the ground, half-propped against the front bumper like he tried to get up before the bullet took him down. His stomach is a cavern of ruined flesh—burst open, the shirt black and soaked and clinging to exposed tissue. The blood dried in a thick pool beneath him, sticky where the sun didn’t reach. His arms are limp at his sides, one palm up, fingers curled in like they died reaching for something. You.
You don’t breathe for a moment.
You just stare.
Then your knees hit the ground.
Hard.
You collapse beside him and lay down against what’s left of him.
The heat of the sun is baking his corpse now, but underneath it there’s a horrible cold—moist, dead, like meat left in the back of a fridge too long. His chest doesn’t rise. It will never rise again. You feel the outline of ribs beneath where his stomach wound yawns wide, and you don’t care.
You press your face into his shirt. Into the blood, the rot, the stench. Into what’s left.
Your skin sticks to his.
His clothes are soaked through, stiff where the blood dried and slick where decomposition set in. The maggots are already here—white squirming bodies tucked into the folds of his abdomen and the edges of his mouth. His lips are slightly parted, like he was trying to speak when the life left him.
You ignore it all.
You lay your hand over the bullet wound. His flesh squishes wet beneath your palm. Something inside you threatens to come up, but you force it down.
“Frank,” you whisper, your voice torn from hours of crying, “Frank, I’m sorry.”
The scent of him is ruined. He used to smell like leather, salt, and cheap soap. Now it's bile and blood and death.
But you bury your face in his collar anyway.
You think about the last words he said. You can’t even remember them now. You think about his hand on your back, about his laughter in the early mornings. About the way he’d light a cigarette even when his hands were shaking. About how he always showed up right when you were on the edge of falling apart.
And now he’s gone.
You don’t know how long you lay there—pressed into his ruined chest, soaked in what’s left of him. The rot creeps into your clothes, into your hair, into your soul. The sun beats down. The world spins on without him.
You close your eyes, trying to make time stop.
Trying to pretend that if you just hold him long enough, maybe he’ll come back.
But he doesn’t.
He never will.
You lift your head.
The sky is bleeding orange, the sun sinking low over the water. You don’t know how long you lay there—on top of Frank’s decomposing body—but the chill has set into your bones and the scent of death is fused to your skin. His shirt clings to you where decomposition fluid soaked through, your own sweat and blood sealing it like glue. When you finally peel yourself off him, it’s with a sickening suction sound, like tearing wet bandages from an infected wound.
Your hands tremble as you touch his face one last time. What’s left of it. The maggots squirm deeper into his eye sockets, the whites now milky, the skin bloated and purple. His stomach’s caved in around the bullet wound, blackened and leaking, the center of rot. You whisper, “Sorry, Frank,” as you shift the strap of his pack off his stiff, bloated shoulder.
Inside: crushed cigarettes in a cracked tin, a nearly full matchbook. You pocket them. A box of half-used bullets, two bandages, some antiseptic that smells like rubbing alcohol and dirt. No food. Of course. He didn’t think they’d be out long. They were supposed to come back for dinner.
You sling your pack over your shoulder, now weighed down by grief and supplies. Your feet squelch in the soft mud as you walk toward the road that cuts through the marina. Bodies litter the concrete, slumped against walls, curled in unnatural positions, some missing limbs. One has no head. You don’t look long. You can’t.
A wooden supply cart lies shattered near the entrance, burned black and splintered—used for cover, maybe, before the sniper picked them off. A crow takes off with a scrap of flesh in its beak, wings slapping the air.
You push inside the collapsed parking garage. It smells like wet rust and copper, mildew clinging to the air. Your boots crunch over spent casings and shattered glass. At the top of the incline, you pause.
There it is.
A bootprint.
Deep, clean, pressed into a patch of drying mud. Larger than yours, heavy-treaded. Familiar.
Abby.
You drop to your knees and touch it, your fingers tracing the curve of her heel. It’s fresh, probably from a day or two ago, but still untouched by rain. Your chest aches. She was here. She survived.
What would she think if she saw you now?
Still in her old clothes—now stiff and sour with sweat and blood. Your hair hacked short, stuck to your forehead with dried bile and bits of Frank. You reek of death. Of failure. Of heartbreak.
You swallow hard and descend the stairs into the heart of the marina.
Shops line the walls—what used to be cafés, tourist junk, scuba rentals. All looted. All silent. Every footstep echoes. The smell is worse here. Pungent. Sweet and rotted and metallic. You know it. Death.
Your stomach clenches. You whisper, “Please don’t be Abby.”
You walk toward the light, toward the bay, where the sun is kissing the water, drowning in a bath of pink and gold. It’s beautiful. It feels wrong.
Then you see him.
A body on the ground. Face-up. Bullet hole between the eyes. Blood dried in a crust down his cheek.
Manny.
You stumble forward, knees hitting the floor hard. “Manny,” you whisper, your voice raw, “Did you… did you end up forgiving me?”
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. His expression is locked in place, mouth slightly open like he was mid-sentence when he died. His blood soaks into the cracked tiles beneath his head. There’s a fly crawling along his lip.
You reach for his hand and squeeze it.
It’s cold.
You walk toward the dock, boots dragging through the mud and algae-slick wood. The marina creaks with the breeze, old signs swaying above shattered kiosks. Your legs ache, your back stiff, your body still coated in blood, salt, and decomposition. You barely register the stench anymore.
Then you see it — a sailboat.
A real one. Big enough to hold you. Still intact, rocking gently with the waves like it’s waiting.
For once, the universe throws you a bone.
You limp forward, your chest heaving. Your heart thuds not from excitement — from disbelief. You half expect it to vanish when you blink. But it’s there. You throw your backpack over the rail and climb aboard, grunting as your ribs ache against the edge. The deck is damp and faded, streaked with moss and salt. You land hard, knees to wood.
You have no idea what the fuck you're doing.
You sit there a minute, the waves knocking softly into the hull, reminding you how far you still have to go. You pull out Owen’s journal, hands trembling. You flip to the sketch he made — a rough outline of the California coast, notes scribbled near Santa Barbara. The words are messy, angry. But the fire in them matches yours.
You run your fingers down the coastline he drew, tracing the shape. South. That’s where she’s going.
You dig through the boat’s small cabin, searching for anything helpful. Rotten food, moldy blankets, a rusted flare gun — and then, jammed in a drawer with nautical charts you can't read — a compass.
“Thank you, Owen,” you mutter bitterly, tucking it into your pocket.
You’ve never sailed a day in your life.
Still, you move to the winch, trying to remember anything Abby once told you. Pulling the rope with your whole weight, you release the mainsail — it stutters, then snaps open, catching the wind hard enough to jolt you back. You stumble, catching yourself on the railing. The anchor groans as you crank it up by hand, arms screaming. Every movement reminds you of what you’ve lost. Of who’s not coming with you.
Frank should’ve been here. Telling you how stupid this plan is. Lighting a cigarette. Making it easier to breathe.
But it’s just you. And the open water.
You adjust the rudder, orient the compass, and aim south — or what you hope is south. The coastline stretches behind you, and you let the wind take you.
You’ll figure it out.
______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 38: Set Sail

______________________________________________________________________________
The sky was leaking orange when you got a mile out from the coast, the last rays of light stretching long across the grey chop of the ocean. The wind bit through your clothes, cutting into the layers like they weren’t even there. You gripped the sail rope tighter, your knuckles aching, the saltwater stinging every small cut on your hands.
You had no idea if you’d tied it right — just looped it the way Owen’s scribbles said to, cinched it down the way you’d seen Abby do once with that quiet, precise confidence. You hoped to hell it’d hold.
The waves weren’t violent, but they never stopped moving. A constant rhythm that rocked your body forward and back, lulling your mind toward somewhere dangerous — memories you weren’t ready to face. You tied the rudder with rope, adjusted the angle of the sail with your weight, and let the wind do the rest. You were southbound, you were sure of it. The compass needle trembled but pointed faithfully.
The land disappeared in the distance behind you.
In the dim starlight, you crawled into the tiny cabin, damp and cramped, and pulled Owen’s journal from your bag. Your fingers were stiff and trembling, but you forced them to turn the pages.
You needed his words now. You hated that, but you did.
The entries were scattered — sometimes angry, sometimes self-pitying. He wrote like someone trying to convince himself he still believed in something. You skimmed past one about Santa Barbara, the Fireflies, his future. Then you found them.
Pages and pages where your name appeared again and again, scrawled in his half-legible handwriting.
‘Didn’t think much of her at first. Quiet. One of those people who stays on the edge of things until they’ve figured you out. Then she starts talking, and suddenly she’s the center of the room. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Abby noticed that too — the way people leaned in.
Ex-FEDRA. I expected a bootlicker. Maybe someone brittle. But she handles herself. More than that — she knows when to shut up, and when to say something that lands. Can’t tell if Manny’s got a thing for her or if he just likes that she doesn’t laugh at his jokes. Sometimes I think I have a thing for her too. Maybe not like that. Maybe a little like that.
She makes Abby different. Softer, sometimes. More intense, other times. It’s not just how she looks at her — it’s how she listens. I remember when Abby used to look at me that way.
I told Abby I wasn’t trying to make things complicated. That whatever we were, we could figure it out. But she’s already somewhere else. Or maybe I’m just trying to hold onto something I already lost.
Joan doesn’t even know she’s pulling Abby away. That’s the worst part — she’s not trying. It’s just happening.
I’m not angry. I just don’t know where I’m supposed to be anymore.’

You swallowed. The sea pitched beneath you, the journal shifting in your lap. Your eyes skimmed ahead.
‘She makes me feel small, and I hate it.
She reminds me of who I used to be.
She’ll leave Abby eventually. They all leave Abby. She just doesn’t know it yet.’
Then, the fight. You read his angry words about hitting you, you could feel the regret in the way the pen ripped the page in some parts.
‘I don’t know how it got that far.
One second we were yelling, the next I was on top of her. My fists wouldn’t stop. She just kept saying my name — not even fighting back. Like she’d already given up.
Frank pulled me off. Thank God for that. If he hadn’t...
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I keep telling myself it was the pressure. The stadium, Isaac, the guilt, Abby, the feeling of being forgotten. But what kind of man uses that as an excuse to beat someone down?
She looked at me like I was a monster. Maybe I am.
Abby won’t say it, but I think she knows what I did. Maybe she always knew there was something wrong with me.
I thought I hated Joan for taking Abby from me. I thought I hated the way she made Abby laugh, the way she touched her. But now I just hate myself. She didn’t deserve what I did. No one does.
I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t think I can.’
You slammed the journal shut.
Your throat ached. Your stomach growled but twisted with nausea. The air inside the cabin was thick with mildew and dried seawater. You pushed open the hatch to let in the night, salty wind pouring over your face like ice.
Above, the stars were blanketed across the sky. The only lights left in the world. You laid back on the deck, letting the wooden planks press into your spine, the sky swallowing you whole.
You didn’t know how you were still alive.
You didn’t know if you’d make it to California.
You didn’t know if Abby wanted you to find her.
But you were moving.
And tonight, under the stars, with Owen’s bitterness still echoing in your head, and Frank’s absence hollowing out your chest — you let yourself breathe.
Just for a little while.
_________________________________________________________________________
The sun burns through your eyelids before you even wake. That dull pressure, that hot sting — it presses down on your face like a brand. You squint and sit up with a grunt, your skin protesting as it stretches, already tight and pink with sun exposure. Your arms ache. The back of your neck feels raw, your lips cracked and salty.
The air is different out here.
It’s heavier, still, like it’s holding its breath. There’s no damp chill like Seattle, no gentle blanket of mist. This sun means it — relentless, beating down with nothing but the open water to reflect it back into your face. You’re not used to this kind of heat. Not anymore.
You peel off your shirt for a second, trying to shake the cling of salt-dried fabric and sweat. The shirt stiffens in your fingers, crusted over from seawater. You rub your eyes. The light stings.
It hits you slowly: it’s getting hotter. Really hotter. Spring is behind you. Summer’s closing in fast. You’d lost track of the days in your haze of grief and motion, but your skin knows what time of year it is. It’s screaming it.
You brace yourself against the side of the sailboat and glance overboard. The ocean stretches in every direction — deep blue, deceptively calm, rippling like silk in the morning wind. No signs of land.
You move slowly, pulling yourself to the mast. You check the sail’s knots. One’s loosened in the night, flapping lazy in the breeze. You curse under your breath and retie it, fingers moving on muscle memory now. You don't really know if you’re doing it right. Not like Owen did. But the boat hasn’t flipped yet. You figure that means you’re close enough.
Then you check the compass.
Southwest.
Your gut sinks.
“Fuck.”
Not true south.
You sit back on your heels and glare at the dial, like the needle might change if you look hard enough. You’d veered off course — not by much, but enough. If you kept drifting southwest, you’d miss the coast altogether. Drift past California. Past everything.
You grab the rope and adjust the sails again, wincing as your sunburnt shoulders pull tight. The canvas creaks, catching the morning wind in a different direction now. You listen to it. Try to hear something in the shift. Try to convince yourself you’re still going the right way.
You pull out Owen’s journal from your backpack and flip through the water-warped pages. The edges are curling now, ink bleeding through in places. But the sketch is still there — a crude outline of California. He had traced it roughly, marking a circle around the coast. Santa Barbara. That was his plan.
You run your finger over the faint pencil lines, trying to remember how far you were. What he said about staying near the shore. “Keep the coast in sight, even if it’s faint. Don’t let yourself drift too far west.”
Too late.
You sigh and dig into your bag. Pull out the jagged piece of scrap metal you’d saved — you use the sharp edge to scratch a small line into the wooden paneling by your hip.
One more notch.
You’ve started keeping track of the days this way. Little lines. Nothing fancy. Just something to hold onto when time starts folding in on itself. When every day starts to look like the last.
Your stomach groans loud enough to startle the gulls overhead — if they were even real. You lift a hand to your face, shielding your eyes from the endless sun, squinting past the blinding glitter of waves that roll like molten glass under the afternoon light.
It’s all the same. Blue. Wet. Infinite.
You let out a dry, raspy breath and peel your clothes off, each salt-stiff fold tugging at your skin. Your shirt clings to your back like old parchment, rough and crusted with the dried memory of seawater. You’re down to your bra and underwear, though they offer no relief — both are soaked and sun-bleached, hot against your skin. The deck burns beneath your feet, and you have to shift every few seconds just to keep from blistering.
There’s no shade. No breeze. The sun bakes everything — the sails, the deck, the saltwater-soaked wood — even the air feels thick with heat, like it's cooking your lungs. Your lips are cracked, your mouth tacky with dryness. The half-chewed jerky in your pouch is useless now, a rock in your throat every time you try to chew. You open your water canteen with shaking hands and take the tiniest sip, just enough to stop the buzzing in your ears. You swirl it in your mouth before swallowing, trying to trick your body into thinking it was more than a mouthful.
Every drop is sacred now. Frank would’ve yelled at you for letting it get this bad.
You retreat into the cabin, your joints aching from dehydration, your skin tight and sore. You rummage around and pull out a bent metal wire from a drawer, tying it hastily to a stick that came loose from the hull's framing. A splinter digs under your nail, but you barely feel it. You hook a gnawed piece of jerky to the end — a desperate gamble — and drag yourself back to the deck.
You squat down near the stern, legs wobbling, and drop your makeshift line into the water, watching it disappear into the shifting shadows below. You hold the stick in one hand, elbow braced on your knee, and rest your chin on the other. The water laps and whispers beneath you, the rhythm almost enough to lull you into sleep. Almost.
You’d never done this before — survival, real survival. There was always someone. Frank, with his weird knack for fishing and scavenging, always bringing back half-crushed cans or a fish he strung through the gills. FEDRA’s rations, tasteless but predictable. The WLF’s mess hall, just enough to get too full and a little bit sleepy. You were never the one who had to make something appear from nothing.
Now it’s just you. A girl in a stranger’s bra, floating south on a dead man’s boat with the sun tearing holes in your skin and a belly as hollow as your heart.
The hours pass.
The sky burns orange, then bruises purple, then dims to ink — and still, you sit. Still holding your breath. Still watching the line. Still hoping for movement.
Still hungry.
You feel it.
A twitch at the line — subtle, like a breath caught in your throat. Your hands tighten. The line tugs again, harder this time, jerking your wrist with a sudden burst of life.
Your breath hitches. “Please,” you whisper.
You yank the stick upward, fumbling but desperate, and a glint of silver breaks the water’s surface — thrashing wildly, flipping itself over the edge of the boat.
A fish. A real, living, twitching fish.
You stare at it like it’s a goddamn miracle. It flaps on the deck — slick, glimmering with seafoam and oil-slick scales. Pacific mackerel, you think — you’ve seen Frank clean one before. Small, but heavy enough to make your empty stomach tighten with hope.
A stupid laugh bursts out of you. You drop to your knees, scooping it into your arms like it’s treasure. “Holy shit,” you breathe, “I’m gonna live.”
You reach for your knife — the same one you used to stab a runner’s throat yesterday — and steady the blade.
You slit its neck.
Warm blood gushes over your hand, the gill slits spasming beneath your fingers. It jerks once, twice — then goes still. Limp. Dead.
And something short-circuits in your brain.
Suddenly, it’s not a fish.
It’s Frank.
His head tilting in your lap, eyes open and glassy, the soft gurgle in his throat as blood poured through your hands. The stench. The way he twitched. Th
e way the maggots curled in his eye sockets.You scream.
You drop the fish like it’s burning you, crawl backward on all fours until your spine hits the cabin wall. You claw at your own skin, hyperventilating as bile claws its way up your throat. Tears blur your vision. You can’t stop seeing him. You can’t stop seeing him.
The sun sinks slowly, staining the waves blood-orange. You don’t know how long the panic attack lasts. Long enough that the sky turns purple. Then black.
The wind quiets. The ocean rocks like a cradle.
Your hands are still shaking when you finally crawl forward.
The fish lays there, dull now, but intact. Its eyes are already clouding over. You whisper an apology — maybe to it, maybe to Frank, maybe to God. Then you get to work.
You force your trembling fingers to cut a shallow line along its belly, just like Frank taught you. You reach inside, still sniffling, and scoop the slippery entrails out — warm and foul. The gut smell makes your stomach twist but you keep going. You split the fish open like a butterfly, peeling the flesh flat and thin to dry.
Salt. You remember.
You dip the filets in the ocean water, hoping the brine will draw out the moisture and preserve it just long enough. You find two fraying cords on the sail rigging and hang the fish like laundry, swaying slightly with the boat’s movements.
You don’t know if this will work. But it’s all you can do.
The stars shimmer above you now, their reflections caught in the dark ripples like shattered glass.
You crawl inside the cabin. The air smells like mildew and old rope. It’s suffocatingly still. But you remember last night, falling asleep exposed and sun-sick, and you won’t make that mistake again.
You curl up in the farthest corner, arms around your knees.
The fish blood still streaks your hands.
You close your eyes.
You don’t dream.

Chapter 39: The Sea and the people

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You wake with a lurch.
The boat heaves under you, a violent jolt that rips you from your shallow sleep. A deep, resonant crash of water slams against the hull. You bolt upright, your heart already thudding like a warning drum.
Rain pelts the deck like gunfire, cold needles that sting your skin the second you crawl out of the cabin. You gasp — the air is colder than it has been, the kind that cuts straight through wet fabric and chills your spine. You’re in just your bra and underwear, both soaked through and clinging to your body like cold second skin. The fabric rides up as you move, rubbing raw where salt has already made you tender.
Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the churning black ocean and the fraying edges of your sail — it’s caught, flapping violently like a beast trying to flee.
You scramble toward the mast, slipping as the deck tilts beneath you. Your feet slap against slick wood, your balance barely holding. The sail rope whips in the wind. You grab it with both hands and yank it down, gritting your teeth as salted rope bites into your palms, blistering and ripping at skin already tender from sun and tension.
Your breath comes in sharp gasps, heart hammering so hard your ribs ache. You snatch up the compass, but the dial spins too fast. The storm has thrown off your sense of direction — of everything. For a second you feel like throwing it overboard. But you don’t. Instead, you hold it to your chest, shut your eyes, and try to remember what south felt like. Where Abby might be. What coastline the stars had whispered to you.
You lash the sail into place. Crooked. Maybe wrong. But it’s something.
A growl echoes up from your stomach. Painful. Gnawing. You reach into the cabin and fumble for the fish you’d been trying to dry — it’s damp again, salted and tough, the surface slightly leathery and uneven. It smells... okay. Briny. The storm must have soaked it, ruined any crisping it might’ve done in the sun. You hope the saltwater was enough to keep it from rotting.
You chew anyway.
The texture is awful — like chewing a wet rag soaked in seawater and copper. You pinch your nose with dirty fingers, try not to gag, and choke it down in mouthfuls, swallowing without thinking, just trying to put fuel in your body. You can’t afford to get sick. You can’t afford not to eat.
You gag once. Bite down again. Swallow. Repeat.
The storm groans around you, and you crawl to the rusted metal bucket near the front of the boat — what once held fishing chum or bilge waste. You rinse it three times with seawater, scrubbing with your fingers, trying to remove the old stink. You leave it open to the sky, tilted just right to collect the falling rain. You lick droplets from your forearm in the meantime.
The rain is clean. Pure. The first real water you’ve had since the bottle went dry yesterday.
Thunder rumbles again, but it’s fading now — the worst of it seems to be drifting east. The boat rocks gentler.
You crawl back into the cabin, hands scraped, shivering, your skin wrinkled from wetness and fatigue. You wipe your face with the edge of a shirt, one of Owen’s, but it’s damp too. Smells like salt and mildew now — not Abby. Nothing smells like her anymore.
You lie down on the bench cushion that’s half torn and spongey with seawater, curl into yourself, and watch the flicker of lightning beyond the small, round cabin window. The wood creaks all around you. It feels like the boat might shatter in half if the sea changes its mind again.
But for now, you’re still here.
Breathing.
Alive.
And vaguely — just barely — facing south.
_________________________________________________________________________
The days blur.
Each one the same, yet somehow worse.
The storms come and go like mood swings — fast, angry, gone before you understand what they meant. The wind howls at night, and every crash of water against the hull makes you flinch. You used to brace. Now, mostly, you stare into the dark and whisper that you’re ready for it.
You bend over the cabin wall, knife in hand, and scrape another tally into the soft, weather-warped wood.
Thirty-one.
You count them again. Just to be sure. The numbers don’t feel real.
Each morning, you crawl out of the hot, damp cabin. Your body is sticky with salt and sweat, your thighs rubbed raw from the same stiff pair of underwear. When the sun is too much, you strip down and crouch in the shade behind the sail pole, bare skin pressed to the hot fiberglass, trying not to cry. It’s too hot for crying.
The routine doesn’t change.
Catch a fish.
Gut it.
Rinse it in the sea.
Splay it open like a page and dry it on the sun-bleached rope you tied across the mast. Sometimes it dries. Sometimes the rain comes again and turns it to mush. Sometimes it rots without you realizing, and you eat it anyway — and vomit for hours, knuckles bruised from gripping the side of the boat.
You’ve eaten mackerel. A tuna once. A weird fish with green scales and sharp bones that made your throat bleed a little. You stopped caring what they were. You just needed them to stop the ache in your gut.
Your bucket of rainwater is nearly empty. You ration sips so tiny you have to swish them to feel like they count. Some days you dream of water, wake with your tongue pasted to the roof of your mouth, and feel the sun already baking the moisture from your pores.
You talk to yourself now.
Sometimes it’s Frank. You speak to him in whispers while curled up in the cabin, pretending he’s sitting across from you. You ask him if you did the right thing. You apologize again. Sometimes you swear you hear him answer.
Other days, you speak to Abby.
You tell her you’re sorry.
You tell her she destroyed you.
You tell her you’d take her back anyway.
You lie naked on the cabin floor, skin peeling, ribs more visible each day, and laugh to no one.
Sometimes the laughter turns to sobs.
When the storms come, you lose all sense of time. You curl up under soaked shirts and scream against the thunder, your ears ringing long after the lightning fades. You dream strange dreams — your mother in a Firefly mask, Abby underwater, Frank with a fish-hook smile and stitched-shut eyes.
You haven’t seen land in over two weeks.
You don’t know if you’re even going the right direction anymore. The compass needle broke loose from its post three days ago.
But you keep carving notches into the wall.
You keep going.
Because if you stop, you’ll remember.
And if you remember, you’ll drown — even on dry wood.

Today felt… different.
The fish you caught — a wriggling silver thing with dull eyes — smelled wrong. Not just fishy. Not like the briny, faintly sweet smell you’d gotten used to. This one smelled sour. Metallic. Like it had already started to rot before your knife even touched it.
You held it in your hand, standing naked on the deck, your body raw and red from the relentless sun. The wind kissed your burns. Your skin flaked with salt, tight and stinging. Your hair had lightened in streaks from sweat and sea air — almost auburn now, stiff like straw. You looked like someone else in your reflection on the water, someone smaller, sharper, eaten down to bone.
You brought the fish to your nose again and flinched.
Definitely off.
But hunger was louder than reason. It had been for weeks.
You sat cross-legged and cut it open on the deck, not even bothering to clean the knife from yesterday. The flesh peeled apart like old fabric, soft in places it shouldn’t be. You told yourself the heat did that. That it was fine.
Your stomach rumbled, so you ate it.
You swallowed it too fast. Didn’t chew enough. Just got it down before you could taste the sickness in it.
Your belly ached almost instantly. A deep, twisting nausea that spread like ink.
You leaned back on the hot wood, body curled like a comma, your limbs twitching. You hadn’t noticed how thin you’d gotten until today. Your ribs no longer curved — they jutted like scaffolding. Your breasts had vanished into the flatness of your chest. You ran a hand over your hip and felt the sharp jut of your pelvis.
You didn’t look like her anymore.
Not Abby.
Not Joan.
Not anyone.
The sun slipped behind the invisible hills in the west, casting everything in gold before blue swallowed it. The wind shifted. Cold again. That meant you were nearing Oregon — probably the northern coast. Maybe Lincoln City. Maybe Newport. You didn’t know. The boat didn’t have a name and neither did the direction.
But you’d have to dock soon. Hunt. Find food. Shelter. Something.
If you even made it there.
You laid flat on your back, the deck warm beneath your spine, your hair sticking to the wood like seaweed. You looked up at the stars and whispered.
“Frank,” you said softly, barely audible over the lapping of the waves. “I think I miss Mom.”
Your voice cracked on the word.
Silence answered.
Then, hours later — or maybe minutes, time didn’t mean anything now — you heard it.
“I miss her too, Joan.”
You jerked upright. The voice was clear. Distinct. Close.
You scanned the deck. Your heart crashed against your ribs like waves on the hull.
Empty.
But the voice… it had come from beside you.
You feel it before you see it.
A pulsing under the soles of your feet.
The deck beneath you throbs, faintly, like it has a heartbeat.
You press your hand down. The wood is warm, wet with sweat or salt—you can’t tell anymore.
Then, slowly, his face rises.
It bubbles up from the boards like oil through water.
Bloated. Pale.
Frank.
His eyes are bloodshot and clouded, tiny white worms writhing just beneath the corneas.
His jaw hangs slack, seawater leaking from the corners of his mouth in slow drips.
You jerk backward so fast your spine slams the mast.
You scream, hoarse and raw.
But the scream doesn’t echo.
The boat dissolves beneath you, its planks curling like burning paper.
You're falling—

—onto cold concrete.
The sudden silence is deafening.
You're sitting in the empty stadium bleachers again.
Your skin is naked, sunburnt, salt-raw and peeling. You’re shivering despite the heat.
The air reeks of mildew, metal, and old sweat.
Beside you, Frank lights a cigarette.
His sleeves are rolled up, fingers shaking as he strikes the match.
He doesn’t look dead here.
He looks younger, before the war carved lines into his face.
“Mom would’ve hated us now,” he says softly, lips barely moving.
You don’t answer.
You stare at your knees, arms wrapped around yourself.
Frank exhales. “You’re cooking out there, Jo. You smell like cooked meat.”
You whisper, “This isn’t real.”
He leans back, tapping ash into a rusted can. “How long’s it been?”
You swallow against the bile in your throat. “Thirty-one days.”
Frank chuckles, sad and bitter. “You’re not gonna find her. She’s long gone. You’re gonna die out there, starving on a boat that don’t love you back.”
Your skin burns. You blink up at him—and his skin is melting.
The cigarette sizzles in his fingers, fusing into his hand.

The stadium bursts into flame.
You stumble back as fire consumes the bleachers, the field, the sky itself.
From the smoke steps Owen.
But he’s wrong—his face is blackened, split open, one eye sunken and alive with maggots.
“Why couldn’t we be friends?” he murmurs.
You choke on your scream as he steps closer. Maggots drip from his lips onto your chest, down your arms.
They move.
They crawl, burrowing into your skin, gnawing their way inside.
You claw at yourself, ripping at your arms, your neck—anything to make it stop—but they fall into your mouth.
You gag. Vomit pours out of you, thick and pink.
You scramble backward, slipping on it, breath catching in your throat. Your stomach convulses. Your ribs ache.

Then you’re in the boat again.
The real boat.
It’s night.
The stars above you blur into spirals.
You're rocking back and forth inside the cabin, arms clutching your legs.
Your skin is coated in salt, blood, fish scales, and vomit.
Your lips are cracked. Your eyes sting.
The walls are moving.
You press your palms over your ears as the shrieks begin.
Infected.
You hear them before you see them.
Thudding onto the deck.
Snarling.
Howling.
Then they’re there—pouring over the railings like rats.
Their jaws stretch open too wide.
Their eyes are glowing.
They’re screeching your name.
“JOAN.”
They grab you. Hands everywhere.
Teeth tear into your shoulder, your hip, your legs.
You kick, scream, plead—
Their teeth sink into your flesh.
One.
Then dozens.
You thrash as jaws clamp into your skin—your shoulder, your thigh, your hands, your neck—everywhere all at once. The pain is searing, white-hot, like your nerves are being peeled open.
You try to wipe them off. Your hands smear through blood.
So much blood.
It pours from your arms, your stomach, your legs—bite marks overlapping like animal feeding wounds, skin shredded in strips. You claw at your limbs, try to tear off the pain, but the wounds stay, multiplying. Deep purple, red, black. Swollen. Infected.
You scream, throat raw and cracking.
Your voice bounces off the cabin walls and dies out into the crash of waves.
You stumble backward, gasping. Your vision fractures. The wooden boards beneath you warp, twist. The deck tilts, the air vibrating with a low hum, like a siren underwater.
You collapse, hitting your knees.
You can feel it now.
The infection.
Crawling under your skin like fire ants.
Spreading like smoke through your veins.
It’s in your lungs.
In your eyes.
In your brain.
You clutch your stomach, watching your own skin ripple—pulsing beneath the surface like something’s trying to crawl out of you.
You sob, bent over, knuckles white from gripping the floor.
“I’m turning—” you rasp, spit and bile hanging from your lips.
Then the hallucination shifts again.
The Infected are gone.
The boat is quiet.
But your blood remains—pooled, slick, glistening like oil.
You blink hard. Try to stand. Your knees buckle.
You vomit again, this time a watery, sour flood that splashes across your wrist.
Everything goes dark.
Your body slumps to the floor. Limbs twitching. Head lolling.
Somewhere far away, a seagull cries. The boat creaks gently in the wind.
The ocean rocks you like a coffin.
__________________________________________________________________________
You shoot awake.
The scream is still caught in your throat, strangled behind clenched teeth. Your chest heaves, ribs sore, and you feel something crusted to your cheek. Warm. Sticky.
Vomit.
You’re lying in it. It’s soaked into your old hoodie, into your hair, into the deck boards beneath you. The smell punches you in the face — half-digested fish and saltwater and stomach acid. Your skin itches, burns. Your nails have gouged trenches into your thighs and arms. You must’ve clawed at yourself during the hallucination. Scabs have already started to dry, some torn open again when you shift.
Your mouth tastes like blood.
You sit up slowly, each vertebrae grinding like sandpaper. Your eyes are swollen, blurry with sleep. The boat isn’t moving.
It hits you all at once.
You scramble up, bare feet slapping wet wood, and burst onto the deck.
Everything is still.
No more rocking. No more endless horizon. No more endless blue. You’re docked. The boat has drifted into shore, somehow — wedged up against a soft, muddy slope dotted with fir trees and grass, mist curling along the coast.
Oregon.
The word feels dry in your mouth.
You stare, frozen. Then you breathe. You breathe.
Not for joy, but because you almost forgot how.

You stagger to the edge of the boat and hurl yourself overboard into the shallow water. It’s ice-cold, and it shocks you fully back into your body. You dunk your head beneath the surface, scrubbing at your arms, under your nails, trying to erase the stench of sickness and hallucination and death. You scrub until your skin turns red. Until you stop feeling haunted.
When you wade out, your legs tremble. Your breath clouds in the morning air — cooler than the ocean heat you’d grown used to. Real air. Dirt and bark and dew. Earth.
You climb back onboard and change. Old black shorts. A threadbare tank top. Both hang from you now — your body has wasted itself down to something smaller, something sharp. You lace your boots without socks, the tongues rubbing against raw skin.
One deep breath.
You step onto land.
Your knees buckle slightly — it’s been over a month. Your body forgot gravity like this. Solidness.
You brace against a tree trunk, hands splayed, steadying yourself.
The forest smells like pine and mud and smoke from somewhere far off. There's a light fog nestled in the trees. Birds chirp — real birds. And insects. And the wind.
You’re back in it now. Back on land.

You whisper to yourself:
“You need a camp.”
Fire. Shelter. Water.
Something to kill with.
Something to eat that won’t make you go insane.
You glance back one last time at the boat — your floating coffin — half-draped in mist, nudging the shore like it’s reluctant to let you go. The sail flaps lazily in the breeze, the salt-stained fabric stiff with sun and rain.
You step into the treeline.

The forest presses around you in every direction.
Fir trees, damp and stoic. Brambles tug at your bare legs. The earth is wet under your boots, thick with loam and rot. Every step feels foreign — like the planet grew bigger while you were adrift. Your knees ache. Your spine whines. You're not used to walking anymore.
You don’t know what direction you’re going — only that it’s away.
You trudge for what feels like miles.
Your mouth is dry again. The little bit of rainwater you stored is long gone. Your stomach churns — more hollow than hungry. You feel like you're running on pure adrenaline now, like the hallucinations are still clinging to your spine, whispering just outside your ears.
Then you stop.
Smoke.
Thin and silver, curling upward between trees.
Your body goes still.

You crouch instinctively behind a fallen log, heart pounding in your ears. You peer through the branches.
A camp.
You spot three figures. Adult-sized. Armed. Sitting in a rough semicircle around a firepit, metal pots clanking softly. One of them leans back on their hands, laughing. Another sharpens something — a machete maybe. You hear faint music coming from a tinny old radio, the kind scavenged from somewhere pre-Outbreak. There’s a tent, half-collapsed, and clothes hanging on a line. One of the boots near the fire has WLF etched faintly into the leather.
Your breath hitches.
You grip your backpack straps, then slowly let them fall.
Your shoulders hurt. The straps cut into your collarbones. The weight feels like Frank all over again.
Your fingers inch toward the grip of your pistol.
Your other hand touches the knife at your waistband — rusted now from the salt, but still sharp enough.
You’re not sure if this is salvation or a bullet waiting to happen.
You inch closer through the underbrush, crouched low.
The twigs snap too loud beneath your boots.
One of the figures shifts — turning toward the woods.
You freeze.
You step slowly into the clearing, your legs trembling beneath you, your boots squelching in the damp moss. The scent of woodsmoke curls around your face.
They see you.
Five of them, maybe six. Dressed in long, earthen robes that brush against the mud, their hems dark with old stains. The fabric looks handmade — dyed with soil and ash. The women wear their hair in thick braids that fall like rope over their shoulders, some tied with bones, feathers, or string. One of them holds a lantern. Another clutches what looks like a rusted kitchen knife.
You freeze.
Your brain screams Scars — Seraphites — but something feels… off. No, they were something else. They speak to each other, soft, quick, a dialect you can’t quite place. One of the men looks younger, maybe your age. He watches you, his eyes flickering to your bare shoulders and ribs, the hollowness of you.
You swallow hard. Your voice catches in your throat.
You raise your trembling hands slowly, palms out. “I’m not infected,” you rasp.
No one moves.
Your mouth is cracked and dry. “I just need help.”
A tall man steps forward. He has a wiry frame, but his presence hits like thunder. Deep-set eyes. A jagged scar down the left side of his neck. A belt of rope and twine hangs from his waist, along with a hatchet.
“Drop your weapon,” he says. His voice is low and firm, like tree roots.
You hesitate. Your fingers twitch near your waistband. You think about Abby — about surviving this long just to die now.
But you nod.
You slowly unclip your gun, fingers shaking, and place it on the ground.
Then your knife.
Then your knees.
The cold earth presses against your bare skin as you kneel in the underbrush. Your eyes lock onto theirs. You try not to cry. You try not to look weak. But you are.
And they know it.
The tall man studies you for another second, then signals to someone behind him. You hear rustling. Whispered words. A child’s giggle. Someone spits.
You breathe, steady and slow, every second stretching like wire.
The tall man steps forward and grips your arm — not violently, but with the kind of pressure that tells you resistance isn’t an option. His hand is rough with calluses, fingertips cold.
“The Earth has sent you to us,” he whispers in your ear, breath hot against your skin.
Goddammit, you think. Not zealots. Not now.
Before you can respond, you’re led deeper into the camp. The trees grow thick here — pine and fir rising like spires into the mist, their trunks wrapped in strange woven cloths. Symbols — spirals, X-shapes, handprints in charcoal — mark trees and cabin doors like wards.
The buildings themselves look like repurposed ranger lodges. Log walls, sloped tin roofs patched with bark and tarp. Moss grows from the crevices of the cabins, and thick ropes are tied between trees, draped with drying herbs, fish skins, and clothes. Chickens roam loose, pecking at the mud. You catch the distant grunt of a pig.
They bring you into the largest of the cabins.
It smells like smoke and boiled roots. Dried mushrooms hang from the beams. Animal pelts are nailed to the walls — some stained, some fresh. A long table carved from a single plank stretches across the center of the room, lit by a handful of low-burning lanterns and a fire crackling in a stone hearth.
You’re sat down at the table with unsettling gentleness. A younger woman with thin braids and dirt under her nails places a bowl in front of you. Stew. Thin, oily broth with some kind of tuber floating in it. A chunk of rough bread beside it.
You don’t hesitate. You eat — like an animal. Your fingers tremble around the spoon. The first bite hits your stomach like a brick, and you double over slightly with the pain of it, but you keep going. Your body wants it too badly.
"You will gain strength back here," the tall man says, sitting across from you. His eyes do not blink. His hands rest neatly on the table, one over the other.
You shake your head. “No. I need to leave. I need—”
Your voice is cut off as an older woman places a hand on your shoulder. Her skin is paper-thin and liver-spotted. Her white hair is tied in thick cords that fall to her waist. Beads clack as she moves.
“The Earth God has sent you to us,” she murmurs, voice like gravel and honey. “We are but shepherds. It is our duty to nourish you. Cleanse you.”
You swallow hard.
What the fuck are these people talking about.
You glance toward the door. Two younger men block it, one holding a pitchfork, the other a hand-carved spear. No guns. Just handmade things.
But it’s enough.
You nod slowly, spoon still in hand. “Thank you,” you whisper, quietly enough to sound obedient.
They smile. All of them. At once.
Fear curls around your ribs like a vice as they lead you down the narrow wooden hallway. The floorboards creak beneath your boots. Lanterns flicker against the old cedar walls, throwing strange shadows that dance with every step. The air smells like dried herbs and smoke.
You try not to look afraid, but your eyes land on a large wooden cross nailed crookedly above a doorway — blackened from time, cracked from rot. You stare at it a moment too long. Did they know what it meant? Christianity? Or was it just another relic they twisted into something new, like children playing with matches?
The walls are carved — symbols, handprints in ash, crude spirals and sunbursts. A hundred desperate stories etched into timber.
The older woman — the one who silenced you — steps into a side room and gestures for you to enter. Her robes trail behind her, fraying at the hem. Her hair is tied back with woven bark. Her voice is soft but certain.
“The Earth Mother will wash the sickness from you. You must be cleansed.”
She presses a folded brown robe into your hands. It smells like smoke and dried sage. You glance at her, confused, but she points to the far corner of the room where a stone basin rests beneath a cracked window. Rainwater pools in it, dark and cool.
“Cleanse yourself. Then rest. Tomorrow you begin anew.”
You nod once, slowly, and step into the room. The wooden door closes with a solid thud behind you. No lock. But it feels like there’s one anyway.
You strip off your salt-stained, loose clothes. Your ribs show. Your chest has flattened. You catch your reflection in the basin and barely recognize the sunburnt ghost staring back.
You cup water in your hands and splash your face. It’s cold — painfully so — and it wakes something in you. You scrub down, methodically, ignoring how your arms tremble and your fingernails look too dark from grime.
Once clean, you slip into the robe. It’s rough against your skin but dry. You sit on the edge of the simple wooden bed — no mattress, just layers of furs and quilts worn thin from use. But after the boat? It feels like heaven.
You lie back, staring up at the carvings above the bed — vines, bones, an open eye.
Your hand rests on your stomach. The skin is tight, chapped. Your gut still churns from the spoiled fish.
You close your eyes.
You’ll have to figure out who these people are.
You’ll have to figure out a way out.
But not yet.
Not until your strength comes back.
_____________________________________________________________________________
You wake to the sensation of something damp pressed against your neck.
Your eyes flutter open — hazy and unfocused — and all you can register at first is the smell.
Pine. Smoke. Something bitter underneath. It smells like Abby used to, after the forest patrols. Like tree sap clinging to her collarbone.
The room is dim, lit only by a candle stub in the corner and the orange embers of smoldering herbs. A woman in brown robes sits beside you, dipping a cloth into a shallow wooden bowl and dabbing it gently along your collarbone. The water shines with floating oils — pine resin, maybe something like chamomile or yarrow. You watch her face in fragments. Wrinkled. Kind, but in a way that makes your skin crawl.
Another figure stands near your head, wafting thick gray smoke over you from a cracked seashell. Inside it, dried herbs curl and pop — sage, lavender, and something you can’t place. The smoke fills your nose, burns your throat. You cough once, hard.
“You have been asleep for a week,” the one beside you murmurs.
Your heart lurches.
A week?
Your hand shoots up in a panic, trying to brace yourself, trying to sit up — but they push you gently but firmly back down. Two sets of hands on your shoulders, your sternum.
“Shhh… stay. You’re still sick.”
You open your mouth to speak, but the woman at your feet lifts a small wooden cup. Before you can resist, she pours a thick, dark liquid past your lips. It tastes bitter and earthy, like boiled bark, and you gag, sputtering — but they tip the cup until you swallow it down.
Then, they begin to chant.
Low. Rhythmic. A humming rise and fall, like a language you’ve never heard. Not Latin. Not English. Not even a dialect you can guess at. The cadence loops and builds in your ears, and it’s like the walls around you breathe with it.
Fuck.
You blink rapidly, trying to sit up again. Your body is drenched in sweat. Weak. Your ribs are sharp under your skin, and your lips feel like cracked glass. You’re not in control. You hate not being in control.
The woman tending to you leans in and presses her dry, chapped lips to your forehead. The gesture makes your stomach twist.
“You are safe,” she whispers.
Safe.
Sure.
She lifts your head gently, and behind her, the woman with the smoke puts down the shell. She moves to your side and begins braiding your hair.
Your stomach clenches, but you let her.
Your hair is still short — maybe a little past your shoulders now, uneven and salt-bleached from the sea. You feel her nimble fingers twist and loop the strands into tight braids like theirs — simple, symbolic, tribal in a way that makes your skin itch. The hair pulls tightly at your scalp. She hums as she works. It’s a lullaby, but it sounds like a warning.
When they finish, the woman with the smoke crouches again beside you, her voice softer now.
“The Elder wants to see you.”
Your eyes meet hers — and something behind them looks almost… reverent.
You swallow hard.
Your legs still shake, but you nod. You don’t argue.
Because you can feel it now. You’re not a guest here.
You’re something else.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand — the robe hanging loose over your frail frame, your muscles trembling, your boots still damp from the night you stumbled into shore.
You follow.
You’re led down a corridor that narrows the deeper you go. The walls are made of reclaimed plywood and stone, carved with sigils — some resemble spirals, others crude shapes of women bending over soil, roots threading from their arms. Ashen handprints smear like ghosts.
You step into the room, and a dozen candles flicker on driftwood stumps, their wax melted into strange, uneven pools that stain the floor like old blood.
The smell of herbs slams into your sinuses — pine, sage, maybe lavender, but burned. Charred. The kind of smell that masks rot, not celebrates life.
The Elder is already waiting.
He sits in a carved wooden chair, his robes loose around his shoulders. You can see his collarbones — sharp, veiny. His hair is long, grey, and braided down the middle like some kind of holy man or prophet.
He turns toward the women who brought you and waves them off with a heavy hand.
They bow slightly before leaving, the door creaking shut behind them.
You hesitate, then sit across from him.
There’s only one other chair. It’s low and hard. Meant to keep you beneath him.
He places a bowl between you.
“Lamb,” he says.
You glance down. The meat is greasy, floating in thin broth. It smells like game, but you’re not convinced.
Still, your stomach growls.
You shovel it in, half out of hunger, half to break the tension. It’s oily and stringy, but your body welcomes the warmth. You’re surprised you’re not ravenous — they must’ve been feeding you while you were unconscious. Force-feeding you.
You mutter, “Thanks,” around a mouthful, not meaning it.
He watches you closely.
“You came from the ocean,” he says, voice deep as the earth. “Is that true?”
You nod slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Yeah.”
His expression shifts — awe, almost reverence.
“You survived?” he asks, leaning in. “You crossed it, alone?”
You scoff, still chewing. “Barely.”
He smiles like a man who’s just witnessed a miracle.
“Rejoice.”
He stands suddenly, dragging a heavy, hand-bound book from the shelf. The pages are yellowed, water-damaged, and stitched together with what looks like fishing line.
He opens it, thumbing to a page marked with a dried flower.
“And when the Earth warred with the Sea,” he begins to read, “the Sea rose to consume the sky. But the Earth cracked herself open and let blood and seed spill forth. From her pain came man. From her wounds came the new children.”
Your hand clenches around the wooden spoon.
What the fuck?
He looks at you like a man seeing prophecy unfold.
“You survived the Sea,” he says again. “That means the Earth chose you. She pulled you back. She brought you here.”
You swallow thickly.
“I need to leave soon,” you say, clearing your throat. “I have someone—”
He grabs your hands, suddenly.
His skin is warm. Too warm.
“You are meant to stay.”
His grip tightens.
“You are the Vessel. The Earth gave you back not to wander, but to root.”
Your heart thunders.
Root?
Vessel?
No.
His eyes search your face like he’s reading a sacred text.
“You will be my bride. You will lie with the earth’s mouth, and from your body, we will begin again.”
Your pulse spikes. Your stomach flips.
Fuck.
You had no choice.
You were still rail-thin, half-starved, and barely able to keep your spine straight under your own weight. If you tried to run now, they’d catch you. Hell, the trees would probably whisper and point the way.
So you forced yourself to lean back in the wooden chair, peeling your trembling hands away from his. They felt too warm. Too certain.
“I’m not…” you started, your throat dry, your voice rasping like an old door hinge.
His hand shot up — not violent, but firm. Authoritative. Like he was used to being listened to.
“You will regain your health,” he said slowly, like each word was gospel. “And then we will wed. Our children will lead the New.”
The words hung in the air like thick smoke. You stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted, unsure whether to scream or laugh.
Instead, Frank’s voice bloomed in your head, so real it made you twitch.
“Play nice, Joan,” he whispered gently.
“Get better. Then leave.”
You swallowed the bile rising in your throat. The taste of pine and lamb and dread swirled in your stomach.
“I’ll… consider it,” you said. Quiet. Careful. Controlled.
The Elder beamed, eyes glowing with some sacred fire. He reached for the wooden cupboard, pulled a thick rope, and rang a tarnished bell hanging beside it.
It echoed through the stone-walled chamber like a funeral toll.
“Rejoice!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the old wood and dirt-packed walls.
Almost immediately, the women returned — flowing robes swaying around their ankles, hair still braided into tight spirals. Their feet padded softly on the woven straw mats, but their voices were giddy, high-pitched, like schoolgirls at a wedding feast.
You barely heard them. You couldn’t. The blood in your ears roared louder than their laughter.
You walked numbly down the hall between them, your bare feet brushing over smooth-worn floorboards. They giggled, whispered about blessings and signs. One reached out to tuck a loose piece of your hair behind your ear. You flinched and kept walking.
Your eyes focused straight ahead. Your mind raced behind them.
You had to think of a plan.
You had to get out.
________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 40: Back into the Earth

Summary:

tw: themes of rape and SA

________________________________________________________________________
Two months passed. Or at least, you think it had been two months. The days melted into one another, slipping through your fingers like loose water. You marked them at first — scratches into the bedframe, onto your skin. But even those faded.
Ninety days since you’d last seen Abby.
And still, her face wouldn’t leave you.
The curve of her jaw, the way her lip twitched before she laughed.
The taste of her skin — salt, sweat, and something softer — still burned on your tongue like sugar left too long in a pan.
They let you outside today.
For the first time.
Your knees trembled the second your bare feet touched dirt. Your skin — pale, almost waxy from being kept inside — flinched at the sun’s touch like it had forgotten what warmth meant. You’d expected to feel lighter with the fresh air, but you felt heavier instead. Fuller.
Fattened.
You stared down at yourself.
Your stomach had softened, your thighs thickened. Your breasts swelled slightly, and your cheeks carried a flush that hadn’t been there before. They had been feeding you relentlessly — eight meals a day, followed by rich milk, thick herbal teas, and incense-blown chants meant to “restore the body to the Earth’s favor.”
You hated it.
The floral baths.
The scripture readings.
The soft-spoken chants about rebirth and fertility, how the Earth had chosen you to carry on her will.
It made your skin crawl. You felt like a calf being readied for slaughter — no, not slaughter. Breeding.
They told you the wedding would be in three days.
You forced yourself to smile. To bow. To murmur the sacred verses they drilled into you each morning.
But tonight, you'd escape.
You knelt in the herb garden with a girl about your age, carefully plucking lavender and oregano. She had round cheeks, curly brown hair, and deep smile lines carved into her mouth from years of obedience.
“Anne,” you said softly.
She jumped slightly, startled by the sound of your voice. She turned, nodding.
“Yes?”
You offered her a weak smile. “What’s for dinner?”
She tilted her head, thinking. “Pig roast. Elder says we’ll have fresh roots too. For strength.”
You nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek. Your stomach twisted. Not from hunger — they never let you go hungry. But from nausea. From too much.
Too much food.
Too much smoke.
Too much of them.
You glanced at Anne as she gently bundled a bouquet of thyme. She looked serene, devoted.
Was she happy here?
Had she chosen this?
Or had she, too, once whispered into her pillow at night: “Just play nice until you can leave.”
You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands, stained green with plant sap.
Three more days, they said.
But you wouldn’t be here in three days.
Tonight, while the others knelt in prayer, while the bells sang for dusk… you’d be gone.
That was the plan.
You walked beside Anne in silence, your bare feet brushing over smooth stone as you carried the bundle of herbs. The women’s cabin loomed ahead — low wooden beams, carved with spirals and animal bones tied to the awning. Inside, you knew the walls were soft with moss and soaked in incense. You hated it.
You hated them.
So many of them were swollen with pregnancy now. Bare feet dragging slowly across the mud. Pale eyes looking skyward in false serenity. They moved like they were part of the Earth — as if they were already rooted, already owned. And they sang as they worked — low hums, chants that vibrated in your bones and made your teeth clench.
Children darted past you, barefoot and quiet, their eyes too old for their tiny faces. One little girl carried a bird skull on a leather string.
Your heart started racing.
Then you saw him — the Elder — parting the crowd like a prophet, his long robes soaked in herbs and stitched with moss along the hem. His beard was dyed with ash. You locked eyes, and your blood turned to frost.
He raised his hand.
And the women stopped everything. They bowed, silent. Even Anne stiffened.
They took the bundle of herbs from your arms, placed them on a cloth at the doorway… and guided you back out into the clearing.
Your knees hit the dirt before you realized they meant to make you kneel.
You lowered your head. Swallowed the bile in your throat. And like a knife, Frank’s voice sliced through the static in your brain:
“Be nice, Joan. Leave tonight. Play their game.”
You closed your eyes and exhaled into that memory. Into the feeling of his hand against your back when you were hungover, hiding in the stadium mess hall. Into the cigarette smoke between you, the way he always knew when you were about to snap.
The Elder placed his palm on your scalp.
Hot.
Too hot.
“Tonight,” he said, voice deep and sure, “we will wed.”
Your eyes snapped open.
What?
Your pulse thundered. You looked up just slightly, heart in your throat. No. No, it was supposed to be three days from now.
He gazed toward the darkening horizon, where storm clouds hung low over the pines. “There is a storm three days out. The Earth has warned us. Her rhythms cannot be ignored. Her vessel must be laid with seed by dusk.”
You heard the word again like a war drum: vessel.
Gasps and murmurs spread around the circle like dry grass catching fire. Hands reached up to the sky. Chanting began.
“Rejoice!” they cried.
The word hit your eardrums like a hammer.
Then again:
“Rejoice!”
Your breath caught.
They chanted it in unison — men, women, children. The whole camp singing the word like it meant salvation. Like it was the only word left in the world.
Your hands shook.
You clutched your thighs through the heavy fabric of your robes, barely feeling the flesh beneath.
How were you going to do this?
Everything had changed. The countdown you were relying on had collapsed. Your escape window — your only window — had just been slammed shut and bolted.
You felt the eyes of the women on you. Anne’s soft gaze lingered at your side, but she said nothing.
Not yet.
You have to think fast.
You have to survive tonight.
You said nothing as they whisked you away, your bare feet dragging against the smooth stone floor of the women's cabin. The door shut behind you with a heavy thud. The air inside was thick with steam and floral smoke, the scent of crushed lavender, wild mint, and rose petals choking your senses.
They moved around you with quiet efficiency, their long braids swaying like pendulums. No one looked you in the eye.
Your robe was pulled away, and you stood there, naked and pale under the dim flicker of oil lamps. You weren’t sunburned anymore — the sea had long since released you. Now, your skin had taken on a waxy, ivory pallor from being kept inside. Softness had returned to your hips, to your belly, to your cheeks. You looked almost like someone else again.
They guided you wordlessly to a stone basin, its surface fogging with rising steam. You stepped into the bath and lowered yourself down with a hiss. The water was scalding, the kind that pried your pores open. Hands dipped into bowls of herbs, rubbing your arms and neck with pine and sage oil. The same scent Abby had on her hands when she used to wash your hair.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
You tried not to think.
They washed you like livestock. Braid after braid wound down your back. Someone threaded fresh blossoms between the coils — white camellias and orange desert marigolds. They painted your lips with crushed berries, your eyes with ash, and when they finally wrapped you in furs — thick, brown, and smelling faintly of damp earth — you felt like a husk.
The outside world was glowing.
Torches burned along the edges of the camp, flowers arranged in concentric circles around a stone altar. Women knelt in rows humming low prayers, while men stood still in silence. At the altar stood the Elder, his face painted with red clay, his hair tied back into a crown of woven roots. Beside him, a priestess burned something in a shell bowl — sweet and acrid.
You shivered beneath the weight of the furs as they led you forward.
The priestess took your hand and forced you to kneel before the Elder. His heavy palms settled on your shoulders, grounding you like iron.
Abby.
You closed your eyes and tried to conjure her — the warmth of her chest, her laughter at your dumb jokes, the way she stirred oatmeal too fast and spilled it on the stove. The way she once said, “You’re not evil, Joan. You’re just tired.”
But your thoughts scattered as the priestess pricked your finger with a sharp bone needle. You flinched, watching your blood drip into a steaming bowl of black tea.
"Drink," the Elder said.
Your hands shook as you obeyed.
You remembered very little after that.
Only flashes.
The Elder’s arm around your back as he carried you across the courtyard. The inside of his hut, lit only by a single candle and the glow of smoldering herbs. The taste of copper and earth in your mouth. The way the room swayed slightly as he set you on the mattress.
You laid there in silence, your limbs heavy, your belly full of dread.
He pulled the furs from your shoulders. His lips pressed against yours — too wet, too slow. You turned your head, but his hand gripped your jaw and held you still.
His breath was hot against your cheek as he whispered, “You belong to the Earth now.”
His hands moved down your thighs.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Go somewhere else.
Your mind fled, violently and completely.
You were in Abby’s apartment again. It smelled like oats and warm flannel. She was stirring honey into a mug for you. She wore her tank top, the one with the rip under the arm. She was humming something, her voice low and soothing.
You held onto it as tightly as you could.
But then — pain.
Blunt, breath-stealing pain between your legs.
Your body jolted. Your vision whitened.
You whimpered into the crook of your arm.
A hand clamped over your mouth. The Elder’s weight pressed down on your hips. His groans slurred into your ear, slurred and damp and disgusting.
You let yourself slip deeper into the memory.
Abby’s fingers brushing your ribs.
The way she kissed your scars without question.
The way she said, “I’m here. I’m right here.”
A single tear slid from the corner of your eye.
Then — stillness. His body sagged, the sickening exhale of satisfaction leaving his lungs.
He rolled off of you and let out a satisfied murmur, already drifting toward sleep.
You stared at the ceiling.
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t scream.
You reached for the bone hairpin still woven into your braid.
Your fingers wrapped around it like it was the only solid thing in the world. Your other hand trembled at your side, blood slowly sliding down the insides of your thighs — warm, tacky. A dull ache radiated from your hips, your stomach curling in on itself.
You listened.
One breath. Two.
Then a snore.
He was asleep.
You sat up slowly, the weight of the fur sliding off your bare shoulders. The candle beside the bed cast trembling shadows across the wooden walls. You turned toward him. His mouth hung open slightly. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
Now.
You moved with the precision of someone who'd killed before — but never like this. Never with your body torn open, never with this level of rage humming in your teeth.
The bone pin plunged into his neck.
Once. Twice. Over and over.
Hot spurts of blood gushed over your hands. You clamped your palm over his mouth before he could scream. His eyes flew open wide, shocked. You watched as he writhed, choking, drowning in his own blood, your body pressed to his like a ghost refusing to leave.
Finally, he stilled. The mattress soaked dark beneath him.
You stared at him for a second longer — just to be sure — before pulling your hand away. The air reeked of iron and smoke.
You stood, trembling. Naked, blood-slicked, your legs wet not just with blood but with the sick humiliation he left inside you. Your breath shook.
You have to move.
You crept to the door and cracked it open. Outside, the camp was quiet. The moon had risen behind the clouds, its glow hazy and soft.
You slipped into the tall grass lining the path, your skin catching on the dry blades. Cold air kissed your fevered flesh. You crouched low, scanning the main hall — your pack and weapons were inside. A man stood watch at the entrance, facing the fire pit with his back to you.
You stalked closer, crouched like an animal.
When you were close enough to smell the smoke on his cloak, you pounced.
Your hand clamped over his mouth, and your other drove the sharp bone into the base of his skull. He went limp in your arms, a soft grunt escaping against your palm. You lowered him slowly into the grass, heart pounding.
You slipped inside the hall.
Empty.
Dim oil lamps flickered along the wooden beams. You ducked behind the counter and threw on your old clothes — a salt-crusted tank top and shorts that now pinched at your hips and thighs. You winced as the fabric scraped across the bruises between your legs, where the blood had dried in uncomfortable patches.
You turned toward your boots and froze.
A gasp.
You whirled around.
Anne.
She stood in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth parted. She saw your blood, your blade, your wild eyes.
“I—” she started.
You lunged.
You didn't give her time to scream. The bone pin buried itself in her throat with a sickening crunch. She collapsed in your arms. You caught her, tears spilling down your cheeks as you laid her down gently.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry.”
But this was life or death.
You yanked on your old boots, still caked with the mud of another life, and sprinted into the night. Behind you, voices rose — a cry, then two. The Elder had been found. The alarm spread like wildfire.
Torches flared in the distance. Screams. Chaos.
You crashed through the brush, branches slashing your skin. You reached the shore, the boat bobbing in the gentle tide like it had been waiting for you.
You pushed it into the water, breath rasping, legs burning. You scrambled aboard, the sail snapping in the wind. Your fingers worked on instinct, setting the canvas to catch the breeze.
Behind you, figures reached the beach.
They screamed, waving their torches, firelight reflecting in the water like hell’s teeth.
You didn’t look back again.
The sail caught.
The boat cut through the dark surf.
You drifted south, deeper into the night, the cult's chants drowned out by the wind in your ears. The stars above were silent witnesses.
You had escaped.
But you would never be the same.

Chapter 41: Abigail

The sunlight broke across your face like a slap.
You squinted against it, salt crusting in the corners of your eyes. The waves sloshed against the boat’s hull in a lazy rhythm, no longer a stranger to your ears. It had been another month at sea. Your body knew it better than your mind did—thin, dry-lipped, every joint aching with malnutrition and memory. The air was warmer now, softer. The scent of land began to creep into the wind—soil, foliage, something not soaked in brine. You’d kept yourself tight to the California coast, never venturing far enough to lose sight of the shore. Somewhere past the haze, Santa Barbara was waiting. She was waiting. Abby.
Then it hit you.
The nausea was sudden, forceful, violent. You lurched forward over the side of the boat, retching until bile burned your throat raw. You coughed and spat, chest heaving. Your arms trembled as you gripped the railing. The world spun and your body shrank into itself.
No.
Not that. Not now.
Your fingers dug into your stomach. The memory snapped through you like a whip. The elder’s voice. His hands. The way they held you down and prayed as if sanctifying your desecration. Your vomit hung in the sea foam like a confession. You curled into yourself, knees to your chest, tears leaking hot down your face. You had never imagined this—a life with a man, much less being left with something of him still inside you. Not like this. Never like this.
You rocked with the waves, bones against wood, shivering not from cold but the knowing.
Your food stores were low. The fish had been hard to trust since the mackerel that nearly killed you. You were more careful now—scaling, gutting, salting, drying it in the sun in strips like jerky. Each bite still reminded you of rot. But hunger was louder than fear. Hunger always won.
You sat up and checked the sail. The knots were weathered but intact. Your skin, once sun-scorched and peeling, was pale now from long days hiding in the cabin. Your body had changed again—thicker, softer. Not the shape Abby had last seen. You weren’t sure she would recognize you. Or if she’d still want to.
The wind carried a scent of eucalyptus, maybe oleander. It mingled with the ever-present salt air, something new in the blend. You reached for the compass. South. Always south.
Santa Barbara was close now. Maybe a week more.
You imagined her there. Not in the stadium. Not in Seattle. In sun-drenched streets, her hair a halo, muscles taut and safe. You missed her so deeply it felt like missing breath. You remembered the way she looked at you when she didn’t know anyone else was watching. You remembered her smile when you made her laugh—real laugh. The way she held you when you shook at night.
You tried to hold on to that. But then the elder’s hands crept in. His breath, his weight. It scraped everything away, sanded the tenderness raw until it bled. You pressed your fists to your temples, as if you could shove the memory out of your skull.
“I want a cigarette,” you whispered. Your voice cracked from disuse. “Just one fucking cigarette.”
The sea said nothing.
You were almost there.
______________________________________________________________________________
The week passed like a slow death.
Your body was weak—limp from starvation, dizzy with dehydration, sore from days of vomiting and cramps. The salt air blistered your nose, the sun burning against skin gone pale again after months spent inside. Every bite of fish scraped against your throat like guilt.
A cramp jolted you awake.
You winced, curling into yourself as the ache in your abdomen twisted, pulsed, then released. Your hand slid between your thighs—warmth, wetness. Blood.
For a second, you just stared at your fingers. Then you exhaled. Relief? Grief? You weren’t sure.
The rocking of the sea quieted—just enough for you to notice something on the shore ahead. A boat. Abandoned. Familiar.
Your heart seized.
You scrambled, still bleeding, and pulled on your salt-stiff jeans. The crusted denim clung to your thighs. You tugged on your boots barefoot, not bothering with socks. Your tank top, once black, clung damp to your chest, heavy with seawater and the stink of herbs, of sweat, of sickness. You looked like a ghost.
And still—you ran. You ran through the shallows, sloshing onto shore. Your boots filled with sand and water. You reached the boat and flung yourself over the side.
Inside, a bucket of dead lobsters, rotting and shriveled.
But that wasn’t what your eyes locked on.
A notebook. Weather-stained. Tucked beneath the rudder’s casing.
You flipped through it with trembling hands. Sketches. Maps. A seal, lazily scribbled with a note:
“He let me get close. Jo would’ve loved this.”
You turned the page.
There—her handwriting. You knew it by heart.
“Joan,
If you find this...
We’ve gone inland. 2425 Constance Street.
Lev thinks it’s the Fireflies. I hope he’s right.
I hope you’re safe. I’m sorry I left.
—Abby.”
Your hands shook. You read it again.
And again.
She was alive.
Your knees gave out in the sand as the blood from between your legs soaked through your jeans. But you didn’t care.
She was alive.
And you were going to find her.
But who was Lev?
The name scratched at the corners of your mind as you limped up the coastline, boots squelching with seawater, blood, and sand. Each step felt like your pelvis was being ground to dust. The miscarriage had left you weak, hollow. You wrapped your arms around your middle and trudged forward, head down, the world spinning just slightly with every motion.
A tangle of cliffs and barnacle-covered rocks gave way to a cracked concrete incline. You climbed it slowly, gritting your teeth as your knees throbbed. A ruined lifeguard tower leaned sideways behind you, skeletal against the bruised morning sky. Gulls circled above, calling out like they were mocking you.
And then—you saw them.
Shambling shapes up ahead, a dozen or more. Some clickers, some runners. Their forms staggered along an old residential road, their heads twitching with unnatural movements. You ducked low behind an overturned car, chest heaving.
Frank’s voice, soft and sharp, echoed in your head:
“Stay quiet, Joan. No heroics. Not this time.”
You nodded to no one.
Crawling through thorny beachgrass and brambles, you made your way around them. Your jeans squelched again, soaked in more than just seawater now. Dark red streaks painted the inner thighs. You winced with each cramp—your body still releasing what remained of the pregnancy.
A baby.
Gone before it ever had a chance to exist.
And good riddance, you told yourself. You didn’t even want it. Right?
You clenched your jaw and pressed forward.
You came upon a street sign—faded but still legible:
“Constance Ave.”
Your heart twisted.
This was it. The street Abby had written about.
House after house stood decaying in sun-bleached silence, stucco cracked, windows fogged with grime. You moved with caution, stepping over children’s bikes rusted into the sidewalk, past a garage door left half-open. Blood smeared the concrete there—old, brown-black and dried, but enough to make you hesitate.
Your grip tightened around the bone-handled knife you kept tucked into your waistband.
A two-story home stood just beyond, partially boarded up, a faded windchime clinking above the porch. You pressed inside quietly, stepping into stale air and mildew. But then—you froze.
A crackle.
A soft, steady beep.
You followed the sound through the front hallway to the kitchen. Dust motes danced in the sunlight slicing through broken blinds. A shortwave radio sat on the counter, humming low and alive.
They had power.
You blinked, stunned, and slowly reached out to adjust the knob. Static. Then—
“...All Firefly units report... Over.”
You stared at it, lips dry and cracked.
“Hello?”
Your voice came out raw, almost unfamiliar from disuse.
There was a pause.
“Hello?” a man’s voice returned, low and cautious.
You hesitated.
“Where are you located?” you croaked, then stopped yourself.
They might not be friendly. They might not be them.
You licked your lips and tried again.
“My name is... Anne.”
A lie. A stolen name.
You thought of the girl whose life you took—Anne, her blood still under your nails.
Would she care you wore her name like a mask?
The voice crackled again.
“Anne? Are you... Firefly? Anne?”
You swallowed hard.
“Y–yes. From... Oregon.”
Silence.
Then—
“Come to Catalina Island. We’ll be waiting.”
The static returned. No more words.
You stared at the radio. Your hands trembled.
Could it be true? The Fireflies?
Or was this another lie wrapped in honey?
You didn’t care. You had nothing else.
Abby had followed this same path.
And if there was any chance she made it to Catalina… you’d follow her into the ocean again.
You left the house without looking back, the blood still drying on your thighs.
Each step forward was agony. But the thought of her—the way she smiled, the roughness of her hands, the way she used to hold you like you were worth something—kept your boots moving.
You were going to Catalina.
No matter what waited there.
___________________________________________________________________________
You gripped your side as you walked, pain flaring through your lower abdomen. It was fall, but the California sun hadn’t gotten the message — the heat pressed down on you like a second skin. Sweat trickled down the back of your neck, sticking your tank top to your spine, and the faint smell of brine carried on the breeze. You didn’t know how long you’d been walking. All you knew was that your body ached and the blood between your legs hadn’t stopped.
Up ahead, a rusted-out sedan sat slumped on its rims, its paint sun-bleached and cracked. On the driver’s side door, a red spray-painted emblem caught your eye — a stylized rattlesnake coiled through a human skull. You froze.
The Rattlers.
You’d heard about them in whispers back in the stadium. Slavers. Raiders. Monsters who branded people like cattle and chained them by their necks. You'd thought it was just fear-fueled campfire stories. But now…
The camp lay ahead — a sprawl of collapsed fences, twisted razor wire, and hollowed-out trailers that looked like they'd once been used for containment. A guard tower leaned at a broken angle, black smoke long-since extinguished rising like ghost tendrils from its charred beams. The entire place stank of blood, soot, and rot.
As you crept forward, the devastation came into focus.
Bodies lay scattered across the pavement — some in tactical gear, rifles still strapped to their backs, most with bullet wounds to the head or chest. Others wore only rags. Slaves, judging by the rusted iron collars that still clung to their necks. One of them had their hands outstretched, skeletal fingers reaching toward the gate — as if they’d died crawling for freedom.
The farther in you walked, the more surreal it became.
A cage built from corrugated steel stood half-open, its door ripped off the hinges. Inside, a Clicker shrieked, arms thrashing against the chain tethering it to the wall. A runner growled somewhere deeper in the ruins, its voice ragged and low — but it didn’t come for you. It was leashed. Caged. Kept like a dog.
You turned your eyes away.
The bones of tents littered the dirt — scorched tarps, blackened fire pits, charred remains. A brand was still hot against an overturned table, its glowing shape half-buried in the sand. A curled R. Their mark.
It looked like a battle had taken place. Not long ago.
Bullet casings crunched under your boots. Blood had dried in long drag patterns. One soldier had been torn in half — his intestines fanned out behind him like grotesque ribbons. A machete sat abandoned nearby, its blade notched and brown.
You crouched low and began searching the bodies. You hated touching them — the flesh bloated, squirming with maggots, clothing damp and crusted — but you needed a sign. A clue. Anything.
Then, inside the torn vest of one man, you found a map — wrinkled, grease-stained, nearly falling apart. Red ink bled across it. Circles and scribbled notes over California’s southern coast. Santa Barbara. Long Beach. San Pedro.
Catalina Island. Circled three times. Underlined. "Reclaim the Ark."
You stared at it, your fingers trembling. This was it. They had a plan. A destination. But they never made it. This whole place… someone had stopped them.
Your gut said Abby had something to do with that. Or maybe someone else who followed her. But either way, she might’ve made it out.
You tore the Catalina section from the map, folding it tight and jamming it into your waistband.
Behind you, one of the infected let out a bone-rattling screech.
That was your cue to go.
You sprinted toward the beach, lungs burning, blood still dripping from your thighs. Down the sand-dune path, past overturned ATVs and bloated seaweed-strewn corpses. Near a shattered pier, a motorboat waited — half-covered by a moldy tarp, miraculously untouched.
You shoved it into the shallows, teeth gritted, boots soaked, hands raw against the hull. The motor coughed, then roared to life.
Screams echoed from the compound as a few scattered survivors — or scavengers — noticed your escape.
But by the time they reached the beach, you were already in the water. The boat skimming the surface like a bullet. The Rattlers fading behind you.
Your hair whipped into your eyes, the Catalina section of the map clenched tight in your fist.
You were coming, Abby.
One way or another.
___________________________________________________________________________
The air changed before you saw the island.
A familiar tang of sea salt clung to your chapped lips, mixed with the faint scent of rotting kelp and oil from the motor. The wind shifted—gentler here, warmer—and there, emerging through the dark like a dream, was Catalina.
Low hills stretched along the horizon, dotted with shadowy pines and wrecked buildings overtaken by nature. You could just make out soft golden lights flickering across the cliffs like fireflies—distant, organized, purposeful. A settlement. Maybe the Fireflies. Maybe Abby.
Your throat tightened.
The boat drifted closer, its hull creaking with fatigue. You guided it in as best you could, pulling up near a jagged outcrop along the rocky shoreline. When you stepped into the shallows, the cold water rushed up your calves, shocking your system.
And then you saw it.
Red.
Your blood clouded the water again, spiraling out like ink. The ache in your abdomen pulsed harder now, like something inside you was trying to escape. You grit your teeth and stumbled forward, boots squelching in the wet sand, knees threatening to buckle.
Night had swallowed the island, leaving only starlight and the dim glow of lanterns in the distance. You wouldn’t make it inland—not like this.
You scouted the shoreline, hand still pressed to your hip, until you spotted it: a shallow sea cave, carved into the bluff by centuries of waves. Shelter.
Inside, the air was damp, and the sand still held some of the day’s warmth. You collapsed into it, barely noticing the way it stuck to your skin. The cave smelled of salt, earth, and rotting seaweed, but it was safe—for now.
You curled into yourself, arms wrapped tight around your torso. Your jeans were soaked through, sticky with dried blood, and your tank top clung to every bone.
You wondered what Abby would think if she saw you now.
Sun-bleached hair tangled and matted. Skin ghostly pale from months hidden away. Softened in some places, skeletal in others. Blood pooling at your thighs like some morbid rebirth. You weren’t the girl she knew in the stadium. Not anymore.
A wave crashed somewhere outside, echoing into the cave.
You stared up at the ceiling, jagged with old coral and water stains, and let yourself imagine her one last time before sleep took you.
Her voice in your ear.
Her hand at your back.
Her whisper: “It’s okay, Joan. You’re safe now.”
You sighed, eyes heavy.
If you didn’t wake up, maybe she’d be there in your dreams.
But the sun woke you first.
Its heat pierced through the mouth of the cave, painting the sand a dull gold. You stirred, groggy, limbs heavy, skin clammy. When you sat up, a sharp pain twisted through your lower belly, and you felt the dried blood peel from your thighs as your jeans shifted.
The smell hit you next.
Salt, sweat, old herbs, decay.
Your body was rank—drenched in the memory of the cult, the ocean, the blood. Still, you pushed yourself upright, muscles trembling. The island wasn’t going to come to you.
You staggered to your feet, brushing off the caked sand from your back and arms, and started walking inland.
The terrain shifted quickly—rocks to dirt, dirt to dry grass, sunbaked and brittle. Your boots sank slightly in the earth with every step, your calves burning from the weeks at sea. You gripped your torso with one arm, the other shielding your eyes from the harsh California sun. The salty wind felt hotter here, as if it too were testing your endurance.
Your freckles had darkened since you'd last seen land, now dotting your pale skin like ash. You were pink, close to burning. A raw softness had replaced your hardened muscle. You were someone else now.
Abandoned homes emerged along the cracked road, their porches sagging, curtains long since shredded by wind and time. Vines had crept into everything, nature reclaiming what people left behind. You moved through the silence like a ghost, eyes darting through every doorway, hoping for movement—hoping for her.
You found an old drawer in a toppled desk and pried it open with stiff fingers. Sand spilled from your sleeves onto the floor.
Then—metal touched the back of your neck.
Cold. Direct. Real.
"Don’t turn around," a voice snapped behind you.
Tough. Low. Familiar.
"Hands up."
Your heart stopped.
Your arms obeyed, rising slowly into the stale air. A breath caught in your throat. You knew that voice.
Your voice caught in your throat as you swallowed. Dry with salt and sea.
Your hands trembled as you stood.
Blood clung thick between your thighs, soaking the crotch of your jeans, squealing with every uneven step through the sand and dirt. You wobbled, the soreness between your legs screaming with every shift of your hips, but you kept walking. Toward her voice.
"Turn around," she said again—firm, like she always was when she was trying not to sound scared.
You obeyed.
And there she was.
Abby Anderson, standing ten feet away, rifle lowered now, her chest rising and falling with disbelief. Her face had thinned since you last saw her. Her once-thick arms looked hollowed out, muscle wasting from stress and starvation. Her short hair was hacked unevenly, too short even to grab. Her clothes were damp with sweat and dust, sticking to her broad frame in the heat.
Next to her stood a boy. No more than thirteen, maybe fourteen. His black hair stuck up in every direction, as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it. Sharp, attentive eyes flitted between the two of you.
You stared at her, eyes hungry and hollow. Her presence overwhelmed your senses. You smelled like rot—salt, iron, bile, the decay of a thousand miles of grief and sea. Your skin was dry and cracked in places, scabbed where blisters had burst. Your jeans were too tight on your soft, changed body, every inch of you screaming that you were no longer who you’d been.
But none of that mattered.
You looked at her like she was the sun.
She looked at you like you were a ghost.
“Jesus…” Her voice cracked as she lowered the rifle completely. Her gaze traveled over your face, your body, your bruised hands, the dried blood down your legs, the fresh pink of your sunburned skin. You saw the understanding hit her like a blow to the chest.
She took a step forward, then hesitated.
The boy—Lev, you guessed—glanced up at her, his voice calm but curious.
“Who is that?”
Abby didn’t answer right away. Her throat bobbed with a swallowed emotion.
You looked between them, still panting softly. Your arms wrapped protectively around your middle as if it would hide the way you’d changed, or soothe the ache inside you.
“She’s… Joan,” Abby finally whispered.
She blinked like it hurt to say your name.
Then softer, almost to herself: “My… well. Joan.”
Your heart broke all over again.
Not ‘my girlfriend.’ Not ‘my love.’ Not ‘the one I almost died for.’
Just Joan.
Still, it was something. You swallowed hard, your throat dry and cracked.
Lev looked at you again, thoughtful.
You said nothing. Your lip trembled.
But your eyes—your eyes were screaming.

The room was falling apart—what was left of a beachside cottage, half-swallowed by time and salt. The mattress springs whined beneath your weight as you sat, your jeans still damp, blood drying into the fabric, crackling as you moved. You stared down at your hands—calloused, sunburned, covered in dried cuts from ropes and broken wood.
And then the sobs started.
Quiet at first. Just a tremble in your shoulders.
Then your breath hitched, and the tears came hard and fast, dripping down your dirt-streaked cheeks onto your thighs. You folded forward, arms wrapped around yourself, hiding your face like a child.
Abby stood just inside the threshold, the sun bleeding in behind her from the ruined roof. Dust danced in the shafts of light, catching on her figure.
“Abby…” you choked, barely above a whisper.
She didn’t answer right away. Her lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out.
Finally, she stepped forward.
Her hair was shorter than it had ever been—uneven at the ends, like she’d chopped it off herself with a dull blade. She still wore a tank top, loose now around her shoulders, her body leaner, her muscles stripped down by hunger and war. The Firefly pendant swayed against her collarbone, catching a glint of light.
She sat beside you slowly, the bed creaking under her weight.
You shook your head, tears still spilling down your cheeks. “I missed you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked, young, vulnerable, like it belonged to someone else. “So much.”
Abby looked at you, her eyes glossed over, then turned toward Lev.
“Lev,” she said softly, “go back to camp. Tell them… tell them we have someone.”
He glanced at you again—concern flickering in his eyes—then gave a short nod and slipped out the door, quiet as a shadow.
You were alone with her now.
The silence stretched.
You looked at her again, taking her in—the way her ribcage shifted under her top when she breathed, the pink scar above her collarbone, the curve of her jaw, sharper now. Her strength was still there, but it felt… quieter. Worn thin.
You couldn’t hold it back.
“I still love you,” you said, trembling.
It sounded stupid out loud. Raw. Unpolished. But it was the only truth you had left.
Abby laughed softly. Not cruel—more like a breath of disbelief.
She reached out, hand gentle, and placed it on your knee. Her palm was warm, calloused, familiar.
“Let’s get you some water,” she said. Her voice had that soft rasp again, the one you used to love hearing in the mornings when she whispered into your shoulder.
You nodded slowly, the sobs still shaking through you. You felt like you could crumble in her arms, and maybe that would be okay.
You stood on trembling legs, still sore, still bleeding, but followed her out of the building anyway. Abby didn’t reach for your arm, didn’t say anything—she just walked ahead and trusted that you’d follow. And of course, you did.
The world outside was quiet. You blinked against the sunlight as she led you through the narrow dirt path, flanked by overgrown brush and dead telephone poles. The houses—once suburban and sun-bleached—had been patched up, windows reinforced with corrugated metal, doors replaced with sheet wood and rusted hinges. A few of the homes had solar panels perched on rooftops, wires snaking down like ivy. The hum of a generator murmured faintly from somewhere deeper in the compound.
This wasn’t the WLF. No military command, no barking orders, no patrols with rifles slung over broad shoulders. Just survivors. A small collective of scarred people trying to remember what normal felt like.
Abby pushed open the creaky door to one of the houses. It had faded blue paint and flower boxes filled with herbs on the windowsill. Inside, it smelled like must and sea salt. Books were stacked on the floor, blankets folded across a battered couch, and a gas stove sat dormant in the corner. She motioned toward a chair at the dining table.
You hesitated. The blood had soaked through your jeans, sticky and dark between your thighs. You’d stain it. But you sat anyway. What was one more mess?
Abby handed you a metal canteen. You drank like you were hollow.
She crossed her arms, standing across from you, not quite sitting, not quite sure what to do with herself. Her voice came quiet but edged like glass.
“Why’d you follow me, Joan?”
It hit harder than you expected. You coughed a little, wiping your mouth.
“Because I love you,” you said. Simple. Honest. Pathetic.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her arms tightening across her chest. You could see it—the war behind her eyes. Guilt. Grief. Resentment. Love. All of it flickering in and out of her like a candle in a storm.
“But I—” she started.
You cut her off, voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”
Silence stretched between you. Outside, the wind kicked up the brittle leaves, scattering them across the porch like forgotten letters.
Abby stepped closer, slowly, like you were something fragile.
“What happened?” she asked.
You blinked. The words didn’t come. Only images: the elder’s heavy hands, the heat of the fire-lit hut, the smoke in your lungs, the feel of salt wind on your face as you bled into the ocean. You saw Anne’s face—the one you’d stolen—and the girls giggling as they braided your hair.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” you said. You didn’t even look at her.
She nodded, slowly, rubbing her jaw as she stared at the ceiling. A long breath left her like she’d been holding it for months.
“I did something really shitty, Joan,” she said quietly. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”
You didn’t ask what. You could guess. It lived in the silence between you.
You took another drink, this time slower.
The room smelled like dust and dried rosemary. You looked at her again, and she looked like someone you’d once dreamed of. Sunlight caught the edge of her jaw, her Firefly pendant dark against her chest.
You whispered, “Can we… just sit here? For a while?”
Abby didn’t answer. She just pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, folding her arms on the table, her eyes on yours. And for the first time in months, the air didn’t feel heavy.
You waited a long moment before speaking again. Your hand trembled slightly as you shifted in the chair, the sticky fabric of your jeans peeling away from your thighs with a quiet squelch.
You cleared your throat. “I’m, uh—gonna get blood on your chair.”
Abby glanced over, her brow furrowing just slightly. She had always been quick to read between the lines, but this version of her hesitated—less fire, more caution.
Her eyes dropped to the dark stains spreading beneath you.
“Why are you bleeding so much?” she asked, her voice more clinical than panicked, like she was trying not to jump to conclusions.
You stared at the floor. The sunlight through the slatted blinds stretched long across the hardwood, cutting the room into bands of warmth and shadow. Your stomach turned.
“I think… I think it’s a miscarriage,” you said quietly, almost like admitting it out loud would make it more real.
The silence that followed felt like a crack in the earth. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t.
Abby blinked at you, her eyes suddenly sharper, but not angry—just confused. Hurt. Like she was trying to assemble a puzzle that shouldn’t even exist.
“What?” Her voice cracked. “I thought you—I thought you came alone.”
You nodded, still not meeting her eyes. “I did.”
The word hung there, heavy and awful.
She stared at you, lips parted. Her gaze flicked across your face, searching. Trying to understand what kind of hell you’d walked through to get here. Her expression shifted—flickers of horror, of protectiveness, of something darker, deeper. She didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to. Abby had been through enough to know that sometimes, the specifics didn’t matter as much as the aftermath.
She didn’t say anything. Of course she didn’t. Abby never pried. Not when it came to pain.
But this Abby—this one who sat before you with her shoulders sloped, her arms lean instead of carved, her hair barely long enough to tuck behind her ears—was gentler somehow. Worn in. The edges that once bristled with anger had been filed down to something quieter.
Maybe it was Lev. Maybe it was everything that happened after the stadium.
You looked at her for the first time in what felt like years. She looked older—but not by age. By experience. Like someone who’d had to bury too many pieces of herself just to keep going.
“I didn’t mean to bring it here,” you murmured. “I just… I didn’t even know until the cramps started.”
Abby let out a long breath, slow and unsteady, like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.
“Okay,” she said, nodding once, almost to herself. “Okay.”
She moved to the sink without another word, filling a shallow metal basin with clean water. Her hands moved mechanically, but her eyes stayed distant, locked on something you couldn’t see. She grabbed a towel, a roll of bandages, and a bottle of peroxide.
Then she knelt in front of you.
“Let me help.”
You shook your head, dazed. “What?”
Abby sighed and rolled her eyes softly—not with impatience, but like she was trying to steel herself. “Let’s go upstairs, Joan. Let me clean you up.”
You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Your body moved on instinct, bones aching, muscles barely there. You followed her up the narrow wooden staircase, the house creaking beneath your feet. It smelled like salt and dried herbs, like old wood and something faintly medicinal.
She opened a door at the end of the hallway—her room, probably. It was small but organized. A bookshelf stood crooked in the corner. An old quilt was folded neatly on the bed. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the sea breeze in.
She set the basin down on a table and glanced at you. “I have clothes for you,” she said gently, voice quieter now.
Her hand moved toward your shirt, just a soft lift at the hem. But your breath caught.
In a flash, it wasn’t Abby’s hand—it was his.
The sea. The bed of furs. His weight crushing you.
You gasped and recoiled, heart hammering against your ribcage. You shoved her hand away without thinking.
Abby stepped back, hands raised. Her brow furrowed. “Jo?”
There it was. That name. That softness.
You shook your head, clutching your own arms. Trying to breathe.
“Sorry,” you whispered. Your fingers fumbled with the hem of your shirt as you peeled it off slowly. Then your boots. Then the bloodstained jeans that stuck to your thighs like a second skin.
You stood there—naked, trembling, exposed in more ways than one.
Your body was soft now, too soft. The curves weren’t strong like Abby’s had been back at the stadium. You’d lost all your muscle. Bruises bloomed along your ribs. Salt crusted your skin. The insides of your thighs were stained with old blood and something you didn’t want to name.
She approached slowly, like one might approach a frightened animal. Not out of fear, but care.
The wet cloth dabbed your shoulder first—cool, firm, steady. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t leer. She just cleaned you. Like it mattered. Like you still mattered.
She hummed under her breath. Some lullaby you didn’t recognize. It calmed you and broke you at the same time.
You couldn’t control your breathing. It hitched in your throat. You bit your lip hard.
She stopped.
“Joan,” she said, voice just above a whisper. “What happened?”
Her eyes searched yours, and for a second, she looked like the Abby you used to know—before everything. Before the Fireflies. Before the WLF. Before Santa Barbara.
But even she had changed.
You opened your mouth, but the words twisted in your throat. “Nothing, I just—”
She cut you off gently, swallowing like it hurt. “It happened to me too.”
You froze.
She looked away, eyes blinking fast. “At the Rattler camp… when they had us chained up. They didn’t just… lock us in cells.”
Your heart sank. Your poor Abby.
Fuck. She thought it was them. She assumed you'd been taken like she had.
You shook your head, pain rising in your chest.
“It wasn’t the Rattlers.”
She looked back at you, confused. Silent.
Your lips parted, but you couldn’t finish the thought. You weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be.
But the question burned behind your ribs.
What did they do to her?
What had she survived just to end up here, thinner, quieter, still humming through the pain?
You looked at her, eyes wet, throat raw.
And she looked at you—not asking, not demanding.
Just… staying.
She nodded, her voice like the hush of waves against the dock. “Okay.”
With a gentleness that made your throat ache, Abby helped you step into a pair of soft cotton shorts—worn but clean, the waistband stretching over your hips. They reached your mid-thigh, brushing the bruises like whispers. Then came the tank top—hers, probably—its neckline stretched and the fabric sun-bleached. She eased it over your shoulders, careful not to graze the raw spots. Finally, she handed you a pair of makeshift underwear, padded with clean cloth she’d torn into layers.
She stood back, assessing you not with judgment but with concern. “Better?”
You nodded, but your fingers dug into your arms, nails biting skin. You bit your lip until you tasted blood. A familiar punishment. A familiar anchor.
Abby noticed, but didn’t comment. Instead, she smiled—small, tired—and reached out to stroke your shoulder. Her hand was calloused but warm, still strong despite the weight she’d lost.
“Joan, I—” Her voice broke, soft and shaking. “I still love you. I thought…” She exhaled sharply and looked away. “God, Jo. I thought you’d died on that fucking Scar Island.”
You looked up at her, your throat tight. “I never made it there.”
She turned her eyes back to you, reading the thousand-yard stare on your face, the way you clutched your own body like it would vanish if you let go. She didn’t press. Just nodded and guided you gently to sit on the edge of her bed—a creaky old thing with a faded quilt draped over the sheets.
“So—” she started, but the words never came.
You couldn’t let her finish.
The silence split open, and you leaned in fast—tears already tracking down your cheeks. You kissed her. Desperate. Hungry. Your lips collided like a gasp for air after drowning. She flinched for only a moment, stunned—but then her hand came up to cradle your cheek, and she kissed you back.
It wasn’t like before. There was no urgency for sex, no expectation. Just grief and love twisted into one sharp breath.
She smiled against your lips, her forehead pressing to yours. “I miss you too, Joan.”
The room around you was dim, dust dancing in the golden light that pooled through the cracked window. The sea breeze moved the curtain like a ghost. You wanted to stay here forever—here, in her arms, with the horror of the last few months dissolving into the spaces between heartbeats.

Chapter 42: Sweetness

Summary:

yipee!

You wondered if she'd moved on.
If this kindness—this softness—was only because you showed up bleeding and broken. If she'd feel the same if you weren’t rail-thin and reeking of sea salt and rot. If she saw you, really saw you, or just a ghost she’d once loved.
You lay beside her on the bed, both of you on top of the sheets in the humid Catalina heat. The breeze from the fan above stirred her hair, shorter now—cut blunt like survival. It spun slowly, powered by the solar panels rigged on the rusted roof above.
She leaned in and whispered against your temple, her breath warm. “I really thought you’d died.”
You gave a soft scoff, the sound more like a breath catching in your chest. “I thought you did too.”
You didn’t say it, but you’d mourned her at the Marina. After the collapse. After everything. You remembered the bootprint—her tread, unmistakable—near Frank’s blood. The way your chest had hollowed out seeing it. You wondered if she’d found Frank’s body. If she thought you had died there too. You wondered if Manny ever got the chance to talk to her.
If she’d watched Manny die.
The thoughts stuck in your throat like driftwood. You kept your gaze on the ceiling instead.
Her fingers brushed your arm in idle patterns—light, cautious. Like she wasn’t sure if you’d let her touch you or vanish if she held too tight.
You turned your head slightly. “Who’s Lev?” you asked, voice quiet.
She gave a small laugh and laid a hand on her stomach, like muscle memory. “He’s, uh... He saved my life. Back in Seattle. We... ran together after everything with the WLF fell apart. I guess I kind of took him in. Or maybe he took me in. We’ve just... stuck since.”
You nodded slowly. “He seems sweet.”
She smiled faintly. “He is. Smart. Braver than I ever was.”
You looked at her—really looked at her. The softness around her jaw, the faded bruises that hinted at past hardship. Her tank top clung to her ribs, looser than before. She looked smaller now. Less like the warrior you remembered, more like a survivor. Someone who had shed her armor, not by choice but by force.
Just like you.
Outside, waves broke gently against the rocks below. Somewhere in the house, an old pipe creaked. But here in the dim of her room, the silence felt safe.
You pulled the thin blanket up over your legs and shifted closer, afraid she might disappear if you blinked too long.
A knock at the door stirred the air.
“Abby?” Lev’s voice came through, faint but cautious.
Abby sat up slowly, her hand brushing against your arm as she moved. “What’s up?” she asked, already rising.
You didn’t catch Lev’s reply—just the murmur of his voice and the way Abby nodded once, firmly but without urgency. She glanced down at you once more before slipping out the door, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.
You stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together how different she felt now.
She used to hold herself like steel—every step measured, every look a calculation. Now her voice was quiet. Her touch careful. Not weak, just... gentler. Like time and loss had chipped away at the iron and left behind something soft and scarred.
You weren’t sure if it comforted you or unsettled you.
But you were different too. You weren’t the soldier who carved her way through Seattle anymore. You weren’t even the same woman who kissed Abby in a rundown WLF gym or chased her halfway down the coast.
Your body felt like it wasn’t yours anymore—bloated, hollow, sore. You shifted onto your side, facing the cracked window. Through the smudged glass, you could just make out the cliffs above the shore and the sun curling low into the ocean’s edge, throwing a bruised orange over the sky.
You let your eyes slip closed, trying not to think.
You didn’t know what Abby was saying outside. Or if she’d come back soon. But for the first time in a long while... the silence didn’t feel dangerous.
Sleep found you gently.
_________________________________________________________________________
That night, the dreams came back.
You were in Oregon again. The trees towered around you, thick with pine and fog, their shadows stretching long like claws. You ran barefoot through the underbrush, twigs snapping beneath you, thorns tearing at your calves.
Behind you—his voice. Ragged. Animal.
“MY WIFE! MY WIFE! MY WIFE!”
The Elder’s face was blood-slick, his neck gaping open where your hairpin had carved its way in. But he kept coming. Faster than he should. His arms outstretched, flailing through the trees as if death hadn’t quite taken hold.
You sobbed, lungs burning, legs aching. You couldn’t stop.
You looked down—
Your stomach was round. Heavy. Kicking.
It moved beneath your skin like something alive and wrong. You screamed, stumbled, and collapsed into the dirt.
Then the chanting began.
“Rejoice. Rejoice. Rejoice.”
They circled you—robes swirling, faces blurred, voices monotone and inhuman. The women from the camp. The priestesses. The ones who braided your hair and called you sacred.
Your hands clawed at the ground as something tore its way out of you.
Not a child.
Not a person.
A doe.
Slippery and trembling, it slid between your legs, its black eyes already wide open. But its limbs—its arms were human. Infantile. Pale and wrinkled. It let out a shrill, gurgling cry as it tried to crawl toward you.
You screamed.
And woke up.

Catalina Island.
Morning air. Salt clinging to your lips.
Abby’s arm was slung loosely across your waist, her body pressed close behind you. The sheets were warm. Her breathing slow, steady. Safe.
You stared at the pale orange sky beyond the window, watching the sun crest over the waves. You could still feel it—phantom limbs kicking under your ribs, the whisper of pine needles against your feet, blood.
You took a shaking breath, your fingers curling into the sheet.
But it was over. Just a dream.
You were safe.
And she was still here.
You peeled Abby’s arm off your waist gently, not wanting to wake her. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep and shifted deeper into the pillow. You sat up slowly, wincing as your sore muscles protested.
The bleeding had finally stopped.
Quietly, you padded into the hallway, bare feet against cool wood. The house smelled faintly of saltwater and old linen. You passed photos on the walls—strangers in a time that no longer existed—until you found a small bathroom tucked behind a crooked door.
You shut it behind you, relieved yourself, then stared into the dusty mirror.
Still you.
No deer antlers poking out of you. No hollowed eyes. No kicking belly. Just you. Pale, bruised, with sun-bleached hair and chapped lips. You let out a shaky breath and splashed water on your face. It helped a little.
You crept back into the hall and down the stairs, careful not to creak the steps. The morning sun filtered through broken blinds in thin golden stripes. The kitchen was simple—counters scrubbed clean, jars filled with pickled vegetables, and a canteen left on the table. You grabbed it, took a long drink, and exhaled. Then you turned to the cupboards for a cup.
That’s when you heard it.
“Joan.”
You froze.
The voice was soft but steady. Shy, but not uncertain. You turned slowly, eyes falling on the boy.
Lev.
He stood in the hallway like a shadow cast by the past. Barefoot, in a loose shirt too big for his frame. His dark hair stuck up from sleep, and his gaze was assessing. Careful.
You blinked at him, caught off guard. Then you gave a small smile despite yourself. He was... adorable, actually. In a quiet, observant way. There was something about him that reminded you of yourself, or at least who you might’ve been if the world had been kinder.
He tilted his head and asked, plain and direct, “Are you Abby’s girlfriend?”
You let out a soft laugh, caught somewhere between surprise and exhaustion. “Maybe?”
He squinted at your answer like it wasn’t good enough. His brows furrowed. “She talked about you.”
That pulled you upright. “Yeah?”
He nodded slowly.
You didn’t ask what she said. Not yet. You turned, poured a glass of water, and slid it across the table to him. Something maternal flickered in you—an instinct you didn’t know was still alive.
Lev stared at the cup like it was a test, then at you. His dark eyes narrowed slightly. You pulled out a chair across from him and sat, resting your forearms on the table. The wood was warm from sunlight.
The silence between you stretched.
Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just unspoken things gathering weight.
You cleared your throat. “Do you like it here?”
He shrugged. “Better than the mainland.”
You nodded. You weren’t sure what to say next. You weren’t used to talking to kids. Especially not kids like this—scarred and brave, like something grown too fast in bad soil.
He tapped his fingers on the glass. “You smell like salt and blood.”
You laughed—sharp and embarrassed. “I’ve had a weird month.”
He didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched like he might’ve if he allowed himself the luxury.
Then, with all the gravity in the world, he asked, “Are you going to stay?”
You looked past him toward the stairs, toward the place where Abby still lay.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Lev looked at you like he already knew the answer.
Lev nodded, took another sip of water, and leaned back in the chair. His fingers began tapping against the table—light, steady beats in a rhythm you didn’t recognize. You watched him for a moment, entranced by how at ease he seemed despite everything. The steady cadence, the calm expression, the way his small frame seemed comfortable in stillness.
You smiled. He was so… innocent. It was a strange word to assign anyone these days, but it fit him in that moment. He was still young enough to tap rhythms at a kitchen table just to fill the silence.
You cleared your throat softly. “It’s early.”
He nodded without speaking, eyes fixed on a crack in the wood grain.

Chapter 43: Comfort

You leaned forward a little. “Aren’t you tired?”
He shrugged and drank more water, his face unreadable.
So you both sat there, quiet in the warm early light. An hour passed with nothing but the soft tap of his fingertips and the gentle creak of the house settling around you. Somewhere outside, gulls called in the distance, their cries echoing off the sea.
It was peaceful. Maybe the most peaceful you’d felt in months.
Then the sound of a door opening upstairs broke the stillness. You both turned your heads at the same time—reflexive, alert. Footsteps padded across the floor above. A faucet ran. Then the stairs creaked under a familiar weight.
Abby appeared at the bottom, her hand rubbing sleep from her eyes.
She was in a black tank top and boxer shorts, just like the nights you used to sleep beside her in the stadium. Her hair stuck out in soft cowlicks from sleep, and her expression was cloudy with morning haze.
Her voice came low and scratchy. “Morning.”
Lev straightened, suddenly chipper. “Good morning!”
Abby offered him a crooked smile and moved toward the sink. She filled a glass of water, took a long drink, and sighed like she was still waking up.
“It’s early, Lev,” she said, glancing at the dim sky through the window.
He gestured toward you without looking. “Joan said that too.”
Her eyes flicked over to where you sat beside him.
You were still in her borrowed clothes—baggy shorts, tank top slightly too big—and your hair was a frizzed halo from sleep and salt. You hadn’t brushed it. You probably looked like hell.
But when Abby looked at you, something softened behind her eyes.
“You two been up long?” she asked.
Lev shrugged again.
You shrugged too, echoing him with a small smile. “Just… sitting.”
She nodded, drinking the last of her water. She leaned against the counter with one hand and watched you both for a moment. The silence lingered again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. It felt lived-in. Like maybe, just maybe, this house had a chance at becoming something like home.
Abby motioned toward the hallway with a tilt of her head, her voice still raspy from sleep. “We have a rainwater system. Take a shower when you’re ready—there’s clean towels and soap in the bathroom.”
You nodded, grateful.
Before you could respond, Lev turned to you, his nose wrinkling dramatically as he eyed you from head to toe. “You should probably… do that now.”
The room froze for a second.
Abby’s face turned pale. “Lev!”
But it was too late—you burst into laughter. Real laughter. Deep, unfiltered, belly-shaking laughter that startled even you. Your stomach cramped, and your cheeks ached from the smile. You hadn't laughed like this in months, not since long before the sea, the blood, the cult.
Lev blinked, clearly confused. “What?”
You wiped a tear from your cheek and grinned. “I’ll do that now, then.” You shook your head, chuckling as you pushed away from the table and made your way toward the stairs.
Behind you, you heard Abby scolding him in hushed tones. “That was rude—Joan’s been through a lot.”
“But she did smell weird,” Lev muttered.
“She’s still a person, Lev,” Abby insisted. “You can think things without saying them.”
Their voices faded as you ascended.
Upstairs, the house creaked softly under your bare feet. The bathroom was simple—an old converted bedroom with a cobbled-together shower stall at the far end. Pipes led out the wall where the rain system fed into a spigot. A curtain hung halfway off its rod, stained from years of makeshift use.
Still, it was heaven.
You turned the faucet on. The water spluttered, then ran cold and clean into the basin. The air in the house was hot—humid from the coast and the rising sun—so the chill water actually felt like a blessing.
You stripped slowly. Your borrowed clothes clung to you, the blood dried and cracked at the seams. Your thighs were stained a deep maroon, skin tight and irritated where bruises had settled in beneath the surface. The cult’s marks still lingered faintly on your body—welts, cuts, sunburn lines from their clothing, the dull ache of long-forgotten hunger. You stepped out of your underwear last, hesitating as you looked down at yourself.
You exhaled, slow and shaking.
Then, you stepped into the stream.
The water hit your skin and dragged months of rot away. You closed your eyes, letting it wash down your face, your back, over your shoulders. Blood swirled at your feet. You watched it coil into the drain like something dying.
You grabbed the bar of soap from the small shelf—handmade, lemon-scented. A soft surprise.
You rubbed it between your palms. It was gritty with dried peel, but fragrant. Fresh. There had to be a lemon tree nearby. You pictured Abby climbing one, teeth gritted, stubborn and sweaty. It made you smile again.
You washed slowly. Carefully. You winced when your fingers passed over the tender parts of your ribs, your hips. But the scent of lemon filled the space, and the longer you stayed beneath the water, the more you felt like you were shedding a skin. Like the Joan who’d been on the sea, starving and bleeding, was peeling away with every rinse.
You closed your eyes and tilted your head back.
You were still here.
Still alive.
And you were finally clean.
You stepped out of the shower, the water drops clinging to your skin in wisps before fading into the muggy air. The towel Abby had left out was thin but soft—clearly worn down from years of use. You dried yourself off slowly, wincing as you patted over the bruises, the scrapes, the tenderness in places you still didn’t want to think about.
She had left you a change of clothes—simple but clean. A dark tank top that smelled faintly of lemon soap, jean shorts frayed at the edges, and a pair of well-worn underwear. No bra, but you didn’t expect one. You figured they were hard to come by these days, especially in a camp scraping by with scavenged goods and solar panels.
You dressed in silence. Each layer made you feel a little more human.
By the time you descended the stairs, your wet hair clung to your face in uneven strands, and your skin felt tighter—scrubbed raw, sunburned in patches, and a little pinker than it had been. The house still smelled like lemon and sea salt.
Lev was sitting on a stool near the kitchen, peeling something that looked like a misshapen potato. His eyes darted up as you walked into view. He gave you a once-over, eyes wide as if taking inventory.
“Better?” you asked with a chuckle, your voice rasping around the joke.
Lev blinked at you. “You still smell like the ocean.”
Abby, who was crouched by the stove lighting the burner with a match, groaned. “Lev.”
He looked genuinely confused. “What?”
You snorted and flopped onto the faded green couch near the window. It creaked under your weight, dust poofing from the cushion. Outside, Catalina’s early morning light shimmered off the water. Palm trees shifted in the wind like lazy sentinels.
“I’m kidding,” Lev said quietly, to no one in particular.
Abby stood, stirring something in a dented pan. The scent of garlic and oil filled the room—a sharp contrast to the stale brine that had soaked into your bones for weeks.
“You’re gonna get yourself stabbed one day,” Abby muttered, tossing what looked like sliced mushrooms into the pan.
Lev rolled his eyes but kept peeling. “You said honesty is important.”
“Yeah,” she replied, “but so is timing.”
You smiled softly to yourself and let your head rest back on the couch cushion. The ceiling fan above clicked with every slow spin, powered by one of the panels on the roof. The house was old, sun-bleached, patched with mismatched wood—but it was cozy. It smelled lived-in. Safe.
Lev’s voice piped up again, breaking the quiet with a question that seemed a little too pointed for how early it was.
“Is she always that dirty?”
Abby choked a little on her laugh as she stirred whatever was sizzling in the pan. “Jesus, Lev.”
He shrugged like he hadn’t just roasted you. “I’m just saying. She smelled like the harbor.”
You smiled faintly from the couch, resting your head on your arm. “It’s been a long month.”
Lev tilted his head, studying you. “Longer for your shower.”
Abby sighed and turned from the stove to shoot him a look. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? She laughed.”
“She’s being nice.”
“I’m being honest.”
You chuckled again, the sound surprising even yourself. God, it felt good to hear people bicker about dumb things again.
Abby shook her head, grabbing two dented mugs from the shelf. “You want coffee?” she asked you.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your hair still damp, skin still warm from the shower. “Yeah,” you said. “Coffee sounds like heaven.” Your mind wondered–where did she get coffee?
Lev raised his hand. “I want coffee too.”
“You’re a kid,” Abby shot back.
“I’m fifteen.”
“You’re still a kid.”
Lev muttered, “Twelve-year-olds in Seattle were chain-smoking.”
You raised your brows. “You smoke?”
Lev looked genuinely offended. “No. I’m not gross.”
Abby snorted as she poured boiling water into the mugs. “You’re something, that’s for sure.”
You leaned back on the couch, feeling more present than you had in weeks. The smell of garlic and coffee filled the room, and for the first time in ages, it didn’t feel like you were surviving. It felt like you were living.
You perked up again from the couch, stretching lazily. “About the smoking…”
Abby didn’t even look up from the stove. “Don’t start.”
“How long’s it been?” you asked, rubbing your temples like the craving might crawl out of your skin.
She sighed. “How long without a cigarette?”
You groaned, tossing your head back dramatically. “Probably three months.”
Lev wrinkled his nose from the table, his spoon clinking softly in his mug. “You smoke?”
You shrugged, lifting a hand in a half-guilty gesture. “Not right now I don’t. But I’d kill for one.”
Lev stared at you like you’d just admitted to licking clickers. “That’s disgusting.”
You laughed. “Thanks, kid.”
He looked at Abby, deadpan. “You kissed her?”
Abby nearly dropped the spatula, spinning toward him. “Lev!”
You couldn’t help it—you doubled over laughing, a real one, the kind that cracked through your ribs like the first break in thawing ice.
Lev frowned, dead serious. “What? I’m just saying. I’d never kiss someone who smells like ashtray.”
Abby groaned, pouring coffee into a chipped mug and setting it roughly on the counter. “He’s worse than Manny.”
“Hey!” you called from the couch, grinning wide. “I washed this morning.”
Lev shrugged. “Doesn’t erase the damage.”
Abby handed you your coffee, arching a brow. “You better stay clean if you want to sleep in my bed again.”
You raised the mug in mock salute. “No promises.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips.
This was… nice.
The warm scent of mushrooms and garlic lingered in the air, blending with the ever-present tang of salt from the coastline. The small kitchen was sunlit and lived-in, with patched curtains fluttering against the cracked window and a few potted plants crowding the sill—green, alive. You sat in the doorway for a while, just watching them. Abby had her legs kicked out casually under the table, laughing as Lev waved his fork and spoon in the air like drumsticks. Her face lit up when she smiled. You hadn’t seen that kind of light in her, not even back in the stadium.
What happened to her?
What did she lose?
Or… what did she find?
You walked back into the kitchen quietly, your steps still a bit unsure. Abby noticed first and nodded toward the empty chair. “C’mon. Sit down.”
A plate was already set for you—warm, fragrant, and full. You hesitated before easing into the seat, eyeing the sautéed mushrooms, bits of cabbage, and something that might’ve been seaweed. It wasn’t much, but it looked like a feast compared to what you’d lived off the last few months.
“How do you… get this stuff?” you asked gently, voice soft like you didn’t want to break whatever spell had settled here.
Abby smiled, a small crinkle near her eyes. “Yeah, it’s nice, right?”
You nodded slowly, waiting, your fork paused halfway to your mouth.
She leaned back in her chair and glanced toward the window. “The Fireflies have a few farms scattered on the island. Some greenhouses, too. The guy who runs trade’s kind of a dick, but he gets the job done.”
You blinked, surprised. “A functioning trade system?”
“Mmhmm,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s not the WLF, thank god. No ranks. No drills. Just… people, mostly ex-Fireflies or folks who found their way here and decided to stay.”
You took a bite. Earthy, tangy, salty. Somehow perfect.
Lev leaned over the table slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he studied you. You met his eyes—dark, thoughtful, almost suspicious in their intensity. Like he was still trying to fit you into the narrative he knew.
“You’re different than I expected,” he said plainly.
You raised an eyebrow. “What’d you expect?”
He shrugged. “Taller.”
Abby nearly spit out her food.
You laughed. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He narrowed his eyes like he wasn’t quite sure if you were kidding.
You shook your head and focused back on Abby. “Seriously, though. You built something here.”
She looked down at her plate, suddenly modest. “I didn’t build anything. I just… followed.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Who?”
She was quiet for a beat, then looked at Lev. “Him.”
Lev rolled his eyes dramatically, but you could see it—the unspoken bond. The way they moved around each other. You swallowed hard and looked down at your food again, not from jealousy… but something else. Regret, maybe. Grief.
You took another bite, letting the flavors and warmth distract you from the ache in your chest.
This wasn’t just a stop.
This place was home.
And you weren’t sure if you belonged in it anymore.
There was an ache biting at you—sharp, cold, lodged just beneath your ribs.
Frank.
You stared across the table at Abby and Lev, laughing softly over something he said about his terrible drawing skills, and you were hit with a sudden wave of memory. It clawed up from the back of your mind like a tide. You and Frank, younger and dumber in Boston, scraping by in some busted apartment with mattress coils poking through the floor and your names carved into a windowsill. You'd bicker about cards or rations or who got the last boiled egg, but you had each other. You had family.
Back then, you thought that was enough.
Your fingers curled tighter around your mug, the warm ceramic grounding you. Still, the ache remained.
You sighed and looked up. Lev was watching you out of the corner of his eye, not shy about it either. Just staring—quiet and curious.
There were scars on his cheeks, faint but unmistakable. You remembered now. Scars from the Seraphites. Your chest twisted slightly. Abby had escaped Seattle with a Seraphite? How the hell did that happen?
But the thought was swept away as the last sip of bitter coffee passed your lips. Abby stood and wordlessly took your empty plate from in front of you, the muscle memory in her movements so natural, so domestic, it stunned you.
“Let me help,” you said, standing too slowly, your legs still weak from the weeks at sea.
She shook her head without turning around, her voice soft. “It’s okay. Relax.”
The sink hissed as she scrubbed a pan with practiced ease. The air smelled like lemon soap and mushrooms. A fan in the window hummed softly, mixing with the distant cry of gulls outside.
It all felt… too warm.
Too safe.
Too much like something you didn’t deserve.
You glanced around the kitchen again—the patched tile, the chipped mugs, the hand-sewn curtains—and it hit you like a punch to the gut.
Frank would’ve loved this.
He would’ve teased you about the lemon-scented soap, claimed the couch as his own, probably picked a fight with Lev over board game rules and then cried when he lost. He would’ve told you to stop standing in the corner like a ghost and sit your ass down in the sun.
Your eyes burned. You blinked it away.
This wasn’t your home.
But maybe… maybe Frank would’ve wanted it to be.
Lev spoke again, his voice cutting through the warm kitchen air like a blade dulled by honesty.
“Are you sad?”
You blinked. The question hit harder than it should have.
You stared past him, out the window. The sunlight bounced off the water tanks and solar panels, casting sharp reflections across the room. Somewhere, a bird chirped in a way that reminded you of coastal mornings back in Seattlle—before everything went to shit.
You exhaled a laugh, or something like it. Just air escaping your lungs. Your arms folded over your chest, an unconscious shield. “You’re blunt,” you muttered.
Abby didn’t speak, but you could feel her tense beside the stove. The clink of the spoon in the pot slowed.
Of course she tensed. Lev’s honesty wasn’t always kind, but it was never cruel either. He was just… different.
You turned back to him slowly. He hadn’t moved. Just watched you, his face unreadable.
You nodded to yourself. “My brother would’ve liked you.”
Lev’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he said nothing. No sympathy, no questions. Just… quiet acceptance. His stillness was unsettling. Or maybe it was comforting. You couldn’t tell anymore.
“He was like you,” you added after a pause. “Weird. In a good way.”
That earned the slightest tilt of Lev’s head. He sipped from his mug and looked out the window too, like that was enough of a reply.
The room fell into a kind of stillness after that. Not uncomfortable, not exactly—but heavy. Abby stirred the pan slower now, her back still turned.
There were eggshells on the windowsill. An old calendar pinned to the wall with no dates marked. The rhythm of this place was strange. Too peaceful.
Too… steady.
You shifted in your seat. Your skin still felt too tight on your bones.
Lev stood up from the table, mumbling, “Gonna shower.”
You watched him as he stepped out of the kitchen, his back unusually stiff, shoulders hunched like something heavy had landed on them. You weren’t sure what it was you’d said—about your brother, maybe—but something in it had cracked through his calm. You made a note of it but didn’t follow. He needed the space.
Abby dried the dishes in silence, her movements slow and deliberate. She stacked a chipped plate on top of another and placed them back in the cabinet like it was muscle memory. Then, without looking at you, she spoke quietly.
“Come sit outside with me.”
You followed her through the creaky screen door and out onto the porch. The air was warm, the sun hanging higher now, casting gold across the crumbling rooflines and half-swallowed hills in the distance. The bench swing creaked faintly as she sat down, her hands gripping the sides.
You joined her without speaking. The motion of the swing was slow and gentle, back and forth, back and forth. The kind of rhythm that could settle your bones if you let it. You wondered if she’d repaired this swing herself. It looked sturdy now—rebuilt, like her.
You leaned back and glanced at her. The sunlight kissed her cheekbones, caught in her lashes, made her look softer than you remembered. More human. Less ghost.
You were both quiet for a while, just listening to the bugs hum and the seagulls crying in the distance. Somewhere on the hill, a solar panel clicked as it rotated with the sun. It was strange how peaceful the end of the world could be in places like this.
Then Abby’s voice broke the quiet.
“What happened on the way here?”
You stiffened.
“Abby…” you warned, your voice tired.
She looked down, her fingers curling tight around the wood of the bench. It creaked under the strain.
Her feet lifted slightly, toes no longer brushing the porch. Yours dangled freely beside her, your legs just a little shorter. She always had that advantage—height, strength, the way she filled a doorway. But now? She looked… lanky. Almost awkward in her thinner frame. Like she was still growing into this new version of herself.
“I shouldn’t have left that day,” she said, voice low.
The guilt in her tone caught you off guard. She wasn’t the kind of person to admit that kind of thing out loud.
You turned your hand over and reached for hers, your palm brushing her wrist. “It’s okay.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared out toward the sea.
The swing rocked gently under the weight of memory, grief, and something unspoken between you. You weren’t ready to tell her everything. Not yet. And maybe she wasn’t ready to hear it.
But for now, you sat together.
Alive.
And that was more than either of you had expected.
Lev stepped out onto the porch, towel still draped around his neck. His hair was damp, and a few droplets rolled down the sides of his face, catching the fading light. You hadn’t realized how long you and Abby had been sitting there in silence until now.
He gave Abby a subtle nod. “Your turn.”
She rose wordlessly, squeezing your shoulder gently as she passed him. You thought she might glance back, say something else—but she didn’t. She disappeared inside, the screen door clicking shut behind her.
You blinked, surprised when Lev sat down beside you, taking Abby’s spot on the swing. He didn’t say anything at first. Just rocked the bench forward slightly with the heel of his foot.
The distant hum of a shower drifted through the open windows, muffled by the walls of the old house. You listened to the waves beyond the bluff, the wind combing through brittle grass, and the soft creak of the swing as the two of you sat shoulder to shoulder.
You glanced at him. His face was unreadable. But he didn’t move away.
You took a quiet breath. “Do you like it here?”
He furrowed his brow like the question was strange, like it should have an obvious answer. “Yeah.”
You nodded, lips pressed into a soft smile. You didn’t push the conversation—he didn’t seem like the type who liked being cornered by questions. You waited.
After a moment, he lifted his arm and pointed into the hazy horizon. “There’s good fish in the mornings. South of here, if you take the boat far enough past the point.”
Your brows lifted. That was unexpected. “Is that what you’d like to do today?”
He nodded, this time without hesitation. “I’ve got traps. I can show you.”
You gave him a soft grin. “Sounds like a plan.”
He didn’t smile back exactly, but his expression eased. You could tell he was warming up to you in his own way, letting you into the quiet rhythm of their life here. It felt like an unspoken invitation.
You both looked out at the horizon, the porch swing moving just slightly with the breeze. Abby’s voice floated through the house, faint, humming something low and tuneless.
For a moment, things felt... normal.
Peaceful.
You stood up from the swing, joints cracking like old wood as you stretched. The sun had moved higher in the sky now, gilding the edges of the house in pale light. You stepped back inside, the screen door creaking shut behind you.
Your boots sat by the door where you’d left them—caked in salt, dirt, and old blood. The same boots you wore running from FEDRA in Boston. The ones that carried you down the flooded streets of Seattle, kicked against the chains of the Rattlers’ holding cells, pressed into Frank’s chest the moment his breathing stopped. The same boots that helped you claw your way out of that godforsaken Oregon forest.
You pulled them on slowly, laces stiff with salt. Each knot you tied felt like a memory cinched tight around your ankles.
Lev watched you from the doorway, eyes moving over your worn form, then flicked to Abby who had just stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“We’re going fishing,” he said, his voice casual but certain.
Abby glanced between you two, nodding as she crossed her arms. “Alright. I’ve got some repairs to finish here anyway. After that, I’m due at mid-base for check-in.”
Lev turned back to you. “Just me and you then.”
You gave him a crooked smile and nodded. “Sounds good.”
He grabbed a small tackle crate and slung it under one arm, already stepping outside barefoot. You followed, noting the way he seemed most comfortable like that, toes pressing into earth and sand like he was part of it.
The two of you walked the dirt path that led toward the beach, passing rusted lawn chairs and the skeleton of what might’ve once been a swing set, its chains clinking faintly in the wind.
Down by the shore, you helped him haul a faded blue rowboat out from under a patchwork tarp, the sides scraped and scuffed by time and weather. The wood groaned as you shoved it into the tide.
He handed you the paddles without a word.
You raised an eyebrow, letting out a dry chuckle. “Of course I’m rowing.”
Lev blinked at you like he wasn’t sure what was funny. Then he just climbed in and sat back, arms folded over his knees like a prince on his throne.
You snorted to yourself and shook your head. The water lapped at your boots as you climbed in, adjusted the oars, and started to paddle out—toward whatever waited in the deeper blue.
You floated just offshore, the rowboat creaking gently with each shift of the waves. Seagulls circled overhead, crying out to the open blue sky. The air was warm, the breeze salty. Lev leaned over the edge of the boat and pulled up one of his wire traps.
Inside, a long, glinting body flopped violently—silver-blue with wide, glassy eyes.
Mackerel.
Your stomach lurched.
A wave of nausea hit you like a flashback. Your hands gripped the sides of the boat, knuckles pale.
“Not again,” you muttered under your breath.
Lev tilted his head. “Do you not like fish?”
You tried to breathe through it, but it was no use. Your mouth filled with saliva.
“Not—oh god—” You turned your head and gagged over the side, the memory of that rancid, oily mackerel you’d tried to eat at sea clawing up your throat.
Lev blinked, calm as ever, and gently opened the trap, releasing the fish back into the water.
“Okay,” he said simply, like it was nothing. He was quiet for a while after that, letting the waves speak instead.
You rowed further out, arms burning from the effort. Lev reset the traps with practiced precision. He moved like this was second nature. Like he’d done it for years.
After a while, he pulled in another. A long, silvery white sea bass, scales catching the light like shards of glass. He lifted it out carefully, admired its size.
He didn’t say it, but you could see it in his eyes: pride.
“You’re good at this,” you said, still a little queasy.
He gave the faintest shrug. “It’s just patience.”
The two of you stayed out there for hours. Quiet. Peaceful. The kind of silence that used to make you uncomfortable, but now—after everything—it felt like healing.
By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, you’d filled a bucket with fish. Your arms trembled from rowing, but it was the good kind of pain. Earned pain.
Back on shore, Lev jumped out of the boat barefoot, carrying the heavy, fish-slick bucket with both hands. You followed, sweat clinging to your back, boots sinking slightly in the wet sand.
As you climbed the wooden steps to the porch, Abby was already waiting. Her tank top stuck to her ribs from the heat. She planted her hands on her hips as she eyed the catch.
“Good catch!” she grinned, reaching for the bucket.
You leaned against the porch railing, chest still heaving a bit from exertion. Lev passed her the bucket without a word, then looked back at you like he’d just proven something.
Abby stood at the sink, the bucket already half-emptied. She was working through the fish with steady hands, the soft rasp of the descaling knife filling the kitchen.
You kicked off your boots on the porch—wet, worn, carrying every city and corpse you’d ever walked through—and stepped inside, bare feet pressing to the cool wood floor.
Abby glanced back at Lev. “No mackerel.”
He blinked. “She almost puked when I pulled one out.”
Abby turned to you, concern creasing her brow. “But… you like fish, right?”
You could tell exactly where her mind had gone. Back to that day by the stream—near the edge of Seattle, when the fighting had paused long enough for something soft. The two of you splitting smoked fish and grapes, your fingers brushing as you passed her the last piece.
You sighed and rubbed the back of your neck. “Long story.”
Lev, already drumming a rhythm with his fingers on the table, tilted his head. “We have time.”
You stifled a laugh and shook your head, walking over to Abby.
“I’ll help,” you said, voice low.
She moved over just enough to make space for you, handing you a knife without a word. Your shoulders brushed as you stood beside her at the sink, the scent of the ocean still clinging to your skin and hair. You mimicked her rhythm: grip, scrape, rinse, repeat. The silence between you was warm, not heavy.
Lev leaned his elbow on the table, chin in his palm, watching the two of you.
“You look like you’ve done this before,” he said flatly, eyes on your hands.
You smirked without looking up. “What, fish cleaning?”
He nodded.
“Boston had fish too, you know,” you said, tossing a finished bass into the clean bowl. “Didn’t always taste great, but it kept us going.”
Lev’s eyes didn’t leave your face. You couldn’t tell if he was analyzing you or just curious. Either way, it didn’t bother you.
Abby glanced sideways at you, her voice quiet. “You still remember how to gut ‘em?”
You met her eyes, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I never forgot.”
It wasn’t just about the fish.
You both kept working. Lev’s tapping softened into a more thoughtful rhythm, like he was building a beat to the sound of your reconnection.
And outside, the sun began to drop over the island, golden light slipping in through the window—casting you, Abby, and Lev in a wash of warm amber.
You dug the knife into the soft belly of a fish, its scales peeling back under your fingers.
Then you saw him.
The elder’s face—the hollow, furious eyes. The way his neck spasmed when you drove your blade into it. The hiss of breath from his ruined throat. The weight of his body crushing yours, his hand locked over your mouth, his voice rasping in your ear. You could feel him again. Hear him.
Your hands shook. The knife clattered lightly against the counter as you stepped back, breath catching in your throat.
Abby turned, her voice suddenly sharp with concern. “Joan?”
You shook your head too fast. “It’s nothing.”
Your fingers clenched tighter around the handle as you stepped back up to the counter. You forced the blade downward again—slicing through the fish’s belly.
Anne’s face swam up this time. Eyes wide. That last moment when she reached for you before you buried the knife in her. You didn’t know if she had time to feel betrayed. You hoped not.
Your shoulders locked up. The room spun.
Lev's voice broke the silence—blunt, matter-of-fact. “If you don’t like gutting them, I’ll do it.”
You blinked hard, forcing the tears back, and swallowed the rising bile. “I got it.”
Abby didn’t press. But she watched you now—really watched you—with that quiet, unreadable stare you’d come to know back in Seattle. The kind she used when someone was on the verge of breaking, and she didn’t know whether to hold them or give them space.
You didn’t need either.
You just needed to get through this fish.
Your mind buzzed.
You worked in silence beside Abby, fingers trembling as you cleaned the last of the fish. The smell clung to your hands even after you scrubbed them raw at the sink, rinsing the guts down the drain. Abby tied the bag tightly, her brows occasionally flicking toward you—watching without pushing.
She moved easily through the kitchen, chopping green onions and shaving thin slices of ginger. You watched the steam rise from the pot as she laid the fish across a bed of herbs—lemongrass, maybe basil—probably grown somewhere nearby. The scent filled the house like something sacred, something too soft for the things that haunted you.
You sat down slowly on the couch, curling into yourself. The cushions dipped gently beneath you, and for a moment it felt like you were floating.
Then the memories came crawling in.
Frank’s body.
The way it squelched under your arms when you found him. How his mouth hung open, like he was still trying to call for you. The sound of flies. The wet slap of his skin peeling from bone. Maggots poured from his eye socket when you cradled his face, whispering his name like it would change anything.
You closed your eyes. Pressed the heels of your hands into them until your vision bloomed red and black.
No use.
You could still see him.
Could still smell him.
A shadow passed near you, light footsteps—Lev maybe, but you didn’t look. Your breath slowed in time with the simmering of the pot.
There was dinner now.
A roof over your head.
Clean clothes and warm light.
But everything in your chest felt cold.
So cold.
You weren’t hungry.
Abby motioned for you to come eat—just a tilt of her head, the soft clink of a fork on ceramic. You shook your head, gently, without words. She didn’t ask again. She just nodded, turned back toward Lev, and let you be.
You slipped out the front door barefoot. Your boots sat neatly by the threshold, still damp with seawater and fish guts, but you didn’t bother with them. The porch boards were warm from the day’s heat, creaking slightly beneath your weight. You stepped down into the sandy path that wound between the overgrown beach grass and patches of stubborn lavender.
Dust and grit stuck to your soles. Tiny pebbles pressed into the arches of your feet as you moved down the street, past crumbling fences and garden boxes now overtaken with wild mint. The old Catalina bungalows stood quiet in the growing dark—faded paint, solar panels bolted to sagging rooftops, and windchimes made from scavenged bottle caps clinking somewhere in the distance.
The air smelled like salt and rosemary.
You walked until you reached the bluff overlooking the beach. A sloping hill of soft earth gave way to a thin, pebbled shore. The waves rolled in, slow and steady, like the breath of some great beast asleep in the ocean. You didn’t go far—just close enough for the breeze to tangle your hair and sting your eyes with salt.
You crouched in the sand, one arm wrapped across your stomach as you traced aimless circles with your fingertip. Your nails drew shallow grooves that the tide would erase by morning.
Tears came silently. First just one or two, and then a hot spill down your cheeks. You didn’t wipe them. The sea air would dry them anyway.
You whispered into the wind like you used to as a kid, talking to ghosts.
“Frank.”
The name felt thick on your tongue, raw and holy.
“I wish you were here.”
The ocean didn’t answer. Just kept breathing. Just kept pulling the tide in and out, in and out, like it didn’t care.
“You’d love it here,” you said, your voice cracking. “It’s… peaceful. They’ve got their shit together. Lev’s funny. Abby—”
You stopped yourself.
“She’s different now. Softer. You’d be teasing her nonstop.”
You let out a laugh that caught on the edges of a sob. Your arms wrapped tighter around yourself. The cold was creeping in now that the sun had gone. You watched the colors fade from the horizon—lavender, peach, a dull gold giving way to indigo. Then stars. A few at first. Then more.
Your toes curled into the sand as you rocked slightly. You stayed like that until the moon was fully above the trees, and the night had grown still.
Then you heard it—footsteps, cautious on the slope. You didn’t look up.
A moment later, Abby sat down beside you. She didn’t speak. Just placed herself there, close enough that your shoulders brushed, her warmth bleeding into you. Her breath was quiet, rhythmic.
Together, you listened to the waves.
After a while, her voice came, low and careful.
“You gonna come back inside?”
You nodded without looking at her, then wiped your face with your forearm.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
You felt her hand brush your back, just once. A wordless gesture. Then she stood and waited.
You stood too, sand sticking to your legs, and followed her home.

Chapter 44: Lev and Joan

______________________________________________________________________________
It's been a week here. The morning light filtered through the slatted blinds, soft golden rays breaking over the salt-worn wood of Abby’s bedroom. The waves murmured outside like distant thunder, steady and familiar. You’d been here for a week now. Catalina had its own rhythm—slower, sun-streaked, a place that felt suspended between survival and something almost like peace.
You sat up, the mattress creaking slightly beneath you. Abby stirred beside you, her arm falling off your waist, murmuring something you couldn’t quite catch. Her short hair was mussed from sleep, her breathing even. You took a breath and pushed yourself up gently, careful not to wake her.
The air inside the house was cooler than outside, a reprieve from the rising heat that came with every new day. You padded barefoot into the bathroom, water from the faucet cold against your hands as you splashed your face. The tin cup on the counter held a single toothbrush—you’d been sharing, a small, unspoken intimacy.
As you reached for the towel, a shape moved in the hallway.
You jumped. Lev stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with sleepy eyes and wild hair. He wore one of Abby’s t-shirts—too big on him, sleeves almost to his elbows—and a pair of old cargo shorts cinched tightly at the waist with a bit of knotted rope.
You caught your breath, heart slowing. “Shit. You scared me.”
He blinked. “Didn’t mean to.”
You nodded, drying your face. You were wearing her clothes too—another tank top that hung a little loose, fraying slightly at the seams, and shorts that barely clung to your hips. Neither of you said it out loud, but you both wore her things like talismans. Like if you held on tightly enough, she wouldn’t vanish again.
He looked at you with a tilt of his head, then glanced down the hall. “She’s still asleep?”
You nodded. “For now.”
Lev lingered for a moment, then scratched the back of his neck. “You’re… quiet,” he said finally.
You offered a tired half-smile. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t do something wrong, did I?”
Your chest tightened. “No,” you said softly. “It’s not you.”
He nodded, but didn’t look convinced. He turned away, disappearing down the hall in the same quiet way he entered.
You stared at the spot he’d just been for a long time. Then, you turned back to the mirror and looked at yourself—hollow eyes, lips dry, freckles blooming again across your cheeks from the sun. You’d made it here alive. But you weren’t sure who you’d become along the way.
And still, Abby let you stay.
You sighed, leaning on the sink, the porcelain cool beneath your palms. The mirror didn’t offer any comfort—just the tired reflection of someone trying to stitch themselves back together without a needle.
You had to stop being so quiet around Lev. He wasn’t pushy, not really, but you could tell he wanted something from you. Not answers. Just connection. You figured because Abby loved you, he was trying to do the same. Or at least understand why.
It hurt.
Because he reminded you so much of yourself as a kid—before the damage, before Boston carved you into someone you barely recognized. You rubbed your eyes, forcing back the sting before it could turn to tears. Huffing softly, you left the bathroom and padded down the hallway toward his room.
You knocked, softly at first, then again.
After a second, the door creaked open. Lev peeked out, hair sticking up at odd angles from sleep, one sock on, one off.
You looked past him. You hadn’t seen his room yet.
It was small and neat, but personal in a way that tugged at you. Sea shells hung from bits of twine across the window, clicking softly in the breeze. He’d painted sharks on the far wall—crudely but confidently, dark shapes darting through a blue background. His sheets were ocean-colored too, a deep calming turquoise. On a crate beside the bed was a battered journal and a stubby pencil.
You smiled despite yourself. “Are you hungry?”
He nodded, wordless. You walked with him down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath your bare feet.
The house smelled faintly like sun-dried herbs and sea air. Yesterday, Abby had come back with a basket of fresh berries from the greenhouse. There were oats too—stored in a glass jar labeled with faint, fading handwriting.
You moved quietly in the kitchen, setting water to boil while Lev sat at the table and watched. He didn’t speak, didn’t fidget. He just observed, elbows resting on the wood, chin in his hands.
You made two bowls—oats stirred with water and a pinch of sea salt, then sweetened with mashed berries. You left a third portion in the pot for Abby when she woke.
You set his bowl in front of him and took the seat across the table. The morning sun lit the space in amber, catching the dust in the air like tiny floating stars.
Lev picked up his spoon and took a bite. Then another.
After a moment, he looked at you—serious and steady. “You cook well.”
It caught you off guard. He hadn’t complimented you before. He was honest—brutally so at times. If something tasted bad, he’d say it. If you looked tired, he’d tell you. And truthfully, you weren’t good at much these days. But that one small sentence—it was real. Earnest.
You nodded, lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Thanks.”
You both ate in silence after that. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just quiet. Like two people still learning the shape of each other. Still figuring out how to exist side by side.
And for the first time in a long while, you thought—
Maybe I can be soft again.
You grabbed his bowl gently and rinsed it in the sink, careful not to let it clink too loud. Lev stayed at the table, chin resting on his palm again, watching you. Not judging—just noticing. He always did that. Like he was trying to read a book without opening the cover.
When you dried your hands on a dish towel, you motioned toward the door with a soft smile.
“Wanna go for a walk?”
He didn’t answer at first, just slid off the chair and grabbed his shoes. You pulled on your boots—your old, worn-out companions with the fraying laces and soles smoothed by miles of running. The ones that carried you from the fire and blood of Boston, through the cold concrete of Seattle, all the way to this tiny haven on the edge of the world.
You walked beside him down to the shore, the path worn into the grass from so many feet before you. The wind carried salt on its back, tousling your hair and drying sweat on your skin.
When you reached the beach, you bent to gather a few flat stones. You tried to skip them, flicking your wrist the way you remembered Frank showing you—but they plopped uselessly into the waves.
Lev didn’t laugh. He just picked up his own rocks and started tossing them too—none of them really skipping, just bouncing once, maybe twice, before the water swallowed them.
You eventually got tired. You sat down in the warm sand, pulling your knees up. The sun clung to your shoulders, making your skin glow in that soft golden tone Abby always said she liked. Lev kept throwing for a bit, then joined you, plopping down closer than you expected.
His presence was light but solid. Small frame, bony shoulders. You watched the waves, and he dragged his fingers through the sand, drawing spirals and lines with quiet focus.
“It’s hot today,” he said simply, squinting at the sun.
You nodded. “Yeah. Real hot.”
He didn’t follow up with anything, just kept drawing. You could hear seagulls squawking in the distance, and the faint creak of a boat’s rope at the dock pulling in the wind.
Then, with a voice so soft you almost missed it, he asked,
“Do you love Abby?”
You looked down at your boots. Then out at the water.
You smiled. “Yeah.”
He turned to look at you, really look. His face unreadable, but his eyes sincere.
“She loves you too,” he said matter-of-factly.
It knocked the air out of you in the gentlest way.
You let the silence settle between you like a blanket. You weren’t sure what kind of love Lev understood—the broken, raw thing that still somehow thrived between you now—but he saw it. You knew he did.
You leaned back on your elbows, closing your eyes for a moment and letting the sunlight bathe your face. You hadn’t felt peace in so long, you almost didn’t recognize it.
“She’s different now,” you said softly. “In a good way.”
Lev nodded, as if to say so are you.
He leaned his head on your shoulder for a moment, then he stood up. “Abby should be up now.”
You nodded and walked back with Lev, the sand warm under your soles as the sun climbed higher. You’d been out there with him for over an hour, maybe more. It was easy to lose track of time here.
As you reached the porch, you caught a glimpse of Abby through the kitchen window—her back to you, scooping oatmeal into a chipped ceramic bowl. The scent of warm oats and ginger drifted faintly in the breeze.
You paused, watching her.
She stood differently now. Not stiff like before. Her muscles had softened, her frame more wiry than powerful. She still held a quiet strength, but it wasn’t the battlefield kind anymore—it was domestic, grounded, patient.
Her hair, once long enough to braid and tuck into a helmet, was cropped short now. It curled slightly at her neck, the golden strands catching the sunlight like threads of wheat. She tucked a piece behind her ear absentmindedly.
You caught your breath.
She turned and spotted you both.
“Where’d you go?” she asked, voice still low from morning.
Lev stepped inside ahead of you, placing a smooth, flat rock onto the counter like it was treasure.
“Skipping rocks,” he said proudly. “Jo isn’t very good at it.”
You let out a small laugh, flopping onto the couch, sweat still clinging to your skin.
“He’s right.”
Abby smiled faintly and sat down at the table with her bowl, eating in small, focused bites. Lev trotted up the stairs without a word, his footsteps quiet. You were alone again.
She stared out the window as she chewed, one leg drawn up under the other. You watched her. You wanted to crawl into her lap, to bury your face into the crook of her neck and disappear. You wondered if she still wanted to touch you—if she missed the weight of your body the way you missed hers. If she remembered the scars mapped across your back like her own private constellation.
She turned then, her gaze locking onto yours.
“I love you,” she said. Quiet. Plain.
You froze, heart in your throat.
“I love you too,” you whispered.
She smiled as she polished off her oatmeal, scraping the last bit of syrupy oats from the edge of her bowl.
“Thank you for being with Lev while I go down to base,” she said softly.
You nodded, still curled into the couch cushions.
Abby moved to the sink and began rinsing the pot you used, the sound of water slapping metal filling the small kitchen.
“It’s okay if it takes you a while to work up to him,” she added, her voice casual but carefully measured.
You didn’t respond. But she’d noticed your distance—of course she had.
She dried the pot with a towel, folded it neatly, then slipped her boots on by the door. She was already dressed: a black tank top stretched over her back, faded jean shorts sitting low on her hips. Her knife rested in a sheath tied to her thigh, just in case.
“I’ll be heading out now,” she said, almost like it was a ritual.
She turned at the base of the stairs and cupped a hand to her mouth.
“Be good! I’ll be back at sunset!” she called up.
You didn’t hear Lev’s response. Maybe he was asleep again. Maybe just ignoring her in that way teenagers do when they love you more than they let on.
Then, the door opened and shut. Her boots thumped down the porch stairs and disappeared into the hum of cicadas and wind.
The silence stretched in her absence.
You tapped your fingers lightly against the couch’s wood armrest. Abby had brought you paints and paper a few days ago—warm ochres, seafoam greens, rust red—but the brush hadn’t touched the page. She'd also given you a little leather-bound journal, hoping you’d find words in the quiet. But most of what you wrote were jagged memories: blood-soaked clothes, the creak of rope, the taste of salt and bile in your mouth. None of it felt like healing.
You sighed.
A soft breeze floated through the open windows, rustling the thin curtains and brushing cool air across your skin. You laid down sideways on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, your face pressed into the worn fabric. The scent of lemon soap still clung to you from yesterday’s shower. Faint, but comforting.
The waves roared gently in the distance, steady and soothing. You closed your eyes.
Sleep found you again. Not heavy this time, but gentle—like being rocked. A nap that asked nothing of you.
_________________________________________________________________________
Small fingers tapped gently at your forehead. Not hard—just persistent.
You blinked awake, your vision swimming a bit as Lev’s face came into focus, upside down from where he leaned over the couch. His expression was flat as usual, but his wide eyes studied you like he was trying to solve something.
You groaned softly and dragged your arm over your face.
“What?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Instead of answering, he sat down at the edge of the couch, his thigh brushing your ankle. You shifted, scooting up slightly to make more room. The leather creaked beneath you both.
He pulled out a tattered book from under his arm. Something old, with water-warped pages and a broken spine. He cracked it open like he’d read it a hundred times and settled into the corner of the couch beside you, knees folded to his chest.
You glanced at him sideways, unsure if he wanted something—or if he just didn’t want to be alone. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
The room was still. The only sounds were the steady churn of waves in the distance and the rustle of Lev turning a page.
You let your head sink back into the couch pillow, watching him for a moment. He didn’t look at you. Just read.
You closed your eyes again and nodded off—your foot still pressed gently against his leg.
It wasn’t the kind of silence you used to fear. It was something else now.
It felt like trust.
You woke to the thud of a bucket meeting the wooden floor.
Your eyes cracked open just as Lev reached down and tapped your forehead again. You blinked up at him, the light now golden and low, pouring through the windows. His cheeks were wind-flushed, his hair damp with seawater, and he smelled faintly of salt and sun.
“I caught fish,” he said softly, almost proud. “You should cook dinner. So it’s ready when Abby’s home.”
You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes, then your temples. You cursed your own brain under your breath. Dreams again—dreams that gnawed, that peeled open old scars and rubbed salt in them. You couldn’t remember all of it now, but you knew it hadn’t been peaceful.
You weren’t trying to be neglectful. You weren’t. But everything in your head hurt. All the time. Some days it was a dull hum. Others—like now—it roared.
Your body ached in ways you didn’t want to admit. A cigarette. A bottle. The edge of something sharp pressed against your skin. The old urges danced in your nerves like ghosts.
You forced your feet to the floor and stood. Walked toward the bucket.
The fish were already gutted. Neat. Clean. Lev remembered.
You looked at him, but didn’t say anything. He was already sitting at the table, elbows propped up, chin resting on one hand. Watching the way the sunlight spilled across the floorboards.
You turned to the pantry and opened it.
Rows of carefully preserved jars lined the shelves—green beans, sweet potatoes, something dark you couldn’t name. You found a sealed mason jar of thick, rust-red tomato sauce. Abby’s handwriting was scrawled on a piece of tape across the lid: “March 27 – tomato/basil.”
You held it up, smiling faintly. She must’ve made it herself. You remembered her once telling you she couldn’t cook, back in Seattle.
You turned back to the counter, eyes scanning for ingredients. Onion. Dried herbs. Some stale bread that could be toasted. You decided on tomato-braised fish. You saw a recipe for it once, in an old water-damaged cookbook while sweeping out an abandoned apartment complex in the Boston QZ.
It had stuck with you. Not because of the food—but because the woman in the photograph cooking it had looked so serene. So normal. Like she had never knelt in blood. Like her hands had never trembled from rage or grief.
You set a pan on the stove and turned the gas on, lit it with the long match from the drawer.
Behind you, Lev didn’t say anything. He just watched you move.
The kitchen filled slowly with the scent of garlic, basil, and heat. The sky outside was beginning to blush violet. Abby would be home soon.
You didn’t know if the food would be good.
But it was a start.
Lev’s voice cut through the low simmer of the pot. Quiet. Almost shy.
“That smells good.”
You glanced back at him, nodded faintly. “Saw it once in a cookbook… found it in a QZ. Years ago.”
He cocked his head, brow furrowed. “What’s a QZ?”
You paused. The wooden spoon rested still in the pot. Of course. The world he came from wasn’t yours. No curfews. No rations. No soldiers screaming at people in lines.
You swallowed the lump that rose in your throat.
“Quarantine Zone,” you said. “Usually run by FEDRA.”
He blinked at you. “FEDRA?”
You turned back to the pot and stirred, shoulders tense. “Not good people.”
That was all you could say without your voice cracking.
Lev didn’t press. Just gave a small nod, like he was filing it away for later.
Then—without a word—he stood up and walked over beside you. He grabbed the stale bread from the counter and sliced it carefully. You watched from the corner of your eye as he toasted the pieces in the cast iron skillet next to yours. He was quiet. Precise. His elbow brushed yours every now and then.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. You knew what this was.
He was trying.
And he wanted you to try too.

Chapter 45: Tender

But it hurt. God, it hurt. He was so small and hopeful and sharp-tongued—just like you were, once. You used to slice the world with sarcasm and stubbornness just to feel safe. Frank always told you you were too smart for your own good.
You blinked and focused on the pot again. Let the smell of tomato and herbs wrap around you like a shield.
Then the door opened.
Bootsteps. A creak of hinges. The unmistakable scrape of Abby’s boots on the wooden floor.
You turned, and there she was—silhouetted by the evening light spilling through the doorway. She looked worn down, skin smudged with dirt, some blood—none of it hers, you hoped. Her golden hair was pulled into a loose knot, strands falling in front of her face. She exhaled slowly, eyes landing on you.
“Hey,” she murmured, crossing the room.
She leaned in and kissed the top of your head without hesitation. The gesture so familiar it almost shattered you.
You closed your eyes at the touch. Let it settle the ache in your chest.
Lev looked over and gave her a slight nod. “We cooked.”
Abby sniffed the air, her lips tugging into a tired smile. “Smells amazing.”
You turned off the burner and moved the pan off the heat.
“Dinner’s ready,” you said quietly.
You plated up three servings, arranging the seared fish and tomato braise as neatly as you could manage. Lev brought the forks over, setting them beside each plate with care. Then he proudly placed the toasted bread in the center of the table, beaming like a kid showing off a perfect school project.
“They’re all golden,” he said, like it mattered.
You smiled softly. “They’re perfect.”
Abby sat across from you, letting out a quiet breath as she sank into the chair. Lev slid into the seat beside you, dragging his plate with him. Not next to Abby. Next to you.
You blinked at that. A tiny flutter stirred in your ribs—something between fear and warmth.
Abby was already eating, barely pausing to blow on the steam rising from her fork. Her arms looked heavier tonight. Her shoulders drooped with the kind of fatigue that came from another long shift. Whatever happened at base today, it had taken something from her.
You stared at her plate. Guilt twisted in your gut.
She wouldn't let you help.
Lev, meanwhile, tore into his fish like he hadn’t eaten in days. You glanced down, suddenly realizing with a sharp pang: you hadn’t made him lunch.
He hadn’t said anything.
“Sorry,” you murmured, not sure if he heard.
Abby looked up between bites. “How was today?”
Before you could speak, Lev answered plainly, mouth half-full. “She slept most of the day.”
You lowered your eyes to your plate, barely able to meet hers.
Abby set her fork down slowly. “Are you feeling sick?”
You nodded faintly, voice small. “Kind of.”
She studied you for a second too long, concern knitting her brows. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t want her to see it. The hollowness carved into your face from months of nightmares. The fatigue that wasn’t from lack of food or exertion—but the quiet pull of something darker. The part of you that was still lying in the Oregon woods, held down. That still woke up reaching for a bottle or a blade. That still whispered Frank’s name into the silence, hoping it might echo.
But you couldn’t tell her that.
Not yet.
She nodded slowly and silence thickened around the table like fog.
You pushed your fork through your food, heart aching.
“I wish you’d let me help out.” Your voice cracked without warning. It surprised even you.
Abby looked up, chewing the inside of her cheek. Her eyes were gentle but resolute. “Not yet,” she said. “I want you to get better first.”
Her words were kind, but they landed like a collar. You nodded anyway. What else could you do?
Lev munched quietly, his knee bouncing beside yours.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows softly. The smell of herbs still clung to the warm kitchen air. It could’ve been peace, you thought. It almost was.
Her voice broke the silence as she finished off her last bite of bread, wiping her fingers on a cloth napkin. “Besides,” she said, swallowing and reaching for her cup of water, “I think it’s good that Lev has someone here when I’m at base.”
You exhaled through your nose, barely a response. Lev didn’t say anything either, but the way his face lit up was enough. There was a soft pride there—a glow in his chest that he wasn’t trying to hide.
This was… domestic. And that unsettled you more than it should have.
You gave a shallow nod and leaned back in your chair. Your food sat mostly untouched, cooling under the low kitchen light. You’d tried to eat. Tried to will yourself into tasting the herbs, the richness of the tomato braise—but it all sat like ash on your tongue.
Lev, ever perceptive in his blunt, childlike way, noticed your plate and took it wordlessly. He swapped it for his own and kept eating, chewing with the absent hunger of someone used to scarcity. You didn’t stop him. You were grateful not to waste the food.
Abby watched him, then looked at you. Her brow twitched like she might say something—but she didn’t. Not this time.
You stood up quietly, your joints aching as if you were decades older. “I’m gonna lay down,” you said.
They both nodded.
As you climbed the stairs, you could still hear their voices murmuring beneath you. Not loud enough to make out the words. Just the rhythm of it—Abby’s low register, Lev’s clipped replies. It sounded like something whole. Like a song you didn’t know the lyrics to anymore.
You slipped into Abby’s room and lowered yourself onto her bed. The sheets smelled like soap and salt—like clean clothes hung to dry on the shore. The window was cracked open slightly, letting in the breeze and the hush of waves folding over sand. A gull cried in the distance. Somewhere far off, a screen door creaked.
You stared at the sky out the window, watching dusk settle like a blanket over the island.
The ceiling above you blurred. You didn’t cry. You didn’t move.
You just… felt empty. Like your body was here but everything inside had long since wandered off.
_________________________________________________________________________
You didn’t know how long you’d been lying there—just staring out the window at the sea, your body curled on its side, unmoving. The sky had gone navy, the last of the sunset swallowed by stars. The wind had shifted. Cooler now.
At some point, you felt the mattress dip behind you. Abby had come in without a word. She smelled faintly of clean soap and damp cotton. Her skin was warm against yours as she slipped in behind you and pressed her body to your back, one arm wrapping around your middle.
She kissed your neck. Gentle. Tentative.
Her fingers combed your hair back, thumb brushing your temple. The other hand slid up and down your side, slow, patient, as if waiting for permission in the spaces between touches.
You turned toward her, and she kissed you—long, slow, the kind of kiss that felt like a whispered promise instead of a demand. She pressed her forehead to yours. Her hand trailed over your ribs, then down, stopping just at your hips.
And then—
You gagged.
It was sudden. Your stomach turned, your throat closed.
The memory struck like a whipcrack—his hands, his weight, the breath stolen from your lungs in that dark room in Oregon. The way your skin hadn’t felt like yours for weeks after.
You jerked away without meaning to.
Abby sat up instantly, concern etched in every line of her face. “Oh… you must be sick.” Her hand reached for your forehead, checking your temperature.
You shook your head, eyes stinging. “No, Abby—” You stopped yourself, voice catching. Your arms pulled your knees to your chest. You curled into yourself like it might hide the broken pieces.
“Look—” You choked on the word.
Abby didn’t press you. She just shifted closer and rubbed slow, grounding circles into your back. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”
Your body trembled, but you didn’t cry. Not yet. You let the silence settle over both of you. The ocean rolled beyond the window, a steady inhale and exhale, like the island was breathing for you.
You leaned into her touch. Not because you were okay—but because she was still here.
Her palm moved in slow, careful circles on your back, like she knew you might shatter if she pressed too hard. You sighed, the sound shaking as it left your chest, and turned to face her. The moonlight from the window framed her face, catching the curve of her jaw, the faint tired lines under her eyes.
“I want to—” Your voice cracked, breaking the silence like glass. “Trust me, God, I want to—” You struggled to find the words. Your lips trembled.
Abby just nodded, her hand steady on your spine, her gaze holding yours without a single ounce of judgment. “You can,” she said softly, “but only if you’re ready.”
Your throat burned. “On the way here…” The words dragged out of you, heavy, raw. “I got stuck in Oregon, and there was—” Your voice faltered. Her hand froze on your back, her body still but her eyes urging you to go on.
“This cult… these people…” You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your chest tightened, your ribs aching. “This man, he—” The words stuck like barbed wire. You could feel bile rising just saying them. Your breath hitched, sharp and broken.
Abby’s hand left your back for a moment, only to cup your face, her thumb brushing away tears before you even realized you were crying. “Joan,” she whispered, and it was your name but also something more—a plea, a prayer.
You shook your head violently, as if the motion could shake the memories loose. “I killed him.” The confession came out like a stone dropping into dark water, rippling through the room. You clenched your fists in the sheets. “I killed him that night. I had to.”
Abby’s jaw tightened. Not at you. At what she heard between your words—the things you couldn’t say.
She didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need them. Instead, she just pulled you against her chest, one hand resting at the back of your head, the other rubbing gentle circles on your back again, like the world could be quieted through her touch alone.
Her voice was low and steady. “You survived. You’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”
Your breath hitched against her collarbone, a sob tearing out of you before you could stop it. For a moment, you let yourself just be held. Her heartbeat was steady, real, and for the first time since leaving that cursed place, you felt something close to safe.
You took a deep breath, need between your legs growing from her touch. It had been so long. Your body wanted her but your mind betrayed you.
“Can we try?” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper against the quiet room.
Abby paused, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Are you sure?”
You nodded, eyes glassy, throat tight. “Yeah.”
She searched your face for a moment, her own expression unreadable—like she was scanning you for fractures, for anything you weren’t saying aloud. Then, with quiet care, she shifted closer, cupping your face in her hands.
You knew—you knew—they had done things to her in the Rattler camp. You wondered if she felt like this after. That slow crawling terror in the chest. That foreignness of being touched in safety. The difference between want and fear blurred and tangled.
She kissed you again, this time gently on the lips. A warm, soft kiss that didn’t ask for anything. Just offered.
You melted into it, your fingers sliding into her hair, gripping her not out of desire—but need. You leaned into her, letting the memory retreat behind her warmth.
A breath hitched between you. Yours? Hers? It didn’t matter.
She laid you back carefully, crawling over you, her hands braced beside your shoulders. The shift of weight, the hovering presence—it made you gasp.
And not in the good way.
His hands. That familiar weight. That shadow that never really left.
You shook your head, your eyes clenching shut. The panic surged up for a second, but you fought it back, hard. Not her. Not him.
Abby froze above you, her face instantly etched with concern. You grabbed her, quickly—reaching for her, not pushing her away—and kissed her again before the fear could take root.
“I want to,” you whispered into her lips. “I want to.”
Her forehead pressed against yours. “Then we don’t rush,” she murmured. “Okay? No timelines. No goals. Just you and me. Breathing.”
You nodded, chest trembling under her hands.
And so that’s what you did. You stayed there, lips brushing, hearts thudding gently against one another, bodies still. Not needing more than this. Just the knowing: she was there, and so were you
Her hand trailed slowly down your stomach, her touch feather-light as her fingers brushed the waistband of your shorts.
You gasped as her lips found your neck, the warmth of her breath against your skin grounding you in the moment.
When her hand slipped beneath the fabric, finding you with a reverent, practiced gentleness, your hips rocked instinctively. Your mind pulsed with electricity—not fear, not guilt, just sensation. Real. Now. Her.
You bit your lip, hovering there, mind teetering between memory and presence. Don’t remember him. Just Abby. Just this.
She pressed inside, slowly, carefully, her pace dictated not by urgency but awareness. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as you gasped, your body remembering her touch like a song it used to sing.
She kissed lower, down your stomach, the softness of her mouth sending chills through you.
“I missed this, Joan,” she whispered into your skin, voice low, vulnerable. Like it hurt her, too—being without this, being without you.
But then—just for a second—Owen flashed through your mind.
The night she left.
The weight of it tried to settle in your chest like stone.
Was I not enough?
But before the thought could root, her mouth reached you, warm and open and devoted. The doubt evaporated like morning mist.
You gripped the pillow behind your head, stifling a gasp as your body arched toward her, trembling under her worship. The house was quiet. Lev was upstairs. You had to be quiet, even as your soul threatened to scream.
Your hand reached down to her hair, not to guide, but to thank her. To feel her. To know her again.
It wasn’t about sex. Not really. It was about choosing to be alive in a body that tried to forget how.
And in this moment, with her lips on you and your name on her breath, you remembered why you came back.
Why you survived.
Why you still wanted.
Her tongue moved with aching precision, slow circles that felt less like lust and more like a confession. A prayer. An apology for lost time, for the wounds neither of you could erase.
Each pass of her mouth over your sensitivity sent a ripple through your chest, like she wasn’t just touching your body—but the part of you that forgot how to be held. Worshipped. Loved.
It didn’t take long.
You were starved for it—for her—for gentleness. Your climax rose fast, tight and overwhelming, shaking through your body before you could brace against it.
Your hips jerked into her mouth, breath catching in your throat. She held your thighs steady, thumbs stroking in soft, grounding circles, letting you ride it out, not pulling away.
You bit your lip, desperate to stay quiet. Your fingers twitched against her scalp, not controlling—just anchoring.
When she pulled away, her lips were flushed, her breath warm against your skin. Her fingers slid out of you slowly, careful not to jar your body too fast back into reality.
She looked up at you with eyes full of question, “That was okay?”
You nodded—too breathless to speak at first—and reached for her, drawing her up into a kiss.
It was slow. Reverent.
You tasted yourself on her mouth and didn’t flinch. You welcomed it.
You needed her now—not just her hands or her mouth, but her. The version of her you’d only seen in the quiet moments: when her shoulders softened, when her guard dropped, when the warrior melted into something human.
Your hands wandered, tracing her slimmer frame, committing this new form to memory. Her arms weren’t as thick now, her chest smaller beneath the tank top, her waist narrower. But her strength hadn’t faded. It was just… different.
You cupped her face as you whispered against her lips, “Let me touch you.”
She looked down at you—breathless, flushed, soft—and kissed you again, her lips slow and steady like she was anchoring you. Grounding you.
You laid her down gently, still trembling from your own release, your lips trailing to her neck. You could barely control your body, your breath still ragged, your pulse unsteady. You were dizzy with need, desperate for her.
Your hips rolled into hers, messy and aching. You needed contact, needed her skin on yours like it would sew you back together.
But she caught you—hands firm on your ribs—and gently reversed you, laying you back down again like you were something fragile she was afraid to break. She stripped you slowly, reverently. Then slid her clothes off, revealing her new frame in the moonlight spilling through the open window.
You didn’t have time to marvel.
Because she pressed her hips to yours.
And you both gasped.
The slick heat of her against you made your head roll back. She rocked against you slowly, finding a rhythm that felt more emotional than physical—like your bodies were confessing something your mouths never could.
You whimpered, overwhelmed, “Let me touch you… please…”
But she shook her head softly.
“No,” she whispered into your mouth. “Not yet.”
Her hips never stopped moving.
She kissed you again—deeper this time, her mouth claiming yours, her breath syncing to your own.
She didn’t need your hands on her. Not tonight.
Tonight was about you.
The way her body moved against yours said everything: I see you. I love you. I’m here.
Eventually her rhythm faltered—hips stuttering as her breath caught in her throat. You felt her legs tense around you, her whole body trembling above yours.
You were right there with her.
Your eyes locked, breath hitching, and together, you both unraveled. Her gasp met your own, her forehead pressing to yours as she rode the last waves of it, her body finally stilling against you.
You clung to each other like you might fall apart without the other’s weight.
She kissed you again—slow, deep, reverent.
Then she collapsed beside you, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other holding you close like she still didn’t believe you were real.
Neither of you spoke.
The room was warm from the summer air and what you’d just done. You listened to the sound of her breathing settle, and yours slowly catching up.
Her fingers brushed along your spine as she whispered, almost inaudibly, “You’re safe.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever…
You almost believed her.

Chapter 46: Instinct

You lay with her for a while, letting your breath match the gentle rise and fall of hers. The open window let in the salty sea breeze, cool against your bare skin where it peeked out from under the sheet.
She shifted slightly, then pulled the blanket up over both your bodies, tucking it behind your shoulders before wrapping her arms around you. Her body was warm, grounding. The weight of her arm across your waist made something deep in you unclench.
Outside, the faint sound of waves lapping the shore blended with the creaking wood of the old house. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out, carried on the wind.
Her fingers stroked absentmindedly along your back, slow and steady.
You closed your eyes, not because you wanted to sleep—but because it was the first time in so long you felt like maybe you could.
Her soft breathing near your ear was like a lullaby. No words. Just presence.
You didn’t even notice when you started to drift.
________________________________________________________________________
The blanket was warm over your skin when you stirred. Soft morning light painted the room in pale gold. You blinked awake slowly, feeling the residual ache of last night still humming in your bones.
Abby was already up, halfway dressed, her back turned as she pulled a black tank top over her head. You rolled onto your side, the sheet slipping down your chest.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her palm settling gently on your thigh. She didn’t look at you—just stared out the open window, watching the distant sway of the trees and listening to the gulls crying out over the water.
You yawned and rubbed your eyes.
“Morning,” she said softly, her voice still a little hoarse from sleep.
You scooted closer, resting your chin on her shoulder for a second. “Morning,” you echoed, your voice low and drowsy.
She turned and placed a folded pair of shorts and one of her worn gray shirts on the bed beside you. “Get dressed,” she said gently. “I have to head out early today. Can you make breakfast for Lev?”
You nodded, reaching for the clothes as she stepped toward the doorway.
“Be back this afternoon,” she added, pausing with her hand on the doorframe. She looked back at you, her expression unreadable for a moment—then softened. “Thanks.”
And then she was gone, her boots tapping down the hallway toward the stairs.
You sat there for a second, holding her shirt in your lap. It smelled like her. Like ocean air and cedarwood.
You pulled on Abby’s shirt and stood, the hem falling to your thighs. The scent of her still clung to the fabric—faintly clean, like cedar and sea salt.
You stepped into the hallway, sleep still heavy in your limbs, bones aching in that gentle post-dream way. In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth slowly, rinsed your face with cold water. The chill woke you more than the sunrise had.
When you looked up, Lev was standing in the doorway, arms crossed in his oversized shirt, watching you with that unreadable expression he always wore.
“Are you going to sleep all day again?” he asked, deadpan.
You snorted, wiping your face with the towel. “We can do whatever you want.”
That made him smile, just slightly, and he turned without a word, heading down the stairs in his usual quiet way—barefoot, light as a shadow.
You followed, ready to face whatever the day would be.
You stood barefoot in the dim kitchen, the old wooden floor cool beneath your feet, still damp in some corners from sea air creeping in overnight. Catalina mornings always smelled like salt and citrus—coastal wind curling through the cracked windows, lifting the curtains like ghostly breath.
You stared down at the scattered pantry items. No oats. The bread was stiff as driftwood, one slice even curling in on itself like it had given up. But there was powdered milk, a sack of sugar kept dry in a rusted tin, and a bowl of berries Lev had picked two days ago—wild-looking things, bruised and tart-smelling, but still vibrant in their little ceramic bowl.
The base had cows, somewhere—Firefly logistics managed that much. You figured the milk had been powdered and shipped in from some inland post. It clumped as you poured it into the pan with water, the smell slightly chalky, but you stirred through it.
As the heat rose, you crushed a few berries into the mix, watching the swirl of purples and pinks bloom in the milky base like bruises fading in reverse. You broke the stale bread into hunks and dropped them in. They floated briefly before soaking and sinking, softening like something once forgotten.
The stovetop ticked as the pan warmed, and you leaned your weight into the old counter, feeling the stiffness in your shoulders. The house was too quiet. You were used to hearing Abby’s voice by now—her boots on the porch, the creak of her sitting on that rickety bench. Instead, there was only the soft simmer of the pan and the distant, low caw of a gull circling the cliffs.
Then came the sound of bare feet on the stairs.
Lev padded in, still wearing the same grey Firefly-issued tee he always slept in. His hair was tousled, and he rubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand like a kid half-awake.
He walked up beside you and leaned over the pan, sniffing.
“What is that?” he asked, his nose wrinkling, voice coated in sleep.
You gave a tired chuckle. “Something warm and sweet.”
He didn’t look convinced.
You reached for the ladle, stirred once more, and explained, “It’s bread mash. My brother Frank used to make it when we had nothing fresh in Boston. Milk powder, sugar, stale bread, and berries if we were lucky.”
He tilted his head. “Sounds like prison food.”
You laughed again—sharper this time. “Pretty much was.”
There was a beat of quiet. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, then down at the bubbling pan.
You continued, softer, “It kept us warm. That was enough.”
Lev didn’t say anything right away. Then he moved to the cupboard and grabbed two mismatched bowls—one chipped, one too small—and handed them to you. A silent way of saying he’d try it.
You filled them and passed one over. He sat at the kitchen table, spoon in hand, staring down like it might move on its own. You joined him.
He took a cautious bite.
Then another.
A long pause.
“It’s weird,” he muttered at last. “But I like it.”
You exhaled. Not a laugh, not quite. But a loosening.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
Outside, the waves tapped against the distant cliffside like an old metronome. Seagulls called low above the roof, and in the corner of the kitchen, the breeze made the seashells in the window rattle softly—Lev’s collection, strung up on old fishing line, catching bits of morning light.
He kept eating.
And for the first time in what felt like years, breakfast tasted like something close to peace.
You rinsed the bowl in the sink, steam from the hot water fogging the cracked window above. Lev had finished his strange breakfast mash without complaint, even muttering that it was "okay." For him, that was high praise. He’d padded up the stairs a few minutes ago, the floorboards groaning beneath his small frame. Then, you heard it—water running. The shower.
You dried your hands on your shirt, staring absently at the shell mobile rattling in the breeze again.
Then a sound snapped through the house.
SLAM.
Not just a door closing—slamming. Hard. Too hard for Lev.
You stiffened, your chest tensing. What the hell?
You called up instinctively, voice catching in your throat. “Lev?”
No answer.
You moved to the stairs fast, boots still off, feet thudding up the narrow wooden steps. Another creak from behind his door. Then—
A muffled sob.
The sound stopped you in your tracks. Something about it. Raw. Cracked open.
You didn’t knock. You turned the knob and pushed the door open.
He didn’t yell again, but he threw a pillow across the room, hitting your chest like a soft warning shot. “Go away!”
But he wasn’t mad. He was crying. Curled on the bed like a wounded animal.
Your heart dropped to your stomach when you saw it.
A dark stain bloomed on the front of his pants. Not a wound… blood. Not enough to be a gash, but still—blood.
You froze.
Your thoughts spiraled fast. Is someone hurting him? Did someone at base…? Was I not watching him close enough?
You didn’t understand.
You took a cautious step toward the bed, lowering your voice. “Lev… what happened?”
He didn’t answer, just curled tighter, burying his face into the fabric of his pillow. His thin back rose and fell in trembling hiccups. He was trying to hide himself, but you could hear it—shame in the way he cried.
You sat slowly on the edge of the bed, hands shaking. You didn’t touch him. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t say anything at first. You just stayed there, giving him your quiet, giving him room—the thing you never had when you needed it.
But he sat up fast, his face blotchy and wet, and he screamed, voice cracking under the weight of it.
“I said get out!”
You flinched like you’d been struck. Your body moved before your brain did—you stood, breath hitching. “Okay,” you whispered, nodding. “Just… tell me if you need anything. Please.”
He didn’t reply.
You backed out of the room slowly, heart pounding in your throat. Just before the door fully closed behind you, he slammed it shut from the other side, rattling the frame.
The hallway felt colder than before. Quieter. But your mind was anything but.
What now? What the fuck now?
Your thoughts spiraled. If this was what you thought it was—he’d need someone who knew. Someone who could explain it without hurting him further. Someone who could talk to him the way Abby could.
Abby.
You needed to find her.
You hurried down the stairs, stepping into the kitchen. You pulled open the drawer by the stove—Abby always kept pencils there, and a scrap of paper from an old Firefly medical ledger. You scribbled quickly.
“Lev—Heading to base. I’ll be back soon. You don’t have to talk to me, but don’t be alone. Please eat something if you can. –J”
You folded it and left it by the still-warm stove. The air smelled faintly of sweet milk and berries, the scent lingering like a ghost.
You moved through the house on autopilot, slipping on your jeans—still too loose, cinched at the waist with an old piece of paracord. You kept Abby’s black tank top on; it smelled like her, like salt and laundry soap.
At the weapons drawer, you grabbed your rifle and shouldered it, then slid your knife into its sheath on your thigh.
The sun was still high outside, but your chest felt tight like a storm was coming. You locked the door behind you and headed inland, your boots crunching softly along the path carved between wind-worn shrubs and sun-bleached shells.
The trail to base was supposed to be safe. You’d walked it once before—just once, with Abby beside you, her hand on your back, pointing out the checkpoints and watchposts the Fireflies had set up.
But nothing felt safe now. Not with Lev hurting. Not with that memory flashing in your head: I said get out.
You knew he didn’t mean it. Not really.
But you’d said the same words to Frank once. And Frank had left.
So now, your hands gripped the rifle a little tighter. Your boots hit the dirt a little harder. And your thoughts stayed on repeat:
Find Abby. Tell her everything. And then figure out how to be the person he needs.
Even if it breaks you.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The sun was ruthless overhead. No clouds, no breeze—just a white-hot dome that turned the dusty trail inland into a shimmering mirage. Your tank top clung to your back, sweat slicking your skin as salt from the ocean dried in tight patches along your temples. You shielded your eyes with one hand as the Firefly outpost came into view—a makeshift checkpoint wedged between two repurposed cabins, both covered in sun-bleached tarps and netting. One had a rusted antenna on top, probably for radioing the main base.
The area was eerily quiet.
Too quiet.
Abby had warned you that it might be like this—Fireflies were always half-hidden, posted in silence in case of outsiders, trespassers… or infected.
You stepped up to the fortified door. It was sanded wood bolted with rusted metal sheets, patched up from different scrap sources. A narrow view-slit, only big enough for a pair of eyes, sat at eye level.
You slammed your palm against the door with a loud thud and knocked.
After a moment, the slit slid open. A pair of suspicious brown eyes stared out, darting over your face, then to your rifle.
“Name?” the man asked, his voice scratchy from cigarettes or years of shouting.
Your mouth dried instantly. You swallowed. God, what if he knew you from Boston? What if—
“Joan,” you said hoarsely. “I’m with Abby.”
A beat of silence passed. Then: clunk. The door unlatched and creaked open.
“She’s in the tent down the road,” the man said, already turning his back. “Big green canvas one. Can’t miss it.”
You nodded stiffly and stepped inside, boots crunching over gravel and broken shell.
The Firefly base was larger than you’d expected. It wasn’t just a couple of tents—this was a full, functioning community. Old Catalina houses had been reinforced with scavenged materials: aluminum siding, planks of driftwood, even chunks of collapsed boats repurposed into shingled roofs. Solar panels shimmered on rooftops. You passed a community garden on the left, where overripe tomatoes and broad-leaf kale stretched in raised beds, and a chicken coop to the right, where three hens scratched lazily at the dirt.
Beyond that, tents lined a narrow dirt road—olive drab, sun-stained, arranged in rows like a temporary military camp. People milled about—some in patched uniforms, others barefoot and carrying baskets of herbs or folded laundry. At a corner intersection, a large chalkboard map stood propped against a stack of crates, showing a rough sketch of trade routes, safe zones, and scheduled bartering dates with the coast.
Everything felt alive. Organized chaos. Like a resistance blooming in the cracks of the old world.
But all you could focus on was the heat burning your shoulders—and the tight knot in your chest.
You finally reached the green canvas tent at the end of the path. It was broad, with open flaps and a large folding table inside, covered in maps, markers, and radios. Inside, you saw her.
Abby.
She was knelt over the table, her back toward you, one hand braced against the edge, the other pointing something out on the map. Her golden hair—now shorter than it had been in Seattle—was tied back messily, and strands clung to the sweat on her neck. Her tank top was damp down the spine, clinging to her frame. She looked leaner than she used to. Not as muscular. But still powerful.
She was speaking to a woman.
You paused in the entrance, breath catching.
The woman was tall. Slender, almost wiry in a sun-soaked way. Her skin was freckled from too much time in the sun, and her long honey-blonde hair was tied into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder. She wore cargo pants rolled at the ankle and a cut-off tee that revealed toned arms. Her laugh was soft and grounded, earthy. Her whole vibe was calm, like she belonged here.
And God, she was gorgeous.
Your stomach twisted. Insecurity sank into your spine like a blade.
You stared for a beat too long.
Was Abby smiling differently? Did her voice go softer when she spoke to her? Did she brush her fingers against hers while pointing at the map?
You couldn’t tell. But your skin suddenly felt tighter, and your fingers curled into your palms.
You stood at the entrance, sunlight behind you casting your shadow into the tent like some unwanted memory.
Abby turned toward you mid-sentence—and when she saw your face, her expression brightened.
“Jo,” she said, standing up straight. Her eyes softened. “Hey.”
But all you could do was nod and step in slowly, the heat of the world behind you swallowed by the quiet tension of the tent.
You didn’t look at the other woman again.
You couldn’t.
Not yet.
Abby’s brows knitted the second she clocked that you were alone. Her posture straightened, a shadow flickering behind her expression. “Where’s Lev?” she asked, voice edged with tension. “Is everything okay?”
She looked like a worried mother—this warm, protective version of her still caught you off guard sometimes. You hadn’t quite adjusted to the way Catalina had softened her. The Abby you first met was all clenched jaw and tactical focus. She wore her grief like armor. But now, here she stood, in the gold morning light, blinking at you with worry etched into every freckle, hair falling loose from her bun, one hand resting instinctively on her hip.
You couldn’t meet her eyes. “I need to talk to you,” you mumbled, arms folding across your chest like a barricade. Your voice cracked somewhere between shame and urgency.
Abby didn’t hesitate. She leaned down and said something low to the blonde woman beside her—who glanced at you briefly, then gave a nod and stepped back into the tent.
Without a word, Abby placed a hand on your back, warm and grounding, and led you a few paces away from the tent. You both ducked into the narrow shade between two storage crates where stacked baskets of fishing nets and drying herbs hung from hooks. It was private enough.
You stood stiffly, facing the dirt, sucking on your teeth to push the panic down. You hated that you felt like a kid reporting something you barely understood. But you had to. For Lev.
Abby turned toward you fully, brow furrowed, worry seeping into the corners of her mouth. “Jo… talk to me.”
You took a breath. Then another.
“Lev…” You paused, hands twitching by your sides. “Lev was bleeding.”
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t interrupt.
You looked at the fishing nets, the sky, anywhere but her. “Like—” You gestured awkwardly to your lower half. “From down there. It was on his pants.”
Abby froze.
Then—she let out a long exhale. Her shoulders dropped, her body relaxing just a fraction.
That threw you off.
Your head tilted, brow scrunching even harder. “What?” The word came out sharper than you meant. “Why are you relieved?”
Abby opened her mouth to speak, to explain—but something inside you snapped. Panic spun in your chest, and before you could stop it, your voice rose with a fury you didn’t even mean to unleash.
“There’s nothing relieving about a boy bleeding like that, Abby!”
She flinched, just slightly. “Jo—”
“I mean seriously,” you cut her off again, stepping back as heat built behind your eyes, “why aren’t you freaking out right now?!”
You could barely hear your own voice—everything pulsed with white noise. The rustling leaves. The distant gulls. The far-off clang of someone sharpening a blade back at camp. None of it made sense next to the dread in your chest.
“Jo,” Abby’s voice came again—firmer this time, not unkind, just grounding. But it only made your ears ring more.
“You exhaled,” you accused, a trembling hand gesturing to her chest. “Like it was fine. Like it was normal!”
You were trying not to yell. You really were. But your throat burned with fear, confusion, and that familiar helplessness that clawed at your ribs. That same voice that once said: You weren’t watching close enough. You let someone get hurt again.
Abby didn’t move for a second. Then she sighed and stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. It was warm. Steady.
“Jo,” she said, “it’s okay. I promise.” Her voice was quiet, calm, like she was trying to cool a fire without smothering it. “Look—”
You bit your tongue, jaw tight.
She didn’t flinch. Just let the silence sit before she added softly, “It’s not my place to tell you. Just… wait until Lev is ready to talk to you. He will. He just needs time.”
You blinked at her, heart still pounding. Your hands were clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms.
“…What the fuck?” you whispered.
Your stomach twisted again—not from the fear this time, but from the mystery in her voice. The way her eyes were so sure, so sad. Like she knew something, something deep, and she wasn’t letting you in.
Not yet.
“Abby—” you started again, your voice gravelly with concern.
But she shook her head, firm this time, like a closed door. “Jo. No. Not my place to talk about it. Just… just trust me. He’s okay. No one’s hurting him.”
Your stomach twisted at the ambiguity. The sea breeze swept into the tent flap behind her, the canvas cracking like sails. Somewhere in the distance, someone was hammering wood, and a dog barked. It felt surreal—this quiet island, this makeshift community, this… normalcy.
But none of it explained Lev bleeding.
Your thoughts spun like flies on meat. Ideas. Memories. Pain. You couldn’t make sense of it. Abby stepped closer and wrapped her arms around you before you could resist. You stood stiff as driftwood in her hold, confused by the warmth in her voice.
“I’m just—” she exhaled into your shoulder, “I’m so happy you love him this much.”
You tensed. Love?
You blinked, pulled away slightly, the word clinging to your chest like wet fabric. She looked at you with such soft eyes it hurt. Then, without warning, she kissed you on the mouth. Full, open, unashamed. Her lips tasted like dust and salt and something sweet from her canteen.
You stiffened again, glancing around—god, that girl, the one from earlier, the one who looked like sunshine in human form, was still standing by the tent. Her long braid catching the sun. Her freckles like constellations.
You pulled away, rubbing your lips with the back of your hand. “We’re in public,” you whispered, mortified.
But Abby just smiled and leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Let them see. I don’t care.”
Your cheeks flared with heat—not from the kiss, but from everything unsaid.
She stepped back and softened her tone. “Get back to Lev, okay? Let him know we’re having a pig roast tonight. One of the other bases gifted us a whole hog in exchange for a cow.” She smiled at the absurdity of it, of post-apocalyptic barter systems.
You nodded, still off-balance. The sun was too bright. The sounds too loud. “I’ll… I’ll let him know. And I’ll see what he wants to do.”
She touched your arm again before turning away, already heading back toward the other woman, back toward duty.
You stood there for a second too long, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s skin.
Then, with the weight of unanswered questions pressing at your ribs, you turned toward the trail, dust kicking up behind your boots.
You had to get back to Lev.
_________________________________________________________________________
You opened the front door to the house, the hinges creaking softly under the salty breeze rolling off the sea. The smell of fish lingered faintly in the air, but it had been dulled by the lemon balm Abby kept drying on the windowsills. You toed off your boots and set them gently beside the door, trying not to disturb the quiet. The wood floor was cool under your bare feet as you padded upstairs.
You stopped outside Lev’s door, heart thudding. You raised a hand and knocked—soft, just once.
“Can I…?” you started.
The door opened partway. Lev stood there, his eyes red and puffy, but the tears had stopped. He’d changed clothes, now wearing a loose gray t-shirt that swallowed his frame and a pair of soft shorts. He didn’t speak—just stepped aside and let you in.
You walked in slowly, like the air itself might shatter if you moved too fast. His room was quiet, save for the waves crashing faintly in the distance and a small fan humming in the corner. Shells dangled from fishing line by the window, clinking like tiny wind chimes.
You sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between your knees, unsure of what to say or how to hold your face.
“Is someone hurting you?” you asked softly, voice catching.
Lev’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head quickly, adamant. “No. No—it's not that. It’s just…” His voice cracked. “It happens every month. I just—I hate it.”
You blinked, confused again. Your mind raced. You didn’t want to pry, didn’t want to upset him more, but you couldn’t make the pieces fit.
You looked at him. His face was small, still boyish, framed by tufts of dark hair that curled slightly at the ends. He was sitting now, hunched over, hugging his knees, and staring at the floor.
And then, quietly, he said, “I like that you just know me as a boy.”
Your stomach dropped. He looked up at you, and tears were gathering again.
“I hope this doesn’t change anything,” he whispered.
It clicked. Like a lantern finally lit in the darkness. You felt your chest go tight with guilt. You’d been too slow. Too wrapped up in your own pain to see what was in front of you.
You exhaled, pressing your hand to your chest. “Fuck,” you breathed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lev.”
You shifted closer, slow and gentle, not touching him until he gave you the smallest nod. You placed a warm hand on his back, rubbing soft circles through the cotton.
“You’re Lev,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been Lev to me. That’s not changing.”
He sniffled again, but this time it came with a smile—small, shy, but real. He leaned into your touch, shoulder to shoulder now, the way people do when they want to be held without asking.
Outside, a gull cried into the evening. The sun had dropped low behind Catalina’s hills, casting long shadows over the sea and brushing the sky in soft gold.
In this moment, the house felt still. Not quiet in a bad way—quiet like safety.
Like family.
You stayed beside him for a while, hand rubbing slow circles into his back as he leaned into you. His breath hitched every few minutes, quiet sobs tapering off into silence. The bedroom around you was small but lived-in—walls lined with paintings of sea life, a shark sketch pinned with a rusted nail, a bundle of lavender dried and tied near the window. The breeze rustled it softly, carrying the smell of salt and dust.
You hummed a little under your breath. Some half-remembered melody from childhood—something your mom used to sing while cooking, or maybe while brushing your hair. You couldn’t remember when it started or when it stopped, only that it belonged to a time before things got hard. It made you think of her, of the time you confessed about Terra’s pregnancy, the way her hands shook as she tried to make tea, trying to be calm for you.
You let out a soft chuckle, barely audible.
Lev turned his head slightly, confused by the sound, but you just shook your head and smiled.
“Hey,” you said gently, voice quiet like you didn’t want to scare the calm away. “There’s a pig roast or something happening at base tonight. They’re cooking a whole hog—gift from one of the other outposts that got a cow. Abby said we’re invited.”
He blinked at you, still puffy-eyed. “Do you wanna go?”
You tilted your head and leaned back on your palms, looking up at the ceiling like it might hold the answer. Cracks lined the plaster above you, spidering out like rivers on a map. “I mean,” you shrugged, “it’s better than more boiled fish, right?”
He let out a small laugh, short and wet. “Yeah,” he said, wiping the last of the tears from his cheeks with the backs of his hands.
You smiled at the sound of it—something soft and rare. The day still felt heavy, but maybe it didn’t have to end that way.
______________________________________________________________________________
You could tell Lev was excited, even if he tried to hide it under that usual quiet demeanor. His eyes flicked toward every tree and shadow on the walk to the base, the way a kid tries to act grown but still gets caught staring. Despite everything that had happened today, he seemed lighter—grateful to be out of the bubble Abby kept him in.
He wore a fitted black tank top that hung a little loose on his thin frame and a pair of worn black shorts. You hadn’t realized until you saw your reflection in a glass window along the way—you looked like a matching set. Same black tank, same shorts, different ghosts hanging off your shoulders. You let a quiet snort out through your nose.
The path to the base was lit with strings of makeshift solar lights, swaying slightly in the ocean breeze. Someone must’ve rigged the power grid with salvaged panels—Firefly ingenuity. The base itself had come alive. There were fire barrels glowing at the periphery and a bonfire burning at the center, casting a wide orange circle where people sat on overturned crates and mismatched chairs, laughing, eating, passing around old radios and metal cups of something strong.
It smelled better than anything you’d eaten in months. Rich, savory pork wafted through the air—charred skin, smoke, fat melting into open flame. There was something else too—sweet, maybe pineapple or molasses, caramelized and sticky. You saw steam rising from foil trays and cast iron pans scattered on a long communal table. Someone had even managed dessert. Maybe Abby had traded for it, or maybe the community had more to offer than you realized.
You scanned the crowd for her. Your eyes passed over weathered faces, sun-baked arms, people scarred in a hundred ways but still here. Still eating, still joking. Survivors.
But Abby—Abby was nowhere in sight yet.
You turned to Lev, watching him take it all in like a sponge. His face was bathed in the golden glow of the fire, eyes wide, jaw slack. It was the most unguarded you'd seen him. For a brief second, he looked like the kid he probably never got to be.
You nudged his shoulder gently with yours. “You hungry?”
He nodded, lips curving into a small smile. And for just a moment, the world didn’t feel like it was ending anymore.

Chapter 47: Jealousy

Summary:

I have no fucking idea how trade routes would work im gonna do some research idc if it's a little farfetched there's fanfics of people getting abducted by 1d okay? fart you.

You wandered through the heart of the base, the pig roast smoke curling into the salt-heavy night air. Solar-paneled string lights lined the perimeter, casting golden glows across tents and reclaimed wood cabins. Laughter buzzed like crickets, warm and thick. Children darted between legs with sticks as pretend rifles, and someone was playing a scratchy Johnny Cash song through an old speaker patched with duct tape and wires.
Lev was nearby, chatting animatedly with a few other teens his age near a communal fire pit. They wore mismatched clothes—Firefly hand-me-downs, military fatigues, a stained hoodie that looked like it came from before the outbreak. He laughed, awkward but free, like he hadn’t cried into a pillow just hours ago. You watched him with a tightness in your chest. Abby never let him off the leash like this. Not until now. He deserved it.
Still… where was she?
You ducked into the main house—a rebuilt brick-and-wood structure at the center of the compound, reinforced windows, solar panels humming on the roof. Inside, maps and supply lists cluttered the walls. A huge whiteboard bore names and colored magnets representing people and animals—who was out scavenging, who was hurt, who’d died.
And there she was. Abby. Standing by the central table, her arms crossed as she leaned over a map, discussing something with another woman. That girl.
Your stomach tensed.
She was taller than you’d thought up close—slender with broad shoulders, long wheat-blonde hair in a braided crown, her skin sun-kissed and scattered with freckles like someone carved straight out of an old Americana postcard. She looked… competent. Calm. Earthy. And beautiful.
You didn’t mean to scowl, but your face twitched on instinct. When had you turned into the jealous type?
You stepped forward, throat dry. “Abby.”
Your voice came out rougher than you’d meant. It scraped.
She turned, and her whole face lit up like a lantern had been ignited in her chest. “Jo! Oh my god, I’m so glad you and Lev came!”
She gestured excitedly toward the woman beside her. “This is Rachel—she helped with our trading route. Her boyfriend and her are from Omaha. They brought us sunflower seeds. Isn’t that wild?”
Rachel extended a hand toward you, her smile gentle and her accent a curious lilt between Southern hospitality and Midwest plainness. “I’m Rachel. It’s real nice to meet you.”
You barely glanced at her hand, your eyes fixed on Abby’s face instead. “Lev’s looking for you.”
Abby’s brow twitched faintly—subtle, but there. Like she clocked the shift in your tone. She glanced at Rachel, then back at you, her expression softening with a hint of something… wary. A familiar wariness. The kind that said: Don’t start.
You looked away—ashamed, maybe. But the jealousy still twisted under your skin like barbed wire. You could hear Abby’s footsteps behind you as she stepped out of the house, calling Lev’s name with that softness that used to be only for you.
Now you were left alone with Rachel.
Rachel, who looked like she belonged in a place like this. Her skin kissed golden by the sun, long strawberry-blonde hair down her back, a Firefly tag clipped to her belt loop. The way she leaned over the map with ease made it clear—she knew this world. She was useful. Confident. Likeable. The kind of woman who could survive the end of the world and make you like her for it.
You swallowed back something bitter. Your life with Abby here had been nearly perfect—safe, quiet, warm. But now, with Rachel standing in front of you, you felt like a splinter in the wood grain. Like you didn’t fit.
Rachel tapped her fingers softly against the edge of the table, the laminated surface still marked with grease stains from old meals and finger-dragged dirt. A silence stretched between you, thick as sea fog.
She spoke gently, “Have you—”
You didn’t let her finish. “See ya, Rachel.” Cold. Flat. Dismissive.
You turned and walked out of the house, the screen door creaking behind you, then slapping shut. The warm night air met your skin like a slap. Lanterns powered by old solar panels flickered across the courtyard, kids playing near the mess tent, their laughter echoing through the trees.
But all you could think was: God, I’m so fucking stupid.
Your face burned hot as you stepped outside the main house. Why couldn’t you just calm down? Jealousy clung to your chest like burrs, small and stupid, but hard to shake off. You hated the feeling—hated that it made your throat tight and your hands curl into fists like a teenager again.
You wanted peace. You wanted to be soft. You wanted this life with Abby to be everything it promised in quiet moments—domestic, calm, healing. You weren’t supposed to feel this possessive. But you did. And that scared you.
Did you really want this life? A home, basically playing housewife, caring for a boy who’d carved out a place in your heart without you noticing until it hurt?
A son.
That word jolted through you like a quiet thunderclap. Was that what Lev had become to you? A strange, familiar reflection. You adored him. Even now, as the crowd mingled around the firepit, you spotted him sitting cross-legged with some other teens near the cookfire, laughing—laughing—with a crooked grin that reminded you of yourself when things were still innocent.
God.
A light breeze carried the scent of pork fat and wood smoke through the air, mingling with the earthy tang of sweat and sea salt. Solar-powered floodlamps dotted the edges of the compound, illuminating tents and makeshift structures with a soft amber glow. It almost felt like a festival. Warm voices, scattered laughter, the distant hum of a radio playing something twangy and old—an old world sound. Someone passed by carrying a tray of something sweet-smelling, maybe berries baked into dough, and your stomach growled despite the knot of emotion inside it.
Your train of thought broke when Abby returned, her silhouette illuminated by firelight. She carried two tin plates piled high with roast pork, grilled root vegetables, and what looked like a slice of cornbread. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from the heat, or maybe from talking to that girl. Rachel.
“Looks good, right?” she beamed, holding the plate out to you.
She looked beautiful under the firelight. Her hair was still damp from a recent rinse, curling slightly at the ends, and her eyes were soft as they met yours—like none of the insecurities festering in your head had ever crossed hers.
You nodded and followed her toward one of the long log benches arranged around the firepit. She sat beside Lev, and you took the space next to her, your thigh brushing hers.
The three of you ate quietly for a few moments. Lev talked about how he’d helped start the fire with one of the older boys, something about flint and kindling. Abby nodded along proudly, her mouth full of cornbread, occasionally resting her hand on your knee without thinking.
And you sat there, chewing slowly, watching her and Lev talk. Listening to the sound of their voices blending with the fire and the music and the sea breeze.
Something about it ached.
Not in a bad way.
It felt like the kind of pain that comes when you realize a wound is finally healing.
But the jealousy wouldn’t go away. It clung to your skin thicker than the humid air, like smoke rising straight from the fire pit and curling into your lungs. You sat on a wooden crate, chewing slow, eyeing her from across the yard like prey.
Rachel.
She was laughing again, perched beside a man who had to be her boyfriend—tall, maybe 6'3", with a wiry beard and the kind of outdoorsy build that made him look like he'd never been weak a day in his life. He was handsome in that effortless way, his sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms as he passed her a drink. She took it with a soft smile. He leaned in to say something. She laughed again. It was the kind of laughter that made your stomach twist.
Not because she was loud. But because it was familiar. That in love kind of laugh—the kind that makes you feel like you’re on the outside of a warm cabin in the snow, nose pressed to the glass.
You huffed quietly, finishing your plate. The food was actually good—crispy, fatty meat from the roast, tender greens, a piece of corn grilled black at the edges—but you couldn’t taste any of it. You sucked the flavor off your fingers, wiped them on your shorts, and tossed the metal plate aside into the cleanup bin.
From the corner of your eye, you felt Abby watching you. Not with alarm—just that observant, quiet look she got when she knew something was off. Her hand rested on your thigh, grounding, but it didn’t pull you out of your spiral. Her voice murmured with Lev and the others, casual, laughing even—but your mind was elsewhere.
It was on Rachel.
You glanced again. She had caught your stare. Her eyes met yours, and for a second, something passed between you. Amusement? Curiosity? Pity?
She smiled.
Not a smug one. Just…friendly.
Then she waved.
Like an idiot, you didn’t look away fast enough. Before you could react, she started walking toward you—crossing the yard with a confident ease, steps lit by the solar panel lights strung across the makeshift camp like a summer party.
Fuck.
Her stupid tall perfect boyfriend followed close behind, as if summoned by the gods of symmetrical bone structure. Of course. Of course Abby’s new friends would be model material. Two glowing, sun-kissed golden retriever people from some heavenly post-apocalyptic suburb.
Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why it made you so mad. Maybe because they looked like they belonged here—like they were built for this world where people laughed around campfires and traded goods like civilization hadn’t burned down.
Abby lit up when she saw them. Her voice was bright, warm, effortless. “Jo, this is Rachel’s boyfriend, Marcus.”
You nodded with your jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest like armor. “Hi,” you muttered, but it sounded more like a cough than a greeting.
They all sat down with you by the long communal table under the string lights. Warm light buzzed overhead, strung between poles stuck in rusted-out barrels. The scent of roasted meat and firewood lingered in the air, and the solar lanterns buzzed faintly over the soft murmur of voices and laughter around the camp.
Lev sat across from you, already chatting with Rachel like they were old friends. He laughed at something she said, his face relaxed, open.
Bitch.
You tried not to glare at her, but your throat tightened anyway. Her hair was perfect—like she conditioned it with rainwater and dreams. Marcus was even worse. Patient, attentive, smiling without showing too many teeth like some kind of diplomat. He looked like the type of guy who’d teach a kid how to read maps or carve wooden figurines. Kind. Educated. You could practically smell his confidence.
Everything you weren’t.
You slouched further in your seat, feeling the weight of every insecurity you’d buried since arriving. You had never felt pretty. Never felt smart. Never felt… stable. The kind of person who could hold conversation without offending someone. The kind of person who people wanted to bring around their shiny new friends.
What the hell was Abby doing with you?
“Joan?” Marcus’s voice cut in like a knife. “What do you think?”
You blinked. You’d zoned out so hard you forgot you were even at a table. The fire popped. Your heart raced.
“Huh?” The word came out strangled. You could feel the heat rise to your ears. Everyone was looking at you now, their bodies turning toward you like satellites. Rachel’s polite smile, Lev’s curious tilt of his head, Abby’s narrowed eyes.
Marcus cleared his throat. “About the trade plan. With the Columbia base?”
Your brain stumbled for footing. You hadn't heard a word.
“I wasn’t… I wasn’t listening.” You gritted it out, trying not to let the shame show.
Marcus gave a quick, awkward nod, glancing down at the plate in front of him like he could read the answer off the pork fat.
Rachel piped up smoothly, “We’re considering renegotiating with the Columbia Fireflies. For coffee. The current exchange is mostly ammunition, but we think it’s a raw deal.”
You nodded, swallowing thickly, trying to pretend your palms weren’t sweating. “Why not?” you offered lamely.
Marcus raised a brow, clearly surprised you’d even responded. “Well, the sea’s pretty rough this time of year. It’s dangerous to cross unless we’re sure the trade is worth the risk.”
You puffed your cheeks out, nodding a few too many times. “Right.”
The conversation slipped back into flow without you. You could feel Abby watching you from beside Rachel—her eyes flicking over your face, probably reading every unspoken feeling like graffiti. She knew you too well.
You didn’t want her to. Not right now.
You wanted Frank. God, Frank would’ve been so good at this. He knew all about trade routes, negotiation, survival strategy. He would’ve carried this conversation without breaking a sweat. You wished you could crawl inside his memory and borrow his confidence.
Instead, you stared at your hands, feeling like a blunt instrument among surgical tools.
Then, from behind one of the food stalls, someone rolled out a barrel—old, dented, rusted at the seams but clearly cherished. The smell hit you first. Sweet, sharp, and burning. Homemade liquor.
Fuck.
You stared at it like it was a mirage. Amber liquid sloshing in glass jugs. The same kind of swill you used to drink behind checkpoint barracks, numb on rooftops, or swigging it in cold basements when the world felt like it was closing in. You hadn’t had a drop in—what, weeks? Months?
Your throat felt dry, your fingertips buzzed.
A man walked toward you holding a chipped tin cup full to the brim. “Want some?” he asked with a grin, already tipsy, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the drink.
Your hand twitched toward it—but before you could say a word, Abby stepped in like a silent storm, her palm gently pressing to your chest.
“None for us,” she said smoothly, not unkind. Her tone didn’t waver. She didn’t look at him—only at you. Her hand lingered there, over your sternum, grounding. “We’re good.”
The man shrugged and moved along. You blinked, still staring at the drink in his hand as it drifted away into the crowd like a life raft you weren’t allowed to touch.
You swallowed hard and nodded, forcing a brittle smile. “Yeah. Good.”
But inside, it hurt like hell. You needed something—anything. A cigarette. A drink. A knife. Something sharp. Something burning. Anything that might distract you from the knot in your chest or the scream crawling up your throat. You shifted your weight, blinked against the burn in your eyes.
Why would she tell you no?
Then it hit you, the same way it always did. The flash of memory: you, sprawled on a tile floor covered in vomit, crying against the base of a toilet. Abby’s voice calling your name from the doorway. Her arms lifting you up even when you fought her. You remembered her tucking you in, wiping your mouth. All the times she cleaned you up when you couldn't.
Of course she wouldn't want you drunk.
Of course.
You clenched your jaw and looked at the fire, the flames rising in little spirals. All around you, people laughed and sang and passed the bottle. Abby moved beside you, her hand still resting lightly against your side. You felt her thumb graze your ribs—steady, reassuring.
And still, the craving burned in your chest like the heat of that fire.
But you didn’t move.
Not yet.
You weren’t sure what Abby was thinking when she peeled away from Rachel and Marcus, dragging her boots through the soft, salt-crusted sand until she settled beside you near the fire.
The flames crackled, throwing golden light over a semicircle of mismatched seating—sun-bleached driftwood benches, rust-specked patio chairs, even a cracked tree stump carved with initials and a faint heart. Around you, laughter rose and fell like waves. The air smelled of slow-roasted pork and sea salt, smoke curling toward a string of flickering solar lights suspended between salvaged metal poles. A boy near the greenhouse strummed a battered guitar, its warbled notes soft and off-key, almost familiar. The glass dome behind him glowed faintly with the last hints of sunset, the silhouettes of growing things stretching tall inside.
Abby sat down beside you without a word. Her body sank into the creaky bench, the firelight painting her profile in copper and shadow. She stared into the flames like they might whisper the answers she didn’t know how to say out loud.
You followed her gaze, then glanced over at Lev—half-asleep on a stump, shoulders slumped, eyes drooping with exhaustion. Someone had given him a cup of something warm, maybe cider. He cradled it loosely in his hands, forgotten.
Abby sighed, brushing dirt off her knees, and stood. “Lev looks tired. Let’s get back.”
You blinked, caught off guard. Had you really been lost in your head that long? The fire’s warmth clung to your skin, but a different kind of heat—guilt, embarrassment—burned under your ribs.
She crouched in front of Lev and he blinked at her sleepily before reaching up with the trust of someone who knew nothing bad could happen in her arms. He wrapped his arms around her neck and she hoisted him onto her back, his legs dangling like he was a kid again. He was too big for it now, really—but she didn’t flinch. Just adjusted her stance like she’d done it a hundred times before.
You followed them, the dirt path back to the cabins glowing dimly with flickering lanterns—little fireflies trapped in glass. The wind rustled through the palm trees and tall grass. Somewhere distant, waves slapped against the dock.
Lev’s breathing steadied on her back, slow and soft. You watched her adjust him gently, one hand cradling the back of his head. She didn’t have to say anything. Her movements told the story—this was muscle memory. This was love.
At the porch, the base noises dulled behind you. The door creaked open and Abby turned to you, her voice low and deliberate.
“Shoes off. I’m putting Lev to bed. Wait on the couch.”
There was weight in her tone—not anger, exactly, but something firmer. A subtle shift in temperature. She had noticed. Of course she had. You always thought you were more subtle than you really were.
You kicked off your boots, the cool floorboards grounding you, and sat on the couch. It groaned under your weight. You rubbed your hands over your face, shame curling behind your eyes like a migraine.
She always noticed.
A few minutes passed. When she came downstairs, her arms were folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes pinned you down like they did that night in Seattle—the night she found you collapsed in that alley, drunk and scraped up. Her voice was low, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
“What was that, Jo?”
You tensed. Shrugged. Jaw clenched. What could you say? That seeing her beside someone like that—so bright, so beautiful, so clean—made you feel like the blood still hadn’t washed off your hands?
She narrowed her eyes. “Why were you acting like that?”
You looked away, throat tight. You hated this. Hated how small you felt here, in this new life she’d carved out—greenhouses and grilled pork, laughter and music. You didn’t fit here. You never would.
But you wanted to.
Your eyes burned with tears. You weren’t even sure what kind. Anger? Shame? Self-pity? You didn’t want to cry, but Abby knelt in front of you, brow softening, voice gentler now.
“Joan.”
You exhaled. Swallowed. God, you felt so fucking stupid. “Rachel’s pretty,” you whispered.
Abby blinked. “What?”
You huffed, shifting your weight like a sulking teenager. “And Marcus is perfect, huh?”
Her lips twitched—she tried not to laugh, biting it back with a little shake of her head. “Joan—what are you even—”
You broke. “I don’t belong here, Abby.” You kept your voice low, remembering Lev. “This—this place. This peace. It’s too much. It’s too good.”
She moved closer and pulled you into a hug, pressing herself against your chest, her voice near your ear. “Joan,” she murmured.
You crumbled. Your hands gripped her back, and you let yourself fall forward—shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
“I don’t know how to live like this,” you whispered. “I’m not built for this.”
She held your face and kissed you softly, her lips salty with your tears. “I love you, my silly sweet Joan.” she whispered into your mouth like it was a secret just for you.
Your voice cracked. “I love you too.”
And in that moment, you felt so silly. So small and safe in her arms. The fire from the base flickered through the windows. Laughter drifted in again.
She chuckled, finally pulling back with a lopsided grin. “I can’t believe you were jealous.”
You wiped your face, managing a tiny laugh. “Shut up.”
You sniffled, trying to get a word in—some excuse, some half-hearted apology—but she silenced you with her mouth.
This kiss wasn’t soft. It was feral.
Starved.
It slammed into you like a wave, wiping away every spiraling thought—no Oregon, no Frank, no cult, no Rachel. Just her.
Abby. Abby and that impossible grip she still had on you.
You whimpered into her mouth as her hand dragged up your thigh, fingers pressing possessively through your jeans like she was staking a claim.
She broke the kiss only to speak low and guttural against your neck, “Really? You’re jealous?”
Before you could answer, her teeth grazed your throat—then bit. A groan left your lips before you could stop it. You knew there’d be a mark, dark and visible come morning.
Her voice burned hot against your ear. “You think I’ve been with anyone else? When I’ve been this worked up for you all fucking day?”
You gasped as her palm moved with purpose, firm and deliberate, over the fabric between your legs.
“Abby—don’t talk like—”
She crushed her lips to yours again, and when she pulled back, a thread of spit stayed between you. “Like what?” Her breath was ragged. “Like I’m hungry to taste you again? Like I can’t get you out of my fucking head?”
Your thighs clenched. You were squirming beneath her now, body betraying you, begging her closer.
God. You were hers. Completely.
She’d never acted like this before—this hungry, this unguarded. It was like something had snapped in her, some quiet need that’d been simmering all this time.
She groaned into your skin, mouth pressed to your neck, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before tugging it up and over your head. The night air rushed over your chest—cool and bracing—and your breath hitched as goosebumps bloomed across your skin.
Abby didn’t hesitate.
Her lips dragged lower, slower now, almost reverent as she kissed along your collarbone and down to your chest. Every mark she left stung with possession, with intention. She was claiming you—not roughly, but like someone touching something sacred. You felt dizzy under the weight of it.
She hooked her fingers into your waistband, tugging your pants down your hips. You froze for a second.
A flicker of panic.
What if Lev woke up? What if he came knocking?
But the thought was gone as soon as her mouth replaced it—soft, wet, and deliberate between your thighs. She moaned into you, like tasting you was a relief she couldn’t put into words.
You threw your head back, the muscles in your abdomen seizing. Your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the sound spilling out of you. The porch boards under your hips groaned faintly with every twitch of your body.
She chuckled into your skin when she felt you trembling.
“Fuck—” you gasped behind your palm.
You were unraveling embarrassingly fast, hips twitching under her mouth, every nerve alight like a snapped wire. You couldn’t help it—you’d waited so long, wanted her so badly. Under a minute and you were already there.
Soaked in moonlight, soaked in her.
When your body finally settled, chest still heaving, she pulled away slowly—her breath hot against your thigh as she murmured, “That good?”
You were beet red, lips parted, blinking at the stars like they’d just witnessed your worst secret. You couldn’t even speak. Just nodded, sheepish, as your fingers brushed her golden hair away from her face.
You barely had time to catch your breath before she grinned—genuine, crooked, a little smug. Her lips brushed your inner thigh again, and she whispered against your skin, “You’re so easy for me.”
Your stomach flipped. A soft whimper escaped your lips before you could hold it back. “Let me touch you,” you murmured, voice hoarse with need.
But she only shook her head, her eyes dark, unreadable. “No,” she said gently, crawling up your body. “Tell me how you want it.”
God. Her voice. Her control. Suddenly you were shy. “N-no…”
She tilted her head, brushing her fingers up your sides like a slow interrogation. “No?” she repeated, amused. Her hand circled your thigh, up and down, up and down, driving you mad. “You don’t want my mouth again? Or my fingers?” Her voice dropped, and she leaned in close, lips grazing your ear. “Do you want me to grind on you until you can't breathe?”
You shuddered. She was relentless. And you were drowning in it. “I want you—on me,” you finally said, the words falling out clumsy, barely above a whisper. Embarrassed, you avoided her eyes.
But she smiled like you’d handed her a gift. She stood briefly, unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them down slowly, her shirt following. In the dim moonlight filtering through the open window, her body looked almost holy—worn and strong, shadows draping her like silk.
You laid back, heart pounding in your throat, as she came down over you again. Her body slipped against yours, and her hips aligned with yours like puzzle pieces that had always belonged together. She began to roll her hips, slow and deliberate, her slick warmth meeting yours.
A breath hitched in your throat. The friction, the heat—it was unbearable in the best way.
You gasped, fingers gripping the back of her shoulders, your nails just barely digging in. Her breath was ragged now too. She moaned softly, voice caught in her throat as she began to tremble.
Watching her lose control sent you over the edge. You came just moments after she did, your bodies locked together in breathless release, legs tangled, pulses pounding.
She collapsed over you gently, her face tucked into your neck, lips pressing soft kisses there like an apology or a promise. Her breath slowed against your skin, her chest rising and falling in time with yours.
You stared at the cracked ceiling above you, the old fan rattling lazily in the corner. Somewhere out in the Catalina night, waves crashed against the rocks. But here, in this room, there was only the warmth of her body, the smell of sweat and salt, and the ache of being wanted—truly wanted—for the first time in what felt like years.
The porch light behind the main house glowed dim and warm, casting long amber shadows across the grass as Abby looked into your eyes, her smile mischievous and bright. She leaned forward, her breath warm against your ear.
“Let’s go swim,” she whispered. “Like this.”
You blinked, glancing down at the loose tank top and shorts you’d thrown off. “Naked?” you asked, eyes wide.
She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh. “Yeah.”
“No way,” you said, scoffing. “There’s like, people. And fish.”
But she was already halfway down the porch steps, laughing, barefoot on the dirt path that led to the shore. “Come on!” she called back.
Who the hell had replaced your Abby?
Still, your feet moved on their own. You chased after her, arms crossed tightly over your chest to brace against the bounce of your breasts as you jogged. The night air was warm, but you could already feel the coastal wind sharpening with salt.
By the time you reached the shoreline, she was already in the water, waist-deep and grinning. “Joan, it’s so cold!” she shrieked, her arms slapping the surface with a splash.
“Fuck!” You gasped as you waded in, the water gripping your legs like icy fingers. “You didn’t say it’d feel like death!”
She just laughed, golden hair clinging wet to her face as she swam out farther. The solar lights from camp barely reached this far—everything around you was silvery blue, kissed by moonlight and mist. You could see the outline of her shoulders breaking the water, muscles rolling under skin that looked like marble in the glow.
You swam toward her—of course you did. You’d follow her anywhere.
As you caught up, she reached out and pulled you close, her body slick and warm beneath the cold surface. Her arms wrapped around your waist, and instinctively your legs curled around her hips, anchoring you to her in the drifting tide.
“Joan,” she whispered, lips brushing against your cheek, “I want this forever.”
For a moment, you just stared at her, blinking the water from your lashes. You wanted to believe her. You really did.
But the thought that had been haunting you since the Aquarium pressed up like a bruise against your chest. You swallowed hard and said it anyway, quietly:
“Then why’d you leave for Owen?”
She stilled. The water lapped gently between your bodies.
“I—” She looked down. Her voice, when it came, was small. “It was stupid. I got tunnel vision. I thought... maybe that part of my life was supposed to mean more than it did.”
Her muscles softened under your touch, and her gaze returned to you, raw and honest. “But it made me realize something. That I love you like I’ve never loved anyone. Not Owen. Not anyone.”
You searched her eyes. She meant it. You felt it in your chest, warm and aching.
You nodded and pulled her into a kiss—slow, real, and trembling with unspoken understanding. The kind of kiss that didn’t beg the past to disappear but let it rest in the sand behind you. That said we survived and we’re still here and we’re still trying. It tasted like salt and saltwater, sunburn and healing.
The ocean cradled your bodies, waves lapping at your hips as you clung to each other. Cool water wrapped around your legs, the sound of the tide mingling with your breath. Her hands steadied your waist as yours slid along her back, and for a moment, there was nothing but her—her mouth, her heat, her scent, her pulse, steady against yours like it was always meant to be.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that—mouths moving, laughter caught between teeth—but eventually your skin began to prickle, a shiver crawling up your spine.
You both stumbled back to the house, breathless and half-laughing. She opened the bathroom door for you, and you rushed inside, flicking on the faucet. The dim overhead light pooled gold across the tile as you rinsed yourself off beneath the cold water. She joined you a second later, slipping under the stream and wrapping her arms around your waist from behind. Your bodies pressed together, warm against the chill. Her lips found your shoulder. Yours found her cheek.
You giggled, just like that—girlish and safe.
It was new. It was simple. It was nice.
She dried you off in one of the big towels she'd hung up just that morning. It smelled like sun and the sea. She rubbed it through your hair and around your shoulders, then kissed you again with wet hair sticking to both your faces.
You crept to the bedroom still wrapped in each other’s warmth. The old white sheets were sun-dried and cool against your skin as you slipped beneath them. You pulled them up to your chin as she followed, curling around you like a shield from the world.
The wide open window let in a summer night breeze that kissed your skin, carrying the scent of the salt air and eucalyptus trees from inland. In the distance, you heard a gull cry and waves crashing lazily against the shore. Her heart thumped under your cheek, slow and alive, and you closed your eyes to its rhythm. No pain. No ghosts. Just this moment.
This was paradise. The kind that didn’t need skyscrapers or money or miracles.
And if this was what being a housewife meant—curling into her chest, cooking fish and trading smiles over the firepit—then hell.
So be it.
______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 48: Talk to me

Summary:

TW: themes of SH

______________________________________________________________________________
You weren’t sure if it was early morning or just the thick middle of the night—everything outside was a dull slate grey, and the air felt wrong. What woke you wasn’t a sound at first, but a deep sense of unease crawling along your skin. Then came the slam.
The window rattled so hard it shook the wall. You jolted upright, heart hammering in your chest. Rain pounded like fists against the glass, and thunder cracked just beyond the cove, loud enough to shake the floorboards beneath the bed. Wind howled like something wounded, threading through the old wood of the house.
You barely registered your own breath as you fumbled for a tank top, yanking it down over your chest before pulling on your boxers. Your limbs moved on muscle memory alone, panic spiraling in your chest. Salt hung in the air—sharper, more metallic than usual—thick with sea spray and ozone. You turned to Abby, shaking her shoulder with trembling fingers.
“Abby?” Your voice cracked in your throat. “Abby, wake up—”
She stirred slowly, groggy, her hair clinging to the side of her face. “Joan… it’s just a storm,” she mumbled, her voice scratchy with sleep.
But it wasn’t just a storm. Not to you.
The crash of water against the bluff made the glass bow inward for a moment, and your whole body jolted. Lightning arced across the sky, briefly illuminating the wooden ceiling—and then, drip.
A slow, cold drop landed right on Abby’s forehead. She groaned, half sitting up and brushing her hand over her face, already annoyed. “Goddamn it,” she muttered, scooting to the side of the bed and slipping on a dark grey shirt and boxers.
You stood there frozen for a moment, eyes wide and chest rising and falling too fast. You remembered the boat. The waves. The cult. The open sea.
Abby walked to the window with steady hands, her silhouette framed in flashes of white lightning. She pulled the latch and shoved the frame closed with a grunt as a gust of wind sprayed water into the room. You flinched again.
She glanced at you over her shoulder, noticing the way your fists clenched and your shoulders shook.
“You okay?” she asked, stepping toward you.
But you couldn’t answer—not yet. The storm wasn’t outside anymore. It was behind your ribs. It was in your lungs.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry as tension quietly built in the room. Abby glanced over and nodded toward the window, placing a grounding hand on your shoulder.
“Come on,” she said gently, her voice low against the distant rumble of thunder. “Let’s close up the house before the storm rolls in.”
The air felt electric already—humid and sharp, like something was ready to snap. You followed her down the hall, room to room, closing the old wooden shutters. The windows creaked as you pushed them into place. Catalina storms were sudden and violent, and the house was high on the cliffside. Rain would slam sideways against the glass if you didn’t shutter it all tight.
Down the hall, Lev stood sleepily in the doorway to his room, rubbing his eyes. His curls were flattened against one side of his face, and his voice was groggy when he muttered, “Crazy storm.”
He wore one of Abby’s old T-shirts again, nearly swallowed by it. You nodded, offering a soft smile.
“Yeah,” you said. “Gonna be a loud one tonight.”
As you made your way back to the bedroom, you heard the wind picking up outside, whistling low through the gaps in the walls. The fireflies had reinforced a lot of the homes on the island, but most of the buildings still had their bones from decades ago—pre-outbreak. Nothing was perfectly sealed.
Back in your shared bedroom, you flopped onto the mattress with a sigh, feeling the ache in your shoulders from the day. You hadn’t realized how drained you were until your body hit the bedding.
Then you heard the soft sound of bare feet padding across the floorboards.
Lev climbed onto the bed without a word, curling up at the edge beside you and Abby. He didn’t ask, and you didn’t stop him.
Maybe he was scared. Maybe it was just comfort. The storm hadn’t even started yet, but the tension was already there, in the walls, in the air, in your lungs.
You looked over at him. He faced away from you, curled tightly around a pillow. You could just make out the edge of his profile illuminated by the soft lantern glow.
He was too old for this—climbing into someone’s bed like a kid—but who were you to judge?
If Frank were still alive, you’d be curled into his side every night, no matter your age. Hell, you still dreamed about it—about falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. About the weight of his arm over you. About safety, even if it was temporary.
You swallowed, throat thick with the ache of missing him.
The bed creaked gently as Abby shifted behind you, pulling the blanket higher to cover all three of you. She didn’t say anything, but her hand found your back, her thumb tracing slow circles as the rain finally began tapping against the roof above.
You closed your eyes.
Maybe this was what healing looked like.
Not big declarations. Not perfect days.
Just a quiet moment in the middle of a storm.
____________________________________________________________________________
You woke up with a start, the air clinging to your skin like a second layer. The room was humid, the kind of thick, soupy heat that settled deep in your chest. You could tell right away the power was out—there was no soft whir from the fan Abby usually insisted on at night, and the solar-powered lights along the window were dim, the wiring probably fried in the storm.
Your tank top stuck to your back, soaked through with sweat. Abby’s leg was thrown haphazardly over your thigh, and Lev, smaller but just as warm, had curled against your other side sometime during the night. You groaned, gently peeling both of them off you like wet clothes.
This wasn’t sleep. This was survival.
You sat up, the thin sheet crumpling into your lap, and blinked against the stuffy gray light that filtered through the salt-streaked window. Your throat was bone dry. You glanced to the bedside canteen and picked it up—empty. Of course.
Beside you, Abby stirred, her hair matted to her forehead, face twisted in discomfort. Her skin glistened with sweat. She let out a soft groan as she squinted one eye open.
“It’s hot,” she muttered, her voice rough with sleep.
Lev let out a low whine as he sat up, his dark hair sticking up in strange angles, damp at the roots. “It’s so hot,” he echoed, fanning his shirt.
You were already swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, moving to the window. You unlatched it with sticky fingers and shoved it open, letting a rush of hot ocean air sweep in. It wasn’t refreshing—it was like being hit with a wet towel—but it was air, at least.
Outside, the aftermath of the storm was obvious. The sky was still gray but breaking open to light. The little road between your house and the gardens was littered with broken palm fronds and scattered fruit. Lemons had fallen and burst open like small bombs. You even saw a coconut cracked wide, ants already investigating the prize inside. A few of the solar lanterns lining the pathway were flickering, their casings filled with water.
Abby walked up beside you, shirt clinging to her spine, and braced her hand on the window ledge.
“Shit,” she muttered, scanning the yard. “Panels are probably knocked loose again. We’ll need to clean all that up before the rot sets in.”
You sighed, slumping against the wall, your body still sticky and sore from the heat and last night’s restless sleep.
“I don’t want to do anything,” you groaned. “Not like this.”
“Tell that to the mildew,” she said, already rubbing the sweat from her brow.
You watched as Lev leaned against the doorframe behind you both, arms crossed, still half-asleep. The three of you stood there like wilted flowers—sticky, bleary-eyed, and reluctant to face the world.
But the day was already coming for you.
Abby didn’t even let anyone eat breakfast.
The WLF soldier in her had clawed its way back to the surface—hard, cold, relentless. She barked orders before the sun had fully risen, and you saw it in her eyes: the fire, the fear, the determination. Whatever was happening on base had rattled her. She didn’t explain much—just handed you a tool belt and pointed to the roof.
Now the three of you were up there, squinting under the blinding heat. The old shingles were rough beneath your knees, still slick with morning dew. Sweat rolled down your back, soaking Abby’s borrowed black tank top that you hadn’t bothered to change out of. You felt Lev beside you, quiet and obedient, doing what he was told without question.
The solar panel had stopped holding charge, one of the big ones that powered the refrigerator and water filtration system. Abby was hell-bent on fixing it herself, even if it meant blistered fingers and sunburns.
You could tell she loved this house. This island. She was willing to bleed for it.
She crouched by the converter box, muttering to herself, grease on her jaw and wires tangled in her lap. Her arms, leaner now but still solid, flexed as she twisted a rusted screw loose.
You sat back on your heels, glancing around. From this height, you could see most of the Catalina Firefly outpost—rooftops patched with tarps, gardens strung with drying herbs, kids chasing chickens between rows of greenhouses. Smoke from last night’s pig roast still lingered faintly, clinging to the breeze.
It should’ve felt peaceful.
But it didn’t.
Not with Abby like this.
Not with the silence hanging between you and Lev.
You caught him wiping sweat off his forehead, trying not to let it show how tired he was. He glanced at you and offered a weak smile, like, we’re okay, right?
You nodded back, but your chest felt tight. You were all surviving. Just barely.
And now the sun was climbing higher, and Abby wasn’t letting up. The solar panel had to work. Because this house—this patch of stolen safety—it had to stay alive.
No matter the cost.
The heat off the shingles had long soaked through your shirt, sweat sticking the fabric to your back. Every muscle in your body throbbed with exhaustion as you hammered in the last panel, your palms blistered and your arms trembling. The sun had started its slow descent over Catalina, casting long amber shadows across the base, but Abby’s momentum hadn’t slowed for a second.
It felt like hours—because it was. Roof work, panel repairs, climbing, balancing, sweating—and all without food. Abby had insisted on finishing before breakfast, dragging you and Lev out of the house before dawn.
You glanced across the rooftop where Lev lay flat on his back now, arms spread out like a starfish, sweat darkening the chest of his tank top. He was wheezing, eyes closed, lips chapped. The poor kid looked like he’d melted into the damn roof.
Abby stood near the ladder, hands on her hips, observing the panels like a commander inspecting her troops. Dirt streaked her arms and a smear of something—mud? grease? blood?—sat at the corner of her forehead.
“Good,” she finally said, nodding like a proud drill sergeant. “Now we can fix the beams on the south side. And if we hurry, we’ll still have time to clear the yard.”
You gawked at her, hair plastered to your forehead, skin half-burnt and lungs raw from breathing in dried bird shit and pollen.
“Abby—fuck you,” you wheezed, voice dry as hell.
She turned to you, eyes wide, then burst into laughter. The sound cracked open the tension like thunder. Her face lit up, all the sharp edges softening as she wiped her brow with the back of her arm.
Lev groaned dramatically from where he laid, “I think I’m dead. This is my death.”
You flopped down next to him, arms limp, glaring at the sky. “Tell Frank I say hi.”
Abby crouched beside you both, her body still buzzing with leftover energy. “You guys are being dramatic.”
“We’re dying, Abby,” Lev muttered.
“Honorably,” you added, eyes shut. “On a roof. In battle. Against your psycho to-do list.”
She laughed again and shook her head, but you caught it—just in the way her eyes lingered on the house. Gratitude. That sharp, silent kind that lived deep in the chest. This place wasn’t just wood and nails to her—it was safety, structure, something earned. After years of running, killing, surviving… she had built this. A house that didn’t smell like blood, that didn’t echo with gunshots. A home where she didn’t have to sleep with her boots on.
And you… you’d give anything for her to keep it. Your aching spine, your sunburned shoulders, even the sharp guilt that lived under your ribs. If it meant she’d never have to go back to who she used to be. You’d lift the whole goddamn island if it meant she could finally breathe.
Even if she was a maniac about it.
She barked commands like an old soldier, reorganizing the yard like it was a battlefield. You helped anyway, dragging busted chairs and clearing sun-scorched driftwood from the porch while the late sun lit the dust golden. Lev had retreated inside at some point, probably reading or drawing. She didn’t scold him. You figured she let him off because he was still just a kid, and maybe because part of her wanted him to keep that innocence as long as possible.
The heat lingered even as the sun dipped low behind the hills. The breeze off the water had cooled to something tolerable, rustling through the makeshift wind chimes of old tin and sea glass that Abby had hung along the awning. The garden smelled faintly of rosemary and damp earth, the vines winding up around the posts thick with stubborn little green tomatoes.
You kept working until you both dropped your tools in near unison, sweat sticking your shirt to your lower back. That was when you realized: neither of you had eaten.
Your stomach curled in response to the scent drifting through the air—smoke, steam, the faint brine of salt. Home. You walked toward the house with Abby, both of you silent but easy in each other’s company. The screen door creaked, and inside, soft light filtered through the fabric Abby had tacked over the windows.
Lev had made dinner.
Three bowls were already out, a small stack of cracked ceramic plates beside them. The fish was steaming in a clay pot on the stove, floating in broth with slivers of seaweed and garden herbs—thyme and wild onion, maybe. You didn’t know what half of them were, but you knew he’d picked them himself. A hint of lemon balm and vinegar cut the smell of salt, and beside the pot was a bowl of rice—soft, still warm. Maybe even some kind of sea snail or limpets tucked into the mix, glistening in oil.
Simple food. Steamed fish, again. Easy to catch. Easy to cook. Easier still to eat.
But it was more than that—it meant he’d thought of you both.
Your chest ached, in that strange quiet way it did when you were caught off guard by kindness. Abby looked over at you and smiled faintly, brushing your shoulder as she passed.
"He's getting good at this," she murmured. You could only nod.
You didn’t need a feast. You just needed this. A meal you didn’t have to fight for. A night you didn’t have to survive.
Just three people. A pot of fish. And the distant sound of wind chimes clinking against a peace you still didn’t know if you deserved.
_____________________________________________________________________
The sharp sting of sunburn prickled across your shoulders as you sank into the couch, the cushion covers still faintly warm from the day’s heat. The smell of steamed fish lingered in the air. He had figured out how to use the solar-powered stove better than you had, his quiet competence blooming in little ways lately.
Abby sat cross-legged on the floor across from him at the low coffee table, the faint golden light of dusk spilling through the wide windows and catching in her hair. The old chessboard between them was worn and missing two pawns—Abby had whittled replacements out of driftwood. She smirked playfully every time Lev narrowed his eyes, deeply focused on the game. They’d found the board in a long-abandoned attic near the west greenhouse, and Abby claimed it the second she saw it, saying it’d be good for Lev’s mind. He took to it quickly. Strategic, quiet, serious. It suited him.
You didn’t care much for chess. The logic of it felt too sharp, too clean. You preferred your messes to be layered—like grief, like the stories in your head, like your damn memories. So you sat curled up nearby, the journal and sketchpad Abby had gifted you balanced on your lap. She was always trying to get you to draw again. Said it might help you “move through things.”
Your pencil scratched at the paper, loose and half-formed lines making a shape that looked vaguely like the shore outside—until your mind drifted again. Did Abby ever write about Owen again? Her old life? You’d never asked. Maybe she did. Maybe his name still bled out onto pages you never saw.
You swallowed the jealousy and guilt down with a dry throat and shut the sketchbook.
“I’m gonna shower,” you muttered, standing before anyone could ask why your voice had gone tight.
Abby didn’t look up from the board. “Okay. You wanna use the lemon soap or the plain one?”
You hesitated. “Plain.”
Upstairs, the walls creaked with the settling warmth of the day. You peeled your sweat-soaked shirt off and stared at yourself in the foggy mirror. Your skin was red from the sun, your eyes tired. The breeze from the open window fluttered the curtain, bringing with it the scent of salt and damp earth. You turned the shower on, letting the water run cold at first.
As you stepped under the spray, you tried to shake it—the buzzing in your head, like a fly circling the drain. It whispered in a voice you didn’t recognize but knew intimately. A voice that always told you to press, to pick, to hurt.
You placed your hands flat on the tiled wall. The water ran over you. Somewhere below, Lev laughed. Abby’s voice followed, low and fond.
This life was sweet.
But sweetness, you’d learned, didn’t stop the buzzing.
The steam had fogged up the mirror, condensation dripping in lazy trails like tears across glass. The overhead light flickered once—aging solar panels struggling to keep the current steady. You sat hunched on the cold tile, knees pulled to your chest, the edges of your ribs digging into your thighs. The ceramic beneath you radiated chill through your skin despite the heat in the air. It should’ve grounded you. But it didn’t.
Your breath came ragged. Sharp. Each inhale caught on something invisible in your chest, like the air was too thick to pass through. You clenched your jaw and counted. One. Two. Three.
Over and over.
It didn’t help.
You told yourself you were safe. You told yourself you were clean now—washed, fed, touched by someone who loved you. You had Lev’s laughter downstairs, Abby’s hands at your waist, the scent of woodsmoke and home cooking lingering in the curtains. You had warmth. Shelter. A door that locked. You should be okay.
But something deeper crawled under your skin. Something that didn’t believe in “should.”
It felt like tar had taken up residence inside you, creeping up your throat like bile. It didn’t scream. It seeped. Thick, silent, and full of shame. You couldn’t breathe around it. It filled your lungs like smoke. Choked you. No matter how good things were, no matter how much you tried to focus on the softness in your life now—the smell of Abby’s pillow, the rasp in her laugh, Lev’s silly scribbles on scrap paper—it still swallowed you whole.
You rocked back and forth on the wet tile, tears leaking out of your eyes like steam from a pressure valve. Quiet. Constant. You didn’t sob. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even speak.
Why the fuck do I want to hurt myself?
The question repeated, turning over in your skull like a dull blade. There was no answer. There never was. You wished it was about something simple—anger, grief, punishment. Anything you could name and then control. But it wasn’t.
It just was.
Your eyes drifted toward the sink cabinet. The drawer was slightly ajar, warped from humidity and years of disuse. Inside were the old razors. Abby didn’t shave—said it never felt necessary. She found the disposables once in a stash you'd brought back, never questioned why you kept them. You’d used them once or twice, more out of curiosity than habit. The way the blade felt dragging against your leg hair had startled you—not the pain, but the silence in your mind afterward.
Now you wondered what that silence might cost.
You crawled toward the cabinet, still naked and dripping from the shower. Your elbow bumped the rusted pipe under the sink, and the sting of cold metal jolted you back for a second. But your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the drawer, still started to slide it open.
And then you paused.
Water dripped from your hair to the floor in slow, uneven beats. Your chest still heaved. But something in you hesitated—not out of strength. Just confusion.
Why am I like this?
Why am I about to do this, when I don’t even know what I’m trying to kill?
The blade glinted dully in the dim light.
You were still.
Trembling.
The warm mist from the shower clung to your skin like guilt, curling against your cheeks and collarbones, unable to rinse the ache out of your chest. Your breath caught—trapped high in your throat like a sob that couldn’t claw its way out.
You stood there in the fogged-up bathroom, the cracked razor in your hand. The little plastic casing splintered as you twisted it open—two thin blades falling into your palm like shards of silence. Cold. Small. Dangerous in a way that felt intimate.
Your knees ached as you slid back into the shower, bare feet skidding slightly on the wet tile. The water, now lukewarm, trickled down over your shoulders as you looked at yourself in the cloudy mirror of the stall wall—smeared reflections of someone trying too hard to be okay.
Where could you do it? Somewhere Abby wouldn’t see. Somewhere Lev wouldn’t notice.
Your heart pounded like fists against the inside of your ribs.
You pressed the first blade to the curve of your hip, beneath the elastic line of your shorts.
One.
A sharp line of red opened slowly, blooming like a split pomegranate. Blood ran down your thigh in a thin stream, following the contour of your leg, curling around your kneecap, trailing to the drain. It was deeper than you’d intended. The sting was almost a relief.
You paused, heart racing, and then—
Two.
Another. Just beside it. Your fingers trembled as you wiped the blade clean on the towel beside you. You could hear the faucet sputter, hear the creaking of the house’s old wood as it settled under the heat of the day cooling into evening. The world still spun outside. People still lived. Laughed. Ate.
You were here.
Alone.
You told yourself you could wear short sleeves. You’d be careful. You always were.
You moved up—higher—your shoulder.
You lifted the blade again.
Three.
Just under your collarbone, where you knew Abby’s old t-shirts would hide it. A white one. Faded. Stiff from the salt air. You could already feel it against your skin.
Nobody ever questioned the scars on your thighs or wrists. Not in this world. Not anymore. There were worse things to survive.
Only Abby knew.
Only Abby noticed.
You stared down now as the twin gashes on your hip pulsed red. The blood trailed like vines, winding their way to the floor of the shower. The water couldn’t wash it away fast enough—it swirled down the drain in pink spirals, like paint mixed with grief.
Your scars, all of them, looked like little white worms under your skin. Pale and soft and embarrassing. You hated the way they caught the light. Hated how they looked when you were undressed.
Four.
Too deep.
Fuck.
The pain made your legs buckle. You let out a breathless sound—half a gasp, half a sob—and gripped the edge of the tub to stay upright.
Five.
You lost count.
You didn’t even feel the next ones—just saw the blood spreading, blooming like bruised petals across your hip and shoulder. Your fingers shook. The blade clattered to the floor with a soft metal clink and you sat down hard, back pressed against the cool tile wall, knees pulled to your chest.
Blood soaked into the seams of the tub. It leaked into the water that pooled beneath you. Everything smelled like copper and steam.
You stared down at yourself, at the damage.
“I’m so disgusting.”
The thought rang through your head like a fire alarm—shrill, persistent. You swallowed bile. The cuts throbbed, some more than others. You hated this. You hated the release. You hated that it worked. That it always worked.
You felt sick.
Your throat closed. Tears pricked at your eyes.
“What the hell did I do that for?”
“What if Lev sees?”
Panic twisted in your gut. You wiped at your arms. The blood smeared. You scrubbed harder. It wouldn’t stop. The cuts wouldn’t stop.
You reached for the water, twisting the faucet hotter, hoping it would scald it away. Hoping it would rinse this feeling out of your skin.
But it never did.
The only thing worse than the pain…
was how familiar it had become.
A knock at the door jolted you upright like a gunshot.
Fuck.
Your heart was already pounding from the sting in your skin, but now it thrashed against your ribs. You scrambled, blood slipping in thin, ugly lines down your side. The blades—your last two—got shoved under the warped plastic soap dish, the one that had been stuck to the tile since before the outbreak. You didn’t have time to clean them. Just hide. Hide everything.
You yanked your towel from the rail and tossed it over the cracked plastic beneath you. Blood smeared faintly into the terry cloth. You didn’t have time to think about it.
“Jo?” Abby’s voice came soft through the door. That tone she used only when she was worried but trying not to be. Like you were a feral animal she didn’t want to spook.
“Almost done,” you croaked out, throat dry, voice hoarse.
You heard the handle creak. The door opened with that familiar click—Abby always forgot it stuck unless you hip-checked it. You heard her heavy steps over the creaky tile near the sink. Water ran. Toothbrush bristles scraped. Minty paste and rust from the tap filled the air. The medicine cabinet creaked open, then shut.
You held your breath behind the curtain, fists clenched at your sides, water still running over the fresh cuts like punishment.
Don’t come in. Don’t ask what’s taking so long. Don’t pull the fucking curtain back.
You heard her spit into the sink. A pause. Then the towel lifted from the ground.
Your towel.
You squeezed your eyes shut as if that would rewind the last five minutes.
She wiped her mouth on it—probably noticed the weight of it first. Maybe the damp. Maybe the faint rust-red stain blooming against the cream.
"Are you shaving again?" she asked, half-laughing, a joke, a guess. Her voice was too light.
“Yeah,” you said, trying to match her. The chuckle that came out of you sounded more like a cough.
You could picture it now—her frowning. Holding the safety razor, maybe tilting it in her hand. Wondering where the blades had gone. Wondering why the towel smelled like copper.
You could see the blur of her reflection through the thin plastic curtain—broad shoulders, tank top clinging to her from the heat in the room. Steam fogged the mirror. Your blood clung to your hip and shoulder like ink.
She hesitated.
“Joan?”
Just your name. No teasing this time. Her voice cracked on it.
“I’m almost done,” you replied. You could barely get it out. Your hand was trembling again.
There was a long pause. You heard her shift, then her voice came again—soft, but different now.
“Can I see you?”
You bit down hard on your lip and looked down at yourself. Red. Raw. A pulsing ache in your shoulder where the slice had gone too deep. You could barely meet your own eyes in the dim reflection of the chrome faucet, let alone hers.
“I’ll be in bed soon,” you said, the words hollow, weightless. You sounded like a child telling a lie.
You heard her inhale like she was steeling herself.
“Can I have a kiss?” she asked, and her voice trembled like it used to—back when you first got close. Back before she knew the worst parts of you.
You laughed, too high-pitched. Awkward.
“Not yet,” you said, voice wet. “Need to brush my teeth.”
The silence that followed wasn’t the comforting kind—the kind you used to share on rooftops or during quiet patrols. This silence was thick. It filled the air like steam and dread, clinging to your skin the way your wet hair clung to your neck and collarbone.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, pressing your palms to the bleeding grooves along your side as if that might hide them. The water, still warm but fading, trickled down in ghostly rivulets. Your shoulders trembled beneath it.
You heard the creak of her foot shift on the tile, then her voice—quiet, tentative.
“Can I get in with you?”
You didn’t answer. You never did, not when she asked that. And you never said no. That was the rule you couldn’t name.
Her fingers touched the edge of the plastic curtain. You could see the silhouette of her hand through it, broad knuckles, a faint shake.
“Don’t—” Your voice cracked, thinner than you meant it to be.
But she didn’t stop. The curtain pulled back with a slow rasp, and then she was looking at you—eyes already shining in the dim, flickering bathroom light. The cracked solar bulb above you buzzed faintly, half-lit like it might give out.
Her expression was a quiet devastation. Sadness that didn’t erupt, didn’t scream—but settled deep in her chest, the way everything about her did these days.
“Joan…” she breathed, her voice breaking. “What did you do?”
You turned your face away like a scolded animal, shame burning hotter than the water. You couldn’t even find your voice. Only a sob escaped—small and broken. You choked it down.
“Don’t,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the running water. “Don’t look at me.”
She didn’t say anything. You heard fabric hit the floor—her tank top, already damp from the humidity. Then the sound of her belt unclasping. Wet denim peeled from skin. She stepped into the tub with you without a word, letting the spray hit her bare shoulders.
The water was lukewarm now, almost cold.
She reached for your face, and when her fingers touched your cheek, something inside you cracked open. You collapsed into her touch, into her chest. Her hands were gentle—she held you like you were something delicate, despite how you felt: torn, used, wrong.
She kissed your face. Your temple. Your cheeks. Over and over, like she was trying to stop the bleeding with her lips. Her own tears fell warm onto your skin, mixing with yours.
“My Joan,” she whispered, voice low and aching. “My sweet Joan… My baby…”
She repeated it like a prayer, like if she said it enough, it might reach the parts of you even you couldn’t touch.
Santa Barbara had softened her. You saw it more each day—the way her voice held warmth now, not just order. The way she lingered when she touched you. The way she tried to keep the world small, manageable. Like she was afraid the moment she stopped trying to build something peaceful, it would all come crashing down again.
And maybe she was right.
You didn’t know if you loved her softness or hated it. Didn’t know if it made you feel safe or pathetic. You only knew her arms were strong, and warm, and right now you needed them like air.
You clung to her as the water cooled and the cuts stung, and the solar light above you flickered again—once, then steadied.
_______________________________________________________________________
Abby leaned over you in the bed, tucking the thin white sheet gently up around your waist. Her fingers were careful, practiced—not the hands of a killer anymore, but of someone who had learned how to treat wounds, how to tend instead of destroy.
She’d cleaned you up slowly, without speaking much. Only the occasional soft instruction—“Hold still.” “This might sting.” You’d obeyed silently, cheeks burning, eyes fixed on the grain in the wooden planks of the ceiling. The cuts on your hip and shoulder still throbbed beneath the gauze she’d taped down. You hated the feeling of her doing it, hated more how badly you needed her to.
You’d tried to shrink away from her gaze, to disappear into the mattress. But there was nowhere to hide in this little room. The Santa Barbara house was small—maybe a two-bedroom once, before the world collapsed. The bedroom smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and ocean salt, and the linen sheet was still warm from the sun that had poured through the window earlier that day.
Now it was dark. The quiet hum of the generator outside had gone still hours ago. Abby moved around the room barefoot, her steps heavy but slow. You heard the creak of the window as she pushed it open wide, letting in the cool night air. It drifted over your skin, kissed the sore spots gently. You could smell the ocean—brine, driftwood, and something green and alive. Maybe eucalyptus, or seaweed baking on the rocks.
She crawled in beside you a moment later, the mattress dipping under her weight. You felt the heat of her bare legs as they slid against yours beneath the sheet. She folded into you like it was the most natural thing in the world—like she was made to rest there.
Her arms slipped around your waist, her nose nestled into the crook of your neck, and her breath warmed your skin in slow waves. Her body curved around yours perfectly—her chest against your back, her hips pressed into yours, her leg hooked gently over your thigh like she could hold you in place if the earth started shaking.
You didn’t move. You didn’t have to.
“Joan,” she murmured into your skin, like a prayer.
Your breath hitched for just a second, then evened out. You closed your eyes, listening to the breeze, the rustle of palm fronds outside, the distant crash of waves against the shore. A dog barked once, far off. Then silence again.
“Joan, I love you,” she whispered. Her voice broke at the end. “Next time... come to me. Talk to me.”
You swallowed hard. The words felt like saltwater in your throat.
You nodded, barely—a twitch of your head she might’ve taken for agreement. But you both knew the truth.
You wouldn't.
Not yet. Maybe not ever. The shame was too thick. The grief, too familiar. But you wanted her to sleep. You wanted her to feel like maybe something could be okay between you again. So you nodded, and her arms tightened gently.
She let out a breath and settled deeper into you. Her body was softer now than when you’d first met her in Seattle, but still solid—still strong enough to make you feel like the world wasn’t ending, even if it was.
Your breathing slowed. The cuts pulsed beneath the bandages, but her weight grounded you. You drifted—into the sound of the ocean, into the warmth of her skin, into the distant memory of a time when you believed someone saying “I love you” could fix a thing like this.
Sleep took you quietly, with her name still echoing in your ears.
____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 49: Safety

____________________________________________________________________________
Morning came before you were ready. The light crept in through the wide open window, soft and golden at first, then sharp as it climbed higher. The rustling of wind through the dry coastal brush had stilled, replaced now with the distant cry of gulls and the steady hush of the ocean tide just beyond the hill.
You were tangled around Abby.
She lay on her back, her chest rising and falling slowly. Your face was pressed against the space just below her collarbone, your arms wrapped tightly around her torso like a makeshift life vest. Her skin was damp with sleep, her scent salty and warm—sun, sweat, and the faint traces of soap from the night before. Your cheek stuck to her slightly, and you felt the fine layer of sweat that had gathered between you both overnight.
You hated mornings like this. Santa Barbara was cruel in that way—nights like paradise, and mornings like punishment. Cool sea breezes that lulled you to sleep, then sharp, sticky heat by dawn. The sheet was half-kicked off, twisted down by your legs, and the air felt heavy and thick already.
You groaned and shifted, peeling your face off her chest with a quiet sigh. Abby stirred beneath you, murmuring something incoherent into the ceiling. Her arm twitched once, then stilled.
You rolled away carefully, hissing when the movement pulled at the bandages on your hip and shoulder. The pain was dull but present—angry, aching. You lay on your side now, staring out the window, watching the morning light ripple across the ocean. Pale blue and silver, the waves catching fire where the sun hit them just right. Somewhere far down the coast, a boat’s engine droned softly, too distant to see.
You felt stupid.
Stupid for last night. For the blood. For the hiding. For the look on Abby’s face when she pulled back the curtain and saw you shaking like a dog in the shower.
You sighed and closed your eyes again. Maybe you could fall back asleep before the heat got worse.
Then you felt her shift behind you.
Her arm slid over your waist, lazy and familiar. Her body curled into yours, her chest pressing into your back. Her voice was low, rasped by sleep.
“Good morning,” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
Before you could answer, her hips rolled forward against you—slow, deliberate, grounding into yours like a quiet question.
You froze.
Your pulse jumped.
What was she doing?
Her hand splayed across your belly. Not demanding. Just there. Holding. Wanting, maybe.
But there was no pressure. No hunger in it. Just warmth. Presence. A kind of silent checking-in that didn’t need words. She exhaled again, her breath warm across your neck. You could tell she was still half-asleep, body moving out of instinct.
You didn’t know if she was trying to comfort you or if she just needed closeness after everything last night tore open.
You stayed still, uncertain.
The sun crept a little higher, catching on the dust in the air. A breeze stirred the edge of the curtain, carrying the scent of salt and eucalyptus and distant smoke—someone’s breakfast fire, maybe, or a controlled burn down the coast.
You didn't speak.
And neither did she.
Her fingers ghosted along the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow at first—testing. Then with a practiced flick, she nudged the elastic down a fraction, just enough to make your breath catch.
She was relentless when it came to you—always had been. Not in a rough or pushy way, but in that quiet, steady way Abby did everything. Once she set her mind to something—especially you—she didn’t waver.
You shifted under her, not pulling away but not leaning in either. Your face burned with heat that had nothing to do with the sunrise. You wanted her. You always wanted her. But the shame from last night still clung to your skin like a second layer—thick, suffocating.
Her hips rolled against you again, slow and deliberate, like a tide lapping at the shore.
Then came her mouth—warm, soft kisses pressed to the nape of your neck. Lazy, reverent. Her lips dragged down the slope of your shoulder, her breath hitching softly as she exhaled against your skin. She moaned, not out of urgency, but like touching you soothed something in her.
You gasped quietly at the contact, your body betraying your hesitance. Her kisses reached your collarbone and you turned in her arms, catching her lips with your own.
The kiss was slow, but full of hunger beneath the surface. It tasted like sleep and salt and the edges of forgiveness. You reached for her without thinking—threading your fingers into the back of her curls, pulling her closer, letting the weight of her push against you.
She chuckled low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. Without breaking the kiss, she slipped her hand beneath the sheet, hooking your shorts with ease. In one fluid motion, she stripped both of you down, the fabric sliding away like it had been waiting.
She positioned both of you and then her body pressed into yours fully—warmth meeting warmth, skin on skin, no fabric between you now. The heat of her made your knees weak. She was already soaked, and the realization made you shudder against her.
Your hand flew to her hip, fingers digging into her flesh as your head fell back into the pillow.
“Jesus, Abby—” you choked out, your voice already wrecked with need.
She kissed you again—slower, deeper this time, her lips parting over yours like she was trying to memorize the shape of your breath. Her hand moved down, firm and steady, settling on your thigh as her body pressed flush into yours.
You felt your legs trembling against hers, locked in a tangled X beneath the linen sheet. The slick heat where your bodies met was dizzying—there was nothing soft about it, nothing delicate. Just need. Just friction. Just the wet slide of skin and the coarse brush of hair where you touched, raw and electric.
Your fingers curled into her shoulder, nails dragging lightly down her back. You couldn’t help it—she moved with this rhythm that felt made for you. Every slow grind of her hips made your breath catch. She rolled into you with practiced force, deliberate and unhurried, like she wanted to feel every inch of you respond.
God, and she was so warm. Her body sun-kissed and soft in places, hard in others. That patch of blonde between her legs shone faintly where the sunlight reached through the window, glowing gold like the coast itself had blessed her. You didn’t even know you could love something like that—but you did. The contrast, the reality of her, the way she wasn’t afraid to be rough and then tender all in the same motion.
Her hand anchored you, fingers wrapped tightly around your uninjured hip, grounding you in place while her rhythm deepened.
You gasped, biting your lip as your eyes fluttered back, the pleasure building slow and low inside you like a storm far off the coast. She let out a shaky breath against your cheek.
“Joan—” Her voice trembled. “I’m close.”
You nodded, barely able to move, even though you weren’t there yet. She was too worked up, hips losing their rhythm as her breathing hitched. You moved against her the best you could—pressing up, meeting her halfway.
And then she came.
Her body tensed, hips stuttering mid-roll. She bit down on her lip hard, a groan rumbling in her throat as her muscles shook against you. You watched her come undone, her blue eyes wide and unfocused, blinking through the haze of it. Her skin flushed pink down her neck and chest, her fingers trembling slightly as they held you.
You moaned softly, caught in the sight of her like it was its own kind of climax. Like watching Abby fall apart for you was just as intimate as anything else.
“Joan—god,” she breathed, her voice raw and reverent.
She collapsed into you, her forehead resting against your jaw, her breath cooling on your damp skin. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the gulls beyond the window, and the slow rhythm of waves crashing against the California shore.
She kissed down your neck slowly, reverently—pressing her mouth to the curve where your pulse thudded just beneath your skin. Her breath was still ragged from her own release, but when she realized you hadn’t come with her, her lips paused.
You shook your head gently, breath catching. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t need to—”
Before you could finish, her mouth was on yours again—harder this time. Desperate.
A wet gasp escaped as her tongue swept across your lower lip, tasting your hesitation. A thin strand of spit lingered between you when she pulled back, her eyes dark and glassy.
“I need to see you cum,” she said, voice gravel-low. It wasn’t a demand—it was a need. Something primal and sacred, like finishing what she started was the only way to breathe again.
You couldn’t hold back anymore.
Your body moved on instinct—rolling her onto her back, straddling her hips as she peeled herself from beneath you with grace and ease. Her hands stayed on your skin the entire time, sliding down your waist as her mouth trailed lower.
She kissed between your breasts, her mouth hot and open, tongue tracing invisible paths across your skin. Every breath she took seemed to vibrate through you. She was savoring this—every inch of you. Like she’d been starving for it.
Down your stomach, her lips followed, slower now. Her tongue made lazy, maddening circles around your navel, then lower. You twitched beneath her, the tension in your thighs unbearable.
By the time she reached them, you were already gasping, your back arching toward her. She kissed the inside of your thighs—first one, then the other—letting her breath fan over you without touching where you needed it most.
The anticipation burned worse than your healing shoulder.
When her tongue finally met your heat, your hand flew up to your mouth to stifle the scream that tore its way through your chest.
She moaned against you—deep, low in her throat, like your taste had knocked something loose in her. Her hands clutched your hips to steady you, anchoring herself as she licked with growing intensity. Her grip was strong—too strong on your healing side—but you didn’t care. Her mouth was too good. Her tongue moved with precision and hunger, like she needed to memorize you from the inside out.
Your head fell back, your breath coming out in broken gasps. “Abby—!” you choked.
She ground her hips into the mattress beneath her, moaning again like she was unraveling just from making you fall apart. She was insatiable like this—wild, even now, and it lit your nerves on fire.
It wasn’t just that she wanted you. It was that she craved you. Like the ache between your legs was hers, too. Like giving you this—taking her time, watching you lose control—meant something.
It always had.
It hit you all at once—white heat curling in your spine, crashing through your hips like a wave slamming into the rocks. Your thighs clamped around her head, your body shaking uncontrollably as your climax tore through you.
And just beneath it, you felt her fall apart, too.
Abby moaned against you—deep, muffled, nearly guttural—and you felt her hips grind into the mattress below with reckless desperation. Her whole body trembled as she chased it, her breath coming in hot, ragged bursts against your most sensitive skin.
You weren’t sure if you were crying or laughing or screaming—all you knew was the sound that left your mouth wasn’t quiet, and you prayed no one outside that house could hear you. You buried your face into the pillow, letting the tension leave your body in waves.
Abby didn’t stop until you twitched away from her, overstimulated and breathless. She pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh—then another, directly where she’d just worshiped you. Her lips lingered for a beat, and then she chuckled softly. The sound was hoarse, winded, so hers.
You felt her crawl back up the bed, her skin sliding against yours like silk and sweat. Her arms wrapped around you instantly, like she couldn’t get close enough.
She pulled you to her chest, one leg slung lazily over yours, and held you through the aftershocks. Your breathing was still uneven, and so was hers. The sun was higher now, and the heat in the room had thickened—but her body was comfort, not suffocation.
You turned your face into the space between her collarbone and neck, and for a while, neither of you said anything. You just listened to the waves outside, the rustle of leaves, and the slowing thump of each other’s hearts.
She kissed your temple once. No words.
None needed.
After a while, she stood—moving slowly, like her limbs were still heavy with the morning. She grabbed the black tank top off the back of the chair and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. The hem clung to her ribs for a second before sliding into place. Then came the jeans—faded, worn in at the knees, the kind you’d seen her patch more than once.
She didn’t glance in the mirror. She never did. She just rubbed a hand through her damp curls and rolled her shoulders out, like she was getting ready for patrol even though it was just another quiet morning.
You watched her in the light that poured through the window—sun streaking across her arms, highlighting the freckles on her shoulders and the muscles along her back. For a moment, you felt like a kid watching something holy. Like if you blinked, she’d vanish.
God had made her, you were sure of it. Somehow, in all the ruin and violence and loss, He’d carved out one good thing. And He’d handed her to you. Scarred. Complicated. Real.
You stood up and reached for your own clothes, tugging a soft blue t-shirt over your head—short sleeves to cover the bandages that still clung to your skin. It wasn’t that you were hiding from her. You just didn’t want the others to see. Not today. The black jeans you pulled on felt tighter than usual, still damp with salt air from yesterday’s walk.
She turned to face you, her eyes flicking over your frame like she was checking for injuries again—even though she’d already tended to every wound. Her voice came out a little uneven when she finally spoke.
“Come to base today?” she asked.
Her smile was small. Nervous, almost. Abby never faltered during a fight or a mission—but little moments like this, moments where she asked instead of ordered, made her suddenly human in a way that shattered you.
You nodded, lips tugging into a smile before you could stop it.
Her face lit up.
It wasn’t a grin—it was something fuller. She beamed, eyes crinkling in that rare way that made you feel like you were the sun she was turning toward. Like you’d said yes to something bigger than just visiting the base.
_________________________________________________________________________

Lev joined you and Abby on the narrow dirt path that led downhill from the house, his curls still damp from his rushed morning rinse. He wore a loose shirt—sun-bleached and two sizes too big—and a pair of stiff jeans rolled at the ankles. His hands were tucked in his pockets, shoulders loose, voice bright with whatever joy he always seemed to carry at the start of the day.
You stayed a few steps behind as he and Abby talked. About the birds nesting under the solar panels. About the tides being lower today. About the dry heat making the garden beds crack.
Their words floated ahead of you like fog—thin and distant. Your boots squeaked faintly against the sand and salt-caked earth, still damp from the morning mist but drying fast. You tugged the hem of your blue t-shirt lower on your arms, instinctively shielding the fresh gauze taped to your shoulder. Every movement stung.
The sun was merciless today. No wind. No clouds. Just that glaring white sky and the faint shimmer of the ocean peeking through the cliffs to the west. You raised your hand to shield your eyes. The air smelled like seaweed and eucalyptus and old ash—remnants of a bonfire from the night before.
Eventually, the base came into view. Catalina's Firefly compound stretched lazily across the hillside like it had grown there—organic and mismatched, a blend of what the world used to be and what people had been forced to make of it.
Solar panels blinked atop some of the sturdier buildings, patched together with wires that crisscrossed over dirt paths. Most of the structures were repurposed ranger outposts or storage buildings from before the outbreak—weather-worn and sun-bleached, with canvas tarps stretched over porches for shade. Between them, people moved in steady streams—carrying buckets, children, tools, weapons. There were no uniforms, no salutes. Just the quiet rhythm of a community trying to function.
And then came the market.
Abby had mentioned it the night before—said the traveling traders were docking today. You hadn’t expected this many people.
Your breath hitched.
Rows of makeshift stalls filled the square, each one different—built from whatever could be found. Boat hulls turned on their sides. Doors ripped from rusted hinges. Metal sheets hammered into tables. Colorful awnings fluttered overhead, catching weak breezes that barely touched the ground.
The first stall was run by a woman with sand-colored braids and a missing front tooth. She stood behind a long, slatted table covered in dried fish—split open, smoked, and tied into bundles with twine. The air reeked of salt and grease. She barked out prices in Spanish to a man in coveralls, pausing only to chew from a strip of jerky dangling from her lip.
Next to her, a round-bellied man with a beard down to his chest sold handmade soap bars. His hands were stained with dye, his arms covered in crude tattoos of leaves, stars, and spiral suns. Each bar was wrapped in torn parchment and labeled with loopy cursive: Mint. Rosehip. Eucalyptus. Coal. The scent cloud around him was thick and sweet, clinging to your throat. A baby slept nearby in a crate lined with old jackets, one hand curled tight around a carved spoon.
Across the lane, a stall had been made from the skeleton of an old truck bed. A pair of twin brothers—both wiry, dark-skinned, and maybe seventeen—showed off knives they claimed were “scar-sharp.” The table was cluttered with blades: machetes with bone handles, switchblades with etched initials, even one jagged thing made from rebar and duct tape. One twin did the talking. The other cleaned blood off a blade like it was nothing more than tomato juice.
Further down, a teenage girl sat behind a flipped canoe painted with flowers. Her long black hair was braided tight, and she wore a wide straw hat. She sold books—actual books—their pages warped from water and age, spines sun-faded. Stacks leaned precariously around her: old survival manuals, tattered magazines, a few weathered paperbacks. You caught a glimpse of The Left Hand of Darkness and Of Mice and Men as someone flipped through the pile.
The smells shifted again—wood smoke, citrus, animal fat.
A pot simmered nearby, balanced over a crude fire pit. A wiry old woman stirred it with a stick, her hair tied in a yellow scarf. Beside her, roasted tubers and tough bread cooled on a wooden plank. She handed a bowl of stew to a boy no older than ten, his hands black with dirt and ink. He smiled up at her like she’d just saved his life.
Voices filled the air—loud, layered. Spanish. Tagalog. Creole. Some kind of Boston accent that made your blood go cold. You didn’t look to see who it belonged to.
Please not Boston, your mind whispered, tight and panicked.
You kept walking, jaw clenched.
Abby brushed your arm lightly. She probably felt you go still. Her hand lingered there a second longer than necessary, but she didn’t speak.
“Hey!”
A voice cut through the buzz—sharp, familiar.
You turned toward the command building, a squat concrete structure wrapped in climbing ivy and shaded by thick solar cloth panels. Rachel leaned in the open doorway, one hand resting on a clipboard, the other waving you and Abby over. Her sleeves were rolled, her face flushed with the heat. Behind her, two Fireflies argued quietly over a crate of radio parts.
Lev broke into a jog the moment he saw the other teens gathered near the mess hut. Someone tossed him a slingshot. He caught it with ease and disappeared into the group, laughter already bubbling in his throat.
You watched him go.
You should’ve felt relief. Joy, even. But instead, your stomach churned.
This place was alive. Vibrant. Too vibrant.
And you weren’t sure yet if you belonged in it.
The thought lingered, thick and unwelcome, as you followed Abby into the command building. The shift in air temperature was immediate—cooler inside the concrete, but still stifling. The walls were bare except for a few faded maps and whiteboards smeared with grease-pencil markings. Radio parts littered the long central table like debris after a storm. There was a faint hum of static from a speaker in the corner, layered with the metallic scent of old electronics and sun-baked dust.
And there was Rachel.
Perfect fucking Rachel.
She leaned over the table in a faded tank top and cargo pants, arms toned, tanned, and inked. A red pencil was tucked behind her ear, and a clipboard rested against her hip like it belonged there. She was laughing at something a technician said—casual, confident, radiant. Of course she was.
You let out a breath through your nose, just shy of a scoff. Abby nudged you lightly with her elbow. You didn’t need words to get the message: Behave.
That’s when it hit you.
She hadn’t brought you here to stroll around and hold her hand in front of everyone. This wasn’t a date.
This was work.
It was time to pull your weight. To finally stop trailing behind her like a ghost.
You swallowed down the sour taste that rose in your throat and stood beside her, quiet and alert as Rachel launched into a rundown of the southern trade situation.
"Routes through Baja have gone quiet,” she said, tapping a faded section of the map. “There’s talk of pirate groups—maybe old factions trying to rebrand, maybe new ones popping up along the coastline.”
The word “Mexico” rolled out of her mouth like a stone.
Your chest locked up.
Your mind flinched—not at the word, but at the weight it carried.
Manny.
He was from there. Talked about the coast like it was home. Like it was his blood.
Your jaw tightened. Not because of what Rachel said, but because you knew what happened to him. Because you'd seen what was left of him—weeks later, in a warehouse near the Port of Seattle. A bloated corpse with sunken eyes and dried blood on the floor, gunpowder burned into the concrete. Tommy had shot him right in front of Abby.
You didn’t have to look at her to wonder if she was thinking about it, too.
You just... couldn’t focus.
Not on the maps, or the murmurs of strategy, or the click of a radio dial being turned behind you.
Because that’s when you noticed him.
One of the Fireflies—a man sitting in the corner near a crate of broken radios—wasn’t watching the presentation. He was hunched, head low, his shirt soaked through with sweat. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring through the room like he wasn’t even there.
His hand twitched.
Subtle at first. Then again. Sharp, involuntary.
You stared. Something in your gut twisted.
No one else noticed.
Rachel kept talking. Abby nodded along. The others leaned over maps, whispered about rerouting, resupplying, rotating shifts.
But the man in the corner let out a low, gurgling breath. His mouth opened slightly. Spit dangled from his bottom lip.
Your pulse spiked.
No infected had ever reached Catalina. It was the whole point of being here.
Right?

Chapter 50: Travels

You eased your hand to your waistband, fingers curling around the grip of your pistol.
You walked slowly toward him, boots silent against the concrete. The others kept talking.
He didn’t react to your presence.
You crouched near his shoulder. “Hey,” you said, low and careful.
No response.
You tapped him.
He snarled and lunged.
You didn’t even see the movement, only felt it—his weight crashing into yours like a wild animal. You hit the ground hard, your gun flying from your grip. Pain shot through your ribs as you grappled with him. His mouth opened wide, teeth gnashing just inches from your neck. You could smell rot on his breath.
You shoved your forearm against his throat, twisting your body to keep his jaw away. You screamed, “He’s turned!”
And then—
BOOM.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. You flinched as blood splattered across your cheek, hot and immediate. The weight on your chest collapsed, slack and lifeless.
Abby was there.
Of course she was.
Gun still smoking, eyes locked and unblinking. Her chest heaved, but her hands were steady.
That soldier was still inside her. Even softened by Santa Barbara, by mornings in bed and laughing with Lev, she was still ready to kill when she had to.
She tossed the gun and dropped to her knees beside you, hauling the corpse off your body and gripping your face like she needed to see your whole soul at once.
“Joan—are you bit? Tell me.”
You gasped for breath, trying to process the chaos, the heat, the noise. “No. I’m not—I’m fine, I’m—”
The rest of the room exploded behind you—shouting, chairs knocked over, boots scrambling. Rachel was barking orders into a handheld radio. Someone was already calling for quarantine lockdown. The smell of blood hit you in a wave, mixing with salt and sweat and fear.
You stared up at Abby, her face tight with panic.
And all you could think was:
Nowhere’s ever safe.
______________________________________________________________________________
God.
Everyone lined up neatly.
Silent. Orderly. Like lambs to the slaughter.
The machine stood just outside the command building—old FEDRA tech, dragged here from the mainland and bolted to a table beside a solar array. You hadn’t seen one in years. Not since Boston. Not since before.
It hummed with a low, mechanical buzz, lights flickering orange between scans. Someone had spray-painted over the original emblem, but the shape was still burned into your brain. A handheld scanner fed the data into a monitor that blinked:
NOT INFECTED
NOT INFECTED
NOT INFECTED
The words glowed green for every person in camp. But no one cheered. No one smiled.
The silence was deafening.
You stood behind Abby, your arms crossed tight, heart pounding in your throat. The light buzzed overhead. Every now and then it flickered, casting strange shadows on the sun-bleached walls.
Your stomach turned.
You remembered Boston.
You used to be the soldier holding the scanner.
You used to be the one shouting orders, separating people from their families, waving them forward or dragging them out of line. You remembered the way your finger hovered over the trigger, how it never shook. You remembered shooting kids. Teenagers who begged. Mothers clutching babies already dead.
Your throat closed.
You reached down and grabbed Lev’s hand without thinking. He looked up at you, brows furrowed, but didn’t pull away.
How the fuck had you ever killed someone his age?
You squeezed your eyes shut as Abby stepped forward.
The scanner clicked.
NOT INFECTED
Thank god.
She turned slightly, her hand brushing your arm, steadying you.
You stepped up.
The Firefly holding the scanner looked young. Nervous. His gloves were too clean.
The beam passed over you. A red line trailed across your chest, flickering in your vision. You felt like you were being dissected. Judged.
Then—
NOT INFECTED
You exhaled for the first time in minutes and stepped aside.
Next was Lev. He stood still, small shoulders squared, chin up like he wasn’t afraid. But his fingers tightened around yours before letting go.
NOT INFECTED
You gave his hand a squeeze and pulled him close. Most of the camp was through now. The line had thinned.
And then it happened.
Click.
A sharp, metallic sound—not the green flicker, but the one that made your gut twist.
Everyone froze.
The scanner light blinked red. The monitor stuttered.
INFECTED
A teen boy. Maybe sixteen. He stood frozen in place, lips trembling, arms hanging limp at his sides. His eyes went wide and wet in seconds.
“No—no, no, please,” he whispered. “I—I haven’t been bitten, I swear, it’s—it’s wrong, it’s a mistake—”
The Firefly tech blinked. Scanned him again.
INFECTED
The words hit like a hammer. The air turned to ice.
The boy stumbled backward, shaking now. “Please, please don’t—don’t hurt me—please—”
He wasn’t turning. Not yet. But it would come.
And no one moved.
The Fireflies stood frozen, staring at each other. Guns still holstered. Hands still trembling. These people—they weren’t like you. Not like Abby.
They’d lived cushioned on this island too long. Behind solar panels and trade routes and long afternoons in the garden. They didn’t know what to do with a crying boy who might become a killer.
But you did.
Your body moved before your mind caught up.
You walked straight up to him. His eyes met yours, wide and pleading. You saw it there—the terror. The understanding.
“C’mon,” you said softly. “I’ll make it quick.”
“No—please—don’t—”
You didn’t look around. You didn’t wait for permission.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
BAM.
The shot rang out clean. One bullet. No screaming. His body dropped limp to the dirt, a cloud of dust puffing up beneath him.
For a moment, all you could hear was your own breath.
Then whispers broke out behind you—shock, grief, confusion.
But you didn’t flinch. You holstered your weapon and stepped back, eyes forward.
Rachel stood near the command steps, arms crossed, jaw set. She didn’t look shaken. Just tired.
She gave you a nod.
And that was worse.
____________________________________________________________________________
You filed back into the command building behind Abby. Lev stayed close to her side, brushing her arm with every step, his eyes wide but unreadable. He hadn’t said a word since the shot. Neither had you.
Outside, the market was already being torn down. The scent of roasted tubers and seawater had been replaced with gunpowder and blood. Someone was sweeping the dirt with a stiff broom, dragging a crimson streak across the earth like it was just another chore.
The laughter was gone.
Inside, the command building felt heavier than it had earlier that morning. The air was stale with sweat and tension. Solar lights buzzed faintly above, flickering now and then like the power was nervous too. Radios crackled in the background, trading clipped voices and bad news: lockdown notices, security sweeps, code words.
Rachel stood near the central table, arms crossed over a fresh map. When she saw you, she motioned for you to come over.
You stepped slowly around the table, boots scuffing the concrete, blood still dried under your fingernails.
When you reached her, she leaned in close, voice barely above the hum of static.
“That was good what you did,” she said. “Protecting us.”
She didn’t look away.
“Thank you.”
Her tone shifted—lower now, more unsure.
“These new recruits I’ve got... They’ve never seen someone turn. Not up close.”
You shook your head. “It’s fine.”
Because it was. Because it had to be.
Rachel exhaled through her nose and gestured to the map. A thick line ran south along the Baja coast, past San Diego, past Tijuana, curving into Ensenada.
“We’ve got a contact in Ensenada. Old Firefly crew. They’ve built a bullet press—basic, but functional. They’re offering to trade ammo in bulk, maybe even fuel if we bring medicine and machine parts.”
She tapped a red pin near the shoreline.
“But they’re losing ground. Pirates out of La Paz are moving north. If they hit Ensenada, we lose a key outpost—and any chance at keeping the coast secure.”
You stared at the map, jaw tight. You could see the whole route—open ocean, rocky docks, inland cliffs, and god knows what waiting along the highway ruins. A straight shot that looked deceptively easy on paper.
“How many people do you have for this?”
Rachel hesitated. “Six. Maybe seven. A couple solid fighters. The rest... they’re not ready for this kind of run.”
“Who’s leading it?”
She looked up at Abby. “I was going to ask her.”
You didn’t react. You didn’t have to. Of course she was. Abby had the skill. The calm. The badge of trust.
But when Rachel’s eyes came back to you—
“And you,” she said.
You nodded.
Of course.
You weren’t just a killer anymore. You were a soldier again.
Your gaze drifted toward Abby and Lev. They stood near the far wall, quiet, close. Lev was tracing a finger over the map’s edge, his brow furrowed like he was trying to imagine the coastline from memory.
He didn’t know yet.
Didn’t know you’d already agreed.
Didn’t know you wouldn’t let him come.
And then his eyes lifted.
He looked at the map. At you. At Abby.
“You’re not going without me,” he said, firm.
Not a question. A declaration.
You stiffened, heartbeat already rising.
“No, Lev.”
Your voice came out sharp. Maybe too sharp. But your chest hadn’t stopped aching since that boy hit the ground. Since the scanner buzzed red. Since you’d pulled the trigger.
Lev’s expression tightened. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not a patrol. It’s not a routine trade run. It’s a goddamn war zone. There are pirates in those waters. Hostiles. Maybe infected. We don’t know what’s out there.”
He didn’t flinch.
“I’ve handled patrols.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He wasn’t wrong.
But this wasn’t about skill. It was about cost.
Abby stepped between you gently, her hand raised in quiet mediation. “He’ll be okay,” she said, calm but firm. “We’ll be back before the season turns.”
You didn’t answer her.
You just looked at Lev.
And the way he was staring at you—wide-eyed, jaw clenched—wasn’t defiant.
It was hurt.
That deep, aching kind that didn't explode—it just sat inside you, heavy and quiet. The kind of pain you couldn’t pull out or bandage.
He thought you were leaving him behind.
And maybe you were.
But you’d do it anyway.
Because this mission was already sharpening its teeth.
And if something had to break, it wasn’t going to be him.
Rachel turned back to you, her finger sliding down the wrinkled map to trace the edge of the Baja coastline.
“There’ve been reports of pirate activity along this stretch here,” she said, tapping just south of Rosarito. “Fast boats. Stripped down for speed. They’re hitting any vessel they can spot—taking what they want, sinking what they don’t. Sometimes they take prisoners.”
Her voice didn’t falter. Matter-of-fact. Like she was reading a weather report.
You nodded once, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on the map but mind already moving a few days ahead—waves lapping at rusted hulls, spray stinging your face, radio static in your ear and the clatter of boots on metal.
Rachel continued, “We’ll need you and Abby to be ready for them. Not just to avoid them. If they show up—you hold the line.”
Your throat tightened. You swallowed.
And nodded again.
You didn’t ask if she was sure. You didn’t tell her what happened the last time you were trapped on a boat with someone screaming below deck. You didn’t mention that you’d only just gotten the blood off your hands from earlier today.
Instead, you stared at the red pin on Ensenada and tried to push down the weight in your chest.
This wasn’t survival anymore.
It was war.
And this time, you weren’t sure who would walk away from it.
Rachel gave one final nod, then rolled the edge of the map flat again, her knuckles pressing into it like she could smooth out the chaos written in ink.
“That’s all for now. We’ll finalize the crew tonight. You leave at dawn.”
You didn’t speak. Neither did Abby.
Behind you, Lev shifted his weight—barely a sound, but you felt it. Like guilt catching in your ribs.
Rachel turned back toward the radio table. Already onto the next crisis. Already moving forward.
You stood there a moment longer, frozen in place, the map still burned into your vision. A red pin for Ensenada. A thin black line tracing the coast. It looked so small on paper. Like it wasn’t about to swallow you whole.
Abby stepped beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. She didn’t touch you. She didn’t need to.
“We should get ready,” she said quietly.
You nodded, though your throat was dry.
You turned toward the door, passing Lev without a word. You could feel his stare on your back—sharp and unblinking—but you didn’t look at him.
You weren’t ready.
Not yet.
Outside, the sun was already dipping toward the ocean. Shadows stretched long across the broken path. The smell of blood still clung to the dirt. Someone was lighting a fire pit, the smoke curling upward like a warning.
You walked into the fading light, boots heavy, jaw clenched.
You had one night left on this island.
And you were already dreaming of gunfire.
______________________________________________________________________
Abby had made dinner with Lev—something simple over the fire pit, fish wrapped in eucalyptus leaves, steamed tubers from the greenhouse garden. You’d walked them back to the house without thinking, nodding when Lev said something you didn’t really hear. Abby had touched your arm as they stepped inside, but you didn’t follow.
You ended up back at base.
Outside the command house, the sky was turning indigo. The last sliver of sun bled orange across the hills, casting long, golden shadows over the camp. Most people had gone quiet. A few murmured near the fire, bowls clinking softly. Someone played a slow tune on a battered guitar—not well, but earnestly. You sat on a cracked concrete step, elbows on your knees, picking at the frayed hem of your shirt.
You weren’t even sure how you got back here. You’d drifted—like you’d been walking in a trance, and your feet knew something you didn’t.
You stared at the dirt for a while.
Your mind played loops of things you didn’t want to watch—Lev laughing with Abby. Abby turning to check on him. The way her hand hovered near his shoulder, the way he leaned toward her like he trusted she’d always be there.
Would she let him come?
You swallowed, the thought bitter. If he asked her privately—if he begged the way only kids could—would she fold? Would she tell you after?
You didn’t want to know the answer.
The creak of boots on gravel pulled you out of it.
Rachel dropped onto the step beside you, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath all day. She wore her jacket half-zipped and a bandana around her neck, sweat darkening the collar. A pack of cigarettes appeared in her hand like magic. She tapped one loose, lit it with a strike of a match pulled from her pocket, and took a long drag.
The smoke curled into the air—sharp, dry, and herbal. Not the stuff you remembered. Probably rolled with eucalyptus or something just as bitter.
You blinked at her. “You smoke?”
She smirked, slow and tired. “Only when I want to remember I’m still alive.”
You huffed through your nose. Fair.
For a moment, you both just sat there. The sky deepened. A gull screamed somewhere in the distance, circling the boat dock. Rachel flicked ash into a tin lid beside her boot.
Then, quiet as the breeze, she spoke.
“Where you from?”
Her voice was hoarse—not from emotion, just from living. The kind of voice that had swallowed smoke and grit for too many years.
You opened your mouth. A lie hovered, easy and familiar.
“Seattle,” you said, letting it hang.
She shook her head. Not confrontational—just tired.
“No, Joan. Before that.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose, eyes on the dirt. The silence between you felt warm, close. Like it wanted to hold the truth if you’d let it.
She cleared her throat. Blew another stream of smoke out toward the trees.
“Boston?”
Your head snapped toward her, sharp enough to ache in your neck.
“What?” you said, too fast, too loud.
Rachel sat back on her hands, cigarette balanced between her fingers. She didn’t look at you right away. Just took a long, unhurried drag, the ember flaring like a warning light in the dark.
“Marcus recognized you,” she said, finally.
Your blood turned cold.
You shook your head slowly, eyes narrowing. “No. That’s not possible.”
“He remembered you from the prisons,” Rachel continued, calm but hoarse. “Said you used to run intake for new inmates. Gun on your hip. Cold stare. He swears you were there when they dragged his brother in.”
Your stomach twisted.
“He said you called his name out like it was a number.”
You stared at the dirt between your boots. You didn’t say anything.
Rachel took another drag and blew it skyward.
“It took a hell of a lot of convincing to stop him from beating you to death in front of everyone.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Marcus hadn’t even looked at you the night of the bonfire. He’d passed you a bottle. Laughed at a joke Lev made. He didn’t seem angry. Didn’t seem like a man waiting to put a bullet in your skull.
But he’d remembered.
Of course he had.
Rachel coughed, the sound dry and rough in her throat, then let out a breathy, humorless laugh.
“He’ll keep quiet,” she said. “For now. I told him you were one of us. That you bled for us. That Abby trusts you.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight.
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled something small from the lining. It glinted in the dying light—a slim piece of metal on a chain. Dog tag–style. Simple. Scuffed. Just like the one Abby wore. Just like the one your mother used to keep on her bedside table.
Rachel held it up between two fingers.
“Welcome to the Fireflies, soldier,” she said, and smiled without warmth as she slipped the chain around your neck.
The metal was cool against your skin.
She stood, stretched her back, and walked back into the command building, boots crunching the gravel behind her.
You sat frozen for a long while.
The necklace rested heavy on your chest. Not from weight—but from what it meant. From who it said you were now. Who it said you used to be.
You reached out and snagged the edge of her cigarette from the tin lid she’d left behind. Still burning, barely. You lifted it to your mouth and inhaled hard, coughing on the bitter smoke, letting it burn your lungs. Trying to feel something. Anything. Trying to get a buzz.
It didn’t come.
You leaned your head back and looked at the stars peeking through the thin cloud cover, your voice barely a breath.
“Frank… if you could see me now.”
You laughed once—wet, broken.
And when the tear rolled off your chin and hit the dirt, you didn’t bother wiping it away.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Abby’s hand nudged your shoulder, firm but gentle.
“Hey,” she murmured.
Your back screamed in protest as you stirred, groaning. You’d fallen asleep on the deck of the command building, slumped half-upright against the salt-worn railing. The wood had pressed into your spine all night, and now every vertebra was screaming for revenge.
The air was still cool—just barely morning. The sky overhead was washed in pale orange and silver, and the scent of seaweed and brine rode in heavy on the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, gulls screamed like the world was ending.
You blinked blearily and rubbed your neck, only half-registering the familiar pressure against your sternum.
Abby smirked beside you, arms crossed over her chest. “Nice necklace,” she said.
You groaned and rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
The Firefly pendant rested against your collarbone, slightly cold even now. It caught the light like an accusation.
Before you could reply, footsteps thumped across the planks. Lev appeared beside Abby, a heavy pack slung over one shoulder. His hoodie was too big, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a length of rope dangled from his waist like a coiled snake. His boots looked recently scrubbed. Ready. Focused.
He didn’t say anything—just gave you a nod, lips tight with emotion he wasn’t ready to name.
You nodded back.
You weren’t going to be the bad guy. Not this time.
Out beyond the supply shed, the small crew of Fireflies were already loading up the boat. It wasn’t a ship, not really—just an old fiberglass hull stripped of its old paint, patched with mismatched metal panels and salvaged sailcloth. The solar battery pack buzzed faintly near the stern, already rigged to charge the auxiliary motor in case the wind died. Nets, barrels, crates, and jugs of water were hoisted up and lashed in place with thick nautical rope.
The harbor itself—what little was left of it—groaned under the weight of age and salt. What had once been a private marina now served as the Fireflies' launch point. Moss crept up the cracked concrete loading docks. Old boats, half-sunk or scavenged down to their bones, floated like corpses in the shallows. There were no seagulls near the slip. Just silence and rot and tension.
Abby barked a command to one of the younger Fireflies—a wiry girl in patched cargo pants—and she sprinted across the dock to grab another crate. Lev moved to help with the sail, nimble hands tightening knots and checking the pulley rig Rachel had re-taught him just last week.
You watched Abby scan the checklist she’d scrawled onto the side of a piece of plywood. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, every bit the soldier you remembered—clean, focused, composed.
And then, finally, you turned and walked back toward the command house.
Rachel was sitting at the edge of the stairs now, arms draped over her knees, cigarette between her lips. She squinted up at you through the early haze.
“Can I steal smokes for the trip?” you asked, only half-kidding.
Rachel chuckled, tapping ash onto the step beside her. “I’ve got standing orders from Commander Abby to not give you tobacco.”
You scowled. “Seriously?”
“She says you’re not allowed.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Rachel shrugged like a parent humoring a toddler’s tantrum and took another drag. “Look at it this way: maybe if you survive pirates, starvation, and bad coffee, you can treat yourself when you get back.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking Abby.”
Rachel just smiled, smoke curling from her lips as the wind rolled inland.
In the distance, the boat’s sail unfurled with a loud crack, catching the wind.
Time to go.
____________________________________________________________________________
You climbed up onto the main deck, your boots scraping against the sun-bleached wood. The hull swayed gently underfoot as the tide rocked against the breakwater. Abby was already up top, offering you a hand without a word. You took it, letting her hoist you over the edge like it was nothing.
“I brought your pack for you,” she said, nodding toward a worn military-style backpack propped up near the mast. The straps were already tightened, like she’d adjusted them for your frame.
You gave a faint, grateful smile. “Thanks.”
The nerves hit a second later—low and slow, like the churn of the tide in your gut. You took a deep breath and looked around the deck as the boat creaked forward, pushed by the first gust of wind.
The harbor began to shrink behind you.
God.
You had spent so much time judging Abby for going soft here—for the greenhouse, for the smiles, for cooking with Lev and learning everyone’s names. For hoping.
But now? Now, with the sea opening up in front of you and the mainland fading behind?
You realized something with a sick twist in your stomach:
You’d gone soft too.
You gripped the railing as the dock receded and turned to face your crew. Ten people in total. Mostly kids. Twenty-somethings with shaved heads and patched jackets and quiet, unreadable faces. They shifted nervously on the deck, clutching packs or rope or nothing at all.
You hadn’t spoken to a single one of them before this morning.
You didn’t even know their names.
Most of them didn’t meet your gaze.
The youngest, a dark-haired girl with freckles and a makeshift spear strapped to her back, looked down at her feet as you passed. The others stood scattered in pairs or threes, talking in low tones—watching the waves instead of you.
They knew who you were now. Or at least, who Rachel said you were.
You adjusted your shoulder strap, trying not to let your fingers shake.
The dock was barely visible now, just a line of gray concrete and weather-worn planks in the distance.
And then—movement.
You spotted Rachel on the steps of the command building, hand raised in a slow wave.
You lifted yours in return, small and mechanical.
But beside her… another figure.
Marcus.
He wasn’t waving.
His arms were crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on you. The scowl on his face was unmistakable. Not confusion. Not curiosity.
Contempt.
Your chest tightened. You looked away.
You hadn’t even seen the prison mark on his wrist the night of the party. You hadn’t recognized him. Hadn’t thought about who might still be alive from Boston. From that place.
But apparently, he’d recognized you just fine.
And if Rachel hadn’t stepped in…
Fuck.
You turned back to the sea, jaw locked. The wind picked up, catching the sail. The boat lurched forward, ropes creaking and spray misting across your face.
Too late now.
You were heading straight for pirate waters with ten strangers, a dead city behind you, and your past catching up faster than the tide.
God help you.
_______________________________________________________________________
This wasn’t like the trip to Santa Barbara.
That boat had been smaller. Slower. Quiet, except for the waves and the occasional groan of old wood. Just you navigating blind with nothing but desperation and hope in your lungs.
This one?
This was precision.
Abby had the new team manning the sails like she’d been born doing it. Orders barked with clarity. Hands flying across rope, adjusting sheets, locking lines. The Firefly kids obeyed fast—some with fear, some with admiration.
You leaned against the railing, watching her.
God, she looked good when she worked. Focused. Confident. That scarred shoulder glinting in the sun as she hauled something into place. The breeze toyed with the loose strands of her hair, and sweat glistened along the back of her neck.
It was honestly? Hot as fuck.
And you couldn’t wait to get your hands on her below deck.
She took a break finally, crossing the deck and bracing herself beside you against the sun-warmed rail. Her chest rose and fell with steady breaths. She looked calm—but you could tell she was running through checklists in her head.
You bumped your elbow gently into her arm.
“Can’t believe you told Rachel I couldn’t have smokes.”
You gave her a theatrical pout, your voice just loud enough for her to hear over the creak of the boat and the hiss of ocean spray.
She laughed, warm and unapologetic. “Joan, it’s been what? Months?”
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Tried to pull some scraps out of a butt last night.”
She made a face. “Gross. And I kiss that mouth.”
You smirked, leaning your head back against the sun. The sea stretched wide and endless around you, the salt air clinging to your lips.
You shook your head, letting a smile curl up from your chest.
“This is hot,” you murmured. “You like this. Bossing everyone around. All the ropes and shouting.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Just gave you a look from under her lashes and stepped closer—close enough to press a thigh to yours.
“Yeah?” Her voice dipped. “Did you miss soldier Abby?”
You scoffed but didn’t move away.
“Maybe.”
She grinned, smug and radiant, and bumped her shoulder into yours.
You were both quiet after that—watching the sea foam break against the bow, the crew shouting faintly in the background. The sun dipped lower in the sky, orange bleeding into the waves.
And for a second, you let yourself believe this might go okay.
That you might get there and back again.
That whatever came next—pirates, bullets, ghosts from the past—you could handle it.
As long as she was standing beside you.

She broke the silence first, voice casual—but you could hear the smirk behind it.
“Might be a while.”
You cocked a brow, eyes dragging over her wind-kissed face. “What?”
She chuckled softly, brushing hair off her damp forehead. “We’re all sharing below deck.”
You blinked, slow. Then shook your head with a grin, stepping in close—close enough that your fingers found her hips and settled there, thumbs pressing lightly into the worn fabric of her jeans. The boat rocked gently beneath your feet, but you didn’t waver.
“Oh?” Your voice dropped, flirtation leaking like heat from your throat. “We can hide… in the dark. I’ll make you feel so good you’ll forget there’s anyone else on this boat.”
You didn’t miss the way her breath hitched.
Her eyes darted away for a second, like someone might overhear—even though no one was within range. A blush flushed faintly across her cheeks. It was rare these days to catch her off guard like this, especially after all the nights she’d spent unravelling you.
But now?
Now she was the one squirming.
She cleared her throat, shifting her weight. “We’ll see.”
You grinned wider.
Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and made a fast retreat—marching up to the upper deck like the wind had suddenly picked up.
You leaned against the railing, watching her go, amused.
God, you loved making her flustered. That stiff-backed speed-walk? That little twitch in her shoulder? That was all you.
And it was going to be a long trip.
A very fun one.
______________________________________________________________________________
Fog hung low over the horizon like a curtain of ash, blurring the line between sea and sky as the sun dipped toward the waves. Everything looked pale and quiet—like the world had been bleached and slowed. You could barely see the edge of the earth.
The crew was holding up surprisingly well. They were green, yeah, but they were fed, hydrated, and sharper than you expected. Abby had made sure the supply crates were packed to the teeth: dried beans, smoked fish, canned greens, packets of dehydrated grain mush—bland, but filling. Water was rationed smart. No one had thrown up yet.
You finished tying off a thick nylon line, the coarse rope biting your palms. The sails above flapped and snapped gently in the breeze. You exhaled through your nose and dropped down onto the edge of the boat, legs hanging just above the dark chop of the sea. Salt stung your skin, sprayed your calves.
Footsteps padded behind you, boots familiar on the deck.
Abby sat beside you without a word. She looked tired—her hair was tied back messier than usual, and sweat glistened along her collarbone.
“Not hungry?” she asked after a beat, voice raspy from shouting commands all day.
You shook your head. “Not tonight.”
There was no judgment in her silence, just understanding.
Then, unexpectedly, she let her head rest on your shoulder.
You blinked.
She almost never did that.
Not with anyone.
The weight of her against you was solid, grounding. Her breath was soft, chest rising and falling slow, like the sea beneath you. The deck creaked gently as the boat drifted forward, sails catching what little breeze was left.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
You just sat there together, legs swinging above the waves, the fog swallowing the last orange sliver of sun—and for once, the world didn’t feel like it needed fixing. Not in that moment. Not with her beside you.
You turned toward her slowly, the soft brush of her breath against your collarbone grounding you. The fog around the boat muted the rest of the world—the slap of the waves, the wind in the sails, even the chatter of the crew up front. For a moment, it was just the two of you, hidden in the quiet stern shadows.
You reached up and gently cupped her cheek, guiding her gaze to yours. Her skin was sun-warmed and flushed, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and something else—something tender.
You leaned in and kissed her, soft at first. A question. Her lips parted easily beneath yours, a sigh escaping her throat. You deepened the kiss, your tongue slipping past her lips slow and smooth, and she gasped against your mouth. It sent a thrill down your spine.
She pulled you closer instinctively, her fingers curling into the back of your shirt. You let your weight guide her back, easing her down against the cool deckwood. You hovered over her, hungry but reverent.
“I need to taste you,” you whispered, voice low against her neck.
She shivered beneath you.
Your hand slipped under her shirt, fingertips brushing the curve of her breast, warm and soft. You gave a gentle squeeze—firm enough to make her arch into your palm.
“Joan—” she breathed, her voice catching in her throat.
You kissed down her jaw, your hand still cradling her, heart pounding hard in your chest. Around you, the ocean whispered secrets against the hull. But inside this moment, all that existed was her—under you, aching for your touch, her breath hitching, her thighs pressing together.
And god, you wanted to give her everything.
You had to admit, your heart was pounding harder than usual—not from desire alone, but from nerves. There were ten others on this boat. Sleeping, eating, whispering just feet above your heads. If someone creaked a floorboard or came looking for rope or tools…
But you slid her jeans down anyway, just far enough to expose her thighs. They bunched at her ankles, trapping her in the moment—half-dressed, flushed, vulnerable. The salt-stiff breeze crept across her skin, making her shiver.
It wasn’t like the other times.
This wasn’t slow and sacred. It wasn’t primal and messy either.
It was secret. Dangerous. And somehow all the more addicting for it.
You dipped between her legs, letting your breath ghost over her warmth before your mouth made contact. The moment your tongue found her, she bit her wrist hard, a muffled whimper escaping her chest. Her thighs clenched around you.
God, she was soaked.
You licked deliberately, tracing tight circles, watching the tension build in her face—her brows knit, her teeth clenched, her hips twitching helplessly.
Then you slid two fingers inside.
She gasped, arching up like you’d shocked her.
You froze. Pulled back. Whispered, “Sorry,” even though your voice trembled with hunger.
But she didn’t push you away.
She shook her head violently, grabbed your wrist with both hands, and pulled your fingers deeper. Her thighs trembled as she rocked against you, no sound now but sharp breaths through her nose and the ragged hiss of restraint.
“Joan—” she mouthed more than said, her back curling like a bow.
You leaned forward again, pressing your tongue back to her clit while your fingers curled inside her just right. Her body bucked softly, silently, like the ocean beneath the hull.
If anyone walked back here now, they’d find her ruined.
And you?
You’d die happy.
Your fingers moved faster, rougher, meeting every rise of her hips with precision. You’d never seen her like this—so tightly wound, desperate to stay silent, so wrecked by the need to come it made your chest ache.
You moaned softly against her clit, your tongue flicking in rough, relentless strokes, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her arousal. You could feel her thighs trembling, her fingers digging into the grain of the wood beneath her. Her brows knit like she was in pain, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip hard enough to leave blood.
Then—her hips jerked.
You felt it.
That telltale flutter.
Her body locked, her breath caught in her throat, and her walls clenched around your fingers like a vice. She was coming, and trying so fucking hard to hold it in. But her gasp slipped free—sharp, high, uncontrollable.
Without thinking, you pressed your free hand over her mouth, silencing her just in time.
She cried out into your palm, muffled and helpless, eyes rolling back, tongue dragging across your fingers as if that, too, could soothe the heat ravaging her. You watched in awe, still working her through it, her back arched, her legs trembling violently on either side of your shoulders.
She didn’t stop shaking.
Not for a long time.
Her whole body sagged, twitching as she came down, breath stuttering against your hand.
You finally withdrew your fingers—slowly, carefully—feeling the slick trail of her release cooling in the night air.
She blinked up at you, dazed. Ruined. Beautiful.
And you... you were fucked.
Because you needed her again.
You crashed your lips onto hers, and she let out a startled moan against your mouth. You’d never been like this before—not so frantic, so flushed with need. Not like this, not because of secrecy. Something about the ocean air, the creaking wood beneath you, the crew asleep just feet away… it made every second feel dangerous.
Your hands slipped under her shirt, greedily exploring. She gripped your hips, nails digging into the fabric of your pants.
“Joan—” she gasped, squirming, “I’m still so sensitive—”
You shook your head, grinding against her, your voice a whisper made of heat. “Abby… I need this. Please.”
She groaned softly, torn between restraint and desire, her own hips rocking instinctively with yours. And then—she flipped you.
You gasped as your back hit the deck and her body straddled yours, strong thighs pinning you down like it was nothing.
Without warning, her hand slipped between you, and you jolted—God, her fingers were rougher, longer than yours. You weren’t ready, but the stretch, the pressure, the rawness of it made your head spin.
You moaned and threw your head back, her lips crashing against yours to swallow the sound. Your body arched into her, hips moving without thought, every nerve in your body lighting up like gunfire.
“Please, Abby—please—” you begged into her mouth, your voice high, breaking.
She chuckled against your skin, low and hoarse. “How the tables have turned,” she whispered, her breath hot on your neck.
You whimpered, your legs trembling around her hips.
Above you, the fog thickened over the sea, wrapping the world in shadow. But all you could feel was her. The way she held you down. The way she knew you too well.
And how much you never wanted her to stop.
Your hips rocked desperately on her fingers, your thighs trembling with every motion. She picked up the pace, fucking into you with smooth, practiced precision, wrist slick with you. The wet sounds between your bodies were obscene, barely muffled by the salt air and the lull of waves.
You whimpered into her mouth as she kissed you again, her tongue slipping past your lips, stealing your breath like it belonged to her.
Small sounds escaped you—broken little whines you couldn’t swallow down.
You were pathetic under her. Needy. Soft. Your body arched and bucked into her hand like it was instinct, like your bones didn’t remember how to resist.
“Good girl,” she murmured against your lips, her voice like smoke. “Like that—come for me.”
You whimpered again, your body tightening around her fingers. She always sounded so calm, so in control. You envied it. You wanted to be like that—unbothered, composed.
But you weren’t.
You were soaked and shaking, your hips grinding desperately down, chasing that edge, whimpering softly into the night as it broke inside you. You clenched hard around her fingers and bit your lip to stay quiet. Your body trembled violently, waves rolling through you.
It wasn’t loud.
But it was enough.
She held you through it—steady, strong—like she always did.

Chapter 51: Salt

You gasped for air as she pulled her fingers out of you.
You flinched slightly as she pulled you tight against her chest, her arms locking around your back like a shield. Her grip was strong—stronger than before. Not quite the soldier she’d been in Seattle, but close. Her muscle had come back fast since you'd been here. Weeks of hauling solar panels, lifting gear, pulling sails. It showed in her biceps, in the steadiness of her hold. She felt solid again. Reliable.
Then she exhaled and shifted, flipping onto her back beside you. Her jeans were still tangled around one ankle as she stared up at the sky. The stars shimmered above, silent and endless. A salty breeze brushed across your faces, carrying the soft creak of the boat with it. You pulled your own pants up and laid back beside her, shoulders brushing.
“Abby?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.
She smiled, still watching the sky. “Yeah?”
You hesitated, watching her chest rise and fall. “Will we be in California forever?”
Her brow furrowed, and she let out a slow breath. “Why not?”
You bit your cheek. “I don’t know if I fit in here.”
She turned her head to look at you, then reached over, fingertips drawing slow circles on your shoulder. Gentle, right over the edge of the bandage. She didn’t press—just traced.
“You belong with me,” she said, voice low, steady. “Wherever I am. If you don’t end up liking it here… okay. I’ll follow you. Wherever you need to be.”
You swallowed. The knot in your chest loosened just a little.
The wind picked up. Somewhere above, a gull cried in the night.
And for a moment, you let yourself believe her.
_____________________________________________________________________________
It was the dead of night. The sea air had turned sharp, cold enough to sting your nose. The stars blinked quietly overhead, smeared behind a thin layer of fog. You were curled on the deck, limbs tangled, skin still warm from the heat you and Abby had created—but cooling now. A shiver crept over you.
Then—
A small hand tapped lightly against your forehead.
You jolted, eyes snapping open.
Lev.
He stood above you, sleepy-eyed, hoodie pulled tight over his head. He glanced around the deck, the soft wind tugging at the hem of his pants.
“You should come below deck,” he mumbled. “So you’re not sunburnt again.”
You blinked, then instinctively glanced at Abby. Thank god she’d pulled both your pants up before you fell asleep. A deep breath pushed out of you. Lev hadn’t seen anything. Just you, asleep. Just the two of you, left in the open.
He looked so small standing there. Smaller than he should.
You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
You gave Abby a nudge and she stirred with a groggy sound, sitting up and rubbing at her face. No words passed between you—just the quiet shuffle of three sets of feet crossing the deck.
Below, the ship’s belly was dark and swaying gently with the tide. One of the crew was snoring in a corner. You laid down on a thin mattress near the back wall, and Lev settled beside you. He turned to face Abby. His spine pressed gently against yours.
The warmth of it—his small weight, the familiar shape of them both—it hit you all at once.
It felt like Catalina. Like your home.
And for just a flicker of time, everything felt still.
Safe.
Like maybe you could get through this.
____________________________________________________________________________
You woke up drenched in sweat. The lower deck was stifling—heavy with heat and breath and salt. Morning sun streamed in through a narrow hatch, baking the cramped room like an oven. The air was thick, clinging to your skin.
Abby’s leg was draped across your waist, warm and solid. You peeled it off gently, careful not to wake her. She muttered something in her sleep and turned over, arm flopping across Lev’s chest.
You sat up slowly, your shirt damp, hair stuck to the back of your neck. Every joint ached from the cramped sleep, but it was better than the deck.
You climbed the creaky ladder and pushed the hatch open, blinking as sunlight poured over you.
The upper deck was alive with motion. Wind slapped your cheeks, strong and briny. The sails were full—brighter than you remembered them—and the whole ship groaned forward with speed. Faster than your boat ever sailed. It was strange seeing her this way, guided by others, moving like something alive.
You stepped out fully, barefoot, the wood hot under your feet. Shielding your eyes, you looked out over the sea.
Clear skies stretched endlessly overhead, streaked with wisps of white cloud. The water shimmered blue and gold, calm and clever, like it was planning something.
You leaned against the railing, watching waves cut like glass against the hull. Somewhere behind you, someone called out a heading. Boots thudded on wood. The crew was awake.
Tomorrow, you’d be docking on a small island. Just a pit stop. They hoped to reach it by sunrise—refuel, recharge, maybe gather a few goods or do light trade.
That’s how the Fireflies did it. These expeditions weren’t straight shots—they were patched together, island by island, like stitching across old cloth. Rest when you could. Move when you had to.
You huffed a breath, tasting salt.
One night left. Then land. Then whatever came next.
And you weren’t sure if you were excited… or terrified.
A shadow stretched across the deck beside you.
You looked up and saw him—a tall man, maybe 26, with sunburned cheeks and wind-chapped lips. His hair was tied back in a messy knot, a streak of salt crusted near his temple. He was lean and lanky, his arms roped with the kind of wiry muscle that came from real labor—not training.
He stopped a few feet away, boots scuffing on the deck.
“Morning,” he said, voice gravel-scratched from salt and lack of sleep. “We manned the sails overnight. Woke at three.”
He stood at attention—not formally, not like a soldier—but like someone waiting for orders.
You blinked.
He reminded you of Nathan. Nathan from Boston. The one with the wide shoulders and soft voice. The one you tried not to think about. The one who never made it out.
For a moment, your throat caught.
You nodded slowly. “Good.”
The man didn’t move. Didn’t leave.
That’s when it hit you—Abby wasn’t up here. She was still asleep below deck. And when Abby wasn’t on deck… you were in command.
Fuck.
You straightened slightly, instinctively, and turned to scan the rest of the deck. A few others were awake now, crouched near the mast, checking knots, adjusting lines. One girl was feeding the bird they’d taken on at Catalina—just a scrappy gull that kept circling the rigging. Another guy was sipping from a canteen and watching the horizon like it might attack.
Ten people. All of them waiting. All of them looking—maybe not at you, but toward you.
The ship groaned slightly as it dipped forward, waves curling along its side. The wind was perfect. They had done well last night.
You turned back to the man.
“What’s your name?” you asked, clearing your throat.
“Luis,” he said.
“Alright, Luis. Keep her steady. Make sure the sail stays taut once the sun hits noon. She’ll start pulling harder. If the gusts shift, I want the front line rebalanced.”
His eyes widened slightly. Then he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
He moved off with purpose—back toward the main rigging—already calling over another crewmate to double-check the ropes.
You exhaled slowly.
The air tasted different when you were in charge.
Not quite power. Not quite pressure.
Just responsibility. That old familiar weight.
And it had settled back on your shoulders like it never left.
You leaned against the railing, fingers curling around the sun-warmed wood, staring out at the endless blue stretching ahead.
In Boston, it wasn’t like this.
Nothing was this… organized. Collaborative. Civilized.
There weren’t shifts or check-ins, no one reporting to you because they respected you—they followed you because they feared you.
Back then, if someone didn’t listen?
WACK.
The back of your rifle stock to their jaw. Or your fist. Or the butt of a boot. And then they’d perk right up. Eyes down, mouth shut. They’d flinch when you walked past. Some wouldn’t even meet your gaze.
You used to count that as obedience. Control. Authority.
Now, the memory made your stomach twist.
The salt air did nothing to clear it—those ghosts lingered in the back of your throat like smoke. Like the coppery aftertaste of blood.
You watched Luis work, now laughing with the others by the sails as they rechecked the knots. He wasn't afraid of you. None of them were. They looked at you like a leader—not a threat.
Back in Seattle, under Abby and Frank, it had been easier. You were a weapon someone else pointed. You didn’t have to give commands. Just follow.
Frank had been the real voice of the patrol—stern but warm, that moral backbone you never really had. And Abby? Abby was force. Unshakable, grounded. Even when she was falling apart, she led like she was born for it.
You?
You were the ghost behind them.
A good soldier when you wanted to be. A drunk when you didn’t.
And now here you were—no Frank. No buffer.
Just you. Joan. In sunlight and open water. Somehow in charge of a boat full of hopeful kids playing Firefly.
You felt it creep up your spine: that old question, the one that kept you up on Catalina, the one you buried in Abby’s chest and Lev’s silence.
How the hell did I ever make it out of Boston?
You gripped the railing tighter.
The truth was, you didn’t.
Not really.
You just changed uniforms.
And prayed that someday, it would be enough to make you someone else.
Your eyes met Abby’s as she and Lev crawled out from the lower deck, blinking in the sunlight. She looked half-asleep, hair tangled and lashes still damp from sleep. Lev squinted, rubbing his eyes as he shuffled toward the helm.
Thank god.
You turned quickly, walking toward the corner of the boat where the anchor ropes were coiled. You crouched down, pretending to inspect a knot, but really—you just needed a moment.
You slipped the journal out from under your coat. The one Abby had given you on Catalina. The pages had grown soft at the edges from sea air, the spine creased from too many restless nights thumbing through it. You sat with your back to the mast, using your knees as a desk.
Away from the others.
Away from Abby.
You flipped through the pages slowly. A sketch of Frank’s face—half-finished, his brow smudged from your knuckles dragging too hard. Little notes to him in the margins: “You’d hate the food here,” and, “I’m still clean. You were right.”
There were scattered coastal doodles, too. Rocky islands from the horizon. A twisted lighthouse. A fish head drying on a hook. But most of the pages had something else.
Him.
Owen.
You didn’t mean to keep drawing him. But there he was again—his stupid, smug face etched over and over in graphite. Sometimes in profile, sometimes in bed. Sometimes just his eyes. You’d even caught yourself shading his hands once—thick, calloused, wrapped around a cigarette.
You sighed and turned to the most recent one. It was rough. Just an outline of his body pressed into Abby’s, no faces, just motion. Your notes around it were blurrier. Jagged.
You stared at the poem you’d scrawled days ago beside it—some messy half-rhyme about betrayal and muscle memory. It had started to fade where the sun kissed the page.
Was she lying about it not being special?
You shook your head, exhaling through your nose.
It didn’t matter. Not here. Not when your thighs still ached from her fingers the night before. Not when she pressed her lips to your shoulder like she meant it.
Still… you hated how he stayed. In your sketches. In your thoughts. Like salt crusting over your wounds.
You pressed your palm to the page, as if that could flatten the feeling.
But it stayed.
Just like he did.
You opened your pack slowly, fingers brushing over the frayed canvas flap. The sun hadn’t climbed too high yet, but the warmth was already settling over the wood, making everything soft and gold. Seagulls wheeled overhead. Salt clung to your lips like memory.
Beneath your spare shirt, under a half-wrapped bandage roll and a dull utility knife, it was still there—Owen’s journal.
You pulled it out like it might burn you.
Abby hadn’t found it.
She never would.
She wasn’t like that—never snooped, never pried. She gave you space, trusted you with your silences. And god, that made it worse somehow.
You flipped it open.
Pages worn smooth, creased with sea air and time. His writing slanted hard left, messy and fast like he couldn’t get the thoughts out quick enough. Most of it you’d already memorized. Sketches of boats. Ranting entries about Jackson. Notes about the Fireflies. Some dreams he had—he wrote them down like they were gospel.
But this one was new.
You hadn’t read this page before. Or maybe you skipped it. Maybe it felt too close.
You stared down at it now.
“She looks at me like she sees the truth. Not who I am, but what I’ve become. I hate it. I think I love it.”
“Abby’s got a new stray. She won’t say much about her. But I can tell she’s different. There’s something... raw there. Dangerous. The kind of person who either saves you or ruins you, depending on how the wind shifts.”
“I wonder if she knows that’s exactly Abby’s type.”
Your jaw clenched.
Your thumb hovered over the page like you could smudge the words out of existence. You didn’t know what pissed you off more—that he noticed you, or that he understood you. That somewhere in his cracked, jealous skull he figured out exactly what kind of wreck you were… and knew Abby would still choose you anyway.
You slammed the book shut, your breath catching in your throat.
God, you hated this.
You shoved it back in your pack and cinched it tight.
Then you sat back, letting the sun sting your face, trying to pretend the words weren’t echoing in your chest.
That journal shouldn’t mean anything.
But it did.
It meant too much.

It meant you were competition.
Not a partner, not a lover—just another name on a list of people Owen couldn’t stomach losing to. And god, he did take her once. Took her and held her and left fingerprints behind you could never quite scrub out of your memory.
You swallowed hard and shoved the journal back into your bag like it had teeth. Like it might bite if you let it stay too long in your hands.
Instead, you dragged out your own journal—Abby’s gift. Worn soft now at the edges. You flipped past the sketches of coastline, past the scribbled-down poems, until you found a blank page. You stared at it for a long moment.
Then you drew his eyes.
Hard. Angry. Brow twisted just like that day—when he swung on you so fast you hadn’t had time to flinch. You remembered the way your head snapped sideways, the copper in your mouth.
You didn’t even hear Abby approach.
You felt her before you saw her—arms sliding around your middle, lips brushing your shoulder.
“What are you drawing?” she teased softly, chin on your shoulder.

Chapter 52: FIghts

“What are you drawing?” she teased softly, chin on your shoulder.
Too late.
She saw.
Her eyes landed on the page, and her body tensed before you could cover it. She reached over before you could stop her, her fingers fast and sure, flipping through the earlier sketches.
Owen’s face.
Again and again.
A dozen angry brows. That scowl you couldn’t forget. His hands. That page with the journal entry you’d copied down in shaky pen.
“Joan…” she murmured—but not with love this time.
Her voice cracked as she snatched the book from your hands, flipping another page. “What the fuck is this?”
You froze.
Her voice had too many layers to name—hurt, betrayal, disbelief.
And worse: she sounded tired.
Like the wound hadn’t even scabbed before you peeled it open again.
God you knew what Owen had meant to her.
She wasn’t even looking at you anymore.
You just sat there. Staring at her like some fucking idiot.
The boat creaked gently under you. Wind pulled at the sails above, and gulls cried somewhere in the gray-blue distance. The salt stung your nose, but it wasn’t the ocean that made your chest ache.
Abby’s back was to you now, stiff. She clutched your journal in both hands, like it might explode if she let go. Her shoulders had risen—tight, defensive.
Her perfect pout twisted, lips pressed hard together. Her eyes glistened, red at the corners.
Tears.
Real ones.
It made something inside you shrivel.
“Joan,” she said at last—low, but sharp. Stern. Like a command on the field.
You flinched.
“What is this?”
She held the journal a little higher. Pages still open. Drawings of him—Owen—sketched again and again. His furrowed brow, his clenched jaw, that stupid, smug look you hated. The same look he gave you the day he punched you. The day you finally punched back.
You swallowed hard. Your mouth was dry as driftwood.
The ship rocked beneath you, and you heard someone shout orders above deck. Normal shit. Routine. But it felt like the world was tilting sideways.
“I…” you started, but the words backed up in your throat like bile. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
Why had you drawn him so much?
You knew why.
You just couldn’t say it.
Not to her. Not when she was looking at you like that.
Then she flipped to the back.
To that page.
The one with the messy handwriting, slanted and half-erased. Ink smudged from where you’d pressed too hard at 2 a.m., after sneaking downstairs barefoot and half-asleep, heart aching in your chest like an old bruise.
You’d forgotten you wrote it.
But Abby hadn’t.
She read it out loud, quietly, like the words were sharp in her mouth:
“Why can’t I enter her the way he did.
Why can’t I be the man she needs.
Every month reminded of the woman I’ll always be.
Every month fated to be less than she needs of me—”
“Just stop, Abby!” you snapped, snatching the journal from her hands, your heart slamming so loud it made your ears ring.
She recoiled like you’d struck her. Not physically—but with something just as cruel.
Her voice cracked as she stepped back, arms tense at her sides. “I got you that journal so you could process Frank. Boston.”
Her words hit you harder than they should’ve. Because she wasn’t wrong.
That was the deal, wasn’t it?
Get it out. On paper. Let the past go.
But instead you’d filled it with sketches of Owen’s face. His fists. His smirk. With poems about your body not being enough. About being wrong for her. Not a man. Not him.
And now, watching her—shoulders rigid, throat working around something she wasn’t saying—you finally saw it:
How fucked up this was.
How deeply it shook her.
You’d obsessed over her ex like he still lived in your walls.
And worse—wrote about how he entered her.
About how you weren’t enough. Would never be enough.
It wasn’t just weird.
It was intimate in the worst way.
It was creepy.
And she looked at you now like she didn’t know whether to yell or cry.
Like she wanted to do both.
She shook her head, slow and quiet, like she was trying to settle something heavy in her chest. Then she sat down beside you, boots scraping the wood. The softness returned to her shoulders, that familiar tenderness creeping back in.
You didn’t deserve it.
You dropped beside her, pulling your knees to your chest like a kid bracing for a storm. Arms tight. Body small. A lump in your throat.
“Joan,” she said, voice almost a whisper.
God. You knew what was coming.
You’d fucked up. Ruined it. Crossed a line so wide it might as well have been painted in blood. There wasn’t a way to come back from this. You’d invaded something sacred. You deserved the silence. The anger. The goodbye.
But instead, her breath hitched. You saw it before you heard it.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
“I’m sorry…” she murmured, swallowing hard. “I made you feel that way. Because of a stupid mistake.”
Your brain stalled.
What?
Your heart kicked unevenly in your chest. You stared at her like she was speaking another language.
She wasn’t supposed to say that. She was supposed to stand. Turn her back. Tell you you’d made her feel unsafe. That you were weird. That you were cruel.
She was supposed to let you spiral, let you jump off the boat in some dramatic attempt at self-destruction.
But here she was.
Apologizing.
Because of Owen.
You blinked at her, stunned. Salt burned your eyes. You wanted to scream what are you doing, to shove her away before she made another mistake—you.
But instead, you sat frozen in place, barely breathing, as her words settled into the silence between you.
She wasn’t angry.
She was hurt. But not just at you.
She was hurt at herself—because she hadn’t realized how deep it went. How much it cracked you inside. How much you’d buried.
And now she was sitting beside you, not above you. Not walking away.
But staying.
She took a breath, steadying herself against the sway of the deck. Her hand found yours on the rail—thumb brushing across your knuckles with gentle intent. The ocean wind tugged her hair back as she tried to meet your eyes.
But your face twisted.
You couldn’t accept the comfort. Not when shame curdled in your chest like bile.
“Why the fuck would you snoop like that?” Your voice cracked as it left you—raspy, wounded, hostile.
Abby’s brow furrowed. Her fingers twitched but didn’t let go.
“I wasn’t—”
You ripped your hand away. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep your fucking legs closed around Owen.”
The air went still. Even the boat seemed to pause for a moment, creaking in protest.
She stared at you. “Joan.”
You stepped in close, finger jabbing into the chest of her worn Firefly hoodie, the salt and sun baked into the fabric.
“You wanna be sorry?” you hissed. “Don’t be such a whore next time.”
The words hit harder than you imagined. Her mouth parted, but nothing came out. Her hand dropped from the rail.
The water below slapped against the hull like applause for your worst impulse.
Her chest rose once, sharply. A single tear welled in her eye but didn’t fall. She blinked hard.
Then: “Do you not respect me?”
You heard it in her voice—not just anger, but betrayal. Like she’d trusted you with something sacred and you spit on it.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came. Nothing except the sound of the waves and the hum of the engine down below.
She stepped back from you, jaw clenched, her shoulders rigid as steel.
You were supposed to be better. Instead, you were standing under the stars on a creaking boat in the middle of the ocean, making the woman you loved flinch.
And for what?
She shook her head slowly, like it physically pained her to do it. Then, in that low, firm voice—the one she used when she wanted to shut something down without falling apart—she said:
“We’ll have to talk about this later. For now, it’s just work. Just mission stuff. Don’t talk to me about anything else.”
You opened your mouth, but she turned before you could get a word out—before you could apologize, defend yourself, or make it worse. Maybe especially that last part.
Her boots thudded across the deck, sharp and fast, until they disappeared below with a hollow clang of the hatch.
You were left standing there like a goddamn idiot. Salt in your throat. Shame burning behind your eyes.
The ocean stretched out beneath you—endless and blank, like it could swallow your regret whole if you let it.
You stared down at the water, watching the ship's wake unravel behind you like a trail of mistakes you couldn’t take back.
The worst part?
You knew you deserved it.
______________________________________________________________________________

Night fell before you even realized the sun had gone down. The boat creaked gently under the stars, the sky above cloudless, smeared with constellations that looked like they'd been smeared on with dirty fingers. The sea had gone black and still.
You’d kept your distance all day.
Instead of helping Abby like usual, you worked the sails with Luis, hands blistering from the rope. You didn’t talk much, just nodded when spoken to, your jaw tight and stomach in knots. Every time you caught a glimpse of her—barking orders, checking supplies, loading weapons—you turned away.
When it was finally time to sleep, everyone shuffled below deck in silence, damp with sweat and exhaustion. You moved quietly toward the spot you usually shared with her. Familiar. Safe.
But as soon as you lay down beside her, she shifted.
Without a word, she grabbed her blanket and moved across the room. Found a different corner. Laid down with her back to you.
You froze.
Not because of the cold, not because the floor was hard beneath your ribs—but because that movement… that silent dismissal… it split you right down the middle.
Lev looked between the two of you from his cot, his face creased with quiet confusion. But he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe he already knew—maybe everyone on this damn boat could feel the crack in the air between you and Abby.
You let out a soft huff and turned onto your side, back to the crew, back to her. You curled up against your pack, using it like a shitty pillow, and tried to close your eyes.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
Not with the ache behind your ribs.
Not with her sleeping on the other side of the boat like you were a stranger.
Not with the silence between you so loud it drowned out even the sea.
You wondered what she thought of you now.
And worse—you wondered if she was starting to believe she’d made a mistake bringing you here at all.
___________________________________________________________________________
“Joan!”
A sharp jolt snapped through your body like a wire pulled taut. Abby's voice. Too loud. Too harsh.
You felt her hand on your shoulder, shaking you hard. “Up. Go man the sails, soldier.”
Soldier.
That word tasted like rot. You groaned, half-conscious, and rolled onto your side, your voice thick with sleep and resentment. “Mmm, five more—”
She didn’t wait. She grabbed you by the bicep, yanking you upward with that rebuilt strength of hers. “Wasn’t a question. Now. Go.”
You staggered onto your feet, the wooden floor creaking under your socks. Your heart cracked wide open at the way she said it—not the order itself, but the cold distance behind it. Like you were any other grunt. Like all that softness, all those nights tangled in each other’s sweat and skin, had vanished with the sun.
You looked at her then—really looked at her. Her jaw was tight, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, arms folded like a wall you couldn’t climb. But there was a flicker. Just for a second.
A flicker of something aching beneath all that command.
She hated this just as much as you did.
But neither of you had the guts to fix it.
You swallowed back the apology lodged in your throat like splinters and turned your back on her. Stupid pride. Stupid guilt. Stupid silence.
You hauled yourself up the narrow steps to the upper deck, where the wind was picking up again. Dawn was still just a whisper along the water’s edge, a faint bruising of gold and blue on the horizon. Luis was already up there, adjusting a frayed line on the mainsail.
“Lady problems?” he asked without looking at you, a crooked grin on his face.
You rolled your eyes and grunted, “Tell me about it.”
He laughed, loud and easy, and passed you a coil of rope. You took it without a word, tying down the fluttering canvas as the wind caught it and snapped it like a whip. Your fingers stung in the cold.
You kept your eyes forward, fixed on the sea, like it could answer the questions clawing at your insides.
Like it could tell you whether she'd ever forgive you.
Or if you'd ever forgive yourself.
Then, like a mirage there it was.
Abby’s voice cut through the breeze like a knife:
“Land ahead!”
You flinched at the sound of it. Not the volume—just her voice. Still sharp. Still distant. You hated that it still made your chest ache.
You snorted under your breath and leaned against the railing, squinting at the sliver of green that broke the endless blue. The island came into view slowly, like a secret being peeled open by the morning light. Palm trees clung to the rocky cliffs, fronds waving stiffly in the wind. You could make out the shape of old buildings just beyond the dense tree line—coastal cottages, half-eaten by weather and time. One had a collapsed roof. Another had vines growing through the windows. But they looked solid enough to sleep in.
You knew the drill. Two days ashore. Enough time to refill the water tanks, patch the sail, scavenge supplies, and figure out which route would be safest toward Ensenada. That was Abby’s plan, at least. Efficient. Precise.
Of course it was.
The boat rocked hard as Luis adjusted the rudder, the hull groaning as it scraped against the shallows. Lev stood near the mast, eyes wide, clutching the railing like he was bracing for something more dramatic than a quiet landing.
Abby barked out orders with a voice you used to love—used to feel safe under. Now it just grated.
“Luis, drop the anchor. Joan, tie us off on that rock outcrop. We’ll unload on shore and move in teams.”
You grabbed a rope and leapt off the side with a splash, boots sinking in the wet sand. The shore was pebbled and uneven, crusted with salt and broken shells. You tied the line to a jagged rock half-swallowed by the sea and tugged twice for tension.
Back on the boat, the others began unloading crates and duffels—ration packs, water filters, medical supplies. Lev handed them down, his movements steady, practiced. He was quiet but focused. You remembered when he used to be afraid of the ocean. Now he looked like he belonged on it.
The others climbed off in pairs, boots thudding on wet stone. You followed last, wiping your palms on your pants as you stepped into the sand. Abby was already ahead, her silhouette backlit by the gray sun as she scouted the path up to the buildings.
You walked slower than the rest. Not out of caution—out of spite, maybe. Or pride.
You didn’t have any right to still be mad. But fuck, you were.
So you kept your distance, eyes scanning the overgrown trail ahead, fists clenched at your sides.
Two days on land. Two days with her.
You weren’t sure if that would make things better…
Or worse.
______________________________________________________________________________
Your boots scraped against sun-scorched concrete as you stepped off the boat, legs stiff from days on water. The dock was cracked and splintered, half-swallowed by barnacles, but it held. You took a breath of the salty air. Smelled like old fish and seaweed—but solid ground was solid ground.
You glanced at Abby as she jumped down beside you.
She didn’t look at you.
Still mad.

Chapter 53: Flirt

You got it. You really did. Sketching her ex-boyfriend like some ghost you couldn’t exorcise? Creepy. Obsessive. You hated yourself for it—but you were also angry. Angry she’d even been with him, that he still haunted her.
That you weren’t enough to erase him.
The others fanned out behind you, a small scouting crew assigned to clear and secure the town that fanned out from the beach—an old vacation port, probably, back when life had room for “vacation.”
You and Abby were paired together. Of course.
You drifted along the cracked pavement, passing weather-bleached surf shops and dusty souvenir stores, windows still full of warped postcards and melted candy. You didn’t talk. Just walked, side by side, the tension like a line between you.
A little brick storefront caught your eye. Faded pink signage. You blinked at the lettering.
La Dulcería. Except the ‘r’ had fallen off. Beneath it, through the glass—
Leather. Chains. A mannequin in lace.
You snorted.
A fucking sex shop.
Of course people needed distractions back then. You pushed the door open, the bell overhead jangling weakly.
The interior smelled like rubber and dust. Shelves full of aged lube bottles, boxes with faded porn stars on the covers, lingerie slumped on hangers like molted skins. Cracked silicone toys sat in locked cases, untouched for years. A wall rack held strap-ons in every size and shape, most dried out or warped by time.
“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath, running your fingers over one of the harnesses. You lifted one gently off the rack—it still felt solid. Surprisingly high quality. You flipped it over in your hands, inspecting the stitching, then noticed the attachment.
Double-ended. Internal stimulation for the wearer.
You stared at it. A hundred ideas flashing through your brain.
What if—
You glanced at the back of the shop. No one.
You slid the harness on over your jeans, awkward and a little ashamed. But—
When you shifted your hips forward, the internal nub pressed just right.
You inhaled sharply.
Oh.
OH.
Your mind filled with images—Abby pressed against the wall, breathless. Her arms over her head. You—
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You froze.
Abby. In the doorway. Eyes locked on the thing strapped between your legs.
Your face went hot. Your mouth opened, but no words came out.
She stepped in slowly, gaze flicking from the harness to your flushed cheeks. “Is this a joke?” Her voice was flat. Hurt, maybe. Confused.
You fumbled, yanking the thing off. “No—I just—it was in here and—fuck, I didn’t think anyone would—”
“You didn’t think?” she repeated, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
You swallowed. Shame boiling under your skin.
Outside, the waves lapped quietly against the shore. Inside, the silence was suffocating.
You took in a sharp breath, swallowing the heat rising to your face. “I was—”
She cut you off with a scoff, stepping further into the room, her boots heavy against the linoleum. “Joan, you were supposed to be looking for danger. For supplies. Not—” Her eyes snapped back to the harness still dangling from your hand. “God, what even is that thing?!”
Your throat tightened. “It’s—just a harness. A double-ended one. I wasn’t—Christ, I wasn’t jerking off in the back room, Abby, I was just—”
She held up a hand. “You strapped it on.”
You froze.
Her voice was sharp but quiet. Controlled. That was worse than yelling.
“I find you alone, in a half-looted shop, wearing this thing like it’s a joke—like this is funny. Like we’re not supposed to be clearing the town so nobody dies tonight.”
You felt the panic rising in your chest, prickling under your skin like fire ants. “I wasn’t messing around. I just—I don’t know, Abby. I found it. I was curious.”
“Curious?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Joan, we’re not tourists. You can’t just wander into a fucking sex shop and play dress-up like it’s pre-outbreak. You’re supposed to be my partner.”
You stepped toward her without thinking, the harness now crumpled in your hands. “I am your partner. Abby—I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight. I just—”
You stopped yourself.
What were you going to say?
That every time you looked at her you wanted to crawl into her skin? That she barely touched you lately, and every quiet night in the barracks made you feel like some useless ghost? That the idea of finally having control—of making her feel something—made your brain short-circuit?
That fight with her—God, it hurt.
It took you back to Seattle. Back to nights where Frank would find you on the floor, knees raw and your breath ragged from sobbing into an empty bottle. Those nights you were no better than a ghost—drunk, obliterated, muttering apologies to no one in particular.
And this moment… it felt like that again.
You wanted to grab her, to shake her, to beg her to stop being angry. To tell her it wasn’t fair. That she already had your heart—she didn’t need to take your voice too.
But your body betrayed you. The heat in your throat tightened, and your eyes blurred as the tears pushed forward, sudden and sharp.
“Abby.” Your voice cracked.
She didn’t turn.
She didn’t soften.
Of course she didn’t.
Owen was off-limits. A sore, sacred bruise she’d hidden from the rest of the world. You’d tried to pretend he didn’t exist, but he haunted everything.
You knew what he meant to her.
Not just as a lover—but as a lifeline.
Her last tether to the life before.
Before Jackson.
Before Joel.
Before the crunch of bone and the scream that never left her throat when her father collapsed in front of her.
And losing Owen… that must’ve felt like losing her dad all over again.
A new layer of grief, stacked on top of old rot.
You stood there stupidly, fists clenched and eyes wet, as her back stayed turned—like the silence between you had grown fangs.
You thought about the harness again. About what you wanted to do for her. To her.
To give her some kind of control again.
To give yourself some.
But maybe you were wrong. Maybe all you were doing was reminding her of everything she’d already lost.
Of everything you could never be.
Maybe it was time to leave her behind.
The thought sank low in your gut like seawater in a sinking hull.
Had she ever actually wanted you? Or did you just… force yourself into her life—like salt through an old wound. You followed her here, sick and half-dead, desperate for something. Comfort? Forgiveness? A second chance at being human?
You never asked if she wanted Joan to be a part of Santa Barbara. Of this new world.
The Fireflies worked like a machine—order, faith, purpose. Hope.
You weren’t hope.
You were rot and rust.
You broke machines.
Your mind twisted, turned inward, gnawed at itself. You weren’t cheery. You weren’t “future.” You didn’t have those bright eyes like the new recruits or Lev’s quiet faith in something better.
You didn’t believe you were helping save anything. You were just trying not to ruin it further.
Then her voice cut the silence.
“Joan.”
Cold. Sharp.
That commander's tone she only used when she'd already decided there’d be no more discussion.
“Let’s go,” she said. “No more fucking around.”
She opened the door to the hall before you could find your voice, before you could say something—anything—that might make this not feel like the end.
You stood there for a beat, chest heavy, hands twitching at your sides. The soft light from the boarded-up window filtered through dust and old neon.
Then, without a word, you grabbed the harness off the counter, stuffing it deep into your pack alongside the silicone toy. You felt it press against your other supplies like a secret waiting to be let out.
If not for Abby… then maybe someone else.
Someone who wanted you.
Fuck it.
You slung the pack over your shoulder, heart pounding, and followed her out the door.
She whipped around as you stepped out of the shop, her boots kicking up sand and dust from the crumbled sidewalk. The sun caught her face—sharp angles, clenched jaw, eyes like flint.
“Is it in your fucking backpack?” she hissed.
You jumped, heart thudding.
Shit.
Lie.
Lie like you used to. Lie like Boston, when truth was a noose.
“No,” you said flatly. Stone-faced. The kind of expression that used to get you out of beatings and cell blocks.
She took a step forward, chest rising with restrained fury. “Joan,” she growled. “If I grab that pack, and it’s in there—I swear to God—I’m gonna freak out.”
You let out a huff.
Roll your eyes.
Detach.
Make her hate you. Make this easy.
“It’s my pack, bitch.”
As soon as the word left your mouth, you felt it—it hit her like a slap.
Her eyes widened, not in shock, but in a slow-burn rage. Her nostrils flared. Her jaw clicked tight.
“Excuse me?” she barked.
The crew’s quiet chatter from the other end of the street died down, just a breeze and flapping cloth signs now. A stray dog darted across the road between the ruined cars. The distant crash of the tide was the only sound between you.
You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood.
This wasn’t like you. But maybe it was who you were now.
She stepped closer, low and dangerous. “You wanna keep talking like that?” she asked, voice barely a whisper now. “You really wanna see what happens if you push me again?”
She wasn’t posturing.
She was hurt.
Because you were doing the one thing you promised not to—turning cruel the second you felt cornered.
You stared at the cracked sidewalk and muttered, “Forget it.”
But Abby didn’t move.
The silence between you stretched, taut as a drawstring.
“Joan.” Her voice was low but firm as she stepped closer, boots crunching broken glass on the tiled sidewalk. The sun glinted off the broken windows above, dust swirling in the stillness around you.
“I am not some soldier to you,” she said. “I’m your girlfriend. We had a fight. Okay. Sure. But I’m also the commander on this mission.”
She pointed a finger at your chest.
“You will not address me as bitch.”
That set something off in you.
Commander Abby.
Like three nights ago didn’t happen. Like she wasn’t whimpering under your touch, soaked and begging through clenched teeth. Like her thighs weren’t still bruised from how hard she clung to you. Like she could scrub it all away and put her armor back on like it never cracked.
Your jaw tightened.
What a joke. Like she could fuck you soft and then pull rank when it suited her.
Your lip curled. You weren’t wired for submission. Not anymore. Not after Boston. Not after FEDRA.
“If bitch is off limits…” you started, your voice ice cold.
You saw her flinch, just slightly. Your brain screamed to stop. Don’t do it. Don’t ruin this.
“…Then how about cunt.”
It fell out like venom.
For a moment, everything was still. Even the wind stopped.
Abby blinked once.
Then her face changed—no rage, no yelling. Just… disbelief. Pain blooming behind her eyes like a bruise. Her mouth parted, breath shallow.
“Joan…” she whispered, and it wasn’t her commander voice anymore. It was hers. The girl who once cleaned your bloodied knuckles. The woman who stitched you up when you couldn’t stand. Who carried you through Catalina when you were skin and bone.
Her hands fell to her sides, useless.
You’d done it.
You’d broken something.
Maybe for good.

Why were you like this?
One fight and suddenly you were cruel. Bordering on abusive. You didn’t recognize your own voice—sharp like broken glass, aimed to cut.
You looked away, ashamed.
Abby’s shoulders rose and fell in a jagged breath as she turned around, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. She didn’t want you to see her cry. She never did.
The breeze shifted, tugging at her short braid. Her face twisted, fighting for composure. Not rage—just something deeper, more painful. Disappointment.
Her voice came low and clipped, but not cold.
“Search the next buildings. Be back at the boat by eight.”
She didn’t wait for you to answer. She didn’t even look at you again.
Boots crunching against sun-bleached gravel, she walked off toward the coastline ruins, shoulders square like they were holding up the whole damn mission—and whatever pieces of your relationship hadn’t shattered on the floor.
You stood there, frozen in the doorway of a rotting sex shop, clutching your backpack like a weight you deserved.
God, what the hell were you becoming?
Time had slipped by without you realizing. The sun was sloping toward the horizon again, casting the broken windows of the pharmacy in golden light. You were crouched beside a half-rotted desk, rifling through drawers filled with old gauze packs, rusted scissors, and faded blistered pill bottles—most long expired.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
You tensed.
You turned sharply, ready to snap, but paused when you recognized the woman.
Nina, right? That was her name. Firefly. She’d boarded in San Clemente. Newer to the cause, maybe mid-twenties, wiry and tall, lean muscle taut under a loose gray tank top. Short, coppery hair cropped into a pixie cut, a freckled nose, sun-chapped lips. Her green canvas pants were stained and cuffed above scuffed brown boots, the kind that thudded with every heavy step on the wood floor.
She cocked her head, smiling like she knew something.
God. Had word already gotten around?
You straightened, jaw tight. “What?”
That smirk stayed glued to her face, playful but sharp-edged.
Figures. Maybe the others had picked up on the cold air between you and Abby lately. Maybe Luis or one of the deck crew said something. Maybe you were easier to read than you thought.
You shoved the drawer shut with a little more force than necessary.
A fuck would make you feel better. That’s what your body told you. A petty little demon in your chest whispered Why not? Abby got to fuck Owen. More than once, too. And look where that left you.
You bit down on the thought hard enough to taste blood. Stupid.
“It’s almost eight,” Nina said, voice low, silky in a way she was clearly aiming to be seductive.
You nodded, eyes flicking back to a pill bottle with no label. “Okay,” you muttered.
She didn’t leave. Instead, she hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the desk you were searching. One leg crossed over the other, boot swinging lazily. She leaned in close, and the scent hit you—sweat and sun, stale breath with a hint of something metallic. Her elbow brushed yours.
You froze.
She wasn’t bad-looking. In another life maybe. But she wasn’t Abby.
Not the way Abby’s scent curled into your memory, or the way her touch grounded you. Even when she was mad. Even when you were being a bitch.
This girl wasn’t even close.
You stepped back a pace. “Right.”
But she chuckled, like she knew you’d hesitate, like this was a game and you’d just taken your first move. She half-laughed as she leaned forward, one hand bracing beside your hip, her voice dropping lower.
“Well… we could pass the time until then.”
Your breath caught.
You blinked.
She wasn’t joking. Her eyes—green, maybe hazel in the light—dragged down your chest like she was waiting for you to say yes.
You raised an eyebrow slowly, masking your unease with cool defiance.
What the hell?
She stepped off the desk slowly, closing the space between you and the wall. Her boots scuffed against old linoleum as she caged you in with her body. The shadows from the low-hanging sun threw strange angles across her face—making her look sharper, more certain than you’d ever felt.
No.
No.
You lied to yourself earlier.
You didn’t want this.
You didn’t want anyone but Abby.
Your throat went dry.
You’d never been nervous like this. Never scared of someone flirting with you. But this didn’t feel like flirting anymore. It felt like pressure. Like you owed her something for simply being wanted.
“I–” you swallowed, voice too soft. “We should get back.”
But before your hand even touched the strap of your bag, her lips were already at your neck, pressing hot and uninvited against your skin. Her breath was humid, the scent of days on the water clinging to her.
You flinched.
“Nina, no,” you said, firmer this time, pushing her back with a palm against her collarbone.
But she didn’t take the hint. Her fingers slipped down, brazen, curling against the waistband of your pants, calloused fingertips brushing too close.
Then—

Chapter 54: Edge

Then—
“Why are you touching my girlfriend?”
That voice.
Commanding. Cold. Familiar.
Abby.
You froze. Nina did too. Her hand jerked back like she'd touched fire.
You whipped your head around. Abby stood in the doorway of the shop, her silhouette outlined in the dying sunlight. Her arms were crossed, her brow set like stone—but you could see it. That little quake in her jaw. The rage coiled under her skin like a gunpowder fuse.
Girlfriend?
Were you still her girlfriend?
“I thought you guys broke up,” Nina said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing. She stepped back a pace, one hand half-raised like she expected to be hit.
Abby didn’t blink. “No. Never.”
Her voice was low and clipped, like a knife being unsheathed.
She stalked forward and slid between you and Nina, her back to you, shoulders wide, protective in a way that made something cave in your chest. You saw the twitch in her hands—she wanted to punch this girl. But she didn’t.
Instead, she hissed, “Go pack up the deck. Now.”
Nina stood there too long. Just a second too long.
But Abby didn’t have to repeat herself.
Nina turned and left like a dog dismissed—her boots echoing hollowly as she slinked away, muttering something you couldn’t hear.
The room was quiet now. The only sound was your breathing. You were still against the wall. You couldn’t move yet.
Abby stood there, unmoving, back still to you. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
You wanted to speak. But what the hell would you even say?
But Abby was on you before your brain could even catch up. Her hands gripped your hips with urgency, one sliding up your torso, cupping your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple with enough pressure to make you gasp. Her mouth was on your neck, hot, wet, and fast, kissing up the curve of your throat like she’d lost control.
“Where did she touch you?” she growled against your skin.
You flinched. Her voice didn’t sound like Abby—not the composed, pragmatic commander you knew. It was darker. Protective. Almost possessive. And it made your knees weak.
“Abby—” you managed, but it didn’t matter.
She crashed her lips onto yours before the words could shape into something real. Her kiss was hard, greedy, nothing like the slow careful mouth she used when she was trying to make love to you. This wasn’t love. This was something else. Something wild.
She turned you, pressed your back against the desk you’d been rifling through moments before. Papers and plastic clattered to the floor as she hoisted you up, forcing her body between your legs.
“Tell me,” she said, voice rough with breath. “Where.”
You couldn’t tell if she was jealous or angry or trying to reclaim something she thought she lost. Maybe all of it.
You choked out, “Nowhere that crazy—”
But she wasn’t listening.
She kissed down your throat, your chest, dropping lower, biting gently at your ribs as she unbuttoned your pants. Her hands were trembling—steady and strong in combat, but here, they shook with something messier. Something she couldn’t control.
Then she paused.
You didn’t see it at first, but she’d grabbed your bag. Your breath caught.
“Abby—”
She was already unzipping it. She pulled the strap out—the harness, the dildo still tucked inside.
Your whole body froze.
“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes met yours as she ran her hand along the straps slowly, like she was testing the weight of it. Then she stepped closer. Her fingers found your waistband again and dragged your pants down past your thighs.
Her eyes darkened. “Mine,” she whispered, more to herself than to you.
You didn’t stop her. You weren’t sure you could if you tried.
God—did it excite her too?
You saw it in her eyes, how her pupils were blown wide, her lips parted slightly as she dragged her pants down and stepped into the harness. She adjusted the straps low on her hips, the silicone pressing against her—against that sweet, aching place the base rubbed against when she moved.
She gasped, softly, the kind that made your thighs twitch. Her eyes never left yours as she stepped between your legs again.
She positioned the tip at your entrance, and you felt your whole body lock up. Your stomach flipped, nerves rising like bile. You weren’t ready for this. Not fully. Not with anyone. You’d never been taken like this—never had more than fingers. Nothing that stretched like this.
Your breath hitched. “Abby—”
She paused, her hand coming to rest on your thigh as if to steady you. Her other hand flicked gently against your hip, holding you still. Then she leaned in and kissed you.
Not rough, not this time.
Slow. Grounding. Tender.
“You’re mine, Joan,” she growled against your lips. “Only mine.”
Then she moved, slowly easing in.
You gasped, the stretch shocking your nerves. Pain laced with pressure, with heat, with something that made your breath catch in your throat. Your hips squirmed, unsure whether to run or pull her in deeper.
Abby kissed your neck, murmuring low nothings as she moved inch by inch. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’ll go slow. Just feel me.”
Your nails dug into her back as the fullness overwhelmed you. Every nerve lit up, overstimulated, raw. You weren’t sure if it hurt or if it felt too good to handle—but you didn’t want her to stop.
You whimpered into her shoulder. “It’s too much—”
She didn’t pull out.
She held still inside you, her hand moving up to brush your hair back from your face, her thumb wiping the sweat from your temple.
But she didn’t give you time to adjust.
Her teeth found your shoulder, biting hard as she growled low into your skin, voice dark and trembling with something deeper than anger.
“What did you call me earlier?”
You gasped, your body jolting as her hips snapped forward again, the pressure nearly unbearable. “Wh-what?!”
She thrust again—harder this time. A cry ripped from your throat.
“A bitch,” she gritted out, her voice cracked and breathless. “You called me a bitch.”
You choked, squirming under her, the stretch and pace stealing every coherent thought. “No—Abby—wait—”
But she was fully in control now. Her hands gripped your hips, her thrusts brutal and rhythmic, punishing and purposeful. The desk shook with each motion, drawers rattling beneath your back. Her breathing was ragged—more aroused than you’d ever heard her.
“Oh right,” she hissed into your neck, voice tight with pleasure and fury. “Not bitch. Cunt. That’s what you said.”
Your fingers clawed for something to hold. Her shirt, the wood, anything. “Abby—what—what are you doing—”
“Reminding you,” she growled, her teeth scraping your collarbone. “I am not yours to disrespect. Ever.”
You could barely speak, your moans caught between shock and arousal, pain and raw need. You didn’t know what was worse—that she was punishing you, or that your body was responding, your hips rocking back into her with every thrust like you were begging for it.
She was flushed, sweating, her muscles taut from the strain. Her dominance was terrifying—but underneath it, you could feel it. This wasn’t just power. This was hurt. Possession. Love warped by fear. She needed this control because you’d made her feel small, and now she was showing you she’d never be small again.
You whimpered, your voice cracking, “I’m sorry—Abby—please—”
But she didn’t slow down.
She leaned down, pressing her forehead to yours, her voice low and breathy. “You don’t get to hurt me like that, Joan. Not that way, not to walk away.”
And she kissed you—desperate, claiming, like she was sealing every broken piece of herself inside your mouth.
Her thrusts started to go ragged—more desperate than angry now. You could tell the strap was pressing against her just right, rubbing that spot inside her, the one that made her breath catch and her brow twitch. She was getting close—close enough you could feel her whole body tense.
Then her fingers tangled in your hair and yanked hard, forcing your gaze to hers. Her eyes were wild, glassy with climax and pain and everything you had stirred in her.
“How dare you, Joan,” she breathed, trembling as her orgasm tore through her.
You clamped around the silicone, body convulsing, your vision going white as you gasped and shook, your own orgasm hitting you just as hard. You were soaked, breathless, ruined.
“You’re mine,” she growled. “Forever. You slut. Look at you.”
She sank her teeth into your neck, hard enough to leave a mark. The mix of pain and pleasure sent your legs buckling, your whole body twitching.
“Abby—!” you squealed, the stimulation overwhelming. You couldn’t stop coming. Couldn’t stop trembling beneath her.
She chuckled, low and hoarse in your ear. “What were you thinking, picking this up, huh? You’re so dirty when—”
She slammed into you.
“When.”
Again. The desk creaked beneath you.
“We’re—”
Harder now. You nearly sobbed.
“Fighting.”
She thrust one last time, then pulled out suddenly. The absence made you whine, aching from the emptiness.
Before you could speak, she flipped you over, roughly guiding your hips to face away from her. You braced against the desk, barely able to hold yourself upright.
She slipped back in—hard.
You cried out, the new angle brutal and deep.
“God, you’re such a mess,” she hissed, her nails digging into your hips.
All you could do was whimper. Bite your hand. Take it. You couldn’t form words anymore. Couldn’t think. She had you.
She had all of you.
And maybe, even with everything that happened—maybe you needed her to.
Her thrusts were ragged now, a steady rhythm turned frantic and punishing. She hit you deep, her hips snapping forward with force that made your arms tremble against the desk. Every slam sent sharp surges of pain laced with unbearable pleasure up your spine, and you couldn’t stop the tears from falling.
You cried out as your body clenched and another climax crashed over you, your thighs slick and trembling, slickness spilling down your legs and pooling on the floor. You didn’t know how much more you could take—your voice was hoarse, throat raw from gasping and moaning.
“So pathetic,” Abby growled above you, breath hitching, voice thick with lust. “God, and so eager to get fucked again.”
She slammed her hips tight against your ass and held herself there, the strap buried to the hilt. You whined, writhing from the pressure, from the aching stretch that didn’t relent.
You ground your hips back against her, seeking friction, babbling something that wasn’t even words anymore. Your body moved without thought, desperate and undone.
She chuckled darkly, her breath hot on your back. “What, Joan?” she asked teasingly, dragging her fingers over the back of your neck. “What do you want?”
You whimpered, “Abby, please—”
She leaned down, the length still deep inside you, and her teeth grazed your ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper, sultry and cruel. “Please what?”
You sniffled, shame heating your cheeks as your body begged for more. You couldn’t say it. You didn’t want to say it. You didn’t want to admit how far gone you were—how much power she had over you. Not out loud.
“Don’t make me say it,” you whispered, voice breaking.
But you could feel her smirk as her hand slipped under you, sliding down your stomach. “Oh no, baby,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear, “I want to hear you beg for it.”
You gasped, breath catching hard in your throat as her fingers found your swollen, oversensitive heat. She rubbed in slow, tight circles, her rhythm perfectly in sync with each thrust of her hips. The dual sensation lit your nerves on fire.
You broke.
Your body snapped under it, trembling violently.
“Please, Abby—please, I’m done, I’m done!” you cried out, voice hoarse, tears slipping down your cheeks as you bucked helplessly against her.
But she laughed.
That low, wicked laugh that curled down your spine and made your toes curl. She laughed like you were the sweetest thing she’d ever ruined.
And then you shattered—again. A seething climax tore through you, full-body and overwhelming. You writhed beneath her, too far gone to stop the sounds coming from your throat. The mess between your legs was hot, wet, endless.
Her own hips faltered, her breath caught. You felt her thighs quake against the back of yours as she climaxed again, the way she moaned your name rough and guttural, shaking against your back.
Then—finally—she pulled out.
Thank god.
Your body went limp, a sagging, twitching mess against the desk. You flopped onto your back, your limbs spread, a soft groan escaping you as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your skin flushed, damp, and glistening with sweat.
Abby sat beside you, legs dangling off the desk, her chest heaving. She was quiet, just breathing for a moment. Her hands shook slightly, but she didn’t look at you—not yet.
Everything felt heavy now. Still. The storm had passed.
She stood up, breath ragged, pulling her pants back on without a word. The strap—still slick, still warm—was shoved back into your pack like nothing had happened.
What the hell?
You sat up, reaching for her, maybe to kiss her, maybe to hold her, unsure which—but she stepped back and shook her head.
“I’m still mad at you.”
Your hand froze midair. Was she fucking serious?
“So what then?” you snapped, sharper than you intended. “You just wanted to fuck me like some release valve?”
Her brows furrowed and her jaw clenched. Her fists curled at her sides like she was trying not to explode.
“Do you even know what you do to me, Joan?” Her voice came out low, nearly a growl. “Being around you… fuck.”
She turned away, pacing for a second, like she needed space to process herself.
“I’m pissed at you. I'm hurt. But I can't—" she choked out a humorless laugh—"I can’t keep my fucking hands off you. I hate this.”
You stared, stunned. Her back was tense, her shoulders pulled tight with restraint.
You realized then—how wound-up she was. How much she’d been holding in. Not just anger, not just jealousy, but… need. Desire tangled with resentment. Grief braided into lust. The kind of frustration that made your throat ache and your hands shake.
And maybe your words—the cruel ones you knew you’d regret—were still echoing in her skull, churning all that mess into a pressure that needed release.
A puddle of chaos. And you were the match that kept relighting it.
Would she even let you help her come undone?
Sure, she came when she fucked you—twice, maybe three times—but that wasn’t the same. Not really. Not like the way you imagined doing it for her.
Your thoughts flashed—vivid, hungry—back to the way you’d daydreamed about her. Strapping her down. Bending her over until her voice broke from how good it felt. Why did she get to have all the fun?
Something in you snapped. Maybe it was the ache in your chest. Maybe it was the humiliation still burning under your skin.
You reached out, fingers threading through her damp hair, and shoved her forward, pressing her hips into the desk.
It wasn’t rough—at least, not how you meant it—but you needed something. Some way to feel in control again. Some way to make her see how badly you wanted to make her fall apart, too.
But before you could blink, her body twisted—combat-trained, instinctual. She slammed your arm down, spun you around, and had you pinned against the desk in a heartbeat, her strength caging you in.
"Did you not have enough, Joan?" Her voice was ice.
Your breath caught in your throat. She’d never spoken to you like that. Never treated you like you were… like this. Like a threat. Or worse—a toy.
Your cheeks flushed with shame. “I—I wanted to make you feel good,” you stammered, your voice cracking open like a wound. “I wanted… for you—”
She laughed. Fucking laughed at you.
It wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t kind, either.
"You wanted what?" she taunted, her mouth near your ear, her breath hot and damp. “Wanted to fuck me like that? Treat me how I just treated you?”
You whimpered, face hot, pressed deeper into the cool wood of the desk as her hand ghosted over your waistband—dangerously close, enough to make you tremble.
“Yeah?” she whispered. “Is that what you thought was gonna happen?”
You couldn’t answer. You felt small. Embarrassed. Exposed.
“Well, not happening,” she growled, backing off like it burned her. “Not with that attitude. Not when you talk to me like you did.”
She took a shaky breath and stepped away, composure snapping back like a rubber band. “Get dressed. We’re going back to camp.”
Then she walked out the door, boots thudding against the floorboards like a gavel slamming down.
You stood there, chest heaving, still bent halfway over the desk.
Where was your sweet Abby?
And why did it hurt so bad that you’d chased her off?
____________________________________________________________________________
You sat by the firepit, shoulders hunched, boots half-buried in the sand. The heat from the flames did little to warm the pit inside your stomach. Around you, the other Fireflies were laughing, trading scraps of gossip and stories from supply runs, the ocean wind rustling through tents pitched along the tree line.
You barely noticed the slop in your bowl—some kind of stew, gray and fishy, thick with wilted greens. You chewed without tasting, eyes drifting, mind anywhere but here.
God. You’d called her a bitch. No—worse. You’d called her a cunt.
And now she was really acting like one.
You sighed and set your bowl in the sand, appetite gone. Across the dim circle, Abby sat beside Lev, her back rigid, face half-lit by firelight. She didn’t look at you—not directly—but her gaze flicked in your direction once or twice. Quick. Cold.
Each time, it sent a jolt through your stomach. Not dread. Not shame. Heat.
Why the hell did her being like this—so clipped, so unbothered—turn you on so much?
You hated it. The tension. The silence. The distance.
But the way she barked at you earlier, the way she moved your body like it was nothing, the sharpness in her eyes—it made your thighs press together, even now, here in the firelight with soup cooling by your side.
You stared into the flames, your jaw tight.
You didn’t want to fight. You didn’t want to be turned on by her anger.
But something about her being like this—commanding, untouchable, cruel—drove you fucking insane.
You shifted in your seat, breathing out a shaky huff.
God, you were a mess.
You watched her rise from the firepit, brushing sand from her thighs as she headed toward the old shop they were using as a makeshift bathroom. The firelight flickered off her shoulders, casting long shadows down the beaten path.
Fuck it.
You stood up, heart hammering, and followed—silent, hidden. You lingered in the corner of the building, your breath shallow, chest tight. The moment she stepped out, wiping her hands on her pants, you grabbed her.
Your hand clamped over her mouth as you yanked her back into the shadows, deep behind the shelving where no one would see, where the murmurs of the campfire couldn’t reach.
Her body tensed, but she didn’t scream. She never did.
Your breath hitched, face flushed. You hated this. Hated how being ignored made you spiral. Hated how it made you needy, made you feel small and hot and desperate.
You slammed her against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her gasp. And before she could say anything, you kissed her.
Rough.
She didn’t kiss back.
Not at first.
Her hands gripped your shoulders tight, and she peeled you off of her with one swift motion. Her eyes were wide, guarded—calculating.
“You’re worked up again?” she said, voice low, that old mocking grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her tone wasn’t kind. It was teasing. Dangerous.
You looked away, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Well, you’ve been… you’re being—”
You didn’t get to finish.
She spun you like a ragdoll, shoving you against the wall now, forearm pressed firm across your chest, face inches from yours.
“Being what, Joan?” Her voice was ice. Not the soft, hurt kind. The kind that carved through you like glacier wind.
You swallowed hard. Her eyes searched yours, furious and unreadable. She was Commander Abby again. Not your girlfriend. Not your soft place to land.
You stood frozen. Mouth open. Brain buzzing.
Because you knew if you called her a bitch again… you’d fight.
But God help you—maybe you’d also get fucked like that again. Taken. Used. Put in your place.
You were split in two—an angel on one shoulder whispering walk away and a devil on the other whispering say it.
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
She was waiting.
But you were stubborn.
Just as stubborn as her. Maybe worse.
You felt it—the tight clench in your gut, the burn in your chest, the ache low in your stomach. The push and pull of want and rage, of being ignored and still wanting more. Your lips moved before your brain could catch up.
“You’re being a fucking bitch!” you spat, voice too loud in the small, shadowed space.
Abby’s eyes flared.
She scoffed, stepping forward until your back met the wall again.
“What did I say about that, Joan?” Her voice was a low, sharp warning. “You don’t get to call me that.”
You rolled your eyes, heart racing. You knew exactly what you were doing—and so did she.
She looked you up and down like you were a loose wire. Her voice curled with sarcasm. “Real mature. You done?”
But you weren’t done.
Your throat was tight, the fire inside clawing for a release. “Well you are,” you choked. “You didn’t even kiss me or anything after you fucked me like that!”
She blinked, caught off guard by the accusation. “Why the fuck would I?” she snapped. “Look how you talk to me!”
And that was it. That was the crack.
You broke.
“Then stop being a mega cunt to me, Abby!”
The word hung in the air like a gunshot.
You barely had time to register her face—livid, jaw tight, breath sharp—before she moved.
She spun you, one arm across your chest, the other gripping your wrist as she pinned it beside your head. Your cheek scraped against the old wood wall, and your pulse jackhammered in your throat.
You gasped—more from the heat in your core than fear.
She leaned in close, her breath hot on your ear. Her voice dropped, dark and knowing.
“Is this what you wanted?” she growled.
Her thigh pressed between your legs and her grip on your wrist tightened. She could feel it—how warm you were. How much you were trembling.
How much you fucking wanted her.
She scoffed against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw.
“You’re soaking through your goddamn pants, Joan.”
You whimpered.
She knew.
She always knew.
She growled into your ear, the sound animalistic, her breath scalding your skin. One hand still pinning your wrist, the other moved with purpose—slipping beneath your waistband.
“If you wanted more…” her voice was a snarl, “just fucking ask for it.”
Your breath hitched.
Then her fingers slid inside you—two of them, rough, no warning, and you arched like a live wire. You were soaked. Absolutely soaked. It was humiliating how quickly she found you that way, how your body betrayed you every time.
But you couldn’t just ask.
Because sweet Abby didn’t touch you like this. Sweet Abby kissed you gently and traced patterns on your back. This Abby? This angry, cold, biting version of her? This was the one that shattered your mind into something greedy and stupid.
She knew it too. She used it.
Her fingers pumped relentlessly, cruel in their rhythm. Precise. She curled them just right and your knees threatened to give.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Joan?” she hissed against your jaw.
You whimpered, panting into the wood. The heat was unbearable. “Fuck you,” you breathed—barely a whisper, just sound and desperation.
And then—
She pulled out.
Cold air replaced warmth. Her slick-coated fingers left you trembling, clenching around nothing. She wiped them on your shirt like you were nothing.
“No,” she said coolly. “Then you don’t get to cum.”
You whipped around, panting, thighs shaking, skin flushed and tingling. “What?!” The word came out cracked, desperate.
But Abby just smirked, already walking away toward camp. Her shoulders rolled back, unbothered. In control. “Not until you’re sorry.”
She didn’t even look at you again.
You were left alone in the dark, knees weak, sweat cooling on your neck, your pride in tatters—and your body still aching for her.
For release.
For anything.
Fuck.
You bit your lip to stop the tears, fisted your hands to stop from chasing after her.
God, what had you turned into?
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Chapter 55: Ensenada

Notes:

Hey! Sorry for leaving everyone hanging. Honestly, I’ve been feeling pretty down lately. I really didn’t expect anyone to read Quiet Rot, let alone enjoy it. But—I’ve got the next chapter ready for you! I’ll be uploading 2–3 more tonight since my writer’s block finally broke and I’m feeling better.

The songs I’ve had on repeat while writing these chapters are “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt and “Sailor Song” by Gigi Perez. You should drop me songs you think capture Joan’s vibe—I’d love to hear them.

Anyway… here’s Wonderwall. (Kidding 😅)
I really hope you enjoy this chapter. ❤️

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It had been two long weeks at sea before the first dark smudge of land had risen on the horizon. Two weeks of hard labor, salt-stung skin, and nights where the boat rocked just enough to keep you half-awake. And through it all, Abby had barely spoken to you. The silence wasn’t comfortable—it was the kind that dug under your skin, a splinter you couldn’t pull out. All you had to do was apologize, but the words refused to come.
It didn’t feel right to say you were wrong. Was it weird to draw Owen? Of course. You weren’t blind to that. But you weren’t some monster for feeling hurt about them sleeping together, either. That ache had its own logic, even if no one else wanted to admit it.
When the dock finally loomed close, the Firefly crew came alive in a flurry of shouts and motion—ropes tossed to waiting hands, boots stomping across wood, crates thudding down one after another. The air shifted as soon as you stepped off the gangplank.
Ensenada wasn’t what you expected. Manny had told stories about the coasts farther south—how some towns were nothing but burned shells and rusted cars—but here… this place was alive.
Even from a distance, the shoreline glittered with fragments of glass bottles wedged in the rocks like tiny jewels, catching the sun. Children darted between the legs of the militia at the pier, chasing each other with sticks carved to look like rifles, laughter sharp as gull cries. And further inland, a bell clanged hollowly, marking the end of some unseen shift.
The ocean was a deeper blue than Catalina’s, almost violet under the late afternoon light. The surf broke against a stone seawall patched with scavenged metal plates, their edges warped and bleached. The air was thick with the briny sweetness of kelp mixed with the tang of fish drying somewhere inland. Salt stuck to your lips, and the weight of the humidity clung to your clothes like an extra layer of skin.
Beyond the docks, the streets pulsed with color. Market stalls had been pieced together from mismatched scrap wood and sailcloth, their awnings flapping in the wind. Strange fruit you didn’t have names for sat piled high in baskets—spiky, sunburned orange on the outside, glistening red inside like pomegranate seeds. You caught the scent of roasted chilies, thick and smoky, curling from a makeshift grill where a woman in a patched Firefly jacket was flipping skewers of meat over glowing coals.
Somewhere nearby, a guitar strummed a simple melody—three notes repeating over and over, carried off by the sea breeze. A reminder that life could still sound human.
The people here looked different from the ragged survivors you were used to. Strong, sun-browned, armed, but… smiling. They greeted each other in Spanish and English, Firefly armbands bright against faded clothes. The militia here wasn’t scrambling for survival—they were thriving.
Above it all, the Firefly flag snapped in the wind from a pole hammered into the roof of a squat, concrete building near the docks. The yellow-and-black symbol was faded, but it still caught the light like it meant something.
You stood there for a moment, taking it all in, the hum of trade and guarded laughter mixing with the cry of gulls. Abby brushed past you without a word, her broad shoulders cutting a path through the crowd as she went to help unload supplies. You caught the faint smell of her—sea salt, leather, and the soap she used when you first met her—and it made your jaw clench.
You wanted to call out, to close that unbearable space between you, but your throat locked. Instead, you watched her walk away, the crowd parting around her like she belonged here, while you felt like driftwood washed ashore.
This was supposed to be a fresh start, a moment to breathe before the next mission. But between the beauty of Ensenada and the gnawing space Abby had put between you, you felt like you were still adrift.
The moment the last crate was lowered onto the dock, Abby swung her legs over the side of the boat and hopped down onto the planks with that steady, grounded grace of hers. Her boots thudded against the sun-warmed wood, and she adjusted the strap of her rifle across her chest as if she was already sizing up the place.
The Fireflies at the dock straightened almost unconsciously at the sight of her—like soldiers sensing the presence of one of their own. You couldn’t tell if that made you proud, or lonelier.
The crew here had been waiting for you. A group of Fireflies stood in a loose line near the end of the dock, some armed with rifles, others holding clipboards scavenged from who-knows-where. Their armbands looked newer than yours, the black and yellow bright against their tanned forearms.
At the center of them was a man you didn’t recognize—tall, built like someone who’d spent years hauling nets and crates. His hair was peppered with gray, tied back at the nape of his neck, and his face was mapped with lines carved from sun and salt. He wore a worn denim jacket with the Firefly emblem stitched carefully over the heart.
As Abby approached, he stepped forward with a half-smile, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm exactly, but carried the weight of command. “You must be Anderson,” he said, voice rough, accent thick. “I’m Mateo. I run things here.”
You didn’t want it to, but he reminded you of Manny. The way his shoulders filled his jacket, the lines at the corners of his mouth—it was enough to make your chest tighten. You pictured Manny with gray streaks in his hair, laugh lines carved deep from years he never got to see. Would he have had a wife? Kids tugging at his hands? Would his voice have carried that same tired authority, the kind that came from surviving long enough to matter?
The thought left you hollow, a bruise pressed from the inside. Abby’s voice snapped you back, sharp and steady, pulling you out of the fog. You realized you were trailing behind her like an obedient dog, the sound of your own boots almost swallowed by the bustle of the dock.
She offered her hand, firm and brief. “We’ve got your shipment,” she said. “Rachel mentioned you’d be expecting us.”
Mateo gave a single nod before his eyes flicked over the rest of your group. “Supplies will go to the storehouse on Calle Segunda,” he told her. “We’ve got fresh water, fuel, and food ready for you to take back. Two days here, then you’re gone.”
You followed behind as the two of them fell into step, weaving through the bustle of the docks. You caught a snatch of their voices, low and even, like they’d already slipped into a rhythm that didn’t need you. The sting of it lingered like salt rubbed into an open cut.
You tried not to feel jealous. It was stupid—he was so much older than Abby. You knew she loved you. You knew it. But that knowledge didn’t do much when the memory of the past two weeks gnawed at your ribs. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks where the only time she looked at you was when she dragged you to the edge of breaking, her hands and mouth turning your frustration into something she could control. Over and fucking over again.
It didn’t feel like closeness. It felt like being fed scraps. Like she kept you hungry on purpose. A rabid dog pacing the cage, teeth bared, waiting to bite.
The Firefly base in Ensenada wasn’t some fragile outpost like Catalina. Catalina was strung together with tents, scavenged solar panels, and the patience of people trying to believe in something bigger than themselves. But here—here the Fireflies had teeth. The main hub was a concrete warehouse with the windows bricked over, its heavy steel doors painted with the Firefly symbol in wide, confident strokes. Outside, militia members were repairing fishing nets, sorting through crates, and chalking lists of supplies on a board propped against the wall.
Inside, the air was cooler, shadowed. The space had been divided into sections—storage racks stacked high with canned goods, jugs of clean water, and carefully wrapped bundles of ammunition; a corner lined with hammocks and cots for transient crews like yours; a map table spread with charts of the Baja coast and beyond, marked with faded pencil notes and tiny carved figurines representing patrol routes.
The smell of oil and gunpowder clung to the air, sharp against the mustiness of salt-wet concrete. It felt more like a command center than a safe haven.
Mateo stopped beside the map, placing a weathered hand on it. “We’ve got other traders coming in from the Gulf in two days,” he told Abby. “If you’re smart, you’ll leave before they get here. Too many deals going on at once, someone always ends up shot.”
Abby just nodded, her expression unreadable. She was all business, her eyes scanning the map like she’d already memorized it. You watched her from the doorway, still caught between the sting of her cold shoulder and the way she looked so in control here—like this was her element.
The urge to close the distance, to remind her of everything you’d survived together, pulsed under your skin. But you stayed where you were, tethered by pride and fear in equal measure.
You knew you couldn’t bother her now. Not like this—not while she was all business. You needed to let her be Commander Abby, even though the role was chewing her up inside. She carried control like armor, heavy and suffocating, snapping at anyone who threatened the illusion of order. Every time she shouldered more responsibility, the woman you loved got sharper, harder. You saw it in her jaw, always clenched. In her eyes, always scanning for the next failure.
And you were the one who paid the price for it.
In bed—if you could even call it that—she was merciless. Not the kind of rough that left you dazed and sated, but the kind that kept you strung up on a leash, panting for something she refused to give. She pushed you to the edge over and over, whispering in that low, steady voice that made your stomach twist, only to leave you wrecked and aching, punished for a fight that felt too stupid to matter anymore. Punished because you hadn’t said the words she wanted. Because you couldn’t bring yourself to admit you were wrong.
Your chest felt tight, your pulse a restless drumbeat in your ears. You shoved yourself away from the map room and out into the open air. The salt wind caught you immediately, cool and damp against your overheated skin. You dragged it into your lungs like a drowning person breaking the surface.
Ensenada spread itself out before you, the base humming with a rhythm unlike anywhere you’d been. Firefly soldiers strode past in groups of three or four, some in patched uniforms, others in mismatched civilian clothes, but all of them carried themselves the same: confident, grounded, as if survival wasn’t just reaction here—it was strategy.
They were nothing like the Fireflies you’d known in Boston. Those had been cornered animals, eyes hollow, always watching the door, expecting FEDRA boots to storm in. Nothing like Seattle, either—where Fireflies had been scattered, fractured under Isaac’s shadow, torn apart by infighting and desperation. And Catalina? Catalina had been fragile hope, stitched together with string and faith. You remembered how thin the walls felt there, how every storm made you wonder if the whole place would collapse.
But here, in Ensenada… they looked strong. Secure. Families milled through the market stalls, soldiers joked while carrying crates, and even the youngest recruits wore their armbands like badges of honor. Their laughter didn’t sound borrowed. It sounded earned.
For a moment you just stood there, watching them. Watching what the Fireflies could be, if they weren’t torn apart by war or swallowed by regret. And it made something ugly coil in your chest. Because Abby fit here, didn’t she? Her shoulders were squared the same way as theirs. Her eyes scanned the crowd with the same unshakable focus. She belonged in this place that thrived on control and discipline.
It felt… odd.
When you first got to Catalina—stumbling starved and broken down through the abandoned house Abby and Lev had pulled you out of—she’d been softer. Gentler in ways you hadn’t thought possible after everything Seattle had carved out of her. Her hands had been careful, her voice low, steadying. She’d given you food before questions, warmth before orders. Back then she hadn’t needed to be Commander Abby. She’d just been Abby.
She hadn’t been hard like this since Seattle. You knew why she was now—god, you knew. It was always life or death, every corner of this world demanding her to stay sharp, to stay in control. On Catalina, you’d been sheltered. The ocean and cliffs had been a buffer, a thin illusion of safety. Abby could let her guard slip, just a little, because there were walls—even if they were weak—and people who still believed in the fragile hope of rebuilding.
But here, in Ensenada, there were no illusions. You weren’t in some quiet, half-forgotten refuge anymore. You were out in the open, the world staring back at you with all its teeth bared. Doing trades meant being vulnerable, meant trusting strangers with the same hunger and desperation you carried in your own bones. Abby knew that. Of course she did.
And so she’d armored up. Every word sharpened, every look measured, her softness hidden away like something too dangerous to expose. You understood it, but that didn’t make it easier to swallow.
Because you missed her. The Abby who pressed her forehead against yours when the nightmares were too much. The Abby who made you laugh in the dark when there was nothing left to laugh about. The Abby who once made Catalina feel like a home instead of just another temporary harbor.
Now, she was someone the soldiers here looked at with respect. Someone untouchable. And you were left staring at her back, wondering how much further away she planned on drifting.
And you had called her a bitch. A cunt. The words still scraped the inside of your skull, sour and ugly. Guilt crept up your throat like bile. Why hadn’t you offered her the same softness she’d given you, back when she found you half-dead and hopeless? Why hadn’t you tried to see the weight pressing down on her shoulders instead of taking it personal? She was struggling just as much—struggling with being in control again, with having lives depending on her choices.
This had to be a big change for her. Catalina was one thing, a small circle of survivors clinging to scraps of stability. But now she had a crew. Now she had people like Lev on board. People she couldn’t lose. And you… you’d made it harder.
You felt stupid. Stupid and small. The dock groaned under the weight of crates being hauled past, but you barely heard it. Your eyes trailed out to the ocean instead, to the rhythmic crash of waves against the seawall, spray glittering like broken glass in the sun.
Further down the shore, you caught sight of Lev splashing in the surf with a handful of local Firefly kids. They were laughing, chasing each other with sticks, tumbling into the foamy shallows. For once in weeks, Lev looked like a child, not a soldier-in-training. Something in your chest unclenched.
You smiled softly despite yourself, the edges tinged with sadness. You pulled your knees to your chest, chin resting against them, trying to make yourself smaller against the chaos of the port.
“I am such an idiot,” you muttered under your breath, the words swallowed by the sound of gulls and surf.
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You spent the day sitting alone, your mind buzzing with thoughts until the sky bled into orange and violet. By the time the sun dipped low, the market sounds had dulled to a quiet hum, torches flickering along the docks.
You stood, legs stiff, and walked down the plank path back toward the boats. You hadn’t asked where you’d be sleeping for the night, hadn’t cared enough to. So you climbed back onto the boat, the wood chilled now beneath the evening air, and stretched yourself across the deck. The boards pressed hard against your back, smelling of salt and tar. You closed your eyes and let the sea rock you.
Heavy boots thudded against the planks. Abby.
Your eyes shot open, your chest tightening as you turned toward her.
“You skipped out on helping today,” she said softly. Her tone was low, but the sternness was still there, like a blade hidden under cloth.
Heat flushed your cheeks. You swallowed, embarrassed, unable to look at her.
She sighed—long, tired—and lowered herself beside you, her weight grounding the deck. This was your chance.
“Abby.” The word broke out of you cracked and pathetic, like it had been waiting behind your teeth for weeks.
She leaned into you as she exhaled, her voice almost a whisper. “I am so happy to finally be here.” A soft laugh slipped out, and it was the first warmth you’d heard in her voice in what felt like forever.
You nodded quickly, your throat tight. “I’m sorry for—” The sentence fell apart in frustration, your brain and mouth refusing to cooperate. You clenched your jaw, hating yourself for stumbling now of all times.
Her eyes caught yours in the dimming light as she leaned back on her hands, watching you, waiting.
“I’m sorry for how I’ve been treating you,” you finally forced out, swallowing hard.
She smiled then. Small, tired, but real. “I know you are.”
God. That smile. It was enough to make your chest ache, to split the tension inside you wide open.
You spoke up again before she could say anything else. “I know it’s been hard on you and—” Your voice faltered, breaking under the weight of your own thoughts. You sighed, the sound ragged, like a broken record skipping. “I didn’t realize this would stress you out the way it did.”
Abby’s jaw softened just a little, her shoulders sagging as she nodded. A slow rush of air escaped her nose, sharp at first, then trembling at the end. You realized with a pang that she’d been holding her breath, bracing herself against you.
Your eyes wandered over her body before you could stop them. The sea had left its mark on her during the journey from Catalina. Her frame had filled back out again, muscles knitting tight and visible under her shirt. She wasn’t the sheer wall of strength she’d been in Seattle, not yet—but she was getting there. The days spent hauling ropes, repairing sails, pulling in nets, and devouring fish in quick, efficient bites had sculpted her all over again. Her arms looked carved, her forearms corded with veins that flexed every time she moved. She looked… unfairly good, and the thought made your stomach flip.
She tipped her head back toward the sky, the last orange light catching on her cheekbones, tracing the fine lines of fatigue around her eyes. Her hair had grown out longer now, brushing just past her chin, tied into a small ponytail at the nape of her neck. It wasn’t long enough to braid yet, but strands kept slipping loose to frame her face, softened by the sea air.
“Joan,” she said suddenly, laughter spilling in a low ripple from her chest, “you are a mystery woman.”
Your eyes went wide, startled out of your own thoughts. “What?!”
Abby turned, sitting up straighter, her face inches from yours. Her smile was sly, but her voice was sharp enough to sting. “Well? Are you sorry for calling me a bitch? Or a cunt?” The words hit like a slap, blunt and impossible to sidestep.
Heat crawled up your neck. You stammered, voice cracking. “W–well yes, of course I am.” It came out too fast, too small, like a confession you weren’t ready to make.
Her laugh burst out full this time, rich and sudden, breaking the tension that had been strangling you both for weeks. The sound wrapped around you like warmth after a storm. “I’m teasing,” she said, her tone softer now, smoothing the edges.
She leaned in close, her shoulder brushing yours, her breath warm against your skin. Then, with a tenderness that almost undid you, she pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. A fleeting thing, but so intimate it left you dizzy.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice low, weighted, “for finally being sincere with me.”
Her eyes held yours after, steady and unreadable, and you swore for a moment you could see the Abby you’d missed—the one who laughed in the dark, who steadied you when everything else broke.
God.
You ripped yourself out of your own head. Enough sulking, enough chewing on guilt until it soured everything. Be caring. Be compassionate. Be a good girlfriend for once.
“How was today with Mateo?” The words wobbled out, almost cracking as they left your mouth. Nervous. Too careful.
Abby’s brow ticked upward in surprise, the motion subtle but sharp. It wasn’t like you to ask about her—at least not lately. You’d been selfish. You knew it. Ever since she started dating you, you’d been orbiting your own insecurities, dragging her into your storms. The realization stung as you watched her hesitate.
She shifted, her weight leaning back on one hand, the other absently tugging at the strap across her chest. Her silence stretched just long enough to make your stomach clench—then she drew in a breath, eyes flicking up toward the stars just beginning to pinprick the sky.
“It was okay,” she said finally, voice low but clear. “We talked about the routes pirates usually take. He warned us not to stay too far east.” A pause, her mouth quirking into the faintest smirk. “And he tried to negotiate how much ammo we were taking.” Her nose wrinkled the slightest bit as she let out a dry laugh. “I shut that down.”
The pride in her voice, the certainty—it made something in you ache. You nodded quickly, maybe too eagerly, just to keep her talking.
Her smirk softened into something more real. “Lev found a sea urchin,” she added suddenly, her tone brighter, almost conspiratorial. “He was floored.”
Your eyes widened. “Wow.” The word came out quiet, too small for the weight of what she’d just given you. But she caught it, and it was enough.
Abby’s smile tugged wider. She turned her head toward you, eyes catching the faint orange glow of the last lantern left burning on deck. Her gaze softened in a way you hadn’t seen in weeks, and for a moment the sharpness in her shoulders seemed to melt.
“I’m so happy he isn’t scared of the ocean anymore,” she murmured. The words carried a tenderness she rarely let show, a glimpse of the Abby who existed when the armor slipped.
Her hand flexed against the deck, close to yours but not touching. The space between you thrummed with something fragile and alive. You wanted to close it, to fold your fingers into hers and anchor both of you to this rare pocket of peace.
For a heartbeat, it was Catalina again. Just the three of you. Just survival and laughter, her forehead pressed to yours when the nightmares came. For a heartbeat, you could almost believe this was still that Abby.
You spoke after a moment of silence, careful not to break the fragile calm between you. “Anything else?” You smiled at her, soft, almost shy, as if you were offering her permission to keep talking.
She relaxed at the question, the tightness in her posture easing. She needed this—needed someone to care, even if neither of you knew how to say it out loud.
“Yeah, actually.” She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, twisting her body toward you. The motion made her grunt softly, her hand coming up to rub the back of her neck.
“I mean, I’m really sore from the sailing,” she admitted with a little laugh that hitched halfway, almost like a whimper. She flexed her fingers and rolled her shoulder like it was habit by now. Then her gaze lowered, more serious. “But honestly? Today was… pretty okay. Mateo translates for me. My Spanish has never been the best, even when Manny—”
Her voice cracked. The name caught on her tongue like a stone.
“Uh… even when Manny was with me. You know, back in Seattle, when he was—” She stopped, her throat working. You didn’t think about it; you reached out, rubbing her shoulder in slow circles, steady as you could manage.
“Alive,” she finished finally, the word falling out heavy and brittle.
She turned her face away quickly, but you caught the way her mouth trembled, the way her lashes clumped from the tears she refused to let fall. Her pout surfaced—familiar, stubborn, tender. God, even grief couldn’t strip her beauty away. If anything, it made it sharper, more human.
You nodded, voice quiet, honest. “I know you miss him.”
Abby sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, her chest rising like she was bracing for a wave. Her eyes glossed over before she chuckled suddenly, brittle but real, swiping the heel of her hand against her cheek. “So much.”
The sound cracked you open. You shifted closer, scooting across the boards until your knee pressed against hers. The warmth of her skin bled into you, anchoring you in place.
“You know,” she said after a long pause, her voice softening into something fragile, “Manny always wanted to visit Mexico with me.”
A smile tugged at her lips then, faint but real, like a shadow of the girl she used to be. She glanced toward the shoreline where lanterns bobbed along the dock, painting ripples of gold across the waves. “He used to talk about it all the time. Said we’d sit on some beach and drink until we couldn’t stand, and eat our weight in food.”
Her laugh was low, warm, almost sheepish. She shook her head slowly, as though she could still hear his voice. “He told me once he wanted to see if the tequila was better here than in the States. I told him that was the dumbest excuse I’d ever heard to risk a road trip.” Her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, her smile turning sad. “But he was so serious about it.”
You watched her hand, splayed on the deck, flex and curl like she wanted something to hold onto. It hovered close to yours, close enough that the space between felt electric.
You leaned toward her, voice hushed. “It sounds like he really loved the idea of being here with you.”
Abby swallowed, her throat bobbing as she nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “He did.”
You put your hand on hers, pressing your palm down until her skin was trapped beneath your warmth. Her hand flexed once, a twitch of instinct like she might pull away—but then she stilled, letting her fingers curl against yours, as if she needed that anchor more than she’d admit.
Her voice came soft, fraying at the edges. “His dad used to talk about their hometown a lot too.” She gave a watery smile and sniffled, shoulders lifting faintly like she was trying to keep herself together. “I told him—told him I’d keep Manny safe.”
Her throat caught, the words tangled, and then her face twisted, eyes wet. A tear slipped down her cheek, tracking slowly along her jaw before it dropped onto the wood of the deck. “I wish I hadn’t switched places with him that day.” Her breath hitched, sharp and violent. She squeezed her eyes shut like she could block out the memory if she pressed hard enough.
Something broke in you at the sight. You couldn’t take it—not her shoulders trembling, not her jaw clenching so hard it looked painful. You moved without thought, wrapping your arms around her in a swift, desperate motion.
She collapsed against you instantly, all the strength she carried poured out in a flood. Her forehead pressed to your collarbone, her broad shoulders heaving as the sobs wracked through her chest. Her hands fisted into the fabric at your sides, clutching as if she was afraid you might slip away too.
“God, Joan,” she choked out, her voice raw, scraped thin with grief. “I miss them all so much.” The words tore out of her like confession, like penance.
Her tears bled through your shirt, soaking the cloth, hot against your skin. You tightened your hold, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, while the other circled her waist, grounding her in place. You murmured nothing—because what words could stand against loss like that?—just held her as the storm poured out.
Her body shook in your arms, her sobs jagged and uneven. The sound hollowed you, cracked you open. For weeks she had been steel, command, walls stacked higher than you could reach. But here, now, in your arms, she wasn’t Commander Abby. She wasn’t a leader, or a soldier. She was just Abby. Just a woman breaking under the weight of ghosts she couldn’t set down.
You rested your cheek against her hair, eyes stinging, chest tight. And still you held her, tighter, as if your arms could keep her from drowning in it.

Chapter 56: Salt, Smoke, and Soap

Had you even once thought about how the grief might be eating her alive?
How your stupid sketch of Owen might’ve ripped her wide open and tossed her mentally overboard?
How fucking embarrassing you’d been acting—selfish, petty, blind—when she was holding ghosts heavier than you could imagine?
The shame burned your throat, but you pushed it back down, swallowing it like seawater. You sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, your lips brushing her damp hair. Your arms tightened around her, squeezing her gently, as if you could force all your regret into the gesture and make it count for something.
She sniffled, a small sound, then pulled herself upright. Her fingers swiped quickly under her eyes, and when she looked at you again, her lashes were clumped, her skin flushed from crying. But her eyes—those bright, soft blue eyes—were clear now. Softer than you’d seen them in weeks. Perfect, the way she’d always been, even when she didn’t believe it.
“Joan,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, “I really love you.”
A laugh slipped out of her throat, shaky but real, curling at the edges with affection. “You’ve gotten so much better since I met you.” Her voice dipped lower then, gentler, like she was confiding a secret instead of speaking a truth.
Your brow furrowed. Better? You didn’t feel better. You felt like a mess, like a burden she carried because she was too stubborn to let go. You exhaled through your nose, heavy, your chest sinking. “Maybe.”
She only smiled, soft and unshakable, like she saw something in you that you couldn’t. She leaned forward, sliding her arms around you, and hugged you tight—so close it almost hurt, so close you never wanted her to let go.
Her warmth bled into you, her strength wrapped around your frame. She smelled like salt and smoke, like the ocean and the soap from Catalina that still lingered faintly on her skin. In that moment, every storm inside you went quiet.
She was warm. She was perfect.
She was home.
She was your home.
Silence wrapped around the two of you for a long while, heavy but not uncomfortable this time. You clung to each other, listening to the music of the world outside the boat: waves breaking against stone, the gentle creak of ropes, the occasional laugh drifting from the market as night wound down. Her breathing steadied against your chest, warm and rhythmic, until you almost forgot the bruises of the day.
She broke the quiet first, her voice low, tender now that the storm inside her had passed. “Let’s get back to camp and sleep.”
You nodded, reluctant to release her, but the words carried a promise—you’d both survived another day. Together you stood. Her boots landed heavy against the deck while you hopped down after her, the cold planks stinging through your soles.
Walking beside her reminded you of her size. How tall she truly was. Abby’s frame seemed to stretch even larger under the lamplight, broad shoulders hunched slightly from exhaustion but still powerful, her long stride forcing you to keep up. Almost six feet of rebuilt strength—arms corded from rope burns and hauling nets, thighs thick from bracing the deck. She was intimidating again, the way she’d been in Seattle, though the glow of firelight softened the edges.
She pushed the wooden gate open with ease, her muscles flexing under her shirt. Your eyes slid downward before you could stop them. God, she had changed these last weeks—filling out again, curves rounding with strength and steady meals. Juicier, stronger. Your chest throbbed with guilt for staring, but you couldn’t look away.
She caught you. Of course she did. Abby glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smirk spreading across her face, mischief glinting in her tired eyes. “Are you looking at my ass?” she asked, choking back a laugh.
Heat exploded in your cheeks. You rolled your eyes with exaggerated force, muttering something incoherent, but she laughed outright—full, rich, and so sudden it startled you. The sound carried across the quiet camp like the first crack of a fire in winter.
The settlement was hushed when you arrived. Fresh wooden cabins lined the docks, their roofs pitched sharp against the wind. The air smelled of resin and sawdust, the cuts still new. Inside, the cabins were simple but solid: bunk beds, crates, patched blankets. Nothing fancy, but after weeks curled below deck, the sight made your chest ache with relief.
Abby opened the door, stepping inside with her usual care, each movement deliberate. She unlaced her boots and set them by the wall, her shoulders sagging as the day slid off her frame. She climbed into the lower bunk, the wood groaning faintly under her weight.
You followed, shedding your boots and slipping in beside her without hesitation. The bed was narrow, the mattress thin, but there was room enough for the two of you pressed together. You stripped off your pants beneath the covers, your skin prickling in the cool air until her warmth met you. Both of you lay in nothing but tank tops and underwear, legs brushing, her body firm and heavy beside yours.
The dark pressed in, broken only by the silver light filtering through the gaps in the slats. Stars glittered faintly overhead, the moon cutting a pale glow across Abby’s face. It softened her features, tracing the curve of her cheekbones, the scar at her eyebrow, the line of her jaw. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing her skin as her breathing slowed.
You stared, drinking her in, your chest tight. She looked so peaceful now, but you wondered what dreams swam beneath her eyelids. Did she see Manny? Owen? Seattle burning? Or did she dream of quieter things—Lev laughing, fish on the line, nights without blood in her hands?
And you—were you in those dreams at all?
A hollow ache twisted in your gut. Was it wrong that even now, even here, with her in your arms, you felt like a second option? Like a dog that refused to stop trailing after her no matter how many times she pushed you away?
You clenched your eyes shut and shook the thought off, burying your face into the pillow, into the scent of her—salt, soap, and faint smoke. You wanted to believe this was enough. That her warmth against your body meant something solid, that you weren’t just clinging to scraps.
Her arm shifted in sleep, sliding across your waist. Fingers twitched once before curling, as though even unconscious she reached for you. Your heart thudded hard, a lump rising in your throat.
You let the doubts scatter into the dark. You wrapped your arm over hers and held on, whispering a silent plea to whatever still listened: let tonight be kind. Let you dream of something soft, for once.
____________________________________________________________________________
You did dream of something: Boston again.
The kitchen was exactly as you remembered it, right down to the stains on the ceiling and the chipped paint around the window. The air smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and rust, heavy with the damp chill that never seemed to leave those walls. Your mother stood at the counter with her back to you, stirring something in a dented pot—rations stretched to their absolute limit, broth thin but hot. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but there was precision in every turn of the spoon, a rhythm you knew by heart.
You looked down at yourself. You couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Your hands were small, resting on the edge of the table, nails bitten down to nothing. Your legs dangled, not quite touching the linoleum floor.
The front door opened with a loud groan, hinges protesting like they hadn’t been oiled in years. Cold air swept in for a moment before the door shut again. Frank stepped through, his figure filling the space. His coat looked too heavy for him, the edges frayed, his FEDRA-issued hat pulled low on his brow. He tugged it off and cracked his back with a long sigh before dropping into the chair across from you.
“How was school, Jo?” His voice was steady, casual, like this was just another day.
The word came out of you on instinct. “Fine.” Flat. Robotic. Exactly as you used to answer him, like a broken machine running its script.
But you didn’t want the dream to be this way. You wanted it to feel real, to give you more than what memory allowed. Your throat tightened as you reached across the table, desperate to touch him, to pull him into your arms, to make this one moment last.
Your hand passed straight through his. Ripples distorted him, breaking his face into fractured shapes. The chair, the table, the kitchen—they all dissolved into water.
You were kneeling at the edge of a pond now, your reflection staring back as you splashed cold handfuls over your face. The same pond you’d stopped at with him on the way to Seattle. The same pond where your reflection had looked so hollow you’d barely recognized yourself.
Frank’s voice rose up again, but now it echoed, hollow and deep, like it came from the water itself. “We gotta keep going.”
You jerked your head up. He was there—in the reflection beside you, his shape wavering with every ripple. He wasn’t scowling this time, wasn’t weary. He looked calm. Softer. At peace in a way you’d never seen him alive.
Light flared suddenly, bright and blinding.
The morning sun.
You were yanked out of the dream, heart hammering, eyes burning. A soft hand pressed against your shoulder, steady and real. Abby.
“Joan, c’mon, get up.” Her voice was low, still rough with sleep, but it carried that gentleness she rarely let anyone else hear.
Your eyelids fluttered open. The cabin glowed faintly with thin beams of sunlight slipping between the wooden slats, dust motes turning lazily in the air. Your face was damp. For a moment, you thought it was pond water still dripping from your chin, but no—it was tears. You’d been crying in your sleep.
You nodded quickly, forcing yourself upright. Your arms felt heavy, your chest tight, but you brushed at your face, trying to hide the wetness.
“Bad dream?” Abby’s voice cracked slightly, betraying a worry she tried to tuck away under her usual sternness.
You shook your head, stretching your arms with a long yawn. “No… good actually.” The lie clung in your throat, brittle, but it was easier than admitting the truth.
Her brows knit together faintly. She looked at you for a moment longer, studying your face, but she didn’t press. Instead, she shifted her weight on the edge of the bed, her knee brushing yours, the warmth of her presence enough to ground you in the moment.
And for a heartbeat, you let yourself believe the dream had been more than just a dream. That Frank’s voice was still out there somewhere, telling you to keep going.
She stood then, tugging her pants up over her thighs, the fabric hugging tight as she adjusted the waistband. Your eyes trailed without permission, following the curve of her hips, the strength in her legs. Heat flickered low in your stomach before you forced yourself to stop. If Abby was waking you up, it meant there wasn’t time for this.
Maybe you could try anyway.
You stood, the worn wood cool against your bare feet. The morning breeze slipped through the cracks in the cabin, brushing across your thighs and making your nipples strain against the thin fabric of your tank top. Your body was betraying you, desperate after weeks of denial.
You padded over to her, leaning in to press a kiss against her shoulder. Her skin was still warm from sleep, faintly salty from the sea air.
“Joan.” Her tone carried warning, sharp but not without affection, like a teacher catching a student with their hand in the cookie jar.
You chuckled under your breath and smoothed your hand across her other shoulder, kneading gently. She stiffened for only a second before her head rolled back, a groan slipping out as she swayed under your touch. Her muscles were tight, the knots of command knotted into her body, and you worked your thumbs into them with practiced care.
“Stop being so convincing,” she groaned, her voice gravelly, almost pained with how good it felt.
You grinned into her skin, pressing another kiss, your breath hot against her neck. Her body shuddered, goosebumps rippling over her arms.
“I’ll be quick,” you murmured, and you weren’t lying. Weeks without release had your body on edge, every nerve humming with hunger. Every little thing wound you tighter.
Abby’s response wasn’t what you wanted—it was worse. She laughed. A full, rich, throaty laugh that vibrated through your chest. “I know you’ll be fast.”
You froze, half-offended, half-ignited by the sound.
But before you could push further, she stepped out of your grasp, putting space between you with one long stride. She turned, tugging her shirt down and fixing you with a look that was both apologetic and unshakable.
“But I have—we have—a lot to do.” Her voice steadied, sharpening into command again. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
The words hung between you, heavy as an anchor.
You pouted as you tugged your pants up, the fabric sticking against your skin in the morning heat. Every movement felt clumsy with frustration. Abby only chuckled at the sight of you sulking, the sound low and maddeningly unbothered.
“I’ll get to you when we have time,” she said, already half-turned toward the door. Her tone was soft, almost teasing, but it carried that finality you knew better than to argue with.
The words stung. They weren’t cruel, not really—but they left you hanging all the same. Like she could just schedule intimacy the way she scheduled patrols and routes.
You looked down at the floorboards, jaw tight, as you clipped your bra on and yanked your tank top over your head. The thin cotton stuck against your damp skin, reminding you of every night she’d edged you out of spite, every morning she’d brushed you aside in the name of duty.
She opened the cabin door, the hinges groaning, and sunlight spilled in around her silhouette. She didn’t look back. Just squared her shoulders, adjusted her strap, and disappeared into the day.
You sat there for a moment, staring at the dust motes swirling in the beam of light she’d left behind. A lump pressed hot in your throat as you exhaled through your nose, sharp and bitter.
This sucked. You hated this stupid mission. Hated the way Ensenada pulled her into commander mode. Hated the way her focus sharpened everywhere but you.
You finished dressing slowly, your movements jerky, each tug of fabric like another reminder: no matter how much you loved her, right now, Abby’s heart seemed chained to the work. And you were left fighting for scraps.
________________________________________________________________________
You didn’t feel like breakfast. The idea of sitting at a table while Abby rattled off plans, barely looking at you, was unbearable. So you slipped away and wandered straight into town, curiosity tugging you forward. If Abby wouldn’t let you close, maybe you could get closer to this place instead.
Ensenada was alive in the morning. Voices overlapped—vendors haggling, children shrieking with laughter as they wove through the stalls, gulls crying overhead. The air was thick with the scent of masa frying on griddles, roasted chilies, briny seaweed drying in piles near the seawall. People here moved with purpose, but not desperation. It was different.
A sharp sound snapped your attention—wood slamming against wood. A man stormed out of a nearby house, the door banging shut behind him. He moved fast, a cigarette already between his lips, match flaring as he lit it with a practiced snap. He kicked a box off the porch, sending it tumbling into the dust.
His skin was a deep, rich brown, gleaming faintly with sweat. His long hair clung to his temples, slick with sweat and oil, pushed back but untamed. He smelled faintly of cinnamon, warm and spicy, but undercut with something earthy, like grain or dust—the smell of the bottom of a rice barrel.
He leaned against the porch post and exhaled slow, smoke curling in lazy rings around his face. His eyes flicked to you, narrowed.
“You gonna stare forever, or what?” His accent was thick, the vowels stretched and weighted. It wrapped around your ears in a way that made your stomach twist, too much like Manny.
You stiffened, throat catching. “Wasn’t trying to—”
“But you did,” he cut in, sneering. His lip curled, but not with real anger—more like he wanted to see you squirm. He shifted his stance, one hand tucked in the waistband of his jeans. The tank top stretched taut across his chest, damp from sweat, and his jeans were unbuttoned at the top, showing a sliver of plaid boxers.
He pulled another cigarette from the pack, holding it out lazily. “Want a smoke?”
You froze, the craving biting hard and fast. It had been so long. A year, maybe more, since you’d had one. Your tongue darted over your lips before you even realized you were doing it.
“Hell yeah.”
You took the cigarette from his fingers. He leaned forward with his lighter, the flame flaring bright. Just as the tip caught, the harsh sound of your name tore through the air.
“Joan! Put it out!”
Abby’s voice.
Your stomach dropped. You turned to see her cutting through the crowd, her body rigid, her stride long and deliberate. She moved like a blade through fabric, people stepping aside instinctively. Her eyes locked on you, sharp and cold, and the sight made you flinch harder than the yell itself.
The man beside you barked out a laugh, smoke spilling from his mouth in a gray plume.
The door behind him banged open again. A woman stepped onto the porch, slim and sharp-edged, her long ginger hair catching in the breeze. Her pink tank top was faded, clinging to her frame, and her jean shorts were frayed at the hems. She was barefoot, dust coating her toes, and she moved with an authority that made her look taller than she was.
Her arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowing as they landed on you, then on Abby. “This is what you do?” Her voice was sharp, Southern, the syllables clipped and biting. No accent like his—her tone was flat, hard, and utterly hostile.
“Who’s this fuckin’ girl?” she demanded, chin jutting toward you, brown eyes blazing.
Before you could find the words, Abby was already at your side. Her hand clamped around your arm, firm but not rough, her face tight as she leaned close enough for her breath to hit your ear.
“Stop starting trouble,” she whispered, low and sharp, meant only for you.
Shock rippled through you, disbelief cutting harder than the whisper. Your head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “I wasn’t!” you hissed, the cigarette still burning between your fingers like evidence you didn’t mean to hold.
The man smirked wider, watching, while the woman’s glare didn’t budge. Around you, the crowd slowed, the weight of attention gathering like a tide.
And Abby—she didn’t even look at you. Her gaze stayed on them.
You glanced back over your shoulder at the pale girl and the cinnamon-scented man. They were already at each other’s throats, voices rising and falling in sharp bursts. You couldn’t make out every word, but you didn’t need to—they were arguing about the same thing that had driven him out the door earlier. The rhythm of it was familiar. They reminded you of people back in Boston, couples who fought loud, cruel, and constant but still crawled into the same bed at night. Ugly love, but still love.
Abby’s hand snapped into your vision. She ripped the cigarette straight from your fingers.
“I told you I don’t want you fucking smoking, Joan!” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharper than you’d expected, echoing down the dusty street.
You rolled your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. “Abby, it’s—”
“No, Joan.” She cut you off, shaking her head, her jaw tight. “Not for you. First it’s a smoke, then a drink, then Lev finds you pissing yourself, covered in blood and vomit, like I found you in Seattle.” Her eyes burned into you, her words coming quick and clipped. “And that is not happening again.”
The silence afterward felt suffocating.
Fuck.
It hit you then—this wasn’t about her trying to better you, or protect your lungs, or even about control. It was about Lev. About her not wanting him to see you unravel the way she had once seen you, a drunken wreck, pathetic and helpless. Like some bastard blacked out in the gutter outside a bar.
Shame burned hot in your chest. Your throat felt tight.
You nodded, swallowing hard. “Sorry.”
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing like the weight of everything around her pressed down at once. Then she straightened, eyes flicking back to the crowd, to the ship, to the thousand other things she had to manage.
“Stay out of fucking trouble,” she muttered. “And help patch the ship.”
And just like that, she was walking away, her broad shoulders parting the crowd with ease, leaving you standing there with the ghosts of her words and the taste of smoke still lingering on your lips.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The sun burned hot on your back as you worked the ship’s deck for what felt like hours. Salt stuck to your skin, stinging where rope had bitten into your palms. You sewed frayed sailcloth with aching fingers, each stitch jerking tight, each knot holding just barely. Your tank top clung damp against your ribs. The gulls overhead sounded crueler than usual, shrieking like they laughed at you.
By the time you hopped down from the deck, your shoulders screamed for rest. You stretched until your spine popped, craning your neck toward the sky. The sun was falling into that golden-orange haze where everything looked softer than it felt. Dinner wasn’t far off, but the ache in your body made you want to collapse before you ever reached the houses.
Bootsteps caught your ear.
The cinnamon-scented man strolled toward you, his gait unhurried, cocky. Boots now, laces half-done, pants fastened properly this time. His shirt clung loose, collar tugged low, as if he’d just thrown it on. That grin split his face again—smug, sharp, like he knew you’d notice him even if you tried not to.
You rolled your eyes, quickening your steps up the hill. You weren’t going to give Abby another reason to glare through you.
But he nudged your arm anyway, sliding into stride beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Who was that earlier?” His voice was syrupy, thick with the accent that curled around your ears like smoke. He bared his teeth when he smiled, too white for the world you lived in.
You groaned, jaw tight. “My girlfriend.”
He barked out a laugh, short and throaty, as though that was exactly what he wanted to hear. “Guess we both drive a girl crazy.” He stretched his arms up until his back cracked, then let them fall loose again, shoulders rolling.
You didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, you dropped onto a cluster of rocks near the market slope. Vendors were closing up—wood slamming, voices sharp, the air heavy with fish guts and roasted maize.
He followed, folding down next to you without asking. A cigarette found his lips, and he lit it with practiced ease. The tip flared, orange against the darkening horizon. He didn’t offer you one this time—he just dragged in deep, letting smoke curl out slow between his teeth.
“Your girl,” he said finally, voice low, thoughtful even, “she’s built strong, huh?”
It wasn’t a question.
You nodded once, eyes stuck on the horizon. “Yep.”
Silence stretched. The only sound was the crackle of tobacco and the shuffle of boots in dirt behind you.
You turned your head slightly, studying him in the fading light. “Your girlfriend’s not from here?”
He exhaled through his nose, the smoke drifting sideways, careful not to hit you. He shook his head. “Texas. Moved here when she was a kid.”
He flicked ash onto the dirt and leaned forward on his knees, gaze still out toward the sea. His grin had slipped into something smaller, almost hidden.
For a moment, you just listened to the waves. The air felt thick, weighted, like it wanted to pull a confession out of someone.
You drew in a breath and looked at him again. Ignacio leaned back like the rocks were a throne built just for him, his posture lazy but deliberate. The tendons in his arms flexed as he laced his fingers behind his head, his tank top pulling taut across his chest. A sliver of sunlight hit the sweat at his collarbone, glinting faintly as smoke curled from the cigarette between his lips. The breeze carried it past you—sharp, bitter, laced with that faint cinnamon scent that clung to him.
Your voice cracked when you spoke. “What were you two fighting over?”
The easy grin faltered. His jaw tightened just enough to betray him before he masked it. He dragged slow on his cigarette, letting the pause work on you. When he exhaled, it was a sigh dressed up as smoke. “You really wanna know?”
You nodded, eyes locked on his.
He scoffed, almost to himself, then muttered, “I can’t keep my dick in my pants.”
The words hit like a rock to the ribs. Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself. “You—cheated?”
He shifted, watching you with a kind of lazy amusement, like a cat playing with prey. “Yeah. With a girl down the road. Got her pregnant.”
You sat bolt upright, heartbeat kicking at your throat. “What?! How—”
He broke into raucous laughter, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette nearly slipping from his fingers as he shook. The sound was rough, loud, real. “I’m fuckin’ with you,” he said through his grin, catching his breath. “She’d cut my dick clean off if I ever pulled that shit.” His tone leveled out as he took another drag, smoke slipping past his teeth. “No. I sold one of our guns for more smokes.”
Your shoulders dropped, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding sliding out of you. “I’ve done that,” you admitted, voice softer. “To my brother, though.”
He stilled, head tilting just a fraction. “You got a brother? He here—”
You cut him off before he could dig. “He’s not around anymore.”
The humor dimmed in his eyes. He nodded once, cigarette ash dropping between his boots as he looked toward the dirt road. “Alright.” The silence lingered, weighted but not uncomfortable, broken only by the gulls crying overhead and the distant thud of hammers against ship wood. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “So what’s your name?”
You hesitated, staring out at the crooked rooftops. The smoke stacks rose with the smell of grilled fish and something metallic underneath, like old rust. “Joan.”
That pulled his gaze back. He nodded slowly, lips curling with a small, approving grin. “Pretty name. I’m Ignacio.”
A laugh slipped out of you, unplanned. “Alright, Iggy.” You stretched the nickname, savoring the sound.
His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Iggy?”
You laughed harder, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. “Iggy.”
He stared, cigarette dangling, almost offended but not quite.
You leaned in, still grinning. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
His eyes cut down the road, where the pale girl had vanished earlier. “Darlene.”
The name settled awkwardly on your tongue. You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Like a grandma?”
His laughter came fast and sharp, echoing off the stone. He shook his head, smoke streaming past his smile. “Don’t tell her that.”
You caught movement out of the corner of your eye and turned — Abby was halfway down the road now, walking fast, and the pale girl from earlier was right beside her, shouting something sharp and furious. The sound carried, cutting through the warm, sticky air. Even at a distance you could see Abby’s jaw tighten, the vein in her neck standing out, her shoulders locked into that stiff, soldier’s stance you knew too well. She glanced at you once — just once — and her brow furrowed deep enough you felt it like a hand closing around your chest.
Beside you, Ignacio sighed like this wasn’t the first time he’d been in the middle of a storm. He straightened up, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes following their approach with the calm of someone who had already accepted he was about to get yelled at. He gave a quick shrug, as if to say welcome to my life.
You swallowed. “What the hell did we do?” you whispered, low and sharp, not moving your eyes from Abby’s stride.
Ignacio chuckled, smoke slipping from his teeth. “We’re about to find out.” He leaned back in his chair like this was entertainment, rocking it onto two legs. His arm brushed the stone behind you, casual, close. It felt deliberate, but lazy — a dare without saying a word.
Darlene got to you first. Bare feet smacking against the dirt, dust sticking to her ankles, copper hair blazing against the fading sun. She folded her arms tight across her chest, her voice twanging sweet and poisonous all at once. “What are you doin’ over here with him?”
Her jealousy should have been dangerous, but her Southern lilt almost made it sound like a scolding child. Almost.
You forced your tone flat. “Just talking.”
Darlene scoffed, rolling her eyes hard enough you thought she might pull something. She snatched at Ignacio’s arm, nails digging into his skin. “Yeah, just talkin’. Just like he did with the girl down the road. Now she’s got a baby on the way.”
Your stomach turned cold. Your eyes snapped to him. He didn’t deny it, didn’t even flinch. He just barked out a laugh — deep and careless, like this was the funniest secret you’d ever stumble onto.
So he hadn’t been joking earlier.
Abby’s shadow cut over your feet before you had time to react. She stepped in close, towering, her hand twitching at her side like she had to remind herself not to drag you off right there. “I told you to—”
“I did help fix the boat,” you interrupted quickly, words tumbling out before she could finish, before she could tear into you in front of them. You tilted your head up to meet her glare. For a second her face softened — just a fraction — though her eyes still cut sharp enough to pin you down.
You exhaled, looking anywhere but at Darlene. “That couple is weird.”
Abby’s lips twitched like she was holding back a smirk. Her voice dropped low, softer than you expected. “Should we invite them to Catalina?”
Your head whipped toward her. “Why the hell would we do that?”
Abby sighed through her nose, rubbing at the bridge of it before jerking her chin toward Darlene. “Because she’s useful. Darlene’s a good asset.”
Darlene stood her ground, still clinging to Ignacio’s arm, her brown eyes locked on you with hot suspicion. Ignacio only leaned back further, cigarette glowing bright between his fingers, a smug grin curling his lips as though he’d won something just by sitting there.
And through it all, Abby shifted subtly closer to you — not touching, but close enough her body cut a barrier between you and them. A silent claim. A warning.
Before either of you could move, Darlene pivoted, tugging Ignacio back toward you with surprising force for someone so slight. Her voice was quick, clipped, like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times.
“I’d like y’all to come over for dinner.”
You blinked. Abby’s head tilted, caught completely off guard. Darlene had already spun halfway around again, then whipped back to add with a snap of finality: “In an hour. I’ll make somethin’.”
No room for discussion. No please, no maybe. Just a command wrapped in a drawl. She latched onto Ignacio’s wrist and marched him down the hill, her bare feet kicking up dust, his cigarette bouncing from the corner of his mouth as he stumbled after her, grinning like an idiot.
For a long beat, you and Abby just stared after them. The tension still sat thick in the air, but it shifted, skewed strange. The absurdity of it hit first in your chest — a bubbling laugh you tried to bite back. You caught Abby’s eye. She was already smirking, trying to fight the same thing.
And then you both lost it.
Your laughter burst out at the same time, sharp and uncontrollable, the kind that hurt your ribs and made your shoulders shake. Abby doubled over, one hand on her knee, the other waving weakly like she could push the sound away. You leaned into her without thinking, laughter spilling until your throat ached.
For just a moment — just one small, ridiculous moment — it was like Seattle, before everything went to hell. Like you were kids again, laughing at something you shouldn’t, leaning into each other against the whole damn world.
When the laughter finally tapered off, Abby’s eyes softened, the ghost of a grin still hanging on her lips. “Dinner,” she muttered, shaking her head. “What the fuck did we just get invited to?”

________________________________________________________________

You and Abby walked back to camp shoulder to shoulder, the weight of the afternoon sun still clinging to your skin. The cabins looked quiet, half-lit by the orange wash of late day. You glanced around as you stepped inside—Lev wasn’t there, probably still laughing with the local kids, and you figured the others were wrapped up in the market haggling over fish and fruit.
The silence felt heavy, charged.
You leaned against the doorway, catching your breath, when Abby’s hand slipped around your waist. The way she held you was possessive but tender, her fingers pressing into your hip like she needed the anchor. She searched your face for a moment, her jaw tight, her eyes softer than her words had been earlier.
Her voice was low, roughened by something deeper than exhaustion. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”
Your stomach flipped. She’d said exactly what you’d been thinking.
Before you could laugh or answer, her hand dipped lower, sliding into the waistband of your pants like it belonged there. The first brush of her calloused fingers made your breath stutter, your thighs threatening to give out.
“Abby—” you gasped, your body already betraying you, heat pooling between your legs.
She leaned in close, lips grazing the shell of your ear as she chuckled. The sound vibrated through you. “Relax,” she murmured. “I’m not mad.”
Her mouth caught the edge of your jaw, then your neck, trailing slow kisses that made your skin burn. She guided you backwards with sure movements until your calves bumped the bed. Sitting down, she tugged you easily into her lap, strong thighs spreading yours apart.
You melted against her, your back pressed to her chest, her breath warm against the side of your throat. Her hand moved slow at first, teasing, her fingers just ghosting over your slick folds without giving you what you craved. The ache built, frustration spilling out of you in a needy whimper.
“Please…” you breathed, your hips jerking helplessly into her hand.
She smirked against your skin, her teeth grazing before she soothed the mark with her tongue. “So eager.”
Her words made you tremble. When she finally slipped a finger inside, the stretch was dizzying. You gripped her arm, nails biting into her skin, as a gasp tore from your throat. She curled it just right, pulling another broken sound out of you before adding a second finger, stretching you wider.
You rocked against her hand, every motion sending sparks up your spine. Her other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, holding you steady as if she was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.
Abby’s breath caught on a low groan, her lips brushing your ear. “God, you feel so good like this…”
Her fingers curled inside you again, pressing hard against that tender spot that made your whole body jolt. Your hips moved without thought, rocking in frantic little bursts, trying to keep pace with the pressure she set. Slick coated her palm, dripping between your thighs, the obscene sound of it filling the still air. Abby’s mouth latched to your neck, sucking a bruise so deep you whimpered, the sting sharp beneath the swell of heat.
You clutched her wrist, not to stop her but to anchor yourself, your nails leaving shallow crescents in her skin. The climax swelled fast, unbearably fast, curling low in your stomach like fire ready to rip through you.
And then—emptiness.
Her fingers slipped out with a wet sound. Your body seized at the loss, every nerve screaming, your lips pulling into a broken, desperate pout.
“Abby,” you pleaded, the word cracked and helpless.
She only laughed, the sound low, cruel, indulgent. “Patience.”
In a single motion she pressed you back onto the mattress, tugging your pants down to your ankles in a rough pull. Before you could catch your breath she was dragging your legs over her shoulders, caging you in. The strength in her grip pinned you wide open, nowhere to hide from her.
Then—her mouth.
The first brush of her tongue was devastating, a wet stripe that had your back bowing clear off the bed. Heat bloomed, sharp and liquid, your lungs locking in a strangled gasp. She teased you mercilessly, her tongue barely flicking, keeping you writhing on the edge.
“Fuck,” you moaned, your thighs quivering against her shoulders.
When her fingers slid back inside, stretching you, filling you, you nearly sobbed. Her tongue pressed harder, swirling around the sensitive bud as her fingers curled deep. The rhythm was perfect, practiced, each thrust timed with the slow drag of her tongue until you couldn’t think.
Your orgasm tore through you in seconds, brutal and unrelenting. Your thighs clamped down around her, trying to push her away, but she held you there easily, a hand pressing down on your hip to keep you pinned.
“Abby!” Her name ripped out of you, high-pitched and cracked, as your body convulsed. White-hot waves ripped through you, each stronger than the last, until you were choking on air, your throat raw from the sounds pouring out of you.
She laughed into you, the vibration against your clit making it worse, dragging every last drop of release out of you. Even as you shook and tightened around her fingers, she didn’t let up, working you through the orgasm, forcing you to ride it until it was too much—until your hands clawed at the sheets, then her hair, desperate and overstimulated.
When the pleasure finally broke, leaving you limp and trembling, you slumped back into the mattress with a whimper. Your body was still twitching, little aftershocks making your thighs jump against her shoulders. Abby kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, before easing your legs down.
Her voice was smug, but warm, almost reverent. “You sound so fucking good when you break.”
Your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, face buried in your hands. You could still feel her everywhere—her mouth burning on your skin, her fingers still ghosting inside of you. She leaned in close, catching your hands and peeling them gently from your face. Her lips pressed against yours, soft and sticky, carrying the taste of yourself back to you. You melted against her despite the ache still trembling through your body.
“I love you, Joan,” she whispered, and the weight of her voice sank like a stone into your chest. Her lips brushed yours again, warm and damp, radiating your own scent back at you.
Your throat closed up. “I–I love you too, Abby.” It came out broken, fragile, almost too soft for her to hear.
The words shattered something inside you in a way no climax ever had. Her love wasn’t gentle—it was consuming. It pressed against your ribs, seeped into your lungs, burned through your veins. You trembled, undone by how real it was, how much it terrified you to be this seen, this claimed.
You tried to sit up, desperate to touch her, to repay her, to drown in her the way she had drowned in you. But Abby stopped you with a firm shake of her head. Her hands pressed you flat to the mattress again, pinning you with her weight. Her eyes locked onto yours with a dark hunger.
“No,” she breathed, before her mouth sank between your thighs again.
Your body jolted in shock. “Wait—!” The word cracked out of you, high and panicked, but her tongue slid over your swollen clit and your protest dissolved into a strangled moan. Your back arched violently, thighs spreading wide despite yourself.
Her fingers returned inside you without hesitation, curling deep until they hooked that raw, throbbing place. You cried out, hips bucking helplessly against her face. You weren’t in control anymore—your body was betraying you, grinding into her mouth, desperate and shameless.
And then her pinky pressed lower, circling and pressing past the tight ring of your ass. The intrusion was shocking, filthy, but it blended into the heat already consuming you until you shattered.
“Abby—Abby!” you squealed, your voice sharp and trembling, more a whimper than a word.
The orgasm ripped through you savagely. Your thighs clamped around her head, your muscles spasming around her fingers, your body convulsing in jagged, helpless waves. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—you were nothing but raw sensation, sobbing out her name as she refused to stop.
Finally, when your body was twitching with aftershocks, she pulled back. You collapsed against the sheets, soaked, trembling, hair plastered to your damp forehead. Every breath you took came in shallow gasps.
Abby sat back on her heels, staring at you like you were something holy. She slipped her fingers into her mouth, slow and deliberate, licking every drop of you away. Even her pinky, glistening, disappeared between her lips. She sucked it clean with a low hum, eyes never leaving yours.
“I love you like this,” she said finally, her voice thick, raw, almost worshipful. Her eyes softened as she looked over you—wrecked, glistening, undone beneath her hands.
And then she moved up your body, pressing her forehead to yours, breathing you in. Her arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, grounding you even as your pulse still thundered. You felt her lips against your temple, her voice low and steady:
“You’re mine, Joan. All of you. Every broken piece.”
She slumped against your chest, her body warm and heavy, the scent of sweat and you still clinging to her skin. For a moment she just stayed there, cheek pressed against your collarbone, her breath slow and steady like she didn’t want to move either.
Then she shifted, dragging your pants back up over your hips with gentle, almost apologetic hands. Her fingers lingered at your waistline, like she hated the distance clothing created between you. She leaned in, placing a soft kiss against your damp forehead, lips cool against your overheated skin.
A quiet sigh left her as she rested her forehead to yours. “We gotta get going,” she murmured, voice low, reluctant—like she’d rather keep you tangled in bed than face whatever waited outside that door.
You swallowed hard, still lightheaded, your body thrumming with echoes of her touch. You gave a small nod, though your groin still pulsed, tender and throbbing with every shift of your body.
Sitting up took effort; your legs felt weak, rubbery, as if they still remembered being wrapped around her shoulders. You brushed your hair out of your face, avoiding her gaze for a beat—afraid she might see just how completely undone you still were.
Abby smirked faintly, almost proud of it, before standing and offering her hand to help you off the bed.

Chapter 57: Dinner

“I don’t know if I really want to do that dinner,” you rasped, your throat dry and scratchy from moaning her name minutes before. The words came out small, half-formed, as you tugged your shirt down and smoothed the wrinkles that wouldn’t quite go away.
Abby turned as you fixed your clothes, her eyes tracking you. She shrugged, taking in a slow breath through her nose. “I know,” she admitted, shoulders rising and falling. “But… we need more recruits in Catalina.” She dropped onto the edge of the bed with a creak of the wood, her elbows braced on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor as if the decision weighed heavier than her words.
You drifted toward the window, arms folding across your chest like armor. The glass was dirty, warped by years of storms, but you could just make out the slope of the hill where Ignacio and Darlene had disappeared. “Is Catalina our final place?” you asked quietly, your voice almost lost in the muffled silence of the cabin. You didn’t look at her—couldn’t.
For a long stretch, there was only the sound of her shifting on the bed, the faint rasp of her callused hands rubbing against her thighs. The quiet pressed against your ears until it hurt.
“Why?” Her voice was soft, unsure, as if she already knew you wouldn’t like her answer.
You breathed in through your nose, the air cold and damp, carrying the scent of mildew and salt. “I just feel… maybe it’s not… right.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, fragile like they could shatter.
Another silence. You could hear her exhale this time, slow and heavy, as though she carried more than one life on her back.
“I have to think about Lev, Joan.”
Your chest tightened. You nodded, staring out at nothing. “Lev…” you echoed, softer now, almost ashamed. “It’s safe for him there.”
Abby’s sigh was heavier this time, her voice low. “Do you not want to go back to Catalina?”
You paused, the question catching you off guard. You hadn’t thought much about it—not beyond the blur of survival, the constant motion of keeping your head above water. Catalina was supposed to be a promise, but right now, it felt more like a cage waiting at the end of the road.
“Catalina is just so safe.” The words slipped out rough, your throat catching as you stared through the warped glass. The world outside blurred with the sting of tears, a shimmer you blinked against but couldn’t fully swallow down.
Behind you, the floorboards creaked. Abby rose slowly, her presence filling the room in that way it always did—steady, grounded. A moment later, her hand pressed gently against your back, broad and warm even through the fabric of your shirt.
“You deserve to be safe, Joan.” Her voice was softer than you expected, carrying no command, only certainty. You shut your eyes as her lips brushed against your cheek, feather-light but searing all the same. For a second, the fear in your chest eased, replaced with that dangerous warmth she always pulled out of you.
She lingered there, long enough that you thought she might say more, but instead she pulled back and smiled—small, tentative, but real. “We’ll talk about this when we get back to Catalina, okay? We can figure it out then.”
You turned your head slightly, catching her expression before it disappeared. She looked tired, but hopeful, like she was already imagining a life you weren’t sure you could step into.
Her boots scraped as she crouched and tugged them on, double-knotting the laces with practiced, military precision. She stood, testing her weight in them, and then slung her shoulders back like armor.
You moved quickly to catch up, dragging your sleeves over your hands as you sat on the edge of the bed. The leather of your own boots squeaked as you yanked the laces tight, fumbling just slightly because your fingers still trembled.
By the time you stood, Abby was already at the door, holding it open for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You stepped out into the cooling evening air beside her, the two of you leaving the cabin behind, shoulders brushing as you walked.
The laughter from the market drifted faintly up the hill, and for a moment, you wished you could stay in that cabin forever—before reality tugged you forward.
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Abby’s knuckles rapped gently against the door, almost hesitant, as if politeness could undo how late the two of you were. You could still feel the ghost of her hand at the small of your back as you stood there beside her. The smell that drifted through the cracks in the wood made your mouth water immediately—something rich and herbal, smoky with spice, warm in a way that tugged at your empty stomach.
A low grumble betrayed you before Ignacio even opened the door. He stood there with that same easy smile, leaning one shoulder into the frame. “Glad to see we didn’t scare you off.” His tone was light, but his eyes flicked knowingly between you and Abby before he stepped back to let you in.
The cabin’s warmth hit instantly—thick with candlelight that softened the corners of the room, shadows dancing against walls hung with color. Darlene hovered over a wood-burning stove, stirring a pot that hissed and popped faintly in the fire. Her hair was tied back, loose strands frizzing in the heat, and the way she moved told you she’d done this exact thing a thousand times before.
Your eyes swept the space as you slid into one of the rough wooden chairs at the table. Texas decals lined the wall—faded rodeo posters, a rusted license plate nailed above the window—mingling with bright, patterned fabric and worn Catholic candles set in mismatched jars. The place felt lived-in, stubbornly homey in the middle of ruin.
Darlene turned with two steaming bowls, setting one down in front of you before passing the other to Abby. The stew was thick, beans swimming in a dark broth with glints of red chili oil swirling at the top. Cornbread sat beside it, golden and cracked, the kind that begged to be torn apart with your hands. The heat of it rose into your face, making your stomach clench tighter.
Abby folded her hands loosely on the table, her posture collected despite the sweat still dampening her temples from earlier. “This is very nice of you. Thank you.” Her voice carried that diplomatic steadiness you recognized from her leadership days.
Darlene gave a quick smile, dismissing it with a wave as she sat down across from you. Ignacio leaned back casually, already reaching for his spoon, but she placed a plate in front of him first—he gave her a look that said he’d been spoiled by this before.
“Oh, it wasn’t much.” She scooped her own spoonful, blowing across it before slipping it into her mouth. A small sigh escaped her as her shoulders eased. “Tastes just like my momma’s.”
For a moment, the room went quiet except for the sound of spoons scraping gently against ceramic bowls, the stew’s heat and spice curling up into your nose until you couldn’t help but take your first bite.
It was good. No—better than good. The first spoonful hit your tongue heavy with smoke, beans slow-cooked until they melted apart, the broth carrying a depth you hadn’t tasted in years. There had to be some kind of smoked meat buried in there, something cured and salted just right, its richness clinging to every bite. The cornbread on the side wasn’t the bland dry stuff you half-remembered from Boston cafeterias—it had a sharp kick, peppery heat blooming in your mouth before dissolving into the sweetness of corn.
You couldn’t help it. A guttural, embarrassingly loud “mm” ripped out of your throat as you tore into it, hunched over your bowl like a starved dog who hadn’t seen real food in months. A smear of broth caught at the corner of your mouth, but you didn’t care—you were already dragging a chunk of cornbread through the stew to soak it.
Darlene laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. She leaned back in her chair, spoon dangling from her fingers as she watched you devour her cooking. “My momma up in heaven is just floored about that, I’ll tell ya.”
The word snagged you mid-bite. Heaven.
Your jaw worked slower as you looked up, stew still steaming off your spoon. Heaven. People still believed in that? After everything? After Seattle, after the QZ, after bodies stacked in streets and rivers that ran red—after all the things you had done?
Your throat tightened as you swallowed, the food suddenly heavy, almost obscene in your gut. You lowered your spoon and glanced at Abby across the table. She was still eating steadily, expression unreadable, like the word hadn’t pierced her the way it pierced you.
But it sat in your ears anyway, buzzing. Heaven. God. Someone still praying to something that let the world rot like this.
Your chest tightened. You knew better. You’d never make it there—heaven, eternal paradise, any of it. Not after Boston. Not after Seattle. Not after the things you’d done, the blood on your hands, the ghosts you dragged around like anchors. No god would want you.
A clatter of pottery pulled you back. Darlene was taking your empty bowl, her lips quirking when she realized you’d cleaned it spotless. You hadn’t even noticed finishing it. Lost in thought, and yet your body had kept going—spoon to mouth, like instinct, like survival.
Abby stood and carried her own dish over, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She followed Darlene to the wash basin, their voices mixing with the slosh of water. Abby laughed—an honest sound, light and unguarded—and the knot in your stomach tightened. That laugh hadn’t been for you.
From the corner of your eye, Ignacio jerked his head toward the door. A subtle motion. An invitation.
You hesitated. You didn’t trust him. Too smug, too practiced, like he knew how to push just far enough without breaking skin. Still, you pushed yourself up, curiosity or obligation dragging your feet.
The porch creaked under your weight as you sank onto the steps beside him. The night air was cooler now, the sky deep blue and flecked with stars. The laughter from inside carried faintly, blurred by the crackle of a candle flame in the window.
Ignacio leaned in, elbows resting casually on his knees. His scent—smoke and sweat, cinnamon sharp in the back of your throat—wrapped around you. His voice dropped low, smooth as oil. “If I come to Catalina…” His dark eyes flicked toward yours, glinting. “Will you be there?”
You blinked at him, not quite processing the question. So you nodded, once.
That grin crept over his face, slow and deliberate, like a fox circling a henhouse. He leaned closer, his arm brushing yours. “Or you and I… we could go somewhere else.”
The suggestion slid out of him like a secret. Too soft. Too tempting. Too dangerous.
Your nose wrinkled in disgust before your words even formed. “No thanks.” You turned your face away, sharp and final.
He chuckled, not offended in the least. Warm, low laughter that rumbled from his chest, as if rejection was just another part of the game. “Right, right,” he said, drawing the words out like he was humoring you. “You have Abby.”
The way he said her name—it wasn’t respect. It wasn’t acknowledgment. It was like a test, like he was probing you for a crack, waiting to see if you’d flinch.
Your eyes narrowed as his leg brushed against yours. It could’ve been nothing—just the way you were both sitting—but your gut twisted. The shift in the air was too deliberate. Too close.
You leaned back, creating space, though your skin crawled where he’d touched you. “Yeah…” Your voice was flat, steady. “I have Abby.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
But then his hand slid onto your thigh. Heavy. Casual. Possessive in the way men sometimes pretended wasn’t.
You froze for a beat, staring at him, disbelief flaring white-hot in your chest. Then you peeled his hand off you, sharp and unflinching, dropping it back onto his own lap like it was garbage. “No thanks,” you said, this time louder, clearer, every syllable carved in stone.
He laughed—again. Not nervous, not embarrassed. Just amused, like your refusal was part of the joke. He leaned back, dragging long on his cigarette, smoke curling up between the two of you. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, lips curling around the words. Then, with that same infuriating grin: “But I know it would be a good fuck.”
Your stomach turned. Heat flushed through you, not the good kind. The kind that made your jaw clench, your hands ball into fists.
You shot up from the step so fast the wood groaned under your boots. “You’re gross.” The words ripped out, bitter and hard, before you turned on your heel and marched back inside.
The shift was jarring—inside the little house, everything was warm, golden. Candlelight flickered off the walls, and the smell of stew and smoke still lingered. Abby and Darlene were bent over the wash basin, laughing at something you hadn’t heard, sleeves rolled to their elbows. Their voices rose and fell in rhythm, water splashing, both of them oblivious to the sourness clinging to your skin.
You collapsed onto the couch with a huff, arms crossed tight over your chest. Your whole body buzzed with the urge to scream, to tell Abby what had just happened—but your voice stuck in your throat. She was laughing. She was light. She was free of the heaviness that weighed on her most days.
And you… you were stewing in disgust, the phantom of his hand still burning on your thigh.
But then the weight of the couch dipped beside you, the frame creaking just slightly, and the air shifted. Abby.
Her scent hit first—familiar, grounding. Muskier here in Ensenada, where the days were hot and the work harder. Earthy sweat clung to her skin, tempered by the clean bite of Castile soap she still scrubbed with out of habit. That mixture wrapped around you, pushing Ignacio out of your head, steadying your pulse.
Her hand settled on your thigh. Warm. Certain. Just like that, everything else dissipated—the cigarette smoke, Ignacio’s grin, the filth of his words. Abby’s touch was the only anchor you needed.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice cutting into the easy flow of conversation with Darlene. Abby didn’t posture or puff herself up—she didn’t need to. Her tone alone carried weight, patient but persuasive, the kind of voice that had convinced hardened soldiers to follow her into hell and back.
“In Catalina,” she said, smiling faintly, “we have solar. Panels on nearly every rooftop. We’re already working on repairing the HVAC systems—air conditioning will follow.” Her eyes softened, but her words were sharp, calculated. “You’d have comfort again. Safety. A future for more than just the day-to-day.”
Darlene’s posture shifted. You saw it—the way her shoulders lost their rigid edge, her lips parting just slightly as though the thought had slipped straight past her defenses. Her brown eyes glimmered with something caught between suspicion and longing.
“It does sound nice…” she admitted, almost reluctantly, her Southern lilt softening.
You glanced at her, and then at Abby, whose smile widened the barest fraction. She always loved getting her way. Always knew the right words, the right angles, to bend people toward her cause.
But your stomach twisted anyway. Darlene’s gaze had softened, but your mind snagged on something else—the girl she’d mentioned earlier. The one Ignacio had “talked to,” the one who was supposedly pregnant now. Was she real? Was she still here in Ensenada?
If Darlene and Ignacio left for Catalina, what happened to her?
You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes lowering to your lap as Abby’s thumb brushed absent circles over your thigh. Abby’s voice was steady, promising a future, but your thoughts spun with the ugly undercurrent of what people left behind when they followed promises of safety.
Ignacio trailed in after a moment, his boots heavy on the floorboards, and collapsed into a low loveseat to the left of the table. The wood groaned under his weight as though even the furniture was tired of him. Darlene slipped in after him, crossing one bare leg neatly over the other, posture sharp but graceful.
She was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache—slim and sharp-featured, with a kind of pixie charm that felt almost too fragile for the world you lived in. You studied her for a heartbeat longer than you should have, and an ugly thought stabbed through you. Would she even survive the brutal sea crossing? The sleepless nights, the storms, the gnawing hunger? Would any softness left in her shatter against the waves?
“If we decide to come, we’ll take our own boat,” Ignacio said suddenly. His voice cut the quiet like a blade, low and sure, as if the decision was already half-made.
Darlene nodded in agreement, her hand brushing his arm. “We wouldn’t want to burden you.”
The words landed heavy, and Abby gave a quick nod—businesslike, measured. You knew the truth was she hadn’t even considered the logistics yet: extra mouths to feed, more bodies crammed onto Catalina, more responsibility weighing on her already-aching shoulders.
Your shoulders slumped in relief. Thank God. Whatever curiosity Abby had about them, at least you wouldn’t be forced into sailing with Ignacio at your back.
But then your mind drifted—past Ensenada, past this house and these people. Back to Catalina. Safe, solid Catalina. Even if you weren’t sure it was your forever home, even if the thought of “forever” made your chest twist, you couldn’t deny the aching need in your body. You wanted your bed back. Your bed with Abby. Her warmth in the dark, her steady breathing beside you. The simple safety of curling into her until sleep pulled you under.
Your jaw cracked around a yawn before you could stop it. You tried to smother it behind your hand, tried to play it off, but when you glanced sideways Abby’s eyes were already on you.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t tease. She just looked at you—sharp blue eyes softening, a flicker of concern slipping past the commander’s mask. Then she took a steady breath, grounding herself, before speaking.
“We’re gonna head back to camp,” she said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
Her hand reached under the table, tapping gently against your knee. Not rough, not commanding—just a reminder that she was there, that you were hers. The touch sent a small shiver down your leg as you stood.
You followed her out the door, stepping back into the night air. The town buzzed faintly with voices, the smell of salt and woodsmoke heavy around you. Abby walked with her usual long stride, her shoulders squared, but you felt yourself shrinking beside her, quieter than you wanted to be.
Why? Why were you suddenly so shy, so small, so silent? You hated the feeling—like you’d been reduced to a shadow of yourself, tucked behind her strength.
And yet… you didn’t break the silence. You just trailed at her side, heart thudding, wondering when you’d stopped knowing what to say.
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Your legs gave out halfway up the hill, like the ground had been waiting for you to admit defeat. The muscles in your calves screamed with every step, your shoulders heavy as lead, lungs burning like seawater had filled them. Weeks at sea had softened you in the wrong ways—hardship without the right kind of strength to balance it. The uneven dirt path mocked you, twisting uphill toward camp like it knew you weren’t built for this anymore.
Finally, you huffed out a curse and dropped into the dirt with a graceless thud. Your arms dangled over your knees, sweat dripping down your face, sticking hair to your temples. “I need a second,” you groaned, voice rough from exhaustion. You tipped your head back toward the sky, and the moon loomed heavy above—white and swollen, glowing against the black canvas.
A yawn clawed out of your chest, sharp and ragged, leaving your eyes watering. You rubbed at your face with both hands, only succeeding in grinding dust into your skin. The air smelled of salt and resin, the campfires below flickering faint orange across the town. Somewhere, laughter carried, faint but warm, and it felt a world away from where you sat.
Beside you, boots scuffed against gravel, steady and patient. Abby lowered herself next to you without complaint, the heat of her thigh brushing against yours. She didn’t even look winded—just leaned back on her hands, gaze cast calmly over the dark horizon like this was nothing to her. When she glanced sideways, her lips curled into the faintest, most maddening smile.
“I could carry you,” she said simply, like the thought was obvious, natural.
Your stomach dropped, heat rushing straight to your face. “No way.” You shoved at her arm, though your weak push only made her smirk deepen.
“Why not?” She flexed her arm in one quick motion, muscle rising under her shirt, the scarred skin shifting over the strength beneath. “You think I can’t?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes with exaggerated force. “I don’t know… it just feels—”
Her smirk cut sharper. “Embarrassing?” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Why? You’re my girlfriend.”
The word detonated in your chest like always. Girlfriend. You swallowed hard, heat flooding up the back of your neck. Abby’s girlfriend. Every time she said it, it turned you inside out, made you feel claimed in a way you didn’t know how to carry without stumbling.
You turned away, eyes fixed on the dirt, hoping she wouldn’t notice your blush. The silence stretched until her head dipped onto your shoulder.
It startled you, how soft she was. The weight of her skull against you, the warmth of her cheek brushing your collarbone, her hair tickling your jaw. She exhaled, a low sound, the breath warm against your shirt. “I’m so tired,” she murmured, her voice muffled, heavy with exhaustion. “Just let me carry you back so we can get some sleep.”
You huffed, still trying to keep your pride stitched together, but the fight in you had already melted. “…Piggyback only,” you muttered.
Her chuckle rumbled through you, low and throaty, and she crouched down in front of you with practiced ease. “Deal.”
For a moment you hesitated, staring at her broad back, her shoulders stretching her shirt tight, her hair catching faint moonlight. It felt… strange. Childish, even. But then you hooked your arms around her neck and jumped, her hands catching your thighs with steady strength.
It was odd at first—dangling there, your legs hooked awkwardly around her hips. But the moment she straightened, her body taking your full weight like it was nothing, the strangeness ebbed. She was solid. Warm. Her steps smoothed into a rhythm, rocking you gently with each stride uphill.
Your head found the crook of her neck almost instinctively, pressed against the salt-streaked skin that smelled faintly of castile soap and sea air. The heat of her body radiated through you, steady and grounding. The rough fabric of her shirt scratched lightly against your cheek, but you didn’t mind—it was Abby.
Every sway of her gait lulled you closer to sleep, her breathing slow and even under your ear. The sounds of Ensenada dimmed behind you: the laughter, the market, the creak of wood. All that remained was her heartbeat, steady and certain, thumping against your chest where it pressed into her back.
Your eyelids drooped, heavy as anchors, and no matter how hard you tried to fight it, the world slipped away. You clung tighter to her shoulders, your breath syncing with hers, and before you knew it, sleep dragged you under—safe, cradled, carried.
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Chapter 58: Fever

Notes:

me when im too lazy to write the boat ride home so joan suffers a sickness

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You hadn’t noticed Abby lifting you into bed, hadn’t stirred when she tucked the thin blanket over your shoulders. All you knew was warmth. Her warmth. The imprint of her body pressed along your spine. When your eyes fluttered open, you were already curled against her chest. For a fragile moment, you let yourself believe the world outside had paused. That you could stay here, safe, cradled by her heartbeat.
Then the tap on your forehead came. Firm, but not unkind.
“Up. Let’s go.”
Her voice was still rough with sleep, deep and gravelly. The sun had barely cracked the horizon, its light bleeding through the wooden slats of the cabin in thin, fractured lines. Dust motes hung suspended in the beams, glowing gold.
The door creaked, and Lev shuffled in, half-asleep, his hair sticking out at odd angles. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, mumbling something low to Abby. His voice was muffled and hazy to your ears, but you caught the exhaustion in it. He’d been swallowed up by the local kids these past days, laughing, playing, disappearing into their games while you’d been busy thinking too much. Now he was just a tired boy again, clinging to Abby’s side.
You pushed yourself up—and the world spun. A dizzy, nauseating tilt that sent your stomach lurching. Heat pressed down on you, thick and suffocating, like your skin was trying to crawl off your body. Your joints ached as if someone had filled them with wet sand.
You rubbed your eyes, but it didn’t help. The headache was worse now—sharp and unrelenting, pounding behind your temples with each beat of your heart. Every throb sent another wave of nausea rolling through you.
No time. You couldn’t be sick. Not here, not now. Not when Abby was watching.
You yanked your boots on with clumsy fingers, the laces slipping twice before you forced them into knots. Your hands shook with the effort.
Outside, the cool salt air slapped your face, but instead of refreshing you, it made you sway on your feet. The voices of the crowd were too loud, too many. Orders barked, laughter ringing, wood creaking under the weight of cargo. It all blended together into a dull roar.
You found yourself hauling crates, ropes, sailcloth—though you barely remembered picking them up. Your body moved like it was on autopilot, but your brain lagged behind. You couldn’t focus on the faces around you. Every time you tried, they smeared, featureless blurs moving through the haze.
Sweat slicked your neck despite the chill. Your palms ached where the ropes dug in, raw spots reopening, stinging with salt.
You climbed up to man the sails, bracing your weight against the ropes as the boat rocked beneath you. The sun had risen higher now, burning against your eyes, the glare making your headache spike until your vision went white at the edges. You blinked hard, steadying yourself against the mast.
Abby’s voice cut through the noise—low, commanding, but softening when it reached you.
“Joan.”
Her hand landed on your shoulder. Strong. Grounding. The kind of grip that had steadied you a hundred times before. You looked up at her, blinking through the blur, and for a second her face was the only clear thing in the world.
Her brow furrowed, lines cutting deep into her forehead. She searched your face, eyes narrowing as if she could peel back the truth with just her gaze. Her palm rose to your forehead, rough skin startling against your overheated skin.
“Are you okay?” she asked, but it wasn’t casual. It was clipped, tight. Like she already knew the answer.
The touch made your throat close. You jerked away, forcing the word out. “Fine.”
It rasped, raw and brittle.
You grabbed the nearest rope, yanking at it with shaky hands, pretending focus. Pretending strength. Anything to distract from the fact that you were barely holding yourself upright.
She lingered, her lips pressing into a thin line. The look in her eyes wasn’t anger—it was worse. Concern. Suspicion. That Abby blend of soldier-sharp and almost unbearably tender.
Finally, she pulled back. You could feel the reluctance in her fingers as they left your shoulder. She turned toward the cabin, her posture snapping back into commander-mode, her stride carrying her with purpose. But she glanced back once, quick and sharp, her eyes flicking over you like a soldier checking gear before a battle.
You forced your body straighter, gripping the rope until the fibers cut into your palms. Anything to look steady. Anything to keep her from circling back and pulling the truth out of you.
The sun climbed higher, blinding and merciless. You squinted against it, the world still tilting, and prayed the sickness would pass before Abby looked back again.
The afternoon blurred into a haze of salt and rope-burn. Luis had been beside you most of the day, his easy chatter and bad jokes distracting you just enough to keep your hands moving. You’d even laughed with him once or twice—short, shaky bursts of sound that made your ribs ache. But the truth was uglier: you’d been swallowing back bile since morning, forcing your body to stand, to haul, to tie knots with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. Sweat drenched your back despite the cool wind, your shirt clinging as though you’d fallen overboard and never dried.
The horizon bled orange when the first swell hit. The sea tilted sharply under your boots, and the deck groaned like it wanted to give out. A wall of dark clouds hunched forward, swallowing the sun, and the wind sharpened with the taste of rain.
You bent forward suddenly, the nausea you’d been choking back all day finally winning. Your stomach heaved, emptying violently over the side. Acid burned your throat, salt spray slapped your face, and for a second you thought the boat itself was spinning out from under you.
When it was over, you sagged against the railing, chest heaving, the sweat on your skin turning clammy. Luis was there in a heartbeat, his footsteps pounding against the wood.
“Joan? Hey, hey…” His voice was too loud, panic making it crack. His palm pressed against your forehead, and you saw his eyes widen. “Shit, you’re burning up.”
You tried to shake him off, tried to straighten like you could bluff your way out of this, but another surge hit. You gagged and retched again, body convulsing until there was nothing left in you but dry, painful spasms. The sea rocked beneath your feet and you nearly went with it, slumping down to your knees, clutching your stomach like you could hold yourself together.
Luis called out sharply, and the sound of his boots thundered away.
Then—quicker, heavier footsteps. Abby.
You didn’t even need to see her. Her presence landed over you like a shadow, her voice low but urgent:
“Jo?”
Her hand came down over your forehead, firm and warm, and the contrast against your burning skin made you shudder. She swore under her breath. “Fuck. I knew it. I knew you were sick.”
You tried to protest, the words breaking up in your throat, but she was already hauling you back from the railing, her arms steadying you against her chest. You felt her strength in every movement, the way she carried you like you weighed nothing. Commander Abby, no hesitation.
She brought you below deck, into the darker, quieter belly of the ship. The air was damp and musty, the smell of mildew sharp in your nose. She laid you down carefully against an old sack of rice stuffed with hay, the fabric rough against your cheek but better than bare planks. Another burlap sack came down over you, scratchy but warm enough to chase the worst of the shivers.
You curled into yourself, trembling so hard your teeth clicked together. Abby crouched close, her hand still braced against your head, her brow furrowed in a way you rarely saw. No orders, no edge. Just worry.
She set a bucket beside you with deliberate care. “For when it hits again,” she muttered, her voice softer than the storm above.
The ship lurched as another wave slammed the hull, wood creaking, water spraying through the cracks. You pulled the burlap tighter around you, breath rattling, your whole body aching like it had been set on fire from the inside.
Abby stayed close, her presence anchoring you even as she kept a careful distance. You realized why when she shifted her weight back, eyes darting toward the hatch. She wasn’t going to risk the others. You were already separated from everyone—Lev, Luis, the crew—all of them somewhere above, dry and laughing and alive while you shook alone in the dark.
Your throat tightened at the thought.
Abby’s hand squeezed your shoulder once before she rose to her feet. Her boots thudded quietly against the boards as she stepped back. Her voice followed you into the shadows, steady but low, meant to soothe.
“This is gonna be a long night. But I’m here. You hear me, Jo? I’m not leaving you.”
The storm raged above, water hammering the deck, but all you could hear was her voice, threading through the dark like a lifeline.
But the sounds groaned out as you fell asleep. Shaking into a deep slumber.
_______________________________________________________________________
The fever didn’t just pull you into sleep—it dragged you, clawing your body down into something darker, deeper. Every muscle twitched with heat, your head heavy as though the rocking of the boat was pulling you apart piece by piece.
The dream took you first to Seattle.
The street was wrong—too quiet, too empty, too dark. The buildings bent inward like they were leaning over you, suffocating. Your boots echoed hollow against the pavement, each step ringing too loud, too sharp.
And Abby stood there.
Her back was hunched, shoulders twitching, her breath tearing ragged and uneven through the silence. She wasn’t herself. You knew it instantly. The strength in her frame was still there, but it was warped—jerking, spasming, uncontrolled.
“Abby?” you whispered. It bounced down the street, repeating itself in echoes until it didn’t sound like your voice anymore.
She turned.
The bite on her neck gaped wide, black veins crawling up her jaw, into her temple. Her skin around it looked gray, sick, dead already.
Your chest caved in. “No… no, no.”
Her eyes, once blue and human, were clouded now, milky and lifeless. Her mouth stretched open, a wet growl rattling out of her chest.
And then she lunged.
The weight of her slammed you to the ground, every ounce of her body pinning you. Her face hovered inches from yours, lips curling back, teeth slick and bared. You clawed at her arms, at her chest, but she was unmovable—a monster forged from every memory of her strength.
Her mouth found your throat and bit down.
Pain ripped through you. Hot, blinding, final. You shrieked so loud it split the dreamscape.
And then it shifted.
You were in Boston now. The kitchen. The chipped paint, the rust-stained ceiling, your mother’s thin figure bent over the stove. She stirred rations into watery broth, steam rising around her face. But when she turned, her eyes weren’t hers—they were sunken, clouded, her mouth hanging open, teeth blackened.
“Mom?” you croaked.
She lurched toward you, the ladle clattering to the floor. Her arms reached, but not to hug—to tear.
Behind her, Frank appeared in the doorway. Relief bloomed for a split second—until he stepped forward and you saw his face chewed away, his FEDRA cap hanging over half-rotted skin. He staggered toward you, voice hollow, echoing through the dream.
“We gotta keep going…”
But it wasn’t encouragement. It was a death sentence.
You screamed again, stumbling back—
And suddenly you were at the pond. The same one from Seattle. Water rippled black, reflecting not you but all the faces you’d failed: Daniel, Cleo, Terra, even Owen. One by one they surfaced in the reflection, their eyes white, their mouths twisted. Their hands reached up from the water, pulling at your reflection until it shattered.
You were falling into it.
Cold water swallowed you whole. Hands dragged you down, clutching, tearing. You couldn’t breathe. Every figure pulled, whispered your name through broken teeth—Joan, Joan, Joan… until the sound drowned into a shriek.
And then Abby again.
She rose out of the water this time, her body looming over you, dripping black. The bite on her neck still gaping, her mouth full of blood as she screamed and lunged again.
Her teeth sank into your neck—
“Joan!”
Real hands. Real voice.
The nightmare shattered.
You shot upright with a sob, choking on bile, vomit sour in your mouth, your stomach twisting violently. The bucket beside you was nearly full, your body trembling uncontrollably.
Abby was there. The real Abby. Kneeling, close, her face pale in the weak lamplight, her hands steady on your shoulders. Her brows knit tight, her eyes wide with worry. “Joan? Hey, hey—it’s me.”
You couldn’t stop yourself. Your clammy hands shot to her neck, brushing her hair back, desperate to see bare skin. To check. To know.
“Abby? Did you—did you get bit?” The words broke apart, slurred from fever, but you pressed, your hands shaking.
Her eyes filled with panic, not for herself—for you. “Joan, no, I’m fine. I’m fine. Look.” She guided your trembling fingers against her pulse, pressed them to her throat where warm, living blood throbbed steady. “See? No bite. I’m here.”
But the dream still clung to you, hot tears streaking down your burning cheeks as you whimpered, “I saw you… I saw—”
“Shh.” She pulled you into her chest before you could finish, your forehead pressed against her damp shirt. Her hand stroked your hair, fingers shaking just enough to betray her own fear. “That wasn’t real. You hear me? That wasn’t real.”
You shivered and cried, weak and pathetic, fever burning through you as the storm rumbled outside. Abby kissed your forehead, lips cooling your too-hot skin, whispering steady against you.
“Sleep, Jo. Just sleep. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her voice wrapped around you like a tether. You sank back into the makeshift bedding, clutching weakly at her sleeve like if you let go she’d vanish into the dream again.
Abby stayed. Her hand didn’t leave yours. Her breath stayed warm at your temple, grounding you to this world, this moment.
The fever still dragged at you, but now her heartbeat was there—steady, alive, undeniable.
And slowly, despite everything, you let yourself fall back into sleep.
______________________________________________________________________
How long had it been?
A day? Two?
Your body couldn’t tell anymore. Everything blurred—salt stinging your lips, sweat soaking your shirt until it clung to your skin, the sour bite of bile burning your throat. You remembered Abby’s hand on your back, the bucket pulled under your chin, her voice whispering “breathe, Jo, just breathe” until you blacked out again.
It should’ve felt endless, but it went too fast at the same time. Hours collapsed into nothing. The only constants were the fever burning you alive and Abby’s presence pressing back against the fire. She never left you. You knew that much. Even in the haze you felt her weight when she lay down behind you, an arm tucked around your waist, her warmth chasing off the shakes. You felt her rough fingers brushing damp hair from your face, spooning water against your lips. Sometimes it stayed down. Sometimes it didn’t. She never flinched either way.
And through it all, Abby never got sick. Not once. She carried your sweat-soaked body to clean hay, she held you when you vomited until your ribs ached, she kissed your temple when the nightmares broke you—and yet, somehow, her strength never faltered.
The weeks—or days, or hours—melted together.
When you finally surfaced, it was night. A different kind of night: quieter, cooler, the boat rocking steady instead of violently. You were still slick with sweat, your shirt plastered to you, but your head was clearer. The world wasn’t spinning quite so hard.
Abby’s calloused palm stroked your cheek. You blinked blearily at her, your throat raw, your lips cracked, but she was there. Always there. Her hair hung loose, shadows hiding half her face, but her eyes—red-rimmed, heavy with exhaustion—watched you like she hadn’t let herself look away in weeks.
She yawned, stifling it against her shoulder, and then whispered into the dark:
“We’ll be back in Catalina tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Your sluggish brain tripped over the word. Tomorrow? You swallowed, your throat catching. Your voice came out cracked, weak. “No… no, it hasn’t been that long.”
Her brow furrowed. She shook her head slowly, as though bracing you for the weight of it. Her lips pressed a kiss to your fever-hot forehead before she leaned her temple against the wooden wall behind her, sighing heavy.
“It has, Joan. Two weeks.” Her voice was ragged but sure. “It’s okay.”
Two weeks.
Two weeks you’d been sprawled down here, sweating through blankets, vomiting into buckets, delirious from dreams that felt more real than the waking world. Two weeks where the world above deck had gone on without you. Two weeks Abby had sat here, steady, unmoving, refusing to leave your side.
Your chest tightened, panic threatening, the thought of what you must’ve looked like—shaking, retching, pathetic—for that long. A spiral clawed at the edge of your mind.
But before it could pull you under, the fever tugged you back into sleep. Your lashes sank heavy. The last thing you felt was Abby’s hand holding yours, thumb brushing faintly across your knuckles, grounding you with the kind of patience only she had.
________________________________________________________________________
You slipped again—backward, downward—into the dreamscape that fever had carved out of your skull.
You were running. Boots pounding wet pavement. Boston’s streets.
Or—Seattle’s. No. Both. They had bled together into something grotesque. Buildings slumped against each other at impossible angles, windows yawning open like mouths, the streetlights flickering against rain that tasted like rust.
Someone was standing ahead of you.
Terra.
Her silhouette sharpened in the mist as she called out, not to you but to someone behind her. You slowed, chest heaving, turning—
Abby.
But not Abby as she was now. Abby as she’d been in Seattle—braided, hardened, blood under her nails.
Terra ran to her.
And kissed her.
Your stomach turned inside out. You staggered, rage boiling, your boots hammering the street as you ran for them. The sound of your steps echoed too loud, warped, bouncing against the skyscrapers that shouldn’t have been there.
Boston’s tenements stretched upward into Seattle’s towers. FEDRA soldiers patrolled shoulder-to-shoulder with Seraphites, their faces smeared and shifting, as if painted by a trembling hand. Infected burst through windows, only to dissolve into rainfall mid-leap. The water hit the pavement and turned thick and red.
Blood flooded the gutters.
It climbed the sidewalks.
It rose fast enough to swallow you whole.
You were underwater before you could scream, choking, kicking, swept into the pull of a tide that dragged you back to the boat—Ensenada’s boat. Only it was rotten, warped. The wood sagged and split, black with mold. The mast screamed like an animal.
Luis stood there. Or what was left of him—half his face blown clean off, bone glistening in the lantern light. His jaw worked, words slipping out that you couldn’t catch. His body twitched and slumped, melting, and then it was Manny’s corpse staring at you, gray and stinking, his grin eaten away by rot. He spoke too, but the sound was muffled, like it came from underwater.
Your lungs heaved. The air wouldn’t come. Panic slammed into you—
And then.
A gasp.
Your own gasp.
Not dream air—real.
The soft weight of blankets pressed against your clammy hands. Your chest rose and fell, sharp, ragged. The taste of salt stuck to your tongue, sweat plastering your shirt to your ribs.
You blinked into light so sharp it carved pain into your skull. The shapes around you steadied. A roof. Familiar. Wooden walls you knew.
Not the boat.
Catalina.
You were in your bed. Your bed in Catalina.
When? How?
The thought screamed inside your head, loud as the fever still hissing through your blood.
When had you gotten here?
You turned on your side, breath still shallow, and your blurry gaze caught on the bedside table. An empty bowl, rim stained with broth. A cup half-filled with lukewarm water. On the floor, a bucket half-full of bile, the sour stench clinging to the air.
You swallowed hard, realizing your clothes weren’t yours—your old sea-stiffened shirt was gone. You wore soft cotton now, a long-sleeved top and pajama pants you didn’t remember slipping into. Even your hair had been braided back from your sweaty face.
How long had you been here? How long had you been sick?
Your stomach clenched before you could answer yourself, and you barely managed to snatch the bucket up before you retched again, your body shaking with the force of it. Acid burned your throat. Tears blurred your vision as you spat and gagged, shoulders curling in on themselves.
What the hell kind of stomach bug had you picked up?
You sat up too fast, world tilting, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Your clammy feet touched the wooden boards of Catalina’s familiar home, cool and smooth beneath you. The air in the room carried a faint hum, almost too subtle to notice—air conditioning. Abby had talked about repairing the HVAC, but it hadn’t worked when you left.
Shit. How long had it been?
You pulled at the shirt clinging to your damp skin, hugging your arms tight around your waist. Your ribs pressed sharp against your palms, thinner than you remembered. The fabric of your pants sagged loose at your hips. You hadn’t just been sick—you’d wasted away.
Still sweating, still fevered, you staggered toward the door. Each step was a battle, your breath snagging short, chest burning like you’d run a mile instead of just crossing the room. You gripped the doorframe for balance and pushed out into the hallway.
“Abby?”
The voice cracked through the house before you even made it to the stairs. Lev. His voice was small, panicked, calling down the walls: “Abby! Joan’s out of bed again!”
Again?
You blinked, confused, body swaying. What did he mean again?
Heavy boots pounded against the floor below, rising quick. Then Abby’s voice, sharper, rushed. “Joan?”
Her figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide, face drawn with exhaustion. She moved fast, bounding up toward you, her big hands already reaching.
“Hey, honey,” she murmured, breathless, sliding an arm around your waist before you toppled. Her strength was grounding, solid, but her touch was so gentle it nearly broke you.
She guided you carefully back into the room, your bare feet dragging. “What’s wrong?”
You squinted against the morning light spilling through the slats, your voice cracking raw. “When… when did we get back?”
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and for a moment you thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she smoothed your damp hair back from your face, her palm steady on your temple. “I’ll tell you when you’re better,” she said softly.
She lowered you back onto the mattress with practiced ease, pulling the sheets over your trembling frame. The cotton smelled faintly of soap and her skin.
She gave you one last smile, tired but tender, before straightening. The boards creaked as she turned toward the door.
You heard her voice drift faintly down the stairs, hushed but edged with steel.
“Lev… don’t let her get up again.”
_________________________________________________________________________
The doctor’s voice was soft, worn thin by years, her wrinkled hands clicking against the metal instruments she’d spread out on your bedside table. The sound of steel against wood rang sharp in the small room, echoing louder than it should.
The mattress dipped under Abby’s weight as she held you upright against her chest, one arm braced firmly around your back. You sagged into her, your head heavy against her shoulder. Her warmth anchored you, though your own body shivered like it belonged to someone else.
Cold metal kissed your ribs. You flinched as the stethoscope pressed against your fever-hot skin, your shallow breaths rattling against it. Abby’s grip tightened automatically, steadying you.
A doctor.
Here. In your home. Not some makeshift medic with gauze and alcohol, but a real doctor from the Firefly camp.
The older woman frowned, her hands trembling as she tucked the stethoscope back into her worn leather bag. The light carved shadows into the deep lines of her face.
“This is dysentery,” she said simply, her tone calm but edged with gravity. “A bad case. I’m surprised she hasn’t died already.”
The words slid over you like ice water. Your body was shaking, but this time it wasn’t just the fever.
Abby eased you back onto the bed, lowering you into the soft dip of the mattress. The quilt clung to your clammy skin. She hovered at your side, her arms crossed tight over her chest, her whole body a rigid wall of control. Her voice, when it came, was clipped but steady.
“We found antibiotics. From a pharmacy outside town. Do you think they’ll help?”
The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Might as well try. She’s losing weight fast. If we don’t intervene, she won’t last much longer.”
You tried to sit, to prove her wrong, but a sharp cramp tore through your gut and forced you flat again. Your breath hitched, a groan breaking from your throat.
Abby was there instantly. Her hand caught yours, rough calluses pressing into your damp palm, grounding you in the storm of fever and weakness. With her other hand, she swept the sweaty strands of hair off your forehead, her expression iron-clad even as her eyes betrayed the fear swimming just beneath.
“Easy,” she murmured, her thumb stroking across your knuckles.
The doctor moved quietly in the background, rustling through vials and gauze, her figure blurred by the haze clouding your vision. You could barely keep your eyes open now. Abby’s warmth was the only thing keeping you tethered.
Sleep dragged at you again, pulling you under before you could fight it. The last thing you felt was Abby leaning close, her breath against your hair, her whispered promise breaking through the dark:
“I’ve got you, Jo. I’m not letting you go.”
____________________________________________________________________________
The sun woke you first—sharp light leaking through the thin curtains—but it was the absence of sweat that shocked you awake. For the first time in… God, how long? Your skin wasn’t clammy. No fever glaze, no tremors rattling your bones. Just warmth from the sun and the ache of stiff muscles.
You blinked, groaning as you turned onto your side. Your limbs still felt heavy, like they belonged to someone else, but you could move them. You could actually open your eyes.
Finally.
Sitting up was awkward, your spine cracking like an old hinge, but you did it. Your head swam, though not like before—it was bearable, just a dull haze instead of the violent spin of fever. You glanced to the side. The vomit bucket was gone. The smell of bile and sickness no longer lingered in the room.
Your stomach growled so loud it startled you. Hunger. Real hunger. A craving so sharp it made your hands tremble. When was the last time you’d felt it?
You glanced down. Different clothes. A pale blue shirt, soft with wear, and loose green pants. Your hair tugged lightly against your scalp when you shifted—someone had braided it, neat and tight. Abby. Had she been brushing your hair every day while you were out?
The door creaked open before you could spiral. Abby stepped in, balancing a bowl of water and a rag. She froze when she saw you upright, her eyes widening, her chest catching on a breath.
“Joan,” she gasped, her voice breaking with disbelief. Then her lips spread into a smile, soft and shining in the morning light. “Hey… feeling better?”
You swallowed the thickness in your throat, nodding once. “Yeah.” Your voice cracked, but it was real.
She set the bowl aside and sat at the edge of the bed, her weight dipping the mattress. For a moment she just looked at you. Her shoulders had filled out, muscles more defined than before, her frame stronger, fuller. She’d clearly been working, eating. But under her eyes—dark bruises of exhaustion, etched deep into her skin. Like she hadn’t slept properly in months.
You broke the silence first, your voice quiet, almost afraid to ask. “How long was I sick?” The words trailed off, uncertain. Did you really want to know?
Abby’s gaze dropped to the floor. She sighed through her nose, shoulders slumping as though saying it might undo her. “Almost three months.”
Your eyes snapped wide, breath catching in your throat. “What?”
She turned her face back to you, steady but tired, the truth written across her expression. She nodded once. “You finally have some color in your cheeks.”
Her hand brushed against yours on the blanket, calloused but gentle. And only then did you realize—she’d been waiting all this time, carrying the weight of you, praying you’d come back.

Chapter 59: Lev

Notes:

Short chapter--context on joans feverish scare on Lev

I don’t know how long Joan had been sick. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Abby kept me away from her, always. I hated it. I hated watching her body shake below deck, hearing the sounds she made in her sleep—half sobs, half delirium—and then Abby snapping at me if I got too close.
“Stay away, Lev!” she’d bark, sharp, her voice cracking. Almost like she was scared of me more than the sickness itself. If Joan was infectious, Abby wanted to be the one who caught it. Abby wanted it on her shoulders, not mine.
But Abby never got sick. Not once. She held Joan through every shiver, spoon-fed her water and broth when her lips were cracked and too weak to move. She carried her when her legs wouldn’t work. She cleaned up the vomit and sweat without a word of complaint.
It wasn’t the flu. Couldn’t be. I knew that much. The flu didn’t last this long, didn’t eat at someone like a fire chewing through wood.
I remembered when I had the flu once, back in the Seraphite camp. I must’ve been six. My body ached so bad I thought I’d split apart. My mom had held me up in her lap, spooning broth into my mouth even when I tried to push it away. A medicine woman came by with a clay cup of ginger tea, bitter and spicy. I gagged on it, but it helped. I still remember her hand patting my back, her voice low, telling me I was strong.
Joan didn’t have that. She only had Abby, and Abby refused to let anyone else close.
When we got back to Catalina, Abby carried her off the boat herself, her arms locked tight around Joan’s wasted body. I’ll never forget that—how light she looked in Abby’s arms, like a child instead of someone grown.
Now it’s been two months. And Joan is still sick. Still frail. Still fading.
The thought clawed at my stomach until food didn’t even taste like food anymore. I sat at the small wooden table, my spoon dragging lazy circles through my porridge, staring past it, into the walls, into the memories eating holes in my head.
“Lev?” Abby’s voice cut through.
I looked up. She was across from me, elbows on the table, dark circles carved deep under her eyes. She hadn’t slept in forever. Not really.
I just shook my head, the words spilling before I could stop them. My throat felt tight, my chest heavier than it should’ve been. “What if Joan dies?”
Abby scoffed, her voice was soft, a soft voice she only reserved for me. “Shes–” she looked away. “Shes not going to die.”
I shook my head and sighed, the words falling out soft. “I hope not.”
The porridge sat heavy in my stomach, tasteless. I carried our bowls to the basin, scrubbing slow, letting the warm water sting my fingers while Abby slipped upstairs. Her boots creaked on every step, and then I heard the door to Joan’s room groan shut.
The house went quiet except for the faint sound of Abby’s voice above me. Murmurs, soft, steady, as if she could soothe Joan back from whatever nightmare had her thrashing. But Joan still cried out—sometimes sharp and panicked, sometimes just pitiful whimpers. I’d gotten used to it. Weeks of it. Months of it. The fever ate through her nights the same way it ate through her body.
She hadn’t left the bed once on her own. Not once. And I don’t think she could have even if she wanted to.
I stacked the last clean dish, wiping my wet hands on my pants. Abby’s footsteps creaked again, heavier now, and then she was back on the stairs. When she came into the kitchen, her face said everything without words. Shoulders slumped, eyes hollowed, her jaw tight enough to crack. She didn’t look at me. She just blew out a breath, long and tired, and headed for the door.
I watched her step out onto the porch, the door clicking shut behind her. The cool evening air slipped in before it sealed, and I knew she needed it. She loved Joan so much it made her ache. I knew that. But I also knew the porch was the only place she let herself break.
I turned back to the basin, sliding the last dish into its place on the shelf. The wood clinked as it touched down. My hands were still damp, pruned, but the chore gave me something to focus on. Something to control.
And then—
Cold hands.
Clammy, damp, gripping down hard on my shoulders.
I froze, breath locked in my chest. The skin was wrong—too wet, too cold, like fever sweat. My heart slammed against my ribs as my stomach dropped.
“Abby?” I whispered, though I already knew it wasn’t her.
I turned and saw Joan. Or what was left of her. Her face was hollow, slick with fever sweat, eyes glassy and too wide. Her hands — clammy, shaking — clamped down on my shoulders like iron.
“Frank—” her voice cracked, broken, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me like this.”
Her nails dug in hard, sharp enough I hissed. My heart lurched into my throat. She wasn’t just sick — she looked wrong. Possessed. Her sobs came in ragged gasps, hot breath reeking of bile hitting my cheek as she shook me violently. My vision jostled with the force of her grip.
I tried to twist away but she was stronger than she looked, desperation giving her claws. My chest burned where her nails pressed through fabric, and for a split second, I thought she was infected. The wildness in her eyes, the way her body spasmed—she could’ve been mid-turn.
“Joan, stop!” My voice cracked. Panic swelled, choking me. I shoved weakly at her wrists, but she only cried harder, screaming at a ghost that wasn’t me.
“Frank! Please!”
The sound of her despair wasn’t human. It rattled down into my bones, made me feel small, helpless.
“Abby!” I screamed, my throat raw with terror. My body shook under her grip, tears stinging hot in my eyes.
Boots thundered against the floorboards. Abby’s shout ripped through the house, sharp enough to cut air. “Joan!”
She was on us in an instant, yanking Joan back with soldier strength. I collapsed onto the floorboards, my breath tearing in and out like I’d just run ten miles. My shoulders throbbed, faint crescents of pain where Joan’s nails had been.
Joan thrashed in Abby’s arms, still sobbing for someone long gone. Her legs kicked, her voice cracked until it was just noise. Abby held her, arms locked around her chest, dragging her up the stairs with all the force she’d use on an enemy. Joan wailed, the sound splitting the air until a door slammed shut above us.
I stayed where I was, knees pulled up, chest heaving. My skin crawled where she’d touched me, fever-heat still seared into my shoulders. My brain wouldn’t stop replaying it — her eyes, hollow and feral, and that name she kept screaming.
By the time Abby came back down, my tears were already slipping. She crouched in front of me, her hand warm against the back of my head, pulling me into her chest.
“Shh. Lev. You’re okay.” Her voice was lower now, soothing, but I could still hear the shake in it. She smelled of salt and sweat, but her heartbeat under my ear was steady. Steady enough to keep me from falling apart completely.
I clung to her arms and squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing back the terror clawing up my throat.
But even as she shushed me, all I could think was: if Joan could scare me like that, what if next time she doesn’t let go? What if she never comes back from whatever place she’s stuck in?
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Chapter 60: Better

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Your eyes cracked open as the horizon blushed with first light, the sun barely kissing the edge of the ocean. You rolled onto your side. Abby lay beside you, her chest rising slow and steady with sleep. Her hair had grown—past her jaw now, brushing her shoulders. You reached out but stopped yourself, fingers curling into the blanket instead.
Your own hair tugged against your neck, long again, braided neatly. Abby’s doing. You hadn’t had it this long since before Seattle, before the chaos and the cutting and the blood.
It had been a week since the fever broke. A week of broth, sleep, and Abby’s hands anchoring you through the haze. You still felt fragile, your body light as paper, but today there was something new in your chest. Strength. A steady hum that whispered you could walk again. Live again.
You pushed yourself up, legs trembling under your own weight, but they held. Step by step, you trudged down the hall and creaked your way down the stairs.
Lev sat curled on the couch. His small frame was hunched, his shoulders tight, fingers twiddling over and over. His eyes flicked up when you entered, and the sight in them made you pause. Not just surprise. Not just relief. Fear.
You lowered yourself onto the cushion beside him, breath shallow. “Hey.”
Silence. He twisted his thumbs harder, gaze darting down.
Three long minutes passed before he whispered, “You were really sick.”
You nodded, throat tight.
He swallowed, his voice smaller now. “Do you… remember it?”
You shook your head slowly. “Not most of it.”
Lev exhaled through his nose, looking away toward the slats of the window. His lips pressed into a thin line, the kind that said good. Or maybe thank God. You weren’t sure.
You sat together in the quiet, the world around you waking. The sun broke higher, spilling gold across the room. The smell of salt and wood filled the air. For the first time in months, you felt like the two of you were just… here. Breathing. Alive.
Then thunder—Abby’s footsteps pounding the stairs. “Joan? Lev?”
Her voice cracked with panic, sharp with the kind of fear you hadn’t heard from her in a long time.
You both turned as she burst into view. She stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs, gasping out a shaky breath of relief. Her shoulders dropped, her hand braced against the wall as though she’d been holding her lungs hostage.
Tank top clinging to her frame, loose cotton pants brushing her ankles, hair a tousled halo from sleep—she looked raw, real, beautiful.
You wanted to kiss her. Right there, with the sunlight pouring over her skin.
Lev stood without a word, his small frame moving quietly toward the stairs. The boards creaked under his steps. A moment later, you heard the soft rush of the shower pipes groaning to life, water striking the tub upstairs.
Abby lowered herself onto the couch beside you, her weight dipping the cushion. She pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled through it, long and slow, like she was trying to push out weeks of held tension.
“You have no idea the scare you gave us when you were sick,” she murmured, her voice heavy.
Your gaze dropped to your lap. Your fingers twisted the hem of your borrowed shirt. “What… what did I do?”
Abby hesitated. You felt the pause in your bones—the way her chest expanded with a breath she wasn’t sure she wanted to let out. Finally, she swallowed and said it.
“You grabbed him. Really hard.” Her voice dipped quieter, careful. “You… cried about Frank to him.”
The air rushed out of you in a sharp gasp. Your eyes widened, your throat clenching. “Oh god.” The shame burned hot and sudden, like bile rising again.
Abby’s hand moved instinctively to your back, firm and steady. She rubbed slow circles, grounding you. “I’ll talk to him. It’s okay,” she said gently, though her eyes were shadowed with worry. “I know you two… you spent a lot of time apart on the way to Ensenada. He’ll understand.”
You nodded weakly, but the words didn’t soothe you. Not fully. The truth you kept buried pressed hard against your chest.
Lev scared you.
You loved him—God, you loved him. Like a brother, maybe even like a son. But loving him didn’t mean you trusted yourself with him. Every time you saw his young face, every time you caught the spark of his laughter or the worry in his eyes, you thought about how badly you could break him.
You weren’t the caretaker Abby was. You weren’t steady or patient or whole. You were fractured, stitched together by survival and grief, a mess trying to pretend at stability.
And what if all you did was ruin it?
What if you tore apart the fragile little family Abby had built, just by being in it?
Your chest ached as you hugged your arms around your ribs, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. The words scraped out of your throat before you could stop them.
“I don’t know… if it’s right that I’m here.”
Abby scoffed immediately, sharp but not cruel. “Stop it, Joan.”
Your head snapped toward her, surprised by the bluntness. “What?”
She chuckled low in her chest, leaning back against the couch cushions like she’d heard this a hundred times before. “You always get like this. Scared. Self-deprecating. It’s okay. You were sick. He’ll be alright.”
You dropped your gaze, chewing at your lip. “But what if I mess everything up?” The fear was small, but it sounded so loud in the quiet room.
Abby rolled her eyes—not dismissively, but with exasperated affection. “Lev loves you. You know that. He helped me braid your hair when you were too out of it to sit up.”
Your face flushed hot. You pictured his small hands fumbling through your hair, gentle, patient. It lodged something tight in your chest. Lev cared. He cared about you too, even if you didn’t always feel like you deserved it.
Abby shifted closer, her voice softer now, though it carried no hesitation. “I’m tired of the bullshit, okay?”
Your eyes flicked to hers, startled by the rawness.
She leaned forward, holding your gaze steady, unwavering. “You’re a part of this family, Joan.”
The morning light broke through the window just then, laying soft gold across her face. Her pink lips curved into a small smile, simple but beautiful, enough to unravel the walls you kept building.
For a moment you couldn’t breathe—not from fever, not from weakness, but from the terrifying truth that she meant it. She meant every word.
You relaxed into the couch, shoulder leaning into hers, letting your weight rest against her steady frame. The words slipped out of you before you could second-guess them.
“I love you,” you said softly, barely above the hum of morning silence.
You heard her breath catch. She turned her head, eyes on you, and when she spoke her voice was warm, sure. “I love you too.”
Your stomach fluttered with guilt—because you didn’t say it often, not as often as she deserved. Usually it was Abby carrying that weight, Abby saying it first, Abby reminding you. You swallowed and looked away, staring at the bookcase across the room.
It was different now. Lev had added little things while you’d been out—bits of sea shells lined up on the shelves, a driftwood carving, a handful of pictures scrawled on paper tacked against the wall. The house wasn’t just survival anymore. It looked lived in. Loved.
Your throat tightened. If Abby was like a mother to him—steady, protective, his anchor—then what were you?
Your chest ached with the question. A sister? A friend? Something else entirely? Or were you just… extra. A shadow that clung to the edges of the family they’d already built.
The thought burned, bitter and familiar.
Abby’s hand shifted, brushing over yours on the couch cushion. Her fingers curled, slow but deliberate, pulling your hand into her lap. Her thumb rubbed across your knuckles, grounding you before the spiral could pull you too far under.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” she murmured, like she already knew what storm was in your head.
You let out a shaky little chuckle, though the sound caught in your raw throat. The thought that followed almost made you laugh harder—wasn’t it backwards? You, thin and frail, ribs jutting like the bones of a fish, shorter than Abby by half a head, yet sometimes you felt like… the father figure? Stern and quiet, the one sitting in the corner with too many thoughts while everyone else carried on. Someone who chewed on the meaning of life while pretending to know the answers.
The idea was absurd. You shook it off quickly, embarrassed even in your own mind. You could barely keep your own head above water most days—what kind of anchor could you ever be to anyone?
Abby shifted beside you, her warmth pulling away. You looked up just in time to see her stretching her shoulders, her frame filling the morning light that spilled through the windows. She moved into the kitchen space with a steadiness that reminded you how solid she always seemed, even when you were unraveling.
She crouched at the stove, pulling yesterday’s pot of soup from the counter and setting it over the flame. The smell rose quickly, savory and rich, sea salt and herbs steeped deep into the broth. It was the kind of food Catalina had given you—humble but alive, something that warmed from the inside out.
You watched her stir, her back turned to you, her hair a little messy where it brushed against her shoulders. The motions were simple, routine, but something about them hit you deep. Abby wasn’t the soldier right now. She wasn’t the commander barking orders. She was just… Abby. Keeping you fed. Keeping you alive.
The thought twisted in your chest, equal parts comfort and guilt.
You walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The glass was cool against your fingertips, a faint condensation fogging near the corners. Summer had long passed—now it was late November slipping into December.
Back home, winter meant banks of snow swallowing the sidewalks, wind cutting like knives down alleys. Here, Catalina never dipped below the forties, but the ocean air carried a damp bite that sank straight into your bones.
You sighed and stepped onto the porch. The wooden planks creaked softly beneath your weight, still faintly warm from the day’s sun but cooling fast. The air nipped at your cheeks, sharper than you’d expected, and you tugged your sleeves down over your hands. Waves rolled onto the shore just past the dunes, their foam glowing silver in the moonlight, the crash and hiss a steady rhythm.
“Joan!” Abby’s voice carried from the kitchen, muffled by the screen door, pots clattering loud behind her. “You just got better!”
You huffed a little laugh and lowered yourself onto the bench. The wood was rough but solid, and you leaned back, letting the cool night air fill your lungs until it stung.
The door creaked again, softer this time. Lev padded out, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, still carrying the clean, herbal scent of the soap Abby had bartered for. He sat down beside you without a word.
You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “Don’t come outside with wet hair,” you muttered, your voice more fond than scolding.
He ignored you, folding his arms, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea met the sky. The two of you sat like that for a while, breathing in sync with the waves. Finally, you swallowed and broke the silence.
“I’m sorry,” you said, low but steady. “For… for what I did when I was sick. For grabbing you like that.”
Lev’s breath fogged in the air. He didn’t look at you, just huffed through his nose. “It’s alright.”
The weight of it lifted a little—just enough that your chest loosened.
Before either of you could say more, the screen door banged open and Abby’s tall frame filled the doorway, her scowl undercut by the softness in her eyes. “Get the hell inside—both of you!”
You and Lev traded a look, a shared smirk, before slipping back into the warmth of the house.
The soup smelled rich and spiced, steam rising from the pot Abby set on the table. You all sat close together, the three of you, shoulders brushing as you spooned mouthfuls in silence. The only sound was the quiet clink of spoons and the endless song of the waves crashing just beyond the walls.
Domestic bliss, you thought. Fragile, makeshift—but real.
You studied Abby’s face across the table, the way the lamplight cut soft shadows along her jaw. How old was she now? The thought pressed into you suddenly, sharper than it should’ve been. You had turned twenty-five while you were sick, somewhere between fever dreams and buckets by the bed. But Abby—how many candles would have burned on her cake if the world still cared about cakes?
You realized, with a pang, that you didn’t even know.
Her eyes flicked up, catching yours. She smiled, like she always did when she noticed you drifting too long in your own head.
You sat back in your chair. “When’s your birthday?” The words fell out dully, but honest.
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Did we seriously never ask each other that?” A chuckle slipped from her, low and warm.
You shook your head, feeling a little ridiculous. Across from you, Lev froze mid-bite, staring at the two of you like you had just confessed a crime.
Abby set her spoon down, thought for a moment, then answered. “February sixteenth.”
You nodded, tucking it away like it was the most valuable secret in the world.
Her gaze narrowed playfully. “Yours?”
“October third.”
Her eyes widened. She leaned forward slightly. “Wait—your birthday passed already?”
You hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. While I was sick.”
Lev blinked between you, his voice uncertain. “...Happy birthday?”
The way he said it—tentative, almost scolding himself for being late—made your lips twitch. Abby tried to hold it in too, but then it hit both of you at the same time.
Your laughter erupted together, sharp and uncontrollable. Lev frowned, baffled, which only made it worse. Abby leaned back in her chair, head tipping toward the ceiling, her whole chest shaking. You clutched your stomach, wiping at your eyes.
It wasn’t really funny—not in a normal world. But in this one, with soup bowls and waves echoing against the shore outside, it felt like the best joke you’d ever heard.
“Lev, you are so funny,” you giggled, still catching your breath from the shared laughter with Abby.
He furrowed his brows, lips pursed like he wasn’t sure if you were teasing or not. “...Thanks?”
That made Abby snort, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle it.
You leaned on the table, eyes glinting. “What about you? When’s your birthday?”
Lev let out a long, resigned sigh, as if this conversation was suddenly very heavy. “March tenth.”
You nodded slowly. “And you’d be…?”
He tilted his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling beams as though he was actually counting. Finally, he shrugged with solemn finality. “Fifteen.”
Abby let out an exaggerated huff. “Wow. You’re really getting old.”
Lev nodded gravely, his face dead serious. “Yup. I am.” A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he kept his tone flat, like it was a tragic fact he had already accepted.
You burst out laughing, unable to hold it back. Abby shook her head, chuckling, her broad shoulders bouncing as she leaned back in her chair. Even Lev cracked then, his straight face breaking into a shy grin.
The sound of the three of you laughing together filled the little house, warm and easy. Lev had that way of being hilarious without even trying—so serious, so earnest—that it only made everything funnier. And for a fleeting moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter. Just soup bowls, laughter, and the small, cobbled family you’d found.
Lev turned to you pointing with a slender finger. “Abby will be twenty six… joan how odla re you?”
The way he said you was almost accusatory, like you were ancient compared to him. You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Twenty-five now.”
Lev nodded once, his face deadly serious again. “You two are old.”
That pulled another laugh from your chest, though this one was quieter, softer—not the bursting kind from earlier, just a small chuckle you couldn’t contain.
You stood, gathering everyone’s bowls in your arms. The weight of them was nothing, but it gave your hands something to do, something grounding. You rinsed each one in the basin, the water sloshing as you scrubbed, the faint scrape of wood and ceramic filling the silence. Steam rose faintly from the hot water, curling against your face. For a moment you let yourself focus on the simple rhythm—dip, scrub, rinse, dry.
Behind you, their voices rose and fell in easy cadence, Abby’s low hum against Lev’s brighter tone. You couldn’t catch the words over the splashing, but you didn’t need to. Just hearing them talk—normal, relaxed—was enough.
When you finished, you wiped your damp hands on your shirt and padded back into the living room. They were at the small table by the window now, hunched over the battered chessboard Lev had salvaged weeks ago.
Abby sat forward, elbows on the table, brows knitted together like she was planning a military campaign instead of a game. Lev, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, lips pursed in thought, fingers hovering above a pawn as if savoring the suspense of his next move.
You slipped quietly into the chair beside Abby, the wood creaking under your weight. She glanced at you, her lips twitching into a soft smile before she turned back to the board. Her hand found your knee under the table, squeezing lightly, absent but reassuring, as though to say you’re here, you’re part of this.
The pieces clacked softly against the board, the tide of battle contained in that little square of wood and bone.
This felt good. It felt domestic.
But Catalina… this island didn’t feel like home. No matter how many shells Lev lined on the windowsills, no matter how many meals Abby cooked with what little the settlement had, it still felt borrowed. You missed the seasons—real ones. You missed the trees shedding their leaves, the sharp smell of autumn, the wet bite of cold rain on your skin. Here, the air was always the same—salt and sun, the waves never stopping.
You leaned your chin into your palm, staring at the chessboard but not seeing it. Your voice slipped out before you even thought about it. “Do you like it here?”
Lev’s brow furrowed as if the question surprised him. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, then nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was simple, certain. Maybe for him it was easier—this place was safe, quiet, not burning or bleeding.
You nodded too, more out of reflex than agreement. Your eyes drifted toward Abby. She was already watching you, her sharp blue gaze reading every crack in your face. She didn’t press, didn’t ask what you meant, just held your stare for a long second before looking back at the board.
The silence stretched thin. None of you filled it. You just let it hang there, hovering like a question no one wanted to answer.
You missed cold winter nights with stew on the stove. Snow on the ground and people huddled together for warmth.
Abby’s thumb traced lazy circles on your knee as she played chess with Lev. You watched the board tilt more and more in his favor, until finally she groaned and leaned back in frustration.
“I’m done,” she huffed. “You win.”
Lev smirked, smug as only a fifteen-year-old could be. “I always win.”
You chuckled under your breath as he began sweeping the pieces into their worn pouch, his victory obvious. You slipped upstairs quietly, needing a moment alone.
The bathroom smelled faintly of soap and damp wood. It looked the same as you remembered—faded tiles, a cracked mirror above the sink, steam stains on the ceiling. You peeled off your shirt, your pants, and finally your underwear, until you stood naked before the mirror.
The sight made your stomach twist.
Your ribs jutted sharp under your skin, your cheeks hollow and pale. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath your eyes. You looked fragile, almost breakable. Not strong, not filled-out and sun-kissed the way Abby was. Her body had changed again since Catalina—muscle coiled under soft skin, freckles deepened by the sun, her hair brushing her shoulders. She looked alive. You looked… ruined.
Ugly. Weak.
You gritted your teeth and yanked open a drawer. Scissors glinted dull silver in your trembling hands. You tugged the braid loose, your brittle hair falling uneven over your shoulders. With a few rough snips, strands scattered into the sink. By the time you stopped, your hair was cropped short above your ears. Messy, choppy—but fuller somehow. More you.
A shaky sigh left your chest. Then you stepped into the shower.
The water was warm, wrapping your body in steam, rinsing months of sickness from your skin. Soap foamed in your hands, sliding down your chest. It felt like a baptism, like peeling away the weight of fever and vomit. For the first time in months, you felt clean.
The door creaked open behind you.
“Joan, hey—” Abby’s voice started, then broke into a chuckle. “You cut your hair already?”
You turned just as her clothes rustled to the floor. A moment later, the curtain shifted and she stepped in, tall and solid, her skin already dampened by the steam.
Before you could protest, her body pressed against yours, hot water cascading over both of you. Shame surged up your throat—you wanted to hide, to shrink, but Abby’s arms wrapped around you firmly. Her lips found your collarbone, then your jaw, soft kisses anchoring you against the storm in your head.
“I’m so happy you got better,” she whispered, voice breaking into your skin.
A small hum slipped from you, your body betraying you as warmth coiled low in your stomach. You shivered when her mouth brushed your neck, goosebumps blooming under her touch.
She chuckled quietly, a sound low and intimate. “I’d love to…” Her lips grazed your ear. “But I want to wait until you’re really better.”
You whined, unable to help yourself.
That made her laugh again, surprised, and then her lips pressed to yours. Long, firm, unhurried. Her kiss carried everything—relief, longing, the weight of months spent watching you fade in and out of sickness. Her soft lips soothed your chapped ones, her taste grounding you in the here and now.
Your hands slid down Abby’s waist, tracing the firm ridges of her abs, your fingertips dragging lower until they brushed through the soft down of hair on her stomach. You always loved that detail about her—the faint blonde that caught only in the light, nearly invisible unless you were close enough to see, close enough to touch.
Your fingers kept moving, grazing through the hair between her legs, down to her slick heat.
“Joan,” she whispered, the sound shaky, reverent.
You toyed with her clit gently, circling, teasing, and her breath caught, shoulders quivering under the shower spray. A soft whimper escaped her throat, and then a laugh that cracked apart with nerves. “It’s been awhile.”
You kissed her neck in answer, letting your lips linger against her pulse as your fingers played with her. She trembled against you, but when you suddenly pulled away her whole body leaned forward in protest.
“Why’d you stop?” she breathed, face flushed, eyes lowered, chest rising and falling too fast.
You kissed her again, deep and firm, then broke away just enough to murmur, “I thought you said you wanted to wait.”
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Maybe I changed my mind.”
Something about the way she said it—gentle, not demanding—made you shiver. Because your mind flickered back to Ensenada, to how different she’d been there. The way she had edged you for hours, how rough she’d been when she finally fucked you with the strap you found, how cruel she’d sounded when she refused to let you come. This Abby was softer, quieter, and it nearly broke you.
Her lips found your neck again as she turned you, pressing your back flat against the cold tile. You let out a small gasp, fighting a whine, but she pinned your wrists above your head with practiced ease. The heat of her body contrasted against the icy wall, steam curling around you both.
You wrestled one hand free and slid it down between her thighs. Her slick coated your fingers instantly, dripping down her strong legs. She whimpered and buried her face against your shoulder, her breath hot and uneven. Her whole body leaned into you like she couldn’t hold herself up anymore.
You slipped a finger inside her and curled, pressing against her walls. A quiet, broken whimper spilled from her lips.
You smiled and pushed another finger in, filling her, stretching her open.
Her hips bucked forward, desperate, her voice rough. “Move faster, Joan.”
She was so pent-up it was almost adorable. Her face was flushed, her eyes hooded as she gasped.
You pumped your fingers faster, harder, angling until you hit the sensitive spot deep inside her. Abby bit down on your shoulder, muffling her moans, and the sharp sting of her teeth only spurred you on. Your fingers worked her with relentless rhythm, the water crashing down over both of you.
Her thighs trembled, her body rocking uncontrollably. Then she stiffened, her whole frame tightening around you.
“I’m close—” she whimpered, voice breaking.
You kissed along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, not stopping the pace of your hand. She let out small, helpless sounds into your skin, gasping, stuttering breaths.
And then she broke, hips fluttering against your hand as her orgasm tore through her. Her cry was ragged but swallowed by the roar of the shower, so only you could hear her.
You kissed her face over and over as she came apart in your arms, holding her up as she shivered and gasped against you, her forehead pressed to yours.
She caught her breath, her chest rising and falling against yours, then gently sat you down on the edge of the tub. The porcelain was cool against your thighs, a sharp contrast to the steam swirling around both of you.
Abby dropped to her knees between your legs, her big hands spreading your thighs apart with an ease that made you shiver. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours for just a second—dark, hungry, but also so full of love it nearly broke you—before she leaned in.
Suddenly, her mouth was on you. Her tongue moved quick, deliberate circles, lapping you up like she’d been starved for you these past months you’d been sick.
Your cry ripped up your throat, but her hand pressed firmly over your mouth, smothering the scream before it could leave. The warmth of her palm, the weight of her hand—god, it only made your stomach twist tighter with need.
You could tell she’d missed this. Missed touching you. Missed watching you unravel. Every flick of her tongue was desperate, urgent, almost frantic, like she’d been holding herself back for too long.
Your whole body shook, nerves on fire, as the climax came too fast—your body unprepared, oversensitive after so long without release. It overtook you, crashing through you like a wave.
Your eyes rolled back into your head, vision white-hot as your body jerked against her mouth. She chuckled into you, a low, vibrating sound that made you see stars.
Abby never let you only give. She never allowed herself to just take. She was too much of a giver, too much of a caretaker who thrived on watching you fall apart. She wanted this—your pleasure, your wrecked body against hers—more than anything.
When she finally pulled back, she kissed her way up your stomach, up your chest, then pressed her lips against yours. You tasted yourself on her tongue, raw and bitter, and it wasn’t pleasant, but the heat in her kiss made it something else entirely.
She kissed your cheeks, your temple, the bridge of your nose, soft laughter breaking through her breaths. Her forehead pressed against yours as she whispered, “You still okay?” Her voice was ragged, breathless, but warm.
You nodded quickly, still trembling, your head falling against her shoulder. The smell of soap and her skin filled your lungs as her lips brushed the crook of your neck.
She sighed against you, holding you close in the spray of the shower, her kiss lingering there, almost reverent.
This was bliss.
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She helped you wash, her big hands steady and patient as she guided the soap across your skin, rinsing away the sweat and the months of illness like she could scrub every bad memory clean. Afterward, she toweled you off slowly, even helping you step into your clothes. Abby dressing you felt like something you should’ve been embarrassed about, but she was so careful, so sweet, it almost made your teeth ache.
You brushed your teeth side by side, bumping elbows with her at the sink. She spat, wiped her mouth, and gave you that tiny smile—half tired, half amused—that made your chest go warm.
When you stepped out into the hallway, your feet padded against the wood. You had on an old pair of jeans that clung loose now, and a green shirt that still smelled faintly like the cedar chests the Fireflies used for storage. Abby wore her usual—tight black shirt, worn cargo pants, plain socks pulled high. She always managed to look grounded, ready, while you felt like you were still learning how to stand again.
You stretched, your back cracking in protest, before drifting downstairs. Lev was curled into the couch, flipping through a dog-eared book. The cover had a shark sketched in faded ink, jaws wide open. His lips moved silently as he read, like he wanted to absorb every word.
Abby trailed behind you, her footsteps heavy on the stairs, and sat beside him, leaning just close enough to peek at the pages. Her sigh melted into something softer as Lev started chatting about the facts he’d just learned. His voice carried—excited, earnest—and you felt your chest tug with affection for them both.
You stepped outside instead, slipping onto the porch. The air was cool, though warmer than it had been the week before. The ocean breeze still carried a bite, brushing your cheeks pink, but it was nothing compared to the winters you remembered. You needed the distance, the quiet.
You laced your boots, tugging them snug, and stood. From inside, you could still hear Lev’s voice weaving through the pages of his shark book, Abby humming small answers, her tone proud.
You sighed, stretching your shoulders, then walked down the familiar dirt trail toward the ocean. The crash of waves pulled you forward, their rhythm steady, endless. Out there, maybe you’d find some kind of answer—or just a moment where you didn’t feel so heavy.

Chapter 61: Is that what you want?

The waves rushed against the shore in a rhythm that sounded softer than you expected, like the island itself was trying to lull you. You unlaced your boots, leaving them on the dry sand, and rolled your jeans to your knees. The water stung cold when it lapped at your ankles, making you gasp as the chill climbed your skin.
You walked slowly, letting the foam swirl around your feet, salty spray catching on your calves. The world felt both endless and small here, the horizon stretching wide but the shore hemming you in.
Bending down, you picked up a few smooth stones. Their weight felt solid, grounding, in your palm. You tried to skip them across the surface, flicking your wrist the way you’d seen others do, but each one plunked into the water after only a bounce—if it bounced at all. You sighed, a frustrated sound carried away by the wind, and gave up.
You trudged back to the sand, toes gritty and damp, and dropped down beside your boots. The grains clung stubbornly, caking your skin as you wiggled your feet. Your damp hair stuck to your neck, beginning to dry in the cool breeze, strands fluttering when the wind picked up.
Staring out at the horizon, you felt your thoughts slip free of the present. They scrambled, messy and uncontained, until one name erupted through the noise.
Frank.
Your chest tightened. He would’ve loved this—every bit of it. The boat ride, the house by the sea, even Lev. You could almost picture him here, laughing at the way you botched the rock skipping, making some sarcastic crack before trying to teach you himself.
You pressed your finger into the sand and began tracing circles, over and over, shallow grooves that the wind threatened to erase. The sound of the waves carried, but the whistle of the wind in your ears was louder. Almost like it wanted to fill the silence he left behind.
You closed your eyes, letting the salty air brush against your cheeks, sharp and clean, almost like it was trying to sting life back into you. Your hair—short now, that uneven chopped bob—lay flat against your damp head, strands sticking to your temple.
In your mind, Frank was here.
You pictured him crouched beside Lev, pointing at the shark book with that crooked half-smile of his, rattling off stories about things he’d “heard from someone once” and pretending it was fact. Lev would light up, challenge him, argue. Frank would love it—he always thrived off someone curious, someone eager to learn.
You imagined Frank walking the shoreline with him, boots sinking into wet sand, both of them bending down to poke at tide pools or collect shells. Frank would’ve found a boat, of course he would’ve, and he’d have taken Lev fishing before anyone else thought to. You could see him teaching the boy how to gut a fish with steady hands, humming something off-key, laughing when Lev wrinkled his nose at the smell.
In your head, you saw him at the kitchen table, leaning back in a chair with that easy confidence, laughing with Abby. Maybe teasing her about how serious she got when she explained a plan. Maybe making her laugh in that rare, sharp way only a few people ever managed.
You pictured his boots left by the porch, dirt worn into the leather, like they belonged there. You imagined the smell of his smoke curling through the salty air, softening into the ocean breeze.
But then your thoughts shifted—maybe here, he wouldn’t even smoke. Maybe Catalina would’ve been enough to settle him. Maybe here he could’ve leaned back, exhaled, and let himself relax in a way you never saw him do in Boston.
The ache in your chest throbbed. It almost felt real—like if you opened your eyes, you’d catch him walking up the path with Lev at his side.
But a small weight dipped next to you, and you opened your eyes.
It wasn’t Abby—it was Lev.
You swiped the tears quickly from your face, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and turned to him. “What’s up?” you asked, trying for steady but your voice still cracked a little.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he settled in the sand beside you, knees pulled up, staring out at the horizon with that same stillness Abby had. After a moment, he smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I had a sister once,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to swallow past the ache. You didn’t dare interrupt.
“Yara,” he continued, his fingers absentmindedly tracing little divots in the sand. The way he said her name was soft, reverent, like he was afraid the ocean might carry it away.
You nodded, encouraging him without words.
“She had to have her arm cut off,” he said, pausing, his voice wavering. “Abby got the supplies for her, but… she was killed.” His jaw worked as he tried to steady himself, and then he swallowed, hard.
You turned to him, but still, you didn’t speak.
“I dream of her a lot,” he admitted. His hand closed around a shell half-buried in the sand, then let it go.
Your eyes softened, and something in your chest cracked open.
He looked away toward the horizon, his voice smaller now. “So I know how you feel.”
The tears you’d been trying to hold back burned hot again, but instead of pulling away, you let him lean into you. His head rested against your shoulder—warm, fragile, but solid.
You exhaled slowly, closing your eyes, the crash of the waves filling the silence around you both. For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel so alone in your grief.
You sat with him for a long while, both of you quiet, letting the ocean fill the space where words usually had to go. The steady rhythm of the waves made it easier to breathe, easier to sit with the heaviness between you.
Then Lev’s voice broke the silence, soft but certain.
“I like that you’re here with us.”
Your lips curved into a small smile.
But he wasn’t finished. His voice carried a little more weight this time, almost nervous but genuine.
“I love you, Joan… maybe not as much as I love Abby… but I love you too.”
A soft laugh slipped out of you, choked with emotion you didn’t want to spill. You turned to him, meeting his brown eyes shining in the morning light.
“I love you too, Lev.”
His grin widened, brighter than you’d seen all week, and it melted something inside of you.
Without another word, he pushed himself to his feet, brushing sand from his palms. “Can we climb those rocks?” He pointed toward a jagged outcropping further down the shore, the kind of place where waves crashed louder and sharper.
You nodded, standing slowly, brushing the grit from your jeans. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
He scrambled ahead with that restless energy only a teenager could have, and you followed a step behind, your body still shaky but steadier than it had been in months. For the first time in what felt like forever, your heart felt a little lighter.
You noticed as you trailed behind him that Lev had gotten taller. His shoulders looked broader too, his steps longer and more sure. He wore his hair differently now—a trimmed mohawk, the sides cropped close, the top trailing down into a little rat tail at the back of his neck. It suited him. It made him look older, like he was trying to carve out his own identity.
The muscle tank and jeans he wore looked like something he’d borrowed from Abby’s style, and he’d bulked up a bit in the months you’d been sick. He didn’t look like the fragile kid you remembered from Seattle—he was growing into himself, faster than you were ready for.
He was faster too. By the time you’d dragged yourself halfway toward the rocks, your chest burned, your breath coming up short. Your legs felt like they’d given up.
“Lev… I can’t—I’m tired,” you panted, sitting down in the sand.
He glanced back with a grin, his face flushed with excitement. But before he could say anything, Abby’s voice rang sharp from the porch.
“Get back in here!” she barked, shrill with worry.
Lev only chuckled, shaking his head as he kept climbing, his hand and foot finding purchase on the rocks like he’d been practicing.
You stayed put, pressing your palms into the sand to steady your shaky breathing, and let your eyes follow him up.
The slam of boots on wood drew your attention—Abby had stormed out of the house, exasperation all over her face as she came to stand behind you. Her arms crossed tight against her chest as she tracked Lev’s movements with hawk-like precision.
“You better not go up there,” she warned without looking at you, her voice edged but not unkind.
You laughed softly at her protectiveness and shook your head, sinking further into the sand. “Don’t worry,” you sighed. “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
That seemed to ease her a little. She exhaled, heavy and frustrated, then finally sat down beside you. Her shoulder brushed yours, and together you watched Lev climb, the two of you holding your breath in the same quiet rhythm every time he slipped, waiting for him to steady again.
She turned to you then, her expression softening into something almost girlish despite the edge she always carried. “I have to go to base… think you can handle dinner?”
You nodded quickly, though curiosity itched at you. “How come you’re going to base?”
Her lips pulled into a faint smile, one that made her freckles catch the late sun. “I haven’t been there since you got sick. Haven’t reported the mission. Gotta give them what I learned in Ensenada.”
The words sank into you, heavy as a stone. She had been tied to you all this time, bound by your fever and delirium, never leaving your side long enough to breathe properly, and now you realized she’d been holding back her duties just to keep you alive. The guilt knotted in your stomach and turned your throat dry.
You turned your face away, your jaw tight. She must’ve noticed, because she sighed softly and leaned back on her palms, the movement easy, relaxed. Her head tipped back, catching the sea breeze. “I’m so happy you’re better.”
You studied her profile without replying—her jawline strong but softened by the faintest smile, her eyes fixed on Lev climbing like nothing in the world could touch him. She looked so content in that moment, watching him grow, watching you still here beside her.
The guilt pressed harder. Abby should have been allowed to feel this way months ago, instead of wasting nights keeping your fever at bay. But at the same time, the warmth in her face told you she didn’t see it as wasted at all.
She rose and made her way toward Lev, her long strides purposeful. You assumed she was filling him in about heading to base, and whatever she said, he nodded without fuss, then hopped down from the rocks. His bare feet kicked sand as he jogged over to you, his breath quick from the run.
“Can you make steamed fish tonight?” he asked, his tone casual but expectant, like he already trusted you’d say yes.
You nodded, the corner of your mouth tugging into a smile. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Satisfied, he grinned and darted off toward the shore. You trailed behind at your own pace, watching him push his little boat out over the shallows. His silhouette grew smaller and smaller, the curve of his back bending as he cast his line into the surf. From the porch you could still see him, a speck against the horizon, so determined and self-sufficient it almost startled you.
You let out a sigh, sitting on the step for a moment longer. The breeze carried the salt into your lungs, cool but not biting. Catalina air always carried a strange sweetness you hadn’t found anywhere else.
Then you stood, brushing sand from your palms. Abby shouldn’t be the only one running herself into the ground. If you were better now, if you were strong enough to stand, you could at least handle the chores.
The kitchen greeted you with its familiar clutter—the chipped bowls stacked high, a trail of sand dusted across the floor from Lev’s damp boots, a knife still out from Abby’s last meal. You rolled your sleeves up, set a pot to soak, and let the rhythm of cleaning settle over you.
For the first time in months, you weren’t just surviving—you were contributing.
You grabbed the broom from the corner and started in the kitchen, sweeping carefully into little piles before dragging them out the back door. Then into the living room, the bristles scratching across the old wooden floorboards. Your body still ached from too much time in bed, joints stiff and muscles thin, but the ache felt better than lying still. You needed to move—needed proof you weren’t a ghost in this house anymore.
After sweeping, you filled the bucket and mopped, the vinegar-and-lemon cleaner Abby had concocted filling the air. The sharp citrus bite almost stung your nose, but it smelled clean, alive. You wiped the counters, the table, even the shelves where Lev’s shells and trinkets had started to pile up.
Then you pushed the windows open wide, letting the cool December air flow through. The curtains billowed and the house breathed with you, lighter somehow.
Upstairs, you tugged the sheets tight on your shared bed, shook out the blankets, fluffed the pillows. You folded the laundry stacked at the end of the bed—Abby’s tank tops, Lev’s jeans, your own worn shirts. You couldn’t help but smile. If Abby had it her way, you thought, she’d be out playing soldier, sleek and strong, while you stayed behind folding her laundry and keeping the home alive. The thought made you laugh out loud, the sound bouncing off the walls.
You cracked Lev’s door next, peeked in at the mess of clothes, books, and scraps littering the floor. You shut it again immediately. Nope. He could clean his own room.
The bathroom was last—quick wipe-down, mop across the tile. You were standing at the top of the stairs when the front door creaked open. Lev slipped in, setting a bucket down with the faint thud of water sloshing inside. Fish glinted silver at the bottom. He bent to tug his boots off, then padded inside barefoot.
Straight across the freshly mopped floor.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, breathless with disbelief.
Sand scattered behind him like breadcrumbs.
Lev froze mid-step, wide-eyed, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
He looked around at the spotless house he had just wrecked.
“Oh.” he said quietly.
“Oh?” you questioned.
He stared at you for one guilty heartbeat—then bolted. Out the door, bare feet slapping against the porch wood before you could even open your mouth.
You stood in the wreck of sand and seawater he’d tracked in, broom still clutched in your hand like a useless weapon. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, chest puffing with a breath you couldn’t decide was frustration or laughter.
The grit crunched under your boots as you swept your gaze over the trail he’d left. Perfect. Just perfect. You’d spent the whole afternoon making this place shine, and in three seconds he’d undone it.
Still… the little shit had sprinted like the devil was chasing him, and that part made you chuckle. It was hard to stay mad.
You sighed, set the broom back down, and hauled the fish bucket outside. The smell of salt and brine hit your nose. “Scale these and gut them and I’ll forgive you!” you hollered out into the yard.
For a while there was only the sound of waves and gulls, and you wondered if he’d actually listen. Then you caught the faint scuff of his boots in the mudroom. The back door eased shut, hinges groaning, like he thought you wouldn’t hear.
You smirked. Water ran from the spigot, quick splashes hitting a basin. Metal scraped and the faint, wet sound of scales flicking free filled the air. He’d actually taken the bait.
You leaned against the wall, arms folded, listening to him mutter under his breath when a fish slipped or a knife clinked wrong. The mudroom smelled sharp and clean, like ocean air mixed with iron. A room you hadn’t explored yet—Abby kept most of the tools and gear stashed in there.
Hearing Lev work so intently, trying to prove himself, softened the frustration that had knotted in your chest. For the first time, you realized he wasn’t a kid who needed scolding. He was someone trying, the same as you, to belong here.
The last streaks of orange bled across the horizon as you wrung out the mop, the water murky and smelling faintly of vinegar and salt. Your arms ached, but at least the floors gleamed again.
Lev crept back in, his bucket of gutted fish in hand. His face was tight, guilt clinging to him like another layer of saltwater. He held it out without a word.
You didn’t scold him. Didn’t have the energy for it. Just took the bucket, lips pressed tight, and he bolted upstairs. This time—thank god—no trail of sand followed. The shower groaned to life above, water splattering the floorboards faintly through the pipes.
You went to work, cutting the fish into thick slices and laying them over onions and the last of the dried apples. The steam rose quickly, filling the kitchen with something tangy and rich.
The door creaked open. Abby stepped inside, boots heavy on the threshold. She unlaced them slow, her broad shoulders sagging. Her voice was weary but warm. “It’s clean in here—”
You turned, hands firm on your hips. “Lev is an asshole.”
Her brows shot up before she huffed out a laugh, half-confused. “What?”
You smirked and rolled your eyes, turning back to the pot. “Ask me later.”
She lingered there, watching you with that wary little smile, then padded over to the couch and collapsed into it. She groaned, running her hands over her face. “That was such a long meeting.”
You stared at the steam curling from the pot. Something in your chest bristled. “I am not going to be a housewife.”
Abby barked a laugh, muffled by her hands. “That’s fine.”
You turned, dead serious. “I mean it.”
She dropped her hands and cocked an eyebrow, still smiling. “Alright, alright. I hear you.”
The easy way she said it almost made you want to argue more—but her face, so tired, so damn open, made you pause instead.
Your mind raced as you cooked dinner.
You stared down at the water bubbling around the fish and herbs, steam curling up into your face. Wife. The word had slipped out of you earlier, and now it rang like a bell in your head.
If you’d been a man and Abby a woman in a different kind of world, you might’ve been talking about children by now. A family. Not the kind that had been forced onto you, not the broken one you crawled out of—but something soft, deliberate.
You had Lev, sure. He was practically yours and Abby’s in every way that mattered. But still… did Abby ever want more? Did she want a baby?
Your chest ached at the thought, a hollow ache that squeezed at your ribs. You could never give her that. Not the way the old world expected. Not the way she might have dreamed about when she was a kid.
And yet—your lips twitched. The thought of Abby pregnant, her tall, hard body swollen with child, was almost funny. You could picture her stomping around the house, glaring at anyone who dared to comment, her tank tops stretched tight over her belly. She’d look ridiculous. Beautiful, but ridiculous.
But did she wish it? Did she wish you could give that to her?
Before the thought could sink its claws too deep, you felt her arms slip around your waist from behind. Her warmth pressed into your back, her breath spilling into the crook of your neck. She swayed you both gently, like she was rocking you instead of the other way around.
Her lips brushed your shoulder as she nestled her face against your skin. “I missed you while I was away.”
Her voice was so soft, so unbearably tender, it almost broke you on the spot. Why was she always like this? Fierce in the world, soft with you. It made you want to cry, to collapse into her and let yourself be loved without question.
You only nodded, your throat too tight, and let her keep swaying you in the small kitchen. Her kisses trailed lazy and unhurried across your neck as the fish steamed, the room smelling of herbs and ocean. For one fragile moment, the war and sickness and blood of the past didn’t exist—only her, only this.
Your voice cracked even though you hadn’t said much. Abby could see right through you. She always did. That was Abby: sharp as a knife, but somehow tender enough to notice the parts of you you tried to hide. It made you feel raw and exposed just sitting beside her.
You put the plates down on the table, your fingers trembling. Lev had just trudged down the stairs, and you busied yourself with something to do—anything to do—so they wouldn’t notice the way your throat was closing. You scooped your own portion into a container, shoved it into the fridge, and muttered, “I’m going to bed early,” before either of them could ask questions.
Their eyes followed you, but you didn’t dare meet them. You climbed the stairs too fast, heart pounding, stomach knotting itself into something unmanageable. As soon as the bedroom door shut behind you, your breath broke apart.
It wasn’t just panic—it was suffocation. Your ribs ached like they were caving inward, like your body couldn’t contain the buzzing in your head. You pressed your palms to your chest, trying to hold yourself together, but it didn’t stop the wave.
Abby hadn’t been with women before you. She’d loved Owen. Really loved him. Owen, who could’ve given her a family, a child. A future you could never give her.
Did I steal that from her?
The thought ran circles, round and round until it was deafening. Your lungs stuttered. Your stomach lurched.
You stumbled into the bathroom, gagging, and bent over the toilet. Your body betrayed you instantly, vomiting hard until your throat seared with acid. You retched until you were hollow, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain. Tears spilled hot and unchecked down your cheeks, panic clawing higher every second.
The door creaked. Boots shifted on the wood.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice—low, careful, that softness she reserved for only you and Lev—made your chest clench. She crouched beside you, her bulk folding awkwardly onto the tile, and her warm palm pressed against your clammy forehead like she needed to know you were still here.
You wiped at your face uselessly, shame burning deeper than the nausea. “It’s stupid,” you rasped. A pathetic laugh broke out of you, brittle as glass.
Her brows furrowed as she studied you, searching. She didn’t buy it. Not for a second.
“Sorry,” you muttered, flushing the toilet with a trembling hand. “I just… I don’t know. Got some nerves.”
She slid an arm around you and pulled you close, solid and grounding. “About what?” she asked softly, her tone coaxing but steady. The kind of tone she only used when her walls were down.
You shook your head hard, tears still dripping off your jaw. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
She huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You have to—”
“I don’t have to!” you snapped, voice jagged.
The silence after cut sharp. Abby blinked, her blue eyes narrowing—not angry, but patient in a way that almost made you collapse. “Yes,” she whispered, softer than anything. “You do.”
The weight of her insistence sank heavy in your chest. You stared at her, throat raw. “I don’t want to,” you whispered back.
Instead of arguing, she wrapped her arms around you tighter, pulling your shaking body against hers. Her scent filled your nose—pine, lemon cleaner, the salt of her sweat—and for a moment it almost worked, almost slowed your spiraling.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a baby,” you blurted before you could stop yourself.
She froze. Then, unbelievably, she laughed. An awkward, squeaky laugh, like the words didn’t make sense to her. “What?”
You turned away, shame burning hot on your cheeks. “Do you… want a baby?” you asked quietly.
She tilted her head, tongue clicking against her teeth, eyes lifting toward the ceiling like she couldn’t believe the question. “If we ever did that? I figured you’d be the pregnant one.”
Your eyes went wide, then you rolled them, shoving her shoulder weakly. “No, I mean… like with a guy.”
Her face twisted instantly, her lip curling with disgust. “If I wanted a guy, Joan, I wouldn’t be with you.”
The words hit like a hammer, shattering something fragile and awful in your chest.
You almost said his name. Almost let Owen’s ghost claw its way between you, but you stopped yourself. Abby didn’t deserve that—not here, not now.
She pressed her arms tighter around you, stroking your damp hair back with one hand. “This is what made you throw up?” she murmured, voice dipping into a chuckle.
Your lip trembled as you nodded. Pathetic.
She rolled her eyes, leaned forward, and kissed your forehead, her lips lingering against your clammy skin. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered into your hair.
But she didn’t let go. Not once.
You sat with Abby for a long while, the silence hanging between you like damp air. You were content to let it stay there—until she broke it.
“Do you… want a baby?” she asked suddenly, her voice so quiet you almost thought you imagined it.
Your brows furrowed. The question felt like a punch, not because it was cruel, but because it was something you had never let yourself consider. A baby? You?
It had been nearly two and a half years since Seattle. You’d thought about survival, safety, love—but never a child. Not seriously. Not in this world.
You swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know. I never—” the words tangled in your throat, so fragile it felt like they might snap. “I never thought about myself having one.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes searching your face. “Just… other people?”
You gave the smallest nod, and she smiled faintly, though there was a weight under it.
“Well, I’m not gonna be the pregnant one,” she chuckled, trying to lighten the air.
That actually made you laugh, wiping your damp eyes with the heel of your hand. “You wouldn’t want to?” you teased, voice weak.
She shook her head firmly, curls brushing her cheek. “No way.”
Her hands slipped over yours then, grounding you. Her grip was strong but careful, the way she always held you—as though she could keep you from falling apart if she just kept holding tight enough. “Joan… is that something you’re actually thinking about?”
You sighed, chest tightening. “No, I just wanted to make sure you—”
But you stopped. Because something in her eyes shifted. A flicker you almost missed. Sadness. Disappointment. The kind she tried to hide but couldn’t, not from you.
“Abby?” you whispered, studying her. “Are you… do you?”
She cleared her throat, eyes falling to the floor. “I thought about it,” she admitted, voice low. “While you were sick. When it felt like you might…” Her jaw tightened. “I was scared you’d die, and that we’d never… you know. Never have a family.”
The words sat heavy between you. You stared at her for a long moment, heart pounding.
“I don’t know if I—” you started, but she shook her head quickly, cutting you off.
“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” she said too fast, too sharp, like she needed to put the thought back in its box before it scared you away.
The air turned thick, awkward, as though both of you were suddenly strangers again.
“Abby, do you—”
But she was already standing, rubbing the back of her neck, her body tense with nerves. “It’s okay. I’m gonna… I’m gonna finish dinner,” she muttered, and slipped out the door before you could press her.
The silence she left behind pressed down on your chest.
Abby wanted a child?
The thought chewed at you, biting into your ribs as you looked down at your own body. Thin, frail, still recovering from being bedridden. You’d only just beaten sickness—how could you even think of something like that?
You sighed and stood. The sink was cold under your hands as you rinsed your mouth, the taste of bile and fear lingering.
When you finally looked up, the mirror stared back at you. Your pale face, your sunken cheeks. You touched your stomach gently, imagining it swollen with life.
The image felt foreign. Ridiculous. Like trying on someone else’s skin.
And yet, the thought lingered.

Notes:

idk should we do it

Chapter 62: Gone

__________________________________________________________________________
Abby didn’t speak to you for the rest of the night. Not one word. It wasn’t anger—you knew her well enough to tell when she was angry. This wasn’t that. It was something quieter. Something heavier. Embarrassment, maybe. Disappointment, maybe.
She kept herself busy, moving around the house, checking doors, folding a blanket on the couch. Avoiding you.
By the time you crawled into bed, a book open in your lap, the silence between you was thick. You weren’t really reading. The words on the page blurred together, some romance about a soldier and a farm girl. All you were doing was waiting.
The door creaked. Abby walked in, her shoulders stiff, her steps deliberate. Her pajamas were an old faded pink—short sleeves and shorts. The soft color brought out her eyes, though she didn’t look at you as she crossed the room.
Yep. Embarrassed.
She sat on the edge of her side of the bed, her hands gripping her thighs as if steadying herself. Her leg bounced. She took a breath, her throat moving as she swallowed.
“I didn’t—” She stopped, jaw tightening. Ran a hand over her face, frustrated with herself.
You shut your book, setting it aside. You sat up straighter, waiting.
Her voice cracked when it finally came out. “We can, if you… god.” She dropped her head into her hands, shoulders hunching. The strongest person you knew suddenly looked so small.
You slid closer, your hand resting on her back. “Tell me.”
She huffed, looking at the door like she wished she could escape through it. Her voice was quiet, almost broken. “I don’t know, Joan. Yeah, I kind of want to have a baby with you—maybe not now, but… eventually.”
The words landed like stones in your stomach. You blinked. Nodded slowly, not sure what to say. “Okay.”
Her head snapped toward you. Her brows pinched together. “Okay?”
Her voice cracked sharp, brittle. The embarrassment curdled into irritation, her defenses snapping into place. “Fucking okay?”
You flinched a little at the edge in her tone. “I don’t know. I thought—”
She scoffed, cutting you off. “Thought what? That I’d have the baby?”
Your eyes fell. You nodded. “Well… yeah.”
She leaned back, folding her arms tight across her chest. The sass that had been muted for months—tempered by your sickness, softened by her tenderness—flared back up like a flame reignited.
“Well, I thought it’d be you,” Abby said, her voice biting but not cruel.
The words hit like a slap, heavier than the book you’d dropped onto the sheets.
You scoffed, sliding back on the mattress. “Why me?” The bite in your voice wasn’t intentional, but it came out sharp anyway.
She threw her hands up, frustrated. “I don’t know! I mean if I was knocked up—”
You gasped, incredulous. “Knocked up?!”
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt to watch. “You know what I fucking meant!” Her voice scraped against you, each word like sandpaper.
You turned your face away, heat crawling up your neck. “I’m not gonna be the fucking pregnant one.”
She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Well why not?!”
Silence pressed down on you, heavy. You searched your chest for something, anything that sounded like an answer. All you found was panic. “Because—”
Her eyes locked on you, demanding. Her expression shifted into that sassy, sharp-edged look that always drove you insane.
You threw your hands up, defensive. “Because—fucking—god, I—” The words broke apart on your tongue, useless.
She jumped in, her voice raised. “I can’t because who will protect you and Lev?” She snapped, her words fierce, but underneath, they trembled with fear.
That broke you. Your throat tightened, your voice cracking. “You think I can’t, Abby?”
She groaned, rolling her eyes, exasperated. “That’s not what I—”
You cut her off, sharp and trembling. “I was a soldier too, Abby. Don’t forget—in Seattle? I kicked your ass!”
She froze, then burst into laughter, loud and disbelieving. “What? When Frank ripped me off you? You did not kick my ass.”
Your face twisted, heat rushing into your cheeks. “Yes I fucking did—”
She shook her head firmly, interrupting, her laugh still rumbling. “Joan, you did not win that fight.”
God, her ego was massive. But deep down—fuck—you knew she was right.
Still, your own pride burned hotter. You hated feeling weak. Feeling small.
“I busted your lip,” you shot back, chin tilted like that alone should’ve won you the trophy.
She groaned, still half-laughing. “Frank had to rip me off you, Joan.” Her voice was maddeningly matter-of-fact.
“Only ‘cause I was drunk,” you sneered, a childish edge in your tone you couldn’t reel in.
Abby gave you a look—steady, sharp, that soldier-stare she’d perfected. “Really, Joan? You think you won that fight? Really?”
You turned your eyes away, your throat tight. “That’s not even the point of this conversation.”
She chuckled under her breath, a sound that somehow made you feel both humiliated and loved. “This argument is stupid.”
And damn it, she was right.
Still, you couldn’t stop yourself. “I’m not having a baby for you.”
Her head snapped toward you again, eyes narrowing. “But you want one?”
Your jaw clenched. You lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I mean yeah… of course.” The words tasted strange in your mouth.
Her lips tugged into the faintest smile, like she’d been waiting for you to admit it. “Then be the pregnant one.”
You scoffed instantly, half horrified, half defensive. “No!”
She rolled her eyes so hard you swore you could hear it. Then, without another word, she flopped onto her side, yanking the blanket over her shoulder. “Good fucking night, Joan.”
You sat there, jaw tight, arms crossed, staring at the back of her head.
Scoffing again, you muttered, “What the hell is her problem?”
But even as the silence settled heavy around the room, you knew the problem wasn’t just hers.
Your chest was tight, and the thought of lying there with your back to her, breathing in sync like nothing had been said, was unbearable.
So you dragged yourself out of bed, padded down the stairs, and threw yourself onto the couch. The old cushions sagged beneath you, scratchy blanket pulled up to your chin. You shivered, moonlight spilling across your face.
Then—thud, thud, thud. Abby’s heavy steps on the stairs.
She appeared halfway down, arms crossed, hair falling messy around her shoulders.
“Joan, get the fuck back in bed!” she whisper-yelled, her voice sharp but quiet enough not to wake Lev.
You sat up, rubbing your eyes, a chuckle escaping before you could stop it. “What?”
Her glare cut through the dark. “Get back in bed, god dammit!”
You shook your head, stubbornness burning hotter than reason. “No.”
Her brows pinched together as she threw her arms up. “Fuck you. Fine!”
You smirked and flopped back against the couch cushions, smug. You’d won. Or so you thought.
Then came the sound of her stomping down the stairs, dramatic as hell, dragging a pillow under her arm. She shoved the coffee table aside and tossed the pillow down on the wooden floor with a thump.
“What are you doing?” you whispered, half annoyed, half amused.
She shot you a look as she stretched out on the hard floor, blanket tugged over her shoulder. “What does it look like?”
You groaned, pressing your hand to your forehead. “Oh my god…”
She squirmed and huffed, every exaggerated movement a silent tantrum.
You couldn’t take it. You scoffed, shot up from the couch, and yanked the blanket off yourself.
“Fine. Fuck. Let’s go to bed.”
You caught her smug little grin out of the corner of your eye as she stood, dusting off her hands like she’d just won a fight.
God, what an ass Abby could be sometimes.
______________________________________________________________________________
The sun pushed through the curtains, warm and unforgiving. You woke not to birds or waves, but to the sharp clatter of pots and pans downstairs—Abby making a show of her frustration, every metallic crash stabbing at your temples.
You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face, but the mattress dipped as Lev padded into the room. He crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged beside you, his weight barely shifting the blankets.
“Why is Abby so—” he started, voice hushed like he didn’t want her to hear.
You raised your hand before he could finish, pinching the bridge of your nose. “My fault.”
He tilted his head, brows scrunched in curiosity. “What’d you do?”
You sighed, heavy and guilty, and forced yourself upright. Your voice cracked, still hoarse from sleep. “It’s ridiculous if we have a baby, right?”
Lev blinked, stunned by the question, then shrugged with a simplicity that made you want to laugh and cry all at once. “I mean… why not? It’s safe here.”
You groaned and rolled back over, pressing your face into the pillow. “I knew you’d be on her side.”
Lev hopped off the bed, his bare feet slapping the wood as he stood. His face scrunched in irritation, his voice louder now. “I am not on anyone’s side!”
His words carried down the hall, just loud enough for Abby to hear over her tantrum with the dishes.
You dragged yourself out of the bathroom, face still damp from the water, and padded downstairs. The house smelled faintly of smoke and sizzling fat, but the sound—god, the sound—was deafening. Pots clanged like someone was dropping scrap metal.
You stopped at the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You’re being loud.”
Abby spun around so fast her ponytail whipped. Her face was flushed from the stove, jaw tight. “I’m making breakfast.” Her tone cut through the air like a blade.
You raised your brows and crossed your arms. “Sounds like bombs instead.”
Her chest rose sharp with an inhale, the kind she used when she was trying not to snap. “Why don’t you do it then?”
You smirked faintly, shaking your head. “All you.”
That was the last straw. She slammed the pan down on the stove with a clatter that rattled the dishes. Without another word, she stormed out through the screen door, the slam echoing through the cabin. You caught sight of her hands on her hips, chest heaving, as she took long gulps of cool ocean air.
You couldn’t help yourself—you chuckled under your breath. Abby always had that short fuse, that dramatic stomp when she needed space.
Shrugging, you pulled the romance novel off the counter where you’d left it last night. Curling into the couch, you flipped it open, determined this time to actually read the words on the page instead of just staring through them.
The sound of waves crashing outside dulled the echo of her tantrum, and for the first time that morning, the house was quiet.
But Abby didn’t come back inside. The silence stretched long, broken only by the faint hiss of grease. Then—your nose twitched. Burnt fat.
“God fuck!” You lunged to the stove, waving smoke away as the bacon curled black in its own grease.
Lev hurried in, his hair still damp from his shower, eyes wide. “She left it there?”
You nodded, slamming the pan off the burner.
He folded his arms tight across his chest, jaw stubborn. “This fighting is stupid.”
Your head snapped to him, nerves already fried. “Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious!” The words were out before you could stop them, sharper than you’d meant.
Of course, that was when Abby stormed back in through the screen door, boots thudding on the boards. “Don’t fucking yell—”
“I wasn’t trying to—” you shot back.
“But you fucki—” she cut across you, her voice rising.
Something in you broke—you pushed her shoulder, not hard but enough to make the room reel with tension. “Mind your own busi—”
She scoffed, arms flaring wide, towering over you. “Lev is my fucking business!”
“Stop!” Lev’s voice cracked like thunder, sharper than either of yours. His hands shook as he put them between you.
The air froze. Abby’s chest heaved, your palms trembled, and for the first time in weeks Lev looked every bit his age—fifteen and worn down by the weight of adults who should’ve known better.
“What is the problem?” Lev huffed, his voice cracking with the kind of exasperation that made him sound far older than fifteen. His arms were crossed so tight against his chest it looked like he was trying to physically hold himself back from exploding at you both.
Abby didn’t even blink. She jabbed a finger at you like a kid pointing out the culprit in class. “She wanted me to be the pregnant one.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Lev’s expression went flat, his mouth falling open just slightly as if his brain had stopped in its tracks.
He let out the loudest, most guttural groan you’d ever heard from him, dragging his hands down over his face like he was trying to peel the whole argument out of existence. “What the fuck?”
And that was it. The match. Abby’s glare cracked first into a smirk, then into a choked laugh that bubbled out of her throat. Your lips twitched as you tried—failed—to bite it back. The sound of your laughter crashed into hers, and suddenly you were both doubled over, wheezing and gasping, the tension unraveling into something so absurd it almost hurt.
It wasn’t funny. Not really. But after months of sickness, weeks of panic, nights of fighting, it all came out this way—laughter spilling out too hard, too fast, until your ribs ached and you were wiping tears from your cheeks.
Lev just stood there, staring at the two of you like you’d completely lost your minds. His brows knitted so tightly together his whole forehead wrinkled. “You two are insane,” he muttered.
That only made Abby snort harder, slapping her hand against the counter as she leaned her weight into it, shoulders shaking. You tried to stifle yourself, pressing your knuckles to your mouth, but every glance at her crumbling grin made you burst again.
“Unbelievable,” Lev groaned, spinning on his heel. His footsteps pounded against the stairs, heavy with teenage fury. He paused halfway up, his shoulders tense, like he wanted to throw one more insult down the stairs—but instead he just shook his head and stomped off, the bedroom door upstairs slamming shut with a hollow thud.
The kitchen was quiet again, save for the lingering smell of burnt bacon clinging to the air. Smoke curled faintly near the open window, but the heaviness that had been sitting between you and Abby was gone, replaced with a kind of ridiculous relief.
Abby pressed her hand over her face, laughter tapering into quiet hiccups. She turned her head toward you, cheeks flushed and damp at the edges of her eyes. “We’re so fucking stupid,” she murmured, still smiling.
You were breathless, your stomach sore from laughing, but the sound that slipped out of you was gentler now, warmer. “Yeah,” you admitted, “we really are.”
Abby pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen toward you, her steps slow, deliberate. When she reached you, she bent slightly, her forehead touching yours, both of you still grinning like idiots in the fading smoke.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, it felt simple again.
Abby’s forehead pressed against yours for a long moment, her breath still uneven from laughing. You could feel the heat of her skin, the steadiness of her presence grounding you like it always did. Her hand slid to the back of your neck, rough fingers gentle as she rubbed slow circles.
“I don’t wanna fight with you,” she whispered. Her voice cracked a little, quieter than you’d expected.
Your throat tightened. “Me either.”
For a while neither of you moved, just leaning there, your foreheads touching in the smoke-scented kitchen. The argument was still raw under your ribs, but it had melted into something smaller, almost ridiculous. It wasn’t about who would carry what. It wasn’t even about the baby. It was about fear, about wanting the future to mean something.
Abby broke first, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her smile was tired but soft, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. “You’re stuck with me, you know.”
You let out a quiet chuckle, pressing your lips into a thin line as if you were trying not to smile back but failing. “Unfortunately.”
She snorted, shoving your shoulder with the heel of her palm before looping her arm around your waist and tugging you against her chest. You went willingly, melting into her warmth, your cheek pressed against her shirt. Her heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear.
“I’m serious,” she said, her lips brushing the top of your head. “I don’t care if it’s just the three of us forever. That’s enough for me. You’re enough.”
You felt your chest ache, your throat sting. The words loosened something that had been wound tight inside you for weeks, maybe months.
You tipped your head back to look at her, eyes still damp from laughter, and whispered, “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”
Her brows furrowed like she couldn’t believe you even doubted it. “I do mean it, Joan. Always.”
The silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was light. Safe.
From upstairs, Lev’s door creaked open, and his voice rang down the hall, muffled but sharp: “You two better not be making out in the kitchen again!”
You and Abby both froze for a beat before dissolving into another round of laughter, muffled against each other’s shoulders.
It was ridiculous. It was imperfect. But it was yours.
But still, even in her embrace there was that lingering feeling—like a splinter wedged deep under your skin. Abby’s arms were strong around you, grounding, warm. Her breath tickled the nape of your neck.
You didn’t quite belong here. Not in this quiet house with its clean wooden floors, not with Lev humming low in his room as he sorted seashells, not with Abby curling into you like this was everything she’d fought for.
Domestic solitude pressed down on your chest like a weight.
Your mind wandered where your body refused to go—off the island, away from Catalina’s soft winds and careful meals. You pictured the smoke-black ruins of cities, the cries of men dying in alleys, the guttural screech of infected chasing in packs. War. Terror. Chaos. Places where survival meant more than sweeping floors or steaming fish.
Your muscles twitched under Abby’s touch, as though your body remembered the constant fight even if your mind begged for rest.
What if this wasn’t forever? What if safety itself was the trap?
You sat hunched on the couch, the book in your lap nothing but dead weight. Abby was still clattering around in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess she’d made earlier, her voice soft as she coaxed Lev to eat a quick breakfast. The sound of their easy rhythm—mother, son, family—barely reached you through the haze wrapped tight around your mind.
Your eyes crawled across the words on the page, but not a single one registered. Letters blurred into lines, sentences into shapes. You blinked once, twice, and snapped the book shut with a sharp exhale. It wasn’t the story. It was you. You couldn’t hold still inside your own skull.
Boston flickered in your head. The crumbling brick, the freezing winters, the ghosts of people you’d left behind. A different kind of misery. Part of you wanted to go back there, to the pain you knew, instead of this foreign peace pressing down on you like a too-tight blanket. Maybe you should leave. Maybe you should find something else—anything else.
You sighed and rubbed your eyes. Abby had told you earlier she and Lev were heading out somewhere, but you hadn’t caught where. Or maybe you just hadn’t been listening. By the time you glanced over your shoulder, the sun had already dropped below the horizon. The house was swallowed in shadows, the only light the soft glow of your lamp.
Your stomach grumbled, hollow. You hadn’t eaten all day.
Dragging yourself up, you opened the fridge and pulled out the cold fish from yesterday’s dinner, eating straight from the tupperware with a fork. The flesh was stiff and chilled, but you barely tasted it. You washed the container out at the sink, the sound of rushing water echoing in the empty kitchen.
Upstairs, the house creaked under your weight as you trudged toward the shower. Steam fogged the mirror, the warm spray washing over you like absolution. You tilted your head back, let the water trace down your face, and imagined it carrying away the tightness in your chest, the itch in your veins, the constant pull to ruin something just to feel alive.
The sound of voices reached you through the walls—muffled, faint. Abby’s low tone, steady and grounding. Lev’s higher pitch, cutting and boyish. They were back. Probably playing chess, maybe watching some VHS tape Lev had found in the old storage box. You pictured them both in the living room, heads bent together, laughter bubbling up between them.
You stepped out, drying yourself off with slow movements, pulling on cotton pajamas that clung soft against your skin. For a moment you stared at yourself in the mirror, pale and too thin, but not shaking anymore. Alive. Just alive.
You padded into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, turning your face toward the window. The night was clear, the ocean black and endless beyond the shore. Catalina was quiet, safe, the closest thing to paradise you’d seen in years.
And yet your chest felt restless, your blood humming for something rougher.
Why do I want to leave?
Any reasonable person would stay. Build a life here. Be with Abby. Maybe even raise a child, let the years roll by in the rhythm of safety and routine. You could have that. You could be that.
But deep down, the craving gnawed at you—the chaos of the world you’d crawled out of. You missed the bite of whiskey burning down your throat, the sharp sting of smoke filling your lungs, the brutal spin of a hangover twisting your head until you couldn’t think straight. Painful things, ruinous things—but they were yours. They made sense in a way peace never could.
You closed your eyes, and the silence of Catalina pressed in heavier than gunfire.
____________________________________________________________________________
It was late when your eyes flickered open. The moon bled pale light across the horizon, flooding your room with a cold glow. Abby’s arm was draped across your ribs, warm and heavy, her breath steady against the back of your neck. You could feel the weight of her even in her sleep — protective, anchoring.
Your throat ached with dryness. Carefully, you lifted her arm and swung your legs off the bed. Every creak of the wooden floor felt like it might drag her out of sleep. Abby had ears like a wolf — years of trauma had carved the habit into her. Fireflies, WLF, Rattlers — she’d been forged in places where sleep wasn’t safe. Even here, in Catalina’s quiet, her body still hummed with vigilance.
But she didn’t stir when you slipped out of the room.
The house was dark, still. You padded down to the kitchen and pulled a glass from the cabinet, filling it with tap water. The metallic tang sat heavy on your tongue, but it soothed the burn in your throat. You drifted outside, the screen door creaking softly behind you.
The porch boards moaned beneath your bare feet. You sat on the step, arms folded over your knees. The night air bit at your skin, crisp and cool enough that your breath fogged white.
For a long while you just stared at the moon. Its reflection shivered on the black water below, silver breaking across waves.
Seattle crawled back into your head. Those nights on the stadium steps, a cigarette between your fingers, ash scattering in the wind. You could almost taste the bitterness in your throat again. God, you craved it now — the burn of nicotine, the way chaos clawed at your insides until you quieted it with smoke, with whiskey, with fights.
You hated yourself for it.
Frank should have had this peace. Manny, Mel, Owen. Not you. Not the idiot who still felt pulled toward fire and gun smoke. Not the one who still felt like chaos was home.
You buried your face in your knees. The thought of sweeping floors, waiting for Abby to come home from the base, cooking for Lev — it was supposed to feel enough. But it didn’t. Not for you.
Then — a sound.
Click.
Your breath caught.
The sound pricked at every nerve in your body. Wet, alien. A sound you’d heard a hundred times before in nightmares and in real alleys — the dry clicking of an infected’s throat.
Your eyes shot across the dark yard. Shadows shifted, grass stirred. Feet padded, heavy and uneven.
Your body froze. You had nothing. No knife, no gun, no pipe. Just your bare hands.
You strained your ears, heart hammering in your chest. But then — silence. Only the ocean, only the wind.
Had you imagined it?
You rushed inside, bolting the lock, dragging the deadbolt. It wasn’t enough. Panic surged through you. You shoved the bookcase against the door, the wood shrieking across the floor.
“Joan?”
Her voice behind you. Rough with sleep.
You turned. Abby stood on the staircase, hair tangled, tank top loose, eyes sharp and alert even through the grogginess.
“What are you doing?”
Your throat tightened. “I… I heard—” you swallowed, ashamed of the tremor in your voice. “An infected.”
Her jaw unclenched with a sigh. “Come back to bed.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I do,” she said, but it was laced with weariness. “There are night patrols. The island’s clean. You’re safe.”
“Don’t treat me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m stupid. Like I can’t handle it.”
“Joan,” her tone softened, but her shoulders sagged. “That’s not what I’m—”
“I’m not weak, Abby.”
“I know you’re not. But it’s the middle of the night, and you’re—” She stopped herself, exhaling sharply.
“You think I’m lying.”
Her brow furrowed, exhaustion seeping into her posture. “No. I think you’re spiraling. I think you’re scaring yourself awake for nothing. And I don’t want that for you.”
“I’m not a child!” The words came out louder than you intended, rattling the quiet house.
Her voice hardened, low and cutting. “I didn’t say you were. You’re my girlfriend. And I want to sleep.”
You slammed the glass into the sink. “Then stop trying to protect me like I can’t protect myself!”
“God, Joan.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Protect yourself. Just… please. Come back upstairs.”
Her exhaustion was bleeding through, the sharp edges of her patience showing. But the anger boiling in you had nowhere to go.
“I don’t want to stay here.”
Her eyes snapped up to yours. “…We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
“No. I’m leaving now.”
“Joan.” Her voice dropped low. A warning.
You stepped toward the window, fists trembling. “I’m going, Abby.”
In an instant she was across the room, arms reaching to pull you in.
You shoved her off. “I’m not coming back to bed.”
The shock in her face melted into hurt. “What’s gotten into you?”
The words ripped out of you raw. “I’m not built for this, Abby! I don’t deserve this!”
Tears blurred your vision.
And just like that, her anger fell away. Her hand brushed your cheek, wiping at wetness you couldn’t stop. “I used to feel that way too,” she whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “That my dad should’ve been here instead of me. That Owen and Mel deserved this more. That I shouldn’t have survived.”
You shook your head violently. “It’s different.”
“It’s not.”
“Yes it is. You’re different now.”
Her mouth pressed into a line. “No. I’ve always been this way. I just hid it better before.”
You opened your mouth but she cut you off, voice steadying.
“When my dad died, I lost myself. For years, I wasn’t Abby anymore. I know what it’s like to feel undeserving.”
The memories crashed over you — Boston, Seattle, Santa Barbara, the ocean, Ensenada. Every nightmare stitched together into a single choking weight.
“You don’t know how I feel,” you spat. Bitter, defensive, desperate. A lie you wanted to believe.
She flinched, shoulders slumping. “…Let’s go back to bed.”
You followed her up, not because you wanted to, but because there was nothing left to say.
The sheets swallowed you both. Abby curled away, her breathing steadying, slipping back into sleep.
You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the moon sliding across the windowpane, shadows shifting with it. Abby’s breaths had evened out, low and heavy, proof she’d finally sunk back into sleep.
You waited longer, counting the space between each inhale, until you were sure she was gone deep. Then, carefully, you slid out from under the sheets. The air was cold against your damp skin, your hands trembling as you pulled on your clothes in the dark.
The bathroom mirror caught you for a second—your pale face, dark circles under your eyes, the too-short hair sticking damp against your temples. You looked like a ghost already, hollow-eyed and restless.
You didn’t let yourself think too long.
Boots laced. Jacket zipped.
You grabbed your pistol from the drawer, slotted the clip with a practiced snap, the metallic sound echoing in the silence of the house. Then your rifle, the weight of it settling across your back like an old friend. Ammo tucked in, water skin filled, dried rations shoved into your pack. Hands moving faster now, like if you slowed down you’d stop, and if you stopped you’d never leave.
The house groaned as you crept downstairs. Every step was a betrayal. The lamp on the end table cast the room in soft amber, and you froze, almost expecting Abby to be standing there, arms crossed, catching you in the act.
But the room was empty.
The kitchen smelled faintly of vinegar cleaner and last night’s burnt bacon. Lev’s book sat on the couch, a shark sketched across the cover. The sight of it almost broke you, but you didn’t let it.
You slipped out the back door, locking it behind you out of some cruel courtesy. As if that would make it easier, as if they wouldn’t notice you were gone by morning.
The night air slapped your cheeks, cold enough to sting. You trudged toward the shoreline, boots sinking into damp sand. The waves hissed like they were trying to call you back.
Lev’s rowboat rested where he always kept it, pulled halfway onto the shore. You pushed it into the surf, muscles trembling with the effort. Saltwater soaked your boots as you dragged it deeper until the sea finally took its weight.
You hauled your pack into the bottom, settled onto the wooden bench, and gripped the oars. The wood bit into your palms, the rhythm of rowing coming back to you in aching memory.
Santa Barbara.
From there… you didn’t know. You’d figure it out. You always had.
The island shrank behind you, the warm glow of the house you’d just left flickering between trees. Abby and Lev were inside, asleep, breathing safe and even.
You didn’t look back again.
__________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 63: A girl

__________________________________________________________________________
Your arms burned by the time the oars scraped against sand, each muscle in your shoulders twitching from the day’s relentless rowing. The rowboat thudded against the dock remains and you hopped off, boots sinking into wet sand. You tied the rope down loosely, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe part of you already knew—you might end up right back here again, crawling back to Abby like a fool.
You shook the thought out, pushing it down with the tide. No. Not yet.
The air smelled like brine and decay, seaweed drying under the moonlight. Santa Barbara rustled around you—palm fronds rattling, wind tugging through broken windows of seaside houses. Everything was familiar, almost cruelly so. The same streets you’d bled through, the same sidewalks that had seen Abby and Lev’s footprints before you lost them.
You hitched your pack higher and walked off the beach.
Hours slipped by without you realizing. Your legs carried you through crooked neighborhoods and long-dead gardens, where weeds swallowed fences whole. Mailboxes leaned like broken teeth. Cars were still in the streets, gutted for parts years ago. Some of their doors were left open, like their owners had just stepped away and never come back.
You passed a swing set in a half-collapsed yard, the rusted chains squealing when the breeze shifted.
Your rifle strap cut into your shoulder. You rolled it back, sighing. How long had it been since you left Catalina? Since you’d left Abby? It all blurred now.
By the time the sky darkened, you had crossed into what passed for the city proper. Broken skyscrapers leaned against one another like drunkards, their glass teeth shattered. Street signs twisted, impossible to read.
You felt it in your bones: the wrongness.
The city was too quiet.
No voices, no laughter, not even the telltale moan or shuffle of the infected. Just the wind. Just the empty chorus of your boots against the pavement.
It didn’t make sense. You’d gone all day without seeing a single person. No Fireflies, no Rattler stragglers, no infected tucked in the shadows. Only silence.
And god, were you tired.
Your feet screamed with each step, blistered raw inside worn-out boots. Your back ached from the pack digging into your spine. When you stumbled across a busted building, you didn’t hesitate.
The front door had long rotted off its hinges, so you ducked inside. Dust coated the tile floor. Furniture was overturned and claw-marked, old blood stains blackened into the walls. You swept your rifle barrel through the dark corners, breathing shallow. Nothing moved. No sound except the whistle of wind through the glassless windows.
Your body sagged with relief.
You climbed the stairs, careful not to step on the weakest boards, and found a half-intact room near the back. The floor creaked but held.
You dropped your pack with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the quiet building. You slid down against the wall, your spine cracking as you stretched your legs out. The soles of your feet pulsed like open wounds.
This place was wrong. It was too quiet.
But you didn’t care. Exhaustion swarmed over you like the tide.
You pulled your jacket tight around you and let your head rest against the wall. Sleep swallowed you whole before you could second-guess the silence.
__________________________________________________________________________
The sun hammered you like punishment. By the time you crawled out of the ruined building, your throat was dry enough to crack, your lips blistered. The heat made the city ripple—concrete bleeding waves into the horizon.
You tore the sleeves off your black shirt with your knife. The cotton sagged useless and sweat-stained in your hands. You dropped the scraps to the dirt, already stiff with dried blood from some fight days ago. You couldn’t even remember which fight.
You tilted your head back and squinted at the sky. The kind of California blue that stretched forever, endless and mocking. A sky too clear to be safe.
Your boots carried you across cracked asphalt. Signs of what Los Angeles had been were everywhere—faded billboards, collapsed freeway ramps, old movie posters sun-bleached into ghosts. The streets smelled of tar and rot. Palms lined the horizon, their crowns shredded but still standing tall, as if the end of the world couldn’t break them.
Then you saw it.
A crooked sign, bent sideways against a leaning lamppost:
LOS ANGELES CITY LIMIT
The words twisted in your stomach.
Los Angeles.
You whispered it out loud. As if saying it might make it less surreal.
How had you come this far? Your mind clawed back through the blur of days—you couldn’t tell if it had been weeks or months. Walking, running, hiding, fighting. Eating when you found something, collapsing when you couldn’t go further. Time wasn’t time anymore, just fragments. And yet somehow, your boots had carried you all the way here.
Frank would’ve lost his mind over this. You could almost see him grinning, calling out names of movie stars he used to like, saying dumb shit about Hollywood signs and Lakers games. He would’ve made the silence bearable.
But Frank was gone. And you were here alone.
Footsteps broke your daydream.
Heavy. Military.
Your pulse jolted. You flattened against a wall, rifle hugged tight against your chest. Breath shallow. Heart loud enough you swore they’d hear it.
Voices—men’s voices. Calm.
You risked a glance through a jagged hole in the wall.
There they were.
Uniforms crisp enough to look new. Black vests strapped across broad chests. Boots polished, weapons slung with the ease of routine. And stitched to their shoulders, bright against the grime—badges.
FEDRA.
You mouthed the word like a curse.
Holy shit.
They were here. Alive. Organized.
The ground seemed to tilt under you. FEDRA wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Seattle had collapsed. Boston had rotted. Every QZ you’d passed through was gone, eaten from the inside by riots or the infected. But here? Here they walked like nothing had changed. Like the outbreak hadn’t broken them.
You froze, staring, until the shrieking cut the air.
It ripped through the street, sharp and hungry.
Runners.
They exploded from an alley, all teeth and claws, shrieking so loud it made your teeth ache. They sprinted toward the soldiers.
FEDRA didn’t flinch.
Formation tightened in seconds. Rifles swung up.
The street cracked open with gunfire.
Shells hit the pavement in a metallic rain. Blood sprayed in arcs, hot and steaming, painting the walls. The smell hit next—gunpowder, copper, rot. The soldiers barked short, clipped orders you still remembered from your own drills, words that yanked you back to Boston, to the days you wore that uniform yourself.
More infected burst out—through windows, over fences, clawing across cars. Dozens. Maybe more.
One soldier went down screaming, a runner’s teeth buried in his throat. The others didn’t stop. They closed ranks, reloaded, pushed forward with mechanical precision.
You couldn’t look away.
Your knees ached from crouching. Your chest hurt from holding your breath.
Minutes stretched into a lifetime. Then finally—silence.
The last infected dropped. Their bodies lay in mangled heaps, steaming in the sun. The soldiers barely glanced at them. One man wiped his blade clean on a corpse’s shirt. Another reloaded, muttering about how many more blocks they had left on patrol.
Like it was nothing.
Like the massacre you’d just seen was Tuesday.
You gripped your rifle so hard your knuckles ached.
If FEDRA was still alive here, what else had survived? Was there a whole QZ? Walls? Civilians? Rations? Rules?
And worse—records.
Your chest went tight.
They would have files. They always had files. Every soldier logged, every deserter marked.
Your name. Your number. Your history. Joan, the one who walked out with Frank. Joan, the AWOL. Joan, who’d left her post, abandoned her orders, and never came back.
What would they do if they saw you now? Shoot you? Drag you back in chains?
You pressed tighter against the wall, your breath fogging the dirt. Sweat slid into your eye and stung.
God. You weren’t supposed to be here.
Their boots crunched closer. Slow, careful. Like they thought you were prey.
You pressed harder against the wall, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the stock of your rifle. You looked wrecked enough to pass for some starving drifter—mud crusted on your face, sweat soaking the collar of your shirt, hair sun-bleached and matted. To them, you probably looked like an easy catch.
Your mind ricocheted back to Boston, back when you were on patrols just like this. You knew what they’d do if they thought you were injured: take you in, chain you to labor detail, work you until your bones gave out. Maybe shoot you in the street if you resisted. You’d seen it happen enough times.
Fuck, you thought. I’m not going back in a cage.
You looked left—an alleyway gaping like a throat. Maybe you could slip through, but your legs were shaking from heat and exhaustion. You wouldn’t make it far. Not with them so close.
Which meant one thing.
You’d have to kill them.
You drew in a sharp breath, trying to steady the storm in your head. Your muscles tensed as you cocked your rifle, then you swung out from behind the wall.
“Get back!” you hissed, voice low and feral.
They froze. Two boys. That’s all they were. Barely men. Nineteen at most, one even younger—seventeen maybe. Their hands hovered, twitching near their rifles, but they raised them slowly, palms outward.
Your stomach lurched. You saw yourself in their wide eyes. Or worse—you saw Frank. His boyish grin. The way he looked when he still believed in something.
“Don’t fucking move!” you barked, voice cracking on the edge of desperation.
They glanced at each other—uncertain, scared. The taller one licked his lips, then spoke. “We have food…”
Your gut clenched. A trap. It had to be.
You shook your head, eyes stinging. “You’re lying.”
The smaller one stepped forward, voice breaking like he wanted to help you. “No, we—we have water. Shelter. You don’t have to—”
You cut him off with the crack of your rifle. The shot echoed through the ruined street, louder than thunder. His chest burst open, spraying warmth into the air. His scream was short, then silence.
The taller boy screamed, scrambling backward, slipping on blood. “Holy fuck!”
You fired again before you even thought about it. His body jolted, then slumped hard to the asphalt, the echo of his cry still rattling your ribs.
Silence again. Except now the silence was broken by shouting—soldiers in the distance, boots pounding pavement, calling out names you didn’t understand.
You didn’t wait.
You ran.
Down alleys, over fences, through streets that twisted and bled into each other. Your lungs burned, the taste of blood and gunpowder bitter on your tongue. You didn’t stop, not even when your chest screamed and your vision blurred.
By the time you broke free of the city, you were nothing but raw instinct. You stumbled onto the highway, broken cars glittering under the sun. You didn’t look back. You just ran until your legs buckled, until the sand swallowed your boots and the city was a smear on the horizon.
Finally, you collapsed into the desert, heaving, your rifle still clenched in bloody hands.
You’d lost them hours ago, but your heart still galloped like you were being hunted.
The sky stretched empty over you. Endless blue. No shelter. No direction.
Where to now?
Seattle? Boston? Back to Catalina?
Or nowhere at all.
______________________________________________________________________________
The desert stretched on forever. Endless waves of sand and cracked earth, the horizon rippling in the heat. You walked until your legs gave out, your knees hitting the ground so hard it rattled your bones.
A week. You’d been out here a week. Barely any water. Your lips split, bleeding every time you licked them. Your throat was raw, your tongue thick and dry in your mouth.
You collapsed into the sand, cheek pressed against the blistering ground. Overhead, vultures circled in lazy spirals, their shadows gliding across your body. Waiting. Watching.
Maybe this is what I deserve, you thought.
Your mind wouldn’t stop flashing back to those young FEDRA soldiers. Barely out of boyhood, faces still soft, their hands shaking.
What if they weren’t like Boston? you wondered bitterly. What if they really did want to help?
You swallowed, though nothing came. It was odd—unsettling, even—to see a FEDRA QZ still alive, still functioning like the old world hadn’t collapsed. You’d seen nothing but their brutality, but… what if this outpost was different? What if you’d killed two kids who didn’t deserve it?
The thought made bile rise up your throat. You rolled onto your side, clawing weak circles in the sand. Your hand dragged and curved, tracing a face in the grit. Abby’s face.
Tears burned your eyes. You pressed your forehead against the sand, sobbing so hard your ribs ached.
Why’d I leave? What the hell is wrong with me?
Your shoulders shook, your fists pounding the desert floor until your palms burned raw.
Then—
The low hum of an engine.
Your head jerked up, dizzy, unsure if it was real. Heat shimmered on the horizon. Maybe just a mirage. Your brain had been tricking you for days now—water that wasn’t there, voices in the wind.
But the sound grew louder. Tires crackled over gravel. Dust lifted into the air. The car slowed. Stopped.
Your heart slammed in your chest.
A door creaked open.
“Hey!” A woman’s voice carried across the desert, sharp but hoarse.
You staggered to your feet, swaying like a drunk. Your rifle was clutched in both hands, trembling as you pointed it towards the sound.
She stepped into view.
Short brown hair clung to her sweat-slicked forehead. Her frame was lean, wiry muscle, about your height. A faded tattoo ran up one of her arms—fern leaves wrapping into the wings of a moth.
And then it hit you.
You’d seen her before—but from where?

Chapter 64: Travel

Now here she was.
The woman lifted her hands slowly, palms out. “Easy,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Are you lost?”
You swallowed hard. Your mouth was so dry it hurt to speak. “No.”
Her brow arched, amused despite the sweat dripping down her temples. She gave a half-chuckle, like she didn’t believe you for a second.
“Alright,” she said, lowering her hands slightly. She stepped closer, cautious but not afraid. “I’ll trade you water for directions. You help me get out of this desert, I don’t care where you’re headed.”
Desperation clung to her voice.
But so did yours.
You gripped your rifle tighter, every instinct screaming at you not to trust her. But your body was seconds away from shutting down. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d swallowed water without it burning back up.
You nodded stiffly.
Her eyes softened just enough. “Good.”
She motioned to the car. “Come on.”
Your legs moved before your brain could argue. You climbed into the passenger seat, pack sliding off your shoulder.
The car door slammed, sealing you inside with her.
And for the first time in days, hope and dread tangled together in your chest.
__________________________________________________________________________
The wind blasted through the open window, whipping strands of your short, uneven hair across your cheeks. It stung, but god, it felt good after weeks of desert heat clinging to your skin. The air smelled faintly of dust and gasoline, the hum of the engine steady beneath your seat.
Her fingers tapped the steering wheel in an absent rhythm—tap-tap, pause, tap-tap-tap—as though a song played only in her head. You squinted, catching the faint warble of a voice on the radio. A scratchy broadcast, warped by static, someone’s voice long dead yet still carried by the airwaves.
You studied her while she focused on the road. She looked maybe two, three years younger than you. Her skin was weathered, like the world had already carved too many stories into her face. Acne scars dotted her cheeks, faint craters etched into her skin. Early frown lines tugged at her mouth, giving her a permanent look of tiredness.
She spoke first, breaking the thick silence between you.
“What’s your name?”
You puffed your cheeks, chewing on the inside of your lip. You should lie. Always lie. A fake name was safer. “Olivia,” you said, voice flat.
Her eyes flicked toward you for a half second before turning back to the road. She nodded like it didn’t matter. “Alright.”
Silence again, the rumble of the car filling the space. You stared at her hands on the wheel—knuckles rough, a scar running diagonally across her right palm. She wasn’t just some wanderer.
Finally, you asked, awkwardly, “Yours?”
She coughed, clearing her throat, and swallowed like the word caught in her mouth. “Ellie.”
You nodded slowly, but your stomach twisted. Was she lying too?
Your gaze drifted to her arm as she shifted gears, the tattoo visible in the light. Fern leaves curling up into the spread of a moth’s wings, faded but still sharp against her skin. Something about it clawed at your memory.
“How’d you get a car running?” The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Stupid question. Of course she had a trick.
Her laugh was small, dry. “Neat, right? Thought I was a goner out here.” She shook her head and adjusted her grip on the wheel. “Found one in an old city, still intact. Funneled some gas, hotwired it. When I was younger, Jo—” She stopped, jaw tensing. “Someone taught me.”
You nodded stiffly, biting back a comment. Frank had taught you the same trick. You’d watched him cross wires, that cocky grin on his face when the engine sputtered to life. For a second you’d wanted to tell her, to admit you knew how to do it too. But instead you stayed quiet.
Why did you play dumb?
Why did she make you nervous?
The road stretched out ahead, an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt that swallowed the two of you whole. The horizon shimmered with heat, the desert sun pressing down heavy, a reminder of how far from home you really were.
You glanced at her hands again as they gripped the steering wheel. Two fingers missing. Scar tissue twisting across her knuckles.
Your breath hitched.
No fucking way.
Not her.
Not the Ellie Abby had muttered about in fever dreams, twisting in bed beside you. Not the girl who’d hunted her across states, who’d nearly drowned her in Santa Barbara.
But the pieces stacked neatly, cruelly: the missing fingers, the hardened face, the voice that carried something jagged beneath it. This was her.
You shifted in your seat, stiff and restless. Ellie’s eyes flicked to you, quick and sharp.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice low, like she already doubted the answer.
You forced yourself to nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
She didn’t buy it, but she let it go. “Right.”
Silence chewed at the both of you, long and bitter, only the hum of the engine keeping the air alive. You could feel her eyes flick toward you every so often, measuring. You tried not to think about how many times Abby’s name had come up in her nightmares, whispered like a ghost.
Then Ellie slapped the steering wheel once, sharp. “We gotta find gas before this thing dies.”
You nodded quickly, almost relieved she’d spoken first.
The truck rolled forward until the engine coughed, sputtered, and finally gave its warning. Ahead, the skeleton of a city unfolded—hollow skyscrapers, cars stacked like bones on the roadsides.
You both climbed out, grabbed the empty containers. Ellie slung her pack over her shoulder like it weighed nothing. You noticed the length of her arsenal: rifles, pistols, knives. Even a battered bow strapped across the backseat. She moved like someone who’d lived her entire life waiting for the next ambush.
You felt like a fool next to her, light on supplies, ribs still faintly sharp from months of sickness.
Ellie bent low by a car, slipping a plastic hose into the tank. She gestured to you. “Check the others. Sometimes the old ones still give a little.”
You fumbled with a tank, the smell of rust in your nose. The silence stretched again until she broke it.
“So,” she said casually, though there was something behind her tone. “What are you doing out here?”
You swallowed. How the fuck were you supposed to answer that? You twisted the cap on a tank and muttered, “Uh… just—I don’t know. Waiting to die.”
Ellie snorted, a dry little laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
Her words sat heavy in the air, like they meant more than she’d ever admit.
You tightened your grip on the gas can, studying her as she crouched, her face half-shadowed beneath her hair. Why the fuck would she be here? Why California again? Why couldn’t she just disappear into the world instead of circling the same places, the same ghosts?
You didn’t realize how hard your heart was pounding until you caught yourself staring at her tattoo, the fern and moth ink crawling over her scarred arm.
And you couldn’t stop thinking: if this really was her, then fate was cruel as hell for throwing you into her orbit.
She sighed as she finished siphoning, her cheeks hollow as she sucked the last air through the hose. The plastic canister sloshed as she capped it. Then she walked back over to you, her movements brisk but steady, and took your empty gas bucket without a word.
“Stay here,” she muttered, jerking her chin toward the ruined storefront you were leaning against. “I’ll bring the car.”
You listened. You didn’t even know why—you didn’t trust her, not fully, but something in her voice made it sound like an order, like she expected you to obey.
You watched her in the distance, her silhouette working in the glow of a streetlamp, feeding the gas into her beat-up truck. Two gallons, maybe. Not much, but enough to keep moving. The engine coughed once, then hummed back to life as she pulled it closer.
Ellie hopped out again, grabbed the siphon, and drained the other car she’d scouted. She smirked, almost smug as she capped her tank. “Awesome. Let’s go.” She gave you a sharp smile—strangely proud of herself.
You slid back into the passenger seat, silent.
She reached into her pack and tossed you a dented metal canteen. “Here. Water.”
Your throat burned. You drank deep, wiping your mouth on your wrist. But then the thought stabbed at you—the deal. She’d only offered to trade water for directions out of the desert. You were out now. You should’ve been gone already. So why was she still letting you ride with her?
She sighed as she drove, the cool night air spilling through the half-shattered window. Her hands tapped against the steering wheel in some rhythm only she knew, her eyes flicking over the road like they were trained to spot ambushes that never came.
“Guess we’re out of the desert,” she said finally, her voice awkward, almost like she didn’t know what came next.
You nodded once. No words.
She swallowed, the muscle in her jaw ticking. “Guess you’re coming with me ’til I find shelter.”
You shrugged, and that was answer enough.
She just nodded and focused back on the road. The silence between you was heavy, thicker than the desert air had been.
Hours bled away in the hum of tires over cracked asphalt. The world outside blurred into a smear of shadows and ruined signs. At some point, exhaustion folded you under, your head leaning back against the window.
When you opened your eyes again, the car was dead quiet. The engine was off. The sky had shifted, stars now sharp and endless above. Her seat was rolled back, her face slack with sleep, rifle laid across her lap like a blanket. Even asleep, her fingers curled near the trigger.
You reached over cautiously, shaking her shoulder. “Hey…”
Her eyes snapped open wild, her hand moving faster than thought. The rifle swung up and suddenly you were staring down its barrel.
You froze, your back smacking the door, your hands thrown up. “Woah, woah, woah!”
She blinked, sucking air hard through her teeth, her eyes wide like she’d woken straight from a nightmare. Slowly—too slowly—she lowered the gun. “Sorry,” she muttered, voice hoarse.
Your chest heaved. You shook your head, trying to laugh it off but failing. “Fuck. I’ll—I’ll drive.”
She rubbed her face with her free hand, nodding wordlessly. The exhaustion in her eyes was bone-deep. She shifted into the passenger seat, clutching her rifle even as she slumped back, her whole body sagging the way people do only when they’ve been running on fumes too long.
You slid behind the wheel, your hands tight on the steering wheel.
She was out in minutes.
You glanced at her sleeping profile—her frown never fully left her face, her chest rising and falling in restless waves. She trusted you enough to sleep, or maybe she was just too tired to care.
You drove into the night, the road stretching endlessly before you. Where you were going, you had no idea. But one thing was clear: neither did she.
________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 65: The Wrong Name

________________________________________________________________________
You killed the engine outside a crumbling two-story. The silence that followed felt like a held breath. Ellie stirred beside you, rubbing her face with both hands, blinking away the exhaustion.
“Let’s camp here,” you said quietly, your throat dry from too many days on the road.
She gave a small nod, wordless, and shouldered her pack.
The two of you swept the building like muscle memory—flashlights in one hand, rifles in the other. Your boots crunched over glass and dust. The place smelled stale, like wet wood and mold, but it was shelter. Just as you were about to call it clear, two runners stumbled out of a stairwell, their shrieks echoing. You didn’t think—just raised your rifle and fired. The first went down. The second you shot clean through the skull, the spray misting the wall.
Silence returned.
Ellie glanced at you but said nothing, just gave the smallest nod before moving on. You both knew that was as close to praise as you’d get.
Inside, the floorboards groaned under your weight. You sank onto the cold planks, your back against a wall, breath steadying after the fight. She slid down across from you, leaning her rifle against her knee.
You stretched, arms aching, and let a yawn escape. Five days of siphoning gas, hopping car to car, switching spots behind the wheel. Always on the move, always silent.
And you’d barely spoken.
Her voice broke the quiet first. “You’re quiet.”
You swallowed, your tongue thick in your mouth. “I don’t know you.”
A humorless huff left her. “Yeah.”
You rolled onto your side, your head pillowed on your pack. You could feel her eyes on you—sharp, searching, like she was waiting for something you weren’t ready to give.
Then she shifted closer. The warmth of her body reached you before her arm did. When her hand trailed up your back, tentative but lingering, it sent a shiver crawling up your spine.
God.
It had been nearly two months since you’d last been touched like that. Since Catalina. Since Abby. You had no idea if you’d ever see her again. That ache sat in your chest, but your body didn’t care.
Ellie’s fingers paused, curling slightly, before she cleared her throat, awkward and soft. “You ever—” She cut herself off, like she wasn’t sure how to say the rest.
You chuckled under your breath and rolled over to face her, your voice hushed. “What?”
Her face was flushed even in the low light, her freckles darker under the pink heat spreading across her cheeks.
You studied her. For a moment, you couldn’t help but notice how similar the two of you were—lean muscle, wiry frames weathered by survival. Abby had been solid, heavy, a fortress pressed against you. Ellie… Ellie was different. Your size. Your shape. You wondered, fleeting and dangerous, what she’d feel like under you.
And the thought made your stomach twist—half guilt, half hunger.
“You know,” she muttered, eyes flicking anywhere but yours.
She was so unbearably awkward that you couldn’t help but chuckle, sitting up straighter. “No, I don’t know,” you teased, your grin lazy.
Ellie rolled her eyes, jaw tight, but her ears went red. “With a girl?”
A full laugh burst out of you, sharp in the quiet. “Yeah.”
Her gaze snapped to you, sharp, almost defensive. “I have a girlfriend. And a son,” she said bluntly, like getting it out quick would hurt less.
You nodded slowly. “Technically… me too.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Technically?”
You sighed, heat pulling in your chest. “Long story.”
She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. Because she was already leaning in, that nervous energy pulling her closer, lips just a breath from yours.
“Is this wrong then?” she whispered, so soft you almost missed it.
You shrugged, feeling your throat tighten. “We could die tomorrow. Never see them again.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, then she closed the distance. The kiss was sharp, desperate—a silent agreement between the two of you. Just a fuck. No strings attached. No promises.
You moved faster than her, hunger overwhelming restraint. Your hands cupped her jaw, tilting her head as you deepened the kiss, biting down gently on her bottom lip. She gasped into you, her hands already climbing your chest, fingers brushing across your nipples through the fabric.
A groan tore out of you, raw and guttural. You kissed down her neck, dragging your teeth across the soft skin until you found the spot that made her shiver. You bit there lightly, savoring the way she gasped and clutched harder at you, nails grazing your stomach.
Your hands dropped lower, gripping her hips, fumbling with the button of her jeans. They popped open beneath your fingers, and you dragged the zipper down with urgency. The sound filled the silence like a promise, sharp and final.
Ellie’s breath stuttered against your ear. “Olivia—”
That fake name you gave her rang through your ears.
But she didn’t stop you. She lifted her hips instead, a silent plea.

You slipped her jeans down her legs, tugged her shirt off next. In just her underwear, she lunged at you—an awkward, hungry tackle that knocked you back onto the floorboards. It wasn’t graceful; it was a fight for dominance, a small violent dance. Both of you wanted to win, to take control, yet neither of you really cared who ended up on top. It was a fuck, nothing more, and in the morning you both knew regret would be waiting.
Her hands fumbled clumsily at your jeans, unbuttoning them with jerky urgency before she kissed you again, mouth hot and unpracticed. Her tongue slid against yours, too hard, too messy. Her breath was stale, rank with days of ration food and no mint. Her body wasn’t clean either—sweat and dirt clung to her skin, the faint copper tang of old blood mixing with the sharp scent of her.
She wasn’t clean like Abby. Abby always smelled of soap and pine, of salt and lemon scrubbed into her skin until it stung. Ellie was different—awkward, grimy, feral in a way. A girl who’d been living feral in the world too long. And you hated how much it turned you on anyway, because you weren’t clean either. Your funk mixed with hers. Months on the road, you smelled like rot and dust and cigarettes. You knew it.
She shoved her underwear down and kicked them aside. You stripped yours in turn, yanking your shirt over your head, desperate to erase the barrier between you. For the first time, you both were bare, skin on skin in the pale wash of moonlight leaking through broken windows.
Her hips pressed down into yours, slick meeting slick, heat and wet colliding. She hooked her thighs against yours, grinding in a sharp rhythm, her face twisted with the effort of pleasure.
Your hips shifted, meeting her in the motion, and soon your bodies locked together in that messy scissoring cross. Her hands gripped your shoulders so tightly her nails broke skin. Her head tipped back, curls plastered to her sweaty temples as she moaned—low and guttural, not soft like Abby.
You felt her slick spread across your skin as her hips bucked harder, desperation dripping off her as much as sweat. She wasn’t romantic. She wasn’t tender. She was raw and sharp and dirty.
And in some fucked up way—you let her be.
Her body shook and she got off of you. “Fuck.” she muttered.
You shifted, ready to slide down her body and give back what she’d given you—but her hand was firm against your chest, pressing you flat to the floor. Before you could protest, her mouth was on you again, sudden and greedy. The shock of it made your hips jolt and your throat rip out a sharp gasp.
But the need to turn the tables burned hotter. You gripped her chin, dragging her face up. Breathless, you growled, “Get on my face.”
She blinked, hesitated half a heartbeat, then obeyed. Her thighs caged your head, the weight of her pressing down, hot and unrelenting. She leaned forward as she settled, her chest against your stomach, her mouth finding you again while your tongue and lips opened to her. The world shrank to sweat, to salt, to the smothering heat of skin on skin.
You moaned into her, desperate, your hands finding her hips and tugging her harder against your mouth. She tasted raw, sharp, nothing like Abby’s clean ocean-salt sweetness. This was dirt and leather and hunger.
Your fingers slipped inside her, pushing deep, curling hard. She yelped, bucked against you, her tongue stuttering in its rhythm as her own body betrayed her. She worked you clumsily, jagged strokes that lacked finesse, but it didn’t matter—you were both chasing the same violent edge.
Her thighs quivered, nearly crushing your head, her moans tumbling into curses as her body lost control. Then she came hard, shaking above you. You felt her slick drip down your chin, smearing across your mouth and nose. You swallowed it, gasping into her as she spasmed, biting down on her own arm to keep from screaming.
And then—you heard it.
A name, ripped from her throat between broken breaths. “Olivia—fuck—Olivia!”
The fake name. The lie you’d given her.
Your gut twisted.
Her climax shuddered out against your tongue, but the sound of that name burned through you. The falsehood sitting heavy in your chest, the wrongness of it all. She wasn’t calling for you. She was calling for someone who didn’t even exist.
And you let her.
But she didn’t give you time to breathe. She was on you before you could even process the taste of her still lingering on your tongue. Ellie shoved your thighs open, almost careless, her mouth latching onto you rough and unsteady. Two fingers slid in with no warning, stretching you suddenly. The sharp sting made your back arch and a startled cry rip out of your throat.
“Fuck!” you gasped, hips bucking against her face.
She didn’t slow, didn’t ease. Her tongue worked jaggedly against you, her hand pistoning without rhythm—messy, desperate, like she hadn’t done this often and didn’t care to be gentle. You grabbed at the floorboards, nails scraping as she wrecked you with sheer force instead of finesse.
It took longer than you wanted. The build crawled instead of surged, each thrust jarring, your body clenching more from the ache than the pleasure. Your mind slipped—slipped somewhere else, somewhere safer. You had to. You let yourself drift to Abby: her steady hands, her tenderness, the way she knew your body. You bit your lip hard, forcing your eyes shut, chasing the memory until finally—finally—heat coiled in your belly.
A broken moan escaped you, your voice betraying you.
“Ab—” you caught it, panic slicing through your climax. “—fuck, Ellie!” you corrected, too late.
Your heart stopped.
Her fingers froze inside you. Her tongue stilled. The sudden absence of motion left you trembling and unfinished, your body spasming around nothing. She pulled back slowly, her mouth wet with you, her fingers glistening as they slipped out of your heat.
“What?” Her voice was sharp, suspicious.
You sat up too fast, scrambling, the blood rushing in your ears. “Hm?” You forced a stupid little laugh, wide-eyed, like you hadn’t heard her. “What?”
Her eyes narrowed, searching your face. She wasn’t buying it. Not for a second.
“That name.” Her chest rose and fell fast, breath ragged. “You said a name. Who?” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing you across her cheek. Her gaze cut into you, hard, like she was trying to peel you open.
“What are you talking about?” you snapped back, too fast. Your voice cracked as you scrambled for control, your chest rising and falling hard. “I said your name—Ellie—”
But she was sharper than that. Too sharp. Her eyes narrowed, her whole body stiff as she sat back on her heels, hair clinging damp to her temple. “No, no, no…” she muttered, shaking her head like she could replay the sound of it. “You said—” Her breath hitched, coming quicker, her chest heaving. “Abby? You were gonna say Abby?”
Her voice hit you like a gunshot.
Your stomach flipped, panic setting your pulse aflame. You shook your head so hard it almost hurt. “No, no, I—I was gonna ask you to move,” you lied, your words stumbling over themselves, desperate. “You just—misheard me.”
She didn’t buy it. You saw it in her face, in the way her shoulders hunched like a wolf ready to strike. Ellie’s jaw clenched, and she stared through you like she could crawl into your skull and drag out the truth.
“Don’t bullshit me.” Her voice had gone low now, dangerous. “How do you know Abby?”
The name hung heavy in the air, louder than your own heartbeat.
You froze. There it was—the line you’d crossed without even meaning to.
Ellie’s hand twitched near the rifle she’d left at her side, not pointing it at you, not yet—but the motion was enough to send a chill rolling down your spine. Her eyes burned, not just with suspicion, but with something else too. History. Pain.
“Tell me,” she demanded, voice cracking under the weight of it. “How do you know Abby?”
You swallowed hard, throat dry. The lie scraped against your tongue before it even left your mouth. “She was a…” you stalled, forcing yourself to breathe, to keep your face neutral. Don’t give her anything real. Don’t slip. “A hookup from Seattle.”
Ellie’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. She just waited, her silence heavier than any threat.
“Tell me more,” she said finally. Her voice was steady, but you could hear the suspicion curled around it.
You coughed into your fist, trying to buy time. “Look… she left me when she fucked Owen, okay?” The name felt filthy on your tongue, but believable. A bitter edge crept into your voice, something raw enough that maybe—just maybe—Ellie would believe it.
Her expression shifted. You could see her replaying the pieces in her head, stacking them against the memories she’d carried from Seattle, the things she’d done, the blood she’d spilled. Her jaw loosened, shoulders easing slightly. “Okay,” she muttered, almost to herself, like the story fit well enough into her puzzle.
Relief bled out of your chest, but you forced yourself not to show it. You exhaled slow, looking away. “Sorry. Just… stuck on her, I guess.”
Ellie’s gaze cut sharp again. “Your girlfriend know that?”
You shook your head quickly, dropping your eyes to the floor. “Why do you think I left? Couldn’t stay with someone if I’m doing that.”
That seemed to satisfy her, at least enough for now. She leaned back against the cold floorboards, still bare, her skin pale under the fractured moonlight coming through the broken windows. The silence stretched out between you, the kind that wasn’t peaceful—just awkward, heavy, almost unbearable.
Finally, Ellie broke it. Her voice was low, almost like she didn’t want to hear herself say it. “I tried to kill her twice. Abby.”
The name stabbed through you, but you only nodded, forcing your face into something passive, unreadable. Pretend you didn’t know the story. Pretend you weren’t part of it.
She sighed, a sound thick with regret. “Killed all her friends. Hunted her down in California. Left my girlfriend to see her… went back to my girlfriend and she left me. And now I’m here.”
Your throat felt like stone. Still, you managed to get the question out. “Why?”
Her fingers picked at the floorboards, her voice small but sharp. “I don’t know. Heard there’s Fireflies somewhere?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah… heard that too.”
She turned then, her eyes finding yours in the dark, and for the first time you saw something almost hopeful there. A dangerous kind of hope. “Where?”
Your stomach twisted. You couldn’t tell her the truth. Couldn’t lead her back to Abby—not after everything. You swallowed and forced the lie past your lips. “Uhm… maybe Santa Cruz? I’m not too sure.”
She nodded, sitting back, her mouth tight. “Haven’t checked there yet.”
Then she crawled towards you again, her voice low and awkward. “So…”
Did she really want to keep this going? Your brow furrowed, the weight of everything pressing against your ribs. This was wrong. Pointless. Empty. But before you could stop yourself, you asked, “So?”
Ellie cleared her throat, her voice scratchy but laced with nervous bravado. Her hand trailed up your thigh, tentative at first, then firmer, testing your reaction. “We could… keep going? Forget the—” she waved her free hand vaguely, “you know. Awkward pain in the air?”
You nodded stiffly, your body agreeing before your mind could. You didn’t want to, not really, but you had to. Pretending not to be connected to Abby meant giving Ellie no reason to doubt you, no reason to dig deeper.
And so, without hesitation, her lips were on yours again. Messy, rushed, almost desperate. She kissed like someone who was forcing themselves through muscle memory, like she hadn’t done this in a long time. Her mouth moved down your neck, over your collarbone, awkward and hurried, until she was pressing wet kisses down the rest of your body.
You bucked your hips as her mouth found you again, her tongue clumsy but eager. Her fingers slipped inside, rough and uncalculated, pushing too fast, too hard, but not deep enough in the way you craved.
Your mind betrayed you—drifting back to Abby, to her steady hands, the way she’d stretch you slow before splitting you wide open, the way her mouth was patient, precise. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to replace Ellie’s jagged rhythm with Abby’s solidity.
But then… nothing.
Your body refused. The tension fizzled. You couldn’t come, no matter how hard you tried to force it.
So you did what you’d sworn never to do—you faked it. A moan forced past your lips, the sound hollow, performed. You clenched down manually around her fingers, tightening yourself until it mimicked the spasms of climax.
Ellie seemed to buy it. She chuckled breathlessly, pulling her hand away and flopping down beside you, her skin still slick against yours. “That was fast.”
You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood and nodded. “Yeah.”
Then you turned on your side, away from her, eyes closed. The silence wrapped around you like a shroud. You could feel her hesitation—her surprise that there was no hug, no lingering kiss, no warmth after.
But this was just a fuck. Nothing more.
And as the room cooled and Ellie’s breathing evened beside you, your mind drifted back to Abby, as it always did. You fell asleep with her face haunting you, the taste of regret stronger than anything Ellie had left on your skin.
________________________________________________________________________
The sun bled through the broken windows, prying your eyes open like needles. You blinked hard, the ache in your chest hitting before the ache in your body.
Ellie was already up. She had one boot tied, the other half on, her back turned to you as she shoved her shirt down over her head. She moved quick, like she wanted to erase the night before, like if she dressed fast enough maybe it wouldn’t have happened.
You sat up and hurried to pull your own clothes on, your throat tight. The silence between you had teeth. Every rustle of fabric, every scrape of boots on the floor was too loud. You cleared your throat just to fill the space. “We should… get back on the road.”
She didn’t answer. Just grabbed her pack and rifle, heading out the door.
By the time you stepped outside, she was already in the driver’s seat with the engine rumbling. She didn’t even look your way when you climbed into the passenger side.
The car hummed down the cracked asphalt, miles peeling away like old scabs. It felt like days as the hours passed, your stomach turning, the memory of her mouth still on your skin even though you wanted it gone.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Ellie spoke. “Santa Cruz?” Her voice was steady, but her knuckles were white around the steering wheel.
You nodded. “Yeah.” You had to keep the lie smooth.
She let out a long breath through her nose. “I remembered… this morning… you know I was just there, right?”
Your chest tightened. “Hm.” You forced a shrug, forced your voice low and dismissive. “Guess I heard wrong.”
Her jaw worked as she stared at the road. “I hate when that happens. Did you trade for that info?”
You leaned your elbow against the window, pretending irritation, like the memory of the night before wasn’t strangling you. “Yup. Pack of cigarettes.”
Ellie slapped the steering wheel, a sharp crack in the silence. “Man!”
Then her expression shifted, a spark lighting behind her eyes. “You know what? I heard they might be in Nevada too.”
You nodded absently. “Probably.”
She sighed, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the wheel. Then softer, almost hesitant: “You could—” She cut herself off. Bit her lip. Then: “You know. Come with me.”
The words sat heavy between you.
You shook your head without thinking. “No.”
She didn’t argue. Just nodded, tapping the wheel again, her eyes glued to the road ahead.
The air thickened around you, stifling, pressing into your chest. You had to get away from her. Before she asked more questions. Before your lies cracked. Before she looked at you and saw Abby’s shadow written all over your face.
___________________________________________________________________________
By day six with Ellie, the silence between you had become its own language.
You barely spoke, not really. She tried sometimes—little jokes, comments about the scenery, muttered curses when siphoning gas went wrong—but your answers were clipped, hollow.
The car hummed endlessly across the broken highways. Drive for hours. Stop for gas. Drive again. Sleep on cold floors. Repeat.
At the latest pileup, Ellie killed the engine and got out, heading toward a line of rusted cars. You followed, boots crunching over glass and gravel. The air reeked of old oil and sunbaked metal. She siphoned, muttering about how much of a pain in the ass it was. You barely heard her.
When she finally got the engine turning over again and slid into the driver’s seat, you stood with your hand on the door, staring at the horizon. Santa Barbara was far behind now. Too far.
You sat down, shut the door, then said it.
“I’m gonna leave from here.”
Her head snapped toward you. “What?”
You shrugged, looking out the windshield like the cracked asphalt would explain for you. “I don’t want to go to Nevada.”
She stared for a beat, jaw tight, like she wanted to argue. But her face softened into something almost… disappointed. She nodded once, a quick, sharp motion, and then looked away.
“You’ll die out here.”
Your chest ached. You sighed, gripping the handle of the door. “Get there safe.”
And before she could reply, before she could ask another question that might unspool the lies you’d stacked between you, you got out. The air hit you hot, the kind that bakes straight into your bones.
Your boots carried you away from the car, away from Ellie, away from whatever the fuck almost became between you two.
You didn’t look back.
Behind you, the engine rumbled to life. The sound lingered in the air until it faded into the distance, leaving only the dry wind and the endless road.
______________________________________________________________________________

Notes:

gah.... ugh... gah bleh... ughhh... belch... gah...

why did i... you know what?
fuck it lol
yeah fuck it this is the story
i was lowkey gonna delete but fuck it lets keep it

Chapter 66: Is This The End?

______________________________________________________________________________
It had been three months since you left Catalina.
A month since you last saw Ellie.
Three months since Abby’s skin pressed warm against yours, since her breath brushed your neck, since you decided safety was a cage you couldn’t stand. A month since Ellie’s salty taste lingered on your tongue, a mistake you couldn’t scrub from memory no matter how many cigarettes you burned down to the filter.
Now here you were, circling back like some sick joke. Santa Barbara.
The same cracked pavement under your boots. The same sun-bleached houses and hollow windows staring like blind eyes. The same air, heavy with ghosts of what you once hunted for and never found.
You dropped your pack against the curb and sank down on the hot concrete, legs screaming from the miles. A strip of jerky hung between your teeth, tough as leather, dry and salty. You chewed slow, jaw tight, forcing yourself to swallow.
Your rifle slid off your shoulder and leaned against your thigh with a dull clatter. Months of running, climbing, fighting had carved the softness out of you. Your muscles were rope under skin again. You weren’t the fever-wasted thing Abby had held together with blankets and cool rags—you were hardened, lean, carrying every scar like proof that you could still survive.
But still, you were back here.
2425 Constance. The numbers on the battered street sign might as well have been carved into your ribs. Once, you came here with hope clawing at your chest. Now you came sunburnt and bitter, the joke of it all not lost on you.
You unfolded your map, squinting against the glare. Sweat smudged your fingerprints into the paper, the ink blurred with damp. North to Seattle, maybe. East to nothing familiar. Anywhere but here.
Your shirt clung to your back, sleeves ripped away weeks ago. Black fabric bleached into gray by the relentless sun. Jeans shredded at the knees. Boots worn down to cracked leather. A glance in the busted car window beside you almost startled you—you barely recognized yourself. Sharper cheekbones. Hollow eyes. A harder mouth.
You sighed and rolled your aching shoulders, then went to work. Rip the panel, strip the wires, spark the connection. The muscle memory of hotwiring carried you through car after car, each coughing but refusing to start. Then finally—
The engine roared to life.
The sound wasn’t a comfort. It felt foreign, almost wrong. Your lips pulled into something between a grimace and a smile.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, you scanned the dashboard. Gas gauge—nearly full. Like some poor bastard had filled it right before the world fell apart.
Your hands tightened on the wheel. For the first time in months, the road was open again.
You pointed the car north, toward Seattle. Loose plan. Find another state. Another patch of earth where your chest didn’t ache with emptiness. But every mile only pressed it heavier.
The cigarette shook between your lips as you lit it. Smoke scorched your lungs, grounding and bitter. Three packs you’d traded away ammo for, worth every bullet. Not because you liked the quiet, but because your head wouldn’t stop screaming.
And screaming always circled back to Catalina.
The clicking. The sound you swore you’d heard that night. Abby had brushed you off, told you to come back to bed. But you never forgot it. Worse, you remembered how easily your mind conjured her neck torn open, her body jerking as infection chewed through her.
The image slammed into you again.
You stomped the brake. Tires screeched on the empty road.
Sweat dripped into your eyes as you raked a hand through sun-bleached hair—once dark brown, now faded auburn from too much sun. Your fists pounded the steering wheel. Once. Twice.
“Fuck!”
The sound ripped from your throat raw and broken.
Before the thought had time to form, you were already turning west. Toward the coast.
And there it was. The rowboat. Exactly where you’d left it, like some cruel reminder.
You shoved your pack inside, lit another cigarette, and started rowing. The sun dragged overhead, bled into dusk, and finally into night. Your shoulders burned, palms blistered, arms trembling, but you didn’t stop. Not until Catalina’s outline rose sharp against the horizon.
By the time you dragged the boat onto the beach, the sky was black and jeweled with stars.
You crept through the grass toward the house. Heart slamming. Windows glowed faint with lamplight. You crouched low, peering in.
There they were. Abby. Lev.
Alive. Laughing.
Lev’s voice carried high with excitement, waving a book. Abby leaned her chin on her palm, watching him with a soft smile that gutted you.
Your eyes flicked to the details.
Your boots—still by the door.
Your jacket—slung over the same chair.
Your journals stacked untouched. Spare boots. Even your jacket collar still bent the same way.
Nothing moved. Not once.
You pressed your fingers hard to the bridge of your nose, choking on a bitter laugh. “Fuck me…”
Before you could stop yourself, you stamped out your cigarette and knocked.
The sound cracked the air.
Footsteps. The creak of hinges.
And there she was.
Abby. Her hair longer, tied back. Shoulders broader. Her eyes locked on you like she wasn’t sure you were real.
Her lips parted. “Joan.”
The sound of your name in her mouth almost broke you.
But you’d seen all you needed. That light. That laughter. That safety. You turned back toward the beach, boots heavy in the sand.
Her footsteps followed fast. Heavy. Unyielding.
“Hey—what the fuck?” She grabbed your arm.
You ripped free. Jaw tight. The rowboat waited.
Lev’s voice cracked through the night before you could climb in. “Don’t take my rowboat again!”
You smirked despite yourself. He didn’t even try to be funny, and still he was.
But Abby was faster. She yanked you back, dragging you out onto the sand.
“The fuck are you doing?” she barked.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” you muttered, turning your head away. Smoke still coated your tongue.
Her brows drew tight, disbelief pulling at her face. “What?”
She paused “Inside,” she snapped at Lev, not even glancing at him.
The door shut. Just you and her.
She stepped closer, the tide hissing behind her. “You leave for three months—” her voice cracked but steadied sharp, “—in the middle of the night, after almost dying from a fever—and now you come back to… what? Check on me?”
You squared yourself, the muscle in your arms taut, scars shining pale. You weren’t the sick girl she’d nursed. You were harder now. Bitter.
“To see if you were okay,” you repeated flatly.
Her mouth opened like she didn’t recognize you anymore. “To see if I was okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t get back on that boat,” she snapped.
You threw your arms up. “Why? You probably moved on!”
Her laugh came sharp. “Moved on? Joan—it’s been three months.”
Your stomach twisted. Guilt seared hot, a month-old taste of Ellie’s mouth haunting you.
Abby’s eyes locked on yours. You saw the exact second she pieced it together. “Oh my god.”
“Abby—”
Her tone dropped low, dangerous. “Are you serious?”
You shook your head, but shame poured through.
“Joan.” A warning.
You looked away. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Her breath hitched. She nodded once. “Fair. I did the same in Seattle. But fuck.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling hard.
The silence pressed in.
Her eyes cut back to yours. “Was it good?”
Your stomach lurched. “No.”
Her lip twitched, half a huff. “Did you cum?”
“…No.”
She crossed her arms, jaw tight. “So it was with a guy then?”
You shook your head.
Her eyes widened. “A girl?!”
You bit your lip and nodded.
Her voice sharpened, each word a knife. “Who.”
You forced your face blank. Shrugged. “Didn’t get her name.”
She clicked her tongue, eyes narrowing. “Are you lying to me?”
You shook your head again, forcing the word out flat: “No.”
But even as you said it, you could feel it—she saw right through you.
She looked at you again, steady now, her chest rising and falling like she’d been holding it all in for months.
“Joan.” Her voice cracked on your name. She dragged in a deep breath, forcing the words out.
“I love you, okay? I don’t care about the bullshit. I don’t care who you were with or what happened.”
The words cut through the sand, sharper than any blade.
You took a step back, retreating like distance might protect you from them. But she followed—one step closer, her shadow stretching across yours in the moonlight.
She swallowed hard, eyes glassy but unyielding. “I don’t care if it makes me stupid. I don’t care if I’m an idiot for asking. Just—please.” Her voice faltered, but she pushed through it. “I need you, Joan.”
The tide hissed behind you, a rhythm to the silence pressing between every syllable. Her words ate at you, chewing through all the armor you’d built on the road. The running, the smoking, the fucking, the leaving—it all cracked under that raw plea.
Then softer, fragile as sea glass, she whispered:
“Just tonight… just sleep here tonight.”
You stared at her. The lines in her face, harsher now than three months ago. The strength in her frame. The softness in her eyes that she never showed anyone but you.
Your chest ached like something inside was tearing loose.
You exhaled hard, all the fight bleeding out of your body. “…Fine.”
It wasn’t surrender. Not really. But it felt like it.
The word tasted bitter on your tongue, like ash, but the thought of a hot shower, of clean sheets and a bed that didn’t groan with the weight of rot and wind—it was too much to deny. You nodded once, sharp, and you saw Abby’s shoulders sag with relief.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.
Her silence said everything.
She only stepped aside, her arm sweeping faintly toward the house, as if she didn’t want to spook you by reaching out, as if she was afraid you’d bolt again. For the first time in months, you let your body move toward warmth instead of away from it.
The moment you stepped through the door, it was like the house itself accused you.
Everything looked the same as when you’d left.
The couch tucked neatly near the bookshelf. The kitchen counters scrubbed clean, faint lemon still clinging to the air from her vinegar solution. The table still bore the faint rings of coffee cups and water glasses you hadn’t bothered to wipe up months ago. Even your boots—those damn boots—sat lined up at the door like they’d been waiting for you.
Your throat tightened. It was as if you’d been gone an hour, not three months.
Abby said nothing. She only walked ahead, her heavy steps measured, controlled. Lev’s door was closed upstairs, the faintest strip of light seeping out beneath it. You wondered if he was listening, ear pressed to the wood. You wondered if he was angry.
She stopped at the bathroom and pressed a bundle of folded fabric into your hands—pajamas, soft cotton, smelling faintly of her soap. She didn’t speak, just gave a small nod for you to go in.
The bathroom was warm from the pipes, the mirror fogged with old steam. You stripped out of your clothes, the sweat-stiff fabric peeling from your skin, and stepped under the hot spray.
The water bit at first, stinging your sunburnt shoulders and arms, but you let it run until the pain dulled into relief. Dirt bled down the drain in muddy rivulets. Salt and sand clung stubbornly to your hair until you scrubbed it raw. You washed fast, then slower, until you caught yourself standing motionless under the heat, not wanting to leave.
When you finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the mirror glared back at you.
You barely recognized yourself.
Your face was sharper, more hollowed, cheekbones cut from hunger and sleepless nights. But your body… your body had changed. Hardened again. Muscle rebuilt under your skin from weeks of climbing, running, rowing, fighting. You weren’t the frail fever-ridden mess Abby had left tucked under blankets. You were something else now—stronger, yes, but also more foreign.
You sighed and dressed in the cotton pajamas. They clung oddly to your new frame, loose at the waist, snug at the shoulders. You looked like a ghost in borrowed skin.
When you stepped into the bedroom, Abby was already there, leaning against the headboard with a book in her hands. The lamplight softened her face, but her eyes didn’t lift to meet yours. She read silently, the tip of her finger tracing the page.
You lingered for a moment at the threshold. Then you moved to your side of the bed. It was exactly as you’d left it—pillow slightly flattened, blanket tucked in at the corners the way Abby always did. You lowered yourself onto it and laid back, staring up at the ceiling.
The silence pressed heavy between you. The book pages turned. The lamp hummed faintly.
And you felt stupid.
So fucking stupid.
To be here again, in warmth, after everything you’d done. After walking away, after losing yourself out there, after letting someone else touch you. To be lying here in clean cotton while Abby turned the pages of her book like nothing had changed.
It was stupid.
Stupid and cruel.
______________________________________________________________________________
The sun burned at your eyes, dragging you awake. For a moment you forgot—forgot the road, the desert, the months of silence. You almost believed Catalina had been a dream.
Then you felt her. Abby.
Her chest pressed warm against your back, her arm heavy around your waist, her breath steady against the nape of your neck. The familiarity of it cut like a blade. The scent of her hair—soap, sweat, pine—made your stomach twist with guilt.
You eased her arm off gently and sat up, your chest aching. She stirred, but didn’t wake. You padded across the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, you buried your face in your hands. You looked different now—harder, leaner, sunburnt. A stranger to her, maybe even to yourself.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice. Soft, worried.
You swallowed, throat tight. “…Yeah?”
A pause. “Are you okay?”
You closed your eyes. That question again. Always. It made your chest ache worse.
“Yeah,” you said, forcing steadiness into your voice.
Another pause. Her hand pressed lightly against the door, the wood creaking under her weight. “…You’re not gonna leave again, right?”
Your stomach sank.
You let out a sigh, and the door opened with a soft click. Abby stood in the doorway, her frame filling it like a wall you couldn’t push past. She hesitated, her eyes dragging over you in a way that wasn’t exactly judgment, but it wasn’t easy either. Finally, she gave a half-laugh, quiet and nervous.
“You know… you look—good.”
You cocked an eyebrow, your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. “What?”
She shifted, weight bouncing from one leg to the other. The air between you was thick, like smoke from a fire that hadn’t gone out. “I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging like the words cost her something. “I don’t know what to say.”
You nodded slowly, gaze breaking from hers, drifting toward the window where pale light spilled in. “That was fucked up.” Your throat worked as you forced the words out. “Leaving like that.”
You saw it immediately—the way relief rippled over her face, softening the tightness in her jaw. It was like she’d been holding her breath for three months, waiting for you to say it out loud. “It was fucked up,” she agreed, voice low, steady.
Your tongue darted over your lips, the bitter taste of old smoke still clinging. “I’m smoking again.”
Her eyes flickered, that familiar look of quiet disappointment tugging at her features. “I know,” she sighed, and the words landed heavier than they should have. “I can smell it on you.”
Your brows pinched together, and you studied her. Really studied her. The way her hair had grown long again, straight blond strands brushing her shoulders. The flush of pink that lived naturally in her lips, like she’d been carved out to always look alive. Her arms looked even stronger, veins pushing against skin, muscle built from the endless work of survival. You wanted to hate her for being so steady. So sure.
But instead you just sighed.
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but then she hesitated. Finally, she tried, voice cautious: “If this is about our conversation before, about the—”
You cut her off, the words rushing out before you could stop them. “I want to do it.”
Her head tilted, confusion hardening into suspicion. Arms folded across her chest, that old sharpness sliding back into her expression—the one she saved for when you’d really gotten under her skin. “What?” she bit out, each letter sharp.
You dropped your head into your hands, groaning at yourself. “It’s stupid but… yeah. I came back, and all I thought about was you—this house… god, and Lev. So let’s do it.”
Her eyes went wide, her arms loosening as if your words knocked the wind out of her. She stumbled back a step, shaking her head in disbelief. “No… what? What the fuck—no. No way!”
You scoffed, anger sparking in your chest. “Why?”
She gaped at you, frustration bursting out of her in a bitter laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
The silence that followed was brutal.
But you shifted, confused by her anger. You weren’t stupid—you knew what you did was reckless, cruel, fucked up. You had thrown your life with her straight out the window. God, you’d even fucked someone else.
Ellie.
The girl who killed all of Abby’s friends. The girl who nearly drowned her. The girl who took Owen away.
The bile in your stomach rose. You sighed, the words cracking as they left you. “I thought—I don’t know.”
Abby huffed, loud and bitter, cutting you down without even looking at you. “You never know. And that’s the problem.”
Your head snapped up, voice sharp. “Excuse me?”
She leaned against the sink, her knuckles white on the porcelain, her brow furrowed so hard it looked carved into stone. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, her voice trembling on the edge of shouting. “You always do this. When things are good, you wreck them. When we have peace, you burn it down. God, Joan.” She shook her head like she couldn’t even look at you. “Just let things be. Let them get better. Stop wrecking everything. How the fuck can I even think about having a baby with you if you’re just going to blow it all up the second it feels safe?!”
Her words hit like bullets. You turned away, your legs weak, lowering yourself onto the cold edge of the tub. The weight of her anger crushed down on you, and tears started blurring your vision before you could stop them. You swallowed, the sound raw. “I know…” your voice cracked. “But you—”
The words tangled in your throat, spilling out in sobs. “You have Lev. You have this house. You have something here that means—”
Abby snapped, her voice breaking. “You have me! Goddammit, Joan—you have me!”
Your eyes lifted to her. Her hands were trembling, her face tight, eyes glassy with tears she was forcing herself not to shed.
“Am I not enough?” she demanded, almost pleading. Her voice dropped, fragile and shaking. “Am I not enough for you to at least try to be better for?!”
Your chest collapsed under the weight of her words. You shrugged helplessly, your head dropping into your hands. Your voice came out a broken whisper. “You are.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was heavy, suffocating, like the walls were caving in. She stared at you, her breath unsteady, while you sat there drowning in your guilt, wondering if even the truth would ever be enough.
Still, she didn’t look at you. Her hands gripped the sink so hard her knuckles turned white.
“When I first met you…” her voice was low, trembling, “I knew you had issues. You were grieving and I let you. I let you be broken, and I stayed.” She sighed, shaking her head slowly, strands of blonde falling loose around her face.
“When you first came here again,” she continued, her voice cracking, “I let you be crazy, be awful, and I let you grieve again. But Joan—” her voice broke on your name, splintering into something softer, more raw. “I can’t keep doing this with you. The ups. The downs. The constant push and pull.”
Your stomach knotted so tight it felt like it might tear you open.
“I want peace, Joan.” She sniffled, swiping at her eyes quickly as if she hated showing you weakness. “I fucking deserve peace.”
The words shredded you, because she was right. Every syllable carried years of loss—her dad, Owen, Mel, all the blood and ghosts trailing behind her. She had clawed her way to this fragile calm, and here you were again, dragging her back into chaos.
Her chest heaved, her breath uneven. Finally, her eyes met yours, wet and burning. “And if you can’t give me that—” she faltered, swallowing hard, “—then I don’t know if I can keep choosing this.”
The silence after felt like a gunshot.
“Abby—” you started, but she shook her head, sharp and final.
“I want a life with you, Joan.” Her voice wavered between anger and heartbreak. “I love you, but… Joan, what you do to me—” she sucked her teeth, eyes dropping to the floor like she couldn’t bear to look at you, “—it’s just not fair. It’s not right.”
Shame scorched your face hot. You shifted, small and embarrassed, like a child caught in a lie.
Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling, strands of her hair sliding across her flushed cheeks like golden threads. “Lev was so upset when you left,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her lip trembled as she bit it, holding back the sob that threatened. “You can hurt me. God, Joan, you have hurt me. But Lev?” Her eyes snapped to yours, fierce through the tears. “You can’t do what you do to me to Lev. You can’t wreck him emotionally. I won’t have it. I won’t.”
The words gutted you. Your chest collapsed in on itself, your ribs like broken glass pressing into your lungs. Your heart cracked wide open, and the sharp edge of it sliced through every ugly thing you’d done. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to scream. You wanted to crawl into her arms and beg her to never stop loving you, even though you didn’t deserve it.
You tried to hold it in, the tears, the pleading, clinging instead to the raw burn in your throat. But you knew—this was the crossroads. The moment where you had to choose: run again, or finally stand and take the pain you’d caused.
And of course… you would choose Abby.
“Abby.” Your voice cracked as you stepped forward, trembling. You placed your hand gently on her shoulder, your palm damp against the heat of her skin. “What can I do?” you whispered, desperate. “I want this with you. I want you. I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”
She wiped her face quickly with the heel of her hand, as if furious at herself for crying. She looked at you, her eyes red, swollen, still full of fire.
“You really fucked up this time, Joan.”
Her words weren’t cruel. They were heavy. Final. Like the strike of a gavel.

Chapter 67: Arguments

Notes:

Okay this is short buuuut i promise its for a reason!

She scoffed, her nose crinkling like she’d just smelled something rancid. Her eyes were sharp through the tears, drilling holes into you. You weren’t crying, weren’t shouting, weren’t even moving—just standing there like some idiot with your hand on her shoulder, frozen in guilt.
She slapped your hand away with a sting that lingered on your skin.
“Even now,” she spat, her voice catching on the edges of her grief, “you’re just fucking standing there—staring at me, rubbing my shoulder like that fixes anything. And, Joan—” her voice climbed, harsh and breaking all at once, “—I am pouring my heart out to you. I’m fucking crying in front of you!”
Her words cracked in the air, loud in the bathroom.
You took a step back, your throat tight, guilt clawing down into your gut. “Abby, I just—”
But she didn’t let you finish. She sniffled hard, swiping the wet from her cheeks with the heel of her hand, her whole body trembling. “Why does it take so much to get you to open your mouth to me? To just—fucking talk to me?” Her voice faltered into a wet rasp. “Do you not love me? Is that it? Was everything we had just… nothing?”
Her words hit harder than any punch you’d taken.
She stumbled forward a step, pressing a fist to her chest like she was holding herself together. “Something you can just—walk away from in the middle of the night?” Her breath rattled, uneven, frantic. “You traveled across the fucking ocean for me, Joan. You came to Catalina half-dead. You clawed your way back to me.”
Her voice dropped into something guttural, shattered. “And still…” she shook her head, unable to look at you, her chest heaving as another sob broke loose, “…and still you can’t just talk to me.”
Your face twisted, your jaw clenching against the weight of her words. “What the fuck do you want me to say!” you snapped, the desperation cracking through.
Her head jerked up at that, eyes wide and wet, fury mixing with heartbreak. “Anything!” she shouted, her voice breaking into rawness. “God, Joan, anything other than just staring at me!”
Her shoulders shook violently, the sob ripping out of her, a sound that cut into you deeper than any blade.
Your stomach knotted so tight you thought you might throw up. You swallowed the bile, the guilt, the words you should have said months ago. “Abby…” Your voice cracked. You stepped closer, your hand twitching uselessly at your side, wanting to reach for her again but terrified she’d slap it away a second time.
So instead you spoke up. “I feel…” you started and she looked at you through her sobs. “Embarressed.” you swallowed.
“What?” she spat.
You sighed, your chest collapsing under the weight of it all. “I feel horrible… I missed you so much I just—” your throat tightened, words strangling in your chest. You dragged your eyes to the ceiling, biting hard at the inside of your cheek, trying to choke back tears. But the dam cracked. For once, you let yourself stop fighting. For once, you let it spill.
“I left because…” your voice broke, splintering in the silence. “I didn’t feel like I deserved this.”
Your lip quivered, your hands shaking as you rubbed your face, but the tears still streamed hot and relentless. “And when you talked about the baby…” your voice cracked again, a pitiful sound. “I just—fuck—” you wiped at your eyes furiously, but they filled faster than you could clear them.
Then it hit you, raw and loud. The sob ripped out before you could swallow it.
“I just wish Frank was here.”
Her brows softened instantly, the sharpness in her face dissolving into something wounded, tentative. She didn’t speak. She just stared at you, and it was almost worse than anger.
You sniffled, choking on your own snot, pressing your palms to your eyes like you could hide from the truth. “He would’ve loved it here,” you whispered through hiccups. “And I… it’s my fault he’s gone.”
Abby shook her head, stepping closer, her voice low but firm. “Joan, no—”
You cut her off with another broken cry, collapsing in on yourself, your knees buckling as you crouched down against the cold tile. “When he died—” your chest heaved, the words jagged, “he was shot—I shouldn’t have run out so fast. I could’ve stopped it. If I just stayed—”
The whimper left you small, fragile. A child. The sound you hadn’t made since Boston, since before the world chewed you into steel and spit you out hollow.
The words poured from you, messy and unstoppable. You couldn’t hold them back anymore, not here, not in front of her.
“I thought about you every day,” you rasped, your voice shredded from crying, barely enough air to speak. You curled in on yourself, shaking, shame and grief clawing at your ribs.
Your words hitched. A confession you swore you’d never let out crawled up your throat.
“When I fucked her—” you bit your lip so hard it bled, your voice breaking on the memory.
You heard Abby’s breath falter, her whole body stiff in the silence.
“I moaned your fucking name.”
Your sobs returned, shaking you violently. You sounded wrecked, small, pathetic, nothing like the hardened soldier you tried to be. Just a broken mess on the floor, all your armor stripped away.
You sobbed as Abby stared at you, your chest collapsing with every shallow, desperate breath. “I want to talk to you about how I feel,” you managed, your voice breaking apart into jagged pieces. Your whole body shook as the tears forced their way out, your throat burning like you’d swallowed glass.
You hiccuped, trying to force the words out. “I—I—” you stuttered, your lips trembling, the air clawing in and out of your lungs. The sound was pathetic, feral. Then, finally, it burst out of you in a wail, raw and loud, echoing off the bathroom tile:
“I don’t know how!”
The sobs ripped through you, curling you forward, your forehead pressed to your knees as your back shook violently. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop.
“Joan—woah, hey, hey,” Abby’s voice cut through, softer now. She crouched beside you, one strong hand rubbing circles into your back. Her touch was grounding, familiar, but it only made the grief spill faster.
The dam was broken, everything you had bottled up for months flooding out. All the shame, all the guilt, all the grief. Poured onto the cold tile floor at her feet.
“I moaned your name, Abby,” you cried, your words cracking and garbled, spilling out without thought. “I moaned your fucking name and I couldn’t—”
You gasped, sobbing harder, hiccupping air like you were drowning.
Abby’s lips twitched. She tried—she really tried—to keep a straight face. But a tiny, strangled chuckle escaped her throat, half-laugh, half-exhale, quickly smothered. You did sound ridiculous. And yet you were so heartbreakingly sincere.
“I couldn’t cum,” you choked, tears sliding down your cheeks, snot clogging your nose. Your voice was a mess of shame and hysteria. “I had to think of you.”
Abby’s brows knit together, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Okay, okay, okay,” she whispered, her voice gentle but strained, her palm never leaving your back. She was soothing you, but the words were clipped—like she didn’t know if she should laugh, cry, or scream.
You knew—God, you knew—she was still angry. That you hadn’t erased the pain you caused. That maybe you were making it worse by blurting out all of this now, raw and messy and humiliating.
Because that’s what it felt like. Humiliation. You felt like a manipulator, like an asshole, like someone clawing for forgiveness in the ugliest, weakest way possible.
But you couldn’t stop crying. You couldn’t stop talking. It was like your body had decided for you—that if you didn’t empty everything here and now, you’d drown in it.
And Abby—she stayed there with you, her palm steady against your back, letting you unravel, even if you sounded like a fool.
Because Abby really loved you—and God, you had really fucked up.
Your breathing slowed, but your chest still hurt from sobbing. You dragged in a deep breath, your throat raw, your nose clogged with snot. You wiped your sleeve across your face and sat back against the tiled wall, trying to collect yourself.
Abby shifted down beside you, her long legs folding cross-legged, her back against the vanity. For a moment, the two of you just sat there on the bathroom floor, silence filling the cracks where your tears had been.
Your voice was small, broken but certain. “I want to try.”
She turned her head toward you, her jaw tight. Then she sighed and looked away, staring at the grout lines on the floor. “Let’s just…” she exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. “Take it day by day.”
You nodded. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t an ending either. It was something in between—a thread you could still hold onto. And thank God for that.
Abby’s shoulders rose and fell with another heavy breath. “Jesus… I hate to know someone else felt you the way I have.” Her voice dipped into a low, humorless chuckle. “But… now I know how you felt about Owen.”
You winced. She was right, and the words landed heavy. The difference cut deep—you’d built something mature, safe, sacred with her, and you’d ripped it apart. This wasn’t Owen. This was worse.
Still, she shrugged, eyes fixed ahead like she couldn’t quite look at you. “But I’m glad you were honest. Even if it hurts.” Her voice cracked, her throat catching. When you dared to glance over, you saw tears pooling in her sharp blue eyes.
You swallowed hard, shame burning through you. You didn’t know what to say—what could you say?
And then, in the way only Abby could, she twisted the knife with a crooked, inappropriate grin. “But you moaned my name.” She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “That’s embarrassing.”
Your face went hot, and you groaned, burying it in your knees. “Yep.”
She actually snorted then, the sound a strange relief in the thick air between you. “Oh, Joan…” she breathed, her voice low, almost fond. Her hand rubbed over her face, her laugh dissolving into something sadder. “What are we gonna do?”
You lifted your head enough to look at her, exhausted, defeated. “I don’t know.”
She nodded, her expression mirroring yours. “Neither do I.”
And there it was—no resolution, no dramatic fix. Just the two of you on the bathroom floor, side by side in the mess you’d made, unsure if you could rebuild but unable to walk away.
Abby pushed herself up off the tile, her palms dragging across her face like she could scrub the night off her skin. A low groan escaped her chest, half frustration, half exhaustion, and she walked out of the bathroom without looking back. Her footsteps faded down the hall, heavy, uneven.
You sat there for a moment longer, your chest still tight, your eyes burning. Then a shadow filled the doorway.
Lev.
He stood there, arms crossed, jaw set, his young face carved into something older, harder. His voice was flat, blunt. “I need to get in here.”
You startled slightly, nodding too quickly. “Right.”
He didn’t move aside as you brushed past, didn’t soften. His gaze locked on you with a sharpness you’d never seen in him before. Then the bathroom door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing down the hall like judgment.
You exhaled through your nose, shame crawling over your skin.
The house was dim and quiet. From downstairs came the faint sound of movement—Abby, maybe pacing, maybe cleaning, maybe just trying to bleed out her anger in silence. You didn’t follow. You didn’t have the strength.
Instead, you padded down the hall and slipped into the bedroom.
The bed looked the same as it always had, soft sheets tucked neatly, faint lamplight spilling across the quilt. You sank onto your side, pressing your face into the pillow. Abby’s scent clung to the fabric—soap, sweat, and something warm, something that was always hers.
It filled your nose, heavy and overwhelming. A comfort and a punishment all at once.
Your muscles loosened as your eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion dragging at your bones. The sheets cocooned you, holding the heat of her body even in her absence. And despite everything—the fight, the tears, Lev’s glare—you drifted under.
Sleep claimed you, rough and unsteady, but it took you all the same.
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Chapter 68: Slick

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The silver glow of the moon cracked through the blinds, pulling you up from the pit of sleep. Your eyes blinked open to find Abby’s arm locked tight around your middle, her body curved into yours like she was holding you in place even in her dreams.
A thought hit you sharp—when you were gone, when the bed was empty and the nights stretched out, what did she hold onto then? Did she reach for nothing? Did she curl her fists into the sheets and force herself not to?
You shifted carefully, threading your arm under hers, then rolled to face her. Curling into her chest, you inhaled the scent of her skin—soap, sweat, faint salt from the ocean air. It tore at you, how much you’d missed this. A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. You brushed it away quickly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her cheek.
She stirred, lips parting in a small sigh, and for the first time in what felt like forever you let yourself really look at her.
A long scar stretched horizontally across her cheek, catching the moonlight. Her lashes trembled against flushed skin, long and heavy. Her lips, even slack with sleep, held that familiar pout. Your fingertips drifted up the solid curve of her bicep, tracing the map of scars that webbed across her muscles.
Her eyes cracked open, hazy blue, and her voice came low, rasped from sleep. “Joan.”
Before you could answer, she kissed you.
It wasn’t hesitant. Not restrained. Even after everything—the fights, the tears, the silence—her lips found yours like they’d never lost them. The kiss was deep, deliberate, almost tender in its haze.
Her tongue flicked gently against your bottom lip, and for a fleeting second you wondered if she even realized she was kissing you. If she remembered she was angry. If she cared.
You didn’t. Not now. You only knew you wanted this. Needed it.
You opened to her, and her tongue slid in, swirling against yours in lazy, hungry spirals. The taste of her hit you like a wave, sweet and grounding, the taste you’d carried with you through miles of cigarettes and guilt.
A whimper cracked free from your throat before you could bite it back. The sound broke something in her.
Suddenly she was on top of you, heavy and solid, pinning you to the mattress with the kind of urgency you hadn’t seen since Ensenada. Her dominance pressed into every movement—her mouth still devouring yours, her knee slipping between your thighs, her hands unyielding.
She tore your shirt up and over in one rough motion, the fabric discarded somewhere in the dark. Her hand claimed your breast immediately, her palm firm, her fingers gripping like she had to memorize the weight of you again.
Still, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. Every touch screamed what her voice hadn’t yet—the ache, the missing, the anger turned into desperate want.
And beneath her, you could feel it too. She had missed you.
Her tongue twisted with yours, hot and clumsy and wet, and then her teeth caught your bottom lip, a sharp tug that sent a groan rattling from her chest straight into your mouth. You gasped at the sting, hips bucking helplessly in answer, like your body remembered this rhythm before your brain could catch up.
“Abby… god,” you breathed, broken and needy, hands skimming the edges of her body—her waist, her ribs, her hard shoulders—before cupping her face like she was something fragile, like if you didn’t hold her she’d slip right through your fingers again.
She didn’t feel fragile.
She broke away, her mouth dragging down your throat with a desperation that bordered on violent. Her kisses weren’t soft; they were a string of bites, sharp enough to sting, followed by deep, sucking pulls that left the skin raw and marked. You could already feel bruises blooming beneath her mouth, her teeth catching just enough flesh to blur the line between pain and pleasure. Every mark was a claim, a reminder.
You whimpered, writhing against the sheets, your voice shaking. “F-Fuck, hang on—”
But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
She kissed like she was trying to erase the last three months with her mouth, frantic and filthy. The tenderness you’d known in her was gone, burned away by a darker edge you’d only glimpsed once—back in Ensenada, when her jealousy cracked her open and showed just how ruthless she could be. That same edge carved through her now.
Her mouth crashed against yours again, open, messy, spit slicking both your chins as her tongue tangled rough and needy with yours. Her hips rolled into you, grinding hard, and the weight of her body pressed you deep into the mattress. She moaned into your mouth, raw and guttural. “I missed you,” she rasped, her breath breaking.
The words shattered you.
Heat coiled hot and sharp low in your stomach, your thighs trembling under the pressure of her body. You turned your face away, teeth sinking into your lip to hold back the noise rising in your throat, but her hand snapped up to your jaw, forcing your head back, dragging your mouth to hers again. She swallowed every sound, her kiss greedy, claiming.
Her hips kept their rhythm, insistent, grinding you into the sheets. You clutched at her shoulders, your nails biting through the thin fabric of her shirt. The friction of her body against yours, the harsh drag of cloth against your soaked underwear, pushed you over the edge too fast. Too humiliatingly fast.
Heat detonated in your gut and rolled through your core. You cried out into her mouth, your body jerking beneath her as the climax hit—shaking, shuddering, breaking apart under her weight.
It was messy. Sudden. Pathetic.
Your shorts were soaked through, clinging to you as you bucked against her one last time, your body betraying just how badly you still craved her. Your breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, your chest heaving against hers.
She didn’t stop right away. She ground down harder, her groan breaking into your mouth as if your orgasm dragged one out of her too. Her thighs clenched tight around your hips, her breath stuttering, and for a moment the two of you moved like animals, all teeth and heat and desperate friction.
When you finally collapsed, trembling and ruined beneath her, she hovered above you, strands of her blond hair fallen loose, clinging damp to her flushed cheeks. Her lips were swollen, her jaw tight, her chest rising and falling as she stared down at you like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss you again or bite you until you bled.
And fuck—you wanted both.
As if she’d read your mind, she ripped your pants off in one brutal motion, the fabric snagging against your thighs before she flung them aside. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was frantic—like if she didn’t get to you fast enough, you might vanish again.
You yelped at the sudden rush of cool air against your skin, thighs clamping shut on instinct. But Abby wasn’t having it. Her hands—broad, calloused, unyielding—pressed against your legs and forced them apart inch by inch. Your muscles quivered with resistance, but she was stronger, always stronger. She pinned you wide open beneath her.
Your breath caught when her eyes met yours from between your thighs. That look—blue fire and hunger, dark and feral—burned straight through your chest. She leaned forward, her lips brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. A kiss. Then another. Then another, trailing slow, deliberate paths of heat up and down until you were trembling from anticipation alone.
Her voice rasped against your skin, low and guttural, vibrating through your flesh. “You’re mine, Joan.”
The words sank into you, guttural, primal, and you whimpered, a sharp sound breaking from your throat. Your hips bucked, seeking friction, and you gasped when her warm breath ghosted directly over your swollen clit.
“Abby—”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Her tongue pressed against you with excruciating patience, dragging slow circles over your folds. She wasn’t in a hurry now—she was savoring. Tasting. Claiming every inch of what she’d been starved of. Each deliberate stroke had your body twitching, your legs trying to close around her head only for her hands to shove them back apart again.
When she moaned, the vibration of it rippled through your heat, and you clamped your hand over your mouth to smother the desperate noise clawing its way out of your throat.
It wasn’t enough. It was too much. It was everything.
Your hips stuttered against her mouth, helpless, your body betraying you. Abby’s grip tightened on your thighs, holding you down like prey under a predator.
You turned your head, biting down hard into the blanket, trying to ground yourself, but it didn’t block out the sounds—the obscene, wet slurps of your slick coating her tongue, the sloppy rhythm of her mouth working you open, the soft guttural groans Abby made against your flesh like she was devouring her favorite meal.
Each filthy sound echoed in your skull, mixing with the wet heat building low in your belly. You shook beneath her, trembling from overstimulation, the hand over your mouth doing nothing to hide your raw, muffled cries.
She had you, and you knew it.
Your body convulsed as her tongue picked up speed, the rhythm brutal and merciless. Your hand shot down into her hair, tangling in the sweaty strands and pulling hard, desperate to anchor yourself to something as pleasure tore through you. She moaned in response, a guttural sound that vibrated against your clit, the sensation ricocheting up your spine like lightning.
Your thighs trembled, legs trying to slam shut around her head, but Abby’s grip was unyielding. She had you splayed wide, pinned like you were hers to take apart, and no amount of squirming could stop the relentless pace of her mouth.
You spasmed under her, muscles clenching uncontrollably, your whole body twitching as if trying to get away from the pleasure eating you alive. But there was nowhere to run, no escape from her tongue dragging you higher and higher.
And then it hit.
The climax ripped out of you sharp and fiery, a violent heat that crashed over you all at once. Your back arched off the mattress, toes curling, your free hand flying up to clamp over your mouth as you screamed into your palm, muffling the raw sound that burst from your chest. You shook hard, every nerve ending alight, your body quivering against her face as waves of orgasm wracked through you.
Abby laughed into your clit, a low, feral chuckle that made the overstimulation even worse. Her hands pinned your thighs down tighter, refusing to let you pull away, forcing you to ride it out until you were writhing helplessly.
Only when you collapsed back into the sheets, gasping for air, did she finally relent. Her tongue slipped from you slowly, dragging one last agonizing stroke that made you whimper in overstretched ache.
You tilted your head down, chest still heaving, and met her gaze.
Abby’s lips glistened with you. She licked them slowly, deliberately, eyes fixed on yours the whole time. Filthy. Possessive.
And yours.
You tried to steady your breathing, chest still heaving from the last orgasm, when you heard it—metal scraping, a faint jangle that made your stomach drop.
Your eyes snapped over.
That stupid strap-on from Ensenada.
The one you thought she’d tossed. The one you hoped she’d forgotten. When the hell had she grabbed it?
Your eyes went wide, panic flashing across your face. You opened your mouth, ready to tell her you needed a second, that you weren’t ready—but Abby was already moving, already between your thighs. The harness was strapped snug against her hips, the silicone jutting forward with undeniable intent.
“Wait—” your voice cracked, but she didn’t.
She had that look in her eyes, the kind you’d only ever seen when she was certain of you—hungry, sure, possessive. Her hand pressed into the mattress beside your hip, the other guiding the thick length toward your swollen heat.
The first push stole the air from your lungs.
Cold silicone pressed against you, stretching you open inch by inch. Your body tensed, clamping down instinctively as a sharp gasp tore out of your throat. You covered your face in shame, heat burning your cheeks at the humiliating sound you’d made.
“Shhh,” Abby soothed, her voice gravel-rough but low, steady. Her hand smoothed over your trembling thigh, grounding you even as she pressed deeper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The stretch burned, the intrusion shocking after months without her, but Abby didn’t let go. Her thumb traced lazy circles into your skin, coaxing you through it as she pushed further inside.
“Breathe for me, Joan,” she whispered against your ear, kissing your cheek as her hips inched forward, seating herself deeper.
Your legs shook uncontrollably, your nails clawing at the sheets, every nerve in your body raw. You couldn’t look at her—you felt exposed, wrecked, completely hers.
And Abby, patient and relentless, just pressed a little deeper, her chest brushing yours as she whispered again, “That’s it. Let me in.”
She pressed her way fully into you, and your breath caught like a choke in your throat. Your lungs locked up, your body tightening around her in a mix of shock and need.
When you first picked that strap—back in Ensenada—you’d imagined using it on Abby. You’d chosen something long, something thick, something you thought her taller, stronger frame could take with ease. You hadn’t thought about how it might feel on you. Now, inside you, it felt impossibly deep, pressing against you in ways that made your stomach clench, stealing every ounce of air from your lungs.
“Fuck,” you gasped, nails raking her shoulder as your hips shifted, trying to adjust to the girth.
Abby’s mouth was on yours before you could say more. Her kiss swallowed your gasp, her tongue slow but possessive as she began to move her hips. The rhythm was steady, deliberate—every thrust filling you to the hilt before dragging back, wet and obscene sounds echoing in the space between your bodies.
You moaned into her mouth, muffling the filthy noises of your own body, but Abby pulled back just to hear them clearer. The slick drag, the wet slap, each one making your cheeks burn hotter with shame and arousal.
You buried your face in her shoulder, biting into her skin to ground yourself. “There,” you muttered, breathless, the single word breaking out between clenched teeth.
Her low chuckle vibrated against your chest. She kissed down your neck, her lips hot, her voice rasping in your ear, “Like that?” She shifted her hips, thrusting harder, her hands clamping your waist like she could carve you into place.
“Yes—god, yes,” you yelped, fingers clawing at her skin, leaving red crescents in her arms.
Abby groaned with you, her hips jerking sharper now, her teeth bared as her own pleasure laced the air. You realized then—every thrust pressed the base of the strap flush against her clit, grinding her as she moved inside you. She wasn’t just fucking you—she was chasing something too.
Her pace picked up, sweat running down her temple, dampening her hairline. She pulled your thighs wider, forcing you open until you felt raw, stretched, trembling. Her grip dug into your flesh, nails biting as she sat up, towering above you now.
You reached up for her, pitiful, but she was out of reach. Your hands clutched the sheets instead, knuckles white, as Abby rolled her hips faster and faster. Her jaw clenched, eyes locked on you, and then she let her head roll back, a raw moan tearing loose from her throat.
The sounds spilling from you in contrast were humiliating—high, desperate whimpers, soft gasps you couldn’t bite back. Every snap of her hips built higher, winding you tighter. Your legs shook uncontrollably, your body betraying you as you squeezed helplessly around the silicone.
The climax hit sharp and fiery, ripping you apart. You squealed, biting down on the sheet to muffle yourself, your whole body jerking beneath her. “Right there—Abby—” the name cracked from your throat, ragged and broken. You clamped a hand over your mouth, ashamed of the screams rising up.
But she leaned down, her lips brushing your ear, her voice a whisper softer than silk, “Let me hear you, love.”
The words shattered you.
Your arms flew around her neck, pulling her into a desperate embrace as you convulsed beneath her. You bit your lip until it stung, whimpering, your body wracked with violent shockwaves of release.
“Just like that,” Abby praised, her voice trembling with her own pleasure, her thrusts never slowing. “Good.”
You clung to her, face buried in her neck, as she fucked you relentlessly through it—through the quake of your climax and into overstimulation that bordered on madness.
You felt it in her body first—the tremor in her thighs, the way her hips started to falter even as she tried to keep up the punishing rhythm. She shook in your arms, moaning into the crook of your neck, her breath hot, uneven, and desperate.
Your own slick was beginning to sting, every thrust making your walls ache, but you took it, whimpering softly as she held you open, her palm pressed firm against your thigh to keep you spread for her. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room, each one snapping against the air, and shame burned hot under your skin. You couldn’t hide from the filth of it—couldn’t hide from how wrecked you sounded.
She whimpered against you suddenly, her voice breaking high. “Joan…” It came out like a plea, like she was begging without realizing it.
You knew that tone. You knew she was close, but not quite there. Abby rarely let herself tip without a fight.
You panted into her ear, voice ragged, “Let me—” But she cut you off with another harsh snap of her hips, pumping faster, chasing it. Abby always straddled the line between control and surrender in bed; sometimes she liked you on top, sometimes she liked to watch you writhe beneath her, and sometimes she just needed to hold the reins until she broke. She was a caretaker in every sense—even here, even when her own body was begging.
Her face flushed crimson, sweat slicking her forehead, her jaw clenched so tight you thought she might crack her teeth. And then—there it was. The sound you knew, the sharp gasp she made when the strap hit her just right, grinding against the sweet spot she couldn’t resist.
“Fuck—” she hissed, her voice cracking as her hand slammed down into the sheets beside your head. She gripped hard, knuckles white, her body jerking as her hips lost their steady rhythm.
Then she broke.
Her moans came high-pitched, raw and shameless, each one spilling out faster, higher, until it was almost a whimper. For all her strength, for all her dominance, Abby always surprised you with how girlish, how helpless she sounded when she came undone. Her legs twitched violently as her body shook through it, thrusts stuttering and ragged.
“Joan!” she squealed, the sound tearing straight from her chest, desperate and unguarded.
You kissed her temple as her body collapsed against yours, heavy and slick with sweat, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her face pressed into your neck, damp strands of hair sticking to her flushed skin.
For a long moment, all you could hear was the mingling of your breaths, the quiet thump of her heartbeat against your ribs.
Finally, she let out a groan, her body going slack against yours. “God…”
You chuckled weakly, still dizzy, and tilted her face up for another kiss. Her lips tasted of salt and exhaustion, but they were warm, familiar, and grounding.
Both of you were wrecked, tangled together, bodies gleaming in the faint moonlight, held by the silence after the storm.

Notes:

thought... we could ALL use a break and have LESBIAN SEX BOWOWOWOW CHICKA CHICKA BOW BOW

Chapter 69: Base

Notes:

Sorry this chapters kind of long lol

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Her breathing slowed against your neck, warm and damp, and in that heavy silence she whispered breathlessly, “I’m still mad at you.”
A weak laugh puffed out of your nose, almost bitter. “I know.”
She gave the smallest nod against your shoulder, as if confirming it aloud, making sure you understood. Like it wasn’t just sex that patched things over, like the wound was still open and raw. And it was.
You rolled slowly onto your side, your back to her now. Shame settled in your chest, cold and suffocating. The room still smelled of sweat and sex, but all you could taste in your mouth was guilt. You chewed your cheek hard, staring at the dark wall.
And then—her arm slipped around your waist. A quiet weight. A quiet choice. She pulled you into her chest, her breath fanning over the back of your neck. Relief shivered through you despite yourself. She still held you. Even mad, even broken open, Abby still held you.
You exhaled shakily, your throat tight.
But your mind—god, your mind wouldn’t shut up. It always twisted things. Always dragged you somewhere you didn’t mean to go. You thought of the strap, of how she always used it on you and never let you return the favor.
The words tumbled out before you could stop them, soft, awkward. “I, uh…” Your voice cracked. This was not the right time. Not after everything.
She hummed sleepily against your skin, her nose brushing the back of your neck. “Hm?”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering. “I… want to use that on you. Eventually.”
For a moment there was only silence. Then Abby chuckled low, tired and warm, the sound rumbling against your spine. She kissed into your hair, nodding like it wasn’t some wild confession. “Eventually,” she murmured.
It was simple, but it was something.
And somehow, despite the fights, the running, the betrayals—you felt lighter. Because she was still talking to you. Still joking, still human. Still Abby.
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The bed was cold when your eyes blinked open, the sun bleeding pale through the curtains. Your hand instinctively reached across the sheets, searching, hoping, but all you felt was cool cotton. No warmth. No Abby.
Your fingers lingered there anyway, tracing the rumpled fabric like if you were gentle enough, she might reappear out of thin air. But the silence was too heavy, too final. You huffed, sitting up.
Your body protested immediately. Ache throbbed through your abdomen, your thighs stiff and sore. Naked under the sheets, you pressed the heel of your hand into your stomach and muttered, “Fuck…” The word came out ragged, half-groan, half-confession.
You pulled on your cotton pajamas, the fabric soft against skin that still remembered her hands, her mouth, the stretch of her body against yours. You leaned forward over the bedpost, stretching your back until it cracked, trying to shake the feeling away—the humiliation of being wrecked and tender, the humiliation of how badly you’d wanted her.
Dragging yourself into the bathroom, you slipped into the routine. Empty your body. Brush your teeth. Splash your face until the cold water stung you awake. The usual motions, the only things that ever made you feel halfway human again.
Water dripped from your chin as you lifted your head, staring into the mirror. The reflection made your chest tighten. Your skin was raw, sunburn finally fading, but your nose was peeling in thin white flakes. Hollowed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, a jaw tight from clenching through too many restless nights. You picked at the peeling skin, scraping at yourself until tiny curls of it came loose between your nails.
The door creaked.
Abby stepped in without hesitation, filling the doorway like she always did—solid, certain. She leaned against the frame, watching you.
“Don’t pick at it,” she said, her voice calm but edged with that familiar authority, like she couldn’t turn off the soldier in her even here. She moved to the sink, washing her hands, the sound of running water grounding and loud in the small space.
You scoffed and ignored her, dragging off the last stubborn piece from the bridge of your nose. Petty victory.
When you glanced back at her, she was leaning on the counter now, arms folded, posture casual but her gaze sharp. She chewed her bottom lip, like she was trying to measure how much to give you. “I have to go to base.”
You nodded, turning toward her fully this time. And then you froze.
She looked the way she always did before she left—uniform without the insignia. Black muscle tee hugging her frame, green cargos sitting snug on her hips, boots laced tight, braid clean and precise down her back. Every part of her screamed discipline. Strength. Stability. And yet your chest ached just looking at her.
The words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and too fast. “You look beautiful.”
It wasn’t smooth, wasn’t deliberate. It was desperate, breathless, like your body had forced it out before your brain caught up.
Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face like she didn’t know what to do with the compliment. But then—you saw it. The faintest pink creeping into her cheeks. The way her eyes darted down, her hand smoothing over her braid as though she suddenly needed something to do.
“Thanks,” she said quickly, her tone stiff. But you knew better. You saw the way her composure cracked in tiny places, the way she tried to swallow her smile. She liked it.
And for the first time that morning, your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.
She cleared her throat and shifted. “You need to..” she stopped and looked around. “Go see Rachel. Get an assignment.”
You nodded. “I will.”
Abby clicked her tongue, that little sound she always made when she was trying not to soften. She straightened up from the sink, slinging her bag over one shoulder as if she hadn’t just left you raw and spinning only hours ago. “See you there then. Lev’s coming with me.”
You only nodded, your throat too tight for words, watching her broad frame disappear through the doorway. Boots thudding on the stairs, the muted creak of the front door, then silence.
Just you. You and the cold porcelain sink.
The bathroom felt too big all of a sudden, the smell of her soap still clinging in the air. You leaned forward on the counter, staring into the wet porcelain, not your reflection. You should shower. Wash away the sweat, the sex, the guilt. But the thought of standing there alone under running water, with nothing but your own thoughts for company, made your stomach twist.
Instead, you left the bathroom and wandered into the bedroom. Your closet—your side of it—was still untouched. Abby had left your things exactly where they’d always been. As if you’d never left. As if three months hadn’t passed.
You huffed through your nose, rifling through the hangers until your fingers brushed a plain black shirt. You tugged it over your head and snorted under your breath. Matching Abby, unintentionally—her in her tight black muscle tee, you in your faded cotton. The only difference was the rest: your torn jeans, sneakers scuffed at the toes.
Your rifle leaned against the wall, where you’d dropped it yesterday. You slung it over your shoulder out of habit, though the weight of it felt heavier than it should.
Outside, the afternoon sun hit you like a slap. Too bright, too hot, making the sweat immediately rise again on the back of your neck. You raised a hand to shield your eyes as you followed the dirt road inland, toward base.
Every step hurt. A soreness deep inside you, sharp at first, then dull, nagging with every shift of your hips. A reminder. Abby had left you aching—physically, emotionally, in ways you didn’t want to name out loud.
You forced yourself on, boots crunching the gravel, until the shade of an old rusted bench called you down. You lowered yourself onto it with a hiss, stretching your legs out, head falling back against the splintered wood.
The air smelled of salt and rust, the faint sound of gulls overhead. You rubbed at your thighs with the heel of your palms, the burn still pulsing there.
“Fucking Abby,” you muttered into the empty air, the words breaking halfway between a curse and a confession.
You swallowed hard and leaned forward, elbows braced on your knees. No matter how far you’d run, no matter what you did—she was still under your skin.
You looked around at the forgotten park, the silence swallowing everything but the occasional creak of rusted metal. A swing swayed lazily on its chains, shrieking against the wind, like echoes of laughter that would never come back. The playground, once full of children and families, stood hollow and skeletal—slides eaten away by rust, woodchips scattered into patches of weeds.
Your boots crunched over the gravel as you pushed yourself up from the bench with a groan, your lower body still sore, but you forced yourself to move. A water fountain caught your eye, its silver face dulled with age. You leaned against it, pressing the button. Miraculously, a thin stream sputtered out.
You bent down, rinsing your face in the cool water, letting it run over your cheeks, your eyes. Relief. When you straightened, your reflection warped back at you in the metal curve.
And that’s when you saw it.
A fat, ugly bruise smeared across your throat. A hickey.
Dark purple, impossible to miss.
Your hand flew up to cover it, fingers pressing against the tender skin. Heat rose to your face. The others Abby had left on your chest, on your ribs—those were covered, hidden. But this one? This one was a brand for everyone at base to see.
“Fuck,” you muttered, teeth digging into your cheek. You looked ridiculous. Marked. Owned. Walking into camp like this would be humiliating.
You leaned against the fountain, the old pipes groaning beneath your weight, and tipped your head back to the sky. The clouds drifted lazily, indifferent, a flock of gulls slicing across the blue. The smell of rust and stale water lingered heavy in your nose, carried on the dry wind.
That’s when you heard it.
A thumping. Fast. Erratic.
Followed by a guttural snarl.
Your heart jumped into your throat. You turned just in time for a runner to slam into you, teeth gnashing, its rotten breath hot against your cheek.
You hit the ground hard, your breath tearing out in a shriek as its weight bore down on you. Fungal growth spread across its skull, split and weeping, its eyes glazed and hungry. Its snapping jaws missed your face by inches, held back only by your trembling forearm jammed between you and death.
“Shit!”
Your other hand fumbled for the knife at your belt. Fingers slippery with sweat, you wrenched it free and, with a grunt, drove the blade into its neck.
A wet, sickening crack.
The runner convulsed, its body sagging against you, heavier now, limp. Rotten blood gushed out, spilling over your collar, dripping past your lips.
The stench was unbearable. Iron, mold, death.
You gagged violently, shoving the corpse off you with both arms until it collapsed into the dirt with a dull thud. You rolled to your side, coughing, spitting bile, dragging the back of your wrist across your mouth.
For a long moment, you just lay there. Heart pounding in your ears.
Your chest rose and fell in ragged heaves as you pushed yourself up, wiping your blade clean on the grass.
“Fuck,” you hissed again, dragging a hand through your chin-length hair, tugging at the damp strands like it might ground you.
A runner. Here. On Catalina.
New.
Your stomach twisted. You’d have to report it—to Rachel, to Abby. They needed to know. But already, your mind was jumping ahead, dreading Abby’s reaction. You could see it clear as day: her jaw tight, her brows drawn, her voice sharp as a blade. Why didn’t you go straight to base? Why were you wandering alone? Why the fuck would you leave yourself open like that?
You could already hear the fight before it even started.
But that was later.
Right now, you just needed to catch your breath. To keep standing.
The corpse lay still a few feet away, its blood soaking into the dirt, the smell clinging to your skin.
You bent at the waist, bracing your hands on your knees, and exhaled slowly.
One step at a time.
__________________________________________________________________________
The Catalina Firefly base stretched out in front of you like a half-forgotten ruin stitched back together with scraps. The entrance itself was nothing—two wooden barricades lashed together with wire, camouflaged under sun-bleached tarps. They fluttered with the ocean wind, edges frayed, snapping like sails in a storm. A pair of patrols leaned against the gate, rifles propped across their chests, sweat dripping into their collars from standing watch all day. Behind them, the island dipped into the cluster of buildings and roads that made up the heart of Firefly life.
You glanced down at yourself, grimacing. The dried blood on your shirt had cracked into stiff plates, pulling at your skin every time you moved. Your forearm was streaked where runner gore had clung to the fine hairs, your hair itself tacky with it. You stank of rot and iron. No wonder the guards gave you that look.
The taller one cleared his throat, pulling his bandana down. “Joan. Good afternoon.” His voice was even, but his nose wrinkled slightly. He tugged the tarp aside to let you in.
Inside, the base bustled like a hive. It always startled you at first—after so much silence out there, Catalina was loud.
The first street was lined with tents and salvaged sheds, canvas pulled taut with ropes, plywood walls hammered together from scavenged crates. Old boats had been dragged ashore and turned into sleeping quarters, their hulls cracked open and repurposed with tarps and planks. Laundry lines stretched across alleyways, flapping shirts and pants snapping in the hot breeze. Smoke drifted from a dozen cookfires, stinging your nose with charred wood and salted meat.
Children darted between legs, chasing each other with sticks. Teens carried baskets of fish gutted that morning, scales catching the sun like flecks of glass. Men and women sat hunched over benches, their hands busy—restringing rifles, mending torn boots, stitching ripped cargo pants. Every doorway you passed seemed to hum with labor. The clang of metal echoed from a shed where someone hammered together makeshift parts. The slap of cards hit a table where three Fireflies argued over a hand, their rifles leaned against their chairs.
The old structures of the island had been claimed and patched up. The lighthouse keeper’s lodge, once the hub of tourists, now stood as the main Firefly command post. Its white paint had peeled into gray shreds, walls pockmarked from years of storms, but tarps stretched over the roof kept the rain out. You could see solar panels propped against its side, rigged up with salvaged wires feeding into car batteries stacked on crates.
Beyond it, the old boardwalk curved toward the coast. Half its planks were missing, replaced with uneven patches of driftwood. Shops that once sold beach towels and ice cream now held stockpiles of ammunition and food. The air was heavy with salt, sweat, and gun oil.
To your left, Lev sat with a group of teenagers, each of them crouched on overturned crates, carefully pressing powder into bullet casings. An older Firefly supervised, his gray beard flecked with ash. Lev’s face was flushed as he leaned close to a girl, his hair brushing his shoulder, her laugh light and easy. You felt something tight in your chest. He wasn’t the boy you first met in Seattle. He was taller, his voice deeper, his eyes carrying weight. But he was still a kid. Still capable of blushing over a girl.
And everywhere you went—eyes.
A woman darning a jacket paused, her needle frozen mid-air as she took in your gore-streaked shirt. A man repairing a fishing net muttered to his partner, not quietly enough. Someone carrying water wrinkled their nose as they passed you. You were used to stares, but here? It was worse. Because here, they knew Abby. They knew Lev. They knew what you meant to them. And now you looked like hell.
You pushed through the stares, rifle slung heavy against your shoulder, and reached the lodge. The door was scarred, its brass handle green with rust. You pushed it open.
Inside was cooler, shadows slicing through beams of sunlight from the slatted windows. The air smelled of ink and oil. Maps covered the walls, tacked over with notes and scribbles. The wide oak table in the center was scarred with burn marks, gouges from knives. It was covered in maps now, circles drawn in red, black Xs slashed across whole districts.
Rachel stood over it, sleek red hair pulled high into a ponytail, freckles dusting her pale arms. She wore a brown tank top, black cargos, and boots tied so tight they looked military-issued. She leaned over the table with a pencil in hand, her focus sharp. Abby stood beside her, broad shoulders hunched, braid pulled long and low against her back, her tee clinging to the sweat at her collar. They looked like the spine of the whole place—one sharp, precise, calculating; the other solid, unshakable, dangerous.
When Abby turned and her eyes locked on you, her face dropped. Horror. Then fury. She was across the room before you could say a word, hands reaching for you, scanning for bites, gripping your arm too tight.
You brushed her off, swinging your rifle onto the table with a clatter.
Rachel spoke first, eyes narrowing. “Joan.” Her tone was clipped, professional, but her surprise was plain. “What happened?”
You swallowed, your throat dry. “A runner tackled me.”
Her eyes flicked over you, sharp. “Are you bit?”
You shook your head. “No.”
Relief softened her for a fraction of a second, but Abby’s gaze stayed hard, searching, accusatory. Her jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.
Rachel handed you a red marker. “Mark it on the map.”
You leaned in, circling the park about a mile off the route. The marker squeaked against the paper.
Abby’s voice came low, dangerous. “What were you doing over there?”
The room grew heavier, every sound outside—the hammering, the shouting, the surf—seemed to fade into the background.
You shifted your weight, guilt clawing in your chest. You couldn’t say the truth: that you just needed to breathe, that the soreness she’d left in you had driven you off-route. That you were tired and reckless.
“I just needed some air.” It sounded weak even to your own ears.
Abby let out a humorless laugh, sharp as broken glass. “A mile off the route? For air?”
You dropped into a wooden chair, the frame groaning under your weight. “It was a park. I rinsed my face at the fountain.”
The words hung like a lie. You could’ve washed the blood off then. But you hadn’t.
Abby’s eyes narrowed further, fury simmering, words about to spill. But Rachel laid a hand on her shoulder, firm. A silent command. Not now.
Abby bit her tongue, nostrils flaring, and turned back to the map. Her voice dropped as she muttered with Rachel about patrol rotations and ammo.
You sat there, restless, tracing the lines of the map with your eyes but not really seeing them. Already bored. Already bracing for when Rachel wasn’t there to keep Abby’s fire contained.
Rachel tapped the pencil against the map again, sharp and steady. “If we don’t push through LA, we’ll be boxed in. Every coastal town north of here is crawling with infected. That leaves us starved and trapped.”
Abby folded her arms, voice clipped. “Then we avoid LA altogether. Find another path.”
Their voices blurred together, weighty and sharp, but you only half-heard them. Your eyes drifted to the map, to the neat red circles marking choke points and safe zones. Red ink spreading like blood.
Blood.
You saw it again. That alley in Los Angeles. The two boys, maybe nineteen, maybe younger. Their faces hadn’t hardened yet, not like Boston FEDRA soldiers. They looked startled, not cruel. They’d offered you water. Food. Shelter.
And you’d shot them anyway.
The sound still rang in your head. First crack, then the second, their voices breaking off mid-sentence. One of them had screamed. You remembered the warmth of his blood spraying your lips, the copper taste clinging to your tongue until you gagged.
Your stomach knotted. You shifted in the creaky chair, trying not to look like you were about to be sick. Abby’s voice cut through for a second—low, firm, commanding. But it didn’t ground you.
You told yourself back then you had no choice. If they’d dragged you into their QZ, it would’ve been a death sentence. Or worse, a cage until you rotted. That’s what you told yourself. But the truth was uglier—you’d pulled the trigger too fast. Panicked. You’d seen FEDRA and your body had reacted before your head could think.
And what if they really had wanted to help? What if they were different? What if they weren’t like Boston?
You swallowed hard, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth like that would hold back the bile.
Rachel’s voice came back into focus. “…so we load ammo at night, shadow the highway caravans, and slip through while their convoys make noise. If they suspect us, we’re already gone.”
Abby leaned closer to the map, frowning. “That’s gambling with lives. With our home. My home. My family. With Lev’s life.”
Lev.
The thought twisted the knife. Those FEDRA boys had been someone’s Lev once—somebody’s kid brother. Somebody’s son. And you’d gunned them down in a dirty alley without a second thought.
You dragged a hand down your face, trying to mask the way your throat burned. Abby’s eyes flicked to you again, sharp, concerned. She always knew when you were off, like she could smell it on you. You looked away quick, pretending to study the map.
Rachel kept talking about barter weight, about how many bullets equaled a can of antibiotics. You couldn’t care less. All you could think was:
If they knew. If Abby knew. If Lev knew. If any of them knew what I did out there…
Your hand tightened on your knee under the table.
You were back here now. Safe. Surrounded. Abby within arm’s reach. And yet, inside, you still felt like that alley—blood on your lips, gun hot in your hands, two bodies cooling at your feet.
Rachel tapped the pencil against the map again, circling a point inland. “We’ve got two routes that might hold: north through the mountains, or hugging the coast. Coast is faster, but that’s where FEDRA’s caravans are thickest. If they catch us with contraband, we lose everything.”
Abby leaned over the table, jaw set. “Mountains then. Slower, but safer. Less risk.”
Rachel shook her head. “Not safer. Just different. The canyons are crawling with Runners, and we don’t have the manpower to clear every route. We’re already bleeding ammo just defending Catalina.”
The word Catalina yanked you back into the present. You straightened a little, forcing yourself to focus, though the blood-memory of those boys still pressed at the back of your skull.
Rachel slid the pencil across the map again, this time jabbing it at a small scribbled circle. “Patrol coverage on the island isn’t holding. Too many blind spots on the south end. Runners keep slipping in from the beaches. Last week one of them got into the greenhouse. We can’t afford to lose crops right now.”
Abby exhaled sharply through her nose. “Then we double patrols. Put more boots on the ground.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “With what people? We’re already stretched thin keeping the trade runs alive. Half our squads are out siphoning gas and ammo. The other half are patching fences or babysitting the generators.”
Abby’s fist came down on the table—not loud, but firm enough that the wood rattled. “Then cut the trade runs in half until Catalina’s secure. That island is our foothold. If we lose it, none of the trade routes matter.”
Rachel tilted her head, lips pursed. She wasn’t one to be intimidated. “And when FEDRA tightens their chokehold on LA? When they notice we’ve gone quiet and double their patrols? If we can’t trade, we starve, Abby.”
The two women locked eyes across the table, tension simmering between them like a live wire.
You leaned back in the creaky chair, trying to make yourself smaller, unseen. Their words hummed in your ears, but your mind betrayed you again. Patrols, blind spots, defense. You thought about how easily you’d slipped away from Abby that night three months ago. How you’d vanished from Catalina like a shadow. If Runners could sneak through patrol gaps, if FEDRA kids could wander into alleys and die at your hands… how long until your ghosts caught up to you here?
Rachel broke the silence first, stabbing the pencil down again. “Fine. We rotate. We’ll pull two squads off LA runs and set them on Catalina patrol. Every beach. Every hour. No more gaps.”
Abby didn’t smile, but she nodded. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Rachel marked the new plan onto the map, neat red lines sprawling across Catalina’s outline like veins. Patrol routes, checkpoints, watch posts. It looked organized, secure.
But to you, it just looked like a net. A cage tightening.
And you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever be strong enough to stay inside it without running again.
Rachel’s voice cut through the room, sharp and heavy. “The Fireflies in the LA QZ have gone quiet. I don’t know if it’s FEDRA choking them out, or if they’ve just gone dark. We haven’t been able to get over there to pull them out.”
Abby stiffened beside her, arms folded across her chest. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “…We can’t just leave them there.”
Your heart thudded harder. LA. The word alone punched through your ribs. You could see the streets in your head, the battered gates, the FEDRA boys with too-big rifles and nervous hands offering you water like you weren’t already marked for death in their eyes. Nineteen. Seventeen. Still kids. What if they hadn’t been FEDRA at all? What if they’d been Fireflies—lost, trying to make it out alive? What if you’d gunned down your own allies before you even knew it?
Your palms dampened against your thighs.
Abby’s voice brought you back, lower, urgent. “We need to send in people. At least get eyes inside, see what we’re dealing with.”
Rachel barked a humorless laugh, tossing the pencil onto the table. “Send who, Abby? With what?” She leaned in, freckles stark under the lamplight, her voice all steel. “We’ve got half a dozen rifles that aren’t jammed, ammo dwindling, and Catalina leaking like a goddamn sieve. Our supplies are running too dry for a suicide run.”
The map between them seemed to grow heavier, its creased paper sagging under the weight of every decision.
Abby braced her hands on the table, glaring down at the routes scribbled in red. “If we don’t move on LA soon, we’re cutting off our own arm. That’s a whole city’s worth of recruits, med supplies, intel—we can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Rachel’s jaw clenched. “And if FEDRA’s already stomped them out? Then what, huh? We send in a squad and lose them all for nothing?”
Your head dipped, the guilt clawing up your throat until it burned. What if she’s right? What if they’re already gone? What if I made sure of it that day in the alley?
You pressed your lips together hard enough to hurt, fighting the urge to speak.
Because if Abby ever found out what you did in LA—what you might have destroyed before she even had the chance to save it—she’d never look at you the same again.
Abby’s voice grew tighter, her tone the kind that cut through everything else in the room. “If we just sit here, FEDRA wins by default. We need to know. Even if it’s bad news, at least then we can plan. Otherwise, we’re blind.”
Rachel scoffed and shoved her chair back a few inches, the wooden legs scraping the floor. “Blind? No, Abby, we’re practical. You want to send people into a desert chokehold with ninety-degree heat and no guarantee of water stations? That’s not leadership, that’s desperation.”
You flinched at the word desperation. Because you knew what that heat felt like. Knew how your tongue cracked when your canteen was dry. You remembered staggering outside those gates, sweat stinging your eyes, stomach hollowing itself out—and then those kids, uniforms too big for their shoulders, rifles clutched like toys. The way they looked at you like you weren’t a threat. The way you still pulled the trigger.
Your palms itched. You rubbed them on your jeans under the table, trying to scrub the memory away.
Abby leaned in, her muscles tight with frustration. “If we ignore LA, we cut ourselves off from the entire southern corridor. We’ll be boxed in. No medicine, no intel, no recruits. We can’t afford that.”
Rachel jabbed her finger into the map, right over the sketch of LA’s outline. “And if you’re wrong, we’ll have bodies on our hands. Again. I won’t bury more kids because you think we might find something useful in a city we can’t even confirm is standing.”
Her words echoed in your skull: bury more kids.
You saw them again. Blood blooming in the sand. Wide, empty eyes staring up at you like questions you’d never answer. Your chest constricted so tight it hurt to breathe.
You wanted to open your mouth. To tell them what you saw at those gates. The patrols. The checkpoints. The shadows on the wall where spotlights swept all night. The way the heat had nearly cooked you alive just crossing the outer streets. You wanted to tell Abby her idea wasn’t reasonable—not with your guilt sitting heavy in the back of your throat, not with your stomach still sour from the taste of blood.
But your tongue stayed still.
Because if you said it—if you admitted you’d been there—you’d have to tell the rest. About the kids. About the gunfire. About the way you left their bodies cooling in the sun.
Rachel’s voice softened, just barely. “We hold Catalina first. Strengthen what we have before we gamble on what we don’t.”
Abby exhaled, shaking her head like she couldn’t stand the thought of waiting. “And if they’re still alive in there? If they’re holding out for us?”
Rachel didn’t flinch. “Then they’re already dead.”
The words landed like stones in your chest. You dropped your gaze to the map, to the neat red patrol lines, and all you could see was blood pooling across the paper, spreading wider with every choice you didn’t make, every truth you didn’t speak.
Your hands curled into fists on your knees, nails biting skin, and you stayed silent.
Because speaking up would mean more than disagreeing with Abby’s plan.
It would mean pulling the trigger all over again.
But Abby was already wound tight, her whole frame vibrating with frustration. She hated being checked, hated being proven wrong. You’d seen it before in her sparring matches, in arguments over routes, even in the way she bristled when Rachel called her out. Abby was brilliant—she had grown up shadowing her father, memorizing Firefly tactics in Salt Lake, leading squads before most people could handle a rifle. Strategy wasn’t new to her. None of this was.
But to you? This was new. It was politics, logistics, moving entire lives across fragile maps. It wasn’t a fight you could just muscle your way through.
Abby pushed off from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. She muttered something sharp under her breath—words only for herself—then louder, clipped: “I need some air.”
The room felt colder the second she stormed out, the tarp door slapping shut behind her.
Rachel exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she’d carried this same headache for weeks. She finally lowered herself into a chair, shoulders slumped but eyes still burning with irritation.
You cleared your throat, but your voice betrayed you, cracking in the still air. “Rachel.”
Her head tilted just enough to fix you with a look, her freckled brow furrowed. “What, Joan? If you’re about to play mouthpiece for Abby, don’t.” Her tone was sharp, but there was fatigue in it too.
You shook your head, pulse climbing. “No. That’s not it.”
Her arms crossed, impatient. “Then what?”
Your palms were damp, and you wiped them against your jeans before you found the words. “I was in LA.”
The air shifted instantly. Rachel’s arms uncrossed. Her eyes sharpened, all exhaustion gone, replaced with a sudden, alert stillness. “What?”
Your breath came ragged, like you’d just admitted to a crime. Maybe you had. You forced yourself to keep going, your throat dry. “Those three months I was gone… I stumbled into LA. Not into the QZ itself,” you clarified quickly, voice dropping, “but the outskirts.”
Rachel leaned forward, every trace of irritation gone now, her focus absolute. Her freckled fingers drummed once against the table before stilling. “Tell me about the gates.”
Your throat burned the second the words left your mouth. I was in LA. It was like yanking a rusty nail out of your chest.
Rachel’s eyes locked onto you immediately, sharp and suspicious. The lamplight made her freckles stand out like flecks of iron on stone, her face tightening as if she could already smell the lie brewing in you.
“What?” she asked flatly, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.
You swallowed. You hadn’t meant to say it, not out loud, not here. You should’ve kept your mouth shut. But now you had to say something. Anything.
“Those three months I was gone…” You rubbed the back of your neck, avoiding her stare. The map on the table blurred in your vision. “I stumbled into LA. Well… not into it, just… the outskirts.”
Rachel’s lips pursed, her whole body going still except for the slow rise and fall of her chest. She tilted her head like a hawk eyeing prey. “Tell me about the gates.”
Your stomach dropped. The gates. The boys with cracked lips and too-big rifles, their voices shaking when they asked if you needed water. You remembered how young they were. You remembered how quickly their bodies hit the ground when you shot them.
Your palms slicked with sweat. You tried to keep your face blank, casual. “Tall walls,” you muttered. “Lots of FEDRA patrols. More than I expected. That’s all.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed into slits.
She leaned forward, both hands slamming onto the table. The map rattled, the red pencil rolling off and clattering to the floor. “That’s all?”
You shrugged, forcing it, like your shoulders weren’t shaking under her gaze. “Yeah. It’s LA. Hot. Desert. FEDRA everywhere. I didn’t stick around long.”
She barked a short, humorless laugh. “Bullshit.”
The word cracked through the air, sharp as gunfire.
She pushed off the table, her chair scraping loudly across the floorboards. She circled you like she couldn’t sit still, her boots heavy against the old wood. Then she stopped right behind you. You could feel her presence like heat on the back of your neck.
“You were at the goddamn gates,” she said, her voice low, controlled, angry. “And you’re sitting here shrugging like you took a morning stroll through some playground.”
You stared at the map, tracing the red lines Abby had drawn earlier, pretending to study them. Anything to avoid her eyes. “I didn’t— I don’t remember much,” you lied, the words brittle and thin.
Rachel’s laugh was harsher this time, sharp with contempt. “You don’t remember? Nobody just forgets LA. Not when you’re close enough to smell the smoke off their walls. Not when you’re staring down FEDRA rifles.” She came back around the table, leaning down until her face was level with yours. Her ponytail swung loose, brushing her shoulder. “You saw something, Joan. And you’re keeping it to yourself. Why?”
Your jaw clenched so tight your teeth hurt. You curled your fingers into fists, pressing your knuckles into your thighs until it stung. You couldn’t tell her. You couldn’t say you’d shot those kids. That maybe they weren’t FEDRA at all. That maybe the Fireflies you all hoped to save were already buried because of you.
“I’m telling you,” you muttered, forcing your voice to stay level, “I didn’t see anything worth sharing. Nothing that would help us.”
Her nostrils flared. Her hand shot out suddenly, gripping your arm. Her fingers were strong, nails biting into your skin. “You let me decide what’s useful.”
The heat of her grip made your pulse throb. You didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whispered.
Rachel’s face twisted, caught between fury and disbelief. “I want you to stop acting like a ghost,” she snapped, shaking your arm once before releasing it, “and start acting like someone who gives a damn about the rest of us.”
The silence afterward was deafening. Only the flap of the tarp in the wind broke it. Your guilt pressed in harder than her grip had, heavier than the blood you could still taste from the runner earlier.
Because you knew the truth. And if Rachel or Abby ever dug it out of you, you weren’t sure if you’d still have a place here at all.
The flap of the tarp rustled before either of you spoke again. The door creaked open and Abby’s frame filled the space, broad shoulders backlit by the sun behind her. Her braid was messy from pacing, her jaw clenched tight.
Her eyes darted immediately from Rachel to you, suspicion blooming. “What’s going on?” Her voice was even, but her lips were pressed so tight it almost looked painful.
Rachel pushed off you, stepping back like she’d been caught with her hand on a blade. Her gaze stayed on the floor for half a second, then rose—cruel, cutting. “Joan was at the fucking gates.”
The words hit the air like a gunshot.
Abby’s whole face shifted. First disbelief, then anger. Her mouth pulled tight in that familiar way—her cruel face. The one she only wore when she felt cornered, when someone clawed under her skin and drew blood.
Her voice cut sharp. “No, she wasn’t.”
You felt your stomach twist. Abby’s denial wasn’t just disbelief—it was defense. She couldn’t imagine you getting that far on your own. Couldn’t imagine you vanishing into the desert only to walk up to the most dangerous city within reach. And maybe she didn’t want to imagine it.
Rachel folded her arms, eyebrows arched in triumph. “That’s what she said.” Her tone was poison.
Abby turned on you now, her eyes narrowing. “LA? Like… Los Angeles?” She said it slowly, like repeating it might make it less insane.
You inhaled deep through your nose and forced yourself to nod once.
Her nostrils flared. She let out a hard, frustrated huff and closed the space between you in three strides. “Well? What was there?”
Before you could form the lie on your tongue, Rachel cut in. Her voice was sharp, mocking. “‘Tall walls.’” She raised her fingers in mocking quotation marks. “That’s all we get.”
Abby scoffed, turning back to you, eyes hard. “Joan.” Her voice carried warning now, heavy and stern. “This isn’t the time to be vague.”
She stepped closer until you could smell the sweat and salt still clinging to her skin from the walk outside. Her height loomed over you, her presence demanding. And she wasn’t just your lover now—she was Abby Anderson, soldier, leader, the woman who didn’t let half-truths fly.
Your chest went tight, breath shallow. You knew she wouldn’t stop until she had something real from you. But if you told her the truth—about the boys outside the gates, about their hands trembling on their rifles, about how fast you pulled the trigger before you could even think—what would she see when she looked at you then?
You shifted in the creaky chair, forcing yourself to meet Abby’s stare. Your throat felt raw, every word wanting to crawl back down rather than out.
“It was…” you started, then stopped. The memory of the gates burned behind your eyes—their height, their shadows across the cracked pavement, the soldiers sweating under helmets too big for their heads. The smell of dust and metal. The way the two young FEDRA officers had offered you water, and how quickly you’d spilled their blood instead.
Your voice came out thin. “Big walls. Steel. Looked reinforced.”
Rachel scoffed from behind Abby, sharp and merciless. “No shit. That’s every QZ in America, Joan.”
You swallowed, your mouth dry. “Patrols… there were patrols.”
Abby’s eyes narrowed further. “How many?”
You hesitated. You could see their faces again, the kids. Nineteen, maybe seventeen. Barely men. Their rifles rattling as they tried to look like soldiers. And how fast you’d raised your gun, convinced they’d see you for what you were. How easy it was to pull the trigger before you could question it.
You looked down at your hands, your nails caked with dried runner blood, your knuckles scarred. The same hands that had killed them.
“I… I don’t know,” you muttered. “A few. Enough.”
Rachel snapped, throwing her hands out. “Enough? Jesus Christ. That tells us nothing.”
Abby’s hand slammed flat on the table, not hard but enough to rattle the pencil and map. “Joan. Look at me.”
You did, reluctantly. Her eyes were fierce, blue fire locking you in place.
“Was it dozens? Hundreds? Were they armed like soldiers, or starving like conscripts? Did you hear anything—radio chatter, drills, anything?”
Your pulse hammered in your ears. You shook your head quickly, too quickly. “Didn’t stay long enough to tell.”
Rachel let out a bitter laugh and leaned against the table, arms crossed. “So let me get this straight. You made it all the way to the outskirts of LA. You stood in front of the gates. And you walked away with… what? A nice view of some walls and a vague idea there were people inside?” Her words dripped with contempt. “Convenient.”
You felt your chest tighten, shame hot in your throat. You wanted to tell them more—about the heat, the sandstorms that nearly choked you, the blistering walk back with your canteen bone-dry. You wanted to admit the truth, that you’d shot those boys without even giving them a chance, and that maybe the Fireflies they’re hoping to rescue had already been left bleeding in the dust because of you.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Abby exhaled through her nose, pinching the bridge of it like she was holding back an eruption. “Joan, if you’re keeping things from me…” Her voice lowered, cracked. “You can’t. Not now. Not about this.”
Your mouth opened, but nothing spilled out. Just air. Just the weight of the lie pressing heavier on your ribs.
Rachel muttered, venomous. “She’s holding back. I can see it all over her face.”
Abby’s jaw flexed. Her gaze never left you, a mix of frustration, fear, and—worse—hurt. “Then tell me. What aren’t you saying?”
Your heart stuttered. You wanted to scream, That I killed them. That I saw their faces in the dark every time I closed my eyes. That I don’t even know if they were enemies or allies.
But instead, you sat frozen, shoulders tight, tongue useless.
And the silence stretched like barbed wire between the three of you.

Chapter 70: Prey

Rachel didn’t even sit back down. She leaned over the table, palms flat, eyes locked onto you like a hawk pinning prey.
“Don’t shrug me off, Joan. You don’t get to dangle half a sentence in front of me and then clam up.” Her voice was sharp, deliberate. “You said you were there. So tell me what you saw. Every detail.”
You shifted in your chair, suddenly too aware of how small you looked sitting there while she loomed over you. Out of the corner of your eye you caught Abby—arms crossed tight against her chest, jaw tense. Her silence said it all: Rachel had the reins, and she wasn’t going to stop her. Abby wouldn’t push you herself, not the way Rachel would. Abby was too soft with you.
Your throat worked, dry. “I already told you—”
“No,” Rachel cut you off, her voice rising just enough to sting. “You gave me scraps. I don’t want scraps, Joan. I want to know what you saw at that gate. How high were the walls? How many men? What were they carrying? Don’t play dumb.”
You flinched at the words, heat crawling up your neck. Abby didn’t move, didn’t say a word. She just stood there, arms folded, eyes fixed on you like she was waiting to see if you’d fold or fight.
Your voice shook as you tried to keep steady. “It was… fortified. Taller than anything we had in Seattle. Concrete poured thick, steel plates welded over it. Gates rusted, but locked solid. There were towers, spotlights… like they never went dark.”
Rachel nodded slowly, eyes still drilling into you. “And the soldiers?”
You swallowed hard, images flashing behind your eyes—the two boys, their rifles shaking, their voices cracking as they offered you water. You pressed your palms against your thighs under the table to ground yourself.
“Patrols,” you muttered. “They were running two. One inside, one out. Six, maybe eight each. I couldn’t tell for sure. They were… nervous. Kids. But armed. Semi-auto rifles, sidearms on some of them.”
Rachel leaned closer, her freckled face sharp in the lamplight. “Patterns. How often did they rotate?”
Your stomach twisted. She wasn’t letting you breathe. “Every fifteen, twenty minutes. Overlapping, never left the gate empty. I… I couldn’t get close without being seen.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed, her voice cutting low. “Radio?”
Your chest clenched, the sound of the static in your ears again, the clipped voices. “Yeah. Constant. I didn’t catch the codes but… it wasn’t chatter. It was orders. Short, clipped, like they were waiting for something.”
Rachel finally leaned back, exhaling sharp through her nose. She didn’t thank you. Didn’t look relieved. She just studied you like a puzzle she still hadn’t solved.
Abby shifted finally, uncrossing her arms. Her eyes stayed on you, softer than Rachel’s but searching all the same. And you hated how much worse that was—because Rachel’s cruelty was easy to brace against, but Abby’s quiet disappointment dug deeper.
Rachel’s gaze snapped back to you, sharp as glass. “You were outside the gate?” Her voice cut through the air like a blade. “How… where did you go?”
Your throat worked, dry. You forced the words out anyway. “I… I turned around.”
Abby let out a frustrated breath, throwing her hands up before dropping into a crouch in front of you. Her eyes burned into yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of her anger. “Joan,” she said, voice low but dangerous. “What happened at the fucking gates?”
But before you could answer, Rachel’s hand came up—moving Abby aside with a simple step. She leaned down herself, planting her palms on her knees, her face inches from yours. Where Abby’s anger was raw, Rachel’s was colder, steadier, the kind of pressure you couldn’t squirm away from.
Her eyes bored into you. “You didn’t just get to the gates and walk away. Nobody does that. You were trying to go through, weren’t you? Didn’t expect a QZ there?” Her lips curled into a humorless smirk. “I know you’re from Boston, Joan. I know you know FEDRA. I know you know their QZs.” Her tone dropped to a low, dangerous rasp. “And I know you know their radio chatter.”
Your stomach flipped. She wasn’t wrong. You did know. Boston had drilled those codes and rotations into your head, and though years had passed, the sound of them was unmistakable. Static bursts, clipped orders, the same rotations you’d grown up under. You’d recognized it instantly at the LA gates. Recognized it, and then tried to forget.
Rachel tapped one finger against the map table, slow, deliberate, the sound echoing like a clock ticking down. Her eyes never left yours. “So stop wasting my time. What happened once you got there, Joan?”
You swallowed hard, fighting with yourself, every muscle in your throat tight. Because she was right—you hadn’t just turned around. You hadn’t walked away clean. You’d stood there, staring at those two young soldiers, their rifles trembling in their hands, their voices cracking as they offered you water. And then—
You shoved the memory back down, jaw locking so hard it ached.
But Rachel was still staring. Still waiting. Still peeling the truth out of you, one layer at a time.
You shifted again, your shoulders stiff with the weight of both their eyes on you. Being interrogated like this made your skin itch. “I didn’t expect a QZ. Yes, you’re correct.”
Rachel’s chin dipped, the faintest nod, a hum of satisfaction as if she’d already known.
You blew out a shaky breath. “But I was tired. Thirsty.” You let out a dry laugh, humorless, bitter. “Figured I’d just skirt around the place and keep moving. I wasn’t looking for trouble.”
“Trouble found you anyway, didn’t it?” Rachel said, her tone sharp but patient, like a teacher prying answers from a reluctant student.
Your throat worked. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I… I heard them before I saw them. The radios.”
Abby leaned against the wall now, arms folded tight, eyes narrowed on you but silent. Letting Rachel peel you open.
You rubbed your palms over your thighs, grounding yourself. “Same codes I grew up with in Boston. Call signs. Patrol rotations.” You hesitated, then mimicked the clipped cadence you remembered, your voice going cold, robotic: ‘Delta Two, shift complete. Bravo Squad, rotate east wall. Eyes up. Copy?’”
The words chilled you, dragging you back to that dry heat, the smell of dust in your mouth, the sight of those high steel walls ringed with floodlights.
Rachel’s brows furrowed. “Rotations every how long?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, searching memory. “Every thirty. Maybe forty-five. Too fast for a skeleton crew. They were running like they had something to prove.”
“FEDRA always has something to prove,” Rachel muttered, eyes flicking down to the map again.
You exhaled hard. “They had the main gate covered. Two towers, rifles trained outward. North and east walls looked reinforced. South side…” You hesitated, then shook your head. “South side had fewer bodies. At least that day. Patrols were still steady, but I caught chatter about a gate jammed there. Some mechanical failure.”
Rachel leaned closer. “You’re sure?”
You nodded reluctantly. “I remember one voice calling it in. Something like, ‘South post compromised, gate jammed. Requesting maintenance, over.’”
Abby finally spoke up, her voice low. “And you just… walked away from that?”
Her words cut deep, the guilt gnawing at your insides like teeth. You looked away, jaw clenched, refusing to meet her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to die at a FEDRA wall. Not then. I turned back.”
Rachel studied you like she could still see what you weren’t saying. The way her eyes narrowed made your skin crawl. But she didn’t press—at least not yet.
Instead, she straightened and marked the map with quick strokes of her pencil, her freckled hand steady as ever. “That’s intel we can work with. If the south gate’s faulty, they’ll keep diverting resources there. That buys us something.”
Abby’s arms stayed crossed, but her stare lingered on you. And you could feel the accusation burning in her silence—like she knew there was more you weren’t telling.
Rachel turned back to the table, scribbling furiously in her notebook, but you could see it in her face—she smelled the bullshit. Like a hound dog on the scent, she wasn’t going to let go until she ripped the truth clean out of you.
She stopped writing mid-sentence, her pencil hovering, then slowly turned her freckled face toward you. Her voice was deceptively calm, low enough to crawl under your skin. “You said all four corners were covered.” Her eyes narrowed, studying every twitch of your jaw. “They would’ve spotted you.”
Your throat worked. You shifted in your seat, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on your jeans.
Rachel’s gaze sharpened. “Which way did you exit?”
You rubbed your palms together, reluctant. “South.”
She arched a brow, no hesitation. “You said southeast had patrols. I’m assuming ground patrols?”
You let out a shallow nod, chest tight.
Her pencil tapped once against the wood, the sound like a gunshot in the tense room. “So how’d you get out?”
The silence stretched thin, your pulse thundering in your ears. You swallowed, but the spit stuck like glue in your throat.
Rachel leaned closer, voice harder now, no patience left. “How. Did. You. Get out, Joan?”
Her tone sliced through your defenses, and before you could stop yourself, your hands shot up. “I shot them, okay?!” Your voice cracked, raw. “I hid in an alley—there was a blind spot, they didn’t see me. I waited, and when they passed, I—I shot them.” The words tumbled out, ugly and jagged. “Then I ran north, cut east, didn’t stop until I couldn’t hear the radios anymore.”
The room went dead quiet. Abby’s arms were still crossed tight against her chest, but her eyes burned holes into you. Rachel just stared, long and unblinking.
Finally, she spoke. One word. “A blind spot?”
You braced yourself for the judgment, for the condemnation, for Abby to spit your name like a curse. But instead, Rachel only leaned in closer, her pencil hovering back over the map.
“Point to it.”
You hesitated, then reached out with a trembling finger. You marked a jagged stretch of the city’s outline, a cluster of buildings half-blown open and crumbling into one another, creating uneven alleys FEDRA’s lines couldn’t fully cover.
Rachel traced it with her finger, lips pursed. “Here. A structural collapse makes it impossible to keep eyes on every angle.” Her pencil slashed a note into her book. “We could… we’d be able to get through here.”
She looked up at you again, her face unreadable, but her eyes gleamed like someone who’d just unearthed a weapon.
And all you could think about was the two boys, their young faces, the way their radios had crackled with static when their bodies hit the ground.
And you turned to Abby, her face unreadable, but you could see it in her eyes. You’d proved her right—that her plan could work, that Rachel’s doubts weren’t the only truth.
Even though guilt ate at you, you knew this might help with the tension between you and Abby.
Rachel didn’t linger. She snapped her notebook shut, stabbed the map with her pencil like she was pinning down the truth, then strode out, boots pounding until the door slammed shut behind her.
The silence she left behind pressed down on you like a weight.
Abby’s arms stayed crossed, her jaw set hard as stone. She stared at you for a long, unbearable moment before finally speaking.
“You should’ve told us sooner.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Abby stepped closer, her boots heavy against the floorboards. “Joan, this isn’t Boston. This isn’t FEDRA. You don’t get to pick and choose what you share. This is our home now. Catalina. Lev’s home. My home. Yours. And keeping information to yourself—information that could save lives—it’s reckless. It’s selfish.”
You shifted, shame crawling up your neck. “I just—”
She cut you off with a raised hand, her voice firm. “No. Don’t ‘just’ me. You’ve been running your whole life, Joan. Running, hiding, keeping secrets. But you can’t keep doing that here. We don’t survive if everyone plays their own game.”
Her eyes were fierce, burning into yours. “You’re not FEDRA anymore. You’re not some stray scavenger. You’re a Firefly. That means when you see something, when you hear something—you bring it back. You protect Catalina with it.”
The word protect echoed in your chest, guilt twisting deeper. You wanted to say you understood, that you’d do better, but the images of those boys in LA, the way their radios cracked and cut off in your hands, clung to you like tar.
Abby shook her head, disappointed. “If you want this to be your home, you need to start acting like it.”
But a tear slid down your cheek before you could hide it, and Abby’s gaze softened in an instant. The iron edge in her stance faltered, just a fraction.
You spurted the words out before the dam could hold. “But they were so young…” Your voice cracked, raw, trembling as you pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. “God, they were so young.”
Abby’s arms finally fell to her sides, the hardness bleeding out of her tone. “Joan, you did what you—”
You cut her off with a sharp sniffle, shaking your head. “No. Don’t say that. If I had stayed in Catalina—if I had just stayed home—it would’ve never happened.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by your own uneven breaths. Abby shook her head slowly, steadying herself, then placed her hand gently on your shoulder. Her grip was warm, grounding. “If you never left, we wouldn’t have this intel. Now we know. Now we can get those Firefly recruits out of there, bring supplies back, strengthen Catalina. You gave us a chance, Joan. You gave us a chance.”
You sniffled again, swiping clumsy fingers across your wet cheeks. “You don’t get it,” you muttered, your throat raw.
Abby exhaled through her nose, turning her head away like she couldn’t look at you and keep steady all at once. “You need to think about us. About Lev. About Catalina.”
A bitter laugh broke out of you, ugly and sharp. You shook your head, shoulders trembling. “They looked like Frank.” Your voice splintered on the name. “Wide-eyed. Scared. Just kids who didn’t know what the hell they were doing.”
Abby’s face twisted, her lips pressing into a thin line. She sighed, the sound heavy, weighted with a grief she couldn’t voice. “Joan…”
You dropped your head into your hands, your voice muffled, shaking. “I’m a horrible person, Abby. I’m not like you. You can stomach it. You can make sense of it. But me?” You shook your head violently. “I can’t. I can’t live with it.”
But the door creaked again, and Rachel slipped back into the room. Her boots thudded sharp against the wooden floor as she folded the map tight under her arm. She scoffed, cruel and unforgiving. “You need to harden up, Joan.” Her voice cut through the air like a blade. “It’s eat or be eaten. Always has been.”
Abby shot her a warning look—sharp, protective—but Rachel ignored it.
You sniffled, dragging your sleeve across your face, trying to collect yourself, to at least look like you weren’t breaking apart. Your throat burned, but you forced your breathing steady.
Rachel kept going, voice low and cold. “I can’t believe you used to be FEDRA… didn’t you work in the torture stalls?”
The air left your lungs in a rush. You froze. Your heart pounded so loud you thought they could hear it. “How do you know that?” Your voice was a whisper, more plea than question.
Rachel’s mouth curved into a humorless chuckle. “Marcus.”
The name hit like a stone. Abby glanced between you both, brows furrowing, but Rachel didn’t give you a chance to breathe. She went on, casual, like she was talking about the weather. “My boyfriend. Tall, dark skin, short curls. You remember him. He remembers you. Said he saw you when you got off that boat in Ensenada. Said he knew your face. From the cells.”
The memory crashed back into you, cruel and sudden: the way Marcus had looked at you—sharp, knowing, haunted. The words he hadn’t said but etched across his stare. You swallowed hard, throat locking. You’d told yourself he might’ve been mistaken, that the years blurred faces together in pain. But you knew better. He hadn’t been wrong.
Rachel tilted her head, studying you like a specimen. “You tortured him, didn’t you? On orders from your captain.”
Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You wanted to say something, to deny it, but the truth stuck to your ribs like tar.
Rachel let the silence linger before finally sighing. “But…” she tapped the folded map against her palm, her tone shifting to something cool, pragmatic, “this is useful.”
Your stomach knotted. You nodded faintly and looked away, eyes fixed on the cracks in the floorboards instead of Abby. But you could feel her watching you. Her gaze burned heavy on your skin. Abby had never judged you for who you used to be—but if it caught up with you here? If the stories spread? Would she still feel that way? Would she still love you when she knew every corner of your rot?
Abby cleared her throat, her voice firm but tight. “Joan needs assignments.” She wasn’t asking—it was a shield, a redirection.
Rachel’s eyes flicked back to her. “Fine. She’ll help us plan the mission.” She pointed to the map with the hand that held it, matter-of-fact. “Tomorrow. Both of you. Dawn.”
Abby gave a single nod, her lips pressed thin. Then she turned, jerking her chin at you. “Let’s go.”
You moved to follow her, grateful for the out, when Rachel’s hand shot out and caught your arm. Her grip was firm, her expression colder than before.
“I need Joan for a minute.”
Abby hesitated. Her eyes narrowed, her weight shifted—like she might argue—but then she exhaled, clipped and sharp. Without a word, she turned and walked out, boots heavy as she went to find Lev.
The door shut, leaving you with Rachel’s hand still on your arm, her grip like iron.
The silence pressed in once Abby’s footsteps faded down the hall. Rachel’s grip stayed heavy on your arm until she was sure Abby was gone. Then she let go, slow, deliberate, like she wanted you to know she could have kept holding on.
Her eyes swept over you, sharp and calculating. “You think I’m cruel,” she said flatly, her voice almost a whisper. “But I’m not. I’m realistic.”
You shifted your weight, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Rachel—”
She cut you off, stepping closer. “Don’t lie to me again.” The folded map tapped against your chest. “You’ve seen things, you’ve done things, and you know how this works better than most. Stop pretending you’re some innocent survivor who just stumbled here.”
Your throat tightened. You tried to look away, but she caught your chin with two fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers.
“Marcus told me what you were,” she said, her freckles stark under the lamplight. “The cells. The screams. The smell of blood. He remembers you.” She tilted her head, her voice lowering into something venomous. “And now I know exactly why you didn’t want to talk about the gates in L.A.”
Your stomach churned. “I didn’t—”
Rachel scoffed. “Spare me. I don’t care if you pulled the trigger, Joan. I care about what you know. And right now? You’re sitting on information that could save this place or sink it.”
Her hand dropped from your face, but her eyes never left yours. “So here’s how this works. Tomorrow, you show up. You give me every detail you remember about that QZ. Every patrol pattern, every blind spot, every frequency you caught. No more dancing around it.”
Her voice hardened, each word a nail hammered into place. “Because if you choke up again, Abby won’t be the one who pays for it. Catalina will. Lev will.”
You swallowed hard, your throat still raw, like every word Rachel had scraped it clean.
She didn’t let up. Her voice cut through the air, cruel and sharp. “Do you know how Abby was after you left?”
Your brow furrowed, confused. “What?”
Rachel scoffed, leaning back like the memory was sour on her tongue. “Abby is my strongest asset here. Strongest fighter, strongest leader. But when you disappeared?” She shook her head, almost disgusted. “She became my weakest link. Distracted. Reckless. Half her mind stuck on where the hell you went, the other half begging me to send squads after you.”
Your chest ached, the guilt coiling tight like barbed wire. You dropped your eyes to the floor.
Rachel didn’t stop. “She wants something you clearly don’t understand, Joan. A safe place. A family. Stability. And you—” her hand slammed down flat on the table, the sound snapping through the room like a gunshot—“you tear through it every time. You rip holes in the one good thing she’s trying to build.”
You sighed, shame crawling up your neck.
“Grow up,” Rachel spat. “Stop being such a piece of shit. Or you’re out. I’ll shun you so fast you won’t even have time to beg Abby for forgiveness.”
Your head snapped up, panic clawing at you. The thought of Abby turning her back, of Lev closing the door on you—it hollowed you out in an instant. You nodded quickly, desperate to keep the terror from showing on your face.
Rachel leaned forward again, eyes narrowing. “Is that what you want? Abby. You. Lev. A family. Maybe even more, if she decides she can trust you again. Is that what you want?”
Your lips parted before you could think. “Yes.” The word was thin, brittle, but true. God, you wanted it. You wanted it so bad it scared the hell out of you.
Rachel exhaled slowly, like she’d dragged the truth out of you by force. “Good. Then be here at dawn. No more hiding info. No more secrets. Because if you choke again—” her voice dropped to a deadly whisper—“I’ll tell every Firefly in this base what you were.”
The bottom fell out of your stomach.
You nodded, stiff and silent, your body heavy as you turned toward the door. No arguments. No excuses. Just the sound of your boots carrying you out before the weight of her threat crushed you completely.

Chapter 71: Heat

________________________________________________________________________
Abby slammed the door behind her, the wood rattling in its frame. Her finger shot toward Lev. “Room. Now. Joan and I need to talk.”
Lev hesitated only a second, glancing between the two of you. His mouth pressed thin, but he didn’t argue. He slipped down the hallway in silence, his door shutting softly a moment later.
You sank onto the couch, the weight of your body pulling against the old springs. The sticky blood on your shirt had dried into stiff patches, cracking when you moved. The copper smell clung to you like shame.
Abby paced the living room like a caged animal, her boots heavy on the old wood floor. You knew exactly what this was about, but still the words slipped out. “What’s wrong?”
She stopped dead, turning on you with fire in her eyes. “What’s wrong?!” she threw the words back at you, incredulous.
The air in the house pressed down thick and suffocating. You let your gaze drop to the chessboard abandoned on the coffee table. The pieces were still mid-game, Lev’s knight tilted like it had been knocked during laughter. You remembered the sound of it, Abby and Lev chuckling over the rules, playful bickering filling the house. Now the silence carved you open.
Her hands landed on her hips. She was breathing hard, like holding herself back from exploding. “You can’t walk a mile off route alone.”
You nodded, shame heavy. “You’re right. It was stupid.”
She let out a sharp snort. “Very stupid. What the fuck were you even doing out there?!”
Your throat closed. How could you admit it? That you’d walked out there because your body ached, because every thrust from last night had left you raw and sore, because you thought maybe if you stretched long enough the pain would loosen its grip? That the shame of it gnawed at you worse than the ache itself?
You looked away, jaw clenched.
Abby snapped her fingers sharply. “Joan. Hello? Look at me.”
You sighed, frustration burning hot in your chest. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Her hand pinched the bridge of her nose, her voice sharp with exasperation. “What the fuck were you doing a mile off route?!”
It wasn’t just worry in her tone—it was jealousy. It was suspicion. Like maybe you’d wandered off for someone, something else. Like maybe she didn’t believe the story you’d give her anyway.
You shook your head, unable to meet her eyes. The words slipped out small, quiet, pathetic. “I wanted to stretch my legs.”
Her brows furrowed, disbelieving. “What?”
Her brow knit tighter, and she tilted her head like she couldn’t believe what she just heard. “Stretch your legs?” Abby repeated, voice flat, mocking. “That’s your excuse?”
You flinched.
She huffed out a bitter laugh, pacing again, her boots dragging across the floor. “Christ, Joan. Do you even hear yourself? We’ve got people rationing bullets, sewing fucking socks out of scrap, and you’re a mile off route in some goddamn park—‘stretching your legs.’” She threw her hands up, turning back to you. “What’s next? You gonna say you just wanted to birdwatch?”
You sank deeper into the couch, heat crawling up your neck. “Abby, I—”
“No. Don’t ‘Abby, I’ me.” Her finger jabbed the air between you, sharp as a knife. “I nearly lost my mind when you left Catalina. Thought you were dead. Thought maybe you wanted to be. And now you’re back, what—testing the waters? Seeing if you can sneak off again? Is that it?”
Her tone carried that familiar bite, the sass you’d only seen in rare moments—the Abby who rolled her eyes at Owen’s stupid jokes, who muttered sarcastic digs under her breath when Isaac barked orders. It was sharper now, harder, scarred by too many losses.
“Jesus,” she muttered, pacing again, hands on her hips. “You can’t just keep pulling this disappearing act. You’re not some stray cat that wanders when it feels like it.” Her eyes cut back to you, sharp, dangerous. “This is a home. My home. Lev’s home. Your home—if you’d stop treating it like a fucking hotel.”
Her words stung worse than a slap.
You opened your mouth but she cut you off, her voice rising. “So tell me again. Why the hell were you out there?”
Your lips parted, nothing coming.
She scoffed, leaning down close, her braid slipping over her shoulder. “Because I don’t buy that you risked getting your throat torn out by a Runner just to stretch your legs. So—try again, Joan.”
Her eyes bored into yours, unblinking, daring you to lie to her one more time.
She leaned in, close enough that her breath hit your lips, hot and ragged, carrying that sharp citrusy-clean tang she always seemed to have—even under the sweat and grit of the day. There was salt too, the raw scent of skin worked under the sun, and the faint windblown musk of the sea. It made you shiver, your body betraying you.
You exhaled slowly through your nose and turned your head, ashamed. “When I woke up today…” The words caught like barbed wire in your throat.
Her brows twitched, waiting, her voice edged and sharp. “When you woke up today what?” She leaned closer still, her words biting at you.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Don’t make me say it.”
Her scoff cut like a knife. “Tell me, Joan. When you woke up today what?!” Her tone rose, frustration spilling over, and you squirmed under it, cheeks burning with humiliation.
Your voice cracked when it finally tore out of you. “I was sore, okay?” Your hands slapped against your thighs with a wet smack. “I thought if I walked long enough it’d go away.”
The room went still. Abby froze. Silence stretched between you, thin and suffocating, until you swore you could hear the blood in your own ears. Her stare didn’t waver, but it shifted—confusion, disbelief, maybe even guilt flickering beneath the steel.
“…What?” Her voice was flat, like she didn’t know how else to respond.
You curled in on yourself, eyes darting away. “You were just…” Your throat bobbed as you forced it out. “It’d been a while. And you were—god.” You pinched the bridge of your nose hard enough to hurt, trying to hide the tears threatening your lashes. “Too rough.”
Her expression changed instantly, the blood draining from her face. That wasn’t the answer she’d expected—not at all. For a second she just stared, pale and speechless, her mouth open but no words forming. The Abby you knew, the one always so sure, so biting and precise, faltered in front of you, completely unmoored by what you’d admitted.
“Too rough?” she repeated, voice edged with disbelief. Her arms crossed tight over her chest, shoulders squared. “Joan, come on. I wasn’t rough.” That sharp bite slid back into her tone—the one she always reached for when she felt cornered. “You think that was rough? You’ve seen me rough.”
Heat crawled up your neck. You looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “Abby…”
She snorted. “You picked the thing!”
Your hands flew up. “I picked the size for you! Not for me!”
Her brow furrowed, a rare flash of confusion. “What?”
You groaned, your face burning red, unable to look at her. “You’ve… I don’t know, been with guys. I figured you’d want a bigger one.”
For a second, she just stared at you, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Then a chuckle slipped out, low and amused, before her expression snapped back to stone. “Well… fuck, Joan. Too bad.”
You blinked at her, stunned. “Huh?”
She shrugged, finally dropping down onto the couch beside you, her thigh brushing yours. Her voice came out begrudging, like she hated admitting it: “I like—” she groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “I like using it on you.”
You looked away quickly, your face burning hotter. “Well, you were rough.”
She rolled her eyes, leaning back against the couch. “No, but… I should’ve warmed you up first.”
You rubbed your face with both hands. “Oh my god.”
Abby let out a breath through her nose, that quiet hum she always made when she was thinking too hard. She leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, watching you with her chin tilted down. The bite in her expression softened, just a fraction.
“Okay,” she said, quieter now. “Maybe I was rough.”
You peeked at her through your fingers, startled by the admission.
“I didn’t mean to be,” she continued, her voice low, even. “I get carried away with you sometimes.” She reached up, scratching the back of her neck. “It’s been months, Joan. You come back and suddenly you’re in my bed again—” she stopped herself, huffed, then muttered, “I wasn’t exactly thinking about… pacing.”
Her honesty made your chest ache. You lowered your hands slowly, watching the tension tug at the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said firmly. And there was that vulnerability again, the one she only showed you in slivers. “Not in a way that matters.”
For a second, your heart stuttered. Then, of course, she ruined it—Abby-style.
A grin cracked across her face, sly and merciless. “But also…” she tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re whining like I broke you in half, Joan. You came twice before I even touched the strap. You sure you wanna call that ‘rough’?”
Your jaw dropped. “Abby!”
She chuckled, leaning back against the couch and stretching her arms across the backrest like she was perfectly at ease. “What? I’m just saying—you didn’t look like you hated it.”
You shoved her shoulder, mortified. “I was sore! There’s a difference!”
She caught your wrist mid-push, squeezing it with that maddening strength. “Aw, baby,” she teased, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Poor Joan, can’t handle me anymore?”
You yanked your hand back, scowling, though your ears burned hot. “You’re insufferable.”
Abby just laughed, leaning in closer so her breath brushed your cheek. “You love it.”
Your stomach knotted, and you turned your head away, mumbling, “I hate you.”
“Mmhm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced. “That’s why you walked a mile off route this morning, limping around like an old woman.”
You snapped your gaze back to her, shocked. “You noticed?”
Her grin widened, wolfish. “Oh, I noticed. I thought you were just trying to get out of drills. But now?” She tapped her chin in mock thought. “Turns out, I fucked you so good you couldn’t even sit straight.”
You covered your face again with a groan, muffled and desperate. “I hate you so much.”
Her hand slid over yours, gently pulling your palms away from your face. And her voice softened again, just enough to make you believe her. “I’ll go easier next time.” She smirked, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. “Maybe.”
Then her lips crashed against yours—hot, wet, desperate, carrying all the frustration and tenderness tangled up between you. You squirmed under the weight of her body, trying to shove her off, but she only leaned down further, whispering low into your ear, her breath hot on your skin.
“Can I kiss it and make it better?”
You shoved at her shoulder with a groan. “No!”
Abby chuckled, rolling her eyes like you were being ridiculous. She stayed straddled across your lap anyway, her weight pinning you down as if daring you to move her.
You rubbed your face with both hands, muffling another groan into your palms. “Why are you being such a giver lately?” you muttered, your voice muffled but laced with exhaustion.
Her lips pursed, her expression softening for just a moment. “I missed you,” she said simply.
You peeked at her through your fingers, one brow arched. “But I miss touching you.”
Abby’s chuckle was low, warm, but tinged with mischief. “Yeah, but I love seeing you whine.”
You groaned again, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Let me fuck you with the strap I found, Abby.” The words came out rushed, almost desperate.
Her eyes widened, her lips parting in mock shock. “So forward,” she teased, but her tone carried a spark of heat underneath the joke.
You sighed, throwing your head back against the couch in defeat. “It’s not fair.”
She leaned down close, her nose brushing yours, her grin sharp and maddening. “I’m still liking how it looks inside you,” she murmured, her voice husky, as though the memory alone was enough to keep her satisfied.
You shook your head and huffed, fingers sneaking behind Abby to toy with her braid. The strands slipped loose one by one until the plait unraveled, her blond hair spilling free in soft waves that brushed your chest.
“You’re so pretty,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your eyes caught on the curve of her cheekbone, the faint scar across it, the way the lamplight made her lashes look impossibly long.
A smile tugged at her lips as she leaned in, rubbing her nose against yours with a quiet hum. “Not as pretty as you.”
You groaned dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh, brother.”
She chuckled, low and warm in her throat, and for a beat you both just laughed—until it died into silence, your breath syncing with hers, your gaze locked on the endless blue of her eyes. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, dizzy and full of gravity.
Her mouth found yours again, slow at first, then hungrier. Her hand skimmed up your body, fingers tracing over your ribs before curling against your side. You breathed her name into the kiss, muffled, desperate: “Abby…”
She silenced your whine with her tongue, tasting you, filling you. You melted into it, but underneath the warmth, something restless stirred—you wanted more. To flip her, to taste her, to watch her squirm under you instead of holding you down.
You tried to push up, but she pressed firmly against your shoulders, keeping you pinned to the couch. Her lips trailed to your neck, leaving slow, deliberate bites that made your pulse jump.
Your hips bucked on instinct, a soft whimper caught in your throat. You tried to quiet yourself, biting back the sound, but her mouth dragged lower on your throat and you almost lost it.
“Let’s go upstairs,” you breathed, your voice thin with want.
Abby lifted her head, her eyes dark and unreadable, but then she gave a single nod. She stood, tugging you up with her, her grip unrelenting on your hand. Without a word, she led you toward the stairs, her shoulders broad in the lamplight, every step promising more than you could handle.
You shut the door behind you with a firm click. Before the echo even died in the room, you turned and pounced, pushing Abby back onto the bed.
This time, you weren’t going to let her control it. Not tonight. You’d had enough of being steered, handled, guided like she always did. You loved it, sure—but it left you restless. Hungry. And you knew her. Abby lived for caretaking, for giving, for holding the reins. You were both too much of the same animal, and it clashed.
You pressed her down, lips finding her throat, teeth grazing the taut skin of her neck. Her hands landed heavy on your hips, steadying you, even now.
You worked her pants open, fumbling at the buttons, but she stopped you with a breathless command.
“Take yours off first.”
She made it sound like an order, but her own hands were already tugging her pants down, stripping until she was left in nothing but her bra and underwear. Her body filled out now, not the starved frame you remembered from Santa Barbara. She looked like herself again—broad shoulders, biceps cut and veined, thighs thick and steady as stone.
You nodded quickly, slipping off the bed to peel away your own clothes. Your jeans and shirt hit the floor in a heap, the dried smear of runner blood still clinging faintly to your skin. It made you self-conscious, but she didn’t even glance at it.
You crawled back up fast, reclaiming her mouth in a kiss, but she caught you mid-motion. Her grip on your hips was iron, lifting you with ease and settling you onto her. The sharp press of bone and muscle beneath her was grounding, intoxicating.
That perfect X-shape—your hips lined up over hers, underwear dragging wet against underwear.
“Move your hips,” she ordered, low and rough.
You obeyed, rolling against her with slow, deliberate friction. The heat built sharp and fast, her slick soaking through the thin cotton of your underwear. You realized she was more worked up than you were. The thought made your stomach twist. Had your earlier confession—that you were sore from her—turned her on this much?
You bit down on your lip at the thought and ground harder into her. A sound escaped you, helpless and wanting.
Abby’s head tipped back, blond hair spilling loose across the sheets. “Like that, Joan—I’m close.” Her voice cracked at the edges, breaking into something almost pleading.
You braced a hand on her thigh, digging your fingers into the hard muscle, and drove your hips down harder. The slick pulse beneath you made you gasp, the steady drum of her heartbeat thrumming against your body.
Her nails carved crescents into your hips as her whole frame trembled. She shook under you, climax ripping through her body in waves, her abs tightening, her arms flexing as the veins popped under her skin.
You watched her come undone, breathless, struck dumb by how gorgeous she looked in that moment—blond hair spread like a halo, face flushed, muscles straining with every shudder.
“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, the words breaking out of you without thought.
Her lip caught between her teeth, her blue eyes squeezed shut, and a high, breathy whimper escaped her throat. Vulnerable. Almost girlish. It surprised you every time, that sound—Abby, all power and dominance, undone beneath you, twitching and whimpering like she’d forgotten how to be hard.
And god, you loved it.
She was still trembling, breath ragged, but you weren’t about to let the chance slip away. For once, you had her open, vulnerable—and you weren’t going to let her take the reins again.
You slid down her body, ripping at her underwear, but her hand shot out, gripping your thigh.
“Hang on,” she ordered, her tone sharp and commanding.
You shook your head, stubborn, trying to push through, but Abby’s strength was unyielding. Even now, even after months of you building muscle, hardening in the wild—she was still stronger. She lifted you like nothing, flipping the script in a heartbeat.
Before you could protest, your hips were planted firm against her mouth. Her tongue slipped your underwear aside with obscene ease, the hot press of her breath stealing yours away.
You gasped, clutching at her hair with both hands. “No—I want to taste you,” you whimpered, desperate, voice breaking.
But your protest was drowned by the molten heat of her tongue, tracing slow, lazy circles against your clit. Your head rolled back, a strangled moan clawing out of your throat. She had you pinned facing the wall, helpless, unable to reach her. To touch her. To give anything back.
“Abby—” your voice hitched as she sucked you hard, so sudden and rough it felt like punishment. Your back bowed, thighs quivering around her head, nails digging into her scalp. “Too much—” you pleaded, teeth biting down on your lip until you tasted blood.
She only chuckled cruelly into you, the vibration ricocheting through your body. Her voice muffled against your skin but clear in your skull: dark, amused, in control.
You writhed, hips jerking against her mouth, slick sounds filling the room as she worked you. The way she licked and sucked, relentless, like she was trying to draw an apology straight out of your body—it made your stomach coil and burn.
“I need to touch you too,” you whimpered, half-begging, hips straining to twist around so you could finally get at her.
Was this the game? Her fun? Restricting you, denying you the chance to taste her while she wrung you dry?
Abby laughed into your wetness again, the sound obscene, her tongue never stopping.
It made you gasp—louder this time—your whole body jerking.
You tried to lift off, desperate for relief, but her arms locked tight around your thighs, holding you in place like steel. You weren’t going anywhere.
Her mouth sealed over your clit, sucking harder now, her tongue tracing tight, merciless circles. The pleasure was sharp, almost cruel—gnawing through you until it was all that existed.
Your body shook violently over her, fingers knotted in her blond strands so tight your knuckles went white. Your whole frame trembled as the climax ripped through you, jagged and rough, a stuttered release that left you gasping like you’d been knocked under a wave.
But she didn’t stop.
The overstimulation came hard and fast—her mouth relentless, tongue flicking with precision. You jolted as another orgasm slammed into you, back arching so violently you thought your spine might snap. It was messy, humiliating, the kind of pleasure that had you choking on your own whimpers, legs threatening to give out.
“That’s enough,” you managed through gritted teeth, voice hoarse, shaking.
But Abby only hummed low against you in satisfaction, and the vibration ricocheted through your core. When you dared to glance down, her blue eyes were locked on yours, bright and cruel with amusement, like she wanted to watch you break again and again.
Your back bowed as a third climax tore out of you, your thighs trembling, clamping down so hard around her head you thought you might suffocate her—but she pushed on, ruthless, until you were sobbing against the flood of sensation.
Finally, you shoved yourself off her, stumbling backwards onto the bed. Your chest heaved, sweat slicking your skin, every nerve lit up and twitching.
Abby sat up slowly, deliberate, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She crawled toward you on hands and knees, predatory, her expression unreadable. When she reached you, she kissed your forehead almost mockingly soft.
You shook under it, a pathetic sound clawing out of your throat. “Please, Abby—let me taste you.” The words came out desperate, broken. A beg more than anything.
For a moment, she only studied you. Then, at last, she nodded and reclined onto her back, broad shoulders sinking into the sheets. The sight of her there, sprawled and waiting, nearly undid you again.
You climbed over her with relief flooding your chest, hunger gnawing at you. The ache between your thighs pulsed, raw and demanding, but you forced it down. Finally—it was your turn.
You kissed down her neck soft and wet while you circled your tongue.
Abby giggled softly, the sound vibrating through you as her hands slid up and down your body, palms warm, slow, almost reverent. The sweetness in it disarmed you—after all her cruelty, all her control, here she was melting under your touch.
You kissed her lips gently at first, a contrast to the raw need clawing at your chest. Your fingers tugged at the clasp of her bra, breath shaky.
“Take it off,” you whispered, a plea more than a command.
She obeyed without hesitation, tossing it to the floor before hooking her thumbs into her underwear and sliding them off too. The sight of her naked beneath you nearly stole your breath.
You bent down, lips latching onto her nipple, sucking hard until the soft pink flesh peaked against your tongue. Abby arched into you, her back curving like a bow as her hands found your hair, fingers threading through it with surprising gentleness. She sighed, almost purring as you teased her with your mouth, your tongue circling until her breaths grew shallow.
But you weren’t about to let her finish that fast. Not after what she’d put you through.
You moved lower, pressing wet kisses down the firm ridges of her stomach, your lips tracing every muscle, every scar. You felt her abdomen flex beneath you, her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling faster as you inched lower.
At her hips, you slowed. Hovering just above the blonde thatch of hair, letting her feel your breath there without giving her what she wanted. You kissed the insides of her thighs instead—left, right, then back again, your mouth painting slow, aching trails up and down.
“Joan…” she whimpered, clawing at the sheets now, her composure slipping. She looked ruined already, and you hadn’t even touched her where she needed.
You smiled against her skin, the satisfaction rich and heavy in your chest. Finally—it was you making her beg.
At last, your mouth lowered to her heat, your tongue brushing soft, feather-light over her clit. Barely there, teasing.
She bucked her hips instantly, a sharp gasp falling from her lips.
“C’mon—fuck…” Her voice cracked as she begged, hips lifting toward your mouth.
You didn’t deny her this time. Your tongue swirled harder, deliberate circles, and the effect was immediate. Abby’s body jerked, thighs trembling against your shoulders, a helpless whimper tumbling out as she clutched the sheets with one hand and kept the other tangled tight in your hair.
Her body’s response was intoxicating—the way she couldn’t help but move with you, the way her strength melted into desperate need under your tongue.
Your tongue moved with steady pressure now, no more teasing. You wanted to wreck her—wanted to see the soldier undone beneath you. Abby’s body writhed, her thighs tightening around your head as she whimpered again, but this time the sound was higher, almost broken.
“Joan—” she gasped, her voice cracking. She tried to stifle it with her fist pressed to her mouth, but the noise still slipped through, raw and unguarded.
Your chest ached at the sound. Abby never let anyone hear her like this. She was always strength, always control, always the caretaker. But here—under your tongue, beneath your hands gripping her hips—she was trembling.
You pulled back just enough to speak, your lips brushing against her heat. “Don’t hide it,” you whispered, your voice ragged. “Let me hear you.”
Her blue eyes flicked down to you, wide, glassy with desperation. For a moment, she looked so young, so unarmored, like the girl you’d never known but could imagine—the one who hadn’t been hardened by war, by loss, by endless killing.
She tried to hold your gaze, but her head fell back against the pillow with a shuddering moan, the sound loud and helpless. Her hips bucked up against your mouth like she couldn’t stop herself.
“Joan, I—” Her voice fractured, breaking into little cries she couldn’t catch in time. She clutched the sheets so tight her knuckles went pale, her other hand still tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding.
It hit you then—Abby needed this as much as you did. To not be the strong one, not just for once, but for as long as you could give it to her.
You doubled down, flattening your tongue against her clit, moving in deep, slow circles that had her thighs trembling against your shoulders. The whimpers turned into sobs—real, desperate sounds, ones she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.
“Please—Joan—” she begged, her voice high and thin. Not commanding. Not teasing. Begging.
You’d never heard Abby beg before.
Your chest swelled with a dizzying mix of power and tenderness, and you gave her exactly what she asked for, pressing harder, faster, until she shattered beneath you. Her whole body convulsed, thighs squeezing your head, her voice breaking on your name like it was a prayer.
When she finally collapsed back against the bed, she was shaking, her breaths sharp and uneven, eyes wet at the corners. You kissed her thigh softly, the taste of her still on your lips.
You sat back on your heels and looked at her. She was gasping for air wrecked and slick.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry as the words left you. “Let me…” your voice cracked, softer than you meant it to be. “Can I use the strap on you?”
Abby’s eyes flicked up, wide, startled. Her cheeks burned red and she instantly covered her face with both hands, muffling her response. “I’m… nervous,” she admitted, voice small in a way you’d rarely ever heard from her.
Something inside you softened at that. Abby, who always carried the world on her shoulders, who stood unflinching under pressure—nervous. For you.
You smiled, brushing her wrists until she let you see her face again. “I’ll be gentle,” you promised. Not a command, not a tease—just the truth.
She huffed out a shaky breath and gave a small, quick nod, biting her lip.
Your chest thudded as you leaned over, reaching into the drawer of her bedside table. The familiar jangle of buckles and straps sent your stomach into knots. When you pulled it out, Abby’s eyes followed every motion, her flush deepening.
You fastened the harness around your hips, tugging the straps tight until they bit firm into your waist. Abby was a little broader than you, so it sat differently, awkward at first, until you adjusted and found the right fit. The weight of it made your breath shallow—it felt powerful, but also terrifying, because you wanted her to want this as much as you did.
Sliding between her thighs, you steadied yourself. Her legs opened for you, slow, hesitant, her knees trembling faintly. She bit her lip again, her face glowing pink, and you couldn’t help but drink in how beautiful she looked undone like that.
You brushed a hand along her cheek, then lowered your fingers to her mouth. “Suck on them,” you murmured, tone low but coaxing.
She obeyed instantly, opening her lips, her warm tongue curling around your fingers. She swirled lazily, drawing them deeper, her lashes fluttering shut. The sight made your stomach clench and heat coil low in your belly—it was obscene, and intimate, and so Abby it nearly broke you.
“Good,” you breathed, sliding your slick fingers free. Her lips parted with a faint pop, wet with spit, and you steadied yourself with one hand braced on her knee.
Carefully, you pressed your fingers into her first, easing her open. Abby’s head fell back against the pillow, her lips parting in a gasp. “Joan—”
You pumped slowly, gently, curling just enough to hear her breath hitch. She bucked her hips against your hand, a yelp spilling out of her—a high, startled sound that made your chest ache with want. God, she didn’t even know how cute she sounded.
You worked her open, patient, letting her adjust. Her muscles tightened, then loosened, and soon she was rocking into your hand, whimpering quietly with each thrust of your fingers.
When you finally pulled out, slick coating your hand, Abby whined—an almost desperate little noise at the sudden emptiness.
You smirked, brushing your thumb over her thigh. “Don’t worry.”
She stared at you, breathless, her face flushed deep scarlet as you reached down and spat on the tip of the silicone. You spread it with your palm, mixing it with her wetness as you guided yourself to her entrance.
You looked at her, waiting.
She nodded, biting her lip, eyes locked on yours.
You pressed forward, slow, steady. The head stretched her open and she gasped, her hands clutching at the sheets. “F-fuck.”
Her voice cracked in a way that sent shivers through your body.
You pressed all the way into her, every inch buried, and when you adjusted your hips the jolt caught you off guard.
Oh.
Oh.
You finally understood. Why Abby loved this so much—why she always wanted the strap. The base rubbed firm against your clit with every shift, the pressure so sharp you nearly lost it right there.
Your breath hitched, your thighs trembling as you tried to hold steady. God, it felt good. Too good. Good enough that for a heartbeat you thought you couldn’t do this—that you’d fold before she even came.
But then you looked at her. Abby beneath you, flushed and panting, her lips parted in soft whimpers. Her chest heaved, her hair spilling messily across the pillow.
That sight made you lock in. Laser-focused.
You rolled your hips into hers, gasping into her shoulder. A desperate whimper slipped past your teeth, muffled only when you bit down hard on your lip. Abby’s whole body jolted beneath you—her hips jerking up to meet yours.
“Holy shit,” she gasped, voice raw. Her eyes squeezed shut, head rolling back as she clutched the sheets. “Harder.”
You nodded, bracing your hands on either side of her shoulders. You drove into her harder, rougher, your rhythm clumsy at first but finding its pace as the heat built.
She whimpered against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip, and then her big hands slid down to your ass. She gripped you hard, pulling you down into her, forcing you deeper, her thighs shaking with every thrust.
She loved it. You could feel it in the way she clung to you, the way her body writhed, needy, beneath your own. But you were already unraveling, struggling to keep up with how rough she wanted it. Each grind of the harness against your clit pulled you closer to the edge.
Then, suddenly, her palm pressed flat against your stomach. A firm shove that made you stutter.
“Lay down,” she commanded, her voice low and hot.
Your chest fluttered. You nodded without a word and eased back, collapsing into the pillows. She followed immediately, climbing on top, straddling your hips. Her grip was unshakable, one hand guiding the strap back inside her.
She sank down in one sharp motion, and the sound that tore out of her throat made you dizzy.
Abby gasped, head rolling back, mouth open wide in pleasure. She started to ride you with fast, rough jumps of her hips, her muscles flexing with each slam down.
“God!” she cried out, her voice breaking on the word.
You stared up at her—sweat shining on her collarbone, her abs tightening with every motion, her hair sticking to her flushed skin. Every curve of her body moved in rhythm above you, all strength and hunger and wild beauty.
And you couldn’t stop thinking: this is mine.
But you just laid there like an idiot, your hands hovering uselessly in the air. Too shy to touch her. Too stunned. You’d never seen her like this—never seen Abby lose control like some kind of storm breaking loose.
She rocked on top of you, hips slamming down on the strap with a rough, relentless rhythm. Every time the base ground into your clit, shocks tore through your body. You tried to squirm away, your hips jerking involuntarily, but it only made the friction sharper, fuller, hotter. It was unbearable and perfect all at once.
Your head rolled back into the pillows, your breath catching in short gasps. You felt like you were drowning under her, helpless and undone.
Then her big hands caught yours. She dragged them up, planting them firmly against her chest. “Touch me,” she breathed, her voice broken and demanding all at once.
You nodded frantically and obeyed, your trembling fingers closing around her breasts. Her nipples were flushed, tight little peaks, and you rolled them between your fingers, tugging just enough to make her groan.
Her moan went straight through you—deep, throaty, guttural. Each thrust of her hips grew harder, faster. The strap slammed into you, the base bruising your clit until you thought you might break.
She was wild, moving like she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Her hair stuck to her damp forehead, her mouth open as desperate sounds spilled from her throat.
Then her pace quickened again, brutal and erratic. The moans turned into something rawer—guttural cries, each one ripped out of her chest with every slam of her hips.
“Fuck—Joan—” she gasped, voice cracking.
Her legs started to shake, the strength in her thighs trembling under the strain. Her whole body quivered as if she was being ripped apart by it.
Your wide eyes drank her in—every inch of sweat-slick skin, every ragged sound, the way her muscles twitched as she lost herself completely. And it pushed you over too. Your body shook violently, an orgasm tearing through you like lightning, stealing the breath from your lungs.
She finally collapsed, slumping forward. Her head dropped onto your collarbone, her mouth open against your skin as she gasped for air. Her weight pressed into you, heavy and real, her heartbeat hammering against your chest.
You wrapped your arms around her slowly, still trembling, and let the silence swallow you both.

Chapter 72: Admitting the Truth

You woke to a rough shake. Abby’s hand on your shoulder, her voice low and raspy. “Let’s go.”
Your eyes cracked open, heavy with sleep. She was already dressed, hair braided back tight, irritation etched across her face in the shadows of early morning. She was cranky—always cranky when pulled out of bed before sunrise.
You groaned, sitting up slow, your body still aching from the night before. You looked down and winced—you’d fallen asleep with the damn strap still buckled around your hips, like some shameful secret you hadn’t bothered to untangle.
You scrubbed your hands over your face, the tacky stickiness dragging across your skin. Blood. Dried, flaking at your jaw and chest. You hadn’t washed off the Runner’s mess yesterday.
When you looked up, Abby was standing in the doorway, arms folded, her nose crinkling in open disgust. “You look a mess,” she muttered.
You could only nod, shame tugging heavy at your stomach. You yanked a shirt over your head, ripped the harness off quick, and darted for the bathroom.
The water barely sputtered out before you stepped under it, ice-cold and merciless. You hissed through your teeth but stayed there anyway, shivering as the chill cut through your sore muscles. Brown-tinged water swirled down the drain as the blood rinsed from your skin, carrying away the evidence of your mistakes, your carelessness.
You barely toweled off before she shouldered the door open. Abby, already impatient. “Come on, we can’t be late.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it was clipped—business.
You nodded, pulling on clean clothes as fast as you could. Your hands shook while you dragged the brush across your teeth, foam catching at the corners of your mouth. Abby was already gone again, moving like a soldier on a clock.
When you stepped into the hall, Lev was waiting by the door. His arms crossed, his eyes narrowed sharp enough to cut. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his judgment like a weight.
Neither of them were morning people. And you were the one dragging behind.
The morning was gray, the kind of gray that made you question if the sun had even bothered to rise. A thin mist clung low to the ground, weaving between the brush that lined the dirt road. Every step crunched on damp gravel, the sound carrying farther than you liked in the quiet. The air was cool but sticky, the salt of the ocean still hanging heavy on your tongue.
Abby walked ahead, shoulders squared, her braid swinging against the back of her black tank. Her boots struck the ground with that soldier’s rhythm she never lost, no matter how safe Catalina seemed compared to Seattle or Santa Barbara. Lev trailed close, hood pulled up over his shaved head, his bow slung across his back like it belonged there. You followed a pace behind them, hugging yourself against the chill, your body still sore and not entirely awake.
The gulls were loud this morning, crying above the cliffs like they owned the island. Somewhere in the distance, waves slammed into the rocks, echoing through the valley. You could smell smoke too — wood smoke drifting from the base further inland, carried by the wind. People were already awake, working.
For a while, no one spoke. The silence stretched long, broken only by your footsteps and the occasional snap of a twig under Abby’s boot. Then Lev sighed — loud, exaggerated — just to make sure she heard it.
“It’s too early for this.”
Abby didn’t even glance at him. “It’s dawn. That’s not early.”
Lev squinted through the fog, his voice flat. “It is when we were fine at home. You didn’t need to drag me out here.”
Her jaw tightened, though her pace never faltered. “I didn’t drag you. You’re part of this now.”
He kicked at a stone, sending it skittering across the road. “I’d be fine on my own. You know that.”
That got her to turn her head, just slightly, eyes narrowing. “That’s not the point, Lev.”
He didn’t stop walking, but his lips twitched — not quite a smile, just a flicker of mischief, like he was daring her to snap. “Feels like the point.”
You bit back a breath, glancing between them. Abby’s boots hit the ground harder after that, her whole frame tense with irritation. Lev, meanwhile, wore that quiet satisfaction he always got when he knew he’d managed to get under her skin.
The mist began to thin as the dirt path sloped down toward the Firefly base. Tarps flapped against wooden scaffolding, makeshift barricades silhouetted against the pale morning light. You could hear the camp waking — the shuffle of boots, the bark of orders, the metallic clatter of weapons being checked in and out. Two guards stood at the main gate, rifles slung lazy but eyes sharp, watching the three of you approach.
You pushed open the door to the main house, the hinges groaning like they resented the weight. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale coffee and old wood, the kind of scent that clung to walls no matter how often the windows were opened.
Rachel was already there, perched at the table with that rigid, unforgiving posture that made your stomach knot. Her pen scratched across the map in short, precise strokes—circling routes, underlining notes, rocking slightly in her chair as if her own energy couldn’t be contained by stillness.
When she finally turned, her sharp eyes cut into you before her voice even had the chance to.
Rachel’s eyes flicked to Lev, her lips twitching like she wanted to snap but didn’t have the time. “Ammo’s low,” she said curtly, chin jerking toward the smaller tent across the yard. “Go help Marcus sort casings in the armory. Now.”
Lev blinked, brows rising like he wanted to argue, but Abby cut him off with a steady look. “Go, Lev. We’ll meet you after.”
He scowled, but his boots dragged him off toward the armory. The flap swung shut behind him, leaving just the three of you in the dim lamplight.
The silence after his absence was heavier. Rachel leaned over the table again, red hair slipping loose from her ponytail as her finger traced the lines of the Catalina routes. Her knuckles were pale against the map, her movements sharp, decisive.
“Good,” she muttered, more to herself than you, “one less distraction.” Then her eyes snapped up, pinning you. “Now. Let’s talk about LA.”
The words made your stomach twist, a leaden guilt dragging down your insides. Abby’s head jerked toward you, arms folding tight across her chest. She hadn’t expected Rachel to dive straight in.
You swallowed hard, throat dry. The lamplight painted Abby’s face in planes of gold and shadow, unreadable except for the tension in her jaw. You could tell she was holding back, letting Rachel lead, but her eyes never left you.
Rachel’s pencil tapped once against the paper. “Joan, you don’t get to hold back anymore. Abby’s too soft on you. So I’ll ask once—” she leaned forward, her freckles stark under the light, her voice sharp as a blade. “You said you stood outside those gates. Tell me everything you saw.”
The flap of the tent rustled in the morning wind, but it was too quiet. You felt your heart hammer against your ribs. Abby said nothing, didn’t move—only stared at you, waiting.
Rachel pushed harder. “Don’t waste my time with half-truths. You know FEDRA. You know how QZs run. You’ve got knowledge the rest of us don’t, and it’s going to decide whether we live or die out here.”
Your mouth opened but no words came, just the taste of bile in the back of your throat. You remembered the gates, the boys, the radio chatter that still burned in your ears—and the gunshots you hadn’t told them about.
Rachel didn’t look away. Her pencil tapped again, harder this time. “So. You gonna tell me? Or do I have to peel it out of you piece by piece?”
Abby’s arms tightened across her chest. She looked like she wanted to defend you, but she stayed silent. For once, she let Rachel’s blade do the cutting.
You shifted in your seat, the chair creaking under your weight. “I told you yesterday.”
Rachel’s scoff was sharp, dismissive. “That wasn’t enough.” Her pen hit the table with a snap, her eyes narrowing as they drilled into you. “There’s more. I know it.”
Your stomach knotted. You turned your face away, staring at the warped wood of the floorboards. Was there more? Memories tugged at you—the dry heat of the desert beating down until your skin cracked, the endless emptiness of abandoned houses on the city’s edge, the boarded windows that rattled when the wind pushed through them. You’d hidden in those ruins for days, watching the walls of LA from a distance. You knew the sounds, the rhythms. Maybe you did know more than you’d admitted.
Rachel’s finger tapped against the map, sharp and impatient, each click a reminder of the seconds you were wasting. “I’m waiting.”
The silence pressed heavy. You felt Abby’s gaze somewhere behind you, arms crossed, steady but quieter—letting Rachel peel at you like skin.
You cleared your throat, the sound scraping out rough. Rachel slid a chipped mug across the table toward you, steam curling faintly off the bitter coffee. The only kind gesture she’d offered in weeks. Before Ensenada, she’d been warm, even charming. Now that the front was gone, you saw the real Rachel—sharp edges, no softness left to hide behind.
You clicked your tongue, dragging your finger across the map until it landed on the faded outline of LA’s outer blocks. “I spent a week outside of here,” you muttered.
Rachel leaned in, pen poised. “What was there?”
The memories stung, blurred with the heat and Ellie’s face threading between them. You swallowed hard. “Well… there’s cars. A lot of them. Most aren’t even siphoned dry yet. Some almost full.”
Rachel’s lips pursed, but her eyes glinted. She clasped her hands together, satisfied. “See? I knew you were holding back.”
Across the table, Abby finally shifted, sitting down, shoulders easing just a fraction.
Rachel didn’t stop. “Were you alone?”
Your gaze flicked to Abby, then back to Rachel. You shook your head slowly. The silence stretched, and you caught the twitch in Abby’s brow. She didn’t need words to know what you meant—that those missing months weren’t empty. That you hadn’t been alone.
Rachel pressed. “Who?”
You licked your lips, forcing your voice steady. “Some girl. Picked me up out in the desert. We just… spent a few days driving. Siphoning cars.”
The scoff Abby let out was quiet, but sharp enough to sting. Rachel cut her a glance, raising a hand to shut her down before she could speak. “Along what highway?” she asked coolly.
You tapped the map, finger dragging westward. Rachel nodded, jotting the note.
But Abby’s voice came, low and rough. “Why were you heading that way?”
Your throat worked. You looked down, twisting the truth in your mouth until it barely resembled one. “She was looking for… some group.” You forced a laugh that didn’t land, clearing your throat. “God, I can’t even remember their name. Something stupid. Said they were supposed to be in Nevada.”
Rachel’s pen scratched across the map, unconcerned. “Hm.”
But Abby wasn’t so easily placated. You could feel her eyes drilling into you, anger simmering under her calm face. She wasn’t buying it—not a word of it.
Abby spoke up, “You spent how long with her?”
Rachel’s pen hovered over the page, her brows knitting as she stared you down. “A month?” she repeated, disbelief heavy in her voice.
You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, forcing the air out of your lungs. “Like… a month, yeah.”
Rachel leaned back slightly, crossing her arms. “And you didn’t catch her name?”
Your stomach knotted. You shook your head too quickly. “Didn’t ask.”
Her nostrils flared as she inhaled, steady but sharp. “Not even once?”
You bit down on your lip, eyes skimming the table. “Didn’t seem important.”
Rachel’s jaw tightened. She leaned in again, her voice colder. “What did she look like, Joan? Was she one of us?”
You swallowed. The air in the room felt heavier with every word. Abby sat off to the side, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on you—not protective, not soft, just quietly burning.
Your mind scrambled, clawing through fragments. Someone who didn’t look like Ellie. Someone you could build in Rachel’s head without betraying the truth. “Uh… tall,” you said slowly, your voice shaky. “Dark hair. Older than me. Strong.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes, watching your face like a hawk.
You cleared your throat and added, “She never said anything about Fireflies. I don’t… think she was one of you.”
Abby shifted in her chair, exhaling sharply through her nose. You didn’t dare look at her.
Rachel tapped her pen against the notebook, once, twice, three times. “Hm. Maybe. Or maybe you weren’t listening.” Her gaze lingered on you long enough to make your skin crawl. “If she was driving through the desert, siphoning cars, she wasn’t just passing through. People don’t last out there without purpose. And we need to know what that purpose was.”
She leaned back, scribbling something down. “You’re not done telling me everything. Not yet.”
Her words felt like a sentence, not a statement.
Rachel’s pen clicked closed, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her gaze locked on you like a predator sizing up prey.
“One month in the desert with some stranger, and you didn’t bother to ask her name? Didn’t ask where she came from? Didn’t ask what she wanted?” Her voice was low but sharp, every word laced with accusation.
You shifted in your chair, your knees brushing the underside of the table. “I told you—she was just some girl. We drove, siphoned gas, that’s it.”
Rachel tilted her head, lips pressed tight in a mocking smile. “Just some girl. Do you know how full of shit that sounds?” She tapped her pen on the map, right over the west highway you’d pointed to earlier. “A month, Joan. A month is not nothing. A month is trust. A month is survival. Don’t stand here and tell me you spent that much time with someone and didn’t learn a damn thing.”
You rubbed your palms against your thighs, heat prickling under your skin. “It wasn’t like that.”
Rachel slammed her palm flat against the map, making you flinch. Abby’s eyes darted up, her arms tightening across her chest—but she stayed quiet, watching.
“Then what was it like?” Rachel’s voice was sharp as broken glass. “You don’t just stumble into LA, ride around the desert with some mystery woman, and walk away empty-handed. What did she tell you? What did she show you? Did she say Firefly? Did she say FEDRA? Did she mention anyone we know?”
Her eyes narrowed, cutting into you. “Or are you lying to me again?”
Your mouth went dry. The room felt like it was closing in, Abby’s silence digging into your back, Rachel’s stare pinning you to the chair.
You tried to steady your breath, but Rachel pressed harder, her voice dropping into a growl. “Start talking, Joan. Because if you keep holding out, I’ll assume you’re hiding something bigger than just a name.”
Rachel turned to Abby, her voice clipped and sharp. “Out.”
Abby’s head jerked back. “What?”
Rachel’s brow furrowed so tightly it looked carved into her face. “She’s not gonna talk if you’re here, and I don’t need the lovers’ bullshit. Come back in thirty.”
The room went still. Abby’s jaw flexed, her arms unfolding, fists curling at her sides. “Rachel—”
Rachel’s finger jabbed toward the door, her eyes never leaving yours. “She’ll tell me what she won’t tell you. Don’t make this harder.”
Abby stepped forward, her presence like a wall between you and Rachel. “She’s not your prisoner. You don’t get to bark orders at her like she’s some recruit.”
Rachel’s lips twitched into something cruel. “Funny. That’s exactly what she is until she proves otherwise.”
Your stomach knotted, guilt crawling like barbed wire in your chest. You wanted to say something—to stop Abby before she snapped—but the words lodged in your throat.
Rachel’s voice dropped, colder now. “You want Catalina to survive? You want those Fireflies in LA? Then get out, Abby. Let me do my job.”
Abby’s glare burned holes into Rachel’s face, her nostrils flaring, but finally she turned to you. Her blue eyes softened, searching yours. A silent question: Do you want me to stay?
You couldn’t answer. You were frozen, shame heavy on your tongue.
Abby clenched her jaw, muttered a curse under her breath, then stomped toward the door. Before she left, she pointed at Rachel, her voice low and full of warning. “Thirty minutes. Not a second longer.”
The door slammed shut, leaving you alone with Rachel.
She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a predatory calm. “Now.” Her eyes flicked to the map, then back to you. “Let’s start again—slowly this time. Who was she?”
You shifted in your chair, your throat dry as sand. “I told you everything yesterday.”
Rachel’s scoff was sharp. “That wasn’t enough. There’s more—I can see it all over your face.” Her finger tapped against the notebook in front of her, steady, patient, like a drumbeat before execution.
You rubbed your palms against your thighs, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. “She was…” your voice trailed thin. You had to force the words out. “…looking for Fireflies.”
Rachel froze for half a second, then her face hardened like stone. She shoved her chair back with a screech, standing over you. “Are you fucking kidding me, Joan?!” Her hands slammed against the table so hard the map crumpled under her palms. “You spent weeks out there with some girl sniffing after Fireflies and you kept it from us?!”
You flinched at the sound, your heart jackhammering.
Her freckles seemed to burn red as her fury grew. “Do you have any idea what you’ve risked? What you’ve risked for all of us?! For Catalina?!” She jabbed her finger into the map like she was stabbing a wound. “And instead of telling me, you sit here, lying through your goddamn teeth?”
You tried to speak, but your voice cracked. “Rachel, I—”
“Don’t.” She cut you off like a blade, leaning closer, her breath bitter with stale coffee. “Don’t feed me excuses. You think Abby would still look at you the same if she knew? You think she’d forgive this?”
Her eyes narrowed, merciless. “Who was she? What did she know? How much did she tell you?”
You curled tighter in your chair, arms crossed over your chest like armor. “That’s all I know.”
Rachel laughed, humorless and cruel. “Bullshit. You don’t ride with someone across the desert for weeks and not know exactly what they’re after.” She crouched slightly, lowering herself until she was inches from your face. “Unless…” her voice turned mocking, “you’re protecting her. Is that it? Some stray girl you fucked, and now you’re guarding her secrets?”
Your stomach twisted. “Stop,” you whispered, but it was weak.
Rachel’s mouth curved into something sharp. “You’re pathetic. Too scared to tell the truth, too weak to own it. And the funniest part?” She leaned in, her words hot and venomous. “I don’t even need to tell Abby myself. She’ll see it. She’ll smell it on you. And when she does, you’ll lose everything.”
You swallowed hard, but kept your stare fixed on the map, refusing to give her the satisfaction of watching you break.
Rachel’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “God, you’re stubborn. You’d risk Abby, this base, your home, all for some nameless girl. You really think love makes you untouchable? It doesn’t. You’re one secret away from being nothing.”
The door creaked open. Abby’s boots thudded across the floor as she stepped in, exactly thirty minutes on the dot. She looked at Rachel, then at you. Her eyes narrowed when she saw your red face, the sheen of tears at the corners of your eyes.
Abby’s voice was clipped, cold. “Find what you fucking needed, Rachel?”
Rachel straightened, her expression smoothing like she hadn’t just been tearing you apart. She shook her head slowly. “Nope. Won’t budge.”
Abby folded her arms, her jaw tight. “Then maybe that was it. Huh?”
Rachel gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Sure, Abby. Whatever you say.”
The air was thick enough to choke on.
Your chest felt like it was caving in. The air inside the main house had gone stale, heavy with the scent of coffee grounds and old wood, the map still crumpled under Rachel’s fist. You couldn’t stand it another second.
You pushed your chair back, the scrape loud against the floorboards. Abby’s eyes flicked to you, her brow furrowed like she wanted to stop you, but she didn’t speak. Not yet. Rachel just folded her arms and smirked like she’d already won, like she could keep tugging the thread until you unraveled.
You mumbled something about needing air and moved for the door.
The hinges groaned as you stepped outside, the cool dawn air slapping against your damp face. You drew in a long breath, the salt of the ocean sharp in your lungs. Out here it was quieter—just the distant call of gulls and the low murmur of a patrol passing on the street. The Firefly base was still half-asleep, tarps fluttering softly in the morning wind, lanterns guttering out one by one.
You leaned back against the wall of the main house, palms pressed flat against the rough wood. Your pulse was still racing, Rachel’s voice echoing in your ears: one secret away from being nothing.
You tilted your head back, eyes fixed on the pale sky as it blushed faintly pink with the rising sun. Your throat burned. You thought about Ellie’s laugh, short and bitter. About the boys at the LA gate. About Abby’s face if she ever knew the truth.
You rubbed your hands over your eyes until you saw stars.
The door creaked behind you. Abby’s heavy boots stepped out onto the dirt. She didn’t say anything right away, just stood there, crossing her arms. You could feel her gaze on you like a weight, even before she spoke.
“You gonna tell me what that was about?” Her voice was low, tight with the same frustration she’d carried since yesterday.
Your mouth opened, but no words came.
She clicked her tongue and leaned on the railing beside you, her broad shoulders tense, arms crossed tight over her chest. The boards creaked under her weight. “That wasn’t easy,” she muttered, a bitter huff carried on the morning air. “Sitting in there, listening to Rachel pick you apart. Having to hear about the girl you fucked.”
The shame landed heavy, pressing down on your shoulders until your head hung low. You couldn’t meet her eyes. “I know,” you whispered, voice rough.
Abby shook her head, jaw working, like she was trying not to spit something cruel. Her fingers tapped the wood, restless. “What did she want?” she asked finally.
Your stomach tightened. The words tangled in your throat.
You swallowed hard, your pulse thudding in your ears. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” you murmured, almost a plea. “Abby, please.”
Her eyes narrowed, a flash of hurt cutting through the anger. She let the silence stretch, the gulls crying somewhere far off, patrol voices drifting faint in the distance. Finally, she let out a sharp breath.
“Every time I ask you something real,” she said, her voice low but biting, “you do this. You close up. You make me drag it out of you like blood from a stone.” She turned her head, fixing you with that stare—cold, blue, unblinking. “You think Rachel’s the only one who notices when you lie?”
Heat rushed to your face. You pressed your palms flat against the railing, grounding yourself, wishing the wood would just splinter and swallow you whole.
Her voice cracked quieter now, not soft but frayed. “You keep saying you want this. Us. A life here. But every secret you hold back feels like you’re halfway gone already.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting back the sting building behind them. You wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to spill until you had nothing left. But you also wanted to protect her. To protect yourself. And those two things had never fit together.
“I want to tell you.” The words scraped out of your throat, fragile, like if you said them any louder they’d break.
Abby’s head turned, slow, deliberate. Her eyes caught yours, sharp even with the wet sheen gathering in them. She didn’t blink. Didn’t let you look away. “Then tell me,” she said, her voice low, cracked at the edges. It wasn’t a plea—it was a demand dressed up in grief.
Your chest tightened. You dug your nails into the railing. The salt air stung your skin, your eyes, your lungs. “It’s not that simple.”
Her arms crossed tighter, her shoulders hiked high like she was holding herself back from shaking it out of you. “It is that simple, Joan. Either you trust me enough to say it… or you don’t.”
You dropped your gaze, shame gnawing at your ribs. “If I say it, you’ll look at me different.”
Abby huffed, a bitter laugh slipping from her chest. She turned her face toward the sea, jaw tight, the tendons in her neck flexing. “Newsflash,” she muttered, “I already do. You left me in the middle of the night. You nearly died. And now I’m supposed to swallow Rachel telling me you were out there with someone else.” She turned back, her voice sharper, harsher. “So go on. What’s left that’s worse than that?”
Your throat burned. You wanted to speak, but the words jammed up, blocked by the fear in her eyes—the kind of fear that dressed itself up as anger because it had nowhere else to go.
The gulls cried overhead, the world around you buzzing faint and far, like it was holding its breath with her. Abby’s chest rose and fell heavy, like each inhale was another argument she hadn’t spoken yet.
“I just…” you swallowed, barely able to look at her, “I don’t wanna lose you.”
Her stare softened for half a second, just long enough for you to see the break in her armor, before it snapped back into place. Her voice cut quiet, rough: “Then stop giving me reasons to.”
Your throat burned as the word left you, raw and shaking.
“Ellie,” you choked out, your voice barely there.
The air between you and Abby snapped tight.
Her blue eyes widened, stunned, her lips parting as if she’d misheard.
“It was Ellie,” you repeated, the syllables dragging you down like weights in your chest.
For a moment, she just stared. Blank. Still. Her jaw tightened, her throat working like she was trying to swallow glass. Then, all at once, she barked out a sharp, bitter half-laugh.
“That isn’t funny, Joan.” Her voice was jagged, teetering between disbelief and fury. She took a step back, shaking her head, almost like she could physically push the words away.
You lifted your eyes, guilt etched into every line of your face. “I’m not—” your voice cracked. “I’m not joking.”
Her laugh died instantly. Her features hardened. The flicker of humor twisted into something crueler, sharper.
“You’re telling me,” Abby spat, her voice low, dangerous, “that after everything—after she killed my friends, after she almost drowned me—you fucked Ellie?”
The name scorched her tongue like acid.
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Just a broken breath, heavy with shame.
Her chest rose and fell, fast and uneven. She was pacing now, her hands pulling at her braid, fingers gripping so tight her knuckles went white.
“God, Joan,” she muttered, a sound between a growl and a plea. “Why? Why her? Out of everyone, why the fuck her?”
The way she said it cut deep. Not just anger—grief, disbelief, the sting of betrayal twisting together in her voice.
Your lips trembled. “I was lost. I was stupid. It meant nothing.”
Abby’s eyes snapped to yours, blue and blazing. “It always means something,” she snarled.
Abby’s voice cracked sharp as a whip. “It always means something, Joan! Don’t stand there and tell me it didn’t. Not with her.”
Her words tore at your chest. You shook your head fast, desperate, stepping closer even as she recoiled like your touch might burn.
“It was a mistake,” you blurted out. The words stumbled, messy, but they were all you had. “I was gone—I thought—I thought I wasn’t ever coming back. I thought I lost this. You. Lev. Everything.”
Abby’s breath came ragged. She stood rigid, shoulders squared, her fists clenched so hard her arms shook. “So your answer was Ellie?” she snapped, her voice trembling. “The one person in this whole fucked-up world who wanted me dead more than anyone?”
You swore your knees might buckle under the weight of her eyes. “I wasn’t thinking!” you cried, your throat raw. “I was broken, Abby. I thought I had nothing left. I thought Catalina was gone to me forever. I just—” your voice cracked, a sob catching in your chest, “I just needed someone, and she was there. But it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t you.”
Abby’s mouth twisted into something bitter. She shook her head, pacing like a caged animal. “Didn’t mean anything,” she echoed under her breath, like she was testing the words and finding them poisonous.
You swallowed hard, tears running hot down your cheeks. “I swear to you, Abby—I thought I was never coming back. I thought I’d never see you again. If I knew, if I’d believed for one second I’d have this again, I’d never have touched her.”
Her pacing stopped, but she didn’t look at you. Her hands gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood groaned, her shoulders rising and falling like every breath was a fight.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, her voice broke the quiet, low and jagged. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
Your heart seized, your chest aching so deep it felt carved hollow. “Then let me prove it doesn’t matter. Please. Let me prove it’s only ever you.”
Abby turned, her face wet now, her anger cracked open to show the raw hurt beneath. “You can’t just—” she stopped, her voice breaking, “you can’t just say it meant nothing when you know what she took from me.”
You froze, her words hanging like broken glass between you. And in that silence, memories surged—Frank’s voice, his laugh, the last seconds before the bullet tore him down. The man behind the sniper rifle. Ellie’s knife flashing in the dark. The trail of blood she left in her hunt for Abby. All of it pressing down on you like the world itself wanted to crush you.
You swallowed hard, your throat thick, and tried to steady your voice. “Look—”
But Abby cut you off, tears streaking down her face now, raw and unguarded in a way you’d almost never seen. Her voice cracked but her words were final. “Go back to the house. Pack your shit. Take it to the spare down the road.” Her chest heaved. “I need time without you.”
The room seemed to tilt under you, your body heavy as stone. “Abby—”
But she didn’t let you finish. She spun on her heel, and before you could say another word, the door slammed so hard the walls rattled.
You stood there, alone in the silence, shame curling in your stomach like poison. Stupid. Useless. Hurt.
But at least this time, for once in your life, you hadn’t run. You hadn’t lied. You told the truth, and the truth had ripped her away from you.
And still—you knew you’d do it again.

Chapter 73: Idiot

You walked through the Firefly camp with your stomach knotted so tight it hurt. Every step felt heavier than it should have, like your boots were dragging a mile of chain behind them.
The camp itself was wide awake, alive in that way only communities like this could be — a messy, desperate kind of life that refused to die. You passed the makeshift kitchens first, the smell of boiled fish and woodsmoke hanging thick in the air. A line of kids carried buckets from the cistern, sloshing water over their bare feet as they went. A group of women were mending nets in the shade of a collapsed billboard, their fingers quick, voices low.
Bile burned at the back of your throat.
Someone laughed — sharp, sudden, too loud — and you flinched. Two Firefly recruits about your age leaned against a crate of rifles, trading jokes between half-cleaned barrels. They barely noticed you pass, but their eyes lingered for just a breath too long. You couldn’t tell if they knew, if Abby had already said something, or if you were just seeing ghosts where there weren’t any.
You sighed, breath coming out jagged, and kept walking. Past the guard towers — two men up top with rifles across their laps, shadows stretching long in the fading light. The smell of salt off the ocean thickened as you moved through the gate and out into the open. The clatter and chatter of camp life followed you for a while, until the world went quiet except for the gulls and the wind.
The walk home wasn’t far. Not really.
Home.
Could you even call it that now? The word tasted wrong in your mouth. That little crooked house with its creaking porch and Lev’s sketches pinned on the wall — that was supposed to be safety. But now, with Abby’s words still ringing in your head, it felt like just another roof you didn’t deserve to stand under.
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat sharp enough to cut. Your eyes burned, but you fixed them on the path ahead and forced yourself to keep moving.
You could’ve gone straight, the quick way down the beaten track, but the thought of being seen — of anyone from the camp trailing behind you, watching you fall apart — made your skin crawl. So you turned right instead, choosing the long way. The cliffs and marshland would take more time, but they’d keep you hidden. Alone.
The sun was sinking lower, bruising the horizon purple and gold. Shadows stretched long across the overgrown road, weeds clawing up through cracked asphalt. The air smelled of salt and eucalyptus, damp earth and rust. Somewhere in the distance, gulls screamed, fighting over scraps of something dead on the beach.
You told yourself you should be worried.
You’d seen a runner on this trail before, limping half-buried in reeds until you’d put a bullet in its skull. Runners meant clickers weren’t far behind, and where there were clickers, sometimes worse. You knew that. Your hands knew it too — your rifle strap bit into your shoulder, reminding you it was there, reminding you to be ready.
But right now?
Nothing worried you.
Not the marsh. Not the way the brush rustled when the wind hit just right. Not the thought of teeth finding you before you even got home.
All you felt was shame. And guilt.
They clung to your ribs heavier than the rifle.
Your mind spun circles you couldn’t escape. Abby’s face when she told you to go. Lev’s silence when he didn’t stop you. The fact that you hadn’t fought harder to stay — that maybe some part of you agreed with her.
You let the thoughts eat you alive.
The trail narrowed, pressing you close to the bluff. You glanced down once at the ocean, waves hammering rock thirty feet below, spray catching golden in the last light. Beautiful. Cruel. Like everything else left standing.
You shook your head and kept going.
You passed the park where the runner had lunged at you days ago, the memory still twitching in your muscles. The swing sets were nothing more than chains swaying in the wind, their seats long rotted through. The grass had grown high and brittle, bending with the breeze, whispering like dry bones. You let out a long sigh through your nose, trying to keep your chest steady.
Then you saw it.
At the end of the cracked road, an abandoned neighborhood sat like a ghost. Houses slouched against each other, shingles missing, paint stripped by salt air and time. Curtains hung half-torn in shattered windows. A child’s bike rusted into the asphalt, its frame warped like it had melted there decades ago.
You pursed your lips, tasting iron and dust on the air. Supplies. Maybe. Maybe some forgotten kitchen tools, anything to stock the spare house while you were away from Abby. Alone, at least for a while.
You jogged toward the first house, boots smacking against pavement that cracked and heaved around tree roots. The front door leaned off its hinges, rust chewing through the knob. You kicked it open and the sound echoed like a gunshot down the hollow street. Inside smelled of mildew, rot, and something sharper underneath—like pennies and mold.
The living room had collapsed in on itself, the ceiling bowed, plaster flaking. A broken couch sagged under decades of damp. The kitchen door hung crooked, cabinets sagging open like hungry mouths. You nudged at the debris with your boot, the clatter of tin echoing too loud in the silence.
And then you heard it.
Not the squeal of rats or the groan of wood. No.
That sound. That gurgling, bubbling roar—wet, thick, like something drowning in its own throat. The sound hit the base of your spine before your brain could name it.
The kitchen door exploded off its hinge, flying wide enough to crack against the wall.
It stepped out.
The Bloater filled the frame like it was too big for the house itself, hunched shoulders scraping plaster into dust. Its skin was a patchwork of fungus and scar tissue, armor plates blooming across its body like stone. The smell hit first—rot and acid and ash. Your lungs seized, bile surging up the back of your throat.
“Holy fucking shit!”
Your scream tore itself out raw as your boots scrambled on the wood floor. You bolted for the door, but fear makes you sloppy—you tripped over the broken leg of a chair, went sprawling hard. Your teeth clicked together when your chin hit the ground.
A hand the size of your torso clamped around your ankle. The world spun. It yanked you off the floor and threw you sideways like you were nothing. You slammed into the wall, plaster bursting in a cloud around your shoulders. Pain shot hot through your back, your ribs screaming.
You shrieked, rolling onto your side. Your lungs sucked air that wouldn’t come.
The Bloater lumbered toward you, each step rattling the floorboards. Its chest gurgled as it breathed, the sound like a sewer clogging.
You scrambled up, pulling your rifle from your back, hands slick and trembling. You aimed at the bulk filling your sight and fired. The recoil jolted your shoulder, bruising already-raw flesh. The bullet cracked against its chest, blowing chunks of fungus loose. It stumbled one step, but then straightened, roaring louder, a sound that shook the house itself.
You staggered back, brain screaming run, run, run—your boots hit the doorframe, the open air behind you beckoning.
Then the thought stabbed cold into your skull.
If you ran back toward the park—if you led this thing, and if a horde was anywhere nearby—it would smell the Firefly camp. It would lead them.
You saw it clear in your head: screams at the gate, the camp burning, Lev’s small body trampled, Abby’s voice cut short. All because you ran.
You spun on your heel, heart slamming so hard it hurt. You turned away from the open road and back into the dark of the house.
You couldn’t run.
You had to fight.
Or die here.
Your boots slapped the wood as you charged deeper inside, ducking through a collapsed archway into what had once been a dining room. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Your breath came short, panic chewing at your throat, but you gritted your teeth. You couldn’t let this thing reach the base.
The Bloater followed, tearing the door wider just by moving through it. Dust and wood rained down as the frame splintered. Its roar filled every corner of the house, so loud it seemed to crawl inside your skull.
You brought the rifle up again, finger squeezing the trigger, the barrel shaking with your hands.
The blast lit the room.
The Bloater staggered, its roar rumbling out of its chest like a clogged drain. You didn’t wait. You bolted across the room and through the back door, boots exploding through splintered wood, lungs on fire. The open air slapped your face and you sucked it in, sharp and cold. Out here you’d have space to move, space to aim.
But your chest dropped as soon as you hit the yard.
From the house opposite, windows shattered outward and a flood of bodies spilled into the light. Runners — at least fifty of them, jerking, screaming, their throats torn raw. They came together as one mass, like a pack of wolves starving too long, sprinting with a speed that was almost inhuman. The noise rose in a wall — shrieks, howls, feet hammering against cracked concrete.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. The words fell dead in the chaos. Your eyes darted wild — left, right, anywhere. Where could you go?
There was no place safe.
Your breath tore ragged through your throat. You forced yourself to suck in one steadying gulp of air, to level the rifle against your shoulder. You sighted the Bloater first, because if it lived, the rest didn’t matter.
You fired.
The shot cracked so loud it seemed to split the street. The Bloater’s chest blew open, fungus peeling away, and it reeled back.
Ahead, the yard’s gates stood tall and rusted, a skeletal barrier of chain-link and iron. It wasn’t much, but it could buy you time — if you got there. You clenched your teeth and ran.
The Bloater’s roar followed, deafening, shaking dust from the ruined houses. It ripped another hunk of its own body free and hurled it. You saw the seething mass an instant before it hit. You dove aside, felt the spray scorch your arm, the sting biting deep. The grass where you’d been hissed and dissolved into black slime.
“Move!” you shouted at yourself.
You leapt the broken step of the patio, stumbled into the yard, fired again. The bullet ripped through its shoulder — your second-to-last round. It staggered but didn’t fall.
“Come on, you bastard!”
You shouldered the rifle, breath ripping out in shouts, finger squeezing until the last shot rang. The bullet struck true, burrowing deep under its jaw. The Bloater wailed, the sound shaking your teeth, then toppled like a felled tree. It hit the ground with such force the earth beneath your boots trembled.
You sagged, chest heaving. Relief flickered. Just for a second.
Then came the splintering crack.
The fence — the only thing between you and the flood — groaned once before it snapped like bones. Rusted bars bent and collapsed under the weight. The horde poured through the gap like water through a broken dam. Fifty screaming bodies, mouths wide, arms clawing, sprinting straight for you.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—!” The word rattled out of you, one long ragged cry.
You scrambled, boots sliding in wet grass. Panic made your limbs uncoordinated, your hands fumbling with the empty rifle until you nearly dropped it. You bolted back for the house, lungs sawing, vision swimming. The air was all noise and stink: the metallic tang of blood, the sour reek of rot, the chorus of shrieks so close it scraped the inside of your skull.
You hurled yourself through the back door and slammed it behind you. The lock snapped into place with a hollow click — a child’s toy against the sea hammering after you. You pressed your back against the wood, breath tearing, heart clawing at your chest.
The door shuddered. Boards screamed as bodies slammed against it, nails scraping, hands clawing at the frame.
You didn’t think. You couldn’t. You ran.
Out the front, up the block, lungs screaming with every step. The night tilted around you, houses looming like watching shapes, windows dark and hungry. You cut left down a side street, boots hammering against cracked pavement, until you found another house — squat, sagging, its front door half torn from the frame.
You threw yourself inside, legs shaking, chest burning.
The air smelled like mildew, copper, and mold. You pressed yourself into a corner, shoulders trembling, forcing your breath quiet. You shoved a hand over your mouth, swallowing sobs, lungs screaming for more air than you dared let out.
Outside, the horde thundered past. Screams tore through the street, bouncing between the empty houses until it sounded like they came from everywhere at once. Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You pressed against the wall and held yourself still until your legs burned, until the pounding feet began to fade, until the sound trickled away into silence.
Finally, you let the air go. It left you in a rush, a shuddering gasp that bent your shoulders forward. You gripped your knees, sucking down another, and another, until the burn in your lungs eased enough that you could think again.
Relief hit you like a wave — dizzy, heavy, cruel in how short it lasted. You weren’t safe. Not yet.
You’d have to figure it out. How to sneak past them. How to get out of this neighborhood before the wrong sound brought them back down on top of you.
The silence pressed in thick, broken only by your breath. You realized your cheek was wet, though you hadn’t felt the tears leave your eyes.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.
You crouched low in the half-collapsed house, your palm pressed flat against the rotten floorboards, forcing your body to be still. The pounding of the horde was gone now, nothing but echoes swallowed by the street. But silence never meant safety. Not here.
Your chest heaved, sweat dripping down your spine beneath the thin cotton of your shirt. You could hear your own heartbeat too loud, like it would betray you just as surely as the scrape of a boot.
Slow. You had to move slow.
You slipped the rifle back over your shoulder, the strap burning the skin it pressed into. Your arm trembled as you drew the knife instead — lighter, quieter. The gaff hook stayed in your left hand, awkward but familiar, its weight like an anchor you didn’t want to let go of.
The house smelled of mildew and something older — mold thick in the carpet, copper in the air where water pipes had bled themselves dry. Wallpaper curled away from the walls like peeling skin. Each step made the floor whisper, dust rising in the shaft of your flashlight before you shut it off again. Too dangerous. Too bright.
Through the jagged hole where a window once was, you saw movement.
Shadows gliding in the street. Not runners — they’d gone with the horde. These were slower. Stalkers, maybe. Or clickers straggling at the edge. The streetlight poles had long ago gone dark, but moonlight spilled across the cracked pavement, catching the sheen of wet fungus that bloomed across doorways and mailboxes.
Your throat closed around the bile that crept up.
You slid out the back of the house, keeping low, pressing yourself against the siding until flakes of paint crumbled under your shoulder. The night was alive with sound — distant howls, the drip of water somewhere, the crunch of something feeding.
You moved one house at a time. Across the yard, through weeds grown chest-high, into another broken door. You held your breath each time, listening before you crossed. Your boots whispered against linoleum, your jeans snagging on jagged counters.
Once, a shadow crossed the hall in front of you — the unmistakable stagger of a clicker. Its fungal crown gleamed bone-white in the dark. You froze, pressed flat against the wall, breath locked in your lungs. It clicked twice, each sound ricocheting through your skull. Then it turned the other way, shambling slow, vanishing into a side room.
You moved again, slow, slow, slow.
Your ankle screamed from the Bloater’s throw earlier, every step a jolt of fire up your leg. You clenched your teeth against the hiss that wanted to escape. Pain was noise. Noise was death.
The further north you went, the more the neighborhood thinned into wild growth. Houses leaned crooked, yards choked with ivy. A car sat upturned in a ditch, rust eaten through the hood, vines curling through its windows. The smell of rot thickened, carried on the wind.
And then — a sound that nearly unstrung you.
A runner, alone, its ragged panting cutting through the stillness. Too close. You ducked behind the skeleton of a fence, crouching so low your knees popped. It staggered into view, head jerking side to side, blood dried black across its mouth. It sniffed the air, shoulders twitching.
You tightened your grip on the knife. Your hand slick with sweat. If it turned this way—
It screamed suddenly, but not at you. It bolted toward the street, chasing some sound you hadn’t heard, vanishing into shadow. Your breath escaped in a ragged, shaky stream.
You kept moving.
The road curved, opening into the edge of the park. The swings you’d passed earlier swayed, groaning. The jungle gym hunched in silhouette like the ribcage of some animal long dead. Moonlight painted everything silver.
But the park wasn’t empty.
Shapes moved between the playground structures — the stragglers from the horde, scattered and searching. Ten? Maybe more. Too many. They moved with that restless hunger, sniffing, jerking, always too fast when they finally locked on.
You crouched low in the grass, heart hammering, eyes darting. The only way out was through.
You counted their movements. Watched their pacing. Every step you timed with theirs, ducking low when they turned. One staggered too close and you flattened yourself against the dirt, feeling ants crawl across your arm, biting into your skin. You swallowed the whimper that wanted out, forcing yourself still.
When it turned away, you crept forward, inch by inch, boot sliding over grass slick with dew.
The gate was ahead. Just twenty yards.
One runner turned, too fast, its head snapping toward the brush where you crouched. It snarled, shrieked, and lunged.
You reacted before thought. The knife snapped up, flashing silver. You buried it in its throat as it came down on you, the hot spray soaking your shirt. Its scream cut off as it collapsed over you. You shoved it aside, chest heaving, blood running sticky down your arm.
The others stirred. Snarls rippled through the park.
You sprinted the last stretch, every nerve screaming. Boots hammered against the earth, lungs tearing. Hands clawed the air behind you, shrieks so close you could feel the spit on your neck. You dove for the gate, shoulder slamming through rusted bars.
The night air opened before you, the park spilling into the open street back toward the cliffs.
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
You ran until your lungs burned, until the sounds behind you thinned and broke, until the only thing left was the echo of your boots and the pounding of your heart.
And when you finally stumbled to your knees in the road, gasping, you realized your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
You’d made it out.
But the neighborhood still howled behind you.
The neighborhood shrank behind you, its ruined houses swallowed by dusk. The sounds of the horde still echoed faint in the air — shrieks, the crash of bodies against fences, the mindless hunger you could feel more than hear. You kept running until the noise thinned into silence, until your boots found familiar gravel instead of cracked asphalt.
You slowed, shoulders heaving, every breath sharp. The rifle strap bit into your bare shoulder like punishment. Your arm throbbed with every step, sticky with drying blood. The park sagged empty now, swings shifting with the wind, chains whispering. You didn’t dare stop.
The cliffs rose ahead, black against the bruised horizon. The sun was bleeding out over the ocean, streaking the water with gold that quickly dulled to copper. The waves smashed against rock far below, the spray catching the last light in a shimmer before fading back into shadow.
You forced yourself up the incline, boots scraping loose stone. Each step was slower, heavier — your ankle protesting every climb, your ribs still aching from where the Bloater had slammed you. The wind carried the scent of salt and iron, and every gust reminded you of how exposed you were, how easily sound carried.
Still, you pressed forward.
The world dimmed as the sun sank. Shadows reached long across the bluff, stretching like fingers. By the time you crested the ridge, the sky was a wash of violet and indigo, the first stars winking faintly through. You stopped once, hands on your knees, trying to wrestle your breath back under control. Sweat chilled against your skin, plastering your shirt to your back.
The road to the house felt longer than usual. The path wound through patches of wild grass, past fences long collapsed and telephone poles leaning like drunk sentries. The silence here was almost worse — too still, too expectant. Every step your boots made against the dirt seemed too loud.
When the house finally came into view, your chest tightened. The crooked roof, the sagging porch steps — all of it framed against the last glow of sunset. Shadows filled the windows, the shape of familiarity twisted by darkness.
Your throat went dry. Home.
You walked slower now, each step deliberate. Your boots creaked on the warped wood of the porch. You put your hand on the door, felt the grain beneath your palm, remembered every time you’d shoved it open laughing, or slammed it shut in a rage.
The hinges groaned as you pushed it open.
Inside smelled of last night’s dinner — smoke and fish and Lev’s favorite herbs. The air felt warmer here, still carrying the life of the people who had passed through it only hours ago. The chessboard sat mid-game on the table. A sweater was crumpled on the arm of the couch. Your throat ached at the sight.
You forced your legs to carry you forward, up the stairs. Each step felt heavier. Your bag sat in your room where you’d left it, half-packed, clothes folded neatly. You bent to grab it, your fingers trembling on the strap.
And then — movement.
You froze. The floor creaked behind you.
You turned.
Abby stood in the doorway, the fading light from the hall painting her in gold and shadow. Her eyes caught yours, unreadable, sharp with something you couldn’t name.
The breath caught in your throat.
Her voice cracked again, harsh and raw.
“I told you to be fucking out of here!” she shrieked, the sound echoing through the hall like the house itself was bracing.
You turned, your hand pressed tight against your ribs, where fire still clawed under the skin. Every breath was jagged. Your brows furrowed, and when you spoke, it came out low and frayed.
“I’m not in the fucking mood, Abby.”
She faltered, caught off guard. Her anger didn’t vanish, but it stalled long enough for her to take you in. You were caked in dirt and dust, your shirt stiff with blood, hair matted to your forehead with sweat. You looked like hell.
Her lips parted, confusion breaking through the fury. “What—” she started, then steadied herself, her voice still hot. “What the hell happened? Did you get into a fight with someone?”
You shook your head, already reaching for your pack. “Just let me grab my shit.”
Abby’s jaw worked, teeth grinding. She stepped further inside, arms crossed over her chest. “No. You don’t get to brush this off. You disappear, you come back looking like that, and now you think you’re just gonna pack up and walk out?” Her voice rose again, sharp and ragged. “You can’t even stand up straight, Joan.”
You swung the bag over one shoulder, biting down hard on the hiss that wanted to break free when the strap dragged against your ribs. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone by sundown like you wanted.”
“That’s not what I said.” She moved toward the doorway as if to block it, her eyes hard, voice cutting. “I told you to give me space, not to come back looking like you’ve been through a fucking meat grinder.”
“Same difference,” you muttered, your throat tight, your hand pressed firmer into your side.
“Don’t do that.” Her voice cracked, the fury wavering. “Don’t twist my words. I didn’t tell you to get yourself—” she gestured at you, at the blood and dirt — “like this.”
You couldn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t let her see what really happened. If you told her about the Bloater, about the horde, about how close it had been — she’d never let you hear the end of it. She’d never forgive you for risking the base, for risking her.
So you shook your head, your voice low. “Just let me go, Abby.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the shouting. Abby stood there, breathing hard, her face caught between fury and something softer, something closer to fear. Her hands twitched at her sides like she didn’t know whether to grab you or shove you out the door.
You adjusted the strap again and moved past her, every step pulling at your side until you swore you’d tear in half.
You tried to shoulder past her, but Abby shifted, blocking the doorframe.
“Move,” you rasped, eyes fixed on the strap of your pack instead of her face.
She didn’t. Her arm shot out, firm, her hand closing around your elbow. The grip was strong, unyielding — too strong against the side that already burned. Pain lanced up your ribs and you sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth.
Abby’s eyes widened at the sound. “Joan,” she said, lower now, urgent, her anger breaking for just a moment. “What the hell is going on with you?”
You twisted your arm free, jaw clenched, voice cracking. “Don’t touch me.”
Her brows furrowed, her own chest rising and falling fast. She searched your face, the blood caked along your sleeve, the dirt smeared across your neck. “You’re hurt. Bad. Who did this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” you snapped. You pushed at her shoulder, trying to get past, but she planted her boots, broad shoulders filling the frame like a wall.
“Like hell it doesn’t,” she shot back. Her voice rose again, ragged, desperate. “You come back looking like this, half-dead, and you think you can just—what? Walk out and leave me to guess if you’re gonna drop in a ditch somewhere?”
Your breath came harsh, each inhale stabbing at your side. The room tilted a little, your knees weaker than you wanted to admit. Still, you kept your chin high. “I said I don’t wanna talk about it, Abby.”
Her jaw clenched. For a second you thought she’d back down. But her hand caught your pack strap instead, yanking it down off your shoulder. The sudden pull dragged you sideways; fire ripped through your ribs and you hissed, clutching at your side.
The bag thudded to the floor between you.
Abby’s eyes were hard, but they burned. “Then you’re not leaving until you tell me what happened.”
“Then you’re not leaving until you tell me what happened,” Abby snarled, still holding your pack on the floor between you.
“Fuck you!” you snapped, your voice tearing out of your throat, hoarse and furious. “You wanted me gone? Fine! I’m going! Get out of my goddamn way!”
Her eyes flashed. “Not like this!”
“Like what, Abby? Like me? This is what you get!” you shouted, shoving at her chest. She didn’t budge, her shoulders squared, eyes blazing.
“You think you can just disappear, come back looking like death, and not explain yourself? You think you’re the only one this affects?” Her voice cracked under the strain, ragged and raw.
Your breath sawed in your chest, pain stabbing with every word. “I don’t owe you a goddamn thing.”
“The hell you don’t!” Abby snapped, jabbing a finger at you. “Lev and I—we thought you—” Her voice cut short, choking, then came back sharper. “You’re reckless, Joan. You’ve always been reckless, and one day you’re gonna get yourself killed, and then what? Huh? Then it’s just us picking up the pieces!”
Something in you broke at that. All the terror, all the rage, all the blood still sticky on your skin. “Reckless?” you shouted back, your voice ripping open. “You think this—” you slammed a hand against your ribs, forcing the words through the fire of pain “—was me being reckless? You think I wanted this?”
Abby’s glare didn’t falter, but her chest heaved, breath fast, her knuckles white at her sides.
“I fought a fucking Bloater tonight, Abby!” you screamed, so loud the house seemed to shake. “And fifty runners, a goddamn horde, because if I ran back to camp with them on me, they would’ve smelled the base. They would’ve torn through your people. Lev. You!” Your voice cracked, raw and wet. “I risked my fucking life so they wouldn’t get hurt.”
Abby froze, the words hitting her like a blow. For a second, her face faltered — fury slipping into shock, disbelief, then something sharper underneath.
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “So don’t you dare stand there and call me reckless like I’m some selfish fucking child. I almost died out there! For you!”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed again, fire returning even as her jaw trembled. “You should’ve told me,” she said, her voice shaking now, not just from anger. “You should’ve—”
“I couldn’t tell you!” you cut her off, tears burning the corners of your eyes though your voice stayed harsh. “Because all you ever do is look at me like I’m a mistake, like you’re waiting for me to fuck up again. And I couldn’t—” your voice cracked harder, breaking mid-shout “—I couldn’t stand you looking at me like that while I was fighting to keep your goddamn camp safe.”
The silence that followed was brutal, both of you heaving, throats raw from screaming.
Abby’s fists trembled at her sides. Her face was a mess of fury and something softer she wouldn’t let show. “You’re a fucking idiot,” she spat, but the venom was hollow, her voice breaking at the edges.
You swiped your sleeve across your face, smearing dirt and blood. “Yeah. Well. At least I’m not a coward.”
That landed. Her jaw clenched, eyes burning holes in you, but she didn’t answer.
The house creaked in the silence, Lev’s sketches rustling faintly on the desk between you.
Abby’s chest rose and fell hard, her fists trembling at her sides. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe she’d break, maybe the fury would melt into something else.
But then her jaw snapped tight, her eyes narrowing again, fire sparking back to life.
“How the hell were you even caught by a horde in the first place, Joan?” she shouted, stepping closer, her voice sharp enough to cut. “How does that even happen? You just—what? Wander into them? Go looking for trouble?”
You flinched at her volume, pain gnawing at your ribs with the motion. “It wasn’t like that—”
“Bullshit!” she barked, the word cracking the air. “You don’t get torn up like this just walking home. You had to go looking for it. So tell me—” she jabbed a finger toward you, eyes blazing “—why did you take the long way back? Huh? When I told you to just leave, why the fuck weren’t you smart enough to just walk the path you always take?”
Your mouth opened, shut again. Shame coiled tight in your gut.
Abby’s face twisted, anger fraying into something more desperate. “What were you thinking? That you’d play hero? That you’d prove something by going off on your own?”
Your hands balled into fists, nails digging into your palms. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” you growled through clenched teeth.
“Then what?” Abby demanded, voice ragged, almost breaking. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you went out of your way to get yourself killed.”
The heat in your chest flared higher than the pain in your side. “You think I wanted this?” Your voice cracked sharp, bitter. “You think I planned to get caught out there?” You gestured wildly at yourself — the blood, the dirt, the torn shirt — and your ribs screamed in protest.
Abby shook her head, disgust flashing across her face. “No, I think you didn’t care enough to be careful. And now look at you — you barely made it back.”
Her words landed like a punch. You swallowed hard, throat tight, fury and shame warring inside you.
“Goddamn it, Joan,” Abby said, her voice breaking now under the weight of her anger. “Why the hell do you always make things harder than they have to be?”
Abby’s voice was a knife.
“How the hell were you even caught by a horde? Why the long way home, Joan? What the fuck were you thinking?”
You laughed bitterly, a sound scraped raw out of your chest. “Thinking? I wasn’t. I didn’t give a shit if I got hurt, Abby.” You jabbed your own ribs with your palm, the bruises blooming like fire under the touch. “I didn’t care if I didn’t make it back. All I could think about was how I fucked everything up, how fucking useless I feel every time I breathe near you. So yeah, I took the long way. I went back to the park to try and forget for five minutes why I was upset, and it spiraled. I figured it’d be fine.”
Abby’s face went cold, eyes hard. “You figured it’d be fine?” she repeated, her voice dripping with venom. “That’s your excuse? You walk yourself into a deathtrap because you figured it’d be fine?”
“I didn’t care!” you screamed, your voice cracking. “Not in that moment. Not after what you said. Not after the way you looked at me.”
Her fists clenched at her sides. “So you’d rather throw yourself at infected than face me?”
“Yes!” The word ripped out of you. “Because at least they don’t make me feel like a goddamn mistake every time I open my mouth!”
She staggered a step closer, fury twisting her features. “You think you’re the only one with scars? The only one carrying guilt? Jesus, Joan — you drank yourself half to death in Seattle. You picked fights, you broke things, you broke me. You think that just disappears?”
“You don’t get to use Seattle like a club,” you shouted back, your throat raw. “You left me drowning and then blamed me for gasping for air! You think I wanted to spiral? You think I wanted to feel like nothing every single day?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You made it everyone else’s problem. You made it my problem. You were chaos, Joan — a distraction, a liability—”
“Say it,” you snarled, stepping into her space. “Say you wish I hadn’t come.”
Her mouth curled, her voice a growl. “Sometimes I do.”
The words gutted you. For a moment you couldn’t breathe, your vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall.
You lashed back, voice shaking with rage. “At least I fucking stayed. At least I didn’t crawl back to Owen every time things got hard. At least I didn’t run to ghosts because I was too much of a coward to face what was right in front of me.”
Abby shoved you hard against the wall, teeth bared. “Don’t you fucking talk about him.”
“Why not?” you spat, even as your ribs screamed against the impact. “He’s been sitting between us since the day we met. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see how much of you still lives in the past?”
Her breath tore hot against your face, her whole body trembling with rage. “You tear yourself apart and drag me down with you, Joan. You always have. You think it’s noble, you think it’s sacrifice — but it’s selfish. It’s always been selfish.”
“And you—” your voice cracked, tears cutting hot tracks down your dirt-caked face “—you don’t want me. You want something to fix. Someone to mold into the soldier you need. But I’ll never be enough for you, Abby.”

She laughed at you then — not the warm kind, not the rare laugh you’d once lived for, but that cruel, hollow one she only let out when she was bleeding inside. It sliced through you worse than the Bloater’s blow.
Your chest surged and before you thought better of it, you shoved her back.
Her face twisted, eyes flashing like lightning, and she grabbed you hard, slamming you against the wall. The impact ripped through your ribs; your knees buckled, teeth clacked. Her hands pinned your shoulders, her breath hot and ragged in your face.
“You think I’d choose this?!” she screamed, spit flecking your cheek, her voice cracking sharp enough to rattle the frame of the house.
Pinned, breathless, you fought back the pain with fury. “You are so fucking stupid, Abby!”
You shoved at her chest, forcing her back half a step, the wall scraping your spine. Rage bubbled up past the exhaustion, past the ache in your body. “If Owen wasn’t fucking dead, I wouldn’t even be the one—”
Her hand flew up, a finger jabbing at you like the strike of a blade. “That’s not true, Joan!”
Your throat burned. You shook your head, teeth gritted, the words tearing out. “It is, and you know it!”
Her breath came harsh, her jaw clenching so tight you could hear her teeth grind. She scoffed bitterly, biting her lip, shaking her head as if the motion could dislodge the words stuck inside her. She stepped closer, cornering you against the wall, her chest heaving.
“Even—” she started, then faltered. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Her fists trembled where they pinned the wall beside you. “Do you know the shit you put me through, Joan?”
You barked out a laugh, ugly and hollow, your eyes burning. “Then leave!” you screamed, throwing the word like a dagger. “If it’s so goddamn hard, if I’m just dragging you down, then leave me!”
Her whole body shook as she sucked in a ragged breath, her eyes glassy, furious.
“I can’t!” she screamed, the word ripped from somewhere deep in her ribs. Her chest slammed into yours, her face so close you could see every flicker of rage, fear, longing in her eyes. Her mouth trembled—like she was about to tear you apart again.
And then it crushed against yours.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was wet, sloppy, desperate—her saliva mixing with tears, your own tears cutting hot tracks through the dirt on your cheeks. You whimpered into her, half from pain, half from release, your ribs screaming against her weight, but your hands moved on their own. You cupped her face, your thumbs stroking rough across her wet cheeks as if you could soothe the fury you’d both just lit on fire.
You slid down the wall together, clumsy, your bodies dragging along the plaster until you hit the floor with a thud that rattled your bones. Abby straddled you, her thighs pinning your hips, her hands clutching your face like she was holding your skull together. Tears streaked down her cheeks, falling onto your lips, mixing with the salt of your own.
“Joan,” she breathed, her voice shattered, breaking in half on your name. “We can’t keep going like this.”
Your lungs rattled with the exhale that left you. You nodded, your throat too tight for words.
She sniffled, her shoulders shaking. “I know you didn’t mean to get hurt,” she rasped, her voice cracked and hoarse from the fight. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
You swallowed, guilt burning your tongue. “I’m—” your voice cracked, you started again. “I’m sorry. For what I did.”
Abby shook her head hard, strands of hair sticking to her damp cheeks. “I don’t care anymore.” Her shoulders sagged, her forehead dropping to your chest as she wept.
You slid your hands up to cradle the back of her head, your fingers threading into her sweat-damp hair, holding her against you like you could keep her from falling apart.
“I love you, Joan,” she whispered, the words spilling out raw and weak. “I want to make this work. We need to make this work.”
A long, shaky breath rattled out of you, your chest heaving under her weight. “I think…” you muttered, voice rough. “Maybe, Abby… I’m not good for you.”
She shook her head hard, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her red-rimmed eyes blazed, fierce even through the tears. “Not as you are now,” she admitted, her voice trembling but firm. “But, Joan—” she sniffled again, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “You’ve gotten so much better since Seattle.”
You bit your lip, disbelief flickering across your face. “What?”
A broken laugh pushed out of her, wet and shaky. She leaned her forehead against yours. “You’re so different. Even now. You’re just… so fucking stupid.”
Her lips ghosted over yours again, like she couldn’t quite stay away.
Her forehead pressed to yours, the ghost of a laugh still trembling in her chest. You felt her lips brush yours again, softer this time, almost an apology.
Your body sagged beneath her, all the fury and adrenaline drained out, leaving only the ache in your ribs and the raw sting of your throat. You let your hands slide down from her face to her shoulders, then around her back, pulling her in close. She came willingly, folding into you like she’d been waiting to collapse.
For the first time that night, the house was quiet. Just your ragged breaths tangling together. Just the sound of her tears dampening your shirt, and your own heartbeat stuttering under her weight.
Abby’s voice came small, breaking in pieces. “I don’t know how to do this without fighting.”
You swallowed, your throat thick. Your fingers threaded through her hair, combing it back gently, the tenderness foreign after the violence of minutes ago. “Maybe we don’t have to know. Maybe we just… stop running at each other like enemies.”
She gave a shaky laugh, muffled against your chest. “That’s all we’ve ever done.”
“I know.” You sighed, letting your chin rest on the top of her head. “But I don’t want to lose you, Abby. Not like that. Not after everything.”
Her arms tightened around you, crushing but desperate, her body trembling with the force of it. “You won’t,” she whispered fiercely, like she could will it into truth. “I don’t care how much we scream, I don’t care how much it hurts. You won’t.”
You shut your eyes, pressing your lips into her hair. The salt of tears, the musk of sweat and dirt, all of it was grounding. “I don’t deserve you.”
Abby pulled back just enough to look at you, her cheeks streaked, her lips swollen. “Maybe not,” she admitted, voice barely there. “But you’re mine. And I’m yours.”
The words lodged in your chest, heavy and warm. You reached up, cupping her face again, but this time your thumbs moved gentle over her damp cheeks. She leaned into the touch, eyes closing, her breathing evening out for the first time.
You kissed her again — not the sloppy, furious clash from before, but slow, tender. Just mouths pressed together, soft and trembling.
When you broke apart, she rested her forehead against yours once more, eyes closed. “Promise me you’ll stop trying to throw yourself away.”
You nodded, your throat too tight for words.
For the first time in hours, maybe days, you let yourself believe you could.

Chapter 74: Trying to get Better

She sniffled, her thumbs brushing clumsily across your cheeks, catching the tears before they slid too far. Her breath trembled against your lips as she whispered, “I need you to get out of this plateau you’ve hit.”
Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a plea — like she’d been holding it in for months.
You nodded, breath catching. You’d do anything for her. Sometimes you forgot how much she had you wrapped around her finger. Forgot how badly you wanted her, how much of yourself you’d set on fire just to keep her warm.
“I thought you wanted me to leave,” you whispered back, your voice breaking like it was made of glass.
She drew in a deep breath, shaking her head as if she could shake away the memory of her own words. “I can’t quit you.”
A broken laugh slipped out of you, your lip quivering. Relief and devastation tangled in your chest all at once. You cupped her face, pressed your forehead harder to hers, your voice thick. “I want this with you.”
Her eyes shut, her tears smearing into yours as she leaned into your touch. For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you just breathing the same air, clinging like the world outside could end and you wouldn’t notice.
She shook her head slowly, her hands still cupping your face, thumbs trembling where they rested at the corners of your jaw. Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Do you not feel like part of this family?”
The question landed heavy.
You froze, blinking back fresh tears. Of course she would ask that. Abby was obvious in the way she cared for Lev — not a mother, not quite, but close enough that the bond glowed around them like sunlight. You loved Lev, cared for him so deeply it ached sometimes… but you didn’t feel as rooted. Not the way Abby did. Not the way Lev looked at her.
You swallowed hard, throat raw. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “I feel…” The word stuck, and you sniffled, finally letting it break free. “I think losing Frank made me feel disconnected.” His name left your mouth like broken glass, slicing through the silence. Your chest hitched. “I keep trying to fit, but sometimes it feels like I’m still outside the circle, looking in.”
Abby’s face softened, her eyes wet and shining as she nodded. She didn’t try to correct you, didn’t dismiss it. She just held you tighter, leaning her forehead against yours. “You know you matter to Lev and me, right?” she whispered.
Your lip quivered as you nodded. “I know.” A sob cracked free before you could stop it. “This is my family. You and Lev are my family. That’s why—” your breath tore as you forced it out “—that’s why I was willing to die today to protect you two at the camp.”
Abby’s shoulders shook with a half-laugh, half-sob. She pressed a kiss to your temple, her voice trembling. “Please don’t do that next time. Please don’t throw yourself at death like it’s the answer.” She sniffed, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Please, Joan. Run for help. Give me the chance to save you too.”
The words lodged deep, her voice cracking into your bones. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were standing alone on the edge of the world.
She stood up with you, steadying your arm when you swayed, and together you walked into the bathroom. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, its light yellow and tired, but it was enough. Abby twisted the knobs and steam began to fill the room, curling around your battered bodies.
You peeled off your clothes slowly, each motion tugging at your ribs, dirt and blood flaking off the fabric as it hit the tile in a heap. The mirror caught a glimpse of you both — streaked in sweat, grime, and tears — but neither of you lingered on it.
The first rush of water hit your skin, hot at first, then warm, then soothing. Your shoulders sagged under the weight of it. It traced every bruise, every scrape, rinsing filth from the fight until the drain ran dark.
Abby leaned down, her mouth brushing soft kisses over the great purple bruise spreading across your ribs. You winced at the contact, a small whimper breaking from you, but she only hushed you gently, the sound low and calming in your ear.
Her hands reached for the soap, lathering it against a cloth until it foamed, then running it slowly over your skin. Her touch was tender, deliberate, scrubbing away layers of dirt and blood as if she could erase the memory of the night itself.
You did the same for her, running the cloth over the knots of her shoulders, down her back, across her arms. Both of you moved slow, unhurried, the storm between you replaced with something fragile and intimate.
Once the water had rinsed you clean, you pulled each other close, arms wrapped tight, foreheads pressed together as the water poured over both your bodies. For a long moment, you just stayed there, breathing each other in, your chests rising and falling against one another until your heartbeats steadied.
Eventually, Abby reached down and twisted the knobs, the rush of water tapering to silence. The room felt strange without it — quiet except for your mingled breaths and the occasional drip from the faucet.
You dressed together in the bathroom, clothes sticking slightly to damp skin, every motion slower, more careful, as though the wrong move might undo the fragile peace you’d built.
You trailed out into the hallway first, exhaustion pulling at your limbs like lead. Behind you, Abby lingered. You heard her voice drop low, soft, as Lev stirred in his room.
“Everything okay?” his whisper came, small, hesitant.
You stopped, your hand tightening on the doorframe. Abby’s answer was low, steady, and full of a love you could feel even through the wall. “Yeah, kid. Everything’s okay now.”
She crawled into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under her weight, the springs groaning softly in the quiet. The room was dim, lit only by the faint spill of moonlight from the window. The sheets smelled faintly of soap and damp skin, still clinging to the steam of your shower.
You lay back against the pillow, your ribs aching, every muscle in your body reminding you of how close you’d come to the edge today. For a moment you let yourself drift in that thought—the way your lungs had burned, the way your legs had almost given out, how certain you’d been that you weren’t going to make it home.
And then, like a fool, you whispered, “We should have a baby.”
Abby’s eyes flicked to you, her brows pulling together. A little laugh—half exasperation, half disbelief—slipped out of her raw throat. “You always say that at the wrong time.”
You chuckled back, weak but genuine, and rolled onto your side, wincing as your ribs protested. “We should.”
She sighed, the sound long and tired, then shook her head. “I don’t know, Joan.” She rolled toward you, her hand sliding over your stomach, her palm warm and steady against your skin. “You’d be the pregnant one?”
You nodded, lips twitching into a soft, almost reckless smile. “Yeah. Let’s start fresh. Make something that isn’t just… pain.”
Her throat bobbed, and she let out a nervous chuckle that cracked in the middle. “Joan…” she whispered, your name heavy on her tongue.
You sighed, the sound pulling from deep in your chest. “Think about it.”
For a long beat, silence hung between you, heavy but not hostile. Just the sound of your breathing, the quiet night outside, and the weight of the unspoken things you both carried.
Finally, she nodded against the pillow, her eyes softening as she studied you in the dark. “I’ll think about it.”
You let your eyes slip closed then, her hand still pressed to your stomach, grounding you. For the first time all day, you felt the faintest spark of hope.

The bruise across your ribs outlasted the fight. It spread wide and ugly, the colors shifting from black-purple to sickly green, and you felt it every time you bent, every time you laughed, every time you lay down at night. Abby taped it tight the first morning, her hands firm and efficient, her jaw clenched like she was sewing you shut against your own recklessness. She didn’t speak beyond instructions, and you didn’t push. The silence between you was heavy enough to crush.
You told yourself things would change. No more vanishing into the cliffs when you were angry. No more storming away like some half-wild stray. If Abby asked where you were, you’d answer. If Lev wanted to find you, you’d make sure you were there. Simple promises, but when you made them, they shook in your chest like glass ready to shatter.
At first, it didn’t feel like anything had changed at all. Lev walked past you in the hall with his shoulders stiff, his eyes darting away. He didn’t ask about your side, didn’t ask if you were hungry, didn’t ask anything. You wanted to stop him, shake him, force him to see you—but guilt clamped down on your throat, sealing it shut. Abby looked at you like she was cataloging every flaw, every limp, every time you favored your good arm. You couldn’t bear it, so you threw yourself into chores. Carrying water until your side screamed, hauling nets until your palms blistered. You didn’t ask for thanks.
On the fourth night, you woke stiff on the couch to find a blanket half-tucked around your legs. Lev’s. The scratchy wool reeked faintly of smoke and brine. It nearly undid you.
Running was Abby’s idea. You hated her for it that first morning, hated the cool steadiness in her face as she tightened her laces, hated the way she didn’t ask but expected you to follow anyway. The bluff path was long and steep, and your ribs lit up with fire halfway up. Your breath staggered, shallow and panicked, your vision spotting.
“Say it,” she told you, her own stride even, her lungs steady.
You wanted to spit, to snarl, to quit. But you forced the word out anyway: “Yellow.”
She slowed, matched your pace, and counted your breaths with hers until the stitch ebbed. You hated how much it helped.
In the afternoons, you sat on the dock with tangled nets in your lap, Abby beside you, Lev just a few feet away. Abby showed you the rhythm—loop, mend, tighten, check. Your fingers were clumsy, knots slipping loose, the rope biting into tender skin. You cursed under your breath while Lev’s hands worked faster, smoother, his shoulders tense as he ignored you. Hours later, when you finally tied one clean, Abby’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. But enough.
Nights were the hardest. Some evenings Abby curled behind you, her palm flat on your stomach, her body heat steady and grounding. Other nights she rolled away, her back stiff, her silence louder than shouting. You lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, fighting the urge to break the quiet with half-formed apologies. Once, when nightmares dragged you back into the marsh with spores clogging your throat, you woke gasping, clawing at your chest. Abby caught your face in her hands, her forehead pressed to yours. “In. Out. Slower. Good.” You matched her breaths until the terror ebbed. She didn’t let go even when sleep took you again.
It was clumsy, the way you tried to change. You told Abby where you went, scribbled notes on the fridge if you left the house: greenhouse. workshop. dock. You checked in on the radio every hour, your voice cracking through static, and every time Abby answered, some of the tightness in your chest loosened. Lev noticed. He didn’t say it, but he noticed.
On the eighth day, he sat beside you on the porch with a slingshot snapped in half and a roll of wire. “Can you fix it?”
Your fingers itched, restless. “Probably.”
You worked while he watched, guiding the wire around the joint, knotting it tight. When it snapped true against the fencepost, pinging the metal with a clean note, Lev grinned in surprise. “That’s actually good,” he said, and you shoved him with your elbow, muttering not to sound so surprised. He grinned wider. That night, when you fell asleep on the couch again, his blanket was already there.
With Abby, the thaw was slower. She didn’t praise you when you ran a little farther, didn’t compliment you when your knots held fast. But her voice softened when she called your name. Her hand brushed yours when you set the table. She stopped flinching when you touched her shoulder. Forgiveness wasn’t words. It was these small mercies.
The middle of the month bled into a rhythm. You ran every morning, ribs aching less each day. You hauled nets, you mended fences, you sat with Lev in the workshop while he rebuilt a radio piece by piece. He talked more now, told you which parts scavengers cheated on weight, which shells traded best. You listened. Sometimes, he laughed at your stupid jokes. That laughter gutted you in the best way.
Abby joined you more often, too. One afternoon, when you fumbled with the nets and cursed under your breath, she laughed. A short, real laugh. You looked at her, startled, and she shook her head, muttering, “You’re hopeless,” but her eyes were warm.
Still, you stumbled. On patrol one evening, a rotten board gave way and you hit the ground hard, tearing your stitches open. Blood soaked your shirt before Abby hauled you up, her jaw tight, her eyes blazing. She patched you herself at the clinic, hands steady, voice sharp. “Do you ever think about what it does to me?” she hissed, eyes bright with unshed tears. You wanted to lash back, but guilt burned hotter. “I do,” you rasped. “That’s why I’m still here.” Her hands faltered, just for a second, before she kept working. She didn’t forgive you that night, but when she came to bed, she wrapped her arm around your waist like she couldn’t stop herself.
By the third week, the suspicion in Lev’s eyes had faded into something else. He teased you more, called you old when you groaned climbing the cliffs, rolled his eyes when you dozed through his stories. Once, he caught you sketching absentmindedly with charcoal, rough lines of the ocean bleeding across scrap paper. He leaned close, studying it. “You didn’t tell me you could draw.”
You shrugged. “I forgot.”
He watched a while longer, then slid a scrap of his own paper across the table. “Draw me, then.”
You laughed, the sound raw but real, and tried. It came out clumsy, lopsided, but when you handed it to him, he tucked it away without a word.
The supply run came at the end of the month. Abby asked you herself, her tone flat, as if testing you. You agreed without hesitation. The road stretched long and quiet, the air sharp with pine. You walked beside her in silence until she finally spoke. “You’ve been better.”
It wasn’t glowing. It wasn’t even praise. But it was more than you expected.
“Better’s not much,” you muttered.
“It’s more than I thought you had in you,” she said, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Her voice was steady, but you heard the crack underneath.
Your throat closed. “I don’t want to lose this. Not you. Not Lev. I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
Her hand brushed yours, rough and calloused. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
That night, back at the house, the three of you sat at the table. The lantern flickered low, the smell of roasted fish hanging in the air. Lev told a story about a patrol gone wrong, his hands carving the air, his grin wide. Abby laughed, really laughed, her eyes crinkling, and you found yourself laughing too.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t triumphant. But it was the sound of something mending.
For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like an outsider clawing at the circle’s edge. You were in it.
And you let yourself believe, just a little, that you could stay.
___________________________________________________________________________
The morning of the new month began the way all of them had lately: the sound of the sea. The tide outside was restless, breaking hard against the rocks, the gulls squabbling overhead. You laced your boots anyway, the habit too deep to fight, and followed Abby up the bluff path before the sun had fully broken. Your ribs didn’t scream anymore, only ached, a faint reminder that you were still alive. You lagged a few paces behind her, watching the muscle in her shoulders move under her shirt, watching the way her hair whipped in the wind. She slowed without saying anything, as always, letting you match her pace.
When you came back down, Lev was waiting by the dock, coil of rope in his arms, his expression somewhere between irritation and curiosity. He barely looked at you, and that was fine. You still weren’t sure how much space you were allowed to take up in his world.
But later that morning, after chores were done, you found yourself drifting to the garage. It smelled like salt and rust, the concrete floor damp with years of leaks. It was the one place nobody used often, just storage for nets and broken tools. You needed somewhere quiet, somewhere that wasn’t the kitchen table with Abby’s eyes on you or the porch with Lev listening from the doorway. Somewhere you could sit with the noise in your own head.
There was a box of old scraps in the corner—wood boards, bits of paper, charcoal blackened from the stove. You sat on an upturned crate, took a stub of charcoal between your fingers, and without thinking, began to sketch.
At first it was just lines. The bluff, the jagged way the cliffs met the sea, the sweep of the water. Then, slower, surer, it became a face. The shape of Frank’s jaw. His crooked nose. His eyes that had always been too kind for the world you both lived in. You didn’t mean to draw him, but by the time you stopped, the paper was full of him. You stared at it until your chest hurt.
You hid the drawing under a toolbox when Abby called for you.
The next day, you came back. You dragged in an old table, cleared space, swept dust from the floor. You made the garage your own, small and rough, but yours. Each morning, after running and chores, you sat there with charcoal and scraps of paper, letting your hands move while your mind caught up. When it got hard—when your chest itched for a drink, when your skin buzzed with the urge to run until you vanished—you went to the garage instead. You drew.
Frank filled pages. So did Abby, her shoulders hunched over a net, her mouth set firm. So did Lev, sharp lines catching his restless energy. You drew the cliffs, the waves, the greenhouse. The radio tower jutting crooked against the horizon. Your fingers stained black, your nails cracked, but the ache it left was better than the ache in your chest.
Lev found you there the first week. He leaned in the doorway, watching without speaking, while you smudged shading across Abby’s portrait. When you noticed him, you bristled, muttering, “Don’t say anything.”
He didn’t. He just stepped inside, picked up a scrap of paper, and started doodling crooked lines that turned into something almost like a fish. When you laughed, it broke something loose between you.
From then on, he came by often. Sometimes he drew alongside you, his sketches messy but full of energy. Sometimes he just sat, talking while you worked. He told you about patrols, about the kids on base, about little trades he’d pulled off in the market. He didn’t say outright that he forgave you. But his presence in the garage was forgiveness enough.
Abby noticed too. She didn’t say much—Abby never did—but she started leaving little things for you. A rag to wipe your hands. A cracked jar to hold charcoal. One evening, she came in while you were bent over a half-finished drawing of Frank and stood silently behind you for a long time. You felt her breath against your neck, steady and warm. When you finally turned, her eyes were softer than you expected. She didn’t ask who it was. She knew. She pressed a hand to your shoulder, squeezed once, and left.
You wanted more than charcoal. You wanted color. The thought gnawed at you until one evening you told Abby. “I need paint.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Paint.”
“Yeah. There’s bound to be some in the stores, or houses. I’ll make do.”
Her lips twitched like she wanted to argue, but instead she just sighed. “Fine. We’ll go after patrol tomorrow. Not alone.”
The search became its own ritual. The two of you moved through empty shops, the dust thick, shelves stripped bare. But every now and then you found something—a tin of dried acrylics, a tube of yellow oil paint, a cracked set of brushes. You carried them back like treasure. Abby didn’t tease. She just helped you pack them, her jaw set in that quiet way she had when she respected something but couldn’t find the words for it.
The first time you dipped brush into color, it felt like breathing for the first time. You smeared blue across the rough surface of a board, the sea taking shape under your hand. Yellow bled into the horizon. The cliffs burned with rust-red. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it was alive.
Lev gasped when he saw it, dramatic as always. “It looks like Catalina!” he said, pointing with wide eyes.
“It is Catalina,” you deadpanned, but his grin was enough.
By the third week, the garage looked nothing like the storage space it had been. Canvases leaned against every wall. Portraits of Frank sat beside studies of Abby’s hands, of Lev’s sharp jaw, of the old radio tower against the sky. The air smelled of oil and charcoal, your clothes permanently stained with streaks of color. Lev had started calling it “the studio,” teasing you, but you didn’t care. For the first time in years, you had somewhere to put the weight in your chest.
Abby came in more often too. She’d stand behind you, arms crossed, watching. Sometimes she’d reach out and adjust the lamp, tilting it so you could see better. Once, when you cursed over a broken brush, she wordlessly handed you a new one she must have scavenged without telling you. You caught her watching you once with something like pride in her eyes.
At night, you lay in bed together, your skin buzzing not from craving or fear but from the day’s work. Abby curled around you, her hand splayed over your stomach, and you wanted her so badly it hurt. But you didn’t push. Neither did she. You both understood the unspoken rule: not yet.
Instead, you whispered to her about the studio. About the colors you wanted to find. About how painting Frank made you feel close to him again. Abby listened, her breath warm on your neck. “I’m glad,” she said once, simple but heavy.
You nodded against her chest, tears burning your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, you believed her.
By the end of the month, the garage was full.Abby stopped correcting your knots at the dock. She didn’t need to. You had stopped needing to prove yourself.
And when the three of you sat together at the table—Lev talking fast, Abby laughing low, you smiling into your plate—it no longer felt like you were clawing at the circle from outside. It felt like you belonged.
______________________________________________________________________________
You woke the morning of the third month feeling off. The craving came before you even opened your eyes, sour in your throat, heavy in your chest. You wanted a drink more than you wanted air. You wanted the scratch of smoke in your lungs, the harsh bite of liquor numbing your teeth.
You sat on the edge of the bed, palms grinding against your face, huffing through your nose like it might steady you. Abby was still asleep behind you, the faint sound of her breathing steady and calm. Lev’s soft shuffle in his room down the hall hadn’t stirred yet either. You stayed still another moment, fighting the urge to sneak, to bolt, to throw all your progress away on one more taste.
Finally, you forced yourself up. Stretching your stiff body, you padded to the bathroom, splashing water on your face until the cold shocked the thought out of you. You did your business, brushed your teeth, and stared yourself down in the fogged mirror. Your own eyes looked back at you, lined with exhaustion, pupils sharp with hunger.
You muttered under your breath, “Not today.”
The garage was waiting. The one place that had kept you steady through the last month, the one space that gave your hands something to do besides shake. The sun had barely risen, the sky still heavy with gray. You flicked on the overhead lamp, the glow throwing sharp shadows over the scattered canvases and stacks of paper.
On patrol with Abby last week, you’d found a book wedged into the debris of a ransacked art store—Beginner’s Guide to Oil Pastels. The pages were damp at the corners, but intact. You had never used oil pastels before, so you’d decided to try.
You pulled a fresh sheet from the sketchbook, the thick paper slightly wilted with age, and set it on your worn stool. The book sat open beside you, pages marked with notes on blending, layering, how to press light and heavy. You huffed, took up a stick of pastel, and began.
Today, you missed your mother.
Her face came into view under your hands—memory first, then shape, then color. Short curls, stubborn as wire, framing a face that had always looked tired, even when she was young. You blended strokes together, peach bleeding into brown, then softened with white. Your fingers smeared, warm wax staining the pads of your hands.
You sighed through your teeth, focusing on the curve of her jaw, the furrow of her brow. She wasn’t beautiful, not the way portraits in books were beautiful. But she was yours. And the act of pulling her onto the page was enough to fill the hollow ache you’d woken with.
You leaned close, trying to catch the angle of her hair, the hard-to-perfect bend of the curls. Your frustration rose sharp in your chest, but you kept your hand steady.
The door creaked open behind you.
You didn’t turn. You knew who it was from the hesitant step. Lev.
He was getting taller by the day, shoulders stretching out, his face sharpening in a way that made your chest ache with the reminder of time.
“Good morning,” he said, voice quiet, almost wary.
You nodded without looking back, swallowing hard. “Morning.”
He lingered near the door at first, but then he stepped further in, circling to look over your shoulder. He studied your mother’s face on the page, his expression unreadable. He didn’t comment, just sat on an overturned crate nearby and began talking.
You couldn’t make out all the words. Something about patrol, about a boy on base who thought he was faster than him, about a joke he’d overheard. His voice droned on, steady, filling the silence. You wanted to hear him, wanted to hold onto every word. But your ears buzzed, the craving pounding louder than his voice, your throat dry with the need to snap, to yell, to run.
You gripped the pastel tighter, pressing color into the page, fighting yourself. Fighting the urge to ruin this fragile peace. You told yourself over and over: Be good. Don’t break it. Not now.
Lev kept talking, unaware of the war raging in you. His voice was a tether, a line pulling you toward steadiness even as your body screamed to pull away. You clung to it, to the picture of your mother taking shape under your hands, and prayed it would be enough.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Lev’s story stopped. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and tilted his head at you.
“You okay?” he asked.
The pastel in your hand broke under the pressure of your grip, snapping clean in two. You cursed softly and dropped the pieces on the table, rubbing the wax off on your thigh.
“Fine,” you lied. Your voice came out too fast, too sharp.
Lev studied you for a long moment. He was getting good at that—reading silences, picking apart tones. He didn’t press, but his knee bounced, a restless rhythm against the floor. He looked back at the drawing of your mother and said, softer this time, “She looks kind.”
The words caught you off guard. You blinked, throat thick. “She wasn’t, not really. But… she tried.”
Lev nodded like that made sense. Like trying was enough.
The buzzing in your head dulled just a little. You picked up the broken pastel and kept working, smudging the color deeper into the curls of your mother’s hair. Lev’s presence stayed steady beside you, quiet now, but not leaving. It was enough to keep you from breaking.
By the time Abby’s footsteps came heavy down the hall, the craving had thinned into something manageable, a dull throb instead of a scream. You sat back, flexing your sore hand, and let yourself look at the portrait. It wasn’t perfect. The jawline was uneven, the eyes too wide. But it was your mother. And for the first time in weeks, you felt like you’d honored her instead of running from her ghost.
Abby paused in the doorway, her hair still damp from a quick wash, eyes flicking from you to Lev to the drawing. She didn’t ask questions. She just said, “Breakfast’s ready.”
Lev hopped up, brushing dust off his pants, and jogged toward the kitchen. You stayed seated, staring at the smear of color still clinging to your fingers. Abby crossed the room, resting a hand on your shoulder, her thumb pressing lightly into the fabric of your shirt. “Come eat,” she said quietly.
You shook your head, unable to meet Abby’s eyes, and she leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your scalp. The warmth of it lingered as she straightened, her hand hovering for a moment like she wanted to do more.
“I actually need some time alone,” you whispered, your voice cracked and raw.
Abby studied you for a beat, her jaw tightening, then gave a small nod. “Okay.” She crossed the room quietly, her boots thudding soft against the concrete, and slipped out. The door closed behind her with a gentle click.
You exhaled hard, rubbing your palms over your eyes until stars danced behind your lids. But closing them only made it worse. The vision was there waiting, the memory you never outran: your mother hanging in the town square of Boston. Her legs stiff, shoes dripping red, her body swaying in a wind you couldn’t feel anymore. The sound of people around you—some silent, some jeering—rang in your ears like it was happening all over again.
The charcoal in your hand trembled. You dropped it onto the table and buried your face in your arms. You cried, shoulders shaking, hot tears bleeding into the crook of your elbow. You didn’t know how long it went on, only that your throat ached from the force of it. For once you didn’t try to stop yourself. You let the grief take you, because fighting it never worked.
When the tears slowed to hiccups, you dragged the sketchbook toward you with clumsy fingers. You tore out a fresh page, the paper thick and rough, and set the tip of the pastel down. You didn’t try to make it clean or pretty. You drew what was in your head.
It came out morbid and messy. Your mother’s body, strung up, blood dripping from her shoes. The shadows under her eyes dark and heavy, the tension in the rope carved into thick black lines. It was grotesque. It was cruel. But it was real.
You sat back, your chest heaving, and stared at it. The page hurt to look at, but it was yours. It wasn’t for Abby. It wasn’t for Lev. It wasn’t for anyone but you. This was the photo you needed—the one you couldn’t take but had always carried inside you. Maybe putting it down on paper would bleed the poison out, help you be better. Help you stop carrying her body with you in every shadow.
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers smudged red and black where you’d pressed too hard.
Hours must have passed. Your back ached from hunching over the stool, your legs stiff, your hand cramped. You leaned back, spine cracking, eyes gritty with exhaustion. The lamp above you buzzed faintly, casting your mother’s warped portrait in a halo of light.
You didn’t feel lighter. Not yet. But you felt… clearer. Like the grief had been siphoned into the page, leaving just enough space inside you to keep breathing.

Chapter 75: New

You took a breath and stood up, your legs aching from sitting all day. The garage smelled of charcoal dust and old wood, and your fingers were still smudged black and red from the pastels. You slid the drawing shut into a fold and tucked it carefully into the wooden desk drawer, burying it under spare brushes as if hiding away the memory itself.
When you pushed open the garage door, the world had shifted. The sun was already sinking into a low, swollen orange, clouds streaked pink and lavender like bruises across the sky. You blinked against the sudden light—how long had you been shut in there?
Inside, the house felt warmer, alive. Abby was on the couch, a book resting in her hands, damp hair loose from the shower. Somewhere down the hall, Lev’s record player spun a crackly old tune you couldn’t place—something sticky and ghostlike from before the world fell apart.
She looked up as you stepped in. “You were in there a while,” she said softly, marking her page with a finger.
You nodded, rubbing your arm. “Yeah.”
Abby patted the cushion beside her. “Come here.”
You obeyed, sinking into the couch. The book fell closed in her lap, her eyes searching yours. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Her voice was gentle, almost coaxing.
You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. If you wanted to build something with her—a life not made of rot and ruin—you had to start. You had to be honest.
“I just miss my mom a lot today,” you whispered. Your eyes burned.
Her expression softened. She rubbed your knee with a firm, grounding touch. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Some days I miss my dad more than others too.” The way she swallowed told you it wasn’t an easy thing for her to admit.
You leaned into her shoulder, letting her scent wrap around you—clean soap, warmth, something steady. For a while, she just held you, her arm draped across your back.
When your stomach growled, she eased away, kissed your temple, and disappeared into the kitchen. You listened to the clatter of pots and the low hiss of the stove. Soon she returned with a steaming bowl and set it in your lap.
Beef stew. Simple, earthy, the kind of meal that carried more comfort than its parts should allow. You ate slowly, quietly, staring at the middle distance while Abby sat back down beside you and opened her book again.
The rhythm of her fingers against the pages became a kind of lullaby—steady, real, proof that even after everything, you weren’t alone.
You rose and carried the empty bowl to the sink. The warm water and scrape of sponge against porcelain gave your hands something to do, a rhythm to hold onto. You even rinsed the pot she’d used to reheat the stew, the metal still faintly warm beneath your fingers. Small acts, but they steadied you.
When you finished, you padded back to the couch. Abby hadn’t moved—book still open, posture relaxed but alert in that way only she could manage. You eased down beside her, then lay back, stretching out until your feet found their way into her lap. She didn’t protest, only shifted slightly to make space, one hand coming to rest absently at your ankle as if she’d been waiting for the weight.
You exhaled, long and shaky, trying to banish the image of your mother hanging in the square from your mind. The memory clung like smoke, but you forced yourself to focus on smaller things—the sound of Abby’s finger flicking over the paper, the faint catch in her breath when the story tightened, the steady thrum of life that her presence always seemed to carry.
Closing your eyes, you let her voice in silence and her breathing fill the room. You followed her cadence, syncing your breaths to hers, until the heaviness inside you eased just enough to let the quiet settle.
After a while, you sat up.
“I’m gonna go for a walk,” you said, voice low.
Abby glanced toward the dark window and shook her head. “It’s late, Joan.”
You stalled in the doorway, rubbing your arm, shoulders drawing in. “I’ll take my rifle,” you said. “Don’t be worried. I won’t go far.”
She breathed out through her nose, then nodded once. “Take the walkie. Check in every ten minutes. It’s getting dark.”
Relief loosened something behind your ribs. You laced your sneakers, clipped the radio to your belt, slung the rifle, and stepped into the night.
The air outside was cool and salt-thick, soft against your cheeks. The path to the beach was a spine of packed dirt and crushed shell, flanked by scrub that breathed a peppery, resinous smell when your thigh brushed it. Somewhere uphill, a night bird clicked and the wind threaded through the empty eaves of houses that had long since lost their glass.
Your boots found the wooden stairs to the sand—old planks, silvered by years of weather, giving quiet under your weight. At the last step the world opened: water, black as ink, shouldering itself toward shore; the sky a dark bowl pricked with a thousand clean stars—no city glow to blur them, just hard, cold points. The moon hung low, a pale coin laying a slick path of light across the swell.
You crossed the upper beach where the sand was dry and soft, and every step sighed and swallowed your heel. Down by the tideline, the ground firmed beneath you, cool and damp, ridged by the retreating water into ripples that fit the curve of your arches. Kelp lay in tangles like oiled rope, knotted with driftwood and bottle caps and a single cracked buoy. Tar pebbles speckled the shore; when your toe nicked one, it smudged like warm wax.
You did a slow sweep out of habit—hills, shore, waterline. Nothing moved but the sea. Still, your hand settled reflexively on the sling, feeling the familiar, unlovely weight of the rifle across your back. Abby’s rules made more sense out here. The ocean could hide anything.
“Joan to Abby,” you said into the walkie, thumb on the worn button. “On the beach. All clear.”
Static, then her voice, low and steady. “Copy. Ten minutes.”
“Ten,” you said, and clipped it back.
You walked until the sand cooled enough to bite your ankles and the hiss of the foam grew big in your ears. The waves came in long, even sets, collapsing with a hollow rush, then retreating with a clatter of shells and pebbles that sounded like someone pouring marbles down a wooden chute. Every so often a larger swell shouldered the rest aside and the shore-break snapped sharp, spraying a fine mist that salted your lips.
The smell down here was layered: clean brine, rotting weed, damp wood, a mineral bite from wet stone. You breathed it in and felt the edge of the house—the memory of your mother’s shoes dripping dark in the square—thin a little, like fog lifting.
You lowered yourself onto the sand where it was firm and cool, and lay back. The beach received you without judgment. Cold pressed through your jacket into your shoulder blades; grains found their way under your collar and into the crease of your wrist. You pillowed your head on your folded arm and let the rifle lie alongside you, a rigid shadow.
Above, the stars were blunt and innumerable. With no power on the island but what the panels caught and the generators coughed, the sky had returned to itself; the Milky Way was a faint river, and every few minutes a satellite drew a patient, silent line between constellations you couldn’t name. On the far side of the cove, sea lions barked and then went quiet, and somewhere offshore a buoy chimed a single tired note whenever the swell nudged it right.
You let your mind wander only as far as your senses. The tide breathed in and out; you matched it—four counts in, six out—until the pulse in your neck eased. You listened to the microscopic sounds that only come when you let the big ones recede: the fizz of foam dying in the sand, the soft tick of a drying kelp bladder, the whisper of wind combing a patch of dune grass behind your head. Your hand found a smooth, flat stone and pressed it into your palm until the edges printed crescents into your skin.
The radio hissed again. “Ten,” Abby said.
You rolled to your side, thumbed the button. “Still good. I’m by the south cove. Stars are… a lot.”
A pause, then something like a smile in her voice. “Copy. Five more and head back.”
“Five,” you said, and lay back down.
Out beyond the break, a long swell lifted, and for a heartbeat the wave-crest sketched a faint electric fizz—maybe plankton, maybe your eyes playing tricks. Either way, it was enough: a reminder that even dark water has edges that light can find. You drew your knees up, let the sand cradle your hips, breathed with the tide, and watched the sky until your chest loosened.
When you finally stood, your back carried the damp cold of the beach, and your palms held the memory of that flat stone. You brushed sand from your calves, took one last look at the slick path the moon had thrown across the water, and turned toward the stairs, the house, and the warm square of light that would be waiting in the window.
You lingered longer than you should have, the sand pressing its cool weight into your back, the waves washing grief out of you one crash at a time.
The radio cracked again. “Joan, do you copy?” Abby’s voice—sharper now, worried.
You sighed and thumbed the button. “Copy.”
Her reply came quick, clipped. “Been ten. Told you five.”
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Mmm… ten more?”
Through the static, you could hear the edge of her frustration. “Get back here.” Gone was the military brevity, just Abby—annoyed, protective, her tone like a hand gripping your collar.
But gods, the sand grounded you. The sea roared and hushed, and for once the ache in your chest wasn’t unbearable. You clicked the button again, whispering, “Soon.”
No answer. Just static.
You let your eyes fall shut, let the rhythm of the tide pull you under. For a few minutes, it felt like the grief was carried away with each retreating wave.
Then—boots. Heavy, deliberate, crunching over the ridges of the beach. You opened your eyes to find her silhouette cutting down the stairs, arms crossed against her chest, hair still damp from her shower.
“Joan,” she hissed, her voice low but sharp, like she was holding back a shout.
You sat up slowly, grains of sand cascading from your jacket. “It’s so nice out here,” you murmured, almost apologetic, almost defiant.
She huffed, the sound halfway between anger and exasperation. “It’s night. Infected roam.”
You nodded, brushing sand from your sleeves, the rifle strap sliding against your shoulder. “Okay, okay,” you said softly.
Together, you started up the beach, her boots leaving deep, neat prints beside your scuffed ones. The rifle weighed heavy across your back, but lighter somehow with her beside you.
Then, without ceremony, her hand found yours. Warm. Firm. Gentle in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.
You squeezed back, the salt air still clinging to your hair, the sound of waves retreating behind you, and for a fleeting moment, the grief loosened its grip.
Inside, the house was hushed again, only the faint murmur of the record still turning in Lev’s room. Abby kicked off her boots near the door with a grunt, shoulders loosening as she padded toward the bedroom. You followed her lead, unlacing yours, shrugging off your jacket and hanging it over the stair rail.
“I’m gonna take a bath,” you said quietly, almost shy about it.
Her eyes flicked over you, curious. “You never take baths.”
You shrugged, lips quirking. “Too lazy to stand in the shower.”
She chuckled, that low, chesty sound of hers, and shook her head. “Suit yourself.” With that, she disappeared into the bedroom. You paused on the landing and caught a glimpse through the open door—Abby already sliding into her side of the bed, blanket at her waist, hair loose over her shoulders, book propped against her thigh. That simple, ordinary sight warmed something in you.
You smiled and turned toward the bathroom.
The faucet groaned when you twisted it open, the pipes rattling like they resented the work. You stuffed a washcloth into the drain to hold the water, steam curling upward as the tub slowly filled. The mirror fogged in patches, but you caught enough of your reflection to study yourself.
Your body had changed. More muscle from running with Abby most mornings, a little more weight than you used to carry. Not soft exactly—firmer, sturdier—but still not her. You stared at the lines of your arms, the curve of your waist, wondering if you’d ever come close to the kind of strength Abby carried like it was just part of her spine.
You sighed and undressed, lowering yourself carefully into the water. It was hot enough to sting, prickling your skin pink, but you welcomed it, letting it swallow you whole. You leaned back, tilting until the water covered your ears and silenced the world. Then you ducked your head under completely, the tub big enough to stretch, big enough for two. For a fleeting moment you imagined her in here with you, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder.
You surfaced slowly, only your eyes and nose breaking the waterline, crocodile-still. The ceiling lights blurred in ripples across the surface, your own reflection fragmenting until it didn’t look like you anymore.
Thoughts drifted in, uninvited. You remembered how foolish you’d sounded earlier, suggesting the idea of having a baby. The words replayed in your head, raw and clumsy. But then—what if?
Pregnant. A life you and Abby had created, something whole and breathing. A piece of the world that was yours alone to nurture. Fresh, unspoiled. Something to love without history gnawing at its edges.
You huffed softly through your nose, ripples spreading across the tub.
Your hand moved almost unconsciously, pressing flat to your belly. Your heart twisted at the thought, a pang somewhere between grief and longing, sharp enough that you closed your eyes and let the water rock against you like an answer you didn’t want to hear.
The water had gone lukewarm, your skin pruned and flushed, when the latch clicked and the bathroom door eased open. Abby stepped in, her shadow cutting across the steam.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.
You nodded, sitting up straighter so the water lapped against your ribs. Droplets trailed down your shoulders.
She didn’t press. Instead, she lowered herself onto the closed lid of the toilet, arms resting loosely on her thighs, content just to be near you.
“I’m getting out soon,” you murmured, swallowing against the tightness in your throat.
She gave a small nod. “Okay.”
For a moment you listened to the water slosh around you, the faint creak of the old pipes, the sound of her breathing steadying the room. Then you let out a sharp exhale through your nose and turned your face away.
“It was stupid,” you whispered. “Suggesting… us having a baby.”
Abby chuckled, not unkindly, the sound breaking the tension like sunlight between clouds. “I don’t think so.”
You glanced back at her, eyes searching. “Really?”
She leaned her elbows on her knees, her expression softening in that rare way she only allowed for you. “Maybe not now,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “but… I think soon.”
Your heart loosened. A slow smile spread across your face as you nodded, the word soon echoing like a promise you hadn’t realized you needed.
The steam curled higher, and for the first time that day, you felt content.
The water had gone tepid, the surface scattered with broken ripples from your shifting legs. You sighed, finally reaching for the wash rag to pull the plug. The drain slurped, pulling the water down in spirals.
Abby stood, crossing the small bathroom in two easy strides. She grabbed a towel from the hook and held it open.
“Come on,” she said gently.
You rose, water sliding in streams down your arms and thighs. You shivered as the air hit your damp skin, but Abby was there immediately, wrapping the towel around your shoulders like armor. She rubbed your arms briskly through the fabric, her movements practical but warm, making sure no chill stuck to you.
“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice small.
She smirked, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t mention it.”
Together you padded down the hallway. The old floor creaked under your bare feet. In the bedroom, the lamp still glowed dimly on Abby’s nightstand, her book folded face-down on the blanket where she’d left it. She tugged the covers back without a word, a gesture so simple it hit you deep.
You slipped into bed, the sheets cool against your freshly warmed skin. Abby slid in beside you, her body radiating heat. She didn’t reach for her book again—just turned to face you, eyes searching in the soft lamplight.
The towel slipped from your shoulders. She pulled you close under the blanket, tucking your head beneath her chin. For a moment, all you heard was the distant hush of the ocean through the open window and the steady thump of her heart beneath your ear.
You thought of her words in the bathroom—maybe not now, but soon—and it settled in you like a seed. You let the rhythm of her breathing carry you, the grief in your chest easing under the weight of her arms.
And for the first time in days, you felt safe enough to let your eyes close.
The house had fallen quiet except for the restless hum of the ocean through the open window. The lamp cast a pale glow across the walls, but Abby reached over and clicked it off, pulling the room into a gentle darkness.
You shifted closer, cheek against the solid plane of her chest, her arms locking around you. For a while, there was only breathing—yours evening out, hers steady and strong. Then her voice broke the quiet, low, almost hesitant.
“You know…” she whispered, her breath warm against your hair. “I never thought I’d have anything close to a family. Not after everything. Not after losing my dad.” She paused, her thumb rubbing lazy circles at your hip. “It felt… impossible. Like some other version of life I didn’t get to have.”
You stirred, tilting your head slightly to listen.
“When Mel told us she was pregnant,” Abby went on, voice soft but tight, “I thought I was happy for her. And I was. But… god, I was jealous too. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help it. She had something I didn’t think I’d ever get. Not with Owen, not with anyone. I figured people like me didn’t get to… to build things like that.”
Her arms tightened around you, as if bracing herself.
“But then you showed up,” she breathed. “And I started thinking different. Started imagining things I thought were gone forever. Expanding something—not just surviving, not just fighting—but… loving. Growing. With you.”
You swallowed, your hand finding hers under the blanket. She squeezed back.
“I don’t care about age,” she said after a moment. “Not yours, not mine. It doesn’t matter. Out here, you could die tomorrow, or ten years from now, or maybe never if we’re lucky. Time’s not promised to anyone. What matters is… what we do with what we’ve got.”
Her forehead pressed lightly to yours in the dark. “And if what we’ve got means building a family—our family—I’d want that. With you.”
The words settled between you like something fragile but alive, too sacred to break. Outside, the waves kept rolling, constant and endless, but inside the small circle of her arms, the world felt still.
Her words drifted through you, heavy and warm, sinking deep like the tide pulling back into the sea. Your body had already begun to fold into sleep, every muscle unwinding, but your mind clung to the sound of her voice.
You shifted, pressing your nose against the hollow of her throat, your voice muffled and groggy. “Mm… Abby…” You swallowed, eyelids too heavy to open. “I’d want that too.”
She stilled a little, as if making sure she’d heard you right.
“I’d… love that. With you,” you murmured, half dream, half truth, words slurring around the edges of exhaustion. Your fingers curled clumsily into the fabric of her shirt, holding on like you were afraid the thought itself might slip away if you let go.
There was a silence, then you felt her lips brush your temple—gentle, deliberate. She exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but too full of relief to be anything but a release.
“Sleep,” she whispered. “We’ll talk more when you’re awake.”
You hummed faintly, already gone, but not before you heard her add, softer still, “I’d love it too, Jo. More than anything.”
And with that, the dark wrapped around you both, the rhythm of her heartbeat carrying you into dreams.

Chapter 76: John

____________________________________________________________________________
The morning came in slow and golden, sunlight bleeding through the curtains in soft stripes across the bed. You woke groggy, the edges of last night blurred but not lost. The words—yours, hers—still clung like salt on your lips.
Abby was already awake, lying on her side, head propped on her hand. She wasn’t reading, not stretching for her boots like usual. She was just… watching you. Quietly. Her eyes tracked the rise and fall of your breath, the way your hair stuck damp to your temple from sleep.
When you stirred, blinking against the light, she gave a small smile. Not her usual smirk, not the sharp grin you were used to, but something softer. Almost shy.
“Morning,” she said, her voice low and husky with sleep.
You hummed, half-burying your face into the pillow. “You’re staring.”
“Maybe,” she said. Her hand found your arm, fingers brushing idly along the curve of your shoulder. “You were… talking in your sleep.”
Your stomach dipped. “Oh?”
She chuckled, leaning closer, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Mumbled something about wanting it too.” She didn’t press, didn’t make it heavier than it already was. But the way her voice lingered on the words told you she hadn’t forgotten a thing.
Heat crept into your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. “Guess I meant it,” you said, groggy but honest.
Abby nodded slowly, like she was tucking the moment somewhere safe. “Good,” she murmured.
The rest of the morning carried a new weight, but not the suffocating kind. She made breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast she burned a little at the edges—and insisted you eat before heading out. She watched you more than usual, not like you were fragile, but like you were hers, like she was already building something in her head you couldn’t quite see.
Every brush of her hand, every glance across the table carried that unspoken soon from the night before, reshaping the silence between you into something warmer, steadier, and full of possibility.
You rinsed the last plate in the sink, the suds sliding off in milky swirls before you set it in the drying rack. Abby hated doing dishes, but you didn’t mind. The rhythm of it was steady, grounding, so you dried them off and tucked them back into their cupboards one by one.
Over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of her at the radio, voice low and even as she checked in with base. The name Rachel crackled through the static. You knew things had been strained there since the big fight. Abby hadn’t gone down to base except for her scheduled patrols, and Rachel seemed to be waiting her out before pulling her into the LA trip.
You let it go. Walked out onto the porch instead. The morning air was crisp, carrying the sharp tang of salt. You sat on the steps, tapping your thighs absently while the tide murmured in the distance. Out beyond the dunes, Lev was skipping rocks. The flat clack of stone on water made you smile—he wasn’t afraid of the ocean anymore. Not the way he used to be.
When you rose and wandered into the garage, you pulled a fresh canvas from the stack and laid out your paints. The familiar scents of linseed and dust greeted you as you set the easel in place.
The door creaked, and Abby stepped inside.
“Hey,” you breathed, glancing at her as you sorted brushes.
She lingered in the doorway, eyes restless. You could tell something was chewing at her.
“I could get us…” She cleared her throat, awkward. “The… jizz.”
You nearly choked on your own spit, whipping your head toward her. “What?!”
Her face flushed a deep red. “Why not just do it?”
You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “Abby, we just had the worst fight of our lives. I ran away for three months. And now you want—what, a baby?”
She lifted her chin, though you could see her pulse at her throat. “Who cares?”
You narrowed your eyes, testing the air between you, searching her expression for the edge of a joke. “That’s not nothing. This would be permanent, Abigail.”
She shivered, but her gaze held steady. “I know.”
Your chest rose and fell. Then you sighed, rubbing your arm. “…Alright. Let’s do it.”
Her lips broke into a quick, almost disbelieving smile. “I’ll get it from base.”
Your brow twitched. “Wait. In a cup? From who exactly?”
She gave a sheepish chuckle. “A guy who offered. My friend John. He does a lot of the inland runs. I might have… vented.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “He offered.”
“Not in a creepy way!” she rushed to explain, hands lifted defensively. “He just—he knew I’d been thinking about it. He’s… a good guy.”
You stared, deadpan. “…Uh huh. Just get it, and then we’ll talk.”
She nodded, still grinning, before slipping back out the door.
Left alone, you turned back to your canvas, shaking your head. “She is so weird,” you muttered under your breath, but the corner of your mouth tugged up despite yourself.
You shook your head again, trying to shake off the absurdity of what had just come out of Abby’s mouth. The jizz. God. Only she could make something that serious sound like a line from a bad joke.
Still, as you squeezed paint onto your palette, the idea kept circling back. Permanent. A baby. You swirled blue into white, the bristles dragging across the canvas in long arcs that quickly began to look like waves.
You muttered under your breath, “She’s insane.” But the brush didn’t stop.
Your mind slipped to Lev out on the beach. You hadn’t even needed to look at him long to capture him—his thin frame bent forward, arm cocked back with a flat stone in hand, the moment right before release. You painted him small against the wide mouth of the ocean, the sky huge and open above him. His stance was loose, not frozen by fear anymore. Confident. Free.
Your brush slowed at that. He was free now, wasn’t he? Free because Abby had been stubborn enough to tear him out of the Seraphites’ grip. Because she’d given him something like family when he had nothing.
And what about you?
You dipped into the darker blue, sketching out the ripples where his stone would have struck the water. Your chest tightened. A family. That word used to be poison to you. Something broken and jagged. You’d thought you weren’t meant to carry it, not in your blood, not in your hands.
But Abby… Abby made it sound possible. Like “family” could be something you built from scratch, messy and strange but still real.
Your stomach twisted. Was this really how it happened? Not candlelight, not some grand plan—just Abby barging into the garage blurting the jizz like it was as simple as fetching salt for dinner?
You pressed the brush harder than you meant to, streaking the sea too dark. With a grunt, you softened it, blending it out, trying to calm the image.
Lev’s shape came together, though—slender, his arm extended mid-throw, his head tipped with the faintest suggestion of a grin. You swallowed. You wanted to hold onto that expression. That joy.
You leaned back, wiping a smear of blue from your cheek with your wrist. Maybe Abby was crazy. Maybe you were too, for even considering it. But if the world was going to keep grinding down everyone you loved, wasn’t it a little crazy not to try to make something new?
Your hand drifted down to your belly again without thinking, the same way it had in the bath. The gesture lingered as you stared at Lev’s painted figure on the sand, small but unshaken against the vast sea.
“Family,” you whispered to yourself, testing the word like it might crack if you spoke it too loud.
You set the brush down and wiped your fingers on a rag until only faint smudges of blue and green stained your knuckles. The canvas leaned half-finished on the easel, Lev frozen mid-throw, the sea sprawling behind him. You exhaled, long and shaky, then pushed up from the stool.
The house felt cooler when you stepped back inside. Sunlight angled across the floorboards, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. You headed upstairs, stripping off the paint-streaked shirt and tugging on something clean. On the way, you scooped up the pants you’d left crumpled by the bed earlier and folded them neatly into the drawer. A small act, but one that made the room feel less unsettled.
When you came back down, the door creaked and Lev slipped inside. His cheeks were flushed from the ocean air, hair sticking damp to his forehead. He dropped a handful of smooth rocks onto the coffee table with a soft clatter, then flopped onto the couch with a book in hand. A minute later, you heard the low crackle of his record player spin to life. Something old and mellow filled the space, the scratch of vinyl weaving warmth through the living room.
You lingered in the doorway, watching him. He didn’t even glance up—just tucked his legs under himself and bent closer to the page, humming a little off-key with the record.
You tied your hair back and stepped into the kitchen. The fridge held what you expected—leftover meat Abby had traded off, and a sack of potatoes starting to sprout. You didn’t mind. It was enough.
You set a knife to the cutting board, the scrape of steel against wood sharp and steady. Potatoes fell into uneven cubes, skins curling against your fingers. You dropped them into the hot skillet, the hiss filling the silence before you added strips of meat. The smell rose quickly—earthy starch, sizzling fat, salt.
From the couch, Lev turned a page, his voice low as he read a line aloud, then fell back into silence.
You stirred the pan, chewing your lip. The thought had been buzzing in your chest all afternoon, and it pressed harder now, with the quiet safety of home wrapped around you both.
“Hey, Lev?”
He hummed absently, eyes still on his book.
You hesitated, spoon scraping the skillet. “What… would you think if Abby and I had a baby someday?”
That got his attention. His head lifted, brow furrowed, as though he was weighing whether you were serious.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. He closed the book on his finger and leaned back into the couch. “You mean… like, raising one here?”
You shrugged, watching the meat curl at the edges. “Yeah. A life. Something new. Not just surviving all the time.”
Lev was quiet for a moment, record static filling the space between you. Then he let out a soft breath. “I think it’d be… weird. But good. If anyone could do it, it’s you two.” He looked back at his book, voice dropping softer. “You’d make it better than most people ever could. You guys get over almost anything together.”
Your throat tightened. You stirred the pan once more, blinking against the steam. “Thanks, kid.”
He only shrugged, already sinking back into the comfort of his page and the record’s tired melody. But his words stayed with you, heavier than the skillet in your hand, warm as the scent of dinner filling the house.
You stirred the pan again, the potatoes catching crisp on the edges, steam fogging up the window above the sink. Lev hadn’t gone back to reading yet—he was still sitting there with the book half-shut on his lap, chewing over what you’d asked.
After a moment, he said, “It wouldn’t just be your baby, you know. It’d be… ours. Like… family. All of us.”
You glanced over your shoulder. He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze fixed instead on the spinning record as though the answer might be written in the grooves.
“Yeah,” you said softly, returning the spoon to the skillet. “That’s kind of the point.”
Lev leaned back against the couch, tucking one leg underneath himself. “It’d be loud. Babies always cry.” He made a face. “But… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”
You chuckled under your breath. “You’ve been around crying babies?”
He nodded. “On patrols. Some of the settlements we pass through—kids everywhere. Whole families crammed into one building. It’s…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Overwhelming. But kind of nice too. Makes the quiet feel less… empty.”
You plated up the food, sliding the skillet off the flame, but didn’t hand the plates over yet. “You’ve been doing more group runs lately, huh?”
Lev finally looked at you. “Yeah. Rachel put me with some of the younger teams. Guess she thinks I need more practice leading.” He rolled his eyes. “Mostly it’s just babysitting people who don’t know how to move quiet.”
You leaned on the counter, listening. “Anyone good?”
“Couple,” he admitted. “There’s this girl, Mara. She’s sharp. Better with a bow than I was when I started. Then there’s Kien…” He shook his head, fighting a smile. “He’s hopeless. Trips over everything. Talks too much. I don’t know how he hasn’t gotten us killed yet.”
You laughed, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. “Sounds familiar. Abby used to complain about me the exact same way.”
Lev smirked, flipping his book closed at last. “Guess that means you’ll know how to deal with him, then.”
You brought the plates over, setting one in front of him. The record skipped once, then steadied, filling the room with warm static and strings. Lev dug in without hesitation, steam curling around his face.
“Thanks,” he said through a mouthful of potato.
You sat across from him, watching him eat. “Hey, Lev?”
He looked up, cheeks full.
You hesitated just a second, then said, “If it ever happens—if Abby and I really do it—you’d be like an older brother. You know that, right?”
He blinked at you, fork halfway to his mouth. Then he gave the faintest, crooked smile. “Yeah. I’d be okay with that.”
You’d just set the plates down when Abby strode in, John right behind her. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a storm—dark hair messy from salt air, face half-hidden by a beard that hadn’t seen a proper trim in months. His clothes were worn, patched over at the elbows, and he smelled faintly of brine and old rope. Handsome, sure, but in that weathered fisherman way that made you wonder if he’d ever actually been dry.
Lev perked up from the couch. “You’re back.”
“Brought a guest,” Abby said too casually, motioning at John like he was just another patrol buddy. “Hope there’s enough food.”

Chapter 77: A cup and a Turkey Baster

“There’s always enough if you’re not picky,” you muttered, sliding an extra plate onto the table with more force than necessary.
John sat, polite but quiet, folding himself into the chair opposite Lev. He gave you a nod of thanks, eyes steady, and for a second you felt pinned under them before turning back to your skillet.
Dinner was… awkward. The record still played low, the potatoes were crisp and the meat tender, but the silence around the table stretched thin. Lev filled it in small bursts—telling Abby about a patrol he’d led, how Mara’s aim had improved, how Kien still tripped over every damned root in the forest. Abby smiled, hummed encouragement, but her eyes kept flicking toward John.
John mostly kept his head down, chewing methodically, nodding at Lev’s stories, occasionally offering a low chuckle that rumbled like distant thunder.
You sat stiff in your chair, waiting. Watching.
Finally, Lev finished his food, stretched, and grabbed his book off the table. “I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight,” Abby said warmly, reaching to ruffle his hair as he passed. He ducked out of reach, muttering something under his breath that made her grin. His footsteps faded up the stairs, the creak of the floorboards giving you the signal you’d been waiting for.
The second his door shut, you set your fork down with a sharp clink and turned to Abby. “Okay. Why is he here?”
Abby shifted, clearing her throat. “Because we… needed him.”
Your eyes cut to John. “For what, exactly?”
John finally looked up, and up close you could see how striking he was beneath the scruff—dark eyes, sharp jaw, skin weathered by years on the water. He didn’t flinch under your stare, didn’t even look uncomfortable. “She told me what you two were thinking. Figured I could help.” His voice was low, gravelly, the kind of tone that carried without being raised.
Your stomach dropped. “Help. Right.” You looked back at Abby, narrowing your eyes. “And you thought bringing him here, to dinner, with Lev in the room, was the way to handle this?”
Abby bristled but held your gaze. “I didn’t want to wait. We need someone we can trust, and he offered.”
You leaned back hard in your chair, rubbing your temples. “Unbelievable.”
John’s mouth tugged into the faintest smirk, his scruffy jaw shadowing the expression. “You make it sound worse than it is.”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I thought we were doing… cup method?”
Abby choked on her water, coughing into her sleeve.
John nodded evenly, like this was the most normal dinner talk in the world. “Wanted to.”
You stared between them, incredulous. “Then… what?”
Abby let out a long breath, rubbing at her forehead like she wished she could erase the entire conversation. “Well, one—I thought you should meet him. That’s probably… what’s polite.”
You cut her off with a sharp bark of laughter. “Polite? Abby, we’re not asking him over for tea.”
She glared at you, cheeks red. “Two—I asked for advice from our doctor down at the tents.”
“Go on,” you said flatly, folding your arms.
She huffed again, dragging her hand down her face. “Turns out… the—” She cleared her throat, voice dropping. “The goods are only viable for a short amount of time. The little swimmy things—”
“Sperm,” John interrupted, deadpan, not even looking up from his plate.
Abby pointed at him like he’d nailed the answer on a quiz. “Right. Sperm. They die pretty fast.”
You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “Oh my god.” The heat of mortification crawled up your neck until you thought you’d combust right there at the table.
Abby shifted in her seat, clearly regretting this entire plan but too stubborn to admit it. John just shrugged, scratching his beard with one scarred knuckle, as if you were all discussing fishing lures instead of his… contribution.
The record popped faintly in the background. The potatoes had gone cold on your plate. And you’d never wished harder for Lev to come barreling back down the stairs as a distraction.
John shifted in his chair and pulled something from his pocket—a battered plastic cup. He set it casually on the table like it was nothing. “I could do it now, then.”
Your eyes went wide. “Holy shit.” You stared at the cup, then at him, eyebrows furrowed so hard it hurt. “Oh my fucking god.”
Abby practically lunged, shoving his hand back toward his pocket. “Hold on!”
He barked out a laugh, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Well, c’mon. You two want baby juice or what?”
Your entire face went hot as you dropped it into your palms. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.” Your voice muffled through your hands, half-horrified, half-hysterical. “This is not how I imagined it.”
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, glaring at him. “John. Not. At. Dinner.”
He just chuckled, unfazed, scratching at his scruffy jaw like he’d offered to fix a leaky pipe instead of… this. “Hey, I’m just trying to help.”
You peeked through your fingers, still reeling. “Help? This is—this is not—oh my god, I need a minute.”
Abby looked at you, then at the ridiculous cup now hidden back in John’s pocket, and groaned. “This is such a disaster.”
John grinned, dark eyes glinting. “Could be worse. I’ve heard weirder requests on the docks.”
You groaned louder, face back in your hands. “Please don’t tell me that.”
You slipped out the front door before either of them could notice, the screen creaking shut behind you. Cool night air wrapped around you, damp with salt and earth. You sat on the porch step, chewing at your nails until they ached.
Your stomach twisted. You wanted this to be something special—something tender, private, born out of love. Not… John and his damn baby juice in a plastic cup.
You huffed, staring at the dirt between your boots. But really—when had anything in your life ever gone the way you thought it would?
Your chest tightened. You wanted this. Abby wanted this. And wasn’t that enough?
Still, when you glanced through the window, you caught Abby and John in the kitchen together. They were stacking dishes, wiping the table, laughing at something he’d said. For just a heartbeat, a pang shot through your chest—sharp, unexpected. You felt… small. Less than.
The thought slipped in before you could shove it away: I wish I were a man. I wish I could just give her this myself.
You shut your eyes hard, shaking your head like you could fling the thought into the dark.
When you finally went back inside, the air was warmer, heavy with the last traces of dinner. John was drying his hands on a rag. He glanced up and offered you a small, soft smile.
“Hey,” he said simply.
He was nice, you couldn’t deny that. But god—so weird.
And yet, this weird, scruffy fisherman might actually be the key to the thing you and Abby wanted most. The thought made your insides flip all over again.
You leaned against the counter, arms folded, while Abby finished tucking leftovers into jars and sliding them onto the fridge shelf. The clink of glass was the only sound until you finally drew in a long, shaky breath.
“So,” you said, voice low, “would you… want contact with the baby?”
John looked up from where he was drying his hands, scratching at his scruffy beard. He tilted his head, thinking. “Didn’t think of that.” His voice carried that lazy Southern drawl you hadn’t noticed until now. He clicked his tongue, then shrugged. “Well, yeah, but it doesn’t have to call me dad. Just… cool to see. You know? It’d be both of yours. I never wanted kids. I’m not the father type.” He puffed out his lips, as if dismissing the thought. “But if you need someone to show ‘em how to, I don’t know… gut a fish or fix a net—” he waved vaguely at the room, “hell, you two probably already know how to do just about everything. So yeah. I don’t mind. Whatever you like.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the strange mix of earnestness and nonchalance. His voice had softened, clearer now, the twang riding easy at the edges.
“Okay,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “Fuck it.”
Abby’s ears perked, her head snapping toward you. “Yeah?”
You jabbed your thumb toward the stairs. “Bathroom’s to the right.”
John grinned, that roguish fisherman’s smile breaking across his face. “Order forty-five, coming right up!” He chuckled and strode toward the staircase, boots heavy on the floorboards.
You crinkled your nose, staring after him. “Forty-five?” you asked, baffled.
Abby groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Ignore it.”
You turned back to her, wide-eyed. “This is insane.”
Her lips pressed together, but you caught the twitch of a smile she was trying—and failing—to suppress.
You stood shoulder to shoulder with Abby in the kitchen, both of you frozen in that strange, unbearable silence. The only sounds were the soft tick of the cooling stove and the faint groan of the old pipes upstairs.
After ten long minutes, you finally broke.
“Abby?”
She turned her head slightly. “Yes?”
You pressed your lips together, exhaling hard through your nose. “He’s jerking off in our bathroom.”
Abby blinked once, then gave a slow nod. “That’s… how you get the jizz.”
You stared at her, deadpan. “The jizz.”
She nodded again, just as flat. “Jizz.”
The word hung between you both like smoke.
You let out a strangled laugh, covering your face with one hand. “This is not real life.”
Abby smirked despite herself, arms crossed. “Could be worse. He could’ve asked for mood lighting.”
Your laugh turned into a groan. “Oh my god. Don’t give him ideas.”
Abby smirked, eyes glinting. “Or a nude magazine.”
You groaned and smacked her shoulder lightly. “Oh come on!”
The two of you broke, laughter spilling out until it almost felt normal—until the heavy creak of footsteps came down the stairs.
John reappeared, holding the little plastic cup like it was some kind of prize. The contents sloshed thick and cloudy, nearly to the brim.
Your eyes went wide. “That’s… a lot.” Your brows knitted in disbelief.
He cleared his throat, straight-faced. “I’m a healthy man.”
You and Abby snapped a look at each other, speechless.
John extended the cup with care. Abby took it with both hands like she was holding nitroglycerin, moving slow so she didn’t spill a drop. Then, with a terrifying sort of practicality, she reached into a cabinet, pulled out a turkey baster, and turned to you with a wide grin.
“Ready?”
Your stomach dropped. You looked from her, to the baster, then back at John. “…You can crash on the couch.”
He nodded, polite as ever. “All right.” He rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled toward the living room, clearly eager to vanish from the tension.
Abby tilted her head toward the stairs. You followed her up, heart pounding, and shut the bedroom door firmly behind you. The muffled clunk of John settling onto the couch drifted faintly through the floorboards.
You turned, cheeks burning. “How long’s it good for?” you asked shyly, gesturing at the ridiculous cup still in her hands.
Abby frowned, thinking, brow furrowed. “Doctor said… maybe ten minutes?” She winced. “Fifteen tops.”
You nodded shyly and slipped your pants down, your face hot with embarrassment. Abby set the cup and the turkey baster on the nightstand with slow, deliberate care, then leaned over you on the bed. Her voice dropped, soft and low.
“I love you, Joan.”
Her lips found yours, pink and warm, and the kiss stole your breath. You whimpered against her mouth, the sound trembling out of you. It had been so long since she touched you like this, and now the contrast between her tenderness and the ridiculousness of what was waiting on the nightstand made your chest ache.
Your hips moved instinctively beneath her hand, and when she slipped her middle finger inside you, you gasped around the pressure, biting down hard on your lip.
Her mouth traced your throat, her sigh warm against your skin. “I’m sorry, Joan… but we have to be fast.”
You whimpered again, nodding.
Abby sat back, filled the baster carefully, and your stomach flipped.
“Oh god,” you groaned, covering your face with both hands.
Her voice steadied, calm and grounding. “Just focus on me.”
Your breath came shallow and shaky. You tried to think of her instead of the mechanics of it, but anxiety clawed in anyway. You hadn’t tracked your cycle well—you thought your period had been a week, maybe two weeks ago. Was this even the right time? Would it work? Would you have to do this again? The thought made your chest seize.
Then came the cool, foreign press of plastic against you.
You winced, recoiling. “Oh, gross. Oh my god, gross.”
Abby winced in sympathy, pressing her forehead lightly to yours. “I know, I know.”
She depressed the bulb gently, and you gasped, stomach clenching.
You squirmed, hands flying to your belly, gagging out complaints. “So fucking gross…”
She nodded, steadying you with a hand on your thigh. “Almost done.”
When she reached for the cup again, you stopped her with a quick hand to her wrist. “We don’t need that much.”
Abby’s brows lifted. “You sure?”
You gagged again, eyes squeezing shut. “So fucking sure.”
Her lips twitched with a reluctant grin, though her eyes stayed soft on yours. “Okay. Then we’ll stop.”
She set the baster aside and eased down beside you, pulling the blanket up over your legs, her hand finding yours.
The room smelled faintly of paint from your hands, faintly of salt from the sea air still clinging to her skin. You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face against her shoulder.
“This is not how I pictured making a baby.”
Abby kissed the top of your head, murmuring into your hair. “Yeah, but it’s ours.”
She kissed the top of your head, then sat back a little, her brows raising. “You need to put your legs up.” She twirled her finger in the air, gesturing for you to flip around and prop yourself up against the headboard.
You froze, staring at her coldly. “What?”
Abby pinched her nose with mock patience. “You gotta keep it in you for, like, an hour. Helps with implantation.” A smug little grin tugged at her mouth, proud of the new trivia she’d picked up.
Your eyes narrowed. “What the fuck?”
She chuckled, leaning closer like she was letting you in on a secret. “Okay, fine, not an hour. Five minutes. C’mon, humor me. It makes sure it works.” Her grin widened, teeth flashing. “Plus… it’s more likely to be a girl that way. Girl sperm are slower.” She tapped her temple. “Read it in a book.”
You groaned, disbelief dripping from your voice. “This is insane.”
But with a silent, exaggerated complaint, you turned over and shoved your legs up to the headboard, knees bent awkwardly, feeling ridiculous. “I feel like an overfilled canteen,” you muttered, pressing your hands against your belly. “This is gross.”
Abby chuckled, sitting beside you, her calloused hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead. “You can shower soon. Just… a few minutes.”
You sighed dramatically, tapping your stomach like you could will the process along. The record downstairs crackled faintly through the floorboards.
After a long pause, Abby’s voice softened. “I’m glad we have that spare bedroom.”
Your eyes flicked to hers. “Yeah. We’ll have to clear all the storage out of there.”
She groaned, already dreading it. “I’m not looking forward to that.”
A small smile tugged at your lips despite everything. “Me neither. But I guess it’s worth it.”
Her hand squeezed yours gently, her grin settling into something steadier. “Yeah. It’s worth it.”
You shifted against the headboard, legs still awkwardly propped up, sighing dramatically. “This is humiliating.”
Abby smirked, smoothing your hair back from your temple. “It’s science,” she teased, her tone mock-serious.
You groaned. “It’s weird.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, chuckling. Then her hand traced idle circles on the back of your palm. “But just think—once we clear out that spare room, we could paint the walls. Make it nice.”
Your head tilted toward her. “What color?”
She squinted like she was actually considering it. “Green. Like… not baby green, but forest green. Strong.”
You snorted. “Strong green.”
She grinned. “You know what I mean.”
You tapped your stomach and smirked faintly. “I was thinking yellow. Something bright. Feels… hopeful.”
Abby hummed, her face softening. “Could do both. Half and half. Or stripes, if we’re feeling ambitious.”
You laughed, a quiet, breathless sound. “Stripes? You and me with paint rollers? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Hey, I’m precise,” she argued, nudging your shoulder.
“Precise with guns, not brushes,” you shot back, and she laughed into the crook of your neck.
Silence lingered a moment, gentler now. You closed your eyes, letting yourself picture it—the small room cleared of boxes, sunlight pooling across painted walls, maybe a crib in the corner. Something new. Something alive.
Abby squeezed your hand. “We’ll make it good, Jo. Whatever it looks like.”
Your chest loosened, and for once, lying there with your legs absurdly braced against the wall, you believed her.

Chapter 78: Porch Dog

The silence stretched, the picture of that little nursery lingering between you both. But eventually your thighs began to ache from holding them up and the absurdity of it all pressed back in. You let your legs fall, tugging the blanket down as you exhaled.
“Okay,” you muttered, “I need a shower. Now.”
Abby grinned, leaning back on her palms. “Fair.”
You slid off the bed, tugging your shirt down as you stood. But the moment you moved, a wet slip made your stomach clench with disgust. You froze, grimacing.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, shuffling awkwardly toward the bathroom. “This is so gross.”
Abby chuckled softly behind you, trying not to laugh outright. “Don’t think about it too much.”
But you were thinking about it—the heavy, unpleasant trickle against your thighs, the way it made you feel like you were leaking oil instead of trying to make a child. Every step was sticky, humiliating.
You hissed through your teeth, muttering, “This is vile, this is so vile,” as you shut the bathroom door.
The water roared to life, steam curling around the tile. You peeled off your clothes quickly and stepped under the spray, relief rushing over your skin. You braced your hands on the wall, forehead pressing to the cool tile, while the water sluiced everything away.
Still, you couldn’t stop the groan that escaped your throat as you felt more of it slide out of you, spiraling down the drain. “Oh my god,” you said again, voice muffled by the steam. “So fucking gross.”
Behind the door, you could hear Abby moving around the bedroom, humming low like she always did when she was trying to keep herself busy. She was giving you space.
You let the hot water run, trying to wash away the sticky shame of the moment. And yet, beneath the disgust, a thin thread of hope tugged at your chest. Maybe this worked. Maybe the grossness meant nothing next to what could come of it.
You sighed, letting the spray pound across your back, clinging to that thought as the water carried the rest of it away.
You shut the water off with a squeak of the pipes, the steam already beginning to fade into the cooler night air. Drying off quickly, you slipped into your softest pajamas, the fabric clinging warm against freshly scrubbed skin.
With a dramatic sigh, you padded back into the bedroom. Abby was propped up against the headboard, legs stretched long, her book balanced on one knee.
You stopped in the doorway, puffed your stomach out as far as it would go, and cradled it with both hands like some caricature of a glowing mother-to-be. “Did it work?” you asked in a mock-serious tone, then burst into laughter.
Abby snorted, the sound rich and unrestrained, and shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
You climbed into bed beside her, still giggling, and she wrapped one arm around you as if it were second nature. You nestled your head against her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath the fabric of her shirt. The rise and fall of her breathing calmed you in a way nothing else could.
She kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment before thumbing back to her place in the book. Her eyes skimmed the lines, her focus steady. The corner of the pages looked worn, a sign she was almost finished.
You closed your eyes, letting her heartbeat and the faint scratch of a turning page lull you, the earlier chaos dissolving into something simple and whole.
Your eyelids sagged heavy, her heartbeat a steady metronome beneath your ear. The soft rustle of paper turning tugged at your drifting mind.
“What’re you reading?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Abby glanced down at you, one brow lifting, the faintest smile on her lips. “The Road,” she murmured. “By Cormac McCarthy.”
You cracked one eye open, giving her a hazy look. “That some cheery bedtime story?”
She smirked faintly. “Not exactly. It’s bleak. Father and son walking through a world that’s… already gone. But there’s something—” she hesitated, searching for the word, “—quiet about it. Beautiful, in a messed-up way.”
You groaned, letting your eyes slip shut again. “Of course you’d read something depressing to unwind.”
Abby chuckled low in her chest, her hand rubbing lazy circles on your arm. “What else is there?”
You gave a sleepy laugh, half-muffled against her shirt. “Nerd.”
She kissed the top of your head, voice softening. “Takes one to know one.”
The faint scrape of her turning another page was the last thing you heard before sleep pulled you under.
_______________________________________________________________________
Morning light spilled weak and gold across the floorboards, the sea air damp in the curtains. You woke slow, your cheek stuck to Abby’s shirt, her arm heavy around your waist. For a minute, it almost felt normal — like the night before hadn’t happened.
Then the smell of coffee hit your nose.
You blinked, sat up, and frowned. Abby groaned beside you, rubbing her face. “Who’s making coffee?”
The answer came with a cheery knock on your bedroom door. “Made a pot! Didn’t know how you take it, so I left it black.”
You and Abby froze, eyes snapping to each other.
“…John,” you mouthed.
Abby dragged her hand down her face, muttering, “Of course he’s still here.”
You padded downstairs, Abby trailing after. And there he was — barefoot now, hair even messier than last night, scruff shadowing his jaw, a little fat, shirt off, humming tunelessly as he poured steaming coffee into mismatched mugs.
“Morning,” he greeted, casual as if he belonged there. He gestured toward the counter. “Hope you don’t mind. Kitchen’s nicer than mine.”
You stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re… still here.”
He grinned, holding up a mug like a toast. “You said I could crash on the couch. Couch was fine. Little squeaky, but I’ve slept on worse.”
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “This guy.”
You leaned closer to her, whispering, “He’s like… polite but feral. I don’t know what to do with him.”
John, oblivious, was already rummaging in your cupboards. “Got anything to eat? Fish keeps fine for breakfast, if you’ve got some potatoes left.” He winked over his shoulder. “I’ll cook this time.”
You and Abby shared another long look. She sighed, lips twitching despite herself.
Such a character, wasn’t he? Too nice to throw out, too weird to fully accept.
Lev tromped down the stairs, hair mussed, rubbing his eyes. He stopped halfway into the kitchen, blinking at the sight of John barefoot at the stove, bare chest out, spatula in hand.
Lev’s nose wrinkled. “Why don’t you have a shirt on?”
John patted his stomach proudly. “Airing out.”
You looked sideways at Abby, who looked like she was holding in a laugh.
John wasn’t old — maybe thirty at most — but the way he carried himself, it was like he’d skipped straight to old fisherman eccentric. Comedic and weird, but strangely comfortable in your space.
You eyed him as you grabbed oats from the cupboard. “Do you live with anyone? And don’t worry, I can make us porridge.”
He wagged the spatula at you. “I got it, little lady. And yes, I do.”
Abby raised a brow, curious. You crossed your arms. “Who?”
John reached into his sack, pulling out a bundle of smoked dry fish that smelled strong enough to make you wince. He tossed it into the pan with the potatoes, steam rising in curls.
“I live closer to the west shore. Easier to get into the city for supply runs, raids, invasions — you know, the usual.”
The usual? you thought. Invasions weren’t… usual.
He shifted as he cooked, his broad frame casting shadows across the stove. Muscular but not lean, thick with scruff and the kind of strength earned from hauling nets and rowing boats. Not unattractive, just unkempt in a way that made him seem even older than he was.
Then he said it casually, “Oh yeah, live with my boyfriend.”
Your eyes shot wide. Abby, meanwhile, broke into a grin, the little jealousy you’d felt last night dissolving into something foolish.
“Boyfriend?” you asked, stunned.
“Yup,” John said cheerfully, flipping the fish. “Me and Richard.”
You slapped your face into your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were gay?”
He chuckled, utterly unfazed. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause you’re gay too — figured you’d smell it on me.”
Abby snorted, covering her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.
At the counter, Lev popped a handful of berries into his mouth, chewing slowly as he frowned at John. “When are you gonna put on a shirt?”
John grinned, wagging the spatula again. “Just for that, never.”
Lev rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. Abby finally laughed out loud, the sound spilling into the room. You couldn’t help it — you joined her.
The fish and potatoes were better than you expected once the onions had softened down, filling the house with a rich, savory smell. John dished the plates with surprising care, then plopped into the chair across from Lev, right beside Abby.
He ate like a bear, hunched forward, shoveling food into his mouth with no hesitation. “Damn,” he said at last, leaning back and patting his belly. “I make a good meal.”
You nodded, chewing slowly. “Not bad.”
Lev, still chewing, mumbled through a full mouth, “It’s good.”
Abby sighed, propped her chin on her hand, and let her eyes wander to the window. The sound of John’s fork slowed, then stopped altogether. He rocked his chair back and forth, staring at the grain of the table. You could tell something was working through him.
“I’ll be out of here soon,” he said softly. “I miss Richard.”
Abby nodded once. “I’ll walk you back to base.”
But John waved her off. “Radioed him to get me.”
Almost on cue, a knock hit the door. Abby pushed up from her chair and opened it.
The man standing there was John’s opposite in every way — tall, broad, but polished. His dark skin gleamed with sweat from the walk, his jaw clean-shaven, his hair trimmed close. He looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster, not in your messy kitchen.
“Thanks for letting him stay here after… the exchange,” Richard said, his voice smooth, polite.
You swallowed, shifting awkwardly in your seat. “Yep.”
John, beaming, grabbed a spare plate and shoved it into Richard’s hands. “Eat this.”
Richard crinkled his nose, glaring at the steaming fish. “You know I hate fish.”
John poked the plate against Richard’s stomach, his grin wide and ridiculous. “Eaaaaaat ittttt.”
You froze, eyebrows furrowing as you turned to Abby. She met your stare with one of her own, caught between disbelief and a laugh she couldn’t quite suppress.
Lev, meanwhile, gawked outright, his spoon dangling midair like he was watching a circus act.
Deciding quickly that you’d had enough of the bizarre theater, you gathered the empty plates. The sound of water rushing in the sink was a welcome excuse — better to drown out the voices behind you than try to make sense of the spectacle they made together.
Behind you, John laughed like a man who had never been embarrassed in his life.
It didn’t take long after Richard showed up. The two of them finished their awkward back-and-forth about the fish, and John finally hauled himself up from the table. He clapped Abby on the shoulder, gave you a crooked grin, and winked at Lev before heading out with his partner.
The door shut behind them, leaving the house strangely quiet.
Abby exhaled, rubbing at her face. “Well… that was an experience.”
You set the last dish into the rack, water dripping from your hands. “Sweet, but so weird,” you muttered.
Abby chuckled, leaning back in her chair. “He’s one of a kind.”
Lev, who had been unusually quiet since Richard arrived, finally spoke up. “He’s my favorite to do group patrols with.”
Both you and Abby looked over at him, surprised.
Lev shrugged, popping another berry into his mouth like it was obvious. “He doesn’t treat me like a kid. Doesn’t hover. Just… talks to me. Lets me make my own calls, even when they’re wrong. And he makes the long hikes less boring.”
Abby’s expression softened. “Huh.”
You tilted your head, drying your hands on a rag. “I guess I can see that. He’s got… that big brother energy. Weird big brother, but still.”
Lev smirked. “Yeah. Like if a weird uncle and a fisherman had a baby.”
Abby laughed at that, shaking her head. “That’s about right.”
You leaned on the counter, watching Lev grin to himself. For all of John’s eccentricities, the kid clearly liked him—and maybe that said more than anything else could.
Abby caught your eye and smiled, small and a little tired, but warm.
The three of you let the quiet settle, the house finally yours again.
Lev scraped the last of his berries into his mouth, then stretched with a groan. “I’m gonna head upstairs. Need some quiet time.”
Abby ruffled his hair as he passed, earning a grumble and an eye-roll, before his footsteps creaked up the stairs. A door shut, leaving the house with only the sound of the tide in the distance.
You leaned against the counter, arms folded. Abby was still sitting at the table, tracing the rim of her empty mug. The silence stretched for a beat, heavy with everything unsaid.
The quiet lingered, sunlight cutting sharp squares across the table. Abby’s thumb brushed absently over your knuckles, but her jaw worked like she was holding something back.
You tilted your head. “What?”
She sighed, eyes flicking to the window before returning to you. “I’ve been thinking about that nursery. If this… if it works.”
You smiled faintly. “You and your strong-green walls?”
Her lips twitched. “Yeah. But more than that. We’d have to clear everything out—those boxes, the old tools. Make space.”
You nodded slowly. “It’ll be a lot of work. But… worth it.”
Her hand squeezed yours. “It is. And Jo?” She leaned in, her voice dropping low. “If you’re pregnant, you’re not gonna have the same freedoms.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
Her gaze sharpened. “No patrols. No hauling crates. No running into the city for trades. You’ll stay close to home. With me, or Lev. That’s non-negotiable.”
Your brows furrowed. “Abby—”
She cut you off gently, but firmly. “I mean it. I saw what happened with Mel. She didn’t listen to limits, pushed herself, and—” Abby stopped, her jaw tightening. “I won’t let that happen again. Not to you.”
You swallowed, a twinge of defiance tugging in your chest. “So I just sit around? Do nothing?”
Her expression softened, but the steel stayed in her voice. “You’ll still do plenty. Just… safer things. Painting that nursery. Making sure you eat. Resting when I tell you to rest.”
You huffed, leaning back. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”
Abby smirked, but her eyes warmed as she brushed her thumb across the back of your hand again. “Maybe. But I’d rather you hate me for being strict than lose you.”
Your chest tightened, the weight of her words sinking in. You thought of your body changing—stretching, reshaping, becoming something new. Scary, but alive. You touched your stomach unconsciously, imagining it.
“Guess I’ll need new clothes,” you murmured.
Abby chuckled softly. “Guess you will. And I’ll be there every step, making sure you don’t overdo it.”
You sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible.”
Her hand slid to cup your jaw, her eyes steady on yours. “And you’re mine. Which means I’m not taking chances.”
You leaned into her palm, a strange mix of nerves and comfort threading through you. “Fine. But if you try to paint those walls strong-green without me, we’re gonna fight.”
Abby laughed, pressing her forehead to yours. “Deal.”
You took a breath and nodded just as the radio cracked to life, static spilling into the room. A sharp voice cut through, calm but clipped.
“Echo-Seven, this is Redwood. You’re needed at camp for orchard duty. Immediate.”
You glanced at Abby. The faintest crease formed between her brows — orchard duty was one of their codes, and you knew enough by now to translate. Ambush prep. LA.
Abby grabbed the receiver, her tone even. “Copy, Redwood. En route.” She set it back down, exhaling through her nose as she slung her pack over one shoulder.
You leaned against the counter, watching her double-check the rifle strapped across her back. “Big job?”
She gave a short nod, tugging her jacket closed. “Rachel and Marcus want me overseeing the teams. I won’t be long.” Her eyes flicked to you, softening for just a moment. “Don’t lift anything heavy. I’ll check when I get back.”
You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at your lips. “We don't even know if I'm pregnant yet.”
Her smirk was small but real. She leaned down, kissed the crown of your head, and then she was gone, boots heavy on the stairs, the door shutting firm behind her.
The house settled into quiet. Lev’s record played faintly upstairs, a low scratchy guitar you couldn’t place. You drifted into the garage, pulling the canvas back into the light. The painting waited: Lev at the shoreline, arm cocked, frozen mid-throw. The sea behind him unfinished, yawning and gray.
You picked up your brush, dipped it into white and blue, and let the bristles drag the foam of a wave across the canvas. The silence soothed you. Abby had her battles to fight; this was yours — pulling something whole out of blank space.
You shook your head, dipped the brush again, and kept working.
The days blurred. Abby gone to base more often, Rachel and Marcus pushing the teams harder. You painting when you could, helping Lev clear out the spare room box by box. At night Abby came home tired, her hands rough but gentle when she touched your stomach, almost unconsciously, before she kissed you.
______________________________________________________________________
Six weeks passed before it hit full force.
The morning light was sharp through the blinds when you lurched upright, stomach knotting violently. By the time your feet hit the floor you were already halfway to the bathroom, bile clawing up your throat.
You fell to your knees, face pressed against the cold porcelain, nails digging into it as your whole body heaved.
“Holy fuck,” you breathed, coughing.
Bare footsteps padded behind you. Abby knelt without hesitation, her palm brushing your damp hair back, the other hand pressing to your forehead.
“You don’t feel warm,” she murmured, her voice steady.
You gave a weak nod, chest still heaving.
Her eyes narrowed in thought. “When was your last period?”
The words hit you like a brick to the chest. You froze, staring at her. “…Oh my god.”
Her brows shot up, realization dawning. “…Oh my god.”
A smile broke across her face, wide and gleaming.
You stared down at the toilet bowl, weak and queasy. “Abby—”
Her grin only widened. “It worked!”
You shook your head sharply. “Hang on, we don’t know that.”
She scoffed, brushing your back in big circles like she could soothe you into agreeing. “We have some old test strips down at base. I can grab one and you can pee on it…” She dragged out the word like a game show host. “Tonight!”
You groaned, half in pain, half in exasperation, then lurched forward again, bile spilling into the toilet.
Abby didn’t flinch, just rubbed your back sweetly. “Easy, Jo. Just breathe.”
A creak at the doorway made you glance up. Lev stood there, nose wrinkled, his face twisted in disgust. “Are you sick again?”
You spat weakly into the toilet and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “…Probably pregnant.”
Lev yelped so loud it echoed down the hall. “What?!”
Even through your nausea, you chuckled weakly.
He blinked, then his eyes went wide as the pieces clicked. His whole expression shifted into teenage horror. “Wait… was this that night John was here?”
Abby’s eyes snapped to him like a hawk. “Lev. Go to your room.”
His face twisted like he’d just walked in on something unholy. “Oh god.” He spun on his heel, muttering curses under his breath as he clomped back upstairs.
You dropped your forehead against the rim of the toilet, groaning. Abby only laughed under her breath, pressing a kiss into your damp hairline.
When your stomach finally settled and you rinsed your mouth clean, Abby guided you gently back into bed. The sheets were cool against your clammy skin, and you let yourself sink into them, weak and drained.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, rubbing your back in slow circles. “I’ll be at base most of the day. The LA ambush is tomorrow, so… big day today.”
You only managed a nod. Your body felt too heavy, your head swimming. You were just glad Rachel wasn’t sending Abby directly into it. The thought of that woman’s name made your nose wrinkle. Rachel. That fucking bitch.
Abby kissed the top of your head, lips warm against your temple. “Rest, Jo.”
You sighed, leaning into the kiss. “Be safe.”
Her smile was small, but steady. Then she rose, boots thudding softly as she made her way downstairs.
From your half-dreamy haze, you caught the muffled voices below. Lev’s sharp, exasperated tone rose above Abby’s calm replies.
“…why do I have to stay home? That’s not fair!”
A moment later, the slam of his door rattled the frame upstairs, followed by his dramatic declaration: “Not fair!”
You chuckled into the pillow, rolling your eyes. Teen angst. Some things never changed, even at the end of the world.
The house fell quiet again, leaving only the sound of gulls outside and the faint thrum of your own heartbeat.
You drifted in and out of shallow sleep, your stomach never quite steady. By the time you cracked your eyes open again, sunlight was pouring through the curtains at a higher angle. Noon.
With a groan, you pushed yourself upright, hair sticking damp against your cheek. The house was quiet, save for the faint scratch of Lev’s record player downstairs.
You shuffled down the steps, bare feet against cool wood. Lev was at the kitchen table, hunched over a comic book. His jaw tightened when he saw you.
“Finally,” he muttered.
You rubbed your eyes, not in the mood. “Finally what?”
“Finally awake. I’ve been stuck here all morning because of you.”
Your brow furrowed. “Because of me?”
He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Abby didn’t want you home alone. So who gets stuck babysitting?” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “Me.”
You blinked, then gave a tired laugh. “Lev, she asked you to be here in case I got sick again. That’s not babysitting.”
“It is babysitting,” he snapped. “I could’ve been on patrol. I could’ve been at base helping plan with Rachel and Marcus. But no—‘stay home, Lev, watch Joan in case she faints.’ Like I’m your personal guard dog.”
You set your glass down on the counter, sighing. “She’s worried. That’s all.”
His face screwed up, voice cracking. “She’s always worried! And it’s always me she drags into it. I’m not your nurse, Joan.”
The words landed sharper than he probably meant, and guilt flickered across his face, but he didn’t take them back. He turned away instead, flipping his comic open with more force than necessary.
You leaned against the counter, staring at him for a long moment. His hair was messy, his shoulders hunched. He wasn’t angry at you, not really. He was angry at being left out, at being treated like a kid. And maybe, deep down, scared.
You sucked your teeth and leaned back against the counter, the chill of the granite pressing into your spine. “What’s this really about?” you asked quietly.
“Nothing,” he bit back instantly, voice sharp, the edge of his brattiness flaring. You knew he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t help it. For Lev, teenage-hood carried a weight heavier than most boys would ever understand. You knew he had worries and insecurities, and every flare of temper was covering something deeper.
You exhaled slowly. “Is this because of Maribel?” you asked, your tone gentle.
His head snapped up, eyes blazing. “She prefers Mara!”
You lifted both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Mara. Is this because of Mara?”
He huffed, running a hand through his messy half-mullet, frustration spilling out in every twitch of his shoulders. Finally, he admitted, “Yeah.” His eyes widened as if daring you to make fun of him, attitude sharp as a blade.
You kept your voice even, careful. “Were you going to do something with her today?”
He glared. “Duh.”
You nodded slowly, trying to keep things calm. “Why don’t you radio her over?”
Lev snapped, his voice pitching louder. “Oh, so the whole fucking camp hears?! Great idea!” He grunted, slamming the comic shut with a sharp clap that echoed through the kitchen.
You nodded again, soft. “Okay. Okay, fine. Sorry.”
He folded his arms tight across his chest, sulking hard. The air in the room felt heavier, prickling with teenage frustration. You stayed quiet, letting him breathe, letting him feel what he needed to feel without pushing further.
Deep down, you knew he wasn’t angry at you. He was angry because he cared, because he wanted to be out in the world instead of stuck at home, because Mara meant something, and because being forced into stillness only reminded him of how much he wanted to live like everyone else.
And for Lev, that weight was so much heavier than he let on.
You took a careful breath, watching him sulk at the table. “Do you… like her?”
Lev’s head snapped up, his cheeks flushing red almost instantly. “Oh my god!” he groaned, throwing his comic down. He stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs, every step a protest.
You sat there stunned. What had you said that was so bad?
With a sigh, you drifted into the garage, needing space to untangle your thoughts. Months ago, you would’ve snapped right back at him, called him rude, maybe even thrown something to make your point. But you were getting better—more leveled, more willing to let his sharpness slide.
The house hummed with his presence anyway. You could hear his music blaring upstairs, bass rattling the walls. Then the rhythmic clink of weights—the same sound Abby made when she was pushing herself. Truth was, he’d been filling out. His shoulders broader, arms thicker. You knew how important it was to him, to look as manly as he felt.
You sighed, pulled a canvas out, and set it on the easel. With your brush, you sketched Lev’s face from memory—the sharp cheekbones, the furrow of his brow, the stubborn tilt of his mouth. By the time the light shifted and shadows stretched across the garage floor, you were smiling at what you’d made. It looked like him. Really like him.
Hours must’ve passed. You didn’t notice the door creak open until his voice rang through the house, panicked and loud.
“Joan! Joan, I need help!”
Your brush clattered to the floor as you sprinted into the hall. “What, what—what’s wrong?!” you shrieked, heart pounding.
Lev stood there in the doorway, his arms cradling something small. His voice dropped, almost sheepish. “I found him.”
You gasped for breath, clutching your chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
But then your eyes landed on the bundle in his arms. A little dog—scruffy, shivering, eyes big and uncertain.
Your lips parted in awe. “Oh my god…”
Lev held him closer, his expression soft in a way you didn’t often see. “Can we keep him?”
You nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, let’s give him a bath… he’s covered in dirt.”
Lev’s face brightened, and the two of you hurried upstairs with the little thing squirming in his arms. You started the bath, humming under your breath to keep the dog calm as Lev knelt beside you. Together you worked the grime out of its fur—matted clumps giving way to a scrappy mix of brown, black, and white.
The dog whimpered, skittish in the water, but slowly settled as you scrubbed him clean. By the time you toweled him off, Lev was giggling outright, watching the pup rocket around the bathroom in manic little circles, shaking water onto everything.
You planted your hands on your hips, catching your breath. “When did you leave, Lev?”
He furrowed his brow like you’d just accused him of something ridiculous. “Around ten.”
You exhaled through your nose. “We have to think of a lie. Abby will flip if she finds out—”
“Find out what?”
Her voice cut like a knife.
You froze. Lev froze.
Abby stood in the doorway, face carved from stone, one hand clutching a bundle of pregnancy test strips—more than you’d ever seen in one place, at least a hundred of them stacked together. Her other hand braced the doorframe as her eyes swept down to the dripping, half-dry dog wagging its tail at her feet.
The silence cracked like ice.
You and Lev looked at each other, both wide-eyed.
Then Abby cleared her throat. “Well?”
Your mouth opened before your brain had a plan. “Uh—uh, find out… if, uh… the dog—” you pointed vaguely at the dripping, wagging mutt, “—was housebroken! Yeah. That’s what you were about to find out.”
Lev shot you a horrified look.
Abby’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the bundle of test strips tightening. “Housebroken.”
You nodded furiously. “Yep. Big mystery. Dog stuff. You know.”
The pup sneezed, spraying water across the hallway. Lev groaned into his palms.
Abby stepped into the bathroom, her boots squelching faintly against the wet tile. She crouched low, her sharp gaze softening just a fraction as the dog sniffed at her hand. “Where did this come from?”
Lev started to open his mouth, but you cut in too fast. “He—uh—wandered up to the porch! Just showed up, right Lev?”
Lev blinked, then bobbed his head like his life depended on it. “Yep. Porch dog. Totally.”
Abby looked between the two of you, suspicion clear. “Porch dog.”
The pup yipped, tail wagging hard enough to shake his whole body. Abby sighed, standing tall again, her eyes sweeping from Lev’s guilty face to your flushed one.
“Fine,” she said at last, her voice edged with that commanding finality that brooked no argument. “Porch dog or not, he’s here now. But he’s your responsibility.” Her gaze landed heavy on Lev. “Which means walks, feeding, cleaning up. All of it.”
Lev lit up like a lantern, nodding so fast his damp hair slapped his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.”
You let out a shaky laugh of relief, though your heart still pounded. Abby’s eyes flicked back to you, lingering.
“And after that,” she said, raising the stack of test strips in her hand, “you’re dealing with this.”
Your stomach dropped.
The bathroom felt too small with the three of you crammed inside, steam still clinging to the walls and water dripping across the tile. Abby straightened, tucking the bundle of test strips tight under her arm.
“Out. Now.” Her tone was clipped, sharp with exhaustion.
You and Lev shuffled past her into the hallway. The little dog bounded between your legs, shaking himself all over the rug before flopping onto his belly.
Abby shut the bathroom door behind her with more force than necessary, jaw tight. She rubbed at her temple with one hand, the other still gripping the test strips.
She turned on Lev first, her voice sharp. “You left the house? When Joan was sick?”
Lev froze, his arms tightening across his chest. “No.”
You jumped in, too fast. “He didn’t, he—uh—he found the dog on the porch, remember?”
Abby’s eyes narrowed. “On the porch. A soaking wet, mud-caked dog just appeared on the porch.”
Lev nodded, too eagerly. “Yep. Porch dog.”
Abby’s nostrils flared. “Don’t lie to me.”
“We’re not lying,” you insisted, your voice wobbling, “he just… maybe walked a little farther than the porch—”
Lev groaned. “Oh my god, Joan!”
Abby’s hand went to her temple, pinching hard, her patience unraveling by the second. “So you admit he left. You left her alone.” Her voice dropped, low and furious now. “When she’s sick. When she might be pregnant.”
Lev flinched at the sharpness in her tone. “I wasn’t gone that long,” he muttered.
“That’s not the point!” Abby snapped. She dragged a hand down her face, her whole body buzzing with tension. “If something happened to her—if she collapsed, if she needed help—you weren’t here. And I would’ve been out there, not knowing.”
The silence that followed was heavy, Lev staring at the floor, you rubbing at your arms, the little dog wagging its tail completely oblivious to the storm in the room.
Abby exhaled through her nose, trying to reel herself back in. “I can’t do this. I can’t fight an ambush and come home wondering if either of you is alive because you think rules don’t matter.”
You opened your mouth, fumbling for something to ease the tension. “He just… wanted to help. He brought back the dog, didn’t he?”
Abby cut you a look so sharp you shut your mouth immediately.
Lev muttered under his breath, “It’s not like I planned for her to puke this morning.”
Abby’s eyes snapped open, her hand still pressed to her temple. “Go to your room, Lev. Now.”
“Fuck you!”
The words cracked through the hallway like a whip.
You froze where you stood, breath caught in your throat. Abby’s head whipped toward him, her eyes wide. Lev looked just as shocked, instant regret flashing across his face—he’d never sworn at her before, not like that.
“Excuse me?” Abby’s voice was low and dangerous, her hands planting hard on her hips.
Lev’s nose crinkled, like doubling down was the only thing holding him upright. “I missed out on the ambush meeting today!” he barked, chest heaving. “And Mara!”
Abby’s brow furrowed. “You think that matters more than Joan collapsing on the bathroom floor this morning?”
Lev’s jaw tightened. “It matters to me!”
The silence after hung heavy, the dog whining softly at your feet.
You stepped in, raising a hand. “Lev—”
But Abby cut you off, her voice sharp. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. You want to be treated like an adult? Then act like one. Mara, ambush meetings, whatever—those will still be here. Joan’s health won’t wait.”
Lev’s eyes burned, wet at the corners, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked at you like maybe you’d take his side, but you stayed quiet.
Finally, he scoffed, shaking his head, and stormed up the stairs. His door slammed with a bang that rattled the frame.
Abby stood there breathing hard, her arms crossed now, shoulders tight as steel cables. She muttered under her breath, “Jesus Christ.”
You crouched, picking up the little dog who had tucked himself against your ankles during the shouting. His tiny body trembled against your hands.
“Teenager,” you whispered softly, half to the pup, half to Abby.
Abby ran a hand down her face, her jaw still tight. “He’s out of control lately. And I don’t know if it’s the camp, or Mara, or…” She glanced at the bundle of test strips still tucked under her arm, then at you. Her expression softened just slightly. “…or because everything’s changing.”
You picked the dog up, its little body trembling against your chest, and stroked its damp fur. “He gave me an issue this morning,” you said softly.
Abby’s head snapped up. “What?”
You sighed, meeting her eyes. “He was really upset.”
She clicked her tongue, jaw tightening. “Did he yell at you?”
You puffed your cheeks and nodded. “Oh yeah.”
Abby scoffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god.”
You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of the dog’s head. “Very cute dog at least.”
Her eyes narrowed, unimpressed. “Go take the goddamn pregnancy test.”
You snorted, raising your brows at the bundle still under her arm. “Why’d you grab so many?”
Abby shifted her weight, lips pulling thin. “I don’t know, I just—” She grunted, shaking her head. “Wanted to be sure.”
You tilted your head, smirking faintly. “Uh huh.”
Her glare softened just a little, replaced by a flash of vulnerability. “Just… please. I need to know.”
The dog whimpered in your arms as you glanced toward the bathroom, your stomach twisting. Suddenly, it felt less like a joke, less like banter, and more like the moment everything might change.
You sighed and walked into the bathroom alone, the little bundle of strips clutched awkwardly in your hand. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the sounds of Abby pacing in the hall.
The overhead light buzzed faintly, too bright, washing your reflection pale in the mirror. Your stomach was still unsettled, a coil of nerves twisting and tightening.
You pulled your pants down, heart hammering, and fumbled with the strips. One. Two. Three. A whole handful spread across the sink. Overkill, you thought with a shaky laugh. But then again—wasn’t that the point? To be sure.
The silence felt thick, pressing in on you. You sat, the porcelain cool beneath you, and peed across the plastic tips. The faint chemical smell stung your nose as you lined them carefully on the counter.
It was done. No going back.
You leaned forward, elbows braced on your thighs, hands gripping so hard your knuckles whitened. Your foot tapped restlessly against the tile.
What if it’s yes? Your mind raced. The nursery. Abby’s strict rules. Your body changing. A child in this world. Your chest ached with fear and something softer you couldn’t name.
What if it’s no? Another stab of dread. Another cycle. Another time you’d have to go through all of this again. Abby’s disappointment. The fragile hope slipping through your fingers.
You sighed, the sound shuddering out of you, and tapped your legs against the porcelain as if you could shake the answer loose faster.
Then, with your breath caught tight in your throat, you looked over at the strips.

Chapter 79: Dust and Sunlight

Notes:

i cant believe i had forgotten to post the part where joan and abby react... can you tell i was tired yesterday?
sorry if you've already read this chapter and had to come back lol

You forced yourself to look, your breath lodged somewhere in your chest.
One strip.
Two.
Three.
Your stomach lurched—not with sickness this time, but with something deeper. Every single one of them carried the same answer, the lines sharp and undeniable.
Positive.
All of them.
Your hand clamped over your mouth as your knees pressed together tight, trembling. You counted again, as if your eyes were lying to you. One, two, three, four, five—every strip, all lined up in a perfect little army on the edge of the sink.
The sight hit you like a wave breaking over your head. There was no denying it, no chance of error. You were pregnant.
The porcelain beneath you suddenly felt colder, the buzzing of the light louder. Your throat went dry as a hundred thoughts crashed into each other at once—Abby’s smile when she guessed, her warnings, the nursery, your body, the ambush tomorrow, Lev’s bratty protests, the way everything had already been shifting.
And now it was real.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice carried faintly through the door, careful but tight with nerves. “Everything okay in there?”
You gripped the edge of the counter, staring down at the impossible truth spelled out across all those strips.
It wasn’t just possible anymore. It was certain.
Your pulse hammered in your ears. The strips looked back at you from the counter, each one screaming the same truth.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice again, softer this time, but tight with nerves. You could hear her shifting her weight in the hall, probably wearing a groove in the floorboards by now.
You swallowed, your hand shaking as you gathered the strips into your palm. For a second you just stood there, staring at the door, your heart racing so hard it made you dizzy.
Then, with a breath that trembled out of you, you turned the knob.
Abby was right there, wide-eyed, shoulders stiff like she was bracing for bad news. The moment she saw your face, her mouth opened to ask—then froze when she saw your hand.
You lifted the strips, your fingers trembling around them. “They’re all… positive.”
For a second the hall was completely silent.
Then Abby’s eyes went wide, her lips parting as her breath caught. Shock, pure and raw, crossed her face—and then it cracked open into something brighter, softer, unstoppable.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. She reached for the strips with one hand and your face with the other, her eyes glassy. “Joan…”
You laughed, breathless and shaky, your chest tight with everything crashing at once. “It worked. It really worked.”
Abby pulled you into her arms, holding you so tight you thought your ribs might snap. She buried her face against your neck, her breath warm and unsteady. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
The words made your stomach flip, but this time not with fear. You clung to her, laughing and crying all at once, the stack of strips pressed between your palms and her chest.
For a moment, the ambush, the shouting with Lev, the sickness—all of it faded away. It was just the two of you in that narrow hallway, the future crackling alive in your hands.
Then a creak came from down the hall. Lev’s door cracked open, and his voice carried sharp across the upstairs landing. “So it’s true?”
You and Abby both turned. He stood there with his arms crossed, face half in shadow, jaw tight. For a moment you thought he was about to snap again.
“You’re really… pregnant,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still edged.
Your throat tightened. “Yeah, Lev. Looks like it.”
He stared at you both, his mouth opening and closing like he was fighting with himself. Then he blurted, louder than he probably meant to, “That’s why I was pissed, okay? I didn’t want to be stuck here while everything was changing!” His voice cracked, frustration spilling raw. “I thought you’d forget about me.”
The words stabbed at your chest. Abby blinked, her anger faltering.
Lev’s face crumpled, the brattiness draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He rubbed his sleeve over his face, eyes wet. “I shouldn’t’ve yelled at you. Or… or said what I said. I’m sorry.”
The hallway went quiet except for the little dog whining at your feet.
You stepped toward him, heart tugging. “Lev…”
But Abby moved first. She crossed the hall, slow but steady, and wrapped him up in a hug before he could pull away. He stiffened for half a second, then sagged into her, his arms clinging tight.
“I could never forget you,” Abby whispered against his hair. “Not ever. You’re family. This doesn’t change that.”
Lev nodded against her chest, his voice muffled. “Okay.”
You held the test strips tight in your hand, watching them, your heart aching and full all at once.
This was your family. Messy, loud, complicated, and maybe about to get bigger—but still yours.
____________________________________________________________________

By the time dinner was finished and the dishes stacked away, the earlier shouting had faded into something gentler. The little dog had wormed his way into the house like he’d always been there, curled in a ball on the rug with his paws twitching in some dream.
You stretched out on the couch, Abby sitting beside you, Lev sprawled on the floor with his chin propped in his hand as he watched the pup’s tiny chest rise and fall.
“He’s not that bad,” Lev said softly.
Abby smirked. “You’re already in love.”
Lev rolled his eyes, but the blush gave him away. “We should call him something.”
You reached down, brushing your fingers over the dog’s scruffy fur. “What about Scout? He looks like a Scout to me.”
Lev wrinkled his nose. “Too cheesy.”
Abby hummed. “Patch.”
The dog twitched in his sleep, letting out a tiny bark. You laughed. “He doesn’t look like a Patch. He looks like… a scrappy little survivor.”
Lev’s eyes lit up. “Survivor. That’s cool.”
Abby shook her head, amused. “We’re not yelling ‘Survivor, come here’ every time he runs off.”
You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you as the dog shifted in his sleep. “Maybe…” You tapped your chin, pretending to think hard. “Doug?”
Both Abby and Lev whipped their heads toward you in disbelief.
“Doug?” Lev repeated, like you’d just suggested naming him “Chair.”
You nodded with utter seriousness. “Or… Sandwich.”
Abby’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “Sandwich?”
“Mhm.” You grinned.
Lev shook his head in disgust, though his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “No. Maybe… Salami?”
Abby laughed outright, her arms crossing. “Lettuce?”
You chuckled, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Pork rind?”
Lev slapped the floor, practically choking on laughter. “No way!”
The three of you dissolved into giggles, one ridiculous name tumbling after another—“Pickle,” “Cabbage,” “Meatball”—until the little dog startled awake and barked once, confused by all the noise. That only made Lev laugh harder, his face going red.
You caught your breath between giggles and sighed. “How about… Norman?”
Lev sat up straighter, nodding with a grin. “He does look like a Norman.”
Abby tilted her head, eyeing the pup’s wrinkled little face. “Yeah. With his saggy cheeks? Definitely a Norman.”
You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Okay then. Norman.”
The dog—Norman—wagged his tail at the sound of his name like he already knew it was his.
You yawned, stretching your arms overhead. “I’m gonna head to bed.”
Abby and Lev both nodded, still snickering softly as they played with Norman on the couch.
You left them downstairs, the low hum of their laughter following you up the stairs. Sliding beneath the sheets, you let your head sink into the pillow, body heavy with the day.
From your room, you could still hear their muffled voices drifting up—Lev’s youthful laughter, Abby’s deep chuckle—woven together with the occasional bark from Norman.
You smiled to yourself, eyelids growing heavier with every sound.
Your eyes flickered closed, and for the first time in weeks, you fell asleep with peace curling warm around you.
The night passed in fits of uneasy sleep, your body too restless to fully settle. Sometime before dawn, a sharp cramp rolled through your stomach, dragging you awake. You lurched upright, gagging, and scrambled to the bathroom just in time to vomit into the toilet.
The house was already alive with noise—boots thudding downstairs, the faint crackle of a radio, Abby’s voice low and urgent as she barked orders into it.
By the time you wiped your mouth and tried to steady your breathing, she was suddenly there in the doorway, already half-dressed for patrol—her braid tight against her back, vest hanging open, rifle slung over one shoulder.
“Joan,” she said, voice sharp with worry. She crouched beside you, one hand on your back, the other brushing your damp hair from your face. “You’re still sick?”
You nodded weakly, spitting into the bowl. “Guess so.”
She cursed under her breath, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before standing again. Her face was tight, torn in two—her instinct to stay with you fighting against the urgency in her eyes.
Downstairs, the radio crackled again. Marcus’s clipped voice carried through the static: “Echo-Seven, report. Convoy’s waiting. Need you now.”
Abby’s jaw clenched. She looked at you, then at the stairs, then back at you. “Goddamn it.” She ran both hands down the front of her vest, snapping it into place with impatient jerks. “I have to get them out. Rachel’s already on edge. If I’m late—” She broke off, biting her lip hard.
You leaned against the wall, pale and shaky. “Go. I’ll be okay.”
Her head snapped toward you. “You’re barely standing.”
“I’ve been worse,” you managed, trying to smile. “Abby… go. They need you.”
Her eyes burned into yours, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between you.
Finally, she exhaled through her nose, sharp and heavy. She crouched again, pressing her forehead to yours. “Stay in bed. Don’t push yourself. Lev’s here—he’ll keep an eye on you.”
You nodded, throat tight. “Be careful.”
Her lips brushed your hairline once more before she pulled back, hardening her face into the commander’s mask. By the time she descended the stairs, her braid swung heavy against her back, every line of her body taut with focus.
The front door slammed.
You sat back against the cold bathroom wall, hollow and weak, the silence settling around you like a second skin.
You cleared your throat, still braced against the bathroom wall.
“Lev!” you called out, your voice hoarse.
A few moments later, his footsteps dragged down the hall. He appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. “What?” he asked, groggy and annoyed.
You drew in a shaky breath. “Go to base and make sure Abby stays sane today, okay?” Your voice was low but steady. “No bullshit. She just left—go catch up with her.”
He frowned, his arms folding. “What? She told me to stay with you—”
You shook your head before he could finish. “I’ll be fine. But she’s not. You know how she gets when Rachel’s breathing down her neck. She’ll run herself ragged. You’re the only one she’ll listen to.”
Lev’s mouth pressed thin, the protest clear in his eyes, but he didn’t say it. Instead he looked at you for a long moment, weighing it, his jaw tight.
Finally he huffed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
You managed the ghost of a smile. “Yeah, well. You’re fast. Go.”
For once, he didn’t roll his eyes. He just turned on his heel, muttering under his breath as he grabbed his jacket. The front door creaked open and slammed shut a moment later, leaving the house quiet except for Norman’s little claws tapping across the floor.
You slumped back against the wall, clutching your stomach, silently hoping Lev reached her in time. Abby needed him today more than she’d ever admit.
Then a furry head nudged under your hand.
Norman’s stupid, saggy face peered up at you, eyes bright, tail wagging like he hadn’t a clue about the weight pressing down on you.
You couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, buddy,” you murmured, your voice soft.
He gave a sharp bark in reply, as if answering.
With a groan, you pushed yourself to your feet and flushed the toilet. The room still smelled faintly of bile, so you opened the front door, letting the fresh salt air sweep in. Norman bolted past your legs, a blur of scruffy fur and enthusiasm.
You sucked air through your teeth as you watched him dart around the yard, nose buried in the grass, tail whipping. Finally he circled once, found a spot, and lifted his leg.
“I hope he comes back,” you muttered to yourself, half joking, half not.
But he did. Without hesitation, Norman trotted back up the steps and plopped his little body right against your leg, sitting like he belonged there.
You crouched, scratching behind his ears, and his eyes squinted in bliss.
Settling onto the porch steps, you let your gaze drift out toward the horizon. The tide rolled steady against the shore, gulls wheeling overhead. Norman pressed against your side, warm and alive, his quiet panting filling the silence.
For a moment, the nausea, the fear, the noise of Abby’s absence—all of it loosened. Just you, the ocean, and a scruffy little dog who’d decided to be yours.
The horizon faded into a bright midday haze, gulls scattering against the sky. Norman eventually flopped onto his side in the yard, soaking up the sun, while you pushed yourself to your feet.
The house felt too quiet without Abby’s steady presence, her voice echoing faintly in your memory: Don’t push yourself. Don’t move around.
You lingered in the entryway, eyes drifting to the closed door of the spare room. Dust and clutter piled around it, boxes leaning like forgotten sentinels. The weight of not yet hung heavy in Abby’s words—but now, standing there, it felt impossible to ignore.
You swallowed hard, squared your shoulders.
Screw that.
Norman trailed at your heels as you set to work.
You dragged a heavy box down the hall, muscles straining, sweat gathering along your brow. Your breath came in uneven bursts, your stomach threatening to turn, but you pressed on. Norman barked once, as if warning you when you nearly tripped, then circled your legs like a pint-sized guard.
Dust clung to your arms as you stripped an old cot bare, the musty fabric puffing up into the air, making you cough. You balled the sheets into a lump and tossed them onto a growing pile by the stairs.
Next came Abby’s old gear shoved against the wall: packs, vests, pieces of her past. Your fingers lingered on the worn straps for a long moment. Guilt prickled at the back of your throat, but you moved them carefully into the garage, each step feeling like rebellion and relief rolled together.
You pried open another box, the cardboard soft with age. Inside—books with cracked spines, Firefly insignia dulled with time, maps yellowed at the edges. You sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, turning the pages of one book with trembling hands. For a heartbeat you just stared at them, a ghost of Abby’s life before you pressing heavy on your chest. Then you slid everything back inside and tucked it neatly against the wall.
The hours passed in fits and starts, sweat drying on your temples, your arms aching. By the time the sunlight slanted gold through the windows, the spare room wasn’t empty, not yet, but it was different. The clutter had shifted. A shape was forming—faint, unfinished, but real. The beginning of something new.
You leaned against the doorframe, chest rising and falling, your shirt sticking damp to your back. A laugh slipped out of you, breathless and tired. “She’s gonna kill me,” you muttered.
But the smile tugging at your lips refused to fade.
Behind you, Norman barked once, then sat at your feet as if in agreement.
The sun was gone when the door finally swung open. Norman barked, tail wagging as Lev and Abby stepped in.
Lev came first, his face lit up with pride. “It worked,” he said, almost breathless. “Fifty Fireflies got out. Supplies too—food, meds, everything. And nobody got caught.”
You blinked from where you sat on the couch, Norman tucked against your side. “Wait… no fighting?”
Abby shook her head, unbuckling her vest and dropping it over a chair. Her braid clung damp against her back, her face tired but steady. “Not a shot fired. We directed from base—Rachel and I called the routes, Lev ran point on the radios. Teams moved through clean.”
Lev grinned, puffing up just a little. “I got to reroute one of the convoys when a FEDRA patrol cut them off. Didn’t lose a single person.”
Pride bloomed in your chest despite the weight in the air. “That’s… incredible.”
Abby gave a short nod, but her eyes were already sweeping the room, sharp and calculating. They landed on the stack of boxes by the stairs, the half-cleared spare room visible behind you. Then, on your flushed face and dusty shirt.
Her jaw tightened. “Joan.”
Your throat went dry.
She stepped closer, her voice low but cutting. “You cleared that room.”
You opened your mouth, fumbling. “I—just a little. Nothing heavy.”
“And Lev,” she snapped, whirling on him. “You were supposed to keep her in bed.”
Lev stiffened, caught like a kid with his hand in the jar. “She told me to go to base,” he blurted.
Abby’s head snapped back to you. “You what?”
You swallowed. “You needed him. Rachel needed you steady. I thought… it would help.”
Her shoulders drew up, every line of her still wired from command mode. “I told him to stay here. With you. And you were sick this morning.”
Norman gave a soft whine, his head pressing into your knee. Lev shifted from foot to foot, looking guilty now, but Abby’s glare stayed locked on you—sharp, tired, and burning with the weight of all the worry she hadn’t had time to spill at base.
Norman whined again, the sound sharp in the tense silence.
You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “Abby, I’m okay. I am okay. I wasn’t dying, I wasn’t bleeding out on the floor. I just… needed something to do.”
Her brow furrowed deeper, her hands braced on her hips. “Something to do? Joan, you were hunched over the toilet this morning. You could barely stand.”
“I’m standing now,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you meant it. “And sitting around all day feeling useless was just making it worse.”
Abby blinked, taken aback by the edge in your tone. You pressed on before she could interrupt.
“You needed Lev at base. I saw how stressed you were before you even left. Rachel rides you hard enough already—if Lev wasn’t there to steady you, to back you up, you’d just carry all of it alone. And I know you. You would’ve.”
Abby’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
You softened, your shoulders sagging. “I can’t just sit here wrapped in blankets waiting for life to happen to me. If this is real—if I’m really pregnant—then I want to help make space for it. For us. I needed to do something, Abby.”
Her chest rose and fell, the commander’s fire still burning in her eyes, but beneath it you saw a flicker of something else. Fear. Care. Maybe even guilt.
Lev shifted awkwardly by the door, clearly not sure if he should stay or disappear upstairs. Norman pressed harder into your leg, tail thumping quietly, the only sound breaking the silence.
Abby stood there, arms still folded, her braid damp against her shoulder. Her jaw worked like she wanted to argue more, but instead she let out a long breath through her nose.
“Fine,” she said finally, her voice low and steady. “We’ll talk about this more when you’re farther along. Not now. Not while you’re still sick every morning.”
The words weren’t surrender, not really—but the edge had dulled.
You nodded slowly, tension draining from your shoulders. Lev ducked his head and mumbled something about feeding Norman before slipping upstairs, clearly grateful to escape the storm.
Abby lingered for another beat, then stepped closer, her hand brushing the small of your back. “Dinner first,” she murmured. “Then bed.”
Later, with plates scraped clean and Norman curled up snoring under the table, you let Abby guide you upstairs. The house had quieted, Lev’s music a faint hum through the walls.
In your room, the lamplight painted everything soft. Abby pulled her braid over her shoulder as she sat on the edge of the bed, her hand reaching for yours. The earlier frustration seemed far away now, replaced by a quiet tenderness in the way she looked at you.
You slid beneath the blankets, your head sinking into the pillow. Abby followed, settling close enough that her warmth bled into your side. She pressed a kiss to your temple, whispering into your hair.
For the first time all day, you let yourself relax.
A warmth bloomed low between your thighs, thick and insistent. You had to admit it—your body wasn’t the same anymore. Every hormone screamed through you like wildfire, and tonight it left you restless, more worked up than you’d ever been in your life.

Chapter 80: Please

You whimpered softly as Abby’s lips brushed your cheek, slow and tender.
“Fuck,” you muttered, your breath hitching.
She pulled back instantly, brows knitting in concern. “Are you okay?”
You bit your lip, squirming against the sheets. “I need you.”
Her eyes widened, searching your face. “What?”
Embarrassment flushed your cheeks hot. You couldn’t hold her gaze, thighs rubbing together for even the faintest relief. But then you reached for her, tugging her down and kissing her with all the need that had been simmering inside you.
Abby whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and startled. “Joan…” she whispered softly against your lips, like a prayer and a warning all at once.
You stripped yourself with quick, clumsy hands, desperate for her. Abby followed, slower at first, but the second your bare skin brushed hers, the restraint in her body broke.
You pushed against her, hips rocking, rubbing quickly in frantic little crosses, searching for friction, for release. The sounds you made were needy, desperate, almost breaking apart in your throat.
Abby’s head tipped back, a wicked smile flashing across her face at your intensity. She caught your hips, lifting you just slightly off her. “Joan—god.”
But you only whined, your hips bucking helplessly in the air. “Please, please, please,” you begged, your voice cracking with how badly you needed her.
Her eyes went wide at your desperation. Then she nodded, steadying you as she set you back down.
Strong hands framed your hips, guiding your frantic movements into something slower, deeper, deliberate. Abby’s thumbs stroked circles into your skin as she eased you against her, letting you grind softly, each roll of your body stoking the fire already burning in your veins.
You shuddered, forehead pressing into her shoulder, your breath ragged against her skin. Abby held you there, murmuring your name between kisses against your temple, letting you fall apart in her arms.
You whined against her mouth, your whole body restless. The hormones made every nerve electric, every brush of skin too much and not enough at once.
Abby’s grip tightened, holding your hips firmly in her hands as if anchoring you. “Easy,” she whispered, her voice low but steady. “Let me take care of you.”
You nodded frantically, but your hips were already moving, grinding down against the solid heat of her thigh. The pressure made you gasp, your nails scraping along her shoulders for leverage.
“Joan,” she groaned, watching your face twist with need. “Look at you. So desperate for it.”
Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. You rubbed harder, little gasps spilling from your lips each time the rough friction caught just right. “I can’t—I need more, Abby—please—”
Her mouth captured yours in a bruising kiss, swallowing your whimpers. Then she shifted, sliding one strong hand down between you, pressing her fingers against the slick heat gathering there.
You cried out at the touch, thighs trembling.
Abby smirked, her breath hot against your ear. “God, you’re soaked. Hormones got you all wound up, huh?”
“Yes—yes,” you whimpered, hips jerking helplessly into her hand.
She slid two fingers inside you, stretching you open in one smooth motion. You moaned, back arching as your walls clenched around her. The pressure was overwhelming, your body already shuddering from the buildup.
Abby’s other hand kept your hips steady, forcing you to ride her rhythm instead of your frantic pace. “Breathe, baby. Let me do it.”
You whimpered into her neck, each thrust of her fingers pulling a louder sound from your lips. Your legs shook, heat coiling tight in your belly.
“Abby—” your voice broke on her name, “—I’m gonna—”
She pressed her thumb to your clit, circling firmly, her fingers curling deep inside you. “Then let go. I’ve got you.”
The orgasm hit hard, ripping through you in violent waves. You screamed into her shoulder, nails digging into her back, body thrashing as pleasure tore you open. Abby held you tight, her hand never leaving you, working you through it until you collapsed against her chest, boneless and shaking.
Your breaths came ragged, your body damp with sweat, every nerve still tingling. Abby kissed your temple, her voice soft now, almost tender. “That’s it. Good girl. You’re okay.”
You whimpered weakly, clutching at her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.
Your body still trembled from the orgasm, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. The fire between your thighs hadn’t gone out — it roared, wild and demanding.
Abby shifted beneath you, about to gather you close, but before she could, you shoved her firmly onto her back. Her eyes went wide as you straddled her hips, your hair a messy halo, your pupils blown dark.
“Joan—” she started, startled.
You cut her off with a bruising kiss, grinding down against her stomach, making her grunt at the pressure.
“No,” you growled against her lips, your voice rough. “Not done.”
You caught her wrists and pinned them hard into the mattress above her head. You knew she was stronger, that she could break free in an instant, but she didn’t. She let you hold her, the power shift crackling between you like static.
Her breath came heavy, her chest heaving against yours. “What—what are you doing?”
You leaned in close, your teeth scraping the shell of her ear. “My turn.”
Abby’s breath hitched, her thighs flexing under you. She let out a soft, helpless groan when you ground down again, your soaked heat dragging across the lines of muscle in her abdomen.
“Joan,” she rasped, voice breaking, “you’re insatiable.”
“Because of you,” you hissed, rocking harder against her, making her gasp. “Because I can’t stop. I need you.”
You released her wrists only long enough to tear her shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside with reckless urgency. Your palms dragged down the planes of her chest, rough and greedy, thumbing over her nipples until she arched under you.
You lowered your mouth, biting along her jaw, down her throat, hard enough to make her gasp your name. The taste of salt, sweat, and skin only fueled your hunger.
“Fuck, Joan,” she groaned, her hips lifting toward you, trapped beneath your weight.
You licked a stripe over her collarbone, then slid down her torso, every kiss more urgent than the last. By the time you settled between her thighs, she was already panting, her braid sprawled wild across the sheets.
You glanced up at her once, smirking as you spread her open. “Let me hear you.”
The sound she made when your mouth closed around her nearly undid you — raw, broken, needy. Her thighs quivered around your head, her fingers instantly fisting into your hair.
“Joan—fuck,” she gasped, back arching off the mattress. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
You devoured her, relentless, tongue and lips working her until she was shaking. Abby’s grip in your hair was desperate now, her voice breaking into ragged moans as she bucked helplessly against your mouth.
Her climax tore through her like a storm, a hoarse cry spilling from her throat as her thighs clamped around you. You held her there, riding out every tremor, until she sagged into the sheets, breathless and wrecked.
When you finally crawled back up her body, your lips were slick, your eyes blazing. You kissed her deep, forcing her to taste herself on your tongue.
Abby groaned into the kiss, her hands clutching your back, still trembling.
Abby’s chest was still heaving, sweat glistening on her collarbone, when you pinned her wrists back into the mattress. She whimpered, her braid sprawled across the pillow, her eyes wide and glassy.
“Joan—” her voice cracked, hoarse with overstimulation, “—I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” you hissed against her mouth, grinding your hips down hard, claiming her. “You’re mine. And you’re not done.”
Her lips parted, a helpless moan spilling out as you kissed her rough, your teeth grazing her lower lip before you pulled back. You dragged your mouth down her throat, biting until she gasped, marking her skin with each nip.
Her muscles flexed beneath you, but she didn’t fight — she gave. Her wrists stayed limp in your grip, her body trembling under the weight of your control.
“Please,” she groaned, the word fractured.
You lifted your head, breath hot against her ear. “Please what? Use your words.”
Her face flushed deep red, her eyes closing as she squirmed under you. Finally, the confession broke free: “Please… don’t stop. Don’t stop, Joan.”
The surrender in her voice made your core clench, your own body electric with hunger.
You released her wrists just long enough to slide your hand between her thighs again. She was soaked, slick heat coating your fingers the second you touched her. Abby gasped, her back arching off the bed.
“God,” you muttered, pressing two fingers inside her, curling deep until she cried out. “You’re dripping for me.”
Her hands flew to the sheets, clutching tight as your thumb rubbed her clit in merciless circles. Her hips bucked, her thighs quivered, and every sound spilling from her mouth only pushed you harder.
“Joan—fuck—too much—” she gasped, her voice breaking.
“You can take it,” you growled, pumping your fingers faster, pinning her down with your body as she writhed beneath you. “You will take it.”
She sobbed your name, a raw, desperate sound, her walls clenching tight around your fingers as another orgasm ripped through her. Her body convulsed, thighs squeezing around your hand, her breath shattered and broken.
But you didn’t stop. You slowed, only slightly, circling her clit with aching precision until her whimpers turned into pleas.
“Please—Joan, please—” she begged, her voice ragged, “—I can’t—I can’t—”
You kissed her hard, swallowing the words. “Yes, you can,” you murmured against her lips, your hand never relenting. “You’re mine, Abby. Say it.”
Her body bucked under you, her voice breaking into a cry as she gave in completely. “I’m yours. Fuck—I’m yours.”
You smiled wickedly, grinding against her hip as you worked her through another orgasm, refusing to let her go until she was shaking, her body limp and wrecked beneath you.
When she finally collapsed back into the sheets, dazed and trembling, you eased off, your lips brushing her ear.
Abby was still limp beneath you, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp when you pulled away to the nightstand. Her dazed eyes blinked open just in time to see the glint of the harness in your hands.
Her breath hitched. “Joan…”
You slipped it on with quick, practiced movements, the weight of it settling against your hips. You climbed back over her, the sight of her body spread out, wrecked and trembling, only fueling the hunger coiling inside you.
“You think I’m done with you?” you whispered, your voice low and feral. You caught her chin, forcing her to look at you. “Not even close.”
Abby whimpered, her body arching instinctively. “I can’t—”
“You can,” you cut her off, pinning her wrists down again, the toy pressing hot against her entrance. “And you will.”
You pushed in slowly, deliberately, stretching her until her head tipped back and a broken cry tore from her throat.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her nails clawing into the sheets, her thighs trembling around your hips.
You gave her no time to adjust, no reprieve. Your hips snapped forward, driving into her hard, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the room. She sobbed your name, half-plea, half-prayer, as the relentless rhythm forced her open again and again.
Her voice cracked. “Joan—too much—please—”
“Take it,” you growled, bending down to bite at her neck, your pace unrelenting. “You’re mine, Abby. Every inch of you is mine.”
She whimpered beneath you, her body clenching helplessly around the toy, her legs wrapping around your waist like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to escape or pull you deeper.
“You beg so pretty,” you hissed, snapping your hips harder, grinding down to hit that perfect spot that made her scream.
Abby’s nails raked down your back, her voice breaking into sobs as another orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing violently beneath you. But you didn’t stop. You held her hips down, pounding into her as she shook, tears streaking down her temples from the intensity.
“Please,” she sobbed, her voice hoarse, “please, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” you snarled, fucking her through it mercilessly, your own moans mixing with hers. “Say it again. Say you’re mine.”
Her voice was ragged, destroyed, but the words tumbled out anyway. “I’m yours. I’m yours, Joan—please, I’m yours.”
You kissed her hard, swallowing her cries as you drove her over the edge again, refusing to let her come down, determined to ruin her until she couldn’t speak at all.
Abby’s nails dug into your back, sharp crescents marking your skin as she cried out beneath you. You slammed into her, unrelenting, the slick sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. You didn’t care about the predicament, about how many times you’d already wrung her out—all that mattered was fucking her raw and the delicious grind of the strap’s base against your clit.
“Fuck,” you gasped, rolling your head back, sweat dripping down your temple as your thighs shook. The pressure built quickly, coil winding tighter and tighter until you could barely breathe.
Beneath you, Abby’s body seized, her walls clenching hard around the toy. She sobbed, her back arching, her braid sticking to her damp skin as she shattered again—this time pulling you over the edge with her.
You moaned, hips bucking wildly, your climax tearing through you at the same time as hers. The strap pressed perfectly against you, every thrust driving sparks up your spine until you collapsed forward, panting against her shoulder.
Tears slipped from the corners of Abby’s eyes, trailing down her flushed cheeks. She was so pretty wrecked like this—hair messy, chest heaving, her lips parted on broken cries.
“Joan,” she gasped, voice cracking, “it’s too good!”
A wicked grin tugged at your lips. “Too good?” you teased, your voice low and hoarse.
You pushed harder, faster, ignoring the ache in your own exhausted body just to watch her writhe beneath you. Abby’s hands clawed helplessly at your back, her body caught between pleasure and desperation, sobbing as the overstimulation pushed her higher, tearing more cries from her throat.
She was yours like this—completely undone, begging, crying, still opening up for you with every relentless thrust.
Your body finally gave out, the relentless pace slowing until you collapsed against her, both of you trembling, slick with sweat. Abby’s thighs quivered around your hips, her nails sliding weakly down your back before falling limp at her sides.
You pressed one last kiss to her throat before carefully easing out, tugging the harness off and tossing it aside. Abby whimpered at the loss, her chest still heaving like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged chorus of your breathing, the sheets damp and tangled beneath you.
Abby shifted, her weight rolling onto you until she sprawled half across your chest, her braid sticking to your skin. She was heavy, boneless, her lips brushing the slope of your collarbone as she muttered, voice hoarse and small, “You’re so rough.”
You chuckled softly, brushing damp strands of hair from her flushed face. “Complaining?”
Her lips curved into the faintest, exhausted smile against your skin. “Maybe. My legs are jelly. I can’t feel anything but you.”
You kissed her temple, your hand stroking slow circles across her back. “That’s the point.”
She let out a breathy laugh, her body relaxing fully into yours. Her cheek pressed against your chest, right where your heartbeat thudded steady, grounding her.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her.
You pulled the blanket up around both of you, kissing the top of her head. “And you love me for it.”
Abby hummed in sleepy agreement, already half-asleep against you, her weight pinning you down in the sweetest way.
For the first time that night, the house was quiet—just the sound of the steady rhythm of Abby’s breathing, safe and sated in your arms.

Chapter 81: Growing

Notes:

HEAR YE, HEAR YE! A PROCLAMATION FOR THE TOWNSPEOPLE!

It appears your humble author has made a grave blunder, I forgot to include the very first portion of Chapter 79.

Yes, you heard correctly. The pregnancy test reaction scene—arguably the most important part—was left out. (Tragic, I know.)

Therefore, if you’ve already read the chapter, I implore you:
return, reread, and witness the missing piece in all its dramatic glory.

That is all. Carry on, good citizens.

__________________________________________________________________________
You learned the sound of your own body before you learned anything else.
It was the soft click of your throat just before you retched, the thin whistle of breath through your teeth when the second wave hit, the way your palms always braced in the same places on cool porcelain like you’d mapped them. It was the feel of steam and tile and a dog’s tiny panting close to your knee. It was Abby’s voice, every single time—steady, low, a weight you could hold onto.
“I’m fine,” you lied into the bowl.
“You don’t look fine,” she answered, the heel of her hand slow and sure between your shoulder blades. Her braid brushed her chest like a pendulum as she counted you through another wave. “Breathe, Jo.”
“I am breathing,” you muttered, then gagged again, then laughed weakly at yourself for trying to be clever when you were on the bathroom floor before dawn.
Norman tucked himself between your shin and the cabinet, all saggy cheeks and worried eyes, as if pressing his weight to you could help. Abby’s fingers slid up into your hair, combing, combing, combing, like she could untangle the sickness itself.
After, she got you water. Pressed a cold washcloth into your palm. Kissed your temple like the world wasn’t divided into before-you-knew and after-you-knew. Then she carried you to bed with a careful strength that made your chest ache.
“Stay,” she said firmly. “Promise me.”
“Okay.” You meant it when you said it. You let your eyes close and your body go slack, let the thin film of sleep cover you.
But by late morning the house felt too still, too unmade. That spare room at the end of the hall seemed to breathe behind its door, boxes creaking, old cot sighing, long-ignored maps murmuring about places you weren’t going to go.
You hesitated, then pushed to your feet. If you sat here any longer you’d crawl out of your skin.
The knob was cool under your hand. The latch popped with the smallest sound.
Sunlight spilled across dust motes in the room. The air tasted like canvas and cardboard and old paper. Norman sneezed, then padded in behind you, his tail wagging slowly as he sniffed at a box corner.
We’re making room, you thought, planting your hands on your hips.
The first box was heavier than you wanted, but manageable. You scooted it along the wood with your foot and then dragged it, shoulder braced. The second was lighter, all fabrics and the faint smell of old nights. You stacked it by the stairs. You breathed in. You breathed out. You didn’t puke.
By noon, a drop cloth was spread across the room, sunlight a square on the floor. A record Lev had left hissed in the corner—the player sometimes cracked notes into brittle static, and you liked it for that. You’d mixed a yellow that was less lemon, more warm yolk, something like a morning that knew what it was for. The brush made a thirsty sound against the wall. The first stroke left a streak that looked like a road to somewhere safe.
That was when Abby found you.
“Joan.” Her voice had the weight of a door shutting.
You turned too fast and swayed. She was at your side in an instant, steadying you, muttering a curse under her breath. Her vest was still unbuckled from base, her braid frayed at the nape where stress had rubbed it loose.
“You promised.”
“I said okay,” you corrected, meek and not meek, your cheeks hot with guilt and pride both. “I got restless.”
She glanced at the wall, then back at you, her jaw tight. “The fumes. You can’t be breathing this.”
“It’s low-VOC,” you said primly. “Doors open. Fan on. Norman supervising. I’m fine.”
Her hand cupped your jaw like she was measuring the heat of you. Her eyes flicked from your mouth to your pulse, back to the yellow streak on the wall. “One hour,” she said at last. “Then bed.”
“Two,” you bargained.
“One and I carry you.”
You huffed, but lifted the brush again. She stayed. Eventually, she slipped her wrist into your free hand, letting you paint with the other. The quiet of it settled on you both: the swish of bristles, the dog’s soft snore, the record’s fizz. Silence that said we’re working on the same thing, even if it looks different for each of us.
___________________________________________________________________________
That became the shape of your days.
Mornings broke you and put you back together. Abby learned the exact cadence of the heaves and the angle to hold the glass between them. You learned that peppermint on your tongue tricked your stomach into smaller storms. Lev began leaving a folded hand towel on the counter the night before because “the tile is cold; I’m not heartless.” Every third day, you managed scrambled eggs. Every fourth, Abby cried quietly in the kitchen where you couldn’t see, then came back with her jaw set in determination.
At base, Rachel’s voice had edges; Marcus’s had weight. Over the radio it sounded like this:
“Redwood to Echo-Seven,” Rachel snapped. “Wind shift. Orchard crews, adjust grid three to five.”
And Abby, calm, braid neat, hands shadows over maps, answered, “Echo-Seven copies. Shifting three to five. Pinecone Team, confirm eyes.”
Lev ran comms like he’d been born with a headset. He rarely spoke, but when he did, people listened. Later, he came home smelling of salt and dust, flopping on the couch like someone twice his age. When he learned to knock softly before opening the bathroom door, he briefly became your favorite person.
By the second week, you and the spare room had a relationship Abby would’ve called unhealthy. You’d clear a corner and see where sunlight might fall on a rug. You’d fold a blanket and it would look like a crib in negative. A short-legged chair creaked in a way that made you think of night feeds and gentle rocking. You told yourself you were just tidying. But your hands kept moving.
“Don’t lift,” Abby said. “No ladders. Mask for paint.”
You didn’t lift—you dragged. You didn’t touch the ladder—you used a sturdy dining chair. You wore the mask for paint, but it also hid the stubborn set of your jaw when she made that face like she was torn between throttling and kissing you.
“You’re going to give me grey hair,” she said, catching you mid-chair climb with a trim brush behind your ear.
“You already have two,” you said brightly.
She sprinted to the mirror, found none, scowled, and you laughed so hard you had to sit on the floor until the room stopped tilting. She laughed too, because she always did.
You took breaks when your body forced them. The couch learned the shape of your naps. Norman learned to wedge into the bend of your knees. Abby learned to stop by the house between radio calls and stand over you, arms crossed, pretending to scan for intruders while her eyes just watched your chest rise and fall.
Meals became small rituals. Dry toast in the morning, broth at noon, half a baked potato at four. Dinner was one carb, one protein, three polite bites of something green. On the nights you failed, Abby kissed your nausea like it was a skill.
You painted. Yellow first—because you wanted a room that made its own light. Then patient green. Then white trim that made the rest of the house look briefly ashamed.
“We’ll sand the crib,” Abby said one night, leaning in the doorway like she didn’t want to spook you. “So it’s smooth. No splinters. I can build shelves.”
“Strong shelves,” you agreed. “For books.”
“For books,” she echoed softly, her voice carrying both your name and the word home.
You fought twice. Once because you moved a crate alone and she saw the drag marks in the dust. Once because you ignored the smell of solvents and she opened every window, moved you to the porch, and sat silently until the air cleared. In both, you found the edge where her control wore the face of love trying not to break. In both, you apologized, and so did she. Later she pressed her palm to your stomach like prayer, and you covered it with yours like permission.
Lev kept his orbit—school when camp held it, comms when he was wanted, bursts of labor when he needed to prove himself. He ratted you out to Abby half the time, pretended not to see the other half, which meant he loved you both correctly. On good days, he peeked into the nursery and muttered, “This is good,” before vanishing. On bad days, he let Norman lick his fingers and asked if you needed something carried, flexing as if to prove his muscles existed.
At night, when the wind came from the west, you heard the city hum. From the south, the sea gnawed the same stones as always, steady as breath. Abby came home later than she wanted but earlier than you feared, and always put her hand on your belly before kissing your mouth. It was grammar now: home, hand, you, us.
One night, you woke at three and realized you weren’t going to be sick. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, one palm spread over your stomach. The air drifted salt through the window. Abby’s snore was soft, steady, catching every fourth breath. You inhaled and told yourself, quietly, I’m doing my best.
And somehow, it felt true.
__________________________________________________________________________
You stood in front of the mirror, fingers curled in the hem of your shirt, eyes sharp and restless. The house had started to feel like a cage—paint fumes, folded blankets, Abby’s hovering, Lev’s mood swings. If you stayed inside one more day, you’d lose your mind.
But then you tugged the shirt higher, turned slightly to the side.
Four months.
For weeks you’d felt almost normal—no more morning sickness, no more collapsing in the middle of chores. Sometimes, late at night, you thought you felt a flutter under your ribs, a soft tap like a finger from inside. Today, though, there was no mistaking it. Your belly pushed forward, round enough that the shirt you wore couldn’t hide it.
Your breath caught. I’m showing.
The bathroom door creaked open before you could drop the fabric. Abby stepped in, braid damp from a quick shower, a towel thrown over her shoulder. Her eyes went straight to your stomach before you managed to shove your shirt down.
“Oh hey,” she whispered, already reaching. Her palm cupped the small swell through the cotton like it was something precious. “It looks so big today.”
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah… I don’t know why. Not super big, but—” You scoffed, turning your face away. “I look bloated.”
Abby’s mouth curved into a smile, soft and almost reverent. “I can’t wait until you’re bigger.”
Heat rose in your chest, but you rolled your eyes to cover it. “I’m going to the beach today,” you blurted, voice sharp, meaner than you meant it to be.
Her brows knit immediately. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
You scoffed again, arms folding tight across your chest. “I am going. I’ll go insane if I’m in this house for one more fucking minute.”
Abby lifted her hands in surrender, frustration flickering at the edges of her patience. “Okay, okay. I’ll come with you. Me and Lev—we’ll all go.”
But you shook your head hard. “No. I need to get away from you guys.”
Her face fell, mouth tightening, brow furrowing in confusion. “What did I do?”
The words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Nothing! I don’t know—but today I don’t want to be around either of you!”
The silence after was thick enough to choke on. Abby’s face softened but pinched at the same time, as if she was trying not to let the hurt show. She nodded slowly, lips pressing together, her voice quieter than usual. “Okay. I hear you.”
But nothing took the edge off. Everything felt jagged, your skin buzzing like the world was one size too small. Even Norman’s nails clicking across the floor made you want to crawl out of your own body.
You stormed into the bedroom, yanking open drawers until you pulled out your jeans. You tugged them on with force, but the waistband caught, the button digging cruelly into the new curve of your belly.
“Fuck.” You huffed, irritation flooding you hot and fast. You ripped them back off, tossing them onto the floor.
Abby appeared in the doorway, braid loose over her shoulder, watching carefully. She hadn’t been needed at base today—probably thought she’d spend the whole day with you.
Her brow furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong—”
“I don’t fucking fit in anything!” The words snapped out before you even heard yourself say them.
It wasn’t even true. Most of your shirts still fit fine, but the jeans—the goddamn jeans—had made you want to scream.
Abby blinked once, then crossed the room. She picked up a pair of soft stretchy shorts from the drawer and held them out gently. “These might—”
“I just want to wear my jeans, Abby!” Your voice cracked, sharp with a grief that wasn’t just about denim.
Her hand stilled. She nodded, like she didn’t know the right answer. “But… if they don’t—”
Tears welled and broke before you could swallow them back. Hot and fast, blinding. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, shoving her hand away.
“Joan—woah, hey,” Abby said quickly, kneeling in front of you, palms raised like she was afraid to touch you wrong. “It’s okay—”
“I just wish we could have beef stew tonight.”
Abby blinked, kneeling in front of you. “Okay… I can go get beef from base. Or send Lev.”
You shook your head hard, tears streaking down your cheeks. “No, not from base. Like—from Seattle.”
She froze, lips twitching like she wasn’t sure if you were serious. “Seattle beef?”
You sniffled, frustrated with yourself, with the world, with the stupid button on your jeans. “It just tastes different, Abby! From the city. Real beef. Not the stringy stuff they trade through the pens.”
Abby let out a slow breath, her hand rubbing along your knee, careful, grounding. “Baby, they’ve got cows at base. It’s the same thing. It comes from the same animal.”
“No it’s not!” you burst out, your voice cracking, part sob, part stubborn. “Seattle beef was different. It was… I don’t know. Juicier! Better.” Your words dissolved into hiccups as you pressed your palms against your eyes. “God, I sound insane.”
Abby shook her head quickly, gently tugging your hands down. “No. You sound pregnant. Which—you are.” She tried for a crooked smile. “And you’re allowed to sound ridiculous about stew.”
That broke something in you, and you half-laughed, half-cried, shoulders slumping as she pulled you forward into her arms. Abby’s chin rested on top of your head, her voice soft and steady.
Abby’s voice softened, cautious. “I can try to make it the same.”
You shook your head, tears prickling again. Your voice came out low and stubborn. “It won’t be the same.”
She paused, watching you carefully, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay.” She didn’t understand, not really, but she wasn’t about to argue with you now.
Sniffling, you muttered, “And lemonade.”
That pulled a soft laugh from her, a little shaky. “Lemonade I can do.”
Your mind wandered unbidden to the lemon tree south of the house, crooked and stubborn, always bearing fruit in the salt-heavy air. Your stomach twisted at the thought. “Not from our tree.”
Abby blinked, brow furrowing deeper. “Then—what?” Her voice was thick with confusion.
“Different lemons,” you said at last, voice cracking as you dropped your head onto her shoulder.
She huffed a quiet sigh, her arms tightening around you. “Joan… it’s the same fruit.” She stopped herself mid-argument, catching the way your lips trembled. Her jaw unclenched. “Okay. Different lemons. Got it.”
You let out a long, uneven breath, your chest pressed against hers, and finally—finally—your body stopped fighting.
Abby kissed your damp hair, whispering, “Stew. Different lemons. We’ll make it work.”
You sat up suddenly, needing to move, needing to get out before you clawed through your own skin. Abby’s hand brushed your elbow, steadying you even though you didn’t need it. The gesture made something sharp twist in your chest.
You tugged the stupid stretchy shorts on, the waistband loose but not right, and shoved your legs into socks. Beside you, Abby sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over to put on her own. Her presence should’ve been grounding, but the sound of fabric stretching over her calves only made your jaw clench harder.
Then the seam of your sock brushed against your toes—slightly crooked, slightly scratchy. It was nothing. But it was everything. Heat surged up your throat, irrational and overwhelming. With a growl, you yanked them off and threw them across the room, stomping barefoot out of the bedroom before she could say anything.
The stairs creaked under your heavy tread. Lev was at the kitchen table, a comic splayed across his lap. He glanced up when you appeared, eyes flicking between your stormy face and your bare feet, then quickly dropped back to the page, wisely choosing silence.
Norman jumped up from his bed, tail wagging eagerly. He padded after you, nails clicking against the floor, ready to follow wherever you went. But your nerves were too raw. You spun, voice sharp. “Not now, Norman!”
He froze, ears folding back, tail sinking. A tiny whimper slipped from him, and the guilt came instantly, curling in your gut. But you pushed through it, yanking the front door open and stepping out into the heat.
The air slapped your face, heavy and hot, thick with the briny tang of salt. Your bare feet padded against sun-warmed planks, then onto gritty sand. Each step grounded you, burning away at the edge of your temper.
You reached the shoreline and sank down, right where the waves lapped hungrily at the sand. The water soaked your shorts and clung to your shirt, tugging at you as if to pull you further in. You let it. Foam fizzed against your calves, bubbles popping against skin as the tide reached higher, cool and alive.
With a sigh, you leaned back on your palms, stretching your legs out so the waves broke over them. The ocean wrapped around your body, and for the first time in days, the noise inside your head softened.
You tipped your chin down at the small swell of your stomach. Barely there. Barely visible. No one else would notice. But you did. Abby did. That tiny curve made every breath feel heavier.
You tilted your head back, staring at the white-hot sky. The sun felt too close, pressing down on you like it was trying to bleach out your thoughts.
Boots crunched over sand behind you. You didn’t have to look. You’d know the weight of that tread anywhere.
“Joan!” Abby’s voice carried over the waves.
You flinched, blinking quickly. She came into view, her braid pulled tight, your rifle strapped over her shoulder, the walkie clipped to her vest. She looked like a soldier again, all angles and presence, even as she crossed toward you.
When she stopped a few feet away, she scoffed, adjusting the strap of the rifle with one hand. “You know you can’t leave without a rifle. Especially like this.” Her hand gestured toward your belly before she could stop herself.
It wasn’t a harsh scold. Not really. But the words cut anyway. Tears spilled hot and sudden down your cheeks before you could stop them.
You pressed your palms into your eyes, shoulders shaking. You hated the way it felt—like everything she said was proof you were failing, like you couldn’t even trust yourself anymore.
And sitting there on the sand, wet and barefoot, you felt like a maniac.
Abby lowered herself slowly, boots crunching in the wet sand until she was squatting beside you. Her hand came to rest between your shoulder blades, moving in slow, steady circles that eased some of the tension out of your spine.
“Hard day?” she asked quietly, her voice low enough to be lost under the hiss of the surf.
Your throat burned as you nodded, wiping at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I just… I just wanted to be alone.”
“I know,” she said, her thumb brushing over the ridge of your shoulder. “But you’ve got to be safe too.”
You sniffled, hating the way the tears wouldn’t stop, hating the sudden swings in your chest that made everything feel too big, too raw. You wished you could just swallow it down, but instead your voice cracked on a soft, miserable laugh. “I hate these moods. I don’t even know who I am today.”
Abby’s chest rose with a slow breath. She didn’t argue, didn’t try to fix it. She just eased down onto the sand beside you, not caring that the tide immediately soaked through her pants, the water lapping around her hips. Her arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you into her warmth.
You sagged against her, your forehead pressed to the curve of her collarbone. The ocean swirled around you both, cold but strangely cleansing, waves rushing forward and retreating as if trying to carry the weight out of your body.
She held you through it, her hand tracing lazy lines over your damp back, her voice quiet against your hair. “We’ll get through days like this. Together.”
And for the first time that day, you let yourself believe her. The crash of the waves steadied into a rhythm, and for a few breaths you just let yourself sink into it, into her.
But then, without meaning to, the words slipped out. “Do you ever think about it?”
Her brow furrowed as she angled her head toward you. “Think about what?”
You swallowed, staring out at the horizon where the sky bled into the water. “What I did… when I left.”
Abby went still. Her lips pressed into a tight line, and you felt the breath she pulled into her chest before she let it out slow. Her arm stayed firm around you, though, fingers idly tracing damp circles on your arm as if to anchor you there.

Chapter 82: Laundry and Surprises

You two sat in silence for a long while, the waves filling in what neither of you could say. Abby’s hand traced absent circles over your arm, the tide washing higher around your legs.
Then she drew a deeper breath, her chest rising beneath your cheek. “Sometimes.”
Your heart clenched. You nodded, the word rasping out of you. “I’m sorry.”
Her head shook gently above you, braid brushing your shoulder. “I know you are. And you don’t need to keep worrying about it. I chose to forgive you. I chose to continue with you.”
Your throat worked around a shaky breath, relief and guilt twining together until you didn’t know which was which.
Abby exhaled slowly, her voice lower this time, almost hesitant. “I do get scared, though.”
You swallowed, tilting your face just enough to look up at her. “Of what?”
Her jaw flexed before she admitted it. “Of Ellie.”
The name landed between you like a stone. Your stomach pulled tight.
Abby stared past you at the horizon, her arms still strong around your frame. “I get scared she’ll come for me again. Or send someone she knows, someone who’ll finish what she couldn’t. Because of what I did.” Her voice caught slightly on the last word, but she forced it out, steady.
You listened, pressing your head more firmly into her chest, trying to give her the comfort she always gave you. The steady drum of her heart filled your ear.
“But that’s not what we should be dwelling on now,” she said finally, her tone shifting, purposeful. Her hand slid down, warm and broad, and rested against the small curve of your belly.
“I want to be happy,” she whispered. “We can choose to be happy.”
The words sank into you like an anchor in sand. For the first time in hours, your body loosened, and you let the tide carry away the weight that had been pressing so heavy on your ribs.
The two of you stayed like that for a while longer, letting the waves lap cold around your hips and thighs, letting the silence stretch without breaking. Abby’s hand stayed warm and steady on your belly, her cheek occasionally brushing the top of your head as she breathed.
Eventually, she shifted, sighing as she pushed herself upright. Her clothes clung to her, heavy with seawater, boots squelching in the sand. She reached a hand down for you.
You hesitated, then slipped your fingers into hers, letting her haul you gently to your feet.
The walk back up the beach was quiet, but not the brittle silence from earlier. This one was softer—like the water had rinsed some of the sharp edges away. The air was still hot, sun beating down, gulls crying overhead. Sand clung to your wet calves, between your toes, but you didn’t complain.
Abby didn’t let go of your hand. Not once. Her thumb stroked small, grounding motions over your knuckles as you walked. Every few steps she glanced at you from the corner of her eye, like she wanted to be sure you weren’t about to shatter again.
By the time the house came into view, Norman was sitting on the porch, ears perked, tail sweeping anxiously against the wood. The moment he spotted you both, he bounded forward, splashing up sand as he barked.
You bent down to scratch his ears, guilt twisting for how you’d snapped at him earlier. “Sorry, boy,” you murmured.
Norman licked your damp fingers eagerly, as if all was forgiven.
Abby smirked faintly, brushing wet hair from her face. “Guess we both needed a walk.”
You didn’t argue. Instead, you let her guide you back inside, her hand never leaving yours, the two of you dripping water onto the floorboards as though you’d both just come back from somewhere far rougher than the ocean.
She kicked her boots off in the doorway, one by one, leaning halfway out onto the porch to shake the sand from them. Then, together, you padded upstairs, wet clothes clinging to your skin.
Abby turned the shower handle, steam beginning to rise as water thundered against the tiles. Without hesitation she stripped down, utterly unselfconscious, the light from the small bathroom window catching the carved lines of her shoulders and arms.
You froze for a second, your throat tightening. The way the light hit her made her look like she’d been sculpted out of bronze, every line and curve alive with strength.
She noticed your stare and chuckled, flexing one arm in mock pride.
Your eyes widened, your voice coming out half awe, half disbelief. “You’re getting really buff again.”
She blushed faintly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Almost back up to pushing two-fifty,” she admitted, pride slipping under the softness of her tone.
You laughed, peeling your shirt off and tossing it aside before stepping into the shower with her. The hot spray soaked you instantly, washing away the salt and sand clinging to your skin.
Abby reached for the soap, working it into her palms before smoothing it over your shoulders, down your arms, across your belly with such careful attention it almost broke you open. She hummed low in her throat, her touch steady, deliberate, tender.
You returned the favor, your hands sliding over her back, across the solid plane of her chest, along the strength in her arms. The lather and the warmth made the moment stretch, neither of you speaking, both of you letting the water rinse more than just dirt away.
After a while, you simply clung to each other, foreheads pressed close, the hot water streaming over your bodies as if it could drown out everything outside the bathroom walls. Her arms wrapped tight around you, your ear pressed against the thud of her heartbeat, the world reduced to steam and skin and the sound of her breathing.
Eventually, Abby sighed, long and quiet, and reached down to twist off the faucet. The water cut, leaving the room in silence but for the drip of droplets off your hair.
She stepped out first, grabbing a towel and opening it wide before wrapping you in it snugly, her palms smoothing it against your shoulders like she was swaddling something precious. Only after you were tucked safe did she reach for one for herself, tucking it around her waist.
For a moment, the two of you just stood there in the mist, side by side, stripped raw of anger and irritation, left only with the warmth you still chose to share.
Steam still clung to the hall as you stepped out of the bathroom, towels damp against your skin. Abby pressed a kiss to the side of your head before tugging on a clean shirt and sweatpants.
“Stay put,” she murmured, tugging her braid over her shoulder. “I’ll get Lev to grab beef from base. You’ll have your stew tonight.”
You exhaled shakily, cheeks warming. “Seattle beef,” you teased, though the edge in your voice was gone now.
She smirked. “Seattle beef,” she echoed, and padded downstairs.
Through the floorboards you could hear the muffled exchange—her firm voice, Lev’s teenage groan of protest, and then the creak of the front door as he gave in. A moment later the distant sound of his boots faded down the road.
The house grew quiet again.
You tugged on a pair of soft shorts and an old shirt, the fabric loose against your skin, then padded barefoot into the garage. The familiar smell of canvas and paint soothed something raw in you. The boxes were pushed back now, the drop cloth spread neatly over the floor, your easel standing like an invitation.
You settled into the chair, pencil sliding easily into your fingers. The world slowed the moment graphite touched paper. You let your hand move without thinking, lines flowing into curves, shapes settling into the beginnings of something whole.
The sounds of the house softened behind you—the faint clink of Abby in the kitchen, Norman’s nails tapping lazily across the floorboards. With each stroke of pencil, the ache in your chest eased, replaced with the quiet rhythm of creation.
You leaned back after a while, rolling the pencil between your fingers, and realized what you’d been doing without thinking. Abby’s face stared back at you from the page. The sharp line of her jaw, the braid over her shoulder, the weight she carried in her eyes. You drew her often—your hand seemed to remember her even when your mind wasn’t trying to.
The garage door creaked open. Abby stepped inside, her boots soft on the concrete. She moved up behind you, leaning over just enough to see.
Her eyes caught the page. She didn’t tease, didn’t joke—she just slipped her arms around your shoulders and pulled you back into her chest.
You let the pencil fall into your lap and sighed, melting into her warmth. Her chin rested on the crown of your head.
Then the sound of the front door rattled the air, followed by the thump of boots and a rustle of paper bags. Lev’s voice rang down the hall, a little louder than necessary: “Beef on the counter!”
Abby squeezed your shoulder once and straightened. “Got it,” she called back, already heading toward the kitchen.
But you didn’t follow. Instead you pushed up from the chair and wandered toward the porch, Norman trailing faithfully at your heel. The boards were still warm from the afternoon sun as you lowered yourself onto the steps.
The dog flopped against your side, his head heavy on your thigh. You scratched absently behind his ear, your gaze drifting toward the horizon.
The sunset stretched wide over the water, spilling the sky in shades of fire and rose, orange bleeding into violet as the tide lapped gentle and steady at the shore. For the first time that day, your chest loosened, and you let yourself just breathe.
The smell of stew carried out to the porch, rich and heavy, the kind of scent that clung to the walls of a house and made it feel like home. Abby leaned out the door, one hand on the frame. “Dinner.”
You gave Norman a quick pat before pushing yourself up. Inside, Lev was already at the table, hair mussed from the wind, flipping through his comic while shoveling the first spoonfuls into his mouth.
Abby set a bowl in front of you, steam curling up in soft clouds, then placed a tall glass of lemonade by your elbow. “There you go.”
You eyed it suspiciously, lifting the spoon, then sighed. “It’s not Seattle beef.”
Lev looked up at you, baffled. “Seattle beef?”
Abby smirked faintly, sliding into her chair across from you. “Don’t ask.”
You stabbed at a piece of potato and grumbled, “And the lemons are from the tree.”
Abby lifted her glass, taking a slow sip. “Yep. Straight from the tree.”
Still, you ate. And once the first bite hit your tongue, warm and savory and grounding, your irritation melted into something softer. You sighed again, this time quieter, almost content. “Fine. It’s good.”
Lev rolled his eyes. “It’s more than good. It’s awesome.” He pointed his spoon at Abby. “She should cook more often.”
Abby snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”
But when her gaze shifted back to you, her eyes softened. You caught it, even as you chewed, and reached under the table to find her hand. She let you.
The three of you ate like that—quiet, close, the weight of the day slowly dissolving into the simple comfort of stew and lemonade.
The clink of spoons against bowls filled the air for a while, the only sound besides Norman’s nails ticking across the floor as he hovered hopefully under the table. The stew warmed your chest, each bite softening the edge of your earlier storm.
Lev broke the quiet first, voice bright with something he was trying to hide. “Patrol with Mara in two days.”
Abby glanced up, brows arching. “You’re excited about patrol?”
He shrugged, trying for casual, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. “Well… yeah. It’s not boring when she’s there.”
You smirked into your spoon, hiding it behind a sip of lemonade. Abby caught your look and shook her head faintly, a ghost of a smile at her lips.
Lev kept going, his tone a little too even. “She, uh, asked if she could come by tomorrow. Since you’ll be at base.” He looked at you, not Abby, as if to make his case. “You’ll be home, right? It’d just be for a little while.”
You raised your brows, leaning back in your chair. “So you’re asking me to chaperone?”
His cheeks flushed instantly. “No! I’m just saying—it’s fine, right?”
Abby gave a quiet chuckle, stabbing her spoon into the broth. “That’s what this is really about. Mara, not the patrol.”
Lev scowled at her. “It’s both.”
You smiled into your bowl, watching him squirm. “I don’t see why not. You can bring her by.”
His shoulders relaxed at once, though he tried to play it off with a muttered, “Cool. Whatever.”
Norman barked once, like he was agreeing.
Abby shook her head again, amusement soft in her eyes as she reached for another sip of lemonade.
The house felt lighter.
When the bowls were scraped clean and the last of the lemonade gone, Lev stretched back in his chair with a groan. Then, almost too casually, he said, “I’ll do the dishes.”
Both you and Abby looked at him in surprise.
“You’ll what?” Abby asked, narrowing her eyes like she expected a trick.
Lev rolled his eyes. “I’ll do the dishes. It’s not a big deal.”
You smirked, leaning your chin on your palm. “You just don’t want us hovering while you radio Mara later.”
His cheeks flushed. “I said I’d do the dishes, didn’t I?” He was already stacking the bowls, muttering under his breath about people being ungrateful.
Abby chuckled and pushed back from the table, resting her hand on your shoulder as she passed. “Fine. They’re all yours.”
You followed her upstairs, Norman padding along at your heel. The house grew quiet behind you, Lev’s clattering in the kitchen fading into background noise.
In the bedroom, Abby grabbed the book from her nightstand and propped herself up against the headboard, her hair falling loose over her shoulder. You curled into her side beneath the blanket, head resting on her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat as she turned the pages.
The words of her book became a soft, steady murmur in the background. Warmth and exhaustion pulled at your body, eyelids growing heavier with each breath. The world outside could wait. Right now, there was only the rise and fall of Abby’s chest, the weight of her arm around you, the safe cocoon of her voice drifting you toward sleep.
For the first time that day, everything felt quiet. Whole.
__________________________________________________________________________
You woke the next morning feeling different—lighter, steadier. Your mood was level for the first time in days. The heaviness of yesterday’s storm seemed to have burned out, leaving only a quiet hum in your chest.
Padding barefoot out of bed, you slipped into the bathroom, splashing cool water on your face before brushing your teeth. Downstairs, you could hear Abby moving around—the scrape of boots, the low rumble of her voice.
Dressed and ready for the day, you paused at the top of the stairs, leaning against the banister. Their voices carried clearly.
“You go to base, get Mara, and come right back,” Abby said, her tone sharp and unyielding, a finger no doubt wagging in Lev’s face.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lev answered, though his grin was audible. “Don’t worry. I won’t pull a Joan.”
Your brows knitted instantly. Excuse me?
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling hard. “Let’s just go.”
You huffed quietly, offended, but stepped down the stairs only after the front door shut behind them.
Norman was perched on the couch, ears perked, tail thumping eagerly when he spotted you. You sank down beside him, his warm body pressing against your thigh. Your hand instinctively found your stomach, stroking the small curve there. It wasn’t much—just enough that you and Abby knew. To anyone else, it could still be dismissed as nothing.
Norman whined softly, nudging your hand with his nose. You smiled faintly and shook your head. “What should I do today, Norman?”
He gave a sharp bark, tail sweeping faster.
You laughed under your breath. “Yeah, laundry and cleaning. That’s what I thought too.”
The day stretched ahead, open and waiting.
You dragged the wash bin out to the side yard, the sun already beating down on your shoulders. The metal was dented and old, but it held enough water once you filled it from the pump. Soap cut through the surface in cloudy swirls as you plunged the first shirt in, scrubbing the fabric against itself until suds foamed between your fingers.
It wasn’t glamorous, but there was something grounding about it—the rhythm of dunk, scrub, wring. Your arms ached quickly, and your back twinged when you leaned too far, but you pushed through it, jaw set. Abby had made it clear she didn’t want you straining, but the work gave you something to focus on. Something that felt like control.
One by one, you carried the damp clothes to the line strung between two posts, pinning them up with wooden clips. Shirts fluttered lazily in the breeze. A pair of pants caught the sun and steamed faintly, releasing the scent of soap into the air. Norman trotted at your feet, snapping at the spray of droplets you shook off your hands.
You were hanging a faded blanket, stretching up on your toes to clip the edge, when you heard voices carrying from the road.
Lev’s voice, half-laughing, half-sharp: “No, really, it’s not that boring.”
A girl’s voice answered, softer but quick, teasing in return.
You glanced over your shoulder, squinting against the glare. Sure enough, Lev was heading up the path, shoulders hunched under his pack, and beside him walked Mara. Her braid bounced against her back as she matched his pace, her smile flashing when she spotted you.
Lev cleared his throat, trying for casual. “We’re back.”
Mara walked at his side, almost as tall as him. Her thick curls were slicked back into a ponytail, the sun catching on each tight coil so they shone. Her dark skin was dusted with freckles across her cheeks and nose, and sweat glistened at her temples from the walk.
You straightened your back, tucking a damp shirt under your arm. “Are you Mara?”
She nodded, her smile wide and shy all at once. You noticed immediately the gap where one of her front teeth should’ve been—a grown-up tooth, not a baby one, missing right in the middle.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Joan,” she said politely, voice soft but clear.
Miss Joan. The title caught you off guard, the words sticking strangely in your chest. You weren’t old enough to be a “Miss” anything, not really.
“Just… Joan is fine,” you said quietly, offering her a small smile.
Mara nodded, her hands twisting together in front of her.
Lev jerked his head toward the porch, eager to move things along. “C’mon,” he muttered, ushering her past you.
You lingered in the doorway as they climbed the stairs, their steps thudding overhead. For a split second you thought about calling after them, telling them to keep the door open. But then you sighed and shook your head. It’ll be fine.
A few moments later Lev’s record player started, scratchy notes drifting faintly down through the ceiling. Their voices rose in muffled laughter, trading words back and forth too low to make out.
You turned back to the kitchen, exhaling as you pulled a rag across the counters. The rhythm of it calmed your nerves. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, catching the soap bubbles in your wash bin as you moved. The house felt alive again—teenagers laughing upstairs, music humming, Norman padding back and forth between the rooms as you worked.
You wrung the rag out over the sink, water dripping in steady rivulets, then spread it flat again across the counter. The motion was simple, thoughtless—and that was exactly when your mind began to wander.
The scratch of Lev’s record player upstairs faded into the background, a reminder of youth filling the house in a way you hadn’t heard in years. You paused, hand braced on the counter, and let the sound pull you somewhere else.
Boston.
The walls there had never been filled with music—only with the grind of patrol boots, the hiss of distant pipes, the bark of FEDRA orders carrying through alleys. Your teenage years weren’t spent laughing over comics or sneaking friends upstairs. They were carved into long nights of ration lines, fists clenched around whatever scraps you could keep. Your home had smelled like mold and stale bread, not soap and stew.
You picked up a glass and dried it, your reflection warping in the cloudy surface. Lev’s voice lifted in laughter above you, and for a moment it overlapped with another voice—someone long gone, someone from before everything fractured. Daniel, maybe, or Terra. Echoes that still clung when you let your thoughts slip.
You sighed, setting the glass aside.
Lev was lucky, you thought, even if he didn’t always see it. To have a roof that wasn’t crumbling, food that wasn’t powdered or stale, the freedom to bring a girl over and spin records without worrying who might bang down the door. He’d never know the bite of Boston winters seeping through broken windows, or the guilt of being too young to feel that old.
Your stomach tightened, your hand brushing absently over the curve there. This baby won’t either, you promised silently, scrubbing a stubborn spot on the counter until it gleamed.
The music upstairs shifted, a new track scratching faintly through. Mara’s laugh followed, bright and unguarded. You closed your eyes and let it echo, telling yourself this house—the one with fresh laundry snapping on the line and soap on the counters—would never sound like Boston.
You glanced toward the window, the sun blazing white over the line of fabric in the yard. “Laundry should be dry,” you murmured to Norman.
He perked his ears and trotted after you, nails clicking against the floor as you stepped outside. The heat wrapped around you like a blanket, the kind of heavy warmth that made clothes crisp in minutes. You pulled each piece from the line, warm and stiff at the edges, and folded them neatly into the basket. That was the one thing you’d come to love about California—nothing ever stayed damp long.
Back inside, you set the basket on the table and worked through the pile. Shirts, pants, socks—all easy. A few pieces of Lev’s slipped in too, and without thinking you folded them with the rest, stacking them into a small pile to bring upstairs.
It was mindless, routine—something you did all the time.
You climbed the stairs, basket pressed against your hip, and nudged Lev’s door open without a thought.
The sight hit you in a rush. Lev was sprawled on his bed, not with a comic, not with a record—but on top of Mara. His hand braced beside her head, her curls spilling across the pillow, their lips pressed together in a clumsy, urgent kiss.
You froze in the doorway, breath catching. It wasn’t anything scandalous—not really—but your stomach lurched all the same. A part of you wanted to back out quietly, pretend you hadn’t seen, but the gasp left your throat before you could swallow it down.
Both heads snapped toward you.
Lev’s face twisted instantly, eyes wide with horror. Mara’s cheeks went crimson, freckles standing out even brighter against her flushed skin.
Lev snatched the nearest pillow and hurled it at you, his voice cracking as he shrieked, “Do you not know how to fucking knock?!”

Chapter 83: Lev and Mara, Abby and Joan... and Norman

You shut the door fast, heart hammering in your throat. The sound of Lev’s startled yell still rang in your ears as you stumbled down the stairs, laundry basket forgotten at the top landing. Your bare foot slipped on a step and you caught yourself against the wall, breath coming too quick.
By the time you hit the bottom, your chest ached. You moved straight for the kitchen, grabbed the radio from the counter, and ducked into the back of the house where Lev wouldn’t think to look for you. Norman followed, tail wagging uncertainly, and you pressed your back to the cool wall, thumbing the radio on.
“Pinecone C…” your voice cracked, stuttering.
The reply was instant. Abby’s voice, sharp with recognition: “Joan?”
Your throat tightened. You never radioed base—never. That alone was enough to make her voice carry a new weight.
You huffed out a shaky breath, pressing the button again. “Abby… I need to talk to you when you get home.”
The radio hissed and cracked in silence for a long moment. Then:
“…Is everything alright?” Abby’s tone had shifted low, tight, already bracing for the worst.
Your fingers clenched around the plastic. You swallowed, searching for words, not sure how to explain what you’d just seen.
You stopped cold, thumb hovering over the button. If you said it now, if you blurted it into the open channel, the whole base would hear. Rachel, Marcus, patrol teams—everyone. Lev would never forgive you for airing his business like that.
Your stomach twisted, the words clogging your throat. You swallowed hard.
“Tell you when you’re home,” you said finally, forcing your voice steady. “Over.”
Before Abby could answer, you clicked the switch and shut the radio off, the sudden silence heavy in your hand.
Your reflection stared back faintly from the darkened window, eyes wide, face still flushed. Norman nudged your leg with his nose, whining low like he could sense the storm you’d stirred.
You dropped the radio onto the counter and dragged a hand down your face, trying to steady your breath.
Whatever came next, you’d have to say it in person.
You couldn’t sit still. The radio sat dark on the counter, but your nerves wouldn’t let you leave it alone. You kept pacing the length of the living room, arms crossed tight against your chest, bare feet whispering over the worn boards. Every creak underfoot sounded too loud, every burst of muffled laughter from upstairs made your stomach knot tighter.
Norman followed your path at first, ears pricked, then gave up and flopped onto the rug with a sigh, his eyes tracking you as if he knew something was wrong.
The clock hadn’t even hit an hour since you’d signed off when you heard boots outside—heavy, fast, familiar.
The door pushed open, and Abby stepped in, the screen clattering shut behind her. She hadn’t even stripped her gear. Her vest was still half-buckled, her braid frayed from where she’d run her hands through it. Her eyes locked onto you immediately, sharp with worry.
“Joan,” she said, voice quick, already scanning you head to toe. “I came as soon as I could. What happened?”
You froze mid-step, your chest rising and falling too fast.
“I—” Your throat closed around the words, and you started pacing again, unable to stand still under her gaze.
Abby crossed the room in two strides, planting herself in your path. “You don’t radio me unless it’s serious. Within the hour I hear your voice and now this—” Her tone was firm, but her hands came up to rest on your shoulders, steadying, grounding. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”
Upstairs, the faint crackle of Lev’s record player drifted down, followed by a burst of laughter—bright, unmistakably Mara’s.
Your jaw tightened.
“It’s Lev,” you said finally, your voice low, shaky.
Abby’s brow furrowed. “What about Lev?”
You almost laughed at how absurd it sounded—you could both hear him upstairs, laughing with Mara. The words tumbled out anyway. “I walked in on him,” you whispered. “Kissing her.”
Abby blinked, then nodded slowly. Her brow creased tighter. “Should we make them keep the door open?”
You shrugged, eyes wide. “It was so awkward. He threw a pillow at me.”
Her jaw tightened. “He shouldn’t throw things at you.”
You sighed, exasperated. “It was a pillow.”
“Still,” Abby muttered, shaking her head.
The creak of hinges cut the air, and both your gazes shot up as Lev’s door opened. He came out with Mara trailing just behind, her curls bouncing nervously, her arms folded tight across her chest.
Lev froze halfway down the stairs when he spotted Abby, his brows knitting. “Why are you home?”
Mara shifted awkwardly behind him, eyes darting between you and Abby.
Lev’s gaze snapped from Abby to you, then back again. His face twisted. “Did you fucking radio her?!”
“Lev.”
It wasn’t loud, but it was the kind of tone that froze him mid-step. Her arms folded across her chest, her posture squared in that way that made her seem taller, heavier, impossible to argue with.
“You do not talk to Joan like that,” she said, each word clipped, leaving no space for argument.
Lev blinked, his bravado faltering. Mara shrank back behind him, pressing herself into the wall.
“She barged into my room—” he started, but Abby lifted a hand, and the words died on his tongue.
“I don’t care if she walked through your door without knocking. You don’t throw things at her. You don’t scream at her. And you sure as hell don’t cuss at her.” Abby’s voice was steady, controlled, but the steel in it made the hairs rise on your arms.
Lev’s shoulders hunched, his mouth opening, then snapping shut again.
“Mara,” Abby added, turning her gaze on the girl now. Her tone softened, but only slightly. “You’re welcome here. But the door stays open. Always.”
Mara nodded quickly, cheeks burning.
Lev let out a frustrated groan, dragging a hand over his face. “This is so embarrassing,” he muttered under his breath.
Abby’s eyes narrowed. “Then maybe you should’ve thought of that before slamming a pillow at Joan.”
Silence fell heavy. Lev’s jaw worked like he wanted to argue but knew better.
Finally, he muttered, “Sorry,” his eyes flicking toward you, quick and begrudging.
Abby didn’t let it slide.
“Not good enough,” she said firmly. “Look at her when you apologize. And mean it.”
Lev’s jaw clenched. He glanced at you again, cheeks burning, voice sharp with teenage pride. “Sorry, Joan.”
Abby crossed her arms tighter, brow lowering. “And what did we just say about the door?”
He groaned, throwing his head back like the weight of the world was on him. “Oh my god, it’s not a big deal! We weren’t even doing anything bad.”
“Door stays open,” Abby repeated, voice steel.
His nostrils flared, his eyes cutting between you and her. “Fine. Then me and Mara won’t hang out here anymore.” He threw a hand toward the stairs, defiant. “We’ll just go to the beach instead. That way you two don’t have to spy on us!”
Mara’s eyes went wide at his side, her shoulders stiffening. She clearly hadn’t expected him to announce that.
Abby’s face hardened, but her voice stayed calm, level. “Lev, you can stomp your feet all you want, but rules are rules. You’re under this roof, you follow them.”
Lev’s face burned red, frustration practically radiating off him. “Then maybe I don’t want to be under this roof,” he snapped.
The words hung there, raw and ugly, and the room felt smaller for them.
Abby let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was barely holding onto her patience. Then she dropped her hand and fixed Lev with a look that could’ve cut through steel.
“Do you think Mara’s gonna keep liking you if she hears you talk this way?” she asked, her tone flat and stern.
Lev froze halfway down the last step, eyes widening like he’d just been slapped. The words hit their mark, and for a second his face twisted with something raw and stunned.
Your stomach lurched, heat crawling up your neck. “Abby,” you whispered sharply, the warning in your voice edged with guilt. That was a low blow, and you both knew it.
Behind him, Mara puffed her cheeks, looking down at her shoes like she wanted to sink through the floor.
Lev groaned, the sound more wounded than angry. “Just stop!” he shouted, his voice cracking.
Before either of you could respond, he grabbed Mara’s hand, yanking her toward the door. Their footsteps pounded against the wood, and the screen clattered as he shoved it open.
You caught a flash of Mara’s uncertain face before Lev dragged her out, the slam of the door reverberating through the quiet house.
Norman barked once, startled, then whined, looking between you and Abby like even he wasn’t sure what had just happened.
The door rattled shut behind them, the clap of it echoing too loud in the quiet house. The laughter and music from minutes ago felt like it belonged to another world. Now, only the distant rhythm of their retreating footsteps carried down the road.
Norman whined once, pacing in a small circle before settling at your feet with his head low.
Abby stood stiff near the couch, her jaw clenched, one hand gripping the back of a chair until her knuckles went white. She didn’t speak at first. Her chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths, like she was trying to burn the anger out of her system before it came spilling over.
You watched her pinch the bridge of her nose, then drag her palm down her face, muttering under her breath. “He used to be so kind.”
Her voice cracked just enough to betray the hurt under the stern front. She shook her head, braid slipping forward over her shoulder. “Before all this teenage bullshit, he was… he was sweet. Respectful. Always looking out for me.” Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling as if she could see straight through it to where Lev used to shadow her on patrols, quick to patch her scrapes or share whatever rations he’d scrounged.
Now, he was slamming doors and cursing at the two of you.
Abby sank into the chair finally, rubbing at her temple. “I know he’s just a kid. I know it’s normal.” Her mouth twisted, caught between guilt and frustration. “But god, it’s like the second he started growing into himself, he forgot who he was with us.”
You lowered yourself beside her, the weight of her words heavy in your chest. For a moment neither of you spoke, the house echoing with its new, uneasy quiet.
You nodded slowly, letting her lean her head against your shoulder. Her breath left her in a long, tired exhale.
“I know it probably seems ridiculous to you—that you radioed me over this,” she said with a small chuckle. Her voice softened, almost breaking. “But Joan… I am so happy you did.”
You blinked, stunned.
Abby shifted slightly, her eyes glimmering when they met yours. “You trust me so much now, and you—” her voice cracked and she had to swallow. “You’ve become so good to me. Thank you for choosing me, Joan.”
Her hand slid gently over your belly, thumb brushing the small curve as if the gesture itself was a vow.
You swallowed hard and looked away, the pressure of her words sitting heavy in your chest. Had you really changed that much?
The question lingered as you let your eyes fall closed, listening to the house—the faint tick of the clock, Norman’s sigh as he shifted on the rug, the distant call of gulls beyond the open window.
Abby pushed up from the chair a moment later, stretching her shoulders before glancing toward the door Lev had slammed. A wry little chuckle escaped her. “Guess Lev’s got a little girlfriend.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. “Guess so.”
The tension in the room eased just a fraction, replaced by something tender, domestic—like even in the storm of teenage rebellion, there was still a kind of strange, fragile peace.
Abby’s gaze drifted up the stairs, her brow furrowing. “Did you carry that basket?”
You nodded, chewing absently at the edge of your nail.
She let out a sharp huff, the sound halfway between frustration and concern. “Joan… eventually you have to stop that.”
Your shoulders slumped. “I know.”
Her hand slid along the banister as if testing it. The wood gave a faint creak beneath her palm, shifting just enough that her frown deepened. “I need to fix this. It’s wobbly.”
You sighed, remembering the way your foot had nearly slipped earlier. “Yeah. Almost tripped going down today.”
Her eyes snapped back to you, sharp and worried. “You what?”
You lifted your palms quickly. “I caught myself! Nothing happened.”
Abby pressed her lips into a thin line, jaw working. Then she shook her head, already rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. “No. I’ll start on it now.”
The determination in her voice left no room for argument.
You sat back, watching her crouch to inspect the bolts and joints of the staircase, her big hands steady and practiced as she worked. It was such a simple thing, fixing wood and nails—but to her it was more than that. It was about you, about the bump at your belly, about making sure the world around you didn’t have sharp edges waiting to trip you up.
And for once, you didn’t argue. You just let her do it.
You cleared your throat, watching her work as the drill buzzed against the wood, sinking new hinges into the banister. “You should put up those shelves today, if you’ve got your tools out.”
Abby paused mid-motion, glancing over her shoulder with a crooked smile. “Putting me to work?”
You shrugged, reaching down to scratch Norman’s ears as he nosed at your knee. “I want them up already.”
She chuckled under her breath, shaking her head but not arguing. “I can do that.”
You hesitated, chewing your lip before blurting it out. “I want to go to town and—”
Her voice cut sharp, quick, like she’d been waiting for it. “No.”
You scoffed, throwing your hands up. “I want to look for baby clothes and books!”
Abby leaned back from the railing, one brow raised, sweat glistening along her temple. “Maybe.”
The word was clipped, but it wasn’t a full rejection.
You smiled despite yourself, crossing your arms. Abby was impossible lately—half soldier, half guardian, all steel and soft edges.
But that little maybe was enough to keep the spark of excitement alive in your chest.

Chapter 84: Like a Cage

Abby exhaled deeply as she finished, setting the drill aside and leaning her whole weight on the banister. The wood held firm, no creak or wobble left in it. She gave it a testing shake, then straightened, satisfied. “Okay. There.”
You blinked, pulled from your daydream as you stared out the window at the shimmering coastline. “Very good,” you said with a small smile, teasing.
She smirked faintly, wiping her hands on her thighs. Then her expression sobered. “I need to talk to Lev about that girlfriend.”
You sat up straighter, sighing. “He’ll be fine.”
Abby crossed her arms, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, but he needs to know how to act.”
You shook your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Let him figure it out. It’s his first crush, not a mission briefing.”
Her jaw worked, still unconvinced, but after a pause she huffed, relenting. “Okay. For now.”
You pointed toward the upstairs hall with mock severity. “Now—let’s do those shelves.”
Her lips quirked into a reluctant smile as she grabbed her tools again. “Bossy,” she muttered under her breath, but she was already heading toward the wall where the boards leaned, waiting to be mounted.
Norman wagged his tail and trailed after her like he knew a project was about to start.
Abby crouched by the wall, pulling the boards into place. The drill whirred to life again, echoing through the house, and Norman flinched before deciding it wasn’t worth the fuss. He plopped down nearby, chin on his paws, eyes following every move like a foreman overseeing construction.
You lingered at the edge of the room with your arms crossed. “You know, if you’re gonna play handyman, I should at least get to supervise.”
Abby snorted without looking up. “You mean hover.”
“Supervise,” you corrected, grinning.
She leveled the first shelf with a careful eye, then pressed her shoulder against it to hold it steady as she drilled. “You’re not lifting a finger. If I catch you even trying, I’ll take the hammer outside and bury it.”
“Bossy,” you teased, mimicking the word she’d used earlier.
Her head turned just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at her mouth. “Takes one to know one.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed.
A minute later, she leaned back to test the shelf, giving it a shake. Solid. “Alright. First one done.”
You clapped slowly, dramatically. “Very impressive work, ma’am. Truly.”
Abby arched a brow. “Careful, or I’ll make you do the next one.”
“Maybe I want to,” you said, half-joking, half-meaning it. You took a step forward before she raised a hand like a traffic officer.
“Joan.” Her voice went soft but firm, the kind of tone that brooked no argument. “No lifting. No straining. You promised.”
You huffed, retreating back to your spot, but not without muttering, “I could’ve at least held the level.”
Abby set the second board in place, lips twitching as if she’d heard you. “You can hold Norman. That’s about the extent of your job description.”
The words made you laugh, and Norman, sensing his name, wagged his tail happily as if in agreement.
By the time the second shelf was up, the room smelled faintly of sawdust and sweat. Abby wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and stood back, admiring the work with you.
You leaned against the doorway, hands on your bump, a smile tugging at your lips. “Looks good. Better than I pictured.”
She glanced at you, something soft flickering in her eyes. “For the books. For the clothes. For us.”
You nodded, throat tight, but managed to grin. “Now you’re just showing off.”
For a moment the two of you just stood shoulder to shoulder, admiring the work. The sunlight slanted through the window, catching on the fresh wood, casting sharp shadows across the paint.
Then you squinted. “Is it me… or do the stripes make it look kind of… ugly?”
Abby blinked, her head tilting, arms crossing as she studied the wall. The faded vertical stripes you’d painted months ago wavered behind the clean lines of the shelves, bending the edges and making them look crooked even though they weren’t.
She huffed through her nose. “Shit. Yeah. Kinda does.”
You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand. “All that work and now it looks like a circus tent.”
Abby gave you a sidelong glance, smirking. “You picked those stripes.”
You laughed harder, nudging her shoulder with yours. “Don’t remind me. I was in a phase.”
Abby leaned back, arms folded, eyes narrowing at the striped wall one more time before she sighed. “Guess we’ll have to repaint before the baby comes.”
You stared at her for a long beat, then blurted, “Can you take the shelves down now?”
Her head snapped toward you, incredulous. “I just put them up.”
You leaned against the wall dramatically, arms folded. “But it’s ugly, Abby.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath like she was counting to ten. “Joan…” Her sigh stretched long, and you could almost see the calculation in her eyes—was this worth the fight, or easier just to cave?
Finally, she huffed, rolling her eyes as she bent to grab the drill again. “Okay. Fine. But you owe me.”
The drill whirred back to life, echoing in the room. She started working the screws loose, grumbling under her breath, “Shelves up, shelves down, paint the walls… you’re lucky I love you.”
You grinned, leaning on the doorframe. “Extremely lucky.”
Abby huffed as she unfastened the last screw, easing the shelf down carefully and leaning it against the wall. She stacked each one neatly in the closet, shutting the door like she was tucking them away for good. When she straightened, her braid swung forward, brushing her shoulder.
“I found a book,” she said suddenly, her voice casual in that not-at-all-casual way that immediately put you on edge.
You raised your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
Her mouth twitched, and she gave a little chuckle as she crouched to put the drill back into its case. “A book on… well, an erotica.”
That made you blink. “You don’t usually read books like that.”
She exhaled, half a huff, half a laugh. “Yeah, I know. I don’t. But I did this time. Picked it up in one of the little shops down on the rugged side of town.”
You tilted your head, unsure where this was going. “Okay…”
She turned, her face coloring as she rubbed the back of her neck. “There was a section in it where they used this… thing.” She gestured vaguely, searching for words. “Kind of like our strap, but not really.”
Your curiosity perked, though your expression stayed guarded. You nodded slowly, encouraging her to continue.
Her flush deepened as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So I found one.”
You bit your lip, heart beating faster. “Found what?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for your arm, tugging you gently toward the bedroom. Her grip was warm, her touch firm but sheepish.
Once inside, she crossed quickly to her nightstand and crouched, pulling open the bottom drawer. From beneath a folded sweatshirt she produced something long and sleek, black with a rounded head that looked more like a microphone than anything else.
She held it in both hands like it was something fragile, her cheeks burning. “Got batteries for it,” she mumbled.
Your eyes widened when she thumbed a switch, and the thing came to life with a low, steady buzz that vibrated through the air.
“The fuck do you do with that?!” you blurted, your voice half-shocked, half-scandalized, though your chest had already gone warm.
Abby’s blush spread all the way up to her ears, but her eyes gleamed with a nervous sort of excitement.
Abby perked up, biting her lower lip as the low hum of the wand buzzed in her hand. “I could show you,” she offered, her voice low, almost teasing.
Your face went hot immediately, and you shook your head, waving your hands as if to physically push the suggestion away. “Abby—fucking Lev and Mara could come back at any time.”
She sighed, clicking the toy off, the sound cutting abruptly. Her shoulders slumped, but the mischievous glint in her eyes didn’t fade. “It should be quick.”
You scoffed, your blush spreading hot across your cheeks. “Should be?!”
That made her laugh, a real laugh, warm and husky, and she set the wand down on the bedspread. “Lay back,” she teased, half-serious, half-mocking.
You crossed your arms, lips pressed into a thin line though the corners threatened to twitch upward. “No. God. Later!”
Abby grinned, shaking her head as she tucked the wand back into the drawer with exaggerated care, like she was putting away a weapon. “Fine,” she said, amusement coloring her voice. “But I’m holding you to that.”
You rolled your eyes, still blushing, and flopped back onto the bed, muttering under your breath, “You’re ridiculous.”
Abby stretched out beside you, smirking. “You love it.”
You scoffed, heat crawling all the way up your neck, and stood abruptly. The room felt too small with that thing sitting in Abby’s drawer, humming in your imagination. You had introduced toys before, yes—but the thought of Abby reading erotica, sneaking into some shady shop, hunting down batteries? It made your chest feel tight with embarrassment.
You marched out of the bedroom before she could tease you again, trying to cool the fire in your cheeks.
The kitchen gave you an outlet. You grabbed plates from the rack and slammed them down on the counter harder than necessary, the clatter sharp enough to make Norman retreat nervously under the table. Your ears burned with every sound, your thoughts stuck on Abby’s flushed face and that ridiculous grin.
Her laugh floated down from the stairs, warm and unbothered. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” she called.
You clenched your jaw, glaring at the sink. To spite her, you abandoned the dishes and stomped upstairs, grabbing your paints and brushes from the garage. If she thought she could fluster you into silence, she was wrong.
The nursery wall beckoned like a challenge. You spread an old sheet across the floor, popped open a tin of pale green paint, and dragged the brush across the striped wall Abby had just spent the afternoon working on. The bristles rasped, the smell sharp and earthy, filling the room with its unmistakable sting.
At first Abby didn’t notice. She’d stretched out on the couch, enjoying her rare surprise day away from base—Rachel had granted her the leave after the radio fiasco with Lev, saying Abby could use the break to “handle things at home.” She’d taken that as a small gift, even if she wouldn’t admit it aloud.
But after a while the acrid tang of paint drifted downstairs. Abby sat up, sniffing once, twice, before realization struck.
“Joan!” she shouted, voice carrying up the stairwell. “What are you doing?”
The sound of the brush dragging over the wall was your only answer, your lips pressed together in grim determination as you worked the ugly stripes away.
You let it fester, her voice echoing up the stairwell again and again, but you ignored it, pushing the brush steadily across the wall. By the time you stopped to breathe, nearly the entire section of stripes had been drowned beneath pale green.
“Almost there,” you muttered to yourself, grabbing a spare chair from Lev’s room. It creaked under your weight—one of those rickety things he used for his desk—but it gave you just enough height to reach the corners.
You balanced on it carefully, stretching the brush toward the ceiling.
Downstairs, you heard the sharp, deliberate thud of Abby’s boots on the stairs. Each step was heavy, measured, promising trouble.
“No way,” she warned, her voice slicing into the room as she appeared in the doorway.
You rolled your eyes without turning fully. “It’s fine.”
Her breath caught, and she huffed, her voice tightening. “I don’t want you getting hurt—”
But just as she started to lecture, you leaned a little too far.
The chair groaned, one leg snapping out from under you with a sickening crack. You lurched forward, the paintbrush smearing a wide streak across the wall before slipping from your grip.
Abby’s arms caught you in an instant. Her reflexes were uncanny, like she’d been waiting for the disaster. She hauled you down safely, though your brush had streaked a thick smear of green across her forearm.
You gasped, clutching at her chest. “Oh my god.” Your eyes darted to the mess on her arm, then back to her face.
Her expression wasn’t playful. No smirk. No soft laugh. Just a dark, heavy scowl—the kind she reserved for moments of genuine anger, the kind that said you’d crossed a line.
“Joan,” she said quietly, her voice low and cutting as she lowered you carefully to your feet. “What did I tell you?”
The room seemed to shrink, the sharp smell of paint pressing in on all sides as her words hung heavy between you.
You shook your head, still catching your breath. “I’m not that far along, it’s okay—”
Abby cut you off instantly, her tone sharp as a blade. “It is not okay.”
Something hot and defensive snapped in your chest. “I’m only four months!”
Her eyes narrowed, her voice rising just enough to cut clean through yours. “About to be five.”
The correction hit harder than you expected. You huffed, turning away, your jaw tight. “Even if I did hit the ground, it would’ve been fine.”
Abby’s scowl deepened. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slow through her teeth. You could see it—how much you were stressing her out, how the weight of command at base and the fear of losing control here at home pressed down all at once.
She looked at you then, paint streaked across her arm, her braid slipping loose, her eyes dark with exhaustion and worry. Not anger—fear.
Abby dropped her hand from her face, her eyes locking onto yours, blazing. “Do you even hear yourself right now?” Her voice was louder than before, the edge of it cutting straight through you.
You flinched.
“You could’ve fallen, Joan. You could’ve cracked your head open, you could’ve landed wrong, you could’ve—” her hand gestured wildly, her braid swinging with the motion, “—you could’ve hurt yourself, or the baby. And you’re standing here acting like it’s nothing?”
You opened your mouth, but she didn’t give you the chance.
“Four months, five months, doesn’t matter—you don’t get to take risks like that anymore. You don’t get to climb broken chairs because you’re bored or because the wall looks ugly. You’re carrying our kid.” Her voice broke on the last words, raw and unguarded.
The air between you vibrated with her anger, but underneath it you could hear the panic, the fear.
Her chest rose and fell too fast, her paint-streaked arms trembling slightly where her fists clenched at her sides.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound the faint buzz of a fly against the windowpane and the slow drip of paint sliding down the wall.
You huffed, crossing your arms tight over your chest, frustration bubbling in your throat. You felt small under her glare, scolded like a child. “I can take care of myself.”
Abby’s jaw clenched, the muscle in her cheek twitching as she stared you down. “In a world like this, Joan, you need to be more careful.” Her voice was low, firm, almost shaking with the effort to keep it steady.
You rolled your eyes, scoffing. “I climbed a chair, Abby.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “A broken chair. With paint fumes everywhere. Alone. And you almost fell.” She gestured toward the shattered leg still lying in the corner, her movements sharp, impatient. “You think I don’t know how fast accidents happen? You think I haven’t seen what one stupid mistake can cost?”
Her words cut heavier than you expected, the weight of everything she’d seen, everything she carried, pressing into the space between you.
The sting of guilt crawled up your throat, but the stubborn part of you bristled all the same.
You clenched your fists at your sides, heat rushing to your face. “God, you act like I’m made of glass!” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I climbed a chair, Abby. That’s it. You make it sound like I tried to throw myself off the roof.”
Abby’s brow tightened, her mouth opening, but the words kept tumbling out of you, raw and sharp.
“I’m stuck in this house all day. I don’t get to go on patrol, I don’t get to go into town, I don’t even get to breathe without you watching me like I’m about to break. You get to see people, talk to them, laugh with them. Me? I’ve got Norman, some dirty laundry, and a paintbrush.”
The confession tore at your throat, surprising even you with how bitter it sounded.
Abby’s arms folded tight across her chest, but her eyes softened at the edges, just barely.
You swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. “I don’t know anyone here. Not really. Catalina doesn’t feel like home, Abby—it feels like I’m trapped in a cage while the world keeps moving around me. And now I’m pregnant, and it’s only going to get worse.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint drip of paint sliding down the wall where your brush had fallen.
Abby’s chest rose and fell, her jaw working as if she wanted to argue but couldn’t. She just stood there, paint streaked on her arm, watching you unravel.

Chapter 85: Return

“Like a cage?” Abby repeated softly, her throat working around the words.
Your stomach dropped. You shook your head quickly, tears already pricking at your eyes. “Fuck—no, god, I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” Your voice broke, and you swiped at your cheeks uselessly. “I’m sorry. I love our home, I do. I love what we’ve made here. I just—” You let out a strangled laugh, wet with frustration. “God, I’m fucking bored.”
Abby’s shoulders eased, the sharpness in her eyes dimming into something softer, heavier. She crossed the paint-smeared room in two strides and caught your face in her hands.
“Hey,” she whispered, thumbs brushing the tears off your cheeks. “Don’t apologize for how you feel. You’ve been stuck inside for weeks, sick, tired… and I’ve been at base more than I’ve been here. I should’ve seen it.”
Your lip quivered, breath hitching as you tried to get yourself under control.
“I don’t want this house to feel like a cage to you,” Abby murmured, voice low, thick. “I built it for you to feel safe. For us. For the baby.”
You pressed your forehead against hers, whispering, “I do feel safe. That’s the problem. I feel safe and I don’t do anything else. I just… I don’t feel like me anymore.”
Her arms slid around you, pulling you tight against her chest, her breath warm in your hair.
Abby nodded against your temple, her voice low and steady. “You’re pregnant, Joan. You told me you wanted this. You agreed.”
You scoffed, looking away, cheeks still hot. “I know, I just—”
She stopped you with a hand on your chin, guiding your eyes back to hers. “I will not take you on patrol. No way. Don’t even try to ask again.” Her tone was iron, but the worry etched in her brow softened it. “But if you want… Friday, I’ll be at base all day. You can come with me.”
Your eyes widened, searching hers for any hint of a trick. “Really?”
She nodded once. “Really. No running around, no lifting boxes, no getting in the way. You sit with me. You see people. You’ll feel less—” she exhaled through her nose, “—caged.”
The word stung, but in her mouth it didn’t feel like judgment—just acknowledgment.
Your lips twitched in a weak smile. “Deal.”
Abby’s shoulders eased at last, the lines in her face softening. “Good. Now come here before you stress me out even more.”
She pulled you into her arms, paint and all, and for the first time that day the tightness in your chest loosened.
The tension slowly bled from the room, though the smell of paint still hung sharp in the air. Abby brushed her thumb across your cheek one last time before pulling back.
“Alright,” she muttered, glancing at the mess around you both. “Let’s fix this disaster before it dries.”
You sniffled, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand. “It’s not that bad.”
Abby arched a brow, looking at the splattered wall, the streak across her arm, and the broken chair leg lying on the floor. “Joan, it looks like a murder scene if the weapon was paint.”
A small laugh slipped out of you, even through the leftover sting of tears. “That’s dramatic.”
She bent, gathering the shards of the broken chair leg, testing the splintered wood. “This is going straight into the fire pile. Lev’s not getting this back.”
You crouched down automatically to help, but Abby’s sharp look froze you in place. “Don’t even think about it. Go grab the rags. I’ll handle this.”
You handed Abby the rags upstairs, then padded down to the living room, peeking out the window. Lev and Mara were making their way up the path, shadows stretching long in the evening light. Lev’s gait was stiff, shoulders rolled high, his free hand twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to clench it into a fist or shove it in his pocket. Mara walked close, nudging him every few steps, whispering something you couldn’t hear. He gave short, jerky nods but didn’t slow down.
“Abby!” you called, your voice sharp with warning. “Heads up—Lev and Mara are back.”
From upstairs came the sound of the rag hitting the bucket, followed by Abby’s huff. “Great. He’s gonna be so pissed his chair broke.”
You bit your lip hard. She wasn’t wrong.
The door creaked open, the smell of brine and iron sweeping in with Lev. He carried a bucket of fish, already gutted and descaled, his forearms flecked with scales that glittered faintly in the light. Mara stepped in just behind him, her wide eyes flicking nervously from you to the stairs, like she expected a trap.
Lev set the bucket down harder than necessary, the thud echoing across the floorboards. He didn’t look at you, didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead.
Mara reached out, brushing his elbow gently, and whispered something that you caught only the tail of: “…just say it.”
His jaw flexed. He forced the words out, low and strained. “I’m sorry for how I acted.”
The apology was clipped, his voice almost cracking over it. He still wouldn’t look at you.
From the stairwell came the solid rhythm of boots, each step slow and deliberate. Abby appeared, her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders squared. She looked every inch the soldier, even streaked with green paint. Her eyes cut to Lev, and she didn’t give him a second to breathe.
“Oh good,” she said flatly, her voice like a blade. “Why don’t you cook that for us then.”
Lev’s head jerked toward her, eyes flashing with something caught between anger and disbelief. His throat bobbed as he swallowed it down, his teeth gritting so hard you could see the muscle working in his jaw. “I was going to,” he muttered, voice tight enough to snap.
Abby gave a single nod, unbothered, like she’d expected nothing less. She shifted her weight, leaning her shoulder into the railing of the stairs. “You could paint the nursery too, as punishment.”
The silence that followed pressed down like a weight.
Lev’s nostrils flared; his whole body went rigid, chest rising in slow, deliberate breaths. He stared at the floor for a long moment, his hands balled into fists so tight the knuckles whitened. Mara glanced at him, worry etched across her face, her lips parting like she wanted to speak but thought better of it.
Lev’s voice, when it came, was low and shaking with restrained fury. “Are you serious?”
Abby didn’t blink. “Dead serious.”
The air between them was electric, charged, like any wrong word might send it all crashing down.
Lev’s fists slowly loosened at his sides, and he let out a breath sharp enough to sting the air. He didn’t argue further. He just bent, lifted the bucket of fish with a grunt, and stalked toward the kitchen.
“Come on,” he muttered to Mara, his voice still tight, but softer when it reached her.
Mara hesitated, looking between Abby’s stern posture and your nervous expression, but then nodded quickly, slipping in behind Lev. The sound of pans clattering and water running followed soon after.
The silence left in the living room felt unbearable. Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath you couldn’t quite catch. You hugged yourself, chewing the inside of your cheek, wishing the tension would break but knowing it wouldn’t—not tonight.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Abby said finally, her voice quieter, heavier. She didn’t wait for you to answer, just turned and headed up the steps.
You trailed after her, Norman padding loyally at your heels. Upstairs, the faint smell of frying fish and onions drifted up, mixing with the paint fumes still lingering from earlier.
Abby sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, rubbing her palms over her face. “This is a mess,” she muttered.
You stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around your middle, feeling the awkward weight of it all pressing into your chest. “At least they’re cooking,” you offered, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.
Downstairs, Lev and Mara’s voices rose and fell in quiet conversation, the scrape of a knife against a cutting board punctuating their rhythm. It was domestic, almost peaceful, and yet the two of you sat upstairs in heavy silence, waiting.
Abby rubbed the back of her neck, listening to the faint clatter from the kitchen. “Think we can get him to do the dishes from now on?”
You chuckled, settling beside her. “Maybe. He owes us after today.”
She huffed a little laugh, then lay down fully, closing her eyes like she was finally letting herself rest.
You took a deep breath, shifting closer until your forehead brushed her shoulder. “I’m gonna be so fat soon.”
Her eyes opened just a crack, and she let out a surprised laugh. “What? Where is this coming from?”
You sighed, cheeks warm. “I’ve just been thinking about it. Clothes barely fit now. Soon I’ll look like a balloon rolling around this house.”
Abby rolled onto her side, propping herself on her elbow so she could look at you. “I don’t care about that. Not at all.” She slid her palm gently over the soft curve of your stomach. Her voice dropped to a quiet, steady murmur. “What I do care about is you seeing the doctor at base on Friday.”
You blinked, the words settling like a stone in your chest. You hadn’t seen a doctor since realizing you were pregnant. Part of you had been pretending you didn’t need to—that your body would just know what to do. But now your pulse quickened. Were you supposed to? What if something was wrong?
You pressed your lips together, staring at her hand over your belly. “I… haven’t seen anyone yet.”
Abby nodded, serious but gentle. “Then it’s time. Just a checkup. Make sure you’re okay. Make sure the baby’s okay.”
The reassurance didn’t fully calm your nerves, but the way she said we’ll see the doctor made your throat ache with something close to relief.
Abby’s thumb traced a slow circle over your belly, but her face was tight, her eyes far away. “I can’t believe I didn’t make you see one sooner,” she muttered, almost to herself.
You frowned, startled by the sharpness in her tone. “Abby—”
She shook her head quickly, jaw clenched. “No. I should’ve been on top of this from the start. You’ve been sick for weeks, and I just… I let it slip out of my mind.” She let out a frustrated laugh, short and bitter. “Me, of all people. I don’t forget things like that.”
Her hand slid from your stomach to her forehead, pressing against her temple as if she could squeeze the guilt out. “I was so focused on base, on Rachel, on keeping everything running smooth that I—” She cut herself off, her throat tight. “That’s not an excuse. You and the baby should’ve been first.”
You sat up a little, your heart twisting at the sight of her shoulders hunched, her strong hands trembling slightly as she pulled them into her lap. She looked like she’d failed some unspoken duty.
“Abby,” you whispered, reaching for her hand. “It’s okay. We didn’t know what we were doing—neither of us.”
But she shook her head again, gripping your fingers hard. “That doesn’t matter. I swore I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and here I am, realizing I haven’t even made sure you’ve had a proper checkup.” Her voice cracked, raw with frustration at herself.
“God,” Abby breathed, her voice low and unsteady. “I wish my dad was here.”
You turned your head, watching the way her eyes fixed on the ceiling, like she could will him back through sheer force.
“He was a good doctor,” she murmured, her throat tight. “He would’ve… he would’ve known what to do. He’d have answers. He wouldn’t let me—” She broke off, clenching her jaw hard, as if the thought itself was dangerous.
You swallowed, the ache in her words settling deep in your chest. Slowly, you reached up and cupped her cheek, coaxing her to look at you. Her skin was warm under your palm, her lashes damp.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, pressing close as you lay beside her. “It’ll be okay.”
For a long moment she just held your gaze, her expression raw and almost childlike in its grief. Then she exhaled shakily, closing her eyes and leaning into your touch, her hand covering yours against her cheek.
The house was quiet except for the faint hiss of the oil pan downstairs, Lev and Mara’s muffled voices drifting up. The contrast between their normal chatter and the heaviness in Abby’s chest made the moment sharper.
She kissed your palm softly, then whispered, “I just don’t want to fail you.”
Your thumb brushed along her cheekbone, wiping away the faint dampness at the corner of her eye. “You’re not failing me,” you whispered, voice steady even though your own chest ached. “You’ve done nothing but take care of me—more than I probably deserve some days.”
Abby let out a shaky laugh at that, her lips twitching, though her brow stayed furrowed.
You shifted closer, pressing your forehead against hers. “You don’t have to be your dad. You don’t have to know every answer. You’re here, and that’s enough for me.”
Her hand tightened around yours, her breathing uneven but easing as she listened.
“I love our life,” you went on, softer now. “Even when I’m crying about paint or yelling about stew or feeling like a balloon—I love it. Because it’s with you.”
Her chest hitched, and for the first time all night you saw her eyes lighten, a tear slipping free not from grief but from release.
She kissed you then, gentle and lingering, her lips brushing against yours like a promise. When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”
You smiled faintly, stroking her jaw. “Yeah, you do. We deserve each other.”
The two of you lay there in the soft hush of the room, your foreheads still touching, the world outside your embrace fading into nothing. Abby’s breathing had steadied, the lines at her brow finally softening.
Then, from downstairs, Lev’s voice carried up the stairwell, sharp and half-muffled:
“Dinner’s ready!”
You and Abby both startled a little, pulling apart just enough to glance at each other. A smile tugged at your lips, hers following a beat later.
“Guess the punishment worked,” you teased gently.
Abby rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “Yeah, for now.”
Norman perked his head up at the foot of the bed, tail thumping against the blanket as if to say food was the real priority.
Abby kissed your temple once more before standing, offering you her hand. “C’mon. Before he eats it all himself.”
You took her hand, letting her steady you as you rose. Together, you headed toward the stairs, the smell of fried fish and onions drifting stronger as Lev’s laughter and Mara’s voice floated up from the kitchen.
For the first time all day, the house felt almost normal again.

Chapter 86: Little Buzzing Gadget

The four of you gathered around the table, the air thick with the smell of fried fish and onions. Lev sat at one end, shoulders squared like he was holding back another storm, Mara tucked beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Abby sat opposite you, watchful, her braid hanging forward over her shoulder.
The plates were filled, but no one spoke much at first. The scrape of forks on tin was louder than words. Lev chewed quickly, eyes fixed on his plate, while Mara darted nervous glances between you and Abby as though trying to gauge the temperature of the room.
Norman sat dutifully at your side, his droopy face resting on your thigh, tail thumping against the chair leg every few seconds. You sighed, cutting a piece of fish smaller than you’d planned and slipping it under the table.
His jaws snapped it up in a single bite, tail wagging wildly.
Across from you, Abby’s fork froze mid-air. Her eyes narrowed. “Joan,” she said slowly.
You avoided her gaze, poking at your plate. “What?”
Her voice sharpened. “You gave him half your fish.”
“I didn’t,” you muttered, but your guilt betrayed you. Norman’s wagging tail smacked the table leg again.
Abby set her fork down with a clatter, leaning forward. “You’re not eating enough as it is. You can’t just hand your food to the dog.”
The room went still. Lev glanced up, his expression a mix of irritation and awkward amusement, while Mara ducked her head, fiddling with her fork as if it were suddenly the most fascinating object in the world.
You shifted uncomfortably, your cheeks heating. “I’m not hungry,” you whispered, defensive.
Abby’s jaw tightened. “That’s not good enough.”
The silence stretched long, broken only by the faint scrape of Mara’s fork against her plate as she forced a small bite into her mouth.
Norman nudged your hand again, oblivious to the tension, drool dampening your fingers.
Abby’s eyes stayed fixed on you, her voice sharp but low. “Joan, we feed him twice a day. It’s not like he’s starving.”
You stared at your plate, stabbing at a potato with your fork, the heat rising in your chest.
Norman whined softly, nudging your leg again, tail brushing the chair. You felt a pang of guilt, but Abby’s words made it sting sharper—like you’d been caught doing something selfish instead of kind.
Lev shifted in his chair, glancing between you both with his brows knit. Mara’s eyes widened slightly, as if silently warning him don’t get involved.
Abby leaned back finally, arms crossing, her voice quieter but no less firm. “You’re the one who needs the food, not him. Especially now.”
The weight of her stare made your throat tighten. You wanted to snap back, to tell her you were fine, but the words stuck. The table was already too quiet, the tension too heavy.
Instead, you muttered, “Fine,” and pushed another bite into your mouth, chewing slowly.
Abby’s shoulders eased a fraction, but her eyes stayed on you a moment longer, as if to make sure you meant it.
Norman let out a soft huff and lay down at your feet, tail still wagging lazily against the floor.
Lev finally broke the silence, muttering under his breath as he forked another piece of fish. “Told you dinner would be awkward.”
Mara nudged him sharply in the ribs, her cheeks red, and Abby shot him a look that silenced him instantly.
You chewed dutifully, eyes fixed on your plate, Abby’s gaze burning into you like a spotlight. She finally turned back to her food, satisfied you were behaving.
That was your chance.
You cut another piece of fish—smaller this time, deliberate—and let your fork linger by your knee. Norman’s droopy face appeared instantly, tail thumping against the floorboards. With the slightest flick, the bite disappeared into his mouth.
He crunched happily, licking your fingers in thanks.
You kept your face carefully neutral, shoving a potato into your mouth as cover.
Across the table, Lev smirked, watching the whole exchange like it was the best show he’d seen in weeks. He leaned toward Mara and muttered, “Told you she spoils him.”
Mara pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, but her shoulders shook.
Abby’s eyes flicked up at Lev. “What?”
He coughed into his hand, schooling his face into blank innocence. “Nothing.”
Abby narrowed her eyes, suspicion written all over her, but went back to her plate.
Under the table, Norman licked his chops noisily, tail beating faster.
You stabbed another piece of fish, lips twitching.
You tried to play it cool, casually cutting another piece of fish. Norman’s eyes followed every move, his saggy face practically glowing with hope. You angled your fork down under the table, just as slick as before—
And froze.
Abby’s hand landed over yours, firm, steady. You looked up, caught like a thief. Her eyes were narrowed, sharp as glass.
“Really?” she asked, her voice low but incredulous. “Really, Joan?”
Your mouth opened, but no defense came out.
Across the table, Lev slapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. Mara wasn’t as smooth—she snorted outright, her freckled cheeks going crimson as she tried and failed to smother her laugh.
Abby turned her glare on them. “What’s so funny?”
Lev leaned back in his chair, wheezing through his hand. “You—you should’ve seen her face—like a criminal caught in the act!”
Mara doubled over, laughing harder now that Lev had broken. “She was so sneaky!”
Norman barked once, tail wagging, as if siding with them.
You covered your face, groaning. “Oh my god.”
Abby shook her head slowly, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting not to smile. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “I live with children.”
Lev nearly choked on his laughter. “Three children if you count Norman.”
Abby shot him a look, but the edge was dulled now. The air in the room finally loosened, the awkwardness thinning into something lighter, even if you were still blushing furiously.
You chuckled quietly, unable to help yourself, even as Abby’s glare pinned you across the table. She was the only one still serious, jaw set while Lev and Mara tried to contain their laughter.
Sitting back in your chair, you sighed, eyes drifting around the room like you were daydreaming. “I wish we could bake a cake.”
Lev blinked, caught off guard. Then, finally softening a little, he chuckled. “What?” His lips curved into a grin. “Out of nowhere?”
Abby raised a brow, suspicion written all over her face. “Joan,” she groaned, closing her eyes as if she could will the words back into your mouth. “Please no.”
But you ignored her, rubbing your tiny belly bump with both hands, leaning into the drama of it. “Yeah… a cake.”
Mara covered her mouth, giggling. “Like… right now?”
“Right now,” you said firmly, nodding with exaggerated seriousness.
Lev laughed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Abby dropped her fork onto her plate, muttering, “You’re not baking anything.” But her tone carried that edge of resigned fondness, the kind she only ever used on you.
Norman perked up at the word cake, tail thumping hopefully, like he understood every word.
You straightened in your chair, hands still resting dramatically on your bump. “I mean it. A cake. With frosting. Maybe even sprinkles if we get lucky.”
Lev burst into laughter, his head dropping into his hand. “Sprinkles? Joan, we don’t even have flour.”
Mara giggled into her sleeve. “Or sugar. Or, you know… an oven that doesn’t make everything taste like smoke.”
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezing shut. “Exactly. There’s no cake. We don’t have the ingredients, Joan.”
You jutted your lip out, unbothered by her exasperation. “We have eggs. Chickens lay them every day at base.”
Lev snorted. “So… an egg cake? Just a big omelet?”
Mara cracked up, nearly choking on her fish, and you leaned forward on the table, eyes wide. “I’d eat it.”
Abby opened her eyes again, glaring at all three of you now. “This isn’t funny. She’s serious.”
You smirked, shrugging as if caught red-handed. “Maybe I am.”
Norman let out a hopeful bark under the table, tail wagging.
Abby groaned, leaning back in her chair with both hands over her face. “I live in a house full of lunatics.”
Lev grinned, popping a piece of potato into his mouth. “At least we’d all eat the cake.”
Mara nodded, her giggles still spilling. “Even if it was an egg cake.”
You beamed at them, victorious, while Abby muttered into her palms, “God help me.”
Abby finally dropped her hands from her face, glaring first at Lev, then at you, then back to Lev. “Alright. Enough. You’re on dish duty tonight.”
Lev groaned loudly, slumping back in his chair. “What? No way—”
Abby cut him off with a sharp look that could’ve felled a clicker. “Yes way. You cooked, you clean. That’s the deal.”
Mara snorted softly at his side, trying and failing to hide her grin.
Abby pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. “I’m going to bed. Long day tomorrow.” She kissed the top of your head in passing, her palm brushing your shoulder gently, before she trudged upstairs.
The room quieted. Lev grumbled under his breath, stacking plates noisily as he sulked toward the wash basin. Norman trailed after him, hopeful for scraps.
You leaned back in your chair, eyeing Mara, who was still nibbling at the last of her potato. Without Abby in the room, the heaviness lifted a little.
“You’re braver than me,” you said softly.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “What?”
You smiled faintly. “Coming here. Spending time with Lev. Sitting through one of our dinners.”
She let out a nervous laugh, shoulders curling. “It’s… not so bad. Just… different.”
You studied her freckles, the gap where her tooth was missing, the way she fiddled with her fork. “You like him, don’t you?”
Her cheeks flushed deep, and she ducked her head, laughing into her hands. “Maybe.”
For the first time that day, your chest loosened, the awkwardness fading into something warmer.
You smiled at the way Mara’s cheeks flushed, her shoulders curling in on themselves. “That’s a good thing,” you said softly. “Lev… he needs someone who makes him laugh.”
Mara peeked at you through her fingers, then dropped her hands, the shy smile lingering. “He’s funny when he wants to be. Not when he’s mad though.”
You chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
She twirled her fork between her fingers, her voice soft but more confident now. “On patrol… he doesn’t act the same as he does here. He’s focused. Brave. Like, nothing shakes him. He makes jokes sometimes to calm me down, but when it’s bad—when it’s really dangerous—he just… knows what to do.”
You tilted your head, genuinely curious. “You like patrol?”
Mara’s eyes lit a little, freckles catching in the lamplight. “I do. It’s scary, but… it feels like I’m doing something. Not just sitting around, waiting. And when I’m with Lev, I’m not scared as much. He listens to me. He makes me feel like I matter.”
Your chest ached, a mix of pride and protectiveness for Lev. “You do matter. And Lev—he’s better with you around. I can see it.”
Mara’s smile widened, shy but sure. “Thanks, Joan.”
Down at the basin, Lev grumbled loudly as he banged another dish into the water, clearly trying to look put-upon. But you caught the way his ears were pink, and how his movements had gone just a little softer after hearing Mara’s words.
When the last plate clattered into the basin, Lev wiped his hands on a rag, still grumbling under his breath. But you caught the way he kept sneaking glances at Mara, and the way she pretended not to notice, her cheeks pink.
Finally, he cleared his throat, grabbing his rifle from where it leaned by the door. “I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, voice rough but steady.
Mara looked up, startled, then nodded quickly. “Okay.”
You stood, stretching with a soft groan. “Good. Don’t forget your rifle this time.”
Lev rolled his eyes, slinging it over his shoulder with a little more emphasis than necessary. “I said I’ve got it.”
Mara stifled a giggle behind her hand, and Norman barked once as if to hurry them along.
You watched them head out into the dusky night, Lev’s tall frame just ahead of Mara’s, the two of them moving in step as the door closed behind them. For a moment, the house was quiet, peaceful—the smell of fried fish still hanging in the air.
With a sigh, you gave Norman a pat on the head and headed upstairs. The bed felt cool and inviting, the weight of the day pulling at your limbs. You slipped under the blanket, pressing a hand to your small bump, listening to the distant hum of the ocean beyond the walls.
Abby came back into the room, towel draped around her neck as she worked it through her loose, damp hair. Her braid had come undone in the shower, strands curling around her face. She looked softer this way, calmer, the tension of the day finally slipping off her shoulders.
“Lev walk Mara home?” she asked, settling onto the bed with a sigh.
You nodded, lips twitching at the secret you held behind your back.
“Good.” She exhaled, leaning back against the headboard, eyes closing for just a moment.
That’s when you smirked, pulling the little buzzing gadget from the nightstand. You flicked it on and pressed the cool plastic tip to her hip through her pants.

Chapter 87: Caught

Abby’s eyes flicked open, her lashes fluttering as a sharp breath left her throat. A startled laugh tangled with the low moan that escaped her, muffled as she buried her face in the pillow. Her shoulders shook with the effort to hide it, strands of damp hair falling loose across her cheek.
“Joan,” she groaned, the sound equal parts protest and surrender. “What the hell?” Her words were half a chuckle, half a plea, voice muffled against the cotton.
You bit your lip, watching the way her muscles tensed beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, her hips jerking as if against her own will. “You’ve been stressed,” you murmured, a quiet confession more than an excuse.
Her fingers dug into the pillow, knuckles whitening as she tried to hold herself still, but the small buck of her hips betrayed her. She shook her head quickly, hiding her face deeper, her voice dissolving into a whisper you barely caught.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh, curse, or give in.
You slipped her shorts down with an easy tug, the soft fabric sliding over her thighs. A low chuckle slipped from your lips as you shifted the hum of plastic closer to her sweet spot. The moment it buzzed against her, her whole body jolted, hips lurching forward on instinct.
“Jesus!” she yelped, the sound caught somewhere between shock and pleasure, her head snapping back against the pillow.
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, grounding her even as her body betrayed her composure. You lingered there, your breath warm against her hairline, while she clutched at the sheets and rode out the waves coursing through her.
“It’s good?” you asked quietly, your voice edged with both playfulness and concern, watching her flushed face as she tried to form words.
She buried her face into the pillow, teeth sinking into the fabric as if it could swallow her sounds. Even muffled, you caught the broken rhythm of her gasps, each one trembling out of her like she was fighting to keep control. Her body quaked under your hand, muscles tightening then giving way, as if she couldn’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.
“Joan…” she breathed, your name tumbling out ragged and unguarded. Her thighs pressed together helplessly, slick with the proof of just how much she’d let go.
You leaned down and pressed another kiss to her forehead, lingering there as she trembled through the last waves until she sagged beneath you, her strength giving out into soft collapse.
When you finally eased the hum away, she gasped sharply, sucking in air like she’d surfaced from underwater. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, her hand clutching weakly at the sheets as she tried to steady herself, breathless and undone.
Her gasps tapered into shaky breaths, the pillow damp beneath her cheek. You brushed her hair back gently, letting your lips wander across her temple, her flushed skin, then the soft line of her cheekbone. Each kiss was unhurried, almost reverent, until she finally turned her head enough for her eyes to meet yours—still glazed, still catching her breath.
“I love you,” you whispered, your words spilling out against her skin as you pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth. “So much.” Your thumb smoothed along her jaw, steadying her trembling.
She blinked at you, still too caught in the aftershocks to speak.
You leaned in closer, your voice quieter now, thick with the weight of everything you’d been holding back. “I’m sorry you’ve been carrying so much. Sorry you’ve been so stressed. I just… I wanted to take some of it away. Even if only for a little while.”
Her lips parted, a shaky laugh breaking through her exhaustion, and she let her forehead rest against yours. You could still feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, but her body softened, her hand finding yours in the sheets and holding on.
But she didn’t say much. Her hand found your cheek, guiding you down into a soft kiss that lingered only a second before her eyes fluttered shut again. The exhaustion in her face was plain, but so was the trust—the way she let herself fold into you without another word.
You reached over her, sliding the toy back into the drawer, the faint click of it shutting the only sound in the dim room. With a quiet sigh, you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her close until her head rested against your chest. Her breathing began to even out almost immediately, warm and steady against your ribs.
The intimacy didn’t stretch on in waves like it sometimes did. It was brief, fragile—over too soon. But you didn’t mind. You knew she was tired, strung out by the weight she carried. Tonight wasn’t about losing yourselves in each other; it was about grounding her, giving her space to release, to catch her breath, to know she wasn’t alone.
You pressed your cheek into her hair, your arms still tight around her as your own body began to relax. The rhythm of her breathing pulled you down with it, and before long, your eyes slipped closed, drifting into sleep together.
_____________________________________________________________________________
You opened your eyes slowly, blinking into the dim stillness of morning. The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of Abby’s breathing beside you. She was still fast asleep, her chest rising and falling with a rare kind of ease that made you want to freeze the moment and never let it slip away.
Turning your head toward the window, you caught sight of the pale streaks of sunrise spilling through the glass—soft oranges and pinks creeping into the gray. For a heartbeat, you let yourself get lost in it, until a jolt of realization snapped through you like ice water.
Lev.
You hadn’t checked if he ever made it home.
Your stomach knotted, and you scrambled upright, heart thudding. You tried to keep quiet, easing out of bed without shaking the mattress, but your movements were rushed and clumsy—hair a messy halo, t-shirt twisted on your shoulders, pants wrinkled from being slept in. You glanced back once, relieved Abby didn’t stir, then darted out.
The hall felt colder in the morning light as you padded quickly to Lev’s room, pushing the door open with a sharp breath caught in your throat.
There he was—safe, curled up under his blanket, breathing softly in sleep. Relief rushed through you so fast your knees almost gave. But then your eyes caught on something else.
A head of fluffy curls nestled against his shoulder. Mara.
Your lips parted in disbelief. She was tucked against him like they’d been that way for years, her tiny frame pressed close, her face half-hidden. He’d snuck her in.
You stood frozen for a long second, heart slowing from panic to something else entirely—dread. Abby was going to be furious. Lev had gone behind her back, and the last thing she needed was another fight first thing in the morning.
Careful not to make a sound, you eased the door closed again until it clicked softly shut. Your back pressed against the wood as you exhaled, dragging a hand through your tangled hair.
You could already see the storm if Abby found out like this. And she would—she always did. But standing there in the hallway, tired and still raw from the night before, you knew one thing for certain. You had to get Mara out before Abby woke up. You couldn’t handle another shouting match. Not today.
You sighed, tapping your lip as your mind spun. It was still painfully early—the air outside the window not yet warmed by the sun—and maybe, just maybe, you could buy a little time before things unraveled.
But then you heard it: the slow creak of the bedroom door opening. Abby shuffled out into the hallway, one hand absently scratching at her stomach, the other covering a wide, groggy yawn. Her hair was tangled, her tank top twisted, her eyes half-lidded with sleep.
Fuck.
She trudged past you without a word, disappearing into the bathroom. The door clicked shut, and almost immediately the sounds followed—the faint splash of water, the rustle of clothes, the unmistakable flush. You winced. You knew her routine by heart: she’d wash her hands, splash her face, brush her teeth. In just a few minutes she’d be standing right back here, sharp-eyed and awake enough to notice anything out of place.
Your pulse quickened. You raked a hand through your messy hair, pacing a few steps before forcing yourself still. Think. Think of something.
The bathroom door creaked open again, hinges whining softly. Abby stepped out, running a damp hand over her face, eyes finding you immediately. They flicked up and down your rumpled frame, suspicion already simmering despite the sleep still clinging to her.
“Why are you standing there?” she muttered, voice low and grumpy.
You froze, forcing your shoulders loose, trying not to look like every nerve in your body was on fire. “Can’t stand in my own house?” you shot back, lips quirking like it was nothing.
Her eyes narrowed, waking a little more as she tilted her head. “What?”
The word cut through the hallway, heavy with doubt. She could read you too well—you felt it in the way her gaze lingered, trying to peel back the layer of casual you were so desperately holding onto.
You raced through your head for an excuse, anything to stall her, then pressed a hand over your stomach. “Sorry,” you muttered, letting your shoulders sag. “I just… feel out of it.”
Her brow knit instantly, sleepiness giving way to concern. You knew exactly how to play her—her guard always softened when it came to you.
“What do you mean?” she asked, stepping closer.
You faked a gag, hand flying to your mouth as you hunched forward. “Yeah—ugh. Sick,” you groaned, nodding like the motion itself made you queasy.
Her worry deepened. She reached up, palm out to check your forehead, but before she could touch you, you staggered sideways on purpose. Your shoulder thumped hard against Lev’s door—loud, strategic.
Abby caught you by the arm with a soft curse under her breath, steadying you before you could “fall.” But then—
Whispers.
Faint, muffled, but unmistakable from behind the door.
God dammit. Couldn’t they be quieter? Smarter?
Abby’s eyes narrowed sharply, her concern twisting into suspicion. Her gaze darted from you to the door you’d leaned against, the muscles in her jaw flexing.
“What are you hiding?” she demanded, her voice low but edged, every ounce of sleep now burned away.
The door swung wide and chaos rippled instantly.
Lev shot upright, panic flashing across his face. Mara yelped softly, fumbling under the blanket as they both scrambled. The sheets twisted and bunched, the heavy quilt pulled up in a clumsy shield as if it could erase the evidence.
“We weren’t—” Lev blurted, his voice cracking as he tugged the blanket higher, his shoulders rigid with panic. Mara’s curls peeked out as she ducked her head, eyes wide and terrified, clutching the edge of the quilt in her fists.
Abby froze in the doorway, taking in the mess of limbs, the hurried whispers, the frantic rustle of fabric. The sound of them struggling to get dressed under the blanket was unmistakable.
The silence snapped like glass.
“Are you kidding me?” Abby’s voice was low, shaking with fury she was barely holding in.
Lev’s mouth opened, but no words came. His face was flushed, a dozen excuses dying in his throat. Mara kept her eyes down, cheeks burning, her breath quick and shallow.
You stood frozen just behind Abby, heart hammering. You wanted to say something, to soften the blow, but one look at Abby’s clenched fists and blazing eyes told you this storm was only just beginning.
Abby’s head snapped toward you, eyes blazing. “You knew about this?” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to make both Lev and Mara flinch under the blanket.
Your stomach lurched, but you forced yourself to meet her stare. “Well—I didn’t know they were naked!” you shot back, hands flying up defensively.
The words tumbled out faster than you meant, heat flooding your cheeks. You hadn’t even realized when you let them sneak in last night that this was what they’d end up doing. That this was what you were covering for.
Abby’s nostrils flared, her jaw working as she turned between you and the bed. Her silence felt louder than her shouting ever could, the disappointment simmering just under the surface.
Behind her, Lev’s voice cracked. “It’s not— it’s not what it looks like!” But even he didn’t sound convinced, fumbling under the quilt with Mara, who kept her face buried, curls spilling over her hands.
Abby turned back toward the bed, her brow furrowed, voice heavy with exhaustion and irritation. “Get dressed,” she ordered flatly.
Lev’s shoulders sagged as if the weight of her words alone pressed him down. Mara clutched the blanket tighter, her face hidden in curls. Neither of them dared argue.
Abby shut the door firmly behind her, the click echoing too loud in the hallway. Then she rounded on you, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between anger and disbelief.
“You knew about this?”
Abby let out a long, tired breath through her nose, her hand still pinching the bridge of it as though she could squeeze the situation into something manageable. When her eyes opened again, they fixed on you, narrowed and hard.
“You should’ve said something,” she hissed, voice low but cutting. “Anything, Joan. Instead you just stood there like you were covering for them.”
You crossed your arms, though the defensive gesture felt flimsy under her glare. “What was I supposed to do? Wake you up in the middle of your sleep to yell about it? You were dead asleep.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “So you thought lying was better?”
“I wasn’t lying!” you whispered harshly, heat rising in your cheeks. “I didn’t know they were naked, Abby. I thought—” You broke off, huffing, shaking your head. “I thought it was innocent. Just two kids sneaking around, trying to feel normal.”
“Normal?” Abby’s eyes widened, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “They’re children under my roof. My responsibility. That’s not normal—it’s reckless.”
You shifted your weight, chewing the inside of your cheek. “They’re growing up, Abby. You can’t lock them away from everything.”
Her jaw clenched so hard you could hear her teeth grind. “I can damn well lock my door. And Lev’s, apparently.” She took a step closer, lowering her voice even further, each word sharp enough to sting. “Don’t you dare play this off like it’s no big deal.”
You swallowed, your throat tight, but forced yourself to meet her gaze. “I’m not. I just… I didn’t want to add to your stress. You’ve been carrying so much already.”
Her eyes softened just a fraction, flickering with something wounded beneath the anger—but then the sound of footsteps shuffled behind the closed door, pulling both your attentions back to reality.
The door creaked open before either of you could say more. Lev stepped out first, shoulders hunched, his hair sticking out in every direction. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, bare feet shuffling against the wood. Mara followed close behind, wrapped in her oversized sweater, cheeks blotched pink, her curls even wilder than before.
They stood shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, both of them clinging to silence, their shame loud enough to fill the space. Lev kept wringing his hands, his knuckles pale, while Mara half-hid behind him, as if the sight of Abby’s fury might swallow her whole.
Abby’s arms crossed over her chest, her stance wide and immovable, the kind of presence that could make grown soldiers shrink. “Well?” she asked, her voice low but steady.
Lev’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, but no words came. He dared a glance up at Abby, only to flinch when her eyes locked with his. Mara’s grip tightened on his sleeve, silently begging him not to make it worse.
You felt the tension coil tighter in your chest, the weight of Abby’s disappointment pressing down on everyone in the hallway. The quiet was suffocating—each second stretched longer than the last.
Finally, Lev’s voice cracked through it, soft and uneven. “I’m sorry.”
Abby sighed, dragging both hands down her face before tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling as if searching for patience in the plaster. “I get it,” she muttered, voice weary. “You guys are sixteen. I was sixteen once too.” Her shoulders slumped, a frustrated huff escaping her. “But that was fucked up, and I don’t ever want to see that again. Ever.”
Lev shifted his weight, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward Mara, then back at Abby. The words slipped out before he could stop them. “Well, where are we supposed to—”
Abby’s hand shot up, palm out, her eyes narrowing with a glare sharp enough to pin him in place. “Don’t.” Her tone was guttural, commanding, almost a growl. “Don’t even say it.”
The silence that followed was thick and brutal. Mara ducked her head, her curls falling forward like a curtain to hide behind. Lev clenched his fists, but his lips pressed shut, the words dying in his throat. Abby’s hand stayed raised a moment longer before she let it drop, the tension in her body coiled tight as wire.
You stood a step behind her, feeling the sting of her authority ripple through the hall, not just for them—but for you too.
Lev’s voice cut sharp through the hallway, harsher than you’d ever heard it. He stepped in front of Mara, shielding her with his body. “I go on patrols, I help clear infected, I work the comms—”
Abby exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That doesn’t make—”
But Lev jabbed a finger at her, his voice rising with every word. “I could die tomorrow, so if I’m fucked up for experiencing intimacy before I’m ripped to shreds in a hollow earth, then so be it!”
The words cracked through the air like a gunshot. Mara’s eyes widened, clutching the back of his shirt as if she could pull him back from the edge.
Abby groaned, dragging her palms down her face and rubbing roughly, her voice muffled. “You are so fucking dramatic.”
You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to cut in before it spiraled further. “No more of this,” you said flatly, your tone calm but firm.
Both of them froze, Lev’s chest heaving with leftover anger.
You turned to Mara first, softening your expression. “I like you, Mara. Don’t make me not like you.”
Then you snapped your gaze to Lev before he could even open his mouth. “Abby’s been stressed out to hell lately. Stop acting like a brat. That’s enough.”
Your hands clapped together, the sharp sound puncturing the silence, before you started down the stairs with finality. “Now, Lev—get that damn girl home. Now.”
Behind you, Abby crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. For the first time this morning, her mouth twitched in something like relief—quietly pleased to see you step into the parental role instead of leaving her to carry it all.
Lev didn’t argue. His jaw was tight, his silence stiff, but he grabbed his boots, yanked them on, and slung his bow and rifle over his shoulder. Mara kept close to him, her curls hiding her face. Without another word, they slipped out the front door, the faint thud echoing through the house as it shut behind them.
You sighed, leaning over the counter, the laminate cool beneath your forearms. The kitchen still smelled faintly of oatmeal and soap, a mixture that felt almost too ordinary after the storm of the morning. Abby’s eyes caught yours from across the room. They were rimmed red, shot through with fatigue, the skin beneath bruised with sleeplessness. She inhaled through her nose, the sound heavy, like she was bracing herself against more weight.
“I can handle my work and family just fine,” she said, her voice quiet but clipped, every syllable carrying that iron edge she used to keep people in line.
You lifted your chin in a small nod, trying not to press. “Okay.”
Her jaw tightened. She sucked at her teeth, gaze cutting into you like she was daring you to push back. “I’m serious.”
You pressed your lips together, then sighed softly. “I know. But I worry about you.”
Her body seemed to fold in on itself then. Abby dropped onto the couch with a heavy plop, the cushions dipping under her weight as she rubbed at her thighs. The sound of skin against fabric was faint but tired, like she was kneading away all the miles she carried.
“Today’s five months,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Your eyes softened. “Yep. Halfway there.”
She leaned back, her head sinking into the worn cushion, her body stretching out like she was trying to claim a piece of peace in the middle of all the chaos. Her hand reached up and over her shoulder, pulling her long blonde strands forward. The pale hair spilled like sunlight against the rough fabric of her shirt as she rolled her shoulders, the muscles flexing and shifting with the movement. Even grumpy, even frayed at the edges, she looked breathtaking—strong and impossibly human at once.
“Doctors tomorrow,” she huffed, her voice half-groan.
You nodded, fingers drumming against the counter. The thought sat heavy in your chest, but you didn’t say more.
For a while, only the sound of the house settled around you—the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of the old floor as she adjusted against the couch. Then Abby’s voice came again, quieter, thoughtful. “Do we ground Lev?”
You scratched absently at your jaw, puffing your cheeks. “I don’t know, actually. I never really did stuff like that.” You frowned, eyes drifting toward the wall as memory tugged at you. “Well… I used to run off to Terra’s house. And when her mom caught us, yeah, she’d get grounded.”
Abby glanced at you, her brow knit with thought. “Your mom didn’t care when you ran off?”
The question punched a little harder than you expected. You swallowed, your throat dry. “I was sneaky. Better at it than Lev is. Frank would get upset, but… he never tattled on me.”
That seemed to quiet her. She just nodded, a faint hum in her throat, like she was filing it away but too tired to dig.
She pushed herself up a moment later, walking toward the bookshelf by the window. Her hand trailed along the spines, fingertips brushing dust and worn paper until she plucked one free. She flipped it open without even checking the title, then dropped back onto the couch, curling into the corner as if the book itself was a shield.
You got the message—conversation closed.
So you turned back to the stove, stirring together a quick bowl of oatmeal. The smell of cinnamon and oats filled the space, comforting in its simplicity. You ate quietly at the counter, watching her from the corner of your eye as she turned a page with a kind of absent-minded care. She wasn’t really reading—you could tell by how long her gaze lingered in one place—but she needed the silence more than anything.
You left another bowl for her on the counter, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic, before heading toward the garage. The door creaked open on its rusty hinges, and you stepped inside, the cooler air prickling your skin. Tools hung neatly along the wall where you’d left them, the faint smell of oil and wood clinging to the space. You rubbed your hands together, already thinking of what you might throw yourself into just to keep from thinking too much.
The faint clink, clink of metal drifted down from upstairs, steady and familiar. Abby was working out again. She always kept her weights tucked neatly in the closet, stacked in order like soldiers waiting for orders. You could picture her there: feet planted, jaw set, sweat beginning to bead along her brow as she moved through her routine with the same discipline she brought to everything else.
You hummed softly to yourself, finding comfort in her rhythm. Ten reps, then a pause. Her pacing footsteps followed, steady but heavy with breath. Then the cycle began again—metal biting against gravity, her sharp exhales punctuating the silence of the house.
Down in the garage, you dipped your brush into paint, one hand steadying the canvas, the other resting absentmindedly over your belly. The coastline you were working on refused to cooperate—each stroke felt flat, the sea too dull, the horizon too crooked. You sighed, leaning back on the stool to study it, frustration tightening your chest.
“God, I suck at this today,” you muttered under your breath.
The smell of acrylic was sharp in the cool air, mixing with the faint oil tang of tools along the walls. You wiped your brush absently against a rag, staring at the painting as if it might reveal what was missing. Instead, all you could hear was Abby upstairs—her rhythm, her strength, the sound of someone pushing themselves further and further just to keep control.
And here you were, stuck with a coastline that looked like it belonged to nowhere.
The brush slipped from your fingers and clattered against the jar, leaving a smear of blue along the rim. With a frustrated huff you pushed back from the stool, stretching your stiff arms. Abby’s steady rhythm upstairs drew you like a magnet—the sharp clink of metal, the low grunt in her throat when she pushed just past her limit.
Curiosity got the better of you.
You padded up the steps, careful not to make the boards groan underfoot. At the top of the landing, you edged toward the bedroom door, left cracked just enough for light to spill into the hall.
Through the gap, you caught her.
Abby stood in front of the mirror, dumbbells gripped tight in each hand. Her tank top clung to her back, dark with sweat, muscles in her shoulders and arms flexing as she curled and pressed. Stray strands of blonde hair stuck damp against her flushed face, and her breath came in heavy bursts, chest rising and falling with every rep.
She set the weights down with a sharp clink, rolling her neck and pacing once across the room, fists clenching and unclenching as she reset. Her reflection glistened in the mirror—tired, strong, relentless.
Your lips parted before you realized it. God, she looked good. All that power coiled into her frame, the sweat gleaming along the ridges of muscle, the fire in her expression even in exhaustion. You felt heat rush to your cheeks just watching her, a tug in your chest that was equal parts admiration and hunger.
You lingered in the doorway a moment too long, your hand pressed to the frame, drinking in the sight of her.
She had the dumbbells locked in her grip, her knuckles pale against the black handles. Her arms strained with each curl, veins raised just faintly beneath her flushed skin. The tank top clung to her body, soaked dark in spots, the fabric pulling tight across her chest and shoulders. Sweat ran in thin rivulets down her neck, catching in the hollow of her collarbone before sliding lower.
She exhaled sharply through her teeth, jaw clenched, a small grunt escaping as she powered through the last few reps. With a final curl she let the weights clink against the floor and rolled her shoulders back, pacing slowly across the room. Her breath came heavy and uneven, each inhale expanding the solid breadth of her chest, each exhale leaving her lips parted in something between exhaustion and release.
Turning back to the mirror, she dropped into a squat, her thighs flexing under the stretch of her shorts. Her calves and hamstrings tensed and released like coiled springs, the rhythm steady and precise. You could see the sweat beading along her brow now, a few damp strands of blonde hair stuck stubbornly to her cheek. She brushed them back with the back of her wrist, only for more to fall loose as she bent low again.
Her muscles moved in layers—biceps swelling, triceps hardening, shoulders broadening with every controlled motion. The raw strength in her frame was impossible to ignore, but so was the beauty in it. Every line of her body spoke of discipline, of survival, of power honed into something that was hers alone.
You bit your lip without realizing it, heat curling low in your stomach as you watched her move. She was breathtaking—sweaty, grumpy, relentless—and for a moment you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to kiss her or drop to your knees at the sight of her.
The door creaked wider, and suddenly Abby was there—sweat still glistening on her skin, chest rising and falling with every breath. She leaned against the frame for a moment, catching you red-handed.
Her brow arched, lips curling just slightly as she asked between breaths, “Were you watching me?”

Chapter 88: Feel Better?

You froze. God—you must’ve looked insane. You were literally on all fours, crouched low to peek through the cracked door like some feral animal. Your face was hot, flushed from the rush of being caught, and your breaths came too fast, too heavy, from how hard you’d been staring.
In that moment you realized exactly how you looked: like a complete crazy person.
You rocked back onto your heels, swallowing hard, trying desperately to scrape together some composure. “No,” you blurted, the denial coming way too quickly, your voice almost squeaky with guilt.
Abby tilted her head, one hand still on the doorknob, the other resting on her hip. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with amusement as she studied you like she was deciding whether to laugh or scold. A drop of sweat slid down her temple, catching the light, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away—just let it hang there as if daring you to keep lying.
Abby’s lips twitched, a smirk breaking through her breathlessness. She leaned one shoulder into the frame, arms crossing lazily over her chest, still glistening from the workout.
“Mhm.” Her brow arched higher. “So you just… crawl around on all fours for fun now?”
Your mouth opened, then shut again. You felt your cheeks burn hotter, heat crawling up your neck. “I—no, I was just—”
“Just what?” she cut in, her voice low and teasing, that little laugh humming beneath her words. She tilted her head, blonde strands sticking damp to her flushed face. “Checking if the floorboards needed a good inspection?”
You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “Abby…”
She pushed off the frame and took a step closer, looming over you, her shadow cutting across the hall. “God, you’re ridiculous,” she chuckled, shaking her head. Her smirk softened into something more mischievous, eyes glinting as she bent low enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her skin. “You could’ve just asked to watch, you know.”
Your stomach dropped, pulse hammering in your ears. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though your voice cracked with how flustered you were.
Abby grinned wide now, the smugness radiating from her as she straightened back up, muscles flexing in the shift. “And you’re a terrible liar.”
Your breath caught hard in your throat as Abby leaned closer, her body heat radiating off her in waves. Her lips brushed yours—warm, damp with sweat—before she pressed into a kiss that was sharp, almost punishing in how brief it was. When she pulled back, her mouth lingered just a breath away, her whisper sinking straight into your chest.
“I’d love to ruin you right now… but I’ve got too much to fix around the house.”
Her voice was cruelly soft, velvet wrapped around steel. It made your stomach drop and coil at the same time, like you’d been pushed right to the edge and left dangling.
The smell of her sweat hit you thick in the air, raw and unfiltered—musk, salt, and something distinctly her. It was intoxicating. You whimpered before you could stop yourself, pathetic and small, the sound scraping from your throat like a plea.
Her hand came up to your cheek, rough calloused fingers stroking along your heated skin, grounding and tormenting at once. “My Joan,” she cooed, her lips curving as if savoring your unraveling. “You’re so easy to rile up.”
Then she bent lower, her breath hot against your neck before her teeth caught you. The bite was sharp and quick, leaving a sting that burned deliciously as she pulled back. You jolted, a hiss escaping, followed by a shuddering exhale.
“No fair,” you breathed, your chest rising and falling, eyes wide on her.
Abby just smirked, cruel and knowing, before straightening to her full height. She didn’t give you the satisfaction of another glance. Instead, she turned with soldier’s precision, the muscles of her back and shoulders shifting beneath her damp tank as she strode out of the room. Her heavy footsteps carried her down the stairs, purposeful, like she hadn’t just left you trembling on the floor.
You sat there in the hall, dazed, leaning back against the wall as if it could hold you steady. Your hands curled into fists on your knees, nails biting into your skin.
Of course she’d go. She had to. The list of chores waiting for her was endless: the bathroom sink still leaking steadily, the solar panels sputtering on cloudy days, the nursery floorboards that creaked and splintered underfoot. Abby carried the whole damn house on her back, and she wouldn’t let even you—flushed, panting, desperate—pull her from it.
You let your head thump lightly against the wall, eyes closing, heat still coiling through your body. Frustration buzzed under your skin, tangled with the ache of desire and something softer, deeper—adoration. You hated her for being so cruel, and you loved her more for it.
The house creaked as she moved below, the faint scrape of tools being shifted, the determined clatter of her focus turning elsewhere.
And you sat there, pressed to the wall, huffing through your teeth like you could exhale the need right out of your body.
From downstairs came the muffled clang of tools and the squeak of a pipe. Abby was under the kitchen sink—you hadn’t even known that one had started leaking too. She was always fixing, always carrying everything, and meanwhile you couldn’t think of anything except her mouth on yours, her voice in your ear.
You slipped back into the bedroom and shut the door behind you, trying to calm yourself. But your body betrayed you. The heat in your stomach wouldn’t settle; it bloomed wider, heavier, until you were almost dizzy with it.
The room didn’t help. It smelled like her—thick with salt and sweat from her workout. That sharp, earthy musk clung to the sheets, mixing with something warmer, more intimate. Every breath you took reminded you of her body, of pressing your face between her legs, of the sounds she made when you were between her legs.
You groaned into the pillow, frustrated, burying your face against the cotton. The more you tried to quiet yourself, the more your body begged.
Your gaze drifted sideways, landing on the nightstand. The drawer sat barely cracked, like it was daring you.
“No…” you whispered, but your hand was already reaching.
The drawer slid open and your fingers closed around the plastic shape inside. The hum came first—low and steady—as it whirred to life.
Your cheeks burned. Even alone, the sound made you paranoid, like Abby might hear it through the walls. You pressed a hand over your mouth, stifling your own breathing, muffling the gasp that almost burst free.
You sank onto your knees on the mattress, your body already reacting as the vibrator buzzed against you. The sheets bunched in your fists, the fabric twisting as your back arched. A muffled cry slipped out against your palm, and you clenched your thighs tighter, hips jerking with every press.
The scent of Abby on the bed only made it worse. The musk in the air, the lingering sweat in the pillow—it surrounded you, made you feel like she was still here, like she was watching you fall apart.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your thoughts spiraling into her—Abby’s breath hot against your skin, the weight of her body pressing you down, the way she growled your name when you teased her. The images consumed you, pushed you over the edge.
Your whole body shook, trembling as the climax tore through you. You bit down on the sheets to stifle the cry, knuckles white as you gripped the fabric.
Then—creak.
The door opened.
Your head snapped up, panic flashing through you. Abby stood there in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, sweat-darkened tank top clinging to her body. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes locked on you like a hawk.
“Go on,” she said simply.
Heat rushed to your face, shame blooming as hot as the pleasure still buzzing through you. But your body was too far gone, too greedy to stop. You writhed, gasps slipping past your bitten lips, every nerve sparking under her gaze.
She didn’t move. She just stood there. Watching.
You whimpered, broken by both the humiliation and the need.
Abby tilted her head slightly, her jaw tight, and gave a single nod. “Again.”
The command cut through you like lightning, and your stomach knotted, trembling harder under the weight of her eyes.
You moved your hips against the buzzing vibrator, your body trembling as if it couldn’t decide whether to collapse or climb higher. Your mind was gone, clouded with heat and the weight of Abby’s gaze.
She stood in the doorway, arms still folded, but her face had flushed red. For all her control, you could see it—this was driving her crazy too.
Soft, desperate whimpers slipped past your lips as you rocked, the sound filling the heavy silence between you.
Then it hit. Your body seized, a ragged moan tearing out of you as you came undone again, the sheets twisting in your fists.
“Feel good?” Abby asked, her voice low, steady—almost mocking, but with a roughness that betrayed her own hunger.
You nodded quickly, fumbling to turn the vibrator off, your body twitching in the aftershocks, your cheeks burning with both shame and the edge of lingering pleasure.
Abby chuckled, the sound dark and amused. “Feel better?”
You nodded again, your breath still shaky, and finally she moved—crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. She leaned down over you, her damp blonde strands brushing your cheek as she pressed a kiss to your forehead. Warm, grounding, and cruelly gentle after everything she’d just made you do.

Chapter 89: A soft place to fall

The day blurred after that. You didn’t even remember closing your eyes—just Abby easing you back into bed, the brush of her hand on your arm, the weight of the blanket tucked over you. Her voice low, steady, coaxing you into rest.
When you finally woke, the world spun. The room swayed as if you’d been under too long, dragged out of some deep, heavy ocean of sleep. Your skin was sticky with sweat, your throat dry, your body slack and confused. You blinked, rubbed your eyes, tried to pull yourself back into reality.
The first sound that cut through the haze was Abby’s voice—sharp, furious, shrieking.
“This is not a fuckin’ brothel!”
You sat up too fast, head swimming, the word catching you off guard. Brothel? You let out a small, incredulous chuckle.
But then Lev’s voice came crashing in, raw and defensive, rattling the walls. “Are you calling Mara a whore?!”
You winced, dragging your hands over your face.
Abby’s scoff snapped back, brittle and biting. “What are you talking about?! That’s not what I said!”
Groaning, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your feet hitting the cool floor. Pain pinched at your back, sharp and nagging. Your legs felt stiff, heavy, swollen. Every movement reminded you of the baby growing inside you—the bloat, the ache, the way your body never felt like your own anymore.
The yelling downstairs clawed at your skull, making the migraine building behind your eyes throb harder. You shuffled into the bathroom, gripping the counter just to steady yourself.
The mirror showed a pale, overheated face, hair stuck damp to your temples. You twisted the tap, splashed your face with cold water, letting it drip down your neck. The shock helped for a moment, cooling your skin, but the voices downstairs refused to quiet.
You pressed your palms against the sink, breathing slowly, trying not to snap. But between the pounding in your skull, the stiffness in your back, and the gnawing tightness in your belly, every nerve in you felt frayed.
And still, their voices rose.
“You can’t do this when the baby gets here!” Abby shrieked, her voice cracking under the strain.
Lev’s scoff cut through the air like a blade. “Why would I even wanna come back here? It’ll be crying all night!”
You could hear Abby’s heavy pacing on the floorboards below, the rhythm sharp and uneven. This was different—unusual. The fights had been happening more lately, creeping in like weeds, but this… this was something else. Abby and Lev had once been inseparable, two peas in a pod, a bond closer than blood. At times it had felt almost like mother and son.
But his teen years were changing him. The sharp edges of adolescence had taken hold—making him reckless, malicious with his words, biting at the very people who loved him most.
You could picture the look on Abby’s face even without seeing it: hurt creasing her brow, despair tightening her mouth, anger sparking in her eyes. The sound of her sharp huff carried up the stairs as you stood in the bathroom doorway, hand braced against the frame, staring down toward the chaos below.
“You are not moving out!” Abby’s voice thundered, rattling the walls.
Lev barked a bitter laugh, his voice breaking with defiance. “Why not?! I’m fuckin’ old enough!”
A slam echoed, loud and violent, making you flinch. Abby’s hands must have come down on the counter, the wood downstairs groaning under her strength. Her voice tore up the stairwell, raw and furious.
“No the hell you are not!”
The silence after her words felt like a held breath, the house itself tensed and waiting for what would come next.
You heard Abby’s footsteps thunder across the floor, closing the distance fast. Heart pounding, you crept toward the top of the stairs, careful to keep your weight light so the boards wouldn’t groan beneath you.
“Why do you smell like smoke?!” Abby’s voice cracked the air, sharp and furious.
There was a scuffle, the sound of her hand grabbing his shirt—then Lev shoving her off. “I don’t!” he snapped back, his voice high, defensive.
She didn’t buy it. You could hear it in her tone, dripping with contempt. “Are you fucking smoking?!”
Lev let out a laugh, ugly and forced, like he thought it would make him sound grown. “It’s weed, not cigarettes.”
You winced. Wrong answer.
Abby’s scoff was harsh, almost a bark of disbelief. “You think that’s better?! You’re fucking high?! You walked home high—with infected roaming the streets?!”
The house shuddered with the weight of her rage. You hovered at the stairwell, one hand gripping the banister, torn between stepping in and staying hidden. From up here you could almost see it: Lev’s bravado wilting under Abby’s fury, Abby’s whole body coiled tight, a mix of terror and fury at the thought of what could’ve happened to him out there.
Lev’s laugh sharpened into something crueler, bitter. “Oh my god, Abby—you act like you’ve never done anything stupid! Like you didn’t sneak out or get drunk or whatever the hell when you were my age!”
You winced at the top of the stairs, knuckles white on the banister.
“I wasn’t high with infected roaming the streets!” Abby shot back, her voice raw with fury. “I wasn’t stumbling around begging to get ripped apart!”
Lev’s voice cracked, but he didn’t back down. “I can handle myself! I’ve been handling myself since I was a kid. Longer than you’ve even been around!”
The words landed like a blade twisting in her gut. You could almost see Abby’s face in your mind—her jaw tight, her lips pressed thin, the look of someone who wanted to shout louder but was already bleeding inside.
“I’ve been busting my ass to keep you safe,” she seethed, her footsteps pacing hard against the floorboards. “And this is how you treat it? By throwing it in my face? By getting high when you’re supposed to be keeping watch for us?”
Lev let out another sharp, humorless laugh. “Maybe I wouldn’t need to get high if you didn’t ride me every second of the day! Maybe I just don’t want to live in your perfect little prison!”
The words cut the air like broken glass, and for a moment the house fell into a tense, vibrating silence. You could feel it in your chest—Abby’s rage balancing on the edge of heartbreak, Lev’s anger burning just to cover his fear.
Your ears pricked at his words. Something about his tone—sharp, defensive, poisoned with hurt—hit you deep.
Oh my god.
Lev sounded just like… you.
You put your head in your hands, your skull throbbing with the migraine’s pulse. The recognition cut straight through you. He was mirroring you—the same anger, the same rebellion, the same way you’d spat venom at people who only tried to love you. Was this your fault? Had you given him a bad impression, showed him all the wrong ways to cope?
Downstairs, Abby’s voice rose again, ragged and desperate. “You have so much freedom, Lev! More than I ever had! I didn’t want you to do comms, but I trusted you! I let you walk to base alone because I trust you!”
Groaning, you rubbed your temples, forcing yourself to move, to intervene. You padded down the stairs, each step heavy. “Please—enough of this,” you muttered. “Or take it outside.”
Lev’s eyes snapped to you, cruel. “Oh, so only you get to throw fits?”
You sighed, weariness dragging at your shoulders. “Lev, that’s not what I said.”
He crossed his arms, hips jutting out in a defiant stance, his chin tilted high. “That’s what you meant.”
Annoyance flared hot in your chest. You furrowed your brow, biting off your words too sharp. “That’s not what I fucking meant. What is wrong with you?”
You regretted it the moment it left your mouth.
Lev’s face twisted, voice breaking. “What’s wrong with me?! What’s wrong is that I’m stuck here with two crazies who finally stopped fighting long enough to get knocked up—but it’s a big deal when I fuck my girlfriend in my own bed!”
The words cut like glass. Abby bit her cheek, her expression tight with anger but trembling beneath it. “We are adults, Lev.”
Lev’s voice rose, cracking hard with something more than fury. “You’re acting like I have a dick to get her pregnant! News flash—I don’t fucking have one!” His throat bobbed as tears welled, blurring the edges of his rage.
Abby’s stance softened instantly. Her head shook slowly, her brow lifting, eyes flickering with sorrow. “Lev… you know that—”
He jabbed a finger at his chest, his whole frame trembling. “What? That it doesn’t make me less of a man? That’s what you were gonna say, right? Go on. What?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. His words hung heavy in the air, vibrating with pain. Abby froze, caught between wanting to soothe him and the fear that anything she said would only cut him deeper.
You grabbed Lev by the arm, firm but not cruel, and pulled him toward the door. “You both need air,” you said, your voice flat with finality.
He twisted in your grip, trying to yank free, but you didn’t let go. His anger gave him strength, but your resolve was harder. Within seconds you had him outside, the front door shutting behind you, cutting off the echo of Abby’s ragged breathing inside.
Through the window you caught a glimpse of her collapsed on the couch, her elbows braced to her knees, her head in her hands. She looked small there, shrunken by exhaustion and hurt. It tugged at your chest, but you knew she needed space.
You let out a long breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you turned to Lev. He stood rigid, his chest still heaving, tears streaking through the flush of his anger. His jaw was clenched tight, like he was daring you to scold him the way Abby had.
Instead, you slipped your boots on and pointed down the road. “Let’s walk and talk.”
For a moment he didn’t move, his fists still balled at his sides. Then his shoulders sagged, the tension draining out of him all at once. He gave a small nod, swiping his sleeve roughly across his wet face.
You blinked, a little shocked at how quickly he agreed, how the fire that had been burning in him only minutes ago had softened into embers. Without another word, he fell into step beside you, his head bowed low as the two of you started down the cracked road.
The world outside was quiet—birds calling from the trees, the faint hum of wind through power lines, the crunch of gravel beneath your boots. After the chaos in the house, the silence felt enormous.
You sighed, the pounding in your skull refusing to let up even after ten minutes of walking. The gravel crunched beneath your boots, the rhythm steady, almost soothing, though every step made your temples throb. You pressed a hand against your stomach, grounding yourself as you glanced sideways at Lev.
“What’s really going on?” you asked, your voice low, gentler now.
Lev swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “It’s hard, Joan.”
You nodded, waiting. “Tell me. What’s hard?”
He drew in a long breath, his shoulders lifting, then falling with a tremble. “Mara didn’t know.”
The words made your chest tighten. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. “Lev… if she loves you, she won’t care.”
But he only shook his head, his face twisting. “She doesn’t.”
You nodded once, more firmly. “Then that’s good. Better to find that out now.”
His lips quivered as he let out a shaky sigh. “She has a boyfriend.”
Your brow furrowed, your steps faltering. “Yeah… it’s you?”
He stopped walking, his head shaking violently. “No. No, like… someone else.”
You froze. The migraine buzzed hot in your head, but this made your stomach lurch. “What?”
Lev dragged in a sharp, shaky breath, his voice breaking. “Look—it’s… they were supposed to break up, but they didn’t.”
You shook your head slowly, disbelief cutting through your exhaustion. “No, Lev. No, no—you can’t… you can’t trail along with her like this. You can’t.”
His face crumpled, tears spilling fast down his cheeks. His voice cracked into a whimper. “Why not?”
You sighed heavily, your hand pressing harder against your belly as if you could anchor yourself with the weight of the life inside you. “Because look at you,” you said softly, your own voice trembling. You gestured toward him, his shoulders hunched, his eyes swollen from crying, his whole body trembling with shame and heartbreak. “Look at how you’ve been. Look at what it’s doing to you.”
Lev’s shoulders stiffened, his voice taking on that brittle edge of defensiveness. “You don’t get how it feels.”
You looked away, your jaw tightening, the name Terra flashing through your mind like a wound that never fully healed. You wondered if Lev was even old enough to hear it, to really understand. But the ache in his voice pressed you forward.
“I do know,” you said softly, your throat thick. “In some way… I know how you feel.”
He sniffled, swiping his sleeve across his nose. “How? Abby loves you. She doesn’t care, even after everything you did.”
You swallowed, the weight of your past sitting like stone in your chest. “I’ve dated other people,” you admitted. Your steps slowed until you reached an old bench by the road. You sank down onto it, letting out a huff as you leaned your head back, relief flooding your sore muscles.
Lev sat down next to you, his elbows braced against his knees, his head in his hands. His leg bounced fast, restless energy pouring out of him. “Who?”
You sighed. “Her name was Terra.”
His head lifted slightly, his tear-streaked face curious. “What happened?”
You shifted uncomfortably on the bench, fingers knotting together. “Well…” You swallowed, the words tasting bitter even now. “She got pregnant while we were together.”
Lev’s brow furrowed deeply. “That’s awful.”
A humorless laugh slipped out of you. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t perfect either.”
He dropped his gaze to the gravel at his feet. “How did you feel?”
Your tongue clicked against your teeth before you answered. “I hated her for it. The guy—his name was Nathan.” The sound of it still made your stomach twist. “I did some horrible stuff back then.”
Lev turned his face toward you, eyes narrowing in cautious curiosity. “Like what?”
You puffed out your lips, exhaling through them. “I lied. Got him locked up. And I…” Your chest tightened as you looked down at your belly, barely swollen but visible beneath your shirt. “I tortured him.”
Lev stared at you, stunned into silence. “Cause you were jealous?”
Your eyes lifted skyward. The stars were just starting to poke through the deepening blue, scattered pinpricks of light. “Kind of. I was more mad that—” you swallowed hard, words scraping your throat. “That no matter what, I’d never compete. Because he was what she wanted. A man. Someone who could give her a family. And I… couldn’t.”
Lev’s lips trembled, and he nodded slowly—like you’d opened a locked door inside him. Like your confession mirrored his own private thoughts.
It was quiet for a long beat before he spoke again, voice small but cutting. “Do you wish you were a guy?”
You sighed, your leg bouncing restlessly. “Sometimes. I think it’d be easier. With Abby, at least.”
Lev considered that, his nose scrunching as he wiped at his face again. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t think you’d make a good guy.”
A startled chuckle escaped you, soft and hoarse. “That’s fair.”
For the first time all night, the tension broke, just a little, leaving the two of you sitting under the stars with the heavy silence of the world pressing in around you.
Lev crinkled his nose, his eyes still a little red from crying. “It’s kinda like… you’re a dad. Or an older brother or something.”
You snorted, the sound rough but genuine. “Yeah? I can’t just be Joan?”
He shrugged, shoulders lifting tight, then dropping. “You are Joan. But… in my heart… that’s the space you fill.” His words were awkward, hesitant, but sincere in a way that hit you deep.
You nodded slowly, pressing a steadying hand onto his knee. The warmth of the contact seemed to ground both of you.
“You’re getting really buff,” you said after a pause, your lips quirking into a faint, teasing smile.
Lev sniffled but nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging upward just a little. “Yeah… I think I am too. It feels good.”
Your smile softened, pride flickering through your chest. “Tell Mara you have to just be friends, okay?”
His shoulders slumped, a heavy sigh leaving him. For a second you thought he might argue, but instead he nodded. “I will.”
The night air settled around you, cooler now, carrying the faint rustle of leaves and the quiet hum of insects. For the first time that day, the storm inside the house felt far away.
You stood, brushing the dust from your palms, and motioned for him to follow. “Let’s get back home.”
Lev nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets as the two of you walked side by side. The road crunched under your boots, the quiet between you carrying more weight than any words could.
After a long stretch, his voice broke through, small but uncertain. “Should I tell Abby?”
You puffed your cheeks, letting out the air slow. “She’s gonna be pissed at Mara. You… you’re her baby, Lev. She loves you so much.”
His head dipped low, the shadow of guilt tugging at his expression. “I know,” he murmured, his voice cracking on the words.
You swallowed, steadying your tone. “You need to make up with her.”
Lev nodded again, the fight finally drained out of him. “I know.”
By the time you reached the porch, the night air felt cooler on your skin, carrying the faint smell of pine and damp earth. Lev opened the door for you, the creak of the hinges soft compared to the storm that had been raging earlier.
Inside, Abby was on the couch. Her shoulders had loosened, her head tipped back against the cushions. She looked worn, yes, but calmer—her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm instead of sharp bursts.
Her eyes found Lev’s as soon as he stepped through the door. Her voice was quiet, but firm. “Can I talk to you?”
Lev nodded without hesitation. He glanced at you once, then followed Abby up the stairs. Their footsteps faded above, leaving the house still, the silence heavy but no longer hostile.
You stood alone in the living room, the tension of the day finally catching up to you in your bones.
You lingered in the living room a moment, listening to their footsteps fade above you, the faint sound of a door shutting. The house was quiet now, too quiet, the kind that makes you aware of every creak and sigh in the wood.
You grabbed a book from the shelf—not really caring which—and dropped onto the couch. The cushion still held Abby’s warmth. You stretched your legs out and tried to lose yourself in the printed words, your finger dragging idly down the page.
But the lines blurred. Your eyes skipped, unfocused, drifting to the ceiling where the faint murmur of voices carried through. Abby’s low, steady tone, broken occasionally by Lev’s sharper edges, then fading into mumbles again. You couldn’t make out every word, but the rhythm told you enough: the push and pull of him resisting, her softening, both of them circling around the love underneath all that fire.
You sighed and leaned your head back, the book resting loosely in your lap. The migraine pulsed behind your eyes, but the hush of their conversation was almost soothing now. It wasn’t screaming anymore. Just whispers, the kind that promised exhaustion was finally giving way to understanding.
You rubbed your belly absently, the faint swell beneath your palm, and let your eyes drift shut. You couldn’t fix everything for them. All you could do was wait, and hope that when they came back down, something had shifted.
Then—like thunder cracking the stillness—Abby’s voice tore down the stairs.
“She what?!”
The door upstairs slammed open so hard it rattled the frame. Heavy footsteps pounded down, and Abby appeared at the bottom of the steps, fire in her eyes, her chest heaving. Lev trailed after her, his voice pleading. “Abby—!”
She strode straight into the room, stopping in front of you with her hands braced on her hips, her body vibrating with fury. “Mara cheated on Lev!”
You nodded once, the bluntness of her words making your stomach twist. “It’s fucked up.”
Abby’s breath hitched as a scoff left her throat, but the sound cracked. Tears welled quickly in her eyes, breaking through the mask of anger. “Why would she do that to you?!” she demanded, the question thrown like a weapon but aimed at no one.
Lev looked stricken, his hands splayed helplessly. His voice shook. “I—I don’t know!” The disbelief in his tone was almost childlike, as though saying it aloud made it harder to accept.
Abby didn’t hesitate. She yanked him into her arms, clutching him tight, her strong frame shaking with the effort to hold him together. “Fuck Mara,” she muttered fiercely into his hair. “You hear me? Fuck her.”
You felt a small smile tug at your lips, relief threading through the storm. But when Lev glanced at you over Abby’s shoulder, his eyes were wide, his brow furrowed. He looked confused—like he didn’t understand why you weren’t as enraged as Abby, why your calm looked so out of place in the middle of all that fire.
But you had been there. You knew this storm wasn’t the end—it was just the beginning. The betrayal, the confusion, the way your chest hollowed out when someone you trusted tore into you… Lev was only standing at the edge of it now. Mara would keep pulling at him until he broke, the way Terra had pulled at you.
Your eyes lingered on him as Abby held him close, his face crumpled, tears still drying on his cheeks. He looked younger in that moment, fragile in a way that made your heart ache.
You knew what came next—the anger that turned inward, the shame, the endless questions of why me? It was going to rip him apart piece by piece.
And you couldn’t stop it.
All you could do was make sure that when it happened—when Mara finally crushed what little he still held onto—he’d have a soft place to fall. A home that didn’t turn its back. Arms that caught him, no matter how jagged he became.
You pressed your palm against your stomach, grounding yourself in the weight of the life you carried, and exhaled slowly. You wouldn’t let Lev face what you had faced—alone, unraveling in silence.
Not this time.

Chapter 90: The baby's a little small

You murmured, stirring awake as a shadow loomed over you. Lev was standing at the edge of the bed, tapping your head with two impatient fingers. You blinked blearily, the night before returning in fragments—the fight, the walk, the bench under the stars. The rest blurred into the throb of your migraine. You blinked again, grateful to find the pain was gone this morning.
He sighed, his voice heavy with that teenage blend of boredom and irritation. “It’s Friday.”
You nodded into the pillow.
He didn’t move. “You’re coming to base with us.”
You gave another nod, slower this time, eyes still half-shut.
Lev groaned, his shoulders slumping. “Well, we need to leave. We’ve been trying to get you up for an hour.”
You swallowed, lips twitching into a smirk. “Today I am growing a kidney.”
He froze, eyes going wide. “How do you know?” His voice pitched high with genuine horror.
You couldn’t resist—your sneer cracked into a grin as you whispered, low and mock-serious, “I can feel it.”
Lev waved his hands in exasperation, groaning loudly. “You’re disgusting. And your breath stinks.”
That only made you laugh harder. You sat up, leaned forward, and blew a hot gust of air right into his face.
“Gross!” he gagged, stumbling back and wiping at the air like he could erase it.
You dragged yourself out of bed, still chuckling as you padded into the bathroom. The mirror showed your tangled hair and flushed cheeks, but you ignored it, grabbing your toothbrush. You scrubbed quickly, splashing water on your face before tugging on clothes—loose, comfortable, practical.
Behind you, you could still hear Lev muttering as he moved down the hall, his voice sharp but softened by a laugh he didn’t want you to hear.
You left the bathroom and trudged down the stairs, your feet heavy on the wood. Sleep still clung to you, your body sluggish, your eyelids half-closed. You let out a sigh, wishing you hadn’t agreed to adventure out of the house today. The thought of base felt more like a chore than a relief.
At the bottom step Abby leaned over, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The gesture was soft, automatic, but you groaned anyway, your voice low and cranky. “I want to stay home.”
Her brow furrowed as she studied you, confusion flickering across her tired features. “You begged to leave?”
You sighed again, cheeks puffing, not ready to argue.
Lev saved you from answering. He pulled the front door open, holding it wide as the cool morning air rushed in. “Let’s just go,” he muttered, already stepping out onto the porch.
You followed slowly, your hand coming to rest on your stomach. It felt heavier today, fuller, as if overnight it had grown. The pressure made you walk slower, more deliberate.
Outside, you tilted your head back, staring up at the sky. It stretched wide and pale blue, streaked with faint wisps of cloud, the kind of open vastness that always made you feel both free and small.
You exhaled, your breath visible in the cool morning air, and trudged forward with Abby at your side and Lev ahead of you, all three of you moving together toward the waiting day.
The three of you fell into a quiet rhythm along the cracked road. Lev kept a few paces ahead, his bow slung across his back, boots crunching gravel with every step. Abby walked steady beside you, her long strides slowed to match yours, though you caught her eyes flicking to your stomach more than once.
The air smelled faintly of damp earth and old ash, the ghosts of burned-out houses still lining the street. Their empty windows stared like hollow eyes, glass long since shattered, curtains rotted into strips that fluttered weakly in the breeze.
You adjusted your coat and pressed your hand to your belly again, the weight of it making you shift your steps. Every so often, Abby’s knuckles brushed against yours, a silent tether keeping you grounded.
By the time the jagged outline of the base’s watchtower came into view through the thinning trees, your shoulders eased just slightly. Home was still far enough, but the sight of it felt like safety.
That was when the sound came—low and guttural, breaking the morning calm.
A door slammed open in one of the houses lining the street. Two figures burst out, their movements jerky, wild. Skin torn, jaws snapping, eyes glazed with hunger.
Runners.
They shrieked as they caught sight of you, their raw throats shredding the air.
Lev froze only for a second, then swung his bow off his shoulder, already fumbling for an arrow. Abby shoved you gently behind her, her hand going instinctively to the gun holstered at her hip.
The runners barreled forward, feet pounding the pavement, their screams echoing down the street as they came straight for you.
The runners shrieked, their broken bodies flinging forward with terrifying speed. Your heart jumped into your throat, but Lev didn’t flinch.
In one smooth motion, he nocked an arrow, drew it back, and let it fly. The first runner collapsed mid-scream, the shaft buried clean through its eye. Its momentum carried it forward until it crumpled onto the pavement at Abby’s boots.
The second was faster, weaving erratically as it charged. Lev’s breathing steadied; you could see the focus sharpen in his eyes, all that teenage fury from earlier channeled into something lethal. Another arrow hissed through the air, striking true in the side of the skull. The body folded instantly, skidding across the cracked road before falling still.
Silence followed, save for the faint creak of Lev’s bowstring as he lowered it. His chest rose and fell, not with panic, but with control.
Abby glanced at him, her jaw tight but her expression betraying a flicker of pride. She bent, nudged one of the corpses with her boot, then holstered her gun. “Clean kills,” she muttered.
Lev said nothing, just adjusted the strap of his quiver and pushed forward, his shoulders squared.
You exhaled, realizing you’d been holding your breath, your hand pressed hard against your belly. For all his anger, for all the mess of last night, Lev was still damn good at what he did.
The base wasn’t far now. The watchtower loomed taller in the distance, its shadow stretching across the road.
Your voice broke the silence as the three of you kept walking, your hand still braced on your stomach. “Have you seen a lot more recently?”
Abby’s eyes stayed forward, her jaw tight. She nodded once, her brow furrowed. “Yeah. That’s why I didn’t want you out.”
You felt a twinge of shame for all your groaning earlier, for wishing you’d stayed in bed. Complaining seemed small now. You pulled in a long breath and nodded, the guilt settling heavy in your chest.
Lev adjusted his bow strap, glancing toward the empty houses you passed. “We should’ve brought Norman,” he muttered.
The name twisted in your gut. You nodded, your guilt growing sharper. Poor Norman—left at home alone while the three of you trekked through streets with infected lurking behind every door.
The thought stayed with you as the wind pushed through the broken street, carrying the faint stench of rot from the fallen runners.
The walk tightened into silence after that. Each step toward the looming watchtower felt heavier, but the sight of it—the tall, patched-together structure of steel beams and plywood sheets—brought a measure of relief.
Two figures were already posted at the gate, rifles slung across their shoulders. Their heads turned at the sound of your approach, boots crunching on gravel. One raised a hand, squinting down the road.
“Runners?” he called.
“Two,” Abby answered flatly. “Handled.”
The man gave a sharp nod, his hand tightening on his rifle as he glanced at Lev’s bow, still strung. The other guard pulled the gate open with a loud groan of rusted hinges, the chain-link rattling.
As you stepped inside, the change was immediate. The streets here, though cracked and broken, were alive with people. A woman carried a basket of tools across the square; two kids darted past, chasing each other with sticks; someone patched holes in a wall with scavenged planks. The base wasn’t beautiful, but it pulsed with life, stitched together by the stubborn will to keep going.
Lev’s shoulders eased slightly, though his eyes still darted around, restless. Abby kept close to you, her hand brushing against your back once, steadying you as you crossed uneven ground.
Inside the gates, the air felt heavier but safer somehow. The smell of cooking fires drifted on the breeze, mixed with the faint tang of oil and metal from the makeshift workshops.
You followed Abby and Lev through the bustle of the compound, weaving past scavenged carts and patched-up shacks. The ground here was a mix of cracked asphalt and dirt, worn smooth by countless boots. The air smelled sharper the deeper you went—woodsmoke from cooking fires, sweat, a faint metallic tang from the workshops ringing with hammer strikes.
The medical building sat near the far end of the square, a squat structure of cinderblock and patched windows. Its roof sagged in one corner, shored up with scavenged beams, but the hand-painted sign above the door—MEDICAL in big red letters—stood out bold against the gray.
A woman with a bandaged arm sat outside on a crate, chewing on a strip of dried meat. A little boy darted past her, clutching a tin cup, his mother’s voice chasing him. The closer you got, the quieter the air seemed to become, the chatter of the compound dulling as the heavy smell of antiseptic reached you.
Abby slowed her pace, glancing back at you. Her eyes softened just a little, protective even in their weariness. Lev kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot, his bow bumping against his back as he trailed beside you, quieter now.
The door creaked when Abby pushed it open, the scent inside hitting all at once—alcohol, old wood, and something faintly coppery. Beds lined the walls, some occupied by people with wrapped limbs or pale, drawn faces. A nurse glanced up from her clipboard, recognition flashing in her eyes as she spotted Abby.
It was always like this when you entered the medical building. The air carried the weight of too many stories, too many wounds, but also the faint hum of survival stitched together one day at a time.
You recognized her immediately—the older woman with kind eyes and steady hands. She had been there before, months ago, when you’d collapsed after that fever on the boat. You remembered the way she had sat at your bedside through the worst of it, dabbing your forehead with a damp cloth, whispering that you’d pull through when you thought you were going to die.
A small smile tugged at your lips as she set her clipboard aside and came toward you. “Oh, look at this!” she gleamed, her voice warm as her hands reached gently for your middle.
You let her press her palms against the small swell of your stomach. It wasn’t much yet—just enough to push against your shirt, a curve more visible to others now than it had been weeks ago. Her fingers rested there lightly, reverent, her face breaking into a grin as she looked up at you.
“Already growing,” she said softly. “Stronger than you realize.”
Something in your chest loosened, the lingering tension of the walk and the fight falling away for a moment under her touch. Abby stood just behind you, her eyes softening at the sight, though her arms stayed crossed over her chest as if she was bracing herself against the flood of emotions. Lev shifted his weight awkwardly near the doorway, watching but pretending he wasn’t.
The woman gave your belly one last pat, her smile unwavering. “Let’s get you checked in properly.”
The older woman’s smile lingered on you, her eyes warm but sharp with focus. “Come, sit,” she said, patting the chair beside the cluttered table of salvaged supplies.
You eased yourself down, still a little sore from the walk. Abby stood behind you like a sentry, her arms folded tight, while Lev hovered by the door pretending he wasn’t worried.
The nurse pulled the cracked stethoscope around her neck, only one earpiece still working. She pressed the cold diaphragm gently against your chest. “Breathe in,” she murmured. You obeyed, the cool metal stinging your skin. “Good. Now out.” She listened for a long moment, her weathered face unreadable.
Next came the blood pressure cuff—a faded relic patched with duct tape, the hand pump squeaking as she squeezed it. “Hold still,” she said, her fingers pressed to your wrist as she counted. After a beat, she gave a small nod. “Pressure’s steady. You’re holding up.”
She set it aside and rummaged through a small tin box until she pulled out a glass thermometer with a hairline crack running down the center. “Open,” she said. You obeyed, clamping it beneath your tongue while she shuffled through notes on a clipboard. When she removed it, she squinted and smiled faintly. “Normal enough.”
Finally, she crouched slightly, her warm, calloused hand pressing against the swell of your belly. Her fingers moved with practiced care, feeling, measuring, listening with her palm. Her smile returned, brighter this time. “The baby’s growing. A little small, but strong.”
You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Abby’s arms loosened behind you, her brow softening. Even Lev had stopped fidgeting by the door.
The nurse patted your knee. “Keep your strength up. Food, water, rest. Stress less if you can.” Her eyes flicked knowingly between you and Abby. “That one’s not optional.”
Abby’s mouth twitched in a grimace, but she nodded.
You rested your hand over your stomach, feeling the slight curve beneath your palm. “Can I… ask you something?”
The older woman nodded, tucking her pencil stub behind her ear. “Of course.”
You glanced up at Abby, then back down, embarrassed. “Sometimes it feels like I’m… already too tired. Like I’m weaker than I should be. Is that normal?”
The nurse’s smile softened, faint lines deepening around her eyes. “That’s normal. Your body’s working double. You’re not weaker—you’re building something.” She patted your arm. “It will feel like exhaustion, like you’re carrying stone in your bones, but it’s not weakness.”
You chewed your lip. “And the cramps? I’ve had a few.”
Her expression grew more serious. “Some cramps are normal. Your body’s stretching. But if it’s sharp, if it doesn’t pass, you come here. Don’t wait. Not in this world.”
You nodded quickly, storing the words.
Another question pressed up before you could swallow it. “What about food? There isn’t always meat, sometimes just beans, or the rations from base…”
The nurse straightened, her voice firmer now, practical. “Eat what you can, when you can. Protein if it’s there, beans if not. Keep nuts in your pocket if you find them. Dandelion greens, nettle—good for iron. Don’t turn away what you think is ‘weed.’” She tapped her temple. “Every scrap helps the baby. And water—never let yourself dry out.”
You felt Abby’s hand brush against your shoulder, steadying you, as the weight of it all sank in.
“And listen,” the nurse added, lowering her voice. “This isn’t the old world. We don’t have ultrasounds or pills or quick fixes. All we have is watching, listening, keeping each other alive. The baby will grow if you give it what you can. And if something feels wrong, you don’t hide it. You come.”
You nodded again, a lump catching in your throat. Abby’s fingers squeezed lightly at your shoulder.
The nurse’s gaze softened once more. “It’s harder now. But children have been born in worse times. Don’t forget that.”
Before you could think of another question, Abby shifted behind you. Her arms were still crossed, but her jaw was tight, her eyes fixed on the nurse.
“What if she gets sick?” Abby asked suddenly, her voice low but urgent. “Like—not just tired. I mean really sick. What then?”
The older woman looked up at her, steady. “Then you bring her here. We can’t do everything, but we can do enough. Fever, bleeding, fainting—you don’t wait, you don’t guess.”
Abby’s lips pressed thin. “And if… if something happens when we’re out there?”
The nurse’s eyes softened, but she didn’t sugarcoat it. “You keep her warm. You keep her fed. You keep her safe. And you carry her if you have to. She won’t tell you when it’s too much—so you pay attention.”
Your throat tightened. Abby glanced at you briefly, then back at the nurse, nodding once.
“And the baby?” she pressed, her voice dropping even lower, almost breaking. “How do I know if the baby’s okay?”
The nurse rested her hand gently on your belly again, then looked back at Abby. “You don’t always know. But if she eats, if she rests, if her body holds steady—the baby holds steady too.”
Abby’s arms finally dropped to her sides. She stepped closer, her hand brushing the back of your chair before settling protectively on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure she does,” she said firmly, almost like a promise to herself.
The nurse gave a small, approving nod. “That’s all you can do.”
You tilted your head back to look at Abby. Her expression was taut, worried, but her touch was steady, anchoring you. Something warm bloomed in your chest—adorable, yes, but also overwhelming. She looked like she’d carry the whole world on her back if it meant keeping you safe.
The nurse gave your shoulder one last pat before stepping back. “That’s all for now. Take care of yourself—and let her take care of you,” she added with a look at Abby.
Abby gave a curt nod, then guided you up gently by the elbow. Lev was already halfway to the door, eager to be anywhere else.
Outside, the morning had bloomed fully into day. The base was stirring to life—men hauling buckets of water from the well, women patching clothes on stoops, a teenager shoving a broom along the cracked pavement to clear debris. The clang of hammer against metal rang from the workshop, mixing with the chatter of voices and the occasional bark of a dog.
The smell of food pulled you down the square. Abby steered you toward one of the larger houses, its windows blown out but its bones solid, now converted into a dining hall. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the rich scent of porridge and woodfire wrapped around you as you stepped inside.
A few long, mismatched tables filled the space, scavenged chairs pulled up unevenly. Families were already seated, bent over bowls, voices low with conversation. A woman ladled thick oatmeal from a battered pot into tin dishes, sliding them down a makeshift counter.
Abby didn’t let you lift a finger. She steered you into a chair before you could argue, her large hand on your shoulder pressing you firmly into the seat. “Stay,” she muttered, like she was speaking to a stubborn pup.
You huffed but didn’t fight her, slouching into the chair as Lev snorted and went to stand in line. Abby fetched food herself, weaving through the crowd with surprising ease for her size. When she returned, she slid a steaming bowl in front of you first, then one for herself.
“Eat all of it,” she ordered gently, her eyes flicking to your stomach and back. She pushed a wooden spoon into your hand before you could protest.
You rolled your eyes but dipped the spoon into the thick porridge. It smelled faintly sweet—someone had managed to scavenge dried fruit to throw in. Abby watched until you took a bite, then finally picked up her own spoon.
Lev slumped into the seat across from you both, already shoveling his food in. Abby shot him a look, then turned back to you, fussing: “Drink water after. Don’t rush. And if you feel sick—tell me.”
Her voice was firm, protective, but under it you caught the thread of fear. She wasn’t just making sure you ate—she was making sure she didn’t lose you.
The hum of the dining hall surrounded you—clinking spoons, low chatter, the occasional burst of laughter—but at your little corner of the table, it felt quieter. Abby sat close, her broad shoulders hunched protectively, one arm draped along the back of your chair like she was warding off the world.
You stirred your spoon lazily through the porridge, watching the steam curl upward. “She said the baby’s a little small,” you murmured.
Abby’s eyes flicked to you immediately, her jaw tightening. “She said strong, too.”
You nodded, lips twitching at her quick correction. “Yeah. Strong.” You took another slow bite, the oatmeal heavy but comforting in your stomach. “Still… it makes me nervous.”
Abby shifted, turning toward you more fully. Her hand found your knee under the table, warm and grounding. “You’re doing everything right,” she said quietly, her voice soft in a way she rarely let others hear. “You eat what you can. You rest. You keep going. That’s more than most kids in this world get.”
The words sank deep, easing something tight inside you. You leaned your shoulder into her, sighing. “You sound like the nurse.”
Abby huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “Guess she’s smarter than I thought.” Her thumb rubbed over your knee absentmindedly. “I just… I don’t ever want you thinking you’re not enough. For the baby. Or for me.”
Your throat tightened, the bite in your mouth suddenly harder to swallow. You glanced at her, her eyes softer now, rimmed red from exhaustion but bright with something steady.
You smiled faintly, whispering, “Okay.”
Abby nodded, her shoulders loosening a little. She picked up her spoon again but didn’t let go of your knee.
Across the table, Lev rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about the two of you being mushy, but you ignored him. For that moment, it was just the three of you, safe and full-bellied, with the weight of survival eased—if only for a little while.

Chapter 91: Commotion

Lev scraped back his chair suddenly, the legs screeching against the floorboards. He stuffed the last bite of porridge into his mouth and stood, slinging his bow over his shoulder. You knew without asking—he had to work the comms. Always did in the mornings. He cleared his throat, glanced at Abby like he wanted to say something, then just muttered, “See you later,” before stacking his plate and carrying it off.
You reached across and pulled his empty dish toward you with yours, neat in the small ways you could be.
Abby smirked faintly, stirring her spoon through the last of her own porridge. “I hate eating here.”
You nodded, lips quirking. “It sucks.”
That drew a real smile out of her—quick and crooked, but real. She reached across the table, her hand slipping over yours, her fingers warm and calloused against your skin.
You took in a long breath, letting the warmth of her hand anchor you. “Maybe we should visit Joh after this,” you murmured.
Abby nodded thoughtfully, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “You wanna come with me to the main building? Rachel’s there, but…” She trailed off, tilting her head, knowing how much you disliked being cornered into small talk.
You lifted your free hand, palm out in mock surrender. “I’m good.”
Abby chuckled under her breath, squeezing your hand once more before releasing it. For a moment, you just sat there in the noise of the dining hall, sharing something quiet and steady, the chaos of the world muted beyond the walls.
Abby stood, scraping her chair back with a low groan. She stretched once, her shoulders rolling, then leaned down to brush a kiss across your temple. “I’ll be in main,” she murmured. “Don’t get lost.”
You smirked. “I’ll try.”
She gave your hand one last squeeze before heading toward the door, boots thudding across the old wooden floor. You watched her broad frame slip out into the daylight, the door creaking shut behind her.
The dining hall buzzed on, but without Abby’s presence, you suddenly felt untethered—lighter, in a way. Free to breathe.
You pushed your empty bowl aside and stood, your joints protesting as you stretched. Outside, the square was even busier than before: a cart piled with scrap lumber being hauled across the yard, a man sharpening a machete on a whetstone, children darting between legs, their laughter sharp and out of place against the backdrop of ruined buildings.
You started walking, no real direction at first—just taking in the rhythm of the place. The base was stitched together from what remained of suburbia: burned-out houses reinforced with scavenged sheet metal, porches turned into guard stations, garages into storerooms.
But as you passed the watchtower, a thought rooted itself. John.
You hadn’t seen him in weeks—not properly. Last you’d heard, he’d been running odd jobs, drifting between shifts at the gate and repair duty.
Your hand brushed over your stomach as you headed toward the row of smaller houses along the east fence. Your boots crunched over gravel, and you scanned the faces you passed—familiar, half-familiar, strangers.
If he was anywhere, it would be around here.
You wandered past the trucks parked along the edge of the square, scanning each face you passed. Men unloading crates, women checking lists, soldiers leaning on their rifles—all strangers. No sign of that familiar frame.
You huffed, resting one hand against your belly, feeling its weight pull at you.
Then a voice called out, warm and booming, teasing as ever. “We’re getting the same lookin’ bellies!”
You turned at once, a smile breaking across your face. “Hey!”
John stood a few paces back, his wide shoulders cutting a familiar shape against the ragged backdrop of the base. His grin split his beard as he strode toward you, arms open.
“Woah, woah,” he laughed, poking a finger gently at your side. “Gettin’ big now!”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “It’s not that noticeable.”
His gaze slipped down briefly, softening at the sight of your stomach. “It’s coming along,” he said, voice quieter, more certain.
You smiled, warmth tugging at your chest. “Got a big day ahead?”
He shook his head immediately, brushing the air with one hand. “No, no. I got time for you, Joan.” His grin widened, his eyes crinkling. “Always got time.”
The words settled over you like a blanket—simple, but steadying.
You remembered the first time you met him—how you didn’t like him much, thought he was odd, a little too loud, a little too strange. But time had a way of sanding down sharp edges. Somewhere along the line you’d warmed up to him. He always found ways to be sweet to you, even if—your stomach tightened at the thought—it was his gross sperm that had set this whole new chapter in motion.
You nodded toward the truck parked behind you both, its hood propped open, tools scattered across the ground. “Fixing the trucks?”
John followed your gesture, then grunted with a nod. “And the gates. Hinges keep stickin’.” His voice carried that deep rumble, steady as always.
You pursed your lips, sympathetic. “A lot to do.”
He waved it off with a chuckle, brushing his calloused hand through the air like it was nothing. “There’s always a lot to do.” Then he tipped his chin at you, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Come on. Let’s go walk.”
You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Alright.”
You fell into step beside him, your boots crunching lightly against the gravel as the two of you moved away from the trucks and into the hum of the base.
You and John wandered the paths that wound through the base, weaving between houses patched with mismatched boards and tarps strung up as makeshift roofs. Kids ran past with sticks in their hands, shouting at each other like soldiers. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the smell of oats and boiled cabbage.
John kept his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, his steps easy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. “So,” he said, giving you a sideways glance. “How’s my niece or nephew coming along?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Strong, apparently. A little small, but strong.”
“That’s good.” He nodded firmly, as if that settled it. “Small’s better than too big anyway. Easier on you.”
You let out a huff of laughter. “Yeah, tell that to my back.”
He grinned, then gestured at you. “You been working on the nursery?”
A groan slipped out before you could stop it. “Yeah. Painted it three times. Still looks ugly.”
John barked out a laugh. “Ugly how? Like… ugly-ugly, or just you bein’ picky?”
“Ugly-ugly,” you said flatly, though your lips twitched. “The walls are uneven, the paint’s streaky, and the whole thing smells like turpentine. Doesn’t matter what color I try—it just looks… wrong.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “Kid won’t care, Joan. Baby’s not gonna pop out judging your brush strokes.”
You gave him a playful shove with your shoulder. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one staring at it every day.”
He grinned, unbothered. “Still. I think it’ll be fine. Once you’ve got a crib and some blankets in there, no one’s gonna notice a little streaky paint.” He glanced sideways at you, his grin softening. “You’re makin’ a place for ‘em. That’s what matters.”
Something in your chest loosened at that. You exhaled slow, rubbing your belly. “Yeah… I guess so.”
John kicked a pebble down the cracked pavement, smirking. “Well, if the walls are really that ugly, maybe the baby’ll come out tough. Build character, you know? Grow up staring at streaky paint, they’ll never complain about anything else.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “That’s the dumbest logic I’ve ever heard.”
“Hey, worked for me,” he shot back, gesturing at himself. “I grew up in a shack where the roof leaked on my bed every time it rained. Look at me now—strong, handsome, charming.”
“Delusional,” you corrected, lips twitching.
“Eh, close enough.” He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself.
As you turned a corner, passing a row of laundry strung between two burned-out houses, he leaned in a little, voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “But listen—if you really want my advice? You should paint a mural. Like, a big scary wolf. Or maybe me, shirtless, holding a sword. Baby’ll grow up fearless.”
You stopped in your tracks, laughing so hard you had to press a hand to your belly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m visionary,” he insisted, pointing a finger skyward as if proclaiming it to the heavens. “You’re just not ready for my design ideas.”
You shook your head, still chuckling, but the warmth of it settled into your chest. It felt good—normal—for once, just walking and joking, instead of drowning in fear and fights.
You stopped dead in your tracks, your boots scuffing the dirt. John nearly bumped into you before following your line of sight.
Just beyond the corner of a beat-up house—its siding warped, windows boarded unevenly—you caught them. Mara and Lev, voices sharp even over the bustle of the base. Their bodies leaned toward and away from each other, a push and pull you knew too well. Lev’s face was etched with something raw, desperate, as if he was tearing himself apart just standing there.
Then, suddenly, the argument broke—and they kissed.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, your stomach twisting.
John caught it instantly, his brows shooting up as his gaze flicked between you and the pair. “Guessing we’re not happy about that?”
You shook your head, eyes dropping to the dirt, shame and frustration knotting in your chest. “He was supposed to break up with her.”
John let out a slow whistle through his teeth, pursing his lips. “Not much of a breakup.”
You huffed, rubbing your hand over your face. “No shit.”
John shifted his weight, crossing his arms as he glanced back at Lev and Mara. “So… what do we do about this? Pretend we didn’t see? Or play the scary aunt and uncle routine?” His grin was faint, but his eyes were searching yours—ready to follow your lead.
You huffed, shaking your head. “Aunt? John, he’s more like my son.”
John barked a laugh, his shoulders shaking. “I know, I know. Thought we were partners right now. Like a fat Clyde and pregnant Bonnie.”
You squinted at him, incredulous. “What are you—” You cut yourself off with a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay, I…” You swallowed, the sight of Lev and Mara still tangled in your peripheral, heat rising in your chest. “I don’t want to barge in. It’s his business right now.”
John nodded slowly, the grin still lingering but his eyes softer now. “Fair enough. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to watch.”
You sighed, rubbing a hand absently over your belly, torn between wanting to protect Lev and knowing that pushing him now would only make him dig in deeper.
Behind the ruined house, their voices dipped again, words muffled by the clamor of the base. You turned your head away, forcing yourself to keep walking, John falling into step beside you.
But then commotion.
You turned on your heel, shoving your way through the bustle of the base. People were everywhere—hauling crates, bartering at makeshift stalls—but you pushed past them, heart hammering.
Then you saw it.

Chapter 92: Arena

Just beyond the well, a boy taller than Lev stood toe-to-toe with him, Mara caught between them, her hands flailing as she tried to keep them apart.
“Oh goddammit,” you hissed, your hand tightening against your belly.
Beside you, John let out a low chuckle, his tone annoyingly amused. “Just like a movie.”
You shot him a sharp look. “I gotta get over there and separate—”
But the words died in your throat as Lev’s fist snapped forward, connecting squarely with the boy’s jaw. The crack echoed, sharp as a gunshot.
The boy stumbled, then roared, lunging back at Lev. Fists flew—wild, brutal, all teenage fury with no restraint. Mara shrieked, trying to shove them apart, but got shoved back instead as the two boys crashed into a stack of crates, scattering them across the dirt.
The crowd shifted instantly, people circling, voices shouting—half jeering, half gasping. It was chaos, the kind that spread fast, like fire licking at dry wood.
John grinned crookedly, rolling his shoulders. “Well. Guess you weren’t wrong.”
Lev’s punch landed hard, snapping the other boy’s head sideways. But the kid recovered quick, his face twisting with rage as he lunged forward. His shoulder slammed into Lev’s chest, the impact knocking both of them to the ground.
They rolled in the dirt, fists swinging wild and ugly. Lev’s bow clattered against the ground as the taller boy straddled him, raining blows down across his cheek. Lev snarled, bucking his hips and twisting until he threw the boy off, both of them scrambling to their feet, breathing hard.
“You think you can steal her from me?!” the boy spat, blood already on his lip.
“She’s not yours!” Lev roared back, his voice cracking. “She doesn’t even love you!”
He charged, throwing another fist that connected with the boy’s nose. Blood sprayed, the boy howling as he swung back blind, his knuckles smashing against Lev’s jaw with a sickening crack.
The two of them screamed incoherently now, voices raw with rage. Lev shoved him against a wall, pounding at his ribs, while the boy clawed at Lev’s hair, dragging his head down and slamming his knee upward. Lev’s cry tore through the crowd as he staggered, but he didn’t stop—he launched forward again, teeth bared, a feral sound ripping from his throat.
Around them, the crowd roared—half trying to pull them apart, half egging them on. Mara’s voice broke through, shrill with panic, “Stop it! Please, stop!” but neither of them heard.
They collided again, fists hammering into flesh, sweat and blood flying with every strike. Lev’s face was red, his lip split, but he swung harder, faster, screaming with every punch like he could beat the pain out of his own chest. The taller boy matched him blow for blow, until both of them were staggering, bruised and bleeding, fury the only thing holding them up.
It wasn’t a fight anymore—it was a storm, ugly and unstoppable, the kind that only ended when someone was dragged out of it.
You pushed forward, John close at your side, trying to wedge through the circle of shouting onlookers. Elbows and shoulders pressed against you, the crowd thick and unwilling to part as they hollered at every landed blow.
“Move!” John barked, shoving a man aside, his wide frame helping clear a path. You followed in his wake, your heart pounding, your hand pressed against your stomach.
Inside the circle, Lev and the other boy were a blur of fists and fury. Lev’s face was smeared with blood, his lip split, his eye swelling. The taller boy’s nose was crooked, crimson running down his chin, but neither showed any sign of slowing.
You opened your mouth to shout when suddenly—
“ENOUGH!”
Abby’s roar cracked across the square like thunder. The crowd flinched, parting instinctively as she forced her way in, Rachel right behind her. Abby’s face was dark, eyes blazing, and in a flash she grabbed Lev by the back of his shirt, hauling him off the other boy like he weighed nothing. Lev kicked and twisted, still snarling, but her grip was iron.
Rachel shoved herself between the boys, planting a hand on the taller one’s chest, shoving him back hard. “That’s it, stop!” she barked, her voice sharp and commanding.
The other boy spat blood onto the ground, his fists trembling at his sides, but he froze under Rachel’s glare. Abby shook Lev once, hard enough to make him gasp, her voice low and vicious. “You’re done. You hear me? Done.”
Lev’s chest heaved, his face red and wet, but he finally sagged in her grip, defeated more by her fury than by the fight.
The crowd muttered, restless, before slowly dispersing, the excitement fading now that the storm had broken. Mara stood off to the side, pale and wide-eyed, her hands shaking as she stared at Lev.
You finally broke through, John at your shoulder, just in time to see Abby release Lev into her arms, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
You stepped closer, your heart aching as Lev glared at the boy, his chest still heaving. The taller kid spat blood into the dirt, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve before stalking off through the dispersing crowd.
And then, of course—like salt in an open wound—Mara trailed after him. She didn’t even look back at Lev, her hand brushing the boy’s arm as they disappeared into the crush of people.
Lev swallowed hard, his jaw trembling as he tore his eyes away. Before he could turn, you cupped his face in both hands, gently pushing Abby aside with a soft touch to her arm. She scowled but let you in.
“Your eye’s gonna bruise so bad,” you whispered, brushing your thumb near the swelling already forming beneath his brow.
He winced, shaking his head sharply. “I don’t care.”
Blood trickled from his nose, and you tried to wipe it with your sleeve, but he jerked back, waving you off with a sharp motion. His lip quivered, though, his whole body still trembling from the fight—not just with rage, but from the raw, hollow hurt tearing him apart inside.
You stayed close anyway, your hand still steady against his jaw, refusing to let him retreat fully into himself.
Lev tried to pull away, scrubbing his sleeve across his bloody nose, but before he could retreat Abby’s voice cut in, sharp as glass.
“Lev.”
He froze, his eyes still fixed on the dirt, jaw tight. Abby stepped closer, her arms crossed over her chest, fury written all over her face. “What the hell was that?”
Rachel lingered just behind her, her own eyes flashing as she looked between the wreck of Lev’s face and the path where Vince had disappeared with Mara. She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You let Vince drag you down to his level?”
Lev’s shoulders hunched, his fists curling at his sides. “He—he started it—”
“No,” Abby snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t give me excuses. I don’t care who threw the first punch. You don’t brawl like some drunk in the street.”
Rachel folded her arms, her voice steady but biting. “Vince is a nobody, Lev. He’s been trouble since the first day his family showed up here. I expect him to be swinging fists over scraps of food or girls he doesn’t deserve. That’s who he is.”
Abby’s eyes narrowed, her tone dropping low. “But you? We expect more. I expect more.”
Lev flinched, his lip trembling despite the hard set of his jaw. “He was talking about Mara—”
“And Mara followed him, didn’t she?” Rachel said sharply, her gaze pinning him. “So what did that fight get you, besides a busted face?”
The words hung heavy in the air. Lev’s chest rose and fell hard, his fists loosening as the weight of it sank in. He blinked rapidly, turning his face away so you wouldn’t see the wetness in his eyes.
You stepped forward, your voice sharp enough to cut through both women. “Stop it.”
Both Abby and Rachel turned to you, surprised by the sudden steel in your tone. You jabbed a finger at Rachel before she could open her mouth. “Especially you.”
Rachel’s brows shot up, her scoff quick and dismissive. “I run this base.”
You shook your head, planting your feet. “Yeah, this base. But this—” you gestured between Abby and Lev, your voice low but firm “—this is my family. I’ll handle it with Abby. Alone.”
Rachel’s lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw working like she wanted to spit venom. But after a long beat, she exhaled sharply through her nose, muttered something under her breath, and turned on her heel. You could tell she wanted to cut deeper, to leave a wound, but she held herself back.
You didn’t waste time. You grabbed Abby’s arm with one hand, Lev’s with the other, and pulled them both around the corner of the rundown house, away from the crowd. John lingered a few feet back, leaning against the wall, trying not to intrude but close enough if you needed him.
The three of you huddled together in the shadow of the house, paint peeling from the boards, the scent of smoke and blood thick in the air. You took a deep, steadying breath. “You can’t yell at him in public,” you scolded Abby, your eyes sharp.
Abby looked away immediately, her jaw tight, arms folding across her chest in that defensive posture she always fell into.
Silence stretched for a moment until she finally spoke, her voice low, rough. “This can’t happen again.”
Lev swallowed hard, his face blotchy and bruised. “Then Vince—”
Abby’s voice rose, her mouth already opening to tear into him, but you put a hand on her arm and stopped her before the words could come.
“Enough,” you said firmly, meeting her eyes.
Abby’s nostrils flared, but she shut her mouth, her chest rising and falling like she was swallowing her rage. Lev looked between the two of you, caught between shame and defiance, his lip quivering.
John cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. “Let’s get you all home,” he said firmly, his voice carrying the finality that none of you could argue with.
You nodded, relief washing through you. “Yeah. Home.”
The four of you began moving through the base, weaving past the thinning morning crowd. Lev kept his head down, his swollen eye already darkening, his jaw set hard. Abby walked on his other side, her posture rigid, still fuming but holding her tongue.
And of course—because the world couldn’t leave well enough alone—Vince was waiting.
Vince leaned lazy against the lamp post, a bent cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling up around his swollen nose. Mara stood tucked under his arm, looking anywhere but at you all, her face pale with shame.
Vince took another drag, slow and deliberate, smoke curling from his nose as that smirk stretched across his bloody lip. “Well, well. Here come the mommies.” His eyes slid between you and Abby, dripping with disdain. “One all knocked up, the other playing tough guy. Kid’s gonna come out real fucked up.”
Lev stiffened, his whole body vibrating, but you shot your arm out, pressing him back against your side. John’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder. “Don’t bite, kid. He’s not worth it.”
Vince’s gaze snapped to John, sneer curling wider. “What? You fuck this whore to get her knocked up? Looks like Abby’s got herself a cuck fetish, huh? Some fucked-up family you’ve got, Lev. No wonder you—”
Abby’s voice cracked through, sharp as a whip. “Vince, I’m warning you. Don’t you dare say anything else.”
Lev swallowed hard, but his brow stayed knotted, eyes burning.
Vince chuckled low in his throat, cigarette bouncing at the corner of his mouth. “Say what? Mara told me all about it, Lev. Her pathetic night at your place—couldn’t even fuck her—”
And then it happened.
It wasn’t Lev who lunged this time. It was John.
The big man surged forward, gripping Vince by the shoulders and slamming him against the wall of the nearest shack. The crowd gasped as the cigarette fell, crushed beneath boots.
“Cut the crap!” John bellowed, his voice shaking the air. His usual grin was gone, replaced with raw fury. You’d never seen him like this—so polite, so happy-go-lucky most of the time—and now his hand was locked around Vince’s throat, pinning him there.
“I don’t know what you two are fighting about,” John snarled, his face inches from Vince’s, “but it’s not gonna involve dragging her into it.” He jerked his head toward you, his grip tightening. “Not her. Not Abby. Not the kid.”
With that, John shoved Vince again, harder, rattling the wall. Vince let out a grunt as his back hit the boards, then sagged slightly when John released him. He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting blood into the dirt.
“He fucked my girlfriend!” Vince spat, his voice hoarse.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slow. “Then you should be more mad at Mara than Lev.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd at your words, several heads nodding. Even Mara’s face flushed, shame flickering across her features as she looked away.
The crowd parted suddenly as heavy boots struck the dirt. Rachel stormed in, her dark coat flaring behind her, eyes blazing. “What the hell is going on here?”
Vince opened his mouth, but Rachel’s glare snapped to him like a blade. “Not a word.”
He froze, wiping his bloody mouth, his cocky smirk faltering for the first time.
Rachel looked around at the circle of gawkers, her voice rising so everyone could hear. “You think this is a goddamn arena? That we’ve got time and food to waste while you idiots beat each other bloody?!” Her tone cracked through the air like a whip, and silence dropped over the crowd.
Then her eyes pinned Vince. “You. Inside. Now.”
Vince bristled, trying to shrug it off, but Rachel was already on him, her hand fisting in the collar of his filthy shirt. She yanked him forward, forcing him to stumble, and shoved him toward the gates of the main compound. Mara squeaked, scurrying after him, but Rachel’s bark cut her off. “Not you. Stay.”
Mara froze, eyes darting to Lev with panic before dropping to the ground.
Rachel shoved Vince again, hard enough that he stumbled to his knees before scrambling upright. “You want to run your mouth? You want to pick fights?” she hissed, shoving him through the crowd. “You can do it where I can hear, in my house. Let’s see how cocky you are without an audience.”
The base went quiet, all eyes following as Rachel dragged Vince into the main building, slamming the door behind them.
For a long beat, the square was still—just you, Abby, Lev, John, and the uneasy hush of onlookers.

Chapter 93: Intrusion

You huffed, shaking your head as the adrenaline finally drained out of you. “That kid’s a dick,” you muttered, turning to Lev.
He didn’t answer, his swollen eye half-shut, jaw tight. You let out a deep breath, your thoughts dragging you somewhere darker—back to Boston. Back to the QZ. You remembered yourself then, a Vince in your own right: picking fights, stirring chaos, dragging everyone else into your mess. Trouble stamped across your back for the whole FEDRA zone to see.
You rubbed your stomach, grounding yourself in the now.
John trailed behind the three of you as you made your way toward the gates. His broad frame moved with less swagger than usual, his earlier fury still hanging around him like smoke. When you reached the edge of the compound, he raised a hand in farewell, his expression softening. “You got this,” he said simply, before peeling off in the other direction.
The walk home was bitter and silent. Lev’s footsteps were heavy, his breathing sharp with unspoken words. Abby strode on your other side, her face carved in stone, fists flexing like she wanted to lash out.
You knew that look. She was boiling inside, waiting for the right moment to unleash it all on Lev. But not now. Not after Vince. Not after Mara. Not after being humiliated in front of the base.
No—when you got home, you’d have to talk her down. He didn’t need her yelling at him right now. Not after all of that. Not with the weight he was already carrying.
The house came into view ahead, small and patched, but yours. And as you stepped inside, you braced yourself for the storm you knew was still brewing.
But Abby said nothing. Not a word.
She brushed past you both, went straight to the sink, and grabbed a rag. The old faucet squealed as she twisted it, water running thin and cold over the cloth. She wrung it out once, then turned back, her face unreadable.
Without asking, she pressed the damp rag to Lev’s cheek, dabbing away the blood.
He winced, jerking his head slightly, but she caught his chin in her hand and held him still. “Stop,” she muttered.
Lev gritted his teeth, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His fists balled in his lap, his whole body coiled like a spring. He wasn’t saying it out loud, but you could see it in his eyes—he was ready for the fight he thought was coming.
Abby’s touch wasn’t gentle. She scrubbed at the cut on his lip, the swelling under his eye, forcing him to sit through it. You stood nearby, watching, torn between stepping in and letting her wordless care play out.
The silence in the room was thick. Heavy. Every scrape of the cloth against his skin sounded louder than it should have.
Lev finally muttered under his breath, his voice low and rough. “You’re mad at me. Just say it.”
Abby’s hand stilled against his cheek, her eyes flashing.
You sat on the couch, hands folded over your stomach, watching them. Abby’s movements were steady, careful as she pressed the cloth to Lev’s face, but you could see it in her shoulders, the tight set of her jaw—she was upset. Abby never liked this side of him, never liked seeing Lev fight, seeing him let anger pull him into the kind of trouble she’d sworn to protect him from.
You huffed softly, ready to speak, but Abby beat you to it.
“I’m still mad at you,” she whispered, her voice low, almost reluctant.
Lev’s lip quivered. He looked away quickly, his bruised face turning from her touch.
But Abby wasn’t done. Her hand lingered at his jaw, her eyes softening in spite of herself. “But he deserved that.”
Lev’s breath hitched, then he let out a shaky, breathy chuckle, short-lived but real. His shoulders slumped a little, the tension easing from him.
For the first time since the fight, the air in the room didn’t feel like it was about to explode.
Abby’s hand lingered at Lev’s bruised cheek, the wet cloth cooling against his skin. Her shoulders softened, and for once she didn’t look like the soldier, or the leader, or the protector trying to hold everything together. She just looked like his sister.
Her voice dropped, quiet but firm, threaded with a warmth only he ever got from her. “You shouldn’t have fought him, Lev… but I know why you did.”
Lev’s eyes darted away, shame flooding his face. The flush on his neck crept higher as he swallowed hard, jaw trembling. Vince’s words still hung in the air between you all, cruel and public, impossible to take back.
Abby set the cloth down for a moment and cupped his face with her hand, thumb brushing gently along his swollen skin. “You are not what he said. You hear me?”
Lev blinked fast, his lashes wet, his chest rising unevenly as if the air had suddenly turned heavy.
“You’re mine,” Abby whispered, steadying him. “You’re strong. You’re brave. And you don’t ever have to prove that to anyone—especially not a piece of shit like Vince.”
His lip quivered again, but this time he didn’t look away. The fight drained out of him, his shoulders sagging, and he leaned ever so slightly into her touch, like he wanted to believe her.
You felt your throat tighten as you watched them—Abby’s hands rough and scarred, Lev’s face battered and bruised, and yet the gentleness between them was enough to soften the whole room.
Abby let out a whisper, her voice almost breaking. “Get to bed.”
Lev hesitated for a heartbeat, then folded into her. They shared a long, lingering hug—his thin arms tight around her middle, her larger frame curling around him like a shield. She rubbed his back slowly, murmuring something you couldn’t hear, before finally letting him go. His footsteps were heavy as he climbed the stairs, the creak of each step echoing until his bedroom door shut.
Abby exhaled sharply, her whole body sagging as she dropped onto the couch beside you. She sniffled once, quick, then swiped her sleeve across her eyes like she didn’t want you to notice.
“He looks just like he did in that Seraphite camp,” she murmured, her voice hollow. “Back in Seattle.” She rubbed her temple, staring at the floor. “God, he was so young then… bloody from the knife fight with his mom.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.
You rubbed her back gently, the warmth of your hand steady against the knot of muscle in her shoulders. She drew a shaky breath.
“I knew it would be hard for him—” her body tensed, her hand curling into a fist on her knee. “But I thought people wouldn’t be as mean.”
You nodded silently, listening, your chest tight.
Abby dropped her head into her hands, her blonde hair spilling forward. Her voice cracked. “I can’t believe this happened.”
The weight of it hung between you both—the echoes of Seattle, the scars of old battles, and the ugly reality of this new one Vince had opened.
You took a breath and leaned back, letting her rest her head on your stomach. The weight of it was grounding, her cheek pressed against the small swell beneath your shirt.
“It’ll be okay,” you murmured, your hand brushing lightly over her hair.
She swallowed, her voice muffled against you. “How can you be sure?”
Your eyes drifted up to the cracked ceiling, tracing the lines of water damage like constellations. “I used to be like Vince,” you admitted quietly. “Back in Boston.”
Abby gave a soft, incredulous chuckle. “I don’t believe you.”
But you nodded, lips pulling into a rueful smile. “I was a real piece of shit. Always fighting, making trouble, dragging people down with me. But—” you rubbed her shoulder gently “—just keep your eye on him. It’ll be okay.”
She sighed heavily, and you felt the damp warmth of her tears seeping faintly through your shirt. Her hand moved, instinctively finding the small bump in your belly, holding it like it was something fragile and precious.
After a long pause, her voice came low, hoarse from the storm of the day. “We should get to bed.”
You nodded, your own body weary to the bone. “Yeah.”
The house was quiet around you now, Lev tucked upstairs, the night closing in outside. For a moment, the three of you were safe again—just a fragile kind of peace, stitched together in the dark.
______________________________________________________________________________
The next two weeks stretched long and quiet, stitched together by small routines.
Lev stayed close to home more than ever. His patrol shifts thinned, his visits to the gate were short, and he avoided the outer square like it was poison. If he lingered near the windows, you’d see his eyes skimming the ocean, sharp and wary, as though he was afraid Vince or Mara would materialize out of the noise. Mostly, he kept to the house—and to you.
Your garage became the heart of those days.
Every morning, you cracked open the wide doors to let the stale air out and the light spill in. The walls were cluttered with canvases and boards you’d scavenged—your paintings covering nearly every inch of space. Surreal figures, storm-choked coastlines, skeletal trees reaching into gray skies. Some were old, others were new, fresh brush strokes still tacky with drying color.
Lev often drifted in, pretending at first that he was just “checking the hinges” or “seeing if the dog was underfoot.” But then he’d linger, arms folded as he leaned against the wall, watching you move. Sometimes he’d ask about your palettes, sometimes he’d smirk at the streaks on your shirt.
One afternoon, you caught him staring too long at a painting of a half-submerged city. You handed him a spare brush without a word. He rolled his eyes but took it, smearing awkward strokes across a scrap of wood. The result was crooked, the blue too thick, but he huffed a laugh when you teased him, and that small laugh meant more than anything.
Meals grew steadier, too. Lev sat with you and Abby rather than slipping away to his room. He grumbled when Abby told him to finish his water, groaned when she reminded him about curfew, but there was a strange safety in his complaining. He liked the attention, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Nights were harder. You’d hear him pacing upstairs or, on rougher nights, find him curled in the garage chair with a blanket, staring at your canvases like he was trying to pull an answer out of the shapes. You never pried. Instead, you worked quietly at your easel beside him, letting the scrape of bristles and the smell of paint fill the silence until he finally drifted off.
Day by day, his anger cooled into something less jagged. Not gone, but quieter. He helped around the house more—splitting kindling, fixing a hinge, once even sanding the nursery walls that you kept swearing looked “ugly.” He didn’t say it, but you knew: keeping busy kept him away from Mara.
Abby noticed too. She didn’t gush or praise—she wasn’t built that way—but you caught the way her shoulders softened when Lev sat at the table, the way she watched him when she thought no one was looking.
And so the house settled into a fragile rhythm. You painted, Abby fussed, Lev hovered nearby, trying to find his footing again.
Until the knock came.
It was late afternoon, the light golden and low. Abby was out at the gate with John, hammering planks into place. Lev had gone to the workshop, sharpening his arrows under watchful eyes. You were alone, brush still wet in your hand as you finished a canvas, the smell of oil heavy in the garage.
The knock was sharp, quick. It startled you enough that a line of paint streaked across your work. You hissed under your breath, wiped your fingers on your shirt, and went to the door.
When you pulled it open, your stomach dropped.
Mara stood there.
Her curls were frizzy and tangled, her face pale and blotched. Her arms wrapped tight around herself, like she was holding her ribs in place. She looked young—too young for the storm she’d made—but her eyes, red and swollen, carried the weight of it.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then she whispered, voice hoarse, “Joan… please.”
You crinkled your nose, the pit of your stomach already sour. “Mara. I really don’t think you should be here.”
You started to shut the door, but her foot shot out, wedging it open. You furrowed your brow, suddenly aware of how defenseless you felt, your belly round and heavy. Six months as of today. You weren’t quick anymore, not like you used to be.
“I just need to see Lev,” she hissed.
You shook your head firmly. “He’s not here, Mara.”
But she didn’t believe you. With a sudden shove, she forced past, her shoulder colliding with you. You stumbled back hard, your tailbone smacking against the floor. Pain jolted through your spine, and you grunted, clutching at your side as she stormed deeper into the house.
“You’re lying!” she snapped, her voice cracking with something frantic.
You scrambled up, heart hammering, just in time to see her racing up the stairs. A door slammed open—Lev’s room. She was rummaging, drawers banging, blankets thrown aside, boots scattering across the floor.
What the hell was she looking for?
You climbed the stairs quickly, careful not to trip but pushing yourself as fast as you could. Your breath came ragged, your palm pressed instinctively to your belly.
“What the hell are you doing?!” you demanded, your voice echoing up the narrow hallway.
For one dizzy moment you thought about the radio in the kitchen. You could call Abby or John, but they were at the base. Too far. By the time anyone got here, it’d be over.
Mara spun around, her eyes wild, hair sticking to her damp forehead. Her lip curled into a sneer you’d never seen before. “Stay out of it, bitch!”
Your eyes widened, pulse roaring in your ears. Where was the girl who had sat politely at dinner just a month ago? The one who smiled shyly, who blushed when Lev teased her? That girl was gone, stripped down to something desperate and dangerous.
You huffed, bracing yourself as Norman waddled between your legs, tail stiff, his chest puffed out in a “defiant” stance. For all his big talk, the fat, lazy dog hadn’t a clue what was happening—no bark, no growl, just confused eyes flicking between you and the chaos upstairs.
You planted your hand against the doorframe, steadying your breath. “Mara,” you warned, voice sharp. “What are you looking for?”
She grunted, tossing another drawer open, until her hand shot behind it. When she pulled back, a small baggy glimmered between her fingers—white pills rattling faintly inside.
Your eyes went wide. Pills?
Vince. Was he a smuggler?
“What the fuck is that?” you demanded, your stomach clenching, rage and fear tangling together.
The way Mara had yanked it free—strategically tucked behind the drawer, tape still clinging to the bag—you doubted Lev even knew it was there. But still, the sight of it in his room, your house, set your blood boiling.
Mara laughed, the sound sharp and ugly. “Relax. It’s not Lev’s.”
Your brow furrowed, heart pounding. “But it’s in my house, Mara.”
She chuckled again, low and bitter, like she’d been waiting for this moment. “Stay out of it, Joan.”
And then she shoved past you. Her shoulder slammed into yours, hard, knocking the air from your lungs. You stumbled back, gripping the wall, your balance slipping.
By the time you turned, she was already storming down the stairs. The door banged open, then slammed shut.
You tried to follow, pushing yourself into motion. But your foot caught the edge of the step, slick with panic and clumsy under your swelling belly.
The world lurched.
Your body pitched forward, and you tumbled down the stairs, each step slamming into your side, your shoulder, your back. Pain tore through you in flashes until you landed at the bottom with a brutal thud, the air knocked from your lungs.

Chapter 94: Heartbeat

Notes:

found out im audited from 2018 by the IRS this morning

the fuck is tax return? i only know lesbian sex

The house went silent but for the ringing in your ears.
Norman barked once, high and sharp, then whined, circling at the top of the stairs.
You gasped, curling on your side at the bottom of the steps, both hands clutching your belly. “Oh fuck,” you wheezed, trying to push yourself upright.
But the pain in your side and back was white-hot, stealing the breath right out of you. You whimpered, collapsing again, your cheek pressed to the cold floorboards. Every shift of your ribs sent a sharp jolt through your body.
Minutes passed—or maybe longer. Time blurred as you lay there, your breaths shallow, your heart hammering. Norman circled near your head, whining, his nails clicking anxiously against the wood.
You tried again to move, but the room spun violently. A wave of nausea rolled through you, bile clawing at your throat. Had you hit your head? You couldn’t remember.
The baby.
Your hand pressed harder against your belly, trembling. Was it still okay in there? Your mind spiraled—images of stillness, silence, loss clawing up your chest until you thought you might suffocate.
Finally, with a shaky groan, you pushed yourself into a sitting position, slumping against the wall. The world swam, dark spots crawling in at the edges of your vision.
“Fuck,” you whispered again, reaching up.
Your fingers came away sticky. Warm. A thin trickle of blood slid down from your temple.
You stared at it, dazed.
You felt stupid. Clumsy. Fat. Like the world had been telling you all along—you weren’t built for this. Not strong enough to keep from falling. Not strong enough to keep anything safe.
The dizziness washed over you again, threatening to pull you under.
You shook your head, forcing yourself to move. You had to know how bad it was.
Crawling on all fours, you dragged yourself up the stairs. Each step thudded through your body like a hammer blow, your breath coming in shallow gasps. By the time you reached the bathroom, sweat dripped down your temples, stinging the cut.
With a trembling effort, you hauled yourself upright, gripping the sink so hard your knuckles ached. The mirror wavered in your vision, but you focused, forcing your eyes to see.
It wasn’t deep. Just a long, angry scratch across your temple, messy with blood but not fatal. Not something that would take you out. Relief slipped through your chest like a slow breath.
And then the pain hit your belly.
You doubled over, your forehead smacking the cool edge of the mirror, one hand gripping the porcelain, the other cradling your stomach. “God,” you gasped, your voice broken.
You breathed slow, desperate, trying to let it pass. Then—suddenly—something fluttered under your palm.
Little kicks.
Your eyes went wide, the panic breaking for just a moment. A chuckle escaped you, wet and shaky. “I know… you’re pissed, aren’t you?” you whispered, rubbing gently, half laughing, half crying.
You sucked in a deep breath. Abby. You had to tell Abby what happened—before Mara spun it into something worse.
You steadied yourself against the wall, made your way back down the stairs—slower now, gripping the railing like your life depended on it.
In the living room, the radio sat where Abby always left it, the cord tangled but the box sturdy. You sank into the chair, your hands shaking as you adjusted the dial, pressed the call switch.
Static filled the room, loud and hungry.
“Base, this is Joan,” you rasped into the receiver, voice weak but firm. “Do you copy? Over.”
You waited, static crackling, breath catching.
“Base, this is Joan. Code eleven—family call. Urgent.” You swallowed, voice cracking as you forced it out. “Need to reach Abby Anderson immediately. Over.”
The radio hissed, then sputtered. A faint voice flickered through the noise.
The radio hissed, the voice repeating, “Anderson’s out at the east gate. Say again, Joan, what’s the emergency? Over.”
You clenched your teeth. The thought of the entire base buzzing with your business made your stomach twist. You didn’t want gossip. You didn’t want Rachel’s judgment.
You pressed the switch, voice steady as you could make it. “Coming to base. Over.”
The reply crackled back quick: “Copy. Over.”
You set the radio down with a sigh. Every breath stabbed your side, every movement a reminder of the fall, but you shoved your boots on anyway. You slung your rifle across your shoulder, the weight familiar even as your body begged for rest.
“Come on, Norman.”
The dog padded after you, tail wagging lazily as if this was just another walk.
The sun was brutal overhead, California’s heat pressing down on you like a hand trying to flatten you into the dirt. Your tank top clung with sweat, your cargos rubbing at your thighs with each heavy step. Every breath was shallow, ragged, pain radiating from your back down into your side.
It took an hour. The longest, hottest, most punishing hour you’d endured in months. By the time the base gates rose into view, your legs trembled, your mouth dry as sand.
Two soldiers at the entrance straightened when they saw you, their brows knitting. “Joan? Everything—”
You raised a hand sharply, cutting them off, too breathless to answer. “Where’s Abby and Lev?” you rasped.
They exchanged a glance, then one pointed down the line of fencing. “East gate. With John. Working the siding.”
You nodded once and kept walking, Norman veering off to join the other dogs lounging in the shade.
By the time you reached the gate, your vision was blurring at the edges. Abby stood with John and Lev, their shirts damp with sweat, sleeves rolled as they hammered fresh metal siding into place.
“Abby—we need to talk.” The words came out broken, your voice ragged from the hour-long walk.
She turned, her braid clinging damply to the side of her neck, the sun gleaming off her sweat-slick shoulders. Her expression shifted in an instant—from focused and stern to horrified.
Her eyes went wide, mouth falling open. The hammer she’d been holding slipped from her hand, clanging loud against the metal siding. The sound rang out, sharp enough that Lev and John both flinched.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice cracked. She was already moving before she finished saying your name. “What the fuck?”
You swayed, knees wobbling. The ground tilted and steadied again beneath your boots. Abby’s arms wrapped around you before you could fall, her calloused hands firm at your elbows. Her grip was strong but trembling, panic coursing through every movement.
John straightened from where he’d been crouched, squinting against the sun, his usual calm broken by a deep furrow in his brow. “Jesus, Joan,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead, “you look like hell.”
Lev’s face drained of color. His gaze darted across you—your pale skin, the blood still drying on your temple, the way one of your hands clutched your side while the other shielded your belly. “What—what happened?” he asked, voice thin and tight, like he already knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it.
Abby’s hands gripped your arms tighter, dragging you closer until she could see the cut on your temple. Her eyes were wild, searching you over in frantic sweeps. “Why are you even here?” she demanded, her voice pitched high with fear. “You’re bleeding, you’re limping—what the hell did you do?”
Her panic pressed against you almost as hard as her hands. You opened your mouth, chest rising and falling too fast, words tangling in your throat.
Around you, the clamor of the base quieted. The soldiers at the gate, the workers passing with crates—they all slowed, eyes flicking your way. The sight of Abby Anderson cursing under her breath and clutching you close was enough to draw attention.
Lev’s fists clenched at his sides, his lip quivering with guilt and fury. John’s gaze lingered on your temple, then dipped to your stomach, his mouth tightening into a grim line.
“Abby—” you started, voice hoarse, “we need to talk about Mara.”
Abby froze, her face hardening even as her grip on you tightened. “What about her?” she demanded. Her voice had dropped low, dangerous, as though she already expected the worst.
You shook your head, swallowing hard. “Not here. We need to get to Rachel.”
Abby’s brow furrowed deep, her eyes scanning you up and down. “No way—you need—” She cut herself off, horror flickering across her face as she really saw you. “Did you fall? Joan—god, you need a doctor first.”
You huffed, turning toward Lev and John with as much authority as you could muster. “Abby’s gonna take me to the medical building by the west gate. Go grab Rachel and meet us there, okay?”
Lev’s eyes were wide, his mouth opening like he wanted to protest, but John put a firm hand on his shoulder. They both nodded and moved quickly, disappearing toward the heart of the base.
Abby slipped her arm around you, her body solid against your side as you leaned into her. Your breath came shallow and ragged, each step sending a sharp lance through your ribs. She held you steady the whole way, her jaw clenched, eyes darting over you with every stumble like she was waiting for you to shatter.
The medical building was dim and cooler than outside, its windows covered with patchwork cloth to block the sun. The smell of herbs, alcohol, and rusted metal clung in the air. The older doctor—the same woman who’d seen you during that fever weeks ago—took you back without a word, her weathered face set in professional calm.
She wrapped the cuff around your arm, listened to your chest, checked your pupils with a steady hand. Then her gaze sharpened. “What happened here?”
You swallowed, staring at the floor. “I fell down the stairs.”
Beside you, Abby’s head whipped toward you. “What?” Her voice was sharp, panicked, demanding more.
You sighed, rubbing your temple with shaking fingers. “I don’t think I hit my stomach. Just my back and side.”
The doctor nodded slowly, pressing the cold disk of her stethoscope against your belly. She listened for a long, quiet moment, then looked up, her face softening. “I can hear the baby’s heartbeat still. It’s just a little elevated—faster than I’d like, but steady.”
Relief broke over you, leaving you trembling. “I felt it kick after,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.
Abby gasped, her breath shaky. “Really?”
You nodded, hand brushing over your belly. “It’s pissed.”
A weak chuckle escaped you, but Abby didn’t laugh. Her lips pressed tight, her eyes glassy, her hand trembling where it rested against your arm. She looked like someone standing on a cliff edge, trying not to fall.
The doctor had just finished tightening a bandage over your temple when the door opened hard enough to rattle its hinges.
Rachel pushed in first, her coat flaring behind her, Lev and John right at her heels. Lev’s face was blotchy from running, his chest heaving, and John hovered close like he was ready to steady him if he collapsed.
The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick with the mix of fear and authority.
Rachel’s sharp eyes swept over you immediately, taking in your pale face, the way Abby clutched your arm, and the bandage at your temple. “What the hell happened?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room.
Lev flinched at her tone, his bruised face still raw from his fight two weeks ago, and John touched his shoulder, grounding him.
The doctor didn’t even flinch. She kept moving around you with calm precision, slipping a stethoscope into her ears and pressing it against your ribs. “Lungs sound clear. No obvious breaks, but bruising along the left side.” She glanced up briefly at Rachel. “Let her breathe. I need quiet if you want answers.”
Rachel folded her arms, pacing once in the tight space before stopping near the bed. Abby hadn’t moved from your side, her hand still firm on your wrist like she could keep you tethered there. Her eyes burned with unspoken fury, her jaw locked.
Lev’s gaze was glued to you. He looked like he wanted to speak, but fear had tied his tongue.
John leaned against the doorframe, brows knit, his usual humor nowhere to be found. He was letting Rachel take the lead, but his watchful eyes tracked everything in the room.
The doctor pressed a hand against your belly, listening with her stethoscope again. “Heartbeat’s still strong,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Faster than I like, but steady.”
Abby let out a shaky breath, her forehead pressing briefly into your shoulder.
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “You said ‘fell down the stairs,’” she repeated, her voice like flint. “That’s what I heard when I came in. What aren’t you telling me, Joan?”
The room went quiet except for the faint rattle of the stethoscope and your own shallow breathing.
You nodded, sitting up straighter despite the ache in your ribs. “You’ve got a smuggler on base.”
Rachel’s head snapped toward you. “What?”
You sighed, feeling the weight of it all press harder against your chest. “Mara hid pills in Lev’s dresser.”
Abby’s eyes flicked immediately to Lev, sharp with panic. But his expression was as horrified as hers—brows pinched, lips parted, his body going rigid like the words had struck him across the face.
You swallowed and steadied yourself. “Sounds like Vince. I don’t think Mara’s the one running product, not on her own.”
Rachel’s mouth tightened as she thought, the lines in her forehead deepening. “Who would they be smuggling with?” she pressed.
You rubbed your temple, irritation edging your voice. “My guess? FEDRA. Pills like that usually come from soldiers who can’t sleep after… after what they’ve done.” You let the words hang, sour and heavy in the air.
Rachel muttered something low under her breath, then straightened, her sharp eyes already distant with calculation. “Thanks for the info.” Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and left the room, the door banging softly behind her as she disappeared into the hall.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint scrape of the doctor rearranging her supplies.
You turned toward Lev, your voice softening. “I know they weren’t yours.”
His chest rose with a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping forward. “They weren’t,” he said quickly, his voice cracking. His hands twisted in his lap, his knuckles white.
Abby reached for him, her scarred fingers brushing his arm gently. “I know,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his face.
Lev exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time, his gaze flicking nervously between the two of you. “I swear—I didn’t know they were in my room. I didn’t.”
You touched his knee, firm but kind. “I believe you.”

Chapter 95: Hollow

The next morning, the air at breakfast sat heavy as fog. The three of you gathered around the scarred table, the quiet stretching so long that even Norman shifted uncomfortably underfoot.
You hunched over your usual bowl of oatmeal, stirring it more than eating. Lev sat across from you, his spoon clinking against the rim of his bowl, fiddling in circles instead of taking a bite. Abby was beside you, her back rigid, chewing silently as her eyes stayed fixed on the window, jaw working like every bite was sand.
Finally, you broke the silence. “I don’t think Mara is doing this because she’s a bad person.”
Lev’s head jerked up, his bruised face softening with something like hope.
You sighed, setting the spoon down. “She’s a sweet girl—apart from everything else. When she was with you, away from Vince, she was good.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Something’s going on.”
Lev chewed at his cheek, his gaze falling back to the table. His voice was low, uncertain. “She is sweet… away from him.”
Across from you, Abby’s posture stiffened even more. She set her spoon down with a dull clink, her jaw tight as she turned her gaze away from both of you, eyes fixed hard on the far wall. The muscle in her cheek twitched as she swallowed her words back.
The silence returned, but now it felt sharper—like all of you were waiting for someone to cut it open.
You set your spoon down, your voice steady but sharper now. “I know you like her, Lev… but you can’t be with her. Not now. Not like this.”
He let out a long, defeated sigh, shoulders rounding as though the weight of it finally pressed him down. His voice was quiet, breaking a little. “I love her.”
Abby’s throat bobbed, her jaw tightening. She swallowed hard but didn’t speak, her eyes still locked on the window, knuckles white around her spoon.
You nodded softly, your chest aching. “I know.”
The words sat between you, raw and final.
After that, no one said anything. The only sounds were the scrape of spoons against bowls, the creak of Norman shifting under the table, and the distant clang of hammers echoing from the base.
The three of you finished eating in silence, the air thick with everything none of you knew how to say.
Lev pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the wood, and stood. He didn’t say a word as he walked toward the stairs. The sound of his boots on the steps was heavy, dragging. A moment later, his bedroom door shut with a muted thud.
Then came the faint clink of weights, rhythmic, followed by the low muffled hum of music seeping through the walls. His way of drowning everything out.
You exhaled and gathered the bowls from the table, stacking them carefully. The warm water stung your bandaged hand as you filled the sink, the smell of oats and soap mixing in the air.
Abby lingered in her chair behind you. Quiet. Too quiet. Her silence was louder than words, heavy enough to press at your back. You heard the faint creak of wood as she shifted her weight, but she didn’t move to help, didn’t even fidget.
The only sound between you was the scrape of your rag against the bowls, the drip of water into the sink, and the distant thud of Lev’s weights above.
Finally, Abby’s voice broke through, rough and low. “He’s gonna get his heart broken.”
You froze with a wet bowl in your hands, water dripping back into the sink.
Abby’s chair creaked as she leaned forward, her elbows hitting her knees. “I can feel it. It’s gonna wreck him.” She dragged a hand down her face, then let it fall limply against her thigh. “And I don’t know if he’s strong enough for that yet.”
Her words came out softer than you expected—not angry, not sharp, but frayed at the edges.
You nodded slowly, setting the last bowl aside to dry. “All we can do is be there for him. Forcing him to not see her will only push him toward her more, but—” you paused, resting a hand on your hip, letting your thoughts churn. “There’s something more to this.”
Abby’s brows furrowed, her arms folding tight across her chest. “What do you mean?”
You huffed, rubbing at the bandage on your temple. “I think she’s wrapped up in something fucked up. I think she did want to be with Lev.”
Abby let out a scoff, half laugh, half snarl. “C’mon, Joan. Be serious.”
But you met her gaze firmly, no trace of humor in your face. “When I was with FEDRA, I helped smugglers with drugs and contraband. I know the type.” You shook your head. “Mara’s not it. Someone’s using her. Pulling her into it.”
Abby’s lips parted slightly, then closed again as she swallowed hard. She leaned back in her chair, her voice quieter now. “God, what bad shit didn’t you do?”
You rolled your eyes, huffing. “Yeah, thanks for that.”
Abby didn’t push further. She just sat there, jaw tight, chewing over your words in silence.
Abby stayed quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant, like she was watching something only she could see. Finally, her shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of her voice.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. Her thumb rubbed absently over the scarred skin of her palm. “Not just for him. For her, too.”
You tilted your head, waiting.
“She’s what? Sixteen? Seventeen?” Abby shook her head, lips pressing into a hard line. “She doesn’t know what she’s caught up in. Vince—he’ll chew her up. And if Rachel finds proof she’s tied to smuggling…” She trailed off, swallowing. “They’ll make an example out of her.”
Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.
You shifted, the ache in your side still sharp, but you leaned against the counter to steady yourself. “You’re worried Lev’s heart will break,” you said gently, “but what you’re really scared of is that girl getting crushed before he even has the chance to love her the way he wants.”
Abby dragged her hands over her face and let out a shuddering breath. “I can’t protect both of them. I can barely keep him out of trouble as it is.” Her hands dropped into her lap, fists curling tight. “I don’t want to bury another kid, Joan.”
The room went still, Lev’s music faint above, and Abby’s words lingered in the heavy air.
Then she moved toward you, slow but certain. She leaned down, her lips brushing over the bandage on your forehead. The kiss was soft, lingering, her breath warm against your skin.
She sighed into your shoulder, the tension in her frame easing just enough for you to feel it. “How are you feeling?” she murmured.
You shrugged, wincing at the pull in your side. “I’m sore still. My side and back hurt, but… I’m glad the baby will be okay.”
Abby nodded, her hand sliding down to steady you at your hip. “You need to get to bed. I know you’re worried about Lev, but I should’ve been watching you more. Let’s get you upstairs.”
You didn’t object. The ache in your body hadn’t left—it had only been drowned out by everything else. Now, with the house quiet again and Abby’s steady presence holding you up, you felt the weight of it all pressing back down. You leaned into her without hesitation, letting her strength guide you.
She led you carefully toward the stairs, her arm firm around your waist. Each step was slow, deliberate, her eyes darting to your face as though she was memorizing every flicker of pain.
By the time you reached the bedroom, your body felt heavy, your limbs clumsy. Abby eased you down onto the bed, tugging the blanket up around you, her hand brushing across your cheek.
For the first time since yesterday, you let your eyes close, your body finally giving in to the exhaustion.
___________________________________________________________________________
And you dreamt.
For the first time in months, you didn’t just drift through the usual half-formed chase—the infected snarling at your heels, the sharp panic that always faded when you woke. No, this time it was different. A real nightmare. The kind that reached deep into your chest and gripped your bones with ice.
When you drifted off, your mind carried you back into the house.
You were standing in the kitchen, but it wasn’t yours anymore. The table was gone. The counters bare. The house felt hollow, stripped down to skeleton walls.
The windows were wide open, the curtains whipping violently in a wind that howled like wolves. Outside, it wasn’t California anymore—it was snowing. Heavy flakes, thick and wet, piling against the sill. Frost crept inward across the glass, across the walls, as though the house itself was freezing from the inside out.
The air was sharp, every breath stinging your throat. Ice spread over the dishes in the sink, crawling like veins. The wood under your bare feet groaned, brittle, as if it might snap.
You turned, heart pounding, because you weren’t alone. You could feel it—something just out of sight, waiting. The kind of silence that’s too heavy, too perfect, pressing against your eardrums until all you could hear was your own pulse.
The pain struck like lightning, white-hot through your belly. You doubled over, collapsing to the frozen floorboards.
Then it came—blood.
At first a trickle, then a gush, waves of red pouring from between your legs, seeping across the kitchen tiles, soaking your hands as you tried in vain to stop it. It filled the house faster than you could breathe, pooling around your body, running in thick streams toward the open windows. The snow outside turned pink, then scarlet, as it poured endlessly into the street.
You screamed, the sound ripped raw from your throat—
And the blood moved.
Something writhed within it, pushing against you. Your vision blurred, stomach cramping with agony. And then, from your own pelvis, a shape dragged itself free.
An infected.
Small, malformed, its head bulbous and splitting with fungal growth, teeth clicking as it snarled. In its hands—gripped between jagged claws—was the corpse of an infant. Tiny limbs chewed, gnawed, discarded into the rising tide of blood.
You shrieked, scrambling, trying to get away, slipping and sliding in the red. Your palms slapped the slick floor, but the harder you pushed, the more the blood rose, swallowing your knees, your waist.
The creature’s screech echoed through the hollow house, high and wet, reverberating until it rattled your teeth.
Your eyes shot open as you gasped for air, your chest heaving like you’d just broken the surface of deep water. Abby’s hands were on you, firm and shaking, her voice cracking with panic. “Joan!” she yelped.
You clutched at the sheets, tearing them away from your body, desperate to find the blood you’d seen in your dream. Your gaze darted over the mattress, your legs, your hands—
But there was no blood.
Just dampness, shameful and undeniable. The nightmare had been so real, so consuming, it had horrified you into wetting yourself.
Heat rushed to your face, your cheeks burning with humiliation.
Abby’s expression didn’t falter. Concern softened every line of her face as she touched your jaw, guiding your frantic gaze back to hers. “Hey, hey,” she said softly. “You were screaming… a nightmare?”
You nodded, still gulping air, your throat raw.
She gave a slow nod, her forehead pressing briefly to yours. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.” Her voice was calm, steady, soothing in a way that reached deeper than words. It anchored you.
She kissed your temple, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Get in the shower. I’ll clean up the mattress.”
Her tone left no room for argument. Gentle, but firm. You could see it in her face—there wasn’t an ounce of judgment, not for what you’d done, not for the mess. Only care, steady and grounding.
You sagged against her for a moment, letting the warmth of her body and her words wash over you, pulling you out of the nightmare’s grip.
When you reached the bathroom, you shut the door behind you with trembling hands. The air inside was cooler, quieter, but the buzzing in your ears wouldn’t settle.
You stripped down piece by piece, your clothes damp and clinging to your skin. They fell in a heavy heap on the tiles.
You stood in front of the cracked mirror, your breath still uneven, and forced yourself to look.
A dark bruise stretched across your side, ugly and mottled, the purples bleeding into blues and yellows. It ran from the curve of your ribcage down to part of your back where you’d hit. Just touching it made you hiss, the tenderness biting straight into your bones.
You turned sideways, taking in the rest of yourself. Your body looked different now—enlarged, stretched, foreign. The swell of your belly round and high, like a balloon ready to burst. You barely recognized yourself in the glass.
Your hands trembled as you reached down, sliding your fingers between your legs, needing to know, needing proof. When you pulled them back, you held your breath—
Clean.
No blood.
A shaky laugh of relief escaped you, your knees buckling as you pressed a hand to your stomach. “No blood,” you whispered, repeating it like a prayer.
The silence of the bathroom pressed in, the nightmare still lurking in your mind’s corners. But for now, the only truth that mattered was the warmth beneath your palm—the life still there.

Chapter 96: A broken Cradle

The shower had rinsed some of the nightmare away, the warm water reminding you what was real. It traced down over your belly, soothing in its weight, though every now and then you felt the flutter of tiny kicks against your palm. You liked that—the reassurance—but your breasts were tender, swollen, and sore. You cupped them in the spray, wincing, furrowing your brow. How much bigger could they get?
It wasn’t fair. Abby didn’t have to carry this weight, this ache, this endless shifting of your body. You sighed, shutting off the water.
Carefully, you stepped out of the tub, drying yourself with the rough cloth.
The door creaked open and Abby slipped inside, her presence steadying the room. She came to you at once, her hands warm as they slid over your shoulders, down your arms, turning your body gently. Her fingertips grazed the dark bruise along your ribs, her breath catching.
“God…” her voice was soft, ragged. “I can’t believe I forgot about this until yesterday.”
You shook your head, pressing the towel closer around yourself. “A lot happened.”
Abby’s brow knit, her gaze searching every inch of you, cataloguing each bruise like she could take them into herself. Then her palm came to rest on your stomach. Warm. Anchoring. She leaned in, kissing your shoulder as a quiet hum escaped her chest.
Beneath her hand, a sudden flutter.
She gasped, her eyes snapping wide. “What was that?”
You chuckled, despite everything. “It kicked you.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her palm stilling, then tracing light circles over your skin. Each movement drew another flutter, your stomach shifting in small waves beneath her touch.
You smiled faintly, rolling your neck back into her shoulder. “I don’t want to do anything today.”
Abby nodded instantly. “I can stay home from base.” Her voice left no room for argument—it wasn’t a suggestion, it was decided.
She pressed her lips along your neck, soft, insistent kisses, but there was no heat in them—just comfort. You shook your head gently. “Not now.”
Abby sighed, her breath warm against your skin. Still kissing you, she murmured, “That’s fine. I’ll just kiss you, then.”
And she did, her lips tracing a patient map along your shoulder, grounding you in the warmth of her body, pulling you back into reality after the nightmare’s grip.
You hummed as you pulled on fresh clothes, Abby helping you tug your pants up over your hips and straighten your shirt. But of course, her hands lingered, cupping your breasts with a grin. “So big,” she teased under her breath.
The ache flared instantly, and your patience snapped. You grunted. “Stop that.”
Her face fell, her hands pulling back immediately. “I can’t help myself—they’ve never been so plump!” she admitted, trying for humor, but it only made your skin prickle.
You dragged your palms over your face, groaning, and walked out of the bathroom before you said something sharper.
Lev was perched on the couch, elbows on his knees, head lifting when you came into the room. His eyes softened with worry. “Are you feeling okay? I heard you screaming in your sleep…” His brow knit tight, his voice cautious but gentle.
You sank down beside him, pulling him into a hug despite the soreness in your ribs. “I’m okay,” you whispered.
You took his hand and guided it to your stomach, holding it there until he felt the fluttering kicks beneath his palm. “But someone’s pissed about it.”
Lev’s lips parted, his breath catching as the movement pressed against his hand. His eyes lit up, a smile breaking through despite everything. “I’m glad it’s—” He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. “Still alive in there.”
You chuckled softly, leaning against him. “Quite the tumble I had, huh?”
Lev’s smile faded at that, his brow furrowing again. His hand lingered against your belly like he was protecting it, even from the memory of your fall.
Abby came down the stairs, hair still damp from washing, and without a word went straight to the kitchen. The clatter of pans and the smell of sizzling oil filled the air a few minutes later. Even if you weren’t hungry, you knew there’d be no debate—when Abby cooked, you ate.
You huffed and leaned back against the couch cushions. Lev had stretched out beside you, his head resting gently against your stomach, listening with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. His hair tickled your skin when he spoke, voice soft. “Have you guys thought of names?”
You glanced over at Abby, who paused mid-stir, glancing back at you. You shrugged. “A little. We haven’t talked about it.”
Abby perked, sliding the pan off the heat for a second. “I like Oliver for a boy.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or Eli.”
Abby spun back to you with a frown. “No way. Not Eli.”
You rolled your eyes and huffed. “Okay…”
Lev shifted, his cheek pressing more firmly into your belly. “What about for a girl?”
You tapped your chin, thinking. “I like Robin. Or Frances.”
Lev’s head lifted slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Frances is cute…”
Abby nodded slowly, turning back to the stove. “I like Margo.”
You let out a low laugh. “So hard to name one baby.”
Lev chuckled too, his hand brushing absentmindedly over your stomach like he was greeting the life inside. For a brief moment, the house felt lighter, filled with the quiet clatter of Abby’s cooking and the fragile sweetness of imagining a future.
You walked to the table with Lev.
Abby set the plates down in front of you both, oatmeal with dried fruit stirred in. You weren’t hungry, not really, but you knew better than to argue.
You sat back in your chair, spooning half-heartedly, while Lev dug in beside you. His appetite was always bigger after nights when he stayed up too late.
For a while it was just the sound of clinking spoons and Norman sniffing hopefully under the table. Then Lev spoke, his voice a little brighter than it had been in days. “I found a book in the storehouse yesterday. About sharks.”
You glanced at him, surprised. “Yeah?”
His eyes lit up, spoon hovering in the air. “Yeah—it’s old, but it’s got all these drawings. Hammerheads, great whites, even one called a goblin shark. Have you ever seen that? They look like monsters.”
You smiled at the way his words tumbled together, some spark in him finally breaking through the gloom of the last few weeks. “Goblin shark? Sounds terrifying.”
Lev smirked. “It is. They can push their jaws out of their face when they bite. Like—” He mimed the motion with his hands, making Norman perk up like it was some new game.
Abby, sitting across from you, raised a brow but couldn’t hide the faint curve of a smile. “So, you’re just filling your brain with nightmare fuel now?”
Lev shrugged, grinning. “Better sharks than listening to Rachel talk about inventory again.”
You laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. Watching him animated again, his hands moving as he described the illustrations, was like catching a glimpse of the boy he still was beneath all the scars.
Breakfast tasted better after that.
Lev’s spoon clattered back into his bowl as he finished his shark story, cheeks flushed with excitement. You were still smiling when Abby cleared her throat, her voice slipping into something more deliberate.
“Speaking of nightmares,” she muttered, giving you a pointed look. “We still have to finish the nursery. The crib isn’t built yet.”
You let out a groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Don’t remind me.”
Lev perked up. “You’re building it? From scratch?”
Abby nodded, her shoulders squaring like she’d already been planning it for weeks. “I’ve got lumber stacked in the garage. Needs sanding, cutting, and joints. No nails—we’ll have to notch it together.”
You chuckled weakly. “Of course. Abby Anderson, soldier, medic, carpenter.”
She smirked faintly but didn’t deny it. “Somebody’s gotta make sure this kid doesn’t sleep on a cot.”
Lev sat straighter, eyes bright. “I want to help.”
Abby shot him a look, her lips twitching. “You know how to handle a plane or a chisel?”
Lev shrugged, grinning. “I can learn.”
You sighed, rubbing your belly. “He’s right, though. We should get it done soon. The kid’s not waiting for us to get our act together.”
Abby’s expression softened as her eyes lingered on you. “Then today. We’ll start after breakfast.”
The weight of her words sank in—real, permanent. A crib, a nursery, a place for a child to sleep. You huffed, but a small smile tugged at your lips anyway. Lev rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his eagerness to be included.
For a brief moment, the house felt lighter—talk of wood, tools, and the promise of something solid pushing the darker worries aside.
You let a slow breath out of your nose, eyes drifting toward the window. The waves rolled steady beyond the cliffs, sun catching on their crests until they glittered like shattered glass.
Norman sprawled on the couch, snoring loud enough to rattle the cushions, his paws twitching every so often like he was chasing something in his sleep. You found yourself watching him longer than you meant to—comforted by the ordinary rise and fall of his chest.
From the garage came the muffled scrape of wood, Abby’s low voice carrying instructions, Lev’s sharper tone answering back. The sounds blended together—saws, the occasional hammer tap, and Lev’s laugh when Abby teased him for mismeasuring.
You pushed yourself up with a grunt, your back aching. The kitchen still smelled faintly of oats and char from the pan Abby had used. You started gathering the bowls and cups, stacking them neatly before carrying them to the sink.
The warm water was grounding, the familiar scrape of dishes against ceramic soothing after the storm of yesterday. You worked slowly, careful of your sore side, every movement deliberate.
For a moment, it felt almost normal. Just a family morning—the dog asleep, your partner building something in the garage, and you tidying up the kitchen.
You drifted to the bookshelf, fingers brushing across the worn spines until one caught your eye. With the weight of it in hand, you wandered out onto the porch. Norman padded after you, nails clicking softly on the floorboards, before circling and flopping down at your feet with a huff.
You settled into the cool wood, easing yourself down carefully, and opened the book. The breeze carried the smell of salt and sawdust, mixing in the air. You lost yourself in the pages, the world shrinking down to paper and ink, until you’d already chewed through half the chapters without realizing.
Then the noise from the garage broke your focus—muffled voices raised in frustration, the sharp scrape of wood against concrete.
A moment later, the big garage door rattled up, and Abby stepped out. She braced her hands on her knees, head hanging between her shoulders. Her braid had half fallen loose, sweat clinging to her temple. When she finally looked up, her face was drawn, exasperated.
“This is a lot harder than I thought,” she admitted, rubbing her forehead with the heel of her hand.
You closed the book on your lap, giving her a pointed look. “Just radio John. I’m sure he’d be okay with helping.”
But she shook her head, straightening her shoulders, her voice firm. “My Abby. My Abby’s crib. Built by me… and Lev.”
You furrowed your brows, half exasperated, half amused. “Stubborn woman.”
She only gave you a faint smirk before turning on her heel and stomping back into the garage, determination carrying her forward like it always did.
You stayed out on the porch, the hours slipping by as the sun climbed higher. Norman shifted at your feet, first dozing, then wandering off into the shade, then returning to collapse beside you again. By the time you closed the back cover of your book, your legs were stiff and your belly ached from sitting too long.
The noises from the garage hadn’t stopped—scraping wood, Lev’s voice raised in frustration, the occasional thunk of something dropped too hard. No triumphant cheer. No sound of progress. Just the endless loop of struggle.
You sighed, pushing yourself carefully to your feet and padding back inside. The afternoon light slanted golden across the floorboards as you stepped into the kitchen, the muffled argument of Abby and Lev still carrying through the walls.
You walked to the garage door, leaned against the frame, and crossed your arms. “Abby,” you called, your voice cutting through the racket.
She and Lev both looked up, sweaty and red-faced, surrounded by wood shavings and half-finished joints that still didn’t fit together. Abby’s jaw was set like stone.
“It’s been hours,” you said flatly. “Call John.”
Abby scowled, wiping her forearm across her brow. “No. I told you—I’m building this crib. My hands, Lev’s hands. Not his.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling hard. “Abby, it’s a crib, not a legacy. Just let John help before you burn the whole thing down.”
Lev shot you a sheepish look, somewhere between desperate and amused, while Abby glared back like she was daring you to push her one step further.
You shook your head and stepped into the living room, lowering yourself onto the chair by the little side table. The radio crackled to life when you clicked it on, static filling the silence of the house.
You pressed the switch, speaking clear and low.
“Base, this is Joan. Over.”
A hiss, then a voice answered. “Copy, Joan. State request. Over.”
You swallowed, glancing back toward the garage where wood still scraped and Lev muttered curses. “Requesting contact with John Previnsky. Priority two. Over.”
There was a pause, then shuffling on the other end, the sound of someone passing the receiver. Another voice came through—steady, familiar. “This is John. Go ahead, Joan. Over.”
You leaned into the mic, relief threading your tone. “Got a situation here. Abby’s trying to build a crib from scratch. It’s been four hours. She’s gonna lose her mind—or kill the lumber. We need your help, John. Over.”
Static, then a low chuckle hummed through. “Roger that. I’ll grab my tools. ETA ten minutes. Over.”
You nodded, letting the button go. The room fell back into quiet but for the radio’s faint hum.
Ten minutes crawled by. You sat with Norman sprawled at your feet, listening to the stubborn sounds of Abby and Lev still wrestling with wood in the garage. Then the faint clop-clop of hooves drifted up the road.
You pushed yourself up, peeking out the front window.
Sure enough—John came riding in on a scrappy bay horse, reins loose in his hands, his grin wide as ever. A hammer and a coil of rope dangled from his saddle like it was some kind of parade.
Abby stomped out of the garage just as John swung down. She froze, eyes widening. “You—you have horses?”
John patted the mare’s neck proudly. “Yup. Two of ‘em. Don’t tell Rachel, though, or she’ll find a way to make me haul lumber across the base.” He winked. “Girl deserves better than being reduced to a pack mule.”
Lev leaned out from behind Abby, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You could’ve told us you had horses.”
John shrugged, hitching the reins to the post like it was nothing. “Never came up. Thought everyone’d be too jealous.”
Abby crossed her arms, still staring at him like he’d grown two heads. “You just ride around on them like some kind of cowboy?”
“Not some kind of cowboy,” John corrected, smirking. “The cowboy. Only one left in California. You’re welcome.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head as Norman barked once in greeting.
John tipped an imaginary hat at you, his grin easy. “Now, I hear you two been trying to build a crib all morning? Thought maybe I’d save the poor baby from sleeping in a pile of splinters.”
Abby groaned, running a hand down her face, but Lev broke into a grin. “Finally,” he muttered.
John just chuckled, clapping his hands together. “Alright, where’s this half-dead piece of wood you’ve been torturing?”
You stayed on the porch with Norman, book still in your lap, as John marched into the garage with his usual swagger. Abby followed behind, muttering under her breath, while Lev trailed after them practically bouncing on his heels.
From your seat you could see it all: John squatting to inspect the lumber, running his calloused hands over the rough edges, clicking his tongue. “Well, well. Looks like somebody tried to fight this wood and lost.”
Abby shot him a glare, crossing her arms. “It’s harder than it looks.”
John grinned. “No kidding. You cut these joints backward. Twice.”
Lev snorted, trying to smother his laugh behind his hand. Abby reached over and smacked the back of his head lightly, but even she cracked a smile.
Within minutes John had them working like a team. He steadied the frame while Abby tightened the dowels, and he explained how to shave the edges smooth so the crib wouldn’t wobble. Lev eagerly held planks in place, his eyes wide as John made quick work of things that had taken them hours to fumble through.
From the porch, you found yourself smiling. For once, the sound of voices rising from the garage wasn’t frustration—it was laughter.
Lev wiped his brow and leaned against a half-finished rail, his voice pitching high with excitement. “John, you have to take me riding. Please. I’ll do anything—help muck stalls, clean tack—whatever. Just let me ride one of the horses.”

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Chapter 97: Why isnt it breathing?

You shifted your weight against the doorway, bracing yourself with one hand on the frame. Your side still ached like hell, but you wanted to see the crib closer. The frame was already standing, rough but sturdy, the wood sanded down smoother than you expected.
You turned toward Abby, your voice thoughtful. “We should get horses.”
She didn’t dismiss it, only gave a small nod as she tightened a joint. “It would make travel easier.”
Lev perked up immediately, his whole body leaning forward. “I used to love the stables back when…” He trailed off, his throat bobbing, the memory catching on something raw. “…when I was a Seraphite.”
You reached over and touched the frame of the crib, letting him sit with it, then nodded. “Yeah. They’re useful. And it’d give you something else to take care of.”
Your eyes flicked to John. “Know where to get them?”
John puffed out his cheeks, set down the saw, and rubbed his palms on his thighs. “There’s a herd down by the rivers southeast. Seen ‘em a couple times. But they’re skittish as hell. You don’t just walk up and slap a saddle on ‘em—you gotta earn it. Takes time to warm ‘em up to you.”
Lev’s eyes lit like kindling. “I could do it,” he blurted, his fists curling in excitement. “I want to do it.”
Abby gave him a look that was half stern, half protective, but said nothing yet.
You shook your head, exhaling hard through your nose. “Let’s… think about it.”
That was enough to end the horse talk. You’d swung the mallet in your mind, the conversation done.
Inside, the quiet was heavy, broken only by the creak of the old floorboards under your steps and Norman’s tail thudding once against the couch before he went back to sleep. The house smelled faintly of sawdust and oatmeal, and your clothes still carried the sharp tang of cut lumber.
You lowered yourself onto the couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively on your belly. Your back throbbed like it was caught in a vise, the weight of your body pulling in ways it never had before. Every position felt wrong—too much pressure on your hips, too much stretch in your ribs.
Three more months.
The thought repeated in your head like a drumbeat.
But then it hit you, sudden and cold: this wouldn’t end with simply being pregnant. It would have to come out.
Your stomach knotted tighter.
You weren’t worried about Abby not knowing what to do. She’d been raised under her father’s shadow, memorized medical textbooks that were now half-rotting in the base library. She could stitch wounds in the dark, knew how to monitor a heartbeat with nothing but her ear pressed to skin.
But all that knowledge didn’t change the truth.
Childbirth in this world was brutal. Messy. Dangerous. Women died. Babies died. Sometimes both. And the thought lodged in your throat, choking you.
And even if you lived—babies were loud. Their cries carried. Out here, surrounded by a wilderness that still hid infected in every shadow, sound was a beacon. All it would take was one runner catching a whimper through the night air.
Your mind spun and spun, darker with every loop.
Then the couch dipped beside you. Abby’s warmth seeped into your side, her presence grounding whether you wanted it or not. “Crib’s in the nursery,” she said softly. “Wanna see?”
Her grin was wide, proud. You knew John had finished most of the building, but she’d hauled it up the stairs herself, arranged it against the wall, probably spent an hour making sure it didn’t wobble. She needed you to see it.
You nodded slowly, throat tight.
Her eyes caught yours, the brief twitch you’d memorized over years. She’d read you again—she always did.
Upstairs, the air still smelled faintly of paint. Lev had picked the green shade weeks ago, swearing it looked like “new growth.” It wasn’t perfect—uneven strokes still visible where the brushes had frayed—but against the dark wood of the crib, it almost looked intentional.
The room finally felt like something other than storage. The shelves were cleared of tools. A rag rug Abby had scavenged from the base lay beneath the window, still worn at the edges. A half-mended rocking chair sat in the corner, its joints patched with rope instead of nails.
It looked like a nursery.
You pulled in a sharp breath through your nose. “I don’t know if I want the baby sleeping in here.”
Silence blanketed the room.
All three of them turned to look at you, stunned. Weeks of sanding, sawing, painting, carrying. Even you had hauled brushes, mixed lime paint until your arms ached, hammered shelves into place.
Lev’s voice broke the quiet. “Why?”
You swallowed hard, one hand tightening on the swell of your belly. “I want to be able to watch the baby at all times.”
Abby’s hand landed on your shoulder, big and steady, scarred fingers warm against your skin. Her voice came low, gentler than anyone else ever heard. “It’ll be okay. Let’s take it day by day, then.”
Her words wrapped around you, but the unease stayed. You nodded anyway, stroking your belly slowly as if the motion alone could convince both you and the child inside that everything would be fine.
The rest of that night blurred into a haze. Your side burned every time you shifted, your back felt like it was splitting under the weight of your belly, and John’s endless string of jokes with Lev had left you with a headache. Everything was either too loud or too quiet—no middle ground, no peace.
The shower had been your one escape. The rush of hot water over your bruises gave you a moment where you felt almost like yourself again. But Abby’s hands came around you, her mouth trailing heat down your skin, and the world tilted. Usually you’d give in, melt against her, let her take you out of your head. But tonight, your thoughts were heavier than her touch. Your stomach felt like stone. Your chest wouldn’t loosen.
“Too tired,” you muttered, brushing her away.
She let you go, though the look on her face said she didn’t believe you. You curled into bed and let the dark swallow you.
__________________________________________________________________________
But the dark didn’t stay empty.
Seattle came back. The sharp hallways of the stadium. The smell of metal and bleach. Abby’s door under your fist, the knock echoing in your ears.
But when it opened, Owen stood there.
“Owen?” Your voice sounded too thin, bouncing around a hollow world.
He scanned you up and down, his face twisted. “How much longer are you pregnant?”
Your stomach twisted. “What?”
He licked his lips, voice dripping like oil. “Or are you still pregnant?”
The hallway fell away. The floor beneath your feet dissolved into black. You staggered, and then the tearing began—white-hot pain ripping up through your belly.
You looked down. Owen and Abby knelt at your feet. Their hands shoved deep inside you.
“It’ll be quick,” Owen hissed.
Abby didn’t speak. Her mouth only gaped open, black sludge spilling out in thick ropes, bubbling as it splattered against your skin.
You screamed, but her hands were iron on your shoulders. The sludge crawled over your face, sealing your eyelids shut. You thrashed, suffocating in tar, your voice ripping your throat raw.
_______________________________________________________________________
“Joan!”
You shot awake, your lungs clawing for air, your body convulsing. Abby’s arms were around you, her hands gripping your face, pulling you into her chest. She rocked you like you were a child.
“I got you,” she whispered, over and over, voice hoarse, almost frantic. “I got you, I got you.”
Sweat poured down your back, your shirt clung damp to your skin, and hot tears smeared against Abby’s chest. You were shaking so violently your teeth clicked together.
It didn’t stop there.
That was the first night.
And then it kept happening.
Every night for two months.
You stopped sleeping like a person. You stayed up until your brain gave out, until you couldn’t keep your eyes open, until your body forced you under. And every time it did, the nightmares were waiting.
You saw things no one should. Infected babies clawing at your skin. Abby’s face splitting in half, black tar dripping from her eyes. Lev being dragged screaming into the snow by figures with your mother’s voice.
You woke thrashing, clawing at yourself, at the sheets. Some nights you soaked the bed—sweat, piss, both. Other nights you tore at your hair until Abby forced your hands down. Some nights you screamed until your throat bled.
And every single time, Abby was there.
She held you when you shoved her away. She held you when you beat your fists against her chest. She held you when you sobbed into her shirt, her lips whispering “it’s okay” into your hair even though it wasn’t, even though she was trembling herself.
But the circles under her eyes grew darker. Her voice rasped from sleepless nights. Her body sagged heavier each morning. She was unraveling too, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
The baby grew. Your belly swelled. And the weight of those nights pressed harder, making you wonder how much longer either of you could survive this.
__________________________________________________________________________
That morning felt different. Strange.
You were finally nine months. A full term. The finish line. You told yourself maybe—just maybe—once the baby came, the nightmares would stop. Maybe the reason you kept being dragged into darkness was because your body knew what was coming.
Abby had begged you to talk about them, but you had no answers. You didn’t know where the black tar and ripping hands came from. You didn’t know why Owen haunted your sleep. Sure, you were terrified of the birth itself—everyone was in this world. But you couldn’t convince yourself fear alone would twist your body into this kind of nightly torment.
When Abby finally let you go, your skin was clammy and her shirt was damp from where you’d cried into her. She’d stopped going to patrols weeks ago; Rachel had told her to take leave after she’d nearly fallen asleep at the watch post. Abby had been too exhausted from catching your thrashing body night after night.
And Lev—poor Lev—had picked up extra assignments to cover the gap. Every time he walked out with his bow and rifle, your stomach sank heavier. You hated the thought that your broken sleep was forcing him to risk more.
You sat up in bed, heavy legs swollen, and pushed your feet onto the floor. The baby had dropped lower, your body bottom-heavy now, every step a lumbering weight. You could feel it had flipped—kicks drove into your ribs in a way that stole your breath and left you clutching your side.
The bathroom routine was mechanical. Sit. Pee. Brush. Wash. You stared at your reflection in the cracked mirror, cheeks puffed, eyes hollow.
That’s when you felt it.
A knowing ache deep in your abdomen. Not sharp, not yet—just a weird throb that made you hunch slightly. Almost like heartburn, but deeper.
You stretched, pressed a palm to your belly. Probably nothing.
You padded down the stairs, Norman instantly padding after you, tail wagging sluggishly as he collapsed across your feet. His warmth steadied you as you sank into the couch cushions, but then it came again—the ache, rolling through your belly. You closed your eyes, breathing through it until it eased.
“Breakfast is ready… you okay?” Abby’s voice trailed off when she saw your posture on the couch.
You nodded quickly. “I’m gonna… go back to bed actually.”
Her and Lev exchanged a glance as you climbed the stairs, the pain chewing deeper.
In bed, you propped yourself with pillows—one under your head, another supporting the weight of your stomach. You shut your eyes and let sleep pull you under.
______________________________________________________________________________
When you woke again, the sun had shifted high in the sky. Past noon.
The ache had grown sharper. It came and went, steady as a tide.
You told yourself it was nothing—just the strain of bad positions, the thrashing. You shuffled down the stairs, one hand braced on the wall, breathing slow.
Abby caught sight of you and frowned. “You’re sweating… another nightmare?”
You shook your head, wiped your brow. “No. Just… feeling sick.”
Her jaw worked. “Okay. Do you want to eat?”
You shook your head and grabbed your stomach. “No. I just… I don’t know. Off.”
She approached slowly, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Can I help?”
You shook her off gently. The truth was, you hadn’t wanted her touch like that in months. Your body ached in ways that weren’t tender. Your breasts were swollen, your thighs rubbed raw, your belly stretched taut. You didn’t feel sexy. You didn’t feel like anyone’s lover. Just a vessel.
So you escaped to the garage. Pulled a canvas up. Tried to paint it all away.
The brush steadied you. Hours passed. A landscape spread across the canvas—sunset colors bleeding over grass, silhouettes of figures too shadowed to name. The ache kept returning every half hour, deep and twisting, but you worked through it, biting your lip until it eased.
When Abby came in with a plate—beef and potatoes, simple, steaming—you ate obediently, letting her eyes scan you like she was memorizing every twitch.
She pressed her hand to your stomach afterward, smiling faintly at the kicks. “Baby giving you trouble today?”
You groaned. “You have no idea.”
She leaned down, kissed the taut skin, whispered against you. “Give momma a break today, please.” She pressed her ear against the bump, listening, her lips curving into a soft smile when another flutter hit.
Then another ache rolled through. You tried to mask it, but your sharp inhale betrayed you.
Abby’s eyes narrowed. “You sure you’re—”
You waved her off. “I just need to lie down again… it’s probably because I haven’t been sleeping.”
She helped you upstairs. You collapsed into bed. This time the ache was heavier, deeper. It clawed into you until it bordered on unbearable.
Exhaustion won anyway. You slipped under.

You woke with a scream.
Pain ripped through you—seething, sharp, tearing. Your hand flew to your stomach, nails digging in.
“Abby!” you shrieked.
She bolted awake beside you. “What’s wrong?!”
Your fingers dropped lower—and felt it. Slick, wet, the rounded crown of a head pushing forward.
Your breath vanished. “Abby… Abby give me your hand.”
Her palm slid between your thighs, her eyes going wide as she nodded, jaw set.
“It’s okay… you’re in labor. Like, real labor. The baby’s coming. Now.”
She shot out of bed, shouting, “Lev! Towels! Now!”
You tore your shorts off, your body already pushing, dropping onto all fours. “Holy fuck!”
Abby knelt behind you, voice shaking but steady. “Breathe. Breathe, Joan.”
Breathe? How could you breathe when your body was splitting in two?
You screamed into the blankets, grabbing Abby’s hand, squeezing until her knuckles went white. “FUCK!”
She rubbed your back, guiding your rhythm. “Good, good, almost there. I can see the head.”
The pain was fire, tearing, white-hot. Your throat shredded from the screams.
“Lev—radio base!” Abby shouted over her shoulder. “Tell them we need medics now!”
“Right!” His feet pounded the stairs. You could hear the frantic stutter of the radio, his voice cracking as he begged for help.
You pushed again. Or maybe your body pushed for you—you had no control anymore. Your head dropped onto Abby’s shoulder, your whole body trembling. “I can’t, Abby,” you wheezed.
Her lips pressed to your temple, her hand firm on your back. “You can. You can, Joan. You’re almost there.”
And then—your body betrayed you again, forcing the push. A scream tore free, fire blazing through your hips.
And then—relief.
Weight gone. Space where there had been none.
You gasped, collapsing forward, air finally flooding your lungs.
Abby’s hands caught the tiny, slick body in a towel.
But—
No cry.
The silence hit like a bullet.
You lifted your head, eyes wild. “Why—why isn’t it—Abby?!”

Chapter 98: Newborn Hell

She bent over the child, rubbing its chest, her voice desperate now. “Come on, baby. Come on. Breathe. Please.”
The room spun. The edges of your vision darkened. You clawed toward her, sobbing. “Abby—oh my god—what’s wrong—”
Lev’s footsteps thundered back up the stairs. He skidded into the room, clutching towels, pale as chalk. “They’re coming—they’re sending medics—they’re coming!”
“Give me those!” Abby barked, never breaking her rhythm as she rubbed harder, shaking the child lightly.
“Come on. Come on. For your momma.”
Then—at last—a strangled wail.
Weak, high-pitched, but there.
The sound shattered you. You sobbed, your body collapsing, shaking so violently you thought you’d break apart.
Abby let out a laugh-sob of relief, clutching the towel close before turning to you, tears streaking her face. She pressed the tiny bundle into your arms, her hand guiding yours.
“Here. Joan—look. Look.”
The baby was warm, impossibly small, its face red and scrunched as it wailed louder, stronger.
You cradled it to your chest, your tears spilling freely. “Oh god… oh my god…”
Abby leaned into you, her forehead pressed to your temple, both of you crying, shaking, alive.
Lev stood in the doorway, frozen, his wide eyes shining. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stared at the impossible, fragile miracle that had filled the room.
You sniffled, pressing a shaky kiss to the baby’s damp head. Your forehead was clammy, hair stuck to your skin in sweaty strands. Your body still shook violently from the effort, every nerve buzzing with exhaustion. Abby gently eased the child from your arms.
“We gotta get the placenta out, okay?” she murmured, voice practical, steady despite the tremor beneath. She set the baby carefully into Lev’s arms.
His eyes went wide, like someone had just handed him a grenade.
“Support the head,” Abby reminded gently before turning back to you.
Lev’s mouth opened, shut, then he swallowed and adjusted his hold like he’d seen someone do a thousand times. You caught a flicker in his face, wondering if the Seraphites had made him witness births before, if this kind of raw blood-and-life was just another daily ritual in their broken little world.
Abby leaned you back, her calloused hands firm against your stomach. Another sharp cramp clawed through you and you cried out, gripping the sheets. Abby guided you, murmuring encouragement until you bore down. The placenta slipped free in a hot rush, the air thick with copper. Abby caught it in a towel, quick and efficient.
The mattress beneath you was ruined, soaked in sweat, blood, amniotic fluid. But Abby didn’t care. She pressed the towel aside and climbed onto the bed with you, wrapping an arm around your trembling shoulders.
Lev approached again, awkward and reverent, and passed the baby back into your arms.
You unwrapped the bundle, staring down at the tiny face. She blinked up at you, her mouth working soundlessly before she let out a small hiccup.
Your eyes traveled to her hand. You started counting, lips moving with each little finger.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten… Eleven?
You blinked.
Your tired mind forced you to count again, finger tapping gently against each impossibly small digit. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
You froze, touched the extra one. It bent, flexed, complete with its own joint.
The baby latched her tiny hand around your finger like she’d been waiting for you to notice.
Your voice was barely a whisper. “She… she has an extra finger.”
Abby leaned in, her brow furrowing. “What?”
You held up the tiny hand. Lev leaned over too, his eyes round. Sure enough—eleven fingers.
“Wow,” you breathed.
For a long, stunned moment, the three of you stared in silence. Then it cracked. First a snort from Abby, then Lev, then you. Laughter bubbled up from your sore chest, painful and delirious, but you couldn’t stop.
Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was relief, maybe it was just too absurd—but all three of you laughed until tears streaked down your faces.
Then the baby cried, high and sharp, demanding.
You shushed her softly, pressing kisses into her damp hair, counting carefully this time as you trailed your hand down. All ten toes.
You pulled the blanket back slightly, your throat tightening when you looked.
“It’s a girl,” you whispered, smiling so hard your cheeks ached.
Abby brushed her thumb over the baby’s tiny extra finger, her eyes glistening. “She’s perfect.”
Lev rubbed his face roughly, still wide-eyed but smiling too, like he couldn’t believe he’d been part of this moment at all.
You leaned back into the ruined bed, clutching the warm bundle close. You didn’t want to think about names yet. Didn’t want to think about what came next.
Right now, all you wanted was to sit in this moment—your girl in your arms, Abby by your side, Lev hovering close—and let the laughter, the tears, and the miracle of it all hold you together.
Lev handed baby scissors then and she cut the umbilical cord. She tied it and youw rapped the baby back up.
It fascinated you, even through the haze, how Abby’s father had taught her all of this—how to press, how to guide, how to catch life in her scarred hands—and yet she’d chosen another path. She could’ve been a doctor, a medic, but instead she’d chosen hammers and rifles, war and survival.
The baby rested on your chest, her tiny breaths fluttering against your damp skin. Your body trembled beneath her warmth, every nerve frayed, but the sound of her breathing—steady, soft—was enough to silence the world.
Then the front door banged open. Boots pounded against the wood floors.
The medics rushed in, Rachel’s voice sharp in the hall as she directed them. And of course—John was there too, towering behind them, his eyes wide, his expression caught between relief and awe.
They filled the doorway, pausing when they saw you—already delivered, the baby alive and pressed against you.
You loosened your grip reluctantly and handed the child to one of the medics. They worked with practiced calm, laying her out on a folded blanket, placing a cracked stethoscope against her tiny chest. Another shone a flashlight into her eyes, checked her joints, inspected the umbilical cord.
One of them raised their head. “Baby’s got eleven fingers.”
Your lips parted in a tired smile. You nodded.
They rotated the hand, bent the small digit. “It’s functional.”
You nodded again, your throat too tight to speak.
Abby was beside you, her large hand stroking your damp hair back, her lips pressing against your temple. You felt her chest rise and fall too fast against your side, but her voice came calm. “She’s okay, Joan. She’s okay.”
John stepped closer, mud still caked to his boots, his bulk filling the corner of your vision. He gave your leg a firm pat, voice warm but gruff. “You did good. You okay?”
You tried to nod, tried to smile. But your vision blurred, gray swallowing the edges of the room. Exhaustion pulled you down, your body still shaking uncontrollably.
You wanted to answer. Wanted to say you were fine. But your body betrayed you—
—and the world went black.
____________________________________________________________________________
When your eyes finally opened, you weren’t in the same room you remembered.
The mattress beneath you was new—firm, dry, smelling faintly of straw and linen. Not the ruined one, soaked with blood and fluid, that had held the worst hours of your life. The light through the curtains was soft, late morning sun, painting the room gold.
The door creaked, and Abby stepped in carrying a small tray of food and a jug of water, balanced with the kind of careful strength only she had. Her hair was tied back messily, her eyes ringed in dark circles but alive with relief the second she saw you awake.
“Hey,” she whispered, setting the tray down. She reached your bedside, rubbed your hair gently with her broad hand. “You fully awake?”
You nodded weakly, your throat dry, and swallowed hard. “How long was I out?”
She leaned down, kissing your clammy forehead. “Couple days. In and out. The birth was hard on you, Jo. But you’ll be okay. I got you.”
Your lips trembled as you nodded again, your mind drifting immediately to the baby. Eleven fingers. That tiny, odd, perfect detail.
Abby stood then, crossed the room to where the cradle had been set up—a small wooden box padded with cloth, a blanket tucked neatly inside. She lifted the bundle with reverence, holding her close against her chest.
You pushed yourself up shakily, your hand stretching out. Abby caught the movement and met your eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay to hold her?”
You nodded, voice breaking. “Please.”
She crossed to the bed and lowered the baby into your waiting arms. The warmth, the impossible weight of her, hit you all at once. Your lips pressed against the soft crown of her head, and you whispered a wordless sound, tears stinging your eyes.
Abby slipped in beside you, her arm wrapping protectively around your shoulders as you both stared down at her.
“What should we name her?” Abby murmured.
You looked up, your eyes meeting hers. The word tumbled out like it had always been there. “Frances?”
Abby’s lips softened into a smile. “I like that. Little Frannie…”
You nodded, hugging the name close. She stroked your hair while you cradled the baby, your worries for once quieting, the house feeling impossibly safe.
Then your body reminded you—it ached everywhere. Your hips, your thighs, your back, your chest. Every muscle was torn and sore, throbbing with aftershock. You winced as you shifted. “It hurts,” you muttered.
Abby kissed your temple. “It’s gonna hurt for a while. But it’ll pass. You’re stronger than this.”
You closed your eyes, letting the smell of the baby’s skin ground you, warm milk and linen and something impossibly new.
Then came the cry.
Abby tensed, then laughed nervously. “Feeding time.”
Your eyes snapped open. “How… how were you feeding her?”
Abby’s face softened with guilt. She took a breath, rubbing her neck. “I had to pump you. I didn’t want to, Jo—it felt barbaric, but you wouldn’t wake up enough. We didn’t have another option.”
You reached up, touched her hand. “It’s okay, Abby. I know you’d only do what you had to.”
Still, you’d never done this before. The thought of it knotted your stomach with nerves.
You pushed your shirt up, positioned the baby at your breast. She rooted but wouldn’t latch, her tiny face twisting as she fussed and cried harder.
You swallowed hard, fumbling, your own frustration bubbling. “Fuck…”
Abby kissed your cheek, her big hand settling reassuringly on your shoulder. “It’s okay.” Then, more gently, she shifted closer, her hand moving with quiet confidence. She guided your breast with her touch, helping the baby find her way. Her warmth steadied you, her patience anchoring you.
And then—finally—Frances latched.
You gasped softly at the sensation. It was strange—tugging, tender, almost alien. Your body flinched before relaxing as her small face worked eagerly.
You looked down, tears springing fresh to your eyes. Nothing else mattered.
Her little brow furrowed in effort, her tiny fingers flexed against your chest.
And for just a moment, the world was quiet.
A laugh escaped you suddenly. Abby tilted her head. “What?”
You shook your head, still smiling through your tears. “She kinda looks like Frank. Frances… Frank… how cliché.”
Abby snorted, pressing her forehead to yours. “Then it’s perfect.”
But it felt silly. Embarrassing, even. You hadn’t realized how clumsy you were with it all until now, but Abby looked content—calm even—watching you try.
You took a deep breath as Frances finished feeding, her tiny mouth pulling away, milk dribbling from the corner of her lips.
Abby’s voice was low, soft, almost teacher-like. “You have to burp her now.”
Your stomach dropped. You blinked at her, suddenly unsure. “I… uh… I don’t know how.”
Abby’s expression softened immediately, her lips curving into a smile that made your chest loosen. “That’s okay. Here—let me show you.”
She reached over, guiding your hands carefully, helping you lift the baby up against your chest. Frances was impossibly small there, her little head tucked under your chin.
“Okay,” Abby said gently, “so you’ll rub her back like this, slow. And then tap—lightly. Not hard, just a little pat.” She demonstrated with her palm against your shoulder, then stepped back, letting you do it.
You nodded, nervous but focused, following her instructions. Your hand stroked the baby’s tiny back, fingers tracing the delicate rise of her spine, then you gave a few light taps.
After a moment, Frances let out a small burp, hiccuping right after, her lips puckering.
Your smile bloomed wide and you turned to Abby, pride sparkling in your exhausted eyes. “I did it.”
“You did,” Abby said, just as proud.
For a while, the three of you sat in the quiet. Norman snored from the corner. The air smelled faintly of linen, wood, and milk.
Then your curiosity broke the silence. You glanced at Abby, tilting your head. “How come… you never did anything medical? You’re good at this. You’d be amazing.”
Her smile faded just slightly. She looked down at her hands, big and scarred, her thumb rubbing over an old callus.
“I was scared,” she admitted softly. “Scared I’d mess it up. Mess someone up.”
You nodded slowly, your arms tightening around Frances. “You’re so smart though…”
A quiet chuckle escaped her, small and wistful. “That’s all thanks to my dad.”
The words hung in the room for a beat.
Your heart fluttered. Abby didn’t talk about her father much—not without anger, not without pain. But now… now she said it like a memory she wanted to keep. Lightly. Almost fond.
And you couldn’t help but smile. You were so happy she was able to do that now.
You shifted a little, careful not to jostle Frances. Her soft weight was grounding, heavy in the way a feather pillow is heavy—warm, pliant, impossibly alive. You kissed the top of her head, the fine downy hair brushing against your lips.
“She’d be proud of you,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Abby blinked, surprised, then shook her head like she wanted to deny it. But her mouth betrayed her, tugging into a half-smile. “Maybe.” She reached over, running her thumb along Frances’s tiny cheek. “Or maybe she’d tell me I’m holding her wrong.”
You laughed softly, the sound half a wheeze in your sore chest. “Sounds like her.”
Abby chuckled with you, but there was a wet shine in her eyes she didn’t bother to hide.
The silence after wasn’t heavy—it was soft, filled with the tiny squeaks Frances made in her sleep and Norman’s steady breathing at the foot of the bed.
Your body throbbed everywhere, raw and aching, but you let your head fall against Abby’s shoulder. “Do you ever… wish you had gone into medicine?” you asked quietly.
She exhaled through her nose, thinking. “Sometimes. But then I think about how I’d freeze up if something went wrong. Out here, it’s not like you get second chances. My dad—he was brave enough for that. I’m…” She looked down at her hands again, flexed them, then shook her head. “I think I’m better at breaking things than fixing them.”
You frowned, shifting Frances higher on your chest. “You fixed me.”
Abby’s throat bobbed. She leaned down, pressed her lips to your temple. “Yeah. Maybe.”
For a while you just sat like that, tangled together, your little family orbiting this new center of gravity. The world outside could have burned and you wouldn’t have noticed.
But then Frances stirred, a little whimper leaving her mouth. You rubbed her back instinctively, still clumsy but more confident than before. She settled with a sigh, her fingers curling tight around the fabric of your shirt.
You and Abby exchanged a look—tired, worn down, terrified—but in it was something else too. Something unspoken, bigger than fear.
Hope.
__________________________________________________________________________
The newborn days blurred together until you lost track of where one ended and the next began. The hours bled, circled, looped—cry, feed, burp, change, rock, collapse. Cry, feed, burp, change, rock, collapse.
You and Abby barely slept. Three hours—sometimes less—before Frances’s thin cries would split the night again. Your body had learned to wake at the sound before your mind could.
Sometimes Abby would nudge you gently, coaxing you into a half-sleep while she held Frances, murmuring to her, pacing the dark room with strong, sure arms. Other nights you insisted she stay down, that you’d take it, though your legs shook beneath you as you shuffled back and forth with the baby pressed against your chest.
Eventually, exhaustion won. The crib, lovingly built, sat unused. Frances slept in your bed wedged between the two of you, her tiny body curled like a bean. When she whimpered, you only had to reach out, scoop her up, and put her to your breast without leaving the warmth of the covers.
Abby never went back to base. Rachel had stopped asking after a while. Abby’s whole world shrank to the space inside the house: your trembling body, your cries in the dark, the baby’s endless demands.
Months passed in fragments.
Some days, you broke down in tears. You cried in the rocking chair with Frances wailing in your arms, nipples raw and cracked, your chest aching from feeding. Abby would kneel in front of you, her big hands rubbing your thighs, begging you to let her help.
Other days, you melted against her, too tired to fight, grateful for the strength of her body around you. You breathed in her sweat and soap and the smell of milk that clung to both of you, and for a moment it was enough.
And then there were days where you barely spoke. Days where the only words exchanged were practical—“she’s hungry,” “your turn,” “did you change her?”—spoken in hoarse voices, eyes heavy with exhaustion. You’d pass each other in silence, trading Frances like a lifeline, collapsing into whatever scraps of rest you could steal.
Lev spent most of his time at base, Norman loyally at his heels. You told yourself he just wanted to be useful, to get away from the noise. Truthfully, you envied him. You wished you could escape too, just for a day, an hour, a moment where the cries didn’t reach you.
But every time Frances curled her tiny fist around your finger, every time she sighed against your skin, your body ached with something heavier than exhaustion—love so sharp it hurt.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Eventually, the newborn hell eased its grip. Frances had grown rounder, stronger, her cheeks like soft fruit and her limbs gaining weight that spoke of survival, of thriving. She was nearly ten months now—almost a year—and she could hold herself upright when propped against a pillow or a steady arm. Her cries came less often, her laughter more.
Thank god.
You woke to her babbling beside you, her little mouth working as if trying to shape words she wasn’t ready for yet. Her fat hand smacked against your blanket, then tangled in the loose strands of your messy hair.
You smiled, eyes heavy with sleep but heart swelling. “Good morning.”
She cooed, whimpered, then buried her face against your chest, rooting instinctively. You adjusted and fed her, her eyes rolling back in that blissful, milk-drunk way babies had.
The door creaked, and Abby stepped inside. She looked better than she had in months—less hollow around the eyes, her shoulders no longer sagging from sleepless nights. Frances finally sleeping through the night had restored her, put some of her sharpness back.
Your hair was wild as you sat up with the baby, but Abby’s gaze softened anyway.
She cleared her throat. “I have to go back to base today.”
You nodded slowly. “I know… it’s been so long.”
Her chest rose and fell in a huff, reluctant. She still worked out every day, keeping her body honed, but she hadn’t picked up her rifle for anyone but you since Frances was born. Her world had narrowed to comforting you, feeding Frances, keeping the house running.
Lev peeked around her shoulder, stepping into the room with Norman at his heels. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Frances curiously as she gurgled. “She was quiet again last night.”
You nodded, smiling tiredly. “She should keep sleeping through the night now.”
Lev let out a long breath of relief, his shoulders sagging. “Finally.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. His tone made it sound like he’d survived the ordeal right alongside you.
Abby glanced between the two of you, then spoke up again. “Norman’s gonna stay with you while Lev and I are out.”
You nodded, shifting Frances into a burping position on your lap. “Okay.”
Norman padded closer at the sound of his name, tail giving a slow, steady wag. You hadn’t given him much attention lately—too much chaos, too many sleepless nights—but he never seemed to hold it against you. At night, he always settled at your bedside, pressing his warm body against your legs, letting your hand fall into his fur as you drifted in and out of shallow sleep.
Now he rested his chin on the mattress and blinked up at Frances, who reached her tiny hand out to grab at his ear. Norman let her tug, patient as ever, and you found yourself laughing softly at the sight.

Notes:

you guys really think im evil enough to kill off a baby character... gah what you all think of me...but i got you good right? ;)

Chapter 99: A good dog

You held Frances close, her warm little body supported snug against you by the fabric sling. Her weight was comforting now, familiar in a way that tethered you to the moment. You padded carefully down the stairs, one hand braced on the wall, each step slow and deliberate with her pressed to your chest.
Abby and Lev had left hours ago. It was just you, Norman, and Frances in the quiet house.
You started breakfast—oatmeal, like always. Funny how something so plain had become ritual, something to look forward to, even. The smell of warm oats filled the kitchen as Frances breathed softly against your neck, each little puff of air grounding you deeper in the ordinary. You never knew you could love something like this.
After eating, you laid Frances on a blanket on the living room floor, rolling her onto her belly. Abby had insisted she needed this “tummy time” every day, something about building her strength. Frances fussed immediately, kicking and squealing, her face scrunching in complaint.
You crouched beside her, brushing your fingers along her back. “I know, I know. I wouldn’t like it either,” you murmured. Still, you let her fuss while you cleaned the bowl in the sink. Norman padded over and stretched out beside her, his big body a calm, protective wall as her fists smacked against the blanket.
A draft snuck in through one of the windows, chilly and sharp. You closed it quickly, shivering. A storm was coming; the air carried that stillness before rain. You scooped Frances up and took her upstairs, tugging her into warmer clothes before settling her back into the sling. She blinked up at you, fat cheeks flushed, tiny hands batting at your shirt.
In the garage, you left the big rolling door open—Abby had always warned you not to, but you couldn’t stand the thought of Frances breathing in the fumes of oil and paint. You told yourself it was fine. Just for a little while.
You set up your easel, brush in hand. Hours slipped by in a haze of paint strokes and the quiet rhythm of Frances’s soft breaths. On the canvas, her round cheeks and small, serious eyes began to take shape. A whole painting dedicated to her beauty.
You were almost finished when her wail split the air.
It wasn’t just fussing—it was sharp, desperate. You set your brush down quickly and lifted her, fumbling as you tried to settle her at your breast. She wouldn’t latch, her screams growing louder, echoing through the garage and out into the world beyond the open door.
Then came the sound you dreaded most: wet, ragged footsteps slapping against concrete.
Your blood ran cold.
You spun toward the open door. A figure lurched into view, skin sloughed and twitching, teeth snapping. An infected. Drawn by her cries.
Panic froze you for a second too long. Frances shrieked against your chest, and the clicker was faster than you could scramble back. Its claws swiped, teeth snapping inches from her tiny body. You threw your arm over her, shielding her with your own flesh—
—and then Norman lunged.
A blur of fur and teeth, he slammed into the clicker with all his weight. His jaws clamped onto its throat, tearing a wet, choking gurgle out of it. But the clicker was stronger; it wrenched free and hurled Norman against the wall with a sickening thud.
He let out a single whimper. Then silence.
“NO!” The scream tore out of you raw, but you had no time to grieve. Frances was still crying, shrill and terrified. You slapped one hand over her ears and fumbled for your rifle with the other. The infected staggered forward—closer, closer—until the barrel met its chest.
You pulled the trigger. The blast cracked through the garage, deafening. Frances wailed harder at the noise, your body curling instinctively over hers.
Another runner charged in from the open street. You spun, fired again. The body collapsed in a spray of blood.
Then… silence.
Only the ringing in your ears. Only Frances’s throat-raw cries.
You sank to your knees on the cold concrete, trembling so hard you could barely hold her. Tears streamed down your face as you rocked her, whispering nonsense, apologies, anything.
The front door burst open. Abby and Lev stormed in, guns raised, eyes wide. They must have heard the shots—heard Frances crying from down the road.
They stopped dead at the sight of you: curled on the ground, clutching the baby, your cheeks wet with tears.
Lev’s gaze darted past you. He saw Norman.
Slowly, as if in a trance, he walked to the limp body in the corner. His knees buckled as he fell beside him. His hand trembled as it stroked Norman’s fur.
“Oh…” His voice broke into a whimper. He pressed his face into the dog’s neck, tears spilling freely. “Oh, no… Norman…”
Your sobs grew harder, rocking Frances against your chest. Abby crouched at your side, one big hand cupping the back of your head, her face pale with shock.
But Lev stayed there on the floor, clutching Norman’s body, his cries cutting deep into the storm-heavy air.
You felt Abby pull Lev into her arms, her big frame folding around him as he sobbed into her shoulder. You couldn’t sit there any longer—not with Frances sticky against your chest, both of you smeared with blood and filth.
You needed to clean her. Clean yourself. Pretend for just a moment that the world outside didn’t exist.
Sniffling, you pushed yourself to your feet and trudged up the stairs. Each step sent a dull ache through your thighs and back, but you kept going, clutching Frances close. Below, the sound of Abby and Lev’s voices tangled together—low and broken, crying softly as they whispered about Norman, about how he was a good dog. About how he didn’t deserve to die that way.
Your throat closed, but you kept climbing.
In the bathroom, you turned on the faucet, the pipes rattling before warm water spilled into the tub. Steam curled into the air, fogging the mirror, and for a moment you just stood there, staring at your reflection. Your hair plastered to your damp cheeks, your skin streaked with dirt and blood. Frances’s tear-slicked face pressed into your neck, innocent to all of it.
You stripped yourself first—bloody shirt, sticky pants, every reminder of the chaos—and then gently eased Frances out of her soiled clothes. She whimpered, kicking against the air, but you whispered softly to her, kissing her tiny toes, trying to keep her calm.
The tub filled halfway, warm enough that she wouldn’t burn, cool enough to soothe. You stepped in carefully, sinking down until the water lapped at your stomach. You lay Frances on your chest, your palm spread across her back to keep her steady, rocking her gently as the water rippled around you.
Her cries softened to little hiccups, then to coos. Her head tucked under your chin, warm breath puffing against your skin. You guided her tiny body into a float, your hand always beneath her, letting her limbs move weightlessly. For the first time since the garage, she sounded almost content.
Relief cracked you open. You kissed her damp forehead and choked on a sob. “I got you,” you whispered, voice breaking. Tears ran hot down your face, mixing with the bathwater. “I got you, baby. I promise.”
But poor Norman. His whimper still echoed in your ears, the sight of his limp body carved into your mind. Your chest heaved as fresh tears came, your shoulders shaking violently. Frances stirred at the sound, her soft cheek pressing harder into you, her presence the only thing holding you together.
When the water cooled, you rinsed her off gently, cleaning the sweat and tears from her little body. Then yourself, though you barely cared about your own state anymore.
You climbed out, dripping, and wrapped Frances in a towel first. She kicked her legs, cooing as if nothing had happened, no idea of the blood and horror downstairs. You dried yourself quickly, hands trembling, then slipped into clean clothes.
On the counter, you dressed her in a soft footie pajama, blue with tiny stitched flowers. She waved her fists, fat little fingers curling, and you forced a smile through your tears. “There,” you murmured. “Fresh and clean.”
You slipped her back into the sling, holding her close, her warmth pressed against your heart. Then you walked downstairs slowly, bracing yourself.
Lev was waiting at the bottom, his face blotchy and swollen, eyes red from crying. The moment he saw you, he wrapped his arms around you, clinging tightly. You hugged him back, rubbing his head, letting him sob against you.
He had gotten older—his shoulders broader, his jaw sharper—but in your arms he was still just a kid. Still Abby’s boy. Still yours, in the ways that mattered.
You brushed the tears from his cheeks with your thumb. “It’s okay,” you whispered, though you both knew it wasn’t.
Lev’s voice cracked as he finally spoke. “Abby and I… we’re gonna… bury Norman.” His words broke in the middle, catching on the grief he couldn’t hold down.
You nodded, your chest aching. “Okay. Okay. Be safe.”
Abby appeared behind him, her arm sliding around his shoulders, steadying him. Her eyes met yours—wet, fierce, exhausted—and then the two of them walked out the door together.
You sank onto the couch with Frances curled in your sling, your hand stroking her tiny back as your mind spun with what had happened.
The silence in the house pressed heavy. Only her small breaths reminded you that life, fragile and demanding, was still here.

Notes:

however... i am evil enough to kill off norman

Chapter 100: Sling

You rocked Frances gently, her warm weight against you the only thing keeping you steady. Then, slow and careful, you carried her upstairs.
In your room, you laid her down on the bed, her tiny body sinking into the blankets. You kissed her soft cheeks, her forehead, her little nose. “I’m sorry, honey,” you whispered, even though she wasn’t crying. You just needed to say it, to tell her, to confess.
She blinked up at you, content. You played with her fingers—each delicate, each impossibly small. You traced all eleven of them, your thumb brushing the extra digit as though it were some secret only you two shared.
The door creaked, and Abby stepped in. She was streaked with dirt, her shirt clinging with sweat. You heard the shower kick on in the bathroom down the hall, Lev’s muffled sobs breaking through the running water.
Abby sank down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion. For a long while, the two of you just listened—Lev’s cries mixing with the steady hiss of the shower.
Finally, she spoke. Her voice was low, steady, but heavy with grief. “You shouldn’t have had the garage open.”
You swallowed hard, nodding immediately. “I know… I didn’t want her to breathe in the paint fumes.”
Abby’s jaw shifted. She turned her head toward you, eyes tired but soft. “I don’t blame you.”
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then to Frances’s round little cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment, her hand rubbing circles on the baby’s belly.
Then, when Lev finally came out, red-eyed and silent, Abby rose and disappeared into the bathroom herself. The pipes groaned again as the second shower started, carrying away the dirt of the grave they’d dug together.
You sighed and lay back beside Frances, curling close to her, letting her little coos and tiny breaths pull you down from the edge of your thoughts.
_____________________________________________________________________
You woke the next morning to the soft creak of the rocking chair. The house was quiet except for the low hum of Abby’s voice and the wet little coos of Frances. Abby sat by the window, hair tied back messily, the early light gilding the curve of her shoulders. Frances bounced in her lap, squealing with delight every time Abby tapped her nose.
“You’re gonna come to base with Lev and me today,” Abby said without looking up, her tone casual—like she was stating a fact, not asking a question.
Your voice was hoarse from sleep. “Is it safe?”
Abby’s eyes lifted to yours, sharp for a moment, narrowing like they used to in the middle of patrols. Then she softened, rocking Frances against her chest. “You don’t have to worry about that. Lev and I will handle it.”
You nodded, though something knotted tight in your chest. What had happened to you? Once, you’d been a FEDRA soldier. You’d patrolled cracked streets, dragged out smugglers, shot runners point-blank. You’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Abby in Seattle, chasing Seraphites through the trees. And now… now you asked her if things were safe like you were a civilian, like you didn’t know how to hold a rifle anymore.
When had you become so dependent on her? And—worse—when had you started to like it?
You slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. The mirror’s glass was cloudy, streaked with age, but it still showed enough. Your hair had grown long again, hanging limp against your shoulders. Your body looked different than it had months ago—softer, heavier in your breasts and hips. Pregnancy had carved you into something unfamiliar.
You peeled your shirt up and turned sideways, fingers tracing the pale stretch marks feathering your sides. Your stomach was flatter now, but not like before. You sighed, pressing your palm against the skin, remembering the weight of Frances inside you, the strange comfort of knowing she was there. Some part of you missed it. Some part of you wished you could still be pregnant, as if carrying her had filled a hollow place you hadn’t known was there.
But then you thought of her laugh, the way her tiny body fit perfectly in your arms, and you knew you didn’t need that weight anymore. She was here. She was real. She was yours.
By the time you came back downstairs, Lev was waiting by the door. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale. He twisted the strap of his rifle nervously in his hands.
“Rachel’s gonna make us talk about Mara,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “So you know.”
Mara. The name landed like a stone in your stomach. For months you’d almost managed to forget—her, Vince, the smuggling, the chaos they’d left behind.
You adjusted Frances in her sling and forced your voice steady. “Okay.”
Abby had already dressed Frances for the day in a little cotton romper dyed a bright orange, tiny flowers scattered across the fabric. She looked ridiculous and sweet all at once, her chubby legs kicking against Abby’s chest.
You bent to kiss the top of her head, breathing in that powdery baby scent. Her hair was dark still, though you noticed strands were already fading toward a lighter shade. “I thought she’d have dark hair like me,” you murmured.
Abby smirked, brushing a finger over Frances’ curls. “Guess she decided she’d rather look like me.”
You rolled your eyes but felt warmth spread in your chest. Sliding Frances into the sling across your torso, you tightened the straps as she fussed, her little feet kicking against your stomach. She wanted to play, not be strapped down. You kissed her temple, whispering, “The walk will tire you out.”
Abby moved closer, slipping a small pack over your shoulder. “Don’t carry too much. If things go sideways, I’ll take her.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes lingered on you with that quiet protectiveness that always made your chest ache.
Lev cleared his throat, shifting his rifle to his back. He looked smaller in that moment, younger, but his jaw was set in a way that reminded you of all he’d lost.
The three of you stepped outside together. The air was damp, cool with the smell of wet earth. Puddles glittered in the cracks of the broken road, and a crow cawed from a wire before beating its wings and vanishing into the trees.
Abby’s boots hit the ground in steady, measured thuds. Lev moved quieter, his rifle already hugged close to his chest, eyes scanning the treeline like a hawk. And you—your steps were slower, Frances pressed warm against your chest, her cheek nestled into your collarbone as she began to doze.
You used to scan the world like that, too. Used to move like every shadow had teeth. Now, you let them do it for you.
And though some part of you still whispered coward, another part finally let itself exhale.
You told yourself that once Frances got older, you’d be back in action. A year old—that was the marker in your mind. Just a couple more months and you’d start training again, working your body back into what it used to be. But for now… for now you let yourself just be a mom. You let Abby take the reins, let her guide Lev, let her shoulder the weight you weren’t ready to carry again.
You should’ve done this sooner, should’ve allowed yourself softness, but you’d been too scared. Too convinced that letting go of soldiering meant letting go of yourself.
Frances broke your spiral with a coo, her tiny hands pawing at your face from the sling. Her mouth twisted, her cheeks going red with effort. Hungry.
You smiled faintly and pulled your shirt up just enough, guiding her to latch even as you walked. It was clumsy, but you’d learned to do it without breaking stride. Her fussing eased almost instantly, her little body relaxing against you as she fed.
It was easy. How it should be.
But you knew—anything could be waiting around the next corner. Infected in the shadows, desperate strangers in the brush. You tried to push the thought away, to focus on the weight of Frances against you and the rhythm of her breath, but it lingered like static at the edges of your mind.
You noticed Abby’s stride slow, then fall behind you. A shift in the air. She was thinking the same.
Her boots crunched over loose gravel as she swung her rifle forward, unslinging it in one smooth motion. You didn’t have to ask—her whole body said something’s wrong. She braced her shoulders, lifted the scope, and tracked east.
The crack of the rifle split the air.
Frances startled, jerking in the sling, her tiny body tensing. You shushed her quickly, stroking her back, murmuring soft nonsense against her head. She whimpered, but the comfort of feeding kept her from crying outright.
When you looked back, Abby was lowering her weapon, expression cool and steady. “Stalker. Quarter mile east,” she said simply.
You blinked. How the hell had she calculated that herself? The distance, the wind, the angle—it was instinct for her now. You remembered when it had been instinct for you, too.
By the time you reached base, Frances was asleep, milk-drunk and curled tight to your chest in the sling. Her lips parted slightly, breath warm against your shirt.
The soldiers on guard caught sight of her first, and the whole air shifted. Voices softened, smiles broke across faces hardened by years of hunger and blood. They cooed and muttered to each other as they gathered closer, their eyes wide and aching as they looked at her.
You didn’t blame them. Babies weren’t common in this world—not anymore. Every new one was a miracle, proof that life hadn’t given up on them yet.
You let them gawk, let them have this. You even smiled as you adjusted the sling so they could see her round cheeks and tiny curled fist. For once, there was no shame in being looked at—only warmth.
Everyone loved that Frances had eleven fingers. It became the first thing people noticed, the first thing they commented on. Some laughed softly, charmed by the oddity; others leaned in, whispering about how rare, how miraculous it was to see something so strange and harmless in a world so cruel. They thought it was funny. Adorable. Something to smile about.
But you couldn’t help thinking ahead. Past the gawking, past the cooing. What would it mean for her later? She’d always need a glove made special, tailored just for her. What if it made it harder to hold a bow? Or a gun? What if it made her stand out in ways that weren’t safe? Your mind wouldn’t stop racing, worry chewing at the edges of your joy as you introduced her from face to face.
Abby must have sensed it, because when she brushed against your shoulder, she murmured, “She’s perfect. Don’t let anyone make you think different.”
Her words steadied you, at least long enough to follow her through the base’s main hall.
And then—Rachel.
Fuck.
Your chest tightened as soon as you saw her. Sitting behind the rough wooden table they used for meetings, arms crossed, her sharp eyes finding you the second you stepped inside. You shifted Frances higher in her sling, your palm firm against her back as if you could shield her from whatever this was about to be.
Rachel’s hand flicked, motioning for you to sit. Her voice was flat, professional, but you caught the edges of something softer underneath. “Everything doing okay?” A pause, her gaze darting briefly toward Frances. “Other than… Norman. Sorry to hear. He was a good boy.”
The mention of your dog punched a hollow ache through your ribs. You nodded once, swallowing hard. “Yeah. He was.”
Abby stayed standing in the corner, her posture taut, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes tracked every movement Rachel made. Lev slipped into the chair beside you, his presence quiet but steady.
Rachel didn’t waste time. She leaned forward, clasping her hands. “It’s confirmed. Vince is smuggling. We used your pregnancy as a cover to keep eyes on him—no one suspected we’d risk putting you in the middle while you were vulnerable. But he’s been sloppy. He’s helping FEDRA.”
You weren’t surprised. Your lips pressed thin as you nodded. “Figured.”
Rachel exhaled through her nose, then shifted. “Mara, though…” Her brow furrowed. “Not so much. I can’t figure out her angle. My guess? He’s forcing her into it. She fell in with a bad crowd, and he’s pulling the strings.”
You stared down at Frances’ little hand curled around your shirt, her tiny extra finger pressed against your chest. You shook your head faintly. “She’s smarter than that. If she’s doing it, there’s a reason.”
Rachel clicked her tongue, leaning back. “I hope you’re right. But smart doesn’t always mean safe. And if she’s tangled up in this, she could get all of us killed.”
Abby shifted in the corner, her boots scraping the floor as if she wanted to say something but held it back. The air in the room tightened, everyone waiting for someone else to break the silence.
Rachel’s eyes locked on Lev like a hawk circling prey. “How come Mara chose you, Lev?” she asked, her voice cool and biting. “What are you hiding?”
Lev froze, shoulders curling forward. His mouth opened, then shut again—caught between the truth he wanted to scream and the shame she was dragging out of him.
You didn’t let it go that far. “Nope.” Your voice was sharp enough to make Frances stir in her sling. You stroked her back quickly before glaring across the desk. “Absolutely not. Lev didn’t have anything to do with it. Abby already told you—I caught Mara.”
Rachel’s brow furrowed, her lips pursing like she’d bitten into something sour. “Right, right,” she said slowly, her gaze sliding back to Lev. “But how do I know he isn’t lying? Hm? Kids lie. Especially when they’ve got something to lose.”
You scoffed, the sound ugly in your throat. “Because he beat the shit out of Vince for her, Rachel. You remember that? Half the base saw them rolling in the dirt, fists flying. That’s not a boy covering for a girl. That’s a boy trying to protect her.”
Rachel sighed through her nose, tapping her nails against the tabletop. The sound was sharp, deliberate, grating. “I don’t care about teenage drama. What I care about are my drugs. The ones I’m supposed to give to sick and wounded people. The ones disappearing from my tents, smuggled out of my base and handed over to FEDRA. Do you understand how serious that is?”
You tightened your hold on Frances, rocking her instinctively, though your own chest was a storm. “I understand. But Lev’s not your smuggler.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. She leaned back in her chair, then tilted her head slightly, as if she was working through a puzzle. “Lev dated her. She slept under your roof.” The words dripped accusation. “You think that doesn’t matter?”
That was when Abby moved. Her arms crossed over her chest, her shoulders filling the room like a barricade. Her voice was flat but edged with warning. “We’re not going further with this conversation.”
Rachel barely glanced at her. She leaned forward instead, bracing her hands on the desk so she could loom over Lev. “I know you’ve got something to do with this. Don’t play innocent with me. One of your mommies is ex-FEDRA, isn’t she? Maybe it runs in the family.”
The words dropped like a grenade.
Lev flinched so hard you heard the chair scrape as he jerked back. His breath hitched, his eyes wide, wet, shimmering with humiliation he was trying to swallow down. He bit his lip, but his hands betrayed him—trembling against his knees.
You felt a surge of white-hot anger, but before you could speak, Abby was already moving. She stepped forward, her boots striking the floor hard enough to make Rachel’s coffee mug rattle against the desk. She planted herself directly in front of Lev, her broad frame blocking him completely from Rachel’s view.
Her voice came low, sharp as broken glass. “That’s enough. We’re leaving.”
Rachel didn’t move. She straightened slowly, her lips pressed thin, her gaze trying to pierce around Abby’s shoulders to pin Lev again. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
Abby adjusted her stance, shifting just slightly—enough to make it clear: if Rachel wanted to keep pressing, she’d have to do it through her.
The silence was suffocating. Lev’s shallow breaths trembled behind Abby, each one like he was trying not to fall apart. Frances whimpered against your chest, and you rocked her gently, murmuring soft words, though your eyes never left Rachel.
Finally, Rachel exhaled, her voice colder than ever. “Fine. Go. But don’t expect me to clean up the mess when Mara burns you again.”
Abby didn’t answer. She just reached back, resting a protective hand on Lev’s shoulder and guiding him toward the door. You rose with them, Frances warm and heavy against you, your blood still buzzing with fury.
As the three of you left, Rachel stayed seated at her desk, her hands folded tightly enough that her knuckles went white.

Chapter 101: Frustration

The air outside the base was heavy, still carrying the bite of Rachel’s words. It clung to all three of you as you walked, pressing down like a second weight.
Lev trudged a step behind, his hood pulled low, fists jammed deep into his pockets. He kicked at loose stones in the cracked road, the clatter echoing too loud in the silence. His shoulders were hunched tight, trembling every so often, like he was fighting hard to hold himself together.
Abby kept close to him, her pace slowed so she was never more than a stride ahead. She carried her rifle over one shoulder, her free hand clenching and unclenching like she wanted to hit something—Rachel, a wall, anything. You could feel the storm rolling off her, the way her whole body stayed rigid as if she were daring the world to give her a target.
You followed just behind, Frances a warm weight curled against your chest in the sling. She slept soundly, her small lips pressed against your shirt, her breath steady. You adjusted her gently, brushing your cheek against her soft hair. She grounded you, but she also made your heart ache. The world she’d grown into was already cruel, and Rachel’s venomous words only proved it.
“Lev,” you said softly after a stretch of silence. “You know none of what she said was true.”
He didn’t answer right away. His boot scuffed against broken asphalt, his head still bowed. Finally, his voice came out rough. “She thinks I’m weak. She thinks I’m… easy to use. Just like everyone else does.”
Abby’s jaw flexed, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “She doesn’t know shit.”
Lev gave a small, bitter laugh. “Doesn’t she? Mara hid drugs in my room. Everyone believed it. Because it makes sense.” His voice cracked, and he blinked fast, swiping at his eyes like he didn’t want you to notice.
Abby stopped in her tracks. She turned, her hand landing heavy but steady on his shoulder. “Hey. Listen to me.” Her voice dropped, low and fierce. “She was wrong. Rachel was wrong. Mara was wrong. You’re not weak. You never were. You’re here because you’re stronger than half the people in that base.”
Lev’s eyes lifted, watery, searching her face for proof. Abby squeezed his shoulder. “If she ever talks to you like that again, she’ll answer to me.”
You reached out too, brushing his arm gently. “She only pushed that hard because she’s scared. Because she’s losing control of her supplies. She wanted someone to blame. That doesn’t mean she was right.”
Lev sniffled, staring down at the cracked road again. But this time, when he kept walking, his shoulders weren’t hunched quite as low.
Abby fell back to your side, her expression still storm-dark. “She had no right,” she muttered. “Going after him like that. Dragging you into it.”
You rubbed Frances’ back, eyes on Lev’s small figure ahead of you. “No,” you said quietly. “But that’s who Rachel is. She’ll always care more about the base than the people in it.”
The three of you walked the rest of the way in silence, the ruined city looming around you. Frances stirred once, letting out a small sigh, and you kissed the top of her head. Lev’s steps evened out. Abby’s hand brushed against yours every so often, an anchor in the gray.
By the time you reached the door of the house, the weight of Rachel’s office was still clinging to your skin—but at least you were together, and at least you were home.
By the time you reached the house, Frances had fully melted into sleep against your chest, her little body limp in the sling. Her tiny breaths tickled through your shirt, warm and steady.
The door creaked as Abby pushed it open, scanning instinctively before stepping inside. She set her rifle down by the wall with more force than necessary. The heavy thunk echoed through the small space, but she didn’t speak. She just disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of a cup slamming onto the table a moment later.
You exhaled slowly, slipping the sling straps off your shoulders. Frances stirred, smacking her lips before settling again. You carried her into the bedroom and laid her carefully in the crib, adjusting the blanket around her little legs. She rolled once, fists curling near her mouth, then went still.
You lingered there a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Safe. Peaceful. At least for now.
When you stepped back into the living room, Lev was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He looked small, swallowed in the quiet.
You sat beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. “Hey.”
He didn’t look up. “She hates me.” His voice was rough, raw from holding back tears all the way home.
“She doesn’t hate you,” you said carefully. “She’s scared. And when people like Rachel get scared, they need someone to blame. Mara handed you to her on a platter.”
Lev’s jaw tightened, but his voice trembled. “Why me? Why would Mara… why would she do that?”
You hesitated, your fingers twisting together in your lap. Because you knew. Because you’d lived it.
“Because it’s easy,” you admitted softly. “Because when someone has a past—when they’ve been othered, when they’ve been doubted before—it’s the perfect cover. Nobody questions it.”
Lev glanced sideways at you, confusion flickering in his eyes.
You swallowed, your voice quieter now. “Back in FEDRA, I… I used to smuggle too. Booze, pills, sometimes cigarettes. I helped people sneak it in because I wanted it for myself. I thought it made me untouchable, that I was clever.” You let out a bitter laugh. “All it did was make me paranoid. And when I got caught, I blamed everyone but me.”
Lev blinked, surprised. “You…?”
“Yeah.” You rubbed your hands over your knees. “So I know Mara’s type. I know why she put it in your dresser. Because people would believe it belonged to you, not her. Just like they used to believe everything bad belonged to me.”
Lev’s throat worked, his eyes glassy but focused on you now. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“I know.” You leaned closer, your hand brushing his back gently. “And Abby knows. That’s what matters. Rachel will never see the whole of you—she doesn’t want to. But we do. We know who you are. And you’re not weak. You’re not guilty.”
Lev’s lip trembled, but he nodded, just once. His shoulders sagged, some of the tension bleeding out.
From the kitchen, Abby’s voice carried low, firm. “Damn right he’s not.”
Lev’s head turned, his face flushed with both embarrassment and relief. Abby appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, but softer now. She gave him a small nod, her eyes saying what words couldn’t.
For the first time since Rachel’s office, Lev let himself breathe.
Abby came out of the kitchen, shoulders tight, a half-empty cup clutched in her fist. Her jaw was working like she was chewing glass.
“She had no fucking right,” Abby snapped. Her voice was sharp, but controlled, like she was trying not to wake Frances. “None. I’ve bled for that woman. Hauled her supplies across half this city. Put down infected at her gates while she cowered behind a desk. And this is how she pays me back? By tearing into Lev like he’s a criminal?”
Lev shrank a little, eyes dropping again. You reached over, squeezing his arm, but Abby wasn’t done.
“She doesn’t know shit about him,” Abby went on, pacing across the living room. “She doesn’t know what he’s survived. What he’s fought through just to stand here. She doesn’t get to sit there in her little chair and talk to him like he’s some problem to fix.”
Her hand slammed the cup down on the table, water sloshing over the rim. “I should’ve said more. I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve ripped into her right there.”
“Abby,” you said softly, but your voice couldn’t quite cut through her fury.
“I’m serious, Joan. I’ve carried Rachel’s goddamn base on my back since the day we got here. Kept her people alive, fixed her fences, ran her patrols, and she looks me in the face and treats my family like—like—” Abby broke off, her hands curling into fists. “Like we’re disposable.”
Lev flinched at the word, his chin sinking toward his chest. You rubbed his back quickly. “Hey. No. That’s not true.”
Abby noticed, and her anger shifted in an instant. She crouched down in front of Lev, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her voice was still burning, but steadier now, like embers instead of flame. “You listen to me. You’re not disposable. Not to me, not to Joan, not to Frances. We don’t survive this world without you, Lev. Rachel doesn’t know shit, and she doesn’t deserve to know.”
Lev’s eyes glossed with tears again, but this time he didn’t look away.
You placed a hand on Abby’s shoulder, grounding her, and added, “She was lashing out because she’s scared. But she was wrong. About you. About us. And she knows it.”
Abby’s jaw flexed, but she nodded once, never looking away from Lev. “If she ever talks to you like that again,” she said, her voice like stone, “she’ll answer to me. Got it?”
Lev let out a shaky breath and gave a small nod.
The three of you sat there in the quiet, Frances’ soft snores drifting from the bedroom. Abby’s anger still simmered, your guilt still gnawed, and Lev’s hurt still stung—but together, it felt a little lighter, a little more bearable.
Lev sat stiff between the two of you, his knee bouncing, jaw working as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt. Finally, he pushed himself up, voice low. “I’m gonna… go for a walk. Patrol a little. Make sure there aren’t any strays around.”
You frowned, instinct tugging at you. “Lev—”
“I’ll be fine,” he cut in, adjusting the strap of his rifle. His eyes were still red, but his voice steadied. “I just need… some air.”
Abby looked ready to argue, but she caught herself. She gave him a slow nod instead. “Don’t go far.”
He didn’t answer, just slipped out the door, the click of it shutting leaving the house in a heavy quiet.
Abby exhaled hard, dragging a hand through her hair before slamming her palm against the edge of the counter. The sound made Frances stir faintly in the next room. You both froze, waiting until she settled again, then Abby cursed under her breath.
“She has some fucking nerve,” Abby growled, pacing. “Rachel sits on her ass while I’m the one out there breaking my back. I’ve brought her supplies in the middle of goddamn storms. Hauled ammo crates that nearly killed my shoulders. I’ve stood between her people and a swarm of infected more times than I can count. And then she looks me in the eye like I’m nothing, like he’s nothing?”
She spun toward you, fury blazing hot in her face. “I’ve bled for her, Joan. I’ve lost sleep, lost time I should’ve had with you, with Lev, with Frances, because she couldn’t keep her fences patched or her patrols organized. And this is what we get for it? She tries to break him down until he thinks he’s trash?”
You opened your mouth, but Abby kept going, the words tumbling out like she couldn’t stop them.
“I should’ve walked out of there years ago. You know that? The only reason we stayed was because I thought she was worth protecting. I thought this place was worth it. But maybe all I did was give her too much power. Maybe all I did was make her think she could talk to us however the fuck she wanted.”
Her voice cracked—not with weakness, but with sheer rage. She pressed her fists into the table, knuckles white. “She doesn’t get to do that to him. Not Lev. Not after everything he’s already had to survive. And she sure as hell doesn’t get to drag you into it either, bringing up FEDRA like it’s a curse you can’t wash off.”
Her chest was heaving by then, every muscle in her body taut, her braid slipping loose from the force of her movements. She looked like she could rip Rachel’s desk apart with her bare hands.
You stepped forward, reaching for her wrist gently. “Abby,” you said softly. “I know.”
Her eyes burned into yours, wild and furious, but beneath it you saw the pain—the betrayal, the exhaustion of giving so much to someone who only gave cruelty back.
“She doesn’t deserve you,” you whispered. “Any of us.”
Abby’s breath shuddered, but she didn’t pull away. She let you hold her wrist, her shoulders sagging just a fraction under the weight of it all.
Abby yanked her wrist free, but not to push you away—just to drag both hands over her face, fingers pressing into her eyes like she could squeeze the rage out of her skull. When she dropped them, her expression was raw, almost desperate.
“Joan,” she said, her voice hoarse from shouting. “What are we even doing here? Tell me. Because right now I don’t know if I can keep giving everything to a woman who’ll turn around and tear Lev apart for sport.”
You stared at her, heart hammering.
Her eyes bored into yours. “Should we just leave? Take Lev, take Frances, and go. Find somewhere—anywhere—that isn’t Rachel’s cage.”
The words hit you like a punch, half thrilling and half terrifying. The idea of walking away, of taking Abby’s hand and going, had lived in the back of your mind before. But then your gaze drifted toward the bedroom, where Frances slept curled like a kitten, her tiny breaths steady.
You swallowed. “Abby…” You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “I want to. God, you know I want to. But Frances is still so little. She’s not even a year old. She still wakes up half the night. She can’t handle travel, not yet. And we don’t even know where we’d go.”
Abby’s jaw flexed, her fists tightening at her sides. “Anywhere has to be better than this.”
“Not with her like this,” you said gently. “Not while she still needs stability. Food. Sleep. She deserves at least that much before we drag her into the dirt again.”
Abby turned away, pacing a sharp circle, her boots loud against the floorboards. Her shoulders rose and fell, fighting every instinct in her not to argue.
You reached out, catching her hand this time before she could move further. “When she’s older,” you said firmly. “When she can walk, when she can carry herself a little—then we’ll go. You and me and Lev. We’ll find someplace where no one looks at him like he’s disposable. Where no one remembers FEDRA when they look at me. But for now… we keep her safe. We play it smart.”
Abby’s chest heaved, but her eyes softened at that, her grip tightening around yours. The fury was still there, but it had dulled into something steadier—resolve.
“She deserves better,” Abby muttered.
“She will have better,” you promised. “But not yet.”
The house went quiet, the only sound Frances’ soft sighs from the other room. Abby leaned into you finally, her forehead pressing against yours, both of you held together by the fragile, stubborn hope that maybe—someday—you could really leave.
The front door creaked open just as the sun began bleeding orange through the broken windowpanes. Lev slipped back inside, rifle slung across his back. His hood was down now, dark hair damp with sweat, his face flushed from the long walk. He looked steadier—still worn, still raw from Rachel’s words—but calmer, his breathing even.
“Clear,” he said simply, voice rough but sure. “No strays around. Just quiet.”
Abby looked him over, her hands tightening briefly at her sides before she nodded. “Good,” she said, softer than she had been all evening. “Thanks, Lev.”
He gave a little shrug, but his eyes flicked to you, then the bedroom where Frances slept. Almost like he needed to make sure she was okay, too.
By the time you all gathered around the table, you’d managed to scrape together dinner—boiled root vegetables, dried meat softened in broth, and a small hunk of bread Abby had traded for earlier in the week. It wasn’t much, but it filled the air with a warm, earthy smell that made the house feel like a home.
You sat with Frances propped in your lap while Abby and Lev ate. She smacked her fists on the table, drool dripping down her chin, eyes fixed on the bread crust in Abby’s hand.
“She’s not getting that,” Abby said with a smirk, tearing the piece in half for herself.
“She’s persistent,” you teased, kissing the top of Frances’ head before sliding a bit of softened carrot into her tiny palm. She gnawed at it with a triumphant squeal, gums working fiercely.
Lev chuckled under his breath, the sound small but genuine. “She’s gonna be scarier than all of us one day.”
“She already is,” Abby muttered, though there was pride in her voice.
After dinner, you cleared the dishes while Abby spread a blanket on the floor. Frances wriggled onto her stomach, her little arms pumping as she kicked and tried to push herself forward. She grunted with determination, fists clenching, her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration.
“Tummy time,” you announced, dropping down beside her to cheer her on.
Lev stretched out on his side nearby, chin propped in his hand as he watched. Abby crouched low, clapping softly every time Frances managed to shove herself a few inches ahead.
“Look at her,” Abby said, awe sneaking into her tone. “She’s stubborn as hell.”
“She gets it from you,” you teased, brushing your fingers over Frances’ soft hair.
Lev smiled faintly, his eyes glassy in the low light, but this time not from pain—just from watching something pure in a world that rarely gave it.
The house grew quiet again as night settled in. The storm of Rachel’s words was still there, under the surface, but here—together, with Frances squealing on the blanket and Abby’s hand warm against your shoulder—it felt a little easier to breathe.

Chapter 102: Steel

It had been months. Frances’ birthday had come and gone, a day marked not by cake or streamers, not by a party full of other children — just by your quiet voices wishing her happy birthday. In this world, there weren’t pastel balloons or frosted candles like the magazines you used to flip through outside QZ walls. No, there was just the three of you, a shared meal, and Abby lifting Frances high enough to make her squeal. That was all you could give her, and you hoped it was enough.
She was bigger now, heavier in your arms, her cheeks round and flushed. Crawling everywhere, too. You couldn’t take your eyes off her for more than a second — she wanted to get into every cupboard, every bag, every corner she wasn’t supposed to. Frances had a stubborn streak, and though she couldn’t talk yet, her shrill little fusses made her opinions very clear.
“She’s teething,” Abby had said one evening, crouched beside her as Frances gnawed furiously on the corner of a wooden block. “My dad used to talk about it — babies cry, chew on everything they can find.”
You hadn’t wanted to believe it at first, but when you peeked inside her mouth, you saw it: a tiny nub of white pushing through her gum. The sight made your stomach twist — relief that she was growing, but also worry gnawing at the edges.
She was adapting, she was progressing… but then Abby came home one night with a tattered parenting book she’d bartered for at the docks. The two of you had sat hunched together over the yellowed pages, tracing the faded charts that told you what “normal” development should look like.
“She should’ve had teeth months ago,” you whispered, your stomach knotting hard.
Abby closed the book and pressed her arm against yours. “It’ll be fine.” Her voice was steady, but you could see the worry flicker behind her eyes. She reached over and tapped Frances’ little fist as it flailed toward her. “Look at her. She’s strong. Doesn’t matter what the book says.”
You nodded, though your eyes lingered on your daughter’s gummy mouth, the one small tooth pressing through like it had to fight for its place in the world — just like the rest of you.
You’d learned the hard way what the old women whispered was true — when babies got teeth, they bit. And Frances had no mercy. Every feeding had become an ordeal of clenched teeth, muffled curses, and tears stinging the corners of your eyes. You’d tried to wean her, tried to coax her onto real food, but she turned her face away from every spoon, every mash of carrot or bit of bread.
So you sat through it. Hours of agonizing feedings, jaw locked and nipples raw, just so she wouldn’t go hungry. You’d told yourself it was temporary. That she’d catch up eventually. But today, today something inside you snapped.
Her jaw clamped down sharp, and you yelped before yanking her off you, the ache throbbing so bad you had to grit your teeth to keep from crying out. Your nipples were swollen, cracked, hot with pain.
“You are done!” you barked, harsher than you meant.
Frances’ little face crumpled instantly, her mouth opening wide as she wailed. Big, wet tears spilled down her cheeks as her tiny fists flailed.
You set her in your lap at the table, exhaling hard, trying to ignore the sting in your chest. “You’re gonna eat this oatmeal and like it!” you told her firmly, voice shaking somewhere between anger and desperation.
Her cries spiked higher, echoing through the house, and you pinched the bridge of your nose, trying not to lose it. You scooped up a small spoonful of the mushy oatmeal and held it up to her mouth.
She turned her face stubbornly, lips pressed tight.
You groaned, rubbing a hand down your face. “Frances, please,” you whispered, softer now, the fight bleeding out of you. “Mama can’t do this anymore.”
Abby’s heavy footsteps came from the other room. She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow arched as she watched you battle a red-faced, screaming baby with a spoonful of oats.
“Need backup?” she asked dryly.
You shot her a glare, but it lacked any real heat. “She’s impossible.”
Abby smirked faintly, stepping forward and crouching beside you. “She gets that from you.”
Frances wailed louder, as if to prove the point.
Abby dipped her finger into the oatmeal and smeared just a bit on Frances’ lips. Frances hiccupped mid-cry, tongue darting out to taste. Her eyes went wide, surprise flickering across her tear-streaked face.
“There you go,” Abby murmured, gentle now. “Not so bad, huh?”
Frances sniffled, then opened her mouth just enough for the next spoonful.
You sagged in your chair, equal parts exhausted and relieved. Abby chuckled under her breath, brushing a hand over Frances’ soft curls before glancing at you. “Told you she’d come around. Just needed a firm hand.”
You muttered, “And patience I don’t have.”
Abby pressed a kiss to the side of your head, her voice low. “Good thing I do.”
The days that followed passed easier. Frances finally took to food, her little fists grabbing at spoonfuls of oatmeal or mashed carrots instead of your breasts, and the sharp, biting pain faded from your body. You could breathe again, free of that constant wince.
But Rachel was always there — a shadow hanging over everything.
Every third day, you packed Frances against your chest and walked with Abby and Lev back to the base. And every time, Rachel was waiting. Her sharp eyes picked over you like knives, questions circling the same drain.
“Where was Mara?”
“What did Lev know?”
“Why your house? Why your room?”
Day after day, she pressed, her voice rising until it was almost a scream, her hand slapping the table for emphasis, Frances wailing in your sling from the noise. Lev shrank smaller with each interrogation, Abby’s jaw tightened further, and you sat there gripping the edge of your chair, wishing you could throw Rachel through the wall.
But nothing ever came of it. Rachel could accuse, could circle like a vulture, but she couldn’t prove anything. Because there was nothing to prove. Lev wasn’t smuggling. He never had.
And eventually — silence.
The questions stopped. The screaming stopped. No more being dragged to the base every few days, no more Rachel’s voice poisoning the air around your daughter. Just… nothing.
The absence of it was almost disorienting. You caught yourself bracing every time Abby suggested a supply run, expecting Rachel’s glare to meet you at the gate. But she wasn’t there. Not for you. Not anymore.
You stopped being forced to sit under her questions. Stopped being screamed at until your ears rang.
The quiet felt like a reprieve. But it also felt like something else — like a calm before another storm.
The silence from Rachel stretched on for weeks, then months. Life settled into a rhythm you hadn’t thought possible anymore — Lev patrolled when he needed space, Abby took on the hardest work around the base, and you spent most of your days chasing Frances through the house. Without Rachel’s constant accusations, the world almost felt normal, even if only in fleeting bursts.
Frances was growing fast, faster than you could keep up with. She babbled from sunup to sundown, crawling across the floor in relentless pursuit of whatever caught her eye — Lev’s boots, Abby’s braid, the edge of your sleeve. She was stubborn, loud, and exhausting. But she was yours.
There were moments, in the quiet after dark, when you almost let yourself believe you’d escaped it all. That maybe the past was done with you, that the lies you’d spun were buried deep enough to never crawl back out.
But today was different. Frances was nearly two now, and every day she seemed more unstoppable. Climbing, running, babbling words that were almost sentences — she was a blur of motion and sound, her energy spilling over into every corner of the house.
Her hair had grown long enough to curl into a soft blond bob, the strands catching light like spun honey. It framed her big brown eyes — eyes so warm and curious it almost hurt to look at them sometimes. She was an uncanny balance between you and Abby, though she carried none of Abby’s blood. And yet, in the set of her jaw, in the spark of her stubbornness, you swore you saw Abby every time.
Her shriek cracked the morning wide open.
“Mommy!” she yelled from her crib, the word pitched high with excitement, not fear.
You stirred, rubbing the grit from your eyes, but Abby was already there. She’d gotten into the habit of rising before dawn, slipping out for long jogs through the overgrown streets, as if each mile could burn out the anger Rachel had left behind. Her body always hummed with discipline, calculated and steady, and mornings were hers to claim before the rest of the house woke.
Now she stood at the doorway with Frances balanced on her hip, the toddler bouncing in her arms like a coiled spring. Frances laughed, her legs kicking wildly.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” she cheered, as if the word itself was a song.
You reached out, smiling despite the fog in your head. “Hi, baby.” You kissed the top of her curls, inhaling the faint scent of sleep and milk.
But the moment she hit the mattress beside you, she was gone — whirring across the bed like a motor wound too tight, climbing over pillows, bouncing on the sheets, throwing herself toward the edge until you grabbed her by the waist and set her back down. She shrieked with laughter, already trying again.
You huffed, burying your face in your hands before peeking out at her chaos. “I’m so excited for you to grow up,” you muttered, half to yourself, half to the whirlwind that was your daughter.
She only giggled, scrambling up Abby’s arm like she was scaling a mountain, shouting the single word she loved most.
“Mommy!”
But Abby loved it. She couldn’t get enough of these new toddler days, the bursts of wild energy that Frances carried like a firecracker in her small body. You could tell she thrived on it — on being chased, wrestled with, outmatched by a squealing two-year-old. Abby tossed her gently onto the pillows, and Frances scrambled back, curls bouncing as she shouted, “’Gain! ’Gain!”
Abby obliged. Over and over, she threw her into the pillows just soft enough for Frances to tumble safely, and every time the little girl shrieked and clambered back up, demanding another round. Thirty minutes passed like that until Abby finally collapsed back, breathless and laughing.
You stretched, rubbing your back, and Frances trailed behind you in her little footie pajamas, wobbling on her chubby legs. She was quick now, but still unsteady enough that you had to keep half an eye on her every second.
To your surprise, Abby didn’t stop her from following you into the bathroom. Frances toddled in, watched you with keen eyes, then without hesitation began stripping off her own pajamas. The damp squish of her diaper hit your ears a second later.
“Oh, no…” you groaned, scrambling up. You grabbed her diaper before she could drag it across the floor. “God, when did you do this?”
The smell hit you, and you wrinkled your nose. Frances howled with laughter, clapping her sticky hands like it was the best joke in the world. Of course she would find it funny — she had inherited you and Abby’s gross humor.
You sighed, shaking your head, and got her cleaned up, sliding her into a simple cotton dress. She kicked stubbornly when you tried to put socks on her, her little “No!” shrill in the tiny room. You relented. Not worth the fight.
The moment her feet touched the floor, she bolted — barreling out of the bathroom and into Lev’s room. You heard the thump of her climb onto his bed, followed by his groggy groan.
“Get her off me!” Lev cried, his voice muffled.
“Leb! Leb!” Frances shrieked, bouncing up and down, mangling his name without the “v.”
You couldn’t help but smile at the sound as you headed downstairs. Abby was already tugging on her boots, rifle leaned against the wall. She looked steady, composed, though her eyes still carried the edge she hadn’t been able to shake since Rachel.
You walked up behind her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, letting your touch linger. The faint sound of Frances squealing upstairs drifted down, Lev’s curses tangled in with her giggles.
Abby let out a long breath, leaning into you slightly. Then her voice came low, dangerous. “If Rachel brings up Mara and Lev one more time, I might kill her, Joan.”
You sighed, smoothing your hand down her arm. “He’s almost nineteen now. He’ll be okay. It’ll pass once they find out who’s really at the top of it.”
Abby’s jaw worked before she nodded, inhaling deep like she was steadying herself. “I’ll be home early. Lev’s gonna stay here, okay? Have him do a patrol for you.”
You nodded. “I think I’ll take Frances to the beach.”
That softened her. She turned, gave you a small smile — rare, but real. “Only if you rein Lev in, okay?”
You laughed lightly and nodded again, watching her gather her gear. She kissed you once, brief but certain, before stepping out into the gray morning, the door closing softly behind her.
Lev came down with Frances wriggling under his arm, her curls wild and cheeks flushed from the struggle. He plopped her into her chair with a grunt, and she immediately kicked the tray like it had insulted her. He didn’t complain though — not anymore. Breakfast duty was his chore now, his way of pulling weight, and though he used to grumble, these days he just set about cracking eggs into the pan and cutting fruit into messy cubes.
You left them to it, heading upstairs into the room you shared with Abby. The air was still sharp with salt from the open window, the bedsheets tangled where Frances had crawled over them earlier. You stretched, then dropped into the rhythm you’d been building for nearly a year. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. You could feel the difference now, the way your muscles had returned, the ache that was no longer unbearable but welcomed. A reminder of who you had been — and who you were trying to be again.
You drove yourself for an hour, sweat slicking your back, your breath loud in the empty room. By the time you finally stopped, your body hummed with fatigue and pride.
When you came downstairs, damp hair clinging to your temples, Lev was at the table with a book cracked open, one leg bouncing absently. Frances was sprawled on the rug with the set of wooden cars John had carved for her. She pushed them in crooked lines, making little “vroom” sounds under her breath, her face pink with concentration.
The sight pulled a smile out of you despite the heaviness still lodged in your chest.
“Going for a run,” you said, wiping sweat from your brow as you reached for your rifle. “Watch her.”
Lev nodded without looking up, his eyes still skimming the page. You trusted him now, more than you used to — he was steady, patient with Frances in ways you sometimes weren’t.
Outside, the sea air hit you full in the chest, briny and clean. You filled your lungs with it, trying to push everything else out. Your boots hit the sand-packed path in a steady rhythm as you began to jog, the sound of waves a low heartbeat against the shore.
But no matter how far your feet carried you, Rachel clung to your thoughts. Her voice, sharp and accusing, slithered back in. The way she’d leaned toward Lev, spitting venom as if he were still that boy hiding under someone else’s shadow. The way she looked at you — always at you — like FEDRA still ran through your veins, like you were marked and couldn’t ever scrub it off.
You pushed harder, your thighs burning as you picked up speed. The sweat in your eyes stung, but it was nothing compared to the heat of that memory, of Rachel’s words digging into places you thought you’d buried.
Frances was nearly two now. Abby was steadying herself again. Lev was finding his footing. And still Rachel lingered — a shadow you couldn’t outrun, no matter how many miles you pounded into the sand.
The first mile burned, but you welcomed it. The second mile was worse — your lungs pulling sharp and ragged, your thighs begging you to slow. You didn’t. You pressed harder, as if each step could grind Rachel’s voice out of your skull.
Her words echoed anyway. One of your mommies is ex-FEDRA. Maybe it runs in the family.
Your fists clenched tighter on the rifle strap bouncing against your shoulder. Sweat blurred your eyes, salt stinging, but you blinked through it. The ocean roared to your right, endless and empty. To your left, the ruins of beachside houses sagged, windows blown out, roofs collapsed into themselves. Skeletons of lives that had once been normal.
Just like you.
You pushed yourself harder, boots pounding the cracked pavement until the steady jog turned into a sprint. Your chest heaved, your vision narrowed, but you didn’t stop. If you kept moving, maybe you could outrun the part of yourself Rachel wouldn’t let you forget.
That’s when you heard it.
A low, wet gurgle echoing from one of the hollowed-out houses. You skidded to a stop, breath steaming in the morning air. Another sound followed — a shuffle of feet, nails scraping wood.
You pulled the rifle down in one smooth motion, safety already off.
The first runner burst through the rotted doorway, its jaw slack, its chest heaving with that awful rattling hiss. You didn’t hesitate. One shot cracked the quiet, sending gulls scattering from the roofline. The infected dropped in a heap, dust billowing around it.
But more came.
Two, then three, stumbling out from the shadows like moths dragged toward the light. You backpedaled fast, raising the rifle again. The second fell with a neat shot through the skull, but the third was faster — closing ground with wild, thrashing limbs.
You grunted, swinging the butt of the rifle hard. Bone crunched beneath the impact, the creature’s jaw snapping sideways as it reeled. You slammed the barrel under its chin and pulled the trigger. Its head snapped back, collapsing into the sand in a spray of dark red.
Silence crashed back down. Only your ragged breathing filled the space, mixing with the distant waves.
You stood there, sweat slicking your back, chest heaving, staring at the three broken bodies on the ground.
For a moment, you almost felt calm again. Almost.
But Rachel’s voice slithered back, unshakable. Maybe it runs in the family.
You spat into the dirt, muttered a curse, then pulled your rifle strap tighter across your shoulder. And then you started running again, pounding the path until your lungs screamed and your body was too exhausted to think at all.
You ran for another mile, circling the length of the beach until the sun sat higher, its light spilling gold across the water. Each step felt heavier, not just from the sand sucking at your boots but from the weight in your chest.
Frank’s voice threaded through your head, the way it always did when the silence got too long. Don’t be FEDRA, Jo. Don’t let them own you. He’d said it like a prayer back then, even when you’d already signed your name to them.
You slowed, chest heaving, and finally stopped, tilting your face toward the sky. The gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and distant.
“Do you see her, Frank?” you asked out loud, voice breaking against the wind.
A long pause, only your pulse pounding in your ears. You dropped your gaze to the ground, to the broken shells and cigarette butts scattered in the sand. Your voice came out quieter, almost pleading. “Do you see her?”
You knew the answer before the words left your mouth. If eternal paradise was real — if there was some heaven waiting — neither of you were going. Not with the blood on your hands. Not with the lies you’d chosen.
Your throat closed, and you put your hands on your hips, forcing air into your lungs. “Why’d you have to grab me when that sniper shot out?” The memory flared hot — his body jerking, the spray of red, his eyes wide in disbelief before they closed forever.
Your breath squeaked, shallow and tight. “I need a cigarette so fucking bad.” The craving clawed at your chest, old and sour, as sharp as the sting of Rachel’s words.
But you didn’t stop. You adjusted the rifle on your back, spat into the sand, and forced your legs to move again. Step after step, back toward the crooked little house that was all you had left.
By the time it came into view, you were drenched in sweat, lungs on fire, the salt air burning in your throat. You jogged slower now, almost a stumble, but you didn’t quit until your boots hit the porch.
You came inside and leaned your head against the doorframe for a second, still catching your breath. The house smelled faintly of oats and woodsmoke, the kind of homely scent that made you hesitate — like leaving it behind, even for a little while, would break the spell.
“Lev?” you called, voice rough.
He appeared on the stairs, carrying Frances against his hip, her hair damp from the quick wash he’d given her after breakfast. She squealed when she saw you, arms reaching out, but Lev held her steady. “Yeah?”
You wiped the sweat from your forehead, chest still heaving. “I’m going to base.”
Lev’s brow furrowed. “You sure?” His voice wasn’t doubting, exactly — more worried. He always was when Rachel was involved.
You sighed, rolling your shoulders to ease the tightness in them. “Yeah.”
He nodded slowly, shifting Frances in his arms. She rested her cheek on his shoulder, eyes wide and curious as they followed you. “Be careful.”
“Always.”
You bent to pull your boots back on, the damp fabric clinging unpleasantly to your socks, then checked your rifle. Everything felt heavier now, your muscles worn from the morning, but you refused to let yourself stall.
Outside, the air pressed hot and bright on your skin. You set off at a jog, forcing your sore legs to move. The path to the base stretched ahead through weeds and cracked asphalt, gulls circling overhead, their shadows skating across the ground like warnings.
Each breath burned, each step pounded into the earth, but you didn’t stop. The closer you got, the more your stomach knotted — not from exertion, but from the thought of Rachel’s eyes narrowing when she saw you again.
By the time the base came into view, your body was drenched, every muscle screaming from the push. The gates rose ahead, a patchwork of rusted scrap metal and splintered beams, bristling with barbed wire that had been scavenged from god-knows-where. Two guards shifted as you approached, squinting through the morning glare.
“Joan?” one of them called, straightening his rifle against his shoulder. His tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was cautious. You must have looked half-feral — sweat streaked down your face, shirt clinging to you, jaw locked hard.
The other guard’s eyes narrowed. “You need something?”
“Rachel,” you said flatly, your voice hoarse from the run.
A silence stretched between them. They exchanged a glance — the kind that said not our business but also we should be careful. Whatever you carried in your stride, it wasn’t an errand or a favor.
Neither pressed further. The older of the two jerked his chin at the gate. “Go on.”
The doors creaked open, heavy steel dragging over dirt, and you stepped inside.
The base breathed around you — voices barking orders, the clang of hammers from the sheds, the tang of hot metal and burning oil mixing with the faint medicinal sting of Rachel’s tents. A couple of kids ran past with a bucket between them, their laughter cut short when they saw you. People noticed you in quiet ways — glances darting, whispers half-smothered. You didn’t care.
You moved with purpose, boots striking sharp against the cracked pavement.
Rachel wasn’t in the infirmary — you pushed through the canvas flap to find only two nurses sorting bottles. They froze when they saw you, wide-eyed, but you didn’t linger.
She wasn’t in the mess hall either. A group of soldiers sat hunched over bowls, the scrape of spoons against metal cutting through the thick silence that followed your entrance. You felt their stares on your back as you left again.
Your palms were slick against the rifle strap, your breath still ragged. You told yourself it was from the run, but you knew better. This wasn’t exhaustion. It was fury. It was anticipation.
And then you saw her.
Rachel sat at a long table outside the supply shed, ledger open in front of her. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, her pen scratching quick, neat strokes across the page. She looked… calm. Composed. Like the world hadn’t cracked her voice raw just weeks ago, like she hadn’t spat venom at Lev until he shrank in his chair.
You froze for a heartbeat, your shadow stretching long across the dirt.
For that moment, it felt like everything stopped — the clang of tools, the murmur of soldiers, the hiss of the wind through the torn flags. Just you and her, a line drawn in the dust between.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. The rifle weighed heavy on your back, but it was nothing compared to the weight in your chest.
You took a step forward. Then another.
Rachel didn’t look up — not yet.
But she would.
And when she did, she’d see you coming.
But before you could reach her, a hand clamped down on your arm — large, calloused, the grip rough enough to bruise.
You were yanked sideways, dragged between two sagging houses where the shadows pressed thick. Your back hit the wall hard, dust shaking loose from the rotted boards.
Marcus. Rachel’s shadow. Her enforcer. He loomed over you now, blocking the slant of sunlight, his chest brushing yours as he planted a palm flat against the wall beside your head. His other hand hovered low, near the knife strapped at his hip.
The stink of tobacco clung to him, sour and sharp. His eyes were pale, hard, carrying that smugness you’d always hated — the kind of man who enjoyed being feared.
“I know Lev’s helping Mara,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. Not a threat yet, but heavy with it.
Rage shot through you so fast it made your hands shake. You shoved him, hard, both palms against his chest. “Fuck you! Who the fuck said that?!”
He staggered back a step, not enough to give you space, just enough to smirk like he’d been waiting for that fire. He leaned in again, close enough you could see the scar along his jaw.
“You think Rachel doesn’t talk to me?” His tone was calm, too calm, like he wanted you to flinch. “She doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t trust him. Everyone knows Lev’s soft on that girl. Sooner or later, he’ll cover for her. And when he does…” He let the words hang, shrugging one heavy shoulder.
Your heart hammered in your chest, your rifle strap digging into your shoulder as you clenched your fists, fighting the urge to swing.
You shook your head, teeth bared. “Where the fuck is Rachel.”
Marcus reached for you again, but you were already gone — the heat inside you boiling over, driving you forward. Rachel’s voice still echoed from every run, every sleepless night. The way you’d watched Abby come home beaten down and hollow-eyed from her patrols, carrying everyone else’s weight on her back. The way Lev shrank smaller every time you dragged him to base, afraid of her questions, afraid of himself. The way Abby had finally whispered about leaving, tearing your whole life up from its fragile roots just to escape Rachel’s shadow.
You were sick of it. Sick of the drama. Sick of being strangled by one woman’s paranoia.
You shoved Marcus off and stormed forward, your boots pounding the dirt. The base stretched before you, faces turning, murmurs rising, but you didn’t care. You slammed the heavy door of the main hall so hard the hinges rattled, and every conversation inside snapped into silence.
Of course Abby was there. Standing stiff-backed in front of Rachel’s desk, her shoulders drawn tight like she was bracing against a storm. And Rachel sat across from her, eyes narrowed, voice sharp and cutting — drilling, degrading, the same way she always did.
Abby’s jaw was locked, hands flexing at her sides, but she wasn’t breaking. Not yet.
You shook your head, the fury roaring up from somewhere deep, somewhere you’d buried until now. You strode forward, every eye in the room following you, until you stood just a breath from Rachel’s desk.
“All this time,” you spat, your voice carrying through the room. “How long until you give up this shit?”
The words cracked through the hall like gunfire.

Chapter 103: The fight

The chamber grew heavy with silence.
Rachel stood, butt jutting forth like a banner of war.
“Frick you,” she declared, voice grave as a funeral bell.
You rose in turn, finger trembling with righteous fury.
“I think you are poo.”
The word struck the walls like thunder. Dust shivered loose from the beams.
You advanced in the sacred stance of battle — the Duck Walk — dragging your heels, scratching your rear, then pointing toward Marcus.
“You are poo too.”
Marcus reeled, his great brow furrowing as if struck by lightning.
“Me? Poo?” His voice cracked like a breaking tree.
Abby stepped forward, her arms like columns of stone.
“Rachel is poo,” she intoned, the decree final, eternal.
Rachel shrieked. She clawed at the air, her teeth flashing like daggers.
“I am no poo! I am Rachel the Clean, Rachel the Untainted, She of the Stainless Butt!”
But your chant began, low at first, then rising:
“Poo… Poo… POO.”
Each utterance a hammer blow. Each syllable a sword.
The ground shook. Marcus fell to his knees.
Rachel’s crown of power toppled from her brow.
“Not… poo…” she whispered, blood on her lips.
Abby thundered forward, seizing her by the hair.
“You are fart soup,” she pronounced, eyes blazing.
Rachel wailed, the sound tearing through heaven and earth.
“Noooooo—”
And with her cry came the trumpet of doom: pppppptttttttt.
So it was written.
So it was done.
The battle of Poo was over.

Notes:

i thought this would be funny... yeah... i uploaded the real chapter as well...

Chapter 104: The Fight

Notes:

heh... heh he heh...

Rachel chuckled, low and cruel, and you heard the door shut behind you. Marcus trailed in, his broad frame blocking the way back out. The air in the room thickened, pressing hot against your skin.
Rachel leaned back in her chair, her smile thin. “It must be obvious I’ve been interrogating her, huh?”
Your jaw ached from clenching so hard. Across the room, Abby’s eyes found yours. She gave the smallest shake of her head — a warning. Don’t. Not here. Not like this.
You huffed through your nose, trying to leash the fire in your chest, but it burned too hot.
Rachel’s smile fell. Her voice cut sharp. “I know you’re a piece of shit, Joan. Marcus remembers exactly how you fucking tortured him.”
Your head snapped toward him. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes glinting.
You forced yourself to nod. “I’m not proud of who I was.”
Marcus barked a laugh, ugly and raw. “Yeah? Tell that to the years I spent shaking in that fucking cell. Every sound, every door creak — I thought it was you coming back.”
Your throat closed. You shook your head, voice low but steady. “I had to.”
Rachel’s eyes hardened, her smirk fading into something sharper. “And I have to as well.”
You scoffed, anger tearing free. “It’s been almost two years, Rachel. You still can’t fucking figure it out. It’s not us. And the longer your nose is shoved up Abby and Lev’s ass, the more the real smugglers slip in and out without you even noticing.”
Her chair scraped as she leaned forward, teeth bared. “I know it’s your family. I know it’s your piece-of-shit son.”
The slap cracked through the room before you could think. Rachel’s head snapped sideways, a red bloom already rising on her cheek.
“Don’t talk about Lev like that.”
The room froze. Abby had stepped forward, her chest heaving, but her hands were balled into fists at her sides. Marcus shifted, his own hand drifting toward his knife, eyes burning into you.
Rachel turned her face back slowly, lips splitting into a bloody grin.
But Rachel was a leader — hardened, calculating, trained for years to control situations like this. Before you could even blink, she had you by the hair, yanking your head back so sharp your scalp screamed.
Marcus was just as fast. He caught Abby before she could reach you, his arm like a steel bar around her waist, dragging her back as she snarled.
Rachel slammed your face down against the desk. Pain shot white-hot across your cheekbone, the wood cracking beneath the force.
“You come to my base,” she hissed in your ear.
She shoved you down, your knees buckling, body hitting the ground with a jarring thud.
“You mock me?!”
Her fist crashed against your jaw. The room spun, stars bursting across your vision.
Instinct surged before thought. You grabbed her wrist as she reared back again and sank your teeth into her arm, hard, tasting copper as blood spilled across your tongue.
Rachel shrieked, the sound raw and furious. She lashed out with a boot, cracking against your ribs so hard you felt something give. But adrenaline burned hotter than the pain. You surged forward, knocking her flat, and suddenly you were on top of her, fists flying.
“You better leave my family alone, bitch!”
It wasn’t your voice — not the one Abby knew, not the one Lev trusted. It was the old one, the FEDRA rat you’d buried deep, the part of you that only came out in cages and blood. You thrashed down at her, years of rage and humiliation pouring through your fists.
Marcus roared, twisting Abby harder, but she ripped free with brute force. She spun and drove her fist into his jaw, the crack of bone echoing through the hall. He staggered, clutching his face.
Rachel, blood running from her mouth, clawed at your shirt. She drove her knee into your stomach with a brutal kick, forcing the air out of your lungs.
You wheezed, doubled over, until Abby’s strong hands grabbed Rachel by the shoulders and wrenched her off you, hurling her back.
Rachel stumbled, spit and blood dripping down her chin, but her voice rose sharp enough to slice the air.
“You have that house because of my base!” she screamed, pointing at you, her face twisted with fury. “Your baby is safe because of me! And that son of yours—” her finger jabbed like a knife, her eyes wild, “—I know he’s smuggling.”
The words slammed into you harder than her fist had.
The room shattered into violence.
Rachel came at Abby like a storm, blood streaking her teeth as she screamed. Abby caught her by the shoulders and hurled her into the wall so hard the ledger on her desk spilled across the floor. Papers fluttered like wounded birds.
“You think you can run this place without me?!” Rachel shrieked, her spit flying, her voice splitting with rage. “You’d be dead in the dirt if it wasn’t for me!”
Abby slammed her back again, her voice cracking like thunder. “You don’t keep people alive — you break them! You’ve done nothing but bleed Lev dry! You call yourself a leader? You’re just a parasite!”
Rachel clawed at her face, nails dragging down her cheek, and spat back, “You’re a fucking child with muscles — nothing more! Everyone here hates you, Abby! They laugh when you turn your back!”
Abby roared, pinning her by the throat against the wall, eyes blazing. “Say Lev’s name again and I’ll tear your goddamn tongue out!”
Across the room, Marcus slammed you against the opposite wall so hard your vision spotted. His fist pressed into your collarbone like a knife point. His eyes were wide, rabid, the veins in his neck straining.
“You remember those cells?” he bellowed. “You left me there to rot! Rats chewing at my boots, piss running down the walls! You — you were the one who signed off every night!”
You snarled, spitting blood into his face. “You think I wanted that? I was a kid, Marcus! I was just trying to survive!”
His fist cracked across your jaw, splitting your lip. “Bullshit! You liked it! I saw you smirk, I heard you laugh when we begged! You’re nothing but FEDRA filth in new skin!”
You shoved back, your nails digging into his forearm until his skin split. “I did what I had to do — same as you are now, kissing Rachel’s ass like a goddamn dog!”
He roared, head-butting you so hard your skull rang. “At least I don’t hide what I am! You walk around here pretending to be clean, pretending to be a mother — but you’ll always be a rat!”
Rage blinded you. You drove your knee into his stomach, and when he buckled you brought your rifle butt up into his face. His nose exploded in a gush of blood.
Rachel screamed as Abby hurled her across the desk, the wood splitting under their weight. She scrambled up, face red and streaked, spitting. “Your boy is nothing — a smuggler, a liar, just like his whore of a mother!”
Abby’s howl split the room. She grabbed Rachel by the hair and smashed her face into the desk edge. “You don’t say his name! Lev is worth ten of you! He’s my family, my son! And you — you’re just a drunk who thinks cruelty makes her strong!”
Rachel’s mouth spilled blood across the wood as she screamed back, voice ragged. “You’ll bury that boy with your arrogance! He’s weak — just like you!”
Abby hit her again, knuckles splitting, the sound wet and sickening.
Marcus lunged, tackling you to the ground, his hands around your throat. “You remember the sound of keys?” he hissed, spittle dripping onto your face. “Every jingle, I thought you were coming to carve another piece off me. That’s who you are, Joan! A monster!”
You clawed at his face, blood streaking under your nails. You heaved up, your voice breaking into a scream. “I’m not FEDRA anymore — but I’ll show you exactly why you feared me if you don’t shut your mouth!”
The four of you tangled in a storm of fists and screams — Abby and Rachel slamming each other into walls, you and Marcus thrashing on the ground, all of it fueled by years of rot, suspicion, and wounds that had never healed.
The base had never felt louder, or more dangerous.
The soldiers came in then, all four of youw ere ehaving. Blood was drippignf rom your nose into your mouth.
Abbys face scratched.
Rachela dn amrcus bleeding and tired.
The door slammed open, and the soldiers came pouring in. Boots stomped against the floorboards, rifles half-raised, eyes wide at the carnage they’d walked into.
You were still heaving, chest rising and falling like a piston, blood dripping hot from your nose into your mouth, metallic and bitter. Your hands were trembling where you’d braced them against the desk, knuckles split raw.
Abby stood just to your side, her face streaked with red lines where Rachel’s nails had torn her skin. Her braid hung loose, strands of hair clinging to the sweat on her cheeks, her chest still heaving with rage she hadn’t let go of yet.
Rachel was a wreck, slumped against the half-splintered desk, blood trickling from her nose and lip, one eye already purpling shut. She was breathing hard but forcing herself upright, jaw tight with fury even through the pain.
Marcus leaned against the wall, arms shaking, one hand pressed against his ribs, blood smeared across his mouth from where you’d cracked him. His gaze still burned, but there was no strength left behind it.
The soldiers froze in the doorway, taking it all in — the broken desk, the blood smeared on the walls, the four of you ragged and feral, caught in the aftermath of something too big to contain.
No one spoke at first. The silence was crushing.
Then one of them — a young man, barely out of his teens — let out a sharp breath, his voice cracking. “What the fuck happened in here?”
No one answered. Rachel’s eyes cut toward him, sharp as glass despite her swollen face, daring him to say more. Abby’s fists clenched at her sides like she was still holding herself back from finishing it.
Another soldier muttered, “Christ almighty…” and you caught the ripple of fear in the room. Not just fear of Rachel, or Abby, or you — fear of the fact that the people they followed, the people meant to keep order, were tearing each other apart in front of them.
The spell of authority was broken.
You spat blood onto the floor, straightening slowly, your body screaming in protest. “Get out,” you rasped to the soldiers, your voice hoarse but commanding. “This isn’t your fight.”
They hesitated, glancing between each other, between the four of you. The air hung heavy, the weight of everything that had just cracked open pressing down on them.
Rachel lifted her head finally, her voice raw but still carrying. “You heard her. Out. Now.”
The soldiers filed back reluctantly, though their eyes lingered, wide and unsettled. Whispers followed them out the door.
When it shut again, the silence left behind was worse. Four of you bleeding, broken, staring at each other across the wreckage.
No one was in charge anymore.
Blood still trickled from your lip as you met Abby’s eyes. She was still trembling with rage, jaw clenched so tight you thought her teeth might crack. You saw it there — the same decision boiling in both of you. Enough.
Abby shoved past Marcus, shouldering him hard enough that he staggered into the wall with a grunt. She planted herself in front of Rachel, looming over her battered frame. Her voice was hoarse, raw, but sharp enough to cut the room in two.
“You ever say Lev’s name again,” Abby hissed, “and I swear to God, I’ll put you in the ground. Leader or not.”
Rachel’s laugh came out broken, wet with blood, but her smirk held. “Do it. Show them all what you are.” Her swollen eye narrowed. “You should’ve left Catalina a long time ago. Both of you. You’re not Fireflies — you’re baggage. Dead weight.”
Abby’s hand twitched like she was about to hit her again, but you caught her wrist. Your chest was still heaving, your ribs screaming from Rachel’s kicks, but your voice was steady now. “She’s not worth it.”
Rachel tilted her head back against the ruined desk, bloodied teeth bared in a grin. “Get out of my base. Take your rat and your bastard son with you.”
Something snapped in Abby then. Her voice ripped through the hall, guttural and final. “Fuck you, Rachel. We’re done.”
She grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the door. Marcus didn’t try to stop you, only glared through swollen eyes, blood dripping off his chin.
The two of you strode past the soldiers still lingering outside, their whispers cutting off sharp as silence fell. Every pair of eyes followed you — wide, unsettled, uncertain.
For the first time in months, you didn’t care.
You left the base behind, its walls shrinking against the horizon, Rachel’s words still echoing in your ears.
Maybe she was right. Maybe Catalina wasn’t your home anymore.
The road home stretched long and empty, the sun already sliding toward the water. Salt wind stung the cuts on your face, mixing with the blood on your tongue. You and Abby walked side by side in silence at first, both of you limping, both smeared with red. The world was quiet except for your ragged breathing and the crunch of gravel under your boots.
Abby’s fists were still balled tight at her sides. Every so often her shoulder twitched, like her body hadn’t realized the fight was over. Finally she spat into the dirt and snarled, “I should’ve killed her. Right there. Ended it.”
You winced at the movement in your ribs, then glanced sideways at her. Her cheek was striped with bloody scratches, her braid half undone, eyes blazing hot even in exhaustion.
“She won’t stop,” Abby muttered, voice low and raw. “She’s never gonna stop. Lev. You. Me. She’ll keep digging until she breaks us or buries us.”
Her words hung heavy in the air. You wanted to agree, wanted to fuel that fire — but instead, your thoughts drifted to the house, to the small curls and bright brown eyes waiting there.
“Abby…” you started, your voice rough. “We can’t leave. Not yet.”
Her head snapped toward you, incredulous. “What?”
You swallowed, feeling the ache in your jaw where Rachel had hit you, tasting iron. “Frances is still too little. She’s not even two. She barely sleeps through the night. She can’t handle running, can’t handle starving, can’t handle… that.” You gestured vaguely at the endless road ahead of you. “We’d be dragging her through hell.”
Abby’s face twisted, caught between fury and heartbreak. She ran a hand down her face, leaving a smear of dried blood across her temple. “So what — we just stay? We let Rachel spit on us? On Lev?”
You shook your head. “No. We wait. We survive. Until Frances can walk farther than a room, until she can carry herself a little. Then we go. But right now?” Your voice cracked. “Right now we’d kill her if we tried.”
Abby stopped walking, staring at you like she wanted to argue, to scream, to break something. But the fight slowly bled out of her shoulders. She looked away, toward the water, her jaw trembling.
“She doesn’t deserve this life,” Abby whispered.
You stepped closer, touching her arm gently. “No,” you said. “But she deserves a chance at life. And if that means waiting until she’s ready — then we wait.”
The two of you stood there in the fading light, bloodied, battered, but bound to the same impossible choice.
The only sound was the ocean, and somewhere far off, the faint, high laughter of your daughter, carried on the wind.

Chapter 105: Of Course

Abby looked up at you from the couch, a damp rag pressed against her nose, her other hand braced against her knee like she was holding herself together. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, exhaustion carved into every sharp angle of her face.
Lev sat on the arm of the couch, one leg bouncing restlessly, but his gaze never wavered from you. His sharp little eyes scanned every inch of you — your flushed skin, your split lip, the stiffness in the way you carried yourself. You hated how much he could read without you saying a word.
Your head throbbed, each heartbeat like a drum against your skull. The fight, the shouting, Rachel’s face flashing in your mind, Abby’s blood, Marcus’ voice — it all collided into one blurred, relentless noise.
Then you heard her.
“Mommy!”
Frances barreled across the rug, little socks slipping on the floor as she ran straight into your knees. You bent down and scooped her up, your body aching but desperate to hold her close. She fit perfectly against you, chubby arms wrapping tight around your neck. You pressed your lips to the crown of her head, breathing in the faint lemon scent of her freshly washed hair. For one fragile moment, the noise faded.
You sighed into her curls, your chest aching in a different way now — softer, heavier.
Lev’s voice cut through, quiet but steady. “We have to leave.”
The words landed like a stone in your stomach.
You turned your head toward him, holding Frances closer without realizing it. Her small hand patted against your collarbone, oblivious to the weight in the room.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “She’s too little, Lev,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
Lev’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. “She won’t always be.”
Behind him, Abby set the rag down, leaning forward on her knees. Her shoulders were stiff, knuckles pale where she clasped her hands together. She didn’t look at you yet. She didn’t have to. You could feel the fight in her chest too, the way she was biting it back.
The silence stretched, heavy as wet cloth. Frances hummed softly against you, oblivious, her little hand fiddling with your necklace as if to tether you here, to this house, to this fragile sense of safety you were still pretending you had.
Abby finally spoke, her voice low, roughened from the fight and the ragged breaths she’d been holding back.
“We can’t stay here forever, Joan.”
You glanced at her sharply, still holding Frances against you like she was the only solid thing in the room. “I said she’s too little,” you repeated, firmer this time, your voice shaking anyway.
Abby leaned back into the couch, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple like she was trying to hold the whole day inside her skull. She looked at you through swollen lashes, one eye already blooming purple at the edge. “And what happens when she’s not?” she asked, voice strained but calm — too calm. “When she’s five? Ten? You think Rachel’s just gonna magically stop coming for us?”
The name made your stomach turn. You shifted Frances higher onto your hip, partly to shield her, partly to keep your hands busy so Abby wouldn’t see them shaking.
Lev finally spoke, his voice quieter but sharper, like a knife sliding between ribs. “She won’t stop, Joan. You know she won’t.”
Your chest tightened.
Frances babbled softly against your shoulder, little half-words only you could understand. You brushed a hand down her back, needing the contact, needing her grounding warmth. “We can’t just rip her out of everything she knows,” you said, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Her routines, her room… her whole world is here.”
Abby stared at you for a long moment before speaking, her tone sharper now. “Her whole world is you, Joan. Not this house. Not Catalina. You think she gives a shit where her crib is, as long as you’re in it?”
That hit harder than you wanted it to.
Your jaw clenched, teeth pressing together so tight your head throbbed, but Abby didn’t stop. Her voice rose, frustration finally bleeding through. “I’m watching you get dragged into fights that don’t matter, by people who hate you for shit you did when you were seventeen. I’m watching Lev get pulled under because Rachel’s looking for someone to pin. And I’m watching Frances grow up in the middle of it.”
She paused, her breathing heavy, fingers curling into her thighs. “And if we stay here, eventually, one of us isn’t gonna make it home.”
The room went silent. Even Lev stopped fidgeting.
Frances pulled back from you just far enough to look up, big round eyes blinking like she could sense the tension but didn’t understand it. You kissed her forehead just to keep from crying.
“Abby,” you said finally, voice breaking, “she’s too little.”
“I know.” Abby’s voice softened, just slightly, like she hated pushing you but didn’t see another way. “But she won’t stay little forever. And we need to decide before someone else decides for us.”
You sank onto the couch across from her, cradling Frances in your lap. Lev leaned forward on his knees, staring at the floor, quiet and pale. The weight of it pressed down on all of you — the fight with Rachel, Marcus’ threats, the blood drying under your fingernails.
No one moved.
The house felt like it was holding its breath.
______________________________________________________________________
The room was quiet except for the sound of Frances’ soft little snores.
She slept curled between you and Abby, one chubby hand tucked under her cheek, her dark lashes resting against skin that still smelled faintly of lemon soap. You lay on your side facing her, watching the way her tiny chest rose and fell, the rhythmic motion hypnotic.
Abby’s back was to you at first, shoulders tense even in the faint light spilling through the thin curtains. Neither of you had spoken since cleaning up and putting Frances down. You’d tried to let the silence soothe you, tried to match your breathing to your daughter’s, but it only made the day’s weight crush harder against your ribs.
Finally, you whispered, barely moving your lips.
“We’re not leaving, Abby.”
You saw her back stiffen, the muscles in her shoulders tightening before she slowly rolled onto her side to face you. Her eyes were puffy, ringed in shadows, a small bruise blooming along her cheekbone. She kept her voice low, almost a hiss.
“You keep saying that like saying it makes it safer here.”
Your throat burned. You reached out instinctively, brushing a stray curl from Frances’ forehead before whispering back, “She’s not safe out there either. Nowhere’s safe, Abby. At least here, she knows this house, these people—”
“These people?” Abby cut you off, sharp but quiet, careful not to wake the little body between you. “These people just slammed your face into a desk today, Joan. These people are accusing Lev of shit he hasn’t done, making him scared to step outside without a rifle. These people don’t want us here.”
You shook your head, refusing to meet her eyes, afraid if you did she’d see how close you were to breaking. “Frances can’t handle moving. She’s barely walking. She still wakes up crying when the wind howls too loud—”
Abby leaned closer across the mattress, her whisper cutting through you. “She doesn’t give a shit about the walls, Joan. She cares about us. And if we keep her here, she’s gonna grow up watching her parents get torn apart piece by piece because you can’t let go.”
Your eyes stung. You swallowed hard, glancing down at Frances, making sure she was still sleeping, still safe between you. “I can’t pull her away from everything she knows, Abby. I… I can’t make her life chaos just because we’re scared.”
Abby’s jaw tightened, her voice soft but sharp, full of something like desperation. “And I can’t sit here and watch Rachel tear this family apart.”
Silence. Only Frances’ tiny breaths filled the space between you.
You stared at Abby through the dim light, both of you holding your ground, neither willing to give the other what they needed. But then Abby’s gaze dropped, softening slightly as her eyes fell on Frances, her tiny hand curled into the sheet.
“I just want her to have a chance,” Abby whispered, almost to herself.
You nodded faintly, but it didn’t feel like agreement. It felt like both of you were standing on opposite edges of the same cliff, staring down, waiting for the ground to give way.
Abby didn’t answer you after that last whisper.
She just rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling in the dim moonlight spilling through the window. Between you, Frances shifted softly in her sleep, curling deeper into the blankets as if the air between you and Abby wasn’t taut enough to slice through. Neither of you said another word. There was nothing left to say tonight—not without tearing each other apart.
Eventually, Abby’s breathing evened out, though you knew she wasn’t asleep. You lay there, too aware of the silence, too aware of how your pulse thudded in your ears, of how the argument still clawed under your ribs.
You turned toward Frances, brushing your lips over the crown of her soft curls, clinging to the weight of her warmth against your chest.
You promised yourself, quietly, fiercely: I’m not letting anything happen to you.

____________________________________________________________________________

By the next day, the sun rose on borrowed peace.
The air carried that salty tang off the ocean, warm and heavy against the windows as you laid Frances down for her nap, her cheeks flushed from all the crawling she’d done that morning. She was nearly two now—growing faster than you could keep up with, full of energy that bounced from one end of the house to the other. Her babble was constant, words not yet formed but brimming with intent, and in her little hands she still clutched the ragged stuffed doll Lev had scavenged weeks ago from a storefront on patrol, its fabric thinned by love.
She pressed it to her chest, lids drooping, and you smoothed a stray curl from her forehead before easing her into the crib.
The house exhaled into silence when you pulled the door closed.
You padded down the stairs, your body instinctively quieter now, as though Frances’ sleep were a fragile thing that could shatter under the wrong breath. The kitchen was a mess from breakfast—dishes stacked haphazardly, crumbs littering the counter—and you set about tidying, grateful for something mundane to anchor yourself with, anything to keep your mind from spinning about Rachel, Catalina, and Abby’s words echoing in your skull: These people don’t want us here.
That’s when you heard it.
A floorboard groaned somewhere behind you.
The voice behind you was sharp, unshaking.
“Turn around.”
You froze.
When you turned, hands half-raised, she stood there — shadow framed in dim afternoon light spilling through the curtains. Ellie.
She looked… wrecked. Dirt caked her clothes, sweat glued her hair to her temples, and her cheeks were hollowed by travel and hunger. But her eyes — they burned, sharp green gone fever-bright. Her knuckles were white around the pistol aimed squarely at your chest.
“I went to fuckin’ Nevada,” she said, her words clipped, brittle, like they were splintering in her throat. Her jaw clenched so hard it trembled. “Nothing there. No Fireflies. Not even a goddamn city left standing.”
Your mouth went dry.
“I followed your map,” she went on, stepping closer, her boots scuffing the wood. “Every marker, every scribbled note. Months on the road. And guess what?” Her voice cracked as her face twisted, rage and grief colliding like sparks off steel. “There’s nothing. You sent me into the middle of nowhere.”
“Ellie, I—”
“Don’t.” Her voice sliced through yours like a blade, sharp and hoarse all at once. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ talk like you didn’t know.”
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. She licked her lips, trying to steady herself, but her grip on the gun only tightened.
“Do you have any idea what I gave up?” she hissed, voice rough, lower now, shaking at the edges. “I left everything. I left her—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard, throat working as if forcing the words down. “I left Jackson. I left the only good thing I had left… for this.”
You stepped forward, hands open, but she jerked the pistol up, stopping you cold.
“I thought there was a chance,” Ellie rasped, her voice cracking open now, trembling under the weight of it. “I thought maybe… maybe there was still somethin’ out there. Somethin’ worth—” Her jaw flexed, cutting herself off with a breathless laugh that sounded like it hurt. “But you lied to me. You fucking lied.”
Upstairs, Frances wailed — sharp, panicked, cutting through the air.
Ellie’s head whipped toward the sound, her eyes wide, raw.
You moved before you thought, grabbing her leg, yanking her back, but she kicked out hard, her boot slamming into your ribs. Pain burst white-hot through your side, stealing your breath, sending you sprawling against the wall.
By the time you dragged yourself up, she was halfway up the stairs, pistol jerking in her grip, her breathing ragged and uneven.
“Ellie!” you choked, stumbling after her. “Don’t!”
She spun on the landing, her free hand braced against the wall, the other steady despite the tremor in her body. Her eyes locked on yours, and there was nothing left of the girl you once knew — just exhaustion and fire.
“Don’t make me do this,” she said, her voice low, wrecked, but her aim didn’t waver.
“Ellie, she’s a baby,” you rasped, desperate. “Please—”
Her jaw trembled, just slightly, but she didn’t lower the gun.
“My whole fuckin’ life,” she whispered, her voice barely audible now, like she was confessing to the empty room more than to you, “I’ve been chasing ghosts. Every damn lead. Every promise.” Her throat bobbed with a swallow, her face cracking for the briefest second before the anger surged back, sharp and hot. “I can’t keep losin’ people, Olivia. I can’t keep bein’ wrong. And you—” Her breath shuddered. “You made me wrong.”
Frances’ screams cut higher, louder, shattering whatever fragile control Ellie had left. Her gaze snapped toward the crib, hand twitching on the pistol.
“Your name isn’t Olivia,” she said suddenly, the words tearing out raw.
The world dropped into silence around you, save for Frances’ cries. You nodded slowly, throat closing. “It’s not.”
Her chest heaved, each breath jagged. “Then what the fuck is it?”
“Joan,” you whispered. “My name is Joan.”
Ellie’s lips parted, a flicker of confusion cutting through her fury, but her hand was already digging into her pocket. She pulled out the tarnished Firefly pendant, its chain rattling faintly as she held it up between trembling fingers.
“You’re a Firefly,” she rasped, not asking — accusing.
Shame burned hot beneath your skin. You couldn’t hold her gaze. “Yes,” you breathed, small and broken.
Ellie laughed once, harsh and hollow, her whole body jerking with it. “Of course,” she said, voice cracking on the edge. “Of fuckin’ course.”
Ellie’s hand shook around the pendant, the chain rattling softly like the ticking of some invisible clock. Her breathing was ragged now, uneven — every inhale sharp, every exhale shaky.
“I left her,” she whispered suddenly, and for the first time her voice cracked open like something fragile breaking. “I fuckin’… I left Dina. Again.”
You froze, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, unsure if she was talking to you or herself.
Ellie swallowed hard, eyes glassy but blazing. “I told her this was it. That I’d come back with somethin’ real this time — proof the Fireflies were still out there, that we weren’t just fuckin’… rotting in Jackson like everyone else.” Her jaw trembled, and she blinked fast, as if she could hold herself together if she just didn’t let the tears fall.
“She didn’t believe me,” she whispered, shaking her head. “She begged me not to go, said there was nothin’ out there worth leavin’ her and JJ for. But I thought—” Her breath hitched, harsh and uneven. “I thought if I could just find them, if I could bring somethin’ back, then maybe… maybe she’d look at me like she used to.”
Her eyes darted to you, sharp and wet, accusing. “But there’s fuckin’ nothing out there, Joan. Do you get that? Nothing.” Her voice went rough again, like grit scraping the back of her throat. “I walked through burned-out towns, empty streets, bodies fuckin’ rotting where they fell. And I kept thinking… maybe the next mile. Maybe the next day. Maybe the next city.”
She dragged her sleeve across her face, smearing dirt and blood. Her breath came shallow, her voice roughening into a whisper so low you almost didn’t catch it:
“But there’s no one. No Fireflies. No future. I left her, and for what?”
Silence stretched between you, broken only by Frances’ cries — softer now, tired hiccups shaking her tiny chest.
Ellie’s gaze dropped briefly to the floor, shoulders curling inward, and for half a second she looked smaller than you’d ever seen her. But then her face hardened, jaw clenching, eyes cutting back to yours.
“You knew,” she rasped, her voice trembling, breaking beneath the weight of it. “You fuckin’ knew they were gone. And you sent me out there anyway.”
“Ellie, I didn’t—”
“Don’t.” Her voice shot sharp again, ragged around the edges. She took one step closer, gun unwavering now despite the tremor in her hand. “Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t know.”
You stared at her, chest tight, heart pounding so hard it hurt. She wasn’t just angry — she was breaking right in front of you, the weight of months of wandering, loss, and exhaustion pulling her apart.
“I lost her because of you,” she whispered, voice splintering on the words.
The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.
She spoke again, her breath shaky, like she was forcing every word past something heavy lodged in her chest.
“And you’re here…” Ellie’s eyes darted to the crib, then back to you, her voice cracking, “…with that kid.” Her jaw clenched, her whole body trembling now as she barked out, “This yours?!”
You hesitated for half a second too long.
Her grip on the gun twitched, snapping her fraying patience. “Where’s your son?” she demanded, voice raw and hoarse, each syllable scraping out like she was dragging the words over glass. Her gaze swept the room, wild, searching, restless. “Where’s the rest of the fuckin’ house?!”
Frances wailed louder, her cries sharp and hiccuping. With every sob, Ellie winced like the sound cut right through her skull. Her free hand came up, rubbing hard at her temple as if she could drown it out, but it only seemed to make her breathing rougher, faster.
“I had a son too,” she rasped suddenly, voice softening for the first time — a crack in the armor. Her throat worked around the words like they hurt to say. “JJ.” She swallowed, eyes glassy but locked on Frances, the smallest shake running through her frame. “He’s seven now.”
You nodded slowly, cradling Frances closer, your own breath uneven. “…She’s two,” you whispered, the words fragile, trembling as if they might shatter in the air.
Ellie’s jaw ticked, teeth grinding audibly as she stared at you — or maybe through you — her expression twisted in something messy, tangled: grief, rage, and exhaustion bleeding together until you couldn’t tell them apart.
“I could kill her,” she breathed, and though her voice was low, it came out sharp enough to slice you open. Her hand tightened around the grip, the muzzle twitching just slightly as she glanced at Frances, then back to you.
Her voice broke on the next words. “I could take her from you.”
The air thickened between you, your lungs locking as every muscle in your body screamed to move, to protect Frances, but Ellie’s shaking finger near the trigger froze you in place.
Her gaze burned into you, pupils blown wide and wild. “Let you know,” she spat, the words trembling, “how it fuckin’ feels… to be lied to.”
Frances’ cries hiccuped again, breaking sharp against the silence. Ellie’s whole body flinched like the sound rattled something loose inside her.
She dragged in a harsh breath through her nose, shaky and uneven, her shoulders rising with the effort like she was holding herself together by threads. For a heartbeat, you thought she might lower the gun. But instead, her knuckles went whiter, nails digging into her palm until blood beaded where the crescent moons bit skin.
Your lungs seized, shallow gasps dragging in and out, the scream of Frances shredding what little control you had left. Ellie’s words echoed in your skull — I could take her from you — pounding like thunder, and panic ripped through your chest, instinct burning hot and dizzying.
You moved without thinking.
“Put the fuckin’ gun down!” you rasped, lunging forward, knocking the barrel sideways just as her finger flexed on the trigger. The shot cracked, deafening, splintering the doorframe behind you.
Ellie snarled — a ragged, broken sound — and slammed her shoulder into you, forcing you back into the wall. Pain shot through your ribs where she hit, your knees buckling, but you shoved back hard, nails digging into her arm, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached.
Her strength was vicious.
You managed to shove her off balance, but Ellie recovered instantly, twisting the gun in her grip and ramming the butt into your cheekbone. Stars exploded behind your eyes, hot blood rushing down your jaw.
Frances shrieked louder, the sound warping and distant through the ringing in your ears.
You staggered, vision doubling, but your body kept moving, driven by something primal — protection, desperation, fear. You launched yourself at her again, both of you crashing against the hallway wall so hard a picture frame splintered, glass scattering at your feet.
“Get the fuck off me!” Ellie growled, shoving her knee up into your stomach. The breath whooshed from your lungs in a violent gasp, and before you could recover, her elbow slammed across your temple.
The world tilted.
You hit the floor hard, cheek scraping against the rough wood. Your body screamed, limbs sluggish, every inhale sharp and shallow, but you clawed at the ground, forcing yourself upright. Frances. You had to get to Frances.
Ellie stood over you, chest heaving, sweat streaking down her temples, her hair matted to her forehead. Her knuckles were split, blood slick on her fingers from where she’d gripped the gun too tight.
Her voice cracked like brittle glass. “Get up.”
You hesitated, your body shaking, swaying.
“I said get the fuck up,” she barked, voice raw and ragged.
With trembling hands, you obeyed, scooping Frances into the sling across your chest. Her tiny body trembled against you, hiccuping sobs muffled by the fabric.
Ellie gestured sharply with the gun toward the door. “Walk.”
Your throat was tight, every swallow burning, every breath uneven as your pulse roared in your ears. Blood dripped steadily from your split brow, blurring your vision, staining Frances’ blanket as you stumbled forward into the hallway.
“Where are we—”
“Base,” Ellie cut you off, her voice hoarse, fraying at the edges. She spat blood onto the floor, then adjusted her grip on the weapon, keeping it aimed low but steady. “We’re going to the fuckin’ base. You’re gonna tell me everything.”
The late-afternoon sun bled into the room as you stepped outside, painting the sand and ocean in gold and crimson. Each step down the path toward the Firefly compound felt heavier than the last, every muscle screaming, ribs throbbing, Frances’ soft cries against your chest cutting deeper than any blow.
Behind you, Ellie’s boots crunched against gravel, close enough to remind you she was there — close enough that if you ran, you wouldn’t make it three steps.
You stole a glance back once, just once, and saw her face in the fading light: pale, jaw tight, green eyes sharp but wild at the edges, rimmed red with exhaustion and grief. She looked dangerous. Unsteady. A storm with nowhere to land.
And you couldn’t shake the thought clawing at the back of your mind:
If you said the wrong thing, none of you were making it out of Catalina.
___________________________________________________________________________
When you finally reached the base, your legs felt like lead, every step scraping your lungs raw. Frances stirred weakly in the sling across your chest, soft whimpers muffled against your shirt. Behind you, Ellie’s shadow clung close — the cold press of her pistol digging between your shoulder blades, steady despite her shaking breaths.
The Firefly checkpoint came into view, sun glaring off chain-link fences laced with barbed wire, the guard tower above lined with sandbags and rifles. Two soldiers spotted you first, and one immediately raised a hand, squinting.
“Joan?” she called down, voice tight with confusion. “Who’s that behind you?”
You swallowed, throat aching, but before you could speak, the second soldier caught sight of the gun and yelled, “Weapon! On her back! Hands where I can see ’em!”
Rifles swung down fast, three muzzles trained on Ellie.
You stiffened instinctively, but Ellie’s response came sharp and low behind you:
“Tell ’em to stand down,” she hissed, digging the barrel harder into your ribs.
Your mouth opened, blood still wet at the back of your throat. “Wait—”
“Do it,” she snapped, voice tight, teeth clenched.
One of the Fireflies stepped forward, boots crunching over gravel, rifle raised and steady. “Joan,” she ordered, voice cutting through the heat. “Move away from her, now.”
You shook your head slightly, dizzy from exhaustion, and rasped, “I… I can’t.”
The soldier froze mid-step, hesitation flickering across her face.
Ellie’s voice broke through the silence, low but brutal: “Anybody lifts a finger, I put a hole in her fuckin’ back.”
Frances shifted in her sling, letting out a soft cry, and for the briefest moment, Ellie winced — barely, but enough to notice. Her voice cracked when she spoke next:
“She lied to me,” Ellie snarled, eyes locked on the soldiers above, her breathing ragged. “I spent years lookin’ for the Fireflies. Years. And she—” her voice wavered, breaking with the weight of it, “—she told me they were fuckin’ gone.”
A ripple of confusion moved through the Fireflies at the gate. The one closest to you lowered her rifle slightly, glancing between you and the stranger gripping you at gunpoint.
“What’s she talking about, Joan?” the woman demanded.
Your chest constricted, words clawing at your throat but refusing to come.
Ellie’s breath hitched as she shoved you forward a step, sharp and unrelenting. “She knew,” Ellie spat, voice rising like a storm. “She knew where you were — where all of this was — and she lied to me. Made me waste years of my fuckin’ life chasing ghosts while she—” she swallowed hard, the bitterness biting deep, “—while she got to live.”
The Firefly captain finally stepped out from behind the fence — Rachel, her blonde ponytail pulled tight, rifle strapped across her chest. She scanned the scene quickly, reading the tension in every line of your body, in every shake of Ellie’s grip.
“Joan,” she said firmly, “tell me who this is.”
“She’s not—” you started, but Ellie yanked you back against her chest, cutting you off with a low, sharp hiss.
“Don’t,” she warned under her breath, her voice trembling now, equal parts fury and desperation.
Rachel lifted a hand, signaling the other soldiers to hold. “Whoever you are,” she said slowly, meeting Ellie’s eyes, “you’re gonna need to lower that weapon.”
Ellie’s breath stuttered. Her hand flexed around the grip, knuckles bone-white. “Not till she tells me why,” Ellie snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of years lost. “Not till she says it to my fuckin’ face.”
Silence stretched tight and dangerous, the sound of distant waves roaring in your ears. Frances whimpered again, tiny fists twitching against your chest, and you could feel Ellie’s resolve shaking under the child’s cries — but she didn’t let up.
And then Rachel’s voice broke the standstill.
“Open the gates,” she ordered.
The soldiers hesitated. “Ma’am—”
“Open. Them.”
The chain-link screeched as the gates parted, and Ellie shoved you forward through them, her gun never leaving your back. Every Firefly in the yard stared, rifles raised but hands trembling, as blood streaked down your chin and Frances whimpered softly in her sling.
No one spoke a word.
_____________________________________________________________________________

You rocked Frances gently in your arms, trying to soothe her soft, hiccuping whimpers as the tiny weight of her body kept you tethered to the ground. The little girl’s breath warmed your collarbone, her thumb stuffed clumsily in her mouth, but your own chest felt hollow — as if your ribs had been scooped clean.
Ellie sat across from you, her knees bouncing furiously, her boot tapping an uneven rhythm against the hardwood floor of Rachel’s office. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of her chair, jaw tight, that wild, hollow look in her eyes you remembered from Jackson… from Seattle… from everything she’d endured.
Rachel leaned back behind her desk, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between cold disdain and curiosity. She had a cut blooming purple on her cheekbone and dried blood along the side of her neck, but her voice came sharp and smooth.
“Ellie,” Rachel said with a dry sneer, letting the name hang heavy in the room. “Heard a lot about you from Joan here.”
You stiffened but said nothing, trying to rock Frances more steadily to hide the shake in your hands.
Ellie’s head tilted slightly, sharp green eyes locking on Rachel with barely veiled suspicion. “You the one runnin’ this place?”
Rachel gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I am.”
Ellie huffed softly, nostrils flaring as her gaze flicked to you, then back to Rachel. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice low and ragged like she was holding something back. “Then maybe you can tell me why she,” she jerked her chin at you, “hid this from me.”
The silence that followed pressed thick between the three of you, broken only by Frances’s soft little breaths and the creak of Rachel’s chair as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.
“Because Joan’s a liar,” Rachel said simply, her tone flat, calculating. “She’s been lying for years. To me. To you. To everyone.”
Your stomach twisted painfully, but before you could defend yourself, Ellie sat up straighter, her foot stopping mid-tap.
Her voice dropped low, almost a growl. “She told me the Fireflies were gone. That you were all dead.”
Rachel’s smirk curved faint and cruel. “And yet… here we are.”
Ellie’s hands curled into fists on her knees, trembling with the effort to stay still. Her breathing was sharp, uneven, like she was choking back everything she wanted to scream.
You opened your mouth, trying to explain, but then —
Of course.
Of fucking course.
The door creaked open.
And Abby stepped in.
Ellie froze.
The air split in two.
Abby’s face was streaked with scratches, her lip split from the fight earlier, but she froze in the doorway just the same, taking in the scene in a single breath — you, Frances clinging to your shirt; Ellie, shoulders coiled like a spring; Rachel, watching from her desk like a vulture waiting for a carcass to drop.
Ellie’s pupils blew wide, her throat working as she swallowed hard. Her hands twitched where they rested, fingers curling against nothing. For a moment, she didn’t even breathe.
Then her face twisted, a horrible, visceral shift from shock to something raw and feral. Her jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped, and her voice came out low and cracked, like something tearing apart inside her:
“…No.”
Abby stepped further inside, her own gaze narrowing when she recognized the girl in the chair. “Ellie,” she breathed, soft, low, dangerous.
Ellie shot up so fast the chair legs screeched across the floor, sending Frances into startled cries against your chest. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, shaking violently, her entire body vibrating with too much history packed into too small a space.
“You,” Ellie rasped, barely above a whisper — but the venom in it could’ve burned through steel.
Abby shifted, weight leaning forward, but Rachel raised a hand, voice cutting sharp: “Enough.”
Neither of them heard her.
Ellie’s breath came ragged now, chest heaving, green eyes locked on Abby like she could burn her down just by looking. “She’s here,” Ellie whispered to herself, almost like disbelief. Then louder, harder, voice cracking: “She’s fuckin’ here.”
Abby’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed steady, measured — too measured, and that only seemed to enrage Ellie further.
“I didn’t come for you,” Abby said quietly, gaze flicking to Frances, then back to Ellie. “I didn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ellie snapped, the sound sharp enough to cut.
Frances cried harder, and you tightened your arms around her, heart hammering in your ears.
The room was suffocating — Rachel watching silently, Ellie vibrating with barely contained fury, Abby frozen but coiled to spring. Every nerve in your body screamed to move, to speak, to stop this before it exploded.
And you knew the next second would decide everything.
Abby shook her head slowly, jaw tight, her voice low and shaking with restrained fury.
“This is bullshit,” she muttered, stepping closer, shoulders squared. “I’m not doing this again with you.”
Her gaze swept Ellie up and down, cold and deliberate — measuring her, daring her.
Ellie’s hands flexed at her sides, her breaths uneven, shallow. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh that cracked halfway through. “No,” she rasped, her voice breaking into something rougher, uglier. “No, yeah, you are. You fucking will.”
Her green eyes burned — hollow and sharp, ringed red from exhaustion, from grief that never went anywhere.
Abby’s hand shot out suddenly, curling hard around your arm, dragging you instinctively half behind her. Frances let out a startled squeak, her tiny fists gripping your shirt as she pressed into your chest.
“Not the fuck I won’t,” Abby spat, her voice like gravel grinding between her teeth. “You want the Fireflies?” She jabbed a finger toward Rachel without looking, her voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “Take ’em. I don’t give a shit. But you leave my family the hell alone.”
Ellie blinked at her, like the words had barely processed. Then her face twisted into something darker, more brittle, her voice cracking high and sharp:
“Family?” She scoffed, almost choking on it, her chest heaving. “Family? You get to stand there and say that after everything you fucking did?”
Abby’s jaw tightened, muscles twitching under her skin, but she didn’t step back. “I’m not doing this with you,” she repeated, lower this time, voice trembling now not from fear, but restraint.
Ellie’s breathing hitched, and for the first time, her hand twitched toward the grip of her gun.
Rachel stood behind her desk, silent but sharp-eyed, leaning forward like a predator waiting to see who would strike first.
Frances whimpered softly against your neck, and you tightened your hold on her, your whole body coiled, ready to move, to shield her if this went bad.
The room was seconds away from detonating.
Abby took one slow step forward, keeping her voice low, steady, deadly:
“You’re gonna put that gun down,” she said evenly, “and i’m gonna walk out of this office, Ellie. Right now.”
Ellie didn’t move. Her shoulders shook with the force of everything she wasn’t saying, everything burning behind her eyes. She let out a shuddering breath, licking her lips like she was tasting blood.

Chapter 106: Gun

Notes:

idk wtf happened lol but this is the updated chapter

Abby’s hand clamped tighter around your arm, fingers digging into your sleeve hard enough to bruise. Her voice came low and sharp in your ear, leaving no room for argument.
“Go,” she hissed. “Take her and go.”
You hesitated, Frances squirming against your chest, her little fists tangled in your shirt. “Abby—”
“Now, Joan.” Her tone cracked like a whip, cold and commanding.
You swallowed hard, nodded once, and shifted Frances higher onto your hip, clutching her against you. Abby stepped forward then, planting herself between you and Ellie, a living wall of muscle and tension, her shoulders squared, her stance wide.
Ellie’s hand twitched near her holster, eyes flicking between you and Frances like she was trying to decide where to aim first.
Abby didn’t give her the chance.
She jerked her chin toward the door, her voice steady but shaking underneath.
“You wanna fight me, do it later. But you’re not doing this in front of her.”
Something cracked in Ellie’s expression — jaw working, chest heaving, pupils blown wide — but she didn’t move. She just stood there, breathing raggedly, watching as you stepped backward out of the office with Frances clutched tight.
The hallway outside was cooler, quieter, but your pulse still thundered in your ears. Abby stomped out a second later, her heavy boots thudding against the floor, one hand flexing at her side like she was still ready to fight if Ellie followed.
You jogged a step to keep up with her long stride, Frances’ soft whimpers pressed into your collarbone. “Abby, wait, I—”
Her head snapped toward you, fury flashing bright behind her eyes.
“I told you so,” she spat, low and harsh, each word clipped like she had to force them past clenched teeth.
Your breath caught. “Abby—”
“You think lying was gonna protect us?!” she hissed, voice sharp enough to cut. Her jaw trembled with restrained anger, but her pace didn’t falter. “You put us right back in her sights, Joan. Right back in the fuckin’ crosshairs.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called from further down the corridor.
“Joan!”
Lev came jogging up, rifle bouncing against his back, his brow furrowed tight with confusion. His eyes darted between your bloody face, the sleeping baby clutched against you, and Abby’s storm-wrecked expression.
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly, slowing his pace to match yours.
Abby didn’t even look at him. “Not here,” she muttered, shoving open the stairwell door with her shoulder and gesturing you through first.
Lev hesitated, sensing the weight of everything unsaid, before falling in behind you, his boots quick on the metal steps.
Down below, the muffled voices of soldiers drifted through the base, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart — and somewhere behind you, the ghost of Ellie’s ragged breathing still clinging to your ears.
Abby’s grip on your arm tightened as she led you through the lower corridor, her pace brutal and unrelenting. Frances whimpered softly against your shoulder, her little fists tangled in your shirt, but Abby didn’t slow. Lev stayed close behind, his eyes flicking between you and the hallway behind like he expected Ellie to come storming after you at any second.
“Abby,” you managed between shaky breaths, your ribs aching from earlier. “We… we can’t just—”
“Yes, we can,” she snapped without looking back. Her voice was low and clipped, every syllable edged with barely restrained panic. “We’re done here.”
Lev frowned, jogging to catch up. “What do you mean done?” His voice cracked with confusion, frustration threading into the edges. “What the hell’s going on?”
Abby ignored him. She shoved open the heavy side door of the base and ushered you out into the cool, damp air beyond. It smelled like salt and smoke, the distant tang of the ocean clinging to the breeze. Abby finally stopped, chest rising and falling hard, her hand braced on the doorframe as she glanced back at the building.
“We’re leaving,” she said finally, low but firm.
You blinked, stunned, shifting Frances higher on your hip. “Abby, wait—Ellie’s here. We can’t just—”
“That’s exactly why we’re leaving.” She finally met your eyes, her jaw tight, every muscle in her neck taut like a bowstring. “I’m not fighting her. Not again. Not in front of Frances.”
Something sharp lodged in your throat, but you nodded anyway, because the alternative — staying here, waiting for Ellie to come back for answers or worse — wasn’t something you could stomach.
Lev stepped forward, brows furrowed deep, his voice lower now, steadier. “So what? We just run?”
Abby’s expression softened a fraction as she looked at him. “We move,” she corrected quietly. “Somewhere she won’t find us. Somewhere we can actually be safe.”
The weight of her words settled heavy between the three of you.
The walk home was silent, save for the faint chirp of crickets and the rhythmic crunch of boots on damp earth. Your ribs burned with every breath, Frances’ soft weight pressing into your chest as you clutched her tighter. Lev carried his rifle slung low, head on a swivel, scanning the treeline like danger might leap from the shadows at any moment.
When you finally reached the house, Abby went in first, clearing each room with practiced efficiency before gesturing you inside. She didn’t waste time, grabbing one of the canvas duffel bags from the hallway closet and tossing it onto the kitchen table with a thud.
“Pack the essentials,” she ordered, her voice sharp but steady. “Food, water, clothes. We’re not taking anything we can’t carry.”
You shifted Frances onto the couch where she dozed instantly, her little chest rising and falling against the worn cushion. Lev hovered near the door, setting his rifle down slowly, his expression tense.
“Abby,” he said softly, glancing between the two of you. “What if she follows us?”
Abby froze mid-motion, her back to him, shoulders rising and falling with a slow, measured breath.
“Then we make sure she never finds where we’re going,” she said finally, voice low and resolute. “We’re not staying here long enough for her to try.”
You swallowed hard and forced yourself into motion, moving toward the cabinets and pulling down cans, ration packs, anything light and easy to carry. Every small sound — the rustle of fabric, the clatter of lids, the zip of bags — seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet house.
Behind you, Abby moved with military precision, stuffing first-aid kits and ammo into another bag, double-checking every clip before sliding it inside. Her face was unreadable now, her focus absolute, but the rigid set of her jaw told you enough. She wasn’t just scared. She was furious — at Ellie, at you, maybe at everything.
Lev crouched near Frances, gently adjusting the blanket around her, his small hands lingering as he glanced back at you. His voice was barely a whisper when he asked, “Where are we gonna go?”
Abby didn’t look up from the bag she was packing, her answer short and clipped:
“Far.”

Chapter 107: No more hesitation

Notes:

pros of abby x reader fic : i love talking to other abby fans

cons: ...sometimes i am stupid... and abbys fans are so smart and i feel so embarrassed that i am... stupid
please reread chapter 105--i up0loaded it wrong ;,(

You stuffed another handful of ration packs into the duffel, your hands trembling despite yourself. Every bruise screamed under your shirt, ribs aching deep, and when you wiped your nose again, the tissue came away stained with fresh blood.
You swallowed hard, your voice rough as you finally broke the silence.
“Abby… I’m sorry.”
She didn’t stop moving, just shoved another roll of bandages into the bag and zipped it hard enough the sound cracked the quiet. “For what?” she asked, voice flat.
You stared down at your hands, forcing the words out.
“For… not leaving. For staying. I should’ve—” Your voice broke, and you shook your head. “God, these last few days I’ve gotten my ass beat more than in the last two years combined.”
Abby’s head snapped up, her expression darkening.
“You think?” she bit out, slamming the duffel shut and turning on you fully now. Her voice was low but sharp, each word like a blade. “Rachel. Marcus. Now Ellie? You’re walking around with a target on your back, Joan, and you keep dragging us into it.”
You flinched but forced yourself to meet her eyes, your throat tight.
“I was just trying to keep us safe—”
“Safe?” She laughed, bitter and harsh, shoving a hand through her hair. “Safe would’ve been packing up the second Rachel started sniffing around. Safe would’ve been getting Frances away from this place. But no. You had to stay. You had to prove something.”
Your stomach twisted, shame clawing up your throat. You glanced toward the couch, where Frances was curled under her blanket, her little hand twitching in her sleep. The sight almost broke you.
“I didn’t want to rip her away from a home she finally felt safe in,” you whispered, voice cracking. “After everything, she likes it here. She sleeps through the night. She’s got Lev. She’s got you. I couldn’t—”
Abby stepped closer, her jaw tight, her voice trembling with restrained anger.
“She doesn’t need Catalina, Joan. She needs you alive. She needs you not bleeding out in some alley because you can’t let go of this damn place.”
You dragged a shaky hand over your face, wiping sweat from your temple as the room seemed to close in around you.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every single night thinking about how easily I could fuck this all up for her?” You swallowed hard, voice raw. “I just… I thought staying would make us normal. I thought if I held on long enough, everything would stop falling apart.”
Abby’s expression softened for half a second, but then she shook her head, harsh and fast.
“That’s not how this works anymore,” she muttered. Her voice cracked slightly, quiet enough that Lev — who had drifted closer to the kitchen doorway — had to strain to hear. “Normal’s dead, Jo. It’s been dead for years. You have to stop pretending it isn’t.”
Her words cut deeper than any of the bruises mottling your ribs.
Lev cleared his throat softly, his voice small from where he stood hugging himself near the wall.
“Where will we even go?”
Abby looked at him then, exhaling slowly, her anger melting just enough to soften her tone.
“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Away from Ellie. Away from Rachel. Away from anyone who wants to put a bullet in us because of who we used to be.”
You shook your head, tears blurring your vision as your hand clenched tight around the duffel strap.
“Abby, I can’t… Frances is too little for this.”
Abby stepped in closer, gripping your shoulders hard enough to steady you — or maybe to shake the stubbornness out of you. Her voice dropped low, controlled, almost dangerous in its calm.
“She’s too little for you to keep getting beaten bloody every two days,” she whispered. “You want to protect her? Then listen to me for once, Joan. Let me protect my family.”
The words landed heavy, cutting the air between you.
Lev looked between you both, jaw tight, eyes wet, but he said nothing. Frances shifted softly on the couch, her tiny breath steady and even, oblivious to the weight pressing down on the three of you.
You exhaled shakily, nodding once, even as guilt burned through your chest like fire.
You shoved the last of Frances’s things into the duffel and set it by the door, but the motion made your head spin. Your ribs ached, your knuckles were scraped raw, and the swelling around your nose pulsed with every beat of your heart.
You tried breathing in, but your nose clogged instantly, hot pressure locking your airway. You had to part your lips just to drag in air, shallow and ragged, each breath burning your throat.
It was suffocating.
All of it.
The fight.
Ellie’s gun pressed into your back.
Rachel’s smug voice.
The thought of tearing Frances away from the only home she’s ever known.
It all pressed down on you like a hand around your neck.
You mumbled something to Abby — you didn’t even know what — and slipped out the door before she could stop you. The cool night air hit your face like a shock, the salty breeze off the water stinging the cuts along your cheek.
But even outside, you couldn’t get enough air. Not through your nose, not through your chest. Your hand braced against the rough siding of the house as you forced yourself to slow down, dragging each breath in through your mouth until the panic loosened its grip enough to keep you standing.
You pressed your sleeve under your nose again, wiping at the sticky, half-dried blood. It came away dark and rusted in the low light, but your nose still felt raw, clogged, unrelenting. You tried again to breathe — still nothing. It was like drowning above water.
Your vision blurred for a moment, tears stinging unbidden as you clenched your jaw, biting them back. You hated how small you felt. How weak. How damn tired.
“Joan?”
You froze at the soft voice.
Lev stood a few feet away, half in shadow, his arms folded over his chest. He had that same guarded, unreadable look he always wore when he didn’t know how to approach something.
You wiped your sleeve quickly across your face, trying to look like you hadn’t just been spiraling. “Hey,” you rasped, your voice breaking around the dryness of your throat. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”
He hesitated before stepping closer, his boots scuffing against the gravel. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. His eyes flicked to your face, lingering on your swollen nose, the dark bruises blooming along your cheekbone, the split at the corner of your lip. “…You can’t breathe, can you?”
You shook your head once, swallowing thickly. “Not through my nose,” you said, words coming out congested and sharp. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Lev’s brow furrowed, skeptical in that quiet way only he could pull off. He shoved his hands deeper into his sleeves, glancing down at the dirt between you.
“You’re not fine,” he said finally, barely louder than the ocean behind you. “You’ve been getting hurt. A lot.”
Your chest tightened. The truth in his voice was heavier than any punch you’d taken this week.
You crouched slightly, wincing as your ribs complained, resting your elbows on your knees as you steadied your breathing. “…I’m trying, Lev. I swear I’m trying to keep us safe.”
His gaze sharpened at that, and he studied you for a long, quiet moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice was cautious, careful.
Lev’s arms crossed tighter across his chest, his jaw shifting as he shook his head.
“Joan,” he said, his voice low but steady — steadier than you’d ever heard it. “I’m older now. It’s not like before.” His eyes locked on yours, sharp even in the dark. “If I tell you—” He paused, swallowing hard, forcing the words past his teeth. “If Abby tells you we need to go, you need to listen.”
The words settled between you like a weight.
You nodded, though it felt weak even to you. “I know, I just…” Your throat tightened as you searched for something to defend yourself with, but every excuse sounded hollow. “I was trying to keep us together,” you whispered instead, but even that broke halfway out.
Lev stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he breathed out, slow and deliberate, shaking his head slightly.
“You were being naive,” he said, soft but firm, no hesitation in his voice.
The word landed heavier than any punch you’d taken this week. It wasn’t cruel, not even angry — just true.
You blinked at him, stunned, your chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with the bruises. “Naive…” You repeated the word under your breath, letting it hang there like a confession. You dragged in a sharp breath through your mouth, your nose still too clogged to manage otherwise. “No one’s ever described me like that before,” you murmured, voice trembling, rough from the congestion and the weight of his judgment.
Lev didn’t respond, but his silence said enough.
You leaned back against the siding, sliding down until you were sitting on the cool wood of the porch, your legs pulled up loosely to your chest. The ocean wind curled past, carrying the sharp sting of salt, burning the split along your lip.
Your hands trembled faintly as you pressed them into your knees, breath coming shallow, jagged. “This…” you exhaled, shaking your head like you couldn’t quite find the right words. “This was so naive.”
The truth of it rattled inside you. Not just the fight. Not just the lying. Not just the endless mess with Rachel and Ellie and everything Abby had warned you about.
All of it.
How many times had you thought you could handle this, fix this, control this — like if you just held on tight enough, everything would stay steady? But now the bruises on your ribs, the blood still clinging to your shirt, the look in Lev’s eyes… they all told a different story.
For the first time tonight, you didn’t fight the tears pricking at the corners of your vision. You didn’t try to swallow them down or blink them away. You just let them come, quiet and burning, streaking cold paths down your cheeks.
Lev shifted awkwardly beside you, like he wanted to sit but couldn’t bring himself to yet. His voice was careful when he finally spoke.
“You always… you always try to protect everybody,” he said softly, almost like he hated to admit it. “But you can’t protect us if you don’t listen, Joan.”
His words lodged somewhere deep, sharp enough that you couldn’t even answer.
For once, you didn’t have a defense.
Lev disappeared inside, his footsteps soft against the creaking floorboards until the door shut behind him. The porch fell silent, save for the low hiss of the ocean breeze pushing through the palms. You sat there with your knees drawn up, fingers curled tight against the wood, until the door creaked again.
Abby stepped out.
Her face was half-shadowed in the dim porch light, strands of her braid loose and damp from a rushed shower. She lowered herself onto the step beside you without a word, leaning forward on her elbows. You caught the faint scent of antiseptic on her skin, mixed with sweat and blood. She sat there a long time, her breathing steady but heavier than usual, like she was trying to measure each word before it came.
“Everything’s… packed up,” she said finally, her voice low, almost raw.
You nodded, staring out at the dark horizon, unable to meet her eyes. “I know.” Your throat tightened around the words. “I’m sorry we haven’t… been much of a team.”
Abby let out a slow breath, shaking her head faintly. “I don’t need an equal team,” she said, her voice firmer now. “I need you to keep our baby safe… and listen to me when I tell you something’s dangerous.”
Her words weren’t cruel — but they carved deep anyway, sharper than anything Rachel or Ellie could’ve said.
You swallowed hard, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve, your thumb rubbing at a dried smear of blood near the cuff. “I know,” you whispered, then hesitated. “…I’m also sorry we haven’t been… having sex either.”
That made her glance sideways at you, one brow raised, expression unreadable.
“Joan,” she said flatly, “I don’t care about that right now.”
“I know,” you mumbled quickly, cheeks heating under the weight of her gaze. “I just… I miss before. Before all of this.” You gestured vaguely, your hand trembling a little — the fights, the tension, the bruises blooming fresh over old scars. “It feels like… when I got pregnant, everything started falling apart.”
Abby leaned back slightly, resting her hands on her knees. Her jaw flexed once, hard, like she was chewing through thoughts she didn’t want to say out loud.
“There’s always been bullshit,” she said finally, voice low and rough. “Always gonna be bullshit.”
The silence stretched between you, heavy but strangely fragile. The sound of the waves rolled distant and restless. Somewhere inside, Frances let out a soft babble in her sleep, and it cracked something in your chest.
You turned toward Abby then, really looked at her — the swelling along her cheekbone, the faint split at her lip, the exhaustion pulling at her shoulders. It wasn’t that she didn’t want you. It wasn’t even that she was angry about the distance between you. It was everything else pressing in at once, forcing you both to keep moving, to keep fighting, to keep breathing through it all.
And yet you couldn’t shake the ache under your ribs. The longing for the way she used to look at you when there wasn’t so much between you.
Abby sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face before resting her palm against the back of her neck. “You wanna know the truth?” she murmured, glancing at you. “Before Frances, before Catalina, before all of it — I thought we’d have time. Time to figure shit out. Time to just… be.”
Your chest constricted at that, because you wanted the same thing — and it felt like the universe had been ripping it away from you piece by piece.
You swallowed hard, blinking past the sting behind your eyes. “I don’t wanna lose what we have,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite yourself.
Abby didn’t answer right away. But after a moment, her hand found your knee — warm, solid, grounding — and she squeezed it gently.
You turned to her, searching her face in the dim porch light, and before you could say anything else, Abby leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft — it wasn’t careful, either. It was desperate. The copper taste of your own blood mixed with her breath, warm and heavy, and it jolted through you like an electric current. You felt her hand cup the side of your jaw, rough fingertips pressing against your skin like she was trying to anchor you there, hold you steady when everything else was spinning out of control.
You exhaled shakily into her mouth, clinging to her arm with trembling fingers, swallowing down the chaos pounding behind your ribs. You didn’t care that your nose still hurt, didn’t care that your split lip stung. All you cared about was that she was here, that she wasn’t pulling away, that you still had this between you — messy, fragile, but real.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours for half a breath, her breathing uneven like she’d been holding it the whole time. Her eyes were darker now, burning low like embers.
“We gotta get moving,” she whispered, her voice rough against your cheek.
Your throat tightened, but you nodded anyway, forcing the word out past the lump there. “Okay…” you rasped, then steadier, “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Abby leaned back, her hand slipping from your jaw as she stood. She rolled her shoulders once, cracking her neck, already shifting back into that protective mode you’d seen a hundred times before. That part of her that always put herself between you and danger, even when she was furious with you.
She offered you her hand, and you took it, letting her pull you to your feet. Inside, Frances stirred in the bedroom but didn’t wake. Lev’s muffled voice carried faintly from the living room, humming something under his breath as he packed up the last of his things.
You glanced once at the horizon, at the faint glow of the base lights in the distance, and felt that familiar heaviness settle in your chest. Whatever came next — whatever the hell Rachel, Ellie, or anyone else decided to throw at you — there was no more room to hesitate.
Not anymore.

Chapter 108: Traveling

Notes:

Hi sorry i had writers block so i started a new fic to try and get creative called blood and hunger but im back i got ideas lol

You turned to her, heart still hammering from everything that had happened, and she kissed you—messy, desperate. You could taste the metallic tang of your own blood mixing with her spit, and still, it was electric. Grounding.
When she pulled away, her eyes lingered on yours. “We gotta get moving,” she whispered, voice rough with restraint.
You nodded, throat tight. “Okay… yeah. Let’s go.”
You shifted Frances higher against your chest. She was heavier now, always growing, her arms looped around your neck with sleepy trust. There had never been formula, not in this world—not since she was born. You had nursed her through fever and fear, through hunger and exhaustion. You had fed her with your own body because there was no other choice. She was yours in a way no one could ever understand. A part of you carved into something small and stubborn and alive.
Now, she slept against you, unaware of how close she'd come to being taken away.
Abby slung her pack over her shoulder and opened the door. Light cut across the floor, gold and unforgiving. She didn’t look back as she stepped into it—just waited, steady and silent.
You followed.
One foot in front of the other.
Still bleeding, still aching—but moving.
Because you had to.
Because this was your family.
And you weren’t going to lose them.
____________________________________________________________________________
Month one:
You left Catalina at dawn.
The skiff groaned under your weight—four bodies, some salvaged gear, not enough food. Frances whimpered in your lap, restless beneath the too-large jacket you swaddled her in. Her cheeks were wind-chapped by the time the sun broke over the horizon. You pressed your palm to her forehead and whispered lies about warmth and breakfast.
Abby rowed like her life depended on it. Lev didn’t talk much. He kept his rifle across his thighs, eyes sharp and sweeping. You kept watch too, but not as well—your face still pulsed from where Ellie broke your nose. Every breath felt jagged. You bled into your shirt and didn’t say anything.
Land didn’t feel like relief.
The marina was half-swallowed by the ocean, and the beach reeked of rot. Frances wailed as you stepped onto land. Abby shushed her, bouncing her on a sore hip. Lev scouted the boardwalk. You just stood there, the cold biting through the damp cuffs of your pants, and tried to ignore the thought that maybe this had been a mistake.
The first time her crying drew infected, you blamed yourself. You’d been the one to unwrap the last tin of fish. You’d been the one to say it was okay to rest in the open.
Three came out of a flooded warehouse. One got close.
You remember the sound of your knife sinking into its throat. The way Frances screamed louder after the kill.
You held her close. Whispered apologies.
They didn’t stop.
________________________________________________________________________________
Month two:
You carried Frances more often now.
Her weight wasn’t much, not really, not when she curled into your chest like she still thought she was part of your body. But your back ached anyway. Your shoulders burned. Your arms throbbed from days of holding her too tight, too long, through heat that shimmered off the concrete like fire. Every time she whimpered, you flinched, waiting for the sound to draw something from the trees.
Abby had the heavier pack—she insisted. The food, the tools, the little bit of medicine left. You didn’t fight her on it. Not this time. She marched a few steps ahead most days, her eyes fixed on the broken highway stretching out like some dead god’s spine. Lev stuck closer to the edge of the road, what was left of a map clutched in one hand, his rifle swinging softly against his back.
You didn’t speak much anymore.
Frances was sick. It started as just a fever—something you thought would pass in a day. But the heat clung to her skin like a second layer, sticky and sour. Her body burned against yours as you tried to sponge the sweat from her neck with your sleeve. You whispered nonsense, sang old lullabies that made your throat ache. Her lips peeled. Her eyes lost their spark. Her belly swelled from too much canned fruit, too much sugar, not enough clean water.
You kept checking her mouth in the mornings, scared to find it cracked and dry. You held her hand to feel if she was still warm—too warm. Every night, you kissed her hot forehead and begged the fever to break. Every night, she whimpered in her sleep and clawed at your collarbone like she wanted to crawl back inside you.
It didn’t pass. Not for weeks.
One afternoon, Lev and Abby got into it. You didn’t know what about—resources probably, or how far you'd wandered from the river. You were trying to cool Frances with a damp rag in the shade of a crumbling gas station when their voices snapped through the stillness.
Lev’s voice cracked as he yelled. Abby's tone was low and cold, like the calm before a thunderstorm. You stood up to say something and felt the girl in your arms convulse—she vomited down your shirt, hot and sour and full of half-digested peaches.
That shut them up. Lev turned away. Abby wiped your shoulder clean with shaking hands.
Later that week, her crying echoed through a canyon—thin, piercing, wild with fever—and summoned a pack of runners.
You didn’t see them until it was too late. Their howls rattled the stone. You froze, heart in your throat, but Abby was already moving. She snatched Frances from your arms and ran, her legs pounding against the dirt path like pistons. “Move!” she screamed over her shoulder. “Fucking move, Joan!”
You ran. You didn’t look back.
Lev dropped behind to cover your escape. You heard the shots—one, two, three—close enough to feel the pressure in your chest. A fourth shot. Then silence. You didn’t know if silence meant safety or death.
The three of you didn’t speak that night.
After that, you started tying cloth gently around Frances’ mouth at night, hoping to muffle her moans. She fought it at first, scared and confused, but eventually she stopped resisting. You cried with her. Cried as she stared up at you with watery, unblinking eyes—eyes that always looked like they knew it was your fault.
You started to believe it was.
Days later, you stumbled on an orchard outside Fresno. The trees were dry and brittle, but some still clung to shriveled apples like dying fists. You picked what you could, scraping the flesh with your teeth like a starving animal. Frances barely chewed. She just held the pieces in her mouth, lips stained red.
The barn smelled like piss and mold. But the cellar beneath it was dry. A miracle, almost. Lev found four dusty cans—beans, peas, something unidentifiable—and a single sachet of powdered formula so old the label had peeled away.
You boiled the formula anyway. Abby filtered the water three times and watched you like she expected it to kill her. You fed it to Frances slowly. She kept it down. Her eyelids fluttered, and for the first time in weeks, she slept without trembling.
Abby didn’t say anything. Just sat on the floor with her head in her hands.
That night, you curled up on the hay-strewn floor with Frances on your chest, wrapped in your jacket, while Lev took first watch outside.
You woke up hours later to the sound of him crying. Soft, stifled. You didn’t move. Just listened to the boy who'd once kept you alive sob quietly in the dark.
You wanted to say something. To thank him. To tell him you were sorry.
But you didn’t. You didn’t know how.
So you lay there, Frances breathing slow against your collarbone, and watched the dust float through a crack in the cellar wall as the sun began to rise.
______________________________________________________________________________
Month three:
The roads were graveyards.
Every step forward felt like a trespass.
The asphalt cracked beneath your boots, split open by weeds that had clawed their way through over the years. Grass grew where tire tracks once burned. The skeletons of the old world stretched out in both directions—twisted cars swallowed by ivy, road signs half-buried in dust, entire semis collapsed on their sides like fallen titans. You passed a school bus outside what used to be Bakersfield. The yellow was sun-bleached to white. Inside, the windows were fogged from time and rot. You didn’t look. Abby did. Her jaw clenched.
Each mile was another museum of endings. A rusted sedan with bones in the backseat. A minivan with children’s shoes still lined up neatly on the dash. A pickup scorched black from the inside, the wheel welded to the seat by melted metal.
Frances didn’t cry anymore. But she didn’t laugh either.
She stopped making noise altogether.
She clung to you like a baby possum, curled beneath your jacket, limbs draped limp across your ribs. Her arms weren’t strong enough to hold on anymore, so you held for both of you. Her breath stayed shallow in her sleep. You counted them sometimes just to be sure.
You tried singing to her one night—an old lullaby from before, something you half-remembered from your own childhood—but your voice cracked halfway through. You felt her blink against your collarbone, then go still. She didn’t react. Didn’t look up.
You knew she was hungry. But she’d stopped asking.
Once, near the gutted remains of a roadside motel, you heard shouting. Then a woman’s scream—sharp, ragged, wet with panic. You saw four men dragging her by the hair into the shattered lobby. Lev reached for his rifle, silent and certain. His face was stone.
But Abby touched his wrist. “No,” she said.
Just that.
You wanted to scream at her. You wanted to do something. But instead, you turned your face away and walked. Frances whimpered once, then went quiet again.
The next night, Frances burned against your chest—skin slick with fever, breath shallow and fast. You wrapped her in both jackets, yours and Abby’s, then bundled her in a torn blue tarp you’d found in the wreck of a gas station canopy. You begged Abby to build the fire hotter.
She did. Barely.
“We can’t risk the smoke,” she said under her breath, even as she fed it another handful of dry moss.
You sat there all night, cradling your girl like a dying ember, whispering to her, humming against her temple, praying to gods you hadn’t believed in for years. You would’ve traded anything for a bottle of antibiotics. Your blood. Your lungs. Your life. Anything.
The fever broke by morning.
You still don’t know why.
Later that week, you reached an old ranger station tucked against the edge of a redwood grove. The windows were shattered, but the roof was intact. Inside, the air smelled like wet pine and mouse droppings. Lev swept the floor with a branch while Abby checked the walls for mold. You found a broken solar panel tangled in the underbrush outside and hauled it in like treasure.
Lev spent the next three hours rewiring it by lantern light.
When the green diode blinked to life on the battery box, Frances let out a single sound—barely a giggle, just a small bubbling laugh from deep in her chest as the glow danced on the wall. You blinked hard. Abby smiled, just a little. Lev rubbed his eyes.
You wanted to cry.
Instead, you just held her tighter against your ribs, your chin resting on her curls.
That night, you didn’t sleep apart.
Abby curled in behind you, silent, strong, her arm wrapped over your stomach like a brace holding you in place. Frances lay pressed to your chest, her little hands fisted in your shirt like she was afraid of vanishing. The three of you made a shape—one long curl of warmth in the cold.
No one said a word.
You didn’t have to.
The world outside was still cruel. But for a few hours, inside that broken ranger station, you felt something ancient settle inside your bones.
Not safety. Not exactly.
But family.
___________________________________________________________________________
Month four:
You’ve left California behind now. No goodbyes, no signs. Just the slow dwindling of trees behind you and the rising silence ahead.
Nevada stretches like a desiccated tongue, cracked and baked under a sky that never dims. The sun here doesn’t set so much as hang—motionless and merciless—until it suddenly vanishes behind red mountains you’re too tired to admire. The roads are buckled and blistered, old fissures crawling through the asphalt like veins. It hasn’t rained in weeks. Maybe months.
The desert doesn’t speak. It hisses.
Every step crunches on salt-bleached gravel, every breath tastes like old metal. No green out here. No grass. No moss between cracks. Only broken bones of the old world: twisted highway signs, husks of rusted trucks half-buried in sand, cracked pavement overtaken by scrub and silence. Roadkill mummified by the sun.
Abby walks ahead, silent, always scanning. Lev stays behind you, rifle out, footfalls quieter than yours. You move in the middle with Frances strapped to your chest like an afterthought. A weight you once carried with joy. Now, she’s just… heavy. Always too warm. Always limp.
She stopped crying three days after you crossed the Nevada border. Just stopped. No tantrums, no screams. At first, you were grateful. Then terrified. Now it haunts you.
She doesn’t laugh anymore, either. She clings instead—like a baby possum tucked beneath your jacket, small fingers curling into the collar of your shirt even in her sleep. You try to sing to her at night—half-remembered lullabies—but your voice cracks halfway through, dry as the dust blowing off the dunes. She doesn’t stir. You don't know if she hears you.
She’s shrinking. Not in size, but in presence. She eats less. Sleeps more. Her belly's distended from too much fruit syrup and not enough clean water. Her gums bled once when she bit down on a cracker. That night, you lay awake and counted her teeth, whispering the numbers against your knuckles like prayer beads.
Abby notices. Of course she does. She’s been rationing everything—water, energy, words. You can hear her teeth grinding when she sleeps. You wonder if it’s stress, or if she’s dreaming about Seattle again. Or the Aquarium. Or Isaac.
When she speaks, her voice is low and fraying at the edges. She's turning into a silhouette—strong, but blurry. Distant. Sometimes you think if you looked away long enough, she’d vanish.
Lev stays busy. He tinkers with the maps, adjusts the makeshift compass Abby carved from a rusted screw and magnet. You caught him talking to himself the other night, pacing near a dry riverbed. A whisper, like a mantra.
You don’t ask. You’re afraid if you ask him something, he’ll ask you something back.
You find a rest stop outside Ely. Tiny. Three collapsed vending machines, an old payphone with the receiver missing, one lopsided gas pump. There’s graffiti all over the walls—half of it unreadable, the other half just tally marks. Someone was counting days here. Or kills. Or meals. You don’t want to know which.
The convenience store was looted long ago. Shelves are bare. The chip bags crackle under your boots, empty except for mouse droppings. But Lev, always climbing, always watching, scales the roof and finds a bird’s nest wedged into a busted AC unit. Four eggs, pale and speckled. Warm.
You hesitate. He doesn’t.
That night, you mix them with powdered milk and scrape the last of the salt from a ration tin to make them palatable. Frances eats half before vomiting into your lap. Her body shivers afterward, but no fever. You clean her with your sleeve and whisper that she’s brave. That it’s okay. That you’re proud of her.
You wonder if she understands any of it.
There’s nowhere safe to sleep. Abby checks every room twice before suggesting the walk-in freezer. The lock still works—from the inside. You wedge a chair beneath the handle anyway. The smell inside is awful—old blood and rot trapped in the insulation—but it's cold. Frances sleeps between you and Abby, her cheek pressed to your collarbone, tiny breaths fluttering like moth wings.
You don’t sleep much.
Neither does Abby.
In the dark, with your arms wrapped around Frances, you finally whisper, “We can’t keep doing this.”
Abby doesn’t answer. But her hand brushes yours. And in that tiny gesture—dry skin to dry skin—you find just enough will to wake up the next morning and keep going.
______________________________________________________________________________
Month Five:
The elevation starts to wear on all of you.
At first, it’s subtle—a shortness of breath climbing low hills, a fluttering in your chest that passes if you rest long enough. But then the land rises sharper, more jagged. The air thins. The wind grows colder. Every inhale feels like pulling ice through a straw.
Abby’s nose starts bleeding. At first just a pink smear when she wipes beneath her nostril, but by the third day, it streaks down her upper lip and drips off her chin. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, mutters, “I’m fine,” and keeps walking. But you see how her shoulders tense. How her steps slow.
Lev coughs in the mornings—sharp and deep. You can feel it in your bones when he hacks into his elbow, rattling like something inside him wants out. He claims it's nothing. “Just dust,” he says. “Or cold air.” But his eyes look bruised from lack of sleep, and you catch him clutching his ribs once, wincing.
You’re not immune either. A kind of vertigo sets in. It hits when you stand too fast, or when you’ve been walking for too long without food. You see stars, feel the edges of your vision curl. One afternoon, you collapse to one knee without warning, Frances in your arms.
She slips.
You catch her—barely—but she hits the dirt hard on her side. Her little face scrapes the gravel, and for one terrible second you freeze, expecting a wail. Instead, she blinks up at you. Silent. Calm. Her lip trembles.
She doesn’t cry.
Just stares.
And you know—somewhere deep in your gut—that she blames you. Maybe she doesn’t have the words for it, but she knows. She knows it was your fault. And you feel that knowing settle in your stomach like a stone.
The terrain shifts again—becoming cruel.
The cracked roads vanish, overtaken by switchbacks that snake through the hills like scars. You walk on the remains of mining trails now, barely wide enough for one person, let alone three. Gravel skitters under your boots. Jagged rock juts out like broken teeth. One wrong step, and you’d tumble into nothing.
Abby goes first. Always first. She watches for trip wires, old snares, signs of raiders or infected. Her frame is bulkier now with the pack on her back, shoulders hunched forward like she’s preparing to take a bullet.
You go second, with Frances strapped to your chest—tight, secure, unmoving. She’s smaller than she should be. You try not to think about that. Her breath fogs the inside of your jacket.
Lev brings up the rear. He walks backward half the time, rifle in hand, eyes always scanning. You’ve stopped asking what he’s looking for. You don’t think he knows anymore. The paranoia has sunk into all of you. Every snapping branch, every rustle of grass, every rabbit bolting from underfoot feels like an ambush.
Sometimes, you think someone’s following you. You’ll turn, heart slamming against your ribs, but there’s nothing. Just shadows. Just guilt.
One night, Frances refuses to eat.
You boil a can of pinto beans over a low flame and mash them with the back of a spoon until they become paste. You try to coax her gently. Make up a story about a magic bear who lived in a gas station and ate beans from golden cans. You move the spoon closer, make it dance, hum the old “airplane” game like you did back at Catalina.
She turns her head away. Her mouth stays closed. Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t respond.
You feel something inside you break.
Abby steps in. She crouches next to the fire, takes the spoon from your shaking hand, and hums.
At first, you don’t recognize the tune. It’s low. Hoarse. Off-key. But after a moment, you realize—it’s a song. A lullaby. Something soft. It cracks and warbles in her throat, years of disuse evident in every strained note.
You haven’t heard her sing since the Aquarium.
Frances opens her mouth.
Just a little. Just enough. Abby feeds her one bite. Then another.
You sit there frozen, staring at the fire, trying not to sob. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. Because somehow—somehow—it wasn’t your stories, your songs, your effort that worked. It was Abby. Always Abby.
There’s no music left in you.
Just the rhythm of footfalls on dirt. The beat of your pulse in your ears. The ache in your legs. The throb in your chest. You’ve forgotten what it means to feel joy that isn’t tinged with fear. You go to sleep that night curled around Frances, Abby curled around you, the three of you knotted together like a dying heartbeat.
No one speaks.
But for one night, at least, no one coughs. No one bleeds. Frances swallows. And that’s enough.
__________________________________________________________________________
Utah welcomes you like an open wound.
The land doesn't ease you in—it rips you open. The red earth bleeds underfoot, fine as powder, staining your skin, your socks, the lining of your nostrils. Every breath tastes like rust. Every gust of wind feels like it's flaying you raw. The dirt gets into Frances’ curls, turns her pale scalp orange with dust. Her hair used to shine when she laughed in the sun back on Catalina. You haven’t seen that shine in weeks.
Out here, even the sunsets hurt. They stretch across the sky like open arteries—brilliant, bleeding swaths of color streaked over jagged mesas and hollow canyons. They’re beautiful in a way that feels sacrilegious. Like the land is trying to make you weep, and succeeding.
The elevation never really stops hurting. Your nose bleeds occasionally now too, just like Abby’s. Lev’s cough is quieter, but still there—like the land refuses to let any of you forget how small you are.
Abby walks ahead with something different in her stride. Not urgency. Not panic. It’s older than that. Like recognition. You catch the way her shoulders stiffen when road signs appear—faded green metal with names half-eaten by weather: Beaver. Richfield. Fillmore. Her eyes track each one, and sometimes her lips move like she’s mouthing them to herself.
She knows these lands.
And they know her.
You don’t ask. You don’t push. But you feel the shift in her—the way her jaw locks, the way her pace quickens, how she doesn’t look back as often anymore to check on you and Frances.
She’s either hunting something… or trying not to.
You camp in the skeleton of a town called Fillmore. The name sounds made up—like a placeholder from a bad western—but the pain in Abby’s silence tells you it’s real. The town is dead now. Burned out. The houses are mostly collapsed; rooflines folded like paper hats, doorframes sagging inward as if exhausted by the weight of time.
You find shelter in what used to be a church. The steeple collapsed, but some of the stone walls are still standing. Pews lie in blackened heaps like funeral pyres. A few fragments of stained glass cling to the edges of shattered windows—saints with no faces, eyes punched out by brick or storm.
Frances toddles over to a pile of debris and lifts a glinting shard of blue glass, curious. Before you can reach her, she winces—then cries.
It’s a soft cry. Not the old, howling kind. But it still slices through your heart.
Blood beads from her thumb. A thin line. You rush to her and press your lips to the wound without thinking, then tear a strip from your sleeve to bandage it. Your clothes are so threadbare now it doesn’t matter. Everything you wear is stitched together from necessity and memory.
She says “ow.”
You freeze.
She’s never said that before. She’s never labeled pain like that. You don’t know whether to be proud or gutted.
That night, Lev explores beneath the altar and finds a rusted tin box tucked under a floorboard. Inside: two dead lighters, an old Firefly pendant, and a photo of a woman you don’t recognize—smiling, arms around someone in a lab coat.
Abby stares at it for a long time.
She doesn’t say a word. She just takes the tag, builds a small fire with broken hymnals, and drops it into the flames. The metal pops. Sizzles. Warps.
You want to ask who it was. Why it mattered. But you don’t.
Some pain doesn’t want language. It wants endings.
Frances sits on your lap and watches the fire flicker in both your eyes. You hold her close, your voice low against her temple.
“We’re close,” you whisper. “Almost there.”
You aren’t sure if you mean it. You just know she needs to hear it.
You leave early.
The sun hasn’t yet burned through the frost clinging to the edges of the dry grass. Frances sleeps against your chest beneath Abby’s old jacket. Lev walks beside you, quieter than usual, checking behind every thirty paces like he expects the mountains to spit something back at you.
The final climb is brutal—switchbacks lined with loose shale and wind that cuts straight through your jacket seams. But Abby doesn’t stop. She drives forward like she’s chasing something only she can see.
And then, suddenly, she stops.
You nearly walk into her, your boot skidding in the gravel. She’s frozen, weight pitched slightly forward, shoulders square. Her eyes lock onto the horizon. You follow her gaze.
Below you lies Salt Lake City.
Or what’s left of it.
The city sprawls like a corpse at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. Skyscrapers slouch inward. Roofs cave like ribcages. Roads vanish under landslides and dust. There’s still snow on the peaks in the distance, white veins across a red earth body.
To you, it’s unfamiliar. Foreign. Another ruin.
But to Abby—it’s something else.
Her mouth opens. The word escapes like a secret.
“Home.”
She says it not like a destination, but like an apology.
You don’t say anything. Just stand there beside her, Frances stirring faintly against your chest. And together, the three of you look out over the grave of what once was.
You leave the city behind.
Salt Lake’s bones crumble quietly in your rearview—if you had a rearview. If there were cars. If anything moved fast anymore.
You cross its outer ruins like a ghost, your boots crunching on glass and salt-stained pavement. Entire intersections lie buried under sand. Overpasses have collapsed into snarls of rebar and bone-dry tumbleweeds. Malls gape open like broken mouths, their parking lots fractured by roots and time. Somewhere, you hear water dripping in an empty building, echoing like it forgot why it ever started. You don’t go inside.
Abby does—for a minute. She reemerges with nothing in her hands and everything different in her eyes.
Nobody follows you. But silence clings like ash in your lungs, coating every breath, every glance over your shoulder. You keep Frances close. Closer than ever.
You didn’t ask Abby what she was looking for. You just watched the way she slowed in front of old road signs. Her eyes lingered too long on certain names—neighborhoods, schools, hospitals. She never spoke of them. But once or twice, you caught her lips moving silently as you passed. Like prayer. Or apology.
By the third day in the hills, she stopped scanning the skyline entirely.
She just walked.
You find the farm on the seventh morning.
The trail bends north along a ridge, shaded by knotty trees with peeling bark and strange golden sap that smells like pine and vinegar. Lev is the first to spot it from above—a break in the tree line, the roof just barely visible beneath a tangle of overgrowth.
Frances is asleep in your arms. You feel every ounce of her weight now—her limbs thinner than they should be, her head damp with sweat pressed against your neck. You haven’t eaten in a day and a half, and your legs shake as you descend the slope.
The farmhouse is tucked into a narrow valley, shaped like a pocket folded by the hand of God. A stream winds nearby, murky and slow but not stagnant. The air smells of moss and rain and old wood. There’s something about it that feels… untouched. Not safe, exactly, but quieter. Like the world has forgotten this place existed.
The driveway is almost entirely swallowed by weeds. Yellow dandelions bloom stubbornly through the concrete cracks. An old mailbox leans crookedly on a rusted pole, its flag snapped off. The name stenciled on the side is so faded it could be anyone's. Or no one’s.
The house itself is two stories, slumped but standing. Its white paint has mostly peeled away, revealing gray, splintered boards beneath. A porch wraps around the front like a bandage, cracked through the middle and sagging under years of snowmelt and sun. Ivy clings to the gutters. One shutter bangs gently in the wind.
There’s a rusted child’s tricycle left at the foot of the porch steps.
You pause at the sight of it.
Its front wheel is snapped sideways. A faded rainbow sticker clings to the plastic seat, half-torn. Frances stirs as if sensing it, her face still tucked in your collar.
You shift her higher on your hip, even though your arms are jelly. Your whole body is.
Lev circles toward the barn with his rifle shouldered. Ever-cautious. Ever-ready. You wonder if the weight of that gun will ever feel optional to him again.
Abby doesn’t hesitate.
She moves toward the front door like she’s been here before.
“Wait,” you say, your voice rough and low. “There’s no one here.”
She doesn’t stop walking.
“That’s the point,” she answers.
The door creaks open beneath her hand.
No traps. No blood. No movement. Just the smell of dust, mildew, and rot that’s lived too long in the walls. The kind that seeps into drywall and refuses to leave.
You step in after her, holding Frances tight and bracing for ghosts.
The entryway is dark. The blinds are closed. A pair of boots still sit by the door—adult size. Lace-up. Mud still caked on the soles, dried into brick. A coat hangs crookedly from a hook. Next to it, a child’s jacket, pink and faded.
You don’t touch it.
On the wall, a calendar still hangs. October 2034. Eight years dead. The photo is of a golden retriever. Someone circled Halloween with a little smiley face and wrote “L’s costume!!” in the square.
You stare at it too long.
Down the hall, framed family pictures still hang. Some have fallen, their glass shattered and footprints embedded in the dust beneath. One photo lies face-down. You don’t flip it over.
Frances is quiet now, but she clings to you tighter.
“Shhh,” you whisper, not sure if it’s for her or yourself.
Upstairs, the master bedroom is mostly intact.
A collapsed bedframe leans against one wall. The mattress is still there—sunken, stained, chewed by mice along the seams. Cobwebs dangle from the ceiling fan. There’s a dresser tipped on its side with its drawers spilled open like guts.
A mason jar on the windowsill holds a bouquet of dried flowers. Yellow and purple. Preserved, somehow, beneath a thick film of dust. You don’t know what kind they are.
Abby walks in, expression unreadable. She doesn’t say a word. Just grabs the old quilt from the bed, snaps it open, and shakes it out the window. A cloud of dead skin, lint, and time bursts into the air like ash. The sun cuts through it.
Lev reappears in the doorway, cheeks red from exertion.
“Barn’s clear,” he says. “Roof’s good. There’s a rain cistern. And the stream’s clean enough to boil.”
You nod, your body moving on instinct.
“There’s a pantry,” he adds. “Couple jars. Something sealed.”
You go downstairs and find the jam. One strawberry, one something dark—maybe plum. The seals are still tight. You blink at them like they’re treasure. Maybe they are.
“We’ll stay here,” Abby says at last.
Her voice is even. Flat. Final.
You nod again.
But something in you knots.
Because this place is too quiet. Too still. It doesn’t feel abandoned. It feels paused. Like if you breathe wrong, the house will remember what it lost and beg you to leave.
That night, Frances cries.
Not the loud, panicked wails of before. Just soft little gasps. Like she’s apologizing for waking you. For existing.
You lie on your side in what used to be a guest bedroom—bedrolls stretched across the old rug, Frances curled into your chest. Abby lies behind you, her back stiff, her breathing slow and controlled. She hasn’t said a word since dinner.
You whisper, “It’s okay, baby. We’re safe now.”
The words catch in your throat. They feel foreign. Weak. Like they were made for someone else, some other world.
Frances doesn’t answer. She just tucks her fingers into your collar and holds on like she’s falling.
Outside, Lev is posted up on the porch, knees drawn to his chest, rifle beside him. You see his silhouette through the broken window slats. A statue carved by loss.
You wonder if he’ll ever sleep again.
You wonder if any of you will.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Month eight:
The days start cold now.
The mornings bite your fingers as you fumble with your laces, breath fogging like smoke in the dim gray light. At night, frost silvers the windowpanes and creeps down the walls like mold. Somewhere out there, the first snows are brewing.
But here, in this forgotten pocket of Utah, the frost doesn't bite hard enough to kill—just hard enough to remind you you’re still alive.
Frances turns three.
She doesn’t know it’s her birthday. There’s no cake, no balloons, no candles. You don’t even have a proper calendar anymore—just marks scratched into the wooden frame of the old pantry door. Thirty-one more notches since Salt Lake. You counted twice. Abby confirmed it, silently.
Frances is three.
And she’s so small.
You can see her ribs still, but they don’t stick out like knives anymore. There’s softness returning to her cheeks, the kind you’d feared might never come back. Her legs have more shape to them now, more toddler chub at the knees. She laughs again—only sometimes, and only when she forgets the world is watching.
You’ve made it your mission to feed her.
You boil stream water twice. You soak rice for hours, grind up jerky into paste with whatever you can find—wild berries Lev collects, dried beans softened over days, the last jar of jam split across five meals. You call every bite “special soup,” even when it’s barely edible. She eats when you sing. She drinks when you hum against her back.
You wipe her nose. You wash her curls in melted snow. You rock her when she cries in her sleep. Sometimes she talks to someone who isn’t there. Sometimes she whispers her own name like she’s trying to remember it.
“Franny,” she’ll say, curling her fingers around your thumb.
And you’ll say it back. “Franny. My strong girl.”
Abby doesn’t talk much. But she works.
She fixes the stairs first—three of the planks had snapped clean through, brittle as dry rot. She and Lev scavenged extra wood from the collapsed chicken coop and used nails pulled from the baseboards. You heard the hammering for two days straight.
Next, it was the roof. Lev nearly fell through it when they checked the crawlspace, and Abby caught him by the back of his jacket. You weren’t there, but he told you about it afterward with wide eyes, half-proud, half-shaken. Abby didn’t mention it.
They patched the hole with tin flashing and tarps. Rain still gets through if it’s heavy, but the worst of the wind stays out now.
Then came the chimney.
You watched through the kitchen window as Abby scaled the roof with black soot smudged on her cheekbones, her braid flapping like a battle flag in the wind. She didn’t say why she was cleaning it. Didn’t say anything when she finally managed to get the old stove working again—just lit a fire, warmed her hands, and walked away.
You think she wants to make the house something other than a tomb.
You think she’s trying to erase whatever it was before you got here.
Frances draws now.
Not well—just little marks on the back of salvaged flyers and old notebook paper you found in the barn. Circles mostly. Sometimes lines. Once, a shape that looked almost like a dog, though she refused to say what it was.
Lev brought her colored pencils from a derelict classroom twenty miles east. He walked all day to get them, came back soaked in sweat and quiet. When you asked why he’d gone, he just shrugged.
“She needed something.”
Frances hugged him that night. Didn’t say a word—just buried her face in his coat and squeezed. You think it was the first time she initiated touch since the coast.
Lev cried on the porch afterward. Quietly. Pretending to clean his rifle.
Some nights, you dream of California.
Not the place it was. The place you left. Salt and screams and flies. Smoke curling up from the ocean like the coastline was on fire. You wake up gasping, arms flung over Frances, afraid she’s gone. But she’s always there. Warm. Breathing. Real.
Abby wakes from dreams, too. You hear it in the way she stops breathing for long stretches, the way she clenches her fists in her sleep. Sometimes she sits bolt upright and doesn’t move for hours, staring at the blank wall like it’s a movie only she can see.
You want to ask her what she lost in Salt Lake.
But you don’t.
Because something about the way she looks at the barn—every time she passes it—tells you she’s not ready to say.
You start collecting small things.
A coffee mug with a crack down the side. A half-melted candle. A tin of cinnamon sticks that somehow still holds scent. Frances’ hair ribbon from Seattle. The moth-eaten scarf Abby used to wear. A rusted brooch in the shape of a bird.
You put them on the windowsill. A shrine, maybe. Or a record. A reason to stay.
Lev builds a clothesline out back. You hang the blankets with wooden clothespins and watch them sway like sails in the wind. Frances thinks they’re ghosts. She chases their shadows across the grass.
She runs faster now.
Not much.
But it’s enough.
You count her steps.
You count your breaths.
You let yourself hope.
____________________________________________________________________________
Month nine:
The air tastes different now. There's a weight to it—moisture, not quite rain, but close, like the earth is remembering how to soften. The wind doesn't howl anymore. It curls under the eaves of the farmhouse like a whisper, brushing against the wooden slats and glass panes with a tenderness you haven’t felt in months. It moves the overgrowth in the garden gently, sways the tall grasses in the field behind the barn, and sighs through the pine like the land itself is taking its first easy breath in a long, long time.
Frances sleeps through the night now, most nights at least. You still wake sometimes, heart pounding, body instinctively coiled tight—trained by years of fear, ambush, and loss—but the difference is, now you fall back asleep. You don’t check the windows every time a branch scrapes the siding. You don’t reach for the rifle every time the house settles. You breathe. You lie still and listen to the soft, rhythmic snores of your daughter curled against your chest, and you go back under. It’s a small miracle. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you're not just surviving. You're living.
It starts with Abby.
One cool morning she takes Lev and vanishes into the woods with nothing but a few scavenged maps scribbled on faded gas station receipts and a hunch. You watch them go from the porch, Frances on your hip, her cheek pressed to your collarbone. Abby disappears first, her frame absorbed by the trees. Lev follows a beat later, his silhouette smaller but no less steady. They don’t look back. You feel Frances’ fingers tighten against your shirt, and you squeeze her gently in return. They’re gone two days.
You don’t sleep while they’re gone. You keep the fire burning, low and steady, chasing away the night with heat and habit. You boil roots and berries for meals, keeping Frances full enough not to cry and distracted enough not to ask when Abby’s coming back. You teach her how to trace letters in the dirt with a stick. She likes “F” the most. It’s always drawn backwards, and always followed by a triumphant grin like she’s proud of the mistake.
On the third morning, they return—and they’re not alone.
There are four strangers with them. Middle-aged, sun-leathered, wary but not immediately hostile. You can tell by the way they carry themselves—weight evenly distributed, hands never far from their belts, but weapons still holstered—that they’re not here for violence. Abby walks between them and the house like a wall of muscle and silence until you step out with Frances on your hip. That’s what makes the strangers stop. One of the men catches sight of the child and goes still. His eyes flicker with something you haven’t seen in a stranger in years: softness. Then he lifts a hand in cautious greeting.
They tell you they’re from Deseret, an old Mormon farming community tucked down in a bend of the valley, a few miles south. They’ve been living in isolation for over a decade, kept alive by old tools, ancestral know-how, and sheer stubborn will. They saw your smoke, they say. Just wanted to see if whoever lit it was still human. Abby doesn’t answer at first. Just stands there, quiet, hard-eyed, until finally she says, “We have a baby.”
The tallest of the women—the one who seems to speak for them—nods once. “Then you’re worth keeping around.”
What follows doesn’t feel real.
They bring you animals.
First two sheep, cautious and mud-flecked, their eyes wary and yellowed. Then a cow, her body wide and slow, ribs prominent but healthy enough, her udder full with milk. But the part that breaks you is the mare and foal. The horse’s flanks are wrapped in tattered cloth, hooves padded so as not to leave a trail. The foal trots behind her, clumsy and curious, eyes too big for its head.
“We figured you’d need transport and fertilizer,” says the man holding the lead rope. “And milk, if the little one’ll take it.”
You can’t answer. Your throat closes. You nearly cry. Not from sadness, but from the sheer unfamiliar weight of generosity. Frances, fascinated by the foal, points and declares his name is Blue. No one argues.
Abby becomes a machine after that. Driven. Purposeful. There’s a solar panel the Deseret folks gifted you—cracked and sun-baked, but still viable. She climbs the roof, braces it with scrap metal, rewires the junction box with parts Lev scavenged from a maintenance shed. For three days, you hear nothing but the clang of tools and a steady stream of muffled cursing. On the fourth day, the bulb in the kitchen flickers. Then steadies. You hold Frances up to see it. Her mouth falls open. “Star,” she whispers.
You begin the garden.
There’s a patch of land behind the house that catches morning light, sloping just enough for drainage. The soil is dense and stubborn, packed with stone and memory, but you kneel and dig with your bare hands anyway. You work slowly, turning the dirt day by day, until it stops resisting and starts to yield. Lev helps with the heavy lifting at first—hauling rotted wood, clearing weeds, sharpening sticks into stakes. Then Frances joins, her tiny hands gripping a spade, her brow furrowed with grim, childlike determination.
You plant what Deseret gave you—beans, squash, carrots, and two sprigs of rosemary that still smell green when crushed. The tomato seedling lives in a cracked ceramic pot, its leaves trembling every time you water it. You start a compost pile behind the barn, carefully layering food scraps and manure, watching as the earth begins to change color. Every day, you chase the sheep away from it. They never learn. Frances finds worms in the garden and brings them to you like offerings. “Garden babies,” she calls them. You teach her not to squish them. Sometimes she forgets.
Abby builds a fence.
It starts lopsided—rope and rusted barbed wire tied between posts she hammers in with the butt of a shovel. But it gets better every day. Stronger. Straighter. She builds a gate with old hinges, then shores up the barn with beams scavenged from the collapsed shed nearby. She reclaims the old chicken coop, strips it of rot, and reinforces it with scavenged wood and bent nails. From the porch, you watch her work. Her body glistens with sweat, muscles taut, braid stuck to the nape of her neck. She doesn’t speak often. But there’s something different in her movements now. Not just urgency—but peace.
The people of Deseret visit often now. They bring sacks of grain, bars of homemade soap, even a few weathered books. One of them carries a ragged stuffed rabbit in their pack and hands it to Frances without a word. She clutches it like a holy thing. In return, Abby hunts for them. Lev patrols their outskirts, clearing nests of infected and mapping safe paths between their fields. You trade tinctures and herbal remedies, help mend torn seams, teach the women how to boil water in bulk with the solar kettle Abby rigged. On Frances’ third birthday, they bring her a square of dark chocolate, wrapped in waxed cloth. She holds it in both hands and sucks on it for nearly an hour like it’s the most sacred thing she’s ever known.
That night, you find Abby standing at the edge of the fence line, just past the garden. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her eyes are fixed on the black line of trees stretching beyond the valley. You approach slowly, the grass whispering beneath your feet.
“What is it?” you ask, your voice quiet.
She doesn’t turn. “I keep expecting it to fall apart.”
You nod, heart clenching. “Me too.”
“But it hasn’t,” she says. And this time, she looks at you.
You reach for her hand. She lets you.
For a long time, the two of you stand there in silence. The solar inverter hums faintly behind you, and somewhere inside the house, Frances lets out a breathy little laugh in her sleep. The wind moves through the garden like a song.
You don’t know what tomorrow holds. But for now, the stars burn softly above the fields, and for once, you think you might be able to stay.
______________________________________________________________________________
Month Ten:
The tenth month comes quieter than any before.
There are no more desperate trips for antibiotics. No blood-streaked snow, no collapsing fences, no screaming in the dark. No funerals. Just the steady rhythm of life as it settles into itself, smoothing over the rough edges left by grief and fire and the years of running. The days no longer feel borrowed. They are yours now—earned, slow, golden.
The farmhouse, once hollow with dust and disrepair, has bloomed into something nearly warm. Home. The walls still groan when the wind kicks up, and the floorboards creak like old bones, but there’s life in it now. It smells like pine and clean soap and something sweet bubbling on the stove. Smoke curls from the chimney most mornings, and the windows are no longer boarded but open—draped in uneven curtains you hemmed by hand from scraps traded in Deseret.
The kitchen is the heart of it all. Once stripped bare, now lovingly cluttered. Herbs hang drying in tight bundles from the rafters—lavender, thyme, rosemary, mint. The pantry shelves Abby built along the back wall are packed with jars sealed in beeswax and twine. A cast-iron skillet lives permanently on the propane stove. The old oak table you dragged in from the barn sits heavy and scuffed in the center, always holding something half-finished: a needlework hoop, Frances’s wooden toys, a bowl of bruised apples, someone’s chipped mug. The room hums with quiet life—wood creaking, pot bubbling, the murmur of Lev reading aloud.
The main bedroom, once Abby’s project, now holds all three of you most nights. The bed is patched together from salvaged frames and thick quilts, layered with furs and cotton. A bookshelf stands crooked in the corner, holding more than just books—there’s a folded map of Utah, a few old photos Abby refused to part with, and Frances’s collection of rocks and bottle caps. On the wall above the bed hangs a faded tapestry Lev bartered for—woven desert colors and symbols none of you understand, but that feel protective somehow. You strung dried flower garlands across the windowsill one evening in silence. Abby didn’t say anything, but she’s never taken them down.
Frances’s room—really just the smallest back room once used for storage—has become something like a nursery. The floor is layered in soft old blankets to keep the cold from her feet. She has a tiny cot in the corner, made from a repurposed shelf and the cushion from your old travel pack. A wooden crate acts as her dresser, filled with the few clothes she hasn’t yet grown out of. Her drawings—mostly chickens, horses, and unrecognizable shapes—are pinned to the wall with little twigs. Her stuffed rabbit lives there, too, with one missing eye and its fur matted from constant affection. Sometimes she still climbs into your bed in the early hours, but sometimes she stays in her own, humming herself to sleep.
The house itself breathes now. Lev found clay and lime for chinking the walls, and Abby replaced a few broken windows with thick plastic panes that hold heat better. You sweep daily, keep a pot of stew or porridge always ready on the stove. There’s a basin for washing, a new roof patch, and a tin bucket hung near the door to catch rainwater runoff. It’s not perfect—but it’s dry, warm, and full of color. The paint’s flaking, but the light pours in.
Outside, the fields have begun to fold into autumn. When you open the front door, you’re greeted by mist curling low across the pasture, dew glowing like glass on the grass tips. The rows of vegetables in your garden are thick with late summer’s final offerings—squash with thick yellow bellies, ripe tomatoes split from the sun, bell peppers flushed red and green.
Frances is always the first to rise.
She pads barefoot along the old pine floor, her curls wild and haloed in sleep, her stuffed rabbit dragging behind her like a tail. She doesn’t speak right away—just climbs into bed with you, settling in with a soft sigh and pressing her warm little body against yours. You don’t mind the early hour. Her breath against your collarbone is the gentlest way to begin the day. Waking to her—safe, growing, soft—is peace you never thought you’d earn.
You drink coffee now. Real coffee. Ground beans in a mason jar, traded for dried tomatoes and sheep’s milk. Abby boils water in the battered kettle, lets it steep in a dented French press you found in the basement beneath cobwebs and dead mice. The smell fills the kitchen every morning—rich and dark, smoky and comforting. Sometimes you hold the mug in your hands and just breathe.
Lev goes to town every third day. Deseret knows him now—he’s their unofficial scout, repairman, and sometimes protector. He helps mend fences, adjusts water filtration rigs, and trains younger kids on how to listen to footsteps in the woods. He brings back whatever they’ll trade: flour, new seeds, dried herbs, soap, books, sometimes a ribbon for Frances. She hugs him tight every time he returns like he’s been gone for a week.
And Abby—Abby thrives.
She’s finished the fencing. Reinforced the barn. Built a tool shed by hand and wired the solar rig so that the lights flicker on by dusk like clockwork. She smells like sawdust and leather and warm iron. She’s leaner now, tan again, but soft in the moments that matter. She picks up Frances and spins her in circles at dusk, her laugh unguarded and rough. She teaches Lev how to trap foxes. She never says the word “safe,” but you see it in the way her shoulders sit lower, the way she sighs when she lays down beside you at night.
The radio picks up stations now. Static mostly, and sometimes an old country tune that makes Frances spin on the rug. Once, you heard a man’s voice reading Bible verses in Spanish. You and Abby just looked at each other and didn’t speak.
Your garden has bloomed into abundance. Beans climb their lattice in tangled loops. Beets crowd the soil. You pickle and can like your life depends on it. Frances helps label the jars, her scrawled handwriting a beautiful mess across everything from honeyed carrots to cinnamon apple butter. The cellar shelves Abby built hold dozens now, their glass bodies glowing in the lamplight like captured sunlight.
You trade with Deseret now like family—meat for clothes, seeds for soap, milk for stories. You’ve stitched their blankets. Abby’s sharpened their blades. Lev’s mapped a safe path between your farm and theirs.
In the evenings, you all gather in the main room, where the rug is threadbare and the hearth burns low. Frances eats early, her little bowl cradled in her lap. She’s learned to say “thank you” now—though it comes out more like “tank ooh,” and Abby always smirks. Lev strums a guitar he found in town—half-tuned, but it holds a tune well enough. You hum along without realizing. When you stop, Frances tugs your sleeve and whispers, “Again.”
And sometimes—when the fire is low, when your bellies are full, when there’s a blanket draped across your lap and Abby’s hand resting warm on your thigh—you catch her watching you.
She doesn’t look away.
She stares like she can’t believe you’re real, like she’s memorizing you in case this disappears again. But it won’t. Not this time. You hold her gaze, and she smiles slow.
One night, when Frances is asleep with her rabbit and Lev is snoring faintly in the room down the hall, you and Abby sit out on the porch beneath a night sky scattered with stars. The wind is cool. The moon is fat and yellow.
Abby reaches for your hand. You don’t flinch.
She says, “We did it.”
And you lean your head against her shoulder, your voice soft as the grass. “Yeah. We really did.”
And when you finally rise, cold in your bones but not in your chest, it’s with the knowledge that tomorrow will come.
And for the first time in years, you welcome it.

Chapter 109: Warm Mornings

Notes:

would you guys believe me if i told you i never had pussy ever in my life

You wake slowly, blinking against the soft spill of morning light that filters through the cracked window. It paints long lines across the sheets, catching in the dust and the sweat-dried hollows of your skin. For a moment, you don’t move. You just breathe.
Abby’s arm is still wrapped around your waist, heavy and warm, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Her breath is steady—slow, deep, safe. You feel the weight of her chest rise and fall against your back, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t flinch from being held.
Your body aches in that good, tender way. The kind that lingers after being worshipped.
You let your eyes fall shut again and just listen. The rustle of animals in the distance. The creak of the old farmhouse wood settling. A bird call somewhere out past the fence line. For once, it isn’t danger you wake to—it’s peace. And it startles you.
You shift slightly, enough to glance over your shoulder. Abby’s still half-asleep, lips parted, brows soft in a way you hardly ever see. There’s no tension in her jaw. No pain in her shoulders. Just her—bare, freckled, flushed.
She stirs a little when you move, her arm tightening around you as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Don’t,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “Stay.”
You smile before you can stop yourself. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
Her eyes crack open, sleepy and green. She smiles too—slow, crooked. Her thumb brushes your hip, tracing idle circles. “You okay?”
You nod. Then pause. “Yeah. Just sore.”
Her grin widens, and she buries her face against your shoulder again, her voice muffled and smug. “Good.”
You laugh softly, and she shifts to kiss the back of your neck. It’s slow. Gentle. Like you’re made of something breakable.
For a long time, you just lie there, tangled in each other. No plans. No duties. No fear clawing at the back of your mind.
Eventually, you roll onto your back, and she props herself up on one elbow, watching you with that same reverent gaze she had last night. Like you’re a miracle she’s still not sure she deserves.
“Joan…” she says softly, brushing hair from your face.
You hum. “Yeah?”
She leans in and kisses your cheek, then your brow, then the corner of your mouth. “I love you,” she whispers into your skin.
It hits somewhere deep in your chest.
You swallow hard and press your forehead to hers. “I love you too.”
There’s nothing else to say after that. Not yet. The words sit between you unspoken, but thick with meaning—like warm air, like mist on glass. You just breathe her in—salt, sweat, and the faint, clean scent of cotton. The scent of sleep, of safety, of her.
Her hand stays at your waist, steady, grounding. Yours rises to her face, fingers brushing the curve of her jaw, the soft give of her cheek. She leans into your touch like a cat chasing warmth.
The world outside can keep spinning. Let it spin without you, just for a while.
She shifts above you, moving slow, like she’s afraid to startle the moment. Her lips find your neck again—dry from sleep, but still so soft. The kisses trail downward, slow and thoughtful, like she’s memorizing your skin.
Then you feel her hand—wandering—tracing the lines of your stomach. Light, reverent. A hum leaves her throat, a sound caught between a whimper and a sigh.
“I want more,” she murmurs against your collarbone. The words tremble as they leave her, almost shy.
Your breath catches in your throat.
It’s only morning. The sheets are still damp from the night before. Your bodies sore, your legs tired—but it doesn’t matter. It's been so long. Last night had cracked something open in her, in both of you, and now she can’t seem to get close enough. Can’t seem to stop.
She climbs over you, straddling your hips, her hands planted on either side of your chest. She doesn’t speak again, just leans down and kisses along your neck, your throat, your shoulder, her hips beginning to roll against yours.
The wet heat of her slick meets yours, and you both gasp.
She’s already found the right angle, the right place to grind—hips tilted just enough, thighs tensed, her whole body pressed to yours as if she could fuse you together. Her rhythm is slow at first, searching, then firmer, more certain. Her bare skin drags across yours with every pass.
Then she makes that sound.
A small, breathy moan. Soft. Girlish.
It makes your stomach flip.
You’d never heard her like this before—not during drills, not during fights, not even last night. It’s fragile and raw and utterly unguarded. You memorize it immediately. You never want to forget.
Her face buries in your neck as she works herself against you. Her breathing gets shallower, rougher. The muscles in her back tighten under your palms. Every stroke of her hips pulls another sound from her throat, each one higher than the last, until they’re little gasps.
You hold her tighter. Your legs spread a little wider. You give her everything.
“Joan…” she breathes, almost like she’s surprised to hear it leave her mouth. Her arms tremble beside your head as her pace falters. You reach up and cradle her, pulling her closer, pressing your cheek to hers.
You know that tone. You know what it means.
Her hips stutter once, twice—then grind down with desperate need. You feel it when it hits her. The way she jerks, the way her breath stops for half a beat before that sweet, high whimper spills out.
She squeaks softly and clings to you, burying herself in your warmth as her climax rushes through her. You can feel the throb of her against you, feel how slick you both are now. Her whole body is shaking.
You whisper her name as you hold her. You stroke her hair, her back, anything to help her ride it out.
When it finally passes, she slumps over you—boneless and breathless—her chest heaving, her skin flushed and glowing with sweat. You kiss her temple as she trembles in your arms, still clinging like she never wants to let go.
Neither do you.
She lays on top of you for a long time, her bare skin hot against yours, her breath slow and heavy. Her golden hair fans across your chest, strands tickling where your heart beats the loudest. You don’t move. You just hold her there, one arm wrapped around her back, the other tracing slow lines along her spine.
The silence stretches, warm and full. Then, eventually, she shifts—pressing a kiss to your shoulder, soft and lingering—and pulls herself up.
Her eyes flicker down your body. You watch her brow knit slightly, lips pursed in the way they always do when she’s thinking too hard about something.
“You didn’t come,” she says, almost like she’s accusing you.
You blink, surprised by the concern in her voice. Then you chuckle, the sound light as the breeze slipping through the open window. Your skin drinks in the cool air, a stark contrast to the heat you both stirred up minutes ago.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving her a soft smile. “Wasn’t about me this time.”
And it wasn’t. Last night had been about you—about reunion, about hunger, about memory and forgiveness. This morning was for her. You wanted to see her like that. Wanted to feel her come undone. You got what you needed just by watching her fall apart in your arms.
She takes a deep breath, lashes fluttering as she looks away. There’s color in her cheeks, even now. Her body still glistens faintly in the morning light.
She scoots to the edge of the bed and sits up, the bedsheets pooling around her waist. Her eyes catch on the sliver of sunrise climbing past the window, orange and pink bleeding across the sky. The light cuts through the haze of sleep and sex, sharp and beautiful.
“We should get up,” she says finally, breaking the silence with a soft laugh.
You nod. You already know what she’s going to say next.
She pats your leg with a familiar firmness. “Chickens are waiting.”
You groan quietly and stretch, your limbs stiff and aching in a way that brings you back—back to Seattle, to the first time you slept together. That old mattress, that half-broken window, the way she touched you like she wasn’t sure it would ever happen again. How scared you were. How wild and reckless it all felt.
And now?
Now you’re here. With her.
With your daughter and your son. With this land. With your mornings full of chores and sunrises and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen.
Your feet hit the floor, the wooden boards cool beneath your toes. Your body still hums with last night—bruises, aches, and a kind of peace you didn’t think you’d ever feel again.
You glance over at her as she pulls on a loose shirt. The cotton clings to her back, her shoulders, the curve of muscle down her spine. She’s humming something under her breath, already halfway into the rhythm of a normal day.
And she’s beautiful.
Still. Always.
Just like this life you somehow managed to build—tender, hard-won, and worth everything it took to get here.

Chapter 110: Obscene

It had been nearly a year since you left California behind, the salt-thick air and broken highways fading into the distance like a fever dream. The farm had claimed you in its quiet way, folding around your lives like an old quilt—stitched together by effort, patched with routine. The days moved slower now, measured in feedings, harvests, fence repairs. There was no war anymore, not in the way there used to be. Just the daily fight of living well, and trying not to look over your shoulder when the wind changed.
Abby had grown stronger than you thought possible. Her body had always been built for endurance, for surviving—but now she was something else entirely. Muscle corded over her arms, her back broad and sun-kissed, thighs hardened from long days carrying feed or hauling timber up the slope. Her hair was longer again, a deep chestnut braid streaked with gold that clung to the sweat along her neck. You caught yourself watching her often—how she moved through the field like the land was part of her, like she was finally somewhere she didn’t have to fight to belong.
She loved the farm. More than Catalina. More than California. You knew it in the way she touched the barn door every morning before stepping inside, the way she closed her eyes at sunset and breathed deep like it grounded her.
Lev was at peace here too. He’d grown taller, wirier, but still had that quiet steadiness. He helped tend the livestock with a practiced patience that humbled you. Sometimes, while brushing down the mare or checking on the lambs, he’d tell you stories of the Seraphite camps—of how he’d learned to help animals birth, how he’d memorized the rhythm of breathing and hoof placement, how to spot a breech before it turned deadly. He had a gentle confidence in his hands now. When something was born, it was Lev who caught it. And when something had to die—it was you who took the blade.
You didn’t like butchering. Not the sound, not the blood, not the weight of it. But you did it. You pulled your weight. You didn’t want Abby or Lev to carry everything. You owed them more than silence.
Tonight, the wind slid sharp through the crack in the bedroom window, threading cool air through the cotton curtains. You laid on the bed in just a tank top and shorts, arms folded under your head, letting the quiet hum of night settle over your body. The room smelled of pine soap and firewood and something faintly sweet—dried lavender from the bundle you’d hung on the dresser. The house itself creaked softly around you, the old floorboards shifting, the eaves groaning against the cold.
You heard the bathroom door open, the soft pad of bare feet across wood. Abby had just finished showering. Her skin still glistened, muscles flushed and loose from a day of labor, fence wire having left faint welts across her arms. Her braid was wet and dark, dripping down the back of her cotton tank. You turned your head, watching her from the bed—how the firelight caught the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her waist.
Sometimes it didn’t feel like the two of you were together anymore. Not in the way you used to be. You had a daughter. You had Lev, who felt like a son. You had a home, a routine, a rhythm. But it had been almost three years since you’d touched each other like that. Since you’d let the world fall away and just remembered what it was to want. Life had been too full of fear. Too many miles. Too many sleepless nights, blood-soaked shirts, desperate prayers over cold bodies and hotter tempers. You hadn’t had space for desire. Not until now.
She slid beneath the quilt beside you, the bed shifting under her weight. Her body was warm, radiating heat from the shower. Then her hand found your back—soft at first, tentative. Just a slow stroke between your shoulder blades, fingers rough from farm work but gentle with you. Her lips brushed your neck. A kiss like a question.
Your breath hitched.
“It’s been a while,” she murmured, her voice low and slightly amused.
You scoffed under your breath, eyes still on the ceiling. “Three years.”
She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You were counting?”
She clicked her tongue and shifted closer, one leg slipping between yours as she turned you to face her. Her hand cupped your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. She kissed you there, and again on the other side. Then finally, her mouth met yours—warm and sure and ongoing—a kiss that didn’t stop, that didn’t ask for permission, only offered what had been waiting in her for too long.
Her hands gripped your shoulders, sliding down to your waist. You felt her moan into your mouth, the sound muffled but hungry. Her hips began to buck gently against you, like instinct had cracked the door and now the rest of her wanted through. You remembered this side of her—how she chased sensation once her walls fell. How her need pulsed under her skin like a second heartbeat.
You’d seen it lately, in the way she looked at you when you undressed for the bath. In the way her fingers lingered on your hip when you passed each other in the kitchen on those freezing mountain mornings. You’d felt it brewing. A storm behind her eyes.
You shivered beneath her touch as she pressed kisses down your throat, leaving small, open-mouthed bites along the soft stretch of your neck. Her teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch again. You heard the wind outside shift direction, the window rattling faintly—but inside, the room was hot now. The quilt kicked down to your knees, your body arching into hers with an urgency you hadn’t realized had been sitting dormant beneath your skin all these months.
Abby was different now—but she was still her. Still the woman who had pulled you from wreckage and fire and given you reason to stay alive. You let her show you that again, piece by piece.
Abby’s mouth moved lower, her breath hot against your skin. With a slow, deliberate motion, she slipped your tank top up and over your head. You barely registered the cool air against your bare chest before her lips wrapped around your nipple, warm and soft, her tongue tracing slow, aching circles.
She moaned into it—moaned—like she missed the taste of you, like she’d been starving. The sound made your back arch, your hips bucking up without warning. Her free hand came down then, pressing between your legs, her fingers toying with you through the thin cotton of your shorts. Just enough pressure to make you chase it.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your voice ragged. You rolled your hips into her palm, needing more, needing all of her.
She answered with another kiss, lower now, her mouth skimming down your torso in unhurried strokes. Her lips brushed your ribs, your stomach, your hips—every inch kissed like it was owed reverence. By the time she reached the waistband of your shorts, you were already trembling.
She pulled them down slowly, dragging the fabric over your thighs, your knees, until you were bare beneath her, the quilt pushed aside, your skin flushed and rising with goosebumps in the cold. You watched her settle between your legs, her wide shoulders parting them like she belonged there—and she did.
Then she whimpered.
A tiny sound, but raw and instinctive—like seeing you like this again cracked something open in her.
You bit your lip hard. Shame bloomed hot in your cheeks, your arms twitching like you should cover yourself. That sound—it was too much. Too intimate. Too exposed. You turned your head away.
But her hand came up, gentle but firm, fingers resting on your jaw as she guided your face back to hers. Her eyes held yours, steady, reverent.
“Don’t look away,” she whispered, her thumb brushing your cheek.
Then her mouth descended again, kissing the inside of your thigh with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. Another kiss, closer. Then finally—
Her lips met your folds, slow and wet and full of hunger.
You cried out, soft and broken, your hips jerking as her tongue slid through you, warm and greedy and impossibly good. She licked up your slick, moaning low in her throat like she was tasting something sacred. Her arms wrapped beneath your thighs, locking you in place, and she pressed her face deeper.
“You’re soaked for me,” she murmured into you, her voice barely audible through your own heartbeat. “You missed this too, didn’t you?”
All you could do was nod, breathless, your hands fisting in the sheets.
She groaned, like your nod alone turned her inside out, and then her tongue was circling your clit, slurping and sucking, messy and unrelenting. Her whole body pressed forward, grinding against the mattress beneath her as if your pleasure was hers. And maybe it was—because God, she was lost in it.
You’d forgotten how much she loved doing this to you.
Your hips bucked against her mouth, instincts overriding thought as her tongue worked you open with practiced, reverent slowness. Every flick, every swirl, was torturously sweet—but it was the sound that undid you.
Oh God, the sound.
Wet, obscene, feral.
She was drooling into you, more than you’d ever seen. The slick, messy devotion of it made your thighs tremble. Her mouth moved with desperation, like she couldn’t get enough—like she’d been starving for years. Every slurp echoed against your skin, her tongue dragging thick and lazy over your clit while her flushed cheeks shone with spit and effort, her brow drawn upward in concentration.
Then you heard it.
A soft, helpless whine. Then a whimper.
She was whimpering into you, lips trembling, mouth never leaving your heat. Drunk on you. Drenched in you.
Her tongue lapped slowly, then faster, then slow again—like she was tasting something holy, something sacred, and didn’t want to waste a drop. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, the guttural moan that followed making your whole body jolt.
Your fingers shot down, tangling in her hair—still damp from the shower, soft and thick between your fingers—and you tugged, needing more, needing her to fall apart with you.
She moaned, muffled against your soaked center, and her hips rutted instinctively against the mattress beneath her. The sound, the motion, the heat—it all built inside you like a dam ready to burst.
You glanced down—
And nearly came from the sight alone.
Her eyes were rolled back, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed and damp. Her entire face looked ruined. Blissed-out. Ravished. And still, her tongue never stopped moving—sliding and circling and slurping with obscene devotion. It was filthy. It was beautiful.
Your body tensed, your legs starting to shake.
And then—
You felt her.
Her body trembled first. Subtle, then violent. Her fingers tightened around your thighs, grip bruising, anchoring herself to you as her breathing turned ragged. Her mouth stuttered, tongue faltering in rhythm just enough for you to know.
She was coming.
She was coming just from going down on you.
The realization shattered something in you.
You cried out, back arching, thighs clamping around her head as your orgasm overtook you. Your head fell back, lips parted in a breathless moan as the pleasure pulsed through your entire body like fire.
She held you there through it, her arms locked around your hips, her mouth still latched onto your cunt like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
And when the wave passed—when your body was trembling and slick with sweat, your voice hoarse from moaning—she leaned back only for a moment.
Just long enough to breathe.
Then she dipped again.
She used her thumbs to spread your folds, so gentle now, and slid her tongue inside you. Not just to tease—but to taste. She groaned at the flavor, slow strokes circling deeper, lapping at every trace you’d left behind like your slick was sacred.
Like it gave her purpose.
You watched, dazed and blinking, as she worshipped you with her mouth—each slow, reverent lick a wordless prayer.
And you knew—without question—you belonged to her.
She pulled away from you with a gasp, her breath hot and ragged against your thigh. You blinked down at her, heart pounding, chest heaving—and the sight of her nearly undid you all over again.
Her eyes were half-lidded, hazy with something thick and unspoken—like she was drunk on you, dizzy from the taste alone. Her mouth was slick, her lips parted as she licked them slowly, savoring it. Like she didn’t want a single trace of you to go to waste.
She climbed up your body, the warmth of her skin brushing yours, and kissed you hard—her mouth claiming, her tongue insistent. When she finally pulled away, her lips hovered just a breath from yours.
“Taste how good you are,” she murmured, voice husky and reverent.
It was maddening.
You whimpered, body arching to meet hers, your hands twitching to touch, to give her the same pleasure she’d just given you—but she was already pressing your hips down, holding you in place with one firm hand.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she wasn’t letting you lead.
Her fingers spread your thighs again with quiet authority, and she sucked two fingers into her mouth with quick, practiced ease—coating them thoroughly before bringing them down between your legs.
You went to gasp, but she beat you to it—her breath catching first as her fingers slid inside you.
“God,” she whispered, a whimper catching in her throat. “You’re so tight.”
Her eyes flicked up to yours, wide and full of heat, and it wrecked you.
Your own hand reached between her thighs, finding the slick warmth there. You stroked her gently, teasing her folds, watching the way she fell apart even as she tried to keep control. Her hips bucked against your touch, her breath turning sharp, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.
Still, her fingers moved inside you—one, then two—curling just right. Just deep enough. You cried out, the stretch achingly sweet.
She leaned closer, her forehead against yours, her breath ghosting over your lips as she worked you open. Each thrust was deliberate. Intimate. Her fingers scissored and curled, coaxing you higher, deeper.
And then—
She pulled out.
The absence made your whole body twitch. You gasped, chasing after her hand, but she was already moving, already reaching for something.
The harness.
You swallowed hard, nerves and want tangling in your throat.
She didn’t say a word as she stepped into it—just buckled the straps tight, the muscles in her arms flexing. The weight of the moment settled thick between you.
When she returned to the bed, her eyes never left yours.
She crawled over you slowly, deliberately, like a storm building on the horizon. You watched her spit into her hand, slicking the silicone with care, her eyes never wavering from your flushed face.
Then she leaned in, cupping your cheek, kissing the heat there.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” she whispered, her voice low and full of something soft—something protective.
You nodded, too breathless to speak.
And then she kissed you again.
This time it was slower. Tender. Like an apology and a promise all in one. As her hips began to press into you, you felt the stretch—gentle, careful, patient. She took her time, adjusting to every inch, watching your face the whole way. One hand braced beside your head, the other still holding your hip with that same quiet command.
Your body arched beneath her, your hands gripping her shoulders, and your eyes fluttered closed as you let her in.
As if she hadn’t already been under your skin for years.
Her hips rolled slowly at first, deliberate and gentle, like she was savoring every second. The stretch, the closeness, the intimacy of it all. She didn’t rush—didn’t pound or claim—not yet. This was something else. Something sweeter.
Her lips found your throat, soft at first, then hungrier. She kissed down the curve of your neck, open-mouthed and warm, then latched onto the sensitive skin just below your jaw. You gasped as she sucked hard enough to leave a mark, a bruise you’d feel tomorrow, and maybe even the day after. Her tongue traced the hollow of your collarbone, her breath hot and uneven.
A low groan rumbled out of her when the base of the silicone nudged against her, grinding into her own heat as she pushed deeper inside you. You felt her shiver on top of you, her arms bracketing your body, her muscles tensing with restraint.
Your legs trembled around her hips, thighs twitching as you clung to her, your nails digging crescents into her back.
She slid in slowly. All the way. Deep enough to make your eyes flutter shut, to make your breath catch as she brushed that tender spot inside you. Then she drew back just as slow, until only the tip remained.
You whimpered into her ear, breath hitching.
“More…”
That was all it took.
Her control frayed.
Her hips snapped forward with a needy rhythm, each thrust harder than the last, the bed creaking beneath you. Her breath turned ragged, sharp little whimpers catching in her throat as her forehead pressed against yours. One of her hands slammed down beside your head to brace herself, her brows furrowed in effort.
You peeked down between your bodies—and the sight made your head spin.
The silicone disappeared into you, over and over, slick and obscene. Your arousal clung to her—wetting her pubic hair, glistening on her toned stomach, trailing through her faint happy trail. Every sound echoed, sharp and wet, bouncing off the walls. The slap of skin, the ragged panting, the low desperate moans—it was all too much and never enough.
Her thighs began to shake, the muscles trembling as she drove into you harder, sloppier now, chasing the high.
“F—fuck, Joan,” she gasped, voice breaking. “I’m close.”
You nodded, tightening around her, pulling her deeper. “Me too,” you breathed, wrapping your legs tighter around her waist.
She groaned, then wrapped her arms around you—crushing you into a full-bodied embrace. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other clutched your lower back. She kept moving, kept pushing, each thrust deep and powerful, her whole body trembling from the dual stimulation—the harness grinding against her with every motion, your warmth swallowing her whole.
Her sounds became erratic—low grunts punctuated by high-pitched whines as she hovered on the edge. Her hips slowed only to grind in wide, shaky circles, and she whispered something into your skin, something broken and holy.
You felt her fall apart.
Her body tensed, then convulsed against you—arms locking you in place as her orgasm tore through her. Her mouth was at your ear, her breath caught somewhere between a moan and a prayer.
You came right with her, overwhelmed by the fullness, by the heat, by the sheer weight of her breaking down above you. It rolled through you, white-hot and searing, your toes curling, your voice lost in the tangle of her hair.
Even as your bodies collapsed together, spent and trembling, it was her you couldn’t stop watching.
Her face, flushed and damp with sweat, looked almost dazed—her mouth parted in bliss, her lashes fluttering like she was still lost somewhere inside the high. Her chest heaved with every breath, like she’d sprinted across miles of open land just to reach you, just to feel this.
She slumped gently onto you, her weight grounding you, her skin hot and slick against yours. Her arms didn’t loosen—if anything, they tightened, locking you in as though letting go would break something sacred. She held you like she needed you to survive. Like the feel of your heart beating against hers was the only thing anchoring her to earth.
And in that moment, there was no control. No dominance or submission. No leader, no follower.
Just two people—unraveled, undone, entangled in something bigger than both of you.
You barely had time to breathe before she shifted beneath you, peeling herself away with a shaky exhale and flopping onto her back. Her arm reached for you without hesitation, and before you could ask what she was doing, she pulled you forward by the hips and guided you to straddle her stomach.
“I need to see you,” she whispered, voice raw.
You nodded, overstimulated and aching, but desperate to give her more. Needy in a way that felt primal. Like you had centuries of lost time to make up for.
You reached behind, gripping the base of the silicone still slick between your thighs, and slowly slid it back inside yourself.
The sound that left her chest was a whine, soft and reverent. Her hands gripped your hips immediately, thumbs pressing gently into the softness there like she was grounding herself.
“Slow,” she whispered, almost begging. “Do it slow. I wanna see it stretch you open.”
The request made your stomach twist—half from embarrassment, half from heat. But you nodded.
You sank down slowly, letting every inch stretch you open, and her gasp made your toes curl.
Her eyes were locked to where your bodies met, transfixed. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, and her fingers flexed against your hips like she was holding back from flipping you over.
She swallowed, cleared her throat. “T-turn around,” she stammered. “I… I wanna watch it stretch.”
Her voice broke on the last word, and you couldn’t help the way your breath caught. She looked wrecked asking for it. Eyes wide, lips trembling, needy in a way that felt deeply vulnerable.
How could someone so strong… so dominant… still beg like this?
You nodded, turned around slowly until your back was to her, and eased down again, facing away.
Then her hands were on you.
She spread you open with gentle fingers, humming under her breath. “It’s throbbing,” she gasped, utterly awestruck.
You flinched at her words, shame bubbling up your spine. “That’s… embarrassing…” you whispered, voice tight.
But she shook her head behind you and leaned up, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “No,” she murmured, breath warm against your skin. “No… I love it.”
Her hands guided your hips, sliding you down onto the toy again, and this time she moaned—a full-body, breathless sound that made you tremble.
You knew what she was watching.
You knew exactly what it looked like.
And it made your face burn.
But it also made your nerves spark.
She held you open, eyes locked to the way your body stretched and swallowed the length, slick clinging to your skin. It should’ve been humiliating. But it wasn’t—not with the way she watched you like you were holy. Like this was worship. Like your body gave her purpose.
Her hands moved your hips for you, setting a rhythm. You let her take control, folding forward onto your elbows as she rocked you back and forth, chasing friction. Her hips moved in tandem, rising to meet you, grinding slow and hard against the base that pressed into her in return.
And then it hit her.
Her thighs clenched. Her breath hitched. The pressure mounted too fast for her to slow it down. The sight—your body stretched around her, trembling, dripping, taking her so eagerly—it broke her.
Her orgasm hit hard and sudden, her legs twitching beneath you. She choked on a gasp and bucked her hips once, then held still, her entire body spasming beneath your weight.
You could feel it—the way she clung to you, the way she whimpered into your spine, the way her fingers dug crescents into your thighs. You buried your face into the sheets, overwhelmed by the heat of her release, by the grip of your own climax building just behind it.
And then you came.
Your own high broke over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your breath going hoarse as you muffled your sounds into the mattress. She held you through it, hands trembling, breath stuttering.
When your bodies finally stilled, she reached up and gently slid the toy from you, guiding you through the aftershocks like she knew every twitch of your body. You collapsed into her arms, boneless and dazed, and she pulled you up against her chest.
She kissed your face—again and again—each press soft and urgent, her hands cradling your cheeks like she was afraid you’d vanish. Her voice broke between kisses. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t have to.
You sank into her arms, the world fading away as her fingers threaded through your hair.
And when sleep finally came, you drifted with your cheek pressed to her chest, her heartbeat the last sound you heard.

Chapter 111: Is the pig ready?

You’d gotten dressed—well, as dressed as you could manage before coffee. A soft cotton tank top clung to your chest, a little loose around the hem. The drawstring pants you wore were old, worn thin with time, the kind with faded stripes running down the side. Comfortable. Familiar. They didn’t hug you too tightly, just enough to remind you you were still here, still in your body.
You poured the coffee into a chipped ceramic mug, the one with the pale blue ring around the rim, and ran a tired hand down your face. The warmth of the mug seeped into your fingers, grounding you for just a moment. Outside, the sky was already gold with morning.
Frances was still asleep—thank god.
Now, at least, you had this sliver of peace.
Lev was sleeping in too, and you decided not to wake him. He’d been up with the sun every day for weeks, hauling buckets, tending crops, running fencing. His eyes had been bloodshot yesterday, his voice hoarse from wind and dust. He needed this rest. You’d handle it.
You sighed and pulled on your jacket—canvas and a little too big, borrowed from Abby the week you moved in and never returned. Then your boots, scuffed leather with worn laces, the kind that felt molded to your feet after so many months.
You stepped out into the crisp morning air and made your way toward the barn.
Abby was already there. Of course she was.
You found her seated beside one of the cows, her hands working in steady rhythm as she milked. The sheep had already been fed—you could see them milling lazily in their pen beyond the barn doors, bleating softly in the mist. She looked up when you approached, gave you that little half-smile, sweat already glistening along her temple.
You smiled back, brief and warm, before turning toward the chicken coop.
The sun slanted through the slats of the wooden walls as you stepped inside, the air thick with dust and feathers. You reached for the latch, ready to let the hens out for the day—and then you saw it.
Blood.
It was smeared across the straw-covered floor in dark, sticky arcs. One of the hens was lying there, torn open and half-consumed, feathers scattered like the remnants of a pillow fight gone horribly wrong. The sight rooted you in place, your breath catching hard in your throat.
Your first thought was coyote. Or maybe a fox had gotten through a gap in the fencing.
But then your mind twisted.
The blood looked too... violent. Too deliberate.
You crouched down, slowly, squinting to get a better look. And that’s when it hit you.
The shape of the body. The bend of the limbs.
For just a second—just one terrible second—it wasn’t a chicken anymore.
It was Frank.
Bloated. Blue. Eyes wide and unseeing.
You screamed. A raw, guttural sound that ripped straight from your chest before you could stop it. You scrambled back, your boots skidding in the straw, hands shaking uncontrollably.
The barn door creaked open behind you—Abby’s footsteps fast, urgent.
“Joan?!”
But you couldn’t answer yet. Your breath came in harsh, broken gasps. The dead hen still lay at your feet, torn open to the ribs. But the image of Frank clung to you like smoke. His face. His blood. That awful moment when you found him—
You covered your mouth, trying not to throw up.
Abby was beside you in an instant, hands on your shoulders, grounding you. Her voice low. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
But the pounding in your chest wouldn’t stop.
The past, it seemed, still had claws. Even here. Even now.
Abby pulled you into her arms without hesitation, sinking to the ground beside you. Her hands were warm and strong against your back, though they still carried the faint, earthy scent of straw and livestock—something raw and animalic that clung to her skin like a second nature. She whispered soft reassurances into your ear, her palm sliding up to stroke your cheek with a gentleness that made your throat tighten.
"Shh... You're okay. Just breathe."
You leaned into her, your forehead pressing against the damp collar of her shirt. The barn was quiet around you now, save for the distant bleating of the sheep and the soft rustle of feathers beyond the coop door. Abby shifted slightly, glancing at the mangled hen lying in the straw.
“Ah… poor chicken,” she murmured, clicking her tongue with quiet sympathy. Her voice wasn’t mocking. Just soft. Matter-of-fact. Like she knew it wasn’t really the bird that broke you.
You nodded faintly, but your mind wasn’t in the coop anymore.
It was back there—on that awful day.
The sun had been high, too hot for what you’d found. Frank’s body slumped against the wall, bloated and gone, his face warped by death and time and heat. You hadn’t screamed then. You hadn’t even cried. You’d just stared. Then turned and walked away.
You never buried him.
Abby grabbed a worn burlap sack from the corner of the barn and crouched by the dead hen. She didn’t flinch, just gathered the bird’s torn body and placed it gently into the bag. She tied it off in one practiced twist and stood, brushing her palms against her pants.
You swallowed hard, guilt climbing your throat like bile.
You hadn’t buried Frank. You hadn't even covered his body. Just left it there.
Was that wrong? Was that cruel?
Am I a bad person for that?
The question lodged itself in your chest like a splinter.
But maybe it wasn’t about good or bad. Maybe it was about survival. About what you could live with. About how grief makes you rot from the inside until even the smallest mercy—like a shovel and a quiet patch of dirt—feels too much to bear.
You looked up at Abby.
She didn’t press you. Didn’t ask what you’d seen. She just offered her hand, dirt under her fingernails, blood smeared faintly across her wrist. You took it.
And in that moment, she held more than your weight.
She held your shame, too.
You followed Abby in silence, the burlap sack swinging low in her grip, dripping faint red into the dirt behind her. She disappeared around the barn with it, and you took a steadying breath.
Get it together.
You wiped your palms on your striped cotton pants—soft, worn, comforting in a way nothing else felt this morning. The barn smelled of hay, wet wood, and animals, familiar and grounding. You clung to that.
The feed bucket sat where it always did, tucked near the coop gate. You grabbed it with both hands, the weight heavy but manageable. You liked that. That it took effort. That it demanded your attention.
The coop door groaned as you pushed it open.
The remaining hens scattered, flapping their wings and clucking sharply at your intrusion. You moved slowly, methodically, forcing your mind to follow the rhythm. Reach. Scatter. Step. Scatter. The grain tapped into the dirt like rain, and the chickens swarmed the patches with single-minded urgency.
You focused on their movements—the quick jerks of their heads, the flutter of wings, the way one of them kept trying to peck at your boot. They didn’t know. They didn’t mourn.
They were just hungry.
And somehow, that was comforting.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for more feed. You paused, gripping the edge of the bucket, knuckles whitening. A breeze drifted through the slats in the coop, catching the edge of your tank top and brushing across your back. You shivered.
But you didn’t cry.
You wouldn’t.
You cleared your throat and kept scattering seed, one handful after another. You whispered to the hens without thinking, voice hoarse but soft.
“Alright girls… eat up. Don’t all fight over the same pile now…”
One of them—a little mottled thing with a crooked comb—looked up at you like it understood something. Like it could see the wreckage behind your eyes.
You looked away.
The thrum of boots behind you let you know Abby had returned. She didn’t say anything, just leaned against the coop doorway, arms folded. Watching. Waiting. Letting you have this moment without interruption.
You dumped the last of the grain and wiped your hands against your thighs.
“I’m fine,” you said, not looking at her.
“I know,” she replied gently, not pushing.
But still—she stayed there, just in case you weren’t.
The rest of the day, you tried to shake it off. That vision. That flicker of Frank’s body where a dead chicken had been. You told yourself it was just your mind playing tricks, dredging up old ghosts like it always did when you were tired. You couldn’t afford to let it become anything more.
So you kept moving.
You tended the livestock, brushing out the horses’ manes and laying out fresh hay. One of the pigs was getting too big—you could see it in the way its gait had changed, slower, heavier. You knew by next week you’d have to butcher it.
The thought made your stomach twist.
You hated doing that. The sound. The blood. The way the animal always looked at you, like it knew. But Abby and Lev worked so hard to keep the farm running, to keep you and Frances fed. You had to carry your weight too. No more excuses.
The morning dragged on with a kind of heavy sunlight that soaked through your shirt and stuck to your skin. You pushed open the back door with your forearm, kicking off your muddy boots and sighing as you stepped into the cool shade of the house.
Frances was already downstairs, little legs bouncing around the living room like a pinball. She was squealing, giggling, chasing something only she could see while Lev sat on the floor fastening his boots.
You smiled in spite of yourself.
“Hey,” you said softly, walking in. “There’s my sunshine.”
Frances looked up and let out a joyful shriek, running full-force into your legs. You bent down and scooped her up, holding her against your chest. Her cheeks were flushed, and she smelled like apples and dirt.
You kissed the top of her head. “Who’s hungry?” you cooed.
She kicked her legs excitedly, little fists gripping your tank top. You chuckled and set her down, watching her run right back to Lev.
“You want oatmeal?” you asked over your shoulder.
Lev shook his head and stood, brushing lint off his shirt. “I’m gonna ride into town,” he said. “See if I can get us some more clothes. Frances outgrew everything again.”
You nodded. “She’s a weed.”
He smirked, adjusting the rifle strap across his shoulder. “You need anything?”
You thought for a second. “Maybe more coffee. And if they’ve got it… some honey.”
He gave a mock salute and opened the front door. Frances ran after him yelling, “Veev! Hat!”
Lev bent down, gave her forehead a quick kiss, and handed her his worn green cap. “Take care of your moms, yeah?”
And then he was gone, boots thudding down the porch steps, saddle creaking as he climbed onto the horse.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him disappear down the road until the dust swallowed him up. The wind picked up, tugging at your hair, and for a moment the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
You shook your head and turned back inside. You wouldn’t let your mind wander. Not today.
You had oatmeal to make. And a little girl to feed.
You made Frances a bowl first—simple oatmeal, but better than it used to be. Now you had milk. Fresh. Creamy. The kind that clung to the spoon and left a mustache on your daughter’s upper lip. Berries were in season, too—tart little blackcaps and bursting raspberries from the bushes out near the fence. You folded a handful in and stirred slowly until the steam faded.
The jar of sunflower seeds sat nearby on the counter, half-full. You stared at it for a moment, twirling the lid between your fingers. Maybe… maybe you could grind them. Make sunflower butter. It would take time, but the thought of spreading something sweet and homemade onto bread made your chest ache with a quiet kind of joy.
Frances squirmed in her wooden chair behind you. You turned, scooped her up, and set her gently in place. She kicked her feet, eager, hands already drumming against the tray.
“Careful,” you warned softly, setting the bowl in front of her and passing her the carved wooden spoon. “It’s still warm.”
She hummed, content, already digging in. Berries stained her lips within seconds.
You made another bowl—this one for Abby. She’d be back from the barn soon, covered in hay and smelling like sweat and animals. You didn’t mind it. You’d learned to love the scent of early chores.
You filled your own bowl last and sat beside Frances at the small, square kitchen table. The morning sun spilled across the wood, catching in the mason jar glass and reflecting off the brushed steel kettle. Outside, the cluck and shuffle of chickens drifted through the window.
Frances chewed happily. You watched her with a faint smile and took your first bite.
The eggs were coming in again—finally. The hens had settled into their new coop, and you’d collected four this morning already. Tomorrow, maybe you’d fry some up. Use that butter you’d churned two days ago. You’d been meaning to try baking bread too, now that Abby had ground the wheat from that last harvest. It was coarse, sure, but it would rise.
The back door creaked open just as you lifted your mug. Abby stepped inside, the morning chill clinging to her clothes, sun painting her shoulders gold.
She was flushed, strands of hair sticking to her temple, freckles darker from the sun. Her braid was messy, but still held tight. She leaned down and kissed Frances on the head, smiling as the little girl squealed and clutched her spoon tighter.
Frances’ golden curls tangled around Abby’s jawline like they belonged there.
“This for me?” Abby asked, glancing at the bowl you’d left out.
You nodded, sipping your coffee. “Still warm.”
She dropped into the chair across from you and picked up her spoon.
“You look like a real cowboy,” you teased with a crooked grin, watching as she pushed her sleeves up and shook out her tired limbs.
Abby scoffed, mouth full. “Feel like one,” she muttered. “This livestock of ours is getting real demanding.”
You chuckled and leaned your elbow on the table, watching her eat, your knee bumping hers under the wood. There was something warm in the air today. Familiar. The kind of morning you wanted to wrap yourself in and never let go.
The week passed in a gentle rhythm, like the slow turning of a music box. Each morning began the same: with a yawn you didn’t bother to hide, a kiss to Frances’ temple as she stirred beside you, and the soft creak of the old screen door swinging open into misty sunlight.
The chickens always greeted you with a fuss—clucking and pacing, feathers puffed in anticipation. You pulled your cardigan tight over your pajamas and slipped your hands into the pockets, fingers brushing against old sunflower seeds you liked to scatter as a treat. Frances toddled after you, boots on the wrong feet, hair a sleepy halo around her face.
"Say good morning," you coaxed gently, crouching to unlatch the coop.
Frances grinned, her hands gripping the coop gate. "Mornin’, chickens!" she chirped.
You laughed. “That’s right, baby. Chickens.”
Some days you had to remind her—pointing one out, repeating the word slowly until she echoed it back with her own toddler lisp. “Chick-uhs.”
She followed your lead, mimicking your crouch, your steps, even the little grumble you made when bending down to gather the eggs. You showed her how to cradle them in the hem of your shirt, how not to squeeze too tight. She dropped one the first day—panicked tears and a loud oh no!—but you cleaned it together, explaining that accidents happen. That it was okay.
Later, while Abby repaired part of the fence with Lev, you sat with Frances in the soft grass just beyond the porch, your back against a sun-warmed rock. You pointed to things around the yard—flowers, clouds, the battered watering can—and waited for her to guess or repeat.
“What’s that?” you’d ask gently.
“Cwowd,” she’d say, pointing upward.
“That’s right,” you whispered, smiling like the sun lived in your daughter’s voice. “Cloud.”
Sometimes she got distracted, wandering off mid-lesson to chase the cat or tug on the tail of the old plush fox Abby had stitched back together with blue thread. But she always came back, collapsing into your lap with the reckless abandon of a child who knows they are safe.
You played in the dirt, planting seeds she didn’t understand yet, letting her press them into the earth with sticky fingers. You wiped mud from her cheeks with your sleeve and sang softly when the wind picked up.
By mid-morning, you’d all retreat to the kitchen—Frances carrying a feather, or a rock she claimed was magic—and you’d settle her with a snack while you prepped lunch. Abby would stomp in soon after, boots tracking dust, and kiss you both like it was the first time every time.
It wasn’t much. Just feeding chickens, teaching words, laughing when Frances tried to pronounce “sunflower” and ended up with something like “shluh-fow.”
But it was everything.
The air smelled sharper than usual.
It had rained a little overnight—just enough to leave the grass wet and the dirt soft under your boots. You were up before the others, again. The sky was still pale and colorless, the early hush broken only by the occasional grunt from the barn or the sleepy chirp of birds waking up.
You dressed quickly. The same old cotton tank and jeans, your knife belt slung low on your hips. You didn’t bother with makeup, didn’t even glance in the mirror. Today wasn’t about looking good. Today was about doing what needed to be done.
The pig was ready.
You’d been tracking its weight for weeks, watching its stomach hang lower, its gait slow from the bulk. It had a name once, but you stopped saying it aloud after the first month. You knew better than to get attached. Even so, the lump in your throat had already started to form.
Out in the pen, it grunted when it saw you. Lifted its head like it expected breakfast.
You swallowed hard.
“Morning,” you murmured. Your voice cracked anyway.
You fetched the feed bucket like always—one last meal—and poured it slow into the trough. The pig’s greedy snorts filled the space between your ribs. You knelt by the gate, fingers curling around the worn wood, and breathed.
This was your job. Not Abby’s. Not Lev’s. Yours. You were the only one willing to do it—had been for months now.
Inside the house, you knew Frances would wake soon. You’d left her a bowl of oats and berries on the counter, and a scribbled note in crooked block letters so she could pretend to read it. Lev would handle her today. Abby too, once she finished mucking the stalls. You were grateful for that.
Today, they wouldn't ask if you needed help. They knew better.
The knife felt heavier than usual when you picked it up. The barn was quiet as you passed it. The pig turned its head toward you, then resumed eating, oblivious.
You exhaled through your nose. No ceremony. No hesitation. You had done this before.
But still—every time felt like a small death.
You stepped into the pen.
The door shut behind you with a dull wooden clunk.

Chapter 112: A shot gun

The next week passed in strange rhythms.
Everything seemed normal. The farm looked the same. The chickens still clucked and scratched, the wind still moved through the grass, and Frances still shrieked with laughter when you tossed her into the air. You kept doing the chores—feeding livestock, hauling water, collecting eggs—but it all felt slightly… off. Like a stage play where the curtains never fully closed and the actors kept glancing into the wings.
Lev didn’t speak much. He lingered around corners, watched you from doorways. His eyes followed you like he was waiting for something—watching how you held Frances, how long you stirred the pot on the stove, how still you sat at the table after everyone else had eaten.
You pretended not to notice. Or tried to.
When he did talk to you, it was with a polite flatness. As if speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile version of you had returned.
Abby was gentler now, too. Quiet. Attentive in a way that made your skin itch. She touched your back a little too long when she passed by. She didn’t ask you to butcher anything. She didn’t raise her voice. Even when Frances threw a whole jar of grain into the fireplace, Abby barely reacted. She just cleaned it up and gave you a long look that made your throat feel tight.
At night, in the tub, your mind began stitching fragments back together. You’d lay there with the water lapping at your shoulders, your eyes on the ceiling while the air filled with steam.
Bits and pieces clawed their way up.
The grave.
The book.
Your hands bleeding in the dirt.
Sometimes you thought you could still smell rot. Metallic and wet.
You pressed your fingers into your temples, trying to stop the memories from fully forming. They shimmered like oil on water—just out of reach but sickly all the same.
The whispers hadn’t fully gone.
They stayed tucked in the corners of the house. In the wind through the vents. In the rustle of trees just outside your window.
You didn’t listen to them, exactly. But you heard them.
Your food tasted strange. Too bitter, too sweet, too textured. You forced it down anyway. Bit by bit. Pretending your stomach didn’t turn each time the spoon neared your mouth.
You kept smiling when Abby looked your way. You kissed Frances’ curls and told her how smart she was, how strong. You played with her in the field and built a little rock wall together and let her fall asleep on your chest.
You laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
But something inside you remained untouched.
A part of you still curled in the dirt somewhere—buried and waiting.
And you weren’t sure if you wanted to dig it up or leave it there forever.
But you woke up again.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting long, golden lines across the floorboards. For a moment, you just stared at it. The warmth on your skin. The ordinary hush of morning.
Maybe none of it had really happened.
Maybe it was just a nightmare — a long, sweating, fever dream stitched together from grief and dirt and blood and old ghosts.
You told yourself that.
You had to tell yourself that.
Because the alternative — that your mind had cracked open wide enough to let in monsters — was too terrifying to sit with before breakfast.
You sat up slowly, hands braced on your knees. You hadn’t slept much. Tossed and turned all night, twisting the sheets, waking with your chest tight and damp with sweat. You could still hear whispering in your dreams, though you didn’t tell anyone. Not anymore.
You didn’t like how they looked at you now.
Not Lev, not Abby.
Like you were something delicate. Something dangerous.
They smiled too carefully. Walked too quietly.
Even when they meant well, it felt like pity dressed up in soft words.
The only one who still looked at you like she should was Frances.
Her chubby hands would reach for you without hesitation.
Her eyes still lit up when you entered a room.
To her, you weren’t broken. You were mama.
She was turning four in a few days.
You’d make her a special dinner — roasted carrots, dried cranberries, something sweet if you could scavenge it. Maybe even eggs from the hens, if they cooperated.
You owed her that.
You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood. Your knees wobbled for a second, but you didn’t let yourself falter.
You’d been a thorn in everyone’s side for too long.
Today, you needed to be useful.
Not quiet. Not fragile.
Useful.
That was the only way to stop your hands from shaking.
You didn’t eat breakfast.
You said you weren’t hungry, but really, your stomach felt like a knot of rope — twisted too tight to hold anything down. You sipped at a lukewarm mug of tea and smiled when Frances offered you a piece of her toast. She smeared it with too much butter, and you told her it was perfect. Then you went to the sink and pretended to wash your cup just so you could turn your back long enough to breathe.
The house was too dirty.
You didn’t say that out loud — Abby would’ve rolled her eyes, told you to rest. But the floors were scuffed, the kitchen shelves had a thin layer of dust, and the corners… they felt wrong. Too full. Too loud. Every corner was too loud.
So you started cleaning.
At first it was simple. A broom. A cloth. You hummed under your breath while you did it — just a little tune Frances liked. She played on the rug while you scrubbed the baseboards with a rag and vinegar. You told her she could help, and she did, wiping the windows with her sleeve, giggling.
But then you found yourself reorganizing the spice jars.
Then the entire pantry.
Then the cellar.
You sorted potatoes, even though you knew they’d just be eaten or rot anyway. You wiped down the glass jars, one by one, until your knuckles were raw and your nails blackened at the edges.
You told yourself it was normal.
You were just trying to help. To make up for lost time. You were being good again — being useful.
You could feel Lev watching you from the doorframe around lunchtime. You didn’t look up. He didn’t say anything, just scratched at his cheek and left.
You liked it better that way.
You made bread next. Then peeled carrots for dinner, though it wasn’t dinner time yet. Then you swept the front porch, shaking out the rugs so hard your shoulder twinged, but you didn’t stop.
You told yourself the buzzing in your head was just leftover nerves.
You told yourself the way the light flickered in the corner of your eye was just your imagination.
The voices weren’t real.
The whispers weren’t real.
You weren’t going to lose yourself again.
You were fine.
You were fine.
You were—
“Joan.”
You blinked. Abby’s voice.
She was holding Frances on her hip, standing in the kitchen doorway, brows drawn tight.
You didn’t realize you’d been scrubbing the same spot on the floor for ten minutes.
“Come sit down,” she said gently. “Please.”
Your knees were soaked. You didn’t know when that happened. Your rag had long gone dry.
You stood up too fast and stumbled. Abby caught your arm.
“I have to make dessert,” you mumbled.
“You’ve made enough.”
“No, she’s turning four, I have to—”
“Joan.”
Her voice cut through something. Not sharp. Just real.
You met her eyes and saw it there again — the fear.
Not fear of you. Fear for you.
Your jaw tensed.
You turned away, walked to the sink, and started cleaning the same mug you’d already cleaned three times today.
Day Two
You kept busy.
The drawer in the pantry got reorganized — again. The cutlery lined up perfectly. The cabinet hinges no longer squeaked, because you oiled them with the little tin Abby had left on the workbench. You fixed the loose floorboard on the porch. You even cleared weeds from the far edge of the fence line, where no one would notice except you.
You smiled when Frances asked questions. You nodded when Abby suggested you take a break. You even laughed once, but it felt like air escaping from a tire.
At night, you lay on your side in bed, eyes wide in the dark. Abby breathed deep beside you.
You stared at the ceiling.
You couldn’t sleep.
Not really.
Day Three
You cracked an egg wrong and it spilled everywhere — shell and yolk and stringy mess all over the counter. You froze mid-motion, and Frances tilted her head from her chair.
“It’s okay,” she said sweetly, too wisely. “Accidents happen.”
You nodded. Cleaned it up.
Pretended your hands weren’t shaking.
That night, you did sleep. But only for a few hours. Just long enough for the dream to find you. For Frank to find you.
Frank was in the old Firefly base. Catalina.
That stupid green jacket zipped up too high. His sleeves pushed back like he always wore them — wrists tan, fingers stained with whatever he’d been fixing. He sat on a stool by the radio. The static buzzed like insects. A light flickered overhead.
He was alive.
That’s what your dream-self told you. Frank was alive.
“Hey, Jo,” he said, just like that. Like he’d only been gone a week.
But then he turned his head and the left half of his face was gone. Bone. Muscle. A dry socket where his eye should’ve been.
You jolted awake with a choked sound in your throat, sweat cold and clinging to your shirt. Abby stirred beside you but didn’t wake.
You sat on the edge of the bed.
Your jaw ached from clenching.
You could still hear his voice.
Day Four
You didn’t tell anyone.
You made blueberry pancakes because Frances liked them. You picked more berries for jam. You organized the shed, alphabetized the seed packets, swept out every cobweb in the barn.
You smiled all day.
But Frank’s voice kept echoing in your mind.
“You left me.”
Day Five
You were up before the sun.
The floorboards didn’t even creak under your steps anymore — you’d reinforced them three mornings ago with cut planks and sanded them smooth. You didn’t eat breakfast. You didn’t feel hungry.
Instead, you scoured the window panes with vinegar and a rag until your knuckles stung.
The glass gleamed, but you saw a smudge. You scrubbed harder.
“Joan?”
You jumped at the voice. Abby stood in the doorway, still in her sweats, her hair a mess. Frances was on her hip, thumb in her mouth.
“Everything okay?” Abby asked slowly.
You nodded once, too sharp. “Just trying to get it clean.”
“It’s clean,” she said gently.
You blinked at the glass. “Not really.”
Day Six
Lev found you reorganizing the pantry for the third time.
You were muttering to yourself — inventorying cans under your breath, scratching out lists on a wrinkled notepad. The shelves were perfectly straight. Each label faced outward. Every corner had been dusted.
Lev leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You already did that yesterday.”
You didn’t look at him. “I found a dented can. Could be botulism.”
He hesitated. “Joan… are you okay?”
You smiled over your shoulder, too quickly. “I’m fine.”
But your eyes were red. Your nails bitten to the quick.
Day Seven
Abby caught you on your hands and knees, scrubbing the grout in the bathroom tile with a toothbrush. You’d dumped the entire bucket of soapy water over the floor and were soaked to the elbows.
“Joan,” she said, voice low. “Babe, what are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
Her brow furrowed. “You’ve been cleaning for days.”
You didn’t look at her. “Just trying to keep busy.”
She crossed the room and knelt beside you. “You’re scaring me.”
You flinched away like she’d touched a nerve. “Don’t.”
She didn’t move. “Joan, you don’t have to do all this. You’re allowed to rest.”
You clenched the toothbrush so hard it cracked in your fist. “I can’t.”
That night, after Frances was asleep and the lights were low, you heard them whispering.
Abby and Lev. In the kitchen.
“She hasn’t stopped.”
“She’s not sleeping again.”
“I think she’s trying to outrun something.”
You pressed your forehead to the bedroom wall, breath held, heart pounding. The clean sheets smelled like bleach.
Outside, a storm rolled over the hills. Inside, the air felt too still.
Day Eight
You woke up with your heart already racing.
The sun hadn’t broken through the mist yet. The morning fog hung low, the sky a flat sheet of gray that made everything feel wrong in your skin. Frances still slept in the next room — curled up like a kitten in her pile of blankets — and Abby had gone to check on the rain barrels outside.
You got up quietly. The house was clean. Immaculate, even. There was nothing left to do.
So you walked to the window.
The trees were swaying too slowly. The fog didn’t shift right when the wind blew.
You squinted, pressing your forehead to the glass.
And then — there it was.
A shape between the trees.
Not human. Not animal. Something tall. Lean. Watching.
You blinked. It was gone.
You turned away too fast, breath shallow. You opened the drawer, searching for the extra dish towels, then realized your hands were shaking.
Later that morning, Abby found you in the cellar.
You’d pulled every jar off the shelves. They lined the floor in perfect rows. You stood in the middle, gripping one jar of preserved tomatoes so hard your fingers had turned white.
She didn’t say anything at first.
Then: “Did you… see something?”
You didn’t answer.
She stepped closer. “Joan.”
You swallowed. “I thought I saw something in the woods.”
“Animal?”
“No.” Your voice was flat. “Too tall.”
You tried to push it down. You cooked. You folded laundry. You read a picture book with Frances and made her laugh with a silly voice.
But every time you passed a window, you looked.
Every time you saw movement in the corner of your eye, you turned too fast.
Every time you blinked, you half expected the shadows to blink back.
That night, you couldn’t sleep again.
Not because of insomnia. Not because of fear.
Because if you closed your eyes for too long, you’d see it again. The shape. The wrongness. Frank’s voice somewhere behind it.
And you didn’t want to know what would happen if it followed you inside.
But you were done pretending.
You weren’t fucking crazy. It was there. It had always been there.
It had waited until your bones were tired and your body soft from trying to be good, and now it was circling, waiting for the moment you let your guard down. It didn’t want you. It wanted Frances. You knew that like you knew your own breath. Like a rot buried in the roots of your teeth.
Your heart thudded against your ribs, not with fear but with purpose.
You couldn’t let it take her.
Not her.
Your mind started to spin, static buzzing behind your eyes, the same high-pitched hum from the barn. From the pig. From Frank’s body. No—no—it hadn’t been Frank. That wasn’t real.
But this was.
You sat up in bed.
Abby was still asleep beside you, her back rising and falling slow and even, her braid messy across the pillow. The room felt too dark, like it had sunk into itself. Your breath came out shallow.
You reached under the bed and pulled out the shotgun.
Your hands didn’t tremble.
You didn’t put on shoes. The door creaked on its hinges, and the cold bit into your bare feet like little teeth.
Outside, the woods whispered.
You saw it again—tall, wrong, shifting in the tree line.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” you screamed, voice raw and cracking.
You raised the shotgun and fired.
The blast shattered the silence. Birds exploded out of the trees. Your ears rang.
You fired again.
You weren’t aiming. You were purging.
The shadows flickered. Your brain told you they laughed.
You stared into the woods, panting. And for a moment, you thought about turning the barrel toward yourself. Just to stop it. To end it before it could take her.
Your finger hovered—
But then, a sound tore through the air.
Frances.
Screaming inside the house. A high, terrified cry. Woken by the gunfire.
You froze, the gun still heavy in your hands, but it slipped just slightly as your limbs began to shake.
Then you heard the door slam open.
“Joan!”
Abby’s voice—sharp, terrified.
She ran to you barefoot, in sweatpants, her eyes wide and wild, scanning the trees for enemies. “What were you shooting at?!” she shouted, breathless.
You blinked at her, your face pale and wet with sweat.
“They’re here,” you whispered. “They’re going to take her. I saw them.”
Abby didn’t say anything right away. She just kept looking at you, her chest heaving. And then her eyes slid down—your bare feet bleeding from running through brush, your hands clenched so tightly around the shotgun your knuckles had gone ghost-white.
You looked down at the barrel. The forest. The house.
“Joan,” Abby said again, softer now. Closer.
You could hear Frances still crying inside. Lev’s voice somewhere behind her.
But all you could focus on was Abby—coming toward you, hands half-raised. Her steps slow like she was trying not to spook you.
“It’s okay,” she said gently. “You’re okay. Just give me the gun.”
But something in her face… twisted.
Your heart slammed in your chest.
Her mouth didn’t match her eyes. Her eyes—they looked hollow, wrong. Like doll’s eyes. Dead things behind glass.
And the trees were whispering again.
She was trying to get close.
No, not her. Not Abby.
Not anymore.
She wasn’t Abby.
You took a step back and raised the gun toward her.
She froze.
“Joan,” she said, her voice cracking. “Hey—no, no, it’s me. It’s me. It’s Abby. Look at me.”
But all you saw was the shadow’s mouth moving. A mimic.
She was one of them. One of the things. She’d let them in. She’d brought them here.
You kept the gun raised, your breath ragged. Your hands trembling now, not from fear but from betrayal.
“You’re not her,” you whispered. “What did you do to her?”
She blinked, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“I am her,” she said, taking a single step forward. “Joan, you’re sick. I know you don’t see it, but this is—this is your brain. Baby, please. Look at me.”
You shook your head so violently your vision blurred.
“You’re lying,” you said, voice cracking. “You think I can’t tell when something’s inside you? You let them in. You let them get to you.”
She didn’t move. She stood there barefoot in the grass, her arms slightly open, like she was waiting for you to fall into her.
“I didn’t let anything in,” she said, voice shaking now. “Joan… if you shoot me, Frances will be alone.”
That name hit like a hammer.
Frances.
Your arms faltered, just a little.
She saw it.
“She needs you,” Abby said, her voice steadier now but still raw. “Not this version of you—the real you. Come back. Please come back.”
But the trees kept whispering.
The shadows behind her danced.
You weren’t sure if you were protecting her anymore.
Or protecting Frances from her.
The gun trembled in your hands.
Your arms were burning, muscles locking tight, but your grip wouldn’t loosen. You couldn’t lower it. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe. You stared at her—at whatever she was now—your chest heaving, the world too bright, too loud, wrong.
She didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
Then—
“Joan!”
Lev’s voice. Sharp, panicked. From the porch.
You flinched.
The sound split through the static in your head like a whip, and you turned slightly, just enough to see him barreling barefoot across the grass in sweatpants, hair a mess, eyes wide with terror.
“Don’t!” he yelled, voice cracking.
You swung the barrel toward him.
And that was all the opening Abby needed.
She lunged.
You barely saw her move before her hand was on the barrel, knocking it to the side just as your finger twitched the trigger—
BANG!
The shot rang out, shattering the early morning air. The blast tore into the dirt near your feet. You screamed, lost your balance, and Abby wrestled the shotgun from your arms.
You fought back—not because you wanted to hurt her, but because your body didn’t know the difference anymore. Your muscles were wired for war. Your mind—a shattered glass puzzle.
Abby tackled you, pinning you down in the dirt with her whole weight, the shotgun now flung into the grass. She grabbed your wrists and pressed your arms into the cold ground, her breath hot and ragged above you.
“Joan—stop!” she gasped, her voice breaking. “It’s me. I swear to God, it’s me!”
You thrashed once, twice—and then froze. Something in her face, something in the sound of her voice…
It hit you like a wave.
You looked up at her—really looked—and for one horrible, breathless second you didn’t recognize her at all.
And then—
You did.
You choked out a sob.
Everything shattered.
You went limp beneath her, shaking, weeping, your face twisted in silent terror. Abby let go of your wrists and dropped to her knees beside you, pulling you against her chest.
Lev was there now, kneeling too. You couldn’t see him, but you felt his presence. Heard his breathing. Heard Frances crying from the window.
And you—
You were broken open on the lawn.

Chapter 113: Pork and Maggots

Notes:

def tw for hallucinations in this

You wanted to do it fast.
Quick. Clean. Like a mercy.
But the pig had always been stronger than you—fatter, heavier, built like a creature that hadn’t known scarcity in months. A part of you took pride in that. You’d raised it well. Fed it by hand. Kept its stall dry, its water clean, its belly full. You'd seen it through a winter storm and a stomach bug, and you'd patted its flank every morning like it was part of the damn family.
Now, it waddled toward you with its usual wet grunts, snorting softly as it sniffed your boots.
It found your frayed laces and began to chew. A familiar game.
Your heart twisted. Your hand gripped the knife behind your back, hidden like a secret.
How cruel. How awful, for the same hand that raised something to also be the one that ends it.
You bent slightly and rubbed its broad head with your free hand. “Easy now,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “You’re a good one. You really are.”
It blinked up at you, blinking dumb and calm, no clue what came next.
You swallowed hard, positioning yourself just right—behind the ear, angled under the jaw, where the artery sat thick and waiting.
One cut. That’s all it took.
And still, your hand shook.
You braced your boots against the muddy ground and did it.
The knife slid in clean, but the pig bucked anyway, a deep, terrible squeal rising like a siren. Blood fanned out hot across your arm as you tightened your grip, murmuring nonsense to soothe it even as your eyes blurred.
You held it until the sounds stopped. Until it slumped.
Until the silence came back.
You didn’t cry until you were hosing the blood off your arms.
The cold spray hit your skin like a punishment.
In the distance, you could hear Frances giggling through the window, her voice carrying in soft bursts. Lev was humming something under his breath. Abby’s boots thudded faintly against the porch.
Life carried on.
You scrubbed your hands harder.
You hung the pig by its hind legs over the drain in the barn, the thick ropes digging into the beams as gravity pulled its body downward. Blood flowed steadily from the throat, steaming in the cool morning air, dark and metallic as it pooled beneath the slatted floor.
You sat back in the hay, staring at it.
The pig’s body swayed gently, already going slack. Limp. Heavy. Its pink skin mottled with dirt and bruises from where it had leaned too hard into the pen. The scent—hot iron, straw, and shit—hung thick around you. You didn’t flinch anymore. Not at that part, anyway.
You liked to wait—thirty minutes, sometimes an hour. Let the blood drain, let the body cool just enough. You’d found the meat handled better that way. Cleaner cuts. Firmer organs. It gave you time to prepare, to steady yourself.
You sat cross-legged in the dirt and dragged a fingertip through it, drawing spirals in the dust. Circles within circles. You weren’t even thinking. Just moving. Just waiting.
But your stomach churned.
After a while, you stood. Your thighs ached as you rose, and you wiped your hands on your pants before dragging the carcass to the butcher’s block in the back of the barn. It landed with a wet slap. You fetched the knife from its place on the pegboard—freshly sharpened yesterday, glinting clean in the shaft of sunlight that pierced through the slats in the wall.
You took a breath.
You positioned the blade just beneath the belly. Right at the line. You’d done this before—dozens of times now. You knew every layer. Every seam and tendon. You pressed in.
But the second the knife slid through the skin, your mind twisted.
You blinked—and it wasn’t the pig anymore.
It was Frank.
His belly, his chest, his slack face. The skin split open just the same. But instead of the warm, familiar anatomy you expected—the intestines and the stomach and the thick gleam of fat—what poured out were maggots. Pale and twitching, they spilled onto the floor like worms from a cracked-open grave.
Your mouth fell open.
The knife clattered from your hand.
Then they moved.
The maggots writhed toward you, fast, too fast, twitching and pulsing and lifting themselves like they had legs—like they were evolving right before your eyes. You stumbled back in the straw, but they followed. Crawling up your boots, your pants. You tried to scream but choked instead. Your lungs wouldn’t work. Your arms flailed, swatting at things you couldn’t tear off.
You clawed at your shirt, ripping it open, and still they were there.
You could feel them—inside you now. Burrowing. Nesting. Eating you from the inside out.
You dropped to your knees and thrashed, hay flying into the air around you as you screamed—loud and wild and animal.
Your voice didn’t sound human anymore.
You didn’t know how long you lay there, gasping and trembling, your back pressed against the barn wall. It was only when the door creaked open that you realized how hoarse your throat was. How wet your cheeks were. How raw your palms had become from clutching the floorboards like they’d hold you together.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice was tight. She sounded afraid.
You couldn’t look at her.
You couldn’t speak.
Not yet.
You shook your head, trying to blink away the last of it—the flies, the crawling sensation, the terrible tearing noise that still echoed inside your skull. When you looked down, your body was slick with sweat and blood, but the maggots were gone.
It had just been the pig.
The organs spilled messily across the butchering block. Nothing unnatural. Just meat. Just a body. But your fingers still trembled against your thighs, your breath hitching in sharp, shallow bursts.
Abby stood a few feet away, half-shadowed by the slats of sunlight cutting through the barn walls. Her brow was drawn tight, lips parted like she wasn’t sure what to say.
“I just…” your voice cracked. You forced it steady. “I needed… a break.”
It sounded stupid even as you said it.
Abby didn’t move right away. Her gaze swept over you slowly, taking in the torn fabric of your shirt lying discarded in the hay, your bare chest streaked with scratches—some dried, some still beading red. Your arms were covered in shallow, self-inflicted marks, where you'd clawed yourself raw trying to tear invisible things from your skin.
She stepped forward. Carefully. Slowly. Like she was approaching a wounded animal.
“Okay…” she murmured, crouching in front of you. “Okay.”
You couldn’t meet her eyes.
Her hand reached out, warm and rough with straw dust and dried milk. It hovered for a moment, then landed lightly on your knee. “Joan… talk to me. What happened?”
You clenched your jaw. If you opened your mouth now, something would break loose. Something bigger than you could handle. You stared at the hay beneath your legs. A single fly buzzed near the pig’s body behind you, and your shoulders tensed instinctively.
“Nothing happened,” you whispered. “I just—got overwhelmed. That’s all.”
“Overwhelmed doesn’t tear your shirt off and leave you screaming.”
You swallowed hard. The taste of copper still coated your tongue, and your ears rang like someone had hit you in the head with a skillet. “Abby…” you tried, voice barely audible.
“I’m not mad,” she said quickly, gently. “I just need to know. Are you seeing things again?”
You didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
She sighed through her nose, then shifted closer. Her arms came around you—slow, deliberate. She held you like you were something delicate, something already cracked. You hated that. You hated being a burden. You hated how much you needed her to do it anyway.
Her lips brushed your temple. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“But the meat—”
“I’ll do it.” She pulled back and met your eyes. “You’re not going back in there right now.”
You didn’t argue. Couldn’t.
Your legs shook as she helped you to your feet. You hadn’t realized how cold you were until the breeze from the barn doors hit your bare skin. Abby pulled her overshirt off and draped it around your shoulders, then guided you toward the house.
And all the while, the back of your mind was still buzzing, still itching with the phantom feel of insects burrowing deep.
Something wasn’t right inside you.
Frances was outside with the chickens, her high-pitched giggles floating faintly through the open window. You could hear her trying to mimic their clucks, chasing feathers with outstretched hands. Abby had whisked her away just in time.
You didn’t remember walking back to the house. Only the way your boots had dragged against the floorboards, your mind still spinning. Your body felt like it was made of cement—heavy, slow, every movement clumsy and unfamiliar.
Now, you sat in the bathtub, knees curled tightly to your chest, the water rising just below your chin.
Abby knelt beside the tub. Her hands were careful as she peeled away your soiled shirt, streaked with dirt, dried blood, and flecks of hay. She didn’t speak. Just placed a soft cloth in the water and gently wiped your arms, her thumb tracing over the shallow cuts you'd made in your panic. Her face stayed calm, but her touch trembled slightly.
When she leaned in and kissed the crown of your head, you closed your eyes. The press of her lips was warm. Steadying.
"You’re safe," she whispered, like she was trying to convince herself too.
You wished you could believe it.
The scratches along your ribs stung faintly as the water seeped into them. The bath was warm—too warm maybe—but you didn’t say anything. You just let yourself sink deeper into it, your breath coming in quiet, uneven waves. The scent of lavender soap and old metal mixed with the faint, earthy tang still clinging to your skin.
You hadn’t hallucinated like that in a long time.
The last time had been in the QZ, after Daniel died. When you'd gone three days without sleep, your stomach aching from hunger and your mind fraying apart like overused rope. Before that, it had been fever dreams—illness, blood loss, dehydration. Always something severe. Always something explainable.
But this?
Life had been… calm. Stable. As close to peaceful as it could be in this world. You had a home now. A family. The animals. The garden. Frances' laugh. Abby’s hands.
So why was it crawling back now?
You looked down at your arms, the scratches beginning to cloud under soapy water. The sight made your stomach twist. Your throat tightened.
You didn’t want Abby to worry. You didn’t want Lev to notice. You didn’t want Frances—God, not Frances—to see you unravel.
You wrapped your arms tighter around your knees, curling in on yourself like you could make your body smaller. Quieter. Maybe even invisible. The water sloshed softly as you moved, steam rising in lazy curls that clung to your skin and hair.
A droplet slipped from the tip of your nose and landed in the water with a quiet splash.
You weren’t sure if it was from the bath—or your eyes.
You stayed in bed.
After the bath, Abby helped you into clean clothes—soft cotton pants and one of her old shirts that still smelled faintly of hay and leather. She didn’t ask questions. Just pulled the blankets up over you and placed a glass of water on the nightstand, her hand resting against your forehead for a moment before she left the room.
You hadn’t asked her to go. But you were grateful when she did.
The window was cracked open. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the trees. You could hear the low murmur of Abby’s voice outside, probably talking to Lev. The clatter of a bucket, the distant lowing of cows, Frances’ laugh echoing in the morning air like nothing had happened.
And maybe nothing had.
Maybe it was just… a moment. Just a trick of your mind, like a hiccup in an otherwise smooth day.
Still, you didn’t move.
Your body ached, but not in any place you could point to. It was a kind of heaviness that soaked into your bones, a fog curling behind your eyes, thick and slow. Time passed strangely, your thoughts drifting out of reach before they could form into anything solid.
You turned your face into the pillow and watched the same patch of wall for what could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours.
Your stomach rumbled once, and you ignored it. When the afternoon sun crept across the floor and began to warm the foot of the bed, you shifted slightly, kicking the blanket off, then pulling it back up. Your mouth was dry. You didn’t reach for the water.
Abby came in once.
She cracked the door, peered in, and you heard the hesitation in her breath.
“You okay?” she asked gently.
You nodded without looking at her.
She waited another beat, then said, “I’m taking Frances to the greenhouse with Lev. We’ll be close.” Her voice softened. “If you need anything.”
You nodded again. The door clicked shut.
You didn’t cry. That almost made it worse. Crying would’ve been something. A release. An explanation. But instead you just… laid there.
You didn’t feel sad. Not really. Just distant. Like you’d left your body and hadn’t found your way back yet.
The sun moved across the sky. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, then faded. The room dimmed. The animals were fed. Frances bathed. You heard the familiar sounds of life happening just outside your door—Abby’s low humming, Lev’s boots, the soft creak of the rocking chair. You didn’t get up.
The water on your nightstand sat untouched.
Eventually, the door creaked open again.
“Joan?” Abby’s voice was even softer now. She stood there a moment before stepping inside. The room smelled like bread and soil. She carried a plate with toast and soft cheese and a bit of fruit—berries, probably picked fresh. She set it on the bedside table.
“You didn’t eat today.” Her tone was gentle, not accusing.
You blinked slowly, your eyes gritty. “Sorry,” you mumbled.
“It’s okay.” She brushed your hair from your forehead and leaned down to kiss your temple. “It’s okay, baby.”
You wanted to say thank you. Wanted to tell her you were fine. That it was just the heat. Or a headache. Or the memory of Frank, still lingering in the corners of your mind like mold. But the words stayed buried somewhere in your chest.
So you nodded instead. And when she left again, you rolled onto your side and stared at the untouched plate.
You weren’t sure how long it stayed there. You didn’t fall asleep, not really. You just drifted.
Somewhere between night and nothing.
Day One
You got up the next morning before anyone else.
Abby found you at the sink, already peeling root vegetables for soup that didn’t need to be made for hours. She smiled, surprised. You smiled back—quick, too wide, too bright. The kind of smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you said, breezily, like it didn’t matter.
She nodded, rubbed your back in passing. “Well… I’m glad you’re up.”
You kept yourself busy. Sliced and stirred and baked. Fed the chickens, collected five eggs with trembling hands. Played with Frances on the porch while she showed you every new word she’d picked up from Lev.
“Green!” she shouted, holding a leaf.
You mirrored her delight. “That’s right. Green.” You even clapped.
But it felt like someone else’s voice in your mouth. Like a puppet trying to remember how to be alive.
Day Two
You cleaned the entire downstairs.
You stripped the couch cushions, beat the rugs with Abby’s old rifle stock, scrubbed dried mud from the floor until your wrists ached.
Abby watched you silently. Lev gave you a look—soft, cautious.
You cracked a joke at dinner, something stupid about one of the sheep eating your shirt sleeve. It made Frances giggle. Abby snorted into her water. Lev smiled, but his eyes lingered on you for too long.
You kept eating. Bite after bite. Not tasting a single thing.
Day Three
You stayed in the chicken coop longer than you needed to.
Sat in the hay with your back to the wall, watching the birds pick through the straw. Frances had wanted to come, but you told her to help Abby in the greenhouse. “It’s too dusty in here, baby.”
The truth was: it was the only place you didn’t feel watched.
There, you let your shoulders sag. You stared blankly at the wall, the silence pressing like wet wool over your skin. You didn’t cry. Still couldn’t. Your face felt stiff, like it forgot how.
That night you didn’t eat much. You said your stomach hurt.
Abby didn’t push.
Day Four
You laughed too loud at something Frances said.
Even she blinked at you, confused. You tried to turn it into a tickle fight to cover the way your face had gone pale, how your hands were shaking again.
In the kitchen, your toast burned.
You scraped it off and kept eating anyway.
Day Five
You forgot how to speak.
Not entirely—but you couldn’t seem to find the right tone. Your voice came out flat, mechanical, or too perky in the wrong places.
When Abby asked if you were tired, you said, “Nope!” and practically jogged to the barn. You milked one of the cows wrong. She kicked at you.
You snapped at Lev later when he asked what kind of flour to use.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
You apologized. You kissed the top of his head. He didn’t say anything.
He just hugged you. Tighter than usual.
Day Six
You sat with Frances outside on a blanket.
She played with her dolls in the grass. You helped her name them.
But your vision kept doubling. The air felt too loud.
Like everything was humming just under your skin.
You gripped the blanket to ground yourself.
Later, you stood in the kitchen and couldn’t remember what you’d come in for. You opened every cabinet and then closed them again, slowly, like maybe the answer was hiding behind the wood.
Abby touched your shoulder. You jumped.
“You’re really pale,” she said.
You made a joke about being a ghost. “Boo.”
She didn’t laugh.
Day Seven
You almost broke down while brushing Frances’ hair.
She was sitting still for once, her blonde curls soft between your fingers. She leaned back against your stomach and told you she loved you.
It hit you like a punch in the gut.
“I love you too,” you whispered. But it sounded hollow. You kissed the top of her head to make up for it.
That night, after Frances was asleep and Lev had gone to bed, Abby sat beside you on the porch.
The stars were out. The wind was soft.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said.
You looked at her. You tried to say “I’m fine.”
But your throat locked up.
You just nodded instead.
She reached over and took your hand.
You gripped it too tightly.

That week felt like the morning haze that curled along the mountaintops—soft, distant, impossible to hold.
You stood slowly, your back stiff from another night of broken sleep.
Abby was still out cold, her arm draped over the pillow where you used to be. She snored lightly, her braid undone, the house quiet around her.
You rubbed your face and moved toward the kitchen. You’d make roasted pork tonight. Use the cuts Abby had butchered. They weren’t bad… just not how you would’ve done it.
You’d have trimmed the fat better. Carved tighter. Respected the animal more.
You huffed and went down to the basement, flipping on the lantern and heading into the potato cellar.
The air was damp. Earthy.
You pulled back a burlap sack and reached inside—
Your hand recoiled.
The potato was black. Molded over like thick fur. You blinked. Snatched another. Then another. Every one slick with rot. Soft. Sagging. Covered in mildew.
“No,” you whispered, staring at your stained hands. “No, no, no…”
You leaned over and gagged, the stench crashing into you all at once—hot, sour, choking. Like death trapped in a root cellar.
You backed away, heart thundering. The sacks… so many of them… all wasted. All poisoned.
Abby would have to compost them. Burn them, maybe. They’d ruin the rest of the crops.
You rushed upstairs. The stairs creaked under your boots, your breath catching like something was chasing you.
Abby was in the kitchen now, nursing a cup of black coffee. The early light made her eyes look pale, alert.
You cleared your throat roughly. “The potatoes went bad.”
She blinked. “What?”
“They went bad, Abby.” You grabbed the back of a chair to steady yourself. “All of them. Moldy. Covered in black rot. I just checked.”
Abby frowned, setting her mug down. “Joan… we just picked those. Yesterday.”
You scoffed, heat rising up your neck. “I know when we picked them. Come look for yourself.”
You led her back down, your hands clenched tight. Your mouth tasted like iron.
She peeled back a sack and pulled one out. Perfect. Smooth. Clean.
She turned it in her hand, then looked at you slowly. “They’re fine, Joan…”
“No,” you said firmly. “No, they were—just now—they were black, Abby. Rotten. I smelled it.”
Abby set the potato down and moved to you. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder, grounding. Warm.
You flinched anyway.
“Go back to bed,” she said quietly, her voice full of something too soft to name.
You stared at the potato in her hand.
Your stomach twisted.
Your mouth opened, then shut.
Because it was fine.
They all were.
But you weren’t.
You didn’t go back to bed.
Instead, you stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed tight over your chest as Abby returned to her coffee. She didn’t press. She never did, not when you got like this.
You made yourself busy.
You swept the floor even though it wasn’t dirty.
You reheated leftover oats even though you weren’t hungry.
You scrubbed under your fingernails until the skin stung raw.
Frances woke up not long after. Her footsteps were light and uneven as she padded into the room, cheeks puffy from sleep. You scooped her up and kissed the top of her head like nothing was wrong.
“Hi, sunshine,” you whispered. “Wanna help Mama feed the chickens?”
She clapped her hands. “Yes!”
You smiled too fast. Too wide. It didn’t reach your eyes, but she didn’t know the difference yet.
Abby watched you from the corner of her eye as she filled the water kettle again. She didn’t say anything. Just passed you a scarf for Frances’ neck.
Outside, the sun was high and warm. Golden grass rustled across the field. The air smelled like hay and distant rain.
You opened the coop and scattered feed across the dirt, watching the chickens scramble and cluck. Frances danced between them, squealing in delight.
You crouched down to refill the water trough, your hands still trembling from earlier.
You could hear the buzzing again. Faint. Deep inside your ears.
Or maybe in the trees.
Or maybe in the bones of the earth.
You blinked hard.
It’s just wind. Just wind through the leaves. Just bees somewhere far.
Frances tugged your sleeve. “Look, Mama! This one’s mine.”
She pointed at a stubby, molting hen who blinked up at you with one beady eye.
You laughed. Too loudly. “Then she’s a lucky girl.”
You tousled Frances’ hair and turned back to the trough, trying to anchor yourself to the moment.
But even the feed pellets looked strange today. Off. Like they were twitching. Breathing.
You blinked again. They stopped.
Later, you helped Abby patch a leak in the barn roof. Or you were supposed to. You handed her the wrong nails twice and nearly fell off the ladder once. She didn’t scold you, just narrowed her eyes gently.
“You okay?” she asked at one point, not looking up.
“Yeah.”
Your voice came out flat. “Just tired.”
You helped her hang tools in the shed. You kissed Frances’ cheek after lunch. You laid down in the grass and let her braid wildflowers into your hair.
You did all the things that should have made you feel alive.
But everything felt two inches to the left.
Everything felt like it belonged to someone else.
Like you were watching your body go through the motions.
When the sun dipped low, you stood in front of the window in the bedroom, arms limp at your sides.
Abby lit the lantern. “You comin’ to bed?”
You nodded. Didn’t move.
“Joan,” she said softly. “Come lie down.”
You swallowed hard and obeyed.
She curled her arms around you, her hands steady against your ribs.
But inside you, something trembled.
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t speak.
You just lay there, eyes open, staring past the lamp’s glow into the dark.
And you hoped tomorrow would be different.
But you were starting to feel like something had cracked—
and it wasn’t going to seal back up.
Abby’s breathing evened out sometime past midnight.
You lay perfectly still, her arm still draped over your waist, her warmth a weight you couldn’t hold onto tonight. You counted the seconds between her breaths, mouthing the numbers in the dark like a prayer.
She always fell asleep so fast. Like the world didn’t haunt her.
You blinked at the ceiling.
One minute passed. Then ten.
You hadn’t slept the night before either, not really—just closed your eyes and floated somewhere else.
Tonight, even floating felt too dangerous.
Slowly, you shifted her arm off of you. She grumbled faintly, rolled to her side, and settled.
You sat up.
The house was silent.
You moved like a ghost. Bare feet soft on the floorboards, hands steady against the walls as you crept down the stairs in your tank top and flannel sleep pants. You didn’t bother with a light. The moon through the windows was enough.
Your skin prickled with sweat that didn’t match the cool air.
You just need to do something.
You ended up in the living room.
You stood in front of the bookshelf—your hands twitching at your sides. The same shelf Abby built you when you moved in, all reclaimed wood and imperfect nails, still sturdy as hell.
You stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, you reached for the books.
You pulled them out one by one, stacking them on the floor. Not by size. Not alphabetically. No. That would be too loud in your head.
You sorted by color.
Shades.
Tones.
Weight.
Greens together. Then blues. Then black.
But some of them looked wrong. A red spine that should’ve been brown. A cover that had changed font. You flipped one open and stared at the first page like it might bite you.
“Didn’t this used to say something else…?”
You murmured it aloud, like someone was listening.
The book said nothing. Of course.
You started rearranging again. Faster now.
At one point, you crouched on your heels, arms wrapped around your shins, just looking at the mess you’d made.
You couldn’t remember what time it was.
The chickens would be stirring soon. Maybe you’d stay up and feed them. You could make oatmeal again. Maybe with cinnamon this time. Or maybe not. Cinnamon might not even taste real anymore.
Your hands were shaking again.
You grabbed the same book four times before realizing it didn’t belong in any of the piles. It didn’t belong at all. You turned it over and over and over again, as if it would shift into something else.
It didn’t.
You pressed your forehead to your knees and sat there for a long time in the hush of the house. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional soft creak of wood, like the place itself was sighing in its sleep.
You hadn’t slept in two days.
But you weren’t tired.
You were wired through with static—an invisible pressure just under your skin.
And somewhere in the quiet of the room, a soft whisper brushed your ear.
You whipped your head around.
No one was there.
You laughed under your breath, so soft it didn’t even sound like you.
Then you picked up another book.
But the book was wrong.
You didn’t remember it looking like that.
It wasn’t just the title, or the strange curl to the serif letters on the spine. It was the binding. The texture. You touched it and recoiled.
The leather wasn’t leather.
It was soft. Uneven. Almost pliant like... skin.
Your stomach lurched.
It looked like human skin.
You flipped the book open, hands trembling. The pages writhed under your fingertips. Words scrambled, reformed, disappeared altogether. One page blinked at you.
You slammed it shut and staggered back, breath going ragged. The air inside the house suddenly felt too thick—too still. Like it was watching.
You needed to get it out.
Barefoot, shirt clinging to your damp skin, you shoved open the front door. The cold hit you instantly. Frost bit your toes, but you didn’t stop. You sprinted into the yard, night clutching the trees around you, and hurled the book into the field.
It screamed.
Not loud. Not human. But real. A high, wet sound that cracked through the quiet and made your spine seize.
You covered your ears, doubled over. “No, no, no—shut up—”
You looked up.
The book lay still in the grass, dark against the frostbitten blades. Steam curled from it like breath.
You crept forward, shaking. Your legs felt hollow.
You have to be sure.
You reached down and snatched it back up, heart slamming.
It didn’t move now. Didn’t scream. It was just paper again. Just ink and glue and binding.
But you could swear you felt a pulse under your thumb.
You dropped it. Again.
It hit the ground with a wet slap.
You stumbled back, whispering, “It’s not real. It’s not real, it’s not real…”
But the chickens had scattered. The trees were silent. And the world… the world didn’t answer.
You stood there in the freezing dark, your breath fogging in front of you, fingers twitching at your sides.
Somewhere behind you, the wind rattled a loose shutter.
And you realized—
You weren’t going back to bed.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever again.
You shook your head, heart drumming, throat dry. The scream still echoed in your ears even though it had stopped. Hadn't it?
You didn’t want to touch the book again. Didn’t want to look at it, breathe near it, think about it. You couldn’t bring it back inside—not where Frances was. Not where Abby slept peacefully, not knowing you were falling apart.
You took a long, shaky breath and knelt in the grass, the blades cold and slick with frost, soaking through your cotton pants. You dropped to your hands, trembling as you set the book aside and clawed at the dirt with your bare fingers.
At first, it resisted. The ground was cold, packed tight, but you were more stubborn. You ripped at it like it had insulted you. Like it owed you something.
Fingernails tore. Blood lined your cuticles. But you didn’t stop.
You dug until your shoulders ached, until your breath came out in wet huffs, until dirt coated your arms, your knees, your stomach. It caked the fabric of your pants, smeared up your ribs where your shirt had ridden up. You didn’t care.
You kept going.
It started as a hole.
Then it became a pit.
And somewhere along the way, it turned into a grave.
Wide enough. Deep enough. For what? You didn’t know. A book? A man? Something worse?
The thought flickered and vanished. You just knew you had to bury it.
By now you were at least four feet deep, crouched low in the earth like something half-feral. Your breath came out in fog. The cold seeped into your skin, but it didn’t register.
Your head turned slowly as a ribbon of gray cut across the dark sky.
Dawn.
Sunrise had come again. Like it always did.
As if nothing had happened.
As if the book hadn’t screamed. As if your brain hadn’t cracked open like a rotting potato in the basement.
You looked up at the pale sky, your hands raw and trembling, the earth damp beneath your knees.
You whispered, hoarse, “I’m fine.”
Then you reached up, grabbed the book with stiff fingers, and dropped it into the hole.
It didn’t scream this time.
It just thudded.
Solid. Heavy. Still.
You stared down at it, heart slamming behind your ribs, waiting for it to move.
It didn’t.
So you filled the grave.
One handful of dirt at a time.
You were halfway through filling the grave, hands slick with a mixture of your own blood and cold, clinging dirt. It was under your fingernails, drying in the creases of your palms, crusting against your forearms where you’d torn the skin raw. Your breath rasped through your throat like gravel.
You didn’t notice the barn door creak open behind you.
Didn’t hear the steady clop of hooves as Lev came out to fetch his horse.
But you did feel him stop.
His shadow fell over the pit just as you dropped another trembling handful of earth onto the book.
You froze.
He spoke gently, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Joan…?”
You turned too fast.
Your bloodied hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder with more strength than you meant to.
“Lev—Lev, do you hear it?” Your voice cracked. Your eyes were wide, frantic. “The book. It’s still screaming. It won’t shut up.”
You were shaking him now, hands trembling against the worn canvas of his jacket. “You hear it too, right? It won’t stop, it—it won’t stop—”
Lev’s mouth opened, but no words came out at first. Just the sound of his breath hitching.
Then slowly, his hand came up and wrapped around your wrist, steadying it.
He gently pried your fingers off of him.
His face was pale. Ashen.
“No,” he said softly, his voice breaking the dawn hush. “Joan… I don’t hear anything.”
You blinked.
The wind rushed over the field, cold against your skin, rustling the tall grass around the pit.
Nothing screamed.
Just wind. Just morning birdsong. Just the hollow silence of sunrise.
But it felt loud.
You looked back down into the half-filled grave.
Dirt. Damp. Undisturbed.
The book was gone. Buried. Quiet.
Wasn’t it?
You swayed where you stood, blood pounding in your ears, and your knees buckled slightly.
Lev caught your arm.
“Come on,” he said softly, guiding you by the elbow. “Let’s… let’s go inside, okay? Let Abby help. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
But you weren’t listening.
You were still staring at the dirt, breath hitching, a whisper rising in your throat like smoke:
“I heard it…”
Lev’s grip tightened gently.
“I know.”
You ripped away from him, stumbling backward in the mud, your hands flailing as if to shake off fire. Your face twisted in panic, your mouth stretching wide in a raw, broken sound.
Because they were crawling again.
Maggots, squirming up through the dirt like veins bursting from the earth. Writhing, pale, endless.
You screamed, falling hard onto your back.
Your breath came in wet, gulping sobs. “You're lying!” you screamed, spit flying from your lips. You pointed a trembling, blood-caked finger at Lev, your vision warping at the edges.
“They're everywhere! I see them—I see them!”
Lev flinched but crouched low, hands held out in front of him like he was trying to calm a wild animal.
“Joan—”
But you were already digging again.
You scrambled in the mud to the right of the half-dug grave, nails clawing frantically through the earth.
“It’s here, Lev! It’s in here!”
The soil crumbled beneath your hands as you tore at it.
“They’re gonna get us,” you hissed, voice lowering into a shivering whisper. “They’re already in the walls. In the pipes. I hear them in the floorboards.”
Your hands hit a rock or maybe a root—something that thudded under your palm like a buried heart. You jerked back in horror.
“They’re alive under there.”
Lev inched closer, his voice shaking now. “Joan… there’s nothing there.”
But you couldn’t hear him. You were panting like an animal now, half-feral, your eyes darting across the field, scanning for movement. You could feel them in your skin again, crawling in your mouth, wriggling down your throat.
You slapped at your arms. Your neck. Your stomach. You let out a choked sob and looked up at him.
“They’re in me, Lev.”
His face crumpled. “No, Joan. No they’re not. Look at me. Please—look at me.”
But your hands just kept slapping your skin raw. You gagged and bent over, retching, but nothing came out.
Only dirt.
Your own blood and spit mixed in the mess on your hands.
You collapsed forward into the hole you’d dug, sobbing against the earth.
Lev dropped beside you and pulled you into his arms despite the filth. You thrashed for a second, but then your body went slack. Empty. Shaking.
He whispered against your hair, over and over:
“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”
You didn’t see Abby at first.
Your hands were still tearing at the dirt, raw and trembling, convinced the maggots were under there—were inside you—when Lev tried to reach for you again. His voice was far away, muffled by the pulse screaming in your ears. You thrashed, pushing at him, your nails catching his coat.
“They’re gonna get us, Lev,” you rasped, your voice gone hoarse from shouting. “I have to find them—I have to get them out—”
A shadow moved behind him.
Boots on wet grass. A sharp gasp.
“Joan.”
Abby.
You froze. You didn’t even turn—you felt her presence like a thunderclap behind your ribs. Warm, familiar, safe—except you weren’t. Not anymore.
You stayed crouched over the half-dug grave, your arms shaking, sweat dripping from your brow into the soil.
She dropped to her knees beside you without hesitation. “Joan, hey—hey, baby. Look at me.”
You couldn’t. Your eyes burned. Your heart was jackhammering inside your chest, like it was trying to rip free and run.
“There’s something under here, Abby. I saw it. The book—there was skin, it was screaming, and then the *maggots—*they were crawling in my mouth—”
You doubled over again, heaving, but nothing came up. Just bile. Just air.
“I know,” she whispered. Her voice was steady, even if her hands weren’t. They smelled faintly like soap and horses. “You’re safe now. You’re safe. We’re here.”
You felt her hand brush your forehead, sticky with sweat. Her palm cradled your cheek. Her thumb moved along the edge of your jaw.
“They’re still in me, Abby,” you croaked. “I can feel them.”
“I know it feels real,” she said softly. “But it’s not. I promise. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”
You looked at her then.
Finally.
Her hair was wild from running, her eyes blown wide with panic—but behind it, love. So much love. It cracked something open in your chest.
Your limbs turned to jelly. You nearly collapsed right there in the dirt.
“Let’s get you inside,” she said. “Lev, can you help me?”
Together, they pulled you up. Your body sagged between them, every muscle slack. Your pants were soaked. Your arms bled from clawing at the earth. Your bare feet stung from the cold.
You couldn’t stop muttering as they carried you back toward the house. “It was the book. It was human skin. It screamed when I threw it. I heard it. I heard it scream—”
Abby held you tighter. “Shhh. Don’t worry about the book right now. Just breathe, baby. Just breathe.”
You nodded. Or maybe you didn’t. You couldn’t feel your neck anymore.
But when the house came into view through the trees, a tiny sound escaped your lips—like a sob, or maybe a laugh.
You weren’t sure which.
You just knew something was breaking.
And it was you.
The water was already running when you came to.
Or maybe you'd never blacked out—maybe you'd just gone blank. Like someone dimmed the lights behind your eyes and forgot to turn them back on. You weren’t sure how you got into the bathroom. One minute it was trees and dirt and screaming, and the next—
Steam.
Tiles.
The sound of water slapping porcelain.
You were sitting on the closed toilet lid, stripped bare. Your clothes—what was left of them—were in a crumpled heap in the corner. Abby knelt beside the tub, one arm braced against it, the other reaching out to test the water temperature. Her braid was messy, her hands still streaked faintly with your blood.
You stared at her hands. You kept staring.
“They were in me,” you whispered, your voice cracked and papery. “I swallowed them, Abby. I felt them crawl.”
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t say that’s not real, or you’re imagining it, or calm down, Joan.
She just turned off the tap and looked at you. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you clean.”
You didn’t move.
So she came to you.
Her arms slid around your back, lifting you up like a ghostweight. You didn’t fight her. You didn’t help either. You just slumped against her, your skin clammy against hers, your breath rattling like wind through old pipes.
When she lowered you into the tub, you hissed—not because it hurt, but because it felt too real. The warmth of the water was like stepping back into your own body, and it was wrong. Too heavy. Too sharp.
You sank low, your knees to your chest. Your arms wrapped around them like a cradle. Your hair floated around your face like seaweed. Abby knelt beside the tub again, rolling up her sleeves, gentle and deliberate.
She dipped a cloth into the water and began to scrub the dirt from your arms. One slow stroke at a time. Her movements careful. Practiced.
“The pig knew,” you muttered. “It saw what I was. It smiled when I slit its throat.”
Abby paused, cloth dripping.
You blinked slowly, not looking at her. “Frank was smiling, too. Did I tell you? He thanked me. Before I lit the match.”
The words tumbled out, half-formed. Thoughts scraping through the clogged drain of your mind. “He said ‘you always were a little monster, Joanie.’”
Abby swallowed hard. You didn’t see it—but you felt the silence change.
You turned your head slowly toward her.
“You believe me, right?” you asked, your voice almost sweet. Your eyes wide and unblinking. “You know I didn’t want to. But the book told me. It said I had to finish what I started.”
She didn't answer at first.
She just wrung out the cloth and began again. Wiping the dried blood from your legs. Her hand shaking just slightly.
You giggled—high and strange.
“Poor pig,” you whispered, mouth curling up. “Poor, poor piggy.”
She stopped again.
“Joan,” she said gently, “I think we need to talk to Lev when he gets back.”
You tilted your head. “About the pig?”
She shook her head. “About… everything.”
You leaned forward suddenly, your hand grabbing her wrist—hard.
“No doctors.”
Abby froze.

You flinched as the water sloshed up your spine, the copper scent of your own blood mixing with the sharpness of soap. You didn’t know when Abby had started washing your back, but she was there, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her face tight with something between worry and restraint.
“They’re watching,” you whispered.
Her hand paused, cloth warm against your shoulder blade.
You tilted your head, eyes darting toward the window. “You see that? The shadow—there. It moved. You have to tell Lev not to let Frances out again. They’ll take her.”
Abby’s jaw twitched. “There’s no one out there, Joan.”
You didn’t answer. Just stared at the pale square of glass, your fingers curling under the water, searching for the book again. Had you burned it? Buried it? You couldn’t remember. What if it was still out there, whispering?
She wrung out the cloth, fresh water pouring down your arms. “Lev and Frances are still at the stables,” she said, like maybe small facts could pin you back to earth. “They’re fine.”
You snorted, bitter. “Sure. Until the worms crawl in her mouth.”
Abby didn’t react.
Instead, she moved slowly to cup water in her hands and pour it over your hair, gentle like you were Frances in the sink after a fever. You let her. Your eyes closed. The light behind your eyelids was too bright, flickering like fire behind curtains.
Then her voice came, soft but weighted. “You know there’s no doctor here, right?”
You blinked.
“What?”
She leaned in closer. Her breath was warm near your ear. “We don’t have a doctor, Joan. The town’s too far. The people there—most don’t even have running water, let alone medicine.”
You stiffened.
She kept going, voice even. “So no one’s gonna put you in a white room. Or strap you down. Or take you from us.”
You didn’t respond. Your tongue felt thick.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “You’re just… sick. And we’re gonna take care of you.”
You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing. “That’s what they say. Right before the chains.”
“Joan.”
You bared your teeth, jaw trembling. “You said there’s no doctor. So what are you gonna do when I start rotting from the inside?”
Abby didn’t answer.
You swore the tiles beneath the water pulsed, breathing like lungs. You dug your nails into the porcelain tub, staring down at the blood mixing into the bathwater, swirling red threads that spelled something only you could read.
You were still whispering when Abby guided you back into bed.
Her hands were steady, but her eyes weren’t. You caught the way they lingered on your face, scanning for something—clarity, maybe. Or warning.
She pulled the blanket up over your shoulders like you were a child. Tucked it in at your neck. You lay there, blinking at the ceiling, mouthing something under your breath. Words that didn’t make sense anymore, but they kept you tethered. A chant, a plea, a spell—whatever would keep the worms out of your mouth, out of your eyes.
Your body shook, cold even though the room was warm.
You didn’t think you could sleep, so you didn’t try. You just waited.
Abby stayed seated on the edge of the bed for what felt like hours. Her back was hunched, hands laced tight between her knees. Sometimes she looked at the floor. Sometimes at the window. Once or twice, you thought she was praying—but Abby didn’t pray. Not out loud.
Eventually, she stood. The bed dipped, then rose. Her footsteps faded down the hall, creaking the stairs.
The moment the door clicked shut, you sat up.
The whispers came again. Not from the room this time, but from downstairs. Soft murmurs, low voices—Abby and Lev. You could tell by the shapes of their words. They always talked quieter when they didn’t want you to hear. When they were planning.
You moved to the window.
Opened it slowly, your fingers trembling on the lock. You pushed the pane up and leaned into the air. It was cold. Crisp. Autumn had sunk its claws into the trees—branches swaying like hands in prayer. Or surrender.
You heard them down below. Muffled conversation.
What were they saying?
What were they plotting?
Were they feeding the worms now? Whispering to the monster in the roots beneath the house?
Your gaze snapped to the corner of the room.
She was there again.
Terra.
Her shawl hung off her shoulders, threadbare and slick with blood. Her eyes black, wide, empty. She didn’t speak, just stood there. Watching. Blaming.
You couldn’t stay here.
You couldn’t let them give you to her.
You turned, kicked at the window screen until it popped free and clattered into the flowerbed below. It didn’t matter if they heard—it was too late.
You swung one leg over the sill, then the other, barefoot on the ledge.
Your heart pounded like hooves on dry dirt.
Then you jumped.
The fall was quick. Jarring. Your knees buckled and the breath shot from your chest as you hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and cold air.
But you didn’t scream.
You rolled onto your side in the wet grass and pushed yourself to your feet.
The barn was ahead. The field stretched beyond it, silver with moonlight.
Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but this house full of whispers and worms.
You ran.
The trees stared at you as you ran.
Their long limbs clawed at the sky, their knotted bark twisting like muscle beneath skin. You swore they leaned closer, mouths opening in the knots, whispering in voices that sounded almost human—almost like Abby’s. Almost like Lev’s.
You could still hear them. Even now.
Their words slithered through the dark like vines, curling through the air behind you.
“She’s not well.”
“We have to do something.”
“We can’t let her stay.”
You tore across the yard, past the fence, into the woods—branches slicing at your arms, your legs, your cheeks. You didn’t care. Your blood felt old, like it had been waiting to spill.
Your bare feet struck rock, root, brittle pine needles. You didn't stop. You couldn’t. The house was behind you now, but the whispers clung to your skin like smoke.
You ran until the sun dipped beneath the trees, a bleeding orange smudge melting into bruised sky.
Your legs screamed.
Your lungs begged.
And still you ran.
The ground sloped and twisted beneath you, and you stumbled, finally collapsing—thudding hard against the thick base of a tree.
You slid down the bark, your spine catching on the ridges, until you hit the earth with a grunt.
Your chest heaved.
You clutched your knees to your chest and stared wide-eyed into the forest. Every branch above you looked like a hand. Every birdcall like a warning. Every rustle a threat.
But they didn’t follow. Not yet.
The ache in your soles throbbed—cut, raw, weeping quietly into the dirt. Blood smeared the leaves around you. You could taste iron in the back of your throat.
Still, the voices faded. The trees didn’t whisper your name anymore.
And for the first time in what felt like days, something inside you sagged.
Your brain stuttered. Then slowed. Then finally, mercifully, fell quiet.
As the moon stretched itself across the sky like a yawn, your mind blinked once… twice… and then shut down completely.
Sleep took you in pieces.
Like it didn’t trust you all at once.
The cold had worked its way into your bones.
You didn’t remember falling asleep—only the way the bark dug into your spine, and how the stars seemed to pulse with every heartbeat. Now your body felt carved from stone. Your skin damp with morning dew. The cuts on your feet throbbed, swollen and tender, crusted with dirt.
Something shifted in the distance.
A soft whinny.
Then hooves.
The earth trembled slightly beneath you—slow, measured. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, not until the voice cut through the trees.
“Joan?”
It was gentle. Familiar.
Too familiar.
You flinched, your limbs curling tighter around yourself like you could disappear into the forest floor. Leaves clung to your hair. Your lips were chapped, dry and cracked from the night air.
“Joan—hey.” A pause. “It’s me. It’s Abby.”
That name.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You weren’t sure if it was a trick. If the voice was real. If the book had found another shape to wear.
But then a shadow dismounted. Heavy boots in the dirt. The clink of tack, the soft snort of the horse as it stepped aside. And then—her.
She crouched down in front of you, a dark silhouette against the rising light, her face creased with something like worry—or was it pity?
“Jesus,” she whispered. “You’re freezing.”
You blinked up at her. Her face was blurry. Haloed in white sun. You couldn’t read her expression.
“I was looking for you all night.” Her voice broke just a little. “You scared the hell out of me.”
You didn’t answer. Your throat was too dry. Your jaw too tight.
She reached forward and touched your shoulder—just barely.
You flinched.
Her hand didn’t move.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just… I need to get you home.”
Home.
The word slithered inside your head, foreign and heavy. The house. The whispers. The book. The hole.
Your eyes darted toward the trees.
“Joan,” she said again, firmer now, her other hand coming to steady your elbow. “Please. Let me help you up.”
You couldn’t stop shaking. Not from the cold anymore. From everything.
But your body moved anyway.
You let her pull you to your feet, and when your knees buckled, she caught you against her chest.
The smell of her hit you—straw, sweat, old leather, the faintest hint of soap.
So real.
You wanted to collapse into it. You wanted to run.
Instead, you just stood there, trembling in her arms.
“I got the horse,” she whispered near your ear. “You don’t have to walk.”
You nodded once—barely.
Then she led you, one arm around your waist, to the horse tied to a low branch. The animal turned its head, eyes calm, tail flicking.
You didn’t remember how you got onto the saddle.
You only remembered her arms around you again, from behind this time, holding you steady as the horse began to move. Her voice low in your ear, murmuring nonsense. Comfort. The kind you gave a frightened dog or a sick child.
You didn’t look back at the tree.
You didn’t look forward either.
You just leaned into her and let her take you wherever she wanted.
You slept.
You weren’t sure how long—just that the sun rose and fell behind your eyelids more times than you could count. Dreams passed like fog: voices without faces, pressure without touch. Sometimes you swore someone was brushing hair from your temple, tucking the blankets higher, murmuring things you couldn’t hold on to. Sometimes you felt warm hands on your arms. Other times, you were floating.
When you finally opened your eyes, the world had gone quiet again.
You blinked up at the ceiling, your mouth dry as sand. Your limbs felt like they had been stitched into the mattress, too heavy to lift. The blanket was clean. So were your clothes. You smelled like soap. The kind Abby used to wash the linens.
The light through the curtains told you it was morning. Or maybe afternoon.
The air was still. No screams. No books. No dirt under your fingernails. Just faint birdsong and the creak of the house breathing.
You sat up slowly.
Your body ached in strange places—your ribs, your throat, your jaw. You rubbed your hands over your arms, confused at how thin they felt. You looked down at your legs. Bruised. Scratched. Bandaged.
What had happened?
You scanned the room. Nothing seemed out of place. But something was missing inside your skull. Like someone had scrubbed your memories clean with steel wool. You tried to recall the last thing you did—the last normal thing.
Frances. Oatmeal. The chickens.
Then—
Nothing.
Just… white noise.
The door creaked open.
You turned your head.
Abby stood there, holding a bowl in her hands. She froze when she saw you upright, like she wasn’t expecting it.
“Hey,” she said softly, stepping in. “You’re awake.”
You opened your mouth to speak but found no words.
She sat beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping with her weight. Her eyes scanned your face like she didn’t trust what she was seeing.
“You’ve been out for three days.”
Your breath caught. “Three?”
She nodded. “Lev stayed with Frances. I stayed here.” She handed you the bowl. It was broth. Warm, thick with carrots and pieces of pork. Your stomach groaned like it remembered what hunger was before you did.
You took it, hands trembling. “I don’t…”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to remember.”
But you did. Or you tried to. The edges were there—blurry, disjointed. Something about a hole. Something in the dirt. A book?
No. That couldn’t be right.
You stared down at the bowl.
Your voice was barely there. “Was I… sick?”
Abby paused. Then nodded slowly. “Yeah. You were.”
She didn’t elaborate.
And you didn’t ask.
Because the part of you that wanted answers was quieter now. Curled into some corner of your chest, too tired to scream.
You drank the broth in silence.

Chapter 114: Fix

Her arms locked beneath your legs and shoulders, steady despite your trembling weight. You didn’t fight. You didn’t have the strength. Your cheek pressed against her collarbone, and you could feel her heart hammering in her chest, wild and terrified.
The front door creaked open, then shut behind you.
Lev’s footsteps padded behind, lighter, more uncertain. Frances’ muffled crying still echoed somewhere deeper in the house, but it sounded far away now—like a memory.
Abby carried you upstairs, through the narrow hallway, into the bedroom.
She laid you down gently, pulled the blankets up, brushed the dirt off your arms and face with a damp towel. You couldn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t speak. Just watched the ceiling flicker in and out of focus.
Then she kissed your forehead.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
The door closed behind her, and for a while there was only the soft creak of the house, the buzz in your head, the pressure of tears caught behind your eyes.
Then—
Voices.
Faint, from down the hall. You turned your head, curling toward the sound, like it might warm you.
Abby’s voice, low, urgent.
“She pointed it at me, Lev. I—I know she didn’t mean to, but… if you hadn’t come out—”
Lev, quiet but steady.
“She’s sick. It’s not her fault.”
“I know that,” Abby hissed, her voice breaking. “God, I know. But we can’t keep pretending she’s okay. It’s getting worse. The hallucinations, the paranoia, the dissociation—”
A pause.
Lev again.
“You think it’s trauma?”
Abby’s voice came softer now.
“I think it’s everything. Frank. The barn. The cult. Maybe even before that. But I don’t think it’s gonna stop on its own.”
Another beat.
“I need to get her help,” Abby continued. “We need meds. Antipsychotics, sedatives—something. There's a clinic past the ridge, three days south. If it hasn’t been picked clean, there might be something left.”
Your throat tightened.
You knew they meant well. You knew they were scared.
But you hated hearing it—“sick,” “help,” “meds.”
Like you weren’t even here anymore.
But their voices blurred again, dipping below the waterline of your mind.
And soon you were sinking, finally, into sleep.
It was the first time in days you didn’t see shadows when you closed your eyes.
But why now?
Why was this happening now, when everything was supposed to be calm? When you were fed, sheltered, warm in a real bed with your daughter safe just down the hall? You’d survived starvation without breaking. You’d survived winter nights with frostbitten hands and a belly full of nothing but bone broth and rage. Even then, the worst you’d ever had were sick dreams. Dark, crawling nightmares that left you shaking, sure—but you always woke up.
This was different.
You huffed, frustrated with your own body, with your mind. With whatever this was, this crack in your skull that wouldn’t seal.
You shut your eyes.
Darkness swirled—no comfort there. Light pulsed behind your lids, blooming in strange colors like bruises. Purple, then red, then something too green to feel real. Your chest tightened.
“Joan…”
A voice. Was that—? No. Not Abby. Not Lev. It didn’t even sound like it came from the room.
Your breath hitched.
Another whisper, threading into your ear like a needle. Familiar and wrong at the same time. “They’re watching. You know that, right?”
You pressed your palms to your face, hard, trying to shove it all back inside. You weren’t sick. You weren’t. You were just tired. Maybe it was the pig, the blood, the stress, the way Frances cried that one night for five straight hours—
“You’re slipping,” the voice cooed.
You curled onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin like it could ward off ghosts. Your heart was thudding now, fast and uneven, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay or run.
“I’m fine,” you whispered to no one, to yourself, to the shadows behind your eyes.
But the whisper behind your ear chuckled low and cruel.
And didn’t leave.
You kept stirring even after Abby spoke. The rhythm soothed you. Left to right. Left to right. Your hand moved on its own. The steam curled up into your face and your mouth watered at the scent of onion, broth, the faint sweetness of carrot.
“She already came down,” you repeated, quieter now. “She was sitting right there. She was holding the deer.”
No one responded.
You blinked and turned your head slightly. Abby hadn’t moved. Lev stood just behind her, his arms crossed over his chest, brows knit together.
You frowned, your voice a little sharper now. “It’s not that weird. Maybe she had a bad dream. Maybe she couldn’t sleep.”
Abby didn’t answer.
Lev shifted.
You turned fully then, the spoon still clutched in your hand. “What?”
Abby stepped forward slowly, gently. “Joan,” she said carefully, “what… are you cooking?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The pot,” she said. “What’s in it?”
You furrowed your brow. “Stew. I chopped onions and carrots. You saw me. I’ve been standing here.”
Abby’s eyes softened with something you hated. Pity. That awful, sticky emotion you couldn’t scrub off. She stepped around you—slow, like you were a wounded animal—and peered into the pot.
Then she tilted it slightly for you to see.
It was empty.
Not just low. Not simmered down. Bone dry. Cold metal.
You stared at it. Your brain didn’t accept it at first.
“No,” you whispered. “No, I— I cut the carrots—”
“Joan,” Abby said gently.
“I stirred it, I swear to God,” you said, more frantic now. “I smelled it. It was cooking—”
“It’s cold.”
You stepped back from the stove like it had turned to fire.
“No,” you muttered, shaking your head. “That’s not— I don’t—”
Your hand twitched at your side, fingers tightening around the wooden spoon.
Lev took a slow step toward Abby, eyes flicking to her like what do we do?
You didn’t wait to hear them whisper. You stepped past both of them, walking stiffly toward the back door.
“I’ll go check on Frances,” you said, your voice too level, too calm now. “Maybe she’s in the barn.”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
Because you were suddenly sure: the shadows had done something to her.
She hadn’t vanished on her own.
You pushed open the back door and stormed into the pale morning light, your boots half-laced, your breath hot and uneven in your chest.
The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded and curling, shadows still stretching long from its open mouth. You walked faster. Then ran.
“Frances?” you called, yanking the door open so hard it slammed against the outer wall. “Frances, are you in here?”
Dust and straw greeted you. The heavy scent of hay and dried manure. Your breath echoed in the cavernous silence. The chickens stirred in their coop, restless.
You stepped inside, heart thrumming like prey. “Baby girl?” your voice broke into something trembling. “I know you’re hiding. You don’t have to be scared.”
You weaved between feed bags and the tool bench, eyes darting around corners. Your whole body buzzed. The shadows seemed thicker here. Hungrier. You paused near the stall where the pig had once lived and pressed your palm against the rough beam, grounding yourself.
Something whispered.
You turned too quickly and knocked over a rake. It clattered across the barn floor, metal teeth scraping, loud and violent.
Your breath hitched.
Behind you, the barn door creaked again.
You whirled. Abby stood there, framed in the morning sun, her hands raised slowly like you were some cornered animal.
“Joan,” she said gently, “she’s upstairs. With Lev. She’s safe.”
“No,” you snapped. “She was just down here. I heard her.”
“You didn’t.”
“I heard her!” you shouted, voice cracking. “She was crying, Abby! Someone took her! Someone—”
Abby stepped forward carefully, palms still out. “Joan… Lev took her upstairs. He locked the door. She’s okay. She’s not in danger.”
“No,” you whispered again, shaking your head. “No, you don’t know. You don’t hear what I hear. The thing—it knows.”
Abby’s throat bobbed with a swallow. Her voice was steady but tight. “Lev’s got the rifle. They’re safe up there. No one’s coming in.”
Your lip trembled. You backed up until your shoulder hit the wooden stall. “Why didn’t you wake me? I told you—I told you it was getting stronger.”
You blinked rapidly, the barn swimming.
“I need to find her,” you mumbled, pushing past her again toward the opposite wall. You tore open a feed sack, scattering grain like it might somehow uncover a hiding child. “She’s here. I swear—”
“Joan—stop.”
The voice was louder now. Sharper.
But you couldn’t stop. You were back in that basement again, where you had once found Daniel’s body, where you’d once left your mother swinging from a beam. Where everything went quiet except for the crawling things behind your eyes.
“I have to keep her safe,” you whispered. “I have to.”
You dropped to your knees in the hay, searching blindly. You didn’t see Abby’s shadow cross the barn until she was kneeling beside you again.
“Joan,” she said softly. “Look at me. Frances is upstairs. Lev locked the door. No one can hurt her.”
Your hands stilled. You breathed through your nose.
You couldn’t tell what was real anymore.
Abby knelt in front of you, her voice low, steady, like she was trying not to scare off a wounded animal.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You didn’t want to. Your eyes were blurry, your throat too tight. You could barely breathe.
“Joan,” she said again, softer now. “Can you take a breath for me? Just one. Just copy me.”
She inhaled, loud enough for you to hear. A slow breath. Held it. Then exhaled.
You didn’t move.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to do it perfectly,” she said, one hand hovering near your wrist but not touching. “Just try, alright?”
You nodded faintly. You tried to pull the air in. It caught halfway. Burned your throat. You choked on it.
“I can’t,” you croaked. “I—I can’t—”
“Yes you can. Try again. Just a little.”
You tried again.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Inhale—
And then it hit you like a wave cracking a wall.
You broke.
You started to sob, hard and sudden, your body folding in on itself like you were made of paper. You pressed your hands to your face, voice muffled and ragged.
“I c-couldn’t keep him safe—” you choked out. “I c-couldn’t save any of them.”
Abby didn’t say anything. She just moved closer, slowly, wrapping her arms around you from the side. You collapsed into her shoulder, shaking so violently it hurt.
“Frank… Cleo… Daniel… Terra… my mom—”
You were spiraling. The names poured out of you like blood. Like rot.
“I always say I’ll protect people. I always say I’ll fix it. But I can’t—I never do. I fuck everything up, Abby. I—I touch something and it dies—”
“No,” she whispered, her voice firm against your hair. “That’s not true.”
“I can’t keep her safe,” you sobbed, curling tighter against her chest. “Frances—I’m gonna lose her. I already lost myself. What if I lose her too? What if I snap again and—and she’s in the way—?”
Abby gripped you tighter.
“You didn’t hurt her. You didn’t. And you won’t.”
“I’m sick, Abby,” you cried, pulling back just enough to look at her with tear-rimmed eyes. “I see things. I hear them. I dug a fucking grave. I thought a book was screaming at me.”
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t let go.
“I know,” she said. “I know, Joan. And you’re still here. That counts. You’re still fighting.”
“I don’t want to be like this,” you whispered. “I just want to be okay.”
Abby nodded, brushing the sweat-matted hair from your forehead.
“We’re gonna figure it out,” she said. “Together. But right now, just breathe. That’s all you have to do.”
You clung to her. And for the first time in days, you felt your heartbeat slow, just a little.
Abby had to half-carry you back inside.
Your legs wouldn’t work right. Your head lolled against her shoulder as the last of your energy drained out like water from a cracked basin. By the time she laid you down, your eyes were already falling closed.
“I’m just going to get a blanket,” she whispered.
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Your body sank into the mattress like it was swallowing you whole. The room didn’t spin this time. No voices. No shadows in the corners.
Only the yawning dark of aftermath.
She tucked you in, brushing your sweat-damp hair back, her touch lingering a second longer than necessary. Her lips pressed gently to your temple.
“I’m here,” she said. “You’re okay.”
You didn’t hear her.
You were already gone — not in the screaming, frantic way you had been. This was different. A hollow sleep. Bone-deep. Quiet. Dangerous in its silence.
You didn’t wake up that night.
You didn’t wake the next morning.
Or the one after that.
Three Days Later — Morning
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
You didn’t remember anything at all.
Just the thick weight in your limbs. The cotton in your mouth. The way your skin didn’t feel like it belonged to you — like you were wearing someone else’s body, borrowed and worn thin.
Your eyes cracked open to a dull gray ceiling. Light filtered in through the curtains, pale and too bright, and you blinked slowly, trying to remember where you were.
Voices. Below you.
“…they used to run supply from there before the highway collapsed,” Abby said. “I remember seeing it on the old maps. South — near the quarry.”
A pause. Boots across the floor.
“If it’s still standing,” Lev replied, “I’ll find it.”
“You’ll have to take your horse. It’s too far to walk, and I don’t want you out there overnight. You hear me?”
“You think I don’t know how to camp?” Lev's voice carried a quiet tease.
You shifted slightly, your head heavy. The blanket felt too warm. Your mouth was dry.
Abandoned clinic?
They were talking low, trying not to wake you. That much was clear. But the way they spoke — tense and tired, words brittle like twigs — you knew it was about you.
Your heart thudded once, slowly. Then again.
Lev was leaving.
You wanted to call out, ask where, why, anything — but your throat only made a dry rasp. The kind of sound animals make when they’re dying. You shut your eyes again, shame prickling under your skin like heat.
“…be careful,” Abby said downstairs. “Please.”
“I will,” Lev promised. “Just… keep her safe.”
Safe.
Like you were something fragile. Like you were a thing that could be protected.
You turned your face into the pillow.
And let them think you were still asleep.
But then the door creaked open.
You kept your eyes shut, breath shallow beneath the covers. You heard the soft pad of Abby’s footsteps cross the floor, heard the sigh she let out as she knelt beside the bed. A moment later, the mattress dipped with her weight. She slid in behind you, her arms wrapping gently around your middle, pulling you back into the warmth of her chest.
You didn’t resist.
Her lips pressed against the nape of your neck first, then your cheekbone, then your temple. Slow, reverent, like you were something sacred. You could feel her breath in your hair.
“My Joan,” she murmured — Her voice was low, hushed like a secret. “I love you... We’re gonna fix you. Okay? We’re gonna fix this.”
Fix.
The word stuck to the inside of your skull like a bur, scratching around as if looking for a place to nest. What did that mean — to be fixed? Were you broken? Were you a machine with loose wires, a radio tuned to the wrong frequency?
You didn’t want to think about it.
So you stirred, pretending you’d just woken, and blinked up at her.
She smiled softly, like she hadn’t been crying earlier. Like her face hadn’t been pale with fear when you were screaming at shadows with a shotgun in your hands. She kissed you again — slower this time, less frantic. You leaned in.
And for a second, the tension in your chest… dissolved.
Just a second.
You kissed her back, letting your mouth mold to hers, desperate to lose yourself in it. In her. If you could just crawl inside Abby, maybe your thoughts would quiet down. Maybe the buzzing would stop. Maybe the static would clear. Maybe if you fucked her, it would knock something loose in your head and set everything back where it belonged.
You whimpered softly into her mouth, fingers trailing down to the hem of her shirt, slipping under, seeking the skin of her waist.
But her hand caught yours — firm, steady.
She pulled it away and pressed her forehead to yours, breath tickling your lips. “Not right now,” she whispered. Her voice was gentle, but unshakable.
You swallowed, throat tight.
Not right now.
You nodded faintly, even though it made your stomach twist. Even though the buzzing in your ears returned.
You curled tighter into her, letting her heartbeat lull you, trying to believe in the softness of her voice, in the promise she hadn’t said out loud:
That she wasn’t going anywhere.
That you weren’t going anywhere.
That “fixing” didn’t mean being replaced.
You closed your eyes and breathed her in.
But the word still echoed in your skull:
Fix.

You cleared your throat, but it came out rough — like gravel dragged across torn skin. It hurt to speak. No surprise. Not after the screaming. Not after the nights you spent twisted in fevered sheets, eyes wide but seeing nothing. Not after waking up in a cold sweat with your mouth open and no sound coming out.
Your voice cracked anyway.
“I miss you.”
Abby stilled beside you. Her hand had been resting lightly against your arm, but now her fingers tensed just slightly — like maybe she was afraid of where this was going.
She turned her face toward yours, brow furrowed. “I’m right here.”
You looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the face didn’t feel real. Like a painting you’d stared at too long. Familiar, but distant. Wrong in a way you couldn’t explain. You blinked hard, willing the haze to clear.
You swallowed, the ache stretching all the way down.
“I feel so alone.”
It came out like a confession.
Abby didn’t respond at first. Her eyes searched yours, trying to find whatever piece had gone missing. Her mouth opened, then closed again. You could see it — the helplessness. The fear. The way she wanted to fix it, fix you, but didn’t know how. Not this time.
She reached up slowly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.
“I know,” she whispered finally, and her voice broke on it. “I know you do.”
You stared past her, over her shoulder, toward the far wall.
There was nothing there — not this time. But the shadows still pressed in at the corners of your vision. Not screaming anymore. Just watching. Waiting.
And still… you missed her.
Even with her body flush against yours, her arms around you, her breath warm on your cheek — you missed her.
You missed yourself too.
You spoke again, softer this time, barely above a whisper. “Before this started… I saw Frank.”
Abby turned her head slightly, listening. You kept your gaze fixed on the ceiling.
“When I looked at the dead chicken,” you murmured. “It was just for a second. But I saw him.”
She swallowed hard beside you. “What else?”
You hesitated, your throat tightening. It was hard to talk about him. Frank had become a locked box in your mind — one you tried not to open unless you wanted the flood. But you owed her the truth. If not for you, then for the people who still had to live with you.
“I try not to think about him,” you said finally, your voice uneven. “I figured if I didn’t… then he’d stay gone.”
Abby exhaled slowly. “I was like that with my dad,” she said, her voice low, like she wasn’t even sure she wanted to admit it. “Pushed it down so far I thought I could bury it.”
You turned your head and looked at her. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling too.
You spoke again, slower now. “But every time I get a hallucination… he’s there.”
She looked at you then. Her expression wasn’t pity — not quite — but something heavier. A kind of sorrow only survivors shared. She leaned in and kissed your cheek gently, lingering there for a breath.
“Then stop pressing it down,” she said softly. “It’s making it worse.”
You blinked at her. “You think it’s that simple?”
“No,” she said, brushing your hair back, “but I think it’s honest.”
She hesitated, then added, “What about before this? Before the barn, the dirt, the book… was it like this?”
You closed your eyes, searching. It was like fishing in a storm. Hard to tell what memory was real, what was bent by time or trauma.
“I only saw things like this in my dreams,” you said, voice flat. “Or when I was really sick. Fevered. Starving.”
You opened your eyes again. The room was quiet. Abby’s face was lined with worry.
“Frank always shows up first,” you added.
There it was.
The truth of it.
The ghost who always knocked before the storm came in.
Abby laced her fingers with yours. “Then maybe… we don’t let him keep doing that.”
You didn’t answer. You just stared into the dark above the bed, waiting to see if Frank would show up again.

Chapter 115: Shadows and Silence

You woke in the late afternoon, your body leaden, as if sleep had sunk too deep into your bones. It was strange — for weeks now, you’d been waking before dawn, restless, tense, unable to stay still. But now, you stirred like something thawing too slowly. Your eyes ached. The lids felt puffy and dry.
Had you been crying?
You weren’t sure. You sat up slowly, your joints creaking with the stiffness of oversleep. The air was warm and quiet, dust drifting lazily through the golden light coming in from the window. You glanced toward the corner of the room, half-expecting to see shadows waiting for you — but it was just the chair, and a folded quilt.
Barefoot, still in your pajamas, you padded softly down the stairs, one hand trailing the banister like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. The wood felt cool under your feet. Familiar. Safe. At least for now.
You stopped at the landing and sat on the bottom step, knees tucked to your chest. You stayed in the shadows, half-hidden, watching the morning you’d missed unfold without you.
Abby was at the table with Frances.
The smell of eggs lingered in the air, faint and comforting, but your stomach didn’t stir.
“Momma… blue!” Frances squealed proudly, holding up a plastic stacking cup. Her hair was messy, her cheeks round and flushed with joy. She looked so bright.
Abby chuckled softly and leaned in with a piece of toast still in her hand. “What else is blue?” she asked, her voice gentle, syrup-slow.
Frances tilted her head, thinking hard, her tiny brow furrowing in concentration. “The sky,” she finally declared.
Abby grinned, brushing a crumb from Frances’ chin. “Sometimes.”
Frances giggled, swaying a little in her seat. “I like blue. Momma eye blue,” she said proudly, reaching to poke at Abby’s face.
Abby smiled, that small, rare kind of smile she only gave to Frances. “Your eyes are blue too, sweetpea.”
Frances beamed, wiggling in her chair with joy. The kind of happiness that could only belong to children — unburdened, unscarred, untouched by ghosts.
You watched in silence.
Part of you wanted to join them.
The other part felt like you were watching something through a pane of glass. Like you weren’t quite in your own body, just hovering near it, watching the life you should be living play out in front of you like a memory someone else owned.
You didn’t speak.
You just stayed there on the stairs, eyes stinging again for no reason you could name, listening to the sound of breakfast plates and baby laughter filling the house like nothing had ever gone wrong.
You stay seated.
The wood beneath you is cool. Your legs have started to fall asleep, but you don’t shift. You’re afraid that if you move, you’ll break the spell — that somehow this tiny, sacred moment downstairs might vanish, like dust disturbed by breath.
Frances is now standing on the bench, her small hands resting on Abby’s shoulders as she peers over the table. “Can I crack the egg?”
Abby cranes her neck to look up at her. “Are you gonna get shells in it again?”
Frances nods with the seriousness of a surgeon. “No shells. Promise.”
Abby gives her a mock-suspicious squint, then relents with a smile that could melt steel. “Alright, Chef Frances. Let’s do it.”
She lifts her down carefully, steadying her with both hands as Frances clambers onto the floor. You watch how Abby moves — patient, practiced. She kneels to Frances’s level, holding out a small bowl and an egg like they’re offering something ancient and holy.
Frances smacks it a little too hard against the rim. A splatter of yolk shoots sideways, and Abby laughs — not the bark of the soldier you remember, but something rich and light.
“Okay! Almost!” she says gently, already wiping up the mess.
Frances frowns, disappointed in herself.
But Abby just leans close. “Hey. You did great.”
She lifts the bowl, showing Frances the egg inside. “See? No shell. Told you you were getting better.”
Frances beams.
You press your hand to your sternum.
You remember when that smile was only yours.
And now she gives it to someone else — someone smaller, someone who hasn’t broken the world with her bare hands.
You blink slowly, watching Abby tuck a stray curl behind Frances’s ear. “You wanna help me knead the dough, or should I make it boring?”
“I do it!” Frances squeals, flapping her arms again.
Abby rises, rolling her shoulders, stretching her back with a soft grunt. “Alright, then come on. We’ll knead it into a heart, remember?”
Frances grabs her hand.
Small fingers inside calloused ones.
And together, they move toward the counter, Abby guiding her every step like she was born for it.
You’re struck by the same thing that always stuns you when you see them together:
Abby doesn’t just care for her.
She knows her.
Knows how to make her giggle. Knows how to calm her when she’s frustrated. Knows which foods she’ll actually eat and which ones she’ll just mash with a spoon. Knows the names she’s given every chipped toy and the stories behind them.
She didn’t carry Frances in her womb.
But she carries her now.
In the way her body moves. In the way her eyes soften. In the way her entire being seems to orbit this little girl’s world like she’s gravity itself.
And god help you—
You don’t know if it makes your heart swell or shatter.
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears cool on your cheeks.
Your mind slips.
Not like a fall—more like a slow unhooking. A stitch being pulled loose.
Maybe… I should go away.
The words form quietly, like they don’t want to alert the rest of you. Like they’re trying to sneak past the part of you still trying to hold on.
You stare blankly at the living room—at the soft curls of steam rising from Abby’s coffee mug, at the way Frances hums while she plays with her blocks on the rug.
The world feels thin. Like if you pressed your hand through the air, it might tear.
You swallow hard.
The rifle’s upstairs.
The thought doesn't scare you like it should. It just… exists. Like a fact. Like gravity.
You breathe in, shallow and dry, your chest barely moving. You press your fingers to your lips, like that might keep the thought inside, keep it from growing teeth.
Abby is such a good mom.
You watch her crouch beside Frances, helping her build a lopsided tower of cups. Her voice is warm, her hands steady. She laughs when Frances knocks the tower over with a proud squeal, and the sound is so soft, so familiar it almost makes you ache.
You blink once. Twice.
You’re not in the room with them. Not really. You’re floating just behind yourself. Watching. Distant.
All I do is fuck everything up.
You think about the barn. About the shotgun. About the time Abby had to pry it from your hands.
You think about the dirt under your fingernails and the smell of rot and the maggots that weren’t there.
You think about the look in Lev’s eyes when he came down the stairs and saw you pointing the barrel at Abby.
You weren’t trying to hurt her. But your brain said otherwise.
You shift on the stairs, your hands curling around the edge of the step. You don’t even realize you’re rocking slightly until the creak of the wood breaks your trance.
You feel like a fracture line no one knows how to seal.
You wonder what would happen if you just... left. If you blew your brains out. Would they be better off? Would Abby finally breathe easy? Would Frances grow up without the weight of your brokenness shadowing her every step?
You bite your lip so hard it stings.
Maybe it’s just the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s something deeper, something crawling up from under your ribs, whispering that you don’t belong here.
Not with them.
Not anymore.
You close your eyes, trying to steady your breath. One. Two. Three.
But it doesn’t steady.
Your thoughts still race. Still spiral.
You don’t notice the figure moving toward you until there’s a soft weight beside you on the stairs.
Abby.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits. Breathing quiet. Letting the silence settle.
Then, her hand brushes yours. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just… there.
You flinch—but don’t pull away.
“I made you oatmeal,” she says gently. “With the cinnamon you like.”
You nod, your throat tight. The words you want to say clog behind your teeth.
Help me. I'm slipping again.
But all that escapes is a whisper.
“Thank you.”
She squeezes your hand. “You don't have to fix everything today.”
You nod again, but the thought still loops.
Maybe I should go away.
She squeezes your hand tighter, like she heard it anyway.
And you sit like that—half here, half not—listening to Frances giggle in the next room.
Trying to hold on.
Just a little longer.
You looked at her then, and it came tumbling out—quiet, raw, like something tearing from the center of your chest.
“What if I died?”
Abby froze. Her spoon hung in midair, dripping oatmeal back into the bowl. Frances was still playing, humming quietly to herself, oblivious. Abby’s eyes slowly lifted to meet yours, and for a moment you thought maybe she hadn’t heard you.
But she had.
“Joan,” she said, her voice low—like a warning, like a prayer.
You stared at the floor. “I’m just… I’ve been thinking. I can’t keep doing this. I keep messing everything up. You’re a good mom, Abby. Frances doesn’t need someone like me around.”
Abby pushed her chair back, scraping the floor. Frances flinched, but didn’t stop humming. Abby stood and crossed to you in two strides. You barely had time to brace before her hands were cupping your face, not rough—but firm. Grounding.
“Don’t you ever say that to me again,” she said, voice shaking now. “You think I’d be standing here if I didn’t need you? You think Frances wouldn’t notice? You think—” Her voice cracked.
Your chest squeezed tight.
“I… I just don’t feel real anymore,” you whispered.
Abby rested her forehead against yours. “I know. But you are. You’re here. With us. You don’t have to be perfect, Joan. You just have to stay.”
You tried to speak, but your throat burned. Instead, you just leaned into her, pressing your face to her shoulder, shaking.
Frances giggled in the background, blue toy still clutched in her hand. The world spun quietly on—but Abby stayed still. Holding you like she meant it.
Like she wasn’t letting go.
Then Frances spoke up, her voice high and delighted. “Mommy!”
You barely had time to turn before she barreled into you, small arms flung around your legs. You crouched to the floor and wrapped her in your arms.
“Hi, baby,” you whispered, burying your nose in her hair.
She bounced on her toes, then spun dramatically and pointed toward the stove. “Momma and I… we made bread!”
She lifted her little hands into the air, triumphant, then shaped them into a crooked heart. “Heart bread.”
Your lips pulled into a soft smile. “Was it fun?”
She nodded so hard her curls bounced. “So fun!”
You stroked a hand over her head, feeling the warm slip of her lemon-scented hair under your fingers—Abby’s soap. You kissed her scalp and closed your eyes for a breath, trying to memorize it. That exact scent. That exact weight of her.
You pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “Should we take a bath? Get ready for the day?”
She squealed in agreement, arms shooting up so you’d lift her.
You carried her upstairs, her cheek resting on your shoulder. Her body was warm, her trust absolute. It always stunned you, how safe she felt in your arms when your own skin didn’t feel like home.
Sometimes, you bathed with her—just to hold her. Just to remind yourself she was real. That you were real. You used to do it when she was a newborn, when she cried endlessly and the only thing that soothed her was your heartbeat. Abby did it too, though she preferred showers. It was easier, more efficient. And these days, saving water mattered.
You ran the bath just warm enough for both of you. The tub groaned faintly as it filled. You undressed slowly—first yourself, then her, folding her clothes neatly on the counter.
She giggled as you helped her step into the water, then leaned back against your chest, her small frame melting into yours.
“Splishy-splash,” she sang, smacking the water gently with her palms.
You held her close, one arm across her belly, the other brushing suds from her shoulders. She smelled like soap and skin and safety. Her chatter filled the air—about the bread, and a bug she saw outside, and how she thought the moon looked sad last night.
You tilted your head back against the rim of the tub, eyes tracing the water-stained ceiling. The steam curled around both of you, and for a moment, everything was still. Your arms were sore from holding her, but you didn’t let go.
You just breathed.
And let her voice echo off the walls like a lullaby.
When you opened your eyes, a shadow was standing at the foot of the tub.
You froze. Your breath caught in your throat like a stone, and your heart lurched so violently you thought it might stop entirely. The shape didn’t move—it just stood there, tall, still, watching.
You sat up so fast that water sloshed out over the edge, splattering loudly onto the tile.
Frances blinked, startled by the sudden movement. Her brows knit together as she turned to look at you, soap still clinging to her tiny fingers.
“Careful, Mommy,” she said, scolding you gently, like you were the toddler.
You forced a shaky laugh, but it came out wrong—thin and high and breathless. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You glanced back toward the foot of the tub.
Nothing.
Just the steam curling in the air. Just the bath mat. Just the hallway beyond.
But your chest still felt tight, ribs clenched like a fist. Frances was watching you now, confused, her eyes wide with something too close to fear.
So you smiled—tight and forced, your lips trembling as you tried to make it convincing. “It’s okay, baby,” you whispered.
But you didn’t believe it.
And something deep in you, something ancient and panicked, made your throat tighten and the word tear from your lips before you could stop it.
“Abigail!”
Your voice cracked as you shouted it. Not Abby—Abigail. You never called her that.
You didn’t know why you did now.
Her footsteps pounded up the stairs so fast it startled Frances. You heard the door swing open hard enough to bounce off the wall.
“What?!” Abby’s voice was sharp, breathless. She scanned the room instantly, searching for danger.
You couldn’t speak right away. You just shook your head and covered your mouth, water still dripping from your arms.
Your voice was barely there. “Take her.”
Abby didn’t ask questions. She just nodded, stepping forward without hesitation. She scooped Frances up from the water and wrapped her in a towel, holding her close as Frances blinked in confusion.
“mommy?” Frances asked softly, peeking over Abby’s shoulder as she was carried out.
Abby didn’t answer.
You sank deeper into the cooling bathwater, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, jaw locked against the tremble in your throat. The shadow still lingered behind your eyes—etched into your vision like a burn mark. It wasn’t there anymore. But it had been. You knew it had been.
The silence pressed in heavy.
Your fingers loosened from your arms and drifted across the water’s surface. Then, slowly, you let yourself slide beneath.
The sound of the world dulled instantly. All the noise, all the static, all the whispers—you traded them for the hush of water cradling your ears.
Just for a moment.
You held yourself there, hands gripping the porcelain sides of the tub. You stayed until your lungs screamed. Until the ache in your chest made your vision pulse with white. Until the water felt too still, too cold, too quiet.
Your body panicked before your mind did.
You broke the surface with a gasp that tore from your lungs like it had claws. You coughed and sputtered, water dribbling down your chin as you fought to breathe.
You couldn’t do it.
You couldn’t even do that.
The sob came before you realized it—sharp and jagged in your throat. Then another. And another. You folded in on yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, trembling as the tears shook you.
You were alone. Cold. Small. The bathroom filled with the sounds of your sobbing—hoarse and raw, echoing against tile and porcelain. The bathwater sloshed gently around you, a ghost of warmth left in it, but not enough to soothe.
You thought of Frances.
You thought of Abby’s arms around her, the way she kissed her temple and called her baby bird, the way Frances beamed at her like sunlight itself.
You thought of how quiet Abby had been lately. How often she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to speak or hold you or hide the knives.
You pressed your face to your knees and sobbed harder.
Outside the door, you could hear soft footsteps—someone pacing just beyond, not knocking, not calling, just waiting.
The door creaked open.
Abby stepped inside, her face tight with worry, her eyes scanning you in the tub—shivering, soaked hair clinging to your cheeks, your arms curled protectively around your knees like a child who’d forgotten how to be held.
She didn’t say anything at first.
Just crossed the bathroom in three quiet steps, grabbed a towel from the hook, and knelt beside you. Her hands were steady as she reached into the water, pulled the plug with a soft gurgle, and then helped you stand.
The air hit your skin like a slap—cold, sharp, real.
You swayed on your feet, weak and boneless. Abby caught you gently and wrapped the towel around your shoulders. Her arms lingered a second too long, anchoring you. You could feel her breath against your wet hair.
“I’m proud of you,” she said softly, voice thick with emotion. “You did the right thing.”
You couldn’t look at her.
Your throat burned as you swallowed, shame twisting in your gut like barbed wire. You felt pathetic. Disgusting. Like you’d failed in every possible way. A sob threatened to rise again, but you clenched your jaw.
All you wanted was to hold your daughter. Crawl into bed with her and let her tiny arms wrap around your neck. You wanted to feel her warmth against your chest, hear her babble about colors or dreams or her imaginary friends. You wanted to press your lips to her lemon-scented hair and disappear there, safe.
But your mind would never let you rest.
It clawed at every quiet moment, every second of peace, twisting it into fear. You didn’t feel like a mother. You felt like a bomb with a shaking fuse. And you were terrified Frances would be the one standing too close when you finally went off.
The pit in your stomach swelled until you thought it might hollow you out completely.
You stared at the tiled floor, water dripping from your knees, heart pounding somewhere low and deep in your chest. Abby’s hands came up to cradle your face, warm and calloused, gentle in a way that made you want to cry all over again.
She kissed your forehead, then your cheek. Her lips were dry, but soft. Familiar.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered, “but it’s going to get better.”
You didn’t answer.
But when she pulled you into a hug, you let yourself lean in.
Just a little.
You got dressed slowly, fingers fumbling at the seams of fabric that felt both too soft and too sharp. Abby was in the other room with Frances, their quiet voices filtering through the floor like distant windchimes. You couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was gentle. Light.
You pulled on a plain T-shirt, then a pair of jeans that hung loose around your hips now. You hadn’t noticed how much weight you’d lost until this moment—how everything sagged or slipped just a little too much. You didn’t care. The tightness in your skin was gone, but it had been replaced by a hollow, shaky kind of cold that seemed to come from the inside.
There was a knit sweater hanging in the back of the closet. Must’ve belonged to someone who used to live here—before everything fell apart. It was a thick, moth-bitten thing, pale gray with stretched cuffs and uneven stitching. You slipped it on without thinking. The wool scratched at your neck, but it helped. A little.
You rubbed your hand hard over your face, trying to wipe the shadows away from behind your eyes. But they clung there—burned into the soft underside of your lids like ash. Every time you blinked, you swore you saw movement. A flicker in the corners. Something watching.
Then came the whispers.
Faint. At first. Just brushing the back of your mind.
You froze, breath caught in your throat. You knew Lev wasn’t home. And Abby was still upstairs with Frances.
So who was whispering?
You clutched the edge of the dresser for balance, your nails digging into the woodgrain. It’s real. It’s not real. The mantras had started to blur. You weren’t sure which side you believed anymore.
After a long, ragged breath, you opened the bedroom door and made your way downstairs.
The air smelled like dust and woodsmoke. Morning light filtered through the windows in weak yellow shafts. The oatmeal Abby had made for you still sat on the kitchen table, steam long gone cold. You stepped up to it cautiously, heart already hammering.
You tilted the bowl to stir it.
A writhing mass of maggots stared back at you, swimming in mold-black sludge.
Your stomach lurched.
You jerked your head away, eyes squeezing shut. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t. It was your mind.
But when you looked again, the rot was still there.
You didn’t scream. You just quietly picked up the bowl, carried it to the sink, and dumped it out. You rinsed it clean, hands shaking under the water, and left it upside down to dry. As if it had never happened.
Shoes by the door. You slipped them on.
Outside, the cold hit you sharp and bracing, a slap to the face you didn’t know you needed. Frances was running in slow circles through the yard in a wool sweater and a too-big scarf, chasing after the chickens. Her laughter rang bright and clear, unbothered by your silence.
Abby was crouched near the barn, tending to the horse’s hooves with careful, practiced movements. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, thick arms braced against the animal’s flank. Her braid had come undone—her hair wild and curled from the damp, falling around her face like something untamed.
She looked beautiful like this. Rugged. Capable. Grounded.
And you needed her. Needed her body, her presence, her strength—something real to grab onto before your mind turned everything else to smoke.
You walked up behind her and wrapped your arms around her middle. She didn’t flinch. Just leaned back into you and let out a soft hum, the two of you swaying gently in the straw-scented air.
You pressed your face to her back, breathing her in. Earth and salt and something faintly floral—her soap, maybe. Your chest ached with the weight of how much you wanted to stay here, to never let go.
Abby spoke, her voice low and warm. “You eat the oatmeal?”
Your heart stumbled.
You had to lie.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thank you.”
She nodded, unfazed, and gently stepped away to finish her work. You let your hands fall back to your sides.
Then Frances came bounding toward you, her arms outstretched. “Mommy!” she squealed, cheeks flushed and hair wind-blown.
You crouched just in time to catch her.
She barreled into you like a little whirlwind, all clumsy limbs and bubbling laughter. Her sweater was warm from the sun, her scarf lopsided, and her tiny hands curled into the fabric of your sweater like she was trying to melt into you.
“Got you!” she giggled, face pressed against your chest.
You sank to your knees, holding her close, burying your nose in her hair. She still smelled like lemon soap and dry leaves. You shut your eyes and clung tighter, like if you squeezed hard enough, you could force your soul back into your body. Anchor yourself to something real.
“Hey, sweetheart,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “You having fun?”
She pulled back just enough to look up at you, her eyes bright with excitement. “Momma let me feed the chickens!” she said proudly. “They eat bugs. That’s gross.”
You smiled despite yourself, even as your throat burned. “Yeah… that is gross.”
She giggled again, wriggling in your arms until she was sitting in your lap. Her fingers played absently with the ends of your hair. “Can we have soup for dinner?”
You nodded. “Sure. Soup sounds good.”
Across the yard, Abby straightened from her work and wiped her hands on her jeans. She was watching you now, but not in that tight, worried way she had been lately. This look was softer. A little sad. But full of something like… faith.
You met her gaze.
For a moment, no words were needed.
Her eyes said: You’re here. You’re trying.
And yours—tired and watery and raw—tried to say: I’m still fighting.
Frances leaned back against your chest again, letting out a dramatic sigh. “I’m tired now,” she mumbled. “Can you carry me inside?”
You blinked. She’d said can you. Not can Momma.
Something in your heart squeezed.
You nodded and kissed the top of her head. “Yeah, baby. I can do that.”
You stood slowly, your knees shaky, arms full of a little girl who trusted you even when you couldn’t trust yourself. Abby met you halfway across the yard, brushing a hand down your arm as you passed her.
“You’re doing good,” she said softly, under her breath. “Really.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
Because for just a second, it felt true.
When you stepped inside, the warmth of the house hit your skin like a sigh. You looked up at the old wall clock above the kitchen—its hands jittered just past eleven.
Frances’ nap wasn’t usually until two, but if her little body was already drooping like that… what was the point of waiting? You didn’t have it in you to fight the tide today.
You were tired too—bone-deep, mind-spun tired. You’d spent so many hours upstairs locked in that bedroom, waging silent wars against shadows only you could see. Whispered voices, flickering shapes. The cold press of dread. Some days, it felt like you lived between the walls of your own skull.
But now you had her. Soft and warm against your chest.
You carried Frances up the stairs, her small body slack with trust, thumb tucked lazily into her mouth. Her head lolled on your shoulder, her curls brushing your neck, and your hand splayed protectively across her back. You began to hum—almost by instinct—just a few notes of something half-remembered, something your mother used to hum when you were small and sick and afraid.
She shifted once in your arms but didn’t protest. Her breathing slowed.
You sat down carefully in the old rocking chair tucked in the corner of her room, and she settled into you like a puzzle piece, like she’d always been part of you. You rested your cheek against her crown and kept humming—low, steady, soft.
The whispers didn’t come.
The shadow didn’t stir.
Only her breath. Only your voice. Only the creak of the floorboards downstairs as the house settled into its bones.
You could smell her hair—lemon soap and dried grass from the yard. Her tiny fingers curled into the hem of your sweater, her weight comforting on your chest. You stayed like that for a long while, rocking slow and easy, letting the breeze from the cracked window cool your flushed skin.
Peace. Real, fragile, blessed peace.
Eventually, her body went completely limp, a small snore catching in her nose. You stood slowly, gently, like the floor might collapse beneath you if you moved too fast.
You laid her down in bed and tugged off her scarf and coat, fingers careful not to disturb her sleep. The blanket—thick and woolen—came up to her chin. She didn’t stir when you tucked it under her arms. You closed the window just enough to stop the draft, then leaned down and kissed her forehead.
Her skin was warm. Her breathing steady.
You lingered for a moment, just watching her. Proof that you could still be good. That you hadn’t ruined everything.
Then you turned, quiet as you could, and padded back down the stairs.
Your chest was tight—not in panic this time, but with something close to relief.
You had done it. You had protected her. You’d made it through the morning. You’d given her rest.
And for the first time in a long time…
You weren’t afraid of the silence.

Chapter 116: Hay in the worst places

You padded down the stairs, the wooden boards cool beneath your socks, and stepped out into the crisp late morning air. The sun was higher now, casting long, golden shadows across the yard. You spotted Abby in the barn through the wide, open doors—sleeves rolled up, hair loose around her shoulders, sweeping hay into neat piles with rhythmic ease.
You walked up quietly, leaning against the barn doorframe for a moment just to watch her. The sight of her—flannel rolled to her elbows, jeans snug on her hips, boots dusted in straw—sent a flicker of heat down your spine.
“She’s asleep,” you said softly.
Abby looked over her shoulder, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Kinda early for that, isn’t it?”
You shrugged and stepped closer. “I think the bath wore her out. Usually we do it at night. She just melted into me.”
Abby made a soft sound and clicked her tongue thoughtfully, sweeping another pile of hay. “That’s cute… that you still do that with her.”
You felt your face flush. Heat rose up your neck. God. Why were you blushing?
You’d been with Abby for five years now—shared a home, a child, a history full of blood and tenderness—and still, sometimes, she made you feel like a teenager on her first date. Like your knees might buckle under one glance.
You shifted, leaning against an old wooden crate near her. “A lot of chores today?”
Abby stopped sweeping and straightened, turning to face you fully. Her eyes raked over you—not harsh, not suspicious, just… reading you. Assessing. Searching for the shadow in your expression. “Yeah,” she said finally. “You know Lev’s still out. Looking for antibiotics. I’m trying to stay ahead of things.”
You nodded slowly. “Right.”
A beat passed.
Then she narrowed her eyes slightly. “Are you blushing?”
You coughed on nothing, eyes wide. “No.”
Her grin spread slowly as she stepped toward you, the hay crunching under her boots. She dropped the broom and reached out, her hands settling on your hips like they were always meant to be there. Her touch was warm and grounding.
“Feeling better?” she asked, voice low.
You took a shaky breath. “For now.”
Her lips brushed your neck, slow and careful, and she hummed into your skin. “I missed you.”
You let out a soft, breathy chuckle. She smelled like hay and lemon soap, and something earthy beneath it—sweat, maybe, or salt. Something real. You’d always loved her like this—raw, grounded, working with her hands, muscles moving under thick denim. She didn’t know what she did to you.
“I can tell,” you whispered, heart thudding. “Frances is asleep… we have time.”
Abby’s eyes flicked up to meet yours. She didn’t move, not yet. “You sure?” she asked, her voice gentler now, serious.
You didn’t answer with words. You kissed her.
The moment your mouths met, you felt her inhale sharply, like she’d been holding her breath for days. She melted into you—hungry, hot, trembling. That moan you knew so well slipped from her lips as her hands tightened around your waist. She had missed you. Not just physically, but your presence. Your body. Your voice.
She lifted you easily—God, always so strong—and sat you down on the old crate, her lips never leaving your skin. She kissed your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, leaving small bites in her wake like she needed to stake her claim. Her breath was ragged against your skin.
You gripped the edges of her flannel, pulling her closer, losing yourself in her mouth, her warmth, the way her hands shook when they touched you like this.
It wasn’t just sex. Not anymore.
It was how you both said I’m still here.
How you said Don’t let go.
How you reminded each other that this—despite the scars, the nightmares, the whispered voices—was still yours.
And you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

She fumbled with your jeans, her breath hot against your stomach, and you lifted your hips instinctively to help her. In one smooth motion, Abby slid them down your legs and tossed them aside. The air was cold against your thighs, your underwear thin, already damp with need. You clamped your legs together for a moment, reflexively shy despite everything.
Abby placed her hands gently on your knees. Her voice was husky, almost pleading. “Open.”
You obeyed, slowly parting your thighs for her. She knelt between them with reverence, her gaze flickering over you like you were something sacred and dangerous all at once. Her fingers hooked into your underwear and tugged it aside.
Then her mouth found you.
Heat seared up your spine. Her tongue swept over you with slow, aching precision, her moan vibrating against your skin as her eyes fluttered shut. The sight alone made your stomach twist—it was filthy and beautiful and filled with need.
She held your hips in place, fingers pressing bruises into your skin, anchoring you to her mouth. Her back arched as she worked you, every lick desperate and greedy like she hadn’t tasted you in weeks. Her sounds were half-worship, half-starvation.
“Abby—” you gasped, voice cracking.
She didn’t stop.
A finger slid inside you, and you cried out at the sudden stretch. Her mouth and hand moved in tandem, curling, flicking, coaxing you open like she knew every hidden part of you. Like you were made for her.
Then she pulled back just long enough to breathe, her lips swollen, chin slick. “You taste so good,” she whispered, her voice low and aching, and then she dove back in with even more hunger.
Your hips rolled to meet her, your hand tangling in her hair, tugging. The rhythm built sharp and steady, your thighs trembling against her shoulders. Every breath came faster.
And then—
You shattered.
Your body curled in on itself, a soft sound escaping your throat as the wave crested and crashed through you. Your vision blurred. Her name was the only thing on your lips. Your hands clutched her hair as you rode it out, every muscle trembling, every part of you drawn tight around her.
Abby didn’t stop until you whimpered from the sensitivity. Even then, she pressed a final kiss against you, slow and soft.
She looked up at you, pupils blown wide, face flushed and glowing. Her voice was hoarse. “I missed this… missed you.”
You could barely speak, your chest heaving, but you reached for her anyway.
“Come here,” you whispered.
And she did.
Climbed up and over you, kissed your lips like she didn’t care what she tasted, wrapped herself around you on that old wooden crate in the barn while the world stayed quiet outside.
Her tongue swirled deep in your mouth, slow at first, then hungrier—until she broke the kiss with a low growl and scooped you up in one strong motion. Before you could catch your breath, she laid you down on the barn floor, not rough enough to hurt, just enough to make your heart lurch. Straw crackled beneath your back, your skin already dotted with bits of hay.
Your gasp turned into a breathless laugh—half nerves, half excitement.
Above you, Abby stood tall, her flannel sleeves rolled to her elbows, her belt already halfway undone. Her cheeks were flushed, her jaw set. There was a wildness to her, a kind of heat that made your stomach coil. Her chest rose and fell as she yanked her thick jeans down her thighs. You couldn’t look away.
God, you really loved cowboy Abby.
You slipped your underwear off with shaking fingers while she pulled your shirt up, exposing your stomach and chest. Her calloused hand skimmed over your skin, reverent and hungry all at once.
Then she straddled you—nothing between you now.
The moment her slick met yours, a jolt of heat snapped through you both. She exhaled sharply, already shaking. This was her favorite. You knew that. She’d never said it outright, but you could tell by the way she lost herself in it—the mess of it, the closeness. The way she’d always chase this first before anything else.
She rocked her hips against yours, the friction delicious and raw.
You arched into her as she found her rhythm, rolling against you like the world was ending. Her voice cracked on a moan. “You drive me crazy,” she gasped.
You bit your lip, watching her—face twisted with need, lashes fluttering as her thighs flexed and trembled. She was more vocal today, each word more devastating than the last.
“So wet,” she whimpered. “So good for me…”
Her forehead dropped, sweat trailing down the bridge of her nose. She was so close—you could feel it. Her slick pulsed against yours with every grind of her hips. Her need painted your skin. You could barely take it.
Then her hand threaded into your hair, yanking—not cruel, but desperate. The sting made your breath hitch. Her mouth crashed onto yours again, the kiss messy, open-mouthed, teeth clacking. Her body was shaking so hard you knew she was seconds away.
Your own climax clawed up from your core as your lips tangled, as her fingers tightened in your hair, as the barn air filled with the ragged sound of her breath and the slap of skin on skin.
You came undone with her.
She gasped your name as her body shuddered above you, slick coating your thighs. You whimpered against her mouth as your hips jerked in time with hers, both of you locked in a shared rhythm, trembling and desperate to keep the moment alive.
Abby collapsed into you, panting, her forehead pressed to your collarbone. Her arms wrapped around your waist like she’d never let go.
For a long time, neither of you said a word.
Only the soft creak of the barn rafters. The rustle of hay.
And the thud of her heart against yours.
In that time together, there were no shadows. No whispers clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Just her—her body, her breath, her grounding weight.
You held her tighter, buried your face in her shoulder, and kissed her cheek softly. You didn’t say thank you, but you thought it, over and over. Thank you for pulling me back. Thank you for making it quiet.
She didn’t even know she’d done it.
Abby shifted beside you, skin warm and dappled in sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the barn. She kissed the corner of your mouth, her lips swollen and soft. “I love you, Joan. God.”
Her hand trailed gently down your thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles on your skin. She grinned to herself, voice teasing. “What got you so riled up, huh?”
You huffed a laugh, still catching your breath. “Cowboy Abby’s kinda hot.”
She threw her head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the rafters. “Kinda?”
You sat up slowly, wincing as bits of hay clung to your back and your thighs in all the worst places. “Okay, very. Like… offensively hot.”
She grinned, eyes gleaming. “I’ll keep the boots on next time.”
You rolled your eyes and stood with her, both of you tugging your clothes back on, brushing stray pieces of hay off each other. Your body felt lighter now, as if something heavy had finally been shaken loose.
You felt good.
Maybe the rest of the day would be, too.

Chapter 117: Soup and sickness

You grabbed Abby’s flannel shirt, pulling it over your head instead of your own. It smelled like her—lemons, hay, and sweat. Familiar. You buttoned it halfway, sleeves swallowing your hands. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, only reached to tuck your hair behind your ear.
As you walked out of the barn together, the sky had turned a soft silver. Afternoon light muted by clouds, a breeze tugging at the trees. The chickens were huddled under the coop now, and you spotted a hawk circling overhead.
Abby glanced toward the house. “Think she’ll nap long?”
You shrugged. “If we’re lucky. She was really out.”
You paused on the porch and leaned against one of the wooden beams. Abby stepped in close, her arm sliding around your waist. You didn’t pull away.
“Do you think it’s getting better?” you asked softly, not even sure what it meant. The whispers? The heaviness? The grief?
Abby looked at you for a long moment before answering. “I think it’s different. Not better. But I’ll take different.”
You leaned into her shoulder, the barn behind you, the house ahead, and the wide, open quiet of the land all around.
And for once, the silence in your head didn’t feel like a warning.
Just… peace.
Then you remembered Frances’ request:
Soup.
You moved back inside the farmhouse and opened the fridge. Abby had butchered a chicken recently—it was already gutted and plucked. That should’ve made it easier. It shouldn’t have bothered you.
She was slouched on the couch, boots kicked off and blanket tugged over her lap. Her tank top clung to her from the heat of the fire, hair sticking to her neck. She eyed you cautiously.
“Making dinner?”
You knew what she meant—what she was really asking.
If you were okay.
You gave a small nod. “Frances asked for soup.”
She huffed a soft laugh, flipping a page in the book balanced on her knee. “She’s been talking about that chicken soup you made last month. Said it tasted like magic.”
You nodded again, quieter this time. “I remember. That’s what I figured.”
The fire cracked. Abby rustled deeper into the blanket, the creak of the couch springs familiar now. You could hear the soft turning of pages. Frances was still napping upstairs, but not for long.
You pulled out what you needed—carrots, celery, garlic, onion, the chicken. The weight of it in your hands made something in your stomach pull tight.
You shouldn’t feel like this. Not anymore.
The farm had given all of you so much. Vegetables, herbs, real eggs. Abby and Lev had figured out how to keep everyone fed and breathing, and you’d contributed too—your hands had purpose here.
You chopped the vegetables with practiced rhythm, brow furrowed. Butter sizzled in the pot—Abby’s homemade batch, rich and sweet. You added onions first, then celery, carrots, garlic. The scent bloomed quickly, earthy and golden.
You turned to the chicken.
It was a carcass now. Cold. Limp.
But when your hands touched it, something shifted. The weight—heavy, slick, real—dragged you backward in time. You weren’t in the kitchen anymore.
You were in labor.
Blood.
Heat.
Frances had screamed, slick with birth and pain and everything you couldn’t hold onto. You’d pulled her to your chest, trembling, overwhelmed, sobbing into her wet hair.
But the chicken was cold.
Dead.
Lifeless in your hands.
Was Frances real?
Did she make it?
Was she still here?
Your breath caught. You couldn’t move.
You held the chicken out like it might explain itself. Your eyes stung.
“Abby,” you whispered, voice cracking, “is this a chicken?”
A pause. Then the soft rustle of movement from the couch.
“…Yes?” Her voice carried a note of concern.
“Is Frances alive?”
There was a pause. She stood.
You couldn’t look away from the chicken in your hands. Couldn’t move your fingers. Couldn’t remember if the last hour had been real.
Abby crossed the room and gently rubbed your back.
“It’s a chicken, baby,” she murmured. “I butchered it yesterday. Frances is asleep. She’s fine.”
She took the carcass from your hands and lowered it into the pot without fanfare. Then she reached for your wrists, turning on the faucet to wash your hands gently, warm water running over your skin like it could rinse away the confusion.
You stared at the water. She turned off the tap and kissed your temple.
“Come with me.”
Upstairs, she led you to Frances’ room, where the little girl slept soundly, arms splayed, mouth slightly open. The soft rise and fall of her chest was rhythmic, soothing.
Abby knelt beside you as you dropped to the floor.
“See?” she whispered. “All good.”
You nodded, lowering your head to Frances’ chest, listening to the tiny heartbeat tucked behind her ribs.
Alive. Real. Solid.
You closed your eyes and stayed there, trembling.
In time, your breathing evened out. Abby’s hand stayed at your back, grounding you like an anchor.
It was going to be okay.
You were here.
She was here.
Frances was here.
And the soup was still cooking.

After a while, Frances stirred beneath the blanket. You felt the shift before you heard her—her tiny body wriggling, her breath changing rhythm. Then came the softest complaint, muffled by sleep:
“Your head is heavy, Mommy.”
A quiet laugh broke from your chest, fragile and wet. You lifted your face and wiped a tear from your cheek, embarrassed by how close to the edge you'd been.
“Sorry,” you whispered, kissing the top of her head.
She sat up slowly, curls tousled and wild like a little lion cub. One eye squinted open before the other. Her face scrunched in confusion, then softened when she saw you and Abby kneeling beside the bed.
“Party in my room?” she asked, deadpan, one eyebrow cocked with that same skeptical expression Abby always gave you when she thought you were being dramatic.
You snorted. “Guess we crashed it.”
Abby chuckled beside you, and Frances blinked at the sound, turning her gaze to her other mother.
The resemblance between them sometimes hit you like a truck. Not in the way she looked—Frances was entirely her own—but the way she carried herself, the serious brow, the dry humor tucked into tiny sentences. She was Abby’s kid through and through.
“I’m making soup,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
At that, Frances lit up, fully awake now. She gasped like you'd told her it was her birthday.
“Soup!”
Her excitement was so pure it made your throat tighten again. She scrambled into your lap, small limbs curling up into yours like she never wanted to be apart from you again. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, grounding yourself in the warmth of her body.
Abby was still at your back, hand moving in slow circles. She hadn’t stopped touching you since you’d come apart in the kitchen, and you hadn’t realized how badly you needed that anchor until now.
You let your eyes fall closed again. You focused on the scent of Frances’ hair, the weight of her against your chest, the slow burn of the stove downstairs where the soup simmered.
Today was better than most.
And in this world, that was everything.
That was enough.
You exhaled slowly, head tipped back toward the ceiling.
“Thank you,” you murmured, maybe to the room, maybe to them, maybe to no one at all.
Frances hummed contentedly in your lap. “Can we have soup and a movie?”
Abby’s hand paused, then resumed rubbing.
“Sounds like a plan,” she said, voice low and soft.
You opened your eyes and looked at them both—one so small, the other so strong. You were still tired. Still scarred. But there was something whole in this moment.
A party in Frances’ room.
Soup on the stove.
And love, in all its strange and quiet forms, surrounding you.
You carried Frances downstairs on your hip, her little arms limp around your neck. Her head was heavy on your shoulder, curls tickling your jaw. She usually bounced awake, demanding to be let down so she could run, but now… she just pressed into you, eyelids drooping.
You frowned, unsettled. She wasn’t normally this sleepy.
Setting her gently on the couch, you expected her to roll onto her stomach and reach for her toys. Instead, she curled up immediately, tugging the corner of a pillow under her chin.
Your brow creased deeper. You moved closer, brushing her hair back and pressing your palm to her forehead. Not hot—just a little warm.
Abby noticed your expression from the armchair, lowering her book. She leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s tired,” you murmured. “But… more than usual.”
You glanced out the window. The weather had turned gray, clouds swollen with rain. It wasn’t unusual—kids caught colds on the farm every season. Still, those little whispers slipped in at the edges of your mind, sly and merciless.
You’re a terrible mother.
She will die of a fever.
Your stomach knotted. You shook your head hard, willing the voices away.
Grabbing a quilt, you tucked it around Frances, smoothing the fabric over her small frame. Abby stood, crossed the room, and lowered herself onto the couch. She slipped an arm under Frances, pulling her close until the little girl’s head rested against her chest.
The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, a rhythm you clung to. You were suddenly thankful Abby had chopped extra wood earlier this week—without it, the room would have felt too cold, too fragile.
You forced yourself back to the stove. The smell of soup filled the air now, garlic blooming, carrots sweetening in the slow boil. You stirred the pot, watching the surface ripple as the chicken bones sank again. It still needed hours.
Wiping down the counter, you hummed faintly to yourself—an old habit, grounding against the anxiety curling in your chest. The smell of broth was rich, comforting, anchoring you to the moment.
Then Frances coughed.
You froze.
Abby’s hand rubbed gently along her back, murmuring, “It’s alright, bug.”
But your heart seized anyway. That cough was small—barely more than a rasp in her throat—but it tightened your chest like a vice.
She’s getting sick. She’s going to slip away while you watch.
You gripped the edge of the counter until your knuckles whitened.
You needed to make sure Frances had everything she’d need if the cold set in.
Upstairs, her little room felt stuffy, so you busied yourself. The quilt came off first. You stripped the sheets from the bed with sharp, focused movements, balling them into your arms. If she caught a fever, she couldn’t be lying in stale sweat. You pulled fresh linens from the cedar chest, smoothing them across the mattress until there wasn’t a single wrinkle left. Then you fluffed her pillow and placed it neatly in the center of the bed.
You opened the window a crack to let the air shift, cool autumn wind pushing in. Her stuffed animals—lined across the sill and shelves—were dusted one by one. You clapped them out sharply, watching little motes drift in the light.
Behind you, footsteps creaked. You turned to see Abby coming down the hall, Frances wrapped in a blanket against her shoulder, curls limp with drowsiness.
“Jo?” Abby’s voice was careful. “You okay?”
Your breathing hitched; you hadn’t realized how fast it had gotten. “Just—prepping. She’s sick.”
Abby’s gaze softened. She shifted Frances in her arms and leaned close enough to kiss your forehead. “Come back downstairs. We’ll handle it together.”
The words were simple, grounding. You followed her closely, as if the distance between you might swallow you whole.
Back on the couch, you sat beside Abby, but the fear still crept in. What if Frances’ cold got worse? What if, while she burned with fever, you slipped into another episode—lost in whispers and shadows? Who would keep her safe then?
Before the thought could spiral, Frances stirred. She wriggled from Abby’s lap and climbed into yours with surprising determination.
“Mommy…” Her voice was faint, raspy, but insistent.
Your arms wrapped around her instinctively. She curled against your chest, her small legs wrapping around your waist, tucking into you as if she were still inside your body. She fit so perfectly there, like she’d been shaped to belong in that space.
You rubbed slow, gentle circles on her back. Her breathing rattled, but it eased under your hand.
What could you give her?
Your mind raced. You had mint from the garden. Ginger—Abby had figured out how to coax it to grow in this soil. You could boil them down into a tea, something soothing for her throat.
You needed more. Books. Guides. Something that told you what herbs healed, what roots soothed, what berries to avoid. You remembered once—back in FEDRA—a story about fermented tonics. Something with peppers, garlic, vinegar. Maybe you could recreate it. Maybe you could keep her strong.
You sighed against her hair, pressing a kiss into her curls.
Her breath slowed, evening out. She’d fallen asleep again, heavy in your arms.
You held her close, eyes fixed on the firelight. Each flicker and pop made your chest ache with two things at once—fear and love, inseparable.
Abby’s voice broke the silence, soft enough not to wake Frances. A little chuckle under her breath.
“You think she asked for soup because she wasn’t feeling good?”
You let a small smile touch your lips. “Maybe.”
Abby hummed in thought, tapping her boot heel against the floor. “I’m gonna go back out, get the animals ready for the night.”
You nodded, reluctant to let the warmth of her presence slip away but understanding it needed to be done.
She pulled on her coat—the leather one she’d scavenged from town—and paused at the door.
“Call me if you need me.”
You met her eyes, gave a quiet smile, and nodded again.
Through the window, you could still see her working, even after she stepped outside. She moved along the fencing with easy strength, wrangling the last of the chickens back into the coop. Her hair was still down, catching the dying light, loose and soft in a way that always made you wonder why she didn’t braid it anymore. Maybe she didn’t care. Or maybe she knew you loved it like that.
You looked down at Frances in your arms—her soft curls, her light hair. The same blonde Abby carried.
Strange, wasn’t it? Your hair was dark. John’s had been dark. But somehow, Frances had come out looking like her.
You smiled faintly. How strange. How sweet. How cruelly kind the world could be, even after all it had taken.
Hours passed in a haze of humming, the fire crackling, and the steady rhythm of Frances’ breathing against you. When she stirred, you gently shifted her onto the couch, tucking the blanket snug around her. She propped a book on her knees, whispering raspy nonsense to herself about cows and fields while her small fingers traced the pictures.
In the kitchen, you lifted the chicken from the broth. The scent was deep now, golden with garlic, onion, and butter. You let the carcass cool, mashing the soft vegetables down into the stock. Frances didn’t like them whole. She wasn’t picky usually but she liked the smoothness, especially of the carrots.
You pulled the meat free with your fingers, careful not to waste a scrap, and stirred it back into the pot. From the pantry, you found a small jar of pasta—tiny little dots Abby had rolled out days ago. They’d do perfectly.
The soup thickened, and the house filled with its warmth. You ladled a small bowl for Frances, adding a pinch of salt and pepper.
She coughed again when you coaxed her to the table, her head drooping as if too heavy for her small neck. One hand cradled her forehead as she ate, spoon trembling.
Your heart clenched. She looked so sick. Your poor baby.
The door opened with a gust of cold air, and Abby stepped back inside, shaking off her coat. You set bowls in front of both of them. Abby settled across from you, her face softened by the firelight, but her eyes sharp with worry as she glanced at Frances.
“She’ll feel better once the soup’s in her,” Abby murmured, then sighed, rubbing her temple. “I hope Lev gets back soon. Should be tomorrow.”
You nodded, spoon heavy in your hand as you stared at your child. The soup was the first meal in weeks that didn’t look like mold, but your appetite was thin.
“I’m worried about him,” you admitted.
Abby’s nose scrunched, her jaw setting stubborn. “He’ll be okay. He’s tough.”
You wanted to believe her.
The three of you ate in silence, Frances’ small coughs breaking up the quiet like pebbles dropped into still water. Outside, night was pulling itself across the fields, the last smear of sunlight swallowed by the horizon.
Inside, you tried to hold everything together with soup and fire.
When the bowls were empty, Abby rose without a word. She carried the dishes to the sink, sleeves pushed up, her movements steady and unhurried as she washed and stacked them away. The smell of soap and broth lingered in the air.
You scooped Frances up from her chair. She sagged against you, hot and damp with fever sweat.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you whispered.
She whined but let you carry her upstairs. At the washbasin, you dipped a cloth and gently wiped her flushed face, brushing curls back from her cheeks. She squirmed when you guided the toothbrush over her small teeth, but the fight in her was weak, sleepy.
You dressed her in thick pajamas—the wool ones with the footies. The moment the fabric stretched over her, she let out a sharp screech.
“Off! I hate it, Mommy!” she wailed, voice raspy and broken.
Your heart pinched. You crouched low, rubbing her back, murmuring soft words.
“I know, baby. I know you don’t like them. But you have to stay warm. Just for tonight, okay?”
She sniffled hard, coughing in your arms. You held her close until her tiny fists loosened, until the fever-crabbiness melted enough for her to relent.
When she finally climbed into your arms willingly, you kissed her damp temple and carried her to bed. She burrowed into the blankets, curling toward you as you tucked her in. Her coughing shook her small frame, each one hitting you like a hammer, but soon she quieted.
You stroked her hair in long, slow passes until her breathing steadied, until sleep finally pulled her under.
It was only eight, but the room was already swallowed in dark. You lingered for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, before slipping back into the hall.
Abby was waiting at the top of the stairs. She let out a long sigh and gave you a crooked smirk.
“Take a bath with me?”
You rolled your eyes at the way she framed it—half-joke, half-invitation—but nodded anyway.
In the bathroom, the air was cool, the tiles colder under your feet. You stripped with her, skin prickling in the drafty house. Abby leaned over the tub, muscles flexing as she turned the knobs and let the water rush in. Steam soon fogged the mirror, softening the edges of everything.
She settled into the water first, shoulders dropping, hair clinging to her damp skin. She made room for you without asking. The heat soaked into your bones, a relief you hadn’t known you needed.
Her hands found your shoulders under the water. Strong, steady palms working circles into the knots at the base of your neck. She hummed low, almost absentmindedly, the sound vibrating through her chest and into you.
Then she simply pulled you close, wrapping you up in her arms, the water lapping quietly around you both.
For the first time all day, your breath came easy.

You climbed out of the tub once the water turned lukewarm, goosebumps prickling your arms. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you dried off slowly before slipping into the cotton pajamas Abby had folded at the foot of the bed earlier. The fabric was soft, worn from countless washes, comforting against your skin.
“Let’s call it an early night, yeah?” Abby asked, toweling her own hair dry. Her voice was casual, but there was a hint of weariness behind it.
You nodded, grateful, and slipped beneath the quilt. The breeze coming through the cracked window was sharp and clean, carrying the smell of rain-soaked earth. You curled into the sheets, waiting for her warmth beside you.
Then—tiny footsteps padding down the hall.
You both looked up as Frances appeared in the doorway, blanket clutched in one fist, eyes glassy with fever tears. The moment she started to cry, Abby was already moving, scooping her up.
But Frances buried her face in Abby’s shoulder, muffled and whimpering, “I don’t want Momma—I want Mommy!”
Abby froze for a heartbeat, then passed her toward you without protest. You nodded softly, trying not to let guilt sting. You prayed it didn’t hurt her feelings.
You cradled Frances against your chest, rocking her gently. “Let’s put you back in your bed, sweetheart—”
But Frances screeched, her tiny body going rigid. “No!”
You turned helplessly toward Abby, who stood watching with her arms folded, brow furrowed.
Frances sniffled, face red and wet. “I wanna sleep in bed with Momma… and Mommy,” she sobbed.
Your heart squeezed.
You nodded and shifted back into the covers, bringing her with you. Abby climbed in on the other side, settling with a sigh. Frances wriggled between you both, coughing into the quilt before tucking herself tight.
Abby reached out instinctively, draping her arm over the two of you. Frances pressed her flushed cheek into Abby’s chest, nestling there like she belonged in the space she’d carved out.
Abby glanced down at her, a soft smirk tugging at her mouth. “Thought you didn’t want Momma,” she teased quietly.
Frances scrunched her face in stubborn silence, refusing to answer.
You couldn’t help but chuckle, brushing curls back from her forehead.
The fire downstairs was probably burning low, the wind outside whispering through the trees. But here, in this bed, you had warmth. You had your family.
You closed your eyes, praying that when sleep came, it would be quiet. That the whispers wouldn’t follow you into the dark.
You barely slept.

Chapter 118: Holding the Knife

Morning came slowly, gray light seeping through the windowpanes. The fire downstairs had long since gone out, and the chill of the farmhouse crept in around the quilts.
You stirred awake to the sound of coughing. A small, pitiful sound that shook the bed. Frances was sitting upright between you, cheeks flushed, curls sticking to her damp forehead.
“Mommy,” she croaked, tugging at your sleeve.
You rubbed your eyes, body heavy with the kind of sleep that wasn’t rest. “I’m here, bug.”
Beside you, Abby was already propping herself up on one elbow. She reached over and pressed the back of her hand to Frances’ forehead, frowning. “She’s warm. Not burning, but… warmer than last night.”
“I’ll get her settled,” you murmured, shifting to sit up.
But Abby caught your wrist gently. “Jo, you didn’t sleep. Let me take her this morning. I’ll make her tea, keep her company. You rest.”
Frances immediately shook her head, eyes wide and watery. She clung to you like a limpet. “No! I want Mommy!”
The insistence cut sharp. Abby blinked, then pulled her hand back, jaw flexing like she wanted to argue.
You met her eyes, reading the frustration she didn’t voice. It wasn’t anger at Frances—just worry. Worry for you.
You gave her a soft smile, shaking your head. “It’s okay. She just needs me right now.”
Abby sighed, running a hand down her face before leaning back against the headboard. “Then I’ll take care of both of you. At least let me do that.”
You didn’t argue. Frances coughed again and collapsed against your chest, small legs wrapping around your waist like she couldn’t stand the thought of separation. You rubbed slow circles on her back, rocking gently while she wheezed against you.
Abby slid out of bed, pulling on her flannel and boots. She turned at the door. “I’ll get the stove going, warm the house. Then I’ll put some ginger on to boil.”
You nodded, kissing Frances’ hair. “Thank you.”
Downstairs, the sound of Abby moving through the kitchen reached you—the clatter of the kettle, the thump of wood against the hearth.
Frances whimpered, burrowing deeper into you. “Don’t go away.”
“I’m not,” you promised, pressing your cheek against hers. “I’m right here.”
Her breathing rattled, shallow but steady, and you held her closer, even as your own exhaustion dragged at you. Abby was right—you hadn’t slept—but the truth was, you couldn’t close your eyes. Not with that fear gnawing at you.
The whispers hadn’t come yet. But they always did when you were weak.
You sat up and slid your hand under Frances’ shirt, palm resting against her bare back. Her skin was damp, slick with fever sweat.
“Wanna take a bath with Mommy? It might help you feel better,” you whispered.
She rubbed her eyes with a tiny fist and gave a small nod.
You’d done this before when she was sick, though baths were common for you and her regardless. It was easier—less fuss than a full wash, and the warm water always settled her.
In the bathroom, she clung tighter than ever, her legs cinched around your waist, her arms locked at your shoulders like she’d never let go. You kissed her flushed cheek. “Almost there, bug.”
You helped her out of her damp pajamas, her feverish body trembling as you eased her into the tub with you. The water steamed around you both. You held her close while you ran a washcloth over her sweaty skin, whispering soft encouragement.
The last time she’d been sick, the bath had brought shadows crawling into your mind. Dark things lurking in the steam. Today, you braced for it—waiting for the whisper of doubt, the sick trick of your own head.
But it didn’t come.
Just the sound of her soft coughs and the slosh of water.
When she was clean, you wrapped her snug in a towel, kissed her damp hair, and carried her to her room to dress her again. Thick pajamas, socks pulled high, a knit cap pulled over her curls to keep the chill away.
Downstairs, she stayed glued to you, thumb tucked in her mouth, head heavy against your chest.
You sat on the couch in front of the fire, its warmth wrapping around both of you. Abby was already there, crouched at the hearth, cooling down a steaming mug. She brought it over and knelt in front of Frances.
“Here, bug,” Abby coaxed gently. “It’ll help your throat.”
Frances turned her face into your shirt, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered.
Abby furrowed her brow, holding the mug out. “You have to—”
“No, no, no!” Frances kicked weakly, fever making her frustration sharp.
You rubbed her back, rocking gently, your voice soft as you kissed the crown of her head. “Shhh… it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
Frances’ small fists clutched the fabric of your shirt, knuckles white, her cheek hot and damp where it pressed against you. Every little cough rattled through her chest and into yours, like your hearts had been tied together.
Abby sat back on her heels, the steam curling from the untouched mug between you. Her expression was caught somewhere between worry and resignation. “She won’t even look at me,” she muttered, almost to herself.
You smoothed a hand over Frances’ back, keeping your voice calm, steady. “She just… needs me right now.”
Abby’s eyes flicked to you—tired, yes, but soft. “I know.”
You shifted Frances a little higher in your lap, murmuring into her curls. “Hey, bug. Just one sip, okay? Mommy’s right here.”
She shook her head hard, thumb still tucked in her mouth. Her voice was a muffled whimper against you. “Don’t wanna.”
You kissed the top of her head, rocking gently. “That’s alright. We won’t make you.”
Abby’s sigh was quiet but heavy. She reached over and slid the mug back toward the fire to keep warm. “She’s stubborn like you.”
That earned you the tiniest huff of a laugh, but it melted quickly into another cough.
“Do you want Mommy to hold you while you sleep?” you asked softly.
Frances pulled her thumb free, blinking up at you with fever-glazed eyes. “Don’t let go.”
Your chest tightened. “I won’t.”
So you didn’t.
The fire popped, and Abby eventually shifted onto the couch beside you, wrapping a blanket over all three of you. Frances still refused to move from your lap, her small body curled in like she was trying to fold herself back into you.
Abby’s arm slid around your shoulders, grounding you, even as Frances clung like you were the only safe place left in the world.
“Get some rest,” Abby whispered in your ear. “I’ll keep watch.”
But you knew the truth—neither of you would sleep much tonight.
Hours later, the fire had burned down to glowing embers. The farmhouse was quiet except for the groan of the wind pressing against the walls. You’d dozed sitting upright on the couch, Frances heavy in your arms, her fevered breath damp against your collarbone.
A sharp cough jolted you awake.
Frances stirred, whining before her eyes fluttered open, glassy and wet. Her little fists immediately grabbed your shirt. “Mommy…”
“I’m here,” you whispered, stroking her curls.
Abby pushed herself up from the chair, her shadow cutting across the firelight. “Jo, let me take her. You haven’t slept at all.”
You shook your head, rocking Frances as she whimpered. “It’s fine.”
Abby crouched beside you, reaching for the child. “You need rest. Just for an hour—let me hold her.”
But Frances squirmed the second Abby’s hands touched her, clinging tighter to your shirt, her voice breaking into a sob. “No! Don’t want Momma! Want Mommy!”
Her cry rattled the room.
You tightened your hold, shushing her quickly. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
Abby froze, hands hovering uselessly in the air before she pulled them back. Her jaw worked, frustration tightening her features. “She won’t even give me a chance.”
“She’s sick,” you murmured, kissing Frances’ temple. “She just… needs me right now.”
Abby stood, pacing once toward the window. “And what about you? You’re shaking, Jo. You can’t do this all night.”
“I’ll manage.”
Her laugh was short, sharp. “That’s not managing—that’s wearing yourself down until you break.”
Frances whimpered again, sensing the tension, and buried her face deeper into your chest. “Don’t let go, Mommy.”
Your throat closed. “I won’t, sweetheart.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the night pressing against the windows. Abby lingered at the edge of the room, arms crossed, torn between anger and worry, while you rocked Frances and tried not to crumble.
The silence stretched until Abby finally exhaled, long and heavy. She rubbed at her eyes, then looked back at you and Frances curled together on the couch.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “Let’s all go upstairs. None of us are sleeping like this.”
You nodded, though Frances whimpered the moment you shifted. “Noooo,” she whined, voice scratchy.
“It’s okay, bug,” you soothed, standing with her still clinging to your chest. “We’re just going to bed.”
Abby blew out the last of the fire and grabbed a lantern. The three of you climbed the stairs together, her boots heavy on the steps, yours slower with the warm weight of Frances in your arms.
In the bedroom, the sheets were cool and faintly smelling of cedar. Abby set the lantern on the dresser and peeled back the quilt.
You tried to lower Frances into the middle of the bed, but she whimpered and clung tighter, arms wrapped around your neck like iron.
“Mommy, don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” You climbed in with her still wrapped against you. She tucked herself into your chest, her small body trembling with another cough.
Abby hesitated on the far side of the bed, then slid under the quilt too. She lay facing you both, her arm draping cautiously over Frances and brushing your hip beneath the blanket.
Frances stirred, eyes half-opening. She looked at Abby, then nuzzled closer against your chest without a word.
Abby chuckled softly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess I’m second choice tonight.”
You managed a tired smile, rubbing Frances’ back in slow circles. “She just… needs me right now.”
Abby nodded, though her gaze lingered on the two of you for a long moment before she settled her head on the pillow.
The three of you lay there in the dim quiet. Frances’ little coughs echoed in the room, but her breathing soon slowed, finally finding the rhythm of sleep.
Abby’s arm stayed where it was—around both of you—like even if Frances wouldn’t let her in tonight, she’d keep watch anyway.
You closed your eyes, praying the whispers wouldn’t come, and let the weight of them both anchor you to the bed.
You woke the next morning to the sound of rain drumming against the farmhouse roof. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and heavy, rattling the windowpanes. The sky outside was dark as dusk, though it was barely morning.
Beside you, Frances stirred, shifting closer until her forehead pressed against your chest. She wasn’t as hot today—her skin cool and damp with leftover sweat. Relief washed through you. Maybe the fever had broken. Maybe the worst had passed.
You kissed her curls and whispered, “Goodmorning bug,” before carrying her carefully downstairs.
Voices met you before you reached the bottom. One was Abby’s, steady and firm. The other—higher, younger, worn thin from travel—made you stop in your tracks.
Lev.
In the kitchen, he stood dripping with rain, his coat caked in mud. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion but bright with purpose. The sight of him should have been comforting. Instead, something in your chest tightened.
“Joan.” His voice cracked a little as he stepped forward, a parcel clutched to his chest. “I found you meds.”
You froze on the last stair. The room tilted for a breath, Frances’ weight grounding you while your pulse roared in your ears.
A whisper slithered behind you, close enough to brush your skin.
It’s poison.
Your throat went dry. You stepped back instinctively, clutching Frances tighter.
Across the room, Abby went rigid. Her shoulders squared, her eyes flicking between you and Lev, the tension in the air thick as the storm outside.
Lev didn’t seem to notice. He shifted the parcel, pulling a second bundle from his pack. “And… I found books too. On the brain. I thought maybe Abby and I could read through them, see if there’s anything useful—”
The words blurred together, drowned out by the thunder and the rushing in your ears. The whispers pressed harder, insistent, venomous.
Don’t trust him. Don’t take it. Don’t let them trick you.
Your own voice cut through before you could stop it.
“I’m fine.”
The room went still.
Lev blinked, furrowing his brow. He looked from you to Frances, then back again, clearly confused. He opened his mouth, like he might argue—but then his gaze dropped. He pressed his lips together, choosing silence.
Abby’s hand flexed at her side, her jaw tight, unreadable.
Frances shifted against you, coughing once before settling back into your chest.
The thunder rolled again, long and low, like the sky itself was holding its breath.
Frances stirred against you, coughing softly. You kissed her damp curls and turned toward Abby, who was still standing rigid, watching every flicker of your expression.
“Can you—” your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Can you take her for a while? I just… I need some air.”
Abby hesitated, then reached out. Frances whimpered, clutching your shirt, but you smoothed her hair and whispered, “It’s just for a little bit, bug. Mommy will be right back.”
She loosened her grip reluctantly, letting Abby lift her. Abby’s strong arms closed around her gently, holding her like something fragile.
You stepped back, the empty weight in your arms making you feel almost unmoored. Without another word, you turned and pulled on your coat from the hook by the door.
The rain hit you immediately, cold needles against your face. The storm had deepened, the sky a bruise-colored churn of clouds. You walked down the porch steps into the mud, boots sinking with every step.
The farm stretched out before you, fields slick with water, the barn looming dark against the storm. Normally this place was steady, solid — the land Abby and Lev had carved into survival. But today it all felt strange, unfamiliar.
Your thoughts tumbled, chaotic.
They think you’re weak.
They want to fix you like you’re broken.
Lev’s medicine isn’t medicine. It’s poison. He’ll hand it to you smiling, and you’ll swallow it, and then you’ll die.
You pressed your hands to your ears as if that could block it out, but the whispers were inside, threading through your skull.
The rain plastered your hair to your face. You walked faster, circling the fence line, boots slipping in the mud.
You’re a bad mother.
Frances will get sick again, and this time you won’t save her.
Abby doesn’t trust you anymore. Why should she?
Your chest heaved, breath shallow against the hammer of the rain. You stopped by the chicken coop, gripping the wooden post until your knuckles ached. The world swam in front of you.
You closed your eyes and tried to anchor yourself in something—anything. The smell of wet earth. The low rumble of thunder. The sound of a distant goat bleating from the barn.
For a moment, it steadied you. Just long enough to breathe.
Then another thought slithered in, cold and sharp:
What if they’d all be better off without you?
You opened your eyes, heart pounding, and realized your hand was still gripping the fence post so tightly your nails bit into the wood.
The rain poured harder, soaking through your coat, plastering your hair to your face. The mud clung to your boots, dragging at every step as you stumbled further out across the farm.
The fields blurred in gray sheets of water. The barn loomed in the distance, but you didn’t head for shelter. You kept walking, your breath ragged, the whispers hissing louder now that no one else was near.
You’re failing her.
Frances will get sick again, and next time you won’t save her.
You poisoned her yourself, carrying your rot inside her since the day she was born.
Your chest clenched, heart hammering against your ribs. You pressed your hands over your ears, but it didn’t matter—the voices were inside, coiling tighter.
Lightning split the sky, a jagged vein of white, and thunder cracked so loud your knees nearly buckled. The chickens shrieked from their coop, wings flapping in panic.
You staggered to the barn fence and gripped it with both hands, knuckles white, mud spattering your legs. You bent forward, head hanging, rain dripping from your hair.
“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Stop, please…”
But the voices didn’t stop.
Abby’s tired of you. She only stays because she pities you.
Lev brought poison, and you know it. They’ll slip it in your food, and then Frances will forget you.
She already prefers Abby.
Your stomach churned. You heaved, retching into the mud, though nothing came up but bile and rainwater.
The storm pressed down heavier, drowning you in noise. The fields stretched endless, every corner of the farm suddenly menacing, shadowed. Even the trees at the edge of the property seemed to lean closer, whispering.
You stumbled away from the fence, boots sucking against the mud, and dropped to your knees in the wet grass. Your palms pressed flat against the earth as if you could hold yourself steady, anchor yourself to something solid.
But the ground felt alive beneath you. Pulsing. Breathing. Whispering.
What if you just lay down here and never got up?
Wouldn’t that be easier—for everyone?
Rain streaked down your face, indistinguishable from tears. You gasped for air, chest heaving, your whole body shaking as if the fever had jumped from Frances into you.
And still, the farm whispered.
The rain was relentless now, sheets of water beating against the fields until they blurred into nothing but gray. Mud sucked at your knees as you knelt there, palms pressed to the ground, shivering so hard your teeth chattered.
Lightning cracked again, so close it lit the world white. The thunder that followed rattled your bones. You flinched, dropping lower, whispering to yourself—nonsense, prayers, anything to drown the voices that gnawed inside your skull.
Lie down. Stay here. Let the earth take you.
“Joan!”
Your head snapped up. Abby’s voice cut through the storm like a blade.
She was running toward you, coat half-buttoned, hair plastered to her face. Her boots splashed mud as she sprinted across the field. When she reached you, she dropped to her knees in the muck without hesitation.
“Jesus, Jo.” Her hands gripped your shoulders, strong and grounding. “You’re freezing.”
You shook your head, breath ragged. “I—I can’t—”
“You can,” Abby said firmly, pulling you upright. Rain coursed down her face, but her eyes locked on yours. Steady. Fierce. “Look at me. It’s just the storm. You’re okay.”
Her coat wrapped around you before you even realized she’d shrugged it off. You sagged against her chest, her arms locking tight around you.
“I can’t breathe,” you gasped, trembling.
“Yes, you can. In—” She pressed her forehead to yours, guiding the rhythm. “And out. With me. Come on.”
The world was still howling, but Abby’s voice threaded through it, anchoring you to something real. You clung to her, fists tangled in her shirt, the whispers hissing at the edges of your mind.
She’s only carrying you because you’re weak.
Abby hoisted you fully into her arms, ignoring the mud soaking her knees. “I’ve got you. We’re going inside.”
You let her carry you, your body limp with exhaustion. The storm beat against her back as she trudged toward the farmhouse, her breath ragged but determined.
At the porch, she kicked the door open and carried you over the threshold, dripping water onto the floorboards. Inside, the air was warm with fire and the faint sound of Frances coughing upstairs.
Abby lowered you onto the couch, her hands brushing your soaked hair from your face. “You’re safe,” she murmured, voice low but firm. “I won’t let you drown out there. Not ever.”
The storm raged against the walls, but inside her arms, you could finally breathe.
But the week… it whirred by.
Day One
You woke to find Frances cooler against your chest, her damp curls sticking to your skin. The fever had broken. She was still clingy, still coughing, but not burning anymore.
You carried her downstairs. Abby was already at the stove, stirring oats. Lev sat at the table, mud-streaked and weary from his journey. When he saw you, he pulled something from his pack — a battered pill bottle.
“I found you medicine,” he said, setting it on the wood.
Your stomach dropped. Poison, the whisper hissed.
You froze, hugging Frances tighter. “I don’t need that.”
Lev’s brow furrowed. “You do.”
Abby’s voice cut in, firm. “Not now.”
But you could feel Lev’s eyes on you all through breakfast.
Day Two
The rain hadn’t let up. You and Frances stayed curled under a blanket by the fire. Every time you closed your eyes, you thought of the pill bottle on the shelf. Waiting. Watching.
Lev paced the house, restless. “Joan, at least read the instructions,” he tried, holding the bottle out.
You turned your face into Frances’ hair, ignoring him. Abby stepped between you, her jaw set. “Lev. Enough.”
He slammed the bottle onto the table and stormed upstairs. The sound made Frances flinch. You stroked her back until she relaxed again, guilt clawing at your ribs.
Day Three
Frances was stronger today. She wanted to see the chickens. You carried her out to the barn, the damp air heavy with hay and wet wood.
Lev followed. When Frances toddled off to scatter feed, he cornered you.
“You hear voices,” he said bluntly. “You think food is poisoned. You need help.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not!” He shoved the bottle at you. “If you loved her, you’d take them!”
Your hand lashed out, knocking it away. Pills scattered into the mud. Frances turned at the noise, confused.
“Don’t tell me how to love my daughter,” you snapped.
Abby appeared in the doorway, eyes sharp. “That’s enough. Both of you.”
Lev stooped, gathering the pills with shaking hands. He muttered something low.
You pulled Frances back into your arms and left.
Day Four
Dinner was stew, thin but hot. Frances picked at hers, still coughing but smiling more. Lev’s eyes flicked to you, then to Abby.
“She needs a mother who’s stable,” he muttered under his breath.
Your spoon clattered into the bowl. “Say it louder.”
Abby slammed her palm on the table. “Enough.”
Frances startled, eyes wide. You gathered her into your lap, whispering soothing words, ignoring the way Lev glared across the firelight.
Day Five
Frances spent the morning coloring at the table, her cheeks pink again. She drew the three of you: a tall figure with braids (Abby), a smaller figure holding a baby (you), and herself, smiling with curls.
Lev slid the pill bottle toward you again. “She drew you holding her. Don’t you want to keep holding her for years?”
Your chest tightened. You shoved the bottle back so hard it fell, clattering across the floorboards.
Frances flinched. Her crayon snapped in two.
Abby was on her feet, fury in her voice. “Lev! That’s the last time. Not in front of her.”
But the damage was done. Frances climbed into your lap again, silent except for her coughs.
Day Six
No one spoke much. Frances played with her stuffed animals, Abby mended a harness by the fire, and Lev kept to himself, sitting in the loft with his bow.
The pill bottle stayed on the shelf, untouched. You couldn’t stop glancing at it. It felt like it was staring back.
At night, Frances curled between you and Abby in bed. Abby reached for your hand in the dark, whispering, “We’ll figure this out.”
You wanted to believe her.
Day Seven
The storm finally ended. The fields glittered wet, and Frances ran in the grass with Lev, chasing the goats, her laughter shrill and bright. She was herself again — healthy, whole.
You watched from the porch, arms crossed. Abby stood beside you, silent.
“She’s better,” Abby said softly.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Lev caught Frances as she stumbled, lifting her high before setting her down again. He looked at you then, eyes still tired, still pleading.
Abby followed your gaze. Her hand brushed yours. “This won’t go away, Jo. Not unless you face it.”
Your eyes slipped to the pill bottle on the shelf inside. Still waiting.
And for the first time, you didn’t know if the whisper was wrong.
All day, Abby’s words tumbled in your head, twisting into shapes you couldn’t untangle. This won’t go away, Jo. Not unless you face it.
They echoed until you finally collapsed into uneasy sleep.
That night, you woke with a jolt. The nightmare clung to you, but you couldn’t remember what it was—only that your chest was tight, your skin clammy, your mouth dry. You rubbed your face and sat up, trying to steady your breath.
Frances was curled between you and Abby again, her tiny body warm against your side. You’d told yourself you’d only let her share the bed until she was fully well, but every time you tried to move her, you couldn’t. You needed her close.
Careful not to wake them, you swung your legs out of bed and pushed to your feet. The floor was cold against your soles. You turned toward the door—
—and froze.
A shadow stood there, darker than the dark around it.
Your breath hitched. It moved closer.
Instinct ripped through you. You scooped Frances into your arms, her small weight jolting awake with a startled whimper, and bolted down the stairs. She clung to your neck, confused, as you shushed her urgently. “It’s okay, it’s okay—Mommy’s got you.”
But the shadow followed.
You stumbled into the kitchen, heart pounding. Hands shaking, you yanked open a drawer and pulled out the knife Abby kept there. The firelight from the hearth flickered across the blade as you turned, gasping.
The shadow shifted. Took form.
Terra.
Her eyes were hollow, her face half-lit and half-rotted, mouth curling into words you couldn’t hear but felt burning inside your skull.
Another shape rose from the floorboards, crawling out like smoke. Nathan. His hands clawed at the air, his mouth spilling whispers you couldn’t escape.
You clutched Frances tighter, knife trembling in your hand. Her cries filled the kitchen, shrill, desperate.
“Don’t touch my baby!” you screamed into the air.
The whispers swelled, louder, louder, suffocating. You stumbled back into the wall, curling around Frances, knife raised, your throat raw as you screamed against them.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Lev burst into the kitchen, eyes wide, bow nowhere in sight.
But you didn’t see him. Couldn’t.
What if he was another shadow? One pretending, wearing Lev’s shape?
You shrieked, knife swinging up, arm rigid. “I didn’t mean to kill you! I didn’t mean it!”
Lev froze, hands raised, his face pale in the flickering firelight. “Joan—it’s me. It’s just me.”
Abby came down right behind him, breathless, hair loose around her face. She took in the scene in a second—Frances sobbing in your arms, the knife trembling in your grip, Lev frozen.
Her voice cut sharp, commanding, steady even as her chest heaved. “Joan. Put the knife down.”
The whispers screamed louder, overlapping, suffocating. Don’t listen to her. Don’t trust her. She’ll take Frances from you.
Your vision blurred with tears. Your chest ached.
And still you clutched the knife.
Your throat was shredded from screaming, voice hoarse and broken.
“She’s my baby!” you roared at Abby, clutching Frances tighter.
Abby and Lev froze at the edge of the kitchen, both of them breathing hard, both trying to read you without making a wrong move. The storm outside rattled the windows, the firelight dancing jagged across the walls.
Tears blurred your vision, hot against your cheeks. You shook your head violently, the whispers still clawing in your ears. “Go away—go away!”
Frances’ shrieks tore through the house. She kicked and squirmed in your arms, her small fists pushing weakly at your chest.
“Mommy, stop! Please stop!” she begged through sobs.
The sound broke you.
Your knife hand trembled, the blade flashing with each flicker of lightning. Frances’ cries hitched and shook, her whole body trembling against yours. You wanted to protect her, shield her—but you were the one scaring her.
Abby stepped forward slowly, voice low, steady, cutting through the storm.
“Jo. Look at her. Look at our girl. You’re holding her too tight—she’s scared.”
Lev’s hands were still up, his voice softer now. “She needs you calm, not like this.”
But the whispers hissed louder, twisting their words. They’re lying. They’ll take her from you. They’ll never let you hold her again.
You sobbed harder, rocking on your feet, knife still trembling in your grip. “I can’t let her go. She’s mine.”
Frances’ little voice cracked through the chaos again. “Mommy, you’re hurting me…”
The knife slipped in your hand.
Abby’s face contorted, torn between fear and urgency. She stepped forward, her voice breaking past command into desperation.
“Joan—give her to me before you hurt her.”

Chapter 119: Weeks

“No!” you screamed, chest heaving. “She’s mine—she’s my baby!”
Abby reached for Frances.
Instinct surged through you like fire. With a broken cry, you swung the knife.
Steel flashed in the firelight—
—but Abby’s reflexes were faster. Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. The force stopped the blade inches from her chest. Her eyes locked on yours, fierce, unflinching.
“Joan. Stop.”
You pushed, delirium making your body thrash, but Abby’s grip was unyielding. With her other arm she clutched Frances tight against her side, the child screaming into her braid.
“I didn’t mean to kill you!” you wailed, words spilling wild and jagged. “I didn’t mean it!”
Abby twisted sharply, the knife clattering from your grip onto the floorboards. She kicked it back across the kitchen, out of reach. Then she stepped forward, pressing you against the wall, her hand still locked around your wrist to keep you from striking again.
“Look at me!” she barked, voice cutting through your haze like thunder.
But you couldn’t. Your vision swam with shadows—Terra, Nathan, every ghost you’d tried to bury clawing at the edges.
Lev’s voice came faintly, urgent. “Abby, she’s not seeing you. She doesn’t even see Frances right now.”
Abby’s jaw flexed. She shifted Frances higher onto her hip, shielding her with her body, and leaned into you, forehead nearly touching yours.
“It’s me,” she growled. “It’s Abby. Not them. Not ghosts. Me.”
Her grip loosened just enough for you to feel the heat of her hand, the steadiness of her presence. Frances sobbed into her shoulder, her cries softening into hiccups.
You trembled, empty hands clawing weakly at the air, as the whispers swelled and then cracked like glass.
For a moment, you were left with nothing but the storm of your own breathing.
Your scream shredded your throat. The knife clattered away, but your body didn’t stop thrashing. Frances sobbed against Abby’s shoulder, small fists pulling at her braid.
“Give her to me,” you begged, voice breaking. “She’s mine!”
Abby’s jaw set hard. She shifted Frances to her other arm, clutching her tight as she turned toward Lev.
“Take her.”
Lev’s eyes widened. “Abby—”
“Now!”
Reluctantly, Lev stepped forward and scooped Frances from her arms. The child wailed, reaching desperately back toward you, screaming “Mommy! Mommy!” until her voice cracked.
The sound splintered through you. Rage and terror flooded your chest. Your vision tunneled.
You lunged.
Abby caught you mid-swing, your nails raking down her forearm as you shrieked. She slammed you back against the wall with the controlled force of someone trained to end fights before they start.
“Stop!” she barked, her voice shaking with anger and fear.
You bucked against her hold, legs kicking, teeth bared in an animal cry. You clawed at her shirt, at her arms, anything you could reach. “You’re stealing her from me! You’re stealing my baby!”
Abby gritted her teeth, holding your wrists pinned above your head against the wall. Her muscles trembled with the effort of keeping you there without hurting you.
Lev hovered a few feet away, Frances wailing in his arms. His face was pale, his voice tight. “Abby—what if she—”
“Keep her safe!” Abby shouted, not daring to look away from you.
Your eyes rolled wild, not seeing her, only the shadows. Terra’s face flickered over hers. Nathan’s whisper in her voice. Your body convulsed with panic, thrashing hard enough that the wall rattled.
Abby pressed in closer, pinning you with her weight. Her forehead touched yours, her breath hot against your face.
“It’s me. Jo, it’s me. Abby. Not them. Me.”
But you screamed again, a raw sound that barely sounded human, and tried to drive your knee up into her stomach.
She caught it with her thigh, grunting, and shoved harder against you until your wrists ached beneath her grip.
“Goddammit, Joan!” Her voice cracked, fury and grief tangled. “Fight me all you want, but you’re not getting past me. You won’t hurt her.”
Your sobs tore out of you, wild and broken, until finally your body sagged in her hold, trembling, your strength drained.
The whispers hissed, but they were fading.
All that was left was Abby’s breath against your face. And Frances crying somewhere behind her, begging for you through hiccupped sobs.
You sagged in Abby’s grip, but your body still twitched with restless bursts of panic, your eyes darting like you were still searching for enemies in the shadows. Abby kept your wrists pinned, sweat dripping from her temple, her chest heaving.
Behind her, Frances’ cries had dwindled to hiccuping sobs in Lev’s arms. He shifted her against his chest, rubbing her back, his face pale with fear.
“Abby,” he said quietly. His free hand dug into his satchel. He pulled out a small vial and a syringe wrapped in cloth. “I found this on the road. A sedative. It’s safe—used in clinics before the outbreak.”
Abby’s eyes snapped to the needle, then back to you. You were thrashing again, muttering through your teeth. “Don’t take her—don’t take her—”
Abby’s grip faltered for half a second as guilt surged through her, but she forced herself to hold steady. “Lev…”
“You can’t keep her like this,” Lev pressed, voice urgent but calm. He adjusted Frances higher on his hip, shielding her from the sight of you. “She’ll hurt herself. Or you. Or worse—”
“Shut up!” you screamed, twisting hard enough that your shoulder popped. Abby grunted and pinned you tighter, her breath ragged.
Frances wailed again at the sound of your voice, reaching a small hand toward you, but Lev pulled her close, murmuring, “Not now, kid. Not now.”
Abby swallowed hard, her throat working. She looked at Lev, then at Frances, then back at you—wild-eyed, broken, spitting sobs.
Her voice cracked when she finally said it. “Take her upstairs. Keep her safe.”
Lev nodded once, clutching Frances. The little girl reached out, crying “Mommy! Mommy!” as he carried her up the stairs, her voice fading with every step.
The moment they were gone, Abby turned back to you. Her grip trembled on your wrists. She hated herself for what she was about to do.
“Jo… I’m sorry,” she whispered.
And with one arm pinning you, she reached for the syringe with the other.
When you woke, it was like coming up through tar. Heavy. Slow. Your body ached, your throat raw, your skin damp beneath the quilt. Rain tapped at the window, steady and cold.
You blinked hard, vision swimming until the room steadied. The farmhouse bedroom. The cedar chest. Abby’s boots by the door.
The door creaked. Abby stepped inside, carrying a mug. When she saw you upright, her shoulders dropped in relief, though her eyes stayed sharp, guarded.
“Jo,” she said softly. “You’re awake.”
You frowned, voice rasping. “What… happened?”
She set the mug down, sat on the edge of the bed. Her braid was frayed, dark circles hollowing her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“You don’t remember?”
“No.” You rubbed your temples, frustration biting at you. “I laid down. That’s it.”
Abby exhaled through her nose, staring at her hands before forcing the words out. “Jo… you had an episode. You—” She faltered, swallowing. “You scared Frances.”
Your heart lurched. “What? No. That’s not—”
“You grabbed a knife,” Abby pressed, her voice low but steady. “You swung it at me. Lev had to—”
“Stop.” The word shot out like a growl. Your chest tightened, anger sparking hot. “I would never do that.”
Abby’s jaw tightened. “You did.”
You shook your head hard, pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” she snapped, her voice breaking. “I had to hold you down, Jo. Lev had to carry Frances out of the room. She was screaming for you to stop.”
Something cracked in your chest, but the whispers surged faster, louder. She’s making this up. She wants to take your daughter from you.
“Don’t say that,” you spat, shoving the quilt off you, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “Don’t you dare put that in my head.”
Abby reached for your arm, but you jerked away violently.
Her voice softened, trembling now. “Jo… I’m not your enemy. But you can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening.”
You glared at her, breath ragged. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t say shit like that.”
The room went still. Only the rain outside filled the silence.
Abby’s hand dropped from the air, her expression breaking into something you couldn’t read—fear, sorrow, love, and frustration all tangled.
“Joan.” Abby’s voice was stern, clipped, the way she sounded when she wanted soldiers to listen. But there was a tremor beneath it. “You’ve been through a lot. And for some reason…” She swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the floor before coming back to you. “Now that things are calm, your brain—it’s dissolving back into panic. I don’t know why. But Lev found those pills, and—”
“I’m not fucking taking those!” you snapped, shoving her shoulder with enough force to make her stumble a half step back.
Her jaw clenched. She straightened. “Then you can’t stay here anymore.”
The words hit you like a slap. Your eyes went wide. “What?”
Abby’s gaze dropped, her mouth twisting as if the words tasted like poison. “Jo, when you get stressed, your brain starts… making you see things. Making you act like—” Her voice cracked before she forced it steady again. “Making you act insane.”
You shook your head, trembling. “You’re lying. You’re a liar!”
Abby winced as if the word cut deep. She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I’m not. You threatened me. You threatened Frances.”
“No,” you snarled, your voice breaking. “I would never—I’d never hurt her.”
Abby’s eyes flashed, pain twisting into anger. “But you did, Jo. You held a knife with her in your arms.”
The image slammed into you like a tidal wave—her words planting pictures in your mind you couldn’t tell were real or false. Frances crying, your own hand raised, blade glinting in the firelight. Your chest tightened until you could hardly breathe.
The whispers seized on it, cackling in your skull. She’s turning them against you. She’ll say anything to make them take Frances away.
You pressed your palms to your ears, shaking your head violently. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
But Abby thought you meant her. She flinched, tears springing to her eyes, her voice breaking open. “I’m trying to save you, Jo! But if you won’t let me—if you won’t even try—then I can’t protect Frances from you.”
Her words hung heavy, heavier than thunder.
And for the first time, you saw it in her face: she was serious.
Your chest heaved, every breath ragged. Abby’s words hung in the air, sharp as glass.
Take the pills or you can’t stay here.
You wanted to scream again, to shove her, to deny everything—but your body was finished. Your hands shook, your head throbbed, and the whispers had worn you down to nothing.
Slowly, you dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. You stared at the floorboards, unable to lift your gaze, unable to meet Abby’s eyes.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered. Your voice cracked, hoarse. “I can’t fight anymore.”
Abby didn’t move at first. Then you heard her cross the room, the soft clink of the bottle as she pulled it down from the shelf where Lev had left it. She came back, kneeling in front of you, holding the pill out in her palm.
“Just one,” she said softly, steady but broken at the edges. “That’s all I’m asking. Just one, Jo.”
For a long moment, you stared at it. The whispers hissed and clawed, telling you it was poison, that Abby wanted you gone.
But Frances’ voice echoed louder in your memory. Mommy, you’re hurting me.
Your hand lifted, trembling. You plucked the pill from her palm, placed it on your tongue, and swallowed it dry.
Abby’s eyes glistened, her jaw tight as she reached forward and cupped your face with both hands. “Thank you.”
You let your body sag forward, pressing your forehead against hers. Exhaustion pulled you down, heavy and final.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“I know,” Abby murmured, her thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. “But you’re not alone.”
For the first time in days, the whispers didn’t have the strength to answer.
The first week on the pills smears into one long, blurry smear of half-sleep and half-panic. Each morning, you sit at the kitchen table, elbows braced on the scarred wood, staring at the chipped mug in front of you. Abby slides the pill bottle across the table, the rattle inside too loud in the quiet farmhouse. You fumble with the cap, hands clumsy and shaking, and tip one pale tablet into your palm. The pill is so small—almost nothing—and yet you swallow it with a mouthful of cold water and feel the weight of it settle in your gut, like a stone dropped into a well.
Within an hour, the heaviness sets in. It’s as if the world is wrapped in a layer of wet wool. Every movement becomes an effort, like walking underwater, each limb resisting as if the air has thickened. You drift through the house with your mind fogged over, your body unsteady—reaching for a doorknob and missing it, bumping your hip into the corner of the table. By noon, a deep, dull headache blooms at the base of your skull, radiating behind your eyes and making the simple act of blinking a labor. There are moments when you stand too quickly, and the room contracts into a narrow tunnel of gray; the floor tilts, your knees buckle, and you have to clutch the counter to keep yourself upright.
The world shrinks to the essentials: eat, sleep, swallow the pill. You forget to change out of your pajamas until the afternoon, when Frances tugs at your sleeve and asks if you’re going to help her collect eggs. The thought of boots, of cold mud, is exhausting. You beg off, sinking back into the kitchen chair and resting your cheek on your fist, barely able to keep your eyes open. Your muscles ache as if you’ve been running for days, though you’ve hardly moved at all.
Frances notices the difference right away. She climbs into your lap after breakfast, a picture book tucked under her arm. She opens it on your knee, pointing at a drawing of a rabbit in a red scarf. You try to read aloud, but your voice is thick, slurring over the words, and you yawn in the middle of a sentence. She frowns, patting your cheek with her warm, sticky hand. “Why are you sleepy, Mommy?” she asks. The question stings. You force a thin smile and stroke her hair, whispering, “Just tired, bug.” The lie sits bitter on your tongue.
Guilt spreads through your chest, a dull ache that sits there all day. Abby notices too—she picks up the slack without a word. She feeds the chickens and goats, hauls the buckets of water from the pump, chops the firewood. You hear her moving through the house, quiet and efficient, but you can feel her gaze flicking to you when she thinks you’re not looking, her eyes searching your face for any sign of another storm coming.
Lev hovers more openly, watching you with a worried frown. He’s always just at the edge of the room, tidying the bookshelf, drying dishes, or scribbling notes in the margin of some battered manual. Every few hours, he asks, “Do you feel any different? Are the voices quieter? Are you seeing anything strange?” His questions gnaw at you, especially when you realize you have no good answer. One evening, when he presses too hard, you snap—voice sharper than you intend, “Leave me alone!” Lev’s eyes widen in hurt, his mouth opening, then closing as he turns away. The guilt is instant, raw, and it lingers, wrapping around your heart like wire.
That night, you watch the moon rise through the window, unable to sleep, body heavy and mind humming with static. It’s only been a few days, and you already feel lost inside your own skin.
The second week, everything gets quieter. The voices that used to slice through your skull are now little more than a murmur at the far edge of your mind, like wind lost somewhere in the walls. You can almost ignore them, almost pretend the worst is over—but it isn’t relief that fills the space they leave behind. It’s something else: a slow, creeping numbness that seeps into everything.
There’s no sharp panic now, no jolt of terror at every sudden sound or flicker of movement in the corner of your eye. But the stillness isn’t comfort—it’s absence. You wake each morning in a fog that never fully lifts, your body sluggish and your thoughts drifting in and out like they belong to someone else. The house feels muted, colors dulled, sounds muffled. Even the bite of the cold air when you open the door in the morning barely registers; it just slides over your skin and is gone.
Frances laughs in the yard, bright and wild, chasing the chickens as they scatter and flap their wings. You stand at the threshold, arms folded around your stomach, and watch her—trying to summon the warmth you know you should feel. Her laughter bounces off the barn walls, and you smile at her, but it’s hollow. There’s a pane of glass between you and the world, and everything on the other side—joy, excitement, even irritation—feels unreachable, faded. When Abby makes a joke while washing the breakfast dishes, you mirror her smile automatically, but the curve of your lips feels foreign, a motion borrowed from someone else.
The headaches remain, a steady pressure behind your eyes, throbbing whenever you bend to tie your boots or scrub at the sink. New aches join them: a dull soreness in your hands and wrists, a heaviness in your shoulders that no amount of stretching relieves. When you try to thread a needle or stir soup in the evening, your fingers tremble just enough to spill broth or drop the spool into your lap. Abby quietly takes the spoon from your hand and finishes the task, her movements gentle, her eyes full of questions she doesn’t ask.
You find yourself sleeping more—afternoon naps that bleed into dusk, nights so deep you don’t move for hours. But the sleep is a blank expanse, dreamless and heavy. You wake up feeling no more rested, the fatigue settled deep in your bones. Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, empty of thought.
Abby notices. Some nights, she reaches across the sheets to find your hand, her thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. Her voice is a whisper, barely more than a breath in the dark. “You’re here, but you’re not.” You don’t answer. You just turn your face toward the window, eyes open until dawn.
Frances seems to sense the shift, too. She starts choosing Abby’s lap over yours, curling into her side during story time or reaching for her hand when it’s time to head out to the barn. You watch them together, the ease between them, and tell yourself it’s for the best. She deserves warmth, and you aren’t sure you have any left to give.
And so you drift through the week, everything muted, everything distant. The world keeps moving, but you’re caught behind the glass, pressing your hand to it, waiting for something to break.
By the third week, the numbness feels like suffocation. You’re desperate for something—anything—to crack the shell around your mind. One morning, as Abby stands at the stove and Lev sits scribbling quietly at the table, you palm the pill, slipping it under your tongue as you sip water. You press your lips together, let your head loll back, and pretend to swallow. Abby’s watching, but she’s distracted, and you manage to keep the secret.
At first, nothing happens. You go through the morning as usual—blank, slow, drifting through chores. But by late afternoon, you feel a familiar tension prickling at the back of your neck, the world turning sharper around the edges. The whispers that had been muffled all month start to worm their way back in, sly at first: Liar. Coward. Poisoner. You try to ignore them, but they grow louder, twisting your own thoughts until you can’t tell where the voices end and your own anxiety begins.
Soon, every movement sets your nerves on edge. Your skin crawls. The barn feels too small, shadows stretching in every corner. You pace circles in the straw, boots scraping the floor, nails digging hard into your scalp as you tug your hair. Your breath comes in shallow, panting bursts. You mutter to yourself, the words tumbling out, fighting to drown out the whispers: “No, no, I’m not—I’m not—” But the voices only get stronger: You’re poisoning yourself. You’re poisoning them. They want you gone. Abby wants you gone.
Abby finds you like that—curled in on yourself in the shadowy corner, hands tangled in your hair, face streaked with sweat and tears you don’t remember shedding. Her voice is soft but unyielding, the same voice she used to use on patrol when someone was losing it from fear. “Jo, come inside. Come on. I’ve got you.” She kneels and takes your wrists, guiding you to your feet, ignoring how you try to pull away.
Inside, she sits you at the table and pours you a glass of water. She holds out the pill bottle, her expression stony but sad. “Take it,” she says, and she waits. This time she doesn’t look away until you open your mouth and show her your tongue, swallowing with a shudder.
From then on, Abby makes sure she’s always there—standing close, her eyes never leaving your face, waiting for proof you’ve taken the medication before she lets you out of her sight. You feel like a child, managed and monitored, stripped of the last scraps of your privacy.
Lev grows more persistent. He hovers, careful but always nearby, asking in that soft, analytical tone, “Are the voices quieter now? Are you still seeing things?” Every question lands like a splinter under your skin. Sometimes you answer, but more often you don’t—just a shake of your head, or a clipped, “I’m fine.”
The tension in the house builds, as thick as storm clouds. You catch Abby and Lev sharing glances over your head when they think you aren’t watching, the kind that carry all the things they won’t say aloud. Frances senses it, too—she plays more quietly, her laughter less frequent, her eyes darting between you and Abby for reassurance.
You want to scream—at Lev, at Abby, at the walls closing in around you—but there’s no room left inside for anger, only exhaustion and shame. So you shrink into yourself, the house growing quieter and smaller by the day, the weight of being watched pressing on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.
By the fourth week, you move through each day as if your body is separate from your mind. There’s a schedule now: wake, take the pill, stare at the wall until breakfast, sit at the table while Frances and Abby talk around you. The world is muted—sound, color, even hunger. Food has lost its taste; your stomach never really growls. Grief and joy, both, have been carved out of you and set aside like bones left after a meal. When you try to remember the last time you cried, there’s only a blank space, as if you’ve forgotten what sadness is supposed to feel like.
Frances grows quieter around you. Each day, she asks less often to sit in your lap, or to be carried to the barn on your hip. You watch her growing legs, her curls bouncing as she runs to Abby instead. Sometimes she looks at you from across the room, a question in her eyes—one you’re too tired to answer. She curls into Abby at bedtime, letting herself be scooped up and rocked, her arms tight around Abby’s neck while you stand in the doorway, arms folded, feeling like an intruder in your own home.
Abby’s patience seems bottomless. She never complains, never raises her voice, not even when Frances cries in the night or when you forget to light the fire and the house grows cold. But you catch her sometimes standing at the window, staring out across the dark fields, her brow furrowed, lost in a worry she won’t share with you. Sometimes, when she thinks you’re asleep, you feel her hand rest lightly on your back, as if she’s making sure you haven’t slipped away altogether.
Lev senses the change too. He moves more quietly through the house now, careful not to crowd you. He still checks in—“Did you eat? Are you warm enough?”—but his voice is softer, his questions fewer. The sharp, clinical curiosity he once had is gone, replaced by something more tender and sad. Sometimes he leaves books by your chair or places a cup of tea beside you, but he doesn’t linger for an answer.
The house feels vast and echoing, the silence settling into the rafters. You wander from room to room, never quite sure what you’re looking for. Sometimes you stand outside Frances’ door, listening to her and Abby laugh over some story or game, the sound as distant as wind through glass. You press your palm to the wood and wait for a feeling that never comes.
One night, when the rain begins to lash the fields, you slip outside onto the porch. The storm rolls across the sky in bruised colors—purple-black clouds, lightning flickering at the horizon, the air thick and electric. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, and let the cold seep into your bones. The world is quiet, and so are you.
Abby finds you there, her footsteps soft on the old wood. She doesn’t say anything at first. She just drapes a blanket over your shoulders, its wool scratchy and warm, and sits down beside you. After a moment, she leans in, rests her head against your shoulder, and wraps her arm around your back. Her weight is solid, anchoring you, her breath slow and steady against your ear.
You close your eyes and try to feel it—the warmth, the safety, the familiar shape of her beside you. For the first time in weeks, something stirs beneath the numbness. It isn’t much—just a flicker, a hint of what you used to feel. But you hold onto it, fiercely, letting it burn in your chest for as long as you can, hoping it might grow into something more.
The days get longer. The storms pass, and the fields around the farm begin to flush green and gold with the early stretch of spring. You still take your pill every morning, but something in you begins to shift—so subtle at first you nearly miss it. The world seems a little brighter. The air, a little sharper in your lungs. You notice the taste of things again: the tang of salt on bread, the sweetness of honey on your tongue. Hunger returns, gentle but insistent, curling in your belly at breakfast. The headaches linger, but they’re weaker now, and most mornings you wake with the feeling of a half-remembered dream instead of a blank fog.
You move differently, too. Some days your steps are still heavy, your limbs thick as clay. But there are mornings when you catch yourself humming in the kitchen as you set the kettle to boil, and the sound surprises you. Frances pauses at the door, peering up at you like she’s seeing a ghost. You smile at her—a real, lopsided smile—and she crosses the kitchen to throw her arms around your waist. She sits in your lap again, pressing her cold feet against your legs, chattering about chickens and books and whatever new thought tumbles from her head. You listen, and you laugh—a thin sound at first, scratchy, but real.
Abby notices the change. You see it in her posture: the slow uncoiling of tension from her shoulders, the way her eyes follow you around the room with hope and disbelief. She doesn’t say anything at first—she just cooks more, lingers longer at the table after meals, brings you tea in the evening and curls up next to you in bed without asking. Sometimes she watches you as you sleep, and when you wake, she just smiles and brushes the hair from your forehead.
Lev is more cautious, but you catch him smiling sometimes when he thinks you aren’t looking. He starts leaving books on the arm of your chair again, notebooks filled with pressed flowers and diagrams of herbs he found out in the fields. Some mornings, you find him and Frances sitting on the porch, heads bent together over a scavenged deck of playing cards, arguing about the rules and laughing until they’re breathless. When you join them, Frances tugs you down beside her, and Lev scoots over to make room.
Not everything comes back at once. The numbness still lingers at the edges—sometimes a gray morning, sometimes an hour before bed when you feel the world drifting away again. But you’re learning how to anchor yourself: in Frances’ laughter, in Abby’s arms, in the shape of the farm when the sun rises over the fields.
You catch yourself humming. You find your hands don’t shake so much when you mend Frances’ torn dress or cut carrots for soup. Sometimes, when Abby squeezes your hand, a warmth rises in your chest so sudden and sharp it nearly makes you cry. And sometimes you let yourself cry, quiet tears in the kitchen with Abby holding you, both of you saying nothing because words aren’t needed.
The voices are quieter now—just the smallest ripple in the dark. And for the first time in a long while, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, you can live with them.

Chapter 120: The Months ahead

Notes:

okay i miss writing lesbian sex so shes gotta be better for a bit everytime she has an episode im like "holy fuck girl" and im literally the one writing L:OL

You still take the pill each morning. Some days, you resent it—the bitter, chalky taste on your tongue, the feeling of surrender as you tilt your head back and swallow. Other days, the pill is a quiet relief, a kind of pact: take this, and you’ll get through another day. Most mornings, Abby sits across from you at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of tea, watching as you shake the bottle and tip one tablet into your palm. The routine is still strange, but it’s easier than it was. Your hands are steadier. You don’t avoid her eyes as often.
The numbness isn’t gone, but it’s fading. It peels away in thin, uneven layers, letting the world seep back in. You wake up hungry sometimes, belly rumbling with the urge for eggs or bread. You find yourself noticing taste again—the sharp saltiness of cheese, the buttery softness of potatoes, the sweet crunch of an apple Frances sneaks from the pantry and presses into your hand, grinning.
Breakfast is brighter than it used to be. Frances sits on her knees at the table, face smeared with jam, making faces at you across the dishes. Sometimes, when you catch yourself staring into the distance, she sticks out her tongue or pulls her lips wide, trying to draw a laugh from you. And sometimes she succeeds. Your laughter feels strange at first, creaky from disuse, but it bubbles out anyway, and you see the way it lights her up—her eyes go wide, her shoulders lift, and she grins so big it’s impossible not to grin back.
The heavy days aren’t gone. There are mornings when you wake and the old fog still presses against your skull, makes your limbs heavy, your mouth slow to speak. On those days, the chores feel endless, your body aches, and all you want is to hide in bed. But those mornings are fewer now. They’re just interruptions, not the rhythm of your life.
Frances starts to crawl into your lap again. Sometimes she brings a comb and plops herself between your knees, tilting her head back with the utter trust only a child can give. “Braids, please,” she says, and you try—fumbling, clumsy, your fingers not as sure as Abby’s. Frances giggles every time you drop a strand, or when your braids turn out lopsided, and you can’t help but laugh with her. “It’s okay, Mommy,” she assures you, pressing her forehead to yours. “It looks pretty.” You brush your fingers over her curls and feel, for a moment, wholly present.
Abby’s hope is quieter, steadier than Frances’s, but you see it all the same. It’s in the way she looks at you across the kitchen, her eyes brighter, her shoulders less tense. Sometimes, in the afternoon, you catch her smiling just because you’re humming a song to yourself while you sweep or slice carrots for stew. For the first time in a long while, you’re able to meet her gaze and hold it, let her see the real you peering back out. It feels like forgiveness and promise all at once.
Lev is gentler now, too. One evening, as you sit curled on the old sofa by the fire, he brings you a battered, water-stained book about wildflowers and places it in your lap. “I thought you’d like this,” he says, almost shy. You open it, careful with the fragile pages, and actually read—slowly at first, then with growing interest. You start pressing small, bright petals between the pages, marking your favorites, thinking about which ones you might plant with Frances when the soil is ready.
There are still moments when you fear the fog’s return. But for the first time in months, the hope that you could live—really live—creeps back in, fragile as spring grass pushing up through cold earth. And each day you gather more evidence: the taste of food, the sound of your own laughter, the way Frances curls into you at bedtime and Abby’s hand finds yours under the covers, fingers laced tight, holding on.
The days lengthen, the air softening with the promise of spring. The icy bite of winter has faded, replaced by warmth that soaks into your skin when you step outside. You feel it in the dirt—the way it clings to your fingers as you kneel beside Abby in the garden, the sun warming your back. She shows you how to rake the soil, how to dig narrow furrows for beans, onions, squash. Your hands ache by noon, knuckles swollen and stiff, but the ache is a gift—proof you’re using your body for something that matters. You drag your nails through black earth and watch as seeds disappear beneath your fingers, safe and hidden, a promise of what’s to come.
The world around you brightens. One afternoon, you stand up straight to stretch your back and catch your breath—then find yourself staring at the sky. It’s bluer than you remembered, the clouds shifting and breaking apart like soft white sails. You track a bird’s flight across the horizon, listening to its song. The air is sweet, green, and full of growing things. You realize, with a jolt, that you’d forgotten how beautiful the world could be.
Frances is a whirlwind, tugging your hand, insisting you help her build a tiny garden behind the shed “for the fairies.” She brings you pebbles, bottle caps, even a rusted spoon to use as a shovel. Together, you dig shallow holes for wildflower seeds, arrange stones in a crooked circle, and place broken bits of pottery to mark the fairy “beds.” Frances narrates every step in a high, breathless whisper, spinning stories as you work. You watch her cheeks flush, her curls wild, and feel a fierce pride settle in your chest.
At the end of the day, your whole body hums with exhaustion—a slow, good tired that seeps into your bones. You sit with Abby on the porch as the sky turns gold and purple. She peels off your work gloves and massages your sore hands, her thumb gentle against your palm. Sometimes, in the quiet, the old ache returns—a flicker of fear, the familiar pang of anxiety curling in your stomach. But it’s different now: you can talk about it. Some evenings, you lean against Abby, your head on her shoulder, and whisper, “I’m scared, sometimes, that I’ll slip back. That the fog will come again.” Abby never rushes you. She just holds you tighter, rocking you as if you’re something precious, murmuring, “If it does, we’ll face it together. I promise.” She waits until your trembling fades, until your breath evens, before she lets go.
Lev is still diligent, quietly counting your pills every week, tracking how many are left with a careful eye. He never scolds or lectures—he just brings you a glass of water every morning, sets the pill on the table, and nods as you take it. His steadiness is another kind of anchor.
You fall asleep each night exhausted, but peaceful. You wake with aches in your muscles and dirt under your fingernails, but the heaviness in your chest is lighter. Sometimes, lying in bed, you listen to Frances snoring in the next room, Abby’s breath slow beside you, and you think: I’m really still here. I’m part of this world again.
By the fourth month, painting feels less like rediscovery and more like coming home. Even back in Santa Barbara, you painted on found wood and scraps, mixing colors from scavenged berries and river clay, desperate to hold onto something beautiful in all the ruin. But here, the act is different. Here, you paint not to survive, but to belong.
Frances remembers those nights in Santa Barbara too—how you’d sit her on your knee, sketch her curls or the curve of the coast as she dozed in your lap. Now, settled on the farm, you have time and space to spread out. Abby found you some old, sun-bleached acrylics and a handful of brushes at a trading post weeks ago, bartering with dried herbs and a knife she forged herself. She leaves the box on your side of the kitchen table, says nothing, but gives you a look that’s more permission than invitation: “Whenever you’re ready.”
You find yourself drawn back to the ritual at dusk, the kitchen filling with gold light. Frances sprawls on the floor with her own watercolors, tongue poking out as she paints a crooked sun over a field of green blobs she swears are goats. You work beside her, hands steadier now. You layer sky and soil, try to capture the way evening stretches lavender over the fields, or the way Abby’s hair gleams as she chops wood outside. Sometimes you paint from memory—Santa Barbara’s rocky beaches, Lev and Frances standing at the water’s edge, Abby’s back hunched over a broken engine in the sand.
Painting together becomes your anchor. Abby sits with you sometimes, just to watch, her hand warm on your back. Lev offers suggestions “add more yellow for the fireflies!”, and Frances crowds you with questions, wanting to paint her own stories beside yours.
The walls of the house fill up again: not just with survival, but with images of living, of hope, of the new family you’ve found and the worlds you’ve lost. The colors come easier with each day, your lines more confident, your heart lighter.
And through it all, the act of creating is no longer just about escape—it’s about presence. You feel it in the brush, in Frances’s giggle, in Abby’s quiet pride.
Things are better now—truly better, in ways you once thought impossible. You can feel it in the quiet of your mind, in the laughter at the dinner table, in the way the fear no longer stalks you at every turn. But there’s a new tension beneath it all: the pill bottle is light in your hand, Lev’s careful inventory shrinking week by week. You see it in the way Abby looks at you after each dose, searching for reassurance. It’s not fear, exactly. Just the knowledge that you’re running out of time, and out of pills.
Lev, ever the student, has been poring over a thick, dog-eared psychology book he found in a schoolhouse outside town. One night, while Frances is asleep upstairs, he sits across from you at the table and reads aloud: “Trauma can cause hallucinations, dissociation, anxiety, depression…” The word—trauma—lingers in your head long after Lev’s voice fades. You repeat it to yourself like a charm and a curse. Didn’t everyone out here have it? Who was left untouched by loss?
Abby, sensing your worry, is gentle with her answers. “Everyone’s different, Jo. I used to think I was broken because I couldn’t sleep after Seattle. Couldn’t shut off the dreams, the fear.” That night, she opens up to you—softly, shyly—about her nightmares, about the way she’d stay awake listening for footsteps, always braced for danger. Her honesty is a balm. You realize, for the first time, that you’re not the only one carrying ghosts.
On one golden afternoon, you find yourself upstairs in the little room you’ve claimed for painting. Abby had traded at the market for a stack of rough canvases and a few jars of paint, then spent a weekend piecing together a serviceable easel from scavenged wood. The supplies are simple, but they feel like treasure. Today, you’re chasing the color of the fields outside, trying to catch the exact shade of green that floods the pasture in early summer. The room is hot and stuffy, light slanting through the window and falling in bright stripes across your bare arms. You pause, brush hovering, eyes tracing the movement of a distant hawk against the sky.
You feel restless. The farmhouse—once your sanctuary—now feels a little too small. Abby and Lev travel to town almost every week for supplies, for news, for the simple freedom of movement. Frances is five now, all legs and wild hair, growing taller every day. You watch her run in and out of the barn, fearless, and wonder if maybe, now that things are better, you could ride out into town yourself. Maybe take Frances, show her more of the world you fought so hard to stay alive in.
Abby seems to sense your longing before you say a word. One evening, she brings you out to the barn, where a sturdy bay mare waits in a newly-mended stall. “She’s ours now,” Abby says, pride in her voice and a glint in her eye. “One of the folks east of here owed us a favor. I thought maybe learning to ride would help. Give you a reason to go a little further from home. When you’re ready.”
You stroke the horse’s soft nose, her breath warm against your palm, and feel something like courage stirring deep inside you. Maybe you are ready to leave the house. Maybe, with Abby and Frances at your side, and Lev close behind, you could start to reclaim the world outside these walls—one ride at a time.

Chapter 121: The Months ahead

Notes:

okay i miss writing lesbian sex so shes gotta be better for a bit everytime she has an episode im like "holy fuck girl" and im literally the one writing L:OL

You still take the pill each morning. Some days, you resent it—the bitter, chalky taste on your tongue, the feeling of surrender as you tilt your head back and swallow. Other days, the pill is a quiet relief, a kind of pact: take this, and you’ll get through another day. Most mornings, Abby sits across from you at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of tea, watching as you shake the bottle and tip one tablet into your palm. The routine is still strange, but it’s easier than it was. Your hands are steadier. You don’t avoid her eyes as often.
The numbness isn’t gone, but it’s fading. It peels away in thin, uneven layers, letting the world seep back in. You wake up hungry sometimes, belly rumbling with the urge for eggs or bread. You find yourself noticing taste again—the sharp saltiness of cheese, the buttery softness of potatoes, the sweet crunch of an apple Frances sneaks from the pantry and presses into your hand, grinning.
Breakfast is brighter than it used to be. Frances sits on her knees at the table, face smeared with jam, making faces at you across the dishes. Sometimes, when you catch yourself staring into the distance, she sticks out her tongue or pulls her lips wide, trying to draw a laugh from you. And sometimes she succeeds. Your laughter feels strange at first, creaky from disuse, but it bubbles out anyway, and you see the way it lights her up—her eyes go wide, her shoulders lift, and she grins so big it’s impossible not to grin back.
The heavy days aren’t gone. There are mornings when you wake and the old fog still presses against your skull, makes your limbs heavy, your mouth slow to speak. On those days, the chores feel endless, your body aches, and all you want is to hide in bed. But those mornings are fewer now. They’re just interruptions, not the rhythm of your life.
Frances starts to crawl into your lap again. Sometimes she brings a comb and plops herself between your knees, tilting her head back with the utter trust only a child can give. “Braids, please,” she says, and you try—fumbling, clumsy, your fingers not as sure as Abby’s. Frances giggles every time you drop a strand, or when your braids turn out lopsided, and you can’t help but laugh with her. “It’s okay, Mommy,” she assures you, pressing her forehead to yours. “It looks pretty.” You brush your fingers over her curls and feel, for a moment, wholly present.
Abby’s hope is quieter, steadier than Frances’s, but you see it all the same. It’s in the way she looks at you across the kitchen, her eyes brighter, her shoulders less tense. Sometimes, in the afternoon, you catch her smiling just because you’re humming a song to yourself while you sweep or slice carrots for stew. For the first time in a long while, you’re able to meet her gaze and hold it, let her see the real you peering back out. It feels like forgiveness and promise all at once.
Lev is gentler now, too. One evening, as you sit curled on the old sofa by the fire, he brings you a battered, water-stained book about wildflowers and places it in your lap. “I thought you’d like this,” he says, almost shy. You open it, careful with the fragile pages, and actually read—slowly at first, then with growing interest. You start pressing small, bright petals between the pages, marking your favorites, thinking about which ones you might plant with Frances when the soil is ready.
There are still moments when you fear the fog’s return. But for the first time in months, the hope that you could live—really live—creeps back in, fragile as spring grass pushing up through cold earth. And each day you gather more evidence: the taste of food, the sound of your own laughter, the way Frances curls into you at bedtime and Abby’s hand finds yours under the covers, fingers laced tight, holding on.
The days lengthen, the air softening with the promise of spring. The icy bite of winter has faded, replaced by warmth that soaks into your skin when you step outside. You feel it in the dirt—the way it clings to your fingers as you kneel beside Abby in the garden, the sun warming your back. She shows you how to rake the soil, how to dig narrow furrows for beans, onions, squash. Your hands ache by noon, knuckles swollen and stiff, but the ache is a gift—proof you’re using your body for something that matters. You drag your nails through black earth and watch as seeds disappear beneath your fingers, safe and hidden, a promise of what’s to come.
The world around you brightens. One afternoon, you stand up straight to stretch your back and catch your breath—then find yourself staring at the sky. It’s bluer than you remembered, the clouds shifting and breaking apart like soft white sails. You track a bird’s flight across the horizon, listening to its song. The air is sweet, green, and full of growing things. You realize, with a jolt, that you’d forgotten how beautiful the world could be.
Frances is a whirlwind, tugging your hand, insisting you help her build a tiny garden behind the shed “for the fairies.” She brings you pebbles, bottle caps, even a rusted spoon to use as a shovel. Together, you dig shallow holes for wildflower seeds, arrange stones in a crooked circle, and place broken bits of pottery to mark the fairy “beds.” Frances narrates every step in a high, breathless whisper, spinning stories as you work. You watch her cheeks flush, her curls wild, and feel a fierce pride settle in your chest.
At the end of the day, your whole body hums with exhaustion—a slow, good tired that seeps into your bones. You sit with Abby on the porch as the sky turns gold and purple. She peels off your work gloves and massages your sore hands, her thumb gentle against your palm. Sometimes, in the quiet, the old ache returns—a flicker of fear, the familiar pang of anxiety curling in your stomach. But it’s different now: you can talk about it. Some evenings, you lean against Abby, your head on her shoulder, and whisper, “I’m scared, sometimes, that I’ll slip back. That the fog will come again.” Abby never rushes you. She just holds you tighter, rocking you as if you’re something precious, murmuring, “If it does, we’ll face it together. I promise.” She waits until your trembling fades, until your breath evens, before she lets go.
Lev is still diligent, quietly counting your pills every week, tracking how many are left with a careful eye. He never scolds or lectures—he just brings you a glass of water every morning, sets the pill on the table, and nods as you take it. His steadiness is another kind of anchor.
You fall asleep each night exhausted, but peaceful. You wake with aches in your muscles and dirt under your fingernails, but the heaviness in your chest is lighter. Sometimes, lying in bed, you listen to Frances snoring in the next room, Abby’s breath slow beside you, and you think: I’m really still here. I’m part of this world again.
By the fourth month, painting feels less like rediscovery and more like coming home. Even back in Santa Barbara, you painted on found wood and scraps, mixing colors from scavenged berries and river clay, desperate to hold onto something beautiful in all the ruin. But here, the act is different. Here, you paint not to survive, but to belong.
Frances remembers those nights in Santa Barbara too—how you’d sit her on your knee, sketch her curls or the curve of the coast as she dozed in your lap. Now, settled on the farm, you have time and space to spread out. Abby found you some old, sun-bleached acrylics and a handful of brushes at a trading post weeks ago, bartering with dried herbs and a knife she forged herself. She leaves the box on your side of the kitchen table, says nothing, but gives you a look that’s more permission than invitation: “Whenever you’re ready.”
You find yourself drawn back to the ritual at dusk, the kitchen filling with gold light. Frances sprawls on the floor with her own watercolors, tongue poking out as she paints a crooked sun over a field of green blobs she swears are goats. You work beside her, hands steadier now. You layer sky and soil, try to capture the way evening stretches lavender over the fields, or the way Abby’s hair gleams as she chops wood outside. Sometimes you paint from memory—Santa Barbara’s rocky beaches, Lev and Frances standing at the water’s edge, Abby’s back hunched over a broken engine in the sand.
Painting together becomes your anchor. Abby sits with you sometimes, just to watch, her hand warm on your back. Lev offers suggestions “add more yellow for the fireflies!”, and Frances crowds you with questions, wanting to paint her own stories beside yours.
The walls of the house fill up again: not just with survival, but with images of living, of hope, of the new family you’ve found and the worlds you’ve lost. The colors come easier with each day, your lines more confident, your heart lighter.
And through it all, the act of creating is no longer just about escape—it’s about presence. You feel it in the brush, in Frances’s giggle, in Abby’s quiet pride.
Things are better now—truly better, in ways you once thought impossible. You can feel it in the quiet of your mind, in the laughter at the dinner table, in the way the fear no longer stalks you at every turn. But there’s a new tension beneath it all: the pill bottle is light in your hand, Lev’s careful inventory shrinking week by week. You see it in the way Abby looks at you after each dose, searching for reassurance. It’s not fear, exactly. Just the knowledge that you’re running out of time, and out of pills.
Lev, ever the student, has been poring over a thick, dog-eared psychology book he found in a schoolhouse outside town. One night, while Frances is asleep upstairs, he sits across from you at the table and reads aloud: “Trauma can cause hallucinations, dissociation, anxiety, depression…” The word—trauma—lingers in your head long after Lev’s voice fades. You repeat it to yourself like a charm and a curse. Didn’t everyone out here have it? Who was left untouched by loss?
Abby, sensing your worry, is gentle with her answers. “Everyone’s different, Jo. I used to think I was broken because I couldn’t sleep after Seattle. Couldn’t shut off the dreams, the fear.” That night, she opens up to you—softly, shyly—about her nightmares, about the way she’d stay awake listening for footsteps, always braced for danger. Her honesty is a balm. You realize, for the first time, that you’re not the only one carrying ghosts.
On one golden afternoon, you find yourself upstairs in the little room you’ve claimed for painting. Abby had traded at the market for a stack of rough canvases and a few jars of paint, then spent a weekend piecing together a serviceable easel from scavenged wood. The supplies are simple, but they feel like treasure. Today, you’re chasing the color of the fields outside, trying to catch the exact shade of green that floods the pasture in early summer. The room is hot and stuffy, light slanting through the window and falling in bright stripes across your bare arms. You pause, brush hovering, eyes tracing the movement of a distant hawk against the sky.
You feel restless. The farmhouse—once your sanctuary—now feels a little too small. Abby and Lev travel to town almost every week for supplies, for news, for the simple freedom of movement. Frances is five now, all legs and wild hair, growing taller every day. You watch her run in and out of the barn, fearless, and wonder if maybe, now that things are better, you could ride out into town yourself. Maybe take Frances, show her more of the world you fought so hard to stay alive in.
Abby seems to sense your longing before you say a word. One evening, she brings you out to the barn, where a sturdy bay mare waits in a newly-mended stall. “She’s ours now,” Abby says, pride in her voice and a glint in her eye. “One of the folks east of here owed us a favor. I thought maybe learning to ride would help. Give you a reason to go a little further from home. When you’re ready.”
You stroke the horse’s soft nose, her breath warm against your palm, and feel something like courage stirring deep inside you. Maybe you are ready to leave the house. Maybe, with Abby and Frances at your side, and Lev close behind, you could start to reclaim the world outside these walls—one ride at a time.

Chapter 122: Hot morning Lesbian sex basically

The next morning, you wake before the house stirs, the first soft blush of sunrise seeping through the window. Abby is beside you, her breathing slow and deep, lashes brushing her sunburned cheeks. Light spills across her shoulders, picking out the new freckles dusted along her collarbone, the faded tan lines on her arms from days spent working in the field. You lie there for a moment, simply watching her, a quiet contentment humming through your chest. It’s a strange, new feeling—happiness, clean and uncomplicated, with no shadow waiting behind it.
You turn on your side, facing her. It’s been a while since she reached for you first, and you understand why; illness is a hard distance to bridge. But looking at her now—her tank top hanging loose over her chest, hair tangled from sleep—you feel that old ache, the hunger for her touch. You reach out and brush a strand of hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. Her eyelids flutter open and her blue eyes meet yours, soft with surprise and sleep.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and press your lips to hers. She’s awake in an instant, the last traces of sleep falling away as she kisses you back—hungry, already moving over you with a heat you’d nearly forgotten. Her hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You can feel the faint sting of her sunburn against your fingers as you wrap your arms around her.
You try to shift, to pull her beneath you, but she’s already guiding you down, her body pressing you into the mattress. Lately, she’s always taken the lead, always been the one to set the pace—something protective in it, something careful. You understand, but this morning, something inside you wants to break free. You push gently at her shoulder, a question in your touch, but she shakes her head, her hair falling like a curtain over both of you.
“Let me,” she whispers, her mouth warm against your jaw. Her tongue slips past your lips, tasting of sleep and summer, and you lose yourself for a moment in the press of her body. Her hand slips beneath your shirt, rough palm skating over your ribs and down to your waist. She moves with surety, sliding your pants down, her touch quick and eager.
“So wet for me already, baby,” she murmurs into your mouth, voice low and rough, making your face flush with heat. You squirm beneath her, cheeks burning, both embarrassed and desperate. You want to flip her, want to feel the weight of her beneath you, but she holds you fast, her strength pinning you in place.
She hushes you, her lips moving to your throat, tracing a slow line down your neck. “I need this,” she breathes against your skin, her words a confession. “Just let me feel you. Let me have this.” Her hands and mouth move in perfect rhythm, and you surrender to her, the room filling with golden light, your world narrowing to the space between your bodies—skin on skin, breath tangled, hearts hammering out a promise that for now, you’re both safe, both alive, and both home.
Her fingers move in slow, patient circles, working you with the kind of focus that makes your breath stutter and your body arch into her. You gasp softly into her mouth, your own lips parting around her name. Abby reads your body with ease—curling her fingers just right, thumb pressed against the spot that makes your whole body shudder. Each motion is gentle, reverent, her thumb coaxing the pleasure out of you until your hips lift and your hands claw at her shoulders, desperate for more.
You want her—want to return every ounce of feeling she’s giving you. But before you can move, she’s already reaching for the harness on the nightstand. Her hands are deft, and you can’t help the rush of nerves and excitement that crackles through you. She fumbles a little in her hurry, her hands shaking with something that feels almost like relief.
“Abby… let me…,” you try, wanting to touch her, to take control for once. But she just leans down, her hair falling across your cheek, and hushes you with a kiss, her words a soft plea. “Let me do it. I need this, Jo. Please.”
You nod, your body loose and open beneath her. You surrender, trusting her completely as she slides the harness on, adjusting the straps with practiced hands. She spreads your legs, her palms sliding up the inside of your thighs, grounding you. You shiver as the cool silicone presses gently against your skin, the anticipation and ache blooming through your belly.
Abby settles between your legs, her strong shoulders braced above you, her face tender. She pauses, checking your eyes for any flicker of fear, any shadow. But all you feel is want. She presses forward, slow and careful, watching your face, and you cling to her, holding onto the strength of her body as the stretch builds and you sink into it.
She exhales a low, shaky breath, the base of the harness pressing into her, and you realize how much she’s missed this—how much she’s needed you. “Good job,” she murmurs, her voice deep and proud. “Take it nice and slow for me, baby.” Her words are sweet and filthy at once, and you feel your body clench around her, a moan escaping before you can stop it.
You wrap your legs around her waist, drawing her closer. Abby presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your lips, never rushing, her rhythm steady and loving. Each thrust is slow, tender, filling you with the kind of longing that hurts in the best way. You can see the strain and want in her eyes, the softness that’s only for you. The air in the room grows warm, golden with sunlight and the heat of your bodies pressed together.
You move with her, hips rocking up, arms tight around her shoulders. The world slips away, until it’s just the two of you—breath and skin, heartbeats tangled. It’s different this time: not desperate, not frantic, but something healing, something whole. Abby buries her face in your neck, whispering your name as you fall apart in her arms, and you cling to her, grateful, alive, found.
Abby’s hips begin to stutter, her rhythm faltering as her breath quickens. You can feel her getting close—her movements more desperate, the base of the harness pressing perfectly against her. She bites her lip, her knuckles white where she grips your waist. Then, in a burst of energy, she flips you both, guiding you on top of her, the sunlight spilling across your tangled bodies.
She’s breathless, eyes wide and hungry. “Show me, baby,” she murmurs, her voice thick and raw. “Let me see you. Show me how you like it.”
The words hit something deep and wicked inside you. You cover your face, shy and overwhelmed, but Abby gently tugs your hands away, her grip firm and reassuring. She holds your hips, rocking you slowly over her, guiding your movements with gentle encouragement. “Come on, Jo, please,” she whispers, need and tenderness entwined in every word. “Let me watch you, honey. Let me see you fall apart.”
You whimper, embarrassment and arousal tangling in your belly, but you start to move—rolling your hips, grinding down until the base hits her just right, the stretch inside you blooming with heat. Abby’s head falls back, her brows pinched in pleasure, her eyes glued to you as you move above her. You feel naked in every sense—straddling her, letting her see every part of you, every shiver and gasp. But when you meet her gaze and see the adoration, the longing, the pride shining in her face, the shame slips away. All that’s left is want.
“Abby—it’s so good,” you gasp, your voice thin and shaky as the pleasure builds.
She nods, reaching up to brush the hair from your eyes, her thumb stroking your cheek. “I know, baby. Here—let me help you. Is it hard to come?” Her voice softens, full of concern and knowing. “Are you having a hard time, my poor Jo?”
You nod, biting your lip, focusing on the feeling, chasing it as best you can. You know it’s the medication—Lev’s book listed it plainly, right there with grogginess and headaches: delayed release, muted pleasure, as if your body is just out of sync with your own desire. Abby sees your mind drift and snaps her fingers to call you back. “Hey, focus here, honey.”
Without warning, she reaches for the little wand in the nightstand, flicks it on, and presses it against you just where you need it most. The vibration jolts through you, sharp and immediate. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming, your whole body shaking as the sensation crashes over you.
“Good,” Abby croons, voice low and hot in your ear. “Yeah, just like that. Let go for me. Focus on this—on us. I’ve got you.” She rocks her hips up, matching your rhythm, her eyes never leaving your face.
It’s enough—more than enough. You fall apart for her, trembling and wild, the pleasure flooding you in waves as Abby holds you, steady and strong, anchoring you through it all. You cling to her, feeling every beat of your heart, every breath of hers against your neck, safe and loved in the morning light.
You come undone first, your whole body trembling as pleasure crests and breaks over you in waves. You cling to Abby, your arms wrapped around her shoulders, forehead pressed to hers as you gasp for breath. The last of your tension slips away, leaving you soft and open in her embrace.
Abby’s eyes never leave you, her hands guiding your hips, her voice a constant, gentle encouragement. You can feel her reaching her own peak, her body tensing beneath you, her rhythm growing frantic, then falling apart. Her head drops back and she shudders, a broken moan caught in her throat as the pleasure takes her too. You watch her come apart, the sight of her undone beneath you lighting something bright and proud in your chest.
After, you collapse into each other, bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the room still glowing with the gold of sunrise. Abby pulls you down against her chest, her arms strong around your back, her lips pressing soft, breathless kisses to your temple and hairline. For a long moment, neither of you speak. You just hold each other, listening to the slow return of your heartbeats and the distant songs of morning birds outside the window.
The farmhouse is hushed. Sunlight spills across the sheets and paints your skin in honey-warm streaks. You press your cheek to Abby’s chest and feel her fingers tracing lazy patterns up and down your spine. She holds you so tightly you think you might never fall apart again.
You sigh, the sound content, maybe even a little disbelieving. Abby’s hand finds yours, fingers lacing together. “I missed you,” she whispers, voice thick and soft.
You nuzzle into her neck, breathing her in. “I’m here,” you murmur, and for the first time in a long while, it feels true.
Outside, the world wakes. Inside, you and Abby stay curled together, tangled in warmth and sunlight and the quiet promise of another day.

Notes:

brb gonna go jerk off now

Chapter 123: Horse back riding and cowboy sex

After a while, the room grows brighter, and the world outside begins to stir. You and Abby slip out of bed, both moving a little slower, a little softer, as if not to disturb the spell of the morning. You pull on your cotton pajamas, covering the marks Abby left on your skin, and she tugs on a fresh tank top, her hair already twisting into its familiar braid. There’s a quiet amusement between you—like you share a secret no one else in the house could guess.
You move together through your morning routine, brushing your teeth side by side in the cramped bathroom, passing the cup back and forth, smiling around the taste of mint. The steam on the mirror blurs both your faces, and for a moment you meet her eyes in the reflection. There’s a softness there, something new and hopeful. She leans over and presses a quick kiss to your cheek before slipping out, humming to herself as she heads toward the kitchen.
You turn toward Frances’s room. She’s five and a half now, her legs long and coltish, her cheeks losing some of their baby roundness. Still, she sleeps sprawled across the bed, one foot hanging off the edge, arms flung wide. Her hair’s a wild mess of curls, a tangle you’ll have to tackle before breakfast. You sit on the edge of her mattress and gently stroke her back, whispering, “Time to wake up, little bean.” She stirs, mumbles something, and then blinks up at you, a slow, wide smile blooming on her face.
You scoop her into your arms, feeling how much heavier she’s gotten, how she’s growing into herself. She wraps her arms around your neck and murmurs about her dreams—the goats could fly last night, she swears, and the moon was made of cheese.
Lev appears in the doorway, already dressed for the day in his patched jacket and worn boots. He leans casually against the frame, a hint of nerves in his posture. “Going to town,” he says, not meeting your eyes at first. “There’s this, uh… girl.”
Your eyebrows lift, grinning as you catch the awkwardness in his voice. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”
He shakes his head, the tips of his ears coloring. “Just someone I met at the market. Anyway—see you later.” He ducks away before you can tease him further, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
You wave him off, still smiling. Abby pokes her head into the hall, raising an eyebrow. “Lev’s got a date?” she whispers, grinning.
You nod, adjusting Frances on your hip. “Looks like it.”
Abby laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. “About time.”
Downstairs, the kitchen is already full of sunlight and the smell of brewing coffee. Frances wriggles out of your arms, heading for her bowl of oats. Abby starts frying eggs, humming under her breath, and for a moment, everything feels easy. The air is warm, the house alive with promise—a family, whole and hopeful, ready for another day.
Frances pads down the stairs, rubbing her eyes, her footsteps soft against the worn wood. She’s getting taller every day, all arms and legs now, her little-girl roundness giving way to something more grown, though her cheeks still flush pink when she runs. You aren’t the tallest yourself, but you suspect one day she’ll look you right in the eye, maybe even look down at you and grin. The thought makes you smile as you watch her shuffle into the kitchen, curls bouncing, already reaching for a spoon and her bowl.
Abby stands at the stove, the morning sunlight painting gold across her bare arms and the line of her jaw. Her movements are calm and deliberate, each gesture practiced: cracking eggs, stirring them in a battered pan, flipping a piece of bread in the skillet. She hums a little, some half-remembered tune, her focus steady and soothing. There’s a quiet joy to it—the kind of peace that comes from doing something for the people you love.
You, Abby, and Frances gather at the table, the three of you squeezed in close, knees knocking beneath the scarred wood. You pass plates and stories around—Frances tells you about her dream again, the flying goats getting bigger and braver with every retelling. Abby rolls her eyes, smiling, and offers you a piece of toast, which you accept, grateful for the easy warmth in the room.
After breakfast, you herd Frances upstairs, nudging her along with gentle reminders—teeth, hair, clean shirt, socks that match (if she can find any). You help her wrangle her curls into two lopsided pigtails and dress yourself in sturdy jeans and a loose shirt, rolling up the sleeves. Frances insists on wearing her favorite boots, even though they’re nearly too small, and you let her. It’s a battle you’ve learned not to fight.
Once you’re both ready, you head downstairs, grabbing your jacket off the hook by the door. Frances slips her small hand into yours, and together you walk out into the fresh morning air, the world still soft and quiet, dew shimmering on the grass.
You spot Abby already out by the barn, tossing a flake of hay into the goat pen, her hair pulled back and her brow furrowed in focus. The mare pokes her head out over the half-door, ears flicking toward you in greeting. Frances skips ahead, calling out a cheerful “Good morning!” to both Abby and the horse, and Abby glances over her shoulder, her smile easy and bright.
You pause for a moment, just watching—your little family, the farm alive around you, the day stretching open and full of possibility.
You’re still learning to ride, and the nerves show. Every time you approach the horse, your stomach does a little somersault. The mare is gentle, but big—her dark eyes calm, her breath warm against your hand as you stroke her neck. You murmur soothing words, “Easy, girl, easy,” as you check the saddle, fingers fumbling at the unfamiliar straps.
Abby is already by the barn, dressed for the morning in tight, sun-faded jeans and her old boot-cut cowboy boots, a flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves. She looks every inch the part, confident and relaxed as she swings Frances up onto the horse in front of her. Frances squeals, giggling as Abby settles her in the saddle, strong arms wrapped around her daughter’s waist.
Abby glances your way, her smile easy and bright beneath the brim of her old hat. “Should we go for a ride?” she calls, eyebrows raised.
Frances bounces with excitement, twisting to look back at you. “Come on, Mommy!” she urges.
You take a steadying breath, then swing your leg over your own horse, settling into the saddle. Your pulse pounds in your ears, but you do your best to look brave. The mare shifts beneath you, patient and unhurried. “Okay, girl. We’ve got this,” you murmur, stroking her mane, and she whinnies as if she understands.
Abby mounts up smoothly behind Frances, the pair of them looking perfectly at home. She calls over her shoulder, her voice reassuring but firm, “I’ll be watching you, Jo, but today this is all you.”
You meet her eyes, swallow hard, and manage a wobbly smile. The sunlight glints off Abby’s hair, and the pride in her gaze helps steady you. Frances claps her hands, impatient to start, and you nudge your mare forward, feeling the horse move beneath you—big, powerful, alive.
The three of you head out together, the farm falling away behind, the fields opening up in front of you, and for the first time, you feel a flicker of freedom in your chest—a sense that you might really belong out here, riding side by side with your family into the morning light.
You ride slow, the mare’s gait a gentle, loping trot that jostles you in the saddle. Every muscle in your body is tense, hands white-knuckled on the reins. The morning is still cool, the sun just starting to climb above the fields, light slanting gold through the treetops.
Abby rides ahead, her silhouette framed by the sky, strong and easy in the saddle. Watching her up there—broad shoulders, back straight, moving in perfect rhythm with the horse—does something to you. She looks like she belongs, wild and free and utterly unbreakable. For a moment, you lose your focus, eyes drifting down her back, heat stirring in your belly. God, the way she moves… You force yourself to look away, cheeks burning, hoping she doesn’t notice.
But Abby glances back, catching your wandering gaze. She grins, slowing her horse so you can draw even with her on the narrow path. “You okay back there?” she calls, her voice full of warmth and amusement.
You nod, managing a nervous laugh as you adjust your grip on the reins. “I feel like a cowboy,” you admit, letting out a long, shaky breath. “A really, really bad cowboy.”
Abby laughs, a low, rolling sound that echoes across the quiet fields. She tips her imaginary hat and shouts, “Yeehaw!”
Frances joins in, shrieking with glee, “Yeehaw!” She throws her arms in the air, nearly tipping sideways until Abby catches her and steadies her with a quick, protective hand. You can’t help but smile, the tension in your shoulders easing as you watch them—your family, alive and laughing, the world opening up around you.
You let your mare fall into step beside Abby’s horse, the four of you—three humans and two horses—moving together in an easy rhythm. The farm disappears behind you, swallowed by grass and sunlight, and for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this life is yours for the keeping.
As you ride on, Frances begins to sing a little song about cows and chickens and riding into town, her voice sweet and bright on the morning air. Abby leans over and whispers, “You’re doing great, Jo.” She reaches out, gives your hand a gentle squeeze, and for a moment, everything feels possible.
Abby kept her rifle slung over her back, the worn leather strap crossing her shoulder. You noticed the comfort with which she carried it—a familiar extension of herself, a quiet reminder that even in good times, the world still held danger. Lev had mentioned recently that the infected had been spotted farther north, but not this close. Still, the presence of your pistol on your hip brought you a strange sense of pride and relief. You were well enough now—steady in both body and mind—to be trusted with it again.
The ride home felt lighter, your nerves replaced with a rush of exhilaration. As the farm came into view, you found yourself daring to urge your mare into a faster trot, then a full gallop, laughter breaking from your lips as the wind tore at your hair. Abby and Frances galloped ahead, Frances shrieking with delight, until the three of you pulled up at the barn, breathless and grinning.
Inside, the routine settled back in. Abby took Frances inside, murmuring about lunch and a nap, the two of them disappearing into the cool shade of the house. You stayed behind, leading the horses into their stalls, unbuckling saddles with practiced hands. The barn was warm and bright, motes of dust dancing in sunbeams that sliced through the high windows.
You turned to find Abby leaning against the fence, watching you. For a moment, you just stood there, really seeing her—sun-worn jeans clinging to her legs, flannel shirt hanging open to reveal the faded tank top underneath, her skin flushed from the ride and the heat. Her hair, usually tightly braided, had come loose and spilled in soft waves down her back and over her shoulders. She looked wild and sunlit, her mouth curling into a knowing smile as she caught you staring.
“See something you like?” Abby teased, biting her lower lip and tipping her head in that way she knew made you blush.
You sputtered, caught off guard by her boldness but unable to look away. “Always do,” you managed, a crooked grin spreading across your face.
She chuckled, pushing off the fence and walking toward you, her eyes never leaving yours. When she reached you, her hands found your hips, warm and steady, pulling you closer. Her voice dropped to a low, intimate murmur. “You were watching me out there—on the horse, in the sun. Thought I didn’t notice?”
You swallowed, heart pounding. “I was,” you admitted, breathless.
Abby grinned, her mouth ghosting close to your ear, teeth nipping at your lobe just enough to make you shiver. “Maybe,” she whispered, her lips brushing your skin, “we should have a part two… from this morning?”
You laugh, a soft sound caught between anticipation and challenge. “Maybe… if you can convince me.”
She pulled you closer, her hands sure, her body pressed against yours. “Oh, I plan to,” she promised, her words full of playful heat. The barn was quiet except for the soft sound of horses shifting and your joined breath, and in that dusty, sunlit space, the rest of the world faded away.
Abby took your hand, her grip strong and sure, and tugged you away from the horses, away from the dusty stalls and sunlight slanting through the barn. You followed her, stumbling a little in your boots, your heart thudding as you tried to keep up. “Where are we going?” you asked, a breathless laugh tumbling out of you.
She glanced back over her shoulder, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Somewhere more private,” she teased, voice low and playful. “The horses don’t need to watch.”
You snorted, giggling as you jogged after her, your joined hands swinging. She led you around the back of the barn, to the shadowy edge of the hay storage, where the sweet, grassy smell was thick in the air and the outside world seemed far away.
Before you could say another word, Abby spun, grabbed you by the waist, and pushed you back into the nearest hay bale. You tumbled down together in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the hay prickling your skin and dust motes swirling around you. “Abby!” you shrieked, squirming as she settled beside you, both of you still breathless with laughter.
She grinned, then attacked your neck with soft, hungry kisses, her lips and teeth trailing along your jaw. You gasped, your laughter dissolving into a ragged moan as her hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers tracing your ribs, her mouth everywhere at once. She didn’t pause—her hands found your waistband, her fingers already slipping under, insistent and eager.
You arched up, still catching your breath, helpless as pleasure crackled through you. Abby groaned against your skin, her fingers slipping inside you, her voice rough with want. “Still wet,” she murmured, mouth brushing yours before she claimed your lips in a kiss that was all heat and need.
You grabbed at her shirt, kissing her back, lost in the scent of hay and sweat, the sound of your heart beating wild and fast. The world shrank to the warmth of her body, the way she made you feel—seen, needed, loved.
Abby pushed her fingers deeper, her other hand tugging your pants down your thighs in one practiced motion. She pressed up inside you, her touch firm and unrelenting, her thumb circling just where you needed her most. “You’re tightening up already…” she breathed, voice dark with wonder. “You close, Joan? I barely touched you.”
You gasped, caught off guard by the rawness in her tone, the hunger burning in her eyes. What the hell had gotten into Abby lately? It made your whole body shiver with anticipation. You clawed at her shirt, voice coming out as a plea. “Don’t talk so dirty…”
She just grinned, her smile wicked and sure. “Why not? You love it when I talk like this.” She curled her fingers again, her thumb rubbing slow, relentless circles over your clit. The pressure built fast, your body moving without your permission, hips rolling up to meet every motion.
You tried to cover your mouth to muffle the desperate sound threatening to break free, but Abby caught your wrist, her other hand tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you look at her. Her eyes locked on yours, blue and burning. “No hiding,” she commanded, voice rough. “Tell me how good it is while you cum for me, Joan.”
You couldn’t help it—the pleasure crested, your body tightening around her, climax shimmering just beneath your skin. “I—it’s good!” you gasped, voice high and breathless.
She moved her hand faster, relentless, her gaze never leaving yours. “Come on, baby, it’s better than that. You’re soaking the hay!” Her words made your face burn with embarrassment and need, the heat coiling in your belly, pleasure threatening to break you apart.
“It feels…god…amazing,” you whimpered, your voice shaking with the force of it.
She chuckled, clearly enjoying every second. “What else?” she coaxed, her thumb speeding up, her fingers finding that spot that always made you fall apart.
You bit your lip, half-mortified, half-desperate, your body twitching and writhing under her. “I love when you…ah…use your fingers like that.”
Abby grinned wide, satisfaction glinting in her eyes. “Yeah? You’re close, huh? Tell me before I stop—what is it you like, Joan? Tell me.”
You struggled for words, pleasure washing through you in waves. “Your thumb—oh, god, on my—” The rest was lost in a ragged cry as your climax finally crashed over you, your back arching, breath coming in sharp, stuttering bursts.
Abby didn’t let up, even as you trembled and clamped your legs around her arm, desperate for more. “My thumb like what?” she teased, voice thick with want.
“The c-circles!” you managed, voice breaking as the sensation swept through you, unstoppable.
She nodded, pressing a kiss to your brow, still moving her hand just the way you needed. “Good girl… let it out, I’ve got you,” she murmured, and you bit down on her shirt to stifle your whimpers, tears pricking your eyes as the last shudders wracked your body.
When it was over, you slumped back against the hay, chest heaving, body boneless. Abby brushed the hair from your face, her own cheeks flushed, eyes softening. “God, I love you,” she whispered, her voice full of wonder.
You gasped for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. A dopey, breathless laugh bubbled out of you. “I love you, Abby… fuck, I love you so much.”
Abby grinned, cheeks flushed, and helped you tug your pants back up, her fingers still trembling with the last echoes of adrenaline. “You liked that?” she teased, nudging your knee as you tried to straighten out your shirt.
You ran a shaky hand through your hair, brushing hay from your scalp and laughing. “Oh my god, Abby… Cowboy sex? Seriously, that was—” You couldn’t even finish, your grin was so wide. “It’s awesome.”
Abby threw her head back, full-on laughing now, her boots scuffing in the straw. “Cowboy sex?” she repeated, nearly doubled over. “That’s what we’re calling it?” Her eyes danced with mischief, her laughter echoing off the barn walls.
You nodded, giggling. “The hay, your boots, the flannel—Abby, come on! All you’re missing is the hat.”
She shook her head, still grinning, and pulled you into her arms, tucking you tight against her chest. “You’re absolutely crazy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss into your hair. “But I love you for it.”
You leaned into her, still half-giddy, the two of you swaying together for a moment in the quiet. The air in the barn smelled of sun and grass and sweat, and the sounds of the farm drifted in from outside—goats calling, birds singing, the faint creak of the barn door in the breeze. For a few minutes, you just held each other, basking in the aftermath, feeling the world settle and quiet around you.
Eventually, Abby straightened and nudged you toward the door. “Come on, trouble. Let’s go check on Frances before she takes over the whole kitchen.”
You nodded, brushing stray hay from Abby’s back before following her out into the sunlight, both of you lighter, looser, and somehow more alive than when you’d started the day.
The farmhouse stood ahead, warm and welcoming, and as you walked toward it together—boots kicking up dust, hands brushing—you felt the kind of happiness that lasted, stubborn and bright, all the way to your bones.

Chapter 124: Milk and Peaches

After a few quiet minutes, both of you catching your breath and grinning like fools, Abby finally spoke, brushing a bit of hay from your shoulder. “So,” she said, voice light, “do you want to grab Frances from her nap or… milk the cows?”
You grinned, still a little dazed from the hay and Abby’s hands. “I’ll do the cows,” you decided, straightening your shirt and tucking a curl behind your ear. “Go wake up the chaos monster.”
Abby nodded and leaned in to press a warm, lingering kiss to your lips before she headed back toward the house, boots crunching over gravel, whistling as she went. For a moment you watched her—her easy gait, the way her hair caught the sun—and you felt a flicker of awe at how, despite everything, your life had grown full again.
You made your way toward the cow barn, the low, comforting smell of hay and animals settling around you as you stepped inside. One of the cows—Maple, the brown one with the white nose—had just had a calf. The memory of the birth was still vivid: the hours of waiting, the frantic minutes as Abby helped pull the slippery little creature into the world, both of you holding your breath until it cried. You still found the process overwhelming, messy and raw, but the miracle of it always left you humbled.
Inside the barn, you paused for a moment, really looking around for the first time in ages. In your months of sickness, you hadn’t noticed how much Abby and Lev had changed things. There were now two new greenhouses stretching along the edge of the pasture, packed with neat rows of tomatoes and greens. The main barn had fresh timber along one side, and there was a new pen for the goats, sturdy and well-built. More animals, more chores, more signs of life than you remembered. You wondered, not for the first time, how Abby and Lev had managed all this when you could barely get out of bed. The question left a bittersweet ache in your chest.
You sighed and walked up to the cows, their broad faces turning to greet you with deep, echoing moos. “Hey girls,” you murmured, reaching out to scratch Maple behind her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, her big, wet nose snuffling your palm.
You led her to the little box in the corner, collecting the battered metal buckets. You crouched on the low stool and began the familiar work of milking. The rhythm was soothing: the warm cow flank against your shoulder, the sound of milk splashing into the pail, the earthy smell of straw and fur.
Your mind wandered as you worked, eyes drifting to the new calf curled up in the straw. Its legs were too long, its coat still patchy and damp. For a moment, a pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. Was it cruel to take this milk when Maple had a baby to feed? But you never milked her dry—always just enough, careful not to take too much. You thought of Frances, so small when she was born, her mouth rooting for you, the wild animal need of a newborn. You leaned your forehead against Maple’s side, whispering, “Is this mean?” The cow only flicked her ear, licking her lips in a slow, absent way.
You smiled, finishing up. You repeated the process with the other two cows, careful not to rush, your hands sure now. When you were done, you lugged the heavy pails back to the house, the milk sloshing and threatening to spill over the rim with every step.
Inside, the kitchen was warm and bright. You set the milk down and poured it carefully into the big stockpot, setting it over a low flame to boil. Six gallons—more than you’d expected. You wondered what you’d do with it all. Maybe cheese, maybe yogurt. Maybe you’d teach Frances how to make butter, show her how cream turned solid with nothing but a little salt and a lot of patience.
You leaned on the counter, letting the warmth of the stove soak into your bones, and watched the milk begin to steam. The house was alive with quiet sounds: Abby’s low voice upstairs, Frances’s laugh bubbling in and out, the world outside just beyond the window.
For the first time in a long while, you felt rooted in the rhythm of this place—full of purpose, and hope, and a peace that felt earned.
But then—a frustrated, piercing scream split the quiet, echoing up from the hall. You froze, hand hovering over the pot, heart skipping in your chest. Frances, lately, had been having terrible tantrums. Not just whining or pouting—real, head-thrown-back, body-trembling meltdowns that rattled the windows and shook the peace out of the house.
You heard the slap of her bare feet on the stairs before you saw her, her small legs pumping fast as she barreled down, curls wild and cheeks blotchy red. She flung herself at your legs, arms wrapping tight, face pressed against your thigh. “I don’t wanna!” she wailed, her whole body shuddering with outrage.
Behind her, Abby appeared at the landing, rubbing her forehead, her expression somewhere between tired and exasperated. “It won’t start until next month, baby,” she said, trying for patience but already sounding worn. “But you have to.”
You looked between them, brow raised, your hand resting on Frances’s back. “Have to what?”
Frances let out another screech, her fists clenching at your jeans, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls. “I’m not leaving!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face, voice shrill with panic.
You shot Abby a questioning look, and she slid a hand down her face, sighing. “There’s a school in town,” she explained quietly. “She’ll start going next month. She doesn’t want to.”
Abby crouched down, her voice gentle but resolute. “You won’t be leaving, baby. The townspeople just have a little schoolhouse, that’s all. You can learn with other kids!”
But Frances shook her head, fists balled and trembling. “Mommy teaches me!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse with betrayal. And she was right—you’d spent countless hours reading to her, teaching her letters and numbers, colors and animals, doing your best to fill the gaps. But you weren’t a real teacher, and you’d long since run out of new books or supplies. School would be good for her, but she couldn’t see it—not yet.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay calm. “You’re going, Frances. You’ll make friends and learn new things.”
She turned to you, her face screwed up in fury, and pointed a tiny finger at your chest. “Fuck you!” she shouted, the words awkward and mispronounced, but unmistakable. The room fell silent for a split second, Abby’s eyes wide, your own mouth falling open.
Where had she learned that? It didn’t sound quite right in her little voice, but she clearly meant it.
You knelt down, meeting her eyes. “Hey. That’s a naughty word. We don’t say that here, Frances.”
She crossed her arms, stubborn and shaking. “You smell, Mommy! And you’re mean—and Momma is stupid!”
You took a deep breath, fighting the urge to laugh or snap back, and gently but firmly took her hand. “That’s enough,” you said, leading her to the corner, sitting her down in the timeout spot you’d set up months ago. She kicked and screamed, fists pounding the wall, but you held your ground, waiting out the worst of the storm.
Eventually, her cries faded to hiccuping whimpers, and she sat, arms wrapped around her knees, face buried in her lap. You let her sit a while longer before gently coaxing her back into the kitchen.
You turned back to the pot, stirring the milk as it simmered, the room heavy with the aftermath of Frances’s tantrum. Abby leaned against the counter, arms crossed, still looking slightly dazed. She glanced at you. “Where’d she learn that, you think?”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head as you poured the hot milk into a waiting jug. “Probably you,” you teased, bumping her hip with yours. Abby snorted, rolling her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders finally eased.
Frances drifted back to the table, arms folded, sniffling quietly. You crouched beside her, brushing the hair from her eyes. “Hey,” you said softly. “We all get mad sometimes. But we talk nice to each other in this house, okay?” She nodded, eyes downcast, and let you pull her into your lap. The kitchen filled with the scent of warm milk and the soft sounds of your family finding their way back to each other.
Your voice stayed gentle, low and even, as Abby stepped forward to stand beside you. When Abby wanted to be serious, she could be so intimidating—arms crossed, shoulders broad, eyes sharp as flint. She fixed Frances with her most grown-up, no-nonsense stare, but you saw the soft worry beneath it.
You knelt down, tucking a stray curl behind Frances’s ear, brushing away the last sticky tear from her flushed cheek. “What do we say now?” you prompted softly, glancing up at Abby.
Frances sniffled, her breath hitching in her chest as she glanced between you both. She blinked up at Abby, her big blue eyes watery and round, searching Abby’s face for a sign. Abby’s piercing gaze held steady, but she didn’t speak—just waited.
Finally, Frances let out a shaky little sigh, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry…” she muttered, her voice so small you barely caught it.
And in that moment, all of Abby’s sternness melted away. “Oh, baby, it’s okay,” Abby murmured, sweeping Frances up in her arms with a strength and tenderness that always left you a little breathless. “Of course I forgive you. I love you so much.” She rained kisses over Frances’s cheeks, kissing away the leftover tears, her voice turning playful and soothing all at once. “Timeout is so hard, isn’t it? My poor girl. I know, I know.”
Frances clung to Abby, tucking her face into Abby’s neck, soaking up every ounce of comfort and making the most of her sorrow. She sniffled dramatically, a fresh round of crocodile tears starting up as Abby rocked her back and forth.
You rolled your eyes at the show, a chuckle slipping out despite yourself. “I think you’re being played, Abs,” you teased, and Abby shot you a mock-glare over Frances’s head, but her mouth twitched with a smile.
Frances peeked at you, one eye full of mischief now that she’d gotten her cuddle. You tapped her nose and kissed her forehead. “All better?”
She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Abby set her down gently, smoothing her hair and planting one last kiss on the crown of her head.
The kitchen seemed to exhale, the tension melting away as the three of you settled back into the soft, familiar rhythm of home. Outside, sunlight filtered through the window, catching the dust motes in golden beams, and you felt, deep in your bones, the comfort of belonging.
You put away the pot of boiled milk, your mind turning over possibilities—cheese, butter, maybe yogurt if you could scrounge up the patience. You wiped your hands on a kitchen towel and slipped outside, the door swinging shut behind you. Frances trailed at your heels, still sniffling but eager for the comfort of routine.
The air had that unmistakable tang of early autumn—cool and sharp, tinged with earth and leaves. Abby was already across the yard, tending to the goats, her silhouette framed by the slanting golden sun. She called softly to the animals, moving with a quiet ease that always made you stop and watch her for a moment.
You crouched down by the little garden patch. The summer had been generous, but now the tomatoes were drooping, the last beans wrinkled and brown. Only a few stubborn sunflowers still held their heads high, their seeds picked over by finches. Your gaze drifted to the edge of the plot, where the peach tree Abby had planted when you first arrived stood, taller than you remembered.
To your delight, nestled in the crook of a branch, was a single, perfect peach—golden and blushing pink, heavy with ripeness.
“Peach!” you shouted, unable to keep the glee from your voice. You grabbed Frances’s hand, tugging her along, and the two of you ran toward the tree, laughter bubbling up between you. “A peach! Abby, look!”
Frances joined your chant, hopping up and down. “A peach, a peach!” She circled you, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Abby looked up from the goat pen, one eyebrow raised in amused surprise. But when she saw the fruit, her whole face lit up. “Wow! Finally! I thought it would take another year.”
You cupped the fruit in your palm, marveling at its softness. It was warm from the sun, velvet under your thumb. “We should wait for Lev,” you said, glancing at Abby, “and then eat it together.”
Frances nodded solemnly, like it was the most important promise in the world. Abby grinned, coming over to ruffle Frances’s hair and press a quick kiss to your cheek.
The three of you stood there for a long moment, sunlight and laughter mingling with the scent of hay and earth. You felt something sweet and full inside you—a harvest, not just of fruit, but of time, healing, and hard-won joy.
You walked back inside with Frances, her sticky hand in yours and the precious peach cradled gently against your chest. You set it on the counter, a silent promise waiting for later, and looked around the kitchen. The leftovers from last night were long gone—time to make something fresh.
You rummaged through the pantry for bread, found a jar of homemade jam, and smeared a thick layer on a slice for Frances. She clambered into her chair, legs swinging, and began eating with both hands, humming little snatches of song between bites. Jam spread across her cheeks and chin, but she seemed entirely content.
You washed your hands and started on dinner—beef stew, since you still had a few hunks of meat left in the icebox. You thought of the cow it came from, her gentle eyes, and felt a pang of guilt. “Sorry, girl,” you murmured, patting the wooden cutting board as if it could absorb your apology.
You set a knob of butter to melt in the big iron pot, then tossed in onions and garlic, letting their fragrance fill the kitchen. Carrots and potatoes came next, then the beef, sizzling and browning in the heat. You sprinkled in herbs from the garden—thyme, parsley, a bit of sage—and covered it all with rich, dark stock. With a satisfied sigh, you set the lid in place and let the stew simmer, confident it would be perfect by the time Lev got home. You found yourself wondering about his new girlfriend, and secretly hoping she was a better fit than Mara had ever been.
After lunch, you wiped Frances’s jammy face and rewarded her with a few quiet minutes curled up in your lap, reading picture books until her eyelids drooped. You tucked her in for a nap and returned to the kitchen just as you heard the thunder of hooves outside.
Lev burst through the door, cheeks flushed and breath ragged, urgency radiating off him. “We need to patrol more,” he panted, tossing his hat onto the hook and wiping sweat from his brow.
Your heart sped up. “What happened?” you asked, moving closer.
He leaned on the counter, catching his breath. “Infected. The ones up north—they’re migrating, coming this way. They must smell the animals, or maybe they’re just hungry.”
A cold knot twisted in your gut. “Okay. So… what do we do?”
Lev exhaled, looking more grown than he had just a year ago. “We need to go to town, ask for help. The townspeople agreed to support us if we could trade something. What do we have?”
You pursed your lips, running through an inventory in your mind. “I’ve got a lot of milk,” you said. “Cheese, butter… I could make more.”
He nodded quickly. “That’s good. Yeah, they’ll take that.” He glanced at you, a half-grin flickering in the stress. “Can you knit?”
You groaned, remembering the tangled mess of wool you’d tried to spin into yarn last month. “I can try. I’m better with a knife than needles, but… I’ll learn.”
Lev shrugged, determined. “Even if you just figure out how to make quilts or scarves, that’ll help. Anything useful—blankets, mittens. We need allies, Joan. If it’s just us, we can’t protect all the animals, not with the infected coming.”
You nodded, feeling the weight of it. The world outside your little farm was changing again—danger creeping in at the edges. But as you looked around the kitchen, at the simmering stew, at the peach on the counter, at Frances dozing softly in the next room, you knew you’d do whatever it took to keep this life safe.
“I’ll start tonight,” you promised.
Lev grinned, relief shining in his eyes. “Thanks, Jo.”
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, and you glanced toward the barn, wondering what tomorrow would bring.
You sat down while the stew cooked. You picked up all the old fabric from the attic of the house. It seemed like a grandma have lived here preoutbreak. You shuddered thinking about what had happened to her.
You sat at the old kitchen table, a pile of mismatched fabric scraps heaped in front of you. You threaded a needle with steady hands and began sewing the patches together, one careful stitch at a time. It wasn’t fancy work, but you figured you could manage a quilt or two—something warm and useful, something you could trade for extra help from the town. Each square carried a memory: a piece of one of Abby’s shirts, the sleeve of a dress Frances had outgrown, a bit of old blanket from your Boston days. With every pass of the needle, you felt yourself anchoring your family just a little more.
The house was quiet, the stew bubbling on the stove filling the air with the promise of dinner. Abby came in after talking with Lev outside, her boots heavy on the floorboards. She went straight for the pantry, inventorying the shelves, then swung open the icebox and peered in. “We can spare three gallons of milk, plus a jar of dried beans and a handful of herbs. Add in a pound of garlic and some onions…” she trailed off, glancing over her shoulder at you. “Jo?”
You looked up from your sewing. “Yeah?”
Abby pressed a hand to the small of her back, thinking. “You’re coming to town with us tomorrow. Bring Frances. Lev and I will handle the wagon, but I want you there for the negotiations. You’ve always had a way of talking people down.” She hesitated, then added, “And maybe—if you’re up for it—you could do something in town once a week. Trade, help out, get to know folks. It might be good for you.”
You nodded, feeling a prickle of nerves and a tiny flicker of excitement. “Got it. I’ll be ready.”
Abby smiled, that quiet, tired warmth you’d come to love, and reached out to squeeze your shoulder before moving to check on the stew. The sun had dipped behind the hills, and the kitchen glowed golden in the fading light. Frances wandered in, rubbing her eyes and asking about dinner, and Lev followed, a book tucked under his arm.
You set the quilt squares aside, washing your hands and helping set the table as Abby ladled steaming stew into bowls. The smell of beef and herbs filled the air, mingling with fresh bread and the sweetness of the peach waiting on the counter.
The four of you gathered around the table, hands brushing, voices soft in the cozy kitchen. Frances chattered about her day, Lev outlined the plan for tomorrow, and Abby slipped her hand over yours beneath the table, grounding you with a gentle squeeze. The world outside was uncertain, but here, in this circle of light and warmth and food, you felt safe.
As you shared the meal—stories, laughter, worries and hopes—you realized that even if everything changed again, you’d find a way to hold onto this. One patch, one bowl, one day at a time.
After dinner, the air in the kitchen was thick with warmth and the scent of stew. The last sunlight pooled in orange ribbons across the old wood floor. Frances was the first to spot the peach on the counter; her eyes went wide with anticipation.
“Can we have the peach now?” she asked, nearly bouncing out of her chair.
Abby grinned, grabbing a paring knife. “Lev, you here for this?” she called.
Lev appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on his pants. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The four of you gathered around the counter. Abby set the peach on a plate, turning it in her hands, marveling at its weight, the golden skin blushing pink where the sun had touched it. She sliced it in half, juice dripping onto her fingers, and the scent—sweet, floral, sun-warm—filled the room. There was only one pit, glossy and brown at the center, proof of just how rare and precious this fruit was.
Abby sliced the peach into careful quarters, passing each piece around. Frances cradled hers like treasure, Lev held his up to the light, and you breathed in the aroma before taking your first bite. The flesh was soft, almost melting on your tongue—bursting with sweetness and the sharp tang of real, honest fruit. Frances giggled, juice running down her chin, and even Lev, usually so reserved, closed his eyes and let out a little hum of pleasure.
You all ate in companionable silence, savoring the peach as if it were a feast. When it was gone, Frances licked her sticky fingers and looked at you with sleepy eyes. “Can we grow more?” she whispered.
Abby bent down, kissing the top of her head. “Next summer, baby. We’ll take care of the tree and it’ll give us more.”
As dusk deepened outside, you and Abby guided Frances upstairs. The bedtime routine unfolded in soft, well-worn motions—warm washcloth over sticky cheeks, tangles gently coaxed from her curls, tiny feet wiggling into clean pajamas. Frances chattered sleepily about the peach, about going to town, about the goats and the schoolhouse. Abby tucked her into bed, pulling the faded quilt up to her chin, while you sat beside her, rubbing gentle circles on her back.
She blinked up at both of you, eyelids drooping. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?” she murmured.
“Of course,” you promised, and Abby sat on the other side, stroking her hair.
Frances’s breaths grew slow and even. The world outside was wide and uncertain, but here—in this quiet room, under the soft glow of lamplight—there was only love and the peace of another day safely ended.
You and Abby lingered a while longer, just listening to Frances’s quiet breathing, the hush of evening settling in around your family. When you finally rose to leave, you pressed a gentle kiss to your daughter’s forehead, feeling hope bloom in your chest for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Chapter 125: Riding into Town

You woke to a cool draft threading through the window, the first true chill of fall creeping in. The sun had barely edged above the horizon, painting the sky in soft gray and gold. You pulled on your thickest jeans, a wool sweater, and warm socks, relishing the contrast between the kitchen’s warmth and the air outside your room.
Frances was still bundled in bed, her hair a wild halo on the pillow. You sat beside her, rubbing her back gently until she peeked up at you, sleep still heavy in her eyes. “Town day, baby,” you said softly, smiling as she yawned.
She wriggled upright, blinking. “Is it cold?”
“Just enough for a sweater,” you said, digging through her dresser. You picked out her favorite woolen sweater—the green one with little embroidered flowers on the sleeves—and laid it over her lap.
She tugged it on over her head, poking her arms through with a sleepy little grunt. You helped her into a soft corduroy skirt and thick leggings, then handed her boots, which she managed with minimal fuss. She spotted her scarf on the bedpost and looped it around her neck herself, proud and a little lopsided.
“Can I wear the bear hat?” she asked hopefully.
You smiled. “Sure—just in case the wind picks up.”
She grinned, pulling the brown hat over her curls, the floppy ears bouncing as she hopped down from the bed. You checked her hands for warmth—no mittens needed yet, just the slight chill of the changing season.
Downstairs, Abby was already setting out oatmeal, the kettle singing on the stove. Lev was lacing his boots, ready for the road. Frances climbed onto her chair and tucked her toes under, scarf trailing behind her.
You watched her spoon oats into her mouth, her cheeks still rosy from sleep, her blue eyes bright with anticipation. The house was alive with the quiet bustle of preparation—Abby checking the bags, Lev gathering up the milk and beans for trade.
You caught Frances’s eye and winked. “Ready for your first real town day?”
She nodded, excitement glinting behind a yawn. “Ready, Mommy.”
You smoothed her sweater, straightened her hat, and felt a quiet pride settle in your chest. Whatever the day brought, you’d face it together, a little braver than before.
Lev had already been up for a while, his breath steaming in the morning air as he hitched the old wagon to the mare. The wheels creaked, protesting under the weight of milk jugs, baskets of beans and herbs, and a bundle of rough-spun fabric you’d pieced together late into the night. He worked with quiet efficiency, double-checking the harness and reins, glancing now and then toward the barn where the rest of you were gathering.
You took Frances’s hand and led her across the yard, the grass wet with dew and the air sharp with the promise of a new season. She was all wool and corduroy and bear hat, skipping a little to keep up with your longer stride.
Abby waited near the barn, brushing down her horse, sunlight catching in her loose hair. She wore those jeans that always made you pause, fitting her hips just right, and a deep blue wool sweater that softened the line of her shoulders. Today, she’d left her hair down—no braid, no hurry—just wild and shining in the crisp air.
You cleared your throat, trying not to stare. “Do you want me to take her, or will you?” you asked, nodding toward Frances, who was peering at the horses with bright-eyed curiosity.
Abby considered for a moment, lips quirking. “You’re still a little clumsy in the saddle, Jo. I’ll take her with me.” She bent down, scooping Frances up and swinging her expertly into the saddle in front, the little girl squealing with delight.
You nodded, feeling both relieved and a touch envious of Abby’s ease. “I’ll hang back with Lev, then. I’ll bring my pistol, just in case.”
Lev glanced up from the wagon, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”
You met his gaze, steady and certain. “I’ll be fine. I remember how to shoot.”
Lev didn’t look convinced. He shifted, glancing at Abby, then back at you. “I’d rather… have Abby in back,” he admitted, voice low, not wanting to offend.
Abby caught the exchange, eyebrow raised. “Lev, I trust Joan. Besides, Frances is safer up front with me.”
Lev looked between the two of you, clearly torn. You squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll stick close,” you promised. “I won’t do anything stupid.”
Finally, he nodded, though the worry didn’t quite leave his face. Abby mounted up, Frances nestled in front of her, both of them already chatting about what they’d see in town. You swung up into the back of the wagon, checking the pistol at your belt, the seat creaking under your weight.
The sun was climbing, casting the farm in a honey-colored light as the little caravan rolled out—Abby and Frances leading, Lev guiding the wagon, and you at the rear, eyes scanning the road ahead.
As the farm disappeared behind you, you felt the old mix of nerves and anticipation. Today was a new kind of challenge—one you were finally ready to face, with your family by your side.
The journey to town took nearly an hour, the wagon creaking over ruts and gravel, Frances pointing out every squirrel and bird along the way. Autumn had settled deep into the valley—trees rimmed with gold and orange, fields left stubbly after harvest. The farther you traveled, the more signs of old civilization poked through: rusting street signs, cracked pavement overtaken by weeds, even the faded shell of a gas station, its windows blown out and vines curling through the roof.
As you crested a low hill, the town came into view—a scattering of low buildings huddled around a crossroads, patched roofs and makeshift gardens blooming wherever there was space. The old main street had been claimed by survivors, some shop fronts boarded, others boasting fresh coats of mismatched paint. Laundry fluttered from second-story windows, and someone had turned the old library steps into a vegetable market, baskets of potatoes and squash lined up in neat rows.
A hand-painted sign—WELCOME TO HILLHAVEN—hung crooked over the post office door. It looked friendly, if a little battered.
As you rolled into town, the usual quiet bustle slowed. People looked up from their chores, curiosity prickling in their faces. Some recognized Abby and Lev, nodding in greeting. Others—children, elders, weathered strangers—watched you with the cautious interest reserved for newcomers or rare visitors.
Abby slid off her horse with easy confidence, swinging Frances down to the ground. Frances clung to her hand, eyes wide, mouth open in a little “o” of wonder. “It’s so big!” she whispered, even though the entire town could be crossed in a few minutes’ walk.
Lev parked the wagon near a cluster of other carts—some drawn by horses, others by hand—and began unloading your offerings. A woman with sunburned cheeks and strong arms greeted him, her gaze sharp but not unfriendly. “Brought trade?” she asked, eyeing the milk jugs and baskets.
“That’s right, Mrs. Hanley,” Lev replied. “Milk, beans, a little garlic and onions, and a quilt my mom made.” He jerked his chin at you, and you offered a shy smile, suddenly aware of how small your world had become back on the farm.
The market was a patchwork of stalls: a makeshift bakery selling thick loaves and sweet buns, an old pickup bed converted into a tool exchange, a faded pharmacy sign over a table of scavenged medical goods. There was even a corner where children played under the watchful eyes of two grizzled men, their laughter rising above the soft drone of haggling adults.
A bell rang somewhere—a signal, you guessed, for the opening of town council business. People drifted toward the center square, and Abby motioned for you and Frances to follow. “Let’s show them what we’ve got,” she murmured, her hand reassuring on your back.
The air buzzed with the hopeful energy of barter and negotiation, but under it, you felt the wary edge that came with scarce resources and hard memories. This was a place people were trying to hold together with grit, compromise, and a little kindness—a place that could be home, if you played your cards right.
Frances squeezed your hand, eyes full of wonder at everything new. Lev handed you a small bundle—one of your quilts—and nodded encouragingly. “You ready to make a deal?” he whispered.
You nodded, heart beating fast, breath hanging white in the autumn air as the town square filled with voices, trade, and the wary hope of survival.
You took a steadying breath and approached Mrs. Hanley, the warmth of the quilt clutched to your chest. Up close, she looked even tougher—her sunburned cheeks streaked with the faint shadow of an old scar, her hands strong from years of work. Still, her eyes weren’t unkind as she watched you come.
“I’m Joan,” you introduced yourself, voice a little softer than you intended.
She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. “Heard of you—Abby’s wife, right? Didn’t realize there was a little one on your farm.”
You managed a small, proud smile. “Frances. She’ll be six soon—big enough for the schoolhouse next month, if there’s room.”
Mrs. Hanley’s gaze flickered to Frances, then back to you. “She’s got good lungs, I bet.” There was almost a smile at the edge of her mouth.
You nodded, feeling braver. “She keeps us on our toes, that’s for sure.”
Mrs. Hanley straightened, her manner shifting to something more businesslike. “Lev says you want our patrols out your way.”
You nodded, glancing at Abby and Lev. “We’ve got a spare barn, sturdy and dry. Could turn it into a lookout—keep an eye on the fields, store supplies if you need. We’d keep it ready for your people.”
She rubbed her chin, considering. “You keep bringing milk and whatever you’ve got from the garden—plus access to that barn?” She gave you a long look, weighing trust and need in equal measure. “That’s more than fair. You’ll get patrols—two, maybe three times a week, depending on how thin we’re stretched.”
You hesitated, then offered the quilt, letting her see the neat stitches, the warmth in every square. “We can trade quilts too. I’m still learning, but we can keep you stocked through winter. And… if the school needs help, I’ll pitch in when I can.”
Mrs. Hanley took the quilt, feeling the weight of it. For a moment, she almost smiled. “I’ll let Mrs. Kemp at the school know.” She nodded, sealing the deal with a weathered hand. “You help keep the town fed, we’ll help keep you safe.”
Relief fluttered in your chest, a thread of hope winding through your nerves. You looked at Abby, who squeezed your arm, pride softening her features. Lev, too, looked quietly pleased.
From the edge of the square, Frances tugged your sleeve, her eyes wide as she watched a group of children chase each other through the market, laughter pealing over the din. “Can I go play?” she whispered, half nervous, half eager.
You smiled. “Go on. We’ll be right here.”
As Frances darted away, her scarf trailing behind, you turned back to Mrs. Hanley, your voice steady. “We’ll be back every market day. And if you ever need help with something—just ask.”
Mrs. Hanley nodded, gaze softening just a little. “Welcome to Hillhaven, Joan. We look after our own.”
The knot in your chest loosened. For the first time in a long while, you felt not just like a survivor, but part of something bigger—part of a community, with roots that might finally hold.
The day in Hillhaven unfolded with a kind of organized chaos you’d only seen in places where everyone mattered—where every hand was needed, and every face was familiar, or soon would be. After watching Frances melt into the group of children by the schoolhouse, you let yourself relax, slipping deeper into the pace of town life.
You and Abby wandered through the market, weaving between stalls. People called greetings, some with wary glances, most with open curiosity. You traded two jars of milk for a bundle of late apples and a little wedge of sharp cheese. Abby haggled for a replacement bridle—she’d been eyeing it for months, and finally the blacksmith was willing to trade for fresh butter. There was talk of a dance in two weeks’ time—a harvest tradition, Mrs. Hanley said, and she insisted you both come, that it was important for new folks to show their faces.
The bakery sent out a tray of misshapen rolls, still steaming, and a crowd gathered, all eager for a taste of something soft and sweet. Children raced by, barefoot and laughing, their shouts trailing behind them like banners. Frances darted into view once or twice, cheeks flushed, hands full of dandelions or wild apples, her bear hat flapping in the breeze.
You spotted Mrs. Kemp by the schoolhouse, showing Frances and a few other children how to string colored beads onto a piece of twine. She caught your eye, gave you a little nod, and you felt a trickle of relief. Frances would be okay here.
By midday, the square had filled with more people—farmers from the edge of town, scavengers come to barter, and a handful of elders sitting in the sun, keeping a watchful eye on everything. Lev rejoined you with word from the town council: “They want to send patrols next week. They said your barn’s perfect for supplies, and… they’re grateful, Jo.” His eyes sparkled with a pride he didn’t say aloud.
You ate your lunch sitting on the courthouse steps—cheese and apples, bread torn in rough hunks, Frances curled up in Abby’s lap as you all watched the life of the town swirl around you. There was talk of repairs needed on the roof of the old pharmacy, a new baby born just last night, and rumors of infected straying closer to the north woods. You listened, absorbing details, faces, names.
As afternoon wore on, you helped Abby unload the last of your trade, then followed Frances to the schoolhouse. She dragged you inside, eager to show you the bead necklace she’d made, already babbling about her new friends and the promise of a storytime tomorrow.
By the time the sun began to dip low, the market was thinning out, stalls closing, neighbors calling goodbyes across the square. Abby found you with Frances in her arms, both of you tired but happy. Lev had the wagon packed for the trip home, and Mrs. Hanley pressed a small loaf of bread into your hands—a gift, she said, for your first day as a real part of Hillhaven.
You climbed into the wagon, Frances snuggled between you and Abby, the town behind you now humming with evening life—windows aglow, laughter spilling out from the tavern, and lanterns flickering along the main street.
As you rode back toward the farm, the sky turned dusky blue, and you felt something you hadn’t in a long, long time: belonging.
Lev was inside the house with Frances, both of them probably hunched over some craft or a book by the window. You and Abby lingered in the barn, the late sun slanting through gaps in the boards, turning dust motes to gold. The horses shifted in their stalls, tails flicking, the steady thump of hooves and the low sound of snuffling noses grounding you in the moment.

Chapter 126: In front of the horses?!

Notes:

lemme know if we should get... filthier

Abby crossed the straw-strewn floor, her steps slow and sure. She stopped in front of you, a sly smile playing on her lips as she reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Her thumb lingered against your cheek. “You did good with Hanley,” she said, her voice quiet but warm. “That was some impressive bartering.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool, but you couldn’t help the way your mouth curved. “Sure. I just said what I had and hoped for the best.”
She let out a low laugh, then looked at you with a new intensity, her hand tracing a slow path down your arm. “I like when you’re assertive, Jo. Really like it.”
You arched a brow, grinning. “Are you… already riled up again?” you teased, the warmth in your stomach blooming at the hungry look in her eyes.
Abby just grinned wider, suddenly all confidence and purpose. Without a word, she grabbed your hand and tugged you into one of the empty stalls, its walls half-hiding you from the rest of the barn. She pressed you back against the rough boards and crashed her mouth onto yours. The kiss was deep and sudden, stealing the air from your lungs. You gasped into her mouth, hands caught in her shirt, as she pressed closer, her body all hard muscle and warmth.
Her tongue slid against yours, and her hand was already slipping down the front of your pants, fingers teasing. You jolted, pleasure sparking through you, but you broke the kiss, breathless. “Let me—let me do it to you,” you whispered, voice shaky but eager.
She nodded, her eyes dark with want. “Get on your knees,” she said, voice commanding, low and rough in a way that made your heart stutter.
You swallowed, heat rushing to your face, your brow furrowing in surprise. “What?”
She smirked, unbuckling her belt, her flannel riding up over her stomach, every movement deliberate. “Your knees. For me. Right now.”
You couldn’t say no. The way she looked at you—hungry, sure of herself, wild—sent a thrill through your whole body. You knelt on the barn floor, hay poking at your knees, eyes never leaving her as she tugged her jeans down. You drank in the sight of her—her body lean and strong, her pale skin marked with old scars and sun, her thatch of blonde hair soft and natural.
She tapped her clit, gaze hungry. “Mouth. Here.”
You hesitated just a beat, breath coming fast. Abby grabbed a fistful of your hair, gentle but insistent, guiding your mouth where she wanted you. “Come on, Joan. Use that pretty mouth. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To make me feel good?”
You whimpered, your nerves and want tangled, and you leaned forward, licking slow, reverent circles. Abby’s grip on your hair tightened, her breath coming faster, her legs tense and trembling.
“That’s it,” she murmured, her voice thick, almost shaking. “God, Jo, you look so fucking good like this.”
You nodded, unable to look away. She snapped her fingers, drawing your attention up. “Eyes here,” she ordered, her other hand pointing to her own fierce, shining blue eyes. The barn faded around you—the world shrinking to Abby’s body, her voice, her want.
You found yourself thinking, not for the first time, that maybe something in the land itself had changed her—turned her bolder, needier, hungrier for every moment you could steal together.
And you wanted nothing more than to give her everything she asked for.
Abby groaned low in her throat, one hand thumbing her breast as the other tangled in your hair. Her flannel had fallen open, exposing the strong line of her chest, skin flushed a deep, aching pink. Her hips jerked, muscles tensing as your tongue worked faster, each motion drawing another desperate sound from her.
“Right there, baby,” she panted, biting her lower lip, her cheeks completely flushed. Sweat beaded at her hairline, her breath coming quick and uneven. “Joan—fuck, you’re so good.”
You moaned into her, the sound vibrating through your lips as you licked and sucked, drinking in the taste of her, the way her thighs trembled around your shoulders. Her grip on your hair was almost bruising, possessive and needy, as if she was holding on for dear life.
You were already a mess in your own jeans, pleasure building from just the sounds she made, the way her body responded to you—open and desperate, nothing held back. You pressed your mouth deeper, tongue swirling, and Abby gasped, a raw little sound escaping her.
“Look at me, baby,” she pleaded, her voice thick and rough. “Let me see your eyes while you eat my pussy.”
You glanced up, eyes glassy, and whimpered against her, heat pooling in your belly as she looked down at you—completely wrecked, utterly present. Her entire body shook, the climax washing over her in fierce, shuddering waves. She clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her cries as she came, her body writhing and twitching beneath your tongue, legs squeezing tight.
You kept going, softer now, letting her ride out every last ripple until she finally pulled you away, her grip firm, your mouth parting from her with a wet, desperate sound. She slumped against the stall wall, chest heaving, hair a wild, golden mess. You grinned, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
Abby’s eyes met yours, still low-lidded, dazed and soft, but there was something else there too—a spark of mischief, a fierceness you’d seen growing since you came to the farm. “You think that’s funny?” she managed, voice barely above a whisper.
You laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to her thigh. “You get all cute—coming so hard you forget your own name? Yeah, I think it’s adorable.”
She let out a shaky breath, the last of the tension draining from her body. For a moment, you just stared at each other, the intimacy thick and electric in the small, hay-scented stall.
Abby’s hands found your hips, her grip sure and possessive, and she pressed you back until you were flush against the stall wall. The wood was cool through your sweater, prickling your skin. “Did you think I forgot about you, baby?” she murmured, her voice rough and low.
A shiver ran through you, part nerves, part anticipation. You shook your head, breath catching.
She took her time lifting your sweater over your head, her touch lingering on every patch of exposed skin. The barn’s chill rushed in, goosebumps rising across your arms and chest. Instinctively, you moved to cover yourself, folding your arms tight, but Abby only smiled—a slow, knowing thing—and gently tugged them away.
“You’ll be nice and warm soon,” she promised, her fingers grazing over your skin. You nodded, unable to find words, as she unclasped your bra and tossed it aside, the old barn swallowing the sound.
She stepped back for a moment, eyes roaming over you, lingering where you’d grown softer, fuller, since the baby. “Look at you,” she whispered, cupping your breasts in both hands. “So big. I love every inch, you know that?”
Heat flooded your cheeks, humiliation and longing tangled together. Abby’s lips traced a slow, burning path down your neck, her breath searing against your skin. You felt your body arch toward her, desperate for more.
Without warning, she took hold of your wrists, lifting them above your head. Her gaze held yours, challenging and playful. “Can you keep your hands to yourself?”
You frowned, caught off guard. “What?”
She grinned wickedly, fingers curling around the length of rope hanging from a hook in the stall. “Or should I tie you up?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “No way.”
But Abby’s eyes gleamed with something fierce and bright. She pressed you harder against the wall, her strength undeniable, and before you could protest, she looped the rope around your wrists—firm but careful, testing the knot, making sure you weren’t in any real danger. “Trust me,” she murmured, her lips brushing your temple.
Your breath hitched as she stepped back to look at you, your arms straining gently above your head, chest exposed, body bare except for your socks and the hay tickling your toes. You felt a tremble work its way through you, not from the cold, but from the way Abby circled you, fingers trailing along your ribs, your hips, your stomach.
“Look at you,” Abby purred, her voice smoky with awe and hunger. “All mine.” Her words sank into your skin, making you ache all the way to your bones.
She slid her thumbs slowly over your belly, making you squirm, her hands possessive as they mapped every soft curve and scar. Her mouth pressed hot, wet kisses down the center of your chest—lingering at your breast, nipping gently, tongue swirling over your skin. You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering closed, completely undone by the careful worship in every movement.
Abby knelt in front of you, her hands warm and sure on your trembling thighs. Her eyes met yours—hungry, full of promise—and you thought you’d never seen her look so alive. “Let me take care of you,” she whispered, her words grounding you, burning away every last bit of self-doubt.
Her breath was hot as she pressed slow, agonizing kisses along your thighs, making your whole body shake. You bit your lip, a whimper catching in your throat as sweat prickled at your hairline. She laughed low, the sound wicked. “I haven’t even touched you yet,” she teased, dragging a single finger up through your slick, a thread of wetness clinging to her skin.
You gasped, mortified and burning. “Abby!”
She only chuckled, her confidence bolder than ever. “Don’t be embarrassed.” Her tongue swept up in one long, slow motion, collecting every drop, her eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction. “So sweet,” she murmured, licking her lips.
You shuddered, in awe of her shamelessness—her hunger for you. She pried your legs open, draping them over her shoulders, her hands anchoring you as she knelt. “Stay still for me,” she ordered softly.
You nodded, biting your lip, even though you knew it was hopeless. God, how could you stay still with Abby’s mouth on you?
Her tongue circled your clit, slow and torturous, drawing trembling moans from your lips. You tried desperately to obey, your hips twitching, your hands shaking against the ropes above you. She paused, lifting her mouth away, voice suddenly sharper. “Stay. Still.” This time, the command brooked no argument.
You whimpered, pulling at the ropes, desperate for more. Abby only chuckled, the sound rumbling through you, then ducked her head, her mouth finding you again—slow, deliberate, merciless. Each flick of her tongue sent you higher, closer, the ache building until you thought you might split apart.
You trembled, fighting the urge to move, gritting your teeth as she took her time—again and again, until finally you broke. “More, Abby, more! Please!”
She pulled away, lips shining, leaving you aching and raw. “What’s that?” she cooed, tilting her head, her gaze all cruel affection. “You want more?”
You nodded desperately, heat rolling off you.
Abby tapped her finger against her lips, thinking, enjoying your desperation. “Beg for it,” she said at last, voice low and steady.
You stared at her, stunned, every nerve ending frayed. “What?”
She sat back on her heels, her flannel hanging open, chest rising and falling. “Beg. For. It. Joan.”
You swallowed, cheeks flushed, licking your lips and still tasting her. “Please?” you whispered, voice breaking.
She laughed—a real, wicked laugh, the sound vibrating in your core. “That’s not good enough,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I want to hear you. Tell me how bad you need it. How much you want me to make you fall apart right here, tied up for me.”
Your shame and hunger tangled together, and you looked at her, trembling, ready to give her anything she wanted.
But you couldn’t. God, how could you say something so crude? Your throat tightened, shame prickling at your cheeks.
You took a shaky breath, eyes squeezing shut. “I—I need it, please…” you whispered, barely more than a gasp.
Abby only shook her head, tsking softly. “No, that’s not enough.”
She eased your legs from her shoulders, her hands still steady on your thighs. You whimpered, your hips lifting instinctively, desperate to keep her close, but she only grinned—low and cruel—and flipped you around with practiced strength.
You barely had a moment to catch your breath before she bent you over the nearest barrel, your belly pressed to the cool, hard wood. Your cheeks burned, humiliation racing up your spine. “This is so embarrassing,” you muttered, voice muffled by your own arm.
She scoffed, voice dropping even lower. “Not even done yet.”
With deliberate slowness, Abby took her thumbs and spread you open, exposing every inch of you. Bent over and vulnerable, you could feel the slick heat of your own arousal dripping down, the pulse between your legs wild and desperate.
She knelt behind you, her breath hot at the back of your thigh. “Beg for it, Joan. Let me see how you throb while you beg for my mouth.”
You shook your head, mortified. “Abby! No way, I—”
Her grip tightened on your hips, fingers biting into soft flesh. “Should we try spanking them?” she teased, voice full of mischief.
You glanced back at her, wide-eyed. “What?!”
She only laughed, spreading you even wider. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
You drew in another ragged breath, trembling from head to toe. “Please, Abby.”
Her thumbs stroked slow circles over your folds, watching every little shiver and twitch. “Please what?”
You hesitated, swallowing your pride. “Please… make me cum.”
She grinned, enjoying every bit of your squirming. “Make you cum, or make your pussy cum?”
The humiliation stung, but your need burned hotter, blotting out everything else. You squeezed your eyes shut, voice trembling as you gave in. “Please… make my pussy cum.”
Abby smiled, all satisfaction and intent, her fingers continuing their slow, possessive stroke over your folds. “Very good. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She leaned in, her mouth finding you again. The first touch of her tongue sent a jolt through your whole body. She circled your clit with slow, relentless precision—steady, patient, maddeningly skilled. You shrieked, muffling the sound against your arm, your wrists straining at the rope above your head, muscles trembling with the effort to stay present.
You felt her chuckle into you, the vibration nearly undoing you, and then her thumb—slick and teasing—brushed softly over your other entrance, a featherlight promise. She pulled her mouth away just enough to taunt you, her thumb drawing lazy circles over that sensitive skin. “What about this?” she purred, her breath hot on your thigh. “You like that, huh?”
You shuddered, overwhelmed, your pride a distant memory. “Maybe,” you admitted, voice small and shaky.
She snorted. “Maybe doesn’t get your pussy eaten and your asshole fingered now, does it?”
You shook your head, mortified and desperate. “No…”
She waited, a hand squeezing your hip, thumb still pressing insistent circles.
You took a breath, heat rising up your neck. “Please… eat my pussy and finger my asshole.”
She grinned, clearly enjoying every bit of your submission. “Can’t hear you.”
Your cheeks burned as you tried again, the words barely louder. “Please…”
She cut you off, voice firm. “Still too soft.”
You bit your cheek, frustration and need sharpening your resolve. You turned, locking eyes with her, letting her see everything—your shame, your hunger, your trust. “Please eat my pussy and finger my fucking asshole.”
Abby’s laughter was pure delight. “Gladly.”
She lowered her mouth to you again, and this time her thumb pressed inside slowly, stretching and filling, her mouth and tongue working you with merciless focus. The sensation overwhelmed you—filthy, sweet, and dizzying. Your hips rocked helplessly against her face, your thighs quivering, juices slicking your skin and the barrel beneath you.
You felt yourself unraveling, the climax building, unstoppable. Abby’s grip only tightened, holding you open, keeping you right where she wanted you. “You’re pulsing,” she murmured, thumbs spreading you as she admired her handiwork, her voice thick with pride and mischief.
You turned your head, breathless. “Abby! What the fuck!” you whined, frustration and pleasure tangled together.
She only laughed, playful and cruel. “You were too fast… I want you to wait.”
You buried your face in your arm, half-mad with need. “You’re being so fucking mean.”
She shook her head, running a soothing hand down your back. “No, but I could be mean,” she teased.
You looked over your shoulder, wide-eyed. “Abby!”
She grinned, the edge of her dominance softening. “Okay, okay, honey, don’t worry.”
She returned to you, mouth and thumb working in tandem until your body finally broke, shudders racking your frame as you came hard, small cries escaping you despite your effort to hold back. Your legs shook, toes curling, every muscle tightening and then dissolving in bliss.
But even as you rode the high, Abby pulled away—just for a moment—voice gentle but insistent. “Say thank you.”
You cried out, on the edge of another climax, “Don’t stop! Abby, don’t!”
She pressed her mouth back to you and you complied, desperate. “Thank you, Abby—oh! Thank you, my pussy feels so good!” Your words broke apart in a sob, your body convulsing with overstimulation as she hummed happily against you, driving you higher and higher until you collapsed, trembling, drooling on your arm, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Enough! Enough!” you finally gasped, unable to take any more.
Abby stopped at last, her laugh soft and fond as she eased her hands down your back, untying your wrists with gentle care. “Okay, okay, baby, relax.” She stroked you with slow, soothing touches, cradling you close as you came down—your sobs melting into breathless, shaky laughter, wrapped in her arms.

Notes:

mwahahaha

Chapter 127: Bend over the rail

Notes:

im too freaked out bro... put me away

You both dressed slowly, the afterglow still buzzing under your skin. Abby’s movements were relaxed but purposeful—her eyes never quite losing that mischievous glint. As you left the barn, her boots crunched through the hay and over the hard-packed earth, and she fell into step beside you. The sky was bruising with evening, the air cooling, carrying the scent of grass and woodsmoke.
She slipped her hand along the small of your back, fingers grazing your sweater. “I liked that,” she murmured, voice low and a little bashful.
You glanced at her, an eyebrow lifting. “Liked what?”
Abby smirked, then turned her face away, her cheeks darkening. “Being in control. We’re so comfortable together now… I’ve always wanted to do that. Just—really let go.”
You swallowed, the memory of her rough hands and steady voice still ringing in your body. You remembered Seattle, even Catalina—how careful she’d always been, how sweet, almost shy at times. Was she hiding this side all along? Or had the quiet safety of this life allowed her to finally reveal it?
You smiled to yourself, feeling something warm and new settle in your chest. “You’re good at it,” you whispered, bumping her shoulder.
She grinned back, the last of the sunset glinting in her hair.
Inside, the house was awash with gentle chaos: Frances was sprawled on the couch, feet kicked up, thumbing through her battered book about clouds. Lev sat at the other end, a thick text on neurology open in his lap, eyes darting over the pages. The fire snapped quietly in the stove, washing the room in gold.
Lately, Lev had been devouring every medical text you could find, his curiosity growing with each trip to town. You wondered if, one day, he’d apprentice with the town doctors, bringing new knowledge back to the farm.
You ruffled Frances’s curls as you passed, and she grinned up at you, blue eyes shining. Lev looked up, a sly smile already on his lips. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.
You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re twenty now. You could make dinner once in a while.”
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Yeah, but… you’re better at it.”
Abby swooped in and threw her arms around his shoulders, giving him a playful squeeze. “Whatever you want, Lev. As long as it isn’t dried beans again.”
Lev groaned dramatically, and Frances chimed in, “No beans!”
You and Abby laughed, the whole house filling up with the sound. The earlier tension melted into comfort—the four of you orbiting each other in the soft light, safe and whole for another night.
You caught Abby’s gaze across the room and she winked at you, a secret only the two of you shared. For the first time in a long time, you couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring.
_____________________________________________________________________
You woke in the dark, the world around you still and heavy. It was rare now—these midnight wakings, the old familiar surge of dread curling in your chest, whispering what if. The medication usually held the nightmares at bay, kept your mind quiet, but tonight something pulled you out of sleep, your body tense and alert.
You rolled out of bed as quietly as you could, not wanting to wake Abby or Frances, the floorboards cold beneath your bare feet. The oversized sleep shirt you wore hung off one shoulder, brushing the tops of your thighs, and your boxer shorts clung snug to your hips. You padded downstairs, the silence broken only by the faint creak of the old wood and the ticking of the clock by the kitchen.
At the counter, you poured yourself a glass of water, the cold stinging your palm. You stared out the kitchen window, the world outside shrouded in shadow. The yard was empty, the barn a hulking silhouette, the trees just black, shifting shapes in the wind. For a moment, your heart thudded in your throat. You searched the night for movement—half-expecting a shape, a trick of the mind, the whisper of old ghosts at the glass. But there was nothing. Only darkness. Only quiet.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, feeling the slow return of calm. The kitchen was safe, the house alive with the familiar hush of sleeping bodies. The only thing spooky was your own imagination—left over from another, harder time.
You jumped a little at the creak overhead—then relaxed as you recognized Abby’s footfalls. She padded down the stairs, sleepy but steady, her hair a wild tangle, cheeks flushed from her pillow. She crossed the kitchen in three strides and wrapped herself around you from behind, her arms warm and solid at your waist. “Come back to bed,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
You leaned back into her, the glass cold in your hands. Abby pressed soft, lazy kisses along your jaw, then up and down your face, nuzzling at your temple. Her breath was warm on your skin, her presence grounding and real. You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound soft and small in the dark. “Abby…”
She just smirked against your cheek, her arms tightening around you. “Hm?” she whispered, her tone all teasing heat.
You shook your head, feeling your cheeks flush. “We just—” you started, remembering the barn, the heat still lingering in your bones. “How are you not tired?”
She grinned, running one hand up your thigh, thumb drawing gentle circles over the fabric. “You just look so good right now,” she whispered, voice rough and fond.
You felt yourself smile despite the shyness. You wiggled out of her grasp, turning to face her. “Come on, cowboy. I’m tired,” you teased, brushing a kiss against her lips.
Abby followed you back upstairs, both of you moving quietly through the sleeping house. She slid into bed behind you, tucking her body around yours, her arms a barrier against every old fear. Her lips pressed a soft kiss into your hair, her hand splayed over your stomach.
Wrapped in her warmth, you let yourself drift, the ghosts held at bay, sleep claiming you both before the first hints of dawn touched the sky.
You woke to the gentle sound of rain against the windows, the world still wrapped in gray dawn. Abby was already up, slipping from the bed with the care of someone used to early mornings. The space where her body had been was still warm. You listened for a moment, eyes closed, as she moved through the house—her quiet footsteps on the stairs, the kettle thumping onto the stove, the soft clatter of dishes.
The smell of coffee drifted up, warm and bitter, mingling with the sharper scent of woodsmoke. You stretched beneath the covers, letting your body adjust to the morning. There was a peaceful heaviness in your bones—the afterglow of last night’s closeness, the relief of a dreamless sleep.
Frances was the next to stir, padding in from her room with her curls wild. She climbed onto the bed and curled against your side, small and solid and real. “Morning, Mommy,” she mumbled, eyes barely open.
“Morning, baby,” you murmured back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The two of you eventually made your way downstairs, drawn by the sounds of Abby and Lev. Abby was at the stove, flipping slices of bread on a cast iron pan—her hair up, old tee hanging loose, face still soft from sleep. Lev was already dressed, his hands wrapped around a mug, reading something dense and medical at the table.
The kitchen was warm and golden, a little refuge from the chill outside. Rain pattered against the roof, steady and reassuring.
“Did you sleep okay?” Abby asked as you settled into a chair, Frances immediately crawling into your lap.
You nodded. “Yeah. Woke up for a bit, but you found me.” You gave her a sleepy smile, grateful for her grounding presence.
Frances kicked her heels, giggling when Abby ruffled her hair. Lev looked up from his book, a wry grin on his face.
You shared bread and eggs, Abby pouring coffee and Lev recounting something new he’d learned—about fevers, or herbal poultices, or which plants to avoid in the woods. Frances chattered about clouds and animals, waving her toast like a pointer.
The morning passed in small comforts and easy conversation, the farm beyond the windows shrouded in rain and soft light. For now, the world was safe—full of promise, with the people you loved most all around you.
Abby got Frances dressed while you picked at the last of your food, your mind replaying flashes of yesterday—Abby’s voice, the raw way she’d taken control. Your skin prickled with memory, your thighs still sore in a way that felt more like pride than pain.
Lev waved from the front door, Frances clutching his hand, her small pack bouncing against her back. “I’ll take her to town, to school,” he called.
You offered a soft smile. “Be safe.”
As the door closed behind them, the house settled into a hush broken only by the quiet creak of floorboards and the soft patter of rain against the windows. You rinsed the dishes, fingers slick with suds, your mind wandering—almost not daring to believe how much things had changed between you and Abby, how free you both felt now.
Upstairs, you moved slowly through the motions of getting dressed, still a little tired from your restless night. You’d just peeled your shirt over your head when Abby’s hands slipped around your waist, thumbs drawing gentle lines over your hips, pulling you back against her. She pressed her lips to the side of your neck, letting her breath tickle your skin.
“You look so good,” she murmured, her voice heavy with want.
You glanced down, caught off guard by the sight of yourself—bare skin, scattered bruises, her fingerprints still faint on your thighs. “Again?” you asked, almost laughing, heat spreading across your face.
Abby only chuckled, her mouth brushing against your jaw. “It’s because you don’t let me do it enough,” she teased.
You rolled your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Are you too sore?” she asked, her voice lowering, almost wicked.
You turned, your cheeks burning. “No! What?!” The denial came too fast and made her laugh again.
Abby’s hand slipped lower, her fingers hooking just above your hipbone. “Lay on the bed,” she said—no room for argument in her tone.
You obeyed, stretching out across the sheets. Abby peeled off her shirt and pants in one practiced motion, climbing up the bed with the smooth, predatory grace of a lioness. She straddled your chest, her thighs caging you in, her eyes locked on yours—hungry, but so full of love you felt safe in the wildness.
“You wanna make me feel good, baby?” she asked, her voice a rumbling purr.
You gasped, a shiver running through you. “Of course.”
Her smirk turned downright devilish. “How bad, baby? You wanna drink my cum, hm?”
You looked away, embarrassment and hunger tangling in your belly. “Abby…” you protested, but your voice was weak.
She just laughed, deep and low, and moved up, her core hovering just above your lips. Her hand twisted gently in your hair, anchoring you. “I know you want me to feel good, baby. So do it how I tell you, okay?”
You nodded, your breath coming fast.
Abby’s voice was a gentle command. “Kiss it.”
You pressed a slow, reverent kiss to her slit, tasting salt and heat, letting yourself savor the moment. She let her head fall back, a groan vibrating in her chest, but her grip on your hair never loosened.
You moved to run your tongue over her, but she yanked you away with surprising strength. “I didn’t say use your tongue yet.”
You tried to protest, laughing, “Abby, come on, I know how to—”
She cut you off, her voice suddenly stern. “I know you know how. But I’m telling you how now. There’s a difference, Joan.”
That sent a jolt through you, electrifying and intimate. You didn’t answer, just kissed her again—slow, soft, patient.
Abby shuddered, her thighs tightening around your shoulders. “Okay, baby. Now use your tongue. Slow circles.”
You obeyed, swirling your tongue with careful precision, feeling the way her body trembled, the way her breath caught. Her thighs quaked, her hands tightening in your hair, her whole body riding the edge of pleasure.
Then she surprised you again. “Touch yourself,” she said, her voice rough and hungry.
You hesitated, pulling back. “Wh—”
But her hand was already guiding you, placing your own hand between your legs, pressing your fingers to your slick. “Shut the fuck up and touch yourself,” she ordered, her tone sharp and unyielding.
You didn’t dare resist—your fingers found your heat, rubbing in slow tandem with your tongue on her, both of you caught in the rising, desperate tide of need.
Abby’s thighs began to quake, her breathing ragged, but just as you felt her begin to crest, she pulled away, groaning. “God.”
You swallowed, still gasping for air, “You were close, why—”
She shook her head, face flushed, eyes wild with need. “Not yet.”
You stared up at her, heart pounding, every nerve ending alive, aching to find out what she’d demand next.
Abby guided your mouth back to her, her thighs caging your head, and this time she didn’t hold back. She rolled her hips forward, grinding down against your lips with a desperate, hungry rhythm. “Take it, baby. Let me fuck that pretty mouth,” she growled, her voice low and wrecked.
You whimpered, your tongue working in sync with her movements, the taste and heat of her overwhelming every sense. Each time you tried to slip a hand between your legs, she pinned your wrists above your head, her grip unyielding. All you could do was let her use you, the restraint only making you hotter.
“Oh, that mouth of yours feels so fucking good,” Abby groaned, her breath shuddering out as she drove her pleasure against your lips. She was rough, unrelenting, her thighs trembling as she lost herself in the feeling. You struggled to breathe, but your eyes rolled back, dizzy from want and the rush of being completely out of control.
You were soaked, throbbing, desperate for any kind of relief, but she gave you none—her power absolute in this moment. Your hips bucked up into nothing, aching for touch. Abby just laughed, a raw, beautiful sound, moaning louder as she chased her own pleasure. “Yeah, just like that, baby. You’re so good. My little slut, you know that? All mine, baby. No one else gets you like this.”
Your eyes flew wide at her words—filthy, unyielding, burning you from the inside out. The shame and pride tangled up in your belly, twisting you tighter with every thrust of her hips.
Then she started to shake, her thighs quivering around your head, gasps pouring from her lips. You felt her orgasm roll through her—her body clenching, hips stuttering, the taste of her slick flooding your mouth, dripping down your chin and into your hair. It was messy and raw and perfect.
Her brow furrowed as she rode out the last wave, her thrusts ragged, breath caught in her throat. She held herself over you for a moment, her hand tangled tight in your hair, her body still shuddering.
Finally, she gasped for air and lifted off you, her legs unsteady, her hands trembling as she released your wrists.
You collapsed back onto the bed, face flushed, chest heaving, slick smeared across your mouth and jaw. Abby looked down at you, eyes wild and bright, lips swollen from biting back her cries.
She smiled—soft and dangerous—and leaned down to kiss your sticky cheeks, her hands finding your hair. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, her voice still rough with pleasure. “Absolutely perfect.”
You grinned up at her, the world spinning in the most delicious way, already aching for more.
Abby’s mouth curved into a wicked smirk as she caught her breath. “Get dressed,” she said, reaching for her jeans.
You stared up at her, disbelieving. “What? Now?!”
She only laughed, buttoning her pants, her cheeks still flushed. “Go shower. We’ve got a lot to do before we head to town.”
You shook your head, frustration blooming in your chest. “No, Abby, I—” You started to protest, your voice breaking, but she leaned down and silenced you with a kiss—deep and claiming, tasting herself on your lips.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it eventually,” she whispered, her words equal parts promise and tease.
She pulled her shirt on and strode out, leaving you trembling and needy, skin buzzing with denial. You huffed, flopping back onto the mattress for a moment, then hauled yourself upright. Fine. If she was going to leave you like this, you’d just take care of yourself in the shower.
You stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door a little harder than usual. The tile was cold under your feet, the air thick with steam as you turned the water on full blast, letting it run until it was scalding hot. You stripped off what was left of your clothes, slipped under the spray, and sat on the edge of the tub, letting your head fall back as the water ran down your back.
Your fingers found your aching center almost automatically, circling soft and slow, hips rocking in time with your breath. You pressed your free hand over your breast, pinching the nipple, chasing the edge of release that Abby had left you stranded on. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, a shaky, frustrated whimper escaping you.
Just as your climax started to crest, the bathroom door opened. You froze, eyes snapping open, hand going still between your legs.
Abby stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Joan,” she said, voice soft but firm.
You looked up at her, guilt and need warring in your chest, water streaming down your face.
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” Her eyes locked on yours, a warning and a dare.
You shook your head, lip trembling. “No,” you whispered.
Abby moved closer, kneeling by the edge of the tub, her hand cupping your chin, thumb stroking your cheek. “What am I going to do with you, huh?” she murmured, her tone softer now, but no less commanding.
You swallowed hard, pulse thundering in your ears, waiting for her to decide your fate.
Abby’s lips curled in a sly, dangerous smirk. “I could spank you,” she drawled, voice both playful and deadly serious.
You gaped at her, brow furrowing, a rush of disbelief and embarrassment flooding you. “No! No way, Abby—” you sputtered, shaking your head, unsure if you were more flustered by the threat or by how much you suddenly wanted to know if she’d follow through.
She only pressed a finger gently over your lips, silencing your protest. “Sounds like that’s exactly what I should do,” she murmured, her tone carrying a wicked promise.
You swallowed hard, trying to protest again. “Abby, no—”
But whoever this Abby was—this version of her, so bold and commanding—she only grinned wider, her blue eyes sparkling with intent. “Out of the shower. Come on,” she ordered, stepping back and opening the bathroom door, steam rolling out into the hallway.
You stared at her, wide-eyed, your heart thudding in your chest. “You’re not serious?” you whispered.
She nodded, completely unfazed, already grabbing a towel for you. “I am. Let’s go get dressed.”
You huffed in frustration, the pulse of denied pleasure still alive and angry in your body. You barely had time to rinse off before Abby handed you your jeans and shirt, standing guard while you dressed, her arms crossed and one eyebrow arched, daring you to object.
Outside, the air was crisp and bright, the chill nipping at your damp hair. Abby’s boots thudded heavy on the porch as she led the way to the barn, her flannel peeking out from beneath a thick work jacket. She looked every inch the cowboy—broad-shouldered, unbothered, and in total control. You rolled your eyes behind her back, but you couldn’t deny the thrill racing through you.
She pushed open the door to the horse stall, the scent of hay and animals thick in the air, sunlight slanting in through the cracks in the wood. Abby glanced over her shoulder, her expression pure mischief. “Bend over,” she commanded, patting the low wooden rail.
You stopped in your tracks, your arms crossing over your chest, indignation flaring. “No! I’m not—there’s no fucking way, Abby,” you shot back, voice wavering somewhere between challenge and pleading.
Abby only chuckled, striding toward you, her boots crunching on the straw-strewn floor. She loomed over you, her shadow falling long in the barn light. “I wasn’t asking, Joan. I never said you could touch yourself, did I?” Her voice was all low thunder, patient but immovable.
You glared at her for a long moment, feeling your defiance falter under the weight of her gaze. The barn was quiet except for the slow, steady breathing of the horses and the pounding of your own heart.
She softened, just a little, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her. “You trust me, right?” she murmured, her fingers brushing over your jaw, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth.
You hesitated, nerves and longing warring inside you. Then, finally, you nodded—slow, eyes searching hers for any sign of cruelty. There was only love and a challenge you couldn’t refuse.
“Good,” Abby whispered, guiding you to the rail.
You drew in a shaky breath, letting her position you, surrendering to her hands as you bent over, palms flat on the wood, anticipation and dread fizzing in your belly.

Notes:

do you guys still believe ive never had pussy or what

Chapter 128: Say it again

You heard the subtle swish as Abby picked up the horse crop, the soft leather whispering through the air. Your heart thudded. She hooked her thumbs into your waistband and slid your jeans and underwear down just past your hips, baring your ass to the cool barn air. Goosebumps prickled across your skin. You shivered, part nerves, part anticipation.
Abby paced behind you—boots crunching in the straw, the crop tapping against her palm. “What did I tell you to do?” she asked, voice even and measured.
You squeezed the rail, forcing your voice steady. “Bend over the rail,” you managed.
She chuckled low. “Before that… in the house.”
You swallowed, your shame burning hot across your skin. “Take a shower.”
She nodded, her steps slow, controlled. “Take a shower and get ready. And what did you do instead?”
You hesitated, teeth digging into your lip. The humiliation curled in your gut, but you forced the words out. “I… touched myself.”
She stroked your left cheek, her touch gentle, a cruel contrast to the threat of the crop. “That’s right. And why did you do that?”
You scoffed, defensiveness rising up in your throat. “Because I needed release? Abby, come on—”
A sharp smack interrupted you, the crop biting across your ass. The sting was sharp and immediate, stealing the breath from your lungs. You jerked forward, gripping the rail harder, eyes wide with surprise and shame.
“Wrong answer,” Abby muttered, voice low and dangerous.
It hurt—a line of heat blooming across your skin—but the sensation mingled with a pulse of pleasure, something dark and electric winding through your belly.
Abby’s boots stopped behind you. She drew the crop across your skin, teasing before another smack, and another—each word punctuated with a strike. “You touched yourself—” smack “—because you’re a greedy, cum-drunk—” smack “—whore.”
You whimpered at every blow, your cheeks burning, tears pricking at your eyes. “I am your girlfriend! Practically your wife!” you protested, twisting to try and meet her eyes, your pride flaring even as your body trembled.
Abby laughed, finally circling around to face you. Her eyes were bright with mischief, but soft at the edges. She cradled your chin in her hand, her thumb brushing away a tear. “You are. You’re my sweet, beautiful Joan,” she whispered, her voice gentling.
You swallowed, breath hitching, your skin still tingling from the sting. Abby tapped the crop lightly against your ass, not striking now, just a reminder. “But you’re also mine. Mine to ruin, mine to wreck, mine to love.”
Abby leaned in, her presence overwhelming, and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your temple. The softness of her lips and the warmth of her breath gave you a moment of relief, but it was fleeting. She straightened, her hand heavy on your lower back, voice turning hard again. “Now, Joan… what did I tell you to do?”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, your whole body tensed and shivering. “To… take a shower,” you whispered, barely audible.
She nodded, clearly pleased. “That’s right. And let’s try this again. What did you do instead?”
You took a shaky breath, every muscle in your body wound tight. “I… touched myself.”
Abby hummed, tapping the crop against your exposed skin, the contact sending a jolt of anticipation up your spine. “Right, right. And why, Joan?”
You bit your lip, humiliation rising up like a wave, choking you. You hesitated, not wanting to give her the words.
SMACK!
The crop landed sharp and sudden across your ass, forcing a cry from your lips.
Her voice was iron. “I asked you a question, Joan.”
You were trembling now, the sting burning, tears prickling hot in your eyes. “Because I—”
SMACK.
“Because what?” she demanded, relentless.
You tried to find the words, but your mind was white noise, every nerve ending on fire.
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
Each strike drew a gasp from you, your chest heaving, tears slipping down your cheeks. You sobbed into the straw-scented air. “Because I’m… I’m a—”
Abby grabbed a handful of your hair, not cruel but controlling, turning your face toward her. Her grip held you steady as she kept her other hand possessive on your bruised backside. “You’re a what, Joan? Hm? I’m waiting. Come on, say it for me.”
You tried, but your throat closed around the words. Abby wasn’t letting up.
SMACK.
“Come on, Joan,” she coaxed, voice low and urgent.
You sobbed, your body shaking with the effort of holding everything in and letting it all go at once.
SMACK. SMACK.
“Joan, I’m waiting.”
Your body broke, the tears coming in great, heaving waves. You choked on your own voice, spitting the words into the open barn, your shame and desire tangled together. “I’m sorry!” you cried, barely getting the words out.
Abby nodded, her tone softening just a fraction, but still edged with power. “I know you are, baby.” She let the crop rest on your ass, stroking you with the back of her hand, gentle now. “Sorry for what?”
You sniffled, the words tumbling out, your voice wrecked and small. “Sorry for being a greedy whore… for touching myself in the bathroom without your permission,” you sobbed, the confession coming out in one breathless, desperate sentence.
She nodded, her satisfaction unmistakable. Abby stepped around to face you, her hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing away the tears. She pressed soft, slow kisses to your wet cheeks, grounding you again. “Good, that’s right. Let it out. I’ve got you,” she murmured, her voice both soothing and possessive.
You melted into her touch, your body shaking, breath ragged, but feeling—finally—safe and wanted.

Notes:

horses int he stall like 0-0

Chapter 129: New friends and Jealousy

Notes:

a new bombshell has entered the villa

You swallowed hard, hastily standing up and pulling your pants back over your stinging skin, but Abby’s hand pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing you right back down against the rail.
“We’re not done, Joan,” she said softly, her voice almost gentle, but her intent unmistakable.
You twisted, peering over your shoulder in disbelief. “Abby?!” you protested, heart still pounding, cheeks wet and burning.
She only chuckled, sliding her fingers smoothly between your legs. The contact made you gasp—a wild mix of relief and humiliation surging through you as she slipped a finger inside you, curling just so. “I’m not that mean, baby,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Besides…”
Her fingers began to thrust—steady, confident, coaxing slick sounds from your body. “You’re so wet for me like this. You liked that, huh?”
You bit your lip, trying to choke back the moan threatening to escape. “Stop… embarrassing me,” you managed, voice trembling, shame and pleasure tangled in your chest.
Abby only laughed, her breath hot against your neck. “But you love it, don’t you?” she purred, her fingers speeding up, twisting in a way that made your knees weak.
You couldn’t help yourself—your back arched, hips pushing back desperately onto her hand, your body betraying you as you chased the edge she kept just out of reach. Your hands clutched the rail so hard your knuckles ached.
Then—suddenly—she pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty, throbbing, and breathless.
She smirked, wiping her fingers on your hip. “That’s enough of that.”
You yelped, turning to glare at her, a mix of anger and need twisting your features. “I am going to kill you,” you growled, half-teasing, half-feral.
Abby laughed, pulling your pants up for you, her hands lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Relax,” she whispered, kissing your cheek, her voice low and promising. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while—later. But right now, we have to go to town.”
You groaned, flipping her off as she turned away, her boots thudding confidently on the barn floor.
“Fucking Abby,” you muttered under your breath, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips—or the heat that lingered between your thighs, a promise that this game was far from over.
_______________________________________________________________________
The sun had climbed high by the time you and Abby set out for town. The autumn air was cool, scented with woodsmoke and earth, and the fields around the farm glowed gold under a pale blue sky. The horses’ hooves thudded over the dirt track, rhythmic and steady, the tack creaking with each stride. You sat astride your mare, still a little wobbly from the aftermath in the barn—every step sending a fresh throb through your bruised skin and the ache Abby had left between your legs.
Abby rode just ahead, her posture relaxed but powerful. Her boots were snug in the stirrups, flannel sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Every so often, she glanced back over her shoulder with that infuriatingly smug grin—fully aware of the effect she’d had on you, and enjoying it.
The old road curved through stands of fading sunflowers and past the rotted shell of what had once been a gas station. You passed a broken street sign half-swallowed by weeds, its paint faded nearly white. Here and there, you could see other farms—windows patched with boards, smoke curling from their chimneys, children playing out front or carrying baskets in for trade.
You shifted in your saddle, feeling the dull burn Abby had left on your ass, and scowled at her back. She just winked, making no attempt to hide the amusement in her eyes.
“Are you still mad at me?” she called, her tone sweet and mocking.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m thinking about pushing you off that horse and making you walk.”
She laughed, the sound echoing down the road. “Wouldn’t be the first time you tried.”
You both fell quiet as the outskirts of town came into view—rusted fences, makeshift gardens, and a market square that bustled with post-pandemic life. People were trading jars of pickled vegetables, dried beans, old tools, anything they could spare. Banners made from patched bedsheets hung above the main drag, painted with faded letters: WELCOME TRADERS.
You dismounted, leading your mare by the reins, trying to ignore the way Abby’s presence made your pulse race even now. She tied her horse to the post outside the main store, then turned to you, face softening just a little.
“You okay?” she asked, voice quieter now, just for you.
You nodded, giving her a look that was half affection, half exasperation. “Ask me again later,” you muttered, cheeks still hot from both the ride and the memory of the barn.
Abby grinned, leaning in to press a quick, conspiratorial kiss to your cheek. “I will.”
The two of you moved together through the square, a quiet team among the crowd, ready to barter, trade, and face whatever the day in town would bring—your secret still humming between you, a promise for tonight.
Abby made quick work of tying up both horses, her hands deft with reins and knots. She gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll go check on Frances. Explore a little—been a while since you had the town to yourself, huh?”
You nodded, your heart beating a little faster at the idea of wandering alone. You set off, boots crunching over gravel and bits of broken glass, the sounds of the small settlement wrapping around you—vendors haggling, chickens squabbling in a pen, a distant dog barking.
The first shop to catch your eye was a small, rickety building with sun-bleached planks and a faded sign you couldn’t read. Its porch was crowded with pots of wildflowers, jugs of honey, and a tumble of fruit in wooden crates. Through the open door, you glimpsed a wild array of colors—paintings propped against the walls, drying canvases hung from string, sunlight pooling across the floor.
You stepped inside, the scent of linseed oil, fresh flowers, and fermenting apples thick in the air. Your eyes landed on a scatter of portraits: weathered faces, children, someone playing a guitar, a pair of hands holding a bouquet. It was messy and beautiful, life patched together with pigment.
Then someone appeared from the back—a woman, tall as Abby, with sun-warmed skin and honey-brown hair falling in loose waves down her back. Her build was striking, broad-shouldered, arms corded with muscle beneath a linen apron flecked with blue and green. She had a fullness to her figure—bustier than Abby, her presence both powerful and gentle. Thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, her smile revealing a charmingly crooked row of teeth.
You blinked, surprised; you’d never met a woman with a body like Abby’s, not here, not anywhere. It made your heart skip, not with a crush, but with awe and a strange, giddy recognition—like stumbling on a sister you never knew you had.
She grinned, eyes lighting up. “Is this your first time in the studio? I painted all these!” Her voice was warm, animated, her hands gesturing wide to the artwork. “I do portraits—trade for food, medicine, anything useful. Sometimes people just bring me old storybooks.” She shrugged, eyes shining with pride.
You felt your cheeks heat—not from desire, but from the rare sensation of being around another woman who was strong, unembarrassed, and creative. It was almost intoxicating.
You managed a smile. “They’re beautiful. You live here?”
She nodded, bouncing a little on her heels. “Born and raised. I’m Maddie.” She stuck out a paint-stained hand.
You shook it, her grip surprisingly gentle for someone built like a tree trunk. “Joan,” you offered, suddenly shy. “I’m—uh—new on the outskirts. My partner, Abby, and I keep a farm.”
Maddie’s eyes widened in recognition. “The tall one with the braid? Oh, she’s a legend at the supply depot. They say she carried a whole calf through the mud last spring.”
You laughed, the tension melting away. “That sounds like her.”
Maddie nodded toward her workbench. “If you ever want to trade, or just hang out, I’m here most days. You paint?”
You glanced at the colorful chaos around you, thinking of the farm, the loneliness, your hands stained with both earth and color. “Yeah… sometimes. I’d love to come back.”
Maddie smiled, already moving to fetch something—a jar of wild daisies, a battered sketchbook. “You’re welcome anytime. Need flowers for the table? Or—wait—do you like plums?”
You laughed, a real, bright sound, and felt something inside you unclench, just a little. The world was wider than you thought.
Maddie leaned in, picking a stray piece of hay from your sweater with an easy, gentle touch. Her smile was broad and unguarded, and you found yourself relaxing under her warmth. Before you could thank her, you heard the heavy step of boots behind you—Abby, emerging from the sunlight outside, her face composed and unreadable.
Her blue eyes swept over Maddie, gaze flicking from head to toe—guarded, almost cold. “Madelyn,” she said, her voice flat as stone.
Maddie just grinned, unfazed. “Abby! Hey! I still owe you apples from last month.”
Abby nodded, jaw tight as she drew in a slow breath. “Right. I’ll load them up.”
Maddie handed over the bushel, her arm steady beneath the weight. Abby hefted it with practiced ease and carried it back toward the horses, but not before glancing over her shoulder—her gaze lingering on you and Maddie, as if weighing some invisible equation.
You couldn’t help but watch her walk away, your chest tight with both affection and exasperation. But Maddie’s laughter drew your attention back. She had that sunlit energy—open, creative, just a little chaotic. You liked her immediately, not as a crush, but as the kind of person you always wished you could be.
She held up a half-finished painting, vibrant and bold. “Working on this for some antibiotics,” she explained, a little sheepish. “Never hurts to have medicine on hand, right?”
You nodded, curiosity piqued. “Are you sick?”
She shook her head, wild hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Nope. But you can never be too careful!” She let out a laugh, bright and musical, and picked up another canvas—a soft, half-finished landscape. “Hey, Joanie—since you paint, what do you think I should add to this? Be honest.”
You leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of oil paint and wildflowers, eyes tracing the brushstrokes. For a moment, it was easy to forget everything else—just two artists talking color and light, the whole world shrinking down to a square of canvas.
Before you could answer, Abby’s voice cut through the stillness from the open doorway. “Joan?” Her brow was raised, arms folded over her chest, her whole posture radiating protectiveness.
You turned, offering her a soft smile. “Yeah?”
She nodded toward the horses, her voice carefully neutral. “Frances is ready to go. Thought you’d want to say goodbye.”
You waved her off, a small grin tugging at your lips. “Go ahead. Take her home—I’ll catch up soon.”
Abby lingered for a moment, her gaze shifting between you and Maddie. Then, with a curt nod, she disappeared into the square, the bushel of apples balanced on one broad shoulder.
You turned back to Maddie, your heart pounding with a strange, giddy hope. Maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found a friend out here.
Maddie grinned, holding the canvas toward you again. “So—what do you think? Should I add more blue, or is it too much already?”
You took the canvas from Maddie, studying the landscape she’d sketched—swaths of green fields, a distant blue horizon, a lonely apple tree clinging to a crooked hill. Her brushwork was bold but there was a gentleness in the way the sky softened at the edges, clouds melting into the blue.
“It’s beautiful,” you said honestly, turning it so the light caught the texture. “You could add more blue, but I like the way you did the shadows already. Maybe some yellow in the field—make the grass look like it’s catching the sun.”
Maddie beamed, taking back the canvas and squinting at it with a thoughtful hum. “You see it! Most people just say, ‘looks nice’ and leave it at that. They don’t get how color changes everything.”
You handed Maddie back her canvas, letting your eyes drift around the bright, cluttered studio. “I still paint sometimes,” you admitted, almost sheepishly. “Not as much as I used to. I… lost most of my supplies when we left Catalina. Paint’s hard to come by out on the farm.”
Maddie’s face softened. “Yeah, I hear that from everyone who trades here. I make my own sometimes—just berries, ash, whatever I can grind up. It’s messy, but it works in a pinch. What do you use?”
You shrugged. “Whatever I can get. Old house paint, sometimes. Bit of beet juice, dirt, charcoal… Abby thinks it’s funny when I come in from the barn with blue hands.”
Maddie grinned. “That’s the best kind of painting. You want real colors? I’ll share what I have. Or teach you to make more—half the fun’s getting your hands dirty.”
You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “I’d like that. Haven’t painted with anyone else since… well, not for a long time.”
She pushed a jar of brushes toward you, the bristles stained and frayed. “Anytime you want, Joanie. You don’t have to trade for it. Just bring yourself and we’ll make something work. And if you ever want to take a few colors home, just say the word.”
You nodded, a little overwhelmed by her generosity, but grateful. “Thank you. Maybe next time I’ll bring you eggs. Or a story.”
Maddie’s eyes crinkled. “A story’s worth more than any paint.”
You let yourself relax, surrounded by the clutter and sunlight, the familiar ache in your fingers longing to create. Even with so little, there was still art—still a place for it in this patched-together world.
Maddie nudged a battered wooden stool your way and set out a chipped jar of water between you, offering a cracked palette already smeared with color. “Sit, if you want,” she said. “I won’t bite. I’ll even let you have first pick of the good brushes.”
You eased onto the stool, rolling up your sleeves. Maddie pushed her wild hair back with a paint-splattered hand and set to grinding a few dried berries in a little stone dish, showing you how she made a rich red pigment. “Try this,” she said, dabbing it onto the corner of your palm—a warm, earthy red that stained your skin.
You laughed, surprised at how bright it was. “That’s better than anything I’ve managed. I usually end up with… brown.”
“Brown’s a color too. World’s got enough of it, though,” Maddie replied, smiling as she pressed a fat stick of charcoal into your hand. “I’ll show you how to mix a real blue, if you want.”
So you painted, side by side—sometimes talking, sometimes quiet. Maddie filled the room with stories about town: the barter deals that went wrong, the night she accidentally swapped a painting for a wheelbarrow full of onions, her childhood dog who used to sleep in the very spot you sat now. You shared little pieces too, careful at first, but soon it felt easy, even natural. You told her about Frances’ stubbornness, Abby’s legendary strength, how hard the first winter off Catalina had been.
Paint splattered your fingers and streaked your forearms. Maddie grinned as you brushed a pale gold streak into the field on her canvas, encouraging you to be bolder, to use your whole arm. “You don’t need to be careful with me,” she said, nudging your shoulder. “It’s just paint.”
You grinned, something inside you loosening. For the first time in a long time, you felt not just safe, but welcome. You felt like yourself.
As the light faded through the window, Maddie set down her brush and looked at your hands—stained and shaking a little, but steady. “Come back any time,” she said, voice gentle. “And if you need more supplies, or someone to talk to… well, you know where I am.”
You nodded, genuinely grateful, a soft ache blooming in your chest. “I will. Thank you, Maddie.”
She smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. “You heading home?”
You glanced out at the deepening sky, thinking of Abby and Frances. “Yeah. They’ll be waiting.”
Maddie walked you to the door, pressing a tiny bundle of wildflowers into your hand. “For your kitchen. Next time, bring Frances. I want to meet the girl with all the stories.”
You tucked the flowers carefully into your bag, feeling a quiet sense of hope as you stepped back into the street—a sense that, even in this broken world, new beginnings were still possible.
By the time you rode back up the long dirt track to the farm, the sun was dropping low behind the hills, throwing golden light across the fields. Your horse tossed her head as you slid off, your hands still faintly stained with Maddie’s homemade paint. You led her to the post, tying her off beside Abby’s mare.
Abby was already outside, chopping wood by the barn, her shirt sleeves rolled up, arms gleaming with sweat. She barely looked up as you approached, just gave a short nod. The air between you felt charged, different somehow, but you chalked it up to the long day.
You grinned, holding up the little bundle of wildflowers Maddie had sent home. “Look what Maddie gave me! She showed me how to make real paint from berries—look!” You wiggled your fingers, still tinted pink and blue.
Abby set down the axe with a thunk, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You were gone a while,” she said, voice even and cool.
You didn’t notice her tone, too swept up in the memory of the afternoon. “Yeah, I lost track of time. Maddie’s amazing—she paints with anything she can find, and she said I can use her brushes whenever I want. She even wants to meet Frances next time we come to town! Isn’t that nice?”
Abby nodded, jaw tight. She picked up the axe again, splitting another log with more force than necessary. “Yeah. Nice,” she muttered, eyes fixed on the wood.
You carried on, completely oblivious to the storm brewing under Abby’s calm exterior. “I think I’ll try to paint more, you know? I forgot how good it felt. I haven’t felt like this since Catalina.”
Abby stacked the logs in silence, her mouth pressed in a thin line. She didn’t meet your gaze, but you could feel something shift—an edge of protectiveness, maybe, or just old habits. You shrugged it off, already heading inside with the flowers, calling for Frances and humming to yourself.
Abby lingered by the woodpile, watching you go, her shoulders stiff.
By the time you came in from the barn, the house was alive with evening noise. Frances sat on the kitchen floor, building her block tower. Lev was already home, perched at the table with a battered deck of cards, shuffling and dealing himself a game of solitaire. He glanced up when you entered, giving you his usual shy smile.
“Hey, Joan. You paint something today?” he asked, noticing the faint smudges of color on your hands.
You grinned and nodded, holding up the wildflowers for Frances. “I did! Maddie gave me these—she showed me how to make paint from berries. I might even have enough to try painting you next, Lev. If you’ll sit still for five minutes.”
He laughed, rolling his eyes.
Abby entered a moment later, boots scuffing the floor. She nodded at Lev, her greeting short but not unkind. She headed to the stove, checking on the stew, her presence filling the room. You could feel her watching, even as you gushed about the afternoon—about Maddie, the studio, all the stories.
Lev listened as he played his cards, occasionally adding a comment or asking about town gossip. He made a joke about trading paintings for more eggs, and Frances shrieked with laughter, knocking over her block tower and making Lev rebuild it with her.
You all sat down to dinner together—Frances with her bowl, Lev shoveling stew and asking Abby about a broken fence post he’d fixed, you recounting the colors Maddie mixed. Abby mostly listened, answering Lev about the fence, nodding at Frances’ interruptions, only glancing at you when you talked about the paint.
After dinner, Lev helped you tidy up. He quietly told Frances a story about his childhood—about growing up on the coast, the things he missed, and how he used to draw pictures of the ocean with his sister. Frances was spellbound, her head resting on his shoulder.
Later, as you put Frances to bed, you caught Lev in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. “Glad you had a good day,” he said, his voice gentle.
You smiled, squeezing his arm. “Thanks, Lev.”
Lev disappeared into his room for the night, leaving the house quiet except for the soft hum of the pipes and your own breath as you slipped into the shower. Steam curled around you, washing away paint and sweat, but not the giddy pulse that came from your afternoon with Maddie—the rare comfort of friendship, the thrill of making something just for you.
When you padded into the bedroom, towel wrapped around your body, you found Abby sitting rigid on the bed, her hands clenched in her lap. Her jaw was set, lips pressed into a hard line, and her eyes followed you in a way that made your skin prickle. The door clicked shut behind you, and the air felt charged.
You paused, uncertain. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer at first, just stood up—her movements tight, controlled. She closed the space between you in two strides, her hands finding your hips, fingers digging in just a little too hard. Her voice was low, rough. “Did you have fun with your new friend?”
You barely had time to register Abby’s tension before she was on you, pinning you to the door with a bruising kiss, her hands digging into your hips. The towel slipped to the floor, leaving you bare and breathless.
You gasped, but your hands weren’t idle—you pushed at her chest, defiant, not wanting to be steamrolled. “What the hell, Abby?” you shot back, your voice sharp even as her mouth traced your neck.
Her grip just tightened. “You love getting attention, don’t you?” she growled, jealousy raw in her tone. “Running around town, getting paint on your hands for someone else.”
You twisted in her grasp, not willing to just take it. “Oh, please. You’re the one who told me to make friends. Or did you want me locked up out here, alone with my thoughts?”
Abby’s jaw tightened, blue eyes stormy beneath the lamplight. “I want you here—with me. Not thinking about someone else when you’re in our bed.”
You scoffed, shoving her away, voice sharp but low. “You’re being fucking ridiculous.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it—just an edge, raw and wounded. “Ridiculous? You’re acting like a schoolgirl with her first crush.”
Your anger flared. “She’s a friend, Abby. We share the same interests, that’s all. You want me to pretend I don’t care about painting? Or making friends?”
Abby shook her head, still pacing, fists clenched. “Why were your cheeks red then, huh? When you talked about her?”
You stared at her, frustration boiling over. “Because I was surprised! She was… so much like me. I’ve never met anyone like that—someone who gets it. It doesn’t mean I want her, Abby!”
Abby chewed the inside of her cheek, the argument hanging between you like smoke. “I’m gonna sleep on the couch.”
You rolled your eyes, biting back another retort. “Unfuckingbelievable,” you muttered as she grabbed a blanket and stormed out, the door thudding softly behind her.
The room felt colder after she left. You stood in the quiet, staring at the spot where she’d been, heart pounding with equal parts anger and hurt. You wanted to chase after her—maybe to fight, maybe to make up—but your own pride held you in place.
You flopped down on the bed, pulling the covers up and staring at the dark ceiling. The house was silent except for the distant creak of the couch springs and the quiet sighs of the night. You tried to calm your racing mind, but guilt gnawed at you, sharper than any anger.
Minutes ticked by. You could picture Abby downstairs, curled up uncomfortably, staring at nothing. A knot twisted in your chest—regret, worry, a longing for things to just be simple again.
But you were stubborn too. So you turned onto your side and tried to sleep, determined not to be the first to break.
______________________________________________________________________________
You woke with the sunrise, light spilling over your face, your body stiff from restless sleep. The ache of last night’s fight sat heavy in your chest, but stubbornness pulled you out of bed. If Abby wanted to mope, let her. You had a life to live, and Frances to get to school—and you’d see Maddie today, no matter what.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, stretching the sleep from your shoulders. The door creaked open and Abby walked in, towel around her hips, drops of water running down her chest and along that soft line of hair that always made your heart skip. Your cheeks warmed despite yourself, but Abby’s expression was unreadable. She moved past you, yanking open drawers, ignoring your presence.
She pulled on jeans and a worn tee, her movements clipped. “Need something?” Her voice was rough, hoarse from lack of sleep. There were shadows under her eyes.
You stared for a moment, irritation and longing mixing in your chest. “No,” you replied, sharper than you meant. You grabbed your own clothes and left the room, the air tense behind you.
Downstairs, the kitchen was cold. You went straight for the coffee, only to find the pot empty. Abby’s favorite mug sat steaming on the counter, filled to the brim, a silent fuck you that made your blood boil. You gritted your teeth, reaching for the jar of beans—only to find it nearly empty and stale.
You cursed under your breath, slamming the jar down just as Lev padded in from the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
He took in the scene—the empty pot, Abby’s untouched mug, the stiff set of your shoulders. Lev’s gaze darted between you and the kitchen, one eyebrow arched. “You guys… okay?” he ventured, voice soft.
You pressed your lips into a line, shaking your head. “Fine,” you muttered, grinding the old beans with more force than necessary.
Lev lingered by the counter, uncertain, his hands in his pockets. He watched you slam the coffee maker shut, sensing the storm beneath your quiet. “Alright,” he said finally, leaving the question open in the air as he poured himself a glass of water.
You moved through the rest of the morning on autopilot, filling Frances’ backpack, making sure she had her little lunch tin, avoiding Abby’s gaze as she moved around the kitchen in silence. The tension pressed at your temples, stubborn and raw. You wondered if it would ever break—or if you’d spend the whole day simmering like this, angry and wanting in equal measure.
The morning air was sharp and clean, the sky streaked with pale gold as you led the horse from the barn. Frances bounded beside you, chattering excitedly, her backpack bouncing on her shoulders. You knelt to help her climb up, her little hands grabbing the saddle horn, and then swung up behind her, your arms secure around her waist.
“Ready?” you asked, forcing cheer into your voice.
“Ready!” Frances squealed, legs kicking with impatience.
You nudged the horse forward, the slow clip of hooves and the soft snort of breath filling the quiet. The farm slipped away behind you, the fields sparkling with dew, and for a while it was easy to pretend the world was simple—just you, your daughter, and the rhythm of the ride.
Frances babbled about school, about Lev’s funny stories and what she hoped to learn that day. Her joy was infectious, and you felt the knot of tension in your chest loosen—just a bit.
The ride into town was longer than usual with Frances in tow, and you took your time, letting her soak in every detail. She pointed out birds on the fence posts, a rabbit darting across the path, the shape of clouds above the fields.
The houses of the town came into view—rickety, patched with whatever wood and metal people could find, but alive with color and movement. Smoke curled from a dozen chimneys, the smell of baking bread and woodsmoke mixing in the cool breeze.
You guided the horse down the main road, earning a few nods from townsfolk already out and about. Frances waved at everyone, grinning with all the boldness of a child who’d never learned to be shy.
You helped her down in front of the schoolhouse—a squat building with windows patched in three kinds of glass. Mrs. Hanley stood by the door, her face softening at the sight of Frances.
“Morning, Joan. Morning, Frances!” she called.
“Hi!” Frances piped, already racing up the steps.
You watched her go, your chest tight with pride and worry. Mrs. Hanley gave you a knowing look. “You alright?”
You nodded, summoning a smile. “Just tired. She’s excited for today.”
“She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Hanley said gently. “Go enjoy your day.”
You nodded, glancing once more at Frances before turning toward the heart of town, ready to find Maddie and—hopefully—lose yourself in art for a few hours. But even as you walked away, the ache of the morning, of Abby’s silence, followed you like a shadow.
You made your way through the early bustle of town, boots crunching over gravel and stray hay. People passed by with baskets and bundles—traders heading to the market, kids dragging their feet toward the schoolhouse. The sound of a distant hammer rang out, a dog barked, and the world felt both worn and wonderfully alive.
Maddie’s house stood at the end of a narrow lane, wedged between a row of gardens bursting with autumn color. The front porch sagged a little, flowerpots crowding the steps, wild marigolds climbing over the railing. There were paints and half-finished canvases propped everywhere—color splashed across the world.
You knocked, hesitating only a moment. The door opened almost at once, Maddie grinning out at you, a streak of blue paint across her cheek.
“Joan! You came back!” she said, waving you in. “I hoped you would. I made tea—real tea, if you can believe it. Got some from a trader up north.”
You stepped inside, shedding your jacket. The house smelled like paint and herbs, sunlight spilling through the windows and pooling on the wood floor. Paintings lined every wall—portraits, landscapes, scenes from town and wild imagination. You felt a little thrill, your fingers itching for a brush.
“I needed a day away,” you admitted, your voice softer than you meant. “It’s been… rough at home.”
Maddie’s eyes were gentle, understanding without prying. “You wanna talk about it, or just paint and let it sit for a while?”
You smiled, grateful for the choice. “Paint, first. Then maybe I’ll let you in on all the drama.”
She chuckled, leading you to a wide worktable cluttered with jars and scrap paper. “Take your pick—brushes, rags, whatever you want. Got a new batch of yellow. It’s ugly as sin but cheerful.”
You took a seat, the simple act of dipping a brush into color already making your shoulders relax. Maddie worked beside you, humming under her breath as she sketched the view from her window. For a while, there was only the sound of bristles on canvas and the quiet comfort of being in a place where you could just be.
The tension from the morning faded, replaced by strokes of blue and gold and the peace of a new friendship—no expectations, no demands. Just art, and sunlight, and the promise of something easier.
You dipped your brush into a splash of muddy green, tracing the crooked roofline of your farmhouse, adding little dots for the cows and the orange smudge of Frances’ favorite barn cat. Maddie worked beside you, bent over a half-finished portrait—her strokes bold and quick, already capturing the laugh lines around the subject’s mouth.
After a while, you set your brush down, wiping your hands on your jeans. The morning sunlight caught in your hair, painting your shoulders gold. You took a breath and blurted, “Abby’s jealous of you.”
Maddie snorted, her eyes flicking up in surprise. “Of me? Really?”
You nodded, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah. She wouldn’t even sleep in bed with me last night. Barely looked at me this morning.”
Maddie arched an eyebrow, a teasing grin tugging at her lips. “Well, Joanie… you are kind of a cutie.”
You blinked, thrown for a second. “What?”
She laughed, a warm, easy sound. “But listen—I’m not about to wreck your home. You don’t have to worry about that. I get why she’d be jealous, though.”
You frowned, not quite sure if you should be flattered or annoyed. “What do you mean?”
Maddie set down her brush, leaning back with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Come on, Joan. You and I—we’d be a great pair. Chemistry, you know?” She winked, not entirely joking.
You shook your head, a strange sense of betrayal tightening in your chest. “No, you’re… you’re my friend. That’s all I want.”
She nodded, still smiling, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah, and I’m happy being your friend. But if you were single? Or if Abby ever disappeared—hell, I’d snatch you up in a second.” She laughed, brushing off the tension with practiced ease.
You stared, paintbrush heavy in your hand. “Are you serious?”
Maddie shrugged. “Just being honest, Joanie. That’s all. I like you—you’re easy to talk to, easy to be around. Doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it.”
You let out a slow breath, the awkwardness settling between you like dust in the sunlight. After a moment, you picked up your brush again, adding a bit more yellow to the sky.
“Guess I should take it as a compliment,” you muttered, trying to push away the uneasy feeling gnawing at your gut.
Maddie smiled softly, her tone shifting, more sincere. “You should. But I promise, I know where the line is. Besides, Abby’d probably knock my teeth out.”
You finally laughed, the tension breaking a little. “Yeah, she would.”
You painted in silence for a while, sunlight moving across the cluttered table, your brush slow and distracted. Maddie worked on her portrait, but the air between you felt heavier—something unspoken, a line neither of you dared to cross.
By the time you set your brush down, the sun was already slipping behind the hills, throwing long shadows across the dusty floor. You wiped your hands on a rag, standing up stiffly. “I should get going—Frances’ll be waiting.”
Maddie stood too, stretching her arms overhead, her shirt riding up just enough to show a line of tan at her waist. She grinned, all mischief and ease again, but when she walked you to the door, she leaned close, her voice dropping low. Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, making your breath hitch.
“Think about what I said… Joanie. You deserve to be adored, you know?”
Heat flooded your face. You jerked away, stumbling over your thanks, heart pounding as you stepped out into the cool dusk. “Right,” you managed, voice a whisper.
You found Frances waiting at the edge of the schoolyard, her small hands clasped around her lunch tin. She beamed when she saw you, her curls wild in the wind. You lifted her up onto the saddle, swinging up behind her, but even her babble about story time and a new friend named Max barely registered.
Your mind kept looping back to Maddie—her words, her eyes, the way she’d said you deserved better. It was flattering, maybe, but also unsettling. You pressed your lips together, letting the horse carry you home through the blue shadows of evening, Frances’ chatter a distant hum.
Back at the farm, you helped Frances off the horse, watching her bolt inside, hungry for dinner. You stayed behind in the fading light, tying off the reins with hands that shook just a little. You barely heard the barn door open until Abby stepped inside, boots heavy on the packed earth.
She didn’t speak right away—just lingered by the door, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. “Have fun?” she asked finally, her voice flat, carrying the ghost of something sharper beneath.
You swallowed, forcing your face into a careful mask. There was no way you could tell her what Maddie had said. Abby would tear her apart, and maybe you didn’t want to admit how much Maddie’s words rattled you. So you just nodded, glancing down at your hands. “Yeah. We just painted. It was nice.”
Abby’s brow furrowed, her posture shifting—something in her eyes turning cold, wary, all soldier now. “Just nice?” she pressed, her tone clipped.
You shrugged, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. Just nice. Nothing happened.”
She stared at you, searching your face, reading between the lines. The silence stretched, brittle and full of things unsaid. For a moment, you wondered if she could smell the truth on you, if she could sense how much your heart was still racing.
But you held her gaze, refusing to flinch. “I should get Frances ready for bed,” you said softly, stepping past her, feeling her eyes follow you the whole way to the house.
Outside, the stars were coming out, and the air felt thin and sharp in your lungs. You didn’t know how much longer you could keep the truth to yourself—or what would happen when it finally came out.

Chapter 130: So far apart

Inside, the house was filled with the smell of roasted vegetables and stew, a low hum of warmth against the gathering dark. Frances was already at the table, swinging her legs, telling Lev about her day at school. Lev listened with an easy smile, helping her scoop potatoes onto her plate.
You tried to steady your hands as you helped set the table, avoiding Abby’s eyes as she moved quietly around the kitchen. Every small sound—the clink of dishes, the scrape of a chair—felt sharp, too loud.
You caught Abby’s eyes on you more than once. She didn’t ask about your day—not directly—but when you mentioned painting, she paused, fork held mid-air, her gaze flicking between your face and your hands, as if searching for something she couldn’t name.
You forced yourself to eat, but the food stuck in your throat. Abby didn’t say much, just nodded occasionally, her mouth set in a line that looked almost like a frown. She served Frances seconds and topped off Lev’s stew, but her usual warmth felt dulled, her movements stiff.
Lev tried to ease the mood, joking about the goats eating his boots and Frances giggling with her mouth full. You offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Abby only spoke once, almost offhand, as she refilled her glass. “That Maddie seems to keep you busy.” Her tone was mild, almost casual, but the words lingered.
You shrugged, pushing peas around your plate. “Yeah. She’s… she’s good with color. I think painting helps me relax.”
Abby nodded, but she didn’t say anything else, just watched you for a beat too long before turning her attention back to Frances’ wild story about a playground game.
The rest of dinner passed in that same, strained rhythm—Lev’s laughter, Frances’ babble, you and Abby caught in a quiet standoff, each glancing at the other and quickly looking away.
When the table was finally cleared and Frances headed off to get ready for bed, you found yourself wishing for the easy comfort you’d once had. Abby lingered by the sink, scrubbing a pot, her back to you—silent, closed off, her shoulders hunched against the world.
You escaped upstairs, your footsteps muffled on the worn wooden stairs. The bathroom was already fogged with the day’s lingering warmth. You turned the shower on as hot as you could stand, stripped, and stepped in, letting the steam close around you like a blanket.
You sank down onto the cold porcelain, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your shins. The water pounded on the crown of your head, tracing hot rivers down your neck and back, washing away sweat and dust and a little bit of paint you’d missed on your wrist.
You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to your knees, the world reduced to the thrum of water and your own shaky breathing. For a moment, you could almost forget the barn, Maddie’s words, the sharp look in Abby’s eyes across the dinner table. You could almost forget how lonely it felt, wanting something as simple as a friend.
But you couldn’t let it go. You wondered if Maddie could ever just be a friend, or if every new connection was going to come with some messy edge—desire, jealousy, doubt. You wanted to believe things could go back to easy, to simple, but the ache in your chest said otherwise.
The tile was cold against your bare skin, grounding you, reminding you of the here and now. You ran your hands over your arms, trying to settle your nerves. Was it wrong to want something outside the boundaries of your little family? Was it betrayal to want laughter, conversation, the quiet understanding of someone who saw you as more than just a partner, a mother, a survivor?
You stayed there until the water ran lukewarm and the mirror fogged over, letting the ache settle, letting yourself breathe. When you finally shut the water off and stepped out, the chill in the air wrapped around you, stark and bracing.
You dried off slowly, lost in thought, and stared at your own reflection—hair plastered to your forehead, eyes red-rimmed. All you’d wanted was a friend. Why did everything have to get so complicated?
You crawled into bed, hair still damp from the shower, your body heavy with exhaustion and thoughts you couldn’t quite sort out. Abby entered a moment later, quietly moving around the room as she changed into pajamas. She smelled clean, like lavender soap and fresh linen, and you could feel her presence, warm and steady, even as you kept your back to her.
She slid beneath the blankets, settling beside you, the bed dipping under her weight. For a while, there was only the sound of her breath and the faint creak of the old mattress. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, making yourself small, wishing the ache in your chest would disappear.
Abby’s voice was soft, careful. “Joan,” she said, the word almost a question. “Are you okay?”
You nodded, though you didn’t turn to face her. “Just tired,” you murmured, the words thick in your throat.
She hesitated, like she wanted to say more, to reach for you. But the silence stretched out, full of things left unsaid, and after a long moment she sighed and rolled onto her back, her warmth now a wall between you instead of a comfort.
The space in the bed felt endless. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into the pillow, your heart pounding with everything you couldn’t voice. Was it always going to be this hard, this complicated?
Beside you, Abby lay quiet, her breathing slow and deep, but you could feel her awake—her thoughts churning just like yours.
It was nauseating, how close you were, and how far apart.
_____________________________________________________________________
You woke before the sun, the sky still navy blue and the world hushed, all the sounds of morning not yet begun. You lay still for a moment, watching the faint glow creep around the curtains, your heart thudding with restless purpose. Abby slept beside you, her breath slow and even, face soft in the early dark. You didn’t dare reach for her—not now, not with so much left unsaid.
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, moving quietly, careful not to disturb the peace. The wood floor was cold beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pulling on jeans, a flannel, your thickest socks. You found your boots by the door, still crusted with mud from yesterday, and slipped them on.
You paused in the kitchen, scribbling a quick note on the back of a grocery list—Gone to town, back before lunch. Didn’t want to wake anyone. – J. You set it by the coffee pot, hoping it would be enough.
Outside, the air was sharp and damp, smelling of dew and the promise of frost. The world felt bigger, emptier, like you’d stolen something precious from the quiet. You walked out to the barn, your breath ghosting in front of you. The horses stirred in their stalls, shifting sleepily as you unlatched the gate and led yours out by the reins.
The leather was cool and supple in your hands, the horse’s coat warm against your palm. You spoke softly, soothing her as you saddled up, feeling the ache in your limbs settle into a familiar rhythm. The restlessness inside you eased a little as you swung into the saddle, looking back once at the farmhouse—yellow light just beginning to glow in the kitchen window.
You pressed your heels gently and set out at a slow trot, hooves muffled on the dirt road. The sky brightened by degrees, the stars fading overhead, clouds edged in pink and violet. You rode in silence, alone but not lonely, letting the early morning air sting your cheeks, letting it clear your mind.
By the time you reached the edge of town, the world was fully awake—smoke rising from chimneys, dogs barking in distant yards, voices calling across fences. The town was patchwork and rough, but alive, and you felt something shift inside you, a flicker of hope or maybe just relief.
You tied off your horse outside Maddie’s place, heart fluttering with nerves and anticipation. Maybe today, things would feel simple again.
You knocked softly, shifting from foot to foot, your breath a mist in the chill air. After a moment, Maddie swung the door open, her hair wild and sleep-tousled, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. She wore a thin tank top, straps slipping off her shoulders, the fabric clinging to her chest. Her loose pants rode low on her hips, revealing a patch of bare stomach and the faint trace of a scar just above her waistband.
She shivered dramatically, a crooked grin lighting her face. “Ooh! You’re brave coming out in this cold. Get in here before you freeze.”
You ducked inside, brushing past her, your eyes darting away from all that bare skin. Her house was even cozier in the morning, smelling of ground coffee, paint, and something soft and floral—lavender, maybe, or the soap she used. The heater clicked quietly in the corner, a little orange glow pulsing from its core.
You perched on the battered couch, wrapping your arms around yourself. Maddie dropped onto the other end, tugging a big, patchwork blanket around her shoulders. She tucked her feet under her, legs crossing, and took a long sip from her mug. Steam curled up and tangled in her hair.
She watched you, her gaze direct, one eyebrow arched in question. “It’s early,” she said, the corners of her mouth curling up. “Everything alright?”
You bit your lip, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. “I need to talk to you,” you said, voice low, hands twisting in your lap.
She smiled knowingly, eyes kind but unflinching. “Yeah, I figured you might.”
You bristled at her confidence. “I love Abby,” you blurted, voice sharp, like you needed her to hear it and believe it.
Maddie nodded, unfazed. “That’s fine, Joanie. But if she’s not—”
You shook your head hard, cutting her off. “No. If she died, I wouldn’t move on. I love her. That’s it.”
She smirked, swirling her coffee, her legs shifting under the blanket. “Everyone says that,” she replied quietly, not unkindly. “But sometimes people surprise themselves.”
You scowled, heat rising in your cheeks. “Maddie… I want to be your friend. Nothing else.”
She nodded, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “We are friends. Doesn’t mean I can’t make you blush.”
You sighed, frustration tightening your shoulders. “Maddie,” you warned, your voice pleading this time.
But instead of arguing, she scooted closer, setting her mug aside and drawing the blanket around both your shoulders. You could smell her now, really smell her—the lavender from her skin, linseed oil from her hands, the dark roast of her coffee. The intimacy prickled against your skin.
She leaned in, eyes bright with mischief, and for a second you thought she might kiss you—but instead, she just laughed, her forehead brushing yours as she pulled away. “I do love how easy you blush, Joanie.”
You dropped your head into your hands, overwhelmed—by Maddie’s teasing, by your own guilt, by everything you hadn’t said to Abby. Before you could find words, the door behind you banged open so hard it rattled the frame.
Abby stormed in, her boots thudding on the wooden floor, her face a storm of fury and something else—hurt, maybe, or fear. She barely looked at Maddie. Instead, she crossed the space in two strides, grabbed your wrist in a vice grip, and yanked you up off the couch.
“Abby—!” you stammered, but she wasn’t listening. Her grip was iron, her jaw clenched. You barely had time to snatch your jacket from the couch before she dragged you out the front door, Maddie’s voice trailing after you—something like “Hey, take it easy—!”
Abby didn’t stop until you were halfway down the empty street, the town still waking, early sunlight catching on broken windows and uneven roofs. She steered you down a narrow alley behind a bakery, shoving you up against the cold brick wall.
“The fuck was that?” she hissed, blue eyes blazing. “I saw her on you—touching you, in her goddamn pajamas.”
You pulled your arm free, breathing hard. “I was setting boundaries, Abby! I told her I love you—I told her I just want to be friends.”
She scoffed, her face twisted with jealousy and something wilder. “She touched you. She’s not your friend—she wants you.”
Before you could answer, Abby pressed you hard into the wall, her lips crashing into yours. The kiss was rough, desperate, full of teeth and tongue, her hands clamped on your hips like she could anchor you there. You gasped, her hunger overwhelming, barely able to catch your breath.
You shoved at Abby’s chest, panting for breath, lips bruised from her kiss. “Abby, stop—let me breathe!” you pleaded, your voice barely more than a whisper in the tight, shadowy alley. The cold bricks at your back sent a chill up your spine, nerves firing in all directions.
But Abby only pressed closer, her mouth finding your neck, hot and relentless. She bit down just hard enough to leave a mark, her breath rough in your ear. “Where else did she touch you?” she growled, her tone cold as steel.
You squirmed against her, half trying to push her away, half clinging to her jacket. “Abby, what are you—” But you could feel your body reacting, traitorous and hungry, a flush spreading over your skin.
She barely gave you time to think. Her hands were everywhere—rough on your hips, tugging your shirt up, finding the waistband of your jeans and wrenching the button loose. The air was suddenly icy on your skin as she shoved your pants down to your knees, exposing you to the open morning, the risk of footsteps echoing somewhere in the distance.
“We’re in public!” you hissed, panic and exhilaration warring in your chest as you tried to twist away, cheeks blazing with embarrassment.
Abby’s eyes met yours, dark and wild. “Good,” she rasped, voice low and possessive. “I want everyone to see how much you belong to me. Since you can’t keep yourself just for me—maybe you need a reminder.” Her words were venomous and aching at once, jealousy boiling under her skin.
You shoved at her shoulders again, but your strength failed you as her fingers found their way between your thighs, forcing you open. “What the fuck are you talking about?!” you spat, but she silenced you with another kiss—bruising, desperate, swallowing the last of your words.
Her fingers pressed inside, sudden and rough, the stretch shocking and a little painful. You weren’t ready, not really, but you were wet enough—humiliation and desire swirling together, sharp and electric. You moaned into her mouth, half a protest, half surrender.
She moved with purpose, every touch a claim. “You’re mine,” she muttered against your lips. “Say it, Joan.”
Your hands dug into her shoulders, half clawing, half holding on for dear life. “Abby—someone could see—”
She didn’t care. Her thumb found your clit, working it in tight, punishing circles. You bit down on your own moan, hips rocking in spite of yourself. The alley was suddenly all that existed, the risk, the heat, the way Abby’s jealousy burned into you.
You broke the kiss, panting, head thrown back against the wall. “I’m yours,” you gasped, your voice cracking, every muscle strung tight.
Abby’s eyes softened, just for a heartbeat, but her fingers didn’t stop. “That’s right,” she whispered, voice thick with love and fear. “You’re mine, Joan. Mine.”
Abby drew her fingers out, then delivered a sharp slap to your clit, the jolt of pain white-hot and shocking. You yelped, your whole body jerking against the alley wall, legs trembling, breath catching in your throat.
She pinned your wrists high above your head, pressing her weight into you, nose to nose. Her breath was hot and ragged. “Who owns your cunt?” she demanded, voice barely above a whisper but harsh as gravel.
You stared at her, defiant and humiliated all at once. “Abby, come on—”
Another slap, just as sharp. You squeaked, your knees nearly buckling. She waited, eyes locked on yours, unforgiving. “Joan? Who owns your cunt?” Her voice was all hunger and command.
You bit your lip, trying to twist away, shame burning your cheeks. “Stop, you’re being—”
A third slap, a sting of pain that sent sparks up your spine. “You better spit it out,” Abby warned, her tone dark and insistent. “Come on. Who owns this cunt?”
You writhed, your body betraying you, slick and aching and desperate for more. “Fuck—fine. You,” you gasped, hating how needy you sounded.
Abby only shook her head, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Tsk. Not how my sweet Joan answers.”
You puffed your cheeks in frustrated embarrassment, only to flinch at another smack. “You own my cunt,” you choked out, voice thick and small.
She smiled at last, her lips brushing your ear, her breath sending shivers down your spine. “That’s right,” she crooned, sliding her fingers back inside you, filling you in one smooth thrust. “And what do you want?”
You squirmed, your hips bucking into her hand, your voice trembling. “To cum,” you whispered, half-begging, the humiliation twisting with hunger until you could barely tell them apart.
Abby pumped her fingers faster, her palm grinding against you, making you tremble, desperate and dizzy. “Convince me,” she demanded, her voice low and merciless. “Tell me why you deserve it.”
You bit back a moan, fighting to keep control as the line between shame and pleasure blurred, both of them threatening to break you open. Abby’s grip on your wrists was bruising, holding you steady, forcing you to meet her gaze.
“Why should I let you cum, Joan?” she pressed, her eyes dark and demanding. “Beg for it. Tell me what you need.”
Her fingers worked you rougher, every stroke reaching deep, the pleasure spreading through your stomach, tightening with every pulse. You trembled, hips bucking, struggling to form words as your whole body shook.
“Because…” you gasped, voice breaking.
She stopped, the pressure of her hand still, her presence overpowering. “Full sentences,” Abby ordered, her lips so close you could taste her breath.
You nodded desperately, fighting for breath. “You should let me cum,” you stammered, your voice trembling with need, “because I’ve been so good for you… because I love you… I’m a good mom… I love our little home… I’d do anything for you, Abby. Please—please, I need it, I need you—”
She cooed softly, her lips pressing gentle kisses against your sweaty forehead, her breath cooling the hot tears on your cheeks. “Good answer, sweetheart,” she murmured, and her fingers curled inside you, stroking that perfect spot.
You shattered in her arms, your body wracked with tremors as she held you upright, her hand over your mouth muffling the desperate, pleading cries that threatened to echo down the alley. You bit into her palm, whimpering and shivering through your climax, legs nearly giving out.
As you came down, Abby slipped her fingers from your heat and, without a word, pressed them to your lips. You flushed with humiliation and opened your mouth, letting her push her fingers in, making you lick every bit of yourself from her skin. Her thumb traced your cheek, and her gaze was as possessive as it was tender.
It was filthy. It was humiliating. But in that moment, you belonged only to her.
When she was satisfied, Abby pulled you close and kissed you—soft this time, all the rough edges gone, her love gentler now. She pressed her forehead to yours, her hands cradling your face.
“You are mine, Joan. Forever,” she whispered fiercely, the words a vow.
You nodded, breathless and raw. “Forever,” you echoed, heart pounding, body still trembling in her arms.
Abby smiled then, a little wicked, a little relieved. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Let’s get you cleaned up, huh? Before someone actually does see us.”
You let her pull your clothes back into place, the sting of the cold air mixing with the heat in your cheeks. You felt branded—marked by her, claimed and cherished, and more hers than you’d ever been.