Archive of Our Own ^beta

She’d return the book to Landry as soon as she was done with it. Part of her suspected he’d lose his mind if he thought it lost – and she truly understood. The bloody thing had been her lifeline through her last years of med school, and she treasured it greatly.

The sound of a car honking in the distance, away from the skyline view of her bedroom, forced her to make a mental note to ask her mother to mail her book to her before the year ended. She had a feeling she’d be needing it, even just as emotional support.

Almost tentatively, she opened the book and let her gaze soften as she read the message Dr. Ethan Ramsey had written on the first page. Don’t let me down.

Her throat grew tight and dry, as if being pushed between pillars of sand, and she allowed her tears to escape past her eyes freely. She hadn’t allowed herself catharsis back at the hospital, but she could allow it in the safety of her disorganized bedroom. The mess itself brought her comfort, letting her know it was lived in. Letting her know she lived.

She could only wonder what a nursery would look like amid the chaos of motherhood.

The thought was uninvited, intrusive, and overflowing with guilt no matter how much she had tried to reason it had been beyond her control, that there was nothing that could’ve been said to change the outcome. Sometimes, it didn’t matter what you knew, what you felt just took over.

Dolores Hudson had died under her care and her baby boy was bereft of a mother. Left with nothing but pictures of her, wondering what her laugh sounded like, what her comforting embrace felt like. Left with nothing but the name of a man who had cherished her.

Innocence would be torn from him earlier than it would be from those who had the luxury of knowing the true influence of a mother’s love.

A dozen scenarios tormented her, telling her that she could’ve done more – that she could’ve ignored Dolores’ arguments and taken her directly to surgery instead of allowing her to take charge. She should’ve listened to herself when she debated the right choice. She should’ve found that frog plushie sooner. She should’ve trusted her instincts.

All were equal in the eyes of death, deserving of it or not. There was no death that didn’t generate memory. No death that didn’t leave something to be grasped, to be learned, to be rejoiced behind. It was human mortality that drove them with an insatiable lust for life and experience.

It had been mortality that had moved her to sit beside baby Ethan all night, letting him clutch her thumb just so he had something to hold onto with his small fingers. Anything that would substantiate his will to stay and experience what his mother could not.

Long had she wondered what the great Ethan Ramsey was like. The calls and praises of his success had reached her all the way to the other side of the world. He personified everything she aspired to be as a doctor and so much more. The man himself was a force to be reckoned with, unmoving, powerful, determined, terrifying…and kind.

The latter had been a surprise to her after their first interaction. She had been scolded in the middle of the hallway, covered in someone else’s blood, and thinking that it was 7-fucking-AM. The words he had said to her had been much more powerful than the visuals that had been laid before her. She had been unable to recognize him despite having spent hours listening to him speak at conference’s through the screen of her laptop.

But his demeanour towards his patients was entirely different. He smiled, he listened, he cared, and he protected them. It was the side of him she somehow knew him to seldom show to others. It was the almost naïve gleam in his eyes as he reported back to her that his patient had accepted to take her pills after he handed her the cup of hot cocoa she had sworn by.

And yet, as he sat beside her, staring into the plastic box that kept the baby’s lungs moving, she had known him to be kinder than he thought himself. Kinder and lonelier than he would ever let others see. Perhaps it had been nothing but wishful thinking, but she liked to fancy herself a good judge of character.

She had silently archived the sad shock that overcame him upon reading the name tag, upon realizing the true meaning of the role he had played in Dolores’ life. He had done his best to comfort her, sharing with her his first loss. That simple interaction, the sharing of grief, had built a bridge that would allow them to find each other once again should the need or desire arise. It led to seeking refuge in an internal world of their own to reconnect with their past, and from there, face the future.

The weaving of string, of a mere touch, had intertwined them into a fate neither of them would be able to avoid.

Afterward he had left to grab them some coffee, joking about the poor quality of the cafeteria’s dishwater. She had chuckled wetly, closing her eyes and shaking her head, – and listened to his footsteps fade in the echo of the halls, the pens he carried on his coat’s pocket jumping with every step he took.

It was, then, that she had truly allowed herself to dwell on him. To think of the crease in his forehead as he focused on a particularly troubling diagnosis, to think of the way the bridge of his nose acquired a pinkish hue when his fingers released their hold on it, to that one hair strand that rebelliously drifted away from an otherwise flawless hairstyle, to the endearingly mismatched checkered pants and polka dot tie, to the almost imperceptible smile lines on his countenance, and the stubble that framed a chiselled jaw.  

A beautiful mind with an equally beautiful face to match.

She had known a fair number of people like that throughout her life, but somehow, Dr. Ramsey was highlighted like the most important statement of a paragraph in her anatomy textbooks. He was magnetic, electric, untameable. He was an amalgam of the greatness in his life that built him into the magnificence of his present.

To think she now worked with him was something beyond what her dreams would ever be able to conjure. For starters, she hadn’t expected him to be such a cynic, but there was hardly anything she could do to change that.

Recalling the scent of coffee upon his return, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. He had asked her to try and identify the flavours of his brew, of the dark liquid swirling around in an Edenbrook cup as she gently took it from him. It was sweet, smoky with a hint of chocolate.

Silently, they had agreed that a shift of conversation would be required if they were to emotionally survive the night alongside the physical manifestation of Dolores’ love.

So, they spoke about ubiquity: about routines, food, general data, and art. He asked about her accent, she asked about his book. He asked about her expectations, she asked about his mistakes. He asked about her favourite novel, she asked about his taste in music. He asked about her about her hospital choice, she reciprocated.

It was mindless and effortless. It was an escape from time.

Until her head had fallen on his shoulder during a moment of silence, and she let sleep consume her consciousness and worry into oblivion. Blaming it on exhaustion, she convinced herself that the weight she had felt on top of her head was nothing more than her imagination and not Ethan falling asleep on her.

When she awoke with the sound of his deep voice, she caught the scent of his cologne drenched into her own clothing and skin.

Drenched into the smile she gifted him when they confirmed baby Ethan had made it through the night. They had made it.

How could she have known that the ocean filling his eyes was more than the colour inked into his irises? How could she have known that she would fall into the water and let the air be taken from her lungs into song?

There was something about the brokenness shared that carefully crafted a golden hope inside of her.

A hope for more than a life saved – for something she dared not utter in the confines of her mind. A certainty that she had not let him down, and most importantly, herself.

Moving forward, she’d do well to remember it.

Turning the pages, she found Landry’s flawless multicoloured highlighting technique and multiple sticky notes with comments and inquiries attached to them. He was certainly a lot more organized than she had been, for hers was covered with rushed writing and coffee stains on every page. Perhaps she’d get Dr. Ramsey to sign her copy.

Tracing her fingertips over his name, she smiled to herself and closed the book.

The soft click of the door behind her muted the cacophony of machines she had just escaped from. Letting out a sigh, she walked through the hallways, greeting the nurses as she passed by their station. They waved back sweetly, thanking her for the box of donuts she had brought in for them when her shift started as a thank you for helping her out with a case.

After signing up for the competition and overcoming her fear of it creating ambivalence within her friend group, she had decided to focus on her patients in order to climb up the ranks. She had seen the way it had motivated her roommates to grow to and from one another – to challenge and better each other into the best doctors they could possibly become.

She was ready to follow them. 

The bitter and harsh taste of sorrow travelled down her throat, burning down the knot that smothered her as she attempted to breathe consciously to usurp control of her emotions with the will of her cognition alone.

Like a fog surrounding her, the soft hum of the conversations from the nearby tables around her provided enough din for her to ignore the lyrics of the love song playing in the background. It mocked her, reflecting back at her that which she desired to suffocate by turning her bloodstream into alcohol.

She sat at the bar, lackadaisically studying the nautical decorations on the walls of the bar. The lamp above her head flickered for a second and she tilted her head slightly to look at it as she took another swing of the Buckfast she had ordered. Refined living and palette aside, she needed something stronger than what the Yankees offered – something that brought her comfort with the pungent and acerbic taste of home.

“Hey, there.” A voice brought her attention to the man who was currently sliding into the barstool next to hers, pocketing his wedding band in what he thought was a subtle manner.

With another swing of her drink, she turned to look at him.

A handsome face greeted her. And yet, as she allowed herself to marvel at the beauty of this cuckquean-maker, she couldn’t help but to think that his eyes were too green, his hair too light and his height not tall enough for her. His built was far too muscular, too rough.

“Hello.” She addressed him finally.

Her reciprocation was all the acquiescence he needed to finally turn his body to face hers. She knew this to be wrong, but still she mimicked him – welcoming the opportunity to wash away the hypnotizing pair of ocean eyes that plagued her head like an illness.

“You look sad.” He pointed out the obvious, offering his hand to her so she could shake it. “The name’s Zander.”

“Calypso.” She shook his hand, ensuring her grip would be firm enough to demonstrate her assertiveness and dominance. “A pleasure.”

His eyes travelled up and down her body, lingering on the expanse of the décolleté that displayed the ink on her chest for everyone to see. “Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine.”

She smiled tightly, already regretting welcoming his attention. She didn’t have enough energy to entertain small talk, despite normally being good at it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” He asked, looking at her choice of drink curiously and gesturing to the bartender that he wanted whatever she was having. “On vacation?”

She lied, straightening her posture, and taking another gulp of her drink. “Yes, I’m visiting a friend. I’ve been here for a couple weeks, it’s quite nice.”

Even she could tell how dry the direction of her speaking was. She would have to turn him down gently as soon as it was socially acceptable. Her mind began conjuring the scenarios that would provide her the outcome she desired.

And as her gaze drifted to the contrast of the tan line around his ring finger, she knew what she’d be using. Infidelity had the ability to bring people face-to-face with the volatile and opposing forces of passion: the lust, the lure, the urgency, the impossibility of love, the relief, the entrapment, the guilt, the inevitable heartbreak, the deliciousness of the sinfulness, the surveillance, the insanity of suspicion, the murderous rage to get even, and the tragic denouement.

It was one of the windows of the heart people rarely confessed to frequenting despite how quotidian it was.

There was in implicit cultural shift in the way people casually viewed relationships. Monogamy used to mean one person for life, and it now meant one person at a time.

“And where is she?” He inquired, thanking the bartender as she handed him the Buckfast bottle. His eyebrows raised as he read the ingredients.

“I wanted to go out on my own tonight.” She offered, raising her own bottle to clink against his. “I guess I’m feeling nostalgic for home.”

“To home.” He added, as the glass connected with a soft ringing sound.

“To home.” She echoed.

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her when he coughed as soon as he tasted the strong drink. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. Few could tolerate the caffeinated fortified red wine. It scorched all the way down, and the taste was awful. But it was strong, and it got the job done.

“And what brings you here?” Calypso asked, attention regained.

“You know, just out with the boys.” He drawled, pointing at a group of men behind them. “We’re out for a night of fun.”

“The night must be awfully dull if you decided to trade their company for mine.” She quipped, smiling bitterly.

Chuckling, he shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take up too much of your time. I’m happily married.”

At this, she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in interest. “Oh?”

“They dared me to come talk to you and get your number for my buddy.” He pointed with his index finger at a big man with tattoos. “He’s pretty shy. He got divorced recently so he’s still getting back in the game.”

Her father was a businessman, a man of logic with a soft spot for the people he loved and a charismatic aura. She had grown up in his world, learning the strings behind the one thing that motivated the world: money.

In consumer society, novelty was key. The obsoleteness of objects was programmed in advance so that it ensured the desire to replace them. Love and couples were no exception to such trend. They lived in a culture that continually lured them with the promise of something better, younger, perkier, more adventurous.

Hence, people no longer divorced because they were unhappy, but because they could be happier.  

“Then why take off your ring?” She joshed, finishing her drink.

“You noticed?” A pink blush adorned his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck. “I knew you wouldn’t give it to me if you knew I was married.”

For the first time that night, she smiled genuinely.

“You assumed correctly.” She stated, shaking her head in amusement. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to tell your mate I’m taken.”

Her right hand was concealed from his view, so she took the opportunity to dexterously move the ring she had on her middle finger to the ring finger without him noticing.

“Married?” He asked with interest.

“Engaged.” She lied, lifting her hand for him to see the diamond ring on her finger.

A grin drew itself on his handsome face. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” Faux display of joy coming to etch itself onto her burgundy lips, she signalled the bartender to get her another bottle.

“A pity.” He teased good-naturedly. “I bet you would’ve gotten along with him.”

“Perhaps.” She conceded. “But I’m afraid destiny has deemed us ineligible. And trust me, I’m more than he can handle unless he’s looking to get chained to the bed for a week and whipped into submission.”

He laughed, throwing his head back.

“I’ll make sure to tell him that.” Zander said, before rising from the barstool he had claimed. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your drink, Calypso. I hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

With a wave, he returned to his group and she was left alone with her thoughts once again.

Her desire for others had evaporated, vanquished by the power of the singular attraction she held for the man who had kissed her on a balcony only to leave her high and dry. It was the grand ambition of love, the lure of the forbidden.

However, the thirst for life triggered in the encounter she had shared with Ethan had toppled her with an irresistible force. It had neither been planned nor sought. The unexpected boost of the desire he had awakened had galvanized her beyond the mundane, abruptly breaking the rhythm and routine of the quotidian.

And sexual alchemy had been the key in her desire for him, the erotic fission had been such that the kiss she had only imagined giving him before their lips connected, had been as powerful and as enchanting of hours of actual lovemaking.

At the very structure of the forbidden lust that connected them, was the fact that they couldn’t have each other. It kept them wanting. The incompleteness, the ambiguity, kept them wanting that which they could not have.

Ethan made her dream of lives that could not be hers.

The bartender placed another bottle of caffeinated wine before her and she immediately downed half of it – reaching for her phone and calling an Uber.

That night, she had sat beside him on the balcony with a half-drunk bottle of wine between them. The Atlantic had laid before them, glittering in the moonlight and reflecting in his eyes as he eclipsed them all.

She had told him that the higher she aspired, the more she stood to lose. Unsaid were the losses she feared the most. Her friends, her career, herself, her…dynamic with him. He had claimed to understand as they stood, leaning against the railing together with the taste of salt caressing their skin.

Then his expression had grown sad, with hope barely softening his eyes as he looked down at her, their faces merely inches apart.

“…and I’m beginning to realize…” He leaned closer, his hand hanging in the air close to hers. “There are some things that are worth any risk.”

She had tried not to let the attraction she felt for him evolve into something more. She had begged her treacherous heart not to hope for what would only end in heartbreak if he didn’t feel the same way.

But she had known in the lingering looks he gave her. In the way he spoke to her when there was no one around but them. In the precious vulnerability he displayed to her because there was no one else he’d rather be sharing his burden with.

Reading into his speech, into his body movement, into him – understanding that which her heart knew but her brain refused to agree with.

Yet the need and the desire to know had been overwhelming. As alluring and beguiling as a woman whose entire life had been dedicated to court and be courted. As fascinating as a man who could speak effortlessly about the divinity etched into the world, the true divinity concealed within the emotions they so eagerly feared. As evil as those who dedicated to gamble regarding the emotions of another simply to enjoy the subterfuge of the schadenfreude they created.

Her entire life, she had lingered in the idiosyncrasy of games and distractions – thinking that she knew how to fuck something innocent without leaving her fingerprints embedded into the skin she caressed. Skin, much to her surprise, turned out to be like sand. No matter how much she tried to avoid leaving any trace of her touch, it captured it without any hesitance. Almost as if it wished to be tarnished. A blank canvas juxtaposed with a volatile palette. 

The greatest of jokes to someone who claimed not to love but loved so willingly and powerfully.

A great portion of life was spent defining identities, the core beliefs that drove them to do the things they did. Part of her couldn’t help but to think that, some of Ethan’s beliefs had intertwined so deep into his mind that somewhere along the way, instead of bending them, he had internalized them.

And Ethan had a way of seeing the world – both the fucked up and the good – that allowed him to design what was to come and what he could make out of it. A sense of humour so dark and unrivalled by anything but her own that she couldn’t help but to think he had been handcrafted by what mythology claimed was the origin of their story as a species. Intelligence, both emotional and logical, that allowed them to delve deep into conversations that held meaning – regardless of their goal.

When they kissed, when his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her so close she almost believed he never wanted to let go of her, she had realized one thing.

With him, she had experienced for the first time in romance what it felt like not to be needed – but to be wanted.

There was a novelty to everything he did, to everything he said. Novelty wasn’t about new positions; it wasn’t a repertoire of techniques. It was the parts of himself that he brought out, that were seen.

And despite the fact that they hadn’t gone beyond kissing in the name of professionality, she had known that sex with him wouldn’t be something to be done, but a place to go. A place where she’d enter inside of herself with him. It was a language, not just a behaviour.

With him, she experienced anticipation, the mortar to desire. The ability to imagine as if it’s happening, to experience as if it’s happening while nothing is really happening. It was the ability to stay connected to herself in his presence.

Love carried the signature of the author of lost causes. It was a profound act of faith that smelled like a lie. It was the lost war between sex and laughter, the arrogance of clinging to the impossible. The truest test of time.

She didn’t doubt that time couldn’t wither the sensual touch and volcanic force in his eyes – because he was the perfect amalgam between experience and youth. His talent laid in carefully managing the art of love for fear of destroying it.

“I shouldn’t have let this happen.” He had uttered mournfully, his fists tightening as he watched her slip the sleeves of her dress down her shoulders. “And it can’t happen again.”

She didn’t want to know the price she’d pay for dreaming of him. The price she was paying for desiring him and what he could offer.

Theirs was a love and a story that hinged on true possibility – what they could offer each other was infinite potential. Reality wouldn’t stand a chance against that kind of promise unless they granted it the freedom to do so. They wanted each other in a way that felt both inexplicable and inevitable. They represented a singular perfection to each other, they had to because they contained none of the trappings of a real relationship: the awkward, the beautiful, the sweet, the ordinary, the holding of hands in public and the stolen kisses, the quiet walks, the teasing of friends.

They were perfect in part because they were an escape, they always seemed to offer more.

A ping from her phone brought her back to reality.

Drinking what remained of the Buckfast, she repressed the need to cry. She’d do it at home, in the safety of her covers and with Sienna’s arms around her while she murmured in her ear everything would be fine. Because she didn’t want to deal with the pain alone.

Without another thought, she pulled her wallet out and put the required amount underneath her empty bottle – so as to keep the bills in place. Gesturing at a bartender, she let him know she had paid for her drinks and exited the bar.

The Uber was parked in front of her, and the driver rolled down her window. “Calypso?”

“That’s me.” She smiled, climbing into the passenger seat and pocketing her phone.

Ethan could’ve saturated the entirety of her existence and, still, it would’ve never been enough. She would’ve still begged him for more.

The city lights blurred as she made her way back home, the sound of a soft ballad digging deep into her. She closed the window of the car when she felt a few drops of water hit the skin of her cheeks.

Funny how it didn’t rain anywhere else.

Despite washing his hands before being returned to the lodge, he could still see traces of blood underneath his fingernails. The scent of sweat and sterility clung to him like a grim fragrance of the lives lost and saved throughout the day as he fought off a pandemic with an amazing team of doctors underneath his leadership.

Yet something weighed on him accusingly. 

It wasn’t like death, but it wasn’t living. It was a simple, weightless splendour, an endless slumber within a crushing depth. His attempts at ensnaring his emotions had proved fruitless, the rupture of the fruit itself with a taste of ash on his tongue as a parting gift of what he’d done. The future he had so unwillingly left shattered, the one who so reverently believed in him and the salvation of the possibility of belonging…and that he could deliver it.

Pulling his sweat-soaked shirt over his head, he found relief in the cool night air hitting his skin with an absentminded caress. Approaching the window, he leaned against the glass with his arm over the frame as he gazed out at the dark landscape before him.

The jungle around him teemed with animals and insects, a ceaseless concert of humming, thrumming, buzzing, and chirping provided a welcoming white noise to the invasion of thoughts he so guiltily desired but was unable to harbour for long. He was drunk of lost faith, questioning, and telling the whole empire of his fears and desires whether it was time to write the threnody of a love he didn’t allow to blossom beyond the memory of a yearning smile.

Ghost arms wrapped around his middle, a phantom warmth against his naked back – he could almost feel her. He kept thinking that she was standing on his floor, waiting for him. A bottle of bourbon that tasted like her lipstick on top of the bedside table provided him the visage of her dancing. If he drank enough, he could lay down next to her at the foot of his bed.

And yet, the bottle’s call was feeble – not enough to pull him in and tangle his mind into nothing more than fuzzy radio static. It had also been master to a bitter lesson. He was always where he started in the morning, only with a fucked up hangover and even more regret.

The hammock on the balcony swayed delicately from side to side, pulled back and forth by a sylph’s soft melody. It connected thread after thread into the memory of her shape before him, as he imagined what she’d look like leaning against the balcony, a breathtaking mien of serenity drawing from her the smile he couldn’t get enough of.

Ethan pushed himself off the window, opened it, made sure the mosquito net was in place, and made his way to the bathroom, not caring to close the door behind him – for he was alone. Stripping what remained of his clothing, he stared back at his reflection on the mirror. The love marks she had painted on his body with her lips mocked his will.

With a blink, they were gone in a gust of wind, smoke, and sugar.

Long gone with the scent of passionfruit and tea she had left imprinted on his palms, back and feet, all the way to the tips of his hair. His bedsheet, his pillow, and his dog. His spirit, his soul, and his creed. His words, space and time had frozen all the way to his bones from the taste of opal of her kisses.

If anyone knew that he’d give up his entire life to be with her again, he’d be unable to deny it. She was the woman that dripped fire. The woman that had granted him access to the last fissure of her body, from whence a flower had blossomed – powdered gold covering and overflowing from its white petals and mauve nectary, to the purple tips and the yellow anthers.

Lukewarm water glittered down his body as it washed away his exhaustion and frustration. He rubbed his skin raw, digging his fingertips into it as if he could bury something that couldn’t die. There was no redeeming him for the possessive nature of the undisclosed desire he would forever nurse for her.

The bubbles from the soap reflected the light from the small hanging light above – accompanied by the flow of water stopping.  It shone, paper moons hanging over his head as he wrapped an indigo towel around his body and brushed his teeth.

His feet padded softly against the wooden floor while he changed into his sleepwear, opting to forgo the shirt because of the sweltering heat.

At last, he turned all lights but the one on his bedside table off and climbed into bed. His glasses rested comfortably over his nose, providing him a better vision as he reached for his phone to reply to whatever emails he had received during the day.

Most were business related and others were not worth his time. 

A message from Harper awaited him, wishing him a merry Christmas, and hoping for his safe return.

Another one from Naveen, wishing him the same as Harper and recounting hospital gossip he had no interest in unless it mentioned a certain someone. And his mentor knew it, so he made sure to tell him that she had left to visit her family for the holidays. It was an unspoken agreement.

He knew the damage he had caused with his departure and lack of communication – he had fled from her only to be met with her everywhere he went. Sitting on the edge of her fingertips, he had watched the ticking of the clock. Caught in the middle of her, in endless constellations and cosmic powder.

She had shown no emotion to evidence his absence, but Naveen was good at reading between the lines.

Hidden underneath her skirts, his cursed kisses remained. Underneath his bed remained every morning they had undone it. Inside of a glass rested the first wave of the last morning he shared with her, and in her curls the rhythm of those songs she seductively danced to. Written in sighs were the words they never uttered.

Her window remained open so that the time without him escaped.

And she was light, a costume. A lamppost that lit up when he walked past it. Any butterfly that crossed his path, a shooting star. The taste of water, a proverb on how to forget. The beauty mark that adorned his skin, the coffee he drank every morning.

Replying to his father, he also wished him a merry Christmas, letting him know that he’d visit before New Year’s. At the end of the email, he told him he loved him and to take care of Jenner.

Almost lethargically, his mind fought the spell of sleep but the whimpering hum of water babbling past his ears lulled his senses against all reason. He had half a mind to put his phone down and lay his head on the pillow.

But he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping much as long as he thought of her.

He was enveloped in an infinite sea of torment and guilt, never knowing what lay below but always aware of what was left behind. Begging his lover gone to spare him was useless, for in his mind, she was merciless and cruel.

She would torture him with memories of her smile, of her scent, of her eyes, of her voice, her accent, and laughter. The inerrant grace, regal poise, and elegance confined and treasured in her svelte. The way she moved, purposeful and ethereal in a way that few people were capable of. Most could not see the difference, but he could watch others stumble about like infants.

He closed the mail app and opened the browser. Perhaps the medical terminology in research journals would grant him enough drowsiness to allow Morpheus’ embrace to tangle him in the bedsheets.

But life was a capricious mistress, and he knew her to be with more certainty than any other time in his life when he stumbled upon the cover of a gossip magazine amongst the advertisements on the medical website.

Breath was sucked from his lungs and trapped inside of a honeyed jar.

A cold cup of coffee with salt, her passport, and a need to cry rested on her nightstand, illuminated by nothing but busy city lights dictating the entropy of a convoluted human assemblage.

Row after row of colour reflecting against the glass of her window, a shelving of lanterns displayed as if she could just reach for one and pluck it from an orchard of stars – welcomed her as she stumbled into her bedroom with her heels in hand.

The laughter of her friends echoed through her head painfully, bouncing inside of empty cabinets that were once filled with the chemicals that made her laugh too. Alcohol decorated every breath she took, scenting the room with the emotions that forced her dawn to waken with the covers of a man’s twilight.

A man whose name had been branded deep into her every cell.

Hatred, anger, grief – they bathed her lovingly with milky waters and glittering champagne, reaching so high they forgot that one day vertigo would take hold.

One by one, her clothing was carelessly thrown into the hamper until the pores of her body rose to meet the air that greeted them. There was no design that fit her better than the one of her skin set to her shape – as if she could fill herself with nakedness to dress her insides.

Implicit memory alone walked her to the foot of her bed, gently pushing her down as if her bedsheets reached out to keep her. Turning her head to the side, her necklace dragging along her collarbone, she watched her reflection with fascination.

Ebony curls sprawled in every direction, drawn by gravity’s downward pull. Her make-up gleamed, lips tinted by the taste of wine and a buzzing detachment from her physical form.

Long ago, she had discovered that looking into the mirror to find a kaleidoscope of movement staring back at her while in the throes of passion brought her a similar feeling. For she didn’t desire the body of a lover, but her own – repeatedly unearthed, the closest, the strangest and the most exciting. A layer of drops on her dermis promised to her halcyon flirting, the mere promise of sex without a guarantee.

Until Ethan.

Her body remembered better than her conscious mind, whispering and hushing things to her in the stark – preaching that touch was enough to convince herself that the past and the future had merged to meet them there. She had inhaled him until the smell of wine blood overflowing from the corners of her mind had spilled like a glass that had fallen to the side.

Consenting to the exclusivity of his embrace, she had agreed to be his. There would always be an infinite number of unrealized lovers out there, yearning for her – but she’d belong to him. It had been a surrendering of power she had never granted to anyone else.  

Love didn’t manifest in the desire to sleep with someone, but in the desire to sleep beside someone and wake up to them.

She had known she loved him when she had looked in the mirror during their lovemaking and stared at him instead of herself. As if the only naked body she’d ever see, and feel inside of her, in the mirror, would be his. He’d be the only man to share her bed for as long as he desired to do so, for as long as he desired her as much as she did. It came with unspoken reciprocity.

A reciprocity that burned with the pain of his absence, with the knowledge that yesterday’s moons were gone.

Every revelation was obsessed with discovering him, within possibility and accidents, eventualities, and stellar shocks. The chance of seeing him escaping as if they were two skies under the same map, the same thirst with a different palate.

Yet, as their coordinates continued gyrating, she wondered if all it would take for them to meet again was to walk backwards.

So, she had filled her suitcase with books that spoke of the things she had never said, drawn his smile beside hers and slept with the pillow that had absorbed his scent underneath her chin. She had seen his face in crystals, recognizing him in the sun’s reflection.

Sought him out in the night, finding him in dreams. Stolen bits from time to understand how much a moment was truly worth. Hung from the wind and stared at a world so different without him in it. Slept in the nest where the universe rested with his laughter decorating her silence. Placed the sea at the edge of his kisses and carried rain in case thirst ailed them both.

Written things in letters so she would never have to utter them, and songs she composed to repeat them so that they remained with her when he was gone. Feelings anchored despite the rushing of time. Her delusion had stumbled to follow him wherever he went, protecting him in a corner of her skin and unpacking their shared reality in case he wanted it again.  

Instead of begging for him to take it away, she had cradled it close to her.

Allowed it to morph into whatever it desired, be it good or bad. If he wasn’t there to witness it, there was no point in masking it. To him, whom rigor and melancholy had passed by. To him, who liked to be a martyr, spreading guilt that belonged to him only.

And to her, who had lacked the courage to fight, consoling herself with covering the prints of his kisses with Guerlain. To her, so deaf and resigned, that slept with her pride and let herself be touched by cheap resentment.

Anger had consumed her at his departure, his lack of communication, his cold indifference. They had shared more than a secret and orgasms – and he had reduced her to a dalliance that wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of daylight, as if love and lust could not exist under one roof. Eroticism was not always politically correct, and most people were aroused by the very things they demonstrated against during the day.

It brought forth the question of whether the coinciding in their life depended on secrecy to survive. It was puzzling and fascinating how the very ingredients that nurtured love were sometimes the very objects that stifled desire. It was the erotic space that belonged to them; to her, to him, to them as an entity.

Foreplay began at the end of the previous orgasm, not a couple of minutes before they connected. It was the lingering looks they shared, the magnetic energy of parallel bodies, the fact that they knew something no one else did.  

Would their passion wax and wane like the moon if they loved in the cognizance of all? Desire needed space, where the person that was so known, so familiar, was momentarily once again somewhat mysterious, somewhat elusive. It was in that space between the me and the other that lay the erotic elán, the movement toward the other.

In many ways, their arrangement had worked, because they each had a lot of freedom. They could fuck, and then go to another’s arms if they so desired – but they didn’t. It was dyadic, even though it was de facto triangular – where they loved one another, through physical demonstrations alone, but the third part of the equation was an addition of the consequences that would surely arise if their love was to be revealed.

If revealed, would the ingredients of love smother desire? She got the lust without the laundry, but she lived without legitimacy. She felt special because he went to unimaginable lengths to see her but devalued by remaining unseen by others.

For better or for worse, their relationship had begun in secret, and would always be influenced by its origins.

She kept herself busy with work and friends, enjoying the attention of men and women who had expressed a romantic interest to prove herself that she was desired. She was making sure that by the time he returned, he’d know that plenty were willing to take his place. He’d be stricken with the words of others who saw what he did. He’d be haunted by her.  

It was childish, she knew, but she was playing with fire knowing she’d get burnt. It was her who was haunted by him – left to wonder if he agonized the same way.

Because she was curious to know if he’d express jealousy.

Desperate to know he loathed the idea of another touching her where he had once mapped her entire body with nothing but his fingertips.

If they cracked the fiction, stopped protecting it, they could begin to craft a more truthful narrative together – capturing what they’d miss, what they cherished, what they took responsibility for, what they wished for one another.

But the loss of him left her with nothing but the solace of the memories they shared together.

It hadn’t allowed her to honour the riches of their relationship, to mourn the pain of loss, and to mark its legacy. No one else would ever share the particular meanings some everyday things held for them: like the espresso Romano, like their shared love for strong alcohol, or the way his stubble tickled her when he kissed her. The way her eyes would narrow when she challenged him. The singing of opera, and the emotions it conveyed. The vulnerability, the fear, the bleeding.

She curled into herself, bare and raw, digging her fingers into her skin to try and tear out the shadow that attached itself to her like a second layer.

A plane waited for her in the morning, and she’d be far away from everything that reminded her of Ethan. Everything but her mind reminding her of how deep his laugh was, or how soft his hands were against hers. The battle of wits, the connection of the viewing deep into each other, the challenging of every definition they both knew.

They would both eventually return, pulled back by the place that had birthed their story, and only time would vindicate the future of what they had shared.

The screen of her phone lit up, but she already knew it wasn’t him.

Heat hung in the air, like a duvet left to dry in the sun, only adding to the growing anxiousness adhered to the people assembling in the bar.

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” She hissed, narrowing her eyes dangerously. Fury seeped into her gaze as she looked up and down at the predator, studying him with disdain.

Her fingers burned from the strength she had directed to them when she yanked Dr. Thorne back, adrenaline draining the pain from her muscles slowly. Glass cracked underneath the weight of her heels as she took a step back in case she needed to defend herself from the man standing before her, readying her fists to knock him out.

Turning to face her, an ugly sneer decorating his face, he snapped at her. “This girl broke my hand! I’m a plastic surgeon! Do you have any idea how valuable my hands are?”

She was willing to bet they would fetch a pretty price in the black market should she decide to separate them from his body. Perhaps if she set her sights lower and turned him into a eunuch he’d learn his lesson.

“I’m pressing charges!” He argued, stepping closer to her, redirecting his anger to her. “And by the time my lawyers are through with her –“

From behind her, a deep voice came, joined by the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

“Garret.” Ethan chided, a frown relying to her the depth of his anger beyond the body language that tensed the muscles barely concealed underneath his shirt. “That is enough.”

His fingers curled around her gently as he pushed her back protectively, his body standing between Dr. Thorne and her like a stronghold.

“You still got one good hand, don’t you?” He denounced, his voice lowering. “Put it to good use and call yourself a cab.”

Muttering a twat under her breath, she turned back to the girl, absentmindedly massaging her fingers.

“Hey, are you -?” She stopped herself when she realized the girl had disappeared.

Instead, she was met with the worried and curious gazes of unknown and familiar patrons alike. With a fast look around, she was able to notice the back door of the bar swinging closed. Reaching for a clean rag and a half-full bottle of grain alcohol, she exited the building, mentally reminding herself to bring Reggie a first aid kit next time she visited.

The cold night air greeted her with scorn, assaulting her body and carrying her hair in the direction of the wind. Away from the heat provided by the mob of party goers, she finally acknowledged the mistake of not bringing a jacket with her from the apartment.

The girl sat on the curb, delicately pulling shards of glass out of her torn clothes and skin. Slowly, so as to not scare her after almost being assaulted, she approached her, kneeling in front of her, and placing the rag on her own lap and the bottle on the floor beside her.

“Hey.” She said softly, smiling warmly. “Are you okay?”

The cold and indifferent tone that the emissary sent her way took her by surprise, but she maintained her rapport. “Never better.”

“Let me help you.” She coaxed, reaching for the bottle and opening it.

“Why?” The girl asked, raising a thick eyebrow at her in cautious interest.

She could almost taste the apprehension on her tongue. “Because you need help, and you don’t have to be alone right now.”

With a purse of her lips, the girl offered her leg to her. She nodded and poured some alcohol into the rag to wet it. Without the proper environment to sterilize the wound, she took extra precautions to clean it. It somehow didn’t faze her that the girl hadn’t even winced at the burning sensation of the attention provided.

“I didn’t need saving, you know.” The girl broke the silence, forcing Calypso to look up with a grin toying at her lips like a puppeteer pulling the strings.

“I know.” She agreed, shaking her head as she frowned and resumed her work. “But someone ought to stand up to that arsehole. Once again, while you could’ve done it on your own, you didn’t have to. I’ve been there before, and I know how unpleasant and terrifying it can be.”

With an amused tone lacing her voice, the girl nodded. “I messed that guy up pretty bad, huh?”

An undignified snort escaped her, soon morphing into a chuckle. She looked into her eyes with a proud smile, then finished cleaning up the wound.

“He got what he deserved, and I’m certain it’ll stay with him for quite a bit. No one has a right to put their hands on you without your consent.”

The girl nodded quietly, and her leg relaxed against her careful touch. Gently, she wrapped up the wound in the cloth. Yet she remained unsatisfied, thinking of the multiple ways it could still get infected if left properly untreated.

Tentatively, Calypso stood up, stumbling slightly on her feet as the alcohol that had been absorbed into her bloodstream took hold of the chemical signals on her brain, increasing the dopamine synapsis produced. Regaining her balance, she once again looked down, offering her hand to the girl, letting it linger in the air with her fingers outstretched and her ring glowing against the artificial light on the street.

“I’m a doctor at Edenbrook a couple blocks away.” She began, bending down to grab the bottle and close it. “I can properly bandage you there.”

“I’ll be fine.” The girl said dryly, before a flash of something crossed her eyes. “Thanks.”

Taking her hand, the girl rose to her feet. She let go, gave her a nod of respect, and walked out of the alley without looking back.

With a shake of her head and a smile, she headed back inside, welcoming the smothering heat of the bar. Scanning the room, she identified Ethan pushing Thorne into a rideshare before coming back in. He spotted her, and began making his way towards her, but was stopped by her friends rushing to her. With the interruption, he approached the bar instead. 

“Whoa, Calypso, what went down in here?” Elijah asked, his hands flying to her arms and looking for any injuries as he watched Reggie, the bartender, sweep up the glass from the confrontation.

She placed her hands above his, and gently squeezed. “Dr. Thorne wouldn’t piss off after being told no. It escalated.”

“I always knew that guy was gross.” Jackie scowled, tightening the bun on her head.

The sound of glass falling called her attention back to where Reggie was disposing of the trash. His gaze travelled to the arrows in the clock and a wave of relief seemed to wash over him.

“Alright, people, last call.” He shouted over the sound of displeased groans from the patrons. “You ain’t gotta go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Nervousness began crawling up her heels and up to her head, wrapping around it like a python and squeezing tight enough for her breathing to be cut short. “Already?”

If she went to back to the apartment with her roommates, sleep would elude her like a nymph running from the attentions of a capricious god. Such was the cost of appeasing the gods, of tasting nectar thinking divinity could belong to her in the sighs that escaped the embrace of a lover who had dripped from her fingers like honey and into the untameable waters of the ocean beneath her feet.

Letting tomorrow come faster would be to face what it felt like to be incomplete.

“Like Reggie said, last call doesn’t have to mean ‘go home’. We can stay out and explore.” Bryce offered, his smile momentarily lighting up the dark, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

He looked into her eyes with the sort of clarity she lacked being so close to the object of her desire yet being unable to grasp it, it was hung before her but never given. She smiled nudging him playfully, knowing well enough where to draw the line but teeter over it.

His flirty nature colliding with her own allowed for a dynamic that easily could transform but somehow never did. She respected, cherished, and loved him enough not to put him through the pain of false hope when they had so clearly expressed their attraction towards each other. Tumbling into bed would be unchallenging, there was no doubt of it – but to let her print taint him would be something she’d forever regret.

“Screw that, I’m starving.” Jackie interjected, swinging an arm around her shoulder and pushing Bryce’s away. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Calypso couldn’t help but to raise an eyebrow in amusement.

“You guys are nuts. I’m twenty minutes away from falling asleep on my wheels.” Elijah deflected, shaking his head.

This time, she actually laughed, jealous at the melatonin his brain produced.

“Good thing we can get you home in fifteen, then.” Sienna intervened, putting a hand over his chair, then looking at her with concern in her eyes hidden behind her smile. “You coming, Calypso?”

But as Donahue’s emptied out, she glanced over at Ethan. He hadn’t moved from his usual seat at the bar, where Reggie was topping off his drink. She had looked at that spot so many times during his absence, hoping to see his shadow.

Seeing him, truly seeing him there, it transported her to another state of mind. Like opiods to the hopeless.

He stood tall, looking straight ahead. He looked at people in the eye when he spoke to them, said what he thought and was comfortable if people disagreed with him. When he made a mistake, he accepted it and apologized if necessary. When he wasn’t good at something, he admitted it. He was unafraid to express his emotions, even if that meant he got rejected because of them sometimes. He had no problem moving on to people who didn’t reject him but liked him for who he was.

He didn’t react to people around him, rather, people reacted to him.

“So?” She called to him. “Last call doesn’t apply to you?”

Her friends moved away, making for the exit so they could have some privacy. Their confrontations had become infamous, and for those who knew the true depth of their bond and relationship – they would rather not stand in the way of the storm when it threatened to rip the very foundations of the earth from the ground.

“Reggie and I go way back.” Ethan responded, his tone distant from her. “We have an arrangement.”

And still, his voice surrounded her warmly, as if welcoming her back into him. “An arrangement? Is that what you call a friendship?”

This sort of vulnerability she was so freely gifting to him, forced her to accept her own perception of herself over those of others. But it could only be done by consistently exposing herself and opening her emotions and true thoughts first to herself and then to those around her.

Her bloodstream buzzed with the intensity of the chemical combination of attraction, yearning and vodka.

“I don’t have friends.” He teased, a smirk resting on his lips when he looked at her. “But…I wouldn’t mind you joining me if you were so inclined.”

It was this willingness to cut her off and tell her when she was out of line, to tell her what he would and would not tolerate in his life that sub-communicated the most powerful elements of attraction to her. Far more powerful than an entertaining story or game.

Admittedly, it was why it was possible for him to anger her and arouse her at the same time.

Walking to the door, she felt the weight of his gaze on her. She popped her head out and smiled at her friends. “You lads go on ahead. I want to check in about tomorrow with Dr. Ramsey.”

Sienna gave her a concerned look but nodded nonetheless, bidding her goodbye with the rest of her friends. “Just don’t stay out too late…”

The subtext was clear enough.

“…Aurora’s dropping off the rest of her stuff before work tomorrow.”

Hope was as dangerous as it was necessary.

She joined him at the bar, letting her hips sway seductively in the way she knew drove him mad. Somehow, she managed to keep her balance even as if it was pushed between the walls of inebriation.

Liquid love, it was such a similar thing to liquid courage yet so different. It was akin to opening plains and emphasizing the spaces where one reduced their own importance. She saved those moments with him so she could transform them into nostalgia.

“Rook – er, Calypso.” He stopped himself, frowning slightly as he took a sip of his drink. “Sorry, force of habit.”

Everything she saw was him, everything branded deep into her was him, so she nodded towards his rugged jacket – signalling to the change of look that fitted him.

“We’ve been bestowed with a brand new Ethan Ramsey.” She teased, her expression remaining neutral as she looked straight ahead at the top shelf bottles above them.

Looking down at it, he acknowledged it. “This jacket’s been through a lot with me.”

Such was the power held by love for strength to give up.

“I like it, it suits you.” She complimented, unable to say that he suited her and she, him.

This brought a genuine smile to his lips as he finally looked at her with cautious relief and joy. Inched so close but pulled miles away. He was half a metre away but she felt ten frontiers away from where they had once caressed the what if.

“Duly noted. And the beard?” He asked, his thumb caressing the cold glass he held onto for dear life.

“It looks enchanting on you.” She chuckled, looking at him through her eyelashes as she shook her head.

He scratched at his beard thoughtfully and she wondered what it would feel like against her skin as they kissed. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Renting an alternative reality and from that perspective, she saw months in the second that their eyes met.  The intensity burned her, scorching away anger she had kept in carefully labelled jars decorated with lilac wine veins and red wax over the lids.

She glanced around, escaping for a second, trying to calm her delusions by dipping her hands into cold ice. The last of the patrons filed out, leaving her alone with Ethan as Reggie cleaned.

“Why don’t we move outside? It’ll be winter before we know it. Might as well enjoy the weather while we can. You want something to drink?”

Winter had arrived the moment she was bereft of him, warmed only by her own treacherous touch and resentment.

The reason romantic rejection got people hooked was that it stimulated parts of the brain associated with motivation, reward, addiction, and cravings.

“Whatever you’re having.” To share more than the same air.

Ethan reached over the bar and gabbed a half-drunk bottle of expensive scotch and an empty glass. He called to Reggie, lifting the bottle high for the man to see. “Hey, Reggie, we’re borrowing this.”

Reggie merely waved him on as they headed out to the beer garden, empty and tranquil. The emptiness provided a cloak for them, the very essence of the forbidden they had birthed.

He took a seat beside a small fire pit and she instinctively sat beside him.

Silence ran loud in her ears. “I can see why you fancy this place.”

“Because nobody’s annoying me?” He smiled, resting his back comfortably against the seat and toying with the glass. 

“Aside from me?” She teased, raising her eyebrow and continuing before he could respond. “More or less. It’s peaceful and that’s a luxurious commodity.”

Humming in agreement, he stared into the fire quietly. She mimicked him, letting the moment linger. It came to her than this was the longest interaction they had had all night, followed closely by their encounter with the plastic surgeon.

“So, this Dr. Thorne fellow, should I worry about him?” She interrupted, reaching for the bottle between them and pouring herself a drink.

His lips quirked upward just slightly. “He has some influence. Just stay out of his way for a couple of weeks and he’ll entirely forget who you are.”

“But not who you are.” She pointed out, sipping her drink. “Should you be worried?”

“I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am to give a damn what someone like him thinks.”

A confident man did not seek to impose himself on the boundaries of others, he was merely interested in maintaining his own boundaries while respecting other people’s. It was what differentiated him from people like Dr. Thorne, most people even.

He turned to her, noticing the concern etched into her countenance.

“Don’t think twice about that asshole.” He offered, sipping his drink. “What you did there helping that girl? You did the right thing. That’s all that matters.”

She crossed her legs.

“Yes.” She replied with conviction. “You’re right.”

“Of course.” He echoed, smiling. “I’m always right.”

Scoffing, she drank the remnants of her beverage and poured herself another. “It’s good to see your ego’s intact.”

“What you did just now was brave.” He continued despite her playfulness. “You’ve always been brave in the face of disaster and death, of course…”

Trailing off, he followed the movement of her lips touching the glass as she drank.

“...but it’s always different when you’re facing down a superior. To stand up to them for what’s right.” He added. 

Slowly, she lowered the glass, letting it rest on her lap as she leaned back. “Surely not as valiant as venturing into the depths of the Amazon to fight an epidemic.”

A sombre and grim look fell over his face as he redirected his attention back at his drink.

“…that wasn’t bravery, Calypso.” He whispered.

Stilling, a quietness encircled them protectively with only the soft sound of an old song playing from the jukebox inside. She knew it was time to open Pandora’s box, aware that it could never be closed again, and she’d be forced to deal with the emotions that released its revelation.

“Ethan…” His name tasted saccharine, almost too much. “Why didn’t you contact me? It was complete radio silence for two months. After everything that happened between us?”

The mask of neutrality that he immediately donned told her everything she needed to know before he delivered the finishing blow.

“Everything that happened between us is exactly why I didn’t contact you.” He uttered, finally daring to look at her. “Calypso, if we’re going to work together on the diagnostics team, we need a fresh start.”

They could not detach themselves from what they condemned.

“Your professional development is too important to jeopardize it with whatever…”

Poison flowed through her, staring into his James Dean glossy eyes. She raised her glass to her lips and finished her drink in one go, relishing in the blaze it fed within her. Fire that travelled all the way to her eyes, uncovering the anger she had nurtured.

“…whatever it was that we had.” He finished.

Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her chin upward. “Had, past tense.”

“Yes.” He acknowledged, sadness painting the indigo of his gaze as if the night sky itself had melted into the ocean to grant him the beauty in his eyes. “And the past is where it has to remain.”

Such sadness meant they had reached the final station. Whatever joy she had felt upon seeing him, and the meaning of togetherness she had given it, was corrupted. Sadness was the shape, and joy, the content – it filled its space.

Not even looking at the calendar would she be able to uncover what they had become. Her shared reality with him began to shake, and she could presage the end. She didn’t want to win anymore; she was exhausted of inventing excuses that couldn’t walk on their own.

There was no malice, just ingenuity in their bond. They had pretended believing the world had been at their feet. She’d be taking a train that didn’t sleep so that silence would fuel the life she’d dream of with him in screaming colour.

She had followed him like the periods at the end of every suicidal phrase that sought its end. Like a vagrant that thought cinema an escape, or a resigned flower decorating her elegant bedroom. She developed complexity parting from binary code.

At last, he met her gaze. In a sick and fucked up sense of closure, she felt as if he could see right through her as she saw through him.

Having preferred to fast in the open sea than to eat in an aquarium – floating on the surface of the event, watching it unfold, observing it like an outsider looking in – she let herself be moved to action only by emotion.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his softly. Let herself taste Eden one last time before being torn from its safety.

When he tensed, she knew. He didn’t pull back, letting their connection last.

But they had never been just two, for fear had made them three. They were so alike that if he left, so would she. What was quantity to her if only intensity would make her happy? Before doing that which would destroy them, she preferred to observe and do him.

Yet between having and fearing, she knew which one he’d pick.

So, she leaned back, staring into his eyes from inches apart – beholding the scene of desire and pain that played out on his face. But she didn’t apologize.

“Dammit, Calypso.” He cursed, his hold on the glass so tight it threatened to break underneath his strength.

Pride was a double-edged sword, and yet she let it touch her. It’d be the only thing sleeping with her tonight. Anger would be the one to kiss her, resentment the one to hold her. And vengeance? The one to fuck her, for lovemaking was not in its repertoire – that was devotion’s job. Even the wise man dwelled in the fool’s paradise.

He didn’t know the hell he had put her through, and the one she’d carefully crafted for him. Her touch had been sacred, deliberately given.

Because this was where she was the master. Seduction was her game, the power to render a man beyond reason if she so desired. He had walked into the dragon’s den unknowingly, unprepared.

Sex was a language to her – one she spoke with dangerous fluency. She could make the steeliest of men crumble underneath her touch, to have them peak with nothing but a look. She was the living personification of a fantasy, and she had fetichised it, being the unattainable object of desire. An archer set to fire Eros’ deadly arrow.

That was the god she prayed to when the religion she found in him was torn by the iconoclast he had decided to become.

It had been a façade when she was younger, a skill amongst many – but she had milked its use during her college years. Her interactions had almost been surgical, meant to obtain what she wanted whenever she wanted it. A testament to her laziness or brilliance, she could no longer tell. A puppeteer of great subterfuge.

And she had toyed with more men and women than she could count, it didn’t surprise her that she was finally getting what she deserved.

But she didn’t answer to karma.

It would drive them both mad with lust, it would dig yearning deep into her like a dagger to her heart. Punishing not only herself but him with the choices they had made, because they both knew how to please and curse the other – where one started and the other ended. It would be dark and provocative, and they’d inevitably collide when they came close.

They were both human, how long until they gave in?

“If you don’t want to kiss me, then just tell me –.”

“It has nothing to do with want.” He growled lowly, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “And if I give a damn about you, I won’t.”

His sorrow caressed her as he looked at her, his hand lingering close to hers but never touching.

“How am I supposed to push you to be everything you can be if I…” He stopped himself, recognizing the fire shielded by her thick eyelashes.

“If you what?” She countered, forcing herself not to display more emotion.

Biting the corner of his lip, he did his best to look away from her, tearing himself agonizingly from the embrace of her presence before him and turning back to his drink, downing the entire thing in one gulp.

Insecurities screamed as they dug up, hands raising from the tundra where they had remained dormant for so long.

“Ah, I understand.” She insinuated, mimicking his actions, and standing up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Ramsey.”

Placing the empty glass beside him, she left with nothing but the emotions raging inside of her and a longing for that which she could no longer have. To deny her him it was the cruellest of things he could’ve ever done.  

But if she had stayed, she would’ve noticed that he had willed himself not to follow her.

The wine dark-seas were as fickle and unpredictable as the powerful goddess who ruled them. It only made sense her namesake would be just as deadly and beguiling.

They would torture each other, from wicked tongues and undone beds to the scent of each other and the phantom of their shape on their beds. The mirror would reflect only her when she looked into it, and for the first time, it would have nothing to say.

Because if she haunted him, he’d be haunting her.

Soreness spread through his arms slowly, creating a faint need to allow the blood in his body to reconquer the spaces he had carelessly left abandoned with the flat affect that usurped dominancy over the ink-scratched remains of what he had so unwillingly cast aside.

Breathing deeply, Ethan finally released the painful force he had been driving into his closed eyes with the heels of his palms in an attempt to smother all memory of the elusive erudite who had made it her personal project to make him miserable with every crossing of gazes – an androgynous clash between the andro and the gyn, the eternal binary that faded when in contact of each other’s surface.  

An obscure corner of his mind screamed that epigenetics would never be able to explain just how deeply she had embedded herself into his genetic material, branded deep into his every cell possessively. It echoed, bouncing off the carefully crafted bookshelves he separated his life in. Stitching moment after moment into a book, binding it and putting it away when he conceded defeat to that which he could not control.

He had idiotically handed her a carte blanche, unaware of just how the version of her that resided within his dreams was but a small proportion of how infamous the real version of her could be when she walked ahead of him. Like a dilettante, he had forgone all emotion and paid for it with the ash that never seemed to cascade down his tongue whenever she was around.

And what was certainty but an admission of the fear of the unknown? What was the scent of her perfume viciously draped around him as he struggled not to breathe it in because he’d be reminded of her lingering on his bedsheets?

The sound of Calypso’s laughter stole his eyes away from reality. It swept her away into moments where they had once been more than a dream. Now he found himself lending time, desperately and silently begging her to reconcile with his disinclination of their rupture. 

Ripping pages from the book of her inside of his mind had equated to tearing himself to pieces, leaving raw edges for anyone to brush against and gain the print of his pain. He had sewn it shut, but it rattled on the bookcase, shaking whenever she was near – whenever her presence could be felt even when she wasn’t there.

He’d long scratched the title of the book, trying to force himself to forget. Instead, he had been left with a list of problems associated with her name. The problem hadn’t been finding her, but him forgetting her. The problem wasn’t her absence, but him waiting for her. The problem wasn’t that it hurt, but that he liked it. The problem wasn’t what she said, but what she didn’t.

With his heart torn in two, he wondered to which half she belonged to.

How could he be rid of her when he didn’t have her? How could he stay away from her when she was so far away, even in the same room? How could he find in his cupboard the kisses she hadn’t given him? How could he erase her from his skin when she had looked at him in the mirror?

His phrases were born in absolute solitude, and they somehow had found an accomplice in the periods that signalled the end of her own.

Her portrait still hung on the walls of his heart, unencumbered, with her hurricane hair spread all over his pillows. It had a sun that never appeared, and a shadow that attacked him – with a thankful glint on her pupils whenever he remembered her. With the gold of his dawn, he had painted stars with the light of her memory. Her portrait was the canvas of a sigh, framed with the scent of passionfruit and tea. The funeral of a laugh.

Her portrait was his own torn to pieces, for he wasn’t the same in her absence. Nostalgia lost its patience, knowing there was no clock that turned back. Habit was dessert to the suicidal.

Almost selfishly, he’d taught her everything but how to forget him.

Ironically, he’d noticed the evidence of a finagle when a few days into their return to the hospital, he had heard the whispers of her name amongst the doctors. She was gregarious by nature, her name fluttered around like a butterfly, from mouth to mouth – ephemerally taking and escaping.

Either you learned to love the thorn or you didn’t accept roses at all.

Words of doctors and nurses alike speaking of her beauty, of her charm – laced with sinful lust and a desire for the conquest of a novelty that was ever-changing. Those who tastelessly described their yearning for that which he had already held, for that which he longed for desperately. Others cut their veins wishing they could perfunctory obtain that which he had tossed aside, imagining the scenes of how they’d tear the clothes from her frame.

And like a moon bandoneon, a sunset tango or a milonga without a cradle – she danced on her own, moving through the halls in clothing that just bordered on barely appropriate but still elegant on purpose so his stare would focus on her for a moment longer. It was the glimpse of the visage of a short term life in his imagination.

She belonged to none, to all.

Her legs were the columns of hell, her eyes the gates of paradise, her lips the humidity of winter, and her breasts as rich as a Swiss bank. There was electricity with every sway of her hips and the movement of her hair, and her eyes were where the night sky and the violent waves of the ocean met bereft of light.

Scheduled on his calendar was a date with the gods he had cast aside at 5PM, and the devils he nurtured waited for him at a corner near Beacon Hill ten minutes to six. Crossed out was the zealous date he had planned with her, a mix between gods and monsters when her lips touched his. Allowed to wander was the danger that habited beneath her navel. Safely kept in their embrace were the secrets they shared.

And the heat of her skin through her clothes when he caught her before she tumbled to the ground in the home of a patient that rendered them careless in the veil of ubiquity had been but a caveat. The cover of her book had burst open with the fantasy of the future they could’ve shared in a beach home similar to Lamar’s. To grow older and wiser, more aware of how time was paid in blood.

It was easy to imagine the clicking of her heels against the floorboards and the marble, the echoes of their conversation, the softness of their bed, the sound of an old song playing in the background, the taste of her skilful baking, and the scent of tea.

It was hard to force her book closed and to shove it back into the highest shelf.

The threat of the hospital closing loomed over them, omnipotent and unforgiving despite their best efforts and intentions. It was a winding, weaving, treacherous fate to which they both atoned. Their ire ever growing had matched, faced with injustice, and it had been a bittersweet reminder of the power of love represented by six pomegranate jewelled seeds and changing heartful seasons.

People like her could not be contained, there was a blazing inferno inside of her and a frost that turned anything into ice.

He’d known them both. Had known her fire many times, the most recent being the way she had thrown herself after Lamar when he had attempted to jump off the railing. Fear had taken a hold of him upon the muscle of her arms becoming taut as she struggled to lift the man up, slipping down with him into a certain death. Thrown herself into an idiotic act of heroism and love.

His arms had come around her waist, pulling her back, cursing the familiarity of her back against his chest – his heartbeat against her spine.

The very thought of losing her to gravity when they had both been stuck on it was like poison seeping through his veins. Pulling her back into him, he wondered what would happen once he stepped into the decaying light of day to let her gaze upon him with the characteristic fire of her ebony eyes, the iris and the pupil blending together in a void of darkness that lured everything in with the melody of a thousand burning black suns screaming together in victory or defeat, he did not know.

To never gaze upon her, to never see her smile, to never debate with her, to never feel her skin against his as she kissed the side of his neck, to never entertain the notion of a future whenever he caught himself staring at her for too long, to never hold her hand, to never love her again, to never wake up next to her, to never see her ring finger displaying to the world she belonged to him. Death could easily grant him such destiny.

Then she had turned to him, a flicker of an emotion crossing her eyes before being concealed behind a mask of fragile professionality. Air pulled from his lungs and turned to words reminded him it was what he had done himself. He had wanted her, but he couldn’t have her. Not if he cared for her.

He had also known the frost.

The way she purposefully crafted her own body language when he was around, the way she flirted with others, the way he had told her to forget and she pretended she did. The way she had subtly expressed her displeasure despite her relative insecurity. The way she was both the puppeteer and the puppet to the macabre play she gifted him. He was an observer, always wishing he could join but being unable to – for he didn’t know the lines or the acts.

If the hospital closed, perhaps he could have her. Or he wouldn’t have her at all if she chose to return home. 

He knew he’d follow her wherever she went, too far gone in the silent sycophancy he had donned for her like a cloak he refused to take off even in the summer heat. It smothered him, it made him sweat, it made him weak, it was a reminder he was alive. It was her surrounding him.

“It was as if his life began when he met you…” He listened intently, keeping his face devoid of emotion so as to not intrude in the diagnosis she was delivering to Lamar’s wife. “because, to him…it did.”

Immediately, he had drawn the juxtaposition of them. The calls of trysts and love unsaid graphing before him the ways he had lived before meeting her. He had lived, yes, but never lived with her. His life with her had barely begun before he was forced to terminate it upon the prodrome of what would become of them if they continued as they had been.

Life with her had been so strange, somewhere between bliss and sorrow – and even as he took all responsibility for the latter, he couldn’t help but to internally reproach the way she affected others and him.

For men and women desired her alike, drawn to her like a moth to a flame or metal to a magnet. She was a leader, kind, charismatic, devoted, determined, creative, influential, intelligent, energetic, passionate; but she was also stubborn, impatient, arrogant, and controlling at times. She devalued time, and she sometimes devalued learning because of how bright she was.

But he liked her because of all those things, and he loved her despite them.

He had felt everything during the year he had shared with her. From annoyance to respect, from respect to kinship, from kinship to understanding, from understanding to acceptance, from acceptance to lust, from lust to love, from love to truth.

It had taken to see how easily he had lost her to understand how desperately he wished to keep her. He tried to convince himself that if he had loved her free, how could he love her any other way?

But every time she walked into their office and the elegance of her accent clashed against June’s, or her jokes bounced with Baz’s – possessiveness wrapped itself around his neck ready to hang him for his misplaced passion.

So, at night in bed, he wondered…

Did she bend her reflection in the mirror, turning one face into another with the ability to bring entire kingdoms to their ruin? Did she forget her own name when she played into the role of the woman she was supposed to be and that she wanted to be? Did she convince everyone she was a goddess just like she had done with him? Did she make people get on their knees daily with the influence of her sacredness? Did her eyes close like doors to conceal her emotions whenever someone got too close for comfort? Did she bathe in milk and honey until she forgot their names and faces? Did she cover the evidence of their love with expensive fragrances?

She was terrifying and strange…and beautiful.

Not his.

Not anymore.

Was every person who had loved and wanted her a slave to the back of her head like he was? Forever damned to try and catch her when she was as unpredictable and untameable as the seas her namesake was birthed in? Did she come and go, so capricious?

For a while he had held the answers in his hands in the past, the present had slipped through them like sand through his fingers and onto the floor where he could never hope to collect them again without her help.

Two feet standing on a principle, cold smoke seeping out of their throats while their hearts bled for each other, two hands longing for each other’s warmth. Still their feet could touch amongst the sheets, still their eyes met furtively, still their hands matched when they came into contact and their fingers reached for each other.

Still they courted about each other like a dance no one but them knew the alchemy of.

Salvation was offered to him in return of her vulnerability shared with others.

But damnation was hers alone to rain upon him.

Calypso stretched, as if she were a lazy summer goddess telling her whole empire that she didn’t have to see them until she desired so and tried to will sleep back into her system. She had nowhere else to be but in the comfort of her bedsheets.

An impatient knock on her door jolted her awake, forcing her to sit up and rub the sleep away from her eyes. She yawned silently, narrowing her eyes at the incessant pounding on the other side of her haven, and redirected her focus to the clock on her nightstand. It was seven-fucking-am, what need did her roommates have for her presence on their day off?

“Bloody hell…” Whispering to herself, she stretched once again as the knock came again. It finally forced her to roll out of bed and trudge to the source of the sound.

The cold metal of the doorknob against her hand finally pushed her entire mind from the cliff and away from Morpheus’ realm.

“This better be a life or death –” She suddenly closed her mouth, carefully donning a mask of delicate indifference when she recognized the person standing before her. “Oh.”

Ethan stood in the hallway, with his arms crossed, the muscles concealed underneath the white coat tensing upon his own recognition of her presence. Instinctively, bereft from the hours and hours of carefully crafted faux professionalism and restraint, her gaze landed on the buttons that struggled to keep his shirt together behind his polka dotted tie, fighting the taut ropes of strength she was so familiar with.

A part of her was grateful that she had just stripped into her underwear and thrown herself into bed, leaving her in the lacy undergarments she had worn to work the day before – tricking herself into hopefulness and fantasies of the lure of the forbidden. His eyes roamed her body, taking in every inch of skin he had once mapped out like the conqueror of her land.

“Oh, uh…good morning.” Ethan cleared his throat, unable to tear his stormy gaze from her, and instead deciding to focus on her face. She had a feeling it had done the opposite of what he had intended, clearly remembering the way she looked when she awoke beside him. A pink blush pricked at his sharp cheeks and she constrained herself into not smirking.

With fake nonchalance, she ran her fingertips from the upper part of her thighs until her hand came to rest at her hip. She shifted her weight to her right leg, the movement intended to draw his focus on the curve of her body, the concave line of her hip.

“Erm --, we have a case.” His voice was strained as he steeled his expression. “You’ve got three minutes to get changed.”

All foolish hope of a morning rendezvous flew out of her mind as worry seeped into her pores and she took a step back. “A case? I’ll be ready in two!”

“Good answer.” He replied curtly. “The board’s desperate to impress this patient, so wear something nice.”

She turned around, and he stepped into her bedroom absentmindedly, taking in every detail he had purposefully ignored in favour of her skin against his. The frame on her nightstand, depicting an almost Victorian family portrait of her kin. The carelessly thrown pieces of jewellery glinting on whichever surface they had landed on, and the empty cups of tea on her desk.

Her rumpled bedsheets, heavy with her scent, assaulted his mind with violent reminders of what he’d deprived himself of. Instead, his gaze desperately tried to find anything but her to focus on and met her copy of his book. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned to look at her and make a comment.

“Are you suggesting I don’t always look nice?” She teased, looking back at him, an eyebrow raised in amusement as she pushed hangers aside on her closet, in search of an ensemble worthy of her beauty.

“That’s not what I –” His eyes widened, mind running through the different dialogue options he had to avoid offending her further. He knew better than anyone just how beautiful she looked, regardless of what adorned her body. But he noticed the playfulness of her expression and frowned. “What I mean is, we cannot afford not to impress this guy. Afford in a very literal sense.”

Understanding dawned on her as she realized he was still displeased with her over her blatant negligence to follow his orders, choosing to contact the social media influencer anyway. It had been an experience and a half to interact with someone who had been aware of who she was, someone who had reminded her that her legacy still hung over her head like lilac paper moons covered in diamonds.

Fondly, she still remembered how Gwyneth had claimed that Ethan got away with being an arsehole because he was attractive. She hadn’t found it in herself to try and discredit that claim, knowing it was partly the truth. Making a mental note to contact Gwyneth on that collaboration she had talked her into, she pushed the influencer from her mind aside and returned to the present.

She glanced over her shoulder, slipping her thumbs into the band of her knickers and slid them down, not breaking eye contact and relishing in the conflicted lust that clouded his gaze upon the sight of skin he had thought long forgotten.

“Calypso!” He scolded, breaking himself from the trance and forcing himself to look into her eyes. It was futile, as if a mere man could fight against the strength of the ocean carved into her muscles.

“What?” She asked innocently, sweetly layering her voice with honey and spice. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“I…you…” He struggled to find the right words as he stared at her derriere, remembering his hands digging into the flesh as they kissed. By the time he managed coherent thoughts, his voice was barely above a desire veiled whisper. “…what are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.” Her statement had been so casual that she could’ve been discussing the stock market. “Just like you ordered me to.”

Her fingers dexterously unclasped her brassiere, completely baring her to him as it fell to the ground and she turned to give him a view of her front. She took a twisted sort of satisfaction in the way he swallowed nervously, red coming to paint his cheeks entirely as he watched her.

It was gone when he turned to look away in stunned propriety. “I, uh…”

Her skin pebbled with his proximity, calling to him in hushed whispers and lost time.

“Do you need…help with finding something?” He finally gritted the question out.

A valiant effort, she thought, for him to think she needed his help finding something to wear when he had so clearly fallen into the traps she had laid out for him with every inch of skin she had borne to him in the halls. Ensembles that displayed exactly the right amount of seductiveness, while still being professional. She lured him into her territory, playing the perfect courtier. She instantly seemed powerful because she made yourself ungraspable, rather than succumbing to the group, or to the relationship, as most people did. 

She committed to no one but was courted by all. 

Eyes had followed her everywhere she went, admiring that which she teasingly presented to him in punishment. Everyone had looked at her, and yet she had only looked at him – an all-consuming void of longing and plays.

“No.” She purred, trying to fight the disappointment that tore at her threads, threatening to have her come undone for him only. “I know precisely what I intend to wear.”

The onyx fabric caressed her skin as she pulled it on, intentionally leaving it unzipped. A pair of nude pumps with a black tip, and crossed quintessential Cs on the heel, called to her and she put them on, her height rising.

Walking into her bathroom, she brushed her teeth and washed her face quickly. There wouldn’t be enough time for makeup, so she simply lined her eyes and applied crimson lipstick before exiting the room.

A lone heavy necklace rested on her rug, glittering like water’s reflection against the sunlight. She bent down, picking it up, and clasped it behind her neck. It rested on her covered collarbone weightily, the diamonds opulently rising and falling with every breath that filled her lungs as her eyes scanned for the one accessory she knew would complement it.

Right next to Ethan’s feet laid a double finger ring, and she reached for it, placing her hand on his bicep for balance as she leaned forward and downward. She slipped it on and turned to Ethan.

“Care to do the honours?” She questioned, lifting her hair and offering him a broad view of her naked back. His breath fanned against her neck warmly as he zipped the dress up, his fingertips lingering on her for a second longer than necessary. “Thank you.”

Pulling her white coat over the ensemble, she realized he had turned away from her once again.  

“You can peek, Ethan.” She offered, smiling.

Hesitantly, he spun to face her, looking her up and down and taking her in as she pulled her hair into a high ponytail. His gaze lingered on the place where the fabric hugged her hips invitingly, up to the waterfall of stars on her collarbone.

“You look very…” The words died on his lips as he concealed his expression. “…satisfactory.”

It burned down her throat, a powdered mouth that tasted of rum thrown into the fire to feed the flames. The games she played, the ceaseless flirting, the skin she displayed – while it worked, it was but a visage. The truth didn’t make her happy, so she chose to fabricate the lie that would turn into the closest thing to what she desired.

There was nothing like his entourage and others paled in comparison to him. Eclipsed by his intelligence, his beauty, his drive, his determination, his touch, his darkness and light – they were but shades leaving petroleum handprints on her skin that she washed away come the morning, wishing for the scars his touch imprinted on her heart.

It was a fancy she refused to let go of, childishly manipulating everything around her so that he’d look at her. She couldn’t grant him wishes, and she couldn’t promise him neither the moon nor the stars. What else was there but herself to offer to him? To offer a glimpse of what he’d renounced in the name of propriety and care.

They spun around, time’s arrow moving forward, hands never letting go, despite their hold transforming. It was only a matter of time before they both crashed to ground, the carrousel they rode unable to withstand their match.

If she let go, she would fall, forced to pick herself up and accept a life where he was less than the things they said at night, with naked bodies akin to porcelain that concealed the bleeding cracks inside. Forced to find her skin with her own hands instead of his own when the lights went as dark as the knowledge treasured in her Machiavellian mind controlled the rest – her heart protected far away from her sleeve and behind a stronghold of acting like they didn’t care and pretending to be busy.

Instead, she held on, willing to toy with their reality for as long as necessary.

She smirked, crimson separating to display white teeth. “Perhaps you chose the wrong career, Ethan. You should’ve been a poet.”

While he would’ve been unable to articulate into words the vision she had made, he was certain his eyes had betrayed everything to her with the promise of what could’ve been if he had simply closed the door and torn the dress from her – making love to her in a bed of constellations, diamonds, and sighs.

Having torn herself from the bourgeoise she could’ve easily forgotten the way it looked, draped in expensive silks that flowed from the ceiling to the floor and windows that provided a view to one of the most well-kept gardens she had ever had the pleasure of seeing on private property. Shining marble underneath her feet had welcomed the clicking of her heels, scattered in the stretching of the tile. Even the air smelled expensive. 

It was the hidden blood spilled, the legacy that came with generational wealth – the blurred line in the sides taken by those who wished to fracture perpetually their relationship with sovereignty and those who wished to remain under its rule – for freedom came with a price few were truly willing to pay, and ever fewer could afford.

And yet, there was a lesser known horseshoe theory in political science, where the political spectrum curved so that the extreme-right and extreme-left ended closer to each other than they did to moderates or centrists in the middle. It meant that regardless of the side you chose, you’d still be willing to supress liberties, especially those of those perceived as the enemy, to accomplish desired goals. The only difference between extremism and centrism had been the disposition to compromise.

The abdication of all individualism to simply become another stroke in the masterpiece of society’s most powerful architects.

Leland Bloom had reeked of everything she had known to be wrong in the business world. He was the men her father had insistently reminded her to stay away from, lest she become another pawn to their games – if not an unwilling participant to their libations. Morality forgone in the name of exponential profit.

Money meant control, control meant power, and power meant Bloom was used to not answering to anyone.

His ploy to have both struggling hospitals compete for the opportunity to treat him, therefore having access to a vast amount of money, made her feel ill to the very cells that held the bones in her legs together. She supposed he liked to think of life as a game, if not a business transaction – and still she knew it was an amalgam of both.  

Her very own game with Ethan was forgotten the moment he had walked out on the businessman, and the responsibility to save the day had been thrust upon her waiting, but begrudging arms, knowing she was also wary of the man.

Biting her tongue until she drew the taste of iron, she had forced herself to remain calm and impassive as she faced down her superior, the man she had bedded and whose shadow she spent every night reaching for with her fingers grasping at the scent he had inked into her bedsheets. Still, she feared it would one day disappear and she would have truly lost him, as if he had institutionally and contractually belonged to her.

Looking into the hurricane in his eyes, she had used reason as her primary instrument, for he was a logical man above all. But pride was rarely a loving master, and she had known they would have to bend like a bow before shooting their arrow.

She was a hypocrite, she thought, knowing herself to be as unappeasable as a capricious god. What need did she have for humility when she was lover to the heightening euphoria of omnipotence? Strings she pulled and loosened to her heart’s threnody and amusement; she was a puppeteer pretending to be a puppet – because when it came to power, outshining your master was perhaps the worst mistake of all.

Dance, little puppet, dance.

Calls of ordinary actioned into slicing the strings that had held her, nevertheless brought forth by replacement.

He had yielded to her, like she had known he would. They held power over each other, to build and destroy. It was destructive and it was creative. It was the dyad that was so characteristic of them. A man who knew where he stood and what he would die for; and a woman who knew her loyalty was only to herself and those she loved, who lived by her own law. An idea worth dying for, survival worth the subterfuge – sorted into different houses that still converged.

Their opposition was but the aphrodisiac that had propelled them into their trysts, for how could you hate something having not experienced it first?

With the samples required, the team dispersed to the exit – but she was asked to remain, nodding to Ethan in reassurance as she closed the bedroom door and turned to face Leland and Caroline Bloom.

“Dr. Laveau, are you, per chance, related to Tyche Enterprises?” He had asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity as he studied her guarded countenance. Her veins screamed at her that there was malice she had yet to uncover in those deceivingly silver eyes.

There were concrete laws of power, substantiated by human history, learned only by those fortunate enough to stumble into an erudite of their influence – and not a sycophant.

It was a game of appearances and saying less than necessary would inevitably make her appear greater and more powerful than she was. Once she granted him a response, she would not be able to take those words back. Power could not accrue to her if she dared squander the fortune of what she’d articulate.

“Yes, I am.” She replied, gifting him a kind smile.

“I know your father,” he spoke decidedly, as if he also understood the board he was standing on, “he is a great man, awesomely intelligent, as well.”

Reduced to the role of daughter, a pawn. He underestimated just who had raised her.

She had turned her back on her father’s world, so she had no sense of the extent of their relationship. Knowing who you were dealing with and choosing not to offend the wrong person was critical. There was no quarrel to be fought, and she hoped it remained that way. She didn’t want to harm her family by picking battles with the wrong players.

“He truly is.” She answered, tempering her features to disarm them.

“You’re just as beautiful as your mother.” Caroline chipped in, coming to sit beside her husband on the bed. “I’m a big admirer of her recent line.”

Lions circle the hesitant prey. The key to persuasion was softening people up enough and breaking them down gently, to seduce them with a two-pronged approach meant to work on their emotional needs and play their intellectual weaknesses.

“Do send our love.” Caroline added.

“I’ll make sure to relay the message.” She nodded, folding her hands in front of her.

Never breaking eye contact, she tried to decipher their intentions as if they were etched into their faces like runes lighting up against the moonlight. She tried to trust her instinct when it told her there would be nothing more to their interactions than the doctor-patient dynamic that was commonly expected – that it would all be done as soon as they uncovered what mystery illness ailed the man before her.

Her intuition had rarely failed her in the past, and she still bore the emotional scars of such failures like tattoos, displaying to the world what she’d done and failed to do. Witness to her very own self-inflicted ostracism, aware that the prosperity of their family was not the entitlement of their successors. Work, discipline, and ambition were; just as much as cruelly designed interactions and fabricated actions.

“Well, we won’t keep you any longer.” Leland stated, waving with his hand politely to dismiss her. “Enjoy the race, Dr. Laveau.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bloom.” She reached for the door, her ring glinting against the light.

His voice froze her just as she turned the doorknob. “I trust this won’t be the last we see of each other.”

It felt as if he had just passed her sentence, it was only a matter of waiting for the sword to be swung.

With nothing to add, she exited the room and walked out as fast as decorum allowed her, nodding to the butler waiting to escort her out of the mansion.

Outside, the diagnostics team waited for her. Ethan took a step towards her, but stopped himself, realizing he was forced to remain professional.

To her left, she caught Tobias Carrick’s eye, his gaze never leaving her as she walked to the car and Ethan opened the door for her, guiding her inside with his hand at the small of her back. 

The glint it had held told her Tobias was another volatile wild card in the deck.

Luckily for her, she was good at poker.

Cheering deafened his senses, the scent of sweat and alcohol mixed with freshly cut grass and dirt underneath the sole of his shoe barely tethered him to the reality he forced himself to inhabit at the moment – brought forward by an unwillingly ruptured former lover’s request.

And he had a problem.

It was an understatement, he had many, ranging from personal to professional – but the one before him tantalizingly bordered on both, gracefully contorting herself on that tightrope with glee and spite, parading with little tricks and positions meant to drive him to insanity.

He had never been much of a believer, with an infected god-shaped hole in his chest that he had never been able to heal with a decision. It was a paradoxical lack of interest in religion. It was pondering whether the trials in his life would be lifted should he declare belief. He envied the faithful, wishing he could have something to believe in.

Because whether it was consciously done or not, everyone had narratives they elected to hold onto – and they all produced the same result: a belief in potential growth, improvement or salvation in the future; and the ways that could be navigated to get there, like a man adrift at sea choosing to ignore the calls of a nymph who had already detained him for almost a decade because she wished to possess him.

Shielding his eyes from the piercing gaze of the sun, he was certain that if they truly existed, the gods looked down from their ethereal playground atop Mount Olympus and passed judgement on everything he did. If they weren’t pleased, they were swift to punish. They didn’t have to be kind, just, nor right. They were downright irrational.

So was he, burning in a jealous rage worthy of Hera’s pride, noticing the way Tobias’ eyes roamed over Calypso’s body with a dangerous intent on his face that promised to make good on its desire – even as they approached her friends, his gaze never left the seductive swing of her hips.

Almost with wishful naïveté, he wondered if she’d notice his reaction and use it against him. Saying it wasn’t so was like shoving a blade down his throat, how she easily came and went – capricious. How perfectly she had fitted in his arms as he carried her to his bed, not minding the view or the altitude with a mouth full of air.

With every mischievous email from Naveen while he was in the Amazon, he had begged him silently to please not tell her that he missed her. To please not dare to tell her what he’d become, and the attention he had drawn.

And he had tried his best with his intent to cure the rest of the wreckage he had left with the plural hurts of the words of reverse psychology.

“Ethan. My god.” Tobias' voice boomed across the field, making a couple heads turn as he walked to them. “You are the last person I expected to see here tonight.”

It was almost childish how his immediate response resembled many versions of him ago. “Worried?”

His fist clenched.

“Thrilled.” His rival’s quintessential charming smirk dazzled every person around them. “This’ll make the victory that much sweeter.”

He would’ve had to have been blind not to notice the way his eyes had focused on Calypso as he uttered the last sentence. Pride prevented him from turning to look at her expression, undaring to obtain evidence that she, too, could fall prey to Tobias’ games.

“Tobias, please,” she began, a seductive purr to her timbre, “the only victory to be collected tonight will be ours for the taking. Try not to weep too hard when we demolish you, I doubt I brought enough handkerchiefs for all of you.”

It took everything in him not to smile at how her competitiveness went beyond the hospital and the bedroom.

Laughing with mirth, Tobias put his hands on his hips. “Aren’t you feisty? I like that, but it’s too bad that won’t make you play any better.”

She was there, so close, so wicked, and on fire. To turn his emotions against him, to come to him in dreams and flee come the morning. She would never let him go, and he selfishly dug her fingers deeper into his skin encouragingly so as to not be abandoned.

He was a fool for her. And she was swift to punish – but unlike the gods he cast aside, she was kind, just, and he loathed to admit it, right. Her attention, to be the focus of her fury, it was like sleep to those who had suffered a concussion. So dangerous, so tempting.

“You’ve got my consent to find out for yourself.” She teased back; her gaze flickering between Emery’s niece and Tobias.

His fist unclenched.

They left, back to the safety of their team, and he was, once again, alone at her mercy.

Turning to her, he allowed himself one last look at how wonderfully and extraordinarily the black athleisure wear she had chosen hugged her every curve, white highlighting the contour of her muscles, and donned a well-practiced poker face.

“…I’m going to speak to Naveen before the game starts.” He announced, already turning away and walking into the direction of the safety and comfort his mentor provided with practiced ease.

There was very little to tell, as she walked slowly to her friends, blinking her eyes, mocking every love. She wasn’t where she used to be, and gravity fought against her hair as it floated in sentient curls escaping her bun.

From a parallel time, they had danced, feeling their bodies vibrate, their feet coming to touch, fantasizing from the bed. He was certain that she could make the devil go crazy.

“What a nice surprise to see you here.” Spoke his mentor, clasping a hand on his shoulder in greeting. “Am I correct to assume it had something with a mutual friend of ours?”

“Not a word, Naveen.” Ethan warned, unable to repress the small quirk of his lips upwards. “I’m here and that’s what matters, is it not?”

He should’ve known better to phrase his query correctly, inwardly wincing at the sardonic glint on his superior’s eye. “I’m sure it does for her.”

With a shake of his head, he decided to redirect the conversation elsewhere – speaking of everything and nothing at once, content in the familiarity of their rapport. A part of him ached, thinking of how it juxtaposed against his relationship with his own father.

The boy hidden within the man, longing for a mother who had gone with the wind – attracted to a woman with a nomadic nature; untameable, free, powerful, beautiful, intelligent, nurturing. Looking for a mirage of what he’d lost in what he’d found, a woman who would never give him what he wanted for different reasons – the story repeated itself like a grim play he paid to watch over and over again in the comfort of his private box.

She left his streets, flying into the horizon like a migrating bird. Shame lost with a tornado, and snakes who were finally able to look up at the sky. How could he change? How could he possibly force himself to let go of her? The memory of paradise within the city wouldn’t leave.

Returning from the distance, he had found her eyes held the sweet taste of the void, and he understood words that from kilometres away, he had never heard. No more paper moons of yesterday glinting above his head.

He hadn’t noticed the silence, nor his gaze searching for her, until Naveen spoke once again.

“This game you’re both playing,” he drawled, “will only last so long.”

He considered feigning ignorance but decided against it. “I don’t want to jeopardize her career.”

“So, her emotions took its place instead?” His mentor quirked an eyebrow. “What happens when a man expresses interest in her? A woman?”

Opening his mouth to reply, he found all oxygen had escaped him.

“She’s free to be with whoever she wants.” Ethan gritted out, crossing his arms defensively.

But the thought itself sickened him. For someone else to see her when she woke up, curls freely taking ownership of every inch of her pillow. For someone else to witness her lips part in pleasure when she peaked above him. For someone else to inhale her aroma of passionfruit and tea.

A part of him knew she had every right to seek companionship elsewhere.

But another, a darker part of him, knew that if he reached out while she was with someone else, she’d come to him. She looked better with him, in his car – his room still smelled of her Guerlain. She was his, and with this, came unspoken reciprocity. He was hers.

Because another woman in her place would never satisfy him. Not the way she did.

Another man would never satisfy her either.

And he couldn’t be the one to judge her, for they both knew what had happened between them had been at random. With his stern face and her killing smile. Blind, torn away from their fears, forced to think with their fingers. It tasted of the forbidden, shredded from active principle, where he didn’t want to be himself, especially when he was with her – for how could they ever hope to last when their beginning had been frowned upon by none but himself?  

One look had taken their inhibitions, forced them into poison exchanged between kisses, choosing to burn instead of vanishing – repeating to each other that they weren’t bad people, and fucking each other over. He liked her free, falling over the invisible, a thousand words uttered, but understanding found in few.

His handmade ego had come apart at the seams with every smile she flashed him, doting with reason his desires.

“It is you she wants, Ethan.” Naveen finalized, reaching for something behind him. “Besides, I’m still waiting for the wedding invitation. I’m certain it would be a grand event.”

“I –” He opened up his mouth to argue but was cut off by his mentor’s voice echoing across the park with the assistance of a megaphone.

“Players, spectators, friends…” The sound forced people to focus on the game at hand. “…the time has come for the 13th annual crosstown game to begin!”

With a pointed look, Naveen sent Ethan away like a chastised child as he wound up and threw the ceremonial first pitch as applause rung out.

Ethan took his place on the field, already regretting his decision to agree to play. He had been unable to say no when she had stated for me.

Tobias strutted up to him, ever confident, toying with a mitt. “You ready for this, Ethan?”

“Obviously.” He replied dryly.

The umpire gave an opening statement, and he bit back a smile as he noticed Calypso teasing Emery good-naturedly. Lahela seemed to pose a question for her, and she considered for a second, nodding at the surgeon before heading to deep right field and slipping on her mitt.

Ethan folded his arms, standing tall, and secretly glad she had chosen to be near him. With a slight turn on her neck, she winked at him.

“Let’s get this over with.” He announced, uncrossing his arms. “The sooner we kick their ass, the sooner I can go home.”

His unhelpful mind added a without her into the mix.

The game sped by him, letting his body run on autopilot. He remembered how to play, and he had significant trust in his abilities. Finding out just how good Calypso was at the game shouldn’t have surprised him either, but it had.

It wasn’t until a break was announced that his conscious mind returned to itself.

Calypso stretched her arms above her head, letting every person within a couple metres view the way her muscles became taut under her strength, and made her way toward a collection of coolers.

He made a move to follow her but thought better of it, knowing that in her presence, he was an entirely different man - one he would rather keep between them.  

She grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and gulped it down.

Ethan tensed when he saw Tobias approach her, and he forced himself to eavesdrop to their conversation, despite his pride and professionality.

“Keeping your head in the game, huh? I can get behind that.” The flirty tone of his voice was unmistakable.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she watched Tobias as he reached for his own water bottle, eyeing her legs as he did.

“I can’t risk getting too cocky, I’m not making that mistake with you again.” She replied coolly, but the subtle smile on her lips said otherwise.

Ethan inhaled sharply at the words that were uttered her way, bouncing and echoing inside of his mind the question Naveen had asked him.

“Which leaves plenty of other mistakes you could make with me.” Tobias flirted, taking a step closer to her, and grinning wolfishly.

His blood boiled.

“Oh?” She asked, stepping closer, as well. “So, you count yourself a mistake? In that case, perhaps I’ll consider it, but be warned, Dr. Carrick, I am more than you could possibly handle.”

Tobias took another swig of water. “I’ve always liked a good challenge, Dr. Laveau.”

Jealousy had a built-in paradox – they needed to love in order to be jealous, but if they loved, they should not be jealous. And still, they were. Still, he was. Everybody spoke ill of jealousy. It was an inadmissible passion. People were not only forbidden to admit they were jealous, but they also weren’t allowed to feel that way.

Jealousy was politically incorrect.

After all, there was nothing like a rival, even an imagined one, to make a partner look more appealing.  

“What happens when a man expresses interest in her? A woman?”

The faceless visage of a man morphed, then, into Tobias’ grinning face – spreading like poison through his bloodstream and all the way into his heart as fury threatened to overcome him and force him to lay his claim on someone who didn’t belong to him at all.

It was a universal human emotion, one of many that compromised the multi-layered experience of love. While dangerous in its extreme forms, it was also a catalyst to improving relationships. It was a signal that a partner was higher in mate value or that one might be generally threatened or fearful that the partner might leave.

Jealousy was intrinsic to love.

It meant that she was having with somebody else that which he thought she was having with him or that he wanted to have with her.

He had lost her among people, loved her and hated her. She knew, deep underneath her facades, that she carried a goddess capable of drowning them both. They would seek each other out in hell because they were one and the same.

In order to travel to other planets, through circular currents, they had provided each other with a special capsule that contained their shared vision for a life that could never be theirs. But their heads were a sandstorm, a spiral every night.

His hands on her hips replaced by Tobias’. Her laughter ringing in his kitchen, belonging to another man. Her carefully crafted schadenfreude meant for his rival, those tight little clothes she wore like a canvas of his desire. Their banter transformed into inside jokes he didn’t understand. Losing her to another man.

He had no right to feel this way, but he did. He had pushed her away, told her they couldn’t be together.

She made him dream of lives that could never be his.

So, he walked away, pushing himself from their conversation, willing himself to not feel.

Willing himself to breathe.

Then he heard the commotion, her voice raised above them all, her accent thick as she argued in rapid fire in polymath fashion, carrying with her the rage of a scorned god. Her voice denounced above all others, and as he approached, he noticed the icy mask on her face. It betrayed no emotion, but her voice did.

Her friends were also arguing, split into two groups, arguing about a poached patient. Stephanie Hill, the woman who had been in a coma for 13 years.

Unless the situation escalated, he wouldn’t intervene. He stood by the side, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate him fighting her battles for her. She was a warrior.

“What’s going on over here?” A Kenmore doctor asked angrily.

“We just discovered that Mass Kenmore is not above subterfuge.” Calypso hissed, glaring at the man.

Gasps around the crowd let him know she had just set fire to a gasoline pool.

“What did you just say?” The doctor spat back, and it took Ethan a couple of seconds to recognize him.

“You heard her!” Mirani intervened, coming to stand beside her.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Naveen worriedly watching the situation unfold.

“If we were on the field right now…” The doctor said, taking a step closer to Calypso, the threat not slipping past unnoticed as she tensed and clenched her fist.

Ethan saw red as he stepped between them, standing as a shield between the doctor and his former lover.

“I’m going to tell you once, and only once, to step away from my resident, Terrance.” He warned, his voice unnervingly calm.

“Or what, Ramsey?” Terrance badgered, spreading his arms wide mockingly. “I’m not some pharma exec you can slug in the face.”

He knew the man was trying to get a rise out of him, fucking poxy.

“Yeah, Ethan.” Tobias chipped in mirthfully. “Let’s not throw around threats we both know you won’t follow through.”

Jealousy was erotic wrath.

He frowned, clenching his fist. “Just give me one excuse.”

Players and spectators from both hospitals crowded in around them, unleashing an infamous storm of jeers, insults, and vicious smack talk – colour fumes engulfing them in a hazy state of hostility, one threat away from turning horizons into a battleground of destroyers.

Ethan noticed the way Calypso placed herself next to him, her chin held high in that aristocratic manner of hers that screamed of conceit as she glared at Tobias and Emery.

You and I, we’re equals. With you I fight, with you I fall.

“Game on!” The umpire announced, breaking the impending violence.

He shared a long, stony look with Tobias as the teams reluctantly separated and headed back onto the field, muttering angrily things they hadn’t gotten to slap across each other’s faces.

The sun went down, bringing the biting cold of night into the ambiance, but the blood in their veins heated them enough to battle winter. There was a distinct change of energy as the game resumed. Both teams intensely focused on winning, the goodwill and playful rivalry of the first several innings dead and lost in an ocean of fury.

Everything he had kept bottled up, he brought into the game. His father, his mother, Tobias, Calypso, himself. He let it flow with every determined movement. Forgone was his disinterest, replaced by ire.

And still, by the bottom of the last inning, Kenmore was up two runs.

And Ethan refused to lose to Tobias.

Not the game. Not Calypso.

Lahela sent a grounder skipping past a Kenmore resident that seemed awfully familiar, making it to first base and advancing Ethan to second. He was panting with the force of his own competitiveness and anger by the time he reached it.

“Fuck, I’m up.” He heard Calypso exclaim as she jogged to her position.

“Focus, Laveau.” He encouraged, giving her a meaningful look, never breaking eye contact as her friends spoke to her.

A mocking smirk drew itself on her countenance as she picked up the bat and huffed a wild curl of hair away from her face, noticing a smirking Tobias on the mound, ready to hit her with everything he had.

No other man would ever satisfy her.

Jealousy was normal.

Tobias released the ball with strength, the object whistling through the wind as it attempted to meet its intended target with outré.

But Calypso raised the bat and swung with an equal amount of strength. It sailed into the night sky, arcing higher and farther, streaking over the wall for a home run.

“Edenbrook wins!” The umpire yelled happily, cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice.

Audible groans of displeasure drowned out by cheers.

“I can’t believe it.” Tobias grumbled, running a hand through his face.

“Ye of so little faith, Tobias.” Calypso beamed, positively glowing in the moonlight, flipping her bat and trotting around the bases to wild cheers from the Edenbrook bleachers.

As she stepped on the home plate, her friends engulfed her in a group hug, lifting her above their shoulders as they chanted. She threw her head back laughing delightfully, letting the bat fall to the floor.

She caught his eye from afar and he smiled at her.

No other woman would ever satisfy him.

Stepping away, he let her celebrate with her friends for a bit, and he allowed himself a couple minutes to sit on the bleachers and let the cool air settle into his skin like a soothing balm.

Finally, she was alone, packing her things up to leave. He approached her from behind, making sure his footsteps were loud enough so as to not startle or frighten her. But she would recognize his footsteps anywhere.

“So?” He questioned, cocking his head to the side. “Was that worth dragging me down here?”

“Ethan, you should know by now,” she smiled, his name tumbling from her lips like a litany, “I regret nothing.”

Dilogies, anaphors, epiphonemas, antithesis, hyperbole – all for them.

“I came here to destroy Mass Kenmore, and we achieved that.” She finished, bouncing on the spot happily.

He gave her a wry smile in return. “Hm.”

She studied him for a minute, so familiar with the sharp lines of his face, and he returned the favour.

The prosopography of her etched into his mind forever like a tattoo, beauty itself was cruelly eponymous of her. He was besotted – body, mind, and soul. He would never be content with being secondary to anyone or anything in her regard.

Nothing nor anyone could ever supersede her.

“I suspect your head wasn’t really in the game tonight.” She said nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just uncovered the emotions he hid for the world to see with nothing but a look. Deep within his veins, she had made herself at home. “Am I incorrect?”

“It’s softball.” He lied, unable to understand why the familiarity of her made him defensive. “My head was never going to be in it.”

She brushed her hand against his, sending his heart all the way into his throat, beating like an earthquake to tumble his walls to the ground.

“I know it’s more than that.” She added, her features softening with care and affection he was unworthy of. “Talk to me, Ethan.”

He met her eyes, reflecting his yearning back at him. He softened his voice, almost inaudible over the crowd of doctors preparing to head home.

Would he regret it?

“Not here.” He offered, knowing she’d understand.

“Then where?” She inquired, almost breathlessly.

Stuck between times, he would question everything. Putting an end to the impostor and usurper who had thought it best to ignore the calls of passion she gifted him. He was scared. He was vulnerable.

He was hers.

“…I suppose you could come home with me.” He stated, looking deep into her eyes, and relishing the excitement in them. “I have a new recipe I’ve been looking for an excuse to try.”

“You cook?” The incredulity of her voice morphed into a grin as she put her hands on her hips.

This was familiar, their unfiltered rapport. Their comfort.

“I do.” He affirmed, smiling. “Often. I find it very meditative, actually. It always helps me get my thoughts in order.”

“Very well.” She nodded. “Lead the way.”

They freshened up, and she followed him back to his spotless apartment. The curtains were thrown open, the bay glittering like starlight quietly beyond.

Later that night, when she’d dismissed herself to give him some privacy with his father, he understood why she had played all those games with him.

A scent of Guerlain and tea reminded him of her skin, and a mix of honey and cinnamon reminded him of the taste of her kisses. They had urged him to return to her.

The whole world had drowned sweetly, through his lungs, into his veins and out his fingertips as he tangled her against him in the streetlight, their worlds colliding once again. He groaned and she moaned, running his fingers into her hair, twisting her freed curls and pulling her lips more firmly against his.

He had wanted her for so long, deprived himself from her. The ghost of her on his sheets had threatened to bereft him of joy.

Intensity had made them happy, and they burned like wildfire. Like magma meeting the ocean for the first time. Love without possession was the purest of all, but he couldn’t deny himself the corrupted and polluted thrill of posessive love. An amalgam of her and him - powdered gold and scotch bled and blended. 

She pulled away, meeting his eyes, and asked what it meant.

“I don’t know.” He had answered and kissed her again.

But he did.

She thought of the scent of coffee, the sound of fountains, the pleasant chatter around her, the warmth of the sunset, her fingers growing numb from the ice cream she held, and the hardness of a bench underneath her.

Breathing out betrayed her fear.

She thought of sitting beside her father in Piazza Navona, trying hard to hold back her laughter as he recounted the tale of his buffet shame. He had told her how eagerly he had piled up his plate with delicacy after delicacy, rubbings his hands together mischievously because he’d eat the breakfast of a lifetime. Looking up from his plate as his father sat down in front of him, he recalled between laughter, how his father had only placed upon his plate big, abundant strawberries topped with honey. Of course, his retelling of it was funnier than hers. 

That day, he had learned to cherish quality over quantity.

And she had learned to cherish intensity over length. Perhaps that had not been her father’s intention in telling her the anecdote, but it had been what she had learned. 

It had always been her way, to blaze through like wildfire, consuming everything in her path greedily.

A panicked scream brought back her attention to the man who had been the trigger for the situation at hand. The senator threw the covers off of his body, swinging his legs to the side of the bed and standing up. His body was tense, and she immediately knew he would try and escape. He was in danger, more so now, it was only natural that his fight or flight response would activate.

She breathed shakily, covering her mouth with her forearm as she struggled to inhale, ready to stop the man from leaving. If he were to get out, he’d put the entire hospital at risk. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow the man to put more people in the line of fire.

As he quickly made his way towards the door, she reached out, determined to grab him and pull him back.

A soft groan of pain behind her was enough to distract her, as the man slipped through her fingers, centimetres away from his wrist. Another cough wracked through her system, and she could do nothing but glare hatefully as the senator ran down the hall.

“No!” Travis screeched as Rafael lunged, trying to grab the canister. Bobby’s heaving produced white noise in the background. Her hands trembled as she took a step back, trying to get her mind to work beyond survival-motivated anxiety.

A faint hiss filled her ears as the aerosol cannister deployed, hitting Rafael and Travis. Despite her relative distance, it also caressed her countenance like morning dew, cooling her heated skin. The mist settled on her hands and tickled her throat.

Then, the coughing began. It filled the room ominously, like a haze she couldn’t seem to fight. Travis gagged and gasped, his face shining with an oily, transparent substance that any other day, she could’ve easily mistaken with the products she used in her skincare routine.

“Oh, no…” Rafael uttered, staring down at himself, covered in the oily sheen. 

It could’ve been sweat from a light jog at the beach during summer.

Dany echoed his disbelief.

“You’re…” She dared not complete the sentence, incapable of making her aptitude for properly conveying her thoughts and emotions work. She bent forward, clutching her chest as if the action would ease the pain.

“It’s on all of us…” He pointed out, frowning as he took her appearance in. “What the hell is it?”

Any other day, it could’ve been massage oil someone had accidentally spilled while showing off its eucalyptus scent. Rain that they had been unable to fight as they walked down the street; glitter she had decorated their bodies with because Jackie had forced them all to go dancing at some upscale club Calypso had access to.

On this day, she knew it to be death.

“Calypso?” Ethan’s voice called.

Let it be anyone but him. She had selfishly thought. Let the world burn, but not him.

Yet the world was rarely merciful. She looked to the window and saw Ethan peering inside, his lovely, blue eyes wide in confusion.

“Fuck…” She panted, standing to her full height.

In the background, the black aerosol cannister rolled on the floor, sputtering empty. It hit the front of her heel and she fought the urge to kick it away violently.

Pain began crawling up her throat, and she swallowed with difficulty as she turned to survey the scene. Danny sat by Bobby’s body, stunned with the realization that the attack that had turned them into unwilling victims was, in fact, very much real.

Her gaze landed on brave, kind Rafael as he coughed, trying to push himself up. His skin caught in the light where the spray covered him. He looked tragically beautiful.

Danny mumbled to himself.

And Travis hacked and coughed on the floor, his body naturally attempting to fight the foreign substance that had entered it. Rafael grabbed him by the collar and pinned him to the wall forcefully.

“What the hell was in that thing?!” He roared, pulling him back and pushing him against the wall with strength to emphasize his point.

“I…I don’t…”

Twisting away from her friend’s hold, Travis vomited in a nearby bin.

Immediately, her mind began racing as she tried to identify the symptoms. Coughing, vomiting…what else would they have to endure?

“Ethan…” She breathed out to herself, remembering that he stood on the other side of the window. She turned to him, finding his eyes filled with horror. Donning a mask, she tried not to betray that she was terrified.

“Calypso…” He whispered back, having been able to hear her. He frowned, determination taking hold of his expression and residing there as he made a move toward the door.

“Ethan, do not come in here.” She choked out, shaking her head, feeling the loose curls framing her face jump with the movement.

Hurrying to the door, she held it shut and locked it, holding Ethan’s eye through the window with apologies spilling from her own. Her palm rested on the doorknob, as if she could feel his hand through it. She was trying to hold onto anything that wasn’t him. Anything but him.

He frowned, taking his hand from the doorknob where he had attempted to open it. “What’s going on, Calypso?”

“Travis attempted to kill the senator with…whatever was in that canister.” She panted, closing her eyes as she fought the pain in her head. “Ed got out, but we do not know what was in it.”

She managed to sketch the moment in which his features took the cloak of fear into her mind. It stabbed through her painfully, and she hoped he hadn’t been exposed to any danger just by being close to the room.

“Bobby was in direct contact with it, and…” She paused, turning to look at her friends and gulping. “…Danny and Raf were close when Travis deployed it.”

His eyes communicated the unspoken question before his mouth could.

“I breathed some of it in.” She replied, trying to keep a leash on her own growing symptoms. “Whatever it is, it’s certainly dangerous. We cannot risk it spreading to the rest of the hospital.”

Looking back to Travis heaving into the bin, she tried to keep calm.

She returned her attention to Ethan, whose face was indecipherable as he stepped into the role of professionalism, and let his words sink in. “You’re right. We have to stop it from spreading.”

Danny was the next person to vomit, and Rafael tried his best to comfort him.

“Whatever this is, it’s bad.” Danny whispered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Next to him, Travis collapsed, shuddering violently – trembling like the foundation of a building during an earthquake.

Bobby wasn’t moving.

She steeled herself, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to let her emotions get the best of her in the present. She’d let herself feel this later. If she could.

Rafael cursed behind her and she couldn’t help but to agree. With her heart pounding on her chest painfully, she looked around the room, trying to find any possible exits for the substance, and spotted an air duct near the ceiling.

Putting her hand on Rafael’s shoulder, she pointed at the vent. “We need to seal it.”

“On it.” He replied immediately as she dug through a cupboard to find some plastic sheeting, usually used for the exam tables.

Lacing his fingers together, Rafael boosted her up as she secured the plastic in place with medical tape. A part of her had wanted to make a joke to battle through the terror, to say they should go climbing together next time.

“That’ll be enough for now.” She confirmed, trying to fight back a cough and climbing down. As her feet met the ground, she was finally able to look at Rafael properly. His eyes were bloodshot, as if crimson would begin overflowing from him at any second like a melting candle.

Realization came to her, then, that he had tackled Travis to the ground right as he was about to deploy the aerosol right next to her.  

“Rafael,” she quavered, “are you okay? What in the bloody hell were you thinking throwing yourself in front of me?”

She had not desired to chastise him, but she hadn’t been able to hold back the anger. He had foolishly placed her life above his. He was supposed to be on a plane to start a new life and bask in the joy and pain of new experiences.  

“Don’t worry about me. Bobby took a much bigger hit.” He dismissed her worry, his poker face in place. She knew he was fighting back his own emotions. “Not to mention Travis himself.”

“Danny?” She asked, turning around. Clenching her fist, she registered that he laid slumped against the wall, breathing hard with a glassy look in his eyes.

“I…” He wheezed a low rasping gasp, unable to complete his sentence. Kneeling down next to him, she placed her fingers to his wrist. His pulse was weak and slow.

She reached for Bobby, repeating her actions, and squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears from flowing when she realized he had none.

Whatever the container had held within, it had already stopped his heart. Her stomach dropped when it dawned on her that without the equipment he needed to survive, he’d die. Her own heart skipped a beat when she fought against the first wave of denial and realized that he was already dead. Truly and incorrigibly dead.

Perhaps she should’ve let Mass Kenmore keep the senator. 

“Calypso…” Rafael’s sweet voice called. “…did much get on you?”

“I can’t be certain.” She replied honestly, looking down at her own hands. “Only a bit, I think.”

“Good.”

Having contained it as best as they could, she finally allowed herself to look to the window. Ethan was talking on the phone as, behind him, hospital staff evacuated patients from the rooms around them.

She let herself take him in like she had so many times before. Her eyes and lungs burned as she smiled sadly.

A stray curl out of place on an otherwise perfect hairstyle, mismatched polka dot tie and checkered pants, a perfectly trimmed beard decorating his sharp jawline, his height towering over the rest of the hospital staff like he was a god. His hands gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. An ever present pen on his coat in case he needed to sign a document or write something down. The lines on his forehead she had once kissed lovingly in the afterglow of what she knew to be tangible.

His gaze found hers as he hung up on the phone and she saw her own turmoil reflected back at her.

“The C.D.C. are on the way.” He stated, his voice shaking imperceptibly as he continued speaking. “You’ll be fine, Calypso. You’ll both be fine.”

He tried to give her a comforting look, but she knew him too well not to see the terror in his eyes. He knew her too well not to know that she, as well, was on the verge of a precipice there would be no climbing back from if she let herself fall.

So, she said nothing, merely nodded, and watched as he reluctantly walked away, shouting orders left and right. She chuckled bitterly as she took a seat on one of the chairs, placing her elbows atop her knees and letting her head hang as she struggled to breathe.

In the aftermath of the attack, she was a stranger. After she had been cleared, her family had insisted on her returning to London with them – more like her mother had demanded for her to spend the rest of her paid leave back home – in the comfort of the luxurious Westminster streets. She had meant to refuse, but she had been reduced to a child seeking safety in the arm’s of the first gods she had ever met.

Fussed over and lectured, she had merely basked in the familiarity of it all. Fighting the nightmares futilely, waking up drenched in sweat and screaming so loud her parents had taken to taking turns and sleeping next to her. She had held onto them, burying her face in their chests as if they could protect her from the world.

In the daytime, she remained inside, only leaving the house to go out to eat when her brother coaxed her into it. Or when her father asked her to join him on an afternoon stroll. Or when her mother asked her to do yoga with her in the balcony. She chased some of the memories away with small bites of scotched eggs, shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, her mother’s ropa vieja, and Victoria sponge. It was the warmth that came into mind as she forced herself to eat some of the foods from her childhood.

But most of the time, she sat silent, staring out the window as her father’s music played in the background. It tended to be an amalgam of old English rock with some of her mother’s Latin American songs. She sat, wearing a long silk robe that draped over her slender frame, and hung like liquid tar from her body, pooling into a small but dramatic train at her feet.  

Once she had realized that she would not be able to face the demons of her survival alone, she had contacted her therapist. She had daily sessions where she ripped the anonymity from her troubles, mask after mask discarded to the marble floors of her bedroom. 

Survivor’s guilt, she had called it. Remorse or guilt for having survived a catastrophic event when others did not. Her reaction had stemmed in part from a feeling of having failed to do enough to prevent the event or to save those who did not survive. It was a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.

It was the recurrent, involuntary, and distressing memories of her colleague’s deaths. It was the nightmares, and the dissociative reactions. It was her persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the event, as she ignored her phone because she would otherwise look for news of the attack that simply would not be released to the public. The deaths of her friends forgotten over the thirst for power of an undeserving man.

It was the subtle self-destruction, the entropy she indulged in when she realized she had personalized the event. She operated on a caretaker role because she felt a sense of responsibility towards those she had been unable to save.

Forced to fight the belief that she was the cause of the catastrophe and that she should be punished for it. Forced to challenge the belief that she had survived at the expense of others, and that she should have died instead of the ones who had perished.

It was being overprotective of her older brother when he left the house, even when she isolated herself at home. It was hypersomnia because a part of her believed it was the only way to die without truly dying. It was snapping at her family when they asked her how she was, it was going downstairs in the middle of the night to drink whiskey – and watching her father’s worried expression when he discovered the empty bottles come morning. It was throwing herself into helping her parents in their respective fields because she did not want to think about what had happened.

It was how she trembled whenever she saw a black cannister or a black water bottle.

And it forced her to ask herself an inhuman number of questions she would never get the answer to. It felt like a lot of unnecessary pain that was horrible and unfair. She wrestled with those emotions every time she thought about it.

But when she thought about those highly charged experiences, her brain fired the exact patterns and sequences it had then, firing and wiring itself to the past by reinforcing those circuits into ever more hardwired networks. It duplicated the same chemicals in the brain and body – in varying degrees – as if she were experiencing the event in that moment; training her body to further memorize the emotions. It conditioned her mind and physical form into a finite set of automatic programs.

In simpler terms, she was capable of reliving the event over and over, perhaps a thousand times in one lifetime. It was that unconscious repetition that trained her body to remember that emotional state, equal to or better than her conscious mind did.

So, she tried not to think about it, but if she didn’t think about it she couldn’t work her way through and working her way through fucking hurt, because there was so much of it everywhere, everywhere she turned, it was there.

Her body remembered better than her conscious mind – her body was her mind.

An unopened Ribena juice box rested by her socked feet, concealed beneath the blanket that her brother had placed over her shoulders to help stop the trembling. He had not known that it was not because of the cold.

With slow moving fingers, she picked it up and brought it closer to her face for inspection. A tinted nostalgia in the shadow of her childhood.

The scent of morning dew and grass, the sound of laughter as she played with her brother and their nanny called them because it was teatime. The feeling of running her hands through the fur of their old Saint Bernard, Sir Barkington, first of his name. Playing and talking to any child, faceless and nameless friends that had allowed her to wear her heart on her sleeve in the innocence of their long-lost wisdom. Bruises on her knees and elbows from falling from her bike. Sand that sneaked inside of her toes at the beach when she built sandcastles that never truly seemed to stay put together. Homework and uniforms and being chastised for rebelling against them. Turning off the downstairs lights and running upstairs because she was certain that “el coco” was chasing her.

Trying to push all the colours of a pen at once. Stabbing holes into her eraser when she was bored in class, wishing she had sneaked out. Building pillow forts with her father and brother; and begging her mother to let her lick the spoon during Christmas time. Running away from “la chancla” with her brother, and never quite being able to avoid it.  

Above all, she thought of Ethan. The thought of never being able to see him again had burned a hole through her chest that still oozed charred remnants of fear. It lanced through her brain like a knife, and she had no choice but to double over, gasping for breath as for a moment, all thought was shattered into pieces at the image of her own body in a casket. It shook her mind, scattering the fragments like the small, plastic flakes of snow globe, until it settled once more.

Those sandcastles sat stranded in her mind, vandalized.

Guilt accosted her, whispering in her ear that she could have done more as it tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

The hidden thoughts masked her architecture, her intentions for him to see. She remembered the words she had used, intentionally hurting him to ease what she thought then to be her inevitable fee into Charon’s boat. It had been a vile offense against her own heart, a weak abuse towards her own desires. She had wanted to protect and comfort him, but she had found herself saying the things that would only make it worse for him.

She was selfish and greedy.

Her wrist had a deep, long gash slicing across the centre, clotted with half-dry blood. It had long healed, but she remembered her first night back in London, her skin folded like grotesque petals, and little lines branched away from the cut, spread across the rest of her arm like roots.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

Because she had wanted to enter death like that, like that bird she had seen hide in the leaves of the eucalyptus tree in their garden to disappear into song.

There had been nothing more to reproach, no demons left in the crystal depth. All she had been able to see were the kisses she had not given him – because only the wind knew what he had suffered for loving her.

Her tears had wanted to commit suicide, to die cuddled next to his skin – for they had been born dry, bereft of the waters of him. She had sought him out in the walls of her heart, only to find nostalgia, misplaced loneliness – verses bathed in song. She had tried to evict his kisses from her memory and say goodbye, but she had only succeeded in perfuming her very essence with drops of his. She had understood that hotel strolls would never return, where they pushed each other to never waste a second to make love.

So, another scar was added to her collection, because she had never imagined the only thing holding her back from death would be love for her family, friends, and Ethan.

It had seemed a foe too great to overcome.

She still had two weeks to go until she would be required to return to the hospital. There was an odd sort of battle inside of her head, as she thought of excitement tangled with apprehension.

In the background, almost through the fuzziness of a static shield, a man repeated the phrase I’m not in love through the soda stereo so frequently that by the end of the syncopation, there was no place for doubt that he was truly and incorrigibly in love. It made her think of Ethan.

Because back in Boston, she had fallen all over the carpet, little orbs of jewellery and gold a testament to her involution. She had lost her words, spoken in bodies, and avoided talking about him, for he had once forfeited his turn. She had walked around and inside him, his hands and his mouth, teaching herself about him. Sin disguised as worship with every sigh, every trailing of fingers over ticklish skin. She was the only one who knew how many kisses fit between his eyes, how many fit between his hipbone and belly button, how many she needed to deliver to test his self-control before he gave in to her – like he always did.

Like she always did.

So, she slumped to the left, still eyeing the juice box. Her head full of aching pain, but it was more than her brain that hurt her. The pressure in her chest was suffocating. Intolerable beyond human resilience. For a moment or so, she stopped trying to push her lungs against the beating on her heart. For a moment, she did not breathe at all.

The steam from her teacup travelled upward like the tail of a comet until it faded.

Outside her window, a storm moved in all at once, clouds opening up and spilling droplets down the glass.

It rained down her cheeks as well.

“Do you think it knows?” He heard her ask suddenly, her voice nothing more than a whisper he wouldn’t have heard if he had not trained himself for her.

Too lost in his own thoughts, he had been unable to fully comprehend the context of her query. “What?”

“The rain seems…oddly appropriate, as if it had known today was a day for sorrow.” She sounded so small, as if she had retreated inside of herself.

He glanced at her, taking in the grief painted into her countenance with cruel beauty, then back to the road, slowing carefully to take a turn. He focused on the road as he attempted to craft his response, watching the dirty water that sprayed up against the windows.

“I think that’s what we’re bringing to it.” He replied softly, feeling his own face morph with grief. “But I understand.”

She remained silent until he pulled over the curb outside of her apartment, the wipers of the car swishing swiftly back and forth as they sat inside the fabricated warmth of the car. It didn’t matter how much he turned up the heat, there still seemed to be a coldness to her. It was so foreign to her because he was used to her scorching fire. The flames themselves seemed to have been doused and he wasn’t certain that he could take the smoke.

But he’d try for her.

“Are you alright?” Calypso asked, turning to him with concern in her face. “I don’t believe I’ve asked you yet.”

“No, you haven’t.” He sighed, looking into her eyes. “And, no, I don’t think I am.”

“The loss of Danny and Bobby is far from easy…” She simply conceded, playing with the diamond ring that decorated her finger.

But it wasn’t their deaths that weighed heavily on him, but the brush with hers. He had lost her in the labyrinth of walking without her. He had screamed for her, cried for her – as she asked him how much he loved her, only for him to answer that he loved her always. And there was no need for water to drown as he feared the understanding that if she died, she wouldn’t caress his chest before sleeping, asking him to never let go. Back then, he had never desired for anything more than to hold her again, like a boy afraid of growing up. It was the voice of the unmothered.

“It’s not them.” He breathed out. “It’s you.”

It rushed into him like a tsunami and he turned away from her, anguish overtaking his features. She recognized that look, she had seen it before through the window of a hazmat suit.

“When Naveen was sick, I could still focus on work. But you’re sitting here with me, fine, out of danger, and all I can think about is how terrified I was that I was going to watch you die.” Once the words started pouring from him, there was no stopping them. “That I’d never get to see you again, never get to say…”

He drew in a sharp, trembling breath.

“Ethan…” She whispered as words escaped her, all meaning lost in the depth of his confession.

“And I keep worrying that if I lose track of you…if I leave you alone…it could happen again.” He rasped brokenly, watching the rain hit the car. “That I won’t have the power to stop it this time…to save you…”

Weighed with the evidence of her own contradiction, she comforted him, “Ethan, trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”

It had resulted in him painting dawns without the knowledge of what her skin looked like anymore. Damned be those who had not spent a night tangled in her sunlight arms to never fully comprehend just how consuming love was.

“All of it makes me realize I just…don’t want to hide anymore.” He confided in her. “I don’t want to waste whatever precious time we have together worrying what people think.”

An exaggeration of her and him. A riot of everything they had ever tainted by courting about each other without giving in. Anarchist punishments from her, and revolutionary breakthroughs from him – translating the screaming of their bodies into the betterment that could grow with their complementary space.

His words washed over her, freezing hot. Every move she had made, every little game she had played – it had been meant with the intention of hearing him say what he had just uttered to her in raw vulnerability and affection. It hit her, took the breath from her lungs and into her heart, ache growing steadily.

For so long, she had wanted this.

She saw him – and he was real.

“I am unsure of what you’re saying.” She voiced, not quite perplexed, but wanting a confirmation of what he had just said.

“I’m saying I’m done pretending.” He said with determination, resolutely unwavering. “I need you, Calypso.”

He gazed into her eyes, heavy with desperate longing. A yearning she had weaved through every thread of her being, unafraid of what it meant, only intensely certain that she wanted it.

“I need you.” She mirrored, breaking her carefully crafted walls, burning them down and letting him dance around the flames with her.

Slowly, he put the car in park, but made no move to open the doors. He turned back to her, tears shimmering in his eyes. Mirror neurons responded in kind.

“Ethan…” She called, unsure of his answer.

“Don’t worry, I’m not sad…just overwhelmed.” He explained, shaking his head slightly. “What you said that night in the hospital got me thinking.”

The frame of his glasses caught a stray tear.

“The idea that I’d never touch you again…it was almost more than I could bear.”

Her own fell into her lap.

“Calypso, you know what I was like when I first met you. A cynic, a bully sometimes. Burned out on seeing new interns come through every year and make the same mistakes.” It was an echo of her own words.

Still, she could not help but to joke. It was a defence mechanism.

“I’m absolutely certain the mistakes I made bordered on nouveau, thank you very much, good sir.”

He chuckled, dazzling her with a beaming smile that chased the clouds away. “Your mistakes were more creative than most, I’ll give you that.”

But it disappeared as soon as it came.

“When I thought you wouldn’t be on my team, that I wouldn’t be responsible for your development as a doctor, I thought maybe there was a chance. If the only thing at stake were my reputation…but once you joined my team, I worried it wouldn’t be fair to you. That I wouldn’t push you the way you’d need to be pushed.”

“How am I supposed to push you to be everything you can be if I…” He stopped himself, recognizing the fire shielded by her thick eyelashes.

“If you what?” She countered, forcing herself not to display more emotion.

…

“Ah, I understand.” She insinuated, mimicking his actions and standing up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Ramsey.”

She had not understood. Not at all.

“And I couldn’t stand the thought that someone might suggest you slept your way onto the diagnostics team.” He ground out, clenching his fist in anger.

She could’ve fucked her way up to the top if she had wanted to, no doubt of it – but his awareness of the misogynistic notions that could’ve arose made her fall deeper into the void that she had named after him.

“You earned your place, and I thought I was strong enough to hold back my feelings to support your career. I’m sorry if…”

“Don’t be.” She smiled genuinely.

“But now that I’ve spent time worrying about your life, I just can’t bring myself to care any more about any of that. That is…if you feel the same way…”

Satisfaction travelled down her spine, and she couldn’t help but to chuckle at his innocent doubt of her devotion for him.

He reached towards her, gazing deeply into her eyes and leaning imperceptibly closer. On instinct, as if welcoming home, her lips parted for his mouth to find hers. It made everything disappear into the back of her mind, from isolation rooms to funerals and scars.

He was real, his lips against hers and the slow insistence of his tongue drawing hers was real. Her heartbeat dropping between her legs was real, and she couldn’t help but to find amusement in how easily she responded to his touch.

Breaking away slowly to invite him back into her body, she whispered his name. “Ethan.”

Instead, he gave her another gentle kiss and pulled away.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t the right time, I know.” He chastised himself. “I should be trying to take care of you, not…”

“Ethan, it’s –”

“I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want.” He offered her an out, consent.

“You presume I don’t want this? You?” She asked, narrowing her gaze and letting him see the memory of their time shared bleed into her dark irises, feeling anticipation at the slight hood of his own.

“You cannot fathom how much I was hoping you’d say that.” He grinned, reaching for her once again.

Igniting the flames she had doused; reminding her just how powerful they were together. Difficult to defeat. His desire melted into hers, fogging the windows from the heat between them, blocking all view of the rain that still drummed against the roof like a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

“What else were you hoping for, love?” She smiled, resting her hand above his and placing a kiss to his palm.

“I want you to tell me what you need right now.” He leaned closer.

Gracefully, with many years of practiced tumbles in her homeland, she climbed over the centre console and straddled his waist, taking her trench coat off and throwing it in the backseat.

Sweetly, he offered her his hand, an invitation, permission asked, and she took it – breathing in for the first time in a long time, the purest of air trapped inside the confines of the car they had turned into their small kingdom. It was not the purity nor quality of the air, but the fact that he was breathing in the same oxygen as her made it so valuable to their shared reality.

He laughed softly, placing his hands on her hips. “Are you sure you don’t want to go in –?”

“And risk you changing your mind?” She teased, reaching for her red-heeled stilettos and taking them off, letting them join the growing pile of clothing in the backseat. “Not a bloody fucking chance.”

Giving him no time to reply, she grabbed his shirt collar and pulled his lips to hers, desperately entwining him to her.

Too focused on him, she didn’t notice as he reached behind him to pull the seat lever, making them drop back in a sudden movement. Surprised, she braced herself against his chest, but smiled wickedly.

“Ah, I see you’re a man of culture, as well.” She praised, making herself comfortable on top of him.

“Trust me, I have many more tricks up my sleeve.” He cooed, pulling her clothes off and throwing them just like she had.

He removed his pants, but she stopped him when he reached his shirt. She tightened her hold on his lap with her thighs and ripped the shirt from him, enjoying the soft clatter of the buttons hitting different areas of the car.

“Was that necessary?” He teased, lifting an eyebrow.

“No hard feelings?” She purred, kissing his neck.

A soft groan escaped his lips. “Hard anything but feelings.”

That, indeed, made her laugh as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him. His lips delved into the valley between her breasts, trailing a blaze of kisses along the exposed flesh.

There was no going back in any way, shape or damn form – because the devil had went and got herself a taste of divinity and she would die before she let go.

She felt his hand set over her left breast and staying there; after a moment, she realized he was feeling the beating of her heart beneath her skin. It thumped, steady and quick within her chest, as he comforted himself in her being alive. Somehow, that small touch of his hand made her feel more loved by him than she had before at any time, more loved than she ever imagined she could be or would be.

She wasn’t certain she deserved it – because he deserved a good woman, someone just like him, but she had only ever been taught to be great.  

Long ago, she had found herself through the eyes of others – and forced her naivete to relinquish the utopic notion of true love. But upon experiencing the man underneath her, she had uncovered it from her bedsheets, appealing to the hopelessly romantic notion that love was the highest of laws and conquered against all odds. The intertwining of love and obsession was a deviant thing when reciprocated, as pure as the most desired of methamphetamine.

It was the god she prayed to.  

His hand slid beneath the fabric of her underwear, and all thought was dictated by his fingers, as he teased leisurely, because he knew they had all the time in the world. Her arousal coated every inch he explored, proclaiming her desire for him.

Skin was commonly a loyal reflection of emotion. It possessed a special type of proximity, because when one touched another, the experience was totally and inevitably mutual.

Trying to grind against him, trying to chase him once more, she writhed desperately on top of him. He teased, face lit up with laughter and lust – the lost war love was made of.

“Don’t rush it.” He scolded playfully, his touch grazing her. “We’ve got all night.”

But she had waited until the end of a lifetime almost took her to have him.

So, she grabbed both his wrists, pinning them up on either side of his head as she rubbed her body against the length of his before taking his mouth in a kiss, murmuring sweet nothings to him in Spanish.

“After depriving me of you for so long?” She whispered against his ear, reaching between them with one hand to palm him, her other hand still holding him in place. “I am going to make you beg for it.”

“Don’t be so certain.” He remarked good-naturedly, trying to concentrate on their conversation as she masterfully returned the favour.

With a particularly dexterous movement with her fingers, she smirked. “A challenge, then.”

Helpless with his hands trapped between her own, he was unable to do much as she had her wicked way with him, dropping light kisses against his mouth, neck and jaw – and nipping gently at his soft earlobe.

Letting go of his arms, she lowered herself to her knees before him, never breaking eye contact. Every emotion reflected back to her with an intensity capable of burning through an entire forest. With a smirk, she took him in her mouth, fighting the jolt of desire that ran through her entire body as he bucked and cried out at her touch.

She knew exactly what he liked, how to bring him to the edge without giving him the high he wanted. If she were kinder, she would’ve allowed him release, but she had never been fair in the game of love and lust.

With teeth and tongue, she teased.

“You win!” He gasped, a breathless smile on his face as he cupped her chin and lifted her back up to settle on his lap. “You win, I’m begging.”

“Good.” She declared victoriously, kissing him softly as she reached between them to continue her game masterfully. “Now?”

He tried to hold back his moans, tensing underneath her as she released him.

“Now.” He consented, his hands coming to rest on her hips.

She replaced her hand with her own body, connecting them with one smooth motion, sighing with pleasure as she felt him inside of her. He was home, and so was she.

He marvelled at her, her lips parted and eyes half-lidded as she trapped him inside of her. But he could deny himself no longer to watch the ocean unfold as he touched her, a cubism dream of the shapes that decorated her and the waves on her hips.

There was barely any room to move in the cramped car, but she managed to arch against Ethan, his hands tightening their hold on her to solidify the realness of her presence. A fierce and desperate rhythm took over them as he rained small nips and kisses against her neck and breasts, at one point stopping to play with the diamonds decorating her collarbone.

“Calypso…” He moaned shakily, closing his eyes and hiding his face in the crook of her neck as he thrust into her.

“Ethan…” She cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close as she pushed down against him.

For a moment, she thought she left her body.

As if trees grew in the backseat of the car, she could see hills and the rivers flowing down the seatbelts. The patches of dirt where grass didn’t grow anymore and those where it had outgrown it. She could see him atop those hills, the landowner of that familiar but undiscovered terrain.  

It was getting harder to distinguish between roots and kisses.

Their movements turned frantic, digging into each other’s skin, desperate for closeness that went beyond the physical.

Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes.

You didn’t acknowledge someone’s humanity until you looked at them in the eye – and hers were so dark that he was certain he could spend hours on end studying them and never truly appreciate the depth of them. They sucked him in, leaving him no choice but to surrender to the void and embrace the warmth and safety of its darkness provided.

And with him between her legs and her hands in his hair, she remembered the girl who had dreamt of a love so intoxicated with one another that it feared nothing in the pursuit in the realisation of each other. An ode to all or nothing, to become the centre of their own universe exploding and birthing within itself, limitless.

With his tongue, he gave her a list of cruel promises to forget.

Because he was it, and everything there would ever be. He was the challenges he posed, the unyielding principles he stood on; a fancy turned truth she held onto against all odds, safety in his embrace.

He was the desire to come, home.

Shared laughter, tangled limbs, hands that fit together, the desperate craving to be next to each other every day.

So, they made it last as long as they could, but time was lost in the friction between them. Minutes and hours merged together until they found release in each other. They drifted down the peak of the waterfall to lie, exhausted and content, between a shared embrace.

A leap of faith taken after a divide of restraint gave them the freedom to relish together their company with teasing touches and soft kisses.

Tracing essays she had never uttered to him on the vast expanse of his chiselled chest, she allowed herself the vulnerability they had worked so hard for.

“Ethan…” She begins, lifting her head to rest above her hands on his chest. “I…”

He looked at her with concern, running his fingers through the scars on her wrists, waiting for her to speak.

Closing her eyes, she let herself open. “What does this mean?”

Pressing softly into a particularly deep part of her scars with his thumb, he replied, but he did not ask.

“For now…it means that I’m finally being honest about my feelings, at least to myself and to you. Beyond that…I’m not sure.”

More. She always wanted more.

“So, at the hospital, we pretend.” She offered, grabbing his hand and pressing it fully against the inside of her forearm, covering the past with the present.

And what else was there but to play pretend? They could pretend to move in together, leave for a month long trip, speak another language and kiss on the streets.

“At the hospital, I’m still your boss. For now, I think we need to keep that line clear and bright, for the sake of your growth as a doctor.” He explained, using his free hand to caress her cheek. “But outside Edenbrook, I can’t deny what I feel any longer. I want you, Calypso.”

Her smile could light up cities.

And his, her heart.

“I’ve always wanted you.”

The fog in the windows turned the world white as she relaxed in his embrace, the car a haven against any further decisions, judgement, or grief.

While he couldn’t fight the tide of the ocean, he knew she was bound to it – and that as long as she was in control of it, no harm would come to him.

For she owned the seas he chased.