Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I slipped quietly across the glossy black floor of the Mirage, the faint shimmer of neon lights overhead casting a hazy glow over the crowd of screaming women, their hands reaching for the chiseled bodies on stage. The performers’ confident swagger demanded attention—but I kept my gaze low, avoiding the smoldering gazes and provocative poses. I had a mission: uncovering the truth behind what happened to Derek Matthews.”

TK exhales softly, savoring the burn in his shoulders and chest as he pushes through the last set of reps on the bench. Then, he sits up, wiping the sweat from his brow with his arm, his focus still on the podcast in his ears.

“Call it instinct or intuition, but I knew the woman behind the counter—Gloria—could lead me on the right path. We just needed a quiet, private place away from the flashing lights and the air thick with alcohol, so I followed her through the back door in the alley behind the venue.”

"Gloria," TK murmurs, reaching down to grab the dumbbells for his bicep curls, taking note of yet another name coming up in the investigation he's been avidly following for the past month. Another case Penelope Shaw will surely untangle, just like the two she worked on before.

"Gloria proved very useful. She mentioned seeing Mr. Matthews talk with someone in that very same alley during his last shift at the Mirage. When I asked if he looked agitated or anxious, she denied it—he looked exhilarated, she said, so much so that when he came back inside after his break, he hugged her and said goodbye—leaving without finishing his shift or a care in the world."

TK furrows his brow, gripping the dumbbell tighter as he flexes his biceps through his reps. “Who was he talking to?” he mumbles, his eyes catching movement at the corners of his vision—a young man walking past him toward the shoulder press machines in the right corner of the gym.

“Who was Mr. Matthews talking to?” That was my follow-up question, and the answer Gloria gave me left me wondering if the threads were finally coming together. She mentioned an older woman, “out of place and stuck-up,” according to Gloria, who turned to her in annoyance but didn’t say a word when Gloria told Mr. Matthews to come back inside—his break was over. However, she wasn’t the only person Mr. Matthews was talking to. A man was there; Gloria didn’t see his face but described him as “muscled, with a tattoo on his back, part of it visible on his right shoulder, like roots growing upward, and he was wearing a red hat”—a detail I initially found irrelevant. But as I replayed the encounter in my mind days later, it became my most important clue.”

TK pauses mid-rep, feeling the strain in his arms, his lips pressed tightly together as his mind works through everything he knows about the case. “A red hat?” he asks loudly, attracting the looks of a couple of people working out just a few feet from him. He mumbles a sorry as he resumes his reps.

“A red fedora, to be precise, could be the key to Derek Matthews’ fate. I decided I should start back at the beginning—going back to the neighbor who contacted me, whose name remains confidential—along with everything new I had learned about the case and all the new questions: Who is the man in the red hat? Why did Mr. Matthews decide to quit his job so suddenly? I could feel the truth at my fingertips; I just needed the last piece of the puzzle to see the full picture.”

Shifting to the mat on the gym floor, TK places his hands shoulder-width apart and begins his burnout round of push-ups. His chest sinks toward the ground, elbows bending, then he pushes upward, repeating at a steady pace—a pace set by the velvety, somewhat soothing voice of Penelope Shaw in his ears.

“Dear listeners, this is the end of today's episode. Thank you for following along. Remember to share your theories about what happened using the hashtag #vanishingfootsteps. This is Penelope Shaw, and you’re listening to Vanishing Footsteps, where I bring you along as I investigate cases of missing persons in Austin.”

TK’s breathing grows heavier, sweat dripping down his skin, his arms trembling from the exertion he demands of them. With a final push-up, he collapses onto the mat, going limp for a moment—satisfied—as the familiar sound of the closing music fades, and he catches his breath.

He pushes himself back up to his knees, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, then reaches for his water bottle, taking a long, refreshing sip before grabbing his phone. His eyes widen as he notices a patron-exclusive link from Penelope Shaw in the podcast group chat—she rarely uses the group chat, so it must be important. He immediately clicks on it.

"I have great news for all of you who have been supporting me and following my investigation into Derek Matthews’ disappearance. I’ll be hosting my very first live episode tomorrow night. There will be a live chat you can use to communicate with me. Throughout the episode, I will reveal what happened to Derek Matthews. I know who is responsible for his disappearance—I know who the man in the red hat is."

As TK listens to Penelope's news, he glances around the gym—people lifting weights, quietly chatting, lost in their routines—while he sits there, smiling like an idiot.

The group chat is already exploding, with everyone—well, eight people, including TK—since Penelope is not exactly popular, which TK finds puzzling given how incredible she is—unable to contain their excitement about the live reveal.

He's just as giddy, but instead of sharing it in the group chat, he quickly types a message to Ashlyn: “THE MAN IN THE RED HAT?!”

He presses send, then, with a final deep breath, stands up and walks toward the mirror to take a selfie. He angles the shot to showcase his pumped bicep, flexing confidently and grinning into the camera.

For a moment, he looks at the picture, already chuckling to himself at the thought of sending it to Carlos—payback for the picture Carlos sent him just three days ago, with his shirt lifted enough to showcase his sweat-glistened abs and his happy trail, which had worked TK up so much that he had to cool himself down in the refrigerated section of the grocery store he was in.

He captions it with a heart and an eggplant emoji, then sends it to his husband—satisfied with himself.

Finally, he grabs his towel and wipes himself down before heading to the showers, smiling when Ashlyn replies back: “THE MAN IN THE RED HAT!”

The sky is painted in pinkish-orange hues by the time TK leaves the gym. A cool summer breeze glides over his skin—still warm from his workout—as he begins walking back home.

He decides to take a small detour and walk through the park to get there. It's not the fastest route, but it's their park—the one where he and Carlos take Jonah every Sunday, where they taught him how to play catch, and more recently, started teaching him how to ride his bike. He misses their little gremlin.

It's been barely twelve hours since Andrea took Jonah to Galveston, where they'll stay for two weeks with Ana and her kids. Jonah will enjoy his first vacation without his papás in the three years he's been with them—a thought that has been slowly gnawing at TK all day. A small, selfish part of him hopes Jonah misses them a little, while a much bigger part hopes that Jonah will have fun—even if it means having fun away from them.

He sighs, pausing for a moment on a bench, watching the empty swings sway in the breeze among the wildflowers to his right. Then, he spots a small, colorful bike leaning against a tree—reminding him of Jonah’s triumphant grin when he managed to pedal without wobbling, and of the way Carlos’ chest puffed with pride at the sight. He recalls how Carlos scooped up Jonah in his arms, celebrating a small yet monumental step that he and Carlos have the honor and duty to witness Jonah take. TK's not sure if he's his brother or his father; all he strives to be is the best man he can be—taking care of him. It’s almost too much to bear how much he misses him—his heart aching not for the few hours that have already passed, but for all those he will still have to endure before he can squeeze him again in his arms.

He lingers a moment longer, then shakes his head, adjusts his gym bag over his shoulder, and resumes his walk back home. He takes his phone out of his pocket and reads through the string of texts from Ashlyn—each less coherent than the previous one, but overall TK can gather she's asking—though demanding may be a better term—to listen to tomorrow’s episode of Vanishing Footsteps together. It’s something he already intended to suggest, so he calls her.

“So, your place or mine?” Ash asks the moment she picks up, her tone making it clear there’s no argument—they will listen to the podcast together.

TK opens his mouth to reply, only to wince as the loud screeching of children pierces his ears from the other end of the call. Even a dog walking past him with its owner tilts its head up, looking at TK, tail wagging.

“Justin! Put your sister down right now!” Ashlyn yells, then sighs as the screaming subsides. “Actually, you know what? Your place—Sam can deal with the kids, hopefully.”

TK hums, holding back a chuckle. “I can send Carlos over,” he suggests. “He’ll keep Sam company while we have a whole evening to ourselves—just us and Penelope Shaw.”

“Sounds perfect. Oh—did you see the group chat?”

“Not really. I finished working out, heard the great news, and that’s it,” TK replies, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling it sore under his touch and wondering if he pulled a muscle. “What’s everyone saying?”

“Everyone’s losing their minds over the man in the red hat,” she says, her voice muffled and a bit strained, followed by the clang of metal and the hiss of water—she must be preparing dinner.

“I figured. Anything of note?”

“Marple says it’s the highlight of her week,” she says, crunching on something. “And apparently, her granddaughter is getting married this weekend, so…”

TK snorts, stepping over a root protruding from the ground. “I can’t even fault her for it.”

“Right? Also, Butterfly thinks it’s a cult Matthews was running from.”

Queen Marple. Butterfly. Everyone uses pseudonyms and keeps their identities secret—something TK found amusing and baffling when Ashlyn first explained. Perhaps their obsession with true crime podcasts fuels their paranoia, or maybe it’s just a way to add a layer of mystery. Not that he’d share his full name or address, but he can’t help but grin every time someone calls him Lou in that chat.

“Really? Come on, why would Matthews be relieved after talking to some cult member hunting him down?”

“Exactly what I said!”

“So, what’s your take?”

There’s a brief pause, only the hum of passing cars as TK leaves the park and the faint sizzle of something cooking at Ashlyn’s end of the call. “I’m not entirely sure. I get the feeling Penelope’s holding back some crucial details to keep things—” Her voice is cut off by a loud crash, followed by Ashlyn’s flurry of curses.

“Are you okay? What was that?”

“That,” she mutters, her voice tinged with annoyance, “is the reason why I tell you one kid is more than enough. Sorry, I have to go. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Ash.” He barely gets the words out before the call disconnects.

The moment TK steps inside their home, closing the door behind him with a soft thud and turning on the light, he’s greeted by a sight that melts his heart: Carlos asleep on the couch, just in his gray sweatpants, with his head tilted upward and lips slightly parted—the picture of serene slumber.

It’s a little earlier than usual for Carlos to be home, but TK definitely will not complain. He quietly sets down his gym bag, takes off his shoes, and then tiptoes toward the couch, careful not to make a sound, his heart swelling at the adorable, soft snoring of his husband.

Once he reaches the couch, he kneels beside Carlos, gently brushing his curls and leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. Carlos shifts slightly, a low, happy hum escaping his lips—as if he recognizes TK’s lips on his skin.

“I love you,” TK whispers, barely audible even to himself, yearning to kiss every inch of Carlos’ face. He knows he shouldn’t, but he’s only so strong—he can’t resist.

Carefully, he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to Carlos’ cheek, feeling the stubble tingle against his lips, then moving to the corner of his mouth before softly pressing his lips to Carlos’.

He feels Carlos stir on the couch, leaning into the kiss and catching TK’s lips with his own. “Hi, baby,” Carlos murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.

TK pulls back enough to see his eyes flutter open, lips still chasing after him. “Hi, mi corazón,” he replies softly.

A tender smile blooms across Carlos’ face at his words, hands reaching up to cup his face. Without hesitation, TK crawls on top of him, pressing his body close and resting his forehead against Carlos’. Their lips are just an inch apart, hearts pounding against one another—the only sound echoing in the stillness of their home.

“It’s so quiet without Jonah,” he whispers.

Carlos remains silent for a moment, thumbs brushing across TK’s cheeks, his warm eyes probing right into TK’s soul. There’s a flicker, like a spark of mischief, then they darken. “Wanna fix that?”

Before TK can respond, Carlos’ hands slide to the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. Carlos’ tongue eagerly pushes into TK’s mouth, sliding in and claiming him—an intoxicating taste that sends a thrill down TK’s spine, urging him to grind his hips against Carlos.

It’s a sloppy kiss, born of raw need. Their moans mingle, filling the space between and around them. Carlos’ hands slide further down TK’s back, fingers digging into his flesh, finally coming to a rest once they reach his ass, giving him a possessive squeeze.

A low moan escapes TK, resonating from deep within his chest and echoing into Carlos’ throat. “God, I love your hands,” he breathes. 

“Just my hands?”

TK shakes his head, then traces his husband’s lips with his tongue, savoring his taste. “I love your lips,” he murmurs, moving to Carlos’ jaw and down his neck. He gently bites at Carlos’ skin, then sucks, savoring the salty tang—“your neck,” he continues. His kisses trail lower—over the Adam’s apple as Carlos bares his neck for him, down to the collarbone—pressing a tender kiss on the spot, then licking a slow stripe down to Carlos’ chest. He buries his nose in the dark chest hair and inhales deeply, his senses overloaded by Carlos’ scent.

He presses a lingering kiss right over Carlos’ pounding heart. “Your chest. Have I told you how much I love your chest?”

“A few times,” Carlos chuckles, one hand sliding beneath TK’s shirt, a light, feathered touch running along his side.

TK shivers, thrusting down onto his husband, feeling Carlos’ hardness beneath him. “I need to tell you more often,” he comments, pressing another kiss to it. “But do you know what I love more than anything right now?” he asks, fingers reaching for Carlos’ hard cock through the fabric.

A low growl rips through Carlos’ throat. “I think I need a hint.”

Smiling, TK shifts up, nibbling at Carlos’ ear before whispering right into it, “How you're gonna be a good boy and fuck me so hard I’m gonna be begging for more.”

Carlos swallows hard, his voice rough but eager. “Yes, sir.”

They don’t make it to the bedroom—and, honestly, TK wouldn’t have it any other way. Carlos has him bent over the end of the couch, knees perched on the armrest, fully on display. Carlos’ thrusts are steady and deep, each one stretching TK more, filling him completely with each powerful slam. His balls slap against TK’s as Carlos grips his hip with one hand, while the other presses TK’s face into the cushions.

Every time Carlos pulls out, a needy whimper escapes TK’s lips, desperate to feel him fully seated inside. He allows himself to be loud, which only seems to fuel Carlos’ rhythm. With each thrust, stars burst behind TK’s closed eyes—the thickness filling him again and again, igniting every nerve. TK’s gasps and moans are answered by Carlos’ broken grunts, pushing him down harder—relentless.

The couch trembles beneath them. TK’s cock is trapped between the cushions and his stomach, grinding against the fabric. The friction makes him throb and leak, urging him to clench tighter around Carlos’ length, to push back into him and beg for more.

“I need to see you,” TK manages to breathe out, voice trembling. He shuts his eyes, crying out, “Fuck,” as Carlos drives into him again.

Carlos doesn’t answer—only a string of curses and growls as he thrusts harder. Time dissolves; TK’s head feels too light—or maybe too heavy. He doesn’t remember right now what it usually feels like, too lost in the haze of heat and sound, in the sensation of Carlos grunting behind him, in their bodies needing each other.

Eventually, Carlos pulls out, yanking TK back and turning him around. Their lips immediately clash—teeth pulling, tongues dancing—claiming one another. Their cocks rub against each other, leaking and slick, pressed so close that TK can only breathe in Carlos—feeling the sweat, the heat, and the pounding of their hearts.

He wraps his legs around Carlos’ waist, who takes the hint, cupping his ass and lifting TK up. His cock claims its spot and slides inside TK again.

He’s vaguely aware of Carlos moving them around the room; his thrusts become smaller and more erratic as he tries to maintain balance for both of them.

TK’s body trembles and moans, wanting to meld with his husband, feeling whole as he's filled both by Carlos’ tongue and his cock.

Carlos lays TK on the dining table, leaning down as if to never let go. His shallow thrusts are met with ragged gasps from both of them.

“I love you so much,” Carlos whispers, teeth gently biting TK’s neck before pulling back. His hands move from TK’s sides to his ankles, spreading his legs wide.

The sight of Carlos’ sweat-glistened skin, chest flushed with heat, his cock fully inside him—paired with the wild, primal look in Carlos’ eyes, focused solely on making TK feel good and on making him beg for more—is all TK ever desires. There’s nothing he will ever love more.

“Harder,” he urges, tears gathering in his eyes.

Carlos obliges, pulling out completely, then slamming back in with savage force that makes TK scream. His hands grip the edges of the table tightly as his body arches, riding the waves of pleasure.

The heat that fills him again makes him want to tell Carlos how much he loves him, but all he can manage are a few babbled words before Carlos’ own loud moan elicits an even louder one from TK.

In the background, faint sounds drift—cars passing by, the screeching of the table against the floor, the barking of a dog—fading into the depths of TK’s mind. His focus narrows to Carlos’ grunts, the feeling of his body, the relentless pounding that drives him higher.

TK’s hard cock bounces against his stomach; he’s so close it aches. He reaches toward it—fingers trembling—only for Carlos to grip his wrist, stopping him with a growl. “Not yet,” he whispers, still deep inside, then leans in for a heated kiss, breathing him in. He then traces a slow, teasing lick along TK’s jaw, voice low and commanding: “Not until you’re screaming and begging for more.” It’s a miracle TK doesn’t come then and there.

Carlos’ arms slide underneath him, wrapping around him and lifting him back up, with TK eagerly wrapping his legs around his waist again. This time, TK can feel Carlos’ strength fading; he’s too close to the edge, his legs trembling as he takes a few steps across the living room before kneeling on the floor, still seated inside TK.

TK gasps as his bare back meets the cool floor beneath him, contrasting with the heat of his skin.

Carlos grips his hips, pulling him closer with each thrust. One hand slides up TK's body, reaching his chin, thumb pressing against TK’s lips. TK opens eagerly, sucking on the digit.

It blisses TK out—being fucked on the floor like they’re animals, feeling his brain melt inside his skull as all thoughts become ecstasy.

He tastes Carlos on his tongue, smells his sweat and skin, sees his powerful frame thrusting into him—crowned by the soft golden glow of the light overhead. He hears the loud screams and gasps of his love; he feels Carlos’ cock grinding inside him—it’s too much.

“Please—” he gets out before his mouth goes slack. He’s crying nonsense, begging Carlos to never let go through ragged gasps.

Carlos’ hand reaches for TK’s cock, a strong grip tightening around it, jerking, pumping in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Carlos!” he screams, as his mind folds in on itself, his vision blurring and hot tears streaking down his cheeks. Colors swirl around him as he comes, thick ropes shooting through the air and landing on his stomach, on Carlos’ outstretched arm and hand—stripes reaching TK’s own face—warm.

“Tyler!” Carlos echoes back, surrendering to a deep groan that shakes his chest. His eyes shut tight as his hips stutter, coming deep inside TK, flooding him, filling him—TK instinctively tightens his legs around Carlos’ waist, urging him impossibly deeper, wanting—needing—every drop.

Carlos collapses on top of him, panting, and TK’s hand reaches for his neck. “Come here,” he mumbles—at least, he thinks he does—because despite not feeling his own lips, Carlos obeys his call, kissing his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, his tongue darting out to gather TK’s release. He moans as he savors the taste briefly before sealing their lips together again, letting TK taste himself, sharing a breath once more.

They stay there, on the floor, with Carlos still inside him, bodies shaking and breathing heavily, until Carlos shifts slightly in his arms.

“Oh my god,” Carlos mumbles, resting his head in the crook of TK’s neck and burrowing closer.

“I know.” The sharp, loud howling of a dog reaches TK’s ears, and he can’t help but huff a laugh. “Is that—” he gasps, “Is that Minnie?”

“I think so.”

TK’s eyes drift across the room—his shirt discarded on the floor, jeans draped haphazardly on the armchair, the couch shifted out of place. They were loud and messy. “Were we too loud?” he asks softly.

“There’s no such thing as too loud,” Carlos replies, nuzzling into him, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

“Seems like Minnie disagrees,” TK notes with a fond smile, pride swelling in his chest as their neighbor’s dog continues to howl. He barely has the strength to tap Carlos on the side before his arms fall back to the floor—spent, satisfied, utterly lost. “Can you let me up?”

Carlos shakes his head, voice hoarse. “Give me five minutes. I think I’m dying.”

TK would laugh—if he could. Instead, he closes his eyes, basking in Carlos’ presence, feeling the steady thump of his heart against his chest. “Five minutes,” he agrees.

“How was your day?” Carlos hums, voice a soothing rasp, as TK manages to lift a hand to scratch at his back, feeling the warmth of skin beneath his fingertips.

“Good, and now it’s perfect,” TK replies, a faint silence passing between them. Then he admits softly, “Well, I miss Jonah.”

“I miss him too. We can call my mom and see how he’s doing.”

TK nods, pressing a kiss to Carlos’ cheek. “Ready to get out of me?”

“No,” Carlos counters, wiggling his hips just enough to tease TK, letting him feel Carlos softening while still inside. “And you promised me five minutes,” he adds, lifting himself on his elbows to meet TK’s gaze.

“True,” TK says. He cups Carlos’ face, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Ash is coming over tomorrow. We’re gonna listen to Vanishing Footsteps’s big reveal. Want to join us?”

Carlos squints his eyes, brow furrowing. “I think I’ll leave the amateur investigator to you, sorry.”

He always declines—the stories of Penelope Shaw’s investigations don’t appeal to him. TK has tried to get him to listen and appreciate the genius behind her unraveling mysteries that police often overlook, but Carlos isn’t interested.

“It’s okay. I know you don’t like it. That’s why I told Ash you’d keep Sam company.”

Carlos gasps, feigning offense. “You’re forcing me out of my own house?”

TK smirks. “I can’t even force you out of my own ass, babe,” he teases, tightening his muscles around Carlos—a move that quickly proves unwise, as Carlos’ cum begins to trickle out and stain the floor beneath them.

Carlos chuckles, the sound warm and deep. “Touché. Okay, I’ll let you have the house. But I have a question.”

“What?” TK raises an eyebrow.

“Was I a good boy?” Carlos asks, his finger reaching for TK’s jaw, collecting more cum he must have missed when cleaning TK with his tongue and licking it right off his own finger. He lets out a small moan, clearly loving the taste—it stirs something deep in TK’s lower stomach.

“The best,” TK replies softly. “Wanna go for round two?”

Everything is perfect. He’s sitting at the picnic table in their backyard, lounging comfortably in one of the folding chairs, savoring another quiet summer evening. In his hand, he holds a glass of black cherry-flavored sparkling water, its fizzy sweetness mingling with the warm night air. Beside him, Ashlyn is relaxed as well, sipping her prosecco with a contented—yet tense—smile.

On the table before them lies a carefully curated charcuterie spread—an assortment of cheeses, fresh fruits, crunchy crackers, and savory meats that TK carefully selected, something Carlos would be proud of. A portable speaker is set at the edge of the table, ready for Penelope Shaw.

Between all this, there’s still room for Ashlyn's map of Austin, which is spread out, detailed, and marked with all the key locations of Shaw's investigation. The map highlights everything from Derek Matthews’ house on Oakland Avenue to the Mirage, even including the route he allegedly took to leave Austin. Scattered across the map are short, handwritten notes—observations, hypotheses, and reminders—that Ashlyn meticulously wrote over the month she’s been following the podcast.

What surprises him most is that he didn't even realize Ashlyn was doing all of this behind the scenes. She also has a small leather notebook in her lap, where she jots down additional notes, whereas all TK does is try to commit to memory everything Penelope says—maybe he should get a notebook too.

Everything is perfect, except the group chat on their phones is buzzing nonstop. Once filled with excitement, it’s now flooded with impatience. It’s nearly 9 p.m., and Penelope Shaw has yet to go live. The fact that she’s an hour late has everyone anxiously waiting.

TK reaches for a ripe grape, popping it into his mouth as he glances over at Ashlyn. Her face is illuminated by the glow of her phone screen, brow furrowed in worry. The concern tightens her lips into a thin line, mirroring his own unease.

“Think something’s wrong?” he asks, leaning back into his chair.

Ashlyn sighs. “Maybe it’s just technical issues,” she mumbles, pressing send and lowering her phone. TK’s phone buzzes with a text from Miss Scarlett—Ashlyn's pseudonym—relaying what she just told him, trying to calm the panicked voices that are already getting carried away because Penelope is late.

“It could be,” TK says, though his words feel tangled, his mind drifting toward darker possibilities that tighten his chest. “But wouldn’t she—” He begins, then clamps his fists as if trying to silence the anxious words rising in his throat. “Wouldn’t she have posted something?”

“I—well, yes,” Ashlyn admits softly, biting her bottom lip. “What if—”

“What if something happened?” TK cuts her off, unable to keep the words from bursting from his lips. He leans in closer, lowering his voice as if to will the possibility away, to hold back the dread creeping in. “What if she’s in danger?”

Ashlyn leans toward him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes! Maybe someone got to her?” Her hand reaches for another cracker.

“But who?”

Ashlyn hums thoughtfully, crunching on her cracker before covering her mouth with one hand. “The man in the red hat,” she finally says.

TK’s eyes widen slightly. “She knows who he is,” he murmurs, scanning the shadows at their feet, his mind racing. “And if he found out she was about to tell the world the truth—then maybe—maybe—” His voice trails off, the harsh reality too heavy to voice aloud.

They sit in silence; the only sounds are crickets and the distant rustling of leaves. Then Ashlyn chuckles softly, breaking the tension. “No, come on. It’s totally just technical issues.”

TK forces a smile, feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks—relief washing over him as he reassures himself. “Yeah, totally. She’ll be live any moment now.”

Penelope Shaw did not, in fact, go live that night. The excitement TK felt during the day turned to gripping worry as he finally accepted that there would be no revelation. Instead, he and Ashlyn spent the night chatting, always gliding around the possibility that something had happened to Penelope—only to dismiss it as absurdities fueled by theories in their group chat.

When TK went to bed that night and snuggled into Carlos’ arms, feeling his warm breath against his neck, sleep was elusive. His mind remained restless, pulled toward the unknown—the lingering question echoing in the dark: What happened to Penelope Shaw?

TK hooks a finger at the collar of his shirt, tugging at the damp fabric in a futile attempt to cool himself down. He weaves through the bustling crowd at the farmer’s market, the bright blaze of the midday sun overhead turning the sky into a relentless, shimmering blue. Sweat beads form along his brow, seep into his armpits, and trail down his neck—each drop a reminder of how foolish he was to think an early afternoon stroll was a good idea—especially at the sun’s zenith.

He’s not even sure why he’s here. He just needed to get out of that empty house with nothing to do—Carlos at work, his friends at work, Ashlyn out with her kids. All he knows is that he needed to do something, anything, to keep himself from spiraling. Maybe the gym would have been a better choice—his mind nudges him, replaying the idea with each passing minute, weighing the options, only to circle back to what really bothers him.

Three days. It’s been three days since Penelope Shaw should have revealed the truth about Derek Matthews. Instead, there’s been radio silence—no posts, no texts, not a single piece of news from her.

The group chat has dwindled to a ghost of itself, the lively banter replaced by static. Perhaps no one knows what to say anymore—each theory about Penelope’s silence has been dissected and dismissed, arguments volleyed back and forth with more conviction than certainty.

He moves past a stall of homemade jams, where he’d usually linger and try some free samples. His eyes are set on the shade right across—the stall with local honey—offering shelter from the sun along with honey.

He exhales slowly as he steps closer, eyes scanning the honey on display—some gleaming golden, others rich amber. He reaches for a jar, and for a moment, he wonders what other uses he and Carlos could find for it. Though the idea of sticky honey skin sounds far less romantic the more he thinks about it—especially since they get sticky enough these days—he chuckles to himself and puts the jar back down.

A blur catches his attention in the corners of his vision. He glances around, feeling the hairs on his neck stand. TK has been haunted by an unshakable feeling of unease, lurking at the edges of his mind and surfacing whenever his thoughts drift. It’s a persistent nagging, a whisper in the back of his consciousness that refuses to fade—no matter how hard he tries to push it aside.

He shakes his head, squeezing past a lady carrying her dog in her arms—the poor cutie panting heavily from the heat—and heads for a larger stand with herbs and spices that's seemingly attracting lots of customers. His eyes immediately land on the fresh basil, surfacing memories from just a couple of months ago—him and Jonah in the kitchen, learning together how to make fresh pesto for Carlos’ birthday—surprising him with dinner as he got back home from work, with Jonah running up to him, eager to show off what he made for his papa. It’s a cherished memory that squeezes his heart.

He’s been keeping himself busy, which has turned out to be harder than he thought now that he doesn’t have Jonah to take care of during the day. It turns out the house is much easier to keep clean when you don’t have a six-year-old whirlwind running around. Still, he’d trade this calm and quiet in a heartbeat; he’s counting the days until Jonah returns. They’re managing to stay connected with him—FaceTiming every night, reading bedtime stories through the screen. It’s strange to see Jonah drift off to sleep without the comfort of being wrapped in their arms, without their goodnight kisses. But Jonah’s having a blast with his cousins, though TK hopes he’s not wearing out his abuela too much—not that Andrea would ever admit it.

Being apart from Jonah has also made TK realize how much he misses work—something he plans to discuss with Carlos soon. He needs to return to the adrenaline, the purpose. Jonah would still be his number one priority, but the quiet doesn’t cut it for him; it’s a restless ache that gnaws at him, and it’s only going to get worse as Jonah grows up. They waited a year for him to get used to elementary school, but as the new school year begins, TK might try returning to the field. The gym, the workouts—they only scratch the surface. He needs more.

On the plus side, he and Carlos have been christening every available surface in their home—something they never got the chance to do since moving in, because Jonah is usually around. Not that he complains about it. He has grown to love quiet lovemaking, savoring the whispers and caresses—the strength and restraint it takes to stay quiet, always on edge for the slightest movement, ready to leap off his husband should Jonah call for them. But now, they get to be loud, and they’re taking full advantage of it while it lasts.

This morning, he barely had time to wake up before Carlos’ mouth was already on him, taking care of his morning wood with a sloppy, slow blowjob that made TK tremble and shiver, leaving him mumbling nonsense as Carlos got ready to go to work—as if he hadn't just swallowed TK's soul.

Yet, despite all these moments with Carlos—distractions that occupy his mind—his body remains tense, on edge—like he’s waiting for something to happen. 

As his eyes wander back to scan the crowd, chatter and laughter drifting around him, his breath catches: a man in a red fedora is walking through the crowd just a few feet from him.

His heart begins to pound in his chest, the familiar rush of adrenaline creeping in—fingers twitching, muscles tense. His eyes track the man’s movements as the stranger weaves effortlessly through the bustling crowd. For a split second, he expects the man to dissolve into thin air, a ghost conjured by his restless mind.

But the man keeps walking. He pauses at a street vendor, letting a passerby through—a tangible, flesh-and-blood presence, not a specter. TK’s gaze sharpens. His legs move almost involuntarily, following at a safe distance, driven by a mixture of curiosity and dread.

He begins to absorb the details, and everything aligns with Gloria’s description—broad shoulders, muscular build, the crimson fedora. Yet, he can’t tell if the man bears the tattoo Gloria mentioned; he’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt that conceals his back. If only he could get closer, peer beneath the fabric, catch a glimpse of the roots or vines—whatever the tattoo was—hidden beneath the shirt.

He edges closer, trailing the man, a rush sprawling through his body—something he’s never felt before—like the thrill of the hunt. If he’s right, if this is the same man, maybe—maybe— maybe he’s dangerous, and you shouldn’t follow , the logical part of his mind suggests. But what if he’s dangerous and he got to Penelope Shaw? What if TK is her only hope?

Thoughts collide in his mind: the absurdity of stumbling upon this man in the middle of a busy market, amidst the chaos of everyday life, versus the crushing fear that if he lets him slip away without trying to find out, he’ll forever wonder—what if?

Just keep the distance, he tells himself. Wait for the right moment.  

Just one glimpse of the man’s back—that’s all he needs. To see the ink through the fabric, or better yet, to confirm its absence—to prove it’s all coincidence. Many men wear red fedoras, right?

The man pauses at a fruit stand, inspecting peaches and plums, oblivious to TK shadowing him—a sweaty figure with clammy palms and a pounding heart, yet undeniably present. 

TK edges closer, eyes fixed on the stranger’s back. One peek—that’s all he needs.

Suddenly, the world shifts. A heavy impact on his side steals his breath away. He stumbles sideways, hand instinctively reaching for the metal support of a market stall to steady himself. 

Heavy panting, a warm furry body pressed against him—a German Shepherd snuggling into his side.

“Dolly! Down! Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” a woman’s voice calls out, yanking the leash to get the German Shepherd off TK.

TK huffs a laugh. “It’s okay, I’m fine.” He reaches out to pet the dog, who, for reasons TK can’t quite understand, decided he was the chosen one for affection. 

Dolly sits obediently, tongue lolling, leaning eagerly into his touch. Usually, he’d feel honored, but his gaze drifts back to the stall where the man in the red hat had paused—only to realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s gone.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

With a last wave of his hand to Dolly, he rushes back through the crowd, standing on the tips of his toes, searching for him, hoping the market hasn’t swallowed him while he was distracted.

He catches a glimpse of the fedora in the sea of bodies, and TK resumes his pursuit.

By the time he gets a clearer view, the man is crossing the street, leaving the market behind.

TK hesitates.

Should he follow? His instincts—fueled by the group chat’s theories, his own fears, and hopes—push him forward.

He keeps a cautious distance, sometimes pretending to text but always watching. The man stays on the sidewalk, unhurried and casual in his pace.

It’s barely fifteen minutes later when the man enters a side street—fenced homes lining each side. TK’s breath catches. Is he following him to his home?

He watches the man step onto the front porch of a house—a single-story home with a sloped roof, potted plants lining the gravel pathway to the porch. TK stops, ducking behind a cluster of thick bushes along the fence—knowing full well how suspicious he looks, but he can’t risk the man seeing him.

The man slides his hands into his pocket, takes out a key, slots it into the door, and goes inside. Yep, he definitely followed this man home.

He waits a few more seconds, making sure the man won’t come back out and see TK emerging from the bushes. Once the coast is clear, he steps back onto the sidewalk, glancing around the empty street. It’s a quiet neighborhood—only a few cars parked along the road, and no one else daring the scorching heat of the sun.

He bites his bottom lip, his gaze drifting to the narrow alley between the man’s house and the neighbor’s—maybe he can catch a glimpse of a window, perhaps see the man inside. He shivers with shame and guilt, feeling disgusted with himself for even thinking of spying on someone in their home. He needs to call Ashlyn.

He takes his phone out of his pocket, walking down the alley along the fence that runs around the man’s yard to get some cover, stopping next to a dumpster at the end of it.

The call goes unanswered. He tries again.

This time, he leaves a voice message: “Hey, Ash! Call me when you can. It’s important.”

He looks over the tall fence at the curated green yard, filled with low, flowery bushes, a beautiful oleander in bloom—soft pinkish flowers—and in the corner, a small wooden shed. From here, he can see an open window; a shadow moves inside, and the urge to learn more becomes unbearable; it prickles his skin—if he could just get a closer look.

His eyes dart between the window, the fence, and the dumpster, then back to the window.

With a last look around, he approaches the dumpster. His hands reach for it, then he quickly retracts them, shaking his head and huffing a laugh—he can’t do that. Can he?

His heart hammers against his ribs, sweat drips down his neck, and his sun-addled mind races: what if? What if?

Swallowing hard, he reaches for the dumpster again, this time lifting himself up onto it. It wobbles slightly, screeching, and TK winces, going still.

He waits a few moments, then stands up on it, grasping the metal fence to keep his balance.

With a grunt of effort, he hoists himself over the fence, swinging one leg to the other side—he’s officially trespassing now. For some reason, he hears Carlos’ voice in the back of his mind, a disappointed “Tyler,” echoing through it.

He considers retreating, but a surge of defiance and curiosity tightens his chest. What would Carlos do? Probably scold him, or worse—arms crossed, disappointment etched into his expression, a silent reprimand that cuts deeper than words.

Yet, he doesn’t climb back down. He keeps going, jumping into the backyard. His footing falters, and he stumbles, but he manages to catch himself before falling to the ground.

He looks back at the fence, a smile curling his lips—he did it. It takes a moment for his brain to register what that entails, but when it does, he quickly crouches, slipping behind the oleander, its foliage offering some cover.

He peeks through the leaves, eyes fixed on the open window and the shadow of movement inside—the urge to get closer gnaws at him; just a quick peek, no one would notice.

Suddenly, a shrill ring pierces the silence, shattering the moment. His heart leaps in his throat.

“Fuck,” he squeaks, fumbling with his phone to cancel the incoming call from Ashlyn, switching it to silent mode with trembling fingers.

Once the call is silenced, he freezes, every muscle tense. Inside the house, footsteps approach the window. 

Through the leaves, he catches a glimpse of the man. He ducks lower, pressing his lips into a tight line, trying to stay silent, holding his breath as if that alone can keep him hidden.

The man scans the backyard, then, after what feels like an eternity, turns away—just enough for TK to catch a fleeting glimpse.

He cautiously peeks out from behind the oleander, eyes narrowing. The man’s bare back is visible—no tattoos, no markings. It’s not the man in the red hat, after all. Relief flickers, but it’s quickly drowned in a bitter taste—almost disappointment.

He waits a few more seconds, ears tuned for any sound, then begins to inch toward the fence. That’s when realization hits him—it's too tall to climb, and there’s no dumpster or any other object that could give him a boost from this side.

“Shit,” he mutters. He’s stuck here.

Blood pounding in his ears, he surveys the backyard again. No tall tree nearby to scale, no easy way out—except for the shed. Maybe there’s a ladder inside.

He moves as quietly as possible across the grass, reaching the wooden shed. His hand hovers over the handle, then pulls—it's locked.

Biting his lip, he moves behind the shed and crouches down, quickly typing to Ashlyn: I need help.

He’s not sure how much time passes. The sun presses down on him, his head feels dizzy, he’s drenched in sweat, breathing ragged—if he dies like this, he’s never going to hear the end of it—his own stupidity will echo through time.

Perhaps he could just knock on the guy’s door, admit he’s an idiot, and maybe the guy will take pity on him and let him out. Though chances are he’d call the police, then he’d be arrested and labeled an idiot, and Jonah would have one more dad in prison. He covers his face with his palms, feeling his eyes sting with tears—what the fuck is wrong with him? Why did he follow this man? What was his plan?

Then, a voice—a faint whisper—breaks through the oppressive silence.

“TK?” it calls softly—a breath of hope.

“Psst, TK!” the voice repeats, sharper this time. TK’s head snaps to his right, where Ashlyn stands beyond the fence, eyes wide. “What the fuck—” she breathes out, eyes darting between TK and the house.

TK scuttles over, still keeping low to the ground. “Ash, thank God.”

“Why—what—” she raises her hands, arms wide as if unsure whether to shout, whisper, or maybe even cry—all valid reactions, TK thinks. He went through all of that in the span of five minutes himself.

“I know, not my brightest moment,” he waves a hand at her, panting. “Did you bring the rope?”

Ashlyn nods, then rummages through the bag slung over her shoulder, taking out a coil of rope—that’s TK’s way out of here.

Carlos’ knuckles turn white as his grip on the steering wheel tightens. His jaw is clenched, trying to keep at bay the storm swirling inside him—mad at TK for putting himself in danger, worried about what has gotten into him, and helpless to do anything but get there as fast as possible.

Sam is restless beside him, tapping his finger on his leg as he talks on the phone. “Thanks, Chief,” he says, then sighs and disconnects the call. “Good news, they won’t press charges.”

“I’m gonna strangle him,” Carlos mutters, shaking his head as a throbbing pulse begins to pound in his temple—a familiar one when it comes to TK, the pulse that will someday spread to his chest and give him a heart attack for good.

Sam chuckles. “Relax, man. They’re fine.”

Carlos’ gaze snaps to him, glaring. Sam takes the hint, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Or kill him. He’s your husband, not mine.”

Carlos turns right at the intersection, immediately spotting the police cruiser along the road. Lexi is standing beside it, talking to Ashlyn, who has her arms behind her back—handcuffed but seemingly unfazed as she chats away with Lexi.

He brings the car to a stop right behind a car he recognizes as Ashlyn’s. Sam rushes out before Carlos has the chance to turn off the engine, calling for his wife and jogging toward her.

As Carlos steps out, he adjusts his hat to block the afternoon sun, then scans the area. His eyes land on the house to his right—the backyard where TK trespassed, apparently climbing over the high metal fence—and on the man on the front porch talking to another officer.

There are no signs of TK until he notices movement in the back of Lexi’s cruiser, seeing TK watching him through the glass.

Cursing under his breath, he walks up to Lexi, nodding at her. “Lexi.”

“Carlos, I believe this one’s yours,” she says, opening the car door to reveal his husband in the backseat, handcuffed and looking up at Carlos with eyes squinting against the sun, beads of sweat gathered on his brow.

“Hi, baby,” TK says, flashing a smile as he steps out, turning to let Lexi uncuff him.

TK looks unharmed, and Carlos battles the urge to pull him into a hug to calm the pounding in his chest. It’s a battle he might lose if TK keeps innocently smiling at him—Carlos’ undoing, masterfully weaponized by TK.

Ignoring the pleas of his own heart, he keeps his expression neutral and impassive—he must be a fortress in this silent standoff with his husband.

The silence stretches for a few moments until, shifting nervously, TK glances down at the ground. “It’s not what it looks like,” he mumbles.

Carlos crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “Really? Enlighten me.”

TK licks his lips, sheepishly looking up at him, then gazes at Lexi and the other officer. “I—” His voice fizzles into a whisper, an unintelligible huff of air.

Carlos sighs. Whatever the truth is, he assumes TK doesn’t want to say it out loud in front of the police officers. “Lexi, are they free to go?”

“Yes,” she responds, lowering her voice as she steps closer, eyes darting between Carlos and TK. “But, Carlos—” she hesitates, “you were lucky it was me, and that Mr. Johnson doesn’t want to press charges.”

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting off the creeping headache. The relief that TK is unharmed settles briefly in his chest, but it’s quickly overshadowed by a simmering frustration. “Thanks, Lexi.” He nods toward his car. “Come on. We’re going home.”

TK nods quietly, following him. When Carlos opens the passenger door, TK looks up at him, murmuring a quiet “Thanks,” before slipping inside.

Carlos settles into the driver’s seat, feeling his heartbeat slow as the adrenaline ebbs—TK is safe, and that’s all that matters right now. Yet beneath that, a bitter taste lingers, fueled by the shock of what his husband did. He starts the engine, lips pressed into a thin line to hold back the surge of rage and confusion threatening to explode.

“You’re mad,” TK observes, breaking the silence.

Carlos’ gaze snaps to him. “Mad? Mad?” he echoes. “Mad doesn’t even begin to describe it. Tell me, what the hell were you thinking!” His voice booms in the cubicle. He can’t help it—he can’t control the tension and worry that have built up inside him up to this point.

TK remains silent for a long moment, nibbling at his thumb, eyes distant. Finally, he speaks softly, almost reluctantly. “I thought he was the man in the red hat.”

Carlos blinks, confusion flickering across his face. His mind scrambles to process the words—familiar, yet incomprehensible. “What?”

“The man in the red hat,” TK repeats, perhaps believing that saying it multiple times would flick a switch in Carlos’ mind; it doesn’t.

“Who?”

“Penelope Shaw mentioned a man in a red hat in her last episode before she went missing. I saw him at the farmer’s market—not the man in the red hat, exactly, but a man wearing a red hat. I had to make sure they weren’t the same person because Penelope might be in danger. So I followed him home—well, it wasn’t planned. I just had to check if he had a tattoo on his back, to ease my mind. And I was wrong.”

Carlos’ brow furrows deeper, trying to connect the dots—he knows there’s a logic buried somewhere beneath those words; it eludes him. “You followed a man home because of a hat?”

TK’s face contorts as if it physically hurts him to get the words out. “Yes,” he admits, resting his head against the car window and looking outside.

“Please, tell me you didn’t say that to Lexi and the other officer,” Carlos demands, his voice strained and cracking under the weight of his panic.

“Of course not. I’m not dumb,” TK mumbles, voice low, still not looking at him.

Carlos scoffs, immediately regretting it as TK shoots him a glare. It’s not fair—TK’s not dumb, but Carlos won’t apologize right now. “Then what did you tell them?”

“Ash told them we heard someone scream, and I went to check.”

“And how did you explain the rope?” Carlos asks, almost dreading the answer.

TK hesitates, looking down at his hands in his lap. “We didn’t get to that part,” he admits. “They handcuffed us, and Lexi said it’d be best if we just stayed silent.”

Carlos feels it—the nervous release bubbling up in his chest. It twists his lips before it bursts forth in an anxious, bitter laugh. This is insane. “You were so lucky—it’s a miracle! What if another officer had shown up? Or if the man had a gun, huh? What then?” he presses, angrily shifting gear as he slows down and stops at a red light. “What if he actually was dangerous, and you just followed a serial killer home or something?”

He shakes his head slowly, silence stretching thick and heavy between them. When TK remains silent, Carlos presses again. “What then, TK?”

“I don’t know!” TK snaps back. “I’m sorry, okay? I know—it was a stupid thing to do. I’m just—” He exhales a long sigh. “I was worried, and—” He looks away, fists clenched. “I had to make sure, you know?”

Carlos tightens his jaw. “No, I don’t know. Did you even stop to think about me? About Jonah?” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, watching TK slump his shoulders, sinking into his seat like Carlos’ words delivered a harsh blow.

They sit in silence as Carlos drives them back home, just the buzz of the city backdroping each of Carlos’ thoughts, replaying the afternoon in his mind: the call he received telling him his husband was getting arrested, the race to get to TK without knowing what had happened, each thought adding to the next until he was filled with worry and, yes, anger.

He steals a glance at TK, who’s keeping quiet, but they lock eyes—they shimmer with tears. “I’m sorry,” TK whispers, and it’s too much for Carlos’ heart to bear.

He nods, then places a hand on TK’s leg, gently rubbing his knee, unsure of what to say other than a soft “I’m sorry too.” For a fleeting moment, he fears TK is too upset with him, but that fear is quickly dispelled as TK squeezes his hand.

He lifts TK’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on it. “Wanna tell me what happened with the podcast? I can look into it, see if I can help.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Carlos says before the call is disconnected. His eyes wander to TK, who’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, looking at him expectantly.

He takes a moment to organize his thoughts, nodding along—faking that Detective Washington is still talking to him—while trying to figure out how to tell TK that Penelope Shaw might be a hoax and that Derek Matthews was never missing.

Eventually, he puts his phone down on the kitchen counter and walks over to TK, sitting down next to him.

“So?” TK asks, and when Carlos takes a moment to reply, he grimaces. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Carlos hesitates, then takes a deep breath as he looks at TK, searching for the right way to break the news. “Listen, I have some concerns.”

“Concerns? About the case?”

“More about the… story,” Carlos says softly, hands reaching for TK’s. “Derek Matthews is not missing.”

TK furrows his brow. “Wait, what? Of course he’s missing.”

Carlos shakes his head gently. “Babe, I just spoke with Detective Washington. She told me about the police report. His neighbor claimed he was missing, but he’s not. He quit his job, canceled his lease—he just left. The police aren’t searching for him because he’s not missing. He simply moved.”

Rising to his feet, TK shakes his head. “No, that can’t be right. Penelope Shaw—she was—she was—” TK’s eyes widen. The flicker of disappointment Carlos knew was going to surface stings deeper than he thought. “She was faking it.”

“I think so too,” Carlos agrees, standing up and resting his hands on TK’s hips, holding him. “It seems like a story she pieced together. She’s a storyteller.”

“She’s a private investigator,” TK counters, though doubt shadows his features.

“Both can be true.”

TK bites the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, the wheels turning behind his eyes. “But… she’s missing,” he whispers.

“Babe—”

“The clues, the man in the red hat… all those episodes. How could she just fake that?”

With a sigh, Carlos slides his hands up to TK’s shoulders. “TK, she’s not missing, because none of it was real.”

He watches TK’s face fall, the truth sinking in—Carlos can almost feel the disappointment, and he can’t make it go away, but he can hug his husband, so he does.

TK sinks into the embrace, sighing deeply. They stand in silence for a moment, the quiet filled only by their breathing. Carlos rocks them gently, a soothing rhythm. After a beat, TK lets out a bitter laugh, almost incredulous, and Carlos hums softly in response.

“Her first two cases—she solved them years ago, and she turned them into series, basically. It was fun to learn all about the investigations, but this time, it was an ongoing investigation. And all our theories that we shared; I felt like I was—I was—”

“Helping?”

“Yeah,” TK says softly. “I was helping to save someone. And I know—it’s stupid. I’m not smart enough to actually be helpful in these scenarios, but—”

“No,” Carlos interrupts gently, cupping TK’s face and locking eyes with him. Finally, he understands the driving force behind TK today—at his core, he’ll always be a hero—rushing into danger to save people, a Strand man through and through. “Don’t say that. You’re smart. You found me, remember? You saved my life. You figured out the missing piece before the detectives, before the Texas Rangers, even before my dad.”

TK smiles; it’s warm but dim, like the light of dawn on a winter morning. “Guess I did.”

Carlos leans in, pressing a tender kiss to TK’s lips—the man who owns his heart, whose heart is his to safeguard, who manages to drive Carlos crazy and make him want to obey his every request. Carlos wants to hold him forever so nothing can ever hurt him—not even a podcaster letting him down.

“I’m just disappointed,” TK admits when they part. “But at least no one is in danger. That’s more important.”

“True.”

TK pats himself down, then looks around the room until his gaze settles on his phone on the dinner table. “I should tell Ash,” he mumbles.

Before he lets him go, Carlos presses one last kiss to his forehead—his stomach fluttering as TK leans into him and lets out a contented hum.

As TK picks up his phone, he scoffs, muttering something Carlos doesn’t quite catch. “What?”

“She finally posted an update,” TK sighs, then reads aloud: “Recently, I’ve been investigating the disappearance of Derek Matthews—a case I brought to you, my listeners. Everything was fabricated, despite being born from an actual request for help. Deep down, I wanted to chase fame, to grow bigger and build a fanbase—I went too far. However, I want you all to know that I never intended to hurt anyone, though I understand this will be disappointing to most—if not all—of you. As much as I love a good mystery, I crossed a line. Time will tell if I deserve your forgiveness, and right now, I can only promise that I will try to do better.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” Carlos says softly, bridging the gap between them, wrapping his arms around TK and resting his head on his shoulder.

TK turns around in his arms, sliding his palms onto Carlos’ chest—Carlos’ heart quivers, always receptive to TK’s touch, always yearning for more. “It’s fine. I’m sorry I scared you today.”

Carlos rubs their noses together, a smile tugging at his lips. “Just promise me you won’t do it again.”

“I promise,” TK says quickly, pressing his lips to Carlos’ chin and lightly sucking at the spot. This makes Carlos chuckle. “You know what I was thinking when I saw you strut like that toward me?”

“What?”

TK’s lips curl into a smirk. “I wanted to blow you there and then. My hot Texas Ranger husband. If it had just been us, I’d have been on my knees in a heartbeat, showing you how sorry I was.”

Heat pools low in Carlos’ stomach, spreading outward like wildfire, his pulse pounding faster at the thought. “You can show me now,” he offers, raising an eyebrow.

TK presses his hips against Carlos, eagerly licking his lips. “Get your hat.”

The hum of the night has settled over their home, wrapping everything in a thick silence punctuated by the distant hums of crickets, the rare passing car down the road, and the soft breathing of Carlos, who holds him tightly against his chest, his palm right over TK’s heart.

It was supposed to be his turn to be the big spoon, but after the long day filled with adrenaline and fear, Carlos needed to hold him—and TK needed to be held. It always makes him feel safe to hear Carlos’ heart against his back, the weight of his arms around him, feeling Carlos’ bare skin against his.

The dim white light of his phone screen suddenly pierces the darkness.

Sighing softly, he reaches for it on the nightstand, careful not to wake Carlos.

His brow furrows as he sees the text from Ashlyn: “Lunch together tomorrow. I have a theory.”

He blinks at the words, scanning the screen again. “What?” he mouths, then types a quick “okay” in response before settling the phone back on the nightstand.

For a moment, he lies there, pondering what Ashlyn is talking about, but the depths of his mind know the answer: it has to be Penelope.

He shifts in Carlos’ hold, who stirs in his sleep, tightening his arms around TK. A low whine escapes his lips, quickly followed by a hum as TK buries himself into his husband’s chest. He closes his eyes, letting himself be held. Despite curiosity building, he chooses to surrender to the quiet embrace tonight—theories can wait.

Chapter Text

“So, what's your theory?” TK asks, lowering his menu after a couple of seconds of trying to read through the dishes—an impossible task now that they’re seated at the table and Ashlyn has yet to tell him anything. He had barely read the word "appetizers" before his fingers started twitching, needing to know.

Ashlyn, still scanning the menu, briefly looks up at him, then glances around the restaurant—perhaps to make sure nobody can eavesdrop. This prompts TK to do the same, biting the inside of his cheek as he surveys the area. They’re in a corner, beneath a large window that offers a full view of the front of the restaurant. The windowsill is dotted with white lilies and bright marigolds. Fortunately, the awning keeps the sun at bay, but natural light still floods the interior—highlighting the gleaming, polished hardwood tables, creamy floors, and burgundy chairs.

It’s pretty here. He’s never been here, but Ashlyn was craving pasta, and TK takes a mental note to ask Carlos to bring Jonah and Andrea here once they’re back—judging by the aroma alone, the food seems good.

Ashlyn finally lowers her menu, fingers still lingering on the edge, nails tapping lightly. “So, this is gonna sound crazy,” she begins softly, then meets TK’s gaze with a hesitant smile. “I think the post Penelope made is a clue.”

TK furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

She starts rummaging through her purse, takes out a piece of paper, opens it up, and slides it toward TK. TK cocks his head. It’s a transcription of the post Penelope made yesterday, but some letters are circled. “What?” he murmurs, mostly to himself, as his eyes scan the text.

“Yep. I didn’t see it at first.”

The first word of every sentence is underlined, and the capital letters are circled in red: “Recently, Everything, Deep, However, As, Time.” TK gasps, leaning in. “Red hat,” he says. “It says ‘red hat,’” he repeats, as if it wasn't Ashlyn the one who figured it out.

Ashlyn nods, opening her mouth to say something, but her gaze snaps over TK’s shoulder. Footsteps approach, and her features shift into a polite smile as a waiter comes to take their orders.

TK quickly hides the piece of paper under the table, crumpling it in his hand. Then he begins fumbling through the menu, settling on scallops with mushrooms without a second thought and ordering sparkling water. Ashlyn orders spaghetti with clams and a glass of chardonnay.

The moment the waiter leaves, Ashlyn leans closer. “It can’t be a coincidence, right? It has to be a message.”

TK’s mind is already racing, his leg rhythmically bouncing under the table. A message, maybe a warning. Ashlyn is right; it can’t be a coincidence. There’s no way Penelope would spell out "red hat" like this by chance. However… “It could still be part of her hoax, Ash,” TK says softly, shoulders slumping slightly as the possibility weighs him down—Penelope can’t be trusted.

The waiter reappears with a small basket of warm bread, and they both go quiet, polite smiles plastered on their faces. The smell alone is enough to make TK’s mouth water, and he can’t resist immediately digging in.

He breaks off a piece, pops it into his mouth, and savors the mildly sweet yet crunchy taste as Ashlyn starts talking again. “Why would she want to leave a hidden message if it’s all a hoax?”

TK shrugs, swallowing his bite. “I don’t know. To buy time to think about how to deceive us some more?” It comes out harsher than he’d like; he doesn’t know that woman, but it stings—like a betrayal.

Ashlyn raises an eyebrow—she doesn’t need to voice her thoughts—TK knows that it doesn’t really make sense, that he’s being petty just for the sake of it, and he doesn’t care.

“Okay, tell me what you think,” he relents, leaning back in his seat after a moment of holding Ashlyn’s unimpressed gaze.

“I think it’s a message—that she’s in danger,” she says, motioning for TK to pass her the piece of paper back. She uncrumples it, flattening it on the table. She taps a few times on the words, pressing her lips together. “We can both agree this is not a coincidence, right?”

TK nods—he doesn’t question it. It’s not a coincidence. What he does doubt is the actual meaning: a cry for help, or just another lie she’s weaving. He’s leaning toward the second. “Ash,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t go chasing ghosts again. Remember yesterday?”

“That was because you didn’t call me sooner,” Ash cuts in. “And you said it yourself—not your brightest moment.”

TK struggles to hold back a chuckle, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Okay. So what, we go to the police?”

Ashlyn makes a noise that sounds like a mix between a scoff, a gasp, and a question mark. “After the stunt you pulled yesterday, do you really want to go to the police over ‘red hat’? No, we need more proof—something more… concrete.”

“Well—” TK bites his tongue as he notices the waiter approaching with their orders. They both thank him as they are served, and TK’s stomach grumbles at the sight of the glistening scallops, the array of mushrooms, and the scent of herbs wafting through the air.

As they are left alone again, TK resumes. “We should at least tell Sam and Carlos, though, right?”

Ashlyn frowns as she starts extracting the clam meat from the shells. “I wouldn’t tell them.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she discards a shell into the small bowl—it clinks as it touches the ceramic. “We don’t have any actual proof yet, and I don’t want my husband to tell me again that I’m obsessed with this story. But if you insist, we can tell them.”

TK grimaces—Carlos didn’t say that to him, but he could tell it crossed his mind. “Fine, we’ll tell them if we’re right and we have something to back it up.”

“We can work this out. We are smart.”

For a moment, TK pushes a mushroom around on the plate, lips pursed. Hiding this from Carlos doesn’t seem like a good idea, but as long as they don’t do anything reckless—like following a stranger home or trespassing on private property—it should be fine. “What’s the plan?”

Ashlyn smiles, reaching for her wine. “We need a place where we can brainstorm, write our theories, and plan. I don’t think our homes are a good idea—what if Carlos or Sam get back from work or have a day off?”

That’s true. Carlos would notice immediately, and he assumes Sam would as well. Ashlyn’s place is especially off-limits with her kids running around. An intrusive thought begins creeping into his mind: a place with no one around, where they can meet in peace and brainstorm this—somewhere available long enough to gather at least some evidence.

He exhales a long sigh, scratching his jaw. “Andrea’s out of town for a while,” he says, wincing at the thought of using her home—a breach of trust. “But I’d rather not go there.”

Ash shakes her head. “No, I was thinking the library. We can reserve a room and work in peace.”

“That’s a good idea.”

TK doesn’t remember the last time he’s been to a library. It’s a strange feeling: quiet, with just the faint chatter of a couple of students preparing for summer exams, the soft rustle of pages turning, and the hum of the air conditioning—something he’s thankful for. Their footsteps echo around them as they walk toward their reserved room at the end of a corridor, secured for the next two hours. The fluorescent light above makes the polished floor glint, and the bookshelves extending on both sides of the corridor are filled with rows of books and documents, adding a touch of secrecy he can’t quite explain. It makes him giddy and excited, and he wonders if Ashlyn feels the same—if she’s just as eager to crack this mystery, if it even is a mystery.

Their room is small, with a round table in the middle, surrounded by mismatched chairs that somehow look cozy rather than decrepit. A whiteboard stands across from the entrance, ready for them to use, and a large window lets in natural light.

Ashlyn takes out her laptop and notebook the moment she sits down, while TK sets down the freshly bought stack of paper, pens, pencils, and, most importantly, the notebook he picked up during a quick stop at their home. It’s technically Jonah’s, as the cover featuring a brontosaurus wearing sunglasses and enjoying a relaxing day at the beach suggests; he’ll just have to get him a new one before he comes back.

“So,” Ashlyn begins, placing Penelope’s last post on the table. “If we’re gonna figure this out, we have to assume that this is actually a cry for help.” She softly taps her nails on the paper as she says this.

TK hums thoughtfully. It could be a cry for help. “Why wouldn’t she contact the police if she’s in danger, though? Why post this?” he asks. It doesn’t make sense to hope that someone will just decipher the secret message.

Ashlyn reaches for her notebook, flipping through the pages. “It’s possible that she was forced to write it.”

“And what, she managed to sneak in a hidden message with a gun pointed at her temple?”

Ashlyn stands up, her chair screeching softly against the floor, then walks to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. “It could be,” she mumbles. She taps the marker on her palm as she stares at the whiteboard; TK can almost see the gears turning in her head. “But it’s irrelevant at the moment.”

TK frowns, eyes narrowing. “How is it irrelevant?”

“If we start questioning the validity of her post, we’ll never get anywhere,” she says with a shrug. “Let’s assume it’s true because that’s what we care about—if it’s true, she’s in danger, and we can maybe help. Once we find her, we can ask her for the details.”

TK clicks his tongue, a counter ready on the tip, but he swallows it back down. Instead, he reaches for the paper on the table, rereading Penelope’s message: red hat.

It’s cryptic. He probably wouldn’t have noticed it otherwise; he’s not even sure how Ashlyn managed to catch that. He knows she’s smart—she’s an algebraist, was a researcher, and her husband is a Texas Ranger. Honestly, she probably has the potential to be the best amateur detective there could be.

“Okay,” he nods, then quiet settles in the room. His mind begins sifting through the possibilities. He leans back in his seat, gaze wandering over the room but not really looking. The sounds of footsteps outside serve as the backdrop to his thoughts: she’s been missing for a few days, or at least he thinks so, yet she posted this just yesterday.

“She’s most likely still alive, right?” he mumbles. When Ashlyn turns to him, he adds, “The post is from yesterday, but she’s been radio silent for longer than that. Maybe the man in the red hat forced her to post this—to calm everyone down. I doubt her abductors—if she has been abducted—would’ve encrypted a secret message in it, so it was her. She’s alive.”

Ash bites the bottom of her lip, slowly nodding, then turns around and starts writing on the whiteboard. “You’re right,” she says, and TK can’t help but feel a spark of pride swelling in his chest. “She was definitely alive when she posted this, and this could be her last message to the world,” she mumbles.

The words hit TK like a punch to the chest, squeezing his heart—the way Ashlyn frames it: she was alive when she wrote this, but that doesn’t mean she still is. “She could already be dead,” he whispers, fists clenched at his sides.

“Yeah. Maybe the man in the red hat made her do this—to buy himself some time to…” Her voice drifts off, but TK knows what she doesn’t say: to get an alibi, escape, dispose of her—each possibility worse than the last.

If this is true, then they don’t have time.

“He knew she was on his tail,” Ashlyn says after a few beats of silence, then turns to TK. “How did he know?” She softly taps the marker on the whiteboard.

TK shifts in his chair, leaning on his elbows. “Maybe they met?”

Ashlyn hums thoughtfully, lips pressed in a thin line. “It’s possible. Maybe he figured out she was close to solving the mystery around Derek Matthews—maybe she said something she shouldn’t have, drew attention, or something.”

They both go back to staring at the whiteboard; they aren’t really going anywhere with this. Too many variables, too many questions they can’t answer. This is all just speculation.

Assume her post is a cry for help, he repeats to himself, nervously tapping his fingers on the polished surface of the table—a rhythm that mirrors the pounding in his chest. They know she was fine on Monday—that’s when she revealed she was going to solve the case. Just a day later, she disappeared.

He suddenly stops, a thought breaking through the surface—a realization that tightens his throat. “Ash,” he says slowly, still processing. “Only we—members of her group chat—knew about the live episode. Only we had the link. She was going to record it and publish it for everyone else later,” he notes, rising to his feet and pressing his palms against the table. “He went after her with perfect timing. It can’t be a coincidence, right?”

Ashlyn’s eyes go wide, her gaze darting between him and the whiteboard. “You think it’s one of her listeners?”

“Someone in the group chat.” He quickly reaches for his phone, opening the Vanishing Footsteps group chat and looking at the members. “It’s one of them, right?” he asks, looking up at her, searching for validation—that he’s not going completely off the rails.

Ashlyn stays frozen in place, her gaze cast downward as if she’s studying the floor at her feet—but her mind must be racing just as TK’s is.

“It’s plausible,” she finally says. “But that’s a very lucky—or unlucky—coincidence: that the man in the red hat—”

“Or an accomplice,” TK interjects.

“Or an accomplice,” she concedes with a nod. “Happens to be a fan of Penelope Shaw.”

A tense silence settles between them. TK doesn’t really have a good argument, but he feels like it’s a good guess; he can feel it in his gut. Ashlyn turns to the whiteboard, writing the words “group chat” on it, then hums as if she’s focusing on it—perhaps she also has the same feeling, that somehow it’s the right direction.

He shakes his head, sitting back down. It’s way too big of a leap. What are the chances Penelope was investigating a crime that just happened to be perpetuated by one of her followers? He huffs and shifts in his seat. The more he tries to reason it away, the more the feeling in his gut intensifies, pulling his mind back to it. It’s too big of a coincidence.

He freezes. It is too big of a coincidence—so much so that TK begins to doubt it’s a coincidence at all.

He opens the group chat again, scrolling through the members and noting when each of them joined, writing the dates down in his notebook. Most joined before Penelope was even working on Derek Matthews’ case, but some joined afterward: himself, and two others—Professor Bing and Queen Marple.

“Ash,” he calls, looking back up at her. “What if our suspect joined the group chat because Penelope was investigating? What if they wanted to keep an eye on her?”

She tilts her head, frowning. “What do you mean?”

TK slides his notes to the other end of the table for Ashlyn to see, tapping the names and dates with his pen. “Bing and Marple joined the group chat after Penelope posted the first episodes of her case. Wouldn’t that align with the fact that one of them is the man in the red hat? Or an accomplice? It would explain our theory, right? Only, it’s not a coincidence—the mystery person joined to keep updated on her progress.”

Ashlyn’s eyes quickly scan the page, and slowly, her lips curl into a small smile. “It’s a good theory,” she says, turning to add Bing’s and Marple’s names to the whiteboard. “One I think is worth exploring. We need to look into them.”

TK leans back into his chair, chest puffed in pride as he focuses on the names on the whiteboard. It feels like a tangible possibility, and despite knowing it’s based on assumptions, it’s a start—they have their first suspects.

They decide to split the work: TK will look into Bing, and Ashlyn will investigate Marple. Both of them go through their texts in the group chat, which was pretty active before Penelope’s disappearance. That means a lot of theories and arguments to read through, searching for clues—perhaps a slip-up or something that could help identify the culprit—but there’s not much to find.

After half an hour of wading through the most chaotic, downright insane theories about Derek Matthews—some even from TK himself, which makes him want to hide forever—the tension in the room begins to simmer. TK starts pacing, restless and agitated, his eyes darting to Ashlyn, who remains seated at the table, carefully studying each message and jotting down notes. His frustration bubbles over in a series of huffs, scoffs, and grimaces at what he reads, though he chuckles at a picture of Lou wearing a small cowboy hat that he shared in the group chat. He couldn't resist; Lou was too cute, but he kept his name a secret. Other than that, everything else is just a waste of time.

That is, until Ashlyn proposes checking the Vanishing Footsteps tag—seeing who posted what on social media. Perhaps they’ll find Bing or Marple, maybe even both. It’s not a popular tag, so it doesn’t take too long to sift through the posts for clues.

He chuckles when he recognizes a photo: it’s him and Ashlyn in Ashlyn’s backyard, enjoying an afternoon in the kids’ pool while listening to Penelope’s podcast. Thankfully, only part of TK’s legs and Ashlyn’s hand holding a glass of wine are visible—nothing that could reveal any information.

But then, a new image catches his eye. It’s a photograph of a sprawling, lush garden taken from a balcony. The scene is breathtaking: meticulously maintained hedges trimmed to perfection, a winding stone path weaving through beds of roses, peonies, and lavender. Lanterns line the walkway, while a white gazebo stands in the background, surrounded by workers tending to the space. There’s even a fountain in the corner. The caption reads: “Getting my garden ready for my granddaughter’s wedding this Saturday! It’s gonna be perfect, and now I get to relax listening to Vanishing Footsteps!”

He zooms in on the picture, trying to make out more details, but he can’t see much more. However, he does have the name of the person who posted it: Barbara Crawford.

“Ash, didn’t Marple say her granddaughter was getting married this weekend?” he asks, piecing together the puzzle. It clicks—how many older women out there are fans of Penelope? And how many of them happen to have a granddaughter tying the knot this particular weekend?

“She did. Why?”

He walks up to her, showing her the photo. “I think this is her.”

Ashlyn squints, looking at the picture for a few seconds, then nods. “I think you’re right.”

“And,” TK continues, taking a seat next to Ashlyn, “Gloria mentioned an older woman with the man in the red hat. This could be her—Marple, who is actually Barbara. She could be an accomplice.”

“We need to find out more.”

Armed with this lead, they dive into Barbara’s online presence. TK starts by scrolling through all her Vanishing Footsteps posts, noting her recent activity. Then he shifts to her other, unrelated posts—most of which are filled with family photos, funny animal videos, and posts about her granddaughter Kate’s wedding, a big wedding apparently with almost two hundred guests, according to Barbara. With each post, he feels like he’s peeling back layers of her life—her deep love for family, her garden, and her home. Barbara shares gardening tips, recipes she’s tried, and snippets of her everyday life. Her profile picture shows her in a sunhat, arm around her gardener, both smiling proudly at freshly planted flowers. Everything is so mundane, but TK can’t shake off suspicion. This sweet old woman with a passion for gardening might be more dangerous than she seems.

Meanwhile, Ashlyn immerses herself in cross-referencing details, combing through other platforms—primarily Facebook. She discovers that Barbara is a retired lawyer, widowed nearly ten years ago, living on a quiet, tree-lined street on the outskirts of Austin.

“She’s been at the Mirage,” Ashlyn says out of the blue, turning her laptop toward TK, who leans closer, reading the post she made about it almost a year ago—apparently unashamed of letting friends and family know that she enjoyed the performance of the strippers in a nightclub.

“Maybe that’s how she met Matthews,” TK murmurs, and perhaps that’s where the connection to the red hat begins.

“Yeah. Although it could still be that she’s just a grandma who still enjoys life.”

They compile all the information they’ve gathered—notes on her family, her hobbies, her whereabouts—but nothing concrete ties her to Penelope or Matthews. No direct links—just a portrait of a seemingly innocent woman who happened to have spent at least one night out at the Mirage. Still, the timing and the clues suggest she might be hiding more than she lets on.

“Okay, what the hell do we do now?” TK asks, sighing and rubbing his eyes. They’ve almost used up their two hours; they’ll have to leave soon, and all they have are conjectures at best. They can’t go to the police with this, nor to Carlos and Sam. He’s even starting to think that maybe his theory is wrong—that this is a waste of time.

Ashlyn hums, hesitating. “Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

It’s a Saturday, and he’d normally spend the day with Jonah, maybe squeeze in a lunch with Carlos since he has work tomorrow, but Jonah’s not here. He did plan on stopping at Andrea’s to water her garden and make sure everything is good. “Not really. Why?”

“We need to find out more. We could—”

“No,” TK cuts her off, shaking his head. He already knows where she’s going with this because, for a moment, he considered it too. “We can’t crash a wedding, Ash.” It’s a great way to get themselves arrested again, or worse. If she’s really dangerous, they could potentially become targets.

Ashlyn shifts in her seat, leaning closer. “All I’m saying is, we know she’s going to host the wedding party. There’ll be a lot of people. We could blend in, sneak around, maybe find proof—because right now, we don’t have any,” she says.

TK’s initial instinct is to dismiss the idea, despite knowing in his gut that Ashlyn is right. They don’t have any concrete proof yet, and the longer they wait, the more danger Penelope might be in—or, worse, she might already be gone.

He leans back into his seat, biting his bottom lip. It’s too big of a risk; Carlos would lock him in their home for the rest of his life, if the police don’t arrest him before then. He can’t do this. He got lucky yesterday; he’s not even a professional. This would just make him a criminal—no, he can’t.

“Ash, we can’t,” he says softly. “I’m not about to get us into more trouble. One thing is doing this,” he gestures at the whiteboard, the laptops, and the notes, “and another is snooping around at a wedding, uninvited.”

Ashlyn sighs. “Okay.” She crosses her arms, her gaze locked on the whiteboard. Then, after a few moments, she looks back at TK. “You know what? I’m going to that wedding tomorrow. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.” Her tone is firm and stubborn; it’s clear she has made up her mind.

“Wha—No.” He shakes his head. He’s not about to let her do this.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” she counters sharply, then her tone softens. “I get it, it’s a big risk, but what would Penelope do? What would our own husbands do? Someone could be in danger.”

Part of TK is itching to indulge, to learn more too. He’s tired of theorizing and waiting—words and words that won’t actually help Penelope. But this time, he fights his instincts. “So your plan is to go snooping around the home of a potential killer?”

Ashlyn shrugs, unfazed.

TK opens his mouth to protest but then pauses. “Please, tell me you see this is a terrible idea,” he points out. Surely, Ashlyn can see the risk.

“TK, do you really think Barbara is gonna worry about me? That she won’t simply have eyes for her family? It’s the perfect opportunity to blend in and learn more. I’m going.”

A series of unintelligible noises escape TK’s lips—each one meant to convey how dangerous the plan is. And yet, he knows he won’t dissuade her. The logical part of him tells him he shouldn’t do it, but he can’t let her go alone. If he goes with her, he can keep her safe. Two minds are better than one, though at the moment, he’s beginning to doubt even that.

“Fine,” he relents. “But I’m coming with you.”

This has to be the most idiotic idea TK has ever indulged in, and only two days ago he trespassed into someone’s backyard—he’s on a streak this week.

He and Ashlyn are standing across the street from Barbara Crawford’s house, a luxurious home behind a tall white picket fence. The photos did it justice—but it's even more beautiful in person, bathed in the golden hue of late afternoon. The entry gate is adorned with an arch of fairy lights, welcoming approaching guests. However, there doesn’t appear to be a security camera—at least, not one TK can see.

TK adjusts his navy blazer, the fabric crisp and slightly stiff from the iron job he did last night. Underneath, he wears a pale blue dress shirt, collar open slightly at the neck for comfort, especially given the heat. His outfit is completed by dark tailored pants and brown loafers, with a simple wristwatch peeking out from under his shirt cuff. He nervously tugs at the lapel of his blazer, feeling a flutter in his stomach—like hundreds of butterflies taking flight, each flap of their wings warning him he’s about to do something stupid.

He takes a deep breath and offers his arm to Ashlyn, who’s standing beside him. She’s wearing a knee-length, soft lavender sundress, with a lightweight cream cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her hair falls over her shoulders, pinned back on one side with a small pearl clip. She has minimal makeup and wears a simple gold chain around her neck, the pendant glinting in the sunlight.

“Ready?” she asks, her hand resting lightly on TK’s arm.

TK forces a nervous smile, not voicing the tumult of doubt swirling inside him—the truth is, he’s not ready, and this whole plan is borderline insane.

They’ve crafted a flimsy plan: mingle with a group outside and nonchalantly walk through the gate, stay long enough to gather evidence but not so long as to attract suspicion. Both have removed their wedding rings—just a precaution—and agreed to pretend they’re a couple. Their story? Ashlyn's mother used to work with Barbara. It’s not the most convincing story, but it’s all they have. The goal is simple—avoid being photographed, stick close together, and if questioned about their connection to the bride and groom, mention Ashlyn’s mother.

It’s not really a plan—more like a fragile string of assumptions that have to fall perfectly into place for this to work. And honestly, part of him almost hopes they get turned away at the gate so he can get back home, wait for Carlos, and pretend this day never happened.

They start walking across the street, the warm breeze stirring a scent of jasmine from the surrounding gardens. As they step onto the sidewalk, a young woman—probably in her mid-twenties, blonde, with a bright smile, wearing a flowing pink dress— notices them and walks up, putting her phone back in her purse.

“Hello! I don’t think I know you,” she greets, her voice smooth, cheerful—a melody that somehow freezes TK’s blood, sweat trickling down his spine. The realization hits hard: they’re about to be caught before they even get started. Maybe that’s for the best. Her gaze lingers for a moment, curious but friendly. “I’m Diane, one of the bridesmaids. I didn’t see you in church.”

TK offers a strained smile, trying to appear calm despite his pounding heart. He forces himself to meet her gaze. “Yeah, we couldn’t make it in time,” he replies, hopefully masking his panic.

“I’m Sarah,” Ashlyn adds, then taps her hand on TK’s arm. “This is my boyfriend, Zach.”

The woman seems to take in the information for a moment, just enough for TK’s mind to race—perhaps behind her cheerful facade, she’s already clocked them. But then she nods. “Nice to meet you. How do you know Kate and Grant?”

“We’re friends of the Crawfords,” TK says, briefly wondering if he should add more. He feels the light squeeze of Ashlyn’s hand around his forearm—grounding, comforting.

Diane smiles warmly but doesn’t press further. “Well, welcome! Our newlyweds are getting their pictures taken right now. They should be here in about an hour or so, but in the meantime, we can go in,” she says, motioning for them to follow her. They step into line beside her, nodding along as she speaks. “Have you seen the garden already?”

“No, we haven’t. Well, we saw a picture Barbara posted, but it wasn’t finished yet,” Ashlyn replies quickly.

“Oh, it’s just breathtaking,” Diane says softly, placing a hand over her heart as she leads them toward the gate. TK’s gaze drifts beyond the entry, fixating on a man standing silently beyond the threshold—probably checking if the guests are truly guests. They don’t have an invitation, and there’s no point in pretending they forgot or lost it.

He tenses up, every beat of his heart loud in his ears, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The man nods at Diane, a friendly smile on his face, and she waves at him. “Do you want me to get you something to drink, Jax?” she asks as they step through the gate into the front yard—a lush expanse of greenery, with a gravel path winding past short, blooming rose bushes.

“Oh, yes, please. I asked Veronica, but knowing her, she probably stopped at the bar and forgot about me,” Jax replies, a teasing smile flickering across his face. His eyes briefly scan TK and Ashlyn, measuring them, then he nods politely. “Welcome.”

“I got you,” Diane responds, then turns back to TK and Ashlyn. “The tables are all in the backyard,” she points to the right, where the gravel path leads beyond a hedge archway. “There’s a buffet and an open bar right near the fountain. Honestly, I’m jealous—I wish I could have that when I get married,” she adds with a chuckle. She sounds genuine, but not bitter—like she’s truly happy for her friend—and a small weight settles in TK’s heart, a dull ache—they used her to get inside. “Check what your table is for the dinner seating—it’ll start in about two hours, so no rush,” Diane continues, her tone casual but reassuring. “In the meantime, have fun.”

They both thank her, watching as she walks toward the main entrance of the house.

TK leans closer to Ashlyn. “That was easy,” he whispers, glancing around the lavish yard, his heartbeat slowly steadying.

“It was,” Ashlyn nods. “But we don’t have much time. Eventually, people will figure out that we’re not supposed to be here.”

TK scratches his jaw. “Yeah, we’ll totally look suspicious when we’re the only ones without a seat, huh?”

"Come on. We have two hours at best."

They step through the hedge archway, immediately faced with a backyard carved out of a dream. The air is thick with the scent of blooming roses, peonies, and lavender—each flower swaying in the breeze, the soft rustle of leaves mingling with the quiet chatter of the guests already here.

To the left, the path curves around the back of the house toward a series of tables draped in white linens. A few guests are already seated, drinking, eating, and chatting. The small lanterns lining the path seem to be waiting for dusk to fall. Beyond these, there’s a white gazebo with flowing sheer curtains and string lights wound around the columns.

Directly in front of them stands the massive fountain, with ornate stonework and water cascading from a sculpted woman holding an amphora over her head. A few colored petals dance in the gentle ripples of the water.

TK manages to keep his jaw from dropping open at the sight—it's almost too much. Now he understands why Diane said it was breathtaking—and why she’s jealous. He himself is almost jealous too, though he’d never trade the wedding he and Carlos had for anything in the world.

After their first moment of stupor, they resume walking toward the tables, where the rest of the guests are gathered, mingling and enjoying the afternoon. TK glances around, trying to pick out any suspicious figures: if he's correct and Barbara is an accomplice, maybe the man in the red hat is here too; he could even be the groom, for all he knows.

He feels Ash tug at his sleeve, and he looks at her, humming in question.

"That’s Barbara," she says, nodding toward an older woman who’s chatting with a group of guests near the buffet table, a glass of wine in her hand.

"Shit, okay," he murmurs, taking a deep breath. "We should avoid her, right?" he asks, stepping in front of Ashlyn and turning his back to Barbara.

Ash shifts slightly, eyes darting over TK’s shoulder while seemingly trying to remain concealed by him. "Yeah," she bites her bottom lip, momentarily lost in thought.

TK waits for a few excruciating seconds, his shoulders fully tense. He looks around, suddenly feeling everyone’s eyes on him—but no one seems to be paying attention beyond the occasional glance. However, the longer they stay here, the more people will notice—and perhaps want to introduce themselves. Eventually, the truth will come out: no one knows them, and they shouldn’t be here.

"Ash, what do we do?" he asks, locking eyes with her, seeking guidance.

"We should get inside and search for clues."

TK nods, looking directly at the large white French doors that lead inside, from which the catering staff moves in and out with replenishments of drinks and food.

He nods toward the door. “That way?”

Ashlyn takes a deep breath. “Yes. Act casual,” she says, wrapping her arm around TK's again, and they both start walking.

As they step inside, they are greeted by the glow of the chandelier overhead, its crystals catching the sunlight filtering in and scattering it across the high ceilings decorated with plasterwork and the polished marble floor below. To the right, a fireplace dominates the wall, its mantel carved with floral motifs. Above it, a gilded mirror reflects their visages back to them. In the middle of the room, there's an elongated oval table set with silverware, crystal glasses, and personalized napkins with the initials K & G—Kate and Grant, the bride and groom.

“That’s a bit much,” TK mumbles, then his gaze drifts toward the archway on the left side of the wall, leading further into the villa.

Beyond the archway, they find themselves in a large hall. The walls are painted a soft beige, while the floor transitions from marble to cream-colored carpeting that muffles footsteps. Long floor-to-ceiling red drapes frame the windows on either side, and a grand wooden staircase with a carved balustrade leads upstairs, its steps covered with a velvet runner.

TK stops to stare at the grandeur of the interior, his eyes wandering around the room—taking in the paintings, the statues, the trinkets—wondering if each thing he sees is worth more than his and Carlos’ house.

“Do you need anything?” a voice interrupts his train of thought. He feels Ashlyn jump beside him, nails digging into his arm.

He turns around and is met with a man dressed for catering.“Yeah—” It comes out at least an octave higher than he intended, and he clears his throat to collect himself. “Yes, we were looking for the bathroom.”

The man nods, smiling politely. “Down the hall, second door to the right.” He points toward it, his tone friendly but professional.

“Thank you,” TK replies, nodding back at him.

He hesitates for a moment, then begins to lead Ashlyn down the corridor—slowly, ears tuned, waiting for the sounds of the man’s footsteps leaving the hall—looking for an opening to go up those stairs.

“You okay?” he whispers to Ashlyn, who’s oddly quiet beside him, breathing softly. She looks up at him, a flicker of worry crossing her face.

“Yeah.”

She’s holding on to him so tightly it’s hard to believe, but TK doesn’t press. He knows she can probably feel his own heart pounding in his chest. His skin prickles, as if it wants to crawl from his body at every step—too many risks for no reward so far.

He turns back around, noticing the coast is now clear. “Upstairs?”

Ashlyn follows his gaze toward the staircase, then subtly nods.

Quietly, they edge toward the stairs, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. TK’s ears pick up every nuance—the faint echo of footsteps on marble from the adjoining room, the muffled clatter of silverware, and hushed voices from the catering staff. He strains to catch their words, to make sure they’re not talking about them, but they’re lost in the background noise.

They begin walking up the stairs, making minimal noise—just their breathing—though it seems so loud to TK’s ears; he can swear he hears even the beads of cold sweat slowly dripping down his spine.

With his heart in his throat, he continues his ascent, closely followed by Ashlyn. He almost wants to turn around and tell her this is too much; even she is now clearly distressed, despite trying to hide it. But they’re so close to discovering more—everything points to Barbara. Even more importantly, everything indicates Penelope is in danger.

“This was a bad idea,” TK mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible as they reach the upper floor. The moment they slip out of sight, his pounding heart slows, though the tremor remains—an unsteady rhythm.

Ashlyn doesn’t respond; she slips past him, moving silently toward the first door lining the hallway. Her fingers hesitate only briefly before she reaches for the handle, turning it slowly. The door creaks—an unwelcome, shrill sound in the oppressive quiet—sending a jolt of dread through TK.

She peeks inside, hand fumbling for the light switch, and TK steps close behind her, peering over her shoulder. The room reveals itself as a library: towering wooden bookshelves lining the walls, their dark surfaces dense with leather-bound tomes and books, their spines etched with golden letters that catch the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. In the center stands a sturdy table cluttered with papers alongside an antiquated lamp—its brass base tarnished, more ornamental than functional. To the left, plush armchairs and a cozy sofa sit beneath a large window with heavy curtains drawn tight.

Suddenly, muffled footsteps drift up from behind them—approaching. TK’s throat tightens, his heart hammering painfully in his chest—someone’s coming upstairs.

TK acts on instinct, pushing Ashlyn inside just as a voice echoes through the hall below and up the stairs. “Mrs. Crawford?”

He closes the door behind them, wincing at the soft thud, then motions for Ashlyn to stay quiet, pressing a finger to his lips—his hand trembles ever so slightly, nerves flaring up.

Ear against the door, he holds his breath, standing still, listening.

It’s a muffled conversation; he can’t understand the words. One voice is louder, male, the other more softly spoken—he assumes it’s Barbara.

He mutters a hushed “fuck.”Of course she’s coming up the stairs. Maybe someone spotted them? Is she coming to check? His heart pounds rapidly, shockwaves quaking his brain and muting his thoughts as he tries to find a solution—this time, not even being the husband of a Texas ranger will get him out of trouble; it shouldn’t have even worked the first time.

Ashlyn reaches around him, her fingers wrapping around the door key that TK hadn’t even noticed. She turns it with a click that reverberates loudly in TK’s ears, but hopefully much quieter than it sounds to him, locking the door from within.

His gaze quickly darts around the room, searching for refuge—any place to hide or another way out. Maybe the window leads to a balcony? Maybe they can climb down.

He walks toward the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to look outside. He recognizes the view: the balcony that towers over the backyard, just like he saw in Barbara’s post. The party is going on below, guests chatting and celebrating, unaware that he and Ashlyn are up here snooping around.

He quickly ducks behind the curtain and closes it again. The window is not an option; they’d be spotted immediately.

The footsteps grow louder, just beyond the wall.

His gaze flicks upward toward the chandelier’s glow, then down again—an uneasy thought strikes him: Is the light visible from beneath the door?

He locks eyes with Ashlyn, who’s still next to the door, back pressed against the wall, and points upward, mouthing “light.”

She nods, reaching for the switch again, flicking the light off and casting the room into darkness—the curtains are too thick and heavy, and only a sliver of sunlight manages to filter through.

TK presses his back against the wall, slowly inching toward Ashlyn’s silhouette, which he can barely make out in the dark.

His soles squeak against the floor beneath him, and he goes still once more, muscles tense as the footsteps outside pause.

Silence stretches the single instant into an eternity, sinking TK’s heart deeper into panic, with painful throbs against his ribs—each one mocking him and crying out for safety that’s out of reach. There’s no way out.

He expects the door to rattle at any moment, and he holds his breath, nails digging into his palms. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, because the universe is funny like that sometimes.

Then, the footsteps resume, walking away down the corridor, and he manages to exhale a shaky, broken breath—though he doesn’t move yet.

He hears the sound of metal teeth being unzipped—soft, barely audible, muffled by the slow footsteps and the low chatter outside. Yet, it grates on his ears—the adrenaline surging through him heightens his senses.

A soft click, then a dim white light pierces the darkness, shining down on the table in front of him.

He frowns, his mind needing a full second to realize Ashlyn has a flashlight in hand—small, thin, more like a pen. Maybe it is a pen, or she borrowed a small LED tactical flashlight from Sam.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, watching Ashlyn quietly move toward the table.

“What we came here for. Looking for clues,” she whispers back.

TK takes a step toward her, his jaw tight to prevent his voice from bursting forth—this is not the moment, not with the footsteps outside just a few moments ago. He joins her at the table, wincing at the shuffling of paper as she inspects them.

Every creak and faint word from downstairs feels like a thunderclap, his heart skipping more and more beats, sending nervous tremors throughout his body.

His attention is drawn to a leather-bound journal on the table, and he reaches for it, fingers brushing against the cover. He flips it open, gently nudging Ashlyn in the side with his elbow, silently asking her to shine the light on the pages, and she does.

The pages are filled with handwritten notes, all entries dated, talking about Penelope’s podcast—documenting every episode, every person, and location mentioned. “It’s her,” he whispers. This is proof—she was documenting the podcast, looking into it.

He flips the last pages, fingers tracing each line, and his breath hitches as he reads the words: “Where is Penelope?”

“It’s not her,” Ashlyn murmurs, leaning closer to TK and turning another page. “She’s trying to solve the mystery too,” she adds as they both read through Barbara’s notes, which are remarkably similar to their own brainstorming— including the group chat and the list of dates each of them joined. Only the conclusions she has drawn are different: Professor Bing, the name crossed out with a note saying “not in Austin,” and Lou, the name circled with an arrow linking it to another note: “has a lizard.” TK struggles to hold back a chuckle—how is that relevant? Then he curses under his breath as they turn the page, reading Barbara’s final note: “Lou is the man in the red hat.”

Ashlyn taps her finger on the page. “She thinks it’s you.”

“Looks like it,” he murmurs, eyes wandering toward the door— they’ve been here too long already. “I think we should leave now, Ash.” They have what they wanted, well not really, but at least they know it’s not Barbara.

To his surprise, she nods, closing the journal and putting it back in its place. Then they both walk toward the door.

TK’s fingers curl around the key, ear pressed against the wooden frame, listening—with Ashlyn pressed against him—no footsteps, no voices, not a sound other than his heartbeat whispering back to him, and Ash’s breathing behind him.

He quietly unlocks the door, then grips the handle with his clammy hand.

Slowly, he pulls it open. The wood creaks again, like an alarm warning of their presence, and he peers out into the hallway—empty.

They step out, closing the door behind them with a thud, and begin heading toward the stairs.

Suddenly, a faint creak breaks the stillness—followed by a loud thud—and then a voice cuts through the quiet. “Can I help you?”

TK and Ashlyn freeze in place. Ashlyn mutters a frantic “Shit,” her voice barely above a whisper.

TK slowly turns around, dread spreading through his chest in cold waves—they got caught.

At the other end of the hallway, Barbara Crawford stands in a freshly donned yellow flowered dress, a smile curling her face, but her gaze darts between TK and Ashlyn, curious.

“Hi, Mrs. Crawford,” TK starts, his feet tethered in place as the woman begins walking toward them. “I— I’m Mark, and this is Sarah,” he stammers, the words tumbling out hurriedly, drowned by the pounding in his ears and Ashlyn’s tense stance beside him.

“Oh, are you friends with Kate?” Barbara asks.

Ashlyn takes half a step forward. “Yes. We were looking for the bathroom. We asked someone already, but we can’t seem to find it,” she says with a small laugh, though her tone still carries unease. TK notices it, and maybe Barbara does too.

Barbara chuckles. “The bathroom is downstairs. Come, I’ll show you.”

They mumble thanks and follow her down the corridor. Ashlyn begins complimenting her garden and her home, her voice trying to mask her nerves. Barbara keeps talking, engaging them in small talk, but TK’s eyes flick around, alert to every movement. His muscles are tight, every nerve on edge.

Just as they reach the bottom of the stairs, Diane appears in the hall, smiling warmly. “Oh, Diane,” Barbara calls cheerfully, waving her hand. “Can you show Sarah and Mark where the bathroom is?”

As he hears those words, the knot in TK’s chest tightens, squeezing the air out of his lungs—he fucked up. He gave her the wrong fake name.

Diane’s eyes meet TK’s briefly, her smile flickering for a split second before she resumes her composure. Her gaze shifts smoothly from TK to Ashlyn, then back again. TK’s stomach churns—she knows.

“Of course, Mrs. Crawford.” She motions for TK and Ashlyn to follow her.

Diane leads them down the hall to the second door on the right, gesturing toward it. “This is it,” she says with a smile, opening the door for them and revealing a spacious bathroom with elegant white tiles, a clawfoot tub, and a large mirror.

TK and Ashlyn exchange a glance. Then Ashlyn takes his hand in hers, pulling him inside. “Come on, I need help with my dress,” she says, smiling at Diane, who watches them go inside and close the door behind them.

“Fuck, she knows—” he stops mid-sentence as he hears the window rattle behind him. He turns around, seeing Ashlyn trying to slide the window open to no avail. “What are you doing?” he whispers-shouts.

“We have to go, now,” she urges, reaching up to the latch that keeps the window closed. She can’t reach it. “A little help?”

TK quickly moves to her side, standing on tiptoe and grasping the latch to unlock the window. He slides it open with a quiet hiss and peeks outside—only about five feet to the ground, a small drop onto the grass below.

He climbs through the window, landing on the grass outside with a grunt, then reaches up with his arms to help Ashlyn down.

“Go, go, go,” she whispers urgently, glancing over her shoulder at the chatter of the party just around the corner. Both of them start sprinting along the wall, adrenaline surging through TK’s veins, breathing ragged as they weave through the bushes.

They slow down as they reach the front yard. TK presses his back against the wall and peeks out: Jax is still at the gate, leaning casually against a tree. He doesn’t look alarmed—maybe Diane hasn’t told anyone yet, or maybe they’re both panicking for no reason, and no one knows they are not supposed to be here.

He straightens up and reaches for Ashlyn’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Act casual,” he says.

They walk through the front yard at a steady pace, TK trying to keep his face serene despite his racing thoughts. He didn’t imagine Diane’s reaction, and even if he did, he gave Barbara the wrong name. All it takes is for the two of them to talk some more to realize something is amiss—he blew their cover when they were so close to getting out untroubled.

He nods at Jax as they step out of the gate onto the sidewalk. The man simply nods back.

They don’t talk as they leave behind the house and the wedding party. TK doesn’t relax; his muscles are tense, ready should anything happen—ready for what? He’s not sure, but it keeps his heart from sinking deeper, from being completely overtaken by rising panic.

Ashlyn doesn’t let go of his hand. It’s a comforting warmth, knowing she’s here with him, despite having just made the most reckless decision of his entire life.

They reach the car and slip inside. TK turns on the engine and starts driving away, finally letting out a shaky breath.

The bubbles of dread in his chest slowly turn into a fizzy feeling rising up his throat, and a snort escapes his lips, which quickly becomes a chuckle as his lips stretch into a grin.

“What?” Ashlyn asks beside him, chuckling too.

TK shakes his head, the past hour replaying in his mind: from how they got inside, to snooping around, to discovering that Barbara is actually innocent, to almost getting caught—and considering how high the chances are that Diane will alert the authorities. “We’re so stupid, Ash.” He laughs, loud and unfiltered, feeling warm tears streak down his cheek—joy, stress, elation, and dread all condensed into salty trails.

Ashlyn wipes away her own tears, laughing along with him. “We are.”

Carlos shifts forward, leaning on his elbows against the counter, feeling the cool surface against his bare skin. He glances at his phone, then at the front door, hoping for a sign of TK’s return. 

Carlos had come home early in the afternoon, knowing full well TK was out, and was ready to spend a few hours lounging on his own—maybe reading or working out a bit. Instead, he took a shower, and as he stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror, he figured he could just take a selfie and send it to TK, hopefully prompting his husband to come back home.

Only his selfie turned out to be a dick pic, as he got hard just thinking about TK rushing back home to fuck him into the mattress, or against the counter, or in the backyard, anywhere, really. Carlos isn’t picky.

Now, he stands butt naked at the kitchen counter, an outfit carefully selected to surprise TK, nervously biting his bottom lip as TK hasn’t replied to his picture—a mix of apprehension and anticipation swirling in his chest.

The silence is deafening, and Carlos shifts again, reaching for his phone—sighing as he sees his text is still unread. It somehow stings deeper than it should; for some reason, he thought he’d already be basking in the afterglow right now, maybe even going for a second round of fucking TK in the shower. Instead, all he has is rising frustration and simmering longing deep in his lower stomach, left hanging in this limbo.

He sets the phone back down and finally steps away from the counter, nerves flaring up as the heat that had a chokehold on him dims, leaving him itchy and prickly with unsatisfied need.

He walks to the bedroom and throws on some shorts. Then, as he steps back into the living room, he hears the front door opening—his heart racing, sending signals to his brain to turn the system—his body—back on.

He can’t help but smile, hurrying to the front door, fingers tingling, heart thumping, heat rising—unashamedly ready to hold and be held.

“Hi, baby,” he calls out the moment TK crosses the threshold, flashing a smile as TK looks up at him.

“Hey,” TK whispers, putting down his gym bag by the door, then locking eyes with Carlos—droopy eyelids, a slight frown.

Carlos bridges the distance between them in a moment. “Hey, are you okay?”

TK nods, then leans heavily against Carlos’ chest, who instinctively wraps his arms around him, holding him tight.

He feels TK snuggle into him, hiding his face in the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply, as his palm finds its way to Carlos’ heart, pulse quickening as TK’s fingers brush against his chest hair.

“You look tired,” Carlos whispers softly in TK’s ear, his stomach twisting as worry gnaws at him—something must have happened.

“I am,” TK breathes out, but doesn’t move; he just stays there, arms reaching around Carlos’ waist.

Carlos presses a kiss to TK’s cheek, then slides his hands up to cup his face, gently pulling him back and tilting TK’s head to look him in the eye.

“Did something happen?”

TK’s face crumples, lips quivering, and he blinks rapidly, a single tear trailing down his beautiful face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs—words that pierce Carlos like cold shards.

Carlos steadies himself, wiping the tears from TK’s face with his thumb. “For what?” he asks, trying to sound reassuring despite the surge of panic suddenly sweeping through his body.

TK leans into his touch, sniffling, but his gaze darts downward in a frown. Carlos tilts his head, trying to meet his gaze, smiling when he finally does—staring into the deep ocean that owns his heart. Yet he doesn’t press further, giving TK some more time, despite each passing second pulling at his insides.

“For the mess I made,” TK murmurs, and the pieces fall into place in Carlos’ mind—this is about the other day.

“Babe, you already apologized,” Carlos replies, pressing a kiss to the corner of TK’s mouth. “You even got down on your knees,” he adds, hoping to lighten the mood, heart fluttering as TK snorts.

“Come here,” Carlos says, taking TK’s hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze, leading TK toward the couch.

Carlos lies down on it, gesturing for TK to lie on top of him. TK does, his warm body blanketing Carlos completely, with his head resting on Carlos’ chest as Carlos wraps him in his arms again.

He feels TK’s soft lips press gently on his pec, and his heart swells at the feeling. He starts rubbing TK’s back, fingers trailing down his spine through his shirt, and TK practically purrs at the touch, cuddling impossibly closer. The rhythm of TK’s heartbeat begins to match Carlos’ own—a harmony that muffles all other sounds, blocks out every thought, and fills Carlos with a love that only grows each day.

They don’t speak; they just feel each other. Carlos begins drifting in the warmth of the body on top of him, gently squeezing TK in a silent promise to always hold him when he feels overwhelmed. He also curses himself for not noticing TK’s distress over the past two days—he thought he had settled his mind when he looked into the podcast, but he was wrong.

TK’s soft breathing turns to gentle snoring as they spend these minutes together. Carlos kisses the top of TK’s head, smiling at the content hum he elicits from TK even as he drifts into dreams. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Carlos sits at his desk, the hum of the office around him serving as a muted backdrop to his thoughts. The smell of cheap coffee fills the air, and the fluorescent lights above cast a sterile glow over the workspace. Despite this, Carlos’ lips are stretched into a smile as he watches a video Andrea sent to him and TK—one in which Jonah is running toward, then away from, the waves lapping at the shore, laughing in delight.

“What are you looking at?” Sam’s voice startles him, and he instinctively pulls his phone close to his chest, his gaze snapping up at Sam, who is standing beside him. He hadn’t heard him approach—Sam is like a cat sometimes.

“You’re jumpy, Reyes,” he observes, patting him on the shoulder. “Is it a pic from TK?” He waggles his eyebrows.

Carlos scoffs, shaking Sam’s hand off his shoulder, a flush creeping up his neck. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters.

Sam hums thoughtfully, then leans against Carlos’ desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Sometimes,” he concedes with a grin.

“Did you need something?” Carlos asks, pocketing his phone.

“Nope.”

“Reyes, Campbell,” the Chief’s voice draws Carlos’ attention. He turns around, watching him walk up to his desk—he instinctively sits up straighter.

“Sir,” Carlos nods.

The Chief’s gaze flicks between the two of them, then around the room, as if weighing his next words carefully. Scratching his chin, he leans in slightly, voice low. “I have a favor to ask of you two.”

Carlos chances a glance at Sam, who looks just as confused as Carlos feels. A favor isn’t something he’d have expected, but his mind immediately travels to last week, when Chief Graham pulled some strings to convince Mr. Johnson not to press charges against TK and Ashlyn. If Carlos didn’t know the man and didn’t know he was a good person, he’d almost be worried considering what he did to achieve that.

“What is it, sir?” Sam asks after a beat of silence.

The Chief exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My mother-in-law was at a wedding this weekend—hosted at a villa. The host believes a couple of guests crashed the event. They were seen snooping around the property.”

“They stole something?” Carlos prompts.

Chief Graham shakes his head. “No. She’s convinced they were just assessing the place—checking it out.”

Carlos’ brow dips into a frown. “Did she call the police?”

Graham exhales a long sigh. “No. My mother-in-law was quick to offer the help of the Texas Rangers.”

Carlos leans forward. “And you want us to look into this?”

The Chief nods. “Off the record, as a personal favor. Probably nothing serious, but I’d appreciate it if you talk to her—see what she has to say.”

“And who’s her ?” Sam asks.

“Barbara Crawford.”

The name doesn’t flick any light on in Carlos’ mind; he’s never heard of this woman. Still, both he and Sam owe Chief Graham one, so he nods. “We’ll look into it.”

Chapter Text

It’s late afternoon by the time Carlos reaches Mrs. Crawford’s house. The sun is still high in the sky, painting it a bright, shimmering blue. The scorching heat—while almost unbearable in the city, trapped between the asphalt and tall buildings—is mitigated by the breeze that freely glides through the front yard of Mrs. Crawford’s villa, wrapping him and Sam in the scent of roses as they walk toward the front door, the gravel crunching underfoot.

It’s a grand sight, with sparse tall trees at the edges of the property and tall hedges locking this place in a heavenly bubble. Lush grass and vibrant flower bushes—ranging from red to yellow to white—dot the front yard, greeting guests in a colorful corner of a world that seems to belong to dreams.

However, Carlos’s eyes barely linger on the beauty. He did catch it—his breath faltered for a moment as he stepped through the front gate—but his focus is now elsewhere: searching for clues, cameras, secondary entrances—anything that could help him and Sam with the case—if it even is a case.

He noticed the absence of a camera at the front gate—no lens above or beside the speaker of the intercom. This is peculiar, considering the wealth of this family. It’s a security flaw he’s not sure why Mrs. Crawford hasn’t addressed, but more importantly, it’s a detail that will make his and Sam’s work more difficult. Immediately, a question sprouts in his mind: did the trespassers know when they targeted this home? How long have they been watching, studying, gathering information?

As they reach the front door, his gaze flicks up to the small, white camera above, then he looks back over his shoulder across the front yard toward the gate, squinting his eyes against the sun. Does this camera cover the entire front yard?

“I can already hear you thinking,” Sam notes.

Carlos locks eyes with him, slowly nodding. “Doesn’t this seem like too little security?” He points at the camera above the door, then gestures back toward the front yard, Sam’s gaze following his movements.

“It does, unless we’re missing something,” Sam replies, raising his hand to knock on the front door, but it swings open before he can.

A poised old woman, with silver hair pulled into a bun, greets them with a smile—Mrs. Crawford. “Rangers, welcome. Come in, come in.”

She steps aside, and Carlos exchanges a quick glance with Sam. They both take off their hats before stepping through the door into the foyer. Carlos takes in the furniture, the antiques, and the paintings lining the walls as Mrs. Crawford leads them to a cozy sitting room, bathed in the warm glow filtering through the tall, lace-draped window. The earth-toned walls are adorned with framed family photos—like proud, elegant watchers. Two armchairs and a couch are arranged around a dark wooden coffee table, with a bowl of potpourri in its center. Mrs. Crawford gestures for them to take a seat, and Carlos shakes off his initial awe. He steps through the threshold—his footsteps muffled by the thick, patterned rug with intricate floral motifs covering the polished hardwood floor—and follows Sam to the couch.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Mrs. Crawford says, taking a seat in the armchair opposite them.

“Of course, Ma’am,” Carlos replies with a polite smile. “Chief Graham told us you had guests snooping around your property.” He pulls out his notepad, softly tapping his pen on the paper, ready to take notes.

Mrs. Crawford shakes her head. “Not guests. No one invited them here,” she corrects.

Sam leans forward. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Well, my granddaughter Kate got married this weekend,” she begins, her eyes softening. “It was a beautiful ceremony—almost two hundred guests, all here. We were also lucky—a wonderful day, tables in the backyard, and the catering, the food—all perfect.” Her voice rises in pitch, and her smile widens as she recounts the story. Carlos nods along, maintaining a polite smile while holding back the urge to press for the important details that are just on the tip of his tongue.

He glances briefly at Campbell, who looks attentive, leaning forward with his hands clasped, but there's a slight twitch on his lips as Mrs. Crawford talks—frustration bubbling over.

“Can you tell us about the trespassers?” Carlos cuts in, his voice gentle, as Mrs. Crawford was starting to delve into the whys and hows of the menu selection.

She pauses, and for a moment, Carlos feels a bitterness on his tongue—maybe he was impolite. But then she chuckles, waving her hand. “Right, sorry. Well, I briefly saw them in the garden first, but I didn’t speak to them there.” Her smile dims as she continues. “I assumed they were friends of Kate’s or Grant’s; I didn’t know all the guests, after all. When I came inside to get changed after a small incident with the shrimps, I found them upstairs. They told me they were looking for the bathroom, and I believed them.”

“Can you tell us what they look like?” Carlos asks.

“White. A handsome couple. She’s a brunette. Oh, I loved her dress—elegant but simple, perfect for the wedding,” she says, bringing a hand to her heart. “He also has brown hair, bright green eyes—a charming man. Really, that’s how he gets you, I suppose,” she mumbles, sighing, then adds, pointing at Carlos, “About as tall as you, Ranger.”

Carlos continues writing down the details, which are not really specific—too many people in Austin could match the description. He holds back a chuckle as he writes about the man, his mind briefly traveling to TK, which only fuels his desire to get back home and spend the evening cuddling on the couch with him.

“Anything peculiar? Scars? Tattoos? An accent?” Sam asks, scratching the back of her neck.

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. But I admit I wasn’t paying too much attention—I thought they were guests.”

“When did you realize they weren’t who they claimed to be?”

“Oh, Diane pulled me aside and told me,” she explains. As Carlos raises an eyebrow, she continues. “One of the bridesmaids. She met them outside; they introduced themselves as Sarah and Zach, but those names didn’t match what they told me. The man said his name was Mark—that’s how Diane noticed something wasn’t right. Then we asked around—no one knew them.”

Carlos furrows his brow. It seems like a pretty amateur mistake—perhaps they aren’t professionals. But then again, they seem to have chosen their target carefully, taking advantage of the big wedding and staying calm and collected enough to avoid suspicion as they got inside.

“I noticed a security camera at your front door,” Carlos says, pointing back toward the entrance. “Do you have more around the property?”

Mrs. Crawford shakes her head. “No. I never needed more. My alarm system is new and advanced, or so my son says. And I’ve never had a problem; this is a quiet neighborhood.”

Carlos rubs a hand over his mouth, glancing subtly at Sam. It’s a big, wealthy property with little security. Though climbing over the fence or gate seems like a hard task from what he has seen, it’s still a good target, having so little security measures seems… Reckless. “We’re going to need to check the footage,” he says, and Mrs. Crawford nods. “Is anything missing? Did they take something?”

"No. I checked multiple times; everything seems in order."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?"

It’s about half an hour later when Carlos and Sam are walking back to their car, with the sun dipping lower beyond the trees lining the street. Mrs. Crawford gave them a few more details to work with. She explained that the wedding was a pretty big event, with many people talking about it on social media. Maybe that's how the two learned about it, though Carlos doesn’t rule out the possibility that a member of the catering staff or other guests might be involved. The two were then seen getting into their car and quickly driving west down the road. When Sam inquired about the model, all Mrs. Crawford could say was that the car was a gray sedan; nobody bothered to take the license plate, because no one knew about it yet. Sarah and Zach must have realized they were about to be exposed and left quickly.

They reach their car in silence, Carlos scanning the deserted street, his eyes lingering on the few houses visible from here. Mrs. Crawford may not have more surveillance cameras, but perhaps one of her neighbors does—an angle worth exploring.

He slips into the passenger seat, immediately huffing at the stifling heat inside the car, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

Sam sits behind the wheel, fumbles with the keys, and turns on the engine. His hand immediately reaches for the AC, pressing the button with a quick flick.

“So, what do we think?” Sam asks, his voice tinged with exhaustion as he increases the air conditioning.

Carlos lets out a long, slow sigh, as if releasing a weight he’s been carrying since he stepped inside Mrs. Crawford’s home—maybe even since this morning, when Chief Graham asked them to look into this as a favor. His eyes drift to the road ahead, then to the neighborhood around them. The details are slim—Sarah and Zach, or maybe Mark—could be anyone. The description of their car is vague—gray, no license plate, no model—meaning their best bet is waiting for security footage. His jaw tightens as he considers the implications. “Isn’t it weird they’d make a rookie mistake like using the wrong fake name?”

Sam stops at a red light, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Think they’re amateurs? Or new to the job?”

Carlos leans back into his seat, glancing out the window. “Honestly, I’m starting to think they’re just party crashers.”

“What were they doing upstairs then? It does seem suspicious—like they were checking out the place.”

Carlos shrugs. “Maybe they were really just looking for the bathroom.”

The light turns green, and Sam presses down on the accelerator, huffing a laugh. “Sure, I guess that’s possible.”

They fall into a quiet rhythm, the hum of the engine blending with the sounds of the neighborhood—people heading home after work, the distant murmur of life winding down. As they merge onto the main road leading back toward the city, Carlos’s eyes catch the pharmacy at the corner, specifically the surveillance camera facing the street and sidewalk.

“Pull over,” he says softly, knocking on the window.

“What is it?” Sam asks, but he pulls into the pharmacy parking lot without hesitation.

“Mrs. Crawford said the two headed west down the road, right?” Carlos prompts, his voice cautious.

Sam nods, then pauses, his gaze wandering toward the pharmacy, likely catching up to what Carlos is getting at.

“They probably passed through here,” Carlos says, pointing at the street. “Well, maybe not probably , but it’s worth a shot—we can ask to see the surveillance footage. Maybe they’ll give it to us.”

It’s later than Carlos would like when he finally rolls into their driveway. The city noise has softened to a quiet hum of evening life, with shadows stretching across the streets as the night spreads across the sky.

He takes a moment to check his phone, typing a quick reply to Campbell, who’s confirming they should get the pharmacy footage by tomorrow. He still doesn’t have any news about Mrs. Crawford’s footage — not that it matters right now. He’s home, and he has no intention of thinking about work.

He steps out of his car, briefly stretching, then walks up to the front door—lazy, tired steps—but the closer he gets, the more his lips stretch into a smile as his ears catch a sound that warms his heart: he can clearly hear TK’s voice drifting through the air, loudly singing “Whoa, we’re halfway there.”  

Quietly, he unlocks the door, hoping TK doesn’t hear the mechanical click, then slowly pushes it open and steps inside, greeted by the soft glow of their living room, the scent of garlic, spicy paprika, and the subtle zing of lemon zest—but more importantly, by TK’s voice rippling through the air from the kitchen.

He slowly walks toward the kitchen, now hearing something sizzling on the stove, and peeks inside. Immediately, he’s faced with TK’s grin—his husband looking over his shoulder and flashing him a smile, belting “ Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear,” while pointing the wooden spatula he’s using as a mic toward Carlos, tapping his right foot rhythmically on the floor. Carlos chuckles—he didn’t manage to catch his husband by surprise, it seems.

Carlos easily follows the pull to get closer, TK beckoning him, waiting for him to continue with the next verse. He stops just an inch from the mic, but instead of joining TK in the performance, he rests his hands on TK’s waist, pulls him closer, and catches his lips in a kiss. He can clearly taste the mix of herbs and spices on TK’s lips, but his natural, sweet flavor—to which Carlos is so addicted—is still there.

TK leans into him, deepening the kiss, and Carlos shivers at the gentle pressure of TK’s teeth on his bottom lip. His heartbeat quickens, as if it’s the first time he feels TK pressed so close—his head light, his husband's scent overwhelming all else and filling him in the quiet shelter of their kitchen.

When TK parts from him, Carlos can’t resist stealing another quick kiss, lingering on the corner of TK’s mouth. His heart soars as TK giggles and pokes him in the cheek. “Hi, baby.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Carlos whispers, locking eyes with TK, letting the ocean lull him—drawing him deeper.

TK shakes his head, then pecks his nose. “Something happened?”

“Just a favor for Chief Graham. Nothing serious,” Carlos replies, begrudgingly letting TK step back to put the spatula on the counter—catching sight of the salmon fillet simmering in a pan and the side of roasted potatoes. “It smells so good, babe.”

TK turns around with a proud smile. “It’s almost ready.”

“Do I have time for a shower?”

“With or without me?”

Carlos’ gaze darts to their dinner, then back to TK’s cheeky face. Every cell in his body is begging him to take TK’s hand and bring him into the shower—to slowly open him up and fuck him like he deserves, yearning to hear the moans echo against the tiles of their bathroom. The counterargument—that dinner might get cold—almost rolls off his tongue as a reflex, but he can’t deny his own desire or his heart.

He quickly turns off the stove, then takes TK’s hand in his. “With you. Always with you.”

They’re back in the kitchen after almost an hour, and Carlos wouldn’t have had it any other way. It’s slippery in the shower and not at all easy, but with the years he and TK have spent together, they’ve adapted: steady but slow thrusts that make both of them groan; Carlos always holds TK’s hips tightly, both for balance and to spur both of them on. Nothing quite beats being enveloped by TK’s warmth, feeling him desperately push back into him while the water caresses both of them, muting out every sound except those happening right there—gasps and needy whines erupting from his husband’s lips, the desperation as TK pulls at his hair and warns him he’s about to flood his throat. Just what Carlos needs at the end of a day: worshiping the love of his life.

He sets the table while constantly stealing glances at TK, who moves around the kitchen with a new spring in his step—checking the salmon and confirming it's fine to eat, even like this—then reheating the potatoes quickly. Every small movement from TK—however simple—just fuels Carlos’s heart. He’s adrift in their love, and he’s proud of it.

The third time TK catches him watching, he raises an eyebrow at Carlos. “What?” he says with a smile.

Carlos shrugs, putting down the water on the table. “I just love you,” he replies—words he’ll never tire of saying, for TK to hear and for Carlos to tell the world.

TK beams, setting the plate he was holding back on the counter before walking up to him and taking Carlos’s hands in his. “I love you too,” he murmurs, then presses a soft kiss to Carlos’s lips. “But set the table now,” he urges, smacking Carlos’s ass.

“Yes, Sir,” Carlos says with a playful salute, returning to the table for the finishing touches.

Just as Carlos is about to sit down, his phone rings from where he left it in the living room. He quickly reaches for it, frowning for a moment as he sees that his mother is FaceTiming him.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Carlos!” Jonah’s voice echoes through the phone. The camera shakes, much like Carlos’s heart at the sound of their little gremlin’s voice, and slowly, his cheeky face appears on the screen, grinning.

“Mijo!” TK’s head shoots up as he hears Carlos, quickly rising to his feet to join him.

“Hey, Jojo,” TK says, pressed against Carlos’s side. “Does Abuela know you have her phone?”

Jonah nods. “Sí!”

Carlos exchanges a glance with TK, and they both let out an amused chuckle. “Did you miss us and wanted to talk to us, buddy?” Carlos asks, taking in the sight of Jonah through the screen: tousled hair, still damp—probably fresh out of the shower. He’s clearly tanned, though Carlos doesn’t spot any redness; knowing his mom, she probably bathes Jonah in sunscreen before letting him out in the sun.

Jonah shakes his head. “No.” Just one word, and Carlos’s heart sinks. He hears TK’s breath catch beside him. Logically, he should be happy Jonah is doing well without them, but it still feels like a punch in the gut—though it’s his fault for baring his heart to a six year old. “Abuela dijo que te llamara porqué—” he stammers, face scrunching up as he thinks. “She’s worried you miss me.”

“We do miss you,” TK says, managing to recover from the blow much faster than Carlos, wrapping an arm around his waist and holding him close. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes! I found so many shells! And saw a crab today, but abuela said I can’t bring it home,” his voice drifts off, frowning for a moment, then he continues. “And, and—” he giggles, snorting, and Carlos’s heart melts. His laughter is just like TK’s—the two people in the world who own his heart. “Una gaviota stole Tía Ana’s sandwich!” he keeps laughing, barely able to finish the sentence.

“Gaviota?” TK whispers in Carlos’s ear, a hint of worry in his tone, tensing up, as Jonah recounts how he and his primos tried to get the sandwich back—with no success.

“A seagull,” Carlos whispers back, and TK nods, shoulders relaxing again.

Jonah’s gaze snaps up from the phone as a voice calls for him, but Carlos doesn’t catch what the voice is saying—it sounds like Ana, but he isn’t sure.

“Estoy hablando con mis papás,” Jonah replies to whatever the voice asked him.

Carlos feels a flutter in his heart, and judging by the squeeze TK gives him, TK feels the same. Jonah used to call them dad, papá, or a few other variations during the first couple of years he’s been with them. Over time, he moved back to calling them Carlos and TK. Both of them understand why, though Carlos would be lying if he said he didn’t miss being called papá. Now, hearing Jonah refer to them like that, his chest just roars with pride — they’ll always be his papás, even if unconventional ones.

Jonah nods to whatever the voice is telling him, then looks back at Carlos and TK, beaming. “We’re going out to get ice cream!”

Carlos and TK share a warm, knowing smile at Jonah’s excitement. “Tell Abuela we say hi, and be good, okay?” Carlos says.

“I’m always good!” Jonah counters, though he cannot hide the spark of mischief in his eyes. “Can I call you for the story later?”

“Of course,” they both reply in unison.

Jonah beams through the screen. “I love you.”

“We lov—” The call disconnects before either of them can finish the sentence, leaving both of them staring at their own reflections on the screen, the fleeting moment slipping away.

Carlos sighs, wanting nothing more than to hear Jonah’s voice again and learn more about his day, but he sets his phone back down and turns around to face TK. “Sometimes he’s just like you,” he notes, slipping his hands on TK’s hips.

TK tilts his head in question, and Carlos presses a kiss to his temple. “Energetic, trying to bring home strays,” he lists, rocking him and TK back and forth. “A little shit,” he adds, earning a gasp and a light slap on his arm.

“You’re talking about your son and your husband!” TK says with a laugh, wiggling out of Carlos’s hold.

“Exactly,” Carlos teases, following TK as they head toward the kitchen. “So I know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.” TK whirls around, hand on one hip, the other on the counter. “So, you married a little shit?”

Carlos steps closer, shaking his head and cupping TK’s face. “You’re so much more than that.”

TK snorts after a beat of silence. “Damn, aren’t you a romantic,” he says, but still presses a kiss to Carlos’s jaw that makes him weak in the knees.

Carlos clears his throat. “Let me try again. I love every single facet of you,” he says softly, rubbing his thumbs on TK’s cheeks. TK leans into his touch, staring into his eyes as Carlos inches closer. “Including you being a little shit sometimes.”

“For a moment, you almost had me,” TK says, unimpressed, yet he doesn’t hide the smile curling his lips. He turns around, plating the salmon that has been waiting for them for long enough now.

Carlos wraps his arms around his husband from behind, chest pressed against his back. “Do you think dinner could wait a little longer? I have an idea,” he asks, breath lingering against TK’s ear, savoring the scent of his skin—intoxicating.

TK turns his head, pressing back into him. “Oh, what did you have in mind?”

Carlos stays silent for a moment, simply enjoying the sensations—the warmth, the scent, the quickening beat of his own heart as desire spreads through him. Then, voice husky, he asks, “Wanna fuck me on the couch?”

Without a word, TK turns in Carlos’s arms, pulling him into a hungry, possessive kiss that has Carlos gasp before he relaxes into it, letting TK’s tongue slide between his lips. Their bodies grind together, hips pressing tight as TK’s hands grip Carlos’s shoulders. “Always,” he whispers when he pulls back briefly, then dives back in for Carlos’s lips, pushing him toward the living room with an urgency that has Carlos’ head spin.

TK leans over the table, eyes scanning his notes, then up at Ashlyn standing in front of the whiteboard, lost in thought. All the theories they had about Barbara and the group chat had led him and Ashlyn nowhere closer to Penelope. The only silver lining was confirming that Barbara was not involved at all. The massive downside was having trespassed onto private property, crashed a wedding—somehow convinced that it was a good idea—and spent the rest of the weekend with gripping anxiety spreading through his body for what he and Ashlyn had done.

It’s been a couple of days, and his life has proceeded as normal: he cooked, cleaned the house, worked out, read Jonah bedtime stories—all with the constant gnawing thought that it could be the last time. He worried that the police would show up at his door at any moment to arrest him. But that didn’t happen. He checked online, looked at Barbara’s social media—nothing. Maybe Diane didn’t realize they weren’t supposed to be at the wedding, perhaps they spun the story on their own, a story woven out of guilt, dread, and panic over what they had done.

Yet, neither he nor Ashlyn could just let it go—not when Penelope is still out there, not when Barbara’s journal confirms they are not imagining things: there is a hidden message in Penelope’s post—she’s in danger.

He leans back into his chair, tilting his head up at the white ceiling and closing his eyes. The library is quiet, just as one would expect—only the hum of the AC, faint footsteps in the hallway outside, and the low rumble of engines driving down the street. It just lets his mind drift into the worry that’s creeping beneath the surface, always present—like a dull pulse bubbling above the waves, then sinking back down, deeper each time.

He hears Ashlyn huff, then the rhythmic tapping of the marker on the whiteboard. Each soft thud ripples through his mind, like a metronome counting down the moments Penelope has left. Maybe they should tell Carlos and Sam—they would have to confess to trespassing again—but they could help. He groans, just like every time he considers telling Carlos everything. They don’t have any proof; even if he told Carlos, what could he do? He already looked into it when TK first thought Penelope was missing. She is not missing, as far as the world is concerned. Even Derek Matthews is not missing. To everyone, it was all just a hoax—a way to captivate an audience with an intricate and compelling story. But that’s all it is—a story.

"Please, tell me you have an idea," TK says, eyes still shut, slowly sinking into his seat, surrendering to the crushing weight of uncertainty. If neither of them can come up with anything, he'll tell Carlos. He might look obsessed, maybe even paranoid—probably like a criminal—but hopefully, Carlos won't divorce him, he’s pretty sure he won’t.

He hears Ashlyn step closer, the soft rustling of paper as she flips through her notebook. He opens his eyes, watching her quickly scan her notes, lips pressed in a thin line.

"I think we looked at this from the wrong angle," Ashlyn mumbles, eyes still on the page.

"What do you mean?"

She turns the notebook around, pushing it toward TK. TK sits up properly, looking at the page: it’s the investigation into Matthews, the recaps of Penelope’s episodes, with Ashlyn’s notes scattered throughout.

“We don’t have anything concrete about Penelope,” she explains, leaning her elbows on the table. “But we have a lot about Derek Matthews.”

TK frowns, turning the pages—detailed notes with places, dates, and names; Ashlyn meticulously recorded everything Penelope discovered. “And Penelope went missing while investigating his case,” he whispers, understanding where Ashlyn is going with this.

“We could follow in her footsteps and get a better picture.”

Taking on the case Penelope herself was trying to solve—that’s what Ashlyn is suggesting. TK isn’t sure they have the ability to do that; they wouldn’t actually consider it if it weren’t for the fact that Penelope already cleared the way for them. But this would mean getting even closer to the man in the red hat. They’ve followed their intuitions and hearts so far, but talking to witnesses and visiting the places Penelope went to increases their chances of coming into contact with the culprit.

He locks eyes with Ashlyn, who seems determined but tense. TK wonders how long she’s been thinking about this, if she has considered the risks as he has—especially after their recent escapade. Yet, the ache that bites him reminds him that Penelope needs them. She may be scared, alone, wondering if someone received her message, hoping she won’t just be forgotten. TK nods, then quickly raises a finger. “But no trespassing.”

“No trespassing,” Ashlyn agrees, then quickly flips the pages. “We should start with his neighbor.”

Derek Matthews’ neighborhood is quiet. As TK walks down the sidewalk with Ashlyn beside him, he lets his gaze roam, studying and trying to take in the details: rows of well-maintained houses, some with manicured lawns, others leaning more on the wild side with taller trees and sprouting bushes. Children’s bikes sit in some driveways, and a dog—tongue lolling out—curiously walks up to the fence to check out TK and Ash as they pass by. It’s a place that exudes normalcy, yet TK can’t help but remain tense, picking up sounds and motions, skin prickling at the feeling that maybe someone is watching as they approach Matthews’ old house.

The house itself is modest, unassuming. The exterior is painted in a faded shade of beige. The front porch has small wooden steps leading up to the front door, which is white, matching the double-pane windows. The blinds inside are drawn, giving the house an air of emptiness. The yard surrounding it is overgrown in places, with a few patches of weeds, but nothing that screams absolute neglect. It’s the lack of personal touches that sinks TK’s stomach—no potted plants, no welcome mat, no signs of recent activity—just a plain, deserted appearance.

He glances at Ashlyn, who’s leaning lightly against the low metal chain-link fence around the property. It rattles under her weight as she shifts to face TK. “This is it. Which one do you think is the correct house?” she murmurs, looking past TK’s shoulder and then around.

TK does the same, scanning the houses around them. “I’m not sure.”

They don’t know who the neighbor Penelope was talking to is. All they have is what Penelope revealed in her podcast: that this person contacted the police first, but there was no proof that Matthews was missing; then they contacted Penelope, and she accepted the case.

He continues surveying the neighborhood, his eyes scanning the houses—one bright and colorful, with blooming flowerbeds barely visible through the thick bushes and trees in the front yard. Another has a neatly trimmed lawn, a picnic table, and a couple of chairs, with toys lying in the grass and a bicycle leaning against the white fence. Lastly, he looks over the one-story house to the left of Matthews’, with a vibrant green hedge covering part of the front yard, and a porch swing swaying lightly in the breeze—barely visible, and just the faintest creak of the metal links reaches his ears. Then it hits him: the open window on the right side of the house—curtains drawn, seemingly unimportant, yet Penelope said in her first episode that the neighbor saw Matthews leave the night he disappeared from the window of their bedroom. So, the neighbor must have had a vantage point that aligns precisely with the window TK is looking at.

He leans closer to Ashlyn, pointing subtly toward the house. “Could be that one,” he says. Ashlyn follows his gaze, brow furrowing. “Perfect view of Matthews’s front yard. It aligns with what Penelope said,” he explains.

As they both look, TK catches the faintest movement behind the drawn curtains and tightens his jaw—perhaps the wind, or maybe someone’s watching.

“We should pay them a visit,” Ashlyn says, taking a step toward the house.

TK lingers on the sidewalk for a moment, looking back at Matthews’ place, then at the window. He can’t shake the tight grip in his stomach—a flicker of unease that seems to sharpen his senses. Ashlyn stops and turns to him with a raised eyebrow, and he nods, jogging up to her.

They approach the house together, walking along the lush hedge that encircles the property and shields the front yard from view until they reach the quaint, weathered metal gate at the entrance. Beyond it, a cobblestone path lined with blooming white daisies and violets leads up to the front porch. A small, weathered, round white metal table sits in the grass to the right, with a couple of chairs neatly tucked underneath it, in the shade of an oak tree whose sprawling canopy shrouds the garden from the outside world. Sunbeams filter through the leaves, illuminating patches of vibrant greenery and tender blossoms.

TK hums, finger reaching for the doorbell, hovering just an inch from it. “Ready?” he asks, gaze locked on the front door, his mind conjuring shadows of movement just beyond it.

“Yeah,” Ashlyn says, exhaling a breath and nervously glancing around, as if she, too, is feeling her skin crawl—like they’re being watched.

He rings the doorbell, the shrill sound echoing through the house. For a moment, everything remains silent, just TK’s own quickening heartbeat pounding in his ears. Then, the door swings open with a creak, revealing an older woman with graying hair and glasses perched on her nose. She stays on the threshold, her gaze darting between TK and Ashlyn.

“Can I help you?”

TK smiles politely, then his voice falters, his mind going blank as he hesitates. Should they tell her who they are? That they’re friends of Penelope or Derek? Or come up with a cover story?

Ashlyn speaks up before him. “Good afternoon, Ma’am. I’m Ashlyn; this is TK. We’re friends of Penelope,” she says, voice bright.

The woman frowns, seemingly studying them for a beat.

“Penelope Shaw?” TK clarifies, searching for signs of recognition on the woman’s face, noticing a subtle shift in her posture—an almost imperceptible nod. She knows who they are talking about.

“And where is she?” the woman asks, her voice tinged with concern, looking past TK and Ashlyn.

He exchanges a quick glance with Ashlyn. It’s not something he wants to discuss in public, especially when his gut is screaming that they’re on the edge of a precipice.

“Can we talk privately?” he continues gently, hoping they don’t seem menacing—that the smile he offers can put her at ease, despite them being strangers.

The woman’s lips tighten, and she brushes a strand of gray hair behind her ear. She seems hesitant, on edge, yet she nods. Hands reaching back behind the wall, the gate clicks open.

They step through the gate, walking up the porch—the planks squeaking under their every step—until they’re face-to-face with the woman.

She seems to assess them one more time before stepping inside, letting them in. They both murmur a thank you and step inside.

The interior is modest and cozy. The woman leads them to the living room—a few framed photos on the walls, a worn but comfortable-looking sofa, a cuckoo clock in the corner, and a small table covered with a lace cloth. The air smells faintly of old paper and lavender.

The woman gestures to the couch. “Please, have a seat. I’m Naya.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” TK says gently, sitting on the couch, which sags a little under his weight. Ashlyn sits beside him, hands clasped in her lap.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Iced tea?” Naya asks, still keeping her distance, one hand gripping the back of the armchair across from them.

Naya’s cautious gaze lingers on TK and Ashlyn as she waits for their response. TK exchanges a quick, reassuring glance with Ashlyn, then nods politely. “Iced tea would be lovely, thank you.”

The woman nods, jaw tightening despite her smile, fingers tapping nervously on the armchair for a moment before she moves toward the small kitchen nook.

TK and Ashlyn sit in silence, broken only by the tick of the clock, the soft ting of glass, and the steady trickle of liquid being poured. Ashlyn suddenly rests her hand on TK’s knee, and only then does TK realize he was nervously bouncing his leg on the rug. After Ashlyn’s reassuring squeeze, he stops, muttering, “Sorry.”

“So,” Naya begins, returning with three glasses of iced tea and placing them on the table. She takes her seat, picks up one of the glasses, and cradles it between her hands. “What brings you here?”

TK leans forward, reaching for a glass. “We’re concerned about Penelope. She’s been investigating Derek Matthews, and we know you’re the one who asked her to, right?”

Naya’s eyes narrow slightly, her grip on the glass tightening. “I did. Did something happen?”

TK gives a measured nod, trying to keep his voice calm. “We have reasons to believe she’s in trouble. We want to help, but we don’t have much to go on.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

Naya presses her lips together, her gaze flickering between them. “About ten days ago, I think—maybe more. She came here to update me on the case, Derek’s case.”

“What did she say?” Ashlyn asks, placing the now half-empty glass back on the table, making sure to use one of the coasters.

The woman sighs, slowly shaking her head. “That she was close to finding the answer. She asked me for more details about the night…” Her voice trails off, and she shifts in her seat. “The night Derek…” Her voice fizzles to an unintelligible whisper, her gaze wandering to her left, toward Derek’s house—an image that squeezes TK’s heart: the subtle twitching of her lips, the quick couple of blinks, as if she’s trying to hold back a wave of overwhelming emotion.

“Ma’am, could you,” he begins, and Naya locks eyes with him, shimmering with uncertainty—doubt flickering behind them. “Could you tell us all you know? Starting from the beginning?”

As he asks, Ashlyn reaches for her purse, takes out her notebook and pen, ready to take notes.

Naya inhales deeply, briefly closing her eyes as if to collect herself, then nods. “Derek was a good young man,” she begins, a faint smile flickering on her lips. “He was loud, I’ll admit,” she chuckles softly, a bittersweet sound. “But he was also funny and caring. He visited almost every day.”

“How come?” Ashlyn asks.

Naya pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I have no family of my own, and he didn’t either. Well, I know his mother is still alive, but he didn’t want anything to do with her. I never pressed him on why; it was a touchy subject for him. We just… found each other, I suppose, kept each other company. That’s why I know he’d never have left without saying goodbye.”

Her voice cracks, and a tear slips down her cheek as grief overtakes her. Both TK and Ashlyn wait patiently, giving her the space to recompose herself.

After a moment, Naya’s voice steadies. “The police didn’t believe me. Said there was proof—he canceled his lease, quit his job—but I knew there had to be more. That’s why I reached out to Penelope. I had to find out what really happened to him.”

It’s nothing TK doesn’t already know, and aligns with what Carlos told him when he looked it up for him. “What did you see that night?” he asks gently, knowing she has seen Derek leave from her window.

Naya’s expression darkens slightly, her brow knitting in thought. “I was in bed, but Derek’s voice woke me up—he was yelling. I’d never heard him so angry,” she says softly, and Ashlyn quickly jots down notes in her notebook.

“Who was he yelling at?”

“His boyfriend, Marcus. He was on the phone with him. I saw him pacing beside his car, distressed and upset, telling him it was over. I never met the man, only saw him a couple of times—he’d come to Derek’s late at night and leave early in the morning. I didn’t know much about their… relationship. Derek never confided in me. The shouting went on for a while, then he got quieter, but still angry—telling him he had to go to work, to meet him there if he truly cared. He sounded so broken, yet hopeful. Then he got in his car and drove off—that was the last time I saw him.”

TK exchanges a quick, knowing glance with Ashlyn, then leans forward, his expression serious. “This Marcus—did you ever see him wear a red fedora?” His voice is cautious, aware it’s a long shot, but the possibility lingers.

“No. But he was always in a rush, and—” she hesitates, sighing softly. “He was a married man,” she murmurs, rubbing her hand over her mouth in thought. “I saw his wedding ring one morning—I was out for a walk—and Marcus walked out of Derek’s house, barely nodded hello to me before driving off.”

A married man involved in a heated fight the night Derek was seen alive. It’s a lead that’s hard to ignore—Marcus may have made sure Derek couldn’t tell anyone about them, about Marcus cheating on his spouse.

TK looks at Ashlyn again, feeling the familiar gnawing sense that they’re onto something—perhaps the same conclusion Penelope had reached. They need to dig deeper into Derek’s relationship with Marcus.

“And you told all this to Penelope too?” he asks, lightly tapping his fingers on his glass.

“Yes. I told her everything I know. Is this why she’s in trouble?”

“We don’t know,” TK quickly replies. It’s a lie—blatant—and Naya can probably tell, but she has been through enough. He can’t bear to let her think Penelope’s disappearance is her fault; he won’t give her the chance to go down that rabbit hole.

They all fall silent, with Naya sinking back into her seat, eyes wandering in the space between them—perhaps thinking or reminiscing.

TK looks back at Ashlyn, who’s still writing down notes. He catches a few words: Marcus, mirage, affair.

As she finishes writing, Ashlyn stands up. “Thank you, Naya,” she says. “This was all really helpful.”

Naya nods. “Derek was a good man,” she repeats. “I—I don’t approve of his relationship with a married man, but we—I—don’t know the entire story. He was a good man.”

“He seems like a good man,” TK reassures softly, heart cracking at the silent tears streaking her face. “We’ll figure out what happened to him,” he promises. They’re in too deep now—Derek and Penelope both need them; there’s no way either he or Ashlyn will let this go now.

“If you remember anything else,” Ashlyn says, writing something down in her notebook and then ripping the page out. “Call me.”

They leave shortly after, walking toward Ashlyn’s car parked at the end of the street. TK’s body remains attentive; the subtle but persistent unease that had built during their stay still clings to him, tightening his shoulders as they pass Derek’s house. Though it’s now empty, the shadow of danger lingers in the air, making his skin crawl.

Once he slips into the passenger seat, he exhales a long, slow breath, letting the tension drain from his body, if only for a moment.

He turns to Ashlyn, who looks lost in thought, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel but not turning the engine on. “Marcus is a new name,” TK begins, his gaze momentarily drawn to a woman riding a bike past them. He watches her until she pulls into a driveway several houses ahead.

“It is. He’s the man in the red hat, right?”

“I think so. Derek told him to meet him at the Mirage. Gloria said she saw Derek talking with a man and a woman in the back alley there—the man was Marcus, right? And maybe the woman was his wife?” he suggests, thoughts tumbling out one after another after stewing in his mind for the past thirty minutes.

“I doubt Marcus would have brought his wife to meet his lover,” Ashlyn mumbles, starting the car.

“Right,” TK says, rubbing the back of his neck instinctively. For some reason, that detail had slipped past him—another piece missing from the puzzle.

He gazes out the window as Ashlyn drives them away from the neighborhood, the city’s lights flickering to life as evening settles in. So many threads remain loose, dangling just out of reach. But one stands out—Marcus. The connection, the suspicion, his gut feeling that Marcus is the key. It’s an intuition born from too many coincidences: the mysterious man at the Mirage, Derek vanishing the very night he argued with Marcus, the woman present at their meeting.

His stomach churns. Derek is dead; everything points to it. This is not just a missing person case—it’s a murder. Penelope might be next. They may be getting closer, but the man in the red hat is still out of reach, and Penelope is still alone.

“The Mirage is a good lead,” Ashlyn says, breaking the silence. TK looks back at her, finding her lips curled in a cheeky smile—one that screams she has her mind set on something.

“You wanna check it out, don’t you?” TK says, raising an eyebrow.

Ashlyn shrugs. “Don’t tell me you don’t.”

TK chuckles softly, knowing there are countless reasons to go there: talking to Gloria, interviewing other colleagues who might have overheard something, maybe mentioning Marcus to see if it sparks any reaction. That place is the logical next step.

“We have to check it out,” he agrees firmly.

“Can you look up the address?”

TK frowns, but still reaches for his phone. “You wanna go now? ” It’s not even 7PM, it’s not gonna be open.

“Yeah, why not? It’s early but maybe someone is already there, willing to talk. At worst we can check the place out and plan for our visit tomorrow.”

TK glances at his phone, then back at Ashlyn. He had plans with Carlos tonight, plans he really doesn’t want to cancel—they only have so many days left without Jonah, and he intends on using them fully.

Still, the lead is good, and Penelope’s life is worth more. “Okay, But we can’t stay long.”

Ashlyn nods. “Deal.”

The last glimmering sunbeams still keep the night at bay as TK and Ashlyn walk toward the entrance of the Mirage. The exterior is sleek and modern—blackened brick with narrow, tinted windows. Two large, ornate doors mark the entrance: black lacquer with chrome handles. Above them, the neon sign flickers, bright pink: The Mirage .

After Ashlyn pulled into the parking lot, they decided to take a look around outside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: the back alley Penelope mentioned in the podcast was more of a parking lot for employees, requiring a card to access. This detail made TK wonder for a moment if the man in the red hat was an employee, but anyone could easily climb over the barrier.

They also saw two men leave through the front door and get to their respective cars—dressed in casual clothing, nothing that suggested they worked here. Maybe they’re clients, friends, or had other business to discuss, but their exit sparked the idea to get inside for a quick look. At worst, they’d just be asked to leave.

He pushes one of the doors, half expecting it to be closed, like the opening hours on the side of the entrance would suggest, but it opens. They step inside into a dimly lit interior with a low ceiling, a bar stretching along the wall to the right—sleek, polished, with a black mirror on the wall reflecting the ambient lighting. A dance floor of polished wood dominates the center, right in front of the main attraction: a small stage framed by velvet curtains. Along the other walls are booths upholstered in black leather, each separated by low partitions. Adjacent to the main stage, a set of stairs leads to the upper level, a velvet rope blocking access—maybe it’s the VIP section.

They stand at the entrance, TK’s eyes flicking over the deserted surroundings, picking up the faint scent of alcohol and perfume lingering in the air.

Suddenly, a woman’s voice cuts through the silence from behind the bar. “Sorry, folks. Interviews are over for today. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.”

TK turns toward the voice: a young woman wearing a dark vest, cleaning a glass right behind the counter, looks up at them.

TK exchanges a quick glance with Ashlyn, then hesitantly takes a step forward. “Uhm, we’re looking for Gloria?” he tries.

The woman puts the glass back down with a soft thud. “And who’s looking for her?”

“We’re—” Ashlyn steps beside TK, plastering on a polite smile. “We’re friends of Penelope Shaw.”

The bartender’s gaze flicks between the two of them, seemingly evaluating them. TK slightly shifts in place, his heart pounding harder, only now realizing they may be in the belly of the beast—that this place is the last location where Derek was seen alive, and that Penelope herself disappeared shortly after coming here. He feels Ashlyn inch closer to him, but he doesn’t tear his gaze away from the woman.

After what feels like an eternity, the woman nods. “I’m Gloria. What can I do for you?”

“We just need to ask a few questions about what you told Penelope the night you talked to her,” Ashlyn says, lowering her voice—like she doesn’t want potential listeners to hear.

Gloria leans on the counter, chin propped on her clasped hands. “Derek again? Go ahead.”

“You told Penelope you saw Derek talking with a man, a man wearing a red fedora,” TK begins, and Gloria nods along. “Did you see the man again after that night?”

Gloria narrows her eyes, humming thoughtfully. “I… I’m not sure. I didn’t fully see him, just his back, and I see a lot of people every day,” she replies after a moment. “I will say he did look familiar; maybe he has been here before, but I’m not sure—like I told Penelope,” she adds with a shrug.

“Did Derek tell you he was seeing someone? That he had a boyfriend named Marcus?” TK asks, keeping his voice low, hoping the name will spark a reaction or help Gloria remember details she hasn’t shared with Penelope before.

Gloria shakes her head. “No, he never mentioned a Marcus. But Derek was quite reserved; he didn’t really talk about his personal life, at least not with me.”

TK nods, feeling his stomach drop. They’re not really getting anywhere; their only lead is not as solid as he thought.

“Did Penelope speak with anyone else besides you?” Ashlyn asks, stepping closer to the counter. TK instinctively follows her, sticking close.

“She did. I saw her with Vincent, the owner,” Gloria points toward the stairs next to the stage. “They went upstairs, I’m assuming to his office.”

TK follows Gloria’s finger to the stairs. Vincent—the name is new; Penelope never mentioned him. He didn’t give any useful info? Or… TK clenches his jaw, gears turning in his head. Or perhaps she left him out deliberately, maybe to avoid tying the owner of the Mirage to a crime?

“Can we talk with Vincent?”

“He’s not here right now. He rarely is lately,” Gloria replies, and TK’s heart stutters, dull jolts of worry coursing through his chest. Is she implying something but cannot speak openly? She looks impassive, almost forcibly so. She agreed to talk to them without even knowing who they are—something doesn’t add up. Whether it’s his paranoia or the truth, he’s not sure. “He’s going to be here tomorrow for more interviews. He’s trying to hire new strippers, but I doubt he’ll have time to talk with you,” she adds.

Strippers. That explains the men they saw coming out of the Mirage earlier.

“Gloria, did you notice anything unusual that night? The night Derek…” TK lets his voice drift off, his tongue caught in his throat as he considers how much he can trust this woman.

“The night Derek quit,” Ashlyn interjects for him.

Gloria sighs, fingers tapping on the counter. She briefly presses her lips together, then speaks up. “Vincent rushed home earlier that night. He usually stays for a couple of hours after the club closes, you know, to help clean up. But he left earlier that night.”

Ashlyn locks eyes with TK for a moment, sharing the same thought: it’s suspicious. “And you didn’t question it?” she presses.

“Not really,” she says with a shrug. “Not until Penelope also asked about it,” she admits softly, barely a whisper.

TK swallows hard. Vincent’s behavior is now something to look into. First Marcus, then Vincent—maybe they’re the same man? There could be other reasons for Vincent to tell his employees to go home, but the timing… TK leans closer. “Do you know what Vincent and Penelope talked about?”

“No, sorry. I assume Derek, but I don’t know the details.”

TK hesitates, looking over his shoulder—eyes wandering from the stairs to the stage, then to the door that he assumes leads to the alleyway. They need to talk with Vincent.

“Thank you, Gloria,” Ashlyn says after a few seconds of silence, taking half a step back from the counter and nudging TK in the side—time to leave.

As they are about to leave, a thought surfaces in TK’s mind—a plan, perhaps reckless or silly. He jogs back to the counter. “Gloria, how does the stripper interview work? Do I have to fill out a form or…?”

Gloria frowns, sizing him up. “You serious?” she asks, and as TK nods, she continues. “It’s a walk-in audition, tomorrow afternoon.”

A walk-in audition sounds easy. “Thanks,” TK says, then joins Ashlyn, who stares at him, eyes wide, confusion etched across her features.

“Hey,” Gloria calls from the counter, and TK turns around to meet her gaze. “Be careful.”

As they walk toward the exit, Ashlyn grips his arm. “A stripper?” she whispers.

TK holds her gaze for a moment, the doubt in it seeping through his brain—maybe it’s not a brilliant plan, but it’s nothing dangerous or illegal, he thinks. “Just for the interview. Maybe I’ll get the chance to talk with Vincent or some other colleagues of Derek’s,” he whispers back, enduring Ashlyn’s unimpressed look—probably the same look she gives her kids when they do something stupid. Which doesn’t seem fair, since hers was the decision to crash a wedding just a few days ago.

“You know you’re gonna have to strip in front of our potential killer, right?” she asks as TK holds the door open for her. They step outside, greeted by the purplish-blue colors of the evening that have now settled over the city.

TK grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah, I guess. But if I can just talk to him briefly, wouldn’t it be worth it?”

Ashlyn stares at him for a second, lips pressed in a thin line. “I just… I don’t want you to do something that may be uncomfortable for you.”

“I’m not too uncomfortable,” he mumbles, though his gaze wanders back to the Mirage, recalling the size and frames of the men who walked out of there. Then he inspects his own body—he’s in good shape; he’d even say he’s hot. But is it enough? Will he get laughed at? He shakes the thought out of his mind. No matter—his main goal is talking with Vincent.

Ashlyn studies him for a moment longer. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” TK nods, despite the familiar pull of uneasiness twisting his chest. “And after Vincent, we should tell Carlos and Sam.”

Carlos sits on the sofa, his laptop open in his lap, finally having access to the surveillance footage of the pharmacy. He can’t say he’s thrilled about watching the footage—potentially spending hours chasing a lead that may not even be featured here—but they don’t have the footage from Mrs. Crawford yet. He can’t shake the feeling of unease, the prickly sensation in his gut telling him he’s missing something. It won’t hurt to check at least some of the footage, hoping to see a couple in a gray sedan with party attire speeding away from the scene of the crime. He sighs; this is not how he’d want to spend the evening, but TK isn’t home yet.

He starts from the late afternoon, when Sarah and Zach were last seen at Mrs. Crawford’s home. Of course, the footage is grainy, which immediately makes him huff in frustration, but he sucks it up and watches.

The parking lot is mostly deserted, with cars parked neatly along the curb, shadows stretching long across the asphalt. The camera’s view is wide, capturing the entire street corner. He hits the spacebar to pause the video as he catches the first car that could be the one he’s looking for. He squints his eyes, trying to make out details, but he can’t really tell who’s inside, though he can read the license plate, so he types it down. “Okay,” he mutters, letting the video keep playing.

He could stop watching, put the laptop aside, and do something else, but the voice inside him tells him to do his duty. This is for the safety of a woman, and also a favor for his boss, who saved his husband’s ass. The least he can do is watch at least thirty minutes of black-and-white, grainy footage that will probably lead nowhere—it’s hardly the first time he’s done it.

Minutes drag agonizingly slow. Carlos finds himself nibbling on his thumb, blinking rapidly, eyes drying out from the screen’s glow. His mind drifts, wandering through possibilities, until a new car appears—potentially the one they’re after. His gaze sharpens, focus renewed.

He suddenly hears the front door open, and his head snaps toward it, watching TK step inside. His face brightens the moment his eyes land on Carlos—his heart flutters in response, basking in the way TK’s eyes light up, his lips curling into a smile, all because he’s looking at him.

“Hey, baby,” Carlos calls from the couch, pausing the video again.

TK quickly walks up to him, catching his lips in a soft kiss that sends tingles through Carlos’s throat. “Hi,” TK says as he parts, then looks at the screen, still hovering above Carlos. “What are you watching?”

Carlos sighs, reaching around TK’s waist with an arm to pull him closer. “Just a favor for the Chief,” he says, and TK hums, curiosity piqued as he settles down beside Carlos. “Basically, two guys crashed a wedding this weekend. The owner of the house thinks they were checking out the place, assessing it.”

“Oh—a wedding?” TK asks, brow dipping as he looks at the screen. He shifts slightly in his seat, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah,” Carlos replies, eyes fixed on the flickering cars on the screen. “Maybe trespassers, maybe just party crashers. Either way, the family’s rich, friends with the Chief, so here I am,” he adds with a sigh, gesturing at the screen.

TK nods, lips pressed together thoughtfully, then begins typing on his phone. “And… anything so far?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Nope. We’re waiting for the security footage of the villa.” His gaze lingers on TK, who’s now fully engaged with the screen. Unable to resist, Carlos leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to TK’s cheek—stubble prickling against his lips, the scent of him filling him. “How was your day?”

The question seems to pull TK back into the moment, and he turns to him, shrugging. “It was fine, nothing special.” He tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him, then inches closer, capturing Carlos’s lips in a kiss—one hand traveling up his chest to his jaw, guiding him into it.

Carlos sinks into the feeling, TK’s tongue savoring his lips, their shared breath, the gentle tease of TK’s teeth as he presses closer. He’s vaguely aware of the footage still playing, the low hum of his laptop, and the precarious balance it’s in as his body responds to his husband’s touch—like a soldier standing at attention.

TK parts from him, eyes darting to the laptop, then back up at Carlos. “Am I distracting you?” he asks, voice low and gravelly, his hand resting on Carlos’s heart slowly making its way down. 

That’s all it takes. Carlos is quickly pulled into TK’s heart, answering a call he doesn’t even need to voice—for it’s the same call his own heart constantly sings. He quickly sets the laptop on the coffee table, not even registering that the video is still playing; his full focus is on the man he loves.

He quickly leans forward, drawing TK in a desperate kiss, feeling the heat rise in his chest, his stomach, spreading uncontrollably in a single heartbeat, moaning as TK responds just as eagerly, opening his mouth and letting Carlos in. “Fuck me,” TK orders between breaths, hands sliding underneath the fabric of Carlos’ shirt.

“At your service,” Carlos replies quickly, his husband’s wish his command.

It’s a perfect night—serene and still, the kind that seems to hold its breath in reverence. Carlos lies in bed, his body curving around TK’s, an arm wrapped protectively around his husband’s waist. Skin to skin, they breathe in unison, while outside, the world is hushed—as if respecting this moment.

Yet, every time his eyelids grow heavy, TK shifts—a soft huff escapes him, a nervous twitch of his foot against the sheets breaking the silence—movements that pull Carlos back from the edge of sleep.

By the fourth restless shift, Carlos carefully entwines his legs with TK’s, seeking to anchor both of them in this peaceful night. Still, the nervous movements persist.

“Is something bothering you?” he whispers into TK’s ear, pressing a quick kiss to the base of his neck.

TK shifts in his arms, turning around and pressing a palm against Carlos’s chest, his finger lightly tapping on it—Carlos can picture him lost in thought, biting his bottom lip as he contemplates what’s been on his mind.

“Do you think I’d be a good stripper?” TK asks suddenly, voice tentative but serious.

Carlos snorts, caught off guard. “What?”

The tapping of TK’s finger on his pec stops—sending one clear signal to Carlos’s brain: TK is being serious, and he shouldn’t laugh about it.

“I mean,” TK continues, voice quieter now, “hypothetically—I dunno. Do you think I’d have a shot?”

Carlos clears his throat, inching closer. “I know everyone would be drooling at the sight of you, baby,” he says confidently—there’s no doubt his husband is hot. He sees all the heads that turn when he walks in public, the reactions to the thirst traps he posts on Instagram sometimes. Heck, his mom has even told him that the mothers at Jonah’s school swoon over TK.

“You think so?” TK asks, snuggling closer, burying his face in Carlos’s chest—one thing he does that Carlos loves, his chest is TK’s safe place. “I think people would expect someone hotter, someone like you,” he mumbles.

“Babe, you’re incredibly hot,” Carlos quickly says. “Do you want to be a stripper? Will I have to fight off people who want you?”

There’s a pause—one that sends a shiver down Carlos’s spine, filled by TK’s slow exhale. “No. I was just—it’s stupid, sorry.”

Carlos’s brow furrows at the sudden silence. He gently shakes TK in his arms. “Hey, whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me.”

“It’s just… I don’t know. I was wondering if I’m still hot…” he lets his voice fade off, nuzzling into Carlos’s chest.

Carlos hesitates, trying to connect the dots—he’s not sure where the stripper idea came from or why that’s the metric TK uses for hotness. “You’re so hot,” he says again, tilting his head down to kiss TK’s. “You have no idea what you do to me, the control it takes not to jump on you every time I set my eyes on you.”

“Okay, I believe you,” TK chuckles, then presses a gentle kiss to Carlos’s heart—one that prompts Carlos to squeeze him tighter.

“So hot,” Carlos repeats, as both of them relax. Their breathing syncs, their minds drifting—together—as heartbeats entwining, they fall into dreams.

Chapter Text

TK wakes up gradually, rising from the hazy depths of dreams as the first whisper of dawn caresses his face. He's still wrapped in Carlos' arms, his face buried in his chest, wrapped in warmth and in the heartbeat that lulled him to sleep.

He snuggles closer, feeling Carlos tighten his embrace—even in sleep. TK’s heart soars at the soft snoring of his husband—peacefully asleep as he holds him. It’s something TK takes pride in: how it seems all Carlos needs is TK in his arms, nothing else; how he’s the person who anchors Carlos, just as Carlos anchors him.

Despite this, TK spent the night treading the line between dreams and reality, crossing over multiple times. Each time, he was awoken by his own mind spiraling—thoughts creeping closer: how he lied to Carlos, how he trespassed at Barbara’s house, and how his own husband is now investigating him, though Carlos is unaware for now. 

Each time, he thought about waking Carlos to confess. It wouldn’t be long before Carlos discovered that TK is the mysterious man and Ashlyn is the mysterious woman who crashed that wedding. But he held back. Each time, his lips would part, a confession burning on his tongue, ready to shake Carlos awake and spill everything. He could almost feel the weight of the words, the relief that would follow. But then, the image of Penelope—terrified, alone, running out of time—would slam into him, a cold fist clenching around his heart, sealing his lips shut. Just one more day, he’d silently plead to Carlos' sleeping form, repeating what Ashlyn had told him last night. Then they’d confess and hope their husbands wouldn’t be too mad.

He tries not to think about the legal implications—maybe Barbara will be willing to forgive them, not press charges, or drop the case altogether; he's not sure how that would work.

He shifts slightly, freeing one of his arms from Carlos' hold to wrap it around him. Carlos adjusts under his touch and lets out a contented sigh in his sleep as he inches impossibly closer. TK can’t resist the urge to press a kiss to Carlos' chest, right on top of his heart.

Carlos stirs, his snoring fading into soft breathing. “Hi,” he murmurs, voice groggy from sleep. TK looks up at him, finding his eyes still closed but a smile curling his lips.

“Hi.”

“What time is it?”

TK tilts his head up to kiss Carlos' chin, his hand sliding up Carlos' back to rest on his head. “Early, sorry for waking you.”

Carlos lets out a hum—more like a purr—as TK threads his fingers through Carlos' hair and scratches his scalp. “I don’t mind. I love being like this,” Carlos replies, leaning into TK’s touch.

“I love you, baby,” TK whispers, his hand moving to Carlos' cheek, cradling his face. He smiles at the sight of his husband—hot, beautiful, strong—but most importantly, his. TK gets to hold him, to love him, to be granted entry beyond the stoic walls he keeps up for the outside world. Only a few have access to that part of Carlos, and only TK has access to all of him.

He exhales a shaky breath. Carlos trusts him, and TK is lying to him—this is not fair.

Carlos finally opens his eyes, pulls TK close, and rubs his hand up and down TK’s spine as he lowers himself to peck his nose. TK practically melts at the soft press of his lips, a shiver running down his spine.

They just lie there, enveloped in the quiet hum of the early morning, hearts beating in rhythm with the world awakening outside—resting despite the lingering dread beneath TK’s skin threatening to break the fragile calm.

Neither of them speaks nor tries to take advantage of the early morning to make slow love to the other; yet, they still worship each other—with caresses and gentle kisses on bare skin, with murmurs of adoration that never dim, no matter how long they’ve been together. It’s the best morning TK could have asked for, despite the weight slowly twisting in his chest.

"Okay, what do you think?" TK asks, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He steps back from the mirror, rolling his shoulders as he assesses his reflection. A tight black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows to show off his forearms—Carlos’ weakness. Fitted jeans, comfortable enough to move in. A hint of smoky cologne—maybe it’s too much for a stripper audition.

He runs a hand through his hair. Is he sexy?

“I think you look like you’re cosplaying as a high-end escort,” Ashlyn says, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe.

TK takes one last look at his reflection, then spins around. “And that’s bad? This is what strippers wear, right? Sexy?”

Ashlyn pushes off the doorframe, starting to circle him, scanning from head to toe—it makes TK’s heart beat faster. He needs to look the part.

“I don’t know, maybe for a bachelorette party, but in this case…” She reaches out, starting to unbutton his shirt.

TK wiggles away from her touch, batting her hands away. “Ash—”

“Let me help. We committed a crime together; sartorial assistance should be the least of your worries.” She swats TK’s hand back, undoing his top two buttons, then scans him again, face scrunching up in thought.

TK stays still, the protest dying in his throat. Each second feels like pins pricking at his confidence.

“Okay, no. Take it off,” she finally declares.

“What? Why?” His hands automatically go to his now partially open collar, protectively. “I thought I looked sexy?”

“Sure,” Ashlyn mumbles, already walking toward the closet. “But it feels like you’re trying too hard.” She starts rifling through his clothes—a woman on a mission. “You look like you’re begging for the job. You want to look like the job is begging for you.”

“I don’t actually want the job, Ash.”

She freezes, clutching a gray V-neck she just took out of the closet, and looks at TK with narrowed eyes. “They don’t know that. He could be the man in the red hat. If you’re gonna strip down...” Her voice drifts off, exhaling sharply as she tosses the shirt at his chest. “I just want to minimize the risks.”

He stares at the soft, worn cotton. “This? Really?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s cocky but not arrogant. It says, ‘This is my body, no big deal.’ Trust me. And wipe off some cologne—you need to smell like you, not like a perfume counter.”

The words land like a slap—unwarranted hurt that he tries to mask with a quiet “rude.”

“Sorry.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, her voice gentle now. “What I mean is, maybe you could smell less… packaged?”

“That’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He strips off the black shirt and pulls on the V-neck. It’s softer; it fits him. He looks at himself in the mirror. It’s definitely more casual—less performance, more him. Somehow, it makes him feel more confident.

“Okay,” he admits, running a hand down the fabric. “This is better.”

This is it. This is how he’s going to get to the Mirage—walking in for a stripper audition while trying to gather more information about Derek, Penelope, and the man in the red hat. The more he stares, turning to the side then back, the more worry twists in his gut.

His eyes land on Ashlyn in the reflection, who’s watching him in silence, brow furrowed. “TK,” she calls, barely a whisper. “I’m not convinced this is a good idea.”

He’s not convinced either. On the contrary, his limbs feel chained to the ground, fear and guilt locking down his muscles. But he nods, trying to force a smile. “This is for Derek and Penelope. They need us—well, not us , but someone.”

“I know, but—”

“It’s not a big risk,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “It’s just a job interview for a job I will never, ever take. Worst-case scenario, it’s a hilarious story to tell one day,” he adds with a chuckle.

Ashlyn smiles back, barely holding back a snort—it's a small victory that quickly fades as her features turn more serious again. “And the best-case scenario? What if he is the man in the red hat and recognizes you? What if you get caught?”

TK straightens up, the doubt creeping into his mind growing louder and louder. “I run like hell, and we pray our Ranger husbands are feeling exceptionally forgiving,” he murmurs.

For a few moments, they stand in silence. TK’s lips burn as he feels the ghost of Carlos kissing him goodbye this morning. Maybe they’re going too far. Undoubtedly, they’re going too far—although this fake job interview isn’t really illegal, it’s more reckless—another stupid, dangerous thing. “Just one more day,” he breathes out like a mantra.

Ashlyn nods, reaching out to straighten the collar of his shirt. “One more day,” she echoes. “But if you feel unsafe, even for just a split second, we’ll just rush back out, okay?”

TK raises an eyebrow. “You’re not coming in with me.”

Ashlyn stills, then takes a step back. “Why not?” she fires back, hands on her hips.

“Who brings a friend to a job interview for a stripping gig?”

“Maybe I could be your manager,” she says, shrugging. “Your very assertive, very concerned manager.”

“No, Ash,” TK replies, his voice firm. “I don’t want you anywhere close to Vincent if he’s our guy.” The thought of those eyes on her sends a cold spike through his gut—it’s too dangerous.

“Well, I want to be there with you if he is!”

“No, absolutely not.” He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You stay in the car. That was the deal.”

She holds his gaze, a battle of raging wills. He can feel the heat of her frustration, her fear for him, but he locks it out. His priority is a singular, non-negotiable point: her safety. They’d already danced too close to the edge at the wedding.

“Fine,” she relents, the word clipped and tight. “But just because it’s less conspicuous if you go in alone.” Her finger jabs into his chest, a sharp punctuation of her anger and worry. TK doesn’t flinch; he lets her have this small, physical outlet, absorbing the blow he knows he deserves.

The Mirage is more imposing today than it was yesterday. TK walks toward the entrance with feigned confidence he doesn’t feel, the dry, suffocating heat oppressive, making his shirt feel heavy and clingy.

Cocky but not arrogant, he repeats it in his mind, feeling Ashlyn’s gaze on his back from where she’s parked across the street.

He pushes the door open and steps into the dim, cool interior. It’s busier than yesterday. A few other men are scattered around—leaning against the bar, sitting in booths, pacing nervously. They’re all in perfect shape, dressed to show off: tank tops, tight jeans, strategic rips to reveal some skin. He looks down at his shirt and jeans; it’s like being at a party where everyone else got the dress code right.

A tall man with a bored expression stands just past the entrance, a clipboard in hand, and he doesn’t even look up as TK takes the first couple of steps and approaches him. “Name?”

“Uh, TK.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, heat flooding his cheeks. “Yeah. TK.” He winces internally. Smooth. You sound like a scared kid. He’s going to toss you out before you even get a chance to see Vincent.

The man makes a note. “Okay, TK ,” he says, somehow twisting the two letters into a synonym for ‘idiot.’ “You’re number six. Wait over there.” He jerks his thumb toward the cluster of men without making eye contact, already looking past him as if checking for another piece of meat on the assembly line.

TK nods and finds an empty spot at the bar, eyes scanning the “competition” and tracing the polished surface with his finger. The hum of conversations fills the air—quiet, quick exchanges.

The wait is agonizing; his heart thumps in his chest each time a man is called to go backstage. His thumb instinctively reaches for his wedding ring, only to find bare skin—since the ring is now in Ashlyn’s car—a precaution that feels like an additional betrayal.

This is a colossal mistake. He’s a husband, a father—pretending to be a stripper to ask questions about a potential murder is not something he should be doing.

For a moment, his hand finds its way to his pocket, to his phone. He could text Ashlyn and walk right out. They could go to Carlos and Sam right now, with the clues they have, hoping it’s enough to launch a real investigation.

But then he thinks of Penelope. Her voice, her hidden message—the terror she must be in if she’s still alive. He thinks of Derek, who had no one but an old woman to miss him. They need someone. They need him to find out more, to find a concrete lead.

“Number six, TK,” a voice cuts through his thoughts, the clipboard man staring at him.

Slowly, TK stands up, forcing his legs to move as he walks toward the backstage.

He pushes through the heavy curtain backstage into a narrow hallway, where a slightly ajar door waits at the end, a sliver of yellow light spilling onto the scuffed floorboards.

He swallows hard and pushes the door open. It’s a small office, dominated by a large, cluttered desk behind which sits a man in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He’s handsome, with sharp eyes, dark hair, and a curated beard with a glint of silver. He’s talking on the phone, but his eyes snap to TK as he steps inside, offering a weak smile and gesturing for him to come in. 

“Yes, sounds perfect, baby. I have to go now; talk to you later. Love you.” He hangs up and leans back in his chair, which groans under his weight, and scans TK from head to toe. “TK, right?” His voice is deeper now, like a rumble that vibrates in the room.

“Yes, sir,” TK manages to say, despite his mouth going dry.

The man nods, standing up. “I’m Vincent.” He walks up to TK, extending his hand in a firm handshake—vigorous, as if he’s already testing him. “Do you have any experience?”

“Uh, not professionally, no.” TK’s mind races. He needs to be believable but also to pry some more information.

Vincent hums, briefly narrowing his eyes. “Take your shirt off.”

TK freezes. The command is so blunt, so transactional, that it short-circuits his brain. Logically, he already knew he’d have to strip, and he’s usually not a prude—especially since others have seen him in various stages of undress at the firehouse—but this—he’s exposed.

Vincent must see his flashing panic because he lets out a low, surprisingly warm chuckle. “It’s a job interview for taking your clothes off, son. I need to see the goods. Don’t worry; my husband would kill me if I tried anything. That was him on the phone.” He gestures to the phone with a fond smile. “Twenty years together, and he still gives me hell if I’m late for dinner.”

TK can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips; the warmth in Vincent’s words is a sucker punch to his gut. It sends a pang of shame burning through him.

“Right, sorry,” TK mumbles, fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, feeling vulnerable underneath the office lights.

Vincent circles him slowly—not unlike Ashlyn did earlier—but at a respectful distance. It’s not a man looking at another man; it’s more like he’s assessing a sculpture or a work of art, evaluating the potential. “You’re in good shape. You say you’re not a professional?”

TK shakes his head. “No. Firefighter. Paramedic.”

“That’s great. The ‘I save lives’ angle is a big seller,” Vincent says, not to TK, more to himself, like he’s already thinking ahead.

TK can’t deny the glimmer of pride in his chest—a small, practically useless victory.

Vincent stops in front of TK. “Okay. You’ve got the looks. A little... wholesome, but that’s good.” He raises his hands as if to make sure TK knows it’s not a jab; it did kind of feel like one. “Some clientele love it—the ones who want to imagine they’re corrupting the boy next door.”

TK finds himself nodding along, the initial spike of panic subsiding into a low, steady hum of anxiety right between his ribs. His gaze drifts to the desk: stacks of paper, folders, a notebook with scrawled notes and times, a calendar—no pictures, nothing that says this is Vincent’s personal space. Maybe it isn’t; it’s just a sterile room where potential dancers are auditioned and assessed. Gloria did mention Penelope went to Vincent’s office, but this isn’t the place.

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” Vincent says, moving back to lean against the desk. He gestures toward the empty space in the center of the room. “Impress me.”

TK’s heart leaps into his throat. Dance.

He knew this was coming, but reality is far more terrifying. His idea of dancing is to move to the rhythm at a club, though he hasn’t done that in a while. Lately, all his dancing has involved his arms wrapped around Carlos—slowly swaying in their living room or the kitchen. It doesn’t take much; it isn’t really about his moves when he dances with his husband. It’s all about sharing a quiet moment. But this? He’ll have to sell it to avoid blowing his cover.

Music starts playing from Vincent’s phone—a slow, swaggering beat—and TK’s mind goes blank. Vincent is looking at him expectantly, but despite the low music, there’s no rhythm other than the pounding of his own heart—he’s all awkward limbs and stiff joints.

He gives a little hip roll, a pathetic attempt at a move he’s seen Carlos do a thousand times when cooking—effortlessly sexy on him, a muscle spasm on TK.

He tries again, raising his arms above his head and swaying, pretty sure that’s what it looks like when rescue planes are getting signaled to land. He can feel the furious blush creeping up his neck. This is a disaster.

Vincent watches, expression unreadable, for all the agonizing seconds TK spends moving. Then, a loud, unexpected burst of laughter. “Okay, okay, stop.”

TK freezes, arms dropping to his sides. He knows this isn’t the real point of him being here, but the humiliation sizzles under his skin. Shirtless and clumsy in the cheap backroom of a nightclub, failing spectacularly at the one thing he’s supposed to be selling—at least no one will ever know.

“Look, I’ve seen bad, I’ve seen terrible,” Vincent says, still chuckling. “You’re… hilariously awful.”

TK offers a weak, mortified half-smile, his eyes darting to his crumpled shirt on the chair. The urge to grab it and run is almost overwhelming.

“But you’re refreshing,” Vincent continues, his laughter subsiding into a low, appreciative chuckle. He gestures at TK’s torso. “You’ve got the body. You’ve got the look—that whole ‘I could save your life or break your heart’ thing you’ve got going on. And the firefighter bit?” He points a finger gun at TK. “Pure gold. The dancing? We can work on that. Or better yet, work around it. Believe it or not, some clientele love a guy who’s a little… endearingly clumsy.”

It’s probably more praise than TK’s pathetic display deserves.

Vincent walks back to his desk and drops into his chair. “Tell you what. We’ve got amateur night tonight. Low stakes. Mostly for my guys and the rest of the staff to show off a little, blow off some steam.” He glances back up at TK, a new, calculating glint in his eye. “You come back tonight, get on that stage, do… whatever that was.” He makes a vague, circular gesture encompassing all of TK’s previous failure. “If it’s a total train wreck, no harm, no foul. You walk away. If it goes well… we can talk about making this a regular thing.”

TK’s brain goes numb. Tonight. He was supposed to be in and out—gather some information and then leave—instead, he got nothing but humiliation. But amateur night could mean backstage access, talking to more people, finding out more—a risk that makes his stomach churn, but also the kind of access they need.

He forces a confident smile. “Yeah,” he says, his voice steady as if by some miracle. “I can do that. Amateur night. Sounds great.”

“Excellent,” Vincent says, adding a scribble to his notebook, a genuine smile on his face. “Be here by nine. Wear something you can move in. Or, you know, something that looks good coming off.”

TK nods, snatching his shirt from the chair and clutching the soft cotton in his hands.

“One more thing,” Vincent says, just as TK’s hand touches the doorknob. TK freezes, his back to the man. “Why do you want to do this? Be a stripper?”

TK’s mind blanks. He could lie. For the money? To feel sexy? He turns, opting for a sliver of truth, a carefully baited hook. “Oh—I—A friend actually recommended this place to me,” he blurts out, hoping his voice doesn’t tremble. “Derek. He used to work here.”

Vincent locks eyes with TK, and for a fraction of a second, TK sees a flicker of something assessing behind the warmth. It’s there and gone so fast he almost doubts he saw it.

“Derek,” Vincent repeats. His voice is the same, but it’s lost its rumble, its warmth. It’s flat.

The name lands in the room like a stone, and in the pause that follows, TK’s nerves flare up—muscles tensing up. “It’s been a while,” Vincent continues, his sharp eyes holding TK’s, and in that gaze, TK feels cornered. “How is he?”

Is this deflection? A test? Or is Vincent genuinely unaware that the man he’s asking about is probably dead somewhere?

“I—he’s good—yeah,” he stammers, tongue knotting in his throat.

Vincent gives a single, slow nod. The silence stretches to the beat of TK’s heart—a beat too long. 

“Good. I’m glad to hear he’s doing well.” He picks up a pen from his desk, his attention shifting downward to his notebook—a clear and quiet dismissal. “Now get out of here. I have three more guys to see, who probably can’t dance either, but I doubt they’ll be nearly as funny.”

TK pulls on his shirt and flees out of the office. He doesn’t stop in the main area of the club; dizziness overtakes him, a cold sweat breaking out, his heart thundering in his chest—a thousand times heavier than this morning.

Outside, he leans against the rough wall, taking a deep breath, hands on his knees, the sweat on his skin like ice against the heat. He didn’t see a villain. That man is a calm, still pool of water—and TK has no idea if there’s something lurking beneath the surface or if it’s all just in his head.

He pushes off the wall, blinking away the oppressive sunlight as his eyes adjust to the brightness outside, and crosses the street toward their car.

He slides into the passenger seat, the blast of air conditioning raising goosebumps on his sweat-dampened skin.

“Well?” Ashlyn asks, her voice tight. She shifts in her seat, her eyes scanning him head-to-toe as if checking for physical injury. "How did it go? Did you see him? What did he say?"

TK stares through her as the recent encounter with Vincent replays in his mind. The man’s warm chuckle, the fond mention of his husband—it all felt so disarmingly normal.

"TK? You're scaring me. Talk to me." Her hand finds his, her grip firm—a tether trying to pull him back from the edge.

"He—" he begins, his voice rough. He swallows hard. "He wants me to come back tonight. For amateur night."

"What? Why? What happened?"

"I was a disaster," TK admits, a hollow laugh escaping him. "I danced—or I did whatever that convulsing thing was. He said I was… hilariously awful." He can still feel the heat of humiliation on his cheeks. "But he liked the… the packaging. Said I had a 'thing' going on. The firefighter bit is pure gold, apparently." He gestures vaguely at his own chest.

"He said that?"

"He did. But Ash, it’s access," he insists, turning to finally look at her, his eyes pleading for her to understand the grim logic. "I get to be backstage. I can talk to other dancers, staff members… maybe snoop around. It’s more than we had five minutes ago."

"No. That's insane—"

"I mentioned Derek." The name cuts her off mid-sentence, leaving only their quickening heartbeat to fill the silence that follows.

They both stare at each other for a few more moments of free-falling, then she asks, "And?"

"He asked how he was doing." TK’s own voice drops to match hers. "Just... looked right at me. It was so calm. Maybe I’m paranoid, but for a second… or maybe…" He shakes his head. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"TK, breathe," Ashlyn orders, eyes flicking briefly toward the Mirage.

He tries. He drags a ragged inhale through his nose, but the air feels thin and useless. It catches in his throat before he lets it out in a sharp, frustrated huff. He clenches his fist.

Ashlyn stays quiet, giving him the much-needed time to calm down—thoughts colliding in his mind.

"I have to go tonight," he says, resolute. The stripper audition gave them no answers, but this? This could.

He expects Ashlyn to protest; he can feel it in the way she lets out a shaky breath, how her eyes flick around as her mind processes everything, calculating the next move.

"Okay. But this time, I’m in there with you."

“Ash—”

“No.” She cuts him off, her voice leaving no room for argument. She turns fully in her seat. “You don’t get to veto this. I sat out here, watching that door, imagining a hundred worst-case scenarios. I’m not doing it again. You’ll play your part on stage; I’ll be in the crowd—just another face enjoying the show.”

The comeback building in his chest dies on his lips. She’s right. The thought of her there—of not being alone—settles his frantic heart a little—though it introduces a new spike of fear: if Vincent is the man in the red hat, can he keep her safe?

He holds her gaze, seeing the same stubborn fear and determination reflected back at him. They’re in this for Penelope, for Derek.

Finally, when she squeezes his hand again, he gives a single, tight nod. “Okay. But you’re just another customer. If you see anything—even slightly wrong—you get out immediately.”

“Deal.” She starts the car, the engine roaring to life.

TK groans, slumping back in his seat as they drive off. His mind is already miles away, crafting the lie he’ll have to tell Carlos about why he won’t be home tonight— just one more lie, just for tonight. Then he’ll tell Carlos everything: how he couldn’t just sit back and leave Penelope and Derek to their grim fates. Hopefully, they’ll be found, and all of this will be worth it—if Carlos will forgive him.

Carlos leans against the counter, the heat of the paper cup seeping into his skin. The coffee is bitter and burnt—scarcely deserving of the name, a final, acrid offering from the break room machine exhaling its last breaths. But it has caffeine, and he needs it.

The day has been a long slog of paperwork and dead-end leads on a warehouse arson case that’s been plaguing them for weeks. No casualties, but significant property damage and zero suspects.

He takes another sip just as his phone buzzes in his pocket. His mind immediately drifts from the case to TK, and a soft smile touches his lips—only to tighten and fade as he sees a system notification: software update . It’s a small, sharp jab to his heart. He hasn’t heard from TK since this morning, and a heavy, unnamed feeling settles in his gut.

TK had been quiet this morning. He’d been restless during the night, a coiled tension thrumming under his skin that Carlos could feel even in sleep. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but the space between them feels different. Something is wrong—something TK is carrying alone. Carlos shakes his head, trying to dispel the worry. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s just the lingering disappointment from that podcaster turning out to be a fraud.

He looks at the clock. Just one more hour, then he can go home. He’ll stop to get some takeout—maybe from that Thai place TK loves—hopeful it’s enough to see him smile. A quiet night, just the two of them on the couch.

"Something bothering you?" Prescott’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

Carlos looks up from his phone; she’s leaning against the counter, filling her own mug. “Just… this,” he gestures with the cup, a wry smile on his face. “A crime scene in a mug.” He lets out a low chuckle.

Prescott’s eyes meet his, and they are far too perceptive. There’s something uniquely unsettling about her ability to see straight through people. She offers a small, knowing smile in return. “Ah, yes. The caffeine-induced frown. I know it well.”

Carlos tenses. She doesn’t believe him; he can see it in her eyes, but she doesn’t press. That’s good—he wouldn’t know how to articulate the formless worry tightening his chest, not here, not now.

“Prescott, Reyes! Just who I was looking for."

The moment shatters as Sam barges into the break room, a wide grin across his lips. He claps his hands together. "It’s important. Critical. Help me settle this: would you rather possess the ability to communicate with squirrels—though they are all deeply pessimistic and only share bad news—or be able to speak every human language fluently, but only when doing a headstand?"

Carlos blinks, feeling a bubble of laughter rise in his chest, which quickly transforms into a loud, bark-like laugh—half relief, half delirium. "That's the critical question? The one that keeps you up at night, Campbell?"

"It’s called team-building, Reyes. Morale," Sam retorts, undeterred. His eyes flicker between the two of them. "Well? Squirrel doomsayers or a very wobbly, upside-down polyglot?"

Prescott shakes her head, not even looking at Sam, with just a faint—almost suffering—smile on her lips, one reserved for Sam’s chaos. “I will recuse myself from this vital debate and leave it to you two intellectuals. But please,” she adds, throwing her now-empty cup into the trash, “do send a memo with the final result. I’m invested now.”

"Tough crowd," Sam mumbles as Prescott leaves them alone. Then he points at Carlos. "Your turn, Reyes."

Carlos hums, fingers tapping lightly against the cup in his hands. Speaking all languages could be advantageous in many situations—cases, traveling—although the headstand part would make him look ridiculous and strain him unless he can find a wall to lean against every time—maybe TK would help him.

Talking to squirrels, on the other hand, could unlock a completely different perspective on the world—though TK and Jonah would probably ask him to talk to every squirrel they see as their personal squirrel-whisperer.

"Polyglot," Carlos declares after a beat. "No questions. The utility is too great to pass up, even with the vertigo."

"Wrong," Sam counters, slamming a hand on the counter. "Think of the intel—squirrels are everywhere."

"What intel? They're just squirrels."

"They see everything. That little guy on the power line?" He points out the window. "His name is Josh, and he knows who's cheating on their diet or which kid skipped school today. He’s a furry spy that works for peanuts."

Carlos raises an eyebrow. "Okay, hotshot. But what makes you think a pessimistic squirrel named Josh wouldn't just lie to you for his own amusement?"

Sam freezes mid-gesture, his finger raised and his mouth agape. He slowly lowers his hand, scratching his chin in thought. "Huh, I didn't think of that. That… really undermines the entire premise."

He looks so genuinely crestfallen that Carlos can’t help but laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don’t worry, man. Your furry spy network is still a solid idea. But I," he fake-boasts, winking, "am the superior intellect."

Sam chuckles. "Okay, since you’re clearly the superior intellect who just murdered my beautiful premise with your cold, hard logic—wanna put that big brain to good use? The security company finally coughed up the footage from Mrs. Crawford’s wedding crashers incident. Feel like grabbing a bite and then looking it over with me?"

“Well, I—” Carlos isn’t sure. The image of a quiet night on the couch with TK, the two of them tangled together, is a powerful lure. “I had plans to surprise TK tonight. I was gonna grab that Thai he likes.”

Sam frowns, pulling out his phone to check it. “Oh. Because Ash just told me they’re out together tonight. Some ‘girl stuff,’ she said—whatever that means.”

The air leaves Carlos' lungs in a soft, almost imperceptible rush. “Oh,” he stammers, the sound small and hollow. He instinctively pulls out his own phone, thumb swiping to his messages with TK. Their last exchange is from this morning: a series of heart emojis TK had sent after Carlos' “have a good day, baby” text. Nothing since. No heads-up. No change of plans.

A cold knot of confusion and hurt tightens in his chest. He didn’t tell me. The thought echoes, loud and accusing, in the silence of his own mind.

“Hey, man, she just told me. Like, two minutes ago,” Sam says, his tone softening. “No doubt your man is about to tell you as well. You know how they get when they’re plotting. Probably just lost track of time.”

Carlos forces a nod, trying to breathe through the irrational sting of it. Sam is right. TK does lose track of time when he’s with Ashlyn, and Carlos is glad they’re so close. It’s a good thing. He repeats it to himself. It’s a good thing. He shoves his phone back into his pocket. “So,” he says, his voice carefully even, “you’re up for Thai?”

Sam chuckles. “You sure know how to treat a man.”

The takeout containers sit between them on Sam’s desk, the scent of lemongrass and chili oil cutting through the sterile air. It’s quiet at night—a hollowed-out space filled with the hum of computers—only he and Sam are still here, the light on Sam’s desk like a beacon in the darkness that permeates the rest of the floor.

The weight that had been crushing Carlos' heart eased before they even reached Sam’s car to grab food. TK had texted him—a sweet, cheeky message that made Carlos feel lighter, an apology and a promise to make it up to him. It made him blush once he realized Sam had caught a glimpse of it.

However, the worry that TK may still be affected by something lingers, going hand in hand with the thought that he prefers confiding in Ashlyn rather than his own husband. It makes his skin simmer—the urge to ask TK building. He should—maybe tonight, at least to let him know he can talk to him. Maybe he’s missing Jonah, maybe it’s the podcast, or the restlessness from having nothing to do during this brief pause in his life—maybe all of it combined or something else entirely.

“Damn, this is good,” Sam says around a mouthful of noodles, gesturing with his fork.

Carlos hums in agreement, swallowing his own bite. “Told you. TK loves this place.” He takes a sip of his beer, the cold liquid providing a perfect counterpoint to the spicy heat that blooms on his tongue, overloading his senses for a blissful second.

Sam leans back in his chair, creaking under his weight. “You know, it’s nice that Ash and TK have each other like that.” He gestures vaguely with his bottle. “Ashlyn… She never had many friends. I’m glad she clicked with TK so quickly. She sure never liked my friends.” A fond, wry smile touches his lips. “Hell, she didn’t even like you at first.”

Carlos lets out a short, genuine laugh. “Oh, I remember. Could it be because I arrested her when you went on the run?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say she was wrong.”

“I still remember her glare.” Carlos shivers, the memory making his skin hypersensitive for a brief moment. “Felt like she wanted to skin me alive.”

Sam lets out a full-throated laugh that echoes in the empty space. “I guarantee she did want to skin you alive. She told me herself, in graphic detail.”

"Damn, your wife is brutal."

Sam scoffs, waving his fork. "Please, I know TK called me 'Ranger Soup' for a solid year." He takes a bite of his food, chewing before adding, "The man holds a grudge like a champ."

Carlos sets his beer down with a soft clink, a gentle smirk playing on his lips as he recalls the first time TK dubbed Sam that—the fierce, unwavering protectiveness that always warms something deep in Carlos' chest. "He still does sometimes," Carlos chuckles, watching Sam mock-gasp in response.

"Imagine if those two banded together against us," Sam notes after a moment.

In the silence that follows, a thought crosses Carlos’ mind. The image Sam paints—of TK and Ashlyn, a united front of brilliant, stubborn chaos—should be funny. It should be a joke. But…

His gaze flicks from Sam to the monitor on the desk, where the security footage is queued up, waiting for them.

TK is restless. He cried in his arms that night. Girl Stuff, a lie? The wedding crashers: a man and a woman, a handsome couple—green-eyed man. It can’t be, can it?

"Yeah," he manages to push out through the knot in his throat. "We’d be doomed."

"Absolutely," Sam agrees, seemingly oblivious to the worry twisting Carlos' gut and the loud pounding of his heart against his ribs. The pieces fall together seamlessly, but why?

The world blurs. His fingers twitch, each thought tightening the chain around his heart.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

Carlos forces himself to swallow, throat tight. He can’t bring himself to look at Sam—what if he’s wrong? Worse, what if he’s right?

"I'm fine,” he lies, faking a cough. “Just… ate too fast; the food went down the wrong pipe.” He thumps himself on the chest, reaching for his beer and taking a long sip—the nervousness quickly turning into anxiety, burning in his veins.

Sam watches him for a moment longer, brow furrowed. “Alright. Let’s check out this footage. It should be quick.”

Carlos just nods, his jaw clenched tight.

The video starts: the image is clear—a perfect view of Mrs. Crawford’s front yard, everything ready for the wedding—the rose bushes, the lush grass, a serene sense of peace. Yet, if Carlos is correct, his own husband is about to disturb that peace—God, please, he can’t be right.

Sam speeds up the video; the sun arcs across the sky in a frantic blur, shadows stretching and contracting. Guests arrive in a fast-forward shuffle. Carlos' heartbeat quickens, sweat gathering at the base of his neck, as he watches the rapid-play tragedy unfolding on screen. What are the chances? Why would he? It doesn’t make sense. The logic wars with a gut-deep, dreadful certainty.

Sam’s hand stills on the mouse. The video slows to real time.

Carlos holds his breath.

Three figures enter through the front gate: one is a bridesmaid, Diane. The other two—there’s no mistaking it—he’d recognize that walk anywhere. It’s them. TK and Ashlyn, looking devastatingly handsome, with Ashlyn clinging to TK’s arm.

For a single second, Carlos is suspended, his heart sinking, his brain signaling him to react: fear, anger, confusion—all clash. His body shuts down—all he manages to do is watch.

Suddenly, Sam jumps from his seat, the chair screeching against the floor, the desk shuddering as he shoves back from it. His hand flies out, reaching for the power button on the monitor, jamming it as if he could erase the footage.

The screen goes black with a click, plunging the desk half into darkness—just the soft yellowish glow of the lamp overhead remains.

Carlos feels his own blood roar; anger overtakes panic for a split second. Then, reason comes: What is he gonna do now?

He slowly and painfully drags his gaze to meet Sam’s, who’s stunned, blinking rapidly, pointing at the screen.

“It’s—” Sam stutters, the face of a man twisted by realization dawning. “It’s our idiots.”

“Yeah.” It’s TK. His husband. The man who had been wrapped in his arms just that morning, whispering “I love you, baby,” with the taste of a lie still on his lips.

The pulse in his chest freezes over—sharp, cold pins mocking him. It stings. It hurts. The lies. How did he not see through them? How could TK lie to him like that? His mind scrambles for purchase. There has to be a reason. Maybe not a good reason, but one that could explain the betrayal, the trespassing.

He stares into the space in front of him, barely aware of Sam pacing a tight circle around the desk. TK trespassed. Broke the law—again. Another jolt splits his heart: he was investigating his own husband, and TK knew. He learned that last night, right before… Heat builds behind his eyes, a pressure he fears he can’t contain. No. There has to be an explanation.

“Why the fuck would they do that?” Sam whispers-shouts, leaning on the desk—shoulders tense.

Carlos only manages to part his lips, words slipping away before they can form.

“They trespassed on private property. Did they steal something?” Sam adds, shaking his head. “We have an ongoing investigation—”

“We don’t,” Carlos murmurs, interrupting him. He locks eyes with Sam, the reality of their position crystal clear. “This is all off the record. A favor for the Chief. There is no investigation, not officially.”

Sam just stares back, then quickly looks around the empty room as if it might have ears. He sits back at the desk and turns the monitor back on. “No official investigation means no official report. No official report means discretion,” he whispers, his words tactical and low. He glances at Carlos for confirmation, and Carlos gives a subtle nod. They will keep this quiet. They must.

“My wife lied to me; Girl Stuff, ” Sam huffs as his fingers angrily fly across the keyboard. “Bullshit. She was at a crime scene we're unofficially looking into, and she just lied.” He lets out a strained chuckle. “What the fuck are we gonna tell the Chief?”

“I—” Carlos' mind goes blank. The legal implications are a minefield, but all he can truly focus on is the need to see TK, to look him in the eye and demand the truth. “We can’t tell him.”

“Of course not,” Sam snaps, running a hand over his face. “Those fucking idiots, what were they thinking?”

Carlos doesn’t reply; he just lets out a heavy, nervous laugh. The primal need to protect TK barrels through the ache in his heart. “Okay. So, this never happened,” he says, gesturing to the monitor. “The footage was corrupted. Or gone. Something.”

Sam gives him a sharp, decisive nod. “Gone. It’ll buy us time, but we will have to face this eventually.”

“Call Ash. We need to see them right now ,” Carlos says, reaching for his phone, fingers swiping across the screen to call his husband.

While Sam works on deleting the footage, Carlos waits—each ring echoing in his ear, accompanied by the frantic thundering in his chest. His foot taps a nervous, rapid rhythm on the floor. TK doesn’t pick up.

He tries again, his knuckles white around the phone. Pick up, pick up—where are you? Still nothing. Carlos' heart twists, sending fresh, cold shocks of fear through his veins.

He glances at Sam, who has his own phone pressed to his ear. Sam meets his gaze and shakes his head, then slams his phone down on the desk. Ashlyn isn’t answering either.

“Where the fuck are they?” Carlos mutters under his breath, his skin crawling with nerves— where is TK?

Through the haze of hurt, Carlos' mind works. He needs to find him. Is TK truly just out with Ashlyn, or is he diving headfirst into something even more idiotic than crashing a wedding or getting stuck in the backyard of a potential murderer?

He sighs, shaking his head. Chief Graham already got him out of trouble once just last week—he needs to find him now.

“Their phones,” he says, words clipped. “We have to track their phones and find them.”

Sam doesn’t hesitate. His thumbs are already flying across his phone’s screen. “I’ll call in a favor. Keep this low profile,” he mumbles, the phone pressed to his ear.

Carlos nods, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles ache. Be at a movie. Be at a bar, at a stupid poker night. Be anywhere, TK. Just please, don’t be doing something even more idiotic.

His mind races ahead, building a case for the defense before he’s even heard the crime. He’ll have to go back to Mrs. Crawford. He’ll beg; he’ll kneel if he has to—to convince her not to press charges. He’ll swear his husband had a good reason, an insane but ultimately noble reason. Please, let there be a reason.

The dread is a cold, tight grip around his heart. And what if there isn’t a good reason? What will he tell Jonah? Can he protect TK from a woman with the power and connections of Mrs. Crawford? A hushed, desperate “fuck” escapes his lips.

His gaze snaps back to Sam, who is huffing as he mashes the call button again. “Come on, pick up, you bastard,” Sam hisses into the phone.

Please, don’t be an idiot.

The air backstage at the Mirage is thick with cheap cologne, hairspray, and the sharp tang of nervous sweat—mostly TK’s fault. It’s suffocating. With each shallow breath he takes, his throat tightens. He instinctively pulls at the collar of his shirt—now changed into a red satin button-down, paired with dark, tight jeans.

He’s crammed in with the other “amateurs”: a jittery college kid who can’t stop cracking his knuckles, a man who looks more like a god with biceps the size of hams, and another in the corner who seems almost bored, muttering to himself. TK’s own heart is a frantic, off-rhythm drum against his ribs. Each thump screams idiot, liar.

He had desperately hoped to use this backstage access to talk to staff, ask questions about Derek and Penelope, find a clue, and get out before having to humiliate himself on stage. He’d crawl back to Carlos, beg for forgiveness, hoping Carlos would see why he had to look into this—how each passing second could be Penelope’s last.

Instead, he’s trapped. His palms are sweaty despite wiping them on his jeans every couple of minutes. He can’t stop thinking about Carlos—the new lie he and Ash came up with—like every minute he gets closer to confessing, his body gets closer to falling apart. He was—he is—reckless, he knows, but maybe it’ll be for a greater good: a life saved, justice for Derek—whose story the police didn’t take seriously.

"Hey, man." A whisper, cracking on the second word, cuts through his thoughts. He turns around, meeting the panicked gaze of the college kid—Michael, he thinks. "You know how much we’re supposed to… you know?" He makes a vague gesture toward his own body.

TK blinks, his mind scrambling to process the question. "Uh..." He hadn’t thought of that. Shirtless? Underwear? "I assume… underwear?" The word comes out as a squeak, and the kid’s eyes widen in shared panic—looks like TK’s not the only one making bad decisions.

"Just underwear? On stage? In front of everyone?" The kid’s voice pitches higher.

Before TK can stammer another useless—but potentially panic-inducing—guess, another voice cuts through the air.

"As far as you’re comfortable," Vincent says with a chuckle. He’s dressed in a dark suit, arms crossed over his chest as he scans the men in the room. "The crowd appreciates a little show, a tease, a little reveal. But," his tone shifts, "no full nudity. Underwear, jeans, shorts—your choice. The most important part is to lose your shirt during your routine. Confidence is what you need to wear out there, even if you have to fake it."

Both TK and Michael nod at him. The performance isn’t really TK’s biggest concern, although a persistent thought about humiliating himself in front of everyone—including Ashlyn—makes his nerves tingle even more.

Vincent claps his hands together. “Alright, gentlemen. Amateur night. The rules are simple,” he says, his voice a low, friendly rumble. “You’ll go on in the order I call. The crowd here tonight is mostly our regulars and staff—they’re here to have a good time, not to crucify you. So, have fun with it. Smile. Make eye contact. If you’re nervous, use it—play the shy guy. It works.”

TK’s stomach lurches. Just endure a little more—enough to talk to someone, ask about Derek.

“First up, Michael,” Vincent announces, and the kid flinches as if he’s been struck. Vincent adjusts the young man’s collar. “Nervous?”

Michael nods, voice hushed. “Huh huh.”

“Nerves mean you care,” Vincent says, offering a genuine smile. He steps closer, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You look good. Just channel that energy.”

The pat on the shoulder seems to ground Michael a little. He takes a shaky breath and gives a small nod again.

“Now get out there and give them hell,” Vincent says, gently nudging Michael toward the stage entrance.

TK watches him go as the opening notes of a song reverberate through the walls—a low, catchy bassline that thrums in his chest.

Vincent turns his focus to TK, who straightens up instinctively. “Red’s a good choice. Brings out the… intensity.”

TK manages a breathless laugh, beads of cold sweat tracing down his spine. “Yeah,” he stammers. “Makes a statement.”

“Got someone here to see you? A friend? A partner?”

TK’s blood runs cold. His jaw locks tight as his mind screams the name Ashlyn . Is this a test? Is Vincent being genuine, or just subtly checking the perimeter—seeing if TK is alone? His smile looks open and earnest, but is there something beneath it?

He studies Vincent, looking for that flat, assessing look from before when he’d mentioned Derek—was it all in TK’s head?

He forces a smile, hoping it reaches his eyes. “No. Here alone.” He prays the lie is believable, a flimsy shield to protect Ashlyn from the phantom scenarios now screaming in his mind. He should have never agreed to let her come.

Vincent holds his gaze for a long, breathless moment, his eyes seeming to look straight through him, searching. Then, his smile widens. “Well, you’ve got me cheering for you, don’t worry,” he replies with a hearty chuckle. “Remember, tonight you’re a fantasy. You’re going to rescue her from a boring life. Or him. ” He pauses, gaze drifting toward the sounds of cheering and applause as Michael's performance continues. “A boring life… it makes people desperate for the thrill. That kind of seeking can be dangerous.”

Every word sinks straight into TK’s chest. A boring life . Is that what Vincent sees when he looks at him? A man whose life is so mundane he has to invent danger? Or is he describing the very void TK and Ashlyn are trying to fill—the restless need to do something for Penelope—that led them to trespass and lie? How much does he know?

“And that’s why we’re here,” Vincent concludes. He claps TK on the shoulder. “To provide the safety to chase that spark. You’ll be someone’s spark, even if just for tonight.”

TK can only nod, throat too tight to form words, heartbeat frantic and pulsing painfully against his ribs. He’s never felt more seen or more completely misunderstood.

The roar of the crowd for Michael’s finale is deafening—a wave that crashes into TK, staggering him.

TK’s mind is reeling; thoughts surface and mingle, sinking him further into a vortex of confusion, suspicion, and gut-wrenching guilt. His bones seem to twist, his skin burning. The pressure in his chest suffocates him. He needs air. He needs to get out of this claustrophobic, cologne-soaked space now.

“You’re up next, TK,” Vincent says, and TK’s vision tunnels, the noise of the club dulling to a roaring, high-pitched static in his ears.

He can’t do this. He can’t go out there and perform a pathetic striptease for a potential murderer’s amusement. Panic—pure and primal—overwhelms all logic. He’s prey in the predator’s lair, and worse, he led Ashlyn right into it. He needs to find her, warn her, get her out.

“I—I need a minute,” TK chokes out, the words a raw scrape against his throat, barely audible even to himself. He is crumbling.

Vincent’s expression softens. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost paternal rumble. “It’s just stage fright, son. It’s all in your head. Right before my first show, I threw up in a planter. Breathe. It’s all adrenaline. You’ve got this.”

TK’s eyes widen; his heart feels like it’s in his throat—wait, is it? Is it all in his head? A flash of clarity dawns: if this is him, TK can’t let on that he knows.

He forces a jerky nod, dragging a ragged inhale through his nose and releasing it in a shaky puff. He does it again, and again, until the pounding in his ears dims from a scream to a dull thrum.

“You good?” Vincent asks, eyes searching TK’s.

Just as TK gives another weak, terrified nod, Vincent’s phone rings, blaring an upbeat, generic tone that feels obscenely cheerful in the tense space. The man reaches for it, and his face lights up. “My husband,” he says to TK, as if sharing a sweet secret, shaking the phone in his hand. “He always calls to check I made it to work in one piece. Go on, you’ll do great. I’ll be right behind you.”

The man pats him on the shoulder, encouraging, and as TK forces his legs to move, his eyes land on the phone’s screen—the incoming call. 

The caller ID photo is clear: a man, smiling warmly, his face tilted up. And on his head, bold and unmistakable, sits a vibrant red fedora.

The man in the red hat.

Vincent turns away, phone in his ear, his voice an affectionate murmur. “Hey. Yeah, I’m here…”

Every instinct screams at TK to run—to rush past the man with the ham-sized biceps, burst into the main area, grab Ashlyn, and run. But his limbs are heavy, rooted to the floor.

This confirms everything. The man in the red hat is real, and it’s Vincent’s husband. Marcus, though he’s not sure that’s his real name. He had an affair with Derek—maybe they even met here… then what? Did Derek ask for too much? Did Marcus kill him? Does Vincent know? He must know.

Penelope. Gloria said she talked to Vincent, and she was sure of the identity of the man in the red hat. Did she see the picture too?

“TK! You’re on! Go, go, go!” A hand gives him a firm push between the shoulder blades.

It’s a shove that breaks his paralysis. He stumbles forward, walking through the curtain separating the backstage from the stage itself.

It’s a violent transition. The music, the chatter, the catcalling, the whistles when he steps on stage—a crowd hungry for a show.

The lights are blinding for a moment. He can’t see the crowd—just a formless mass, a dark shape reaching for him. Ashlyn is somewhere out there, and she doesn’t know yet.

As his eyes scan the crowd, trying to find her, the music changes—the track he’s supposed to perform to.

Move. You have to move.

His mind is frantic—a tangled mass of thoughts, fear seeping into each one. Yet, somehow, his body takes over while his brain blacks out.

He takes a step forward, then another, his fingers finding the hem of the red satin shirt. He lets his hips roll in a slow, deliberate circle, his hands sliding down the tight denim of his thighs. It’s a crude approximation of a move, but it’s enough. The crowd roars in approval.

Slowly, he drags his hands back up his torso, reaching for the buttons. A scream erupts from the darkness as the first one pops open. He sways to the rhythm—or a fractured version of it—another button, then another. With each inch of skin revealed, another roar erupts from the crowd, clashing with the panic swelling in his chest. He can’t see Ashlyn; his vision has adjusted to the blinding stage lights and the consuming darkness beyond, but he can’t see past the first row.

He lets the shirt hang open, the fabric brushing against his sides. Then he turns, presenting his back to the audience, and throws a glance over his shoulder. He hopes it looks seductive, not terrified. He sways his hips, runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, then—with a sharp, final yank—he pulls the shirt off. It slithers from his fingers to pool on the stage floor.

The crowd’s cheers and whistles sharpen into a single, piercing noise; words— take it off, yeah baby —reach him, distorted and meaningless. The only real sound is the thundering of his own heart, a frantic, trapped beast beating against his ribcage.

The lights aren’t just bright; they are hot, seemingly melting his skin off. He needs this to be over. He needs to get out. Call Carlos. Confess everything.

He turns back around, a hand gliding down his chest in a mock caress, and the crowd screams its approval.

And finally, he sees her at the bar: Ashlyn. She’s watching, her expression unreadable across the distance. Leave, Ash. Just leave, TK pleads silently.

His fingers find the cold metal of his belt buckle. He makes a show of undoing it. The click is obscenely loud—a tiny, violent sound that cuts through the music and the noise.

He pops the button of his jeans, his skin on fire, flushed with sweat and a deep, humiliating heat.

The music swells, and he drags the zipper down slowly. He closes his eyes, prolonging the moment as long as he can—caught between impossible choices. He needs to get out, but he can’t attract suspicion.

He opens his eyes again, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. He lowers them just enough to expose the black waistband of his underwear, rolling his hips in a way he hopes is convincing—the jeans drop lower. He turns again, presenting his back to the audience. The crowd screams; a detached part of him notes, with a strange hollowness, that his ass seems to be a hit.

A movement in the corner of his vision draws his gaze: Vincent by the stage, watching him. The whistles continue, each one feeling like a target being painted on his bare shoulders.

He turns around again, his eyes instantly finding Ashlyn. She is on her feet now, her eyes flicking sharply to her left—an urgent, silent signal.

TK follows her gaze—and his heart plummets as he sees them.

Standing there, just beyond the thickest part of the crowd, is Sam. He wears a confused frown, his lips slowly twisting into an amused smile as he chuckles. Next to him: Carlos. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his posture radiating a stillness that is terrifying. He is utterly unimpressed—the image of simmering rage.

Time stops, the music fades. Every lie, every moment of guilt—everything—solidifies in this single horrifying instant.

Carlos' dark eyes lock directly with TK’s; the betrayal and hurt almost knock TK to his knees—he is watching his liar of a husband dance half-naked on a stage.

Chapter Text

The world dissolves. The music, the crowd, the blinding, searing heat of the lights—everything turns into a high-pitched, meaningless hum. TK’s hands, hooked in the waistband of his jeans, fall limp to his sides.

“Carlos,” he mouths—a silent plea—but he knows Carlos reads the shape of his lips.

Carlos doesn’t look away, and TK’s heart twists in his chest. He’s furious, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched, completely immobile. TK knows what this means: Carlos is controlling himself, keeping the hurt at bay and locking it away—and that sinks TK further.

He moves quickly, reaching for the shirt discarded on the stage amid murmurs of confusion, whistles, and catcalls—which have died down, replaced by boos as the music continues.

He leaps off the stage, legs unsteady; the only thing that matters is the man turning away from him—his own husband walking away. TK dodges the hands reaching for him and ignores the shouts aimed at him, fumbling with his belt, trying to restore some dignity while running after the man he loves with all his heart—the man who just caught him with his pants down in front of a crowd of strangers.

“TK!” A hand catches his wrist—Sam—and TK turns, feeling the hot, shameful pressure build behind his eyes. “Where’s Ash? Is she okay?” Sam asks, his gaze scanning the crowd, his voice tight with worry.

“She’s okay. She’s—” TK stammers, his gaze flicking desperately to where he last saw her. “There,” he points, spotting her gathering her things—this part of the night clearly over.

Sam gives a subtle, grim nod. “We all need to talk,” he says.

“I know,” TK chokes out, the words raw.

He shakes off Sam’s grip and stumbles forward, heart pounding, aching, desperate to reach Carlos, who’s already gone outside without him—he’s leaving. He’s leaving.

Bursting through the main door, his eyes flick around—right then, left—spotting Carlos. “Carlos!” he shouts after his husband’s back.

Carlos doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He keeps walking away down the sidewalk.

“Carlos, please!” TK cries, running toward him, the chill air raising goosebumps on his damp skin.

He finally reaches his husband, who comes to an abrupt halt and slowly pivots.

The streetlamp’s glow highlights Carlos' hardened features. The softness TK lives for, the warmth he woke up to just this morning, is gone. In its place is a chilling, controlled stillness.

His jaw is a hard line; his eyes are dark pools that reflect the yellow light but give nothing of himself back. They aren’t just angry—they’re dim. It’s the most terrifying thing TK has ever seen.

“Carlos, I—”

“Put your shirt on, TK,” Carlos says, his eyes flickering over him—his half-unbuttoned jeans, his bare chest, the sheen of sweat, his hands—an assessment that lasts a second yet carves TK’s heart out.

“I can explain,” TK pleads, fingers fumbling uselessly with the buttons of his shirt, hands trembling so badly he can barely slot them through the holes. “Please, baby, I promise I can explain.”

Carlos lets out a sound—a short, sharp exhale that isn't a laugh, isn't a sigh, but the sound of a man trying not to scream. “Oh, you can explain!” Carlos' voice trembles with bitter sarcasm. “Which part, TK? Hmm? The part where you lied to me over and over? The part where you were dancing half-naked in a room full of strangers? Or the part where you trespassed on private property and committed a crime? Again?”

TK’s eyes widen, a tear spilling down his cheek. Trespassed—Carlos knows, and it wasn't TK who told him.

TK reaches for Carlos' arm. “Carlos—”

Carlos recoils, taking a sharp step back and subtly shaking his head. “No,” he bites out, raising a hand like a barrier. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.”

“Carlos, baby, I swear it’s not what you think,” TK whispers.

Carlos locks eyes with him, and for a heart-stopping second, TK sees it—the shimmer of unshed tears, a glint of anguish held back by sheer force of will. TK did that. It’s his fault.

“Okay,” Carlos says, his voice quiet, like a whisper of pain. “Tell me then.”

TK clenches his fists, fighting the devastating urge to bridge the gap. His heart is a frantic drum against his ribs. He takes a ragged breath. “It’s about Penelope—”

“Of course it is,” Carlos lets out a hollow, broken laugh.

“The man in the red hat is real!” TK blurts out, grasping at the one thread that might make this seem less insane. “He is! Barbara Crawford also deciphered the code. We’re not crazy! Derek—we think he’s dead. Murdered! Penelope left a hidden message, a code! Marcus, he’s the owner’s husband; Naya said he had an affair with Derek. I saw his picture on Vincent’s phone—he’s the man in the red hat!”

Carlos blinks slowly, as if processing a language he doesn't understand. For a few seconds, he stands in silence, the distant city sounds rushing in to fill the void between them. Then he gives a single, slow nod. “You’re playing detective,” Carlos states, his voice thick with disbelief. “After all we went through just last week, after you got away with trespassing by sheer luck because Chief Graham—” He gestures wildly into the night, “—I don’t even know what strings he pulled to clean up your mess!”

“What was I supposed to do?” TK counters, throwing his hands up. “Ignore it? Let her die?”

“You come to me!” Carlos roars, the sound echoing in the stillness of the street. He takes a step forward. “You come to me,” he repeats, his voice lowered now, softer, laced with a hurt so profound it’s worse than the anger. “I’m your husband. You look me in the eye and you tell me everything. We handle things together.”

“Would you have believed me?” TK whispers, pushing the words through the tight, painful knot in his throat. “If I told you Ash found a coded message in Penelope’s last post? If I said the man in a red hat was really the key to it all?”

Carlos rubs a hand over his mouth. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But you never gave me the chance, did you? I was just an obstacle to your—” He gestures toward TK’s disheveled state, “—your goddamn hero complex.”

TK bites his lip, casting his gaze downward onto the cracked sidewalk. He swallows the hurt; he deserves it. He deserves all of it. “I’m sorry.”

From behind them, Sam’s furious voice cuts through the air. “—completely insane, Ash!”

“A woman’s life is at stake, Sam!” she fires back. “And a man is probably dead! Something the police have been ignoring!”

TK watches them walk toward him and Carlos for a moment, then turns back to Carlos, eyes begging. “I was going to tell you tonight. I was going to come home and tell you everything. I swear. I just needed to know for sure.”

“I’m sorry, I have a hard time believing you right now,” Carlos scoffs, his reply cold enough to make TK lower his head, weighed down by the shame swelling in his chest.

TK opens his mouth, another apology dying on his lips, as Vincent’s voice calls for him. “TK! Hey, you left these inside.”

A cold, sharp shiver races down TK’s spine. He turns slowly, painfully aware of the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks in the dim light.

Vincent stands there, holding out TK’s wallet and phone like an offering. As TK reaches for them, his movements sluggish, Carlos shifts—silent, steady, stepping beside TK as if to warn Vincent of his presence.

“Everything alright?” Vincent asks, hesitating, his gaze flicking between TK and Carlos.

“Yeah,” TK breathes out. “Just… personal stuff.” He scans the man’s face, searching for any sign—malice, recognition of Carlos, or the monster beneath the surface TK now believes is there. “Sorry for wasting your time,” he adds, and takes a deliberate step forward, a human shield blocking Carlos from view. He feels the subtle shift in the air as Carlos tenses behind him.

Vincent gives a tight nod, his eyes lingering on Carlos for a second longer. Gauging the damage? Assessing the threat? “It’s okay. This kind of job isn’t for everyone,” he says, then slowly backs away.

The moment he’s gone, Carlos speaks again. “Get in the car,” he says, his voice low and unwavering, leaving no room for argument. “We’re going home.”

“Carlos—”

“Home,” he repeats, eyes fixed on the spot where Vincent disappeared back into the Mirage. “We can’t keep talking about this out here.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Sam says, already in motion. He strides past them, a firm hand on Ash’s elbow, guiding her toward their vehicle across the road.

TK’s gaze remains locked on the empty space where Vincent stood, but the sharp, impatient thud of Carlos' footsteps on the sidewalk pulls him back. Carlos is already moving toward their car, not waiting, his posture radiating a command for TK to follow.

TK takes a step toward him, but a cold jolt of realization stops him. Ash doesn’t know. He spins around. Ashlyn is already sliding into the passenger seat, Sam circling the hood to the driver’s side.

“Ash, wait!” TK jogs a few steps to her car window, lowering his voice. He has to tell her. This is too important. “Vincent’s husband… he’s the man in the red hat.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“I saw his picture on Vincent’s phone. It’s him. It’s definitely him.”

“Oh my god.” Her hand flies to her mouth, her gaze looking past TK toward the entrance of the Mirage. “TK—”

“I know.” TK’s own eyes flick to Sam, who watches them from the driver’s seat, his brow furrowed in confusion. “This is a mess, but we were right—”

“Get in the car, TK. Now.” Carlos' voice is a blade of ice from behind him. He stands at the open passenger door of their own car, holding it like a warden.

TK hesitates for a moment, glancing between Ash and Carlos before trudging toward the car. Every step echoes the hollow ache being carved into his chest. Each beat of his heart is a curse for the hurt he has inflicted on Carlos, now drowned by the cold, clenching panic of a new truth: Vincent is the murderer, or his accomplice, and TK exposed himself to him.

He slides into the passenger seat, murmuring a “thank you” to Carlos for holding the door open—a gesture that feels less like chivalry and more like ensuring a prisoner is secured.

The slam of the door seals the car in silence.

The drive home is a suffocating silence. The hum of the engine is accompanied by the rhythmic thumping of TK’s heart, each pulse aching against his ribs. Carlos doesn’t even look at him—eyes fixed on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel, jaw set hard—like the man next to him is Ranger Reyes, not his husband.

The lights flicker and swirl around them, a city humming with nightlife, while TK sinks further into his seat, shame and guilt dragging him down. He wants to speak, to fill the void with apologies and explanations. But whenever he glances at Carlos, shadows deepen across his face, and he knows he can’t fix this now. But Penelope…

“Penelope is in danger,” he whispers, the words a fragile thing in the heavy air. He fidgets with his hands. Only now does he realize he still doesn’t have his ring; it’s in Ash’s car. Carlos has definitely noticed. Of course he has. Another fracture.

Carlos lets out a slow, measured breath, the sound loud in the quiet car. It’s the breath of a man holding onto his control by a thread. “We’ll talk about this once we’re home. The four of us.”

It should be final; it almost is. It’s a blow to his heart—between the lines, Carlos is telling him to be quiet. To stand down.

“We don’t have time,” TK insists, stealing another glance, finding Carlos’ eyes flicking to him for a split second. “I know you’re angry, but—we got evidence.”

“Do you?” Carlos asks, voice flat.

“Yes! We tracked the man in the red hat. His name is Marcus. He’s Vincent’s husband.”

A tiny muscle twitches in Carlos' jaw. The turn signal clicks, filling the silence stretching between them. “You do realize we can’t use any of it, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It was obtained during your crime spree. Your trespassing, for starters. Mrs. Crawford—,” he clicks his tongue, a sound of pure frustration. “Not to mention whatever that was back there.”

“That wasn’t illegal,” TK mumbles, a weak defense—even to his own ears.

“We deleted the footage that showed you and Ash at the wedding,” Carlos says, his voice dropping even lower. “We’re risking our jobs—trespassing for you, obstruction of justice for me—what a power couple we are!”

“What? You deleted them?”

“Of course we did!” The words are ripped from him, finally spoken with the emotion he’s been bottling up. “We knew there had to be an explanation. Clearly a stupid one, but you will always come first, TK. Even when you make it impossible.”

“Babe—I’ll… I’ll turn myself in. I’ll talk to Barbara! Surely she—”

“Please,” Carlos interrupts, his voice cracking on the word. He takes a hand off the wheel to press his fingers to his temple. “Just… be quiet. I need to… to process this. Let me think.”

TK just nods, staring out the window, watching the city blur past into streaks of light. His hand rests at the edge of his seat, close enough to feel Carlos' warmth, hoping he will reach out—even just for a moment—a moment that never comes; close enough that the rejection seeps into him, pulling and twisting every nerve.

His mind races—a frantic, terrified loop: Marcus. The man in the red hat. Vincent’s husband. Penelope found out. Derek is dead. Vincent… does he know? Does he know that I know?

A new, more terrifying thought freezes the blood in his veins. He didn’t just lie and embarrass his husband. He didn’t just break his trust. He lured Carlos right into the line of sight of a man who may be a killer. He forced his husband into the spider’s web.

The car slows, turning onto their street, and their home comes into view. Carlos pulls into the driveway and kills the engine; with it, TK’s heart seems to stop too—a heavy, silent weight waiting to be shattered by Carlos' next words.

They don’t move; they just sit there, staring ahead at the closed garage door. Carlos' hand is still on the key in the ignition.

After what feels like a lifetime of silence, filled only by their breathing, Carlos gets out—no look, no word. TK scrambles to follow.

Their footsteps echo in the night; the keys jingle in Carlos’ hand unnaturally loud. Carlos unlocks the door, pushes it open, and steps inside, leaving it ajar for TK but not holding it—not waiting.

TK walks into the living room, stopping in the center as he watches Carlos. He doesn’t look at TK—doesn’t look at anything. He simply does . He shrugs off his jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the armchair. He sets his keys in the ceramic bowl with a soft clink and places his phone on the coffee table, aligning it perfectly with the edge.

TK stands frozen, still clutching his own phone and wallet, feeling like an intruder. He doesn’t know where to put them—doesn’t know where to put himself.

Carlos finally turns, with his back to the kitchen island, and braces his hands on the countertop behind him. He still doesn’t look at TK, focusing instead on a point on the floor between them. “I can smell that place on you,” he murmurs, raspy—not with anger, but with a weary ache. “It’s all over your skin.”

“Carlos, I’m so sorry,” TK begins, the words tearing from his raw throat. He takes a tentative step forward, finally abandoning his things on the table next to Carlos' perfectly placed phone. Carlos looks up at him—the white-hot anger has dimmed, replaced by a deep, worried frown and profound exhaustion that makes him look years older. “I was gonna tell you. You have to believe me.”

“I do.” An admission that holds no absolution. It strikes TK squarely in the chest. “But right now, I’m questioning everything we were this past week. I—” He rubs a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the images of tonight. “Every conversation, every… touch.”

“You think you can forgive me?” TK whispers, his voice breaking. He takes another step closer, now within arm’s reach. Carlos doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t lean in either. He is a statue, holding his ground. “Not right now, not even tomorrow, but… eventually?”

Carlos' eyes finally meet his, and the pain in them is so stark it steals TK’s breath. “I love you.” The words are steady, sinking into TK’s core. “That is never, ever in question.”

A sob catches in TK’s chest, equal parts relief and agony. “I love you, too. So much. I was just… I was trying to help.”

“I know you were,” Carlos' voice softens by a fraction. “But right now, we’re in a mess. My investigation wasn’t official, but Chief Graham will want an update eventually—and no,” he says, firmer, seeing the protest form on TK’s lips, “you will not turn yourself in.”

TK’s entire being aches to be close to his husband, to seek the comfort that has always been his refuge—hoping he’s still worthy to hold him. His hands twitch at his sides. “Can I… can I touch you?”

Carlos closes his eyes in a long, pained blink. When he opens them, he gives a faint shake of his head. “I need to breathe for a moment, TK,” he says. “You need to give me some space to just… process this. I can’t… I can’t think if you touch me right now.”

TK nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He understands. It’s not the first time they’ve had a fight, but this one is entwined with so much more—Carlos was unknowingly investigating him, and TK didn’t tell him the truth.

"I’ll… I’ll take the couch tonight,” TK murmurs.

Carlos' jaw tightens. He gives a single, sharp nod. “Okay.”

As that single nod lands, it echoes through TK’s body: it’s the price of your choices.

Silence follows. TK simply stands there, rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do with his hands—other than letting them fall limp at his sides—feeling the prickling sensation of Carlos' touch on his fingertips while dread settles into his veins.

Just as he's about to speak—to offer to gather his things from the bedroom and give Carlos the space he's asked for—the sharp, insistent ring of the doorbell slices through the silence.

Both of them flinch. Their gazes drift toward the front door—Sam and Ash are here.

“I’ll get that,” Carlos says, slipping his mask back on—efficiently pushing away the weariness and ache.

While Carlos walks toward the door, TK moves to the sink, fumbling with the faucet. With trembling hands, he splashes water on his face, trying to wipe away the evidence of his tears. But even with the cool water shocking his skin and every effort to suppress his emotions, he remains entangled in the mess he made: the lingering panic clawing at his chest, the cold ache sinking into his heart. He fucked up—a colossal mess this time—dragging Carlos down with him.

Through the hiss of the water, he hears the murmured greetings—quick and hushed—and approaching footsteps.

When he turns around, a dish towel clutched in his hands, he locks eyes with Ash—her gaze flicking quickly between him and Carlos, clearly sensing the chill between them and the tension that now festers in their home.

TK gives a small, feeble wave of his hand. She looks fine—composed—though, when he looks at Sam, he notices that he’s the more disheveled, with a face still flushed, compared to Ash’s stoic and slightly irritated expression.

“Sorry for the delay,” she murmurs, walking closer and stopping just a foot from him. “Had to call Sam’s mother to make sure someone was with the kids.” TK can tell from her posture that she wants to go in for a hug—the slight lean of her body and the almost imperceptible opening of her arms—a solace he doesn’t feel worthy of.

“It’s okay. We were… talking,” TK mumbles—an obvious understatement. He looks over her shoulder toward Carlos and Sam, who are approaching as if walking into a minefield.

Ash follows his gaze. “Yeah,” she says, her voice dry. “We were talking, too.” She takes a final step, extending her hand. Lying in her palm is TK’s wedding ring.

TK takes it and quietly slips it back onto his finger, and the familiar weight becomes a fresh agony. A jolt shoots through his heart, and a terrifying thought whispers at the back of his mind: Will it stay? Is the damage too great this time? Still, he nods, his voice thick. “Thank you for keeping it safe.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Ashlyn murmurs, then whirls around to face the approaching footsteps.

“Okay,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. He glances from Carlos to TK to Ash. “So, someone want to start from the beginning? I got most of it, but from where I’m standing, I have two questions.” He looks directly at TK again, his confusion tipping into blunt disbelief. “One: why? And two: are you a stripper now?”

“Sam,” Ash hisses, glaring at him.

“What? It’s a fair question,” Sam shoots back, letting out a short chuckle that quickly dies.

TK feels the heavy weight of Carlos' gaze and can’t bear to meet it—to see the fresh hurt there. Instead, he stares at his own hands, twisting the towel. “No,” he mumbles. “Do you guys want something? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

The flimsy attempt at normalcy hangs in the air, only amplifying the frantic thumping of his heart in his ears. He forces himself to look up. All three are staring at him: Ashlyns is slowly shaking her head in a polite refusal; Sam seems to be actually considering the offer; but Carlos—Carlos' face is carved from stone.

“No,” Carlos says. His voice isn’t harsh, but it is absolute and final. It tightens the knot in TK’s chest. “We need to talk. We don’t have much time.”

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight. “Okay. Where do we start? You two chasing a serial killer because of a message in a podcaster’s post?” His gaze flicks from TK to Ashlyn, one eyebrow raised.

“I would say investigating,” Ashlyn counters, moving to stand beside TK at the counter—like a united front against their husbands, oddly comforting.

“Really?” Carlos says. “’Cause it sure—”

“It started with the post,” TK cuts in, the words rushing out to stop Carlos from finishing that thought, from giving voice to the betrayal. He briefly squeezes his eyes shut against the building pressure. “The one where Penelope apologized for the podcast, for deceiving her audience.” He takes a shaky breath, focusing every ounce of his will on Carlos, pleading with him to understand. “Ash figured out the capitalized letters spelled ‘red hat.’”

Carlos' expression doesn’t soften, but a flicker of sharp focus ignites in his eyes—he’s listening, piecing it together despite his hurt.

That’s enough for TK to continue.

“We thought she was in danger, so—”

“So you decided to just… keep us in the dark?” Sam interjects, throwing his hands up in disbelief. “To not call the two Texas Rangers you’re married to?”

“I—”

“He wanted to tell you,” Ashlyn states firmly, her voice clear and unwavering. She lifts her chin and meets Sam’s and Carlos' gazes. “But I didn’t think it was a good idea. That part was my fault.”

TK’s head snaps toward her, but she continues. “We needed more. We couldn’t come to you with a wild theory based on capitalized letters. I insisted we dig first—find something concrete.”

Sam lets out a long, weary sigh that seems to carry the weight of a hundred previous arguments. “Of course you did,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because, when have you ever trusted me to handle something without you taking the nuclear option first?”

“After the two-hour mockumentary you performed about our arrest last week?” Ash shoots back. “You think I’d rush to you with anything less than ironclad proof?”

Sam’s frown deepens into a grimace. “Ash… that’s not the defense you think it is, my love.”

TK’s gaze drifts back to Carlos, his heart aching. Sam’s frustration is a living, breathing thing—yes, but it’s woven through with a familiar, exasperated fondness. He’s looking at Ash like she’s a puzzle he’ll never solve but will always love trying to. Carlos, however, is a closed door. The warmth, the softness—it’s been walled off, and TK is on the outside, shivering in the cold.

“So, you had the words ‘red hat,’” Carlos says, his voice low, silencing the side debate. “What then?”

TK latches onto the question. “We checked the podcast group chat. We thought—since Penelope’s reveal was a secret only the group was privy to—that the man in the red hat, or someone connected to him, had to be in there with us.”

“That’s how we found Barbara Crawford,” Ashlyn adds. “And saw an opening to get more information.”

Carlos gives a single, tight nod. “The wedding party,” he says, as the pieces click into place. Then his gaze locks onto TK—a single, intense stare holding a thousand unspoken words.

“Yeah,” TK whispers. Then he clears his throat, trying to gather his courage. “We snuck in—”

“Also my idea,” Ashlyn interjects smoothly.

“Why am I not surprised?” Sam sighs, the frustration in his voice underscored by a thread of adoration.

TK’s gaze is fixed on Carlos’, hoping he would look at TK like that—just for a second—like he still knows him, still adores him. But the door remains shut.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to continue. “So, we snuck in, found out that Barbara also decoded the message—she had nothing to do with Penelope’s disappearance—and we were back at square one,” TK.

“Why didn’t you come to us then?” Carlos asks, and this time, the hurt is clear—audible in the quiet space between each word.

“I was scared to face you,” TK admits, leaving out that the look now in Carlos' eyes is precisely what he was afraid of. “And Penelope still needed help—”

“Help we could have provided,” Carlos says, a statement of fact. A jab at the trust TK bypassed.

“I know. I’m sorry,” TK replies, the apology a small, fragile thing.

In Carlos' subsequent silence, TK truly hears it—it’s not just the trespassing, or the stripping, or even the danger. It’s the distance TK created, closing the door on Carlos, keeping him out not as a Texas Ranger but as a husband. His gaze drops to the floor again.

Ashlyn clears her throat. “We retraced Penelope’s footsteps,” she continues, picking up where TK left off. “Investigated Derek’s case. That’s how we found ourselves at the Mirage. The rest… you know it. We were right, and TK found the man in the red hat—this Marcus, the owner’s husband.”

“Right, you two found out by infiltrating a strip club,” Sam says, eyes narrowed.

“That was my idea,” TK says, finally managing to look back up at Carlos and Sam. The Mirage, the audition, the stage—it’s all on him. Ash tried to talk him out of it; he charged ahead. “We talked to a bartender there. She mentioned the stripper auditions—a way to get close to Vincent, to ask questions without raising suspicion. So I… I took the shot.” He continues, “But it paid off. We have a name. We have a face. We have a connection.”

“Yeah,” Ashlyn agrees, nodding firmly. “We have evidence now.”

“What evidence, Ash?” Sam asks, his voice rising. “What do you actually have? A photo on a man’s phone you shouldn’t have seen and a coded message from a woman known for deception. That’s not evidence.”

“A woman is in danger, Sam!” Ash bites back.

“Possibly,” Carlos says. He takes a step toward the middle of the kitchen, like a mediator in a tough conversation. “But Sam’s right. There’s not enough for a case. There’s not even enough for me to bring them in for questioning without exposing how we got this information.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. His eyes sweep over TK and Ash, and the mask slips for just a second—the fear beneath the hurt. “And we still have the problem that you two trespassed again, and we—” He gestures sharply between himself and Sam, “—we covered for you. We deleted security footage. We obstructed justice. For you.”

TK shifts his weight. The ripple effects of his own stupidity put Carlos at risk: what if he gets suspended? Or fired? Could something worse happen to him?

Ashlyn shifts beside him, crossing her arms in a defensive stance.

“And we’d do it again,” Sam says, his voice dropping low and earnest as his eyes lock on Ash. “Without batting an eye. In a heartbeat. But please don’t be this reckless again.”

Carlos lets out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “We would,” he concedes, and his eyes find TK’s. For a fleeting moment, the Ranger is entirely gone, replaced only by his husband—terrified, devoted, and hurt. The look is a lifeline and a condemnation all at once. “But that doesn’t solve the problem.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “The immediate threat is Mrs. Crawford. She knows you weren't guests. She could press charges.”

“I’ll talk to her,” TK says, the idea forming as he speaks. He takes a half-step forward. “I’ll explain everything. She knows about the code; she’s investigating Penelope’s disappearance too. She’ll understand.” He says, searching their faces for confirmation. “Right?”

All four share a quiet, heavy look—a silent agreement that there’s no real way to know.

“And what about Penelope?” Ashlyn asks, looking between Sam and Carlos. “We can’t just… ignore her.”

“We don’t ignore her,” Carlos says. “But we have to handle this correctly.” He turns to Sam, the Ranger in him fully taking command. “I can talk to Chief Graham. Tell him we have a new, anonymous tip about Derek Matthews. We leave out Penelope for now; we just need the investigation to be officially opened—and it starts with Derek. There’s a police report; it was deemed a non-case and shelved. As far as the original responding officers were concerned, he simply moved.”

Sam nods. “So, an anonymous informant? We say a source came forward with concerns?”

“Yes. We keep it vague. His case will connect to Penelope’s naturally as it progresses—and then to the Mirage, and the man in the red hat. It gives us a legitimate, documented reason to start digging without exposing how we got here.”

“Why was Derek’s case dismissed so quickly?” Ashlyn presses. “If a man just vanishes, there’s usually a broader search.”

“I’m not sure,” Carlos admits, a frown creasing his brow. “But from what Mitchell told me, he left his job, and his landlord confirmed the lease was canceled. On paper, it looked like a voluntary departure.”

TK bites his bottom lip, the pieces clicking into a more terrifying picture. “Cancelled by whom?” he interjects, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the room. All eyes turn to him. “He disappeared before he had the chance to cancel it. So who called the landlord?” He continues, gaining momentum. “The affair was real, Naya said so. What if Marcus convinced him to leave, to start over somewhere secret… and Derek never saw it coming until it was too late?” The words tumble out. “He wasn’t kidnapped from his life. He was lured out of it.”

Ashlyn snaps her fingers. “That’s why he was so happy when he told Gloria he was quitting!” Her excitement quickly fades into a horrified murmur. “He thought he was going away with Marcus.”

“Yeah,” TK murmurs.

“This also means,” Sam intervenes, his voice grim, “that the crime wasn’t a crime of passion, committed in the heat of the moment. It was planned. Calculated.” He shakes his head, letting out a low breath. “This Marcus, and this Vincent… they’re not just covering up a mistake. That makes them far more dangerous.”

“And you walked right into their lair,” Carlos adds, his words a low, sharp blade aimed directly at TK’s heart, laced with every ounce of fear and helpless anger he has been forced to swallow tonight.

TK’s heart twists painfully, his throat tight. There’s no amount of apologies that would make Carlos feel better right now, that would fix this right now. Yet, all he craves is to apologize again.

“Alright,” Sam says, breaking the silence that Carlos has left in his wake. “First thing in the morning, we go to Mrs. Crawford and pray she’ll be forgiving. Then we go to Chief Graham.”

“But what do we do in the meantime?” Ashlyn asks, her voice tight with urgency. “While you’re building the case, Penelope could be—”

“You two stand down,” Carlos interrupts, his eyes sweeping over TK and Ash. “You are civilians, not investigators. You will not go anywhere near Vincent, or Marcus, or the Mirage. You will not make another call, send another text, or follow another ‘hunch.’ Am I understood?”

TK flinches. It’s not a request; it’s a directive from a Ranger, for the integrity of the case they now have to build from their chaos. He sees Ashlyn bristling beside him, her jaw set in that stubborn, defiant way he knows so well.

“He’s right,” Sam says, his tone softer but no less firm. “You’ve done a lot. You found the thread, even if the means were… spectacularly questionable.”

Logically, TK knows they are right. But the surrender is a final, crushing weight on his chest. He risked everything—his dignity, his husband’s trust—for Penelope. To be told to just stop, to stand aside while the woman he believes is in mortal peril remains in the hands of a calculated killer, feels like a betrayal of its own.

He meets Carlos' resolute gaze, and the fight drains out of him. He lowers his head, staring at the wedding ring on his finger. “Okay.”

“Stand down?” Ashlyn repeats. “After everything? Don’t you think we can be useful? I should go home and what—bake cookies?”

“Ash,” Sam warns. “It’s not a debate.”

“But—”

“No,” Sam states, the word final. “We can’t risk a single piece of evidence being thrown out because it was obtained illegally. More importantly, we can’t risk our jobs covering for you again. And most importantly,” he says, his voice dropping into something raw and fierce, “I will not let you walk back into the line of fire. Neither of you.” His gaze flicks to TK, including him in that vow.

A beat of heavy silence fills the room. Ashlyn shakes her head, letting out a scoff, but the fight seems to leave her shoulders. “Fine,” she bites out, as if she knows they are right and hates it.

“We’ll find her,” Carlos promises.

Sam glances at his watch. “We should go; it’s getting late.”

Ashlyn gives a stiff, reluctant nod. She turns to TK. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” TK replies, offering a weak smile. “Tomorrow.”

As Ashlyn steps out into the night, Sam lingers for a moment. He turns to Carlos, and the two men share a silent, weighted look—a conversation passing between them in a single glance. It’s a nod that says, We’ll handle this. We’ll clean this up.

Then, Sam is gone, and the door clicks shut, sealing them in a silence so profound that TK can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, terrified thrum of his own blood.

TK remains frozen, unsure of what to do, hoping Carlos will come to him—afraid he’s not allowed to go to him. He watches Carlos, who has not moved either, still standing at the front door, back to TK, shoulders rigid—like he, too, doesn’t know how to navigate this.

He wants to close the distance, fall to his knees and beg, wrap his arms around Carlos' waist, and hold him, burying his face in the warmth of his neck until the nightmare evaporates. But he can’t. He has lost the right to that comfort. The memory of Carlos recoiling from his touch on the sidewalk is a brand on his soul.

Finally, Carlos lets out a long, shuddering breath that seems to drain the last of his strength. He turns around slowly. The professional mask he had worn for Sam and Ash is gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, wounded man beneath. His gaze, heavy and exhausted, drops to TK’s left hand—to the wedding ring now back in its place. The subtle bob of his Adam’s apple is a silent, devastating blow to TK’s heart.

“I’ll, um...” TK’s voice is a rasp, scraping against the silence. He takes a few halting steps forward, his footsteps echoing the unsteady rhythm of his own heartbeat. When Carlos doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches him with that heartbreakingly raw hurt, TK stops. “I’ll get my stuff. For the couch.”

He pivots, somehow managing to drag his legs toward the bedroom to give Carlos the space he asked for—the space that will suffocate TK.

“Wait.”

A single word. It’s not a command, not a plea. It’s a sound so quiet and tired it stops TK’s heart more effectively than any shout. He turns back; hope a fragile, painful thing blooming in his chest.

Carlos finally lifts his eyes. They are red-rimmed and glistening in the low light, a storm of anger and hurt collapsing within them. He sniffles, the sound almost lost in the silence. “The couch,” he points weakly toward it, whispering as if not to wake the object up. “Is that what you want?”

TK’s breath hitches, tears spilling over to trace hot paths down his cheeks. Of course it’s not what he wants. All he has ever wanted, all he will ever want, is to spend every single breath next to Carlos—in their bed, wrapped in the safety and certainty of them. He doesn’t voice it; the words are too immense, too sacred for this shattered moment. He just follows the line of Carlos' finger to the couch, then looks back at him. “You said—”

“I know what I said!” Carlos' voice cracks, rising but then breaking apart. It doesn’t feel directed at TK, but inward—a furious frustration with himself for the boundaries he felt he had to set. The flash that crosses Carlos' face makes hope flare in TK’s chest, so sharp and sudden it’s almost worse than despair.

Carlos runs a hand over his face. “But sending my husband to sleep on the couch… that feels like—,” he struggles, gesturing vaguely between them, at the chasm he must hate as much as TK does, “—like letting this win. It feels like a punishment for both of us. I just…” His voice fizzles into nothing.

“What do you want?” TK asks. He will give him anything—space, silence, the world. He will sleep on the roof if it means Carlos might one day look at him without that devastating dimness in his eyes.

“I want to not be so angry I can’t see straight,” Carlos begins. “I want to look back at the last few days—at us making breakfast, laughing on the couch, falling asleep together—and not have it all marred by the secrets you were keeping. I want to understand why your first instinct wasn’t to turn to me.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he takes a shaky step forward. “You know me, baby. I love you more than anything in the world.”

A sob escapes TK’s lips. “I know. I know you do.”

“And I want to kick myself for not seeing it,” Carlos continues, his voice gaining a ragged edge. “I could feel it. There was something off… And it’s not just the lies, TK. It’s all of it together.” His hands clench into fists at his sides, and his whole body trembles with the force of emotions he can no longer contain. “Do you have any idea how scared I was tonight? Not knowing what was going on? I won’t question your need to help Penelope; I understand that. I do. But you walked into the lair of three potential murderers in the span of a week instead of coming to me.” He pauses, wiping angrily at the tears tracking through the stubble on his cheeks. “I always come to you.”

He takes a step toward TK, trembling, wounded—then another, and another—until he’s right in front of TK, so close TK can feel the heat of his body, the ache of his heart—his smell, mixed with sweat clinging to his skin.

“I know. There is no excuse. It was stupid and reckless. I am so sorry, Carlos. I swear I meant well. I just wanted to help,” TK says, struggling not to bridge the distance, to pull Carlos into his arms.

“I know,” Carlos nods. “I know. But you can’t risk your life like this, TK. What about me? What about Jonah?” His gaze drops to TK’s hand, to the wedding ring. “This,” he whispers, his fingers brushing against the band, his touch feather-light and trembling. “This means we’re a team. It’s not your mess. It’s not my mess. It’s our mess.”

His fingers curl to hold TK’s hand, and TK gives a gentle, desperate squeeze, feeling the frantic beat of Carlos' pulse against his own.

“I’m so angry,” Carlos sobs, “because I was terrified. And I love you so damn much it feels like it’s going to rip me in half.”

That’s all TK can take. Instinct overrides caution, and he surges forward, wrapping his arms around Carlos and burying his face in the safe curve of his neck. “I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For a beat, Carlos remains rigid, and TK thinks he may be pushed away—that Carlos might wiggle free—but instead, his arms come up. The familiar, warm shelter wraps around him. It’s not a gentle hug; it’s a crushing reassurance—a need for both of them to feel each other, heartbeat to heartbeat.

They both shake, their soft sobs echoing through their home, the tremors rocking them both.

“I love you,” Carlos murmurs, the words pressed into TK’s hair like a vow, his arms tightening. “I’m sorry I shut down.”

“Don’t,” TK whispers, his lips moving against the warm skin of Carlos' neck. “Don’t you dare apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. This is all on me.”

“Just promise me,” Carlos begs, his voice muffled and raw. “Promise you’ll always come to me. Even if it’s crazy. Especially if it’s crazy.”

“I promise,” TK whispers, lips moving to Carlos' skin—tasting the saltiness, inhaling him deeply.

Slowly, the frantic, desperate grip they have on each other softens. The anger and hurt are not gone, but momentarily spent, overtaken by a weary relief. He feels Carlos take a deep, shuddering breath against him, the rise and fall of his chest a mirror to TK’s own. TK nuzzles deeper into Carlos' neck, and in response, Carlos turns his head, his cheek coming to rest against TK’s temple.

Eventually, Carlos loosens his hold. His hands slide up, cradling TK’s face, thumbs gently sweeping over the damp tracks of tears on his cheeks. He pulls him back just far enough to look him in the eyes. His own eyes are puffy and red-rimmed—a look that holds the entire night: the hurt, the fear, the love.

They just stare at each other for a moment, then TK leans in, his movement slow, giving Carlos every chance to pull away. He doesn’t.

TK’s lips catch Carlos'. It’s soft—a gentle pressing, a whisper against his mouth that speaks of a promise to always find their way back to this—to them. He deepens the kiss by a fraction, a silent question, and Carlos answers by parting his lips, allowing TK to share his breath, to taste the echo of his own apology on his tongue.

When they part, Carlos' hands slide to TK’s shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze. TK melts into it. “We should go to bed,” Carlos murmurs. “It’s late, and we have a lot to do tomorrow.”

TK nods, holding back a whimper, the hollow in his chest bursting with the sudden flood of love and warmth.

They walk to the bedroom in silence. Despite the last few moments, the fight still hangs in the air; the betrayal still weighs both of them down. They change without a word—a quiet, parallel dance. TK’s fingers fumble with his buttons. Carlos' movements are efficient, robotic. TK hesitates, holding the red satin shirt, considering for a moment tossing it into the far corner of the closet, out of sight forever.

Carlos clicks off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness pierced only by the soft, silver glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. He gets into bed first. For a single, heart-stopping moment, his eyes meet TK’s in the dim light, and then he turns, lying down on his side, his back a silent wall.

TK’s heart plummets. He expected as much, truly. The hug, the kiss—they were a necessary anchor, a primal need to feel each other, to confirm they are still here. But it doesn't erase the pain he’s caused. Carlos is entitled to this space, to this distance—at least they are in the same bed.

He slips under the covers on his own side, careful not to invade Carlos’ personal space, his side of the bed.

It’s all wrong. The mattress dips differently with this new, cold space between them. He can’t remember the last time he fell asleep without the weight of Carlos' arm across his chest or the warmth of his back pressed against Carlos' front.

He lies rigid, staring at the faint pattern of moonlight on the ceiling, each of Carlos' measured breaths a tiny hammer on his soul. His hand, curled into a fist at his chest, aches with the need to reach out.

He shifts to lie on his side, facing the space between Carlos' shoulder blades, and clutches his own hands tighter to make sure they stay put.

The silence stretches, thin and brittle. Carlos' breathing doesn’t even out into the rhythms of sleep; it remains a little too controlled, a little too aware. He’s just as awake, just as trapped in this awful torture.

Then, a shift, followed by a quiet sigh from the other end of the bed.

The bed creaks softly as Carlos turns over. TK holds his breath, his entire world narrowing to the man now facing him in the dark.

Quiet follows—so profound that TK can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He can just make out the glistening tracks of dried tears on Carlos' cheeks in the moonlight. Neither of them speaks.

Carlos' hand moves. He lifts the edge of the covers in a silent invitation.

TK doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t need a second. He moves across the cold sheets, bridging the chasm he created, and melts into Carlos' waiting arms. He buries his face in the warm hollow of Carlos' neck with a broken sob, and Carlos' embrace closes around him—not the desperate, crushing hold from before, but something softer, more final. A coming home.

He feels Carlos press a long, soft kiss to the top of his head. “I’m here,” Carlos murmurs, the words a warm rumble against TK’s skin.

It shatters the last of TK’s hesitation. He’s in Carlos' arms. Despite it all, he is held. He is home. He presses his own kiss to Carlos' chest, right over the steady, strong beat of his heart—his favorite spot, his anchor—and holds on just as tightly.

Chapter Text

The world is quiet, a fragile, hollow silence broken only by the rhythm of their breathing and the reassuring beat of TK’s heart against his own. The moon has shifted, its silver gleam now a cold stripe across the floor, the ceiling, the bed. They are tangled together under the covers—Carlos' arm around TK, holding him close to his chest. TK’s own grip is desperate, his fingers fisted in Carlos' shirt, as if he’s afraid Carlos will vanish if he lets go for even a second.

It’s a thought that has crossed Carlos' mind more than he’d like to admit.

It’s hard to breathe with the aching pulse in his chest; with each beat, Carlos' mind floods anew: the confusion of seeing TK in the security footage, the fracturing of his heart as each of TK’s lies echoes, the lingering anger—hand in hand with the shame. TK wanted to help Penelope; it should be noble, despite the methods, but he can’t swallow the means—the secrets. They’re lodged in his throat, slowly choking him.

It’s a fragile ceasefire, born from the primal need to hold the man he loves— to feel the solid proof of his safety, to let him know that despite everything, Carlos will always be here.

He presses another kiss to TK’s head, burying his nose in his hair and inhaling deeply. TK’s scent fills him—the familiar notes of his cologne and skin, now underscored by something foreign: the ghost of sweat and the stifling air of that place.

TK shifts in his hold, a subtle tremor running through him, as if he can feel the war raging inside Carlos. He doesn’t speak—only short, warm exhales against Carlos' neck, the occasional, almost imperceptible press of lips against his collarbone—a silent apology, a plea—and the tightening of his arms, anchoring himself and pulling Carlos closer to his home.

Carlos should be figuring out how to fix this. He should be mentally drafting the report for Chief Graham, weaving the anonymous tip into something plausible or rehearsing the plea they will deliver to Barbara Crawford. Logic dictates that TK’s idea is their only move—appealing to the woman’s own obsession with the truth.

But every time his mind tries to latch onto the case—the professional problem he must solve—his body rebels. His arms tighten around TK of their own volition. His world—his entire universe—is right here in this embrace: flawed, reckless, terrifyingly fragile, but here. He is safe. For now, that has to be enough.

It’s not over. They stepped back from the conversation, not walked away from it. The hurt lingers, shading everything. He heard TK’s reasons—saving a life—but the means, the secrets, the distance, the knowledge that he and Jonah came second. Maybe his mind is too clouded to see clearly right now. Maybe.

He exhales a shaky breath, feeling the anger and hurt banked together—a hot ember in his chest. He can’t tell one from the other.

He holds his husband closer, clinging to the hope that the new day will bring clarity, especially after this deep, wounded night.

“I can hear you thinking,” TK whispers in the dark, words hushed, tentative. It’s not an accusation; it feels like a gentle probe—like he’s giving Carlos a way to let it out.

Carlos' thumb, which has been absently tracing TK’s back, stills. His mind stutters for a moment, stopping the apology on the tip of his tongue—there’s no need to lie, but reassurance would feel dishonest too. So, he settles for the truth, in a way he can manage. “It’s loud in here,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against TK’s forehead.

TK nods against his chest. “Tell me one thing. Just one thing you’re thinking.”

Carlos pauses. The list is long, and worse, tangled: the anger, the hurt, the love that feels vaster and not less enduring—the betrayal. He chooses the one truth that seems most immediate, the one that hums in his veins with a constant, undeniable frequency. “I love you,” he says, aware of the way his voice cracks slightly in the quiet.

He feels the shudder wrack TK’s body. “I love you too,” TK breathes out, lips ghosting Carlos' skin. He tilts his head up, his eyes locking with Carlos' in the gloom. “I wanted to tell you. I was scared you’d stop me, and I… I didn’t want to be stopped—not with Penelope’s life on the line.” He tightens his grip on Carlos' shirt.

“I wouldn’t have stopped you,” Carlos says softly. “I would’ve… managed you, protected you.” He pauses, dipping his head and finding TK’s lips in the darkness—an instinct no force will ever override.

When they part, TK sniffs—a single, sharp intake of air that rocks through both of them. “I know. I should’ve known that. I’m not sure why I didn’t—” His voice hitches, threatening to dissolve.

“Baby,” Carlos cuts in gently. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

TK snuggles closer. “I wish I could fix it right now,” he admits.

“We will fix it. We’ll figure it out. Graham, Mrs.. Crawford—” He takes a breath, and the most important word lingers—unspoken but felt—in the space between their hearts. Us. “All of it,” he ends up saying.

TK shifts again, nuzzling deeper into the crook of Carlos' neck. His hand unfurls, laying flat against Carlos' chest. The urgent need to voice every thought seems to pass as quickly as it came, leaving them back in the realm of feeling. Each soft press of TK’s lips against his skin feels like a brand of devotion—a silent litany of I’m here, I’m yours, I’m sorry. But they are also hesitant, each one weighted down by a guilt so palpable that Carlos can feel it in the tremor of TK’s fingertips.

Carlos' hand resumes its slow, steady path up and down TK’s spine. It’s a grounding rhythm for both of them—a different way to mark the seconds they are choosing to spend here, together despite the night that crushed them both like a tidal wave. With each pass, he feels a little more of the rigid tension seep from TK’s muscles, and he can’t help but smile at himself.

He closes his eyes, not to sleep, but to feel. The weight of TK’s arm around him, the palm on his chest, the warm puff of air against his throat with every exhale TK takes—the steady, strong thump of TK’s heart—all of it is essential to him. He cannot fathom a world without this. The low anger still simmers, a persistent undercurrent, but it cannot overpower the vast, aching ocean of his love, which swells at TK’s touch—so needy and receptive when it comes to his husband. Carlos is unashamed of this want, this fundamental need to keep him close and hold him just as tightly as TK holds him—despite the complications that loom like a specter at the foot of the bed, patiently waiting for their turn in the light of day.

He doesn’t know how long they lie like that. Time loses all meaning in the dark. Minutes, hours—it feels like an eternity and the blink of an eye all at once. Eventually, he feels the exact moment TK finally surrenders to dreams—his body going lax and heavy in Carlos' arms, his breathing deepening into the slow, even rhythm of sleep.

Carlos doesn’t follow him yet. He remains awake, a sentinel holding the most precious thing in his world.

Yet, now that TK is asleep, Carlos' mind wanders. The man in the red hat—Marcus. Vincent’s husband—presumably. He recalls Vincent coming out to check on TK—was he assessing the situation? the threat? Did he hear them?

TK stirs slightly in his sleep, a faint whimper escaping his lips, a frown etching his brow. Carlos instinctively tightens his embrace, his hand resuming its soothing path along TK’s spine—trying to calm him.

Flashes of the confrontation resurface: TK stepping in front of him, placing his own body between Carlos and a potential murderer. The act was pure TK—a selfless, reckless, heart-stopping reflex to protect. It would have melted Carlos' heart at any other time. Now, it only feeds the cold dread coiling in his gut. His husband put himself in the crosshairs.

He should call this in—call in a favor—maybe Prescott. But the legal consequences could be hard to handle. Hell, even he and Sam are at risk, their jobs on the line. Just a few hours, then they can beg Mrs. Crawford. She seemed like a reasonable woman, but what if she feels manipulated? Betrayed? Would she believe he didn’t know his own husband was the man she was talking about?

He lets out a low sigh, which does nothing to uncoil the worry settling in his gut. He looks down at TK, who has now burrowed so deeply into his embrace that he seems to be trying to fuse them together. A soft, contented sigh escapes TK’s lips—so innocent and trusting that it makes Carlos' chest ache.

This man is his entire world. His recklessness is born from a heart too big for his own good—a need to help that overrides all sense of self-preservation. And Carlos loves him for it—even as it terrifies him.

They will find a way to help Penelope. They just need to do it right, to be smart about it.

He slowly drifts, his mind blissfully empty, filled only with sensations nurturing him—in tune with TK’s heartbeat and soft breathing, calling for Carlos to chase after him in sleep. He can feel himself teetering between reality and dreams, not fully embracing the dreamscape nor fully wanting to stay in the quiet reality—suspended, tethered to his husband's warm breath against his neck, to the solid frame in his arms, and pulled toward the expanse that lies just beyond the stillness. In both, peace reaches for him—for simply holding TK, the rightness of their bodies aligned against one another.

Then, a vibration.

It’s a low, insistent buzz against the nightstand, a jarring tremor through the tranquility. Carlos' brow furrows deeply in his almost-sleep, a subconscious protest. A low groan rumbles in his chest, not quite audible—a plea for the world to leave them be. Not yet. Just a little longer. Then it stops.

Silence returns, deep and sweet. He holds his breath, willing the silence to hold, and feels his body start to sink back into the mattress, into the warm, forgiving embrace of oblivion.

It starts again—a relentless, angry insect of sound. Then another. A third, more urgent than the last.

The peaceful weight in his arms becomes a tense line of awareness. He feels TK’s breath catch, the subtle shift of muscles as he is violently dragged back to the surface.

“It’s your phone,” Carlos mumbles, his words thick and slurred with sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes, clinging to the ghost of peace, but his consciousness is already surfacing—the tie severed.

TK moves, gently extracting himself from Carlos' embrace. The loss of warmth is immediate—a cold draft against his skin that leaves his arms feeling hollow and empty. He finally opens his eyes, watching TK’s silhouette stretch and distort in the gloom as he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand. The screen ignites, flooding the room with a dim, sickly bluish light.

Carlos watches him—the hesitant way his thumb hovers over the screen, the sudden tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. It’s bad news. He can feel it in his gut. Is it the group chat? Has Penelope’s body been found?

With jerky movements, TK sits up, types a quick reply, then swings his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Carlos.

“TK?” Carlos pushes himself up on one elbow. “Something wrong?”

TK doesn’t turn. He just hunches his shoulders. “It’s Ash,” he whispers, his voice strained. “She’s outside. She and Sam had a fight, a big one.” He stands up with a heavy sigh. “She says she’s not going home.”

Carlos frowns, blinking a couple of times as TK pads out of the bedroom, the soft sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. Carlos reaches for his own phone on the nightstand. The screen is dark—no notifications, nothing from Sam, no missed calls. Nothing.

It’s odd. Sam is stubborn, yes, capable of a fight with Ashlyn, yes, but he would never let it go this far. He’d chase after her with broken legs, without a doubt. He’d be blowing up Carlos' phone.

Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong. A thrum settles in his bones.

He quickly types a text to Sam—Ash is here. You okay?—and hits send. He checks the time—almost 3 a.m.—and the unease becomes a cold, sharp alarm bell ringing in his chest.

Something’s wrong.

He stands up, his heart beginning a frantic, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He hears the faint, metallic scrape of the deadbolt being turned, then the softer click of the latch. The front door opens. He hears TK’s muffled voice—not the warm greeting he’d use for Ashlyn, but a confused, hesitant, “Can I help you—?”

The sentence is cut off, not by a voice, but by a sudden, profound silence.

Carlos' feet move before his mind can fully process it—steps quick and silent on the hallway floor, drawn by a primal pull toward his husband.

He reaches the living room archway and freezes.

The dim light of the living room reveals TK, his body rigid, his hands held slightly away from his sides in a gesture of stunned surrender. Beyond him, it’s not Ashlyn.

It’s two men. One is larger, broad-shouldered, his face obscured by shadow, standing directly in front of TK and crowding the doorway. The other is slighter, hovering just behind. And in the sliver of light between them: a glint of cold—a gun, leveled directly at the center of TK’s chest.

Something cracks inside Carlos—terror, raw and desperate, sparks outward from his core.

“No!” he shouts, voice torn from his throat.

The larger man shoves forward—a powerful thrust of his body that sends TK stumbling backward. TK’s breath leaves him in a sharp gasp as he hits the floor with a sickening thud, his head snapping back. The man is on him instantly, following him down, the gun never wavering—its muzzle now inches from TK’s heart.

TK’s eyes are wide, reflecting the dim light, filled with shock and fear. For a terrifying second, they are locked on the man above him. Then they flick frantically and seekingly toward Carlos.

“Please don’t,” Carlos begs, the words a choked whisper. Every muscle, every nerve screams at him to rush forward, to throw himself between the gun and his husband. But a colder, more terrible instinct holds him rooted—the certain knowledge that a single sudden move would be the trigger pull. He would get TK killed. Shot on the floor of their own home. The thought is an abyss.

The man’s free hand fists in TK’s collar, yanking him half-upright with a rough jerk that makes TK gasp. Then the man’s gaze lifts and pins Carlos to the spot. “Hands where I can see them,” he growls.

Carlos' hands fly up, palms open. He nods in a frantic, jerky motion. His eyes lock with TK’s, feeling the sting of tears building as his heart screams in his chest—so loud it aches. He pleads with TK with just a look: please, baby, don’t do anything. Be still. Be alive.

The second man, who had been lurking beyond the threshold, steps inside. He pulls two plastic zip ties from his pocket. He kneels, roughly yanking TK’s arms behind his back. The sound of the plastic teeth ratcheting tight is obscenely loud in the silent room. He pulls them until they bite into TK’s wrists.

“What do you want?” TK asks, the question a shaky breath.

The response freezes Carlos' blood—a brutal shove of the gun barrel deeper into TK’s chest, making him grunt and arch backward.

“Quiet,” the second man commands, his voice higher, tighter than his partner’s. He stands, his eyes scanning the room. “No sudden moves, and no one gets hurt.”

The promise sounds hollow, yet it’s all Carlos can hold on to. His heart pounds like a drum in his ears, the world fraying at its edges—his focus narrowed onto TK. “Okay, just—please, don’t hurt him,” he chokes out through the surge of panic.

The man reaches into his pockets once more, stepping toward Carlos. He moves quickly, grabbing Carlos' wrists with surprising strength—his grip like iron—and wrenching them behind his back. The cold plastic of a zip tie loops around his wrists.

Somewhere in the depths of his terror-sharpened mind, a detached thought surfaces: this is the better outcome. They’re not being executed. They’re being restrained. It means they’re wanted alive. Maybe he can still find a way to keep TK safe.

Instinctively, Carlos pulls against the hold, his muscles corded with tension.

“Just—just tell us what you want,” Carlos says, trying to reason through the haze of adrenaline.

The man doesn’t slow or reply. Instead, he sighs, giving a final, vicious tug at Carlos' now-tied wrists. The plastic saws into his skin—a sharp, burning promise of raw flesh and bruises to come. Then, a heavy hand lands between his shoulder blades, shoving him forward.

“On your knees,” the man hisses.

A cold weight of pure dread settles in Carlos' stomach. He looks at TK—his husband’s face is pale, his breathing ragged, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Carlos' own mind flashes with a montage of every horror he’s ever witnessed in his career. This is an execution, then.

The man moves behind him. The cold, circular pressure of a gun barrel presses against the base of his skull.

“I said: on your knees,” he commands.

There’s a mechanical click—the hammer being cocked. The sound is final. Absolute. Carlos winces and sinks to his knees. Powerless. Utterly, completely powerless.

Time stalls. Every sound echoes in his head—TK’s shallow gasps, the muffled thump of his heart, the faint, indifferent buzz of the city outside.

“Is there anyone else here with you?” The metal grinds into the vertebrae of Carlos' neck.

Both Carlos and TK shake their heads. They lock eyes again, and in TK’s, Carlos can read it—the stark, terrifying relief that Jonah is not here. He’s safe with his Abuela. He is safe. Carlos knows his mom will take care of him.

The man hums, a low, considering sound, and takes a couple of steps back. The moment the pressure of the gun vanishes, Carlos sees a single tear escape and trace a glistening path down TK’s cheek. His own heart stutters at the fleeting, hollow relief.

“So if I were to go down that hall, I wouldn’t find your son in his room?” the man asks, his tone dripping with mocking certainty.

“We don’t have a son,” Carlos replies instantly, a shield forged by instinct.

The movement is a blur—a sudden shift of weight, a pivot. Pain explodes behind Carlos' eyes—a sickening crack as the butt of the gun connects with his temple. White light blinds him—nerves flaring up. His body goes limp, oblivion closing in as he crumples sideways to the floor. The impact jars through him—a second, lesser explosion of pain. He feels the warm, shocking gush of blood oozing from the wound, painting a dark, slick trail down his face and onto the hardwood floor.

“Carlos!” TK’s scream is raw, ripped from his soul.

Through the nauseating throbbing and the dark spots dancing in his vision, Carlos can make out TK’s form straining against the man holding him, trying desperately to scramble toward him. Carlos' lips part, a wet, ragged sound escaping. “Don’t—” he croaks out, the word barely audible.

He feels the hot, acrid breath of the man against his ear as he leans down. “I know you have a son,” the man spits, each word a hammer blow to Carlos' throbbing skull. His vision tunnels, darkness threatening to pull him under. “I ask again, is your son here?”

“He’s not,” TK’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and clear, with a desperation that borders on hysteria. “He’s not here. I swear. Please.”

For a heartbeat, the man seems to consider TK’s words. He straightens up, standing with a grunt. “Watch them,” he says to his partner.

His footsteps are unnervingly quiet in their home, growing softer as he moves down the hall—a sound that churns Carlos' stomach. The thought of that man walking freely in their home, in Jonah’s room, seeing his things, touching his things…

Carlos tries to shift, to push himself back up, but the movement sends another shockwave of agony through his skull. A cough wracks his body—a deep, convulsive shudder that feels like it’s tearing something loose inside his chest. Each convulsion is a fresh burst of pain that escapes his lips in ragged, pained gasps. He tastes the floor, the blood, his own helplessness.

“Please, let me check on him,” TK begs, his voice low and shattered.

“He’s fine,” the second man responds, shoving TK back with a brutal hand to his chest.

“I’m okay,” Carlos croaks, blinking rapidly against the blinding, nauseating throb. He forces his eyes to focus on TK.

He sees it then—the furious glare TK directs at their captor, the way his jaw tightens into a hard line, the subtle, dangerous coiling of his muscles. A new wave of cold panic, sharper than the pain in his head, washes over Carlos. No. He gives a minute, frantic shake of his head, his gaze pleading. No, baby, please. Not now. Not like this. The man holding TK is large, but Carlos knows that wouldn’t stop his husband. He wouldn’t even be surprised if TK managed to get the upper hand. But not now. Not with a gun in the equation. He’d be dead before his fist even connected.

The second man returns a moment later. “Empty. The kid’s stuff is there, but the bed’s made. No one.”

The other one shrugs. “Easier this way.” He roughly yanks TK to his feet, shoving him toward the door. “Walk.”

Carlos fights against the bindings on his wrists, his eyes locked on the gun pressed against TK’s ribs. TK takes a slow, forced step—he’s being taken. This has to be Vincent; the timing is too perfect to be a coincidence. Carlos struggles to his knees, the world swimming in and out of focus. “No,” he grates out—or thinks he does—the word lost in a groan of pain.

The second man is on him instantly, grabbing his bound arms and hauling him upright. The world tilts violently. Carlos stumbles, his legs buckling beneath him. The only thing keeping him from hitting the floor is the man shoving him forward.

His head lolls. He catches flashes: the threshold of their front door, the quiet street outside, the windowless van at the curb. And TK, always TK, glancing back over his shoulder with every step—his eyes wide with fear. Each exhale is ragged, painful—a rhythm set to the insistent throbbing in his temple. Warm blood tracks from the gash down his face and neck, leaving small, perfect red drops on the floor in his wake.

The fog in his vision thickens, coalescing into shadows. His heartbeat slows, a distant drum in the gathering dark. He goes limp; he feels himself falling—registers the impact through a distant grunt—but the sensation is muffled, far away. His consciousness dissolves into whispers, deep and absolute, as the darkness rises to claim him.

Carlos' senses drip back into him, one by one—a slow, painful seep into consciousness. First is the sound—a low, grinding rumble that vibrates deep in his bones. An engine. Then the smell—stale air and the faint, metallic tang of his own blood. Finally, the feeling—a relentless, pounding ache centered at his temple, radiating out in nauseating waves with every lurch and sway.

His eyelids are heavy. He battles to open them—the world around him a blur of shifting shadows. The faint beams of streetlights cast dim patterns on the walls of the van—flickering in and out of existence. He closes his eyes again.

But the other senses won’t be silenced. He feels the warmth he’s pressed against—solid, familiar. It’s an anchor in the disorienting chaos. He recognizes the scent that cuts through the van’s stench—his husband’s skin, now layered with the sharp, acrid scent of sweat.

TK.

The thought is a spark. His head is cradled not on cold metal but in the dip of TK’s shoulder. He can feel the frantic, rabbit-quick beat of TK’s heart against his own throbbing skull. He can hear TK’s breathing—short, controlled puffs through his nose, the sound of someone holding themselves together by a thread.

Carlos' lips are dry and cracked. He tries to form a name, but it comes out as a ragged, wet exhalation.

A sharp intake of breath above him. The body he’s leaning against goes rigid for a fraction of a second, then deliberately relaxes, as if making a conscious effort to be his pillow.

“Carlos.” TK’s voice is a hushed, broken thing, barely more than a vibration in his chest. It’s filled with a world of relief and terror.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Carlos forces his eyes open again. The world comes into a hazy, painful focus. He’s looking up at the sharp line of TK’s jaw, clenched tight. He follows TK’s gaze across the van to where one of their captors sits—a hulking shadow watching them.

Carlos' fingers twitch—a futile attempt to move his bound hands and reach out. The plastic zip ties bite deeper into his wrists with the effort.

He tilts his head slightly, a monumental effort that sends a fresh spike of pain through his skull. But it brings TK’s face into his line of sight. In the erratic flashes of passing light, he sees it all—the grim set of TK’s mouth, the furious, protective gleam in his eyes, and the trail of a single dried tear through the grime on his cheek.

“TK,” he rasps, the word finally taking shape, scraping raw from his throat.

TK’s eyes dart down to meet his—a flash of green in the gloom. “I’m here,” he whispers back, his voice thick. “I’m right here.”

“Told you he was fine,” the man says with a scoff, his voice like gravel grinding in Carlos' aching head.

“Shut up,” TK snarls over Carlos' head, the words low and venomous. His body tenses again, a spring coiling too tight.

Carlos tries to shift, to push himself more upright. The movement is a mistake. A wave of vertigo and pain crashes over him. His stomach lurches, and he groans—an involuntary, weak sound.

“Easy,” TK murmurs, the word a strained hum meant only for him. His bound hands, trapped behind his back, must be straining, but his shoulder shifts minutely, creating a more stable, gentle cradle for Carlos' head. TK's shirt is wet where Carlos' blood seeped through the fabric. “Don’t try to move. It’s okay.”

The steady, frantic thrum of TK’s heart against his cheek is a lifeline—the only thing tethering him to consciousness, keeping him from sinking back into the welcoming, painless dark.

“Touching.” The man’s voice is a mockery, a deliberate prod meant to demean. It vibrates through the van’s floor, and Carlos feels the answering tremor of pure rage that courses through TK’s frame. He’s a hair’s breadth from snapping.

“I swear I will…” TK’s growl is guttural, a promise of violence deep within his chest.

“What?” The man leans forward, the challenge hanging in the close air. “You’ll do what, pretty boy? Keep it up and see where it gets you. I just need you breathing. Your being conscious is optional.”

TK doesn’t flinch. If anything, his chin lifts a fraction higher, defiant. But the threat lands on Carlos, slicing through his addled senses: optional. He presses his forehead more firmly on TK’s shoulder, the only movement he can manage to make right now—please don’t.

He feels it instantly. The furious tension in the body beneath him wavers, then yields. “Vincent sent you,” TK states. It isn’t a question; it’s the only logical conclusion to their nightmare of a night, spoken into the stale air between them.

The man doesn’t answer immediately. The van turns a corner, and the centrifugal force pushes Carlos more firmly into TK. The engine’s rumble shifts, deepening as they accelerate.

“He did.” The man finally leans forward, elbows on his knees, becoming more than a shadow. His features are harsh in the intermittent light. “Pays well for messy work.”

Carlos' mind, foggy with pain and concussion, scrambles for purchase. Ash. The text. These men have Ashlyn’s phone. They knew how to lure TK to the door.

“What—” he slurs, the word thick and clumsy. He licks his dry lips, fighting to form the question. “What did you do to our friends?” Sam and Ash. The only way they had Ash’s phone was if they’d gotten to them first. The cold dread in his gut crystallizes into a sharp, freezing point.

The man flashes a grin, a quick, white slash in the dark. He seems satisfied, as if he’d been waiting for the question. “Last time I saw them, they were breathing. A feisty one, that man. Like you two.” He shrugs, a massive roll of his shoulders. “I don’t know what Vincent’s done with them since, and I don’t care. My job was to get you.”

Carlos' blood runs cold. Sam and Ash were taken too. How? Have they been watching them? Waiting in the night? 

His mind, sluggish and battered, connects the dots—clarity dawning through the haze. Vincent is eliminating the possible threats, every person who could point a finger. They’re not just being kidnapped; they’re being collected for disposal.

His stomach plummets. The only people who know about Marcus and Vincent—the only ones who can connect the Mirage, the man in the red hat, Penelope, and Derek—are now in Vincent’s hands. They are a complete set of loose ends, neatly tied up and being delivered.

He should’ve called Prescott the moment he thought about it. The regret spreads through his veins, burning away the last of the concussion fog with pure, white-hot panic. He should’ve done it. He should’ve risked it all. But his stupid, lovesick heart had needed to protect TK from the professional fallout—to find a cleaner way. And now? Now he’s failed at that, too. He led the wolf right to their door by doing nothing. How could he ever tell TK to come to him, to trust him, when this is the result?

He feels a fresh, violent tremor go through TK’s body, and he knows the same devastating realization is dawning on him. The same helpless terror.

No. Not helpless. Not for him.

Carlos' eyes flick over the front of the van, where the driver is—he can barely make out the familiar streets of Austin blurring past the windshield. He's not sure how much longer they'll be on the move. He looks back at the man watching them. He doesn’t see the man’s gun, but he knows it’s there, a constant pressure in the air.

A desperate, reckless plan fractures in his mind. His muscles coil, tension that has nothing to do with the pain screaming from his temple and everything to do with a final, frantic calculation. If he's fast enough—a lunge, a tackle, a distraction. It might be enough. It has to be enough.

In that moment, the skin of his wrists screams in protest against the plastic ties, a searing reminder that his arms are useless, bound and trapped behind his back. The ache in his shoulders drives the point home. There is no lunge. No tackle. No heroic sacrifice. He is utterly, completely immobilized.

His heart tears in two. TK’s wrists are bound too, but Carlos knows, with a painful certainty, that if given an opening, TK could run. If Carlos could create that opening—if he could buy TK just a few seconds.

His gaze drifts to the van’s side door, calculating the latch, the jump, the roll. Maybe when the van slows. Maybe then.

The fragile thought shatters, crushed and battered beneath the relentless weight of pain pounding through his skull—the unyielding pressure tightening with every heartbeat, every twisting pulse. He swallows the thick, bitter film thickening his mouth—the metallic tang of his own blood seeping into his senses. His vision begins to falter at the edges, blurring into shaky streaks of muted colors as darkness creeps in to swallow the world around him.

Desperately, he strains to focus on TK’s breathing, on the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart—small saviors in this chaos, the most precious sounds in the universe. He clings to them, anchors in the storm, trying to draw strength from their calming cadence. Yet, despite his efforts, numbness seeps into his limbs, dulling his senses; the pain ebbs into a distant hum as reality slips away in fragile fragments. A soft, persistent pull whispers at his consciousness—an insidious, gentle tug that threatens to erase everything. He exhales a pained, trembling sigh, fighting against the draw of surrender. He must not let go.

Consciousness teeters on the edge, teasing, mocking with its slow retreat. Each fading sensation becomes a distant lullaby, the thick, cottony silence engulfing him, drowning out the world in an expanding tide of nothingness. And then, finally, there is nothing at all—just the quiet, merciful void, swallowing him whole.

The world remains shrouded in a bleak, oppressive haze. Yet, gradually, a single fragile thread begins to emerge—one that sharpens with unwavering clarity, cutting through the darkness like a lance. Despite the chaos, the pain pounding relentlessly in his skull, and the cold, rough floor pressing against his back, he clings to that thread.

His fingers twitch involuntarily, scratching at the gritty surface beneath him—a monumental effort, like a desperate attempt to claw his way out of a deep, inescapable tomb.

Then, he feels it: the comforting, solid warmth cradling his head—the lap upon which his weight now rests. A hand, trembling with both fear and tenderness, gently threads through his hair, offering silent reassurance. The faintest, familiar scent mingles in the stale air—TK.

A soft, whispered chorus of words finally reaches his ears—an attempt to soothe them both.

Carlos forces his eyes open, squinting against the glare of a single naked bulb hanging from a cracked, gray ceiling. His vision swims before focusing on the face hovering above him—TK, watching him, guarding him.

“Hey, Carlos,” TK chokes out, his voice raw. He is bent over him, his lips parted as if frozen in a silent prayer.

Carlos tries to wet his cracked lips; his throat is parched. His eyes dart around, taking in the stark reality: a windowless room of gray concrete, dust motes dancing like tiny ghosts in the stale, stagnant air. He shifts, a low grunt escaping him as the movement sends a fresh spike of pain through his temple. He squeezes his eyes shut again, breathing through it until the sharp stab recedes into a deep, dull ache.

“He’s awake?” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with concern.

Footsteps scuff quickly across the floor. When Carlos opens his eyes again, he’s met with Sam’s face—a nasty purple bruise blooming along his jawline—and Ash’s wide, anxious eyes peering over his shoulder. They’re here. They’re alive. A sliver of relief pierces the dread.

“Welcome back, buddy,” Sam says, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Give him space, guys,” TK whispers gently, his tone tender yet firm. His thumb continues its slow, soothing strokes along Carlos' hairline.

“I’m okay,” Carlos croaks, his voice hoarse and weak. An instinctive urge to sit up, to assess the threat or spring into action, swells within him. His body, however, betrays him—heavy, sluggish, refusing to obey. He’s utterly spent, relegated to lying there on the cold, unforgiving floor, cradled in the safest place he can be.

He must have passed out again. He feels a tight pressure on his temple. Weakly, he raises a hand—only now processing that the cruel bite of the plastic zip ties has been removed from his wrists. His fingers brush against his temple, finding a square of gauze taped neatly in place.

“They let me patch you up,” TK whispers, answering the unspoken question. His voice is thick with emotion. He leans down, his movements careful, and catches Carlos' lips in an awkward, off-angle kiss. It tastes like home—though salty and raw—and is over entirely too quickly.

When they part, Carlos fights through the screaming protest in his limbs, pushing himself up onto his elbows with a grunt of sheer effort. The room spins, and he screws his eyes shut, breathing through the vertigo until the world settles back onto its axis.

After a long moment, he manages to fully sit up, TK’s hand a constant, steadying presence on his back, and he takes a proper look at their prison. It’s a small, square room—a concrete box. The walls are bare and scarred, stained with things he doesn’t want to identify. No furniture. No decorations. No windows. Just a single, bare bulb casting long, distorted shadows hanging from a frayed wire, and one heavy metal door, sealed shut.

“How’re you feeling?” Ash asks. She kneels beside him but keeps the distance TK requested.

Carlos grimaces, noting that the headache has eased but remains a dull throb. “Could be worse. Are you okay?” he asks, turning to TK. “Babe?”

“I’m okay. We’re okay,” TK replies. His gaze flickers between Carlos, Ash, and Sam, vulnerability flickering behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. This is my fault,” TK says.

Before Carlos can respond, Sam interjects gently, “It’s not your fault.”

TK’s shoulders tense slightly, lips pressed tightly. “I hunted the man in the red hat. I led Vincent straight to us. I… I put us all in this mess.”

“I was right there with you,” Ashlyn reminds him.

The heavy metal door clangs open with a jarring, metallic shriek that reverberates through the room. The sound snaps all their heads toward the source. Ashlyn scrambles to her feet, but Sam is faster, stepping in front of her in a protective stance.

Vincent steps into the room.

He’s just as Carlos remembers him from the Mirage: the same clothing, polished and calm, with eyes that assess with the same intensity as when they first met. In his hand, a gun hangs loosely from his fingers—sufficient to demand obedience, enough to threaten at a moment's notice.

He is not alone.

The man beside him is slightly taller, with the broad, solid shoulders of someone who uses his strength. He wears a short-sleeved, floral-print shirt and dark jeans, his arms crossed over his chest. His forearms are dusted with dark hair, and his posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert, scanning each of them with a sharp, unsettling focus. This, Carlos knows with cold certainty, is Marcus—the man in the red hat.

Carlos' eyes flick down, drawn to the space between the two men. They stand close, their shoulders almost touching in a way that speaks of deep intimacy. And there, on their left hands, the confirmation: matching silver bands glint dully under the harsh light of a single bulb.

Vincent’s gaze sweeps across the room. It dismisses Sam and Ashlyn, glides over Carlos with a flicker of acknowledgment for the awake and conscious, then lands—and stays—on TK.

A cold dread, sharper than any headache, lances through Carlos. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, his body moving to block TK from view, to put himself between his husband and that gaze.

“TK,” Vincent says, his voice smooth and quiet. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Alone.”

“No,” Carlos says. The word is flat, final. He pushes himself the rest of the way up, ignoring the fresh wave of dizziness, and stands. He sways for a moment before planting his feet, positioning his body squarely between Vincent and TK. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”

Vincent’s expression doesn’t change. He looks… inconvenienced. “This isn’t a negotiation,” he says, his tone remarkably reasonable. He gestures with the gun, not in a threatening flourish, but with a small, precise motion—like he’s pointing at a whiteboard. “Come on.”

“He’s not coming with you,” Sam growls. He takes half a step forward, stopping when the barrel of the gun is pointed in his direction.

“You’ll want to stay put,” Vincent advises, his voice never rising.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Gazes lock in a silent battle of wills. Carlos feels TK shift behind him, a slight pressure against his back—a silent signal that he’s preparing to move. Carlos squeezes his arm behind his back—a desperate, hidden plea: stay. Don’t.

The silence persists, thick and suffocating. Carlos' muscles are wound so tight they ache. He can feel TK’s shallow breaths against his back. 

After a long, tense moment, Marcus lets out an exasperated huff. He pinches the bridge of his nose, as if dealing with a group of particularly difficult children.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, his voice a mix of boredom and frustration. He uncrosses his arms and gestures vaguely at Vincent’s gun. “We have the gun. Will you just come already?”

Ashlyn takes a small, hesitant step forward, her hands raised in a placating gesture. “Wait,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor Carlos can see in her fingers. “Just… wait a second. You have a gun. We get it. You’re in charge. But you want to talk to him, right? So talk. Ask your questions here.”

Vincent’s gaze slides from TK to her. He doesn’t lower the gun.

“This is a private conversation,” Vincent states, his tone still infuriatingly calm.

“And this is a very small, soundproof-looking room,” Ashlyn counters, a thread of her usual fire weaving back into her voice. “Whatever you have to say to him, you can say in front of us. What’s the difference?”

Marcus rolls his eyes so hard it seems to strain his neck. “For fuck’s sake. Vince, give me the gun,” he says, his tone dripping with impatience. He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “This is taking too long. You’re being delicate.”

Carlos' blood runs cold. He can see it now—Vincent is the controlled one, the planner. But Marcus is the lit fuse, the unpredictable element. He’s the real danger in the room.

Vincent’s jaw tightens. The calm cracks, revealing a sliver of raw annoyance. “No,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’ve already done too much. We have to do this my way.”

“Your way is taking forever. We don’t need the whole set.” Marcus’ gaze flicks over the four of them, clinical and dismissive. He shrugs. “Shoot one. The loud one, maybe.” He nods toward Sam. “The rest will fall in line. Problem solved.”

This isn't a bluff; it's a logical calculation for Marcus. Carlos moves fully in front of TK, a human shield. Beside them, Sam pulls Ashlyn tightly behind his back, a murmured “Stay behind me” just audible in the tense silence.

Vincent scoffs. “It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s unnecessary,” he hisses, his knuckles white on the grip of the gun. “We get the information, then we decide.”

“Decide?” Marcus barks a harsh laugh. “They know about me, they know about you, they know about Derek! I’m sure they’ve figured out we have the podcaster!”

His eyes dart between them, and he must see the flicker of confirmation in Carlos' gaze because a nasty smile twists his lips.

“See?” he crows, jabbing a finger in their direction. “They know!”

There is a pause. Vincent’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping over their terrified little group huddled together. He is weighing options, calculating risks that Carlos can’t begin to fathom. The gun in his hand feels like a ticking clock. Carlos' heart hammers against his ribs—a frantic drum counting down the seconds. He can feel the fine tremor in TK’s body where their shoulders press together. This is it. He’s going to do it. He’s going to shoot Sam to make a point.

“Fine,” Vincent says, his voice dropping to a dead, chilling calm. The gun raises, its aim becoming intentional and unwavering, centering directly on Sam’s chest. Sam doesn’t flinch. He just stands there— a solid wall between the gun and his wife.

“No!” Ashlyn cries.

“I’ll come with you!” TK’s voice cuts through the panic, sharp and clear. He steps out from behind Carlos, his hands held up in surrender. “I’ll come with you,” he repeats, his voice steadier now, laced with desperate, terrible resolve. “Alone. Just put the gun down. Please.”

The gun doesn’t move. Vincent’s eyes remain on Sam for a heart-stopping second longer, then slowly, deliberately, shift to TK.

Marcus lets out a low, satisfied sound. “There. See, Vince? Just needed a little incentive.” He smirks, crossing his arms again as if admiring a solved equation.

“TK, no,” Carlos whispers, his hand shooting out to grab TK’s wrist—a reflex against the unbearable tide pulling him away.

TK turns to him. His face is pale, his eyes wide and glistening, but in them, Carlos doesn’t see just fear. He sees a fierce, heartbreaking love—and a terrifying acceptance. TK brings his other hand up, gently but inexorably prying Carlos' fingers from his wrist. He leans in, his forehead brushing against Carlos'.

“I have to,” he breathes, the words meant only for Carlos. His eyes search Carlos', pleading for understanding, for trust. “I love you.”

It’s not a goodbye. It can’t be. But it feels like one. Carlos' throat clenches, his own “I love you” trapped there—a suffocated, silent scream. He can only nod, a jerky, frantic motion, his eyes burning as he tries to memorize every detail of TK’s face. “I love you,” he finally manages to push out.

TK gives his hand one final, crushing squeeze, then turns and walks toward Vincent and Marcus.

“We just wanna talk.” Marcus’ hand comes down on TK’s shoulder as he guides him through the open door. “Let’s go. And try to be more cooperative from now on.”

Vincent follows, pausing in the doorway to cast one last, unreadable glance at the three of them left behind. His eyes meet Carlos' for a fraction of a second—a cold, flat assessment—before he steps out and pulls the heavy metal door shut.

The clang doesn’t just echo in the room; it reverberates through Carlos' bones, a final, deafening period at the end of a sentence he never wanted to finish.

The sound of their footsteps fades, swallowed by the oppressive silence. Carlos takes a wobbly step toward the door, his heart a frantic, twisting knot in his chest. His fingers brush against the cold metal, then grip the handle. He pulls. It doesn’t budge. He pushes, throwing his weight against the unyielding steel. A dull reverberation pulses through his throbbing skull. He slams into it again—a desperate, animalistic act. It doesn't move.

He turns, his eyes wide and wild, searching Sam’s face, then Ashlyn’s—looking for an answer, a solution to this nightmare. They are frozen, statues of shared dread. Ashlyn’s arms are locked around Sam’s waist, still clutching the love of her life, who she thought was going to get shot.

Carlos looks down at his hands, feeling the ghost of TK’s warmth beneath his fingertips. His mind races: Do they really just want to talk? Why not here? His own thoughts answer with a cold, sickening dread: Because it could get messy. Marcus has already killed a man. What will stop him from killing TK? A nauseating hope curdles in his stomach—Vincent seemed more reasonable, a barely-there leash on a rabid dog.

He turns back to the door, fighting a wave of dizziness. Only silence lies on the other side, yet nested within that silence is a new, more profound terror: the fear of hearing a scream, a gunshot, a single sound that would steal the love of his life forever.

Chapter Text

The door clicks shut behind them. The air grows colder here, thick with dampness that clings to the skin as they move through the narrow, dimly lit hallways. Overhead, fluorescent tubes flicker, casting uneven light and shifting shadows. Marcus' hands remain firm on TK’s shoulders, guiding—or driving—him forward. It’s a constant, insistent pressure that makes TK feel trapped. His heart revolts in his chest, pounding like a frantic drum against his ribs, while his mind races, searching for any possible escape—any way to free Carlos and the others. His eyes flicker nervously, scanning every corner, every closed door they pass.

They walk in tense silence, passing several more anonymous doors until Vincent shoves one open. The room revealed is small and neglected: a cracked ceiling looms above, the dusty floor emits a faint scent of mold, and a metal table flanked by two chairs stands at the center. A cabinet leans against the far wall, and a stack of cardboard boxes crowds one corner, forgotten.

Marcus pushes TK forward and points to a chair. “Sit,” he says, his voice oddly light, almost welcoming.

TK obeys, lowering himself onto the cold seat. His hands grip his knees, trying to suppress the tremors that threaten to betray his fear. He steadies his breathing, keeps his head high, refusing to show weakness or submission. He clings to that thin, imaginary thread of control—it's all he has.

Vincent closes the door and takes the seat across from him, while Marcus leans against the table, hips resting against the edge, arms crossed over his chest.

“So,” Vincent begins, exhaling the word on a sigh as he lifts a hand to scratch his forehead. “Let’s start from the beginning: Derek. How did you know him?”

TK’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t need to look to feel Marcus' gaze fixed on him—watching, weighing, waiting. “I told you. He was my friend.” He forces his voice to remain steady, his mind already weaving the lies that might keep Carlos, Ashlyn, and Sam safe—even if he can’t save himself.

Vincent’s gaze sharpens; his lips press into a thin, impatient line. “It’s in your best interest to tell the truth.” He shifts, leaning an elbow on the table. “Let me ask again: how did you know him?”

TK’s eyes dart between Marcus and Vincent. He clenches his fists on his knees, nails digging into his palms. “I didn’t know him. I knew of his story—that he was missing.”

“The podcaster who was investigating,” Marcus supplies flatly.

TK nods. “Penelope.” The name sparks a sudden, urgent thought—Marcus mentioned earlier that they have her. “What did you do to her?” he asks, the words coming out sharper than intended.

“She’s alive,” Vincent says with a dismissive shrug. The answer does nothing to settle the turmoil in TK’s mind.

“Where?”

“You seem to think this is a conversation,” Marcus says, his voice dropping low. He shifts, moving to stand behind TK. “It’s not.” He pauses, letting his breath ghost over the back of TK’s neck. “But if you behave...” He lets the implication hang in the air.

If you behave. The words echo in TK’s mind, laced with threat and false promise. Then what? he wonders desperately. They won’t kill me too? They won’t hurt Carlos? His heart twists painfully at the thought. He needs to get Carlos out. He needs to get him back to Jonah.

He stays silent, muscles tense and coiled like a spring. His gaze catches Vincent’s—but Vincent isn’t looking at him. He’s staring past TK’s shoulder at Marcus. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and his fingers drum a silent, agitated rhythm against the table. A new plan takes shape in TK’s mind—sharp and desperate. This isn’t a united front; it is a pressure cooker. He can use that.

“Okay,” Vincent says after a weighted moment, breaking the stare-down with Marcus and refocusing on TK. “How did you find me? Us?”

TK barely contains himself; his stomach drops. Through the secret message Penelope left, through a thorough investigation—Gloria, Mrs. Crawford. He can’t say any of this, can’t put them at risk. He opts for a partial truth, one that will leave everyone else out of the equation.

“I followed Penelope’s footsteps,” he says, holding Vincent’s gaze and trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel. He feels Marcus shift behind him, the oppressive pressure in his chest tightening. “She mentioned the Mirage—that’s why I looked there,” he adds, carefully omitting that she also mentioned Gloria—hoping Vincent doesn’t know she spoke with TK, praying she won’t get pulled into this nightmare.

TK winces as Marcus' hand drops heavily onto his shoulder, a tight, punishing squeeze that grinds bone and speaks of barely contained fury. “Told you we should’ve made her take it all down,” Marcus hisses at Vincent, his words sharp and accusing.

Vincent’s composure remains but his voice is strained. “And attract the attention of every single one of her followers? No. The post was controlled. It made sense.”

“What followers? Almost no one follows her!” Marcus shoots back, his grip on TK’s shoulder tightening even further.

Vincent’s face hardens. “And yet,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly calm as he gestures sharply at TK, “one is right here with us.”

TK draws a shallow breath. Push it. Now. “Maybe no one followed her,” he mutters. “But she knew things. She knew Derek didn’t just leave. She was fighting to bring him justice.”

Marcus' fingers dig deeper into his shoulder. “Justice?” he scoffs. “He got what he deserved.”

“Not now, Marcus,” Vincent warns, a flicker of impatience in his eyes.

Seizing the fracture, TK leans into Marcus' rage. He twists his head as much as he can, a smirk playing on his lips. “This is your fault, isn’t it, Marcus?” he mocks, his voice dripping with scorn. “You’re burning your husband’s life to the ground because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”

The room plunges into a silence so profound that TK can hear the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights. Marcus' grip on his shoulder vanishes. For a moment, there’s nothing—no movement, no sound. Then Marcus lets out a low, dangerous chuckle. “What,” he says, his voice a deadly whisper, “did you just say to me?”

Through the dread clenched in his heart like a fist, TK looks up. He doesn’t even get to form a reply.

It’s a blur of motion and sound. Marcus' fist connects with the side of TK’s face with a sickening crack, sending TK and the chair crashing backward onto the concrete floor. Pain explodes through his skull—white-hot and blinding. His vision swims with black spots and static as he lands hard.

A guttural groan escapes him as he tries to scramble up, to find purchase, but a savage kick to his ribs steals the air again, folding him in half and sending him back onto the cold floor with a gasp. The kick connects once, twice. TK curls into a fetal position, arms wrapped around his head, each pained gasp a struggle.

“Marcus, stop it!” Vincent’s chair screeches as he lurches to his feet.

Marcus ignores him. He drops to his knees, grabs a fistful of TK’s shirt, and slams him hard into the floor—a sickening thud—pain blooming in TK’s head. Before he can register the movement, a punch smashes into his mouth. Teeth slice into his lip. Blood—hot and metallic—floods his tongue. Another blow cracks against his cheekbone. TK grunts, slumping back onto the ground as Vincent grabs Marcus' arm mid-swing.

“Marcus, enough!” Vincent’s voice booms.

Marcus shoves him back with a wild backhand, sending Vincent stumbling into the stack of cardboard boxes. Shock flashes across Vincent’s features—and TK, through the blood and pain, smirks. It’s working. The rage in Marcus' eyes is fire, but it’s the shattered look in Vincent’s that tells TK the plan is alive: Divide them.

Marcus grabs a fistful of TK’s hair and yanks hard.

“You heard what he said!” Marcus growls, the words buzzing in TK’s ringing ears. “You little shit.”

“I said ENOUGH!” Vincent roars, lunging forward and seizing Marcus' wrist, stopping the next punch mid-air. “He’s baiting you, you idiot!” He shoves Marcus back, putting himself between his husband and TK on the ground. Marcus blinks in confusion, his eyes flicking between the two.

TK spits on the floor, a splatter of crimson and saliva. A warm trickle of blood traces a path from his eyebrow down his cheek, slowly dripping onto the ground beneath him.

“Idiot?” Marcus shouts, his anger now pivoting to a new target. “We’re in this mess because you didn’t do what I said!”

“I’m protecting you!” Vincent’s shoulders are tense, his own control fraying. “Your way would have left a trail of fire straight to our door!”

“Oh, and your brilliant plan worked so well! He’s right here!” Marcus gestures wildly at TK. “Maybe you’re the idiot!”

“Don’t you dare put this on me!” Vincent’s voice cracks, and TK feels a shift in the room. Vincent’s next words are quieter, laced with devastating hurt. “This... this catastrophe started with you. It always starts with you. Your carelessness. Your... appetites.”

Marcus flinches as if struck. "That’s not fair. That was one time—"

“Was it?” Vincent’s retort is swift and brittle. TK can almost hear the tears he’s holding back, tightening his throat, and see the painful clench of his jaw. “Or was Derek just the one unfortunate enough to find out? The one who threatened to tell me?”

“Vince—”

“But you’re right,” Vincent cuts in, his voice thick and raw. “Maybe I am an idiot. An idiot for loving you. An idiot for wasting my life cleaning up the wreckage you leave behind. An idiot for seeing exactly what you’ve done to me… and still choosing to stand here.”

Through the aching throb behind his eyes, TK watches the scene unfold—the way Vincent and Marcus are now fully turned toward each other, the world outside their pain forgotten.

Marcus' eyes widen, the anger draining away to reveal something stunned, vulnerable. The fight goes out of him; his hands fall limp and useless at his sides. “I—” he stammers, voice small and shattered. His gaze drops to his own bloodied knuckles—tangible proof of his rage—and his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m sorry about that… It was a mistake. You know I love you.”

“Do I?” Vincent scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face.

Marcus takes half a step toward him, but Vincent steps back, raising a hand—a simple gesture that stops Marcus dead in his tracks. “Vincent,” Marcus murmurs, a broken whisper. “You know I do. You have to know.” Marcus' hand twitches, reaching out for a connection that isn’t offered, before falling limply back to his side.

“Then why don’t you just listen to me?” Vincent asks, the fight gone from his voice, replaced by profound exhaustion. He opens his arms, not in embrace, but in a plea for reason. “You think killing him too is gonna solve something?” he asks, nodding toward TK on the floor.

“He said—”

“I know what he said. So what? We already know this mess is because of your dick.”

Marcus' gaze drops to the floor.

TK pushes himself up onto his elbows, wiping blood from his face with the back of a trembling hand, his body screaming in protest.

Vincent takes one step toward his husband, his hands reaching gently for Marcus'. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice softening as his fingers trace the broken skin of Marcus' knuckles. “I need you to trust me. Just trust me to do what’s best for us. Okay?”

Marcus nods, a barely perceptible movement. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Vincent replies. “But sorry isn’t a reset button. We have to be smarter than this. We have to be a team.”

“I swear. I love you, Vince. More than anything.” Marcus' voice cracks.

Vincent holds his hands, brushing a thumb gently over their backs. He doesn’t speak; he only nods, leaning in slowly until his lips meet Marcus' in a kiss that’s tender, lingering—and eagerly returned.

TK’s heart plummets. The smirk dies on his battered lips, washed away by a cold surge of failure. It didn’t work. The fight had erupted—fierce, brilliant, alive—only to die in the same breath, smothered by a love, however damaged, that he never imagined could still burn between them.

They part after only seconds, foreheads resting together in a quiet nuzzle that twists like a knife in TK’s gut.

I’m fucked, he thinks.

Both men turn toward him. The rage is gone from Marcus' eyes—not completely, not with TK’s blood still dark on his hands and shirt—but it’s been banked, subdued.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Vincent says, giving Marcus' hand one final squeeze before lowering himself beside TK.

TK flinches back on instinct. Vincent’s cold, knowing gaze freezes him deeper than Marcus' fists ever could. He understands what TK tried to do—and there’s no telling what comes next.

A knock shatters the silence. Vincent’s head snaps up just as the door groans open, before he can speak.

TK tracks his gaze to the two men who brought them here. The larger one scans the room, his eyes landing on TK. A slow, satisfied grin spreads across his face as he takes in the wreckage—the blood, the bruising, the ragged breaths that shudder through TK’s body.

“When were you planning to tell us,” says the leaner one, his voice sharp with accusation, “that two of them are Texas Rangers?”

Vincent rises slowly, tension coiling back into his shoulders. “Is that important, Nick?”

A scoff. “Damn right it is.” The threat hangs in the air, thin and lethal. TK feels it like a blade against his skin.

Marcus steps in front of his husband, chin raised. “Why?”

“Because,” Nick says, closing the distance between them, “we don’t get involved in killing Rangers. That kind of mess sticks to your hands.”

He holds Marcus' stare until Vincent speaks again, stepping forward to stand at his husband’s side. “I already paid you.”

Nick’s gaze flicks from Marcus to Vincent. He chuckles, low and humorless. “Yeah, you did. We’re out. Good luck.”

“You can’t just leave,” Marcus says, voice tight.

But Nick only casts a final glance between them, pausing on TK crumpled on the floor. He then turns and walks out. His partner follows without a word.

The soft click of the door seals their exit.

Marcus whirls toward Vincent, his face pale. “Shit. What now?”

Vincent remains still, staring at the closed door as if he could still see through it. After a tense silence, his gaze drops to TK. “We have to go. The Rangers will tear this city apart looking for these four. We can’t be here when they do.”

“And him?” Marcus gestures vaguely toward TK. “And the others? Do we just leave them? Or… kill them?”

Vincent shakes his head slowly. “Not here. Not all four.” His voice is low and controlled. “Too messy. If we’re lucky, no one knows we are involved. Our only move is to disappear.” He shifts his focus back to Marcus. “Stay with him, tie him up. We’re taking them with us.”

“Vince—” Marcus cuts himself off, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. The earlier argument is clearly still heavy—a fracture not yet healed. “All four?”

“We tie them up. Secure. We’ll deal with them later—somewhere isolated,” Vincent says, his tone leaving no room for debate.

They speak over TK as if he’s already gone, as if his life—and Carlos'—are just items on a checklist. Gritting his teeth, TK tries to push himself up, but the world tilts violently. He sways, crashing back to his knees. His heart hammers against his ribs—a frantic, trapped rhythm. He’s failed. He led them right into this. Carlos will die because of him.

“Please,” he rasps, his voice shredded. “We won’t say anything—” He coughs, spitting a dark clot of blood. “I swear.”

Vincent scoffs. “I’m not an idiot. You know enough to bury us.”

“The others don’t!” TK insists, seizing the sliver of hope. “They have no idea what’s really happening. If you leave now, they won’t even know you were gone until they’re found. Take me. Do whatever you want with me. I’m the only one who’s a threat.”

Vincent stares down, his expression unreadable. TK looks up, feeling the bruises bloom across his face, the blood tracing a wet line down his cheek. His heart hangs suspended as his husband’s fate rests in the hands of the man looming over him.

“Please,” he begs again. He’ll beg, he’ll be their punching bag, he’ll bleed, he’ll take whatever comes—anything to keep Carlos safe.

Seconds twist like a knife, each one measured by the frantic thumping of his heart, until Vincent looks back at Marcus. “We don’t have much time. I’ll be right back,” he says. “I have a few calls to make.”

Marcus nods, immediately on TK, hauling him up and supporting his full weight as TK’s legs buckle beneath him.

“Please, Vincent, please!” TK echoes, pushing through the pain. His words are ragged as he watches the man step out of the room without a backward glance.

Marcus pushes him roughly against the table, slamming him down onto the cold metal surface. The impact jolts a fresh wave of agony through his ribs and skull. TK feels his arms being wrenched behind his back, the plastic zip tie biting deeply into the already bruised flesh of his wrists.

He can’t save them. He can’t save Carlos.

The thought is worse than any punch. It hollows him out, leaving a void where hope had been desperately clinging. He led them here—his investigation, his need for answers—he led them all to their grave.

“Marcus,” he breathes out. He tries to shake him off, pushing with all his meager strength, only to be met with a hand pressing him harder down, grinding his cheek into the metal.

“Shut up.”

He can feel Marcus' hot, angry breath on the back of his neck as he cinches the tie tighter, ensuring there’s no give, no chance.

His heart is catching up, conjuring Carlos' smile in his mind—a smile that will be stilled. The life they were supposed to share, the arguments over coffee, the nights on the couch.

Jonah.

He’s going to be left without parents again. His failure is not just a mistake; it’s a betrayal—he is the reason it all ends.

Carlos' heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing through his body like a warning he can’t ignore. He sits slumped on the floor—Sam’s doing, a firm hand on his shoulder pushing him down before his legs gave out again. Standing wouldn’t have changed anything, not really. At least, like this, he won’t collapse when the pain in his temple surges—a cruel, rhythmic tearing that pulses in time with his fear, shredding his thoughts before they can fully form a cohesive string.

Sam and Ash hover nearby, trapped in their own spirals of anxiety, despite Sam’s insistence that TK will be alright after Ash’s—"If they bring him back hurt..."—that she murmured to her husband. But their fear can’t possibly match his—not when Carlos feels half his soul trapped on the other side of that door.

They’ve combed the room desperately, fingers scraping for anything useful—a loose nail, a splintered piece of wood, a forgotten tool—and found nothing. Now they cling to each other, pale and silent, as helpless as he is.

All any of them can do is cling to hope. And God, how Carlos hates it—hope, that flimsy, desperate thing. Especially now. Especially here, just steps away from where his husband might be slipping from him. The man he promised to protect long before rings and vows made it real. TK’s fate shouldn’t hang by something as fragile as hope. It shouldn’t hinge on Carlos' failures.

Every second drags, thick with dread, each one dripping like poison into his mind. He waits, braced for a sign—any sign—fighting the suffocating weight of what may already be lost. His eyes stay locked on that damn door, the one he’s too weak to burst through. His vision blurs with the throbbing in his temple, his heart twisting like an omen—or maybe just a trick of his own terrified mind.

Sam crouches beside him, his voice low and steady. “I know that look, Reyes. But in case you forgot, we don’t just let the bad guys have the last word.”

Carlos' gaze flicks to him, Sam’s attempt at a confident smirk doing nothing to quell the storm inside him. He looks back at the door—the immutable barrier.

“I know what you’re doing,” Sam says, his voice barely above a whisper but vibrating with intensity. “You’re preparing a eulogy in your head. You’re already writing the report on how you failed. Stop it. That door isn’t his coffin yet.”

“They have him, Sam,” Carlos breathes, the words raw. “I can’t even stand without the world spinning. What am I supposed to do? Hope they have a change of heart?”

“You’re supposed to remember we don’t wait for miracles. We don’t pray for mercy from monsters. We are the goddamn consequence.”

Carlos shoves Sam’s shoulder—a weak, furious push. “Don’t—don’t give me that speech! This isn’t some back-alley brawl we can punch our way out of. That’s my husband in there! Because of me! Because I was too slow, too blind—”

Sam’s expression doesn’t soften. It hardens. “You’re hurt. You’re scared. You feel like you failed. Fine. Feel it. But you have exactly five seconds to decide if that’s the last thing you’re ever going to feel.”

Carlos' head spins—not just from the injury. Sam’s words carve through him. He is writing the eulogy. He is already folding their life together—the soft mornings, TK’s laughter, the warmth of his embrace—into memory. Surrendering.

But Sam isn’t having it. He sees the defeat in Carlos' eyes and rejects it.

“So, what do we do?” The question is a challenge, a demand for a plan that doesn't exist. “Give me something real, not more pretty words.”

“We make an opening,” Sam replies, his voice a low, hard promise. “You think I’m letting Ash die here? As long as I’m breathing, this isn’t over. I won’t let them touch her. I won’t let them take TK from you. And I am not losing my partner in this shithole. But I can’t do it alone. When I move, I need you right there with me. I need you to be the reason they regret ever laying a hand on him. So get your head out of your ass, get off your knees, and get ready to fight. Understood?”

Silence follows. Carlos' gaze drifts past Sam’s shoulder to Ash, whose eyes are fixed on the door. Her fingers nervously trace a crack in the concrete wall, as if planning an escape route that doesn’t exist—then back to Sam. 

Get your head out of your ass. The words echo in the hollow of his chest, tearing right through the despair pulling him under. It’s not just TK; Sam needs him. Ash needs him.

The fear doesn’t leave. It remains—cold, piercing, sinking deeper with every heartbeat. But where it reaches the core of him, where his love lives, it meets something else: rage. Rage at these men for touching TK; rage at his own helplessness—a furious, defiant love that refuses to let this be how their story ends.

He looks at Sam—truly looks—and sees it: the same fear mirrored in his eyes. Sam isn’t fearless. He’s just choosing to fight anyway.

In that moment, the choice becomes clear—not a choice at all, but a certainty dispelling through the gloom in his mind: embrace the fury—fight.

He gives a single, sharp nod. "Understood." He pushes himself up, his legs trembling but holding. The pulsing ache in his temple fuels his focus. He meets Sam’s gaze. "I’m with you."

Sam’s lips curl into a satisfied smile, a gesture that stirs something deep within Carlos—trust, fierce and unwavering, and the shared resolve that binds them. Then, footsteps—faint, slow—just outside the door. They draw nearer, each step a rising note in the rhythm overtaking Carlos’ soul, each one flaring with the echo of a name: TK.

The footsteps halt outside. Voices murmur—Vincent, Carlos thinks, though he can’t make out the words. Sam moves along the wall toward the door, silent. Carlos mirrors him, no words needed. This could be the opening they need, but Sam gestures sharply with his hand—a warning to be careful. Carlos understands, and agrees: they must ensure TK’s safety first. He’ll risk himself, but never TK.

They stop just short of the door—close enough to act, not so close as to provoke retaliation against TK.

The room holds its breath with him. Carlos' jaw tightens as his ears strain—two voices now, Vincent and one of his men? Vincent and Marcus? He can’t tell, not with the relentless thudding in his skull.

Then—a low, groaning creak. The door swings open. And Carlos' world narrows to the barrel of a gun pressed against TK’s temple.

Vincent stands there, cold-eyed, holding the weapon steady. TK’s face is a mess of bruises and blood. He sags in Marcus' grip, held upright only by raw force. Each breath TK takes is a wet, ragged shudder—a sound that lances through Carlos, tearing something vital inside him. His eyes drop to Marcus' hands—knuckles raw and stained with dry blood, dark smears across his shirt. You did this, Carlos thinks, and something primal and savage awakens in the deepest part of his soul.

Every instinct screams at him to surge forward, to cover TK, to pull him away from their hands. Another part—colder, sharper—wants to attack. To make them pay. But he does neither. He can’t do either. He holds perfectly still, his entire being focused on the infinitesimal space between that trigger and TK’s life. He submits. For now.

“Everyone out,” Vincent commands. “No funny business, or TK’s brains will decorate the wall.” He shoves the barrel harder against TK’s skin. TK’s head lolls slightly under the pressure; a fresh trickle of blood snakes down his cheek and drips onto the floor.

Carlos' fists are white-knuckled at his sides, every muscle in his body a tightly coiled spring of useless tension. His eyes find TK’s, locking onto them through the film of blood and the dazed haze of pain. TK looks back—his gaze unfocused, his face a canvas of bruises, but he is present. Carlos feels it—a silent, desperate connection that sears his heart. The need to hold him, to shield him, is a void in his arms.

“Move!” Vincent barks.

TK flinches violently, his eyes squeezing shut as if bracing for the shot that doesn't come. The small, helpless gesture cleaves Carlos straight through the chest, leaving him breathless with a pain more acute than any wound.

Sam is the first to speak, his voice a low, steadying force. “Okay. We’re moving.” He steps out, hands raised.

Ashlyn follows, silent, her eyes throwing pure, undiluted hatred at Marcus. He meets her glare with a flat, bored indifference.

Carlos is the last to go. He doesn’t look away from TK as he speaks, fighting to keep his voice from shattering. “Where are we going?”

Vincent’s mouth twists. “Away.” He jerks the gun toward the hallway. “Walk.”

They are herded down the dim, close-walled corridor. Carlos keeps glancing back, his eyes tracing the lethal line from Vincent’s finger to Marcus' grip to TK’s limp form—calculating, always calculating. There’s no angle, no opening to lunge without that gun going off.

TK seems to be managing to walk now, his gaze occasionally finding Carlos', his breathing a ragged but steady rhythm—in, out, alive. Carlos clings to that.

They reach a heavy, rust-scabbed metal door at the end of the hall. The group halts.

“Well?” Vincent asks. “Open it and get outside.”

Sam shoves the door open. One by one, they step out into the blinding, scorching sun. It’s a deserted parking lot—asphalt cracked and veined with weeds, the air shimmering with heat. The building behind them is an abandoned warehouse, windows boarded, walls a tapestry of faded graffiti. A black van idles in the middle of the lot, its sliding door hanging open like a hungry mouth.

“Tie them up,” Vincent orders Marcus, pulling TK roughly from his grip. The movement seems to shock TK into sharper focus. He stands a little taller, a flicker of defiant clarity cutting through the fog of his pain.

“It’s okay,” Carlos hears TK murmur, the words soft, meant only for him. A secret passed in plain sight. “I promise. It’ll be okay.” TK offers a weak, pained smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—a gesture that isn’t reassurance, but a farewell. It makes Carlos' heart plummet, his mind scrambling for a meaning there’s no time to decode.

Marcus moves, grabbing Ashlyn by the arm. Sam lets out a sharp “Hey!” that is utterly ignored. He remains still, his gaze flicking from TK to Carlos—a soldier assessing a battlefield, controlled, waiting.

Marcus yanks Ash’s arms behind her back, pulling zip ties from his pocket. “Stay still. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

A subtle shift—gravel crunches underfoot. Carlos glances back.

TK’s body tenses, coiling; the gun digs harder into his ribs as Vincent struggles to maintain his one-handed grip.

In one violent, desperate motion, TK goes from dead weight to a weapon. He pivots, driving his body backward into Vincent’s chest. Vincent’s grunt of shock is swallowed by the deafening crack of the gunshot—a sound that seems to stop time itself, freezing Carlos' heart mid-beat.

It’s a coalescence of motion and terror. Carlos' brain can’t process it, his focus narrows to a single, horrifying point: TK on the ground, on top of Vincent, and the blooming red stain spreading across TK’s side through his shirt.

Instinct overrides injury, fear, everything.

“TK!”

Carlos lunges, ignoring the dizzying throb in his temple, his entire being focused on his love. TK is writhing, hands still bound. Vincent shoves him off with a snarl, struggling to his knees, fingers stretching to reach the grip of his gun, which has skittered a few feet away on the asphalt.

Carlos' body is on him before he can react. He drives his knee into Vincent’s ribs, the satisfying whoosh of air expelled from his lungs. Vincent collapses, but Carlos doesn’t stop—he shot TK.

A sharp crack rings out as his fist connects with Vincent’s face—once, twice—blood spurting from his broken nose. Vincent’s wild punch lands on Carlos' ribs—a dull thud that barely registers. His attention snaps to TK, who’s watching, mouthing something.

“I’m okay,” TK rasps, voice strained and wet. “Just a graze.” For a fleeting moment, Carlos' heart clenches—hope flickers.

It's a mistake.

Suddenly, steel crashes into Carlos' head—the butt of Vincent’s pistol. Stars explode behind his eyes. Warm blood trickles down his cheek, a hot line carving through his skin.

“Get off me!” Vincent snarls, trying to bring the weapon to bear.

Carlos sways but refuses to loosen his grip. He grabs Vincent’s wrist with both hands, fingers locking like a vise. He twists, grinding bone against tendon, with weight behind the motion. Vincent screams, fingers spasming. Carlos can almost hear the bones so close to snapping—he doesn’t care.

Behind him, the fight erupts into chaos.

Sam barrels into Marcus, shoulder slamming into his side, knocking the larger man away from Ashlyn and sending them crashing into the van. Metal groans under the impact.

“Get back, Ash! Now!” Sam shouts, pinning Marcus against the hot metal. Marcus recovers swiftly, fury reignited. He knees Sam in the gut, making him grunt, his grip faltering.

Using the opening, Marcus reverses their positions, slamming Sam against the van. “You’re dead!” he growls, fist bloodied, connecting with Sam’s face. His head snaps back with a sickening thud.

Ash sees her chance. She lunges, snatching the fallen zip tie. She doesn’t try to tie Marcus—she uses it as a weapon. In one fluid motion, she leaps onto Marcus' back, loops the plastic around his neck, and pulls with all her strength, crossing her wrists and leaning back.

Marcus roars, gagging into a strangled gurgle. His hands claw at Ash’s plastic prison, eyes bulging. He stumbles, trying to dislodge her, but Ash holds firm—fury etched on her face, trembling with effort.

Gasping, Sam shoves off from the van. He spots his opening. He drives a fist into Marcus' kidney. Marcus bellows, legs buckling. The three—Marcus, Ash on his back, Sam pounding his torso—collapse in a tangled heap.

Carlos is only dimly aware of the chaos behind him. His universe narrows to Vincent’s gun. Their hands are locked, sweaty and trembling. Vincent claws at Carlos' face—nails raking bloody trails down his neck. Carlos barely feels it. He headbutts Vincent’s broken nose with brutal force—a slam that blacks out his vision for a split second.

Vincent screams—a raw, guttural sound. His grip on the pistol loosens.

Carlos wrenches it free.

The weapon feels sudden and heavy in his hand. He doesn’t hesitate. He scrambles back, still on the ground but maintaining distance, gun leveled at Vincent’s chest—two-handed grip, second nature. The barrel is steady, aimed directly at Vincent’s heart.

“Don’t move,” Carlos growls, low and deadly, blood dripping from his brow. “Not a muscle.”

Vincent halts, hands slowly rising. Panting, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, eyes wide with pain and shock. The fight drains from him—replaced by cold clarity—his eyes dart quickly to his own husband behind him.

Carlos' gaze shifts past him. “Sam!”

Sam has Marcus in a chokehold, blood and determination on his face. Ash, breathing heavily, is clutching the broken zip tie, scrambling away. Marcus' struggles weaken, his face turning purple.

“Sam, he’s done!” Carlos commands, his voice sharp. “Secure him. Don’t kill him.”

Sam locks eyes with Carlos—a tense pause—then nods, easing his grip just enough to keep Marcus subdued, yanking his arms behind his back. “Ash, find something to tie him—inside the van, now!”

Ashlyn doesn’t need to be told twice. She scrambles to the open door of the van, frantically searching.

Carlos keeps his gun trained on Vincent, his aim unwavering, but his voice cracks with a fear that has nothing to do with the man in his sights. “TK,” he says, the name a desperate plea. He struggles not to look away from Vincent. “TK, talk to me. How bad is it?”

From behind him, TK lets out a shaky, pained breath. He’s managed to push himself up to a sitting position. His shirt is soaked through, a dark, vicious stain spreading across his side that churns Carlos' stomach.

“Told you,” TK whispers, each word a strained effort. “Just a graze. Hurts like a bitch… but I’m okay. Really.” He attempts a weak smile, but it dissolves into a wince.

Relief floods Carlos—so potent it nearly buckles his knees. A graze. Just a graze. He clings to the words like a lifeline, a mantra of desperate reassurance even as his focus remains locked on Vincent.

He slowly stands, bridging the distance between him and TK without ever turning his back on Vincent, who lies defeated on the ground. “You scared me again,” Carlos murmurs, his voice thick.

He hears TK swallow hard, followed by an aching exhale. “I’m sorry. I had to save you,” he rasps.

Ashlyn emerges from the van, breathing heavily. “This was in a toolbox,” she says, holding up a thick roll of heavy-duty duct tape, her voice trembling only slightly.

“Perfect,” Sam grunts, not easing his crushing hold on Marcus for a second. “Ankles and wrists. Make it tight. Really tight.”

While Ashlyn works, layering silver tape around Marcus' limbs with grim efficiency, Carlos nods at Vincent. “You. On your stomach. Hands behind your back.”

Vincent, his nose still leaking blood, glares up with pure, undiluted hatred. Carlos' jaw tightens; if the man moves, he can take a shot—a non-fatal one—but he hopes he doesn’t have to. “Don’t be an idiot,” Carlos growls.

Defeated, Vincent rolls over and complies. “Ash, once you’re done, this one too,” Carlos calls.

Ashlyn approaches Vincent with the same cold resolve. She plants a knee in the small of his back, making him grunt, and pulls his arms back with a sharp, unforgiving jerk. The tape rips again. She winds it around his wrists, layer upon layer—a gleaming silver restraint that is far more secure and humiliating than any plastic tie. She does the same to his ankles, perhaps with more force than necessary, pulling the tape at the fabric of his pants and the hair on his skin. Carlos doesn’t complain.

Once she’s done, both men are trussed up like livestock—immobilized, silenced, and utterly helpless on the sun-baked asphalt. Only then does Carlos finally breathe.

It all crashes into him at once—the searing pain in his wrists, in his temple, in his side; the dizzying relief; the coppery smell of blood mixing with sweat on his skin. He finally lowers his weapon and turns fully to his husband, who is still sitting on the ground.

He reaches for TK’s bound hands, his own fingers fumbling slightly as he works to free him. The second TK’s hands are loose, Carlos pulls him into a fierce, all-consuming embrace. His arms wrap tightly around TK’s trembling frame, holding on as if to anchor them both to something solid amid the chaos. He buries his face in TK’s neck, breathing him in—his scent, the steady thump of his heartbeat—unfazed by the blood and dirt streaked across their skin. TK’s arms instinctively circle him back, clutching just as desperately, anchoring himself to the only thing that feels real in this moment.

“You’re okay,” Carlos whispers, his voice trembling with raw emotion, broken sobs hitching in his throat as he presses his cheek against TK’s damp skin. “You’re okay.”

TK squeezes him tighter, his own body trembling. “I am.”

Gently, Carlos pulls back just enough to cradle TK’s battered face in his hands, his thumb delicately wiping a smear of dirt and blood from TK’s cheek. His gaze lingers on him, tender and aching. “You’re a mess,” he chuckles softly, though his voice wavers with pain and relief. His fingers move instinctively to the hem of TK’s shirt, lifting it with care. The wound beneath is just a graze—bleeding freely but shallow, a clean line across his ribs. Thankful for what could have been so much worse, he lets out a shaky breath, half a laugh tinged with relief. “You’re really trying to give me a heart attack, huh?”

TK meets his eyes, tears pooling and shimmering in his own gaze, chest heaving with ragged, trembling breaths. “You’re safe,” he whispers, voice raw and simple. “That’s all that matters.”

They stare at each other for just a moment, Carlos' heart begging him to inch closer. He catches TK’s lips with his. The kiss is not gentle. It is not soft or tentative. It is a collision—a desperate, grounding, and life-affirming press of lips that speaks more than words ever could.

They move together carefully, each wince and gasp a testament to bruised ribs and battered faces. The metallic tang of blood—TK’s split lip, the shallow cut on Carlos' brow—mingles on their tongues, a stark reminder of how close they came to losing everything. Yet beneath that bitter taste lies something infinitely sweeter: the familiar, comforting taste of each other, of safety and home.

Carlos' hands cradle TK’s battered face with reverent tenderness, feeling the heat and roughness beneath his fingertips. His heart swells with each fleeting moment they spend locked together.

They break apart only when absolutely necessary, foreheads pressed together, sharing ragged, shuddering breaths. Blood, sweat, tears—an unholy mess—cling to them as they cling to each other in the glaring sunlight of the deserted parking lot, alive and whole in a way that feels miraculous.

Carlos' gaze flicks toward the hushed voices of Sam and Ash, who are nearby—lost in their own moment of quiet chaos. Ashlyn gently dabs at Sam’s bruised face with the edge of her shirt, the discarded roll of duct tape lying abandoned on the asphalt. Sam winces, his hand squeezing Ash’s tightly.

Sam’s gaze lifts from Ash, meeting Carlos' across the short distance. His face is a mess of fresh bruises, his lip split and swelling, but his eyes are clear and sharp. They hold no triumph—only a grim, shared understanding. They are alive. They’ve won. It’s not a clean victory, but it’s a victory nonetheless.

Carlos gives a single, solid nod. Sam’s chin dips in a weary echo. Then practicality takes over. His focus drops to the men trussed up on the asphalt. “Alright, we need their phones. Gotta call an ambulance.”

He moves, but not before pressing a quick, firm kiss to Ashlyn’s cheek and starting to pat down a groaning Vincent. A soft “ah ah” of success escapes him as he fishes a phone from his pocket.

Carlos levers himself up, hauling TK to his feet with him. They become a four-legged creature of hitched breaths and clenched teeth—a symphony of pain—as the adrenaline bleeds away and the real hurt rushes in to fill the void. Carlos will accept every single ache if it means he gets to keep his arm around his husband’s waist.

He guides TK a few stumbling steps to the van and helps him sit on the hard, metal edge. The world, for the first time since that door slammed shut, finally slows its nauseating spin. The van’s shadow offers a sliver of shade, a small mercy against the beating sun.

Carlos sinks down beside him, their shoulders and thighs pressing together in a line of contact that feels more vital than oxygen. He can’t stop his eyes from tracing TK, taking inventory of the damage: the purpling jaw, the split lip. But he’s breathing. He’s here. The sheer, profound reality of it threatens to close Carlos' throat.

Nearby, Ashlyn keeps a hand on Sam’s arm as he speaks into the stolen phone, his voice a low, steady rumble.

“We—” TK begins, then swallows thickly, wincing. “We still don’t know where Penelope is.”

“They’ll talk,” Carlos says, his own voice rough. He shifts, and a jolt from his ribs makes him suck in a breath. “And even if they don’t, we’ve definitely given someone a hell of a crime scene to investigate. This…” He gestures vaguely at the duct-taped men and their battered selves. “…is a pretty compelling argument.”

“What about Mrs. Crawford? And Chief Graham?” TK asks, his voice laced with exhaustion. “It’s gonna get ugly, isn’t it?”

Carlos is quiet for a moment. That particular fallout is a very real and looming threat, but it feels distant and abstract—a problem for another day. Right now, in the stark, bloody aftermath, it seems infinitesimal. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But I’m a lot more worried about my mom.”

TK’s already pale face turns a shade whiter. “Oh, God.”

“She’ll be back with Jonah in a few days. How are we going to explain why we look like we went ten rounds in a boxing ring and lost?”

“She is going to finish the job these guys started,” TK breathes, a faint, pained smile ghosting his lips. “And what are we going to tell Jonah? We can’t tell him the truth. He’s too young.”

Carlos thinks, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He looks down at their hands, resting on their knees. His own knuckles are scraped raw; TK’s wrists are ringed with angry red welts from the zip ties. They are a map of the violence they’ve just survived. He laces his fingers through TK’s, a gentle, anchoring touch.

“I’m not sure,” he says softly. “But we’ll figure it out together. We could just say we fought some bad guys.”

TK turns his head, meeting Carlos' gaze. The fear and pain in his eyes are slowly being replaced by a weary, hard-won light. He squeezes Carlos' hand.

“And we won,” he says, the words a quiet, definitive truth.

Carlos nods, the motion small but sure. He leans his weight a little more heavily against TK, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel him there—solid, real, and his.

“Yeah, TK. We won.”

TK stares at him, biting his already-swollen bottom lip in a way that makes Carlos' own flare in sympathy.

“What?” Carlos asks.

“Your face is messed up,” TK says, his voice thick with something that isn’t just pain. One hand lifts, trembling slightly, to gently caress the mosaic of bruises blooming on Carlos' cheekbone. Carlos leans into the touch, the sting a small, almost welcome price for the profound connection.

“Am I ugly now?” Carlos asks, and it’s only half a joke. The other half is a genuine, bone-deep weariness that wonders how long it’ll take to heal.

TK shakes his head, a wry, pained smile playing on his lips. “It’s the face of a hero. My hero. A very bruised, possibly concussed hero.”

Carlos barks a laugh, a sharp, explosive sound that immediately curdles into a groan as his ribs scream in protest. A hand flies to his side. “Don’t. It hurts too much to be charming.”

“We’re going to be matching once we’re swollen and purple,” TK muses, his voice a tired slur. “It’s romantic. Couple’s costumes for the next month.”

Carlos raises his one good eyebrow. “Maybe you’re the one who’s concussed.”

TK gives a weak, one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe we both are.”

They sit in silence for a moment, listening to Sam’s low, authoritative voice on the phone and the faint, pathetic shuffling of their duct-taped captives on the asphalt.

They’re still staring, lost in their own shared world of hurt and victory, when Sam ends the call and turns to Ashlyn. He pulls her in, catching her lips in a kiss that speaks of fear relieved and a future reclaimed, his hands firm on her hips. 

He must feel the weight of their gaze because he breaks away, scratching the back of his neck with a slightly abashed look that seems out of place on his usually stoic face.

He and Ashlyn walk over. Sam’s eyes sweep over the two of them, slumped against the van like they’ve been through a war—which, Carlos supposes, they have.

A grin cracks through the grimace on Sam’s face. “You two cozy over here?”

“Had better days,” Carlos admits. “The company was aggressively rude.”

“Paramedics and backup are on the way,” Sam says, his voice raspy but steady. He gestures with his chin toward the two bound men. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Carlos says, his thumb still stroking the back of TK’s hand. “Because I don’t think I can chase anyone down right now.”

“Speak for yourself,” TK mumbles, leaning his head against Carlos' shoulder. “I could take ‘em. I’m feeling spry.”

Carlos snorts, then winces. “Don’t make me laugh. Please.”

“You’re the one who headbutted a man with a gun,” TK points out.

“It was a calculated risk,” Carlos retorts, a smirk tugging at his split lip. “The calculation was mostly: gun bad, stop gun.”

“Your calculations are terrible. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Was pretty,” Carlos corrects him, gently touching the cut on his brow. “Now I’m ‘interesting-looking’.”

Sam watches them, a slow grin spreading across his bruised face. “You two are something else.”

“It’s how we flirt,” TK clarifies, closing his eyes. “You should hear us when we’re not concussed. It’s way more eloquent.”

Ashlyn leans against her husband, her head resting on his shoulder. Sam immediately wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close—as if he wants to shield her forever.

The distant, rising wail of sirens cuts through the air, growing louder by the second.

“Hear that?” Sam says. “Our ride’s here.”

Carlos feels TK sag more heavily against him, the last vestiges of adrenaline leaving his body in a rush. The fight is over. The immediate danger has passed. All that’s left is the aftermath—the pain, the healing, and the long road of explanations.

“We’re going home,” TK murmurs.

Carlos turns his head and presses a soft kiss into TK’s hair, ignoring the gritty feel of dust. “We’re going home,” he echoes.