Chapter Text

1.  City Walls

Boston QZ, 8 years after the outbreak

The rain never stopped. It either misted the city in a fine drizzle or came down in sheets that turned the streets into rivers. Tonight, it was somewhere in between. Just enough to make the cracked pavement glisten under the lamps of the south checkpoint.

Tommy Miller had been stopped again. It wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be the last.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

The voice was sharp, female, carrying the weight of authority. He turned, his hands still raised where the FEDRA patrol had told him to keep them. You stepped into the lamp’s yellow circle. Helmet tucked under your arm, navy uniform gleaming wet. And a bandana— always a bandana. It hid half your face, shadowing your expression.

Tommy smirked, Texas twang curling around his words.
 “C’mon, darlin’. A man can’t take a stroll no more without gettin’ barked at?”

“I’m not your darlin” You fold your arms. “Curfew’s been in effect two hours. You’re not just strolling. You’re breaking the law.”

“The law’s got a hell of a lotta rules,” he drawled. “Hard to keep track of ‘em all.”

One of the soldiers beside you shifted uneasily, muttering, “You know the orders, Butcher.”

You raise a gloved hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle Miller.” Your eyes locked on his, unblinking, unreadable. You look at the soldier behind you. “Go on, Victor. Get back to your post.”

Victor mumbles but does what you ask.

When the others were gone, silence pressed between them, broken only by the patter of rain on metal.

Tommy tilted his head, studying the bandana that covered half your face. A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “Eyes Without a Face.”
You frowned, trying not to give him the satisfaction. “You’re showing your age, Miller.”
He chuckled. “If you got the song reference, so does you. What can I say? Fits you too well.”
“hum…Got no human grace? Thanks, that’s so sweet of you.” You pressed the barrel of the gun against his chest in warning. “You know that’s not what the song is about right? It’s not that literal”

His grin widened, unbothered. “Apologies officer, I wasn’t aware you were a lyrics specialist. Still doesn’t stop me from singin’ it in my head every time you show up.”

You roll your eyes. Stupid. “Come on Miller, enough of the bullshit. Go home before I change my mind”.

“You always let me off easy. Why’s that?”

Your gaze flicked over him, measuring, cautious. Aside from all nonsense he would often speak, he was all sharp edges and Texan charm. Hair at shoulders length, his jaw always perfectly smooth, like he had some secret supply of razor blades nobody else in the QZ could get. Handsome in a way you refused to name. For half a second, you caught yourself staring. You pulled yourself together fast, voice flat, then softer, just a thread of something that wasn’t supposed to be there:

 “Maybe I’m waiting to see if you’ll get smart and stop testing me.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t think smart’s ever been my strong suit.” He tilted his head. “But I reckon you already know that.”

Something passed between you two. A spark, dangerous as open fire in a dry house. You broke it first, tugging your bandana higher. You can’t give him the pleasure to see you laughing about his bullshit.

He laughs as he notices you fighting with your smile under your mask. “You are losing it, sweetheart”

“Go home, Miller.” You quickly compose yourself.

And maybe he should have. But instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice.
 “Tell me somethin’, darlin’. What’s your name?”

Your shoulders now stiffened. “All you need to know is my last name in the uniform, ‘darlin” you mock his accent, in a more serious tone that you planned.

“Nah. Too formal. But I can’t keep callin’ ya ‘Officer neither.’” His grin was crooked, teasing, but his eyes searched for yours. “Feels too cold.”

“Call me by my nickname, then.” It’s not. But it has to be.

“Butcher? No, that’s one for your friends from FEDRA.” Tommy replies.

For a moment, you hesitated. He thought you might walk away. Then you whispered your name, so quiet he almost missed it under the rain.

His grin softened into something real. “Pretty name. Doesn’t fit all that armor.”

“Just... don’t say it in front of nobody else.”

Your eyes darken; you shared too much already. “Go. Now. Before I regret not putting you in the dirt.”

He laughed under his breath, but when he finally turned and walked back into the rain, his chest felt too tight.

And you stood alone under the checkpoint light, hands trembling inside your gloves, cursing yourself for saying your name at all.

This wasn’t the first encounter with Tommy. And certainly, would not be the last.

Just like with his brother Joel and his partner Tess, you’d cross paths plenty of times. Either doing business with them, or catching them doing things they weren’t supposed to, in places they should not have been. They were all faces you knew, names that lived on FEDRA reports and watch lists. But this was the first time the interaction slid off the rails, the first time it edged into something sharp and dangerous. Neither of you realized it then, but a line had been crossed, and from this moment on there would be no going back.

Another morning of work. But today marks your third year as a FEDRA soldier, and apparently that’s the only thing your brain will wander around today.

Thoughts crowd your head from the minute you open your eyes. Three years since FEDRA walked you from nurse to soldier. You hadn’t asked for it. You didn’t want it. But after that night, after the cut that carved a new map across your face, they called you necessary. Useful. Fear made into policy.

Admiration from the brass. Hatred from the streets.

You button the uniform, holster the sidearm, and, before the door clicks shut behind you, pull the bandana up over your mouth and your scar. It’s muscle memory now. The mask, the breath warming your cheeks, the way your eyes become the only part of you people meet. It started as a shield. It became a uniform inside the uniform. Somewhere along the way, it became you.

The day should be easy. Ration queue, patrol, curfew. You tell yourself that twice: easy. You’ve learned to make yourself believe in reasonable lies. Believe you liked what you do. Believe you don’t mind murdering people.

And you were pretty good at convincing yourself.

As you leave your house, FEDRA agents in the street great you enthusiastic Good Mornings.

“Morning Butcher. Great day to do what you do best” the guards proceed on laughing, not as a mocking, but as a confirmation of what they like on you – your merciless acts.

You don’t like remembering the origin of the story that turned you into a warning poster: The cruel murder of Firefly’s lead. You don’t actually like the nickname Butcher in people’s mouths. But it does feel like a trophy. You tell yourself the same thing you tell the rookies you keep alive: Control what you can. Make your square of ground better. If FEDRA is the necessary evil, then you can be the necessary good inside of it, the small hinge that changes how the door swings. Not shifting completely how FEDRA should behave. But with an intricated and dangerous rotation between being evil and being good.

You’re still saying that to yourself when you reach the ration line.

The queue is a frayed rope. Three delays in ten days will do that. Voices spike, then flatten. You project your presence the way you were trained: chin level, rifle low, eyes calm. When you do bark, the sound ricochets and people settle. It’s easier than yesterday’s assignment: Firefly sweeps. War has a rhythm now.

Despite all the terrorism acts and terrible beliefs around FEDRA, you believed in the institution. It was the unavoidable cost of orchestrating what was left of the world. But you know that things could (and should) be done differently. And that's the purpose you grab desperately on to bear with the amount of chaos of surviving in this environment: The hope that, slowly, day by day, step by step... you can influence new behaviors and progress in the corporation to the point of making some difference.

At least that's what you try to convince yourself every day. That the world benefits better of you as a soldier instead of as a nurse. Besides, it's not like you gave up the profession of your life to be a soldier, anyway. What you did enjoy was your former profession before outbreak: Being a firefighter. It was your childhood dream that came true. Not nurse, not soldier. You felt rewarded and happy as a member of Boston Firefighter Department.

FEDRA preferred you to Firefly chasing work. Your reputation walks ahead of you: FEDRA’s sharpest blade. It keeps you fed, keeps you housed, keeps you watched. It also keeps you alive; headquarters knows the Fireflies would love your head on a wall, so they plan your routes like you’re a chess piece with teeth.

You play around with tightening the rope and then letting it go. Being the good cop and the bad cop. Pretending that the calculation doesn’t exhaust you. Shifting between being as cruel as it’s required to be a FEDRA officer, and acting as a comprehensive human being with a heart.

A flare of voices hooks you from the alley to your left, making you wake up from your thoughts. Male, familiar, too close to a brawl. You tilt your head at your partner, Victor. He makes a face that means go; I won’t ask and leans heavier on his post.

Another privilege FEDRA gave you in exchange for your brutal firefly's lead murder is that you get to choose who you pair with. And, of course, you always chose Victor. A good man, a good friend, and mainly, loyal to you.

Victor is the kind of partner who prefers not to move until something is on fire, and then he uses too much water. You do not mind being the one who moves. It leaves the decisions in your own hands. He doesn’t see, or at least pretends he is not seeing, your juggling between being hard and soft.

You slide into the alley on quiet feet and find the two faces everyone in Boston could draw with their eyes closed.

The Millers.

Your pulse does something unprofessional. One of them always scares you, the way a storm makes you scan the sky. And the other... well, he shakes you in a different way.

“Freeze,” you say. You raise the rifle; they stop. They were arguing so hard they didn’t hear you coming until now.

You let yourself smirk under the bandana. “Texas boys. Aren’t you a little old for big-brother, little-brother fight?”

Tommy’s grin is a blade and a bandage both. “You tell me, Butcher. Ain’t you got Fireflies to massacre instead of interruptin’ a healthy family interaction?”

Butcher. The city’s pet name for you. He said he would not call you that. But you are happy he is not calling you by your name in front of Joel. He understood that your name was a little secret just between the two of you. You hate Butcher from most mouths. But you realize that from him, it lands softer, like he’s poking the bruise to make sure it still hurts.

“I always forget how funny you are, Lil’ Texas,” you say, and it comes exactly as mocking as you meant.

Silence presses in. You see it, then - the rawness behind Tommy’s eyes, the swell of his cheekbone, the blood at the corner of his mouth. Not banter. That fight has teeth, and Tommy was not winning it.

“What happened?” you ask, the barrel easing down, the nurse inside you kicking once against her bonds.

They both look for an answer they can stand in. Neither finds it.

You sigh, lifting your free hand in a wrap it up circle. “Look, I honestly don’t care what this is. Take it home. Spare me the paperwork. I can’t keep covering for both of you forever.”

Truth: you’re more lenient with the Millers than policy would allow. Smugglers make the city breathe. Everyone in uniform knows it, even if we don’t say it. Truth underneath the truth: you owe Tommy a debt he doesn’t remember.

They move to go. Heavy air trails them out of the alley like smoke.

“Hey, Joel,” you call.

He pivots, wary.

“If you do kick his ass off, can I have that nice guitar of his?”

Joel doesn’t blink. “Sorry, Butcher. Claimin’ that guitar’s actually why I’m killin’ him.”

They turn away again. Tommy pauses, looks back at you.

“How you even know I got a guitar?”

Heat climbs your throat; thank God for cloth. You tap two fingers from your eyes to him - watching you - and tilt your head: move. He gives you a quick blink, starts walking, hesitates once more.

“Thanks for the patience, sweetheart” he murmurs, just for you.

You curse yourself for liking the way it sounds. Idiot. You glance around to make sure no one caught the soft edges of a FEDRA agent flirting with trouble.

It’s stupid. It’s human. You let yourself keep both truths for another hour.

Curfew crawls closer. You and Victor sweep the last sectors. It’s been a quiet day. No sirens, no Firefly shadows. So, you both split to finish faster.

You catch the voices before you see them. A low hiss of argument, the shape of a plea. When you step into the mouth of the alley, he’s there again. Tommy, shoulders set like he’s holding a wall up with his back, and a kid - sixteen at most, trying to look older with a jaw he hasn’t grown into.

“Miller,” you say, lowering the rifle when the sight of him steals the breath it shouldn’t. “What the hell.”

He smiles like sin and salvation. “Evenin’, Butcher. Billy here’s makin’ a wish list for the next batch of merchandise. We’re already done.”

“It’s curfew,” you snap. “Go home. Now. The order is…”

“…execution without further questions,” he finishes, easy as a hymn. “But you won’t. We’re done anyway, darlin.”

The word darling in that drawl sends a cold ribbon up your spin. Terror and tenderness learning how to share a chair.

“Don’t you call me ‘darlin’” you say, repeating his accent. The rifle lifts just enough to nudge his chest, a cold reminder of the line he’s crossing. “Keep testing me and you’ll find out if I won’t, Miller” you add evenly, then flick your gaze to the kid. “Your building’s right there. I want to watch you go through the door, or I’ll personally kick your ass all the way there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he squeaks, and bolts.

You and Tommy stand in the echo he leaves behind. He doesn’t move.

“What are you still doing here?” you ask. “Move.”

He smiles wider, stays planted. Your knees dislike this. You cannot tell if they’re weak from anger on his audacity or something worse.

“What’s so funny, Tommy?” Your voice drops. “You like the idea of getting executed for a curfew jackassery? After all the things we hear about the Millers, seems you deserve a spicier death than this.”

He tips his head, that lazy, infuriating half-bow. “Reckon if I go, I’d prefer it not be borin’.”

You step close enough to smell tobacco, warm and lingering. Close enough to realize, against all reason, that he smells good. Like smoke and rain stitched together. Close enough that the bandana suddenly feels like a wall you want to tear down and a shield you can’t lose.

“Go home,” you say, very quiet. “Victor is right around the corner, and I can’t make more excuses... Please.”

The please betrays you. His eyes catch it. For a second something naked moves over his face. An old memory trying to surface, a hand he once offered a stranger in a clinic lit by bad bulbs.

He nods, just once. “Yes, ma’am.”

He passes you slowly, his sleeve ghosting your elbow. You don’t look back until he’s a darker shadow folded into the dark.

Victor crackles your radio. “All quiet?”

You thumb the transmission. Your voice is the picture of policy. “All quiet.”

You end your shift, boots ticking on wet stone, bandana damp against your mouth, teeth pressed together to keep from smiling and screaming at once. You tell yourself the same thing you told yourself at dawn: Control what you can. You lift your chin. You keep walking.

Victor returns a few minutes later beside you, as you both start the walk back to end your shift. The rain’s turned to mist; the lamps bleed halos on the wet street.

“How long we been partners, Butcher?” he asks.

“Three years, give or take. Why?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

You glance sideways, cautious. “Meaning?”

Victor goes off: “Meaning you’re unpredictable. Cold one minute, kind the next. Sometimes you’re soft, sometimes you’re cruel. Sometimes both. With smugglers, civilians. No pattern. If I didn’t trust you, I’d think you were up to something. And if you were up to something… well, I’d have to either report you or live with it. And I’d rather not have to choose.”

You stop. Maybe he saw you and Tommy?

His words are heavy because they’re true. He has been playing blind for long to avoid confrontation with you. Victor’s the closest thing you have to a friend, and actually, to a boyfriend. 2 years ago - you both tried. A gentle hand on your shoulder after a long shift, an invitation to share a bottle of contraband whiskey, shared nights when the loneliness pressed too close and his lips could find yours. You insisted even though it didn’t feel right. There was no reason for you pushing him away. Victor was the type of man most women would want. Younger, handsome, tanned skin, with dark hair always neat. Charming Colombian roots. His build was lean and athletic, the kind that spoke of discipline. His careful touch, his patience, his quiet strength made him a man easy to trust, easy to fall for. Just not for you.

You’d seen the disappointment, the sting, but you couldn’t let him cross that line. The scar on your face, that you carefully hide behind the bandana, is a map of what happens when men decide you’re theirs to take, and you’ve sworn never to be cornered again. Victor took the rejection quietly, even respectfully, but it built an invisible wall between you. Since then, he’s kept his distance, trying to let the friendship survive where the romance died. You like him better that way. Safe, reliable, the partner who doesn’t ask for more than you can give. And you’ve kept him on the outside of your walls. He’s been willing to play blind because you carry weight in FEDRA, but he’s tired of squinting at shadows.

“I know I’m hard to read,” you admit. “And I know you put a lot of trust in me. I appreciate your friendship and patience.”

He tries to avoid sighing on hearing “friendship” again. He watches you like he’s deciding whether to start another discussion or not.

Victor continues “You know I trust and care about you. But sometimes I have this gut feeling, you know?... As you expected me to be a guard dog that follows you and waits for your commands. As if you are the protagonist and not my partner. Fuck, I don't even think I will recognize you in the streets anymore if you are not using your uniform and bandana. I can barely remember your face. You give us no space to interact inside or outside work. I understand you don’t want me as a lover anymore, and believe me, I’m passed that. But when we are patrolling, we should be aligned. You have your own ways and criteria to treat people, and you don't share with me.”

You sigh. There's nothing else to say except to agree with him. You stop and look at him.

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way, Victor. I know how explosive you are, and how much you need to put your instincts aside to allow me to deal with the situations my way. So, I really appreciate your patience and partnership.”

You direct yourself to a close bench to make space for a more serious conversation.

You tug the bandana down. The night air hits your scar. You laugh, brittle. “Hope my face isn’t too much older than you remember.”

Victor stares. He softs, almost startled. “No, you are still beautiful. I forgot how much.”

Passed that. Yeah. As if you believe.

A long silence proceeds from both sides.

“Feels like I’m looking at you for the first time.” he says.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “it’s not just a mask. It’s… hiding. From everything. From myself. You weren’t wrong, I make you a guard dog. It’s easier than letting you see, or to open myself about things.”

He’s a quiet long moment, then he sighs. “I just want to know who I’m standing next to.”

You open your mouth, but he lifts a hand. “A few days ago, after you broke up the Millers’ fight.” He pauses for a second while his eyes meet yours “Yes, I saw you with Millers brothers.” He pauses again. “And I tailed them after they left. Sorry, I had to know.”

Your guts go cold.

“They met Tess. Couldn’t hear much. Orders, smuggling business. But one thing I caught clear as a bell.” His eyes deviate from yours now. “Tess told them not to trust you. Said anyone who plays both sides are only loyal to themselves. I was hoping you could explain this.”

The night is suddenly colder.

“Tess is just jealous because I stopped doing business with her and chose Tommy instead.” You try to crack as joke to softener the conversation.

You see he won’t let it go with a better explanation. You let out a slow breath, rubbing your gloved thumb over the grip of your rifle. “I don’t play both sides, Victor. Don’t twist it like that. I just...” you hesitate, then push through, “I try to practice being human sometimes. If I don’t, if I’m all steel and cruelty every hour of every day, then one morning I’ll wake up and realize I’ve turned into exactly what people already think I am. And I can’t live like that.” Your eyes catch his, steady. “Besides… being unpredictable has its benefits. People don’t know which version of me they’ll get, so they stay cautious. Respectful. Maybe even a little bit more afraid. That’s not weakness or betrayal, Victor. It’s survival.”

Victor’s hand comes down, rough and warm, carefully covering yours. “Okay,” he says quietly, thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hand. “Thanks for opening up with me.”

You look at his hand on top of yours, warm, and for a single, shameful second you let it in - The easy comfort of being held, of not having to be a fortress.

The next evening, Tommy is doing his usual business and found an excuse to pass the south checkpoint again: a backpack full of batteries and a lie about “droppin’ food to a friend.” The lamps buzzed overhead; rain worried the razor wire like restless fingers.

You step from the shadows before the other soldiers could stop him.
 “Un-fucking-believable. Hands where I can see them, Miller.”

He lifted them. “Afternoon to you too,” he looks around to check if nobody hears him and proceeds to say your name. He tastes your name like a sweet secret.

Your eyes cut to the pack. “You’re not carrying food.”

“Could be.” He replies to you back. Eyes fixed on yours, those sweet, kind eyes.

“Is it?”

He let the drawl go lazy. “Could be a lotta things.”

“Then what is it, Miller?

“Let’s flip a coin. Heads, I tell you. Tails, you go out with me on a date”

You ripped the backpack from his hands with a violent yank, then shoved him hard on the shoulder so he stumbled back. Your voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “What about heads, I shoot you. Tail, I shoot you.”

You open the backpack. Food, alcohol and batteries. You walk him toward a quiet corner under the eave of a prefab shack. Your voice drops while you hand his backpack back. “You are going to get yourself killed playing hero for rations and rumors.”

“Aw, darlin’, I ain’t no hero. I’m a businessman with bad clients.”

“Stop calling me darlin,” you say, but your tone had softened, like you’d forgotten how to make it sharp.

He leaned in, rain ticking on the metal above them. “Give me one good reason.”

“Because I said so.”

“That ain’t a reason,” he murmured.

You stare at him for too long. Then you thrust the pack back into his chest. “Go. Straight home. I don’t want to see you at least for two weeks.”

Tommy grinned. “You’ll miss me by Thursday.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He moved past you, then paused. “Hey, darlin?”

You don’t even turn. “What.”

“You ever get tired of bein’ the bad guy?”

Silence. Then, very quietly you reply: “No. Why asking?”

He laughs at the disappointment of your answer. “Everyone in this city’s scared to death of you. But me?” His grin softens. “I’m the only one who sees what’s behind that bandana... it’s just a sweet girl stuck playin’ FEDRA.”

The words hit like a blow you didn’t see coming. Sweet girl. You don’t let yourself be called that. You don’t let yourself be that. And you definitely can’t afford to lose respect that you build at a high cost.

You snap the rifle up, aiming center mass. “Watch your next words, Miller. You’re skating on thin ice, and your luck is bound to run out if you keep mistaking my kindness into weakness and crossing your boundaries.”

“Jesus, sorry. Chill.” He steps back, hands up. “Was meant to be a compliment.” His voice dips, playful. “Guess I’m outta practice.”

You study his face, the lines of it, the way his mouth fights not to smile. His sweet eyes. You hate that you want to laugh.
“Are you hitting me again, Tommy Miller?”

“Hell,” he chuckles, “if I am, it ain’t my best shot.”

You lower the rifle with a sigh. “For a second, I thought you were about to ask if I wanted to ‘look for the light.’ I couldn’t tell if you were disrespecting authority or trying to convert me into a Firefly cult.”

His laugh is sharp and quick. “Darlin’, I know what you do to Fireflies. I ain’t near drunk enough to ask you that.”

Silence stretches, taut. Then you start, “Tommy. You’re not a fi...”

He cuts in with a laugh that’s too easy. “God, you’re simple to get in the head, sweetheart. Relax. I’m just a smuggler, that’s all. Def not looking for any God damn light”

Before you can react, he reaches for your free hand. His thumb brushes your palm, slow, deliberate. Normally you’d break an arm for less. But with him… you don’t feel invaded. You feel seen. He’s been pushing his luck for months but tonight feels different. Daring, dangerous, tender.

“I’ll pay you back someday,” he says, lifting your hand and pressing his lips to your knuckles. “For all the help you give me”. Then he lets go, as if he knows holding on longer would cost you both too much.

You can’t tell him he already paid for it three years ago in a clinic full of fear. You can’t even tell him he doesn’t even remember.

When you turn back to your post, Victor is watching. Your gut twists. Fuck. How am I going to explain this again? That’s going to be hell of a long way back home.

But after a beat, Victor looks away, deciding to ignore it. For now.

As Tommy walks away, he can’t avoid processing the feelings you cause when you are around. Your eyes…familiar, stubborn, alive, cut straight through him, leaving questions he can’t answer. You seem like someone he wants to protect, even though you don’t need to be protected. Behind that bandana is a face he aches to see, a face he swears he knows but can’t reach, and the wanting of it burns hotter than it should. Every time you let him close, it feels like warmth in a world gone cold, and he realizes he’s willing to keep breaking curfew, keep defying FEDRA, keep tempting death. Just for the excuse to meet you again.

Part of him admits the resemblance - something in your eyes, in the way you carry your pain with defiance - reminds him of a ghost from the past, and maybe that’s what first caught his attention. But it isn’t just that. What keeps him hooked is the paradox you wear so precisely: one moment a monster, merciless and feared, the next an angel, sparing, protective, almost tender. Taller than most women, you stand out in a crowd, your posture sharp as a blade, every movement calculated, your gaze behind the mask steady enough to freeze men in their tracks. And through it all, in a world where women are forced to harden into soldiers among men, you’ve kept your femininity intact, the quiet grace in your stance, the care in your touch, the subtle pride in smelling good when everyone else stinks of rot. You’re proof that softness can survive even here, and that’s what pulls him back, again and again.

Chapter Text

It had been a week of rain without pause. Boston seemed made of water now - gutters choking on it, walls sweating with it and boots soaking.

It’s late in the night when you are preparing to leave FEDRA headquarters – a fancy name for an old house used as an office, surrounded by a bunch of barracks. A rare visit to shuffle papers and pretend that brass still cared about signatures and stamps. The kind of bureaucratic nonsense that made your skin itch worse than a Firefly ever could. By the time you ducked into the barracks, the place was nearly empty.

Victor was there, stretched across a chair with his boots up on a second one, scribbling something on a form he’d probably never file.

“You look like hell,” he said without looking up.

“Good,” you muttered. “Means I blend in.”

His mouth curved, as he glanced up at you. “Nah. You don’t. You never do.”

You frowned, unsure if it was meant as a compliment or a jab. With Victor, it was always both. You opened your mouth for a sharp reply, but he set his pen down and leaned back, eyes studying you.

“You need to stop running on empty. Take it easy for once, or I’ll be the one dragging your useless self off the line.”

It was half-teasing, half-genuine worry - the kind he slipped between his smirks. You didn’t answer right away, just kicked off your boots and sat across from him.

“Rude,” you shot back, half a joke to hide how tired you felt.

Victor blinked, then his face softened in a way that never lasted long. For a second he seemed to fish for a joke, then stopped, like he’d remembered something more useful than a smart mouth.

“Oh, yeah… I got something for you.” He reached into his jacket pocket and came up with a small, greasy scrap of tissue folded around something that glittered when he unfolded it.

You blinked. “What’s that?”

He cleared his throat, the clumsy pretense of casualness failing. “Found it in a market down by the docks. Thought…” He swallowed. “Thought maybe you might like it.”

When he opened his palm, a tiny golden sun pendant lay there on a thin chain. “Found it some weeks back. Figured it’d match your…” His voice hitched and he looked at you then, properly, the kind of look that belonged to someone who’d seen you without the uniform and the bandana. “…your ink.”

Heat crawled up your neck. The sun pendant meant the tattoos; the tattoos he had seen before, had been close enough to know where they were and what they meant. Only people who had been in that private space with you would know.

Victor saw the change in you and flinched like he’d walked too close to a live wire. For a breath he looked ashamed and proud at once, as if he’d been caught remembering something he shouldn’t have. He pushed the chain toward you, hand trembling just enough to make the gesture honest.

“Keep it, or don’t. I just… thought you could use somethin’ that didn’t look like a dog tag.” He shrugged, forcing a laugh that was half embarrassment, half defense.

You let your fingers brush the chain. For a moment you both stood very still, the room narrowing down to that tiny golden sun between you.

Victor cleared his throat, stepping back into safer ground. “Get some rest, Butcher,” he said finally, softer than his usual bark. “World’s ugly enough without you walking around half-dead.”

You hook the chain around your neck. You didn’t know if you could tell him then what it meant that he’d remembered. That you’d slept and bled and tried to forget, and someone had still noticed the places you kept to yourself. Instead, you gave him a small nod and a rough joke. “Thanks, this is sweet Victor.” you said, voice small and real. “Try not to think about me so hard when you’re off duty, yeah?” you blinked once, slow and kind, like the gesture surprised you as much as it did him.

He grinned, the old easy thing sliding back over his face like armor. “No promises.”

The next day found you and Victor on patrol duty again. The sky was clear, the air cool and sharp. A rare, almost pleasant morning in the QZ. The two of you moved in silence, through an abandoned block, boots crunching glass, rifles slung.

“You ever notice,” Victor said quietly, “how this whole place feels like it’s waiting to fall apart? Like one loud breath and it all comes down?”

You gave him a look. “Poetic. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

He smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the reputation.”

His words weren’t much, but they were a kind of intimacy you weren’t used to with him anymore. The beginnings of something slower, more tentative, like he was circling closer without naming it.

You felt it then, the old pattern slipping back on like a sleeve. Victor’s closeness was a slow thing. Careful, steady. And you knew exactly how this would play out because you’d done it before: give him hope, let him think he’d been given something soft, and then step back before he could do anything. It was a skill honed by necessity, an automatic defense for you.
Let him try, let him hope, then push him away. Only this time the thought hit sharper. You wanted to want him; the day before you’d even felt a glimmer of possibility, a small warmth that almost convinced you this could be different, but you knew it would fade the moment you opened to him. And you couldn’t hurt him. Not again.

Every time Victor offered that half-broken smile you found yourself waiting for a spark that never came. It was honest, and it deserved better than your hesitation. But the sparkle you look for can only be found in one man. Wide, dangerous, and utterly alive. And the realization that you were looking for Tommy Miller smile in other faces felt like betrayal.

You forced your thoughts away from it, practicing the old quiet discipline: don’t imagine, don’t plan, don’t let desire map out a future you’d never be able to live in. The idea of a real relationship felt ruined for you. A broken thing you couldn’t fix. You didn’t think you’d ever be comfortable enough to let a man in, not fully; not after what you carried. So, you kept your hands loose on the rifle and your face focused on the street, and for now that had to be enough.

Later that week, things turned.

The checkpoint was steady, routine. Until it wasn’t.

Radio calls for backup in a checkpoint close were you and Victor are patrolling. You both rush. The first scream cut through the line like a blade. Then another. Then chaos. The gate guards shouting. Gunfire sparking. And in the mess of civilians shoving past you, you saw it. Gray skin, jerking movements, that inhuman sound that scraped straight down your spine. Infected.

Your blood went cold. Your body knew what to do, but your mind - your mind shut down. For all the years you’d worn FEDRA’s uniform, all the drills, all the patrols, you’d been lucky. You’d dealt with people, with rebels, with smugglers. Not with this. Never with this. Not since that day, when you saw your family… Stop. No. This is a forbidden memory.

Your chest locked. The memories of the outbreak day surface, but you shoved it back, burying it deep where it always stayed.

A runner barreled toward you, and you froze. Couldn’t lift your rifle. Couldn’t even scream.

Tommy hit first. He slammed into the infected, driving it back hard into the wall before putting a bullet straight through its skull. He didn’t stop. He grabbed your arm, hauling you behind a concrete barrier.

“Jesus Christ, Miller,” your voice cracked.

“You’re welcome. Now stay down, sweetheart,” he snapped, scanning the chaos, body braced in front of yours like a shield.

Another infected lunged from the side. Joel was there this time, calm and brutal, a clean swing of his knife across its throat before it even reached you. He didn’t say a word, just flicked his eyes to his brother. A sharp look. Watch yourself.

Victor’s voice carried through the gunfire, barking orders somewhere down the blocks. You couldn’t go to him. Not with your knees locked, breath stuck in your chest, shame clawing its way up your throat. But Victor needs you. You force yourself to move and Tommy stops you.

“Forget him,” Tommy growled. “Don't move, you hear me?”

“Fuck off, Miller, I don’t need your help!” The words tore out, sharp and wild, desperate to cover the truth of your shaking hands.

Tommy’s eyes cut to yours, furious and raw. “You’re stayin’ behind me, whether you like it or not.”

Gunfire and screams swallowed the moment. The brothers moved in sync. Joel’s shots measured and efficient, Tommy reckless and fast, dragging you along when you couldn’t make your legs obey. And even through the terror, something inside you warmed at the way he stood in front of you. Not as a partner, as an equal, like Victor always had. But like a man protecting something precious to him.

You hated it. You needed it.

By the time the last infected dropped, Tommy was smeared with blood, a scrape burning down his arm. But fortunately, not bitten. He still turned to you first. “You good?” His voice was rough but softer than it had any right to be.

You shoved at his chest. “Of course. I told you I didn’t need you.”

Victor stormed up through the smoke, rifle still hot, eyes locking on you.

“You alright?” Victor asked, his voice rough, pointed at you but heavy with meaning.

“Fine,” you lied, forcing steel into your tone.

His gaze darted to Tommy, to Joel, suspicion sharp in his stare. “What the hell were you doing here?” he barked, fury masking the edge of fear in his tone.

Joel answered first, calm and flat. “We were gettin’ our papers checked. Gate went to hell. Infected poured through.”

Victor’s jaw ticked, shame flickering there. He hadn’t been the one to pull you out. And he saw it in your eyes, wide, still raw with terror. Victor knew that was a battle you could not face on your own. You have shared this weakness with him before. He saw it, and it cut him.

Tommy stepped forward, bristling. “Seems you all needed a little help, anyway.”

Victor moved, squaring up. “She doesn’t need your help, Miller.”

“Yeah? Good she didn't need yours either, as you were too busy and left your own partner standing alone.”

Victor surged forward, fists tight, ready to swing at Tommy. You caught Victor's shoulder before he could do anything. The touch so gentle it cut sharper than a command. And somehow, it worked. You opened your mouth, but Joel was faster. He shoved a heavy arm between them, his voice sharp as steel.

“Alright,” Joel said, eyes flickering from one to the other. “Officer Ramirez, he didn't mean disrespect.”

Tommy tried to protest, but Joel’s glare cut him quiet.

Joel turned back to Victor, his tone quieter now. “You were holdin’ the line. My brother— we just saw her cornered and moved. That’s all.”

The apology sat heavy in the air. Joel’s way of smoothing the edge without lowering himself.

Victor’s fist slowly uncurled. His eyes lingered on Tommy, on you, then finally back to Joel. After a long beat, he gave the smallest nod.

The silence that followed was thick. Tommy still burning with fire, Victor still seething with pride, and Joel - the wall between them, eyes giving away nothing. And you, standing there, heart slamming against your ribs. Ashamed. Useless in the very fight you were meant to own. Rage coiled beneath your skin, not at them but at yourself, for being caught in this stupid mess, for being weak, for being a coward dressed in a uniform.

The days that followed blurred.

Victor lingered closer than usual, his jokes softer, his warnings sharper. Tommy hovered too, reckless with his grins, his warmth, the way he kept stepping into danger with you in his line of sight. And Joel... Joel watched from the shadows, silent and wary, like he knew exactly where all this was heading and wanted no part of it.

The city pressed in, rain on every surface, rust in every breath. And between it all, you felt the walls bending - between Victor’s quiet attention, Tommy’s dangerous pull, and Joel’s rare slip of concern.

The ground was shifting beneath your boots, whether you wanted it to or not.

Weeks go by. For your happiness, or maybe your disappointment, Tommy hasn’t broken any rules lately. But Joel and Tess weren’t so careful. You caught them slipping past the wrong checkpoint with a bag that was heavier than it should’ve been.

“Funny how lucky you Miller brothers are. Always caught by me and not by someone who’d shoot first. Do you guys have an agenda or something to check my schedule?”

Tess clicked her tongue but didn’t push further. Joel, though, stayed quiet, heavy gaze pinned on you. You cannot help but admit to yourself that the charm runs naturally in Millers’ blood. Not only the physical resemblance, the presence, the gaze. Both could make girls’ hearts rush in a click. But Joel is all shadow and brick; he never softens. Tommy, by contrast, loud and warm.

“Oh,” you added, voice dry. “A few weeks ago, I let Lil’ Texas off, and it wouldn’t be fair to treat his big brother differently.” You let the silence stretch before sighing. “Go. But next time? I won’t look the other way.” you said flatly, rifle lowered but presence sharp.

Joel’s face shifted hard at the mention of his brother. His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then muttered, “You be careful around him, y’hear?” The words carried more weight than he meant to give them, landing in your chest like a stone. Joel’s eyes flicked away almost instantly, as if he realized he’d said too much and wanted to snatch the words back.

Tess moved first, pulling Joel by the arm before the conversation could go on. Not before giving him a look that expressed shut the fuck up.

You know Joel and Tess are people of few words, and it's precisely for this reason that Joel's statement didn't sit well on you. It wasn't a threat in any form; it sounded more like advice from a place of concern. You've known him for years now, but your interactions have never gone beyond the basics and necessary. Still, you expect him to show some consideration for you, given the deals you’ve made and all the times you turned a blind eye.

Just not to the point of him warning you about his own brother - especially when you’ve just heard from Victor that Tess doesn’t trust you.

Tess shoves Joel against the wall as she watches you leave. Once you round the corner and disappear, Tess glares up at Joel. “Your brother is already half dead, you trying to kill him all the damn way,” she snaps.

“Just warning her,” Joel says in a straight voice.

“No. You’re killing Tommy more than he already is himself. We don’t talk about that. Not here. Especially not around her,” Tess says, voice low. “He made his choice. Doesn’t mean you gotta ra—.”

“I’m not ratting on my own fucking brother, Tess. She’s helped him. She deserves to kno-,” Joel steps up, towering over Tess.

Tess doesn’t back down. “He’s a firefly, Joel. They’ll think we’re working with him, too. Get a fucking grip, Joel.”

He would never admit he’s wrong. He’d never admit his brother truly is a firefly. But he can’t ignore the facts anymore. His brother is already too far gone for that. Joel needs to cut his losses already. But seeing you have a soft spot for him, an even softer spot for his little brother, he can’t help but feel that he needs to protect you right back. Even if he knows his brother wouldn’t ever harm you. But he doesn’t know what his new crew would do, or that you can just as easily get yourself in trouble with FEDRA. And he knows he can’t tell you the truth. He just has to hope you don’t ask more questions.

You often catch Tommy with your eyes at a distance on job assignments, smuggling at the edge of the markets, or in the portion line. You can't help to notice that he is less and less with Joel and Tess.

Tommy always finds you with his eyes, always tries for a word, a grin, a spark, a terrible joke. Sometimes he would just throw a nonsense quote from any song as if it was part of a normal dialogue and expect you to spot the song. You can’t admit, but you like his silly game.

You’ve told yourself it’s time to pull back. Too much freedom, too much softness. You’re FEDRA, not his confidante. You’ve worked hard to keep Victor steady, to keep yourself balanced. You need to be hard edge again. You won’t be able to come with more excuses if Victor senses again weird behaviors.

And yet.

Every time you see Tommy’s smile, you feel the walls bend. That smile could split concrete. Sweet, hypnotic, shameless. The kind of smile that makes the QZ look, for one dizzy heartbeat, like a place worth living in. You swear not to look for it, but your eyes find him anyway, always searching.

Every once and a while you do business with him. A bottle of whiskey here, a bar of chocolate there, pills slipped under the table. He sweet-talks, you cut him off, but never quite hard enough. Because it feels right to hear him spin his nonsense just to see you laugh.

One evening, during a handoff in the shadow of an old market wall, he leans closer than usual. Close enough that the night air doesn’t matter, because you can feel his warmth. His nose wrinkles, amused.

“You smell good, darlin’.” His drawl is low, teasing. “You usin’ perfume?” the question is obviously in a surprising tone. Who would bother with such a triviality in this kind of world?

Heat blooms under your bandana, blessedly hidden. The truth is you’re proud of how you smell. You have the luxury of having hot water for your baths in the house that FEDRA gave you. A privilege few enjoy. And the careful spray of the perfume you found among the previous house owner belongings. Someone in the family living there before outbreak must’ve been a collector, maybe even a perfumer. Bottles, notes, scraps of recipes. You’d chosen one scent, ‘Yes I Do’ if you remember correctly the name in the pink bottle and made it your own. Just enough for you to feel it. Never enough to tempt questions from the hungry and hopeless in the streets.

“Yes,” you say finally, your voice even though your pulse isn’t. “And that means you’re too close. Step away.”

But he only grins wider, like you’ve given him something precious.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that, Miller? Do I need to smell bad as everyone else?”

“Of course, darlin!” he says, chuckling. “It's the end of the world. How dare you to smell good?”

“Jesus” you groan.

Then you proceed to lean closer just enough for him to hear. “Truth is, that's the whole point of the bandana. I wear it to protect myself from other people’s bad smell. I like to smell good. Always.” pause. “And don’t call me ‘darlin”.

Tommy’s laugh rumbles, warm, shameless. “That right?” He pretends to smell his clothes. “Well, I hope I’m not part of the ones you need to protect from”

The answer burns in your mouth. Of course not, you smell like a man I want to dive into, like heat, like danger I can’t stop chasing.

But you don’t dare to say it. You don't even dare to admit it.

So, you tug the bandana higher. “No, you smell like trouble, Miller. Notes of spicy trouble,” you say, obviously failing in being nonchalant as you planned.

Tommy’s grin sharpened as he tilted his head, a slight pause before he speaks again “What a wicked thing to say,” he murmured, giving you a look that lingered, loaded. Like he always does when he is waiting for you to catch the signal.

Your eyes narrowed, doubtful, but the tune slipped out anyway, quiet and serious: “...You never felt this way?” You held his gaze, uncertain if this was what he meant or if you were the fool for playing along.

He nods in happiness that you joined his little song game, again.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered afterward, shaking your head. But damn if it wasn’t cute.

He grins, slow and knowing. “Guess I’ll take the spicy trouble as a compliment.”

And you hate yourself for knowing it was.

Tommy’s grin lingered, lazy but sharp at the edges, like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked sideways, mischief sparking.

“Speakin’ of trouble… Victor’s been circlin’ you like a damn guard dog lately. The way he jumped in front of you last week? Strange, comin’ from him. Almost looked like he thought you needed protectin’.” His drawl carried a teasing lilt, but there was something heavier under it. “Didn’t peg you for lettin’ anyone play hero for you, darlin’.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Shame flared hot in your chest, the memory of freezing while the infected lunged still raw, still scraping. Useless. A coward in uniform. And now Tommy had the gall to twist the knife with a joke.

Your jaw clenched. “Watch your mouth, Miller.”

He chuckled, but softer this time, searching your face. “Easy, I’m only playin’.”

“Don’t.” Your voice came sharper than intended, your bandana doing nothing to hide the crack in it. “Don’t joke about things you don’t understand.”

The smile faded from his lips, but the warmth in his eyes lingered, almost stubborn. He wanted to push again. You could see it. Wanted to pry at the crack until you let him in.

“Conversation’s over. Go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t playful anymore. And for once, you hated how much you wished he’d ignored you and stayed.

You reached home after your shift, boots heavy, rain still clinging to your sleeves. Damn rain never stops in this shitty place, you mutter to yourself. The ritual was always the same, strip off the weight of FEDRA piece by piece. Rifle propped in the corner. Belt on the hook. Jacket peeled away. Bandana tugged down at last, leaving your face bare to the silence. That’s when you felt it. A slip of paper crumpled in your pocket. You unfolded it with cautious fingers.

Meet me at the edge of town?

Laundry room. 232 Ferry Street. 10 p.m. Thursday.

TM.

Your pulse spiked. Stupid. Reckless. These little games had already gone too far. Every glance, every joke, every moment alone with him was becoming harder to write off as accident. Harder to bury under the armor of “Butcher.” Victor already suspected more than he should, and if others started noticing? If you slipped too far into softness, lost the bad cop edge FEDRA demanded of you?

You crumpled the note in your fist, teeth set tight. You needed to push him away. For your sake. For his. For the role you’d built so carefully in this rotten city. And yet, your hand smoothed the paper back out again.

No. You won’t go. You toss the paper on the toilet and flush it away.

Too bad you memorized all of it already. Thursday. Ten. 232 Ferry Street. What a wicked thing to do Tommy. To make me dream of you.

Three nights later, the rain turned to that fine, stinging mist Boston liked to spit when it was thinking about snow. You slip away from the barracks and followed the route you’d mapped: left at the burned storefront, through the fallen fire escape, straight ahead the pizzeria into the old coin laundry with dirty glass. Just as explained in the note Tommy left in your jacket the day he was leaning too close to you.

Tommy was already there, standing by a dead washer with a cigarette he hadn’t lit. He lifted it in a mock toast. “Brought one for you, too.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Reckoned as much. You smell too good to do damn cigarettes.” He studied the bandana, “you can take that off here, sweetheart. I don’t smell too bad”.

You shut the door; the street noise thinned to a hum. “Why did you want to meet here, Miller?”

“Because talkin’ to you in front of rifles ain’t talkin’. And because you were gonna say yes.”

You laughed once, bitter, surprised at yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

They were quiet. The city breathed around them; a drip from a cracked pipe counted seconds. He tapped the unlit cigarette against his knuckle.

“You ever tell anybody your story?” he asked.

“What story.” You said it more as a statement than a question, something you’re not used to saying aloud— a story you didn’t really know you had in you until Tommy asked.

“How you ended up FEDRA when you don’t sound like FEDRA.”

Your shoulders went tight. “I was a firefighter. Boston. Before. A very good one, by the way”
He went still.

“Guess the order felt familiar, you know? Suiting up. Playing “hero”,” you continue.

“Now that definitely don’t sound like FEDRA,” Tommy says. You scoff, shrug a little.

“When the camps formed, they recruited. I trained for field ops, rescue, triage. They made me a nurse. Guess they needed fewer guns and more gauze at that time. Later… they decided I’d be more useful as soldier.” You lift a shoulder. “Long story.”

Tommy studied you. “And before all that… as a firefighter. What’d you do?”

You answered plainly. “Technical rescues, mostly. Collapsed buildings, car wrecks, industrial accidents. Situations where structures had to be cut apart to reach people. Not so much fighting flames, more about extraction under unstable conditions.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing it. “So, you’re tellin’ me you were a firefighter who didn’t actually fight fires?”

“Exactly.” You met his eyes, firm. “Gosh, I loved it”. You sigh. “Not many fires, but plenty of risk.” Your face enlightens.

“That explains it.” He hesitated, eyes running over you before he caught himself. Your brow arched, pressing him for more. He exhaled, voice lower. “Explains your posture. The way you move. Takes real strength to pull people outta steel and rubble. You don’t just look trained, you look… hell, you look like you could outlast anyone in this city.” He stopped there, jaw tightening like he’d swallowed the rest of what he wanted to say — something far less gentlemanly like it explains why you are so hot.

Heat prickled under your bandana, but you refused to let him win the moment. “Not only that. I’m sure I can run faster than any man in this QZ.”

His grin curved slowly, hungry. “Careful, sweetheart. That sounds like you’re askin’ me to prove you wrong.”

You tilted your chin, daring. “Maybe I am. But I don’t think your cowboy boots could keep up with me.

You cut in, wanting to hear him too. “What were you, before all this?

Tommy shrugged, a quick, small thing. “Joined the Army for a bit,” he said, voice flat like it was nothing to brag on, “then me and Joel did construction work. Contractor stuff, odd jobs, put up houses, fixed things. Nothin’ heroic like you with your twisted metals. Real sweat, long days, real tiredin’. Funny that back in the days we were exhausted by it. Now... that feels so easy compared to this.” Tommy looks around him.

“So you put up walls while I pulled people outta wrecks. Different rescue calls, same stubbornness.” Tommy’s grin softened.

“And you good with the gun as well, as everyone can see” he asks.

“I’m good with whatever keeps me alive and fed.” You snap back.

He smiled, something wistful tugging his mouth. “Knew you weren’t all steel.”

“Don’t start.” But the corner of your eye eased. “Why are you like this, Tommy?”

“Like what?”

“Like you still believe people can be more than what the city lets them be.”

He didn’t answer that.

“I should arrest you, you know?” you say to break the silence.

“You should kiss me.”

You freeze, your chest clenching with panic and something else you don’t dare name. Heat claws at your neck as you jerk back, blurting the first defense that comes to mind.
“You don’t even know what you’ll find behind this bandana, Tommy. You might regret it if I’m ugly. Or missing teeth.”

The joke tastes bitter on your tongue, but it’s easier than letting him see how much you want this.

Tommy just shakes his head, thumb moving steady beneath your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. His eyes - God, those eyes - are so full of something you don’t know how to carry.

“I don’t care, sweetheart,” he says, his voice rough with certainty. “I’m sure I’ll like whatever you’re hidin’.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. It burns, not with hunger, but with patience, like a man willing to wait his whole life for you to believe him. And in that moment, Tommy feels himself breaking a thousand of his own rules. He’s a smuggler, a Miller, a man who’s learned to keep the world at arm’s length and hates FEDRA or anything related to it. But with you, all he wants is closer. All he wants is to tear down the wall you’ve built, brick by brick, until you let him see the face he’s been aching for every night since he first realized you weren’t like anyone else in this city.

For Tommy, the bandana isn’t just cloth. It’s a locked door. And kissing you would be the key.

The words hung there, two breaths too long, then you both laughed at once, nervous, startled, alive.

You reach for the door to break the spell.

“Tomorrow,” he said quickly. “Same time.”

“You’re assuming I’ll come back?”

“I’m hopin’ you will, sweetheart.”

Your hand paused on the latch. “Hope gets people killed.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But so does livin’ without it.”

You don’t answer. You leave. He didn’t light the cigarette.

Chapter Text

3 years and 2 months before

The clinic at night was always too quiet.

You’d worked as a nurse in FEDRA’s QZ long enough to know the rhythm of night shifts: silence thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional drunk soldier or a civilian with a busted lip, foolish enough to break curfew, or hurt badly enough to justify it. Most nights, you sat alone. The curfew kept people inside and, usually, safe. The other nurses hated this rotation. You didn’t mind the loneliness. It was easier than facing the chaos of daylight.

That night, the silence broke with a heavy step. The door creaked.

You looked up, and your stomach dropped. Tall. Broad. Built like a bull. You knew his face. Everyone did. Sebastian. The most wanted Firefly leader.

He shouldn’t be here. FEDRA and the Fireflies were always at war, and this was enemy territory. For a second you wondered how the hell he’d slipped past the night guards. Your hand twitched toward the alarm button, but you stopped yourself. Your kindness hadn’t yet been burned out of you, not completely. If he managed to risk entering a FEDRA restricted area, he might have come for something desperate. Maybe you could help.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

He smiled, a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Need meds. Got a kid, badly injured. Could die without them.”

He proceeded to tell a story, a story that felt wrong, patched together. But your chest tightened anyway. Against better judgment, you nodded once. “I’ll give you what you need. But you don’t come here again. Next time I’ll have no choice but to call soldiers. Understand?”

“Understand,” he said, too quickly.

You turned, walked to the cabinet, and pulled a few bottles from the shelf. Basic meds, nothing that would raise too many questions if they went missing. He slid them quickly into a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. You had just reached for one last vial when his hand clamped around your wrist.

“Thank you, pretty doll,” he muttered, voice low and mocking. “Too soft for FEDRA, too good for those bastards. A heart like yours doesn’t belong in their chains. You’d be better off with us, you know? The Fireflies could use a good nurse like you. Someone who still remembers how to care, not just how to obey.”

He’s intimidating and it scares you. You try to politely decline and pull back your wrist, but he just grabs the other one, now harder. You freeze for a second, not totally able to acknowledge what's happening.

“Calm down pretty doll, let’s talk. I’m sure we can have a good time if you cooperate. Why don’t we chat a bit and then I leave?”

You can smell his breath. Half beer, half gin or whatever strange alcohol combination.

Desperation kicks in. You can only try to fight against him, uselessly, and ask desperately for him to leave.

“Must be a hell of a dumb girl to decline a request from me. Do you even know who I am? You should be flattered.”

You scream and ask him to let you go. His grip tightened. He could hold both of your wrists with just one hand. The other hand covered your mouth.

You try to scream, panic scraping your throat raw. You can’t believe what's happening.

He shoved you against the desk, one huge hand pushing your back against it, the other fumbling at the tie of your trousers. Your mind went blank. He was too big. Too strong. Fighting felt useless, but you fought anyway, thrashing, clawing. His weight pinned you, his breath hot against your ear.

You heard the scrape of leather, the sound of his buckle coming loose, and dread crashed over you.

“Calm down, doll,” he whispered, breath sour against your cheek. “You’ll see… you’ll like it.”

Then… A click.
 Cold steel.

“Get your hands off her.”

Sebastian stiffened. His grip loosened. You twisted, eyes wide.

Tommy Miller. You knew the name, the smuggler from the streets, Joel Miller’s younger brother. You’d seen him passing. But now he stood behind Sebastian, gun pressed to the man’s skull, arm locked tight in a chokehold. His face was hard, but his drawl was low and lethal.

Tommy’s voice cut through the room, low and dangerous - steady despite the slur that showed he’d been drinking. “You touch her again, I’ll paint the wall with your brains. Go, and don’t ever fucking come back.”

Sebastian growled, but he let go. Tommy shoved him toward the door, gun steady until he was gone. The silence after felt louder than screams.

You turned to Tommy, words shaking. “You...thank you...”

Only then did you notice the blood. Dark and heavy, soaking through his shirt. He swayed, the pistol lowering. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.

“You’re hurt!”

“Street fight,” he slurred, clearly very drunk. “Got stabbed. Thought I’d find first aid here.” His mouth tilted in a weak grin, but before you could answer, his knees buckled. You caught him with more instinct than strength.

The next hour blurred into motion. Gloves on, hands steady, heart racing. You were still panicking from the encounter with Sebastian, but you could never run away from helping the man who saved you. He’d stepped between you and a monster, even being injured. You stitched his side, cleaned the wound, pressed gauze until the bleeding slowed. He was drunk and smelling like whiskey. Slurring curses, but alive.

When you finish, you sat back, breath ragged. The medications took effect on Tommy, and he was unconscious, chest rising slow. You let yourself whisper into the dark, words he wouldn’t hear. “Thank you.” You allow the tears to roll down your face for the first time in many years.

Tommy left in the morning, when your shift was already over. Not remembering much. You never told him.

The fear stayed. Every shadow felt like Sebastian returning. You hid a pistol in your desk during your shifts, bought a knife to strap at your ankle. You never wanted to feel that powerless again.

You tried to tell yourself it was over.  You’d hoped it was a one-time horror from a man that drank too much and lost what little judgment he had left. Still, some fears don't die; they wait in corners until a sound gives them life.

But a few weeks later, the clinic door opened again in that same wrong way. The heavy scrape that always meant someone had come in with too much drink and too little shame. Sebastian stepped through, and he wasn't alone this time. Two other fireflies, John and Hector, shadowed him behind like vultures.

“Wait outside, your turn with doll here will come.” Sebastian ordered.

Panic ripped through you so fast it felt like your own body turned against you. Your legs wanted to run, but they wouldn’t move; your hands trembled uselessly at your sides.

John and Hector proceed to watch the streets while Sebastian cornered you again in the clinic.

This time, there was no gun pressed to his head. No one to drag him off you.

“Too pretty for this world, doll.” he sneered, blade glinting in his hand. He slashed your flesh across your cheek, marking you, branding you. The pain was white fire, but nothing compared to the sickness on your stomach and terror in your veins.

You don’t remember the exact moment his weight forced you down, or the moment your mind broke into glass. You remember the desk under your palms, your trousers down, your body screaming no. You remember John and Hector laughing from outside. You remember Sebastian’s breath heavy, triumphant.

When he was done, he was sloppy, too drunk on power to notice you reaching for the knife at your ankle. The blade found his throat, his chest, his stomach, his face. Again and again, each thrust blurring into the next. One, two, five, fifteen. Twenty-seven stabs before your hands stopped. You had never killed someone before that. You didn't mean the brutality; it was just an automatic reflex of the violence you suffered.

You hide as you hear John and Hector coming back. With the adrenaline in your veins, you are able to surprise John by his back and stab him more times than you can count. The blade went in before he even understood. His body dropped, lifeless.

Hector saw the carnage. His face went pale. He ran away. Maybe not afraid of you, but of the consequences of being there and not being able to save one of the most important Firefly members.

You stood alone in the wreckage, blood soaking your scrubs, hands shaking around a knife you no longer recognized as yours.

FEDRA agents arrived shortly and encountered the mess you made. When they stormed in, you lied. You would never told anyone you were raped. You said they tried to steal meds. You fought them off. It was easier that way.

FEDRA was proud of you and spun the massacre into propaganda: one of their own had crushed two armed Fireflies with a knife. Not any firefly, the most wanted one. Sebastian was long being chased by FEDRA without success. The brutality factor was a plus that they loved and made sure they spread the details. They rewarded you with rank, privileges, and prestige. They put you in a navy-blue uniform. And you pulled the bandana over your scar, as if you could hide this memory from everyone - including yourself.

At this moment, you learned violence. If you couldn’t be invisible, you’d be merciless. Combat and shooting technical skills weren’t difficult for you to pick up. Your years as a firefighter had left you strong and agile, and FEDRA’s training was broad enough to fill in the rest. At first, you are not shaken to practice violence. You don't like it, but you just set your brain as a must-do and a way to let out the rage. It became a habit, like brushing your teeth before bed, like getting up for a shift you hated. Necessary. Automatic.

Sebastian’s death started a new problem. The Fireflies put a target in your head, silent and patient. You felt them behind you on dark streets, saw shadows that slipped away when you turned. They wanted a payback, a slow payback. If it hadn’t been for FEDRA patrols and Victor’s quiet hand steering you, you would probably be dead long ago.

So, you adapted. You learned when to bare teeth and when to stay your hand. Fireflies cornered, bleeding, or caught doing nothing - those you let walk. You still fought, still killed, but not the ones already broken or unarmed. Kindness also became a weapon, the only shield you had. Slowly, they understood you weren’t all rot, not all FEDRA. The chase lost its heat.

And eventually you start to learn to balance it, to survive. Please FEDRA and keep with your benefits and fame, but also allowing yourself to use the rest of kindness and humanity that is left in your heart.

Still, inside, a part of you still whispered that night. The click of a gun. The drawl of a voice.

Get your hands off her.

The memory of the man who saved you once, even if he didn’t remember. You wish he was there again to prevent your world from falling to pieces. But he wasn’t, and now embracing FEDRA’s purpose was the easier way to try to glue it back together.

You told yourself not to go. Over and over as the hour crept toward 10 PM, as your boots carried you down the ruined street, under the heavy rain, as you passed the checkpoint lamps that burned like eyes. Don’t go. Don’t give Miller another piece of you. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

And yet, your steps found the laundry room again. The hollow of broken washers and shadows, where he’d been waiting last time.

He was there now too, leaning against the machine. Tommy looked exhausted, tense, like every second before you arrived there had been a battle in his chest. He wasn’t just waiting. He was terrified you wouldn’t come. That maybe this time you’d finally listen to your head instead of your heart. He’d spent years surviving for Joel, for smuggling, for scraps. But this, you, were the first thing in years that felt like it might be worth breaking all his rules for. And the thought of losing it before it began carved him open.

When he saw you, his grin cracked through the dim, relief flooding his face.

“Knew you’d come,” he said, drawl warm as whiskey. Even though he didn’t.

“Is this confidence sold in bottles somewhere in Boston?” You sighed, pulling your coat tighter. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why are you?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped further inside, shaking the rain out of your coat, the heavy air with dust and the faint smell of rust. You pulled the bandana down for a second, meaning only to breathe, to take one moment of freedom from the soaked fabric. But when you looked up, he was staring.

His breath caught. “Jesus Christ…” The words slipped out hoarse, raw. He took half a step closer, shaking his head slowly, almost in disbelief. “You’re - God, you’re beautiful.”

It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t a line. It was the shock of a man who’d expected ruins, something to prove his worst fears, and instead found a face that undid him. His eyes roamed as if he were memorizing every detail, terrified you might vanish if he blinked.

You freeze, heat rushing your face, ashamed by the lapse of your unguarded reflex. “Don’t.” You move your bandana back, now even higher.

But he kept staring, eyes caught in a storm of confusion and recognition. His brows pulled tight, as if his mind was chasing something he couldn’t quite catch. He stepped closer, slowly, his hand lifting like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for the memory clawing its way back.

“Just… you’re somethin’ else. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen since this world went to hell.”

 “You can’t be serious.”  The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your voice tight. “You barely had time to see a thing, anyway.”

His eyes were wide, stricken, like he’d been searching for this face forever. He reached out slowly for you, fingers brushing your jaw.

“You…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I know you. I’ve seen you before.” He blinked, the pieces of memory falling into place. His chest rose hard, like the air had punched out of him. “The clinic. That night.” His eyes widened in sudden realization, his voice breaking on the words. “Goddamn—it was you. It’s been you all along.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your jaw as though the touch could prove it real, then gently pulled the bandana down again. This time, you didn’t fight.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t remember all of it.” Your hand moves without thinking toward him, fingers brushing the faint scar over his shirt along his torso where you’d stitched him that night. The fabric was thin there, heat radiating beneath it, and for a moment you let yourself feel the proof that he had been real in your hands once before.

“I remember enough,” he said, voice low. His gaze locked on yours. “Him on you. My gun at his head. Your scared eyes. Been carryin’ them in my chest ever since. How could I have missed this?”

“Well, the bandana works at least… uniform and soldier hair style helped a bit, I guess.” You smirk, but the truth was obvious: the scared eyes were gone, replaced by something merciless.

“Darlin’,” he said, while brushing his fingers in your face with one hand, and your arm with the other hand. His gaze so intense it felt like he was stripping your soul bare. His eyes flicked down to your lips, lingering there, the silence stretching heavy between you before he found his voice again. “If it’s the scar you’re hidin’ behind that bandana… Lord, have mercy, you’re still the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on. Scar and all. Hell, especially with it. Like you walked through hellfire and came out stronger than it. But I know it ain’t just a mark on your skin.”

Your breath trembled. “Tommy…”

But then his expression hardened, eyes darkening, jaw tight. “He came back, didn’t he? Goddamn son of a bitch…” His thumb stilled against your skin, his breath rough with anger. “That’s why you killed him?”

You don’t want to talk about this. You don’t want him to feel guilty about not being there to prevent the disaster. But your wet eyes betrayal you.

His thumb continues to brush your cheek “I wish I’d shot him that night instead of lettin’ the fucker crawl off. Christ, what the hell was I thinkin’? I had him right there, gun to his head, and I just let him walk.”

“Tommy, don’t do this to yourself.”

His voice cracked, thick with regret. He pulled you into his chest, hugging you tight, his words muffled against your hair. “Should’ve known better. God, I’m so sorry you had to go through this shit. If I’d been there… I swear to you, darlin’, I’d have killed him myself.”

The confession twisted something in you, hurt and comfort tangled into one. You pulled back enough to look at him, forcing a shaky smirk through your tears. “Too bad you didn’t get yourself shot or stabbed again to be there for me.”

He cupped your face like you were breakable, like you were holy. “I’d take the bullet, take the knife, whatever it cost, just to keep you safe.”

He leaned in, rough and certain.

The air went taut. You are not even fighting against your reasons anymore. Your body leaned forward. His mouth met yours, warm and clumsy, desperate and real. A kiss like breaking glass, shattering the walls you’d built, spilling all the things you swore to keep locked away. A long kiss that felt lasting hours, and yet not long enough.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your lips still tingling.

“Is this a mistake?” you whispered.

“Hell yeah,” he agreed. “But it’s ours.”

“Tommy.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop making me smile.”

“Can’t.” A grin broke on his lips, his hand came up to cradle your face, the other sliding firm around your waist, pulling you closer. “Feels like the first good crime I’ve committed in years.” Before you could answer, his mouth found yours again, softer this time but no less desperate. You slipped your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, he groaned into the kiss like he’d been waiting for that touch all his life, as if it was the one thing that can prove he was alive.

But all of a sudden, something inside you cracked open like ice breaking under the weight. Because nothing good ever lasted without a thousand shadows rushing in to haunt you. For a fleeting second, it had felt like warmth. Like the world had given you back something you weren’t meant to have.

What the hell am I doing?

Affection, in this rotting world, wasn’t salvation. It was risk. Risk of being vulnerable, risk of being torn apart, risk of losing it all, waking up one day with nothing but fear where your heart used to be.

You pulled back, breath ragged, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry Tommy… I can’t.” The word came harsher than you meant.

Tommy froze, his hand still resting at your waist. “What do you mean, darlin’?”

“This… us… we can’t. It will only make our lives harder. This is not supposed to happen.” You stepped back, tugging the bandana higher as if it could erase what just happened.

“Sweetheart… I don’t understand- ” Tommy says while trying to pull you back, making you give another step back.

“Tommy… I’m- I’m really sorry. This will never work. We can daydream about it, and gosh, God knows how much I do. But it only belongs in our dreams. Out here, in the real world…  it will only get us hurt.”

“I would never hurt you- “

“Maybe you won’t. But life will.” You swallow, bitterness spiking.

Tommy’s laugh is sharp and disbelieving, a sound with grief under it. “So you’re gonna let fear run you?” He steps forward, hands open like he’s offering a lifeline. “We can choose. We can-”

“Tommy. Let’s be realistic. How long until we cross paths and it’s me or you? Or how long until one of us takes a bullet in our head for any stupid reason? Life’s a countdown, Tommy, and the less attached we are to anything, the better.”

“That’s bullshit. So, that’s it then? You’ll never even try? You will just wait to die, and that’s fine for you?” Tommy’s shoulders slump, but he refuses the dramatics. His voice goes quiet, hard with sorrow and something like accusation.

You turned, boots echoing in the hollow room. “This must end here. You copy, Miller?”

Confusion clouded his face, then anger softened into something closer to hurt.

“You’re wrong, darlin’, you are so wrong.” he muttered into the dim, his voice rough, almost breaking.

And then you were gone, leaving him in the dust and rust of the laundry room, his chest hollowing out.

Tommy leaned back against the dead washer, dragging a hand over his face. The grin, the warmth, the kiss - gone as quick as they came.

You storm away from the laundry room. Your heart pounding with pain, your boots heavy on the wet cobblestones. Rain and tears ran together down your face, your soaked bandana barely letting you breathe.

You have one good reason to stay - but too many to walk away.

It was unfair, cruel, what surviving demands. In a land of gods and monsters, even angels learned to sharpen their claws. The idea of losing someone again, after everything already lost in the outbreak, was crushing enough to keep you from daring to try.

What you need is focus. Discipline. The sharp, narrow path forward. FEDRA’s rules were chains, yes. But they were also armor. Being with a smuggler would only blur the edges of the walls you’d spent years building.

You had a clear goal: to ascend through the ranks, to shape the corporation from the inside, to make it something better. To turn tyranny into order, chaos into structure. A long path, but no one else would walk it if you didn’t.

Play by the rules… until you’re powerful enough to change the rules yourself.

You’d just walked past the old pizzeria on your way back, dragging each step like you were pulling your bones through mud. Every movement felt miserly.

Then Tommy’s voice cut the silence calling your name.

Tommy approaches, catching your hand. “Why?” he asked.

Your guard slipped. You tightened your grip on his hand. “Tommy… we’re fooling ourselves, thinking this could ever be real,” your other palm rising to cradle his face.

“You’re scared of bein’ happy.” he said into the quiet, his voice low, frayed at the edges. He held you gently at the waist and pulled you closer. “World’s gone to hell, and you’d rather wear chains than let yourself feel somethin’ real.”

“Exactly,” you snapped, your throat tightening.

For a moment, his eyes felt like a safe place. And against your better judgment, you let your fears spill out. “I can’t afford to get soft. I can’t afford you. I can’t afford to let you in just to lose you.”

He stepped closer, you didn’t move back. His nearness pressed like heat against your skin, his breath mixing with yours, the space between you shrinking until it hurt to resist.

You continue. “FEDRA doesn’t just have rules about curfew, rebellions, and contraband. They’ve got codes, ethics about relationships. You think they’d let me stay in uniform if anyone knew?”

He shook his head, stepping closer, desperate. “Darlin’- ”

“It can’t be for nothing,” you cut in, voice cracking. “Losing everything in the outbreak. Living in this rotten world. Being…” your hand traced the line of your scar, “…designed as a soldier. Then, all this shit I’ve done.” You swallowed hard. “The only reason I keep moving forward is the idea of climbing high enough in FEDRA to make things work in a fair way. And I know I’m not a hero, not some savior, not innocent. But I do the best I can to serve FEDRA, and still be useful to this community that needs more than just rules to survive.”

Your eyes lifted to his. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His gaze was steady, comprehensive, carrying the kind of understanding you hadn’t found anywhere else.

You continue. “It might not be the best way, but it’s the only way I’ve found to break the cycle. Push and pull. And so far, it’s working. And this… us… would only drag me further away from it.”

Silence folded over them for a moment.

“I heard it all, sweetheart. I understand you,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, but burning underneath. His eyes searched yours, soft and unshaken. “But now it’s my turn. Can you listen to me, please?”

He took a breath, and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs resting at your cheekbones. His fingers edged toward the bandana for a beat, then stopped. “May I?” he asked, small as a plea. You give a single nod.

With slow, careful fingers he slid the bandana down. “You think I don’t know what you’re sayin’? That I don’t see the weight you carry, the walls you built to keep from losin’ more than you already have? I do. Hell, I felt it before you ever spoke it out loud. That fight in you, wantin’ to change things, even from inside the monster’s belly… that’s what drew me in. That’s what makes me keep comin’ back.”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes glowed with something softer. “You call it duty. FEDRA rules, uniform, fear. But I see it for what it is. You’re rebelling, even if you’d never admit. You’re pushin’ against a world that wants you cold, heartless. And you still choose to care. That’s rarer than anythin’ else left alive in this world.”

His voice deepens, not pleading but certain. “You say love’s a distraction. I say it’s the only thing keepin’ us from turnin’ to dust. You think lettin’ me in will make you weak. But I swear to you, darlin’, it’ll make us both stronger. We both want the same things.”

…You’re fightin’ to make this world better your way, and I… I’m tryin’ to do the same, in mine. He thinks, but didn’t dare to say it aloud. The conversation was already hard enough with you in the dark about him joining the Fireflies; and he couldn’t tell you yet. Hopefully, he told himself, one day your rebellion would find its way to his cause, and they’d be fighting on the same side.

He let out a sharp laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only a crack of hope. “For the first time in years, I feel like I could be more than just a man survivin’ off scraps and sins.”

His hand found yours, rough thumb brushing your knuckles, his gaze never leaving your face. “So tell me again, darlin’. Tell me straight to my face that we’re better off pretendin’ we don’t feel this. Tell me, and I’ll walk away right now. But if you can’t…” His voice dropped to a near whisper, aching and sure, “then stop runnin’. Let this be real.”

His words hung between you like fire in the rain. For a heartbeat, you wanted to step into it. To let yourself fall.

You held his gaze too long, your throat tightening, your heart begging you to surrender. Then, with a slow, shuddering breath, you shoved it all down where it belonged. Bury it deep. Rip off the bandage. You are Butcher. Better to kill this now than let hope rot you from the inside.

Your voice was tender at first, almost breaking. “Feel what, Tommy? You barely know me. I certainly don’t know you. I don’t know what you think you saw in me.” You forced yourself to keep going, each word sharper than the last. “But whatever you’re looking for… doesn’t exist. Not in me. Not in this world. You think I can give you what you need? What you want?” Your voice cracked, but you ground it into steel. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.”

“And I’m not a rebel.”

Silence. Only the sound of the rain falling.

For a moment his eyes still burned with hope, until he realized your words were the end.

He nodded once, more to himself than to you, and stepped back.

“I know exactly what I saw on you,” Tommy said, gaze deep, voice raw.

He didn’t argue. He just turned away, boots dragging as the sound of him faded into the night, leaving you alone with your hard words.

The silence he left behind caved in on you. Your chest heaved as if the air itself had turned to stone, and every part of you screamed to run after him, to take it all back.

And in the hollow ache that followed, you felt it clear as a wound: you weren’t just pushing him away. You were giving up on something you loved - too much.

Chapter Text

♫ Erase and rewind (... cuz I've been changing my mind)

The cardigans

You woke up with the headache already waiting for you, a dull drill behind your eyes. When you blinked the room tilted, and for a stupid instant you felt the shape of him – the long hair, the curve of his shoulder, the taste of his mouth.

Then the memory slashed clean; you spot the whiskey bottle on your bedside table, half empty, and the small tin of sugar-coated hard candies. Funny enough, both had been slipped to you by Tommy a few weeks earlier.

You caught yourself thinking how ridiculous it all was. What had there really been? Two years of orbiting one another across checkpoints and alleys, glances traded like contraband, words slipped where no one else could hear. And only in the last few months had the thread pulled tight, turned into something you couldn’t ignore: waiting for nightfall, chasing the pull of small encounters, brushing fingers under the excuse of trade, pretending to push away all his sweet talking, when in truth you were melting inside, wishing that slow drawl was pressed right against your ear. It was nothing, really. Nothing that should matter. And yet, it left an ache in your chest that felt far too deep.

You sat up too fast and the world spun. Your stomach rolled; your hands trembled. You wanted, for one absurd moment, to reach for the bandana and tuck your face away, to let the cloth hide the harsh words you’d thrown at him. But you didn’t. You needed the hot water first, needed it like a benediction, like a punishment, like something that might burn away the taste of him on your lips.

You stepped under and let the water go hard and hot at first. You hoped the heat would make the headache dissolve, hoped the rinse of water would slide the night off your skin. It didn’t. Instead, the water only made your hands shake harder and the memory come clearer: his face when you’d said it, the way his smile had faded as if a light had been snuffed. The hot stream traced familiar lines down your ribs exactly where his fingers had brushed you the night before.

It struck you how pointless it had been. To let it go on, to feed the pull with every stolen moment, and then shove it all back as if it had never existed. You hadn’t meant it as a game, but somewhere along the way you had let yourself play it, until the feeling was too strong to simply step back. Only now did you see how many expectations and quiet hopes you’d built without even noticing. Feelings you had never allowed yourself to recognize until they weighed too heavy.

You pressed your forehead to the cold tile and counted reasons out loud. Attachment is a liability.

Tommy would make you vulnerable. He would be a distraction that would bleed you dry of the one thing you had left to trade: your usefulness inside FEDRA.

Love wasn’t for you. Not anymore. You could only give him the illusion of something tender and then rip it away, just as you did with Victor. He deserved better. Both deserved better.

You repeated your reasons like a mantra.

Each sentence made you drier, colder. But under the list, under the cold reason, a different sound kept slipping through: the echo of his laugh, the way his thumb had brushed your knuckles, the brief, stupid warmth around your chest when he’d touch you. Silly things you had ached for so long, only to give them away. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to.

You scrubbed your face until your eyes stung, until you couldn’t tell whether you were rinsing the whiskey from your lips or the memory from your mind.

You dressed slowly. Only when you were fully suited, when the outer shell of duty sat right and the pistol felt familiar against your thigh, you reached for a clean bandana. You tied it the same way you always did, knot tucked and low, a ritual that felt more like sealing a wound than covering a mark.

The mantra sounded steadier now in your head: play the game, gain rank, change the rules. Don’t be attached to anything that can be easily taken away from you.

Halfway to the checkpoint the world tilted and your stomach gave a low, traitorous lurch. You pressed a palm to the wall and breathed, trying to iron yourself flat. The whiskey had not left you yet.

Victor stood at the checkpoint like a pillar. Steady, predictable, a presence you could lean on. He had that uniformed way of appearing just where he needed to be, eyes already slotted into complaint the moment he saw you. “You’re late,” he said.

“Traffic” you mocked, voice thin.

Victor rolled his eyes. “Oh wow, hilarious,”

He took a step closer, brows knitting. “You look like you got run over by a truck and then put back together with prayers. What happened?” His tone had more concern than accusation.

You forced a laugh that cracked at the edges. “Nothing you’d like to know. Just… bad whiskey.”

He snorted, the sound harsher than it should have been. “Lucky for you I’m in a good mood today, your misery won’t ruin my morning. But I’m not hauling corpses before coffee, Butcher, so wait until break if you need me to carry you.” He cuffed the side of your shoulder, light, almost playful, but his palm lingered, fingers brushing the sleeve of your jacket. The contact felt like a small, illicit hug, as if a single patient hand could fold you into safety for a moment.

You rolled your eyes and remain silent.

 “Anyway, you’re late so you don’t know the day’s assignment yet. Lucky you - today we’re-,” Victor paused, watching the way your shoulders tensed, and then pretended to grin wider. “-we’re clearing infected. Outside patrol. Damp socks and screaming. Thought you might appreciate it.”

Your stomach dropped as if he’d thrown a rock at it. “What? That’s not-,” You tried for surprise and got real fear instead. Inside, your mind stumbled at the idea of being half drunk around random infected out in the open, of bright, ugly violence.

When FEDRA brought you in, you laid down your terms: no assignments involving the infected. That had been rule number one, and so far, they’d honored it.

You felt the breath catch in your throat and had to force a smile that tasted like metal.

Victor barked a laugh that softened into something almost fond. “Relax. I’m messing with you. Didn’t think you had it in you to run. Just making sure the living-dead girl is still on brand.”

He waited until your expression unclenched and then his face softened wholly.

“Seriously, Butcher, you okay? Do you need to talk?”

For a blink, your defenses trembled. Victor had always been that thing in your life - reliable, infuriating, soft where you didn’t expect it. You thought of Tommy’s face falling the night before. You held the hearts of two good men in your hands, and all you’d managed was to bruise them both. Now, somewhere between the small, comforting pressure of Victor’s thumb and the ache where Tommy’s hands had brushed your ribs, you felt the worst kind of cruelty - the one you did to others to save yourself.

You managed an awkward, half-smile. “For fuck’s sake, Victor. Don’t pull that crap on me today. For a second there I wondered if even a clicker would taste the cheap whiskey in my blood and think twice about tearing me apart.”

He blinked at you, then stepped back into the checkpoint cabin and, grabbed the clipboard in that dry cadence that meant business, said, “Now, for real. We have an unusual assignment for the next nine days: docks maintenance patrol. A team of about twenty civilians will repair the piers and we are supposed to babysit them. You’ll be outside, away from the center and close to the sea. No burned bodies, no infected. Guess God heard your prayers.”

Relief hit like a cold wave. “Thank God. I really need peace for a few days,” you said, and meant it. “And I hope rebels don’t ruin it and decide to make trouble while I’m trying to sober up. I’m outta patience.”

Victor’s grin came back, wicked and fond. “You know what? I kinda hope someone makes trouble. I’d love to see you snap at ’em. Mean Butcher’s my favorite.”

You looked at him with angry, tired eyes. Cold and flat as a blade.

He gave a crooked, sorry smile. “Ok, ok. No more jokes. Until break.”

---

You walk in silence towards the docks. Victor falls into step beside you, not filling the air with his mocking. He breaks it only in small, useful ways: a direction about which quay to take, an offhand comment about the tide, a quick fix for the strap of your pack. Nothing heavy.

By the time you reach the docks, the team of civilians aren’t due to arrive for another half hour. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and sit down in the chair by the reception shack, letting your spine fold into something close to relief.

Victor watches you for a beat, then reaches a cereal bar on his pouch. He presses it into your hand with one of those gestures that pretends to be casual but is the opposite. “Eat,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

You look at it like it’s a small sacrament. You tear off the paper and bite, and the cloying sweetness and dry grain hit your tongue. Twenty minutes later you feel it: the edges of the headache dulling, the nausea slipping like a tide out, the world settling to a more manageable angle.

“Gosh, feels better now. Why didn’t you give it to me sooner and spare me the misery?” you ask at last, glancing up as the first workers drift in.

Victor walks over and stands behind your chair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He takes both your shoulders in big, workman’s hands. “I wanted you to struggle a bit,” he says, only half-joking. “Don’t look so offended.” He pressed into your trapezius with thumb and palm, moving with a purposeful clumsiness that found the places already sore. It wasn’t soft; it was a touch that said pull yourself together, not one meant to be intimate.

 “We don’t show up to work drunk and risk everyone else’s neck.” He continues. “If you’re going to drink like that, you damn well better know the goddamn protocol for the next day. Showing up empty-stomached is a terrible idea. You know that. I know that.”

You snort. “First - Terrible massage. Second - Can’t blame you. I’d do worse if you were the one bringing you drunk ass to work.”

“This isn’t a massage,” he said, voice flat with a half-smile. “It’s to keep you alert. Consider it preventive maintenance.”

You laughed. It was the first laugh of the day. “Ok, enough of this torture.” You say cheerfully, gently slapping his hands off your back.

The laugh cut off at an unbothered, “Morning.” You looked up to find Joel and Tommy at the desk - first in, followed by the few other male civilians assigned for the job.

The sight of Tommy Miller slammed into you like a fist; your stomach dropped out of you and your breath hitched so hard for a second you couldn’t hear the world around you. Your eyes slid past Joel and locked on Tommy.

You hadn’t expected him today. He looked as if he hadn’t expected to see you either: a beat of shock, then the kind of recognition that made both of you smaller. The air snapped. Sound narrowed to the steps on the concrete floor, the distant cry of a gull; everything around you blurred. It was the sort of awkwardness that didn’t need words - only you and Tommy felt the particular weight of it; Victor and Joel only registered the change, like two men sensing a storm coming in.

The careful construction of the morning, the list of reasons and rules you’d used like mantra, shook loose, and the pain you’d been burying all morning climbed back into your chest, thick and suffocating. Tommy’s face folded in a way that stopped your breath: disappointed, raw, stripped of the reckless sparkle he usually wore. There was no grin - only the bleak, stunned look of a man who’d just had some precious hope taken from him. Victor’s hand tightened at your shoulder before letting it go. Joel’s posture shifted a fraction; he watched, unflappable on the surface but alert underneath.

The moment hung there, awkward and sharp, and everyone around it felt it, in their own way.

Joel half-leaned over the counter with an assignment ticket between his fingers. Your hands flew to stamp pad like a reflex, a poor attempt at looking purposeful instead of caught, and stamped their tickets.

Joel and Tommy stepped away from the desk and moved towards the deck to start the work. Joel gave a short nod over his shoulder - an economy of motion that said thanks and acknowledgement both - and clipped, “Butcher,” at you, then, to Victor, “Officer Ramirez,” before he disappeared into the bustle.

Tommy followed, but not before he stopped for one long, impossible look. His eyes cut to you first. Sharp, loaded with something that felt like accusation and hurt. And then slid to Victor, measuring. There was no softness in it. When he turned away, the motion was small and controlled, but it carried a weight that tugged at the center of you.

For a moment you were mortified. Shaken by his unexpected presence, but also caught in a careless, casual instant with Victor. And the shame tasted worse than the hangover. You forced your hands steady, picked up the stamp, and began checking and stamping assignment tickets for the rest of the team queuing at the desk. Your fingers fumbled at first, then found their rhythm: check, press, ink, crisp thud.

As you worked, you felt Victor’s good mood shift beside you. His glance snagged on you with a question in it that had nothing to do with docks or duty. He’d seen the look Tommy gave; he’d felt the charge in the air and your quick change of behavior. The warning behind his eyes said plainly what his voice might later: we will talk. For now, though, he kept his watch.

You finished checking in the crew faster than you meant to. You shouldered your pack and moved out to the piers to oversee the work. Victor fell into place at your side, silent as a stone; he didn’t press you, didn’t prod for talk. Not yet.

For hours you stood on the deck and kept the watch: eyes on hands, eyes on lines, eyes on the slow chore of saving a place from rot. The workers bent to the task – all men, hauling lengths of lumber, shoving sandbags into place, prying up rotted planks and fitting new boards, bracing mooring posts with fresh timbers, hauling broken skiffs up the slipways to be stripped for parts.

Tommy and Joel moved through it like they belonged to the place. They hauled the heaviest timber, knelt to set planks square, drove spikes with quick, practiced strikes, and rigged a temporary brace without wasting a breath. Where most took minutes to line up a board, they fit two in the time it took someone else to find a nail. Experience made their work look easy - an efficient sort of grace that only comes from doing the same hard thing until your muscles remember the answers before your brain does.

You wanted, in a way that surprised you, to catch his eyes across the planks, to be met with that ridiculous grin or a sly, nonsense quip that would dissolve everything. But nothing came. They moved together with a professional silence; they traded the occasional nod or clipped instruction, but there was no easy back-and-forth, no loose laughter shared at a private joke.

That quiet between them pricked you more than you expected. You had imagined Joel and Tommy as brothers-in-arms – bounded, rubbing shoulders, always teasing. Watching them now, you wondered if they had always kept that steel between them, if you’d somehow never seen the line they drew. The thought left you oddly isolated: surrounded by motion and sound, and yet still waiting for a single look that never arrived.

Tommy was a mess - all tight jaw and restless sleep, replaying the laundry-room like a bad dream. He’d felt the bluntness of the way you pushed him away under the rain as if someone had folded a door shut between you. He told himself it shouldn’t weigh this much. But somehow, it did. It was barely the start of a story. And yet, it felt like the end of one. Maybe because the hope had been louder than the truth, and losing it left him gutted.

Seeing you at the desk had landed like a punch to his chest. An animal cold along his spine. But watching you laugh with Victor just the day after you shattered his heart and hopes made something in him go raw, betrayed.

For a horrifying minute he let himself believe that that easy, joking closeness with Victor was actually the whole reason you’d shoved him away. But then he’d seen your swollen eyes, the forced laugh, the way you’d gently pushed Victor’s hand aside with a kindness that didn’t belong to flirtation. It confused the hell out of him. Whatever the truth was, the exhaustion in your eyes made it clear the choice had cost you just as much as it cost him.

The crew pushed off the boards at noon for the lunch pause, people scattering to shaded corners with their stew and tobacco.  You don’t eat - you rarely did at midday, content to watch others take their bowls.

Victor came with you, close enough to be at your side, quiet through the first few bites. After a few minutes he folded his arms and looked at you directly.

“You know what I’m going to ask,” he said.

“I don’t,” you lied, not moving your eyes.

He sighed, half-exasperated, half-gentle, and played dumb to give you room. “Alright. That’s how we’ll play then. Tell me, what the hell happened earlier with the Millers? You could cut the tension with a knife from two blocks away.”

You let the rehearsed shield drop into place. “Maybe it’s because of the awkward situation you caused the last time the four of us ran into the infected,” you said, voice tight. “You made it weird, acting like an ass about Joel and Tommy stepping in to help me fight back. You remember that, right?”

Victor blinked, taken a little off-guard by the accusation that slipped out like armor. “I was-” he started.

“Next time I’m cornered, I’ll take the teeth over the shame of being owed by anyone but FEDRA. Happy?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again. There was nothing he could say about it.

Instead he nudged another tack, quieter. “You sure none of this ties back to your little drinking stunt today?”

“Absolutely not,” you snapped too quick. The denial felt brittle and loud.

He waited with the patience that made your ribs hurt.

“Bullshit. I don’t buy it.”

Your throat pulsed. The lie came fast, instinctive. You yanked the bandana down, more violently than you intended, and exposed the pale, jagged line that cut from cheekbone toward jaw.

“This,” you said, voice low and steady. “This is my reason.”

Victor’s face shifted as if reading a map. You lied smooth: “It’s been three years. That’s why I’m off today.”

If he’d been keeping count of days, he’d know it was three years months ago.  Luckily, he wasn’t.

You never told him the whole truth of that night, and part of you felt bitter that he was clever enough to piece it together already. The apology came soft and immediate. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it still cut you like this. If you want to talk, when you’re ready… I’m here.”

You re-tied the bandana and let the lie buy you some relief.

The day closed lonely, aching. Your body still paying the price of cheap whiskey.

---

You were late again. The mattress had held you hostage; sleep had gone in jagged scraps the night before, and when it finally came it came too late. You thrust yourself into clothes, shoved your boots on, and ran, breath burning, heart like a fist hitting the inside of your ribs. Knowing Tommy would be there should have steadied you; instead it made you ache in two directions - a small, ridiculous happiness and a hollowness right behind it.

You skidded up to the checkpoint expecting Victor’s scowl to slice you in half. Instead, Jennifer stood in the doorway. An older FEDRA agent that you only knew in distance. Sharp hair, sharper smile, a clipboard like a shield. She looked up like she’d been waiting for you all morning and not in the good way.

“Butcher. You’re late.” Jennifer said, eyes sharp. “Officer Ramirez is tied up for the next days,” she said before you could protest, her voice bright and efficient. “HQ pulled him for a special run. I’m filling in.”

“Why would they need him-“

She cuts you off. “I don’t make questions, Butcher.”

For a second you registered the facts: Victor gone for some days, Jennifer replacing him. The thought that fizzed through you was immediate and stupid: maybe this was your chance to talk to Tommy away from Victor’s eyes. Maybe.

What the hell are you doing? You stopped yourself.

Pull yourself together.

The thought died in the back of your throat, soundless. No. You practice your mantra again.

Jennifer didn’t wait for your drama; she filled the air with her own. Loud, trim, practiced. She was the kind of woman who loved the sound of her own story and used every minute of the walk to chat about her week achievements.

You both arrive at the docks a few minutes before the workers arrive. She approached the queue of civilians with a smile that could pass for warmth until she opened her mouth. Then, she bragged, she teased, she name-dropped, she punctuated each sentence with a clipped laugh that was more a tyrant performance than pleasure.

Before you could settle, Joel and Tommy stepped up behind the line. Joel casual, easy, already scanning the work, Tommy with his shirt half-unbuttoned in a plaid that rode open over a white tee. Hair still damp. And that crooked, tired beauty that somehow knocked the air out of you. For a second your mind stole back to laundry room night - to the touch of your fingers against the scar you’d stitched on his side. The memory was absurdly small and unbearably sharp. It made your heart ache in a way you could not justify.

Tommy didn’t meet your eyes. Not even once. He kept his head downline, working the angle of his face away from you, and even from a distance you could see the way his shoulders carried a quiet, stubborn sadness. You were clear in your message, and he would respect it.

At first the workers bristled at Jennifer’s manufactured cheer and answered with distant nods. But Jennifer had the odd talent of making conversation even when she wasn’t listening or being nice. Some of the crew leaned into it.

Jennifer’s bluster wasn’t pleasant. But it cracked the surface. Men who’d been stiff started to laugh – or fake it. The murmur of real voices had the smell of work and the small comfort of shared complaint.

For a moment you considered sliding into that cracked space. A soft question to the man repairing a rotted plank, a terse thanks to the man hauling sand. Until you have enough excuses to extend the conversation to the Millers. The idea felt dangerous and necessary at the same time.

Stop it.

But you can’t. You took a breath and moved closer to the edge of the group, letting your shadow fall near where Tommy and Joel worked. You wanted, desperately and stupidly, to catch his eye. You wanted the small, merciless joke that would prove everything hadn’t burned. But when you looked, they were elbow-deep in labor, eyes down and hands working, their faces set in that flat concentration of men who have trained their muscles on a single repeated task. No glance came. No smile.

Still, Jennifer’s chatter had done what you couldn’t - it had made the day feel like a day. For now, that would have to be enough. You swallowed the disappointment and squared your shoulders.

The days bled together in gray repetition where nothing shifted. You stamped tickets, monitored the crew, nodded through Jennifer’s endless chatter, and handed out slips at the end of the shifts as if it were the only thing you were made for. All the while your eyes kept searching - over the docks, through the lines, across the timber piles — hunting for the smallest flicker of him. But Tommy gave you nothing. No look, no word, not even the faint trace of his smile. As you would expect, as he should.

But even knowing that was the normal and expected behavior you forced him into, the absence cut sharper than anger, leaving only the steady, dull ache of being unseen.

---

The sixth day at the pier wound down and it was time to finish the admin. You took your place at the little desk and began distributing the pay vouchers. Thin slips that meant wages, rations, the small legalities that kept people fed and counted.

While you handed out the last of the slips, you finally saw: Tommy’s eyes met yours. He didn’t bother to look away or shift; it was as if he wanted you to see him looking. There was no easy smile, no clear answer in his gaze - you couldn’t read him at all. Still, in a way you hadn’t expected, the small exchange warmed something inside you.

You walked home with your hands empty but your head full, the day replaying in small, sharp fragments. The brief look stayed with you, and your thoughts uncoiled into a spiral of what-ifs and dread: what to do, what not to do, whether to follow the pull or keep your hands clenched on the plan.

---

In the next morning you woke with the same knot in your chest - the useless, familiar ache.

The morning went in short, clipped exchanges. When he passed by you at the desk you managed a breath and a word: “Morning, Tommy.”

He answered, “Morning.” For a second his face changed. Surprise, then something softer. The greeting was tiny, but it carried that private heat between you. You used Tommy. Not Miller.

He wasn’t sure he’d read any of it right, but that one clipped “Morning, Tommy” felt like a door unlatching.

By lunch, Jennifer had taken over the pier with her officious cheer. She’d latched onto the crew leader like a dog on a bone, correcting his hammer angle, instructing which plank to use, explaining tools like he’d never held one. You sat alone, cleaning the edge of your knife in the small rhythm of solitude.

Across the planks Joel and Tommy sat side by side, quiet and practical. Two halves of a thing that used to be whole. You watched them, catching fragments of voice you couldn’t quite hear: a half-sentence, the clack of a cigarette case. Tommy broke off to walk toward the railing, lit a smoke, and used the ocean as an excuse for distance and a view.

Joel finished his meal and started walking your way. He moved with the easy, unblinking gait of someone who didn’t waste steps. You felt awkward the moment he started walking toward you, the ordinary intimacy of shared work suddenly charged, like stepping too close to a live wire.

“You okay?” he asked, hands on his hips, blunt as a tool. “You’ve been shit the last few days.”

You reply back with sarcasm. “So subtle and gentle of you. Thanks.”

He gave a half-ashamed huff, like he didn’t enjoy the softness he was about to show but couldn’t help it. “Look – I owe you a few. Can’t help being concerned about you when you look miserable like that.”

He paused, watching your face for the reaction he expected to be defensive.

“…Especially when both you and my brother look miserable, out of nowhere, at the same damn time. When before you were clearly close. Too close, I would say. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Not after that awkward check-in on the first day.”

 You watched him back, making a small, angry flare at the suggestion. His eyes didn’t miss it.

“Don’t act like I don’t know my own brother,” he said, quieter, almost pleading. “You can fool Officer Ramirez, maybe even fool FEDRA. But you can’t fool me. Not about Tommy.” He swallowed and leaned in a fraction, voice rougher. “You know how he’s usually all fire and stupid grin. These last days he’s gone half-ghost. Like someone pulled the light out of him.”

You went sharp at him. “Are you implying there’s something between me and Tommy? Joel, that’ r-”

He cut you off with a flat look that stopped the protest. “I’m saying you should hear me out and be careful. Whatever interaction you both had, I can tell the lines were crossed already. Don’t let-whatever this is- drag you both under.”

His words landed heavier than you expected and with more tenderness than he ever wore in public. For a second you were disoriented by how much he saw - how much he’d always seen in the small ways Tommy shifted.

He straightened and added, softer, “Just… take care.”

You were left standing in a small, ugly confusion.

And then you spotted him. Tommy coming back along the dock, boots splashing through shallow puddles, shoulders set but his face softened the second he caught sight of you. Those sweet eyes. The memory of his hands steady on your body, dragging you out of chaos. His voice, low and unshaken, whispering the sweetest things you didn’t think you deserved. The metallic click in the clinic that night. The way he’d stood in front of you against the infected, unflinching, as if your life were worth more than his own.

All of it snapped through you again, the same current that had surged in the laundry room a week ago. But now it had turned in the opposite direction. That was you: always tipping on the edge of two extremes.

Tommy’s image hit you like a sudden force of nature your mind and body couldn’t avoid. And you wouldn’t.

You knew what Joel meant. Even if you didn’t know exactly why he said it. He meant you should build the wall higher.

So, of course, you will do the opposite.

And maybe that was the whole point. It’s not up to Joel, Victor, or to FEDRA to tell you who to fall for. Maybe - just maybe - love wasn't ruined for you after all.

But there was only one way to know.

Chapter Text

The following day, your steps veered before you even realized it, carrying you straight into the Miller’s orbit.

“It seems you’ve been fixing piers your whole life.” you said, voice casual, leaning against a piling just close enough to make it clear you were addressing Joel and Tommy. “How is it going?”

Joel’s head lifted first. His sigh came before the words, a long, pointed exhale. His eyes narrowed at you like he already knew what you were doing.

But Tommy glanced up, caught off guard at the sound of your voice. Then that grin broke through - slow, wide, and warm as sunlight in the drizzle. You could almost feel a kind of relief in his face. “Busy enough. Joel’s been barkin’ orders like he owns the whole damn dock.”

Joel shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Tommy ignored it with practiced ease.

You raised a brow, pretending not to notice Joel’s glare. “Sounds about right. I’m surprised you listen.”

“Who says I do?” Tommy leaned in, voice lowering just for you. “Half the time I just nod, then go on doin’ whatever I was already doin’.”

A shy laugh caught in your throat before you could stop it. From a few feet away, Joel muttered something under his breath, eyes flicking between you and his brother like he was watching a bad idea unfold in real time. He’d told you to stay clear of Tommy’s mess, and here you were again — standing too close, talking too softly, like you were daring him.

You kept the small talk alive. A comment about the brief days free from rain, a jab about Tommy’s boots looking one bad day away from dissolving. Tommy answered each one like it was the most important conversation in the world.

Joel didn’t move from his post, but you could feel his disapproval radiating like heat. Each time you let yourself laugh at Tommy’s reply, you knew Joel’s jaw was getting tighter.

By the time the laughter between you and Tommy slipped too easily, Jennifer swooped in, sharp-voiced and territorial. She always needed to be the center, the one every eye turned to, and you knew better than to fight it. Still, as you stepped back, you let your gaze brush over Tommy’s once more, fingers twitching in a small, unspoken gesture - fun’s over. His grin softened into something smaller, resigned, but you turned on your heel before Jennifer could read it on your face. Jennifer started barking orders as if the entire dock depended on her timing.

Hours later, when the shift dragged itself to its end, you stood at the entrance of the docks with the stack of vouchers in hand. You’d rehearsed a dozen versions of this moment.

You pressed the slip into Tommy’s hand, letting your fingers graze his for a second too long to pass as accident, too careful to look bold. Your pulse betrayed you anyway. When his eyes met yours, you almost looked away, afraid he’d see right through you - the guilt, the quiet plea for him not to turn cold.

But Tommy didn’t flinch. He just held your gaze, staring at you like a man caught between heartbreak and some impossible hope.

Neither of you spoke, but when you both walked away to your separate homes, a fragile warmth sat in your chest. And he carried the same, tucked away like contraband, enough to make the night feel a little less empty.

---

The next morning you woke up with no hesitation in your chest. For once, there wasn’t a single argument spinning circles in your head. It was the last day with Jennifer shadowing you, and Victor would be finally back the next day. If you wanted to find a way to talk to Tommy without watchful eyes, it had to be today.

You tore a scrap from the bottom of a form and scribbled in a careful hand:

Laundry room. Tomorrow, 8 p.m. Please?

The day unfolded in fragments of glances. Tommy stealing quick looks across the docks, you catching him in return and letting the corner of your bandana twitch like the ghost of a smile. Once, as Joel barked for him to haul another crate, you walked past with a dry remark - “Seems your big brother’s bossing skills outshine mine.” Tommy’s grin spread slow and wicked. He said, voice low, almost shy, “I don’t mind when it’s you.”

Later, when the drizzle turned the wooden pier slick, you caught Tommy leaning against a post, and you tossed over your shoulder, “Try not to fall in the water, Lil’ Texas. Don’t think FEDRA’s trained this type of rescues.” He laughed, head tipped back, and for a beat Joel muttered, “Christ,” under his breath, as if you were a problem impossible to fix.

You turned toward him, voice all false sweetness. “You look exhausted, Joel. Want me to file you a paid holiday request?”

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Joel snapped.

“This is my job,” you shot back easily. “I get paid to keep tormenting you all.”

You angled your head toward Tommy, pretending to seek confirmation. “He doesn’t appreciate good service.”

Tommy’s grin curved slow. “Well, you can torment Joel all you want, darlin’ - long as I get front row seats.”

It was nothing big. Just stupid, harmless jokes. Crumbs of talk, little excuses to linger. The kind that could be brushed away as banter. But beneath it all, there was heat, a quiet thread stitching you together again with every look, every word.

When the day finally ended and the line for vouchers formed, you kept your face unreadable, your motions efficient. Until Tommy stood in front of you. You pressed his vouchers into his hand, fingers brushing his palm, and slipped the folded note beneath it.

His thumb twitched over the paper. His eyes lifted, searching yours, and you gave him a look that said everything without a word: yes, this is what you think it is.

He just held your gaze, steady, and tucked the note away before anyone else could see.

---

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t the most wanted soldier in the QZ, gracing us with his presence.” you say, half-joking, half a little envious, when Victor strode up on the pier in the next day, dropping your voice into a half-joke. The words came light, but as your eyes fell on his bruised cheek and the bloom of purple around his eye, your smile faltered.

“Shit, Victor. What happened? Where the hell have you been?”

He gave you that crooked grin, trying to make it nothing. “They pulled me for an assignment outside the walls. Caravan of Fireflies moving goods.”

Your brow tightened, the words sharper than you meant. “And why just you - and not us together? Since when do they split us up like that?” The question came out faster, edged with worry and something that sounded too much like jealousy.

Victor shrugged, then his voice softened in a way that made your chest sting. “They weren’t after me. They wanted you. It’s always you they look for when they want to make a statement for their little lessons on rebels.” He paused, his voice cooling into something gentler. “But you were late, and… well, I knew you weren’t in your best week. Figured you needed a couple more days by the water rather than another fight. So I volunteered.”

Your throat caught. He said it so simply, as if taking your place in a mission that could’ve killed him was no more than holding your place in line.

“And the bruises?”

“Ran into one of them. Close call, nothing serious.” He smiled again, though it tugged crooked with pain. “The motherfucker never had a chance.”

You let out a breath. “Well, now you’re the one who looks like shit. But… thanks, Victor.” You tried to lace it with sarcasm, to cover the way guilt knifed through you. Every decent thing he did seemed to carve you smaller, made you feel like the worst kind of person.

Victor’s gaze studied you, quiet for a beat. “You look better today, at least.”

“Better? Guess salt air does wonders. Shame you missed it. Days of staring at the ocean and babysitting sweaty men who smell like sweat and canned beans soup.”

Before you could continue the conversation, the workers began to gather. It was the last day at the docks.

You turned with your clipboard, shoulders stiffening as Tommy walked up. His grin was easy, almost boyish - until his eyes flicked past you to Victor standing at your side, still close enough to look like something more. The light dimmed in him instantly, and your chest tightened.

You stamped his ticket and managed a shy, careful, “Good morning,” eyes lowered so Victor wouldn’t catch anything. Tommy gave a stiff nod, but you felt the knot twist in his silence before he moved on.

The day dragged. You avoided words with him, but your eyes betrayed you again and again, searching him out across the docks. And every time, you found his doing the same. The glances were quick, almost cautious, but each was a small promise, a silent confirmation. Still, the fear chewed at you.

You were not sure if he would show up at laundry room. He’d been burned before. You had shoved him away. Maybe he wouldn’t come, and you couldn’t blame him because that was exactly what you deserved.

By the time the sun dipped and the day’s work ended, your pulse was so sharp it felt like a drum in your throat. The line formed for vouchers, faces blurring until he was suddenly in front of you again.

You pressed the slip into his hand, fingers steady even as your heart threatened to give you away.

Just as he pulled it free, his head bent closer. “See you soon,” he whispered, low enough for only you to hear.

The words cracked you wide open. Relief, sharp and blinding, washed through your chest until you had to force your face back into the mask. For the first time in days, you felt relief.

Eight o’clock had never felt so far away.

---

The path to the northern edge of town was a maze you knew now. Past the cracked lamp post, down the alley with the fallen fire escape, across the pizzeria... and you would find the laundry room.

The streets grew quieter the further you went, the hum of the city thinning into your own footsteps. You slipped the bandana down and stuffed it into your pocket. The uniform stayed. It was safer to be seen as FEDRA’s Butcher in the dark, even if tonight you wanted nothing less.

You cut through the ruined pizzeria and nearly jumped when a hand caught gently your arm. Your heart lurched, every nerve screaming - until you saw him. Tommy. His shy smile flickered in the half-light, not as bright as the ones he used to give you, but half of his sunshine was back.

“Jesus,” you breathed, trying for steady but failing. “You scared me.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Guess I should start jinglin’ a bell like a damn cat.” His hand dropped from your arm, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. The warmth in them was real, but the edge was, too.

“No bandana tonight?” he murmured, quieter, like a thought he didn’t mean to say out loud.

“Maybe I just wanted less in the way.”

His jaw worked, like he was biting back a hundred words.

“Less in the way, huh?” He gave a low laugh with no humor in it. “Don’t do that to me, darlin’. Don’t say things I can’t tell if I’m supposed to hold on to… or run from.” His voice came low, steady but brittle at the edges. “Just spill it, whatever you came here to say. ’Cause if you’re just here to break me again, we shouldn’t stretch it out. Was bad enough the last time.” His eyes scan your face. He let out a small, incredulous breath.

“I don’t have anything to say, Tommy.”

He looked confused. “Then?...”

You moved before you even knew you were moving. Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him down, and then your mouth was on his. Not cautious, not testing. A kiss like a collapse, like a flood after a dam breaks. He caught you with a startled sound, then his arms wrapped around you, strong and trembling. He kissed you back like a man falling, desperate and reverent, his fingers sliding up your back as if he’d been waiting his whole life to touch you without armor in the way.

You broke the kiss only to breathe, your hands still clutching his collar like you’d drown if you let go. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words spilling out of you, then louder, raw. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. For everything I said. You were right. About all of it. About me hiding. About the fear.”

Your voice shook, but you kept going. “I’m harder, colder, meaner than I should be. But you’re the only one who’s ever seen the truth that’s behind it. And God help me, I can’t keep hiding this from you, or from myself.”

You didn’t give him a chance to answer. You crushed your mouth back to his, fiercer this time, pouring every apology, every ache, every longing into the heat of it.

But now he takes the lead. His hand sliding to the back of your neck to pull you impossibly closer, the other hand pressing hard at the small of your back as if he could erase any space between you entirely.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was surrender, and it was a collision.

Two broken halves trying to fuse into something whole. The world outside the blurred into nothing, the silence filled only with the sound of you both breathing into each other, refusing to let go.

Time bent. The kiss stretched long, unhurried, hungry and tender all at once, until you were gasping against his lips, until your fingers had mapped every line of his jaw like you could memorize him through touch alone.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, his chest rising fast as if he’d run miles. He gave a soft laugh, but it carried no mockery, only relief. “You got a cruel way of spinnin’ me around, darlin’. One minute you’re pushin’ me off in the rain, next you’re here, kissin’ me like you’ve been dyin’ for it.” His voice dropped, low and earnest. “Feels like you’re always finding reasons to build walls. And every time I think they’re down, turns out I’m just hittin’ another damn one.”

He fell quiet. His breath was warm against your lips when he finally spoke again. “I’ve already watched your head turn full circles once. I can’t afford it again, babe. So if this is real… if you’re really choosin’ me tonight… promise me you’ll stick with it.”

You look straight into his eyes, as if to carve the words into him. “I promise. No more circles, Tommy. I’m done running. I’m here. With you.”

He pulled you against his chest, hugging you like a man who had finally found a treasure he thought the world had taken from him. His voice came rough, certain, as if carved into stone. “That’s all I needed, darlin’. You and me, just straight on, through whatever comes. We’ll figure it out.”

---

Life slipped back into its routines. Patrols, conflicts, crushing any spark of rebellion before it caught flame, control queues for portion distribution or work assignments. Some days weren’t like most. Sometimes, you actually have a chance to breathe. No violence in a day was like a desert that saw rain.

Regardless of the mission, your mind was clouded by the next time you’d see Tommy Miller. The next time you’d meet at your spot at the northern edge of town; the laundry room.

That place became your refuge. Forgotten by the QZ, but alive for the two of you. You couldn’t meet anywhere else even if you’d wanted to. Your house sat inside a FEDRA complex where only agents were allowed through the gates; a civilian like Tommy would be arrested, or worse, before he ever reached your door. And Tommy’s neighborhood was the opposite. A maze of back alleys where a FEDRA badge meant a death sentence at the hands of furious civilians or undercover Fireflies. The laundry room, hidden at the edge of town, was the only ground you both could risk standing on together and let your guards down.

You learned how easily hours disappeared there. Sometimes you chat about rations and smugglers’ tricks, sometimes about stupid details of the QZ routine that no one else noticed. You would stay there until it was too late to have a decent night of sleep for your next shift. And sometimes, on the rare nights when your guard dropped, you told each other about the world before.

“You’re such a Lynyrd Skynyrd type of guy,” you teased one night, flicking your knife open and dragging the tip lazily over the wooden counter of the laundry. “It’s a shame their plane went down before you ever saw them live. Poor bastards.” you said, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckled. “Yeah, damn right I would’ve been screamin’ ‘Free Bird’ at the top of my lungs.” He grinned wider, pleased, how you could already read the corners of him, picking out truths he hadn’t spoken but lived by.

You held your knife steady, letting the tip hover over the scarred wood of the counter. Slowly, you dragged the blade across the surface, the soft scrape filling the silence between you. The letters took shape one by one, deliberate strokes cut into the table as if you were etching a secret into the bones of the room.

F R E E

Tommy leaned in, arms crossed, watching you with that amused half-smile that always made you want to roll your eyes. You didn’t look up until you carved the last word, pressing harder this time.

B I R D

Then, just to drive the point home, you underlined it twice and sat back with a grin. “Thought so.”

“Well, would you look at that… a FEDRA agent vandalizin’ public property.” His drawl was full of mock scandal, eyes flicking from the knife to your face. “Should I be reportin’ you?”

You spun the knife once in your hand, then drove the tip into the table – hard - just inches from where his arm rested. But your eyes never left his. “Go ahead, Miller” you said, voice low, amused. “See how that works out for you.” A slow smile tugged at your mouth, equal parts daring and flirting.

You pull your knife from the table and before you could flip the blade shut, his hand closed gently over yours, warm and steady. The warmth of his palm lingered, his thumb brushing your skin as he slid the knife away. He didn’t break eye contact when he tucked it neatly into the back pocket of your pants, fingers grazing where they didn’t need to. The touch was gentle, and at same time slow and gone too quickly. “Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, more teasing than scolding. “Last thing we need is you carvin’ me into pieces instead of this poor table.” He leaned in, before you could force a reply, catching your mouth in a kiss that was just as deliberate as his firm and steady hands.

That was how most of your nights at the laundry room were. Somewhere between the carved words and the whispered songs, at first innocent – kisses, hugs, long moments of silence leaning into each other, his hand firmly on your waist or steadying you as you hopped off a machine. But soon the silence lingered, his eyes held yours longer, the kisses got deeper, the touches grew bolder.

Tommy saw it. He noticed how you let a little more light through the cracks every day, how you allowed yourself to open a bit more. The walls you’d spent years building were lowering, brick by brick. And he treated the girl behind them as proof that the beauty he’d spent his whole life trying to believe in could survive the end of the world. That there’s always something worth saving, something good that refuses to die.

You both would sit on the floor with your backs to the wall, and talk for hours while your fingers kept finding excuses to touch. Brushing against each other, crossing together, pulling apart only to meet again. Affection in every small gesture. Words slipped between hugs. Gentle touches that turned into gentle kisses. Then not so gentle anymore, but full of desire and need for more. Your head rested on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around you like they always belonged there. Long stares filled the quiet, eyes holding more than either of you could say.

Within a few weeks, Tommy knew then that he’d been right all along. By now he could barely see the FEDRA agent at all. Behind the Butcher, the uniform, and those eyes without a face, he’d found his treasure: the girl you’d buried but who was still so alive, the one who laughed too easily and cared too deeply. And soon, missing even a single night felt unbearable, like the day wasn’t worth living unless it ended there, with you.

---

Today, you got there first, slipping through the glass door and settling onto one of the old machines. You’d stopped counting how many times you were in your spot, trading stories, touches, and silences that said more than words ever could.

A few minutes later, a shadow passed the grimy window, and you saw Tommy, leaning against the dirty glass, one hand cupped above his eyes as he peered inside. When he spotted you, his mouth curved into that lazy grin you knew too well. He pushed the door open, shaking his head like the thought had been circling him for days.

“There she is,” he drawled, the words almost like a secret.

“Thought you might’ve given up on me and our palace” you say, voice carrying the tease as he stepped inside.

Then, he says with a crooked smile: “We really gotta find ourselves a better spot than this.”

You glanced around, then smirked. “Yeah. But it doesn’t feel that bad when you’re in it.” His eyes caught yours, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

Rust clung to the pipes, and the smell of dust and old detergent still lingered faintly in the air. It wasn’t pretty, but it was quiet. Forgotten by the world, and therefore yours. Sharing kisses that left you unsteady and desperate for more. But never more.

You perched on top of one of the old machines, boots tapping softly against the metal, while Tommy stood close between your open legs, his presence filling the narrow space, his hands on the sides of your hips.

Silence stretched for a moment, comfortable. Then you asked, softer: “Do you ever think about what life would’ve been like if the outbreak hadn’t happened?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Sometimes. Maybe I’d still be in Texas, maybe raisin’ a family, workin’ some nine-to-five. But then I think… maybe I’d never have met you.”

You looked away quickly; a gentle laugh escapes your lips. You think about how easy it is for Tommy to say things like that. How he doesn’t know you’ve never heard words like this, never believed words like this. But God, you wanted to hear more.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” your voice small, drenched in something more than disbelief. A hint of oh please.

He leaned closer, voice low. “Hell, it’s the only good thing.”

You reached up and swept the tip of his nose with your finger, smiling, a tiny gesture to hide how much his answer hit you.

“You know what I miss the most? Noise. Real happy noises. People yelling at sports games. Music spilling out of bars. Oh my God, music. I miss music so much. Just… life happening without curfews and sirens.”

“Well, at least-,” He pauses before continuing “, when we’re together you don’t need to run... and hide.” He looks at you, waiting for you to realize where he is going.

You blink once, then huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake… it’s a wonderful, wonderful life,” you mutter, half-singing the line under your breath with pure disbelief. Your eyes roll, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

Tommy’s grin spread slow, pleased you caught it. He knows you like this game, even if you pretend you don’t.

“Again, just testing if you really like music as much as you say.” he smiles. A long pause. Tommy nodded, eyes faraway now. “But, yeah. This whole zone’s a graveyard. Folks walk around, but they ain’t really livin’. Just… breathin’.”

You bit your lip, staring at the floor. “Maybe that’s why we keep coming here. Because here, a couple hours or not, it doesn’t feel like we’re already dead.”

His hand brushed yours, warm and steady. “Then we’ll keep it that way. This place. Our place. Long as we got it, we ain’t ghosts yet.”

You point for the wooden counter. Free birds. Laughing, as anyone who needed to hide in an old dusty room could ever be considered free.

You looked at him, the weight of his words pressing heavy and sweet. “You know this can’t last forever.”

“I know,” he admitted, leaning in, his lips brushing yours. “We will find a solution. But while it does…” You felt his breath closer, then against your lips, the soft scrape of his drawl still hanging in the air. “…I ain’t wastin’ it.”

His eyes held yours so deeply it stole your breath. The weight of it, the certainty, made your body hum with want until you couldn’t stop yourself. Your fingers hooked into his belt, yanking him closer until his hips pressed tight between your legs.

Tommy stilled for a heartbeat, as if making sure you meant it. He was always careful, but that was all the permission he needed. And this time he let himself go further.

His mouth crashed onto yours, hungry, certain. Heat rushed through you, his chest solid against you. His hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping firm, as if he couldn’t stand a breath of distance between you.

The kiss deepened until it was no longer just tongues tracing, but a slow collision of breath and want - something that slipped past skin and heat, into the place where souls meet. It wasn’t only mouths anymore, but a quiet exchange of dreams and the stubborn hope that something good could still survive.

His tongue explored the corners of your mouth in a rhythm that was hot and desperate, every movement pulling you under. Your fingers tangled into his hair, tugging, needing him closer still.

The metal under you was cold, but his body was fire, steady and alive, and you let yourself feel it. His grip tightened, his palms running from your ass to your waist to your back holding you as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. Every movement, every press of him against you told the truth you’d both been trying to deny: you weren’t ghosts, not here, not now.

Heat pooled low in your stomach as you slid your hands under the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up. Your palms roamed first, tracing the hard planes of his stomach and chest, the warmth of his skin burning against your touch. You stop kissing his lips to press your mouth to the warm skin you found beneath his shirt.

He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips even as his voice trembled. “Look at you… My pretty girl. Lord help me.”

His chest was strong and cut in the way only a man who had fought and survived this long could be, each line of muscle etched hard by the world you lived in.

“You’re so damn hot, Miller.”

When your lips traced lower you found it, the scar. The one you had stitched into him, the memory of his heroic act, your trembling hands and his blood still burned into you. You paused, heart hammering, then pressed your mouth softly to it. A reverent kiss, tender where everything else was hunger.

Not long before, the thought of letting a man close again had always felt impossible. That was one of the reasons you’d pushed Victor away, because the moment his hands lingered, your chest locked up and the past made its way back. But with Tommy, it was different. Felt different. Every brush of his fingers, every arm around your waist felt… natural. You didn’t flinch, didn’t freeze. You didn’t feel overwhelmed for a second. Still, fear coiled at the edges, whispering that one wrong move could ruin everything, could snap you back into the dark. You appreciated that he seemed to know it too…that he was patient, unhurried, letting you trace the limits without ever saying it out loud. And though he didn’t tell him, you could feel how much it costs him. He was desperate to pull you closer, to touch you deeper, to claim what you both wanted. But for you, he would go slow. As slow as you needed.

Your lips still lingered on his scar when his hand came up, rough palm cupping your jaw and urging your face back up to his. The look in his eyes made your stomach flip. Hungry.

“C’mere,” he drawled, voice low and thick, pulling you back to his mouth.

He kissed you hard, no hesitation. You lock together as if your bodies were molded to find each other. His hands roamed, sliding from your jaw to your neck, then down your sides, relearning every line of you like a man starving for a map. When he gripped your thighs, lifting them slightly against his hips, the heat between you surged, the closeness leaving no space for air.

You clung to him, fingers digging into his broad and solid shoulders, feeling the strength coiled beneath his shirt. Your palms slid down to the muscles of his back, hard and steady under his shirt. The kiss slowed now, as if he wanted to memorize every taste of you, every shiver he drew from your skin.

You felt him everywhere. The weight of his hands, the press of his chest, the heat rolling off him. Each touch was steady but urgent, as if he was terrified you might change your mind and vanish into the uniform again.

Your hands drifted lower, brushing dangerously along the hard lines of his v-line, teasing at the edge of where you both knew this could go, threatening to slip even further. Hips tilting over the evident hardness in his jeans.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice rough and desperate, his hand sliding over you possessively. He felt like he might unravel right then and there. “You’re drivin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

When his lips found yours once more, the kiss was even slower. His thumb brushed over your cheek as though you were something precious, even as his body told you how much he wanted more

“Sweetheart… I want this. Bad. But we oughta slow down.” His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender against the heat of the moment. “Last thing I ever wanna do is push you somewhere that don’t feel right. You hear me?”

“Come on Tommy... I’m ready.” you breathed, panting, your hands sliding up under his shirt, palms hungry against the heat of his skin, eyes fixed on him. “I want it. I want you so bad, Tommy… don’t make me wait any longer, please.”

The sound of you begging tore through him, satisfaction and torture all at once. Goddamn, he wanted to give in, to take you right there on the cold metal. His jaw clenched, every muscle straining with the effort to hold back.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he murmured, kissing you hard, his voice breaking into a groan. “You don’t know what it does to me, hearin’ you say that.” He paused, his breath hot and uneven, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he leaned in close, voice dropping to a hushed, almost forbidden whisper. “Wanna be inside you… so fuckin’ bad.” He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, raw and unguarded. “But you’re too precious for this, darlin’. You deserve better than a quick thing in some busted-up laundry room. You deserve all of me.”

Your eyes searched his face, your chest tight with the weight of wanting and not having. You dragged your nails lightly over his abs, whispering, “Please Tommy… it feels so right to be in your arms.”

He shut his eyes as if the words themselves might undo him, his hands gripping your hips like they were the only anchor he had.

His hand stayed warm at the back of your neck, holding you steady. “We’ll get there, darlin’. When it’s right.”

Chapter Text

Your boots echoed on the pavement, the weight of your rifle against your shoulder.

“Another glamorous day in paradise,” Victor muttered, sweeping his gaze over the empty street. His eyes landed back on you, like they always did.

You snorted. “If by paradise you mean wet boots and the smell of rotten eggs, then yeah.”

He chuckled. “Don’t forget the part where people glare at us like we kicked their dog. That’s the highlight.”

“Please,” you said dryly, “you love the attention.”

Victor smirked. “Yeah, well… better to be feared than forgotten, right? Besides, if I weren’t stuck patrolling with you, I’d be bored outta my mind.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “So, I’m your entertainment now?”

“Hell, yeah,” he shot back with a grin. “Half the time I’m just waiting to see if you’ll scare the life out of some poor bastard or actually let someone slide. Tear Fireflies’ heads off or invite them for a beer. Keeps things interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, but a hint of warmth crept into your voice. Maybe it was Victor’s familiarity, the way he wanted to be around no matter what side you showed, and knowing he’d be quick to pull the trigger on an enemy if you thought it necessary. “Glad my mood swings make you less uncomfortable now.”

You liked moments like this with Victor - the easy laughter, the harmless teasing, the shared suffering. It reminded you why you’d insisted on partnering with him back then. When you weren’t locked inside your FEDRA persona and he wasn’t prying at your secrets, he could be genuinely good company. Simple. Steady. The kind of presence that made the shifts feel less painful. You still had a soft spot for him, a quiet fondness that saw him as a true, dear friend, not the spark of something more. Of course, that feeling wasn’t mutual. Victor would move heaven and earth to stay close to you - not just as your patrol partner or friend, but because some part of him still hadn’t gotten over losing you.

Normally you carried yourself like stone, chin level, mouth hard. But lately you caught yourself lighter.

You didn’t smile, not that people would see anyway, but something in your step betrayed you. Something softer.

Victor noticed. He always noticed.

“You’re different,” he said flatly, walking at your side, eyes narrowed under his cap.

You glanced at him, unimpressed. “Yeah, let me see… Yes, changed my shampoo. Had a spa day. Bought new Chanel boots. See?” You pointed to your dirty boots. “Gave myself that glow up”. You laugh alone.

“You and your bullshit.” Then he changes his tone, slower, denser, forcing you to match him. “You’re lighter. Happier, even. And I know damn well it ain’t FEDRA doing that.”

You adjusted the bandana higher over your face, shrugging off his stare. “Maybe I just decided to stop being miserable every second of the day.”

Victor barked out a humorless laugh. “Or maybe someone else decided it for you.” He looked at you sidelong, suspicion edging into jealousy. “Who is it?”

“Not that this is any of your business. But nobody, Victor.”

“You don’t lie half as good as you think.” The corner of his mouth twitched - not quite a smile, not quite anger. “Tell me it’s not the smuggler, Butcher…”

You stopped, turned the full weight of your gaze on him. “Damn Victor, this again? Please… you want to spend your shift inventing things in your head, be my guest. But don’t waste my time.”

His jaw tightened. You started walking again, pulse steadying only when the silence stretched long between you. It killed him. It always killed him. Because sure, maybe a regular person might not see it, but Victor can. The way your eyes did that little gleam they do when he mentions Tommy, even without a name. Victor hated it. But he’d put himself through the pain and annoyance each time if it meant he got to keep you a moment longer, even if as friends.

For weeks you’d been building something fragile in the dark - a secret too bright for the world you lived in. And deep down, you knew what happens to bright things in this place.

They don’t stay hidden for long.

The last weeks had been anything but easy. The Fireflies stirred trouble in half the districts, and even the civilians seemed restless, breaking laws faster than you could tolerate or turn a blind eye to. It was one of those weeks when your balance between harsh enforcer and reluctant protector tipped hard toward violence.

Charging back for every mercy you’d allowed - dragging people out of lines, slamming them against walls, making examples that left no doubt, pulling triggers on frightened eyes. Some never walked away. You told yourself it was duty, that someone had to draw the line, but the truth sat heavier every time. Heavier still was the thought of Tommy catching sight of you in those moments now. He had seen before, he knew your methods. You could stomach the cruelty, but not with him watching anymore. Not with those eyes. So you added an extra layer of vigilance, measuring when it was the right time to pull or to push.

And yet, amid the rough edges of the week, you found fragments of peace. A flash of his smile in the crowd. His sweet eyes catching yours from across the checkpoint. Quick, sly, hidden in the chaos. Tommy Miller, breaking rules under FEDRA eyes like he’d been born for it.

A muttered joke at the ration queue. A smirk when you crossed paths in an alley. Words slipped under his breath when nobody else could hear. Always subtle, always disguised, always enough to spark heat under your skin. And when the lamps dimmed for curfew, when you could break free of Victor and the assignments, you went to him. The laundry. Your place. The edge of town.

You both sat on the floor, your back to his chest, his legs stretched out around you, his arms loose around your waist. His lips kissing your neck. The cracked tile was cold, but his body was warm behind you, steady like a wall.

“You ever think about it?” Tommy asked quietly.

“What?”

“The one who did this to you.” His finger brushed along the bandana where it hid your scar.

“This scar ain’t nothing compared to-” you hesitate. Your chest tightened. You don’t say it, but Tommy is clever enough to understand. “Anyway. Whoever did this is dead. I made sure of it.” You exhaled sharply.

You think for a few seconds before continuing.

“But not all of them.” You pause for a bit as any resemblance of this event gives you nausea. “There is one left, Hector. He ran. I- I’ve never found him. Not even sure he’s in Boston anymore. If he is, he’s doing a hell of a good job hiding from me. Cause he knows I’ll make him taste my knife the same way I made the two other bastards.”

His arms tightened around you a little. “If he’s breathin’, I’ll find him. You got my word.”

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He tipped his head to brush his lips against your hair. “Darlin’, that ain’t a promise. That’s a plan.”

You smile. You never thought a death plan could sound so romantic. It’s nice to delegate your own protection to someone else. Not to be a solid rock all the time and allow yourself to be cared for. To allow yourself to be soft. You haven’t felt it for years.

Silence stretched, softer this time, before you found yourself speaking again.

“Do you ever catch yourself thinking about silly things you took for granted before the outbreak, and now you can’t do anymore?”

He shifted behind you, sighing. “Well, in the army… Back when the world still had uniforms worth wearin’.” He paused, his gaze drifting down as his fingers brushed the faded FEDRA emblem on your sleeve - casual, but not without meaning. You rolled your eyes, choosing not to bite. He let out a quiet chuckle and went on. “…I wasn’t just another grunt either,” he admitted, a shadow in his voice. “I was a sniper. Could wait a whole day in one nest, holdin’ still, just breathin’ with the scope. Dead quiet, dead patient, till the shot lined up. They said I was the best they had. I liked that. The silence, the concentration.”

“Humm… sniper,” you echoed, a smile tugging at your lips. “That’s so cool, Tommy, that’s… so sexy.” Your eyes lingered on him, as if trying to picture the patience, the steady hands, the sharp focus it took. “Figures. You’ve got that kind of control written all over you.”

He hesitates a bit, overwhelmed by the compliment and the nostalgia. “Then… music. When we could gather and drink our asses out while playing guitar and singing. Oh yes, and gambling.” He laughs ashamed.

You twisted to look at him, raising a brow. “Gambling?”

He grimaced. “Ain’t somethin’ I’m proud of. Lost more than I won. But I liked the rush. Kept me breathin’.”

“Shooting, drinking, gambling. Sounds like you were the full package of trouble, Tommy Miller. So it’s fair to assume you were a heartbreaker too, huh?”

“Kind of.” He gave a half-smile, almost embarrassed. “Before all that, I partied too hard. Drank too much. Got in fights I shouldn’t have. Burned through nights like they’d never end.”
You snorted. “So, you were a real bad boy. At least you got to enjoy life while there was still life to be lived.”

“Poetic”

“Guess I am” you tilted your head, eyes softening, exposing more of your neck inviting him to explore.

His lips lingered against the curve of your neck, brushing slow, almost reverent, before pressing a kiss there. His voice came rough against your skin. “God damn, you smell so good.”

“I was the opposite, you know. Never the party girl. I was the nerd. The one who got bullied by the same kind of girls you would’ve chased… and then broken their hearts.”

Tommy didn’t lift his mouth from your neck, words slipping between the kisses like they belonged there. “See? You’re welcome. Seems they damn well deserved to have their hearts broken.”

The laugh caught in your throat, turning softer as his lips lingered, reverent against your skin. You tilted toward him before you found your voice again.

“I kept telling myself I’d save that party phase for the right time, after I achieved my career goals. And when I finally did, I would celebrate in Vegas, the full experience.” Your eyes drifted somewhere far away, unfocused for a beat, as if you could almost see it. “Go from one party to the next without ever sleeping. Getting drunk till the lights blurred. Maybe marry a stranger I met an hour before at some tacky Elvis chapel. Lose every coin I had at the roulette and call it freedom. Dance on top of a piano in some smoky lounge. Wake up with a tattoo I couldn’t explain.”

He laughed, low, while still kissing every skin he could find along your neck. “That’s such a bad idea, sweetheart.” He shook his head. “Vegas would’ve eaten you alive.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, a small smile curving your mouth. “But I would’ve liked to try.” Air left you in a small huff. “Picture me at some overpriced Vegas pool party, climbing onto the shoulders of some tall, tanned, wannabe influencer type. I’d vault up there, all reckless, just to feel the chaos of it, then go topless to shock the DJ, laughing ‘cause nobody in that neon-soaked crowd would ever know my name anyway.”

Tommy froze for a second, his brows knitting together in a baffled, almost comical grimace, as if he was trying to wrap his head around the sheer absurdity of your Vegas fantasy. He blinked, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scold you. “Jesus, darlin’,” he finally said, voice thick with mock exasperation, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his grin sharp and wicked. “If I were there, no way I’d let you stay up on that poser’s shoulders,” he said, voice low and rough with a possessive edge. “I’d haul you down, sling you over my shoulder, and march you straight to Elvis in a jumpsuit to be the stranger you married right there.”

Your breath caught, cheeks flushing at the vivid image of him claiming you in the middle of Vegas’s chaos. You leaned closer, letting the heat of the moment linger, then softened your voice, a curious lilt breaking through. “You talk a big game, Miller,” you teased, brushing a finger along his jaw.

Then you closed the gap, your lips meeting his - warm, soft, a sweet hum of connection. Your tongues brushed lightly, playful and shy. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb grazing your skin, and you parted with a soft giggle, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You still pour all that passion into your guitar these days?”

“When I can. A bit rusty now. Joel was always the one who motivated me to play.”

You leaned back against his chest. “Hum. Better practice. One day, I want to be serenaded.”

His grin pressed against your hair. “With what?”

“Wild Horses. Always loved that song.” You look at him. “But never found a Texas Cowboy to play for me before. So now… it will be perfect” you laugh.

Tommy’s breath hitched, his voice low and sure. “Then that’s what you’ll get. Someday. Might not be a stage, might not be Vegas, but I will learn it and you’ll get it.”

You leaned in and kissed him, quick but warm, like giving him something back for being so damn sweet.

“By the way… I don’t see you with Joel much anymore. You two always seemed… inseparable.”

Tommy’s arm stiffened slightly around your waist. “Had some disagreements,” he muttered, voice clipped. “Nothin’ worth rehashin’ sweetheart. Just… ain’t that close right now.”

“Is this about the fight you had in the alley months ago?” you ask trying to get more information.

“Yes and no.” He smirks, while trying to find excuses to deviate from the topic, and then proceeds: “Well darlin’, and what about you? You didn’t tell me the silly things you miss from before outbreak.”

For a second you thought about pushing, but then you let it go. Some silences were better left untouched.

You come with thoughts to fill the silence left by him. “Hum… I used to skate. Ice skating. I wasn’t super good, but I loved it. Just like you said, I felt alive. Oh. And singing. Not as in a show. Karaoke. I loved it and would go every week.”

Tommy chuckled. “Can’t picture you on skates.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d still be barkin’ orders at everyone on the ice, clearin’ it with all the grace of a gal cuttin’ folks outta a car wreck.”

You shot him a glare, though the corner of your mouth betrayed a smile. “Please. I was graceful as hell… But you can picture me singing, then?”

“Better than fuckin’ Sade, darlin’.”

“Wow, better lower your expectations. I will disappoint you more in the singing than in the skating.”

You’re still with your back to his chest, his legs stretched out around you. A pause on the conversation is the opportunity you need to turn, enough to kiss him again. He deepens his grip on your waist from underneath your shirt. Smooth, but steady. His hands find your breast. You both moan together with delight. You felt so happy to be able to feel this again, without triggers. There is no menace in Tommy, there is not a single touch coming from him that reminds you of Sebastian’s hands.

As the kiss and touching intensifies, Tommy stops, eyes on yours. He needs to pause to make sure you are right about this. “You ok darlin’?”

“Never been better, Miller”

You both smirked. Your eyes lay on each other for a long minute, the silence between you turned heavy, thick with heat and longing. You could feel it in the way his gaze lingered on your mouth, in the way your breath caught when his thumb brushed your side. The silence gave you both space to sense the hunger that was there, sharp, undeniable. But beneath it burned something deeper. A promise. Without words, you told each other the same truth: I want more. I want you. Not just stolen moments in the dark. Somewhere else. Anywhere. A place where we can stop hiding and just love.

---

You met again at the laundry room after a chaotic day of patrolling. After a day trying to find his eyes in a crowd, between Victor’s vigilance, miserable civilians that needed to be babysat and potential rebels that need to be punished.  

Tonight there wasn’t much room for words. Whatever you might have said was swallowed by the weight of the day, both of you choosing to let your bodies do the talking, the slow rhythm of mouths and hands speaking louder than anything else could.

The warmth between you is deep, his hands moving slow against your waist, your fingers sliding up into his hair. He kissed your neck, then your jaw, and back to your mouth, hungry but careful, heat pressing into something more. His hands finding your skin beneath your t-shirt on your back.

With a gentle grip, Tommy lifted you onto the counter, his hands strong and sure on your waist, setting you down like it was nothing.

You gasped, half in surprise, half in awe at how effortlessly he handled you. The strength in his arms, the sure way he moved you as if you weighed nothing. The feeling of his calloused fingers tracing up your back, rough and warm, the contrast making your skin shiver. It stole the air from your lungs, the mix of heat and surrender leaving you dizzy as your legs locked tight around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pulled back slightly, eyes glinting with a sudden thought. “Hold on, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He reached into his jacket pocket, fishing out a small, embroidered patch - the Boston Fire Department’s coat of arms, its red and gold threads worn but vibrant. Your brows lifted, fingers brushing the stitched emblem as you took it. “Where’d you find this?” you asked, voice soft with curiosity. He grinned, sheepish. “Stumbled on a wrecked fire truck couple days back. Found an old uniform, all torn up. Figured the patch was better than draggin’ that heavy thing back. Ripped it off for you.” Your heart warmed at the thought, a smile tugging at your lips. “That’s so damn cute, Tommy,” you said, setting the patch carefully on the counter beside your rifle. You leaned in, pressing a quick, grateful kiss to his lips. “Thank you.” His grin widened, and then you were back to kissing, mouths meeting again, warm and eager.

That’s when you both heard it. The sound froze your blood: a sharp, hollow click, echoing in the silence. Your bodies stilled, breath still tangled, eyes locking in each other in a silent question. A beat of shared confusion.

Then the sound came again. Closer.

“Clicker,” you hissed, looking for your rifle on the counter. Your eyes went wide. There weren’t supposed to be infected in this sector; FEDRA had cleared it months ago.

You both try to slip out, to move as quietly as you could, but there was no getting away without noise with the old rusty door.

You had barely any real experience with infected, and the last time you did, you froze, useless, while Joel and Tommy cut them down around you. The shame of it still clung like a weight, frustration and fear twisting together now as the memory rushed back.

Tommy’s pistol was already out. “Stay behind me.”

“It’s… infected shouldn’t be here. It was cleared months ago. What’s happening?” you whisper.

“I don’t know. Maybe people were infected and tried to reach the QZ couldn’t make it in time”

“Tommy… I’m not very… I don’t think I…”

“I got you. Nothin’ gonna hurt you. Stay close.”

The shadow lurched past the window, its head jerking, mouth clicking. That God-awful noise. You held your breath, heart pounding. Tommy fired once, the shot ringing, the body collapsing. Another came, and another.

You stood frozen, raised weapons but useless in your hands. Your rifle felt heavy and foreign; you couldn’t aim fast enough.

But he didn’t need your help. He had everything under control even among the chaos. Quick, steady, he angled himself to cover you, every shot smart and deliberate, dropping any infected before they could close the distance. He shoved you back, his body a shield between you and the snarling death clawing toward you, cursing under his breath as he fired again. The nearest bodies hit the dirt, lifeless.

This was the second time he’d pulled you from the jaws of infected. The first time, you’d been a mess, barely reacting, scrambling to survive. But now? Now you wanted this. You wanted him standing there, his strength a wall against the world’s rot. And God, it felt strangely good to lean into that, to let yourself trust him to keep you safe.

Watching him move - fearless, efficient, unwavering - you felt the vise of fear around your spine loosen, replaced by something warmer, heavier. For years, a man’s closeness had been a warning, a threat that kept your guard up. But Tommy made you feel protected - like you could finally exhale in a world that never let you breathe.

That breath gave you courage. You steadied your grip on the rifle, heart still pounding but fueled by something new. You aimed, exhaled, and fired - two infected dropped, their bodies slumping into the dust. You’d done it. His protection had unlocked something in you, a spark of defiance against the fear that had held you back.

The street fell silent, the air thick with the reek of rot and gunpowder. You sagged against Tommy, chest heaving, your body pressed close to his, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“Second time you’ve saved my ass,” you murmured, voice shaky but warm, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Kinda starting to like it.”

He didn’t answer - too busy scanning the street, eyes darting over the shadows, his breath coming fast. The joke barely landed; he was still riding the edge of the moment, every muscle coiled tight from fear of putting you at risk.

“Fuck, we can’t keep meetin’ here anymore,” he said, breathless. “Too damn dangerous.”

You nodded, throat tight. “But where else?”

His jaw worked. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s move now.”

“Wait,” you said, “The emblem…I forgot it back there.”

Tommy’s eyes softened, a quick shake of his head. “Never mind, darlin’. I’ll find you another one. C’mon, let’s go.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you away from the open street, weaving through the maze of crumbling buildings until you reached a quieter spot closer to the north checkpoint entrance.

The adrenaline still buzzed in your veins, your pulse hammering as you both leaned against the wall, catching your breath. Tommy’s arm slid around you, pulling you close. His warmth grounding you as the world’s chaos faded into the background.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asked, voice soft now, laced with concern. His thumb brushed your jaw, gentle but firm, like he needed to feel you were still there, still whole.

You swallowed, a flush of shame creeping up your neck. The fear that had paralyzed you back there - it didn’t belong to a FEDRA agent, not to someone with your rank, your training, your reputation. You were supposed to be untouchable, fearless. But the infected… they unraveled you.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, your voice tight. “I just… I shouldn’t freeze like that. Not me.”

Tommy’s gaze softened, his hand sliding to cup the back of your neck, anchoring you. “Hey,” he murmured, fingers tracing steady up your spine. “You’re okay. You did good.”

You shook your head, the words spilling before you could stop them, driven by a need to justify, to make him understand. “It’s not okay. I’m FEDRA. It’s stupid,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t react like this. Not after everything they made me into.”

“Ain’t stupid,” he said softly. “You don’t gotta explain nothin’.”

Your voice cracked, and you looked away, the weight of memory pressing down. “It’s not just fear, Tommy. It’s… them.”

He didn’t push, just held you closer, his arms a steady shelter. “You don’t have to tell me, sweetheart. Not if it hurts.”

But you needed to. Even if just a little. The look in his eyes - patient, quiet - made something inside you give way.

He waited, silent.

“I keep remembering it, remembering them, whenever I see infected...” You said, staring past him. “When it all started, I went to my mom’s. Thought we’d be safer - her, my sister, me. We barricaded the house.” You hesitated, your throat tight. “After a while, I noticed something was wrong. They had no bite marks, but… something was changing. I didn’t understand it then.”

You paused. His hand stayed steady on your neck, thumb stroking softly, wordless permission to go on only if you wanted. “I stayed in that house for days - lost count. Hid in the basement. No light, no food, just… waiting. Watching them change. Hearing their sounds. I kept hoping it’d pass. But when I finally looked again…” You swallowed hard. “Gone. I couldn’t believe it, not until I had no choice.”

You didn’t say more. You didn’t have to. The silence carried it.

“Ever since,” you whispered, “that sound - the clicking, the growling - it’s them. Every damn time. I just… freeze.”

He didn’t speak, just pulled you into his chest. His chin rested atop your head, the rise and fall of his breathing steady and sure. “You don’t owe me that story, darlin’,” he said quietly. “But thank you for trustin’ me with it.”

“FEDRA saved me after that,” you murmured against him, voice hollow. “Trained me. Gave me a title, a place. Safety in the QZ. When they made me a soldier, I asked for one thing - to never face the infected again. They agreed. I own them so much.”

He went still, your words sinking deep, like a blade he hadn’t seen coming. Your loyalty to FEDRA - proud, unshakable - hit him hard, twisting a knot in his gut tighter than before. What the hell was I thinkin’? he thought, his arms tightening around you as if to anchor himself.

He’d been feeding himself a fantasy, callin’ it your “rebellion” back when he first started flirtin’ with you, convincin’ himself he could pull you to his side one day. Naive as hell. He was a goddamn Firefly, hidin’ it from you every damn day, and you were FEDRA’s pride.

This wasn’t just a spark in an alley - it was a mess, a huge, tangled problem he’d started by lettin’ himself fall for you. Convincin’ you to turn your back on FEDRA? That wasn’t gonna be some sweet walk in the park. It’d be tearin’ you from the only safety you’d known, and he was startin’ to see just how deep that loyalty ran. Every moment he kept you close, he was pullin’ you both deeper into danger. And yet, here he was, holdin’ you like he could shield you from it all.

He tried to forget this for now, focusin’ on the warmth of you in his arms, but it lingered, heavy as a storm outside.

“I’m so damn sorry, darlin’,” he murmured. “You did what you had to.”

You nodded, the shame still lingering but softened by his warmth. Then, almost as an afterthought, you added, “At least my dad… he wasn’t there. He divorced my mom two years before the outbreak, moved west, new wife. But he was a survivalist - always armed, building bunkers, prepping for the end. If anyone’s still out there, it’s him.”

Tommy’s mouth curved - not a smile exactly, but something gentler. “Then maybe there’s still a piece of him out there waitin’ for you.”

“Not maybe,” you said, the words coming out steadier than you expected. “He is. I can’t explain, but I feel it.”

He caught the certainty in your eyes and nodded, serious now. “Alright. Then we treat it like fact.” He bring your face up. “When the time’s right, we look west if you want to. Ask the right folks. We find what’s left to find.”

His thumb brushed under your jaw, lifting your face. “But you don’t gotta be ashamed of bein’ scared. You’re still here, still fightin’. That’s strength, not weakness.” He pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest, his lips brushing your hair. “I got you now, darlin’. Ain’t lettin’ you face those shadows alone.”

You melted into him, the weight of your confession easing just enough to let you breathe. The world outside - the infected, FEDRA, the Fireflies - could wait. For now, it was just you and Tommy, pressed against a dark wall, his arms a haven in a world that offered none. And for the first time in a long while, you knew someone would genuinely look after you.

---

Next day, you went back to the streets like you always did, boots scuffing the pavement, rifle slung. The laundry room escape still a raw thing behind your ribs.

Then voices cut through the routine, loud and careless from a side alley, not frantic but celebratory, the kind of cheering you heard after a small victory. You and Victor exchanged a look and agreed checking it.

Slumped against the brick, Hector, lay with a neat, fatal hole in his skull. He was already dead when the FEDRA agents found him. It should've been just another body to log. But you know what happened and who did it. And as sick as this could appear, you never thought that a murder could be such a sweet love act. A romantic homicide that meant everything to you. It was poetic. Something about how the promise he made was a declaration of love, of safety. Of him saying I got you and meaning it.

It was a plan, after all.

Chapter Text

Regardless of the romance your mind was orbiting around, work didn’t stop; you were still a soldier, still expected to manage your patrols with the same ruthless precision. But your thoughts were in one single place: Tommy Miller.

Your and Victor’s trail led through the east sector, shadows cutting between gutted buildings. You chased two supposed Fireflies across the rooftops, boots pounding, lungs burning. They vaulted walls, slipped through broken windows. You followed, vaulting after them, your rifle barking shots that sparked brick and shattered glass but missed their marks. The pair vanished into the maze.

You froze on a rooftop, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes. First time I’ve lost them. The thought tasted bitter. You tried to tell yourself it was luck, that they’d been too fast, that the terrain was too tight. But another whisper followed close behind: Or maybe you’ve lost your edge. Maybe loving him is making you soft. Maybe you don’t really want this anymore.

You grimaced. Loving him.

You shoved it down. No weakness. Not here. Not in uniform.

Victor caught up behind you, breathing hard but grinning wide. “Damn, Butcher. Look at you gaspin’ like a rookie. What’s the matter? Losin’ your touch?” He looked at you, clearly mocking. “Never saw you miss so many shots. Never saw someone outrun you.”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel, but his smirk stayed.

It was already late and dark that same day when you were patrolling the east fence. You and Victor caught Tommy with two other smugglers, crouched outside the authorized perimeter. It’d been a while since smugglers had crossed their boundaries - or at least, since they’d been caught.

Victor still snapped, rifle raised. “That’s it,” he growled. “We end this here. All three.”

You stepped in fast, palm pressed to Victor’s chest. You knew you still stirred something in him, and you’d always use that to pull him back. “Not tonight, Victor, please.” You gave him a soft look straight into his eyes, your hand lingering on his chest, feeling his heart beat noticeably fast but slowing just a tiny bit under the warmth of your touch. “We bring them in, paperwork’ll bury us both. We kill ‘then, I don’t get my pills, alcohol, and sweets. Then, you know what happens if I don’t get my emotional support drugs, right? You giggle. “You’ll be the one dealin’ with a crazy bitch every day.” A joke, trying hard to reel your partner’s anger back in. You blinked at Victor. Your voice was calm but edged with command. “Let me handle it. I owe Miller one after the help at the checkpoint with the infected, anyway.”

Victor’s glare burned, but your tone held him. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the rifle, though his jaw was tight and his silence heavy with protest. He’d follow your orders - he always did - not because he agreed, but because he cared about you.

And of course, rank demanded it. Victor, for all his temper, was ethical enough not to challenge you in front of civilians. He’d wait until later, until you were alone, to question your judgment in that low, restrained voice that somehow cut deeper than shouting. You knew the only reason he obeyed so easily was the same reason you outranked him - not necessarily merit, not skill, but the story FEDRA built around you. Their golden soldier. Their butcher turned miracle.

And every time you caught the respect in his eyes, it sat wrong in your chest - because deep down, you knew he earned it more than you.

Tommy watched silently. Something tight and ugly twisted in his gut. He saw the way your hand lay on Victor’s chest, fingers splayed, lingering a beat too long, and the soft look you gave him, like you were coaxing a wild animal. Same way you have touched him on the day of the infected encounter. Your fingers curling against Victor’s uniform, holding on like he was your anchor, while Tommy stood off to the side, his own heart pounding, feeling like a fool for thinking he was the one you needed.

He replayed the day on the docks in his mind: your easy laugh at Victor, his hands on you.

Fire rose in him, quick and stupid. Now, seeing it again - your hand, Victor’s softening gaze - it twisted the knife deeper. He wanted to step forward, to pull you into his arms and make sure everyone knew you were his. Instead, he stayed put, jaw clenched, swallowing the heat he couldn’t let show.

He also saw Victor change as you spoke, the hard line of his jaw easing, his shoulders dropping, the glare losing its edge until he looked almost… softer.

You turned on the smugglers, eyes like steel. “Last warning. I catch you again, you won’t be walkin’ home.” They nodded, scattering into the dark.

Tommy lingered. You fixed him with a hard stare. “This is the last time I’ll turn a blind eye, Miller.” The words were sharp, the tone hard.

But as Tommy brushed past, you leaned dangerously close, whispering low enough that only he could hear. “I owe you a black eye, Miller. And maybe some kisses.”

His smirk flickered. Small, suspicious, before he slipped into the night.

Victor didn’t move. He kept watching you, rifle still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” he said finally, voice low.

For fuck’s sake, here we go again.

You pulled your bandana down, steadying your tone. “That was me stoppin’ you from makin’ a mess we don’t need. I’m exhausted. I just want this shift to end soon.”

“No,” he snapped, stepping closer. “That tone. That look. What did you whisper to him?”

Your jaw tightened. “Gimme a break, Victor! I’m done with your drama. I talk to smugglers in whatever way it takes to get the job done.”

Victor laughed, humorless. “Yeah? I wonder what kind of ‘job’ he’s doin’ for you to have you losin’ your edge like that.”

The words landed like a slap. You couldn’t think; only heat and raw anger filled you. Without warning, you shoved him hard, hard enough to make him stumble back a few steps.

“Don’t you ever say that about me,” you barked, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare put that on me. You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

He leaned in, slow, cold. “Bullshit. You’ve been soft around him for months. Miller. Softer every damn time. I’m not blind, Butcher.”

You locked eyes with him, steel against steel. “You’re fuckin’ imagining things.”

He shook his head slowly, like he almost pitied you. “For your sake, I hope I am. ‘Cause if you’re screwin’ around with this Miller of all people… that’s the kinda mistake that’ll get us both killed.”

The words hung heavily between you. You didn’t flinch, didn’t break his stare, but inside your heart hammered. He finally turned away, muttering under his breath, “Careful, Butcher. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“Why does it even matter to you,” you asked carefully, your voice low, “what if I was with a smuggler?”

Victor’s restraint snapped. “Because I’d never understand why it’d be a fuckin’ smuggler and not me.” The words spilled out raw, too loud in the narrow space between you. Victor’s face flushed crimson; his eyes flicked away, suddenly fixed on the cracked pavement like it might swallow him whole. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he dragged a rough hand down his face, trying to scrub the confession off his skin.

He laughed once, short and bitter, the sound scraping his throat. “Forget it. Just… you sure he’s only a smuggler? ‘Cause I got a gut telling me he ain’t. And I’m pretty sure that’s the reason he and his brother split up. Or you haven’t noticed anything?”

Victor saw it, saw that you didn’t suspect a thing, and the corner of his mouth pulled tight. He had no proof, only scraps of suspicion. And because some part of him still liked you, still cared, he kept his mouth shut.

Your stomach tightened, your eyes flickering in a way you couldn’t control. You caught what he’d just said.

Why it’d be a smuggler and not me.

You sure he’s only a smuggler?

You heard it.

Both things hit you like a truck, equally heavy. And for a second, it almost made you stop. But you forced yourself to keep your face steady. This wasn’t the time to open those doors. Not now. Not either of them.
So you pretended not to notice.
“Let’s just… not do this, Victor,” you said evenly, keeping your tone controlled. “We’re both tired, and I don’t want to fight.”

Then, quieter, you softened - the strategist in you taking over. “You’ve always had my back, and I don’t forget that. I just… need you to trust me on this one. Okay?” You offered a small, weary smile, the kind that disarmed more than any apology could.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and dangerous, until Victor finally nodded once, bitter and tired, and walked on.

---

When Tommy was gone a week or two chasing merchandise, the emptiness hollowed you. It was getting more common each day that he would vanish. And when he came back, grin lazy and eyes hungry, the ache of missing him made the world sharper.

He missed you, too. But the weight in his chest wasn’t just longing. It was guilt. Because his choice had already been made far back, even before your first kiss. He was on his way to the Fireflies and he couldn’t postpone it anymore. He was gaining time smuggling a few more things around before officially engaging in the heavier activities. And he couldn’t tell you yet, not without risking everything you’d built. Still, the lie gnawed at him. Every touch, every laugh, every secret you trusted him with felt like a debt he couldn’t pay. He knew keeping it from you was putting you in danger, and the thought of that was tearing him apart. He promised himself. Soon. He’d tell you soon. He’d convince you soon. Not sure how yet, but he would.

You didn’t dare go to the laundry again. But the hunger to be alone was consuming you both, and every exchange of goods carried the same undercurrent: when will we get our place again?

---

Another night. Another trade excuse. Always was. You met him in a dark, empty corner, night thick with silence. He leaned back against the wall, one boot propped, arms crossed like he had all the time in the world.

“Took you long enough,” you muttered, stepping close, though your voice betrayed more than annoyance. “You’ve been nowhere for days, Tommy. I… missed you.”

His grin faltered, just for a second, replaced by something raw. “Missed you too, darlin’. More than you know.” His hand ghosted over your arm, a brief touch, before he pulled it back like it burned. “Got caught up in runs, deals.” He shrugged, the excuse too casual, too easy. Before you could press him, his tone shifted, lower, sharper.

“So… what was that with Victor the other night?” he asked, low and dangerous, like he was calling out a fact he didn’t want to be true. “You looked real close back there. Hell… truth is, you two have always been too damn close.”

You laughed, sliding one shoulder up against him. “Miller, are you jealous?” You said, voice light, but you let your fingers ghost over his chest as you said it. “He’s just my friend, Tommy. Relax.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched you, eyes narrowing. Then his hand came up slow, thumb brushing under your jaw, tilting your face so his gaze could rake you clean. “Relax? You sure about that? Doesn’t seem like he sees you just as a friend. The fucker looks like he’s under a spell every time you talk to him.”

You wished you could freeze the moment, hold it still just to stare at him. A white tee clinging to his chest, hair slicked back off his forehead, that slow, dangerous cowboy ease in the way he watched you, and for a second your heart gave away: he was impossibly, achingly handsome. And now acting jealous. The streetlights threw him in a warm halo, turning him into a dark silhouette that made him look even more irresistible.

“I swear to God,” he went on, voice tight now, “since that damn encounter with the infected, the way he jumped in like he was glued to your side, like he had some claim. Every time I see his face I wanna break it. Then at the docks, him all but drapin’ over you like a dog in heat, touchin’ what wasn’t his to touch. And last night, you…” His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “He just melts at your touch. I can’t keep watchin’ it. I can’t.”

His voice rose with each word, rougher, hotter, as though just speaking Victor’s name made him boil. His fists flexed at his sides like he needed something to hit.

“Ain’t nothin’ between you two, huh? Not now… not ever?” Tommy asked, stepping closer until you could feel the heat from him. His eyes pinned you, searching for any small betrayal.

You forced a laugh that came out too short. “Definitely not,” you said quickly, eyes flicking away before finding his again. “We were paired from my first day… assigned together. He saved my ass more than once back then. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. You should be thanking him.”

“I should be breakin’ his nose.”

You laughed at the absurdity of the idea. Victor had always been respectful; he’d never taken something from you or been close to pushing the boundaries you established. Victor was too patient with you. And Tommy didn’t need to know that the patience meant something else from the past.

Tommy watched your laugh like he was trying to pry meaning from it. “What’s so funny?” he said, low. “’Cause it sure as hell ain’t funny seein’ you touching him like that.”

Instead of answering that truth right away, you leaned in and brushed your lips quick against his jaw. “It’s cute seein’ you like this,” you murmured, fingers finding the line of his collar. “You worry too much.”

“Then help me out here, darlin’. Quit messin’ with my head… and with your damn hands on him.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to take it seriously. Not when he was standing there like that, not when the anger only sharpened every line of his face, made his drawl darker, rougher.

You crouched low to tie your boot, though the motion was slow and deliberate. There was nothing innocent in the way you bent, your face hovering just over his crotch, lips close enough to graze denim, holding his stare. Obscene. A taunt. Your mouth parted just enough, a mockery of what you weren’t doing.

You smiled up at him, wicked and unrepentant. “Stop bein’ a lunatic, Miller,” you teased, tugging the lace taut with a sharp pull. “All I want is you.”

It hit him, the realization of what you were trying to do. His head tipped back against the wall, breath tearing out like it hurt. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, almost strangled. His eyes dropped down to you, wide with shock, wrecked with hunger. “Girl, you’re… fuck, you’ll kill me. I swear.”

You smirked, tugging the knot into place slow, deliberate, then let your voice slip up to him like smoke. “That’s the idea.”

He grabbed you by the back of your neck, tangling his fingers in your hair. You moaned softly. He grinned, delighted, breath hitching. “Fuck, darlin’, what do you think you are doin’?” he asked, voice rough.

You didn’t back down. Instead, you licked your lips slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze through your lashes, letting the heat build between you. “Don’t play silly, Tommy Miller,” you whispered, your voice teasing but edged with something deeper.

His chest rose and fell unevenly as you reached for him, fingers deft on his belt buckle. The metal clicked open under your touch, and you tugged the zipper down with a slow, deliberate pull. He let out a low grunt, his body tensing as you freed him from his jeans and boxers. He was already hard, straining toward you, warm and heavy in your hand.

“Darlin’… wait,” he breathed, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he was trying to ground himself. “We ain’t done this before. I wanted… I want it to be special. Not like this, rushed and-”

You wrapped your fingers around him, firm but gentle, feeling the pulse of him against your palm. He shuddered, his words breaking off into a ragged exhale.

“Tommy,” you said softly, your thumb tracing a slow circle over his tip, watching his eyes flutter shut for a moment. “It is special. It’s us. That’s all that matters.”

He groaned, his reluctance cracking under the weight of his desire. His fingers threaded deeper into your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he needed the connection to steady himself. “Fuck, babe… you’re sick,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You leaned in, pressing soft kisses to the tip of him. He trembled, a quiet moan escaping his lips, and you felt his love in the way he looked down at you- eyes dark with hunger, but soft with adoration. “I love what you’re doin’,” he admitted, his breath hitching as your tongue traced a slow path along his length. “Feels like heaven, darlin’. But… we’re out here. Exposed. Anyone-”

You didn’t let him finish. You took him into your mouth slowly, savoring the way he filled you, the warmth of him against your tongue. His hips jerked involuntarily, a soft curse slipping out as you moved, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. You varied the pace - slow and teasing at first, drawing out his pleasure with long, deliberate strokes, then faster, feeling him throb in response.

“Shit, babe… you’re… you’re insane, fuck” he gasped, his fingers tightening gently in your hair. “Look so beautiful like this. So good for me.” His free hand brushed away a stray tear from your cheek, his touch reverent, like he was cherishing every second. “Doin’ so good for me. But-fuck, we gotta stop.”

You hummed around him, the vibration pulling another groan from deep in his chest. The more he asked you to stop, the harder you played with him, swirling your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, feeling the way his body responded - tensing, arching toward you despite his words. He was lost in it for a moment, his reluctance melting into raw, honest pleasure.

You didn't ease up, determined to push him further, your tongue tracing patterns along his length, your hand twisting in rhythm with your mouth. His breath came in ragged bursts, his hips shifting involuntarily as if his body betrayed his resolve. "Darlin’… please," he murmured, his voice strained, his fingers flexing in your hair like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or away.

He struggled visibly, his eyes squeezing shut for a long moment, chest heaving as he fought the pull of the pleasure you were giving him. A low growl escaped him, his body trembling under your touch, and for a few heartbeats, he gave in, letting his head fall back against the wall with a defeated sigh, savoring the way you worked him. "Fuck, babe… you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he whispered, his voice breaking with the effort to hold back. But the shadows around you seemed to close in, the risk gnawing at the edges of his mind.

“Darlin’, wait- stop,” he said, his voice firmer now, though it cracked with regret, almost painful to stop it. He pulled back gently, his hand guiding you away as he wrenchingly tucked himself back into his jeans with shaking fingers. “… we can- we can’t risk that.”

You looked up at him, lips swollen, breath coming in soft pants. A mix of frustration and amusement flickering in your eyes. "Such a party pooper," you murmured, your voice teasing but laced with a hint of disappointment, as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Soon,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I swear. When it’s just us, no rush, no danger.”

He reached his hand down, meaning only to offer you a way up. But instead of taking it, you tilted your face into his palm, pressing your cheek against his warmth like it belonged there. A quiet, deliberate invitation. Then you shifted just enough that his hand slid along your jaw and settled at your neck, his fingers splaying warm against your skin, holding you in a way that was anything but accidental.

He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you up, his grip firm but careful. His eyes locked onto yours, deep and searching, like he was trying to memorize every fleck in your gaze. “One day, sweetheart, you’re gonna push me too far,” his hand slid firmer across your neck, pressing you closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him searing through your clothes. “An’ when you do, you won’t get to walk away from it.”

Your laugh was quiet, sharp, a little mean. “You keep saying that, cowboy. ‘One day’ this, ‘one day’ that. Starting to sound like all talk.”

The word nearly undid him. His breath ragged, eyes burning with a mix of awe and hunger. He stared at you like he could hardly believe you were real - pretty as sin, twice as reckless. For a moment, you thought he’d snap that thin thread of control and take you right there, until the world outside ceased to exist. But then he let go, stepping back just enough to leave you burning with the absence of his touch.

---

Comfort crept in, or maybe it was recklessness. Away from prying eyes, especially Victor’s, you let yourself test him. Small provocations - sometimes not so small -touches and whispers no one else could catch. Carefully calculated. A bottle of whiskey shared in the dark. Stolen kisses behind crumbling walls. A tin of coffee traded for a lingering touch. Hard grips that left you both breathless. Pills and sweets swapped with promises, your hands never staying where they should. Always something, always a reason to push him further.

You shoved him into the narrow alley, pressing him hard against the rough brick wall, your palm flat against his chest. His breath came out ragged as you closed the distance, your lips hovering a heartbeat away from his, close enough to taste the heat of him.

“Freeze, Miller,” you growled, voice low and commanding, the words spilling into his open mouth like a dare wrapped in an order.

His eyes flared, a storm of adrenaline and hunger swirling in their depths. The alley was a risk - anyone could stumble through, catch you pressed against him like this.

“You’re playin’ with fire, sweetheart,” he muttered, his gaze locked on your lips, but he didn’t move, didn’t push you away. His restraint was a taut wire, trembling under the strain.

You smirked, tilting your head just enough to let your breath ghost over his skin. “Good thing I was a firefighter.”

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound rough and low. “A firefighter who never fought fire.”

Your jaw tightened, eyes narrowing at the jab. “Say that again,” you bit out, shoving him harder into the wall, your hand sliding slow and deliberate down his chest, fingers hooking into his belt with a possessive tug.

His jaw clenched, muscles straining under your grip as he swallowed hard. “Darlin’, one of these days…”

“One of these days what? What, Tommy?” you cut in, leaning up, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You’ll beg?”

His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to grab you, to flip the script and take control. He exhaled, rough and shaky, his voice wrecked with want. “Fuck, babe. You’re insane. I want you so fuckin’ bad. So damn pretty bein’ all bossy.”

You smiled against his jaw, not easing up, your hand sliding lower, a slow, deliberate claim. “Then stop fightin’ it, Miller,” you murmured, your voice a soft threat, dripping with challenge “and show me.”

That was the spark that broke him. The calm, daring, challenge. Tommy’s patience, worn thin by weeks of your teasing snapped like a frayed rope. His eyes darkened as he moved faster than you expected. In one fluid motion, he spun you around, pinning you against the wall with his body, the rough brick biting into your back. His hands were on you now, one gripping your hip, the other sliding down, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants and into your panties.

You gasped, the sudden shift catching you off guard, your body arching instinctively into his touch. His fingers didn’t dive straight for your core. No, he was too deliberate for that. Instead, they teased, tracing slow, maddening circles along the sensitive skin, brushing close to your clit but never quite touching. The denial was excruciating, a punishment for every time you’d pushed him to the edge.

“Thought you’d make me beg, huh?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, laced with that Texas drawl that always softened you. His lips were close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Darlin’, you got no idea how long I’ve been holdin’ back for you. Tryin’ to make this right. Special. But you keep pushin’.”

His fingers dipped lower, grazing the edge of your folds, teasing but not giving, leaving you trembling with want. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so damn wet for me already. So ready.”

You tried to press yourself closer, chasing his touch, but he held you firm, his grip on your hip unyielding. “Tommy,” you whispered, your voice breaking, a plea you hadn’t meant to let slip.

He grinned, delighted, his fingers still dancing just out of reach, teasing the slick heat of you without giving in. “What’s that, sweetheart? You want somethin’?” He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought you said I’d be the one beggin’. But listen to you now, all desperate for me.”

His hand stilled, and for a moment, you thought he might give in. But then he resumed the torment, his fingers circling agonizingly slow, dipping just enough to collect your wetness before retreating again, spreading it over your clit in feather-light strokes that made your hips buck. “Oh, darlin’, you’re makin’ this too easy,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel, his breath hot against your neck. “Look at you, all wound up. Thought you were the tough FEDRA girl, huh? But here you are, meltin’ in my hands.” His thumb brushed all over, so close yet so far, deliberate in its cruelty, as he watched your face, drinking in every twitch. “Tell me, sweetheart, how bad you want it? Go on, let me hear it.” His eyes locked on yours, dark with intent, daring you to give in.

You whimpered, the heat pooling low in your belly, your body aching for more. “Please,” you breathed, the word spilling out before you could stop it. “Tommy, please, just- do it.”

He chuckled, dark and knowing, his fingers finally pressing firmer, circling your clit with a rhythm that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. “That’s it, babe. Let me hear you. You’ve been teasin’ me for weeks- now it’s my turn.” He slipped one finger inside you, slow and deep, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. Then a second, stretching you, his thumb never leaving your clit, building the pressure until your legs shook. “Fuck, you feel so good. So tight for me. This what you wanted? Me takin’ my time with you, makin’ you beg?”

You moaned, head falling back against the wall, lost in the sensation, but he wasn’t done. He pumped his fingers faster, his palm grinding against you, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet alley. “Come on, darlin’, give it to me. Show me how much you need this.” The edge was there, coiling tight, your body chasing release under his expert touch.

But then his expression shifted, that flicker of control returning as he pulled his hand back slowly, leaving you empty and wanting.

“No… no Tommy! Please. Please, come here.” You beg, uselessly.

He stepped back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze intense, a mix of love and resolve that made your heart stutter. “Nah, darlin’,” he said, his voice softer now but still firm, tinged with a regret that matched the fire in his eyes. “Not like this. Our first time it’s gonna be special. Somewhere safe, where it’s just you and me. No rush, no risk.”

You were still catching your breath, your body thrumming with unspent desire, frustration mingling with the love you felt for him. “You’re so cruel,” you muttered, as you adjusted your clothes, the absence of his touch like a physical ache.

“Consider this a little payback.” He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

---

Days bled into weeks since that night of confessions where Tommy’s arms had been your shelter against the ghosts of your past. The memory of his steady heartbeat, his whispered promises and the warm meetings in alleys lingered in your mind long after they ended, but the rhythm of your lives had shifted. Tommy was slipping away more often now- gone for days, sometimes weeks, with excuses that felt flimsier each time. A smuggling run here, a deal to settle there, always vague, always with that crooked grin to smooth it over. You’d catch him at the checkpoints or in shadowed alleys, but the moments were fleeting, stolen between your assignments and his mysterious absences. Each time you saw him, the spark was there, but so was a quiet unease, a question you didn’t want to ask: What’s keeping you away, Tommy?

Victor’s watchful eyes didn’t help. His glances sharper now, his silences heavier, like he was waiting for you to admit something was off. You pushed it down, told yourself it was the war, the QZ’s tightening grip, but the doubt grew roots.

Tommy slipped something small into your hand. White petals, delicate, fragrant even in the dust. Orange Blossom flowers.

“Couldn’t help it,” he said, grinning. “Smelled it, thought of you.”

You pressed the flowers to your face, a laugh catching in your throat. “Wow. I’m impressed… That’s exactly the flower note used in my perfume. You have a good nose. Where did you even find it?”

He smirked, tilting his head. “What can I say? Had to do some fancy footwork to get these, darlin’. Found ‘em in a spot nobody’s checked in years.”

The tease landed, but it didn’t settle right. Your smile faltered, a shadow crossing your mind as you studied him- the way his eyes danced, but didn’t quite meet yours, the way he stood just a fraction too tense, like he was guarding more than a punchline. Victor’s suspicion echoed now, sewn into you over weeks of Tommy’s absences.

You sure he’s only a smuggler?

The thought twisted, fed by the nights you’d lain awake, wondering where he went when he wasn’t with you, why your moments were always rushed, hidden in shadows. Was he running from FEDRA’s eyes - or something else?

Why it’d be a smuggler, and not me?

You could have asked Tommy. Could have demanded to know if he was hiding something, what truths curled under that smile. But you were too caught up in the spell of it all to start looking for problems.

“That’s so cheesy, Tommy.” The sparkle in your eyes gave you away, and he saw it. The way his small, silly gesture made you happy in a way you couldn’t hide.

Tommy grinned wider, tilting his head. “Babe, you are so in love with me.”

You snorted, nudging his chest with your elbow. “Please. The size of your stupid smile every time you see me says you’re way more.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Guess I ain’t even tryin’ to hide it.”

You both thought that this might be a little too easy. That you two were too good at hiding in the shadows, hiding in plain sight.

Billy, that teenager you met before, was convinced by Tommy to join the Fireflies months ago. He looks up to Tommy and tends to pay attention to his routine. He found it strange during his first few months that Tommy wouldn’t show up too often at Firefly’s headquarters or missions. Marlene, the one in charge of everyone, would say he needs to finish some deals before finally dedicating himself fully.

Billy wasn’t as naive as his baby face made him look. Young, yes, but not dumb.

They crossed paths in a dim corridor under the old. Billy hovered by the stairwell, hands jammed in his jacket.

“Tommy,” he said, voice low. “Can I ask you something?

Tommy paused. “Depends on the something.”

Billy’s eyes flicked up. “I don’t know what you’re doin’ flirtin’ with a FEDRA agent, but it looks like trouble.”

Tommy’s jaw set. “Watch your mouth, kid.”

“I been watchin’,” Billy said, not backing off. “Marlene keeps sayin’ you’re ‘wrappin’ up deals’ before you go all-in with us. But you ain’t around for runs. You miss briefings. And I’ve seen you – a bunch of times - out near the north edge. With her.”

Tommy’s stare hardened. “It’s business. You cozy up, you get chatter. Before anyone knows I’m Firefly-bound, I scrape what intel I can. That’s how we keep people alive.”

Billy’s laugh was short. “Must be premium intel - looked real classified with your mouth on it.”

Tommy blinked, thrown for half a second. “What the hell did you-”

Billy didn’t flinch. Billy tipped his chin, eyes bright with teenage audacity. “Do we all get access, or is that a seniority thing?”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. For a split second his fist twitched like it wanted a target, the old instinct sparking hot - but he strangled it down. When he spoke, it was low and tight. “Watch yourself, kid. You don’t know where the line is yet.”

Billy’s grin faltered, just a shade. “Sure. Just makin’ sure we’re callin’ it the right thing.”

Tommy’s fists flexed, then eased. “You done?”

“Yeah.” Billy pivoted and jogged up the stairs, no goodbye, no glance back.

Tommy stayed where he was. If a kid could read it, the whole city could. This wasn’t cover; it was a fuse. No more runs. No more excuses. Time to step fully into the Fireflies.

And then the part that twisted his gut: telling you. Telling the FEDRA miracle he loved that the man in her arms was the thing she hunted. There’d be no more shadows to hide in.

Convincing you to cross over had always sounded simple in his head - because he kept mistaking your small rebellions for a door already half open: the way you bent rules to spare someone, slipped mercy into orders, tried to stitch decency into rotten policy. He’d watched you push back in inches and called it a step toward him, saw your good heart and your stubborn need to “fix” FEDRA and told himself it would only take a nudge.

Now it felt like trying to move a wall with his bare hands. How to face the truth without losing you? How to confess he’d been a Firefly at heart even before he ever touched your hand? How to keep both, his life purpose and you? The questions stalked him, kept him restless, because he knew the longer he waited, the more dangerous the fallout would be.

Chapter Text

It was you who finally solved it. Nights of wandering the perimeter of your FEDRA housing block, eyes cataloguing fences, gates, the rhythm of guard shifts. You found it at last: a section of wall where a bomb had dropped years ago, collapsing a building against the edge of the FEDRA complex where you live. Twisted iron, warped gates, debris stacked like teeth. Everyone dismissed it as impassable.

But you weren’t everyone.

You’d been a proud firefighter before the world ended. You knew how to bend steel, how to pry gates, how to carve space where there was none. Night after night, you threw yourself into the task, working on it alone in the dark. Cutting, pulling, pushing until there was a crawlspace wide enough for a big man to slip through. Tommy’s absence hung over you like a weight, the ache of missing him sharpening every swing of your arms, every strained breath. But it was easier this way: to channel the longing into something practical, to turn the silence he left into noise you could control. And in a strange way, it felt good. You even had fun doing it.

It was a distraction, yes, but also a kind of nostalgia. Familiar. A fleeting return to the job you’d once loved, where solving problems with technique, sweat and muscle had been enough. The hands-on work reminded you of another life, when the world still made sense and your days were measured in lives saved - and the realization hit hard now that your current missions looked the complete opposite of it.

---

You met Tommy at midnight in a west-side alley, as he asked. The excitement poured through you. You couldn’t wait to tell Tommy what you’d been working on. All that hard work. Carving a way to the place you both want most: your home.

Tommy had a surprise for you too. So, like fate, you’d both wait for the reveals.

For a long beat, Tommy just stares, his breath hitching like he’s forgotten how to breathe. You stand there in a thin white tee that clings softly to your frame, a brown suede jacket draped over your shoulders, worn jeans hugging your hips, hair spilling loose in waves that catch the dim light. Nothing extraordinary, and yet, to him, you’re a revelation. For the first time, he sees you without the FEDRA navy, without the weight of your badge, you’re not the soldier he’s used to dodging and chase at checkpoints - you’re a woman, unguarded, real. His eyes trace every detail. His hand lifts, hesitant, fingers grazing the edge of your suede jacket like he’s testing if you’re real, then pulls back with a shaky breath, as if touching you might break the spell. His voice comes out low, rough with something deeper than want, almost like a prayer. “Christ, darlin’… Never thought you could look this… free, this alive, and still steal every damn breath I got.” His gaze roams, reverent, a little desperate. He leans in, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath, his eyes wide and dazed, like you’re a mirage he’s afraid will fade if he blinks. “You’re a goddamn vision, sweetheart. Always knew you were stunning, but this… this is you, I can’t look away.”

You take him in again, a worn plaid flannel over a black tee, old jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, the shirt stretched tight across his biceps as if it were made for him. He’s so damn handsome, not in a polished way, but in a raw, lived-in kind of beauty that pulls at something deep in your chest. The way his hair falls just a bit too long catches the dim light, and a faint shadow of stubble lines his jaw, sharpening the soft curve of his grin. There’s a magnetic, effortless appeal to him - a man who carries hope in his stride, in the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You’re trained to see threats, to stay sharp, but with him, you’re unguarded, caught in the pull of his presence.

It thrills you how vulnerable you can be by his side.

He placed his warm hand at your back, guiding you through half-lit corridors that smelled of rust and damp. “Don’t kill me,” he drawled, a grin in his voice. “I promise I ain’t takin’ you nowhere you’ll regret.”

“If this ends with me in some sewer pit, I’m coming back to haunt you, Miller.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hand. “Darlin’, just trust me.”

When you arrived, your breath caught.

Lanterns perched on old crates threw warm light over peeling wallpaper and a sun-faded poster. In the center, a scarred poker table with tired green felt held a scatter of cards and a pair of dice that winked in the glow. A half-broken chandelier dangled above, missing crystals catching the light like cheap stars. Two gutted slot machines stood sentry by the door, their chrome dulled but still glamorous in the dim. Whiskey bottles and bent chairs gave the room a ruined-casino charm - abandoned, yes, but still trying to sparkle.

“Wait. What is this?” you whispered, blinking.

Tommy leaned against the table, grin smug. “Closest thing you’ll ever get to Vegas out here. Smugglers use this spot to play cards, cut through the zone. I bailed a few boys out of trouble few weeks back, told ’em to clear the place for us tonight. So…it’s ours.”

Your heart swelled, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Better word is romantic,” he said, pulling out an office chair for you. You sit. “Can’t bring you to Vegas sweetheart, but I figured I could give you a taste. Poker, Blackjack, whiskey, and my devilish charm.” He pauses. “And, if I’m lucky, the topless part. Just for me.”

Fucking Tommy Miller. You wonder if he knows how irresistible he is. This is such a sweet surprise - even if the plan is gloriously indecent. The way he says it, grin cocky and eyes glinting in the lantern glow, sets your whole body on fire.

And then he proceeds, with that expression you know well by this time. “You see, you can have everything that you desire”

You promptly sing back “Magic… and you know you're the one who can put out the fire”.

“I swear babe, you are on a roll! You never miss a single one,” he happily celebrates your successful participation in his little game, while bracing his palms around you, on the arms of your chair. Trapping you. In the best possible way. He is so cheesy and so sexy at the same time. You just love it so much.

At this moment, world seems to stop for a while and only you and him exists. Tommy and his sweet smile, his sweet eyes, his sweet voice. Like those silly movie moments where everything else is in blur and it’s only the two of us. It feels so good. The kind of thing everybody forgot it was possible after cordyceps.

You shook your head, smiling as you sat. “You definitely got the whiskey and the charm, Tommy. Let’s see about the blackjack.”

Desire hits sharp and sudden. You could almost feel the rough scrape of his stubble against your neck, imagine his hands tugging your clothes away piece by piece, his weight pressing you into the table until the cards scattered to the floor. For one reckless heartbeat, you wanted to forget the whiskey, the games, the world. Wanted only him, hot and close and yours.

You take off your jacket. Tommy drinks you in in a way he hadn’t before. Your sleeves rolled up, your orange blossom perfume hits him stronger than before, warm and heady. It mixes with the faint, impossible sweetness of your skin, something that’s only you. The blend goes straight to his head, and for a dizzy second, Tommy swears he could get drunk just breathing you in. Your arms were unmistakable - hard, ripped, the kind of strength he could feel when he touched you but had never really seen. A raw, greedy admiration flared in him; you were hot and dangerous, strong and fun, and his gaze snagged on the thin gold chain at your throat, a tiny sun pendant. He knew then the necklace was the only thing he wanted to see you wearing tonight.

He closed the distance, thumb brushing the tiny sun at your throat, voice low and rough. “Goddamn, you’re somethin’ else, darlin’. You look like trouble and heaven all at once.”

Your heart races, a wild, giddy thing, and a grin spreads across your face, unstoppable. You’re happy - stupidly, recklessly happy - because Tommy’s gone and turned this grimy QZ corner into something magical, just for you. The excitement bubbles up, making your chest feel light, like you could float right out of your chair. He’s here, all charm and heat, looking at you like you’re the only thing in this broken world worth seeing, and you’re so damn grateful it hurts. You lean forward, eyes locked on his, practically buzzing with enthusiasm. “Tommy, you’re too much,” you say, voice warm and teasing, but laced with awe. “This whole setup, you… I don’t know how you do it, but I’m so glad you did.” Your fingers brush his face, a small, impulsive touch, like you need to feel he’s real, that this moment’s real, and you can’t stop smiling, can’t stop feeling like you’ve stolen a slice of something good in a world that’s forgotten how.

You proceed to stare at him silent for long minutes, just enjoying the way he looks back at you.

“Oh well,” you break the silence, getting up and grabbing the bottle of whiskey, “Let’s start the game. You didn’t make Vegas to be sober.”

You twist the cap off and waggle it at him. “Show me how people get drunk in Vegas, Miller.”

His smile turns slow and wicked as he takes the bottle from your hand. “Darlin’, it’s all about the pour. You trust me?”

Before you can answer, he steps closer, his body boxing you in against the counter. The bottle tilts in his hand, but his other rises to your face, thumb pressing beneath your chin to tip your head back. “Like this,” he says, voice rough with amusement. His eyes burn into yours, lingering. “A little more… yeah, that’s it. Now open your mouth.”

You do as told, mouth parting, throat bared. The whiskey burns hot as it slides in, spilling a little past your lips. You choke out a laugh, swiping at the drop, but Tommy’s already there, thumb brushing your skin, slow and deliberate. His eyes lock on yours as he licks the taste from his thumb with a grin that makes your knees weak.

“Not bad for your first Vegas lesson,” he teases, voice husky.

You snatch the bottle back, eyes sharp. “Your turn, cowboy.”

You press your body flush against his, the bottle tipped in your hand as you pour the whiskey into his mouth. A little too much, on purpose, spills down his throat, tracing a hot line along his skin.

Before he can react, you lean in, tongue following the trail from the hollow of his neck up to his jaw, licking away every drop until you reach his mouth. He meets you there, lips crashing into yours, the kiss rough and wet, both of you tasting the burn of whiskey off each other’s mouth.

When you finally pull back, breathless and grinning, you whisper against his lips, “You’re a pro, Miller.”

The night spun warm and reckless. You sipped cheap whiskey all night: for once, you didn’t think of when he smuggled this, just glad that he did.

You watched while Tommy explained the rules, his drawl thick with mischief. But truth be told, the cards and casino chips barely held your attention. You were far more interested in touching him, brushing his arm, leaning too close, letting your fingers linger just long enough to tempt. Whether it was his irresistible Texas charm or the alcohol thrumming in your veins, every minute he wasn’t kissing you, every second his mouth wasn’t on yours, felt like an ache that bordered on painful. And the bastard knew it. You saw it in the sly curve of his smile, the way he kept shuffling cards with infuriating calm, stretching your patience until it frayed. He was pushing you on purpose, letting the slow burn build until you were ready to lose your mind.

He cheated shamelessly, and you called him out every time. Cards on the table, laughter filled the air, and for a few precious hours, it felt like the world outside was normal again.

Somewhere between the games, you caught him watching you with that look again. The one that was less grin, more gravity. But you’re too distracted with his seduction game to really bother.

He’d promised himself tonight would be the night he would tell you. That he wasn’t just a smuggler anymore, that he’d already chosen the Fireflies before he ever kissed you, and that you would need to make a decision together. But the words lodged in his throat. He couldn’t. Not when you were all happiness, smiling at him like that, not when you got your fuck me eyes on him. Not when your laughter was the only real light in the room.

“Tommy, please. Are you fucking me tonight or are you just going to make me beg and scream to be fucked?”

“Christ, girl. Enough alcohol for you. C’mere” He takes the whiskey from your hand and put aside. “Focus here on the cards.”

He knew exactly what he was doing. He intended to tease you back for every provocation you’d sent his way, although this would also cost him a lot of self control. Drawing it out, hiding behind the game. Every time your shoulder brushed his, he angled just enough to make you crave more. He stays behind you like someone guarding your back. Envelop you in his hold. Close enough to pressure you slightly to the game table. Every time your body leaned over the table to reach for dice or cards, you felt his hips resting perfectly against your ass. He’s pointing to the cards, focused, giving a full speech on how to play the game. His hands brushing your forearms and hands.

“Tommy…”

“You even payin’ attention, darlin?” He knows you’re not. 

“Oh, the hell I am!” you shot back, in a playful yell.

“Shh. darlin’, keep it down. We’re almost done. See, now I’ll double down here. Got an eleven against the dealer’s six. Best odds I’ll ever get.” He says it whispering to your ear. You can feel his smile on the tone of his voice. He’s having too much fun torturing you.

When you bent forward over the table to grab the cards and call him out on another obvious cheat, his hips pressed harder against you from behind, your ass grinding right into him. The friction ignited heat roaring through both of you - you could feel his cock, hard and pulsing through his jeans, straining against the denim. He clenched his jaw, a low groan escaping as he steadied himself with hands gripping the table edges, desperate to give in and take you right there but refusing, his breath ragged against your neck.

“Fuck Tommy-!”

You said it again too loud, the sound ricocheting off the cracked walls.

“Easy, darlin’. You keep hollerin’ like that, the patrol’s gonna think I’m killin’ you in here. Keep it down for me, yeah?” He brushed a kiss along your jaw. “Now hold on, darlin’,” he pretends nothing is happening, sliding the cards across the table, his voice rougher than it should’ve been. “Can’t just mess the cards around. Gotta follow the rules. Dealer’s showing a bust card, then you can…”

You cut him off with a groan, leaning harder into the table, deliberately letting your body rest back against him. “Tommy, if you think I care about your boring-ass rules right now…” The words echoed in the small room, louder than you meant, and you caught a fleeting tension in his posture.

He chuckled low, the sound strained, almost guttural, and leaned closer, lips grazing your ear. “Jesus, sweetheart, keep your voice down,” he murmured, a playful edge masking a real warning. “Patience. That’s the point of the game.”

You twisted your head just enough to catch his look, daring. “Feels more like punishment.”

“Call it what you want,” he murmured, so close his breath brushed your ear. “But I’m playin’ to win. And right now, you’re losin’ your mind.”

God, he wasn’t wrong. Your restraint was unraveling, thread by thread, with every deliberate press of his hips, the hard heat of his cock through his jeans grinding against your ass, setting your nerves alight. You hated how he could stay so infuriatingly in control, that smug grin holding steady while your body betrayed you, trembling with want. He wanted you - fuck, you felt it in every pulse, every subtle shift of his weight - but he was drawing it out, slow and torturous, making the ache burn hotter.

He slides the last card face up and leaning so close your breath hit the hollow of his throat. “Alright, one last rule of the game that you need to learn,” he said, drawl soft and dangerous. “This one’s important. You listen good.”
You muffled a protest. “You wish,” but he hooked a thumb under your chin anyway, tilting your face so his eyes could study you.

“Silence.” He says.
You squeeze your eyes in a sign that you don’t understand.

He leaned in, his hot breath teasing your ear, voice a low, gritty growl. “Gonna bury my face in that sweet pussy of yours, baby. Gonna taste every fuckin’ drop. But you better keep that pretty mouth shut. One loud moan, one scream of my name, and we’re fucked if anyone hears. You already screamed plenty tonight. Not again. You make a peep, I stop. Stay quiet… and I don’t.”

Your knees felt weak just from hearing it, and he sees it. He lifts you up on the table.
“Yep,” he grinned, low. “Best rule I ever made. Playin’ fair, darlin’.”

His mouth crashed into yours and everything sharpened. It was different this time. You both knew what was finally about to happen. Months of almost coiled tight between you, snapping all at once. Nerves and hunger, teeth on edge. Your hearts were sprinting. You kissed like you’d been starving - greedy, grateful, a little scared of how bad you wanted it. His hands all over you. Places you’d once thought untouchable. Places that should have triggered panic, but didn’t. Not with him. For the first time since the world fell apart, you didn’t remember the scar, didn’t remember the pain. Only him. The warmth, the gentleness, the want.

You’re breathless. He hooks his fingers under the hem of your white tee and yank it up in one smooth motion, lips trailing a hot line across the skin you exposed.

He freezes for a beat when he sees the pink bra, soft and delicate, a startling contrast to the hard edges of your soldier pose. His mind reels - God, you’re a vision. But it’s more than that; it’s the way you’re letting him see this side of you, vulnerable and unguarded, trusting him where trust is a luxury nobody can’t afford. That confidence, that softness you’re giving him, is just as fucking irresistible as your body.

A slow, grateful smile softened his face. “God, you look so damn pretty, all girly for me,” he murmured, his fingertips ghosting the strap as if memorizing the feel. He bites your neck, hungry, and whispers in your ear. “But I’ll be honest. You got no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ on the topless.”

The low burn of his voice in your ear sets you on fire. You bend to him and arch your back, giving the sign to go.

He strips the pink bra off and tosses it to the floor without a second thought. He takes one step away from you, close enough that you can see the way he’s watching. Like he’s taking you in all over again. And he curses, low and rough. “Goddamn, you’re insane,” he breathes. “You’re… hell, you’re too much.” His gaze drops, and that’s when he notices the ink along your ribs - L’amor che move il sole.

He traces it with the rough pad of his finger, then bends to kiss the letters, his voice thick. “Jesus, darlin’… this is so damn sexy.”

You smirk, breathless. “I got a few more. Find them.”

His eyes darken, the promise in them almost dangerous. “Oh, I’ll find ‘em, alright.” His lips skim your ribs once more before his mouth claims yours again, hungry. His hands roam over your bare back then, slow and wanting, mapping the heat of your skin with his fingers. His lips suckle small wet patches on the side of your jaw, trailing down your neck again while his hands work their way back up to your breast. His hands take each of your nipples between his fingers, twisting gently. He smirks at the small moans you reward him with, you feel his damn smirk against your bare skin.

“Like that, sweetheart, so good to hear you like this” he murmurs, his mouth finding your nipple. He closes around the hard peak and flicks his tongue, mouth warm and wet and so damn hot. Your skin goosebumps and your hands immediately fly to his hair.

“God, yes, Tommy.” He hums in response to you, the sensation alone can make you cum so hard right now, but you want to feel him, so you force it down. His mouth trails to your other nipple, his other hand coming up to play with the now exposed one, twisting and pulling lightly - something you’ve just discovered you love and need each time he kisses you.

His open-mouthed kisses land to where your tattoo is, his tongue tracing each inked letter. He nips softly, “Later you can tell me what that phrase means… right now, I can’t even think darlin. You’re too damn hot.”

“I can’t be the only one naked,” you interrupt him, half laugh, and he closes the gap so you can work at his shirt. You peel the tee off him; his skin is warm, scarred in places that mark the life he’s lived. You press your mouth to his chest and drag kisses down, tasting, teasing a path across his body. His fingers knot in the hair at the nape of your neck, steady and hard, and a sound slips out of both of you, slow and raw.

You stop, lift your head, and for a beat he’s everything you need a man to be. Broad, carved with scars that make him look dangerous, a little wrecked, and impossible to turn away from. You laugh, breathless and half in awe. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say, voice edged with something like worship and challenge, maybe even a little breathless. “You’re a fucking piece of heaven, Tommy.”

He unbuttons your jeans and pauses. He makes eye contact before proceeding, making sure you are comfortable.

You fix your eyes on him and bring your index finger to your lips, as a sign of silence, while you rock your hips at a better angle for him to slip his hand on.

Take that as a fucking yes he thinks to himself. He slips his hand underneath your panties, while the other hand grips firmly in your waist. He rests his hand there, still. Then he pulls his face back just enough to look you dead in the eye, voice low and deliberate.

“Now, hear me out, sweetheart. Out there, you keep bossin’ me around, barkin’ orders, tellin’ me what to do.” His grin curves, slow and dangerous. “But here? Here I’m the one in charge.” He squeezes your waist even tighter, grounding you, his eyes burning into yours. “You’re gonna behave for me. Or I’ll need to be cruel again. You’re gonna use ‘please,’ be real sweet, be a nice lady. Clear?”

“Clear,” you whisper, voice low and teasing. Then you tilt your head, brushing your mouth close to his ear. “I’ll be nice for you, Miller… anything you want.”

“That’s my girl.” His rough fingers slide through the heat of where they are joined, groaning softly at what he finds. You tilt your head back. “Tommy… yes. This feels so good…”

“Fuck, you’re so wet, babe. You fuckin’ needed me. Dripping for me.” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at you, you do like hearing my game rules.” His fingers buried deep inside you, touching your soft spot, making a mess on his hand.

 “Please, Tommy…”

He let out a low, bitter chuckle. “Please, what?”

“Feels too good. So good. I need you, Tommy,” you choke. He has you moaning and crying out his name and it sounds like heaven to him. “Please, I just need you, please.”

“Oh, I sure will, my pretty girl. But you have to be patient. Can’t skip ahead, I told you I would be tasting you, didn’t I?”

You nod, a little too eagerly, your cheeks a bright shade of pink. Tommy smirks. You gasp at the absence of his fingers being pulled away. “I know, babe. Gotta take these off though,” he murmurs.

His fingers hook around the waistline to your jeans, grabbing your panties along with them. You lift up your hips slightly, making it easier for him to pull off whatever piece of material standing between him and heaven. His eyes meet yours again, asking one more time if this is what you wanted. You groan and wrap your legs around his torso, pulling him closer to you. He chuckles and shakes his head, bracing himself between your knees.

“You always wanted to get me on my knees, haven’t ya,” Tommy jokes. Your roll your eyes. He finds a little sun tattoo you keep hidden away. He won’t tell you now but his heart sinks in the best way when he sees it. He presses his lips onto it gently, a small kiss left there.

“And look how natural it looks on yo-,” you start to say, but Tommy’s tongue immediately lays a long, slow lick over your dripping pussy. He watches your breath catch, watches how your head falls back and your chest rises: slowly then a quick little pant. “Oh my God.”

Tommy hums, the vibration echoing through you, making your legs instinctively try to shut. His big, strong hands palm your thighs open, his tongue swiping between your folds. “Feels good, don’t it?”

Your turn to hum. You hook one leg over his shoulder and prop yourself up on one elbow while the other hand is tangled in his hair. The sight is pornographic. Tommy’s eyes dark with lust, the sounds he’s making against your wet center obscene. Your back arches up and his calloused hands on your thigh squeeze harder.

His lips seal around your swollen bud and he gently sucks, slow and steady. His tongue swiping up and down and all over your cunt until your legs are trembling and your tummy is aching that familiar ache you get when you need that release so damn bad. You tug at his hair again, whining his name. He loves it. So damn much. His cock rock hard, strangled behind denim, throbbing each time you moan out his name. “Please Tommy, don’t stop,” you had said. He nearly came right there.

He keeps you here, wanting, aching and moaning for more. Keeps you right here on edge, circling and flicking while your thighs threaten to clamp around his head. Your breathing goes erratic, you’re close and he can tell. He can tell by how tight your tugging on him, how fucked out you look right now. Your mouth hanging open, you squirming around, trying to keep yourself up. He chuckles against you, his big hands moved to grip onto your waist, giving you a little more support when you finally cum for him.

You fall back on the table, your elbows keeping you up - Tommy’s hands making you arch perfectly into him. He doesn’t stop tongue fucking you even while you’re cumming. He’s greedy. He wants it all. He moans into you, lapping up each fucking drop you give him. He doesn’t stop until you’re overstimulated and begging for him to stop. Please, Tommy. Too much- can’t- can’t take it. When he knows damn well you can.

He pulls back, lets you lay flat on the table, the cards fanned underneath you. An erotic dream he’s definitely had. You watch him wipe your slick dripping down his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes darker than before and that damn smirk. “Look at you, babe. All fucked out from just my mouth. I ain’t even inside you yet,” he murmurs, his hands landing beside you. Your breathing calms as you run your hands up his arms and around his biceps.

“Then be inside me, Miller,” you say. He chuckles and one hand reaches between your bodies; the sound of metal clinking replaces the wet echoes from before. He shucks his jeans down around his ankles and stands back, his hands on your waist again to tug you down the table. You part your legs around him, watching him bite his lip while his eyes are glued to your swollen pussy. His eyes flick up to your beautiful face, that smirk of yours on full display while you lift your hands above your head. You thought you’d feel so differently laid here spread out for him, but you don’t. It almost feels like you’re reclaiming something taken from you. You’re making this moment yours. You’re taking it back. And Tommy can see it. He admires it. His small nod tells you that he feels it, feels what you’re feeling and he’s proud. He’s happy you feel comfortable doing this for him - with him. For yourself. Because you want to. And you want to with him.

The sweat from your body makes the cards cling to your skin. Tommy strokes himself with one hand while his other lifts up one of your legs, your foot at the edge of the table. He grabs the card stuck on the bottom of your thigh and shows you. You didn’t pay much attention. Not when his cock is in his palm, angry and hard and dripping precum.

He sees you watching his cock, sees the way you’re practically salivating. You watch him line himself up. His thick head nudging against your entrance. You whimper when he doesn’t go in, just stays right there. Your eyes finally meet his and he leans forward, sliding the card in front of your face, “Ace of hearts,” he says softly.”

You snort and shake your head, “Tommy Miller, you’re the worst.”

He smiles softly and kisses the corner of your mouth, “Babe. Are you sure?”

Your heart aches at how much restraint he’s showing, how much he wants you to feel comfortable and in charge. You nod, “I’ve never ever been surer. I want you, Tommy. I want this. I want you inside me,” you whisper, your hands framing his face, his eyes searching yours for doubt that isn’t and will never be there with him.

“Then, that’s what you’ll get, my pretty girl. You’re so beautiful, babe. Can’t stop statin’ at you,” he says.

You giggle and shake your head, biting your bottom lip. “Tommy Miller, stop being sappy and fuck me already.”

He presses into you, stuffing you full of him in one quick motion. “Anyone ever tell you, you got a dirty mouth,” he says. You gasp, mouth hanging open, eyes piercing his. He loves this look. Loves how your brows are furrowed in that aching, disgustingly good pain. He smirks and begins to move again. This time slower. Your hands grip onto his biceps, legs dropping on each side of him, opening yourself up more for him.

His strokes are long and deep, achingly deep. He murmurs good girl while he sets his rhythm. Hips snapping into yours harder each time your tight walls flutter around his thick cock, each time your moans get louder as if telling him it’s okay, I’m okay; give it to me. One of his hands wraps around your neck gently, just to anchor, while the other grips your jaw, tight but not too. He brushes his thumb along your parted lips and slips it inside, you suck on it just as he wanted, while he pounds into you harder. The cards shuffling off the table, underneath you, onto your body.

He fucks you like he knew exactly how to fuck you the first time you met his eyes. Your moans and skin slapping against skin send him into overdrive. You moan his name and claw at his chest, at his hair, everywhere. He leans his forehead against yours and gives it to you deep. He knows you’re about to cum by how tight your eyes are shut, how arched your back is, and he locks his lips onto yours - catching each moan. His chest is warm and sweaty and perfect against your nipples while he holds his body against yours. His hands move to your ass, cupping tightly while he lifts you slightly up for a better angle. “Goddamn this ass,” he groans, “have the whole fuckin’ place linin’ up just to get a glimpse.”  

You knew you had a nice ass. Knew your uniform kept you hidden in all the ways you liked.

“You been hidin’ all this from me behind those damn FEDRA fatigues, huh, babe? That changes tonight,” Tommy jokes, squeezing your ass tighter while he gives you tight, shallow strokes, hitting that spot that has you leaving crescent shaped imprints on his skin. He shakes his head in disbelief at how fucking hot you are, how hot you’ve been this whole damn time, giving him hell and barking orders at him. He loves you for it. He loves the hell out of you for it.

He fucks another orgasm out of you, drinking in your animalistic moans that he fucking adores - loves knowing he’s the reason you’ve lost all control.

It doesn’t take him long either. Not when you open your eyes and watch him pull back, his shoulders tense as he stands there fucking you, the grip on your waist tight; you know it’ll bruise but fuck, the way it feels. Like he’s holding onto a rope at the top of the highest mountain. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he grits, his strokes erratic and hard and rough.

“Cum for me, Tommy, please,” you say. His eyes catch the way your necklace bounces with each thrust he fucks into you. Your words ringing in his ears. Your tattoos slick with sweat. The sun tattoo on your groin he kissed earlier begging him to let loose. He wants to cum there. Right on that tattoo that makes your pussy even prettier.

He pulls out, against his better judgment because fuck, could he cum inside you and leave it there. You gasp and prop up on your elbows again, watching him stroke himself to climax. You moan at the sight. “Gonna cum on you. Gonna cum right where the sun shines,” he mutters, even in orgasm, he still had the cheesiest lines.

The warmth of his white ropes makes your belly flutter. He cums, a lot. He groans and whispers your name softly as he milks every last drop out of his dick and onto your pussy and stomach. You moan at the way his swollen head rubs his spend into your sun tattoo. He gathers some onto the tip and slides it down your wet folds. “So damn pretty. You’re so damn pretty when you got all’a me on you, dirty girl.”

He pulls back and grabs a small cloth he had tucked away somewhere, and cleans you up before cleaning himself up. His fingers brush your cheek, down your neck. He grabs the sun pendant again and holds it in his palm. “I swear,” he starts to say, “this is perfect.”

“What?” you whisper. He looks up at you and rests his forehead against yours.  

“You being a sunshine in this gray life, you know that,” he murmurs.

You blush. It’s so cute, but the necklace wasn’t his story - it was Victor’s, and you felt guilty about it.

It didn’t matter now, you told yourself. Not compared to this. You held on to Tommy’s warmth, let it wash over you, even if the pendant between you carried a story he couldn’t see.

“Tommy,” you mumble, “you can’t say things like that and expect me not to melt,” you whisper, half admission half joke.

“Darlin’, I want you to. I want you to melt all over me.” He thumbs the pendant then lets it hang loosely on your chest again.  He finishes getting you dressed and finishes getting himself dressed as well.

The cards scattered all over the room taunt the two of you. “Y’know, as hot as this was, Miller. I do not like picking up a shit ton of cards.”

“Hey,” he starts to say, bending down to pick up a jack and ten of spades, “It ain’t a Vegas night without playing 52 card pick up.”

You scoff, a smile betraying you as you help Tommy tidy everything up.

A few minutes later, head resting against his chest in the couch, you break the news to him.

 “Tommy…I did it. We have our place. I found another way to my home. Through the bombed building near my block. Took me weeks to clear it, but it’s done. You can come to my house now. We don’t have to hide like this anymore.”

Tommy’s chest swelled under your cheek, breath catching like you’d just knocked the air out of him. His hand fisted lightly in your hair, not rough, just needing to hold on. “Darlin’…” his drawl was thick, reverent and hungry all at once, “you got no damn clue what that does to me. Weeks you been workin’ on this? For us?”

He tipped your chin up, eyes burning into yours, and kissed you hard, deep, grateful. Like he wanted to carve the moment into memory. When he finally pulled back, his lips still brushing yours, his voice dropped low and ragged. “You just gave me the best goddamn gift I ever had.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself, I did it mainly for the nostalgia on my firefighter days. Mainly to keep my hands doing what they know. I missed the work.” You chuckle.

Tommy huffed, low and rough. “That’s bullshit. You didn’t crawl through rubble for weeks just to stretch your muscles. You did it for me. For us. And you know it.”

Both of you knew he was right.

Tommy’s hand drifted lazily along your ribs, thumb brushing over the tattoo there. His brow furrowed, like he’d finally remembered a question he’d been holding back. “Alright, darlin’… time you tell me. This here.” He traced the words with his fingertip, reverent. “What’s it mean?”

You smiled softly, meeting his curious eyes. “It’s Italian. L’amor che move il sole. From Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy. The last verse, actually. ‘The love that moves the sun.” You paused, letting the weight of it settle.

He went quiet, thumb still pressed against your ribs. Then he huffed out a laugh, voice low and rough. “Unbelievable. You know how much that sounds like me talkin’ about you? Like what you do to me, inside here.” He says it guiding your hand into his chest, holding it there over the beat of his heart.

Your breath caught as he tilted his head, grin tugging at his lips. “You got this whole dark-officer thing goin’ on, scarin’ the hell outta everyone in uniform. But stripped down? Naked like this?” His eyes raked over you, slow and heated. “You’re just the sun. Sun on your neck, sun on your ribs, sun written all over you,  sun where… sun where only I can see.”

Your brow arched, a laugh bubbling out of you. “God, Tommy… that is so damn cheesy. You sound like one of those smugglers trying to sweet-talk their way out of a hot FEDRA agent.”

His grin crooked wider, unashamed.

You shook your head, still smiling, unable to hide the glow in your cheeks. “But… I guess it kinda makes sense. In a weird way.” Despite of the joke, you acknowledge of how true this is.

His grin softened, faded into something almost shy. He lifted a hand to your face, cupping your cheek with a careful touch. His thumb brushed lightly along your skin, steadying himself as much as you.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

The words felt heavier than the air, anchored deep in his drawl. For a heartbeat, all you could do was stare. Then you whispered back, sure as your own pulse,

“I love you too, Tommy Miller.” you whisper.

The silence after was warm, golden. Until he broke it with a smirk. “And what made you chose to tattoo Dante? Best book you ever read?”

You snorted. “Read? Tommy, I’ve never even been close to that book.”

That cracked both of you, laughter spilling out, tangled and messy. The romantic weight of the moment splintered, but it only made it sweeter. Because love was right there in the sound of it. Reckless, real and alive.

 “Think your friends will sit down at this table tomorrow, playing poker like nothing happened? Any clue we just ruined their lucky cards by fucking on top of them?”

Tommy chuckled, voice rough from the night. “Hell, if they do, I hope they shuffle that ace of hearts real careful. Might still be warm.”

You smack his chest, snorting. “You’re disgusting.”

His grin only widened, slow and wicked. “Disgustin’? Darlin’, we just gave this place a whole new kind of luck. Bet every hand they play here now’s gonna burn.”

You let out another lazy laugh, still sprawled against him, hair a mess across his chest. “Tommy, think I’ll steal one. A card. A souvenir from my little trip to Vegas.”

Tommy raised a brow. “Better make it the ace of spades. Death. Power. Fits you, officer Butcher. Real scary.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No. I’ll take the ace of hearts. It’s supposed to mean emotional new beginnings. And as long as I’ve got you by my side, Tommy… there’s no war. No death. Just this.”

For a second, he just stared, lips parted, eyes shining with something boyish and unguarded. Then he let out a breathless chuckle, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, listen to us. You got me sittin’ here like a damn teenager, gettin’ silly over cards and love talk darlin’.”

You grinned wider. “Guess it’s contagious.”

The night ended faster than either of you wanted. Fingers lingered too long, eyes clung in silence, and the goodbye caught like splinters in your throats. Still, you parted, each step away heavier than the last, until the city swallowed him from view.

Later, you lay back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep tugged at you, but your thoughts spun warm, golden. Happiness. Real, unshaken happiness, poured through you, almost frightening in its force. Three years of scars and silence, and somehow, he’d been undoing them piece by piece.

You turned the questions over and over. Why hadn’t it worked with Victor? Was it time that had softened the wound? Or was it Tommy - the way he looked at you, steady and fierce, like the world hadn’t ruined you after all? You had braced for panic, for the trigger of old memories, but instead there was nothing heavy at all. Just lightness. Just him.

His touch was like heaven taking place of something evil. You let yourself drift toward sleep without fear.

Across town, Tommy lay awake, eyes on the ceiling, jaw tight. The knot in his throat hadn’t loosened since he let you go. He wanted you. He needed you. In a way that burned through every part of him. But wanting wasn’t enough. Not here. Not with the QZ walls pressing in.

He knew what it meant. To keep you, to hold this fragile, blazing thing alive, he had to pull you into his fight. The only possible way that you both could still be together. Pull you into the Fireflies. There was no other path, no other future. Life without you wasn’t an option anymore.

---

Days later, when you showed Tommy, his jaw actually dropped.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He crouched to study the bent iron, then straightened, eyes glinting. “When you said you were a firefighter, I figured you meant rescuin’ cats from trees. Not openin’ goddamn fortresses.”

You smirked, brushing dust off your hands. “Shows what you know.”

He shook his head, a slow grin spreading. “I’ll be damned. Guess I underestimated you. You break through walls. Literally.

His hand slid up the line of your arm, fingers grazing slow over skin. The touch deepened when he came around your back, his palm firm at your hip, the pressure unmistakable. But you kept your voice steady, focused, as though his heat didn’t crawl through you.

“I found proper tools,” you explained, nodding toward the scattered gear. “Rescue-grade cutters, pry bar, even a hydraulic spreader. Stuff I knew from the job. Took weeks to salvage them, but once I had the right steel, the wall didn’t stand a chance.”

Tommy leaned in, lips brushing yours, tongue just about to claim you. You stopped, breath mingling with his, and whispered, “And then I had to reinforce the braces…”

He tried again, dipping to capture your mouth. You angled away at the last second, your lips grazing his cheek instead. “…clear the debris, make sure the load-bearing beams were steady.”

His jaw flexed, hand sliding up your side, desperate to pin you in place. You only smiled, devilish, and went on, “Of course, after that came the safety checks. Measurements. All the boring stuff.” The words ruined the moment on purpose again and he groaned, a low sound in his chest, half laugh and half threat. His forehead pressed to yours, grip at your waist tightening “Now you’re bein’ cruel, woman,” he muttered, his hand gripping firmer at your waist.

“Cruel?” you smirked, leaning back just enough to watch his eyes darken. “I’m generous. I gave you the whole technical walkthrough for free.”

He shook his head, biting back another groan, lips grazing the corner of your mouth but never closing in. “You build a goddamn tunnel just so I can sneak into your bed, and then you torture me like this?”

“I told you I just did it for the muscle memory. Nostalgia for the job.”

“Bullshit,” he growled, jaw tightening, but the smile cut through anyway.

You laughed softly, eyes gleaming. “Perv. And who said I want to sneak you into my bed?” You let the silence hang, watching his gaze sharpen, hungry, before you added with a sly grin,

“There’s the couch. The shower. Pretty much anywhere I decide I want you.”

The breath caught in his chest, a low curse tumbling out. His hand gripped you hard. “Jesus Christ,” His voice came rough, ragged. “You keep talkin’ like that and I ain’t holdin’ another damn minute.” The playful gleam in your eyes dimmed, your eyes don’t miss the subtle bulge in his pants.

“Look, we still need to be careful using this entrance.” you say. “There are some frequent windows of patrolling on my street where they could still spot us. Not to mention the other FEDRA agents who live in this complex and would recognize you in a second. I’m working to get the patrolling agenda to make sure we can enter smoothly. From now on, we will meet here. The shed entrance. Do not enter without me. Copy?”

Tommy stepped forward and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to fuse the two of you together. His lips found yours in a slow, lingering kiss. No rush, no games, just a raw stretch of warmth that left your knees weak. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough. “For this. For everythin’ you’ve done just for me.” His thumb brushed your cheek, his free hand in the small of your back, his eyes searching yours like he needed you to believe him. “I love you.” The words came out low, but certain, heavy with all the weight he’d been carrying, and for the first time, he didn’t try to swallow them back.

You open the biggest smile. “He fucking loves me. Bad boy Tommy Miller loves me.” You kiss all the extent of his jaw.

“I love you too, Tommy” with the sweetest and happier voice you could never fake, even if you wish.

Chapter Text

After that first night between passionate kisses, whiskey and cards, you kept slipping each other small, stolen pieces of time.

You met in the margins: three-minute kisses behind an old deli between shifts, warm hugs as he ducked into a rain-dark alley while the curfew sirens still hummed in the blocks, one breathless cigarette passed between you like contraband. Even though you don’t like smoking, it pays off for moment you are able to spend with him. You learned the sound of his laugh when it was only for you; he learned the way you softened when he said your name too slow. Once, under the empty lights of the market, he held you so close you could count the freckles at the curve of his cheeks. “Damn,” he’d whispered, forehead to yours, stupid and sincere. “You feel like home.” You kissed him back until the street blurred.

But daylight made him different.

Lately it’s been harder to get him when the sky was pale. He’d show up at odd hours then disappear before the morning show. Sometimes he’d slip into your sector for five minutes between patrols, eyes darting like a man who’d misplaced his shadow. You mentioned it once, more teasing than accusation.

“You’re getting hard to catch,” you said, waggling a finger. “Are you avoiding me, Miller?”

He gave that crooked, guilty grin and shrugged like it was no big thing. “I would never, darlin’. Work’s been weird. A couple of jobs to square up. Don’t worry. I’m around.” He’d say he was doing favors for old friends, moving goods, laying low. He was too good at turning the worry into a smile. You felt it, though. The small cold in the way he kept the daylight short, the way his hand slipped from your waist a beat too early. You should’ve asked harder, but maybe you didn’t want to hear the answer to this question.

One night he went practical. He dug something from his pocket - a small key, its metal dull from use. And pressed it into your palm. “Let’s have our official spot to meet.” he said, half joke, half plan. “The alley between 168 and 167 on Marlow Street. There’s a gate that usually locks up; I’ll leave this key with you. We can use it at least until you get the patrol schedule of your street. In any case, even if we don’t meet there, we can slip a note under a rusted drum by the second gate. You’ll see it, it’s got a stamp of a yellow eye inside a sun.” He tapped your tattooed ribs with a grin. “Figured the sun follows you around anyway. If we can’t see each other, we can still exchange letters. Romantic, huh?”

You laughed softly, brittle with something close to relief. “I’ll get the agenda soon,” you said. “They’ll call me to headquarters this week, and I’ll try to sneak into it while I’m there.”

You laughed, the sound brittle with something like relief.
“I’ll check the letters it whenever I can.” He reached up and kissed you, long and clumsy in that excellent way he had. “Promise I’m not avoiding you.”

“Too much drama, Tommy, relax. All good for me.”

You say, but it wasn’t.

You saw him walking away with the rain flattening his hair. You told yourself the excuses were fine. Because they were, because he’d been there, because he’d left keys and jokes and kisses. Even when the daylight grew leaner and his answers thinner, you let a small hope do the work of the questions. Even when his eyes hid a concern and an angst you couldn’t quite read further. You didn’t push. You told yourself it was a busy week, bad luck, nothing more. Maybe Tommy Miller had finally grown a brain and learned how not to get caught by FEDRA. Maybe things with Joel had gone totally off the rails, and he was either too upset or too stubborn to fix it. Maybe he just needed time.

Still, a poisonous thought kept trying to crawl in - that he was ghosting you. That after finally having you, after that night, he’d decided he’d had enough. Just another man who vanished once the mystery was gone. The idea made your stomach twist, but it didn’t make sense. You’d been meeting for months before that night. No one spends months meeting in a dirty laundry, risking curfews, memorizing your patrol schedules, for one fuck. And besides, you’d seen it in him - the softness that still slipped through his rough edges, the way his voice and his eyes changed when he said your name.

You exhaled, almost angry at yourself.

No, he’s not ghosting you after a fuck.

It’s something worse.

You didn’t let yourself think what that “worse” could be. You buried the thought deep, where all the dangerous things went, and ordered your mind to shut up.

The weeks go by too fast, too slow. You managed to find the patrolling agenda of your street to get the safe timeslots Tommy could sneak in the FEDRA house complex. What you don’t manage to find is Tommy. He is nowhere to be found. He mentioned he would be out for a few days, that he would spend more time away, but that you would eventually find him on the locked alley at certain time slots. But you don’t.

You still find his notes often, though.

“Darling,
Quick note: You’re stuck in my head. Good news: I’m flattered. Bad news: you keep me from sleep. Everything’s okay. Love you.
— TM”

At this point, you never been without seeing him for so long. Before, he would always find a way to glimpse in the crowd, find you in a dark corner of the city. But not now. You get chills thinking about what could have happened. You keep your mindset positive and sure that he is fine. But something on you says he’s not.

“Hey you,
Miss your pretty face. Miss your mouth. Miss you barking me around the streets. Work’s messy but I’m keepin’ up. Don’t do anything stupid. Promise I won’t either.
— TM”

You keep telling yourself things aren’t strange. As if it was common practice for smugglers to just vanish or walk on the shadows.

One night you pull a scrap from under the drum and blink at the end. It isn’t signed with his usual “—TM” like the others. Instead singed with: “—27.3”. For a beat you stare at it, trying to shake loose whatever private joke you’re missing or a cipher you don’t know how to read. Maybe it’s nothing but a number, a date, a code gone wrong. It’s definitely his handwritten. You tuck the scrap into your pocket anyway, give a little shrug, and let it go. For now.

You missed him with a sharpness that concerned you, and though you told yourself to be patient, the silence between you had grown heavy, filled with doubt.

Weeks had stretched too long without him. You manage to meet him for some stolen minutes in the locked alley that weren’t enough; they were smoke that burned out too quick, leaving you emptier than before.

You slipped a folded scrap of paper beneath the old drum, tucking it deep into the crease where only he would think to look. On it, the time slots for patrols in your street for the next weeks, when he could slip away unseen towards your home.

Your fingers lingered on the rusted rim of the drum, a small prayer lodged in your chest. All you could do was hope he’d see it, hope he’d choose one of those slots, and give you more than scraps of his time. Give you back the feeling that had carried you through every night apart.

Coincidently with Tommy’s absence, The Fireflies have been more active these last weeks - strikes, raids, sabotage. FEDRA answered in force; the QZ is tighter, checks are heavier. Mostly it kept you busy.

But you’ve lost the itch to be violent the way you once had. You still have a job to do, but now you pick your fights, try to keep as little blood on your hands as possible.

In the next day, the radio hums with something bigger. Word comes through HQ: a major Firefly operation is suspected at the old harbor near the South 5 checkpoint. Something big enough that FEDRA is massing troops there, ready for a fight. It makes sense: a weapons transfer, an attempt to arm their cells across the city.

FEDRA throws weight at the suspected site. Most units roll out to the checkpoint and the main approach roads. You, Victor, and three other FEDRA agents are too far from the site, so you are designed to guard one of FEDRA’s lesser gates - the service entrance to a logistics warehouse closer to the city center. It’s meant to be precaution, a way to keep the supply lines bare upon an imminent attack on the other part of the city, whose size was still unknown.

Across the river, the Fireflies have read the wire. They abort the original plan and do something clever instead: they play along. Make FEDRA think bigger, draw forces wide, then hit where FEDRA’s attention is thinnest.

Tommy was now fully part of the Fireflies’ operations. He was an important asset in making their missions run smoother. He’d become the right-hand man to the group’s leaders.

Every mission carried the same gnawing fear in his gut: crossing paths with you. He chose his battles carefully, staying where the risk was lowest. Whenever it was possible he worked as a sniper, covering from a distance, where the scope kept him safe from accidentally meeting your eyes or your bullets. Other times, he took missions he knew you’d never be assigned to. He understood FEDRA’s patterns well enough - in a large-scale assault, they would push you to the main front, to the bigger site where their strongest were needed. That certainty was his thin shield. As long as he stayed away from those operations, there would be no chance of running into you.

And for this reason, he was sure he wouldn’t meet you tonight. FEDRA would send you to the big fuzz at the old harbor. The assault on the logistics center was safe for him to join.

At Firefly’s HQ, Marlene and Fred - the razor-sharp strategists and technical minds of the organization – break down the details of the operation to the team: They’ll hit the logistics warehouse to steal supplies but keep it quiet inside; they’ll send Billy to light small explosions a block away, on the Banker’s Square, stirring panic and calling guard sections away from the warehouse gate so two others – Samantha and Tom - can slip into its interior. It’s supposed to be quiet.

Tommy argues. “Billy alone?” he says. “He’s not ready for being bait.”

Marlene’s answer is a shrug you can hear. “Billy’s got guts. It’s just a distraction. Light it up and run. He’s fast enough. I’ll send Peter with him… And Tommy, you’ll take the high ground with the sniper. We need a clear line on both Billy’s spot and the warehouse gate. You cover the runners, you cover the door. If anything goes sideways, you pull them out.”

Peter’s a twenty-three years old new joiner, young, naïve and desperate to prove himself. “I’ll go,” he says quickly. “I’m in.” There’s a restless gleam in his eyes, the kind that comes from too many nights dreaming about being a hero. When he speaks up, his voice has that bright, eager edge of someone who’s never seen what real blood does to a man.

Tommy grunts but doesn’t refuse. He agrees to a rooftop vantage on a mercantile building with good sightlines over the Banker’s Square and down to the warehouse. It leaves him in between. A vantage to support Billy and Peter, but also Samantha and Tom.

The plan rolls. Billy and Peter fan toward the diversion point at the Banker’s square. The two others slip to the warehouse gate under the cover of the street mess. Tommy climbs into a shadow on the rooftop and settles behind a scope.

What the Fireflies didn’t foresee was that FEDRA also had agents stationed near the distraction point. Men buried in the crowd, waiting for any sign of rebellion to flare.

You and Victor, finally patched into the same channel, get the call about explosions near Banker’s square. HQ reports the explosions look like a diversion for the harbor and orders units to keep their positions.

But seconds later, another voice crackles through. This time not from HQ, but from the field itself – agents Dias and Sanders: “We are cornered Banker’s square. Two young Fireflies on the ground and a sniper. Asking backup.” You and Victor look at each other and start rushing to the position which is just a block away from where you are. For thirty heartbeats there’s a lull; then the radio snaps again: “The sniper has been spotted on rooftop of Bay State Mercantile. Reinforcements, approach from south. Sniper got deadly aim.”

Radio goes silent for a few seconds before they bark again, while you and Victor are moving to the south side of the square. “We’re pinned; can’t budge without getting slaughtered. Seems the smuggler on the sniper. Miller? Shit, didn’t know the fucker was a Firefly. We’re is the fucking backup?”

You stiffen. The name lands like a bullet between your ribs. The noise of the city drops out - all sirens and gunfire swallowed by the ringing in your ears. For a heartbeat you can’t breathe. Miller.

Victor snatched the receiver, his reply sharp and certain. “Copy that. We’ll be there in four minutes.” He dropped the radio back and turned on you, a grim smile tugging at his bruised face.

“You heard that?” he spat, satisfaction dripping off the words. “Still think you knew your friend? Hah. I told you. And look your little hero Miller proving me right.”

The truth you never dared to consider hits you hard.

It can’t be him.

In fact, it can. Everything makes sense now. The stubborn, stupid, hero syndrome that he let slip every time. That was the secret haunting his eyes every time he was distracted from hiding it.

You splinter inside but you keep moving. No time to waste. You can’t allow Victor to notice your panic. You can’t let Tommy be killed by FEDRA. You and Victor were already halfway. Victor kept pace, hungry for a target.

Was that why he kept vanishing from the streets? Why even start talking to you if he was a Firefly? Questions pile, sharp and endless. Red flags everywhere. You ignored them all.

You are so fucking stupid!

The hurt hollows you out, but hesitation is death. You must find him.

The radio crackles. It’s from your FEDRA fellows that stayed behind in the logistic warehouse.

“Warehouse gate’s compromised. We’ve got breachers at the north loading bay! Need immediate backup, over! Butcher, Victor, return!” one agent barked, breath ragged.

“You go back to the warehouse gate, Victor,” you say, voice flat. “I need to reach Dias and Sanders.”

Victor’s face tightens for a heartbeat - then his eyes go cold and slow with recognition. “You’re not going for Dias and Sanders,” he spits. “You’re going for Miller.”

You force a steady breath and meet his eyes. “If it’s him,” you say, words clipped and sure, “I’ll be the one to take him down, Victor. I gave him many chances thinking I could trust him. I’ll handle it accordingly.”

Victor’s jaw drops, disbelief raw in his voice as he barks “that’s fucking unbelievable, Butcher.”

“I can handle the 3 fireflies on the square. You can handle the intruders in the warehouse. I know that. You know that. We are going to be fine. Go, Victor.”

Victor hesitated, ran a hand over his face, and let out a long sigh. “… shit, I know I’m not gonna convince you otherwise fast enough.” He stepped closer, thumb lifting to catch your chin in a brief, almost tender gesture. “Keep me updated on the radio.” Victor turns around to return to the warehouse gate.

“And butcher” He stops for a moment “You better fucking stick to your word.”

You keep your face level and nod slightly, even though your heart is kicking like a trapped thing.

His shoulders off toward the warehouse to back up the other two agents. You turn away and continue running. Alone.

You hear in your radio that the sniper escaped the building and reached the younger soldiers. You arrive at the conflict area, painting. The corner burning into fire and chaos. You position yourself and take cover in some debris.

That’s when you spot them all. Tommy on the far side of the square; Dias and Sanders closing in from the north.

Tommy saw you. You saw everything: the lie he hadn’t told; the choice he’d made.

His gut clenched like he’d been shot clean through. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not this close. Not in his line of fire. Desperation gripped him, fierce and unrelenting.

“Back up is here! Hold your damn line!” you shout at Dias and Sanders, voice cutting through the gunfire while taking cover from across their position.

Tommy saw your eyes on the distance. The feral eyes of real FEDRA agent. Merciless. A look like he is not sure if you are there to help him or be the one to pull the trigger on him. Whatever lived soft in your gaze died on contact. His focus stuttered. That’s when the world bit back.

Tommy was dragging Billy from a small barricate towards a dead sedan, where Peter already was.

The agents open fire again. One shot ripped across Tommy’s shooting arm. The other punched his thigh, right above knee.

Maybe they found a good angle. Maybe Tommy was distracted by you.

He stumbled, cussed, kept the kid behind him and reached the car. Billy and Peter would still fight back, but they still lacked the precision required to aim effectively at the two agents.

“Ok, let’s move!” Dias pushing forward.

Adrenaline flooded you, instincts snapping into place. You broke into a sprint, boots hammering wet asphalt. “Cover!” you barked at them - training drilled deep, the kind of clipped commands that carried authority even in chaos.

Sanders shouted, panic edging his voice. “What the hell is she doing?”

Dias gave a short, bitter laugh. “It’s Butcher. The bitch is crazy. She wants to get the fucking praise for her.”

“And we are allowing her to do so?”

“Shit, I’m not running towards a sniper and two dumb kids with guns to win the race. Fuck it. Let’s wait to see if she manages it.”

Meantime, Tommy sees you approaching and yells to Billy and Peter, from behind the car, hoarse and raw. “You both, don’t shoot her. No matter what happens, or what she does, don’t you fuckin’ shoot her!”

Dias and Sanders hesitated, confusion twisting their aim, but you were already sliding into position towards the sedan, gun pointing to targets. You dove behind the wrecked sedan, chest heaving.

“Yep, you were right when you said you run fast” Tommy rasped, a low moan of pain threading his words as the injuries flared. Making jokes in the darkest moments was a stupid, stubborn habit of his, but a way to hold the panic back, and a quiet test, too: he was reading you.

You look at his leg. You have enough experience to notice he is loosing too much blood. His gun lay by his side, slick with his blood.

Adrenaline turns your body into instruments you’ve used a thousand times. Instincts order you forward. You get his gun, metal cold and foreign in your hand compared to your issued rifle.

You look at Tommy. Cold. Blunt.

Tommy froze, not sure what you’d do next. The thought cut them both the same way - fear you might finish it here, drop the three of them before deciding which side you stood on.

“FEDRA rounds’ll trace back to me,” you hissed under your breath. “Can’t use my guns”

Dias and Sanders were confused. They are moving towards the sedan, cautiously. Once they are close enough, and before they could even acknowledge what you were doing, you popped up over the hood and fired. One, two. Clean head shots that ripped them down fast. They collapsed against the brick, weapons clattering useless to the ground.

The alley went quiet.

Your blood was running a million miles an hour, hot and frantic behind your ribs. For a beat you weren’t sure you’d done what you just did. Panic crawled under your skin, but fight-mode snapped on like a switch. You look at Tommy’s leg. He’s losing blood, bright and fast. “Tourniquet,” you ordered yourself, voice trembling trying to stay flat. Your belt came free; you cinched it high on his thigh and twisted until his groan went feral. You evaluate his leg. You held it steady, counted, watched the pulse until the bleeding started to slow down. Only then did you breathe again. “Seems a lot of blood, but luckily it didn’t hit an artery.”

You checked for an exit wound behind his thigh - found one. Clean. No fragments. “Good… bullet went through,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

You moved upward, hands slick and trembling, scanning for more damage. His right arm caught your eye - blood streaked down his sleeve, darker where it soaked the fabric. You tore the cloth open and saw the wound: a deep, ugly tear through the bicep. “Damn it, Tommy,” you hissed, pressing around the edges. It bled hard, but not the pulsing kind. “This one’s deep, but still clean.”

Billy stands like someone watching a play end. Peter hands shaking. He’s young enough that his fury is raw and simple. He’s also the kind of kid who uses rules as rope and is anger for FEDRA’s blood – which so far, he could not get with his own hands. He looks at you with blind, incendiary certainty.

“You’re FEDRA!” he says, voice high. His gun lifts. He doesn’t know you. He only knows the badge you use and the rifle slung at your side. In the chaos, he reads threat and acts.

“Drop it!” Tommy snarls, one-eyed and furious. “She is not like them!”

Peter keeps his gun at your direction. His panicked judgment makes him dangerous. “They’re all FEDRA, all of ’em, badges, uniforms, same rotten order. You trust one of them?”

“Peter, hand me the gun. Now. Put this fucking thing down.”

Your hands were clamped tight over Tommy’s thigh, fingers pressing into the wound. Blood soaked your palm, slick and fast. Slowly, carefully, you lifted both hands, palms up in a clear sign of truce for anyone watching. “Billy, press it, hard,” you ordered, nodding to the wound below the tourniquet. Billy does it without hesitation.

“Hell, I heard the stories. She’s Butcher. We’ve been on her tail for years - only every time we close to get her Marlene steps in. Says the woman’s useful, or that she earned a favor - some diplomatic bullshit. Still, if we catch her now and put one in her, that’s a win you hang on your wall.”

“Fuck Peter, drop the goddamn gun now! That’s an order!”

Peter spits the words like they’re proof. “Fuck Tommy, what a shitty example you’re makin’. Look at her. That’s not mercy, pretending to care. That’s calculation.”

Tommy’s face changes in a second you will never get back. The man who jokes and sings gets very small and very simple. He reaches his pistol with no hesitation, the weight slam across his chest. At this moment he’s not the Firefly; he’s the man who would do anything to keep you alive.

He exhales hard, eyes flicking between Peter’s trembling hands and the barrel pointed your way. “Peter… please. Don’t make me do this.”

Peter scares out of his mind and pulls the trigger against Tommy. Tommy’s pistol fires almost at the same time, instinct, not choice.

The gunshot tears through the night. Tommy staggers back, a scream bursting out of him as blood blooms fresh across his shoulder - the same side already torn open at the bicep.

Peter’s body hits the ground.

For a moment, Tommy just stands there, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the wreck of the man he didn’t want to kill. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Then his body folds inward - a sound caught between a roar and a sob tearing from his throat. You can’t tell if it’s the pain of the new wound or the weight of what he’s done.

He lets the gun slip from his hand. It hits the floor with a dull, metallic clatter. His face has gone paper-white, skin slick and shining under the rain. Shoulders sagging, blood soaking through the fabric again. Each breath comes shorter, shallower, like the world itself is closing around him.

Billy went pale, a hand flying to his mouth like he’d seen a ghost, eyes wide and unbelieving. For a heartbeat he stood frozen.

You don’t give him time to freeze. “Billy! Now! Help me move him, goddammit! We need to be quick” you snap, voice like a hammer.

“Darlin’-“

“Tommy, shut the fuck up.” You get your bandana out and pressed into his palm. “Hold that in the shoulder. Hard.”

Billy hovered, useless and shaking. “Is he...”

You snapped. “You want him to stay alive? Help me to carry him.”

The command snaps something loose in the kid; color rushes back to his face and he stumbles forward, hands finally helping to move Tommy.

You slide under his other should, and together you haul. Tommy slumps between you and Billy, limp and heavy, a thin moan escaping him as you drag him towards the street.

But the alley has left a brand in your chest: the acknowledge that Tommy would choose you over any cause, any doctrine. He would answer his own contradictions with a bullet to keep you safe.

Victor’s voice cracked your radio: “Butcher, status?”

Fuck. “Pushing north,” you lied, dragging Tommy toward a service door. “Close to get him now. Will keep you posted. You?”

“Our agents are down. But I killed the fireflies. And I’m alive. Not thanks to you, of course.” Pause. Victor proceeds “You plan bleeding him to death or you’re arresting him to get intel?”

“We’ll see.” you said, and killed the channel.

“You can’t take me to hospital,” Tommy rasped. “They’ll finish what the bullet started.”

“I’m not taking you to any hospital.” You jammed a door with your boot, shouldered it open, pulled him through. “I’m taking you to my home. I have whatever is necessary for first aid, and its closer to any hospital you could actually enter”.

His dry laugh broke on a painful groan. “Never pictured meetin’ the parents like this.”

“Idiot. Shut up and don’t die.”

The sound dissolved into a sharp hiss through his teeth, his hand clamping hard against the wound. His body jolted with every step, jaw locked, sweat slicking his temple despite the rain. Even in his humor, the pain clawed through, and it took everything he had not to collapse on you.

You reach the shed gate. You are so exhausted. Fucking city. Fucking rain. Fucking FEDRA. Fucking Fireflies. Fucking Tommy.

You hauled him through your crawlspace with Billy’s help, metal teeth scraping your back, and into your house. You slid him to the bed, and cut away cloth, yelling Billy to go back home.

Triage was rhythm. Quick. Gloves. Improvised tools. Tourniquet pressure relieved in pulses. You irrigated with boiled water; you packed the wound with clean strips; you stitched the lacerated wounds with small, quick and even bites, swearing under your breath at the torn webbing between thumb and index.

“I need to get back. They know I was at the conflict area. I need to come with some excuse for being gone this long. Rest. I’ll be back.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Shut up, Tommy, just shut the fuck up. I can’t look at you or hear your voice.”

You flinch before you leave, and you leave your guns by the table.

You ran back to your supposed position, already rehearsing excuses for why you disappeared. There was only one way.

You sat by some boxes in an alley. Drew your knife. Breath hitching, the alley pressing close and cold. Your hand shook as you steadied yourself. Not to fashion a wound, but to make one believable. You pressed the edge of your knife briefly to the skin at the top of your skull. The pain was sudden and bright, a clean sting that made your eyes water, then dull and steady as the blood warmed and slid down your neck. It was enough blood to sell your story. The pain was sharp, merciless, but not as deep as the one twisting your chest.

Fuckin liar. Traitor.

Blood ran hot down your neck. Adrenaline kept you moving. Frenzy kept you steady. All you had to do now was convince Victor. He was the only one who could suspect anything. The only one who could break you.

You thumbed the radio back on. “Victor - you there?” Victor answered on the first call, voice tight and on edge.

“Positive. Fuck Butcher. Why the hell took you so long to reply back? Where are you?” his voice came over, tight.

You told him to meet you in a street between Bankers’ Square and the warehouse entry. A middle ground he could get to fast. He showed up five minutes later, rain flattening his hair, face already drawn with worry.

Victor’s eyes cut to you. “What happened? Are you ok?”

You drag in a breath, jaw tight. “Rifle butt caught me. I passed out. Don’t even know who swung it. When I came back, my guns were gone. Last thing I remember was Tommy shot… then nothing. Black.”

Victor’s face flashes, furious and worried all at once. “Jesus, you had me worried sick.” He reaches up and touches your cheek. Gentle, almost afraid. Then turns to the back of your head and the strip of shirt damp with blood. “This is… you okay?”

“It’s nothing serious,” you say, voice clipped. “Just a cut. I’m fine.

He keeps studying you, not satisfied. “And the others? The two officers cornered. What happened to them?”

You swallow, steadying the lie. “By the time I got there… they were already down.”

His gaze lingers, still searching for cracks. “Where’s your bandana?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” you say, too fast, too blunt.

Victor’s eyes narrowed, lingering on you longer than comfort allowed. He is not sure if he trusts the story, not fully.

Victor patches his jaw with a hand, then draws a sidearm from his belt and shoves it toward you, grip-first. “Take this,” he says, handing his gun. “You’re not going to stay empty-handed in this city.”

Your eyes are still wide, unblinking, chest tight with the hammering inside it. The last hours felt like days, running and burning yourself down to the edges of what your body and mind could carry. Every muscle screamed, every thought came fractured.

You both walk together back to the HQ, as requested by radio.

Victor’s gaze flicked back to the blood in the back of your head. “Tell me again what happened, Butcher.”

You let out a long breath and forced the words out, steadier this time. “I was headed down to the conflict zone, saw the fire and heard shots coming from north alley from old HHM bank. Approached from south as recommended previously by Dias and Sanders. Advanced until I could see our agents already down. Could spot Miller down by a sedan, bleeding. Then I blacked out. Woke up, head burning and no guns. Called you on the radio. And that’s all.

Victor watched you the whole time, jaw tight, chewing on each word like he was weighing which parts sat. He lets out a sharp exhale, a hard little sound.

He asked again. Same words. Same question.

That’s when you caught it. The way he circled your story, pulling it out of you piece by piece. A tactic. Force the retelling until the seams show. Make the liar trip on his own tongue. He was testing you, hunting for cracks.

“Fuck you, Victor”

You survived the longest day of your life.

Back home at last, after the war. After the betrayal. After Victor. After headquarters. After running your story until your throat went raw with the board.

Three Fireflies down. Four FEDRA agents dead. Two from your hands, though on paper they all belonged to Tommy. The board didn’t like it. The kind of failure it’s not acceptable. You rehearse until it sounds clean, sharp, bulletproof. They kept remembering you that your numbers are not good anymore, for a few months. Your numbers. They meant the lives you take. As if efficiency in killing was still the only thing that defined your worth. The words echoed long after the room fell silent. How could an organization claiming to bring order to chaos have death as a metric?

Victor. Motherfucker is my guardian angel. Always been. By forcing you to repeat it, he carved the story into you, gave you the precision you needed. At the end of the summarization, everybody was ok with your version of the facts. Still, their faces were tight, voices clipped - the kind of restrained disappointment that carries more weight than anger. They signed off the report, but not without a lecture about discipline, control, and the “unacceptable cost” of the mission. You stood there, nodding at every word.

For a second, the easy life flares up in your head. The neat line of days with Victor - predictable, safe, no secrets, no midnight scrambles. You should’ve insisted on that. You should’ve tried harder, let him in, let him fix whatever was left of you instead of pushing him away. Maybe if you’d chosen him, things would be calmer, simpler. Easier.

Move on with your fucking life.

The idea hits like a bruise.

Then your brain punishes you: Tommy Miller’s in your house, in your bed, hurt. You think of his smile. That crooked thing that shows up like a dare. The way his cocky drawl settles into your ribs. How he leans in like he owns the air around you, how he jokes when his mouth should be quiet, how his hand finds your waist as if it’s the most natural place in the world.

Maybe you don’t want easy. You want him, and all the trouble he brings. And you hate yourself for that, more than ever.

But the moment you breathe that truth, the rest of it starts forming in your head like a plan you haven’t chosen yet. You’ll have to get smarter. Quieter. There’s no keeping him alive without betraying someone. Maybe everyone. The thought crawls through you, cold and electric. You’ve done it before in smaller ways. Now you’ll have to do it louder, deeper, until the line between mercy and treason blurs completely.

“Anyone who plays both sides is only loyal to themselves” were Tess words, according to Victor, months back. Maybe she was right. Maybe that’s what you’ve become: nobody’s soldier. Not FEDRA’s, not Tommy’s, not even your own.

Still, the irony burns. Peter’s last words echo in the back of your skull along with your injure - Marlene always vouched for her. You don’t know what that meant, or why a woman like Marlene would protect you, but it lingers like a shadow you can’t shake. Maybe they all saw it before you did. That you were already something in between - a ghost in both sides, too fractured to belong anywhere.

One side will call you a traitor soon enough. And it won’t be wrong.

Chapter Text

You sink into the couch. Tommy’s asleep. You let yourself collapse, body leaking sweat, blood, tears. Head pounding from the cut, from the hours of strain and stress. Muscles knotted. Heart cracked wide. A wreck.

You sit there for hours. Eyes open. Empty. Sleep won’t come.

You don’t know how long you stood there. Hours maybe.

Tommy appears at the doorway, limping, staring.

You can barely muster the breath to send him back to bed. Before you do, his gaze catches the blood.

“You ok?” His voice cracks to see you covered with blood.

“Better than you. Get back to bed. I’ll shower, then deal with the rest of your bandages.”

“Can I see it? Who did this to you?” Tommy says, making a huge effort to walk to you. His voice is concerned.

“I’m FINE Tommy.” Your tone is sharp, flat. “Go back to the fucking bed. I swear I’ll shoot your other leg if you keep trying to stand up.”

He doesn’t argue. Just obeys.

Shower steam scrapes the day from your skin, but not the weight. You return to him, working by habit, leg cleaned, hand inspected, dressings tightened. He holds your hand for a second while you do it, caressing the back of your hand.

“Swear this shit in your head is not serious?”

You ignore. Then you realize you just gave him antibiotics but never gave him painkillers. He’s been dragging himself through hell in silence. No complaint. Concerned with your injury, instead of his own.

You don’t pity him. Not tonight.

You press the meds into his hand, watch him swallow, then keep going, steady and cold, until the work is done.

The silence between you hums with failure. FEDRA, the Fireflies - every plan that was supposed to mean something, all burned down to ash. You killed two innocent colleagues. You’d received a lecture from FEDRA for your failed mission, the weight of Dias and Sanders deaths still heavy on your hands.

He’d been hunted, and you can see the guilt clinging to him like smoke - the way his eyes keep darting away, the way his jaw locks when he breathes. Peter’s face is still there, haunting him. Too young. Too eager. He pulled the trigger, and it’s eating him alive. And then Samantha and Tom, which he failed to protect.

The names of the dead hang between you like ghosts. There’s no winning side left, no purpose worth bleeding for. Just the two of you - wreckage of people who were never whole, but now are just empty.

Tommy stirred, eyes finding you while you tightened the bandage at his leg. “We gotta talk. About what happened…”

You snapped before he could finish.

“Talk? You think I can talk right now. You want a fucking conversation? Fine.”

Your breath caught for a moment, then came out as fire.

“You dragged me into your mess. You lied. You could’ve killed me as easy as them. I put bullets in my own colleagues for you, Tommy. People I marched with, trusted with my life.”

The words tore loose, one after another, voice ragged with fury and exhaustion.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” you said, voice low and shaking. “Why the fuck would you make me fall for something that has no future? You knew how this would end – fuck, you knew. Either I’d die for you, or lose everything I built. My career, my rank, my name. You.”

You took a step closer, the words coming faster, rawer.

“I opened up to you, Tommy. I let you in when I swore I’d never do that again. I was careful my whole life, and then you show up with that stupid smile, and I start believing in something that was already doomed.”

Your throat burned, your hands trembling as you pointed at him.

“You turned me into exactly what I hate - a liability. I used to be good at this. Cold, sharp, untouchable. I was a good soldier before you and your goddamn hero syndrome made me forget what survival even means. And now look at me.”

You laughed once, hollow, bitter.

“I compromised everything for you - my work, my loyalty, my fucking sanity. And for what? For a man who built an entire web of lies and dragged me right into the middle of it?”

Your breath hitched, fury spilling, voice raw.

“You know… I’m so dumb. I saw the red flags. All of them. I saw the nights you vanished for weeks, the fight with Joel, the excuses, the silence. I saw Victor warning me over and over, and I ignored it. God, I ignored it. I even ignored your own brother telling me to stay away from you. And then you…” your hand trembled against his bandage, “you brought a teenager into it. Dragging a kid into your war? What the fuck were you thinking? What kind of hero are you? How many other kids you dragged to your cult?”

You can’t stop. The words keep coming, fueled, burning. Every breath tastes like rust.

“Tell me one thing, Tommy - why go through all this?” you hiss, words trembling with fury. “Why all this elaborated plot to burn me to the ground? All your bullshit, your sweet talk, the months of pretending, the plans, the meetings? Why build this whole damn performance for something that could never exist? You made me believe in something I could never have - in you, in us - when you knew from the start it was impossible. What kind of man does that?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. He let it all burn against him, then breathed slow. His voice came low, steady - like someone walking barefoot through broken glass.

“You’re right. I failed you. I can’t take that back.” He paused, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours. “But I didn’t lie to you. I lied to survive. To keep what little good I still had left. You think I dragged you into this? Maybe I did. But truth is, you already had me. From the first time you looked me in the eye as a nurse and didn’t see an useless drunk asshole. Then as an officer, you didn’t see me as an inconvenient smuggler, soldier, some Firefly, any broken thing. You made me believe I could still be more than the fight, that I could be who I used to be.”

He searched for air before continuing. “You gotta understand babe – I’m trying to pay back for the shit I’ve done. I needed to give somethin’ back to this damn world before it eats me whole.”

He swallowed, shaking his head like he was afraid to lose his own thread.

“I joined the Fireflies ‘cause I thought maybe, just maybe, they could build somethin’ better outta all this rot.”

He leaned forward now, wincing, voice roughening as it broke through the guilt.

“And you - hell, you were never FEDRA through and through. I saw it. The way you held back when you didn’t have to. The way you looked away when they ordered you to be cruel. That’s the same fire I had before it got twisted into somethin’ ugly. You were a rebel even in uniform, and I thought… maybe someday, you’d see what I see. That you were already one of us. Just on the wrong side of the wall.”

You snap. The sound came out of you before you even realized.

“Don’t you dare,” you spat, jabbing a finger toward his face. “Don’t you fucking dare assume I’d ever be one of you.”

The rage clawed its way up, uncoiling years of bitterness.

“You think I’d fall in line with the same idiots who follow whatever cause sounds poetic enough to justify a bullet? You call it freedom, I call it a fantasy. You talk about looking for the fucking light, but I’ve seen the kind of men that lead your revolution.” You pointed to your scar and your throat closed. “This is your revolution?”

Your voice cracked into a laugh, sharp and cruel.

“Men who preach hope while drowning people in their own blood. He used to talk about change, too - about sacrifice, unity, salvation. Same words you just said to me. So don’t talk to me about destiny or purpose. I’ve seen exactly what your side worships. You… Fireflies… accuse FEDRA of tyranny, but commit every sin you claim to fight against.”

You leaned closer, voice sharp as glass.

“You know what the Fireflies are to me? Hypocrites with guns. People too stupid or too corrupt to see they’re just feeding a different machine. You think FEDRA’s the devil, fine. But at least FEDRA got order, food, shelter. Why the hell do you think civilians chose to obey FEDRA instead of joining you? They don’t want your revolution, Tommy. They just want to live.”

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours.

“I’m sorry. For Sebastian. For every piece of hell he left on you. But you gotta believe me - that man wasn’t us. Not what we stand for. You can’t paint the whole Fireflies with his blood. We’re not saints, but we’re far from being monsters.”

He drew a shaky breath, steadier now, the warmth in his voice replaced by quiet conviction. “You say it’s all fantasy. But it’s a fantasy that keeps people alive. We’re rescuin’ families FEDRA left to rot, feedin’ kids they gave up on, bringin’ medicine to zones that don’t even exist on their maps anymore. We’re tryin’ to build somethin’ different, even dream about a cure. A world where people get to choose how they live, not just survive under a boot.”

He leaned forward, voice tightening, eyes bright with that old fire that never really left him. “It’s not ‘cause we did bad things that we’re bad people. I’ve done worse than I can count. But every day I wake up and I try to pay it back, one scrap of good at a time. You think that’s naïve. But it’s all I got left to keep me human. And it’s exactly what you are also doing. Even if you don’t admit it.”

He exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling, as if every word cost him blood.

“You were my reminder of what I was fightin’ for. You and the Fireflies - both of you were destinies I couldn’t walk away from, no matter how much I tried. And yeah, maybe that makes me selfish as hell. But I couldn’t stay away from either.”

He paused, jaw tight, eyes searching yours like he needed you to understand.

“I want to help to fix the world, and I want you in it.”

He leaned back, breath unsteady, voice trembling on the edge of a confession that hurt to say aloud.

“Darlin’… I’ll spend whatever days I’ve got left tryin’ to deserve the fact that you’re even sittin’ here, patchin’ me up instead of finishin’ the job. You keep me alive in ways bullets can’t touch. And if that makes me the fool living a fantasy - fine. I’ll take the fool. I’ll take desperate. I’ll take beggin’ if it means you’re still here.”

Silence pressed heavy

“I didn’t pull you into my web, darlin’,” he said finally, voice a low rasp. “I reached for you ‘cause you were the only thing that still felt like light. You’re the proof I needed that maybe there’s still somethin’ human left in me. In all of us.”

---

He slept because you ordered him to. You slept on the couch. Barely. Your body aches to rest. But you can’t.

Morning crawled in. Fortunately, FEDRA excused you from service for the next days to recover from your injury. Tommy woke to the smell of antiseptic and your perfume, hair down, eyes bruised from not sleeping, checking his wounds.

Only one day had passed. No swelling, no fever, no sign of infection.

“You holdin’ up, darlin’? How’s your head?” Tommy asked, his voice rough but soft around the edges.

You don’t reply.

You set to work checking his injuries, careful hands moving over him. For all he’d been through, the wounds looked better than you dared hope.

“You’ve either got one hell of a nurse,” you said quietly, “or an unbelievable recovery speed.”

He smiled faintly. “Both.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and uneasy, until you finally broke it.

“Tommy... Why?”

He exhaled, long and heavy. He knew what your question was about.

“I’d already made the decision before I got close to you. Joining them was something I couldn’t put off forever. At first, I hesitated. Started piling excuses. Smuggling jobs, unfinished business. But truth is, I couldn’t avoid it anymore.”

His voice cracked. “The weight’s been on my back since the very first years of outbreak. The horrors we did, the things we had to deal to survive… And Sarah. Joel’s daughter. Losing her meant losing him. I lost my brother as much as I lost my niece. After that, I did terrible things just to hold Joel together, to keep us moving. And every one of them hollowed me out. I stopped sleeping. I needed a reason, a purpose. Something to pay back for all the wrong I’d done. The Fireflies gave me that. And at the same time, you gave me that.”

“I’m sorry. Had no idea about your niece.”

He went quiet for a moment, gaze finding yours again - tired, but steady. “Truth is… it all happened at once. You and the Fireflies. I can’t even tell where one started and the other ended. I liked you as much as I liked the idea of fixin’ the world, and somehow they got tied together. You were the part that felt human again. The part that made the fight worth it.”

He gave a faint, helpless smile. “By the time I realized how deep I was in, it was already too late to untangle any of it.”

Then his eyes fixed on you. “You? You ever think FEDRA’s wrong?”

“No.” you snapped, faster than you meant to. “Should be different, of course. But that doesn’t mean they’re the enemy. Someone has to keep the world from falling apart, and FEDRA’s the only thing holding the pieces together. The methods- yeah, they’re ugly. But I stay. Because maybe I can make a difference. I play the game, but on my own terms. Every day I help people to live. And the fact they don’t notice… that’s good. Means FEDRA can change without losing control. Less violence, less death. It’s proof not everything needs to end in blood.”

But even as you said it, you knew you were lying to yourself. Your numbers, their voices echoes in your head.

He shook his head. “Or maybe you’re just lettin’ them own you.”

Your jaw tightened. “I can’t have this conversation with you. Not again.”

He pauses and brushes your arm. “Babe… the Fireflies… they’re askin’ the right questions. What’s the point of fighting if we ain’t tryin’ to live?”

He looked at you then, eyes wet, voice breaking just enough to sound honest. “You don’t have to forgive me. But don’t stand on the sidelines of this. Not when you could make a difference. You’re stronger, smarter, braver than half the soldiers I’ve fought beside. I need you in this fight - not just ‘cause I love you, but ‘cause I believe in what you could do. In what we could do.”

He leaned in, trembling now, his voice almost a whisper. “Come with me. Help me make this mean somethin’. Don’t let all this blood be for nothin’, darlin’. Don’t let me do it without you.”

“Tommy,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes. “Don’t ever make me choose between you and the only thing keeping this city from eating itself. The only purpose I have left.”

“I ain’t.” He holds your hand firmly. “Life will. And someday, soon, you’ll have to.”

This realization finishes tearing you apart. You keep yourself together just enough to finish tending to his wounds.

“I’m going out for a walk. It’ll take a while,” you say.

You walk toward the entrance you once carved near the shed - once full of hope, what feels like a lifetime ago, back when your biggest fear was receiving a warning letter from FEDRA for being seen with a smuggler. You slip between the wrecks, the only place where you feel invisible, embraced by metal and ruins.

You break down crying, knees pulled tightly to your chest. You feel like an idiot for ever believing this rotten world would allow your happiness for free. How naive you were to dream, to love, to feel joy. How unfair that the same hand that healed your wounds is the one tearing new ones open in your soul.

You lose track of time. You cry until you’re breathless, every cell in your body aching under the pressure of it all. Pain and panic tighten around your throat until you feel like you’re choking.

There’s no one to blame but yourself. You built expectations. You opened the door that should’ve stayed sealed for life.

And now you’re here - weak, useless, feeling as if you’ve already given too much to ever go back. Not only heartbroken, but damned in your career. Because as long as you and Tommy stand on opposite sides of the war, you can’t do your job - not the way you’re supposed to.

You don’t feel it anymore - the rage you once needed to have the strength to do what had to be done, whether it was obeying FEDRA or defying it. That rage was cured. It should have made space for something stronger, but it only left weakness and desolation.

Then… something wild comes immediately to mind.

You keep telling yourself Tommy’s love healed you. But maybe it wasn’t Tommy’s love. Maybe it was just… time doing what time does.

And there’s only one way to find out. Maybe, just maybe, you can prove yourself that it wasn’t Tommy performing any miracle - that you were healing yourself all along. The tiny possibility gives you strength, enough to breathe again.

Maybe you’ve just been projecting your own recovery onto him. That thought doesn’t erase the pain, but it gives you space to live with it.

You crawl out of your hiding spot and start walking, steady, determined. You know what you have to do.

---

You knock, shyly. It’s been a long time since you were last here. You’ve wandered long enough for your eyes to dry and your breathing to steady, reaching his door just as his shift ends.

When the door opened, Victor was already out of uniform - a dark tee clinging to his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faint scent of soap and coffee drifting into the hall. It had been a long time since you’d seen him like that, unguarded, relaxed. For a heartbeat, the sight of him - simply human - made something small and forgotten flicker inside you.

“Butcher?” His voice was soft, almost careful. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

He blinked once, then stepped back. “Come in.”

The apartment felt warmer than you remembered.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you said, though you stayed.

“Sit,” he told you, taking the chair across from the couch. “You look terrible.”

You laughed once, dry. “That’s one word for it.”

He waited - patient, grounded.

“The board didn’t take the last mission well,” you said at last. “They said my report didn’t add up, that I lost control of the situation. I can’t even look them in the eye. They made it clear I’m not the soldier I used to be.”

Victor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s bullshit. You’ve had bad runs before. It’s just a phase - you’ll get back on your feet.”

“They don’t think so.” You shook your head. “I’ve lost my edge.”

He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “Well… I saw it coming. Tried to warn you. Tried to cover for you. But it’s getting harder to explain why Butcher suddenly forgets how to bite.”

“They’re right.” You looked away. “I can’t pull the trigger like I used to. Something in me broke.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ve carried too much for too long, Butcher. Sooner or later, it catches up.”

You took the glass of water he offered, fingers brushing his - gentle, steady, and still not enough to fill the hollow in your chest.

“I don’t even know who I am in there anymore,” you said. “Every order feels wrong.”

“It’ll pass,” he murmured. “You’ve been through worse. You’ll find your way back.”

You almost smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just not her anymore.”

The silence between you stretched, fragile but warm.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said quietly. “About before. About us.”

He tensed, masking it with a small smile. “That’s dangerous territory.”

“Maybe. But I keep wondering if I walked away from something good.”

He searched your face, cautious. “You’re not making a lot of sense tonight.”

“I don’t have to.” You leaned forward. “I just need to feel like I still have control over something. My life, my choices.”

He studied you for a long moment. “You’re tired, Butcher. Don’t make any big choices tonight.”

You nodded, though you both knew it was already too late for that.

The air thickened, the lamp light trembling.

“I can’t sleep,” you whispered. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there - every command, every scream.”

He rose, slower this time. “You’re more than what they made you do.”

You turned toward him, something fragile twisting in your chest. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He stood close now, the scent of coffee and soap between you. “Butcher,” he said softly - a warning, a plea.

You looked at him, then to his lips.

“I’m so tired of fighting.”

He hesitated, breath shallow. “You’ll hate it in the morning.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But right now I just need to remember I’m still… alive.”

The last word broke between you. His eyes met yours - cautious, uncertain, already losing the battle. You reached for him, fingers brushing his jaw, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he leaned in and you met him halfway. The world went very quiet - the kind of quiet that comes before a choice you can’t undo.

You don’t remember when the kisses deepened, only that they did - slow, searching, hungry for something neither of you could name. His hands found your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, moving with the kind of hesitation that comes from wanting too much and knowing better.

When his thumb brushed just under your ribs, you breathed his name - not a warning, not quite permission either. He smiled against your mouth, a faint, knowing curve. “Still remember how to drive me crazy,” he murmured, voice rough, half-laughing.

“Guess some habits survive the years,” you said, the words shaky but almost playful. For a moment, it felt like it could work - like the world outside hadn’t turned everything to dust.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh but wasn’t. “You think this time’ll be different?”

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “But I need to try.”

The space between you vanished again. His mouth found yours with more certainty now, and your fingers curled into his shirt, drawing him close. Heat, breath, a small sound you didn’t recognize escaped you. It felt almost like surrender - or maybe like mercy on yourself.

Chapter Text

The morning came gray and heavy, bleeding through thin curtains that weren’t yours. You woke with the kind of stillness that follows a storm, unsure if it had really happened or if your mind had played tricks in the dark. The air smelled faintly of coffee and dust. Victor was already gone. You left quietly, coat zipped, shoes echoing down the empty corridor. The city outside was colorless, washed in that dull morning light that makes every choice look irreversible.

You recap the last night in your mind: You don’t remember when the kisses slowed, only that at some point you stopped answering them. The room had gone still, your heartbeat loud in your throat. His hand rested at your waist, waiting - not pushing, not demanding - just waiting for something you couldn’t give.

“Hey,” Victor whispered, voice low, cautious. “You okay?”

You shook your head, barely. “No. I thought I could… but I can’t.”

He sat back a little, breathing hard, eyes searching yours in the half-light. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I do,” you said, the words catching. “You deserve that much. You were good to me, Victor. You always were. I just-” You swallowed. “I wanted to want this. To want you.”

For a long second, neither of you moved. He reached for his shirt at the edge of the couch while you did the same, the rustle of fabric loud in the silence.

His jaw flexed, something like a sad smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I figured.”

Silence settled again, heavier this time. He stretched for the blanket and pulled it over your shoulders, his touch careful, deliberate - the same gentleness that used to undo you. That kindness hurt worse than anger ever could.

“Get some rest,” he said quietly.

You caught his hand before he could move away. “I never wanted to hurt you. Again.”

He nodded, eyes fixed somewhere past you. “Yet, here you are. And I just keep lettin’ you try.”

The words hit hard. When he left the room, the faint click of the door felt like a verdict.

---

By the time you reached your street, the weight of it all pressed hard enough to blur memory. You told yourself none of it mattered - the visit, the kiss, the silence after. What mattered was the next step. Tommy.

The moment Victor’s arms wrapped around you, when his mouth tried to find a place on your neck, when bare skin met bare skin - gentle, searching, familiar - you knew it. It should have felt right. It didn’t.

You’d wanted to prove your theory, and you did - only to realize the worst possible outcome. The truth was cruel in its simplicity. Tommy was your healing. And that would made everything harder.

Victor had been kind enough to let you sleep on his couch. The disappointment in his eyes, though, was something you’d sworn never to cause again - and yet, you had.

When you pushed the door open, Tommy was sitting up on the bed, eyes shadowed from a sleepless night. Relief crossed his face before suspicion followed.

“Where the hell were you?” he asked, voice rough but soft at the edges.

You hesitated, then let half the truth out. “I went to the shed. Needed to be surrounded by metal and quiet for a while. Helps me think.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed just a fraction - not enough to spark a fight, but enough to let you know he didn’t fully buy it. His gaze lingered on your face a moment too long, tracing the dark circles under your eyes. You kept your face still, steady - not too defensive, not too soft - the kind of lie you could almost believe yourself.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, the tension easing a fraction. “You won’t be goin’ in today?”

You shook your head, forcing a small, tired smile. “No. They gave me a few days off.”

He exhaled, nodding slowly, though his eyes searched yours for something he couldn’t name.

You dropped your coat, trying to steady your voice and pretending calm. “Now let’s check your bandages”

You moved without thinking. Check the bandage at his thigh. Peel back the edge of the dressing at his biceps and shoulders to make sure the stitches have held. Press a fingertip to the pulse in his wrist and count the steady drumming. You have done worse for less in the clinics, and somehow the motions come easier here, with him.

“How you feeling?” you ask, quieter than a radio click.

“Like I got the whole damn miracle clinic to myself,” he rasped, voice sandpapered. His voice could send you to heaven by itself. He tries to grin and it’s thin. “You been pokin’ me like a damn itch.” ... And you, how’s your head?”

You shrug and return to the work of it: re-dressing, smoothing gauze, tucking a clean strip of tape over the edge. Once more, his wounds look better than you expected: no hot swelling, the skin edges holding.

“Not even a fever,” you say, surprised and oddly pleased. “You’re healing like you’re trying to impress me.” But your voice sounds unimpressed. Cold.

He tries for a proud, injured cock-of-the-walk posture and ends up wincing. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I got one hell of a nurse.”

You ignore.

After you finish, he sits up slowly, testing the leg with a cautious twist. His balance is imperfect, but there’s grit in the way he takes weight.

“Watch out. It’s been barely 72h, Tommy.”

“hey… I should’ve asked somethin’ before you went through all that,” he admits, glancing toward the bathroom. “Don’t be mad at me, but would you help me shower, darlin?” He asks carefully, knowing you are still upset and not in your best mood.

“God, I will” You reply faster than he expected, surprising him. “Cause you stink.”

He snorts. “Not like you smelled like roses when I found you passed out on the sofa, doll.”

Doll. The word froze your spine. A chill rippled through you before you managed to steady your voice.

“Tommy… please don’t call me that. Ever. I know you don’t mean harm, but that word…” you swallowed, the rest slipping quiet, almost fragile, “it’s not a good one for me , ok?”

Tommy is not dumb. He catches it instantly. The blood drained from his face, stomach twisting like he’d been punched. That one little word had dragged up ghosts you never deserved to carry. It tore at him to think of you still shackled to what those men had done, still haunted even now. The sadness in his eyes was raw, unguarded. He wished he could rip the memory from you, he wished he was there to protect you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Won’t say it again.”

“No need to be sorry for something that’s not your fault.” Your voice is calm now, but detached - a little too even. You force a small exhale, trying to ease the weight in the air. “Anyway, it’s fine. You can’t get those bandages wet yet, so it’s better I did it before. None of that work went to waste.”

You helped him to the bathroom, his weight heavy on your shoulder though he tried not to show it. Steam curled from the tub as you turned on the tap, testing the heat with your hand.

“Not sure how we’re gonna do this without getting it wet, though…” you murmured, glancing at his bandages - more to yourself than to him.

“Wait.” Tommy sees the steam, surprised. “You got hot water” he says, like it’s the discovery of a lost city.

“Yeah… It’s part of the prize package for murdering fireflies leads,” you tell him deadpan. “FEDRA gave me the house. One of the best in the complex. Hot water, lots of books, a full pantry, lots of entertainment options. Helps me stay away from the streets when I’m not on duty. Guess it lowers the chances of me being murdered offguard.  Oh yes, and a guitar in the closet.” You blink at him.

You were already softening, and you don’t want to.

He gave a low whistle. “See now, that’s the reason to be a mean FEDRA agent. Hot showerin’ and a guitar. Good trade.”

“Precisely,” You said while he inspects the tub as if it’s a spa.

“Of course, the best part,” you went on, voice dipping wry, “a great collection of CDs and a huge, useless CD player. Lights, buttons, the whole show. Doesn’t work. I tried everything I could. Could never fix it, could never find a new one. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to let someone into my house to fix it for me.”

You hesitated then, realizing how that sounded. You’d never liked people in your space - never trusted what they might take, what they might see. But with him, the instinct to keep things hidden felt… tired. You wanted to try honesty, even if only a little.

“Well… one man entered. But he didn’t exactly have the technical skills required to fix it.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, curiosity cutting through the haze of pain. “Like, an ex-boyfriend? In the QZ? … A FEDRA?” His voice was careful, but the question hung between you, sharp as a blade.

“Who is it?”

The air shifted - too sharp, too direct. You instantly wished you’d kept your mouth shut. You could almost hear the trap you’d set for yourself. The last thing you needed right now was Tommy’s jealousy, not after the night you’d just had – or almost had. The less he knew, the better for everyone.

You kept your focus on preparation of the tub, like you hadn’t heard him at all. You put a small stool inside the tub so he can elevate the injured leg above water level.

“That should do. I won’t fill it up with too much water, just in case.”

You help him to take off his clothes and bandages. You tell yourself you’re being practical. A nurse on autopilot. But the room tightens around you in a way that makes your breath a little shorter. The steam fogs the mirror and for a second the whole scene unfolds hotter than you expected it to. If it weren’t for the fact he’s all messed up and still wearing the sweaty, blood-streaked clothes from the fight, you might actually forget to be clinical.

Usually, you’re picky - annoyingly so. The world’s gone to hell, and still, the smell of people gets under your skin. It turns your stomach no matter how many years you spent as a nurse. You never got used to it. But him -Tommy’s sweat, his skin… hits different. There’s something in it that shouldn’t smell this good, something warm and human and dangerously familiar. The realization startles you; you almost laugh at yourself. I’m really fucked, you think, because even his body exhales something you can’t help but want more of, a scent you already know you’ll crave again.

Your fingers hesitate at a collar, then slide under fabric to peel the shirt off his shoulders; his skin is warm. There are scars you haven’t seen the last time.

You feel heat crawl up your ribs and your cheeks betray you with a flush.

Tommy notices the way your fingers linger. He crooks an eyebrow, amused. “You blushin’? Like you ain’t seen me naked before, darlin’?”
You roll your eyes, pretending annoyance while your hands move quicker, practical again. “I’m here to help. Try to behave.”

You ease him down onto the tub, careful with his injuries, helping to put his leg up in the stool. He inhales a long, slow breath that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest and then a soft laugh. “Jesus,” he says, delighted. “That is heaven. Can’t remember the last time I felt warm water.”

You give him a squeeze on the shoulder. “Good. Don’t go falling asleep in there.”

Tommy leaned back against the porcelain, but the tension in his shoulders wasn’t just from the wound. Something restless worked in his eyes, a bad feeling he couldn’t shake.

“Gonna ask again,” he muttered, voice rough, as he knew the answer already. “Who was it? The ex-boyfriend?”

You sighed, long and heavy, like dragging the truth out cost you more than it should. “Victor,” you admitted at last.

The air snapped taut.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing like he’d been waiting to hear that name all along.

“Goddamn it. I knew it. I told you before- I don’t like the way you two act around each other. Man’s still in love with you, clear as day. And you… you didn’t think to tell me this sooner?”

Your brows lifted, anger flaring to cover the sting. “I’m telling you now, ain’t I?” You forced a laugh that didn’t sound like one. “It was never official, Tommy. Never had the boyfriend label. It was… stupid. A mistake. Some kisses, that’s all. Nothing more.” Funny how, in trying to tell the truth, you’d only built another half-lie. One that felt just as heavy. “It’s not like it matters.”

He went quiet for a beat, eyes narrowing, reading you like he was trying to measure the weight behind every word.
“Just kisses?” he asked finally - not naive, not jealous, just steady. Like he needed to hear exactly how deep the damage ran.
You held his gaze, too proud to look away.

“The hell it don’t matter,” he shot back, voice sharp, rising with his temper. “You two spent every damn day together. Side by side. Years. Don’t stand there and tell me that don’t mean nothin’. That motherfucker…” He broke off, cursing under his breath, chest heaving. “You think I don’t know what’s goin’ on in his head?”

He wasn’t blind - he knew you didn’t love Victor, not in this way. But you sure as hell didn’t let him stop loving you. Tommy would never say it out loud, but part of him wanted to tell you to stop feeding a fire you had no intention of keeping warm.

And yet, beneath the jealousy, a bone-deep anger at Victor himself. Because in Tommy’s eyes, the bastard should’ve known better. Should’ve had the decency to back off instead of orbiting you like a vulture, taking whatever scraps of tenderness you offered just to keep himself close.

“Stop it.” Your voice cut sharper this time, the guilt from the night before sharpening your tone. “Victor hasn’t done a single thing wrong. He’s a good man. Better than most. And the truth is… he didn’t deserve the way I treated him. He gave me more than I could give back, and I shut him out.”

That only stoked the fire in Tommy’s eyes, his hand curling into a fist on the rim of the tub. “Oh. So now you’re protectin’ him?”

You straightened, heart pounding, the steam pressing heavy against your skin. “God. Your jealousy is as lively as your Firefly fantasies, Tommy. Neither ever rest.” You threw the line out like a challenge, testing his humor - but his expression didn’t even twitch.

You grabbed the towel from the rack and tossed it onto the counter. “You’re bein’ irrational, and this arguing is useless. Besides, you are not in a position to be mad at me right now. Not when you lied to me and risked my life.” The words came flat, final.

You should’ve been tearing into him, screaming about the audacity of his jealousy after everything he’d kept from you. But the guilt from the night before sat like a stone in your chest - the feeling of betraying both Victor and Tommy in the same breath. So instead of rage, all you could manage was exhaustion.

“Your head,” he said suddenly, voice rough. “All that blood from the other night… tell me somethin’, darlin’. How exactly did that happen?”

“Why are you asking me that?”. Your blood heated, frustration flaring.

“I don’t know what to think.” he admitted.

“I did that to myself.”

His head jerked up.

You took a sharp breath, forcing the words out. “I needed a cover story. Told them I blacked out, woke up confused. That way no one questioned why I disappeared long enough to hide you, stitch you, keep you alive.” Your glare burned through him. “Victor didn’t touch me. Neither did he fail to protect me. Gosh.”

You turned away, hand already gripping the door handle, anger burning hot under your skin. “I’ll give you some privacy,” you said, voice tight. Then you yanked the door shut behind you - hard. Turning on your heel, you walked out into the hall. Behind you, faint but raw, you heard him curse under his breath. Words torn low and bitter, the kind that bled more frustration than anger.

It hadn’t even been five minutes when you heard your name, low and rough, drifting down the hall. Not a command, not mad. You turned back.

He was still in the tub, steam curling around him, but the fire was gone from his eyes. He looked smaller without it, shoulders slack, gaze fixed on you like he wasn’t sure you’d come.

“C’mere,” he said, softer now.

You crossed your arms, but you stepped closer anyway, leaning against the doorframe. “What is it, Tommy?”

He dragged a hand down his face, sighing. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped like that.” He shook his head. “I just wish you’d told me before. Cause you and him, you spent near every damn minute together. Feels like that’s somethin’ I should’ve known. You can be honest with me.”

You didn’t answer right away, staring at the floor tiles instead, shame burned quietly under your skin.

And then, as if he knew you were fighting it, he pushed just a little more. “You drive me crazy sometimes. Every damn time I’m with you, I feel like it’s too good to be true and I might lose it at any minute. I guess I love you way too much.”

“You’re being so- so stupid right now,” you said, voice trembling between anger and disbelief. “This jealousy is the least of our problems, Tommy. We’ve got bigger things to worry about than Victor. If you might lose me at any minute, it’s because of your lies and your stupid decisions - not because of him.”

Your throat tightened, heat blooming low in your belly.

“I’ll grab a few clothes for you.”

You duck out, leaving the thin bathroom door cracked. You let the breath go slow. Big and wet, like the steam that still fogs the mirror. You don’t want to be mad at him anymore. Not for the jealousy, not for being a fucking Firefly. Is that stupid? Soft? Or maybe he really is as damn tender as he sounds when he says he needs you. Loves you. You catch yourself weighing the ledger. Lies, blood, the kid, the way he vanished. But your chest tightens at the memory of his hand on your jaw and all the way he cares for you.

In your room, you get him underwear, new denim pants and a black band t-shirt. Things from the previous house owner that you kept.

Minutes pass and the water stirs. He hums something off-key. It’s a private, domestic kind of music that makes the hollow inside you fill a fraction. You recognize the song.

You stand and push the door wide.

“Can’t deny you have a great taste for music.” You proceed on singing. “Waiting for someone or something to show you the way… Time, from Pink Floyd, right? What you were humming”

“Darlin’, you’re a pro. Karaoke queen, indeed”. He stares at you with his gentle and happy eyes. You both spent some seconds in this moment, tasting these little moments of ordinary fun breaking the heavy air.

“Can I stay a little longer?” He asks you, as a kid in the park who past his time to go home.

“Of course,”

You sit on the floor, legs tucked to the side so you’re level with him. Up close the little things strike you. You don’t want to be away from him. Not even for some minutes. His lashes dark against wet skin, the way his lips purse around a thought. You feel foolishly proud that you made the tub that good.

“What are we doing now, babe?” he asks, suddenly serious.

On your way back from Victor’s apartment, you sorted it all out. The best you could. Not a perfect plan, but a plan.

You keep your voice practical.

“Now you stay here until you can walk properly and shoot again. At least good enough to take care of yourself outside. I believe with the pace of your recovery, in 3 weeks you will be able to walk and use your arm with some comfort.” You pause, meeting his eyes. “When that day comes, then we’ll think about the rest. I don’t want to worry about it now. If we need to move separate ways, or find other options in the upcoming weeks… that’s a problem for future us, not right-now us.”

Your lips curve, softening the weight of your words. “In the meantime…” Another pause, a spark of mischief slipping back into your tone. “I wanna be happy. I deserve to be happy. And I will make the most of the days you are here.”

You forced a half-smile. “You’re my hostage. You stay locked here, focus on getting better, and making me laugh.”

“Your hostage?  You seem to have planned this very well, sweetheart.” he laughs. “I like the sound of that.” He scoffs, then grins crooked. “Gives me a lotta time to learn how to play ‘Wild Horses’ for you, if that’s what you want.”

You roll your eyes, soft. “Not with that fucked-up arm, I’m afraid.”

He reaches for your face with his good arm. Big, rough, his hand covering most of your face. But his touch is gentle. “Thank you again. For taking care of me. For staying with me.” He points to your head, to the cut you had to make “For all the lengths you went to help me.”

His fingers trace the side of your cheek, slow, pads dragging softly across your skin.

“I owe you more than I can ever pay, sweetheart.” He pauses, searching your eyes. “And I’m sorry. For not tellin’ you sooner. About me. About the Fireflies.”

You go still, but his hand stays where it is - steady, warm, reverent.

“I thought I was protectin’ you,” he continues. “Truth is, I was protectin’ myself. Didn’t wanna see that look in your eyes… the one that says I’m the enemy.” His thumb moves, brushing just beneath your eye. “You had every right to hate me for it. I just couldn’t stand the thought of losin’ what we had before it even started.”

He swallows hard, eyes soft but unflinching. “I ain’t proud of it. Lying to you. But it wasn’t outta disrespect. It was fear. I ain’t felt somethin’ this real in a long damn time, and I didn’t know how to hold it without breakin’ it.”

You hadn’t meant to melt into his touch or his words, but it happened anyway - instinctive, helpless. The warmth of his palm grounded you, his thumb brushing your cheek like it was something precious. For a second, all the noise in your head quieted, and it was just that - his hand, your breath, the fragile peace between you.

Then the thought struck - uninvited, unwanted.

You suddenly remember something that’s been circling your mind for days: the boy’s words, still echoing in your mind.

“Tommy,” you say carefully, as if the answer itself might land like another punch. “That boy, back in the Square - he said Marlene always stepped in when they tried to catch me. That I was useful. That the Fireflies owed me a favor. What was that about?”

Tommy exhales, tipping his head back against the edge of the tub, eyes on the ceiling like he’s counting every word before he says it. His throat works once before he can get anything out. He’s nervous - not just about what he’s about to tell you, but about the ghost still clinging to him. The memory of Peter crawls back up, tightening around his chest.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, quiet. “Marlene knew about Sebastian. About why you did what you did.”

He drops the truth first, raw and unfiltered, letting it hang there between you.

You freeze. Something twists low in your stomach, that familiar pull of dread. You look at him, waiting for the rest.

“Sebastian was a hero to most of the Fireflies,” Tommy continues. “An example. But not to the ones who really knew him. Marlene was one of ‘em. She wanted him gone, but she couldn’t make that move herself - not without lookin’ like the villain. And then… you did it for her.”

The words hit like a slow knife. You stare at him, unable to say anything.

Tommy pauses, searching for the right words before digging deeper into your worst memory. “Hector told her. About what happened in the clinic. Said he and John were forced by Sebastian to join it. Marlene believed him - protected him from you all these years. But she also… protected you.”

You blink, shaking your head. “Oh. Wait. Forced?” you repeat, disbelief slicing through your voice. “Didn’t seem so forced when they were laughing outside, talkin’ about how they’d be the next ones.” Your jaw tightens; your stomach flips. “Forced… motherfucker.”

“Hey,” Tommy cuts in softly, hands raised a little. “You don’t need to justify it to me, okay? You said he participated. I believed you. I never needed his version.”

You barely heard his last phrase. It’s too much to process. She protected you. You’d buried that story so deep you almost convinced yourself it was gone. Now it’s crawling back up - twisted, retold by people who saw your armor as pity.
All your fight, all your survival - suddenly reduced to mercy from those who caused it.

Your laugh comes out hollow. “Protected me? Gosh… And Hector just ends up dead, like that-” you snap your fingers, “ -and Marlene doesn’t think I did it? She’s fine with that? Fine with all the others who disappeared after crossing paths with me?”

Tommy exhales again, jaw tight. Every confession feels like walking through glass.
“No. Marlene knows I killed Hector,” he says finally. “Marlene knows about us. And she’s… supportive. Of all of it. By now, Billy probably have told her I’m here with you.”

You stare at him, disbelief clawing at your throat.
“How? Tell me, Tommy, how the hell would she be supportive of this?”

He meets your eyes, steady, like he’s braced for the explosion.
“Because she sees in you what I see,” he says simply. “You asked about the others - the ones you killed. None of us are dumb. We know the risk. The second we expose ourselves, we’re hunted. But she knows you only took full measures when you didn’t have a choice. She hears it every day, from the ones you spared.”

He watches the disbelief flicker across your face. “Besides, back when you were a nurse. Some of our people used to sneak into the clinic. You always helped, even when you knew FEDRA would call it treason.”

Yeah, you think bitterly. And that was my mistake. That’s how I got fucked. You swallow it down before it shows.

He hesitates, then adds, almost sheepish, “And… I might’ve told her that you’d be joinin’. Soon.”

What the fuck?

You just stare at him. The words don’t make sense, like your brain’s rejecting them on arrival. Joining? You blink once, twice, trying to catch up.

You can’t even tell what you feel anymore - rage, relief, shame, maybe all at once. So many truths spilling out, and seems you can’t catch a single one. Your brain floods, emotions clawing to the surface.

No. You’re not jumping into those two rabbit holes tonight. Not now.

You shove it down. You’ve carried worse. It makes no difference now. Still, the sting lingers - not just from him or what happened, but from the sheer absurdity that they could ever think you’d join their little revolution, their self-righteous cult. The thought alone offends you, but you’re too tired to pick either fight tonight. You let both ghosts - the one with pity from Sebastian’s actions and the one wearing a Firefly patch - sink back into the dark where they belong.

Tommy waits for you to explode, for yelling, for something.

But instead, you just breathe, long and shallow, until your pulse steadies.

When you finally speak, your voice is calm - but not gentle. It’s the kind of calm that comes when patience runs out.

“You know what? Fuck it. I don’t care. Whatever bullshit you’ve been feeding her, whatever pity she feels - let her. You want to feed these delusional thoughts about me joining your cult, your problem. Fine. Just keep it to yourself. I can’t, and I won’t, carry any more of this crap. I’m done.”

Your mind finally quiets. Peace. A rare mercy.

Maybe that was the point all along - knowing less, feeling less, caring less. Every truth only seemed to cut deeper, and you were done bleeding for things you couldn’t change.

You rise, reaching for the towel.
“Come on,” you say. “Enough of soaking in the tub.”

He gets out of the tub with your help and wraps himself in the towel. You handle him the clothes you found in your closet. “Wear this. They probably smell like old drawers. But it’s still better than those stinky things you had before. Try not to look like a cowboy who failed to blend into a rock club.”

Before you even handed them over, you caught the flicker in his face, the tight jaw, the shadow in his eyes. You knew that look. Jealousy already coiling in him, certain these belonged to Victor.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Don’t. Don’t even start, Miller. These aren’t from some ex you have no business with. They’re from the poor bastard who owned this house before FEDRA threw me the keys. Relax.”

He dresses up barely needing your help. He glances at the mirror, at the rock band t-shirt. “The Police” across his back and laughs. “You got a sense of humor about me dressing this.”

“What? It’s a great band” you laugh.

“You’re just mocking me,” he said, and it’s half-true.

Chapter Text

It had been five days since Tommy Miller had stumbled bleeding into your life again. Five long, suspended days - heavy with silence, half-slept nights, and the dull scent of antiseptic in the air. He hadn’t left the bed since. You made sure of it. The wounds needed watching, the stitches needed cleaning.

You slept on the couch those nights. Every morning began the same way - the sound of his breathing, the creak of the bed when he tried to shift without waking you.

The silence or small jokes between you wasn’t peace - just a ceasefire. You still couldn’t process it all: his lies, the revelation, the blood. Forgiveness was a mountain you just started to climb.
He tried, every now and then, to bridge the distance. He’d make a dry joke, half a smile tugging at his lips, as if humor could patch over everything. Other times he’d grow quiet, eyes clouding over – probably when the memory of Peter, Samantha and Tom crept back in. Between his attempts to make things right with you, he was still mourning the wreckage he’d left behind.

Now it was the fifth morning. You were supposed to go back to work. The uniform felt foreign in your hands, like it belonged to someone else - a version of you who hadn’t been torn between two wars.

Tommy watched you from the bed, his arm resting over his chest, the lines of pain still etched deep into his face. He waited until you were almost dressed before speaking, voice low and hesitant.

“Listen,” he said, rubbing his jaw with his good hand. “I’m sorry to ask you that. I know it’s too much to ask. But… I need to keep talkin’ to my people. Could you… get me a radio? One that can reach their channels?” His tone was steady, but there was pleading under it. “Billy’s been movin’ things. We got plans that need eyes and hands in other places. I can’t do much from here. I just need to align a few things, and that would be all.”

You froze halfway through buttoning your collar. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you said, staring at him, waiting for him to say it’s a joke. He kept serious.

“Un-fuckin’-believable,” you muttered, perplexed. “You’re lying in my bed, under my roof, and you’re already asking me to help you to communicate with Fireflies, Tommy?”

Tommy tried to sit up, hissed, and let the mattress take him back. “Ain’t askin’ you to switch sides, darlin’,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Just need a voice on the line. Couple minutes. I sort one thing out and I’m done.”

“That’s a bad idea, Tommy. What if someone’s listening? What if it traces back?”

He leaned forward, palms on his knees. “We fence the signal. Dirty it up. If anybody’s eavesdroppin’, it’ll sound like a busted weather report.” A tired half-grin. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”

You stood there a beat, collar still open, processing.

“If I do it,” you said slowly, “you stay hidden. You follow my orders. You do not step outside that door until I say so. You’re staying in this house until I say you can leave.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s a deal.

“Hostage,” you repeated.

He nodded. “Hostage. For as long as you want.”

Your eyes stayed on him for a long moment, torn between fury and the strange, reluctant tenderness that never seemed to die no matter how much you tried to bury it.

“Fine,” you said at last, voice low. “You stay here. Just watch me.”

You went up to the attic and dig. When you come back down you’re lugging something bulky and awkward - a radio, big and heavy, clumsy in your arms. You set it on the side desk with more force than grace.

“Here. It’s old. Good luck making it work.”

Tommy’s eyes went wide. He tapped the radio as if testing the weight of it, then looked up at you. “You had one of these up there?”

You shrugged, trying for casual. “Told you. House came with surprises.”

He shook his head, smiling crooked and amazed. “You’re quicker than I give you credit for.”

“You sure no one’ll be listening, Tommy?”

“Ain’t dumb. Even if they tune in, they won’t know what the hell we’re sayin’.”

In fact, he was. All fireflies were. And you were too damn smart.

---

When you came home that evening, the house was dim and quiet except for Tommy’s voice drifting from the bedroom - low, frustrated, and full of curses.
“Goddamn piece of junk… signal’s jumpin’ like a scared rabbit…”

You leaned against the doorway, crossing your arms. “No good?”

You stop at the doorway, crossing your arms. The movement straightened your posture, shoulders squared, every line of you suddenly looking very FEDRA. It always hit him funny when you did that. Strong. Untouchable. It was the same sharp-edged authority that first caught his eye and made him want to press until he found the soft parts you kept buried.

“Kinda,” he muttered, turning a few knobs with careful fingers. “Could be somethin’ off with the frequency split or the groundin’. Maybe I ain’t hittin’ the right bandwidth, or maybe there’s just no one answerin’ on the other side.”

He tapped the radio again, brow furrowed - and then, suddenly, the static softened. A faint voice cracked through the interference. His whole expression changed.

“There,” he breathed, leaning closer. “Gotcha. You gave me luck,” he said, the words soft but bright.

You heard him make contact. A woman’s voice.

You didn’t mean to pay attention. But you can’t avoid it. Tommy doesn’t seem to be concerned with it. You stayed on the couch, catching every word from the bedroom.

“27.3 here. Do you copy?”

Wait.

The same number in the weird note under the barrel that he wrote you some weeks ago. That could only mean that, regardless of the code they use, 27.3 probably means Tommy Miller - TM.

He must have signed as 27.3 by a mistake. That would be the only possible explanation.

You hear the woman on the other side speaking. They are mixing numbers into the sentences. They speak English, but the key words seems to drop in another language, slipping in rough and out of place.

Your breath hitches.

Oh, hell…

You hear a resemblance with Dutch words you’d once learned from an ex-boyfriend, so long ago it feels like someone else’s dream. You hang on a syllable.

You hear more numbers.

At first, it doesn’t make sense. But as soon as you remember that Dutch inverts units and tens on their numbers, you’d cracked it.

Your mind snaps into place.

They are basically using key Dutch words and numbers to express pieces of critical information. Places. Directions. Time.

A code. In theory, a clever one. Dutch is close enough to English that someone could learn the essentials fast. Distant enough that if you didn’t already have your ear tuned to it, everything would blend into nonsense.

And you are the exact wrong person to use it around.

You remembered your shitty Dutch ex-boyfriend and his obsession with bicycles and weed. Thanks, Jeroen.

You start to link with the privileged information you know from Tommy. Once you traced them -  bingo. The rest started to fall in line.

Complex codes my ass.

In less time than you’d like to admit, you have a good picture: a convoy scheduled to leave Boston in a few days. You didn’t catch exactly the size of it, the why and how, but you know enough: local, date and time.

It is the kind of intelligence FEDRA dreams of. You can’t help but feel proud of yourself.

This was your chance to get back in good standing with FEDRA.

You tell yourself you’ll spare Tommy - he’s safe in your house, this was the perfect way to hurt the Fireflies without touching him. You’re protecting the city, the people who walk the same streets you patrol; you’ll earn the board’s praise and the leverage to push change from within. Most of all, you tell yourself that by wrecking their plan you can finally shake Tommy loose from them, force him to choose a life that doesn’t end with the two of you on opposite sides.

It’s diabolical. It’s perfect.

The next day, you take the packet to headquarters. You watch men in uniform lean forward, eyes hungry in a way that is familiar and not entirely clean. They congratulate you, pat you on the shoulder, call you thorough. They give you the official lines: this is a decisive blow.

When they finally pause for breath, you speak - calm, direct, leaving no room for debate.

“I won’t join this mission,” you say. “And I’m taking three weeks off.”

A few heads turn, surprise flickering before calculation replaces it. You don’t blink, don’t explain. They agree. It’s the least they can do for a soldier who just handed them gold.

You thank them, salute, play your part.

And as you walk out into the gray light of morning, the air feels lighter on your skin.
Three weeks.
Three weeks to keep your hostage under your roof.
Three weeks to taste happiness before life drags you and Tommy Miller back to opposite sides of the war.

As you get back to your house at the end of the day, a cold stone start growing in your gut. Tommy sleeps on the couch. You smooth a stray hair from his temple and tell yourself you did the right thing. For a moment you let the lie settle. You cup his palm in yours and feel the heat of him, the even breath under your thumb, the safety that is not deserved but is true.

‘Too late’ is a quiet animal. You feel it move in your chest while you lie curled against Tommy’s side. His arms are wrapped around you, but he keeps sleeping.

Then, it hits you like a lightning.

What have you done?

You probably didn’t even have to crack any code. Tommy would have trusted you and told you, certain that you would never use this against him. Not after your full speech on lies.

What would this help, anyway? Even if he decided to leave the Fireflies, where else could he go? It’s not like FEDRA would ever forgive him, and he’d never walk free through the streets again. He was already marked - blamed for the death of several FEDRA agents. No matter where he turned, all eyes would be on him.

Your heart races so fast you hope it doesn’t wake Tommy up. You stare at his face, peaceful and unaware, and guilt drags its claws deeper into you. He looks safe in a home that is no longer safe for him. He breathes like he trusts you.

You don’t deserve that.

What have I done?

You tell yourself it had to be done. You tell yourself he betrayed you first and now you are even. You tell yourself you can make up for this by helping fireflies at another opportunity, trading info back.

But no matter what you tell yourself, there’s no escape from the guilty.

You hope he keeps sleeping. You hope he doesn’t see the fear in your eyes when you look at him.

You decide to bury it. This is another problem for future you. Once Tommy leaves the house. Until there, you were going to enjoy each second. Happy. Inside your little bubble, disconnected from the world.

For now, this is enough - his arm draped loosely over your waist, his body solid and real despite the bandages, the wounds, the weight of everything unspoken.

Tommy stirs, a low hum in his throat as his eyes flutter open. He blinks, groggy, then turns his head to find you nestled close. A slow, crooked grin spreads across his face, softening the lines of pain etched there. “Well, damn, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “You lookin’ all cozy like that… almost makes me forget I’m half-broke.”

Just like that, the world reorganizes itself around him. All the guilt, all the fear - it vanishes beneath the warmth in his voice.

You huff a quiet laugh, the sound lighter than you feel. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re still a mess.”

He chuckles, wincing slightly as the movement tugs at his shoulder. “Ain’t my fault you’re makin’ me too comfortable. I’m gettin’ used to bein’ spoiled.” His eyes, warm and teasing, search yours, and there’s something softer there - something hopeful, like he’s testing the waters, waiting to see if you’ll pull away again.

You don’t. Instead, you shift closer, tucking your head against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. “Got some news,” you say, keeping your voice light, practiced. “Took three weeks off work. They owed me some overdue holidays, and I called in a few favors.”

Tommy raises his brows, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Three weeks, huh? Guess that means I get to keep my nurse full time?”

You snort softly, though his tone makes your chest tighten. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t trust you not to bleed out the second I walked out that door.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and the sound fills the room like a song. “Oh, you’re full of it. Admit it - you missed me too much to let me limp around alone.”

You don’t answer right away, just let your fingers trace the edge of the bandage on his biceps, careful not to press too hard. The truth is, you did miss him - missed this, the ease of him, the way he makes the world feel less heavy. Missed not having to guard your voice around him. Missed being soft with him instead of sharp.

“Yeah. Missed you.” you admit quietly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. Your voice is small, but it carries the weight of all the nights you’ve spent alone, aching for him.

He stills for a moment, surprise flickering in his eyes before softening into something deeper. “I missed you too, babe,” he says, voice low and rough with honesty. “Missed you so damn much. Missed your touch, your laugh… Missed how good it feels just bein’ next to you. And your smell… hell, I could get high on it.”

Your breath catches.
Careful, you tell yourself.

Too late.

You lean forward, thumbs brushing the stubble that’s grown in these quiet days. His skin is warm beneath your palms, familiar in a way that makes something inside you quake.

Your lips find his cheek first - a soft, testing touch.
Then you trail lower, brushing along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling how he exhales when you linger there, warm breath catching against your mouth.
You move upward, kissing the bridge of his nose, then his temple, then the spot just above his brow - right where that stubborn crease forms whenever he worries about you.

He smiles - tiny, helpless - eyes fluttering shut as you press your lips to the corner of his mouth, then the other, like you’re relearning him by memory, mapping tenderness where there used to be tension.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are open now, fixed on yours, wide and glassy with something raw - longing, relief, disbelief that he still gets to have this. His gaze drops to your lips like gravity is in charge of him and not the other way around.

Your heart thunders.

Then you kiss him.

A gentle, testing kiss.
His lips move against yours with reverence, tasting the tenderness after many bitter days.

His hand comes up, fingers sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer — deeper - like this is the first time all over again.

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, like you’re both learning each other again. Your hands are careful, resting lightly on his chest. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, then slip down to your waist, pulling you closer despite the twinge of pain you know he’s hiding. The warmth of him, the scent of tobacco and rain still clinging to his skin, pulls you in deeper, and you feel the world shrink to just this - just him, just you, just this moment.

You shift, straddling his hips carefully, keeping your weight off his injured leg. His breath hitches, and his hands tightens on your waist, a spark of heat in his eyes.

“Okay. Your plan is to finish killing me. Gotcha.” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, his hand sliding to your hips.

“Consider it revenge for making me fall for a stubborn idiot with a hero complex.”

You feel the heat of his palm through your pants, steady and grounding, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Slowly, you reach down, fingers working the button of your pants open, then the zipper. You lift your hips just enough to shimmy them down, kicking them aside with a soft rustle. The cool air of the room brushes your bare skin, but his gaze - dark, hungry, and full of something deeper - warms you instantly.

“You sure know how to make a man forget he’s busted-up, darlin.”

You let out a quiet laugh, while you lean down, kissing him again, deeper this time. His lips part, and your tongues meet in a tentative slide, tasting each other. The kiss grows hungrier, tongues tangling with a slow, deliberate rhythm, exploring the familiar yet missed warmth of each other’s mouths.

“God, I want you,” he whispers, voice rough with need, but there’s a softness there too, a vulnerability he doesn’t hide. “Been too damn long.”

You nod, your throat tight, and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. “Missed this,” you whisper against his skin - but it isn’t playful or teasing this time. It slips out almost like a plea, your voice thin and trembling with how much you’ve ached for him. “Missed you so much, Tommy.”

He groans softly as your kisses trail lower and the way those words come from somewhere raw, somewhere scared. It’s a confession with no armor, showing him exactly how breakable you are when it comes to him.

You move slowly, deliberately, peeling his shirt up just enough to kiss the bare skin of his chest. Your fingertips trace each scar along the way - faint ridges, old burns, marks that tell their own kind of truth. You follow them like a quiet map, not out of pity, but reverence. Every line feels like proof of the battles he’s survived, of the strength it takes to still be here.

You realize the scars don’t make that body ugly - not at all. They show resilience, the strength of body and mind over everything that tried to break them.

And it hits you. The reason for hiding - the one that shaped your whole existence - suddenly doesn’t make sense anymore. This is what he sees when he looks at you: the same kind of reverence, the same quiet awe.

Maybe you don’t need to hide your scar anymore. Not from him, not from yourself, from anyone. It doesn’t feel like a flaw or a trauma now, but a reminder - of the strange, stubborn beauty of human persistence. Of being in hell, and somehow, still stand.

When you finally lift your gaze, he’s already watching you. His breath catches - not because of what you’re doing, but because of what he sees in your face. You didn’t have to say anything; he read it all: the softness, the surrender, the peace that wasn’t there before.

He reaches up with his hand, brushing his thumb over your cheek, slow and careful, as if afraid the moment might shatter.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough and full. “It’s ok, darlin’.”

You feel that impossible only-God-knows-how warmth that Tommy carries without even trying - the kind that crawls under your ribs and settles there, stubborn and real.

Slowly, you work at the button of his pants, easing the zipper down. He lifts his hips just enough to help, wincing slightly but never breaking eye contact, his gaze burning into yours like he’s afraid to look away. You free him from his pants, your fingers wrapping around him gently. He’s hard, hot in your palm, and you stroke him slowly, thumb circling the tip with a teasing pressure that makes his breath stutter.

“Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering half-closed but snapping back to yours, holding the connection. “God… your hands. Your touch. Missed this so much.”

Your hand continues its slow rhythm up and down, thumb circling the tip where a bead of pre-cum slicks your skin. “And I love touching you like this,” you whisper, your eyes holding his, and a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of your lips, like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

You lean in, kissing him again, tongues sliding deeper as your hand moves with a steady rhythm, feeling him twitch and harden further under your touch. His free hand grips your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to ground himself, his eyes never leaving yours - dark, adoring, filled with a love that makes your heart clench.

“I love you,” you murmur on his open mouth, the words slipping out like a confession you hold too long already, your hand slowing as you position yourself above him, sitting straight again. You guide him to your entrance, the heat of him pulsing beneath you. Tommy’s eyes lock onto yours, a grin breaking across his face as he rasps, “Damn, I love you t-” His gaze drops, fixated on the obscene view of his cock poised at your entrance, the anticipation making his breath hitch.

But you pause, holding just the tip against you, teasing him with the faintest pressure. A playful smirk curls your lips as you tilt your head, voice dripping with mock uncertainty. “Hmm, should I? I wonder if Tommy Miller deserves it… Not sure I’m convinced.” Your hips roll gently, circling the tip of him, enough to drive him wild but not enough to give him what he craves.

Tommy groans, his hands gripping your thighs, voice rough with want. “Come on, babe. You want me to beg? ‘Cause I will. Let me show this pussy I love her too.” His eyes are full with desire as he watches you tease him. You keep up the slow, torturous roll of your hips, letting the tip of him brush against your slick heat, making him curse under his breath. “Fuck, girl, this is even more painful than any injury,” he mutters, his voice strained. “You’re actin’ like you’re torturin’ me, but look at you, you’re drippin’ all over me. You need it, babe. Come.”

A slow, smug curve stealing over your mouth, and finally you relent, sinking down inch by inch, the stretch of him filling you slow and perfect. A gasp escapes you both as you take him fully, your walls clenching around him in a warm, welcoming grip. It’s intense, the sensation of him inside you after so long, every nerve alight with the rightness of it.

Tommy’s eyes widen, then soften, locked on yours as you settle, your hips flush against his. “Love you too, sweetheart,” he says, voice breaking on the words, his hand sliding up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “Love you, so damn much. You feel… perfect.”

You start to move, slow rolls of your hips, careful, the friction building a delicious heat between you. Each glide is deliberate, drawing out the pleasure, your bodies syncing in a rhythm that feels like breathing. His cock drags against your inner walls, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you moan softly, your gaze never wavering from his.

He thrusts up, matching your pace, the movement sending sparks through both of you.

“Darlin’, don’t ever stop lookin’ at me like that.” He pants, eyes shining with emotion, love pouring from him in every glance, every word.

As your rhythm builds, you lean back slightly, bracing one hand on his good thigh for balance, the angle shifting to expose more of him sliding in and out of you with each roll of your hips. The sight is intoxicating - his thick length glistening with your arousal, disappearing into your heat over and over, the slick sounds filling the room like a filthy symphony. You feel empowered, in control, watching his face contort with pleasure as you grind down harder, drawing out every inch of him before taking it all again.

You can't help the grin that spreads across your face. "Look at you, my big, strong cowboy," you tease, your voice laced with proud delight, "losing it all for me." Tommy flashes that sassy smile, his left hand sliding down to grab a firm handful of your ass, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. "How could I not lose it when you're ridin' me like I'm your favorite stallion?" he asks, drawing out the Texan drawl he knows drives you wild.

You lean in close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “I’m makin’ it easy for you today, Tommy, ‘cause you’ve only got your left arm. But next time? It’s all on you, okay?” A teasing smile plays on your lips as you pull back, your hand drifting down your body. Your fingers move slowly at first, tracing circles over your clit, the sensation amplifying the stretch of him inside you. Then, you speed up, moaning his name, your touch growing urgent, eyes locked on his, never breaking that connection. Tommy’s thrusts deepen, his focus entirely on you, his injuries forgotten as he drives into you with a hunger that makes both of your breaths catch.

“Fuck, what a pretty show,” he groaned, his voice rough with awe as he watches you touch yourself, your slickness coating him. “You’re soakin’ me, babe.” His eyes darken, his thrusts growing more insistent. “Keep that up, and I ain’t gonna last long. With you puttin’ on a show like that. So pretty touching yourself, saying my name like this, darlin’.”

Your fingers move faster, the pleasure building to a fever pitch, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body tightening around him as you cry out, eyes still fixed on his through the haze. The moment you clenched around him, Tommy let go with a broken groan, his release flooding into you, hot and deep, his hips jerking through every pulse.

You collapse against him, both of you breathing hard, wrapped in the afterglow. He lets out a low moan - part pleasure, part the sharp ache from his shoulder as your weight settles on him - but his arm still finds its way around you, holding you close all the same.

His hand drifts down your spine in slow, loving sweeps, fingertips warm and reverent against your skin. He noses lightly into your hair, breathing you in like you’re the only air left in the world.

“Three weeks,” he murmurs, voice rough with devotion as he presses a tender kiss to your temple. “Gonna make every damn second count.”

You smile, heart full, and nod. “Better not waste them, Miller. And you keep that quick recovery going - I won’t be takin’ it easy on you next time.”

“Hell, you can make my life as hard as you want, darlin’. I’ll take it gladly.”

For a few minutes, you stay like that, bodies pressed together, slick with sweat and wrapped in each other’s heat. The world outside with both sides choosing war, but here, in this fragile quiet, you keep moving together, two bodies still dancing while the world falls apart.

---

You’d slept on the couch again, although Tommy had asked for you to take the bed. His bed now, apparently.
You told him you didn’t want to bump his leg or arm if you turned in your sleep, and he’d accepted it with that soft, worried frown that always threatens to undo you.
Truth was, the idea of lying beside him still made something inside you bristle - the thought of sharing that quiet, ordinary intimacy, of falling asleep with his breath on your neck like nothing had shattered between you. It was too close to forgiveness, too close to pretending the world hadn’t tilted when the truth came out.

Last night had been a moment of weakness, not forgiveness. A surrender to want and comfort, not a truce.

Your body had remembered him.
Your heart had remembered the shape that happiness took in his hands.
But your mind? It hadn’t forgotten the knife he’d left in your back.

You’d barely slept. The pillow still smelled like him - smoke and rain and everything you shouldn’t crave. Every breath you took dragged that guilt deeper into your chest.

The next morning felt like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

Tommy was awake when you padded into the room. He gave you a small smile, the kind that tried to meet you halfway, hoping last night fixed things it didn’t.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “You slept at all?”

“Some.”
You crouched beside him and began to change the dressing on his arm. The motions came easy now - clean, steady, practiced. A ritual born from necessity, not peace.

The silence between you wasn’t comfortable.
It was full - of words you weren’t ready to say, of wounds that hadn’t healed just because the two of you had clung to each other.

He watched quietly as you peeled away the old bandage, eyes following your hands. You inspected the wound on his biceps first - the edges had closed well, though the muscle underneath was still swollen. “Maybe the bullet skimmed the muscle, tore it a bit. Could’ve been worse.”

Then you leaned closer to his leg, just above the knee, where the deeper injury sat. The tissue looked angry but healing, the kind of wound that demanded time, not miracles. “Muscle tear for sure,” you said, brow furrowing. “Ligament might’ve taken a hit too… but you’ll walk fine. Just be patient.”

He chuckled softly. “Good to know.”

Moving to check his shoulder - a cleaner wound, less swelling than before. “Shoulder’s fine. Nothing permanent.” You sat back, exhaling. “And no infection. You’re so damn lucky.”

The words came flat, almost cold - not gratitude, not relief, just the dry truth of someone still carrying too much anger to soften it.

“You look… heavy,” he said finally. “What’s wrong?”

“Nightmares,” you said simply, kneeling beside him to check the stitches. Your fingers were steady; your heart wasn’t.

He winced as you pressed near the wound, then asked, softly, “You still mad at me?”

“I’m still hurt. Still… disappointed,” you corrected, keeping your gaze on the bandage.

He hesitated, then tried for a crooked grin, reaching for levity he hadn’t earned yet. “Didn’t seem disappointed, all pretty riding me yesterday.”

The words left his mouth too quick, too casual for how fragile the air was.

Your eyes snapped up - the kind of look that silences a man faster than a bullet. He winced, in shame.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Bad joke. Thought you were… feelin’ better.”

You paused, eyes still on the white bandage as if it were safer than his face. “I’m broken, Tommy. I feel betrayed. Feels like I was given something good just to have it ripped away. Like you dangled peace in front of me just to remind me it doesn’t last.”

You fastened the last bit of gauze, your voice calm but firm. “I missed you. Doesn’t mean I forgave you.”

He nodded, shame softening the line of his mouth. “I’m… I’m so sorry. Guess that’s fair. Still… tell me if there’s somethin’ I can do.”

You opened your mouth to fire something sharp back, to remind him again that you were the one left holding the wreckage. Then a different memory slammed into you like cold water.

You had betrayed him too.

Not in the same way.But betrayal is betrayal.

You saw it all at once: his trust handed to you without a single condition… and what you did with it.

Your throat tightened. The ground beneath your anger shifted, unsteady. You weren’t the only one bleeding. He just didn’t know yet.

The instinct to armor up, to keep punishing him, faltered.

You swallowed hard, forcing your hands to stay steady as you leaned back, putting a little distance between you both.

“You can start by keepin’ this miracle recovery up,” you said, quieter than before, the edge in your voice dulled. “I’ve never seen someone heal that fast.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not even close.
Just… lowering the gun for a moment.

His brows lifted, amused. “Guess I’m just built tough, huh?

You gave him a small, reluctant smile. “Good. ’Cause when that arm’s done, you owe me music. I’ve got a guitar I can’t play and a CD player that’s been dead since forever. Distracting with some fucking music would help a lot now.”

Tommy’s eyes softened, a low chuckle slipping out. “That so? Guess I better make it quick then. Promise won’t keep you waitin’, darlin’.”

You shook your head, pretending not to smile, but it was too late - he’d already caught it.

---

In the afternoon, you told Tommy you needed to fetch more supplies for his bandages. He looked up from the couch, brow furrowed, as if trying to read something behind your calm.

“Don’t take too long,” he said.

“I won’t.”

The streets felt strange under your feet - like walking through a dream you’d already woken from.

By the time you reached Victor’s building, the air was warm enough to carry the faint smell of rust and rain. You hesitated for a second before knocking. You had to tell him you would be away from work. The last you needed was a concerned partner knocking on your door asking why are you away and finding you hiding an enemy.

When he opened the door, Victor’s face was a mix of exhaustion and surprise - and somewhere beneath it, disappointment that he hadn’t managed to shake yet. He looked at you the way someone studies a wound they’re not sure has healed.

“Butcher,” he said finally, voice rough. “You skipped your shift today. What brings you here - another round of making me look like an idiot?”

You offered a small, careful smile. “Not today. I just came to let you know I’ll be gone for a while. I asked for some time off - a few weeks.”

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Time off? You?”

You shrugged. “They owed me. And I gave them something good in return.”

He crossed his arms, still half blocking the doorway. “What kind of something?”

You hadn’t rehearsed this, but the words found their own way out, smooth as silk. “Picked up interference on an old radio at home. Firefly chatter – codes in Dutch, hard to catch, but I understood enough. They’re planning to move a convoy, Colorado-bound. I reported it. FEDRA was thrilled.”

“Oh yeah. The Dutch ex boyfriend, I remember. Lucky you, not French, not German, huh?” Victor’s eyes narrowed, intrigue pushing through his irritation. “And you’re not on the mission? They’re really letting you sit it out?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Apparently they decided I’ve done enough for a while.”

He tilted his head, studying you like he was waiting for the truth to slip. “Strange. You uncover a whole operation, and you are not participating? Instead they reward you with a vacation. Not exactly standard procedure.”

You sighed softly, a tired smile pulling at your lips. “Why do you always have to think the worst of me, Victor? I’m tired. That’s all. I just need to breathe for a bit.”

Something in your tone disarmed him. He looked away first, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “Fine,” he said quietly. “Take your holidays. Maybe some time away’ll help you remember who you are.”

You nodded once. “Maybe it will.”

You lingered a moment longer, realizing how much you owed to him - even if he didn’t know it. Victor had always believed in you more than you did yourself, even when his words came out rough.

Your hand moved before you thought - a light touch to his cheek, brief, instinctive. His eyes flicked to yours, surprised, and you pulled back at once, forcing a small smile. It was just your way of saying thank you.
But as you caught the shift in his gaze - softening, unguarded beneath your lingering touch - you realized Tommy had been right: you really needed to stop touching him like this.

You turned before he could say more. He stayed at the door, watching your back as you walked down the dim hallway. The open collar of your shirt shifted with your stride, catching the afternoon light - and there it was, glinting faintly against your throat: the small golden sun he’d given you months ago.

For a moment, Victor just stood there, the image caught like a thorn in his chest. Maybe, he thought, you hadn’t forgotten everything. Maybe there was still a thread between them, thin as breath but not yet broken.

He closed the door softly. And told himself not to hope.