Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: When the World Quieted

He stepped onto the curb, taking a long breath in—ready to recapture what he’d been missing for years.

Running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black leather jacket, Morgan Corinthos moved toward The Metro Court doors. His reflection flashed in the glass for half a second before he pushed them open.

Sunglasses still on, he walked past the front desk, nodding politely but speaking to no one. He pressed the elevator button for the restaurant level, exhaling like he was bracing for something.

___

“Do you like your crab Caesar salad, Trina?” Josslyn Jacks asked, watching her best friend’s untouched plate. “If that’s not what you want, I can have them bring something else.”

Trina forced a smile. “No, Joss, it’s okay. I guess I don’t have the appetite I thought I had.” She sighed softly, glancing out toward the windows. “Still, I’m thankful for the change of scenery. I just… I still can’t sit in Bobbie’s without thinking I’ll hear that bell and see him walk in.”

Joss’s chest tightened. She reached across the table, squeezing Trina’s hand. “I know.”

The elevator doors opened. A man stepped out.

“I’m here for—oh my God. Morgan?! Morgan Stone Corinthos!”

Joss’s chair screeched against the floor as she jumped up, running straight into his arms.

“You’re alive… my eyes aren’t deceiving me?”

“Hey… hey, Joss,” Morgan managed, his voice rough from disuse.

The moment she threw her arms around him, something inside him gave way. It wasn’t her scent or her voice that caught him — it was the weight of memory. The sound of family. The echo of a life that had kept moving while he hadn’t. For the first time since stepping back into Port Charles, he felt something that almost resembled home.

She pulled back just enough to stare at him, hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear again. “You’re really here.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “Guess I am.”

Joss blinked hard, a laugh breaking through the tears. “You— you have no idea what this means.”

Morgan smiled faintly, but his eyes were already drifting — over her shoulder, toward the woman sitting across the table.

The woman hadn’t said a word, but something about her caught him instantly. The steadiness in her posture. The sadness in her eyes. She wasn’t just looking at him; she was seeing him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, still catching his breath. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Trina said quietly, smiling. Her voice even but her heartbeat anything but. “Welcome home, Morgan.”

He nodded, swallowing hard — the sound of his name from a stranger’s mouth doing something strange to his chest. “Thank you,” he murmured. “And you are…?”

“Trina Robinson,” Joss said quickly, wiping at her eyes. “My best friend.”

Morgan’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than it should have. Joss had grown up — confident, steady, full of life. And the woman sitting across from her… there was something about her presence that caught him off guard.

He couldn’t place it — maybe the quiet way she carried herself, or the calm in her eyes that didn’t flinch even under his. Whoever she was, she didn’t look away.

Morgan nodded, returning the smile.

Joss finally stepped back, brushing at her face with trembling hands. “You— you need to sit down,” she said, half laughing, half crying. “God, Morgan, everyone thought— we thought—”

“I know.” He lowered his head slightly, voice quiet but steady. “And I’m sorry.”

Joss swallowed hard, the sound catching in her throat. “You don’t need to apologize. Just… please, sit. Let me get you something to eat. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in years.”

Morgan gave a faint smile. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

He slid into the seat across from Trina, and for a moment, the air shifted. She wasn’t sure if she should speak, if anything she said would matter, but something about him made her want to.

“How long have you been back?” she asked softly.

“Couple of days,” he replied, eyes flicking between her and Joss. “Still getting used to… all this.” His gaze drifted toward the window — the view of Port Charles glittering below like a world he’d forgotten how to belong to.

Everything looks the same, he thought, but nothing feels familiar.

The sound of silverware clinking, laughter from another table, the faint hum of music — it all felt too loud, too alive.

Then his eyes found Trina again, and for the first time since stepping back into the noise of the world, something inside him went still.

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding his breath until he sat down. Every noise in the restaurant — the forks, the laughter, the clinking glasses — felt amplified, like his senses were still trying to remember how to exist around people again.

Joss was talking — she had a dozen questions, he could see them in her eyes — but her voice came through like sound underwater. All he could really focus on was the quiet across from him.

The woman — Trina — hadn’t said much since he sat down. She didn’t stare like most people did when they recognized the name Corinthos. She just watched, eyes calm but curious, as if she was trying to figure out who he was now instead of who he used to be.

For a moment, that steadiness unnerved him. The world had been chaos for so long — sirens, shouting, machines that beeped through the dark — but sitting here, across from her, the noise inside him finally dulled.

He didn’t know her story, didn’t even know why he felt this quiet around her. But for the first time since waking up somewhere that wasn’t supposed to exist, Morgan Corinthos didn’t feel like he had to fight to stay alive. He just was.

“So…” Joss finally said, breaking the silence that had stretched a little too long. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes wide with disbelief and relief all at once. “Are you gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

Morgan let out a small breath that was half a laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” Joss said, trying to smile through the tears that hadn’t fully dried. “You’ve already done the impossible once today, so I’m pretty sure my bar for belief is wide open.”

Morgan met her gaze, his expression soft but unreadable. “It’s… complicated. Let’s just say I ended up in a place where nobody was looking, and it took me a long time to find my way back.”

Trina listened quietly, eyes flicking between them — a silent observer to something sacred, this reunion stitched together with disbelief and love. The way Joss’s voice trembled when she laughed, the way Morgan kept his tone even like he was afraid to shatter something fragile — it felt like watching a family rediscover each other in real time.

“Well,” Trina said gently, breaking the quiet, “I’m just glad you did.”

Morgan looked up at her then — really looked — and for a heartbeat, something in his chest settled. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
Joss wiped at her eyes again and let out a shaky laugh. “Okay. I’m— I’m gonna go tell the manager we’re keeping this table for as long as we need, and I’m getting you real food. Like… actual food.” She squeezed Morgan’s shoulder, then looked to Trina. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Trina said softly.

Joss nodded and hurried off toward the host stand, already gesturing animatedly, the staff’s faces shifting from confusion to shock as they recognized who she was talking about.

For a moment, the noise of the restaurant pressed in—silverware, low music, murmurs—but at the table, everything felt still.

Morgan glanced at the half-eaten salad, then back to Trina. “Didn’t mean to crash your lunch.”

“You didn’t,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Some moments… are supposed to interrupt.”

He let that sit. “You and Joss—she lean on you a lot?”

“We lean on each other,” Trina replied. “Today just happens to be her turn.”

Morgan’s mouth quirked, a quiet almost-smile. “Lucky she found you.”

Trina held his gaze, steady. “Lucky you found your way back.”

Joss returned a few minutes later, balancing three plates and an overexcited waiter who kept sneaking glances at Morgan.

“Okay,” she announced, setting everything down. “The kitchen’s in full meltdown mode. Apparently, feeding a Corinthos who came back from the dead is front-page news again.”

Morgan laughed under his breath. “Guess some things never change.”

“Yeah, well,” Joss said, sliding into her seat, “you can explain that later. Right now you’re eating all of this, and I’m ordering dessert.”

He looked at the food, then at her — then at Trina, who smiled, quiet and sure. For the first time since he’d stepped into Port Charles, he didn’t feel like a ghost.

Maybe this was what being alive felt like.

Outside the Metro Court windows, the city kept moving — bright, busy, utterly unaware that one of its sons had just come home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Breath Returning

The next morning, sunlight poured through the tall gallery windows, glinting off the glass frames and washing the room in soft gold. Trina stood in the center of the space, arms folded, eyes fixed on the new pieces she’d just hung.

The display was balanced — perfect, even — but something about it still felt unfinished. She tilted her head slightly, studying the brushstrokes, the shadows, the way color met silence. It wasn’t just about the art. It was about what it didn’t say.

Her mind kept circling back to the Metro Court — to Joss’s laughter, the shock in her eyes, and the man who’d walked through the doors like a ghost out of a story. Morgan Corinthos.

“You’re staring holes into that wall, baby,” came a voice from behind her.

Trina turned to see her mother standing by the doorway, lab coat draped over her arm, the faint fatigue of a hospital shift still in her eyes.

“Morning, Mom.”

“Morning.” Portia stepped closer, following her daughter’s gaze toward the paintings. “I just came from GH. Ran into Josslyn Jacks in the cafeteria.”

Trina’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

Portia nodded. “She mentioned she’d seen her brother last night. Said he’s… alive.”

Trina let out a soft breath, the words landing heavy even though she already knew. “Yeah. Morgan Corinthos.”

Portia studied her daughter’s expression carefully. “And how did that go?”

“It was… strange,” Trina admitted. “He seemed quiet. Like someone who’s still learning how to be here.”

Portia’s gaze softened. “Sometimes the hardest part about coming back isn’t surviving — it’s finding where you fit again.”

Trina nodded, eyes drifting back toward the art. “Yeah. I think he understands that more than most.”

____

The midday rush had already settled into a rhythm when Trina arrived at the Metro Court. The soft clink of dishes, the hum of conversation, and the faint scent of roasted coffee beans filled the air. She spotted Joss immediately—bright smile, waving wildly, as if she were greeting sunshine itself.

“There she is!” Joss called, standing to hug her. “You look too serious for brunch.”

Trina laughed. “And you look too awake for someone who said she barely slept.”

“Caffeine is a miracle,” Joss said, sliding back into her seat. “Mom’s running late, but she’s on her way. You want orange juice, coffee, tea—waiter!”

“You’re incorrigible,” Trina teased, taking her seat.

Before Joss could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “You two look like trouble waiting to happen.”

Trina turned—and there he was. Morgan. Same black jacket, same quiet steadiness that somehow drew the noise of the room down a notch.

“Hey,” Joss said, grinning up at him. “Didn’t think you’d take me up on brunch.”

“Free food’s hard to pass up,” he said with a small, crooked smile. He looked at Trina, then back at Joss. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing.”

“Please,” Joss said, motioning for him to sit. “You’re the reason we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating?” he echoed, easing into the chair beside her.

“You being alive,” Joss said simply. “That seems pretty brunch-worthy.”

Morgan’s mouth curved. “Can’t argue with that.”

Trina studied him quietly as he reached for the menu. He moved differently than most people—slower, deliberate, as if he was still memorizing the pace of the world.

“You work here?” he asked, glancing at her name badge.

“No, Jerome Gallery,” she said. “I help curate exhibitions.”

“Right,” he said softly, recognition flickering in his tone. “Art. That fits.”

“Fits how?” she asked, brow lifting.

He hesitated, eyes meeting hers. “You look like someone who sees what other people miss.”

Joss groaned. “Okay, philosopher. Eat something before you start waxing poetic about the color blue.”

He laughed—quietly, genuinely—and Trina couldn’t help but smile.

And just like that, the world around them blurred into background noise again.

“Mind if I join?”

The voice came before the shadow — familiar, firm, edged with amusement. Carly Corinthos stood by the table, sunglasses perched on her head, her expression a mix of relief and that unshakable calm she carried everywhere.

“Mom!” Joss beamed, jumping up to hug her. “You made it!”

“Of course I did,” Carly said, returning the hug before turning to the others. “Hey, Trina.”

“Hey, Mrs. Corinthos.” Trina’s smile was easy, comfortable. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, sweetheart.” Carly reached out, squeezing Trina’s shoulder with genuine warmth. “Every time I see you, I remember how grateful I am that you and Joss found each other.”

“You can thank fate for that one,” Joss said, laughing as she reclaimed her seat.

Carly smiled, then looked to Morgan. “You came straight here after you stopped by the house, huh?”

He nodded. “Yeah. The Metro Court feels… steady. Familiar.”

“It’s always been that,” she said gently. “Your second home, whether you liked it or not.”

He laughed softly. “Guess some things don’t change.”

He gave a small, knowing smile. “I figured I’d save you the trip. Besides, after seeing the new place… it’s not exactly the house I remembered.”

Carly’s face softened. “No. A lot’s changed since then.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know the feeling.”

She reached out, brushing her hand over his cheek — brief, familiar, grounding. “You look good. Better than I imagined.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m getting there.”

“One day at a time,” Carly said, her tone gentle but firm before turning to flag down the waiter.

Around them, the table eased back into laughter — Joss teasing Morgan about his coffee order, Trina quietly watching, Carly’s laughter spilling through like sunlight after a long storm.

For a while, everything felt simple again. Normal, even. But when Morgan looked out the window, past the reflection of their faces in the glass, he felt that faint pull again — a reminder that coming home didn’t always mean belonging right away.

Still, this — this noise, this warmth, this family — was a start.

Stillness isn’t silence, he thought. It’s learning to breathe without waiting for the crash.

For the first time in a long while, Morgan Corinthos exhaled.

Chapter Text

The seasons had started to blur. Morning light spilled through her dorm window the same way every day—soft, forgiving, like time was trying to make peace with her. Trina used to brace for the ache that came with waking up, but lately, the ache had dulled to something quieter. Manageable. Life had folded itself into a rhythm again: classes, shifts at the gallery, coffee runs with Morgan. Ordinary things that somehow still felt new.

It startled her, sometimes, how good ordinary could feel—and how guilty that goodness could make her. Peace, she was learning, could sting.

Morgan had become part of that calm without ever asking to. He showed up with easy laughter, ridiculous stories, and an instinct for when to leave silence alone. He never filled the room the way Spencer did; he just shared it. And maybe that was enough right now.

⸻

They’d finished another coffee run between her lectures when he suggested, “The gallery’s quiet this time of day, right? Mind if we sit for a minute before you clock in?”

Trina hesitated, cup in hand. That space held so many echoes—some too precious to disturb. Still, it was just a bench, she told herself. A bench, not a shrine.

Inside, sunlight cut through the high windows and scattered gold over the marble floor. They sat side by side, the stillness of the gallery wrapping around them. For a long moment, they only sipped their coffee, the air thick with the scent of roasted beans and polished wood.

“So,” Morgan said finally, voice low. “What pulled you into art history? I mean, what made you fall for it?”

She smiled at the phrasing. “Fall for it, huh? That’s actually not far off.” Her gaze lingered on a Monet print across the room. “I like trying to get inside the artist’s head. You can read their brushstrokes like sentences. You can tell when they were heartbroken or in love or angry with the world. It’s like decoding emotion in another language.”

Morgan leaned back, listening. “That’s… deeper than I expected. Most people just say they like the colors.”

Trina laughed softly. “Yeah, well. I’ve never been most people.”

She named a few painters she admired—Monet’s patience, Molyneux’s precision, Cassatt’s warmth. Talking about them loosened something inside her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed feeling animated about anything.

Then, her voice softened. “There was someone who used to ask me things like that—about what I saw, what I felt when I looked at a piece. He made me think differently. He… saw me when other people didn’t even try.”

Morgan’s head tilted slightly. “Spencer?”

She blinked, realizing that they’re blood cousins. “That’s right, You’re related through your father.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Family stories. Mostly whispers. I was older when he was a kid. Haven’t seen him since before… everything.”

Trina nodded, eyes lowering to her cup. “He could be impossible, you know. But he was also… everything.”

And so she told him—haltingly at first, then with the steadiness of someone who’s carried a story too long. About Spencer Cassadine and the unfortunate ex-girlfriend, Esmé Prince. About how her constant chaos tangled them together until he saw her for who she really was- because him meeting Trina. About the manipulation, the revenge, the betrayal with his father, Ace, her retrograde amnesia and the night in Paris that ended with water and screams and silence.

Morgan didn’t interrupt. He just listened, elbows on his knees, coffee forgotten. When she finished, the room felt heavier but cleaner somehow.

“I’m so sorry,” he said at last. “No one deserves that kind of ending.”

Trina shrugged faintly. “It wasn’t supposed to be an ending. But I guess life doesn’t wait for your permission.”

He wanted to reach for her hand, just for a second, but didn’t. Instead, he let the quiet settle back around them.

Across the room, a Degas-inspired sketch caught her eye—the elegant curve of the dancer’s neck, the soft sweep of light grazing her shoulder. It tugged at something familiar. A memory flickered: Spencer at one of the gallery desks, sleeves rolled up as he stuffed mailers for the Jerome Gallery exhibit, and Trina across from him, irritated, but somehow teasing, engaged in the banter. “I’d love to own something like that one day,” he said, gaze lingering on the interplay of shadow and glow. “I don’t know if it’s my thing,” he’d answered, half-smiling, “but I like the light and the dark together. If you don’t have the shadows, how can you appreciate the light?”

The memory rose warm, not shattering. She realized she missed not just him, but the way she’d felt when he looked at her—as if she were a masterpiece worth studying.

Morgan saw the flicker pass over her face and turned his gaze elsewhere, giving her privacy inside her own silence.
She carried grief like art, he thought. Framed, not forgotten.

They finished their coffee without speaking again. When she finally stood, he rose too.

“Thanks for the company,” she said, meaning it.

“Anytime,” he replied. “Take care, Trina.”

As she walked away, he caught the faintest trace of sunlight in her hair and thought, I get it, Spencer. I see what you saw.

⸻

That night, Trina sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through old messages she’d never deleted. One stood out—time-stamped months before Paris. She pressed play.

Good morning. Thinking about you, pretty girl. I love that you’re in my life and I never want that feeling to ever change. Do you know that? If you didn’t know, I’m telling you now.

His voice filled the small room, rich and teasing, and she felt the ache bloom fresh and tender. She whispered into the dark, “I’m trying, Spencer. Not away from you—just forward.”

In the mirror across the room, her reflection watched back—eyes rimmed in red, but soft, alive.

Maybe healing wasn’t about letting go.
Maybe it was learning to hold what was, without losing who she was becoming.

Chapter Text

Morgan had never been one to sit still for long, but lately, even motion couldn’t quiet him. The gym wasn’t helping. The noise of the bag hitting back, the rhythm of his gloves — it should’ve burned it out of him. It didn’t.

He pulled the tape from his hands and tossed it aside, trying not to think about the look on Trina’s face the last time he saw her — the half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the distance he couldn’t name.

When the door to the gym creaked open, Joss stepped in, ponytail swaying, that knowing grin already forming. “You’ve been brooding,” she said. “And you’re not subtle about it.”

Morgan smirked, weakly. “You ever think maybe I just like punching things?”

“Uh-huh.” Joss crossed her arms, her voice softening. “Or maybe you’re punching around a feeling you don’t want to name.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?”

For a long moment, all he could hear was the hum of the overhead lights, the faint echo of gloves against canvas from another corner of the gym.

Finally, he exhaled, eyes on the floor. “It’s Trina,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know when it happened, but it’s her.”

Joss blinked. Whatever joke she’d been preparing died in her throat. “Trina,” she repeated. “As in—Spencer’s Trina?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Joss stared at him for a long second, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in warning.
“Morgan,” she said slowly, “you do realize what you’re walking into, right?”

He gave a faint laugh, but there was no humor in it. “What, that she’s in love with Spencer Cassadine? Yeah, I got that memo.”

Joss sighed, leaning against the ring ropes, her voice softening even as her words stayed sharp.
“It’s not just that. You didn’t see what she went through, Morgan. Esme wrecked her life. Trina almost lost everything—her freedom, her art, her peace… and Spencer.” She paused, shaking her head as memories flashed across her face. “He tried to protect her, but it cost them both.”

Morgan stayed quiet, gaze dropping to the floor. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know the details, only the weight behind Joss’s words.

Her tone gentled, conflict edging into her eyes. “You fall hard, Morgan. You always have. But Trina—she’s still carrying pieces from that story, even if she’s pretending not to. And Spencer…” She hesitated, then exhaled. “He’s a ghost she’s not ready to let go of.”

Morgan rubbed a hand over his face, the ache pressing deep. “You think I don’t get that? I’m not trying to take his place.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

He looked past her—past the gym, past the ache sitting in his chest—and said quietly, “Just… be someone who doesn’t hurt her.”

For once, Joss didn’t have a comeback. Her eyes softened. “You already are, Morgan. I just don’t want that to be the reason she can’t love you back.”

Joss’s words followed him long after he left the gym, clinging like the scent of sweat and chalk on his skin. “I just don’t want that to be the reason she can’t love you back.” He replayed them in his head, over and over, until they blurred with the sound of his footsteps on the pavement. Somewhere between the truth she spoke and the hope he couldn’t let go of, Morgan realized he’d already crossed the line. He wasn’t just drawn to Trina—he was gone for her. Completely. And maybe that was the problem.

____

The gallery had gone completely still. Only the faint tick of the thermostat and the low hum of the lights filled the quiet. Trina was sliding the final placard into place when her phone buzzed on the counter.

JOSS: You’re gonna laugh at me, but I think somebody might like you that I know.

Trina frowned, thumb hovering above the screen. Somebody I know? she typed back.

The reply came almost instantly.

JOSS: Morgan. Don’t freak out, okay? I just had the weirdest conversation with him, and… yeah. He said some things.

Trina blinked, her pulse jumping. Wait. What kind of things?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then came back again.

JOSS: Nothing bad. He just… sees something in you. He knows about Spencer, and he’s not trying to overstep. I just thought you should know — before it gets awkward or catches you off guard.

Trina stared at the message for a long moment, the words blurring slightly under the soft gallery lights. Morgan? The same Morgan who’d started dropping by the café after her shifts, who listened without ever pushing, who somehow made silence feel less heavy?

Her fingers hovered over the screen, but she didn’t type anything.

JOSS: You’re my best friend. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.

Trina let out a slow breath, slipping the phone into her pocket. The room felt different now — not louder, just… charged.

She glanced at the Degas sketch again, the dancer forever caught between motion and stillness, and realized she suddenly understood the feeling.

The soft clack of keys filled the dorm room, a steady rhythm against the hum of Trina’s desk lamp. The glow cast her face in warm light, her curls pulled back, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she typed. Art history notes — a full section on Renaissance patronage — stared back at her from the laptop screen. She reread the same sentence three times and couldn’t remember a single word of it.

Her phone sat just beside the keyboard, dark now, silent. But Joss’s last message still pulsed somewhere in her head: He said some things. He sees something in you.

Trina sighed and pushed her chair back. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more — the idea of Morgan liking her or the fact that part of her didn’t hate the thought.

She’d come to know him in pieces. A smile here. A quiet joke there. The kind of presence that didn’t need to fill the room to be felt. He wasn’t Spencer — not in charm, not in fire — but there was something steady about him. Something safe.

And maybe that was the problem.

She shut her laptop, the sound of it closing louder than she meant it to be. The night outside her window stretched deep and still, the city lights blurred through the glass.

Trina leaned back in her chair, eyes tracing the ceiling. “You’re gonna laugh at me…” she murmured under her breath, half-smiling, half-sighing.

But no one was laughing.

Trina reached for her phone, more out of habit than curiosity, scrolling aimlessly through her feed. A headline caught her eye before she could flick past it.

“Morgan Corinthos: Presumed Dead, Found Alive — Son Returns Home After Years Away.”

Her thumb hovered over the screen. There was a photo — one she’d seen a dozen times since he’d started coming by the café, but here he looked different. Older. Sharper around the edges. The kind of photo that reminded her the world had almost lost him once.

She hesitated, then locked her phone and set it face-down beside her laptop. The glow from the screen still seemed to linger, though — like his name had burned itself into the air.

Somewhere deep in her chest, something moved — quiet, small, but impossible to ignore.

She turned off the lamp and lay back in bed, the darkness folding around her like a breath held too long. But even with her eyes closed, his name stayed lit behind them.

Chapter Text

Two days passed. The rhythm of Trina’s week stayed the same, but something beneath it had shifted.

At the gallery, she greeted visitors, adjusted displays, and kept her smile in place. Morgan stopped by once — casual, familiar — bringing over a delivery from one of the gallery’s vendors who also happened to be a family friend. Their conversation was brief, light, but her pulse betrayed her calm.

He was the same Morgan she’d come to know — polite, self-assured, a little rough around the edges but quick with a grin that softened everything around it. Still, something in the air between them felt different now. Not heavier. Just… charged.

When he left, Trina lingered near the door longer than she meant to, pretending to organize paperwork that didn’t need organizing. She could still smell the faint trace of his cologne in the space he’d occupied.

That night, she told herself she was tired. That her heart was just confused. But even as she sank into bed, her mind drifted back to Joss’s words — “He sees something in you.”

And across town, Morgan lay awake too — replaying the way she’d smiled at him, polite but distant, like someone aware of an invisible line neither of them were ready to cross.

Neither of them knew it yet, but the line itself was already beginning to blur.

The next afternoon, the gallery hummed softly with the sound of muted footsteps and quiet conversation. Trina was updating the inventory on her tablet, her attention half on the screen, half on the new display near the east wall — a series of black-and-white portraits capturing fleeting expressions. She was so focused on making sure the spacing was even that she almost didn’t notice him walk in.

“Morgan,” she said, startled, turning just as he stepped through the door.

He lifted a small box in one hand. “Delivery.”

She blinked, then smiled politely. “You could’ve left it with the receptionist.”

“Yeah, I could’ve.” He set the box on the nearest table, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Trina folded her arms, pretending to be unfazed, though her pulse betrayed her. “I didn’t realize art deliveries were your thing now.”

“They’re not,” he admitted, his tone easy, his gaze steady. “Just doing a favor for a family friend.”

There was a pause — short, quiet, but full. She nodded, looking back down at her tablet, tapping the screen as though the data couldn’t wait.

“New exhibit?” he asked, glancing around.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Local photographers. All candid shots. Moments that weren’t meant to be captured but somehow were.”

Morgan’s eyes flicked toward the wall of portraits. “Sounds like life.”

She looked up, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “How so?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Half the time, the best parts happen when nobody’s looking. You only realize it after the fact.”

Her throat tightened, the meaning landing closer than she wanted it to. “You sound like someone who’s learned that firsthand.”

“I have,” he said quietly, holding her gaze. “You?”

Trina hesitated, her hand tightening around the tablet. “Maybe.” She looked away first.

The silence between them stretched — not awkward, just alive.

He nodded toward the photo nearest them — a woman mid-laugh, her joy half-hidden by motion blur. “That one’s my favorite,” he said. “You can tell she didn’t know the camera was on her.”

Trina glanced at it, then back at him. “You like the unplanned.”

“Guess I do.” He smiled, but there was something unguarded in it this time. “You?”

“I like when things make sense.”

“And do they?”

She didn’t answer — just returned his look with one that said please don’t make me lie right now.

After a beat, he stepped back, clearing his throat. “Well, I should go. I’ve probably already overstepped my delivery duties.”

“Probably,” she said, but her smile was softer now.

He turned to leave, pausing just at the door. “Trina?”

She looked up.

His expression was unreadable — careful, but warm. “For what it’s worth… you make things make sense.”

Before she could respond, he was gone.

Trina stood there for a long moment, heart tapping against her ribs, staring at the door like it might offer some kind of answer. But it didn’t. Just the faint echo of his words, lingering like the scent of old paper and paint.

Chapter Text

The sky over Port Charles was the color of slate, the kind that promised rain but never followed through. Inside the gallery, afternoon light spread in gold sheets across the polished floor. Trina stood behind the front desk, checking off shipment numbers, the pen tapping a quiet rhythm against the clipboard.

The door chimed.

She didn’t look up right away. “Hi, welcome to the Jerome Gallery,” she said, distracted.

Silence. Then footsteps—slow, uncertain.

When she finally lifted her head, the pen slipped from her fingers.

He was standing just inside the doorway. Spencer Cassadine.

His hair was shorter than before, brushed slightly back but curling slightly at the ends. A faint mustache shadowed his upper lip, giving him an edge that hadn’t been there before. The crisp black shirts, the polished Ferragamos, the effortless GQ finish—gone. Jeans. A plain gray tee. A leather jacket worn at the seams. Somehow, the understatement made him look more real.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

“Trina,” he said at last, his voice rougher than she remembered—like someone unused to speaking.

She drew in a slow breath. “Spencer?”

A small, unsure smile tugged at his mouth. “Hi.”

Her chest tightened. He was alive. Standing in front of her. Not a ghost, not a dream. She breathed out “Hi.”

She started toward him before she even realized she was moving—small steps at first, then faster until she stopped a few feet away. For a suspended moment, she just looked at him: the new lines in his face, the quiet behind his eyes. Then she reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the side of his arm as if to prove he was solid.

He exhaled, the sound almost breaking. And then she was in his arms. Not running, not leaping, just folding into him like gravity had decided for her.

Spencer caught her easily, one hand splaying against her back, the other curling near her shoulder. She felt the warmth of him through the thin cotton of his shirt, the steady rise and fall that told her this was real.

“I thought—” she began, but the words caught.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

When she finally pulled back, her eyes searched his face. “You look different.”

“So do you,” he said softly. “But… not really.”

A small, breathless laugh escaped her, half-relief, half-shock. “You shouldn’t be here, and yet—”

“Here I am.”

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance—not enough to startle, just enough to say something’s coming.

“How?” Trina finally asked, voice trembling but steady enough to reach him. “How are you standing here right now?”

Spencer exhaled, eyes tracing the floor before meeting hers again. “I wish I could tell you it’s simple. It’s not.”

She folded her arms, bracing herself. “Try anyway.”

“When the boat went under, I didn’t even feel the fall,” he began. “You remember Esme injected me with something—the same drug she meant for you. I hit the water, and everything went black.”

Her throat tightened. “They said there was no trace of you.”

He hesitated, then reached inside his jacket pocket. “There was…just nowhere near the boat”

When he opened his hand, she gasped. The small wooden dove lay there—water-smoothed, but whole.

Her fingers covered her mouth. “You still have it.”

“It was found near me,” he said softly. “A fisherman pulled me from the river a few miles down. I was… gone for a long time. They said I wasn’t breathing when they found me. When I woke up, I didn’t remember who I was. They told me this dove was beside me, and I—” He stopped, his voice catching. “I didn’t know why it mattered. But every time I looked at it, something in me… reached out.”

Trina’s eyes burned, tears threatening but refusing to fall. “You remembered me.”

“Not at first,” he whispered. “Just pieces. A laugh. A light. The feeling that someone was waiting.” He gave a faint smile, half in awe, half in disbelief. “And I was right.”

She took a trembling breath, stepping closer, asking. “Were you hurt?”

“Broken ribs. Fractured leg. They said I was lucky I could walk again at all.” His voice softened. “I had no ID, no money, no idea what country I was even in. It was a fishing village, small—no way for them to trace who I was or where I came from. I was just… existing. Trying to remember how to be someone again.”

Trina’s voice cracked. “And you never stopped trying.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t. Every time I thought I was losing it, I’d hold the dove. And for a second, I’d feel—” He paused, searching for the word. “You.”

Her breath hitched, the truth she’d buried rising to the surface. “Everyone told me you were gone. And the longer it went on, the more I tried to believe it. But something in me… wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t feel it.”

He blinked, the tears he’d been holding back finally breaking. “You felt me?”

“I always do,” she whispered. “That’s how I knew. If you were really gone, I would’ve felt it. There’s never been a day I didn’t.”

Spencer’s hand tightened around the dove, then opened it again between them. “I think that’s what brought me back.”

She looked at him then—not as a miracle, not as a ghost, but as the part of herself she’d been missing without realizing it.

He smiled faintly through his tears. “Guess soulmates don’t really get to quit each other, huh?”

Trina let out a soft, watery laugh, shaking her head. “No,” she said quietly. “We don’t.”

Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky—not enough to startle, just enough to say something’s coming.

By the time they reached the dorm, the rain that had threatened all afternoon finally broke. It wasn’t a storm, just a soft, steady curtain that turned the world outside Trina’s window silver.

She pushed the door open, flipping on the small lamp by her desk. The light painted the room in a low amber glow. Books, sketches from class, and a half-finished cup of coffee littered the surface—ordinary things, suddenly sacred because he was standing in the middle of them.

“You sure this is okay?” Spencer asked, his voice careful. “I can sleep on the floor.”

Trina shook her head, reaching for a towel from the closet “It’s fine. Joss is with her mom for the weekend. Besides, I’d rather know you’re somewhere dry.”

He smiled, running the towel through his hair until it stuck up in uneven waves. “Still bossing me around, huh?”

“Somebody has to.” She tried to sound teasing, but the words caught somewhere between laughter and tears.

He watched her for a moment before his gaze drifted to the desk. Her dove sat there, smooth and pale under the lamplight. Without a word, he reached into his jacket and placed his beside it.

For a long breath, they just stood there, staring at the two figures lined up wing to wing.

“Finally back together,” he murmured.

Trina nodded. “Exactly where they belong.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything they’d survived, everything they hadn’t said, and everything still waiting between them.

When she turned toward him, he was already looking at her. No words, no explanations. Just that pull—the same one that had carried her through nights of doubt and years of waiting.

She stepped forward until she was close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. He reached out, hesitant, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. The touch was simple, reverent.

“Spencer,” she whispered, and that was all it took.

He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the quiet sound of rain, the smell of her shampoo, the steady beat of his heart against hers. It wasn’t frantic or rushed—just an exhale years in the making.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads still resting together, Trina whispered, “Don’t disappear again.”

He smiled softly. “Not possible. You’d find me.”

Outside, the rain softened, the clouds beginning to lift. On the desk, the doves caught the lamplight—two small silhouettes, side by side, unbroken.

Chapter Text

Sunlight slipped across the dorm room in slow gold stripes, finding them tangled together on the narrow twin bed. Spencer’s arm was draped around Trina’s waist, his palm resting over the steady rise of her stomach as if to remind himself she was there. Her back fit perfectly against his chest; every breath she took lifted his.

For the first time in months, Trina woke without the ache of missing him. She didn’t move right away—just listened to the soft rhythm of his heartbeat against her shoulder and the faint sound of rain easing outside.

When she finally turned in his arms, he was already awake, watching her with that half-sleepy, half-in-love expression that used to undo her completely.

“Morning,” she whispered.

He smiled, voice rough. “Best one I’ve had in a long time.”

They lay there for another few quiet minutes, memorizing the simplicity of it—the safety, the warmth, the miracle of ordinary morning light.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps, followed by Joss’s familiar voice through the door:
“Trina? Why is there a Do Not Disturb sign on our door? You good in there?”

Trina’s eyes flew open. Spencer just grinned, pulling her a little closer. “You hung a Do Not Disturb sign?”

“I didn’t think she’d be back till Sunday!” she hissed, scrambling for her robe.

Another knock. “Trina?”

Trina smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Joss started mid-sentence—“I forgot my charger and I—” She stopped cold, eyes going wide. “Spencer?!”

He was standing a step behind Trina now, barefoot, wearing his jeans and T-shirt from the night before, hair rumpled, but smiling.

“Hey, Joss,” he said, voice gentle.

For a beat the hallway went silent. Then Joss shrieked, a mix of disbelief and joy. “Oh my God, you’re alive!” She launched herself forward, hugging him around the neck. “Trina told me she thought—everyone thought—you—”

“I know,” Spencer said, laughing into her shoulder. “Long story.”

Joss pulled back, eyes darting between them, piecing things together. “So… the sign.”

Trina blushed but lifted her chin. “Long story,” she echoed.

Joss blinked once more, then grinned, shaking her head. “Okay, fine, I’m going to go get coffee before I combust. But you two—” she pointed from one to the other—“owe me every single detail.”

When the door clicked shut again, Trina leaned against it, exhaling. Spencer was already beside her, arms sliding back around her waist.

“Guess we’re not a secret,” he murmured.

“We were never meant to be,” she said, smiling into his chest.

On the desk, the two wooden doves caught the morning light—side by side, the shine of their wings reflecting the sun like a quiet promise kept.

______

Joss

She walked down the hall clutching her coffee like a lifeline. Her pulse was still sprinting from what she’d just seen: Spencer Cassadine, alive, standing barefoot in her best friend’s dorm room like he’d stepped out of a ghost story.

Every few steps she laughed under her breath—half disbelief, half nerves. “Spencer freakin’ Cassadine,” she muttered. “Only in Port Charles.”

But then the laughter faded. If Spencer was back, that changed everything—for Trina, for Morgan. She thought of her brother’s face two nights ago, the way he’d said Trina’s name like it meant gravity. Now, gravity had shifted again.

Joss stopped by the vending machine, pressing her forehead to the cool metal. “Okay,” she whispered. “You’re happy for her. Be happy for her.” And she was—mostly. Trina deserved miracles. But she also deserved peace, and Joss wasn’t sure the universe knew the difference anymore.

She took a long sip of coffee, squared her shoulders, and kept walking, the sound of her sandals echoing down the hall like punctuation marks to a sentence she hadn’t finished yet.

⸻

Trina & Spencer

Inside the dorm, the quiet had settled again. Trina perched on the edge of the bed, brushing a crease from the blanket, while Spencer sat nearby tying his shoes.

“So,” she said, glancing at him. “What happens now?”

He paused, fingers stilling on the laces. “I need to see my grandmother. Let her know I’m alive before she hears it from someone else.”

Trina nodded. “She has Ace. Your dad’s… he’s in Pentonville. He turned himself in a few months ago.”

Spencer looked up sharply. “He what?”

“She said it was the right thing to do. He wanted a clean slate for Ace.”

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t speak. His jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. “Then I owe her. Both of them.”

Trina reached over, covering his hand with hers. “We’ll go see them. Together.”

He turned his palm beneath hers, fingers sliding between hers naturally, like they’d never unlearned the shape. “You’d really do that?”

“After everything you’ve done for me? You’re stuck with me, Cassadine.”

He smiled—small, sincere. “Guess I can live with that.”

Outside, sunlight caught on the windowpane. On the desk, the two wooden doves still stood side by side, their wings angled toward each other, waiting for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The elevator glided to a stop on the tenth floor of the Harbor View Residences. Trina’s reflection trembled faintly in the polished doors while Spencer stood beside her, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other gripping hers.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded, but his smile was tight. “Been a minute since being up here.”

A chime sounded, and the doors slid open onto the Collins’ foyer—soft gray walls, framed city photos, and the faint scent of coffee drifting from upstairs. The doorman had buzzed ahead, his voice warm with surprise:

“Mrs. Collins, you’ll want to take this one personally. You have a guest I think you’ll be happy to see.”

Now, standing in front of the door, Spencer hesitated. Trina touched his arm. “Go ahead.”

He pressed the bell.

Footsteps, then the click of the latch. Laura Collins appeared, still in a light blazer from city meetings, reading glasses perched in her hair. For a moment she simply stared—then the folder in her hand fell to the floor.

“Spencer?”

He barely had time to nod before she was across the threshold, arms wrapping around him. “My boy… my darling boy.” Her voice broke. “You’re alive.”

Behind her, from the living room, came the small voice of a toddler: “Pinser!” Spencer laughed through his tears as Ace toddled across the room, wheat blonde bangs bouncing and a toy car clutched tightly in his hand.

“Hey, buddy!” Spencer crouched just in time for Ace to collide with his chest. “You remember me?”

Ace nodded solemnly. “Pinser!”

Laura pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “He’s said your name every night. I kept showing him pictures so he wouldn’t forget.”

Spencer looked down at Ace, then back at her. “Guess it worked.”

Trina smiled, eyes shining. “Seems like you were never really gone.”

Laura turned to her, taking Trina’s hands. “Thank you for bringing him home, sweetheart. And for never giving up.”

Trina shook her head. “He found his way.”

Laura’s gaze softened, then turned back to Spencer. “I owe you an apology. You warned me about Esme, and I wouldn’t listen. I thought motherhood had changed her. I let that blind me to everything else.”

Spencer’s voice was gentle. “You believed what you needed to believe. We all wanted peace.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Then let me start making things right. Whatever it takes.”

He reached for her hand. “Start by letting me see my little brother.”

Laura smiled through her tears. “You already are.”

Ace giggled, holding up his car for Trina to admire. “Look, Teena!”

Trina laughed. “Perfect, Ace.”

The sound of it filled the apartment—warm and ordinary and miraculous all at once. Laura motioned toward the kitchen. “Come in. Breakfast is ready. Kevin’s in the office, but he’ll want to see you too.”

_____

The smell of cinnamon toast filled the kitchen while the low hum of the city drifted through the open balcony door. Spencer was in the living room now, letting Ace race his toy cars across the rug. Their laughter spilled down the hall—bright, easy, alive.

Laura poured two cups of coffee and set one in front of Trina at the breakfast nook. For a few moments they simply sat there, listening to the muffled sounds of the brothers together.

“Thank you,” Laura said at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Trina looked up. “For what?”

“For bringing my grandson home. For never giving up on him, even when the rest of us… lost sight.” Laura’s fingers tightened around her mug. “I told myself I was protecting him, protecting Ace. But what I was really doing was refusing to see what was right in front of me. You saw him when I didn’t.”

Trina shook her head. “I just knew he was still out there. It didn’t feel right to stop believing.”

Laura smiled faintly. “That’s faith, dear. The kind this family forgets sometimes.” She reached across the table, covering Trina’s hand with hers. “I can’t undo what’s already been written, but I can promise this: you’ll never be alone in this house—or in this city. As long as I’m mayor, as long as I’m breathing, no one will come for either of you again without going through me first.”

Trina’s throat tightened. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Collins—Laura.”

“Just Laura.” Her eyes softened. “I owe you that much, at least.”

They shared a small, quiet smile. Outside, Ace squealed with laughter and Spencer answered with mock outrage. The sound made both women laugh.

Laura rose, setting her mug in the sink. “You know, there’s something about seeing them together that makes all the noise fade away. Maybe that’s what peace looks like for a Cassadine—finally choosing something simple.”

Trina stood too, glancing toward the living room. “Maybe peace isn’t something they find,” she said softly. “Maybe it’s something we hold for them until they’re ready.”

Laura looked at her, pride shining through tears. “You remind me of myself once,” she said. “Before the world got complicated.”

Trina smiled. “Then let’s keep it uncomplicated—at least for today.”

“Deal.” Laura slipped an arm around her shoulder as they walked back toward the laughter in the next room.

Chapter Text

Late-afternoon light spilled over the Corinthos ranch-style house, cicadas humming at the edges of the long drive. Sleek cars sat in a neat row—understated wealth that didn’t need to announce itself.

Michael nudged Morgan with an elbow as they walked up. “You still haven’t told me why I’m your emotional support tonight.”

“It’s not emotional support,” Morgan said, half-smirk, half-nerves. “Just… backup.”

“Backup for dinner?” Michael arched a brow. “Or because the girl you like is coming with the cousin who’s the love of her life?”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Family dinners are war zones.”

Sonny opened the door himself—rare—and wrapped them both in warmth and that quiet authority that never needed volume. “My boys. ’Bout time.” His hand landed on Morgan’s shoulder, a subtle squeeze—trying.

Michael sniffed the air theatrically. “Smells like you actually cooked, old man.”

Sonny chuckled. “Watch your mouth and grab a plate.”

⸻

The bell rang again. A look passed around the foyer—everyone knew who it was.

Spencer’s smile, when he stepped in with Trina, could have lifted the room. Pride shimmered off him like heat. Trina’s smile was just as real—until her gaze snagged on Morgan across the space. For the briefest moment, her expression trembled. Then she smoothed it away.

Morgan’s jaw tightened. Michael noticed. He didn’t comment.

Trina’s arm shifted in Spencer’s, a small adjustment that read like guilt if you knew her well. Morgan turned to the sideboard and poured himself a drink he didn’t touch.

The smell of tomato, basil, and roasted garlic unfurled from the kitchen—Sonny’s Sunday sauce simmering low. Silverware clinked. Laughter rose and fell. It was the kind of noise that said everything’s fine even when it wasn’t.

Morgan sat beside Michael, posture too perfect, smile a little too steady. Across the table, Spencer poured Trina sparkling water and pressed a kiss to her temple. She smiled—soft, true—but her gaze flicked once, too quickly, toward Morgan. He caught it. Pretended not to.

Sonny, beaming, lifted his glass. “To family. To the ones who find their way back, no matter how far they go. And to the people who keep us grounded—who remind us who we are.” He tipped his glass toward Trina. “You’ve been a good influence on this one. Obvious as day.”

“That’s her superpower,” Spencer said, draping his arm across her shoulders.

The table chuckled. Trina blushed. Morgan swallowed down the tightness in his throat.

He hadn’t planned to speak. Truly. But the words slipped anyway, quiet, almost to himself. “Yeah… she’s got that effect on people.”

The laughter thinned. Glasses stilled. Even Sonny’s smile faltered as his eyes cut to Morgan—curious, cautious.

Spencer’s grin lingered—unaware. “You sound like you know from experience.”

Morgan’s fingers went rigid around his fork. He could fix this. Laugh, shrug, just being nice. But something inside him refused.

He lifted his eyes to Trina’s. Her lips parted—no sound—an expression that said please don’t.

Too late. “Maybe I do,” he said softly.

Silence. Even the clock on the wall seemed to hold its breath.

Michael shot him a look: Not here. Sonny cleared his throat, shifting topics with host’s grace that couldn’t quite stitch the air back together. Spencer blinked, scanning faces for context he hadn’t been given.

“What am I missing?” he asked, half-laughing, half-defensive.

“Nothing,” Trina whispered. “You’re not missing anything.”

Her hand shook as she reached for her glass. Morgan stared down at his plate and ground his jaw.

Dinner marched on, but the room didn’t sound the same. Laughter thinned to threads; silverware clicked too sharp. And when Trina dared one last glance, Morgan’s eyes were already on her—steady, unspoken, saying everything his words couldn’t reclaim.

She fixed her gaze on her plate. Pretending—for Spencer’s sake—that she hadn’t just been seen.

⸻

On the back porch, crickets stitched a soft pattern through the dark. The low hum of music bled from the house, garlic and lemon hanging in the evening air like memory. Trina leaned against the railing, arms folded tight.

The door creaked; Morgan stepped out. “Didn’t mean to chase you out of there.”

“You didn’t,” she said without turning. “I just needed air.”

“Yeah.” He let the door close behind him. “Me too.”

They stood in the hush. Garden lights cast warm halos across the yard; the silence between them grew heavier, not hostile—just full.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Morgan said at last. “It wasn’t fair to you.”

“You’re right,” she answered, facing him now. She wasn’t angry—just steady. “But… thank you for saying it now.”

He nodded, eyes dropping. “Joss already told you, didn’t she?”

“She did. I didn’t know what to say then, and I don’t really know what to say now.” Her voice thinned. “I wasn’t aware of how you felt.”

“I figured.” He tried for a smile and didn’t find one. “Guess I thought I was being subtle.”

“You weren’t, not really. I just didn’t want to believe that’s what it was.” A beat. “I thought we were just friends. I liked that. You showed up when things were hard and made it easier to breathe. That’s all I thought it was.”

“That’s what it was—for you.” He met her eyes, a soft ache there. “For me… I wanted it to be more. That’s on me.”

She nodded, gentle but firm. “There were moments where I got too comfortable. Maybe I let you be there for me in ways I shouldn’t have.” She swallowed. “But that was before Spencer came back. Before I knew he was alive. Now that he’s back, there’s no space for confusion. He’s the love of my life. I need to protect what we have.”

“I know.” His words were quiet. “I’d never want to mess with that. I just didn’t want this hanging between us.”

“It doesn’t have to.” She softened. “I’m not angry. Just… clear.”

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders. “You’re a better person than most.”

“I just try to be fair.”

They stood together a moment longer—a stretch that didn’t strain—until she offered a small smile. “We should go back in before they think we ran off together.”

He almost laughed. “Yeah. No new headlines.”

She brushed past him and went inside. He stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, the night pressing close. It wasn’t the rejection that hurt; it was how easy she made it to forgive her for it.

Chapter Text

Morning found them in gold and hush. Trina lay awake, watching the ceiling, Spencer’s arm heavy across her waist. His breathing was even; peace softened him in sleep. This is what I fought for, she thought. Us, without ghosts. No more secrets.

And yet here she was, silent.

She slipped from bed and padded to the kitchen. Lemon-sweet air from last night’s candle lingered. Coffee became ritual—scoop, pour, stir. Her phone buzzed. You okay after last night? Joss. Trina stared at the screen, then set the phone face-down.

It wasn’t anger she felt; it was unease, a truth dropped between people that couldn’t be stepped around.

Spencer’s shuffle sounded in the hall. She felt the ache as soon as she saw him—sleepy eyes, hair mussed, the boy and the man all at once.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

She turned to face him, fingers tight around the mug. Tell the truth. “About last night. About something that happened.”

His posture sharpened. “Something with my uncle?”

“No. With Morgan.”

The air changed. Spencer’s spine straightened, a protective edge slipping in.

“Before you hear it from anyone else,” she said, steadying herself, “I need you to know. We promised—no secrets.”

He held her gaze. Calm. Too calm. “All right,” he said quietly. “Tell me.”

“At dinner, he said something. It wasn’t planned—just… out. It made it clear he has feelings for me.”

He blinked once. “And you?”

“How did I respond?” She nodded. “I didn’t. Not there. Later, outside, we talked. I told him I didn’t know until Joss told me, that maybe I leaned on him more than I should have because I was missing you. Missing us.” She exhaled. “But I made sure he understood it ends there. Because I’m with you. Because I love you.”

Silence hummed between them. Spencer set his mug down with a soft click. “You love me.”

“Yes.”

He nodded, once, then again—like the word had to touch down. “I know you do.”

Restraint pulled at every line of his body. “I’m proud of you for telling me,” he said. “You have no idea what that means.” A beat. “But hearing that another man felt something for you—looked at you the way I do—” He cut himself off with a humorless breath. “It’s taking every ounce of sense not to go find him right now.”

She touched his wrist. “You don’t need to. He knows.”

“I’m sure he does. That doesn’t make it easier.” His voice thinned at the edges. “When I was recovering, I saw doves every day. At first it felt like coincidence. Now I realized it was a reminder—that no matter what I was reclaiming, you were out there, waiting for me to find my way back to you.”

He lifted his eyes; the look wasn’t angry. It was devotion, trembling at the edges. “I can’t lose you again. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” she said gently.

“Then I need to make sure no one—family included—gets the wrong idea about what we are.”

His tone softened, resolve unbending. He brushed his thumb along her jaw—reverent, not possessive. “You’re my dove, Trina. My reminder that love comes home.”

Before she could answer, he kissed her forehead and stepped back.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out,” he said, quiet as a vow. “Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

The door closed with a soft, final sound. Trina pressed her palm to her chest and felt the echo of wings.

⸻

Spencer didn’t remember how fast he drove. Only the city blurring past in streaks of morning gold and gray and the drum in his ribs: I can’t lose her. Not again.

He parked at a small jewelry shop with lace curtains and a hand-painted sign. No glitz. Just warmth. It felt right.

The bell chimed. An older woman looked up and smiled. “Looking for something in particular?”

He hesitated. “Something that feels like… her.”

She studied him, then set a velvet tray on the glass. One ring stopped him. A slender gold band. A deep sapphire, ocean-steady. Two diamonds like clear punctuation.

“That one,” he breathed.

“A sapphire for faithfulness,” the clerk said. “Gold for enduring love.”

“She’s strong,” he murmured. “It should be too.”

While she wrapped the box in ivory paper, he wandered to the window—and froze. Two doves perched on the line outside, beaks almost touching. One cooed. The other answered.

He laughed under his breath. “All right,” he whispered. “Message received.”

The box went into his jacket, close to his heart. The doves took flight as he stepped into the morning, wings beating in perfect tandem.

It wasn’t about claiming her, he thought. It was choosing her. Again. Always.

For the first time since he’d heard Morgan’s name on her lips, Spencer felt calm.

Two doves. One promise. And a ring waiting for her hand.

Chapter Text

They let themselves into the Airbnb and stood in that particular hush that lives between two people who love each other and still have too much in their heads. Sunlight pooled through gauzy curtains; lavender edged the air.

“It still feels weird calling this place home,” Trina said, dropping her keys and giving him a look. “Like we’re just… borrowing it.”

Well, technically this isn’t our permanent residence,” Spencer smirked. “And the only reason it still looks this untouched is because we haven’t been here long enough to mess it up together. But for now, this is home base—until we land somewhere real.”

Trina arched a brow, lips curving. “Oh, so now you want a mess? Careful, Cassadine—you might just get one.”

She sank onto the couch, watching him set a small white paper bag on the counter. “You stopped somewhere?”

“Cleared my head,” he said, turning the bag casually. “It worked.”

“You look… calm.”

“I am.”

He crossed the room and sat beside her, their knees nearly touching. “You were right to tell me the truth,” he said. “Not because I doubted you—because honesty like that is rare. You didn’t owe me, but you gave it anyway.”

“It’s what we promised.”

“I know.” The look in his eyes was new: awe tucked inside certainty. “Every time I think I understand how much I love you, something happens that proves I haven’t scratched the surface.”

“Where’s that coming from?”

“Perspective,” he said, and smiled.

She rested her head on his shoulder; his hand slipped into his pocket to touch the cool edge of the ring box. Not yet, he told himself. Soon.

Outside, two doves landed on the fence, close enough to look like one. Spencer glanced at them and smiled. Not yet. But soon.

⸻

Morning spilled through the curtains in long bands of gold. Trina sat at the little table with a notebook open to a sketch of the garden fence. The pencil hovered. She wasn’t drawing; she was replaying the way he’d said I am.

“He’s changed,” she whispered. “We both have.”

The door creaked. “You’ve been up a while,” Spencer said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’ve been drawing.”

“Trying.” She turned the page to him—the fence, the two doves. He smiled.

“You really saw them.”

“Hard to miss.”

He reached into his pocket, and the white box appeared between his fingers. “I was going to wait,” he said. “Make it special—lights, music. But that’s not us. We’ve had enough noise.”

He opened the box. The sapphire caught the morning. Two diamonds held it like hands.

“I saw this and thought of you,” he said. “Strong. Simple. Certain.”

“Spencer,” she breathed.

“You’re my beginning and my peace. My reason to come home. I don’t want another day where you wonder if I know that.” He swallowed. “Will you marry me?”

Her hand flew to her mouth, tears gathering fast. She nodded once, twice, until the laugh-yes tumbled out. “Yes. Of course.”

He slid the ring onto her finger, and for a heartbeat the world held still. Outside, the doves cooed—a benediction.

Chapter Text

They sat in the stillness that followed, her hand in his, the ring throwing gold and blue around the room.

“You said yes,” he whispered.

“Wasn’t a hard question,” she teased.

He laughed, then sobered. “I can still hear it—Morgan’s name, that whole dinner. It’s not about him. It never was. But hearing it… I realized I can’t keep leaving space for anything that could pull us apart.”

“Spencer—”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “Just clear.” Energy lit him from within. “Time isn’t promised. I don’t want a long engagement. I want us.” He grinned. “Pack a bag. We’re going to Paris. Tomorrow.”

“Paris?”

“We’ll get married there. Just you and me. No drama. No ghosts.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m in love.” He brushed her lips with his. “Yours.”

Outside, the doves swept skyward, witnesses already on the wing.

⸻

Clouds drifted beneath them like silk. Trina dozed against his shoulder; Spencer watched the ring catch cabin light and couldn’t stop the quiet smile. I did it. She said yes.

“You’re staring again,” she mumbled.

“Making sure it isn’t a dream.”

“If it is, don’t wake me.”

Their laughter was soft, the kind you only share with forever.

Paris met them with a silver rain and lilac. He led her down a narrow lane to a small ivy-draped church with an iron gate and a walled garden bursting with color.

“It’s a dream,” she murmured.

“I undersold it,” he said, grinning.

They stood beneath a flowered arch. The officiant’s French rolled warm as candlelight; Spencer’s halting replies made Trina giggle. The vows were simple. The truth was not.

“From the day I met you,” he said, “my heart stopped wandering.”

“And from the day you found me again,” she answered, “I stopped waiting.”

He slid the ring back onto her finger, and sunlight broke through the glass, laying gold across them both. Two white doves perched on the wall as if the garden had been waiting.

“You may kiss your bride,” the officiant said, smiling.

Spencer did—softly at first, then with a certainty that tasted like forever.

That evening, they walked along the Seine, reflected light scattering on water. “So, husband,” Trina teased. “What now?”

“Now? We live,” he said. “And when we go home, I make sure everyone—including Morgan—knows exactly what that means.”

“Spencer.”

“I’m calm.” A beat. “Very calm.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“But if he even breathes wrong in your direction,” he added mildly, “he’s getting a friendly reminder that Mrs. Cassadine is taken.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And completely yours.”

Their laughter blended with the city as the doves circled once more and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

The cabin dimmed to twilight. Trina slept; Spencer traced circles over her fingers and watched the sapphire catch the moon. Please, let it stay this easy, he thought.

Dawn peeled the horizon open as they landed. They moved through the terminal hand in hand, no fanfare—just two people bringing Paris home with them.

“Home,” she whispered.

“For now,” he said.

He spotted the black sedan first. Saw the figure leaning against it, hands in pockets. Recognition slid into challenge across the distance.

Spencer’s grip on Trina’s hand tightened. “Not today, cousin,” he murmured.

The doves might have stayed in Paris, but the vow had not.

⸻

The carousel clanked to a stop. Spencer was halfway through a sentence about breakfast when Morgan’s voice cut clean through the noise behind them.

“Well, look who decided to come back from their honeymoon in the clouds.”

Trina froze on the turn. Morgan stood a few feet away, grin lazy, hands sunk deep in his jacket like he owned arrivals.

“You timing your appearances now,” Spencer asked, “or is this divine irony?”

“Just coincidence,” Morgan said. “Port Charles isn’t that big. Hard to miss a Cassadine making headlines with a Robinson on his arm.”

“I don’t make headlines,” Spencer replied, cool. “They make themselves.”

The air snapped. People flowed between them, oblivious. Trina’s fingers tightened around her carry-on.

“Morgan, we just landed—” she began.

“And you’re glowing,” he said lightly. “Paris’ll do that. You two eloped, huh? Congrats. Guess you figured out how to skip the family-drama package.”

“You’re mistaken,” Spencer said with velvet dryness. “Family drama travels free of charge.”

“Relax, man. I’m saying congratulations.”

“Your congratulations sound remarkably like commentary.”

“Maybe because I care what happens to her.”

That did it. Polished calm slipped. Spencer stepped closer, voice low, meant only for them. “Care all you like. You just won’t be involved. There’s a difference.”

“Oh? Now that she’s got your last name, she’s off-limits to basic friendship?”

“I’m sure your definition of basic is as limited as your vocabulary.”

Trina groaned. “Guys—”

“That the fancy-school way of saying you’re threatened?” Morgan shot back.

“Threatened? No.” Spencer’s tone cut like glass but gleamed with control. “I just have a habit of protecting what’s mine — a trait my family built empires on.”

Morgan’s laugh was bright and cutting. “And yet here you are, still trying to prove you deserve the girl who liked the barista better when he listened.”

Spencer’s smile thinned. “She didn’t marry the barista.” A beat, steady as his pulse. “She married the man who learned.”

Trina’s jaw set; the sparkle in her eyes dimmed. Whatever warmth Paris gave her, this wasn’t it. She stepped between them, palms up. “Enough. Both of you. Not here.”

Morgan glanced at her; the fight drained into something almost sad. “Yeah. You’re right.” He flicked a last look at Spencer. “Enjoy your empire, cousin.”

He walked away. Spencer exhaled through his nose, pulse still hammering.

“You didn’t have to—” Trina began.

“He started it,” Spencer said.

“And you finished it,” she replied. “Cassadine-style.”

“Would you expect anything less of your husband?”

She sighed, a reluctant curve tugging at her mouth. “I married a menace.”

“You married a man who knows the value of what he has.”

Outside, two white feathers skittered across the pavement as if from nowhere. Above the terminal, a pair of doves rose and vanished into the sky.

Peace was optional. Love was not.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing Port Charles and Morgan’s laugh on the other side. Trina set her purse on the counter.

“You didn’t have to say that,” she said.

Spencer froze with his coat half off. “Which part? The truth?”

“The barista,” she said. “You know how that sounded.”

“I know exactly how it sounded,” he said, unapologetic. “And I meant it.”

“Do you ever listen to yourself?”

“Every day. Usually I agree with me.”

Her sigh slipped into a laugh before she could stop it—that was the problem. He could disarm her even when she wanted to be furious.

“You can’t throw words like that because someone gets under your skin,” she said.

“He wasn’t under my skin,” Spencer answered. “He was in your orbit. There’s a difference.”

He crossed the room slowly, hands in his pockets like he was keeping them there on purpose. “I shouldn’t have said it,” he admitted. “But seeing him—smirking—right after we promised forever?” He shook his head. “I saw red. Then I saw you. And I couldn’t stand the idea of him thinking he still had space.”

Her anger softened. “You don’t know how to be halfway about anything, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you.” He lifted her left hand, thumb brushing the ring he’d placed in Paris. “This wasn’t about proving anything. It was about reminding myself that I don’t have to.”

“Then say that next time,” she said, “not something that makes me sound like a prize you won.”

“You’re right.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry.”

Silence filled with forgiveness waiting to happen.

“You’re impossible,” she murmured.

“And completely yours.”

He kissed her knuckles. The heat in her eyes melted; his never dimmed. She closed the distance, resting her forehead to his.

“I love you,” she said, “even when you’re too much.”

“Good,” he breathed. “Too much is how I got you.”

The kiss that followed wasn’t apology. It was relief—finding rhythm after a storm.

We’re okay, the quiet said.

Chapter Text

Light slipped through the curtains like a secret. Trina reached for the warm space Spencer had left and followed the scent of espresso to the kitchen.

“Look at you, Mr. Domestic,” she teased. “Your royal barista license must be revoked.”

“Please,” he said, whisking milk like it was a duel. “This is avant-garde craftsmanship. Besides, no staff required.”

“Until you burn the milk,” she countered, smiling as foam slid down the side of the mug.

She shook her head, laughing as she reached for a mug. These quiet mornings were becoming their rhythm — a little messy, a little new, but real. Watching him — barefoot, determined, and completely out of his element — Trina realized how love could turn even the unfamiliar into art.

“Five-star presentation,” she teased.

“Admit it — you love me for my confidence.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

He stole a kiss instead of arguing. The airport tension dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.

When he pulled back, his grin softened — replaced by that quiet glance that always made her forget how much the world had demanded of them. For a moment, there was only morning light, coffee steam, and the peace of being seen.

“This is what I pictured,” she said later, barefoot and easy. “Bad coffee. Quiet mornings. Us.”

It looks good on us,” he murmured, smiling as he drew her in and stole a deeper kiss from her lips.

By noon, they’d built a small fortress of blankets and pastry crumbs. “Eat one more croissant,” she told him, “and you lose your Cassadine mystique.”

“Mystique is overrated,” he said solemnly. “Croissants are eternal.”

Four Days Later

By midweek, their days had a pulse again. Trina’s gallery hummed with soft music. She stood before a new series when her phone buzzed.

Lunch? Spencer texted. I’m in the neighborhood. Also, the neighborhood is magically five blocks away.

Show-off, she wrote back.

Twenty minutes later, he appeared with a paper sack. “Sandwiches. Because I’m a modern husband who provides.”

“You walked into Kelly’s and said, ‘Whatever Trina says is good, huh?!”

“Astute as always.”

They ate on a bench beneath dappled trees. “You’ve been calm,” she said.

“I’m married to you,” he answered. “There’s not much left to chase.”

“You don’t just catch someone and call it a day.”

“No,” he said, softer. “But I keep them safe.”

Morgan lay quiet at the edge of both their thoughts.

“I need to talk to him,” she said finally. “Just once. To close it.”

“You don’t owe him that,” Spencer said. After a beat, he squeezed her hand. “But you might owe it to yourself. Do it. And when you’re ready, come home.”

“Home,” she repeated, smiling. “I like the sound of that.”

Light settled warm across his wedding band as he kissed her. Fire had cooled to light; it felt like growing up.

Chapter Text

The bell over the café door jingled. Espresso and cinnamon wrapped around Trina as Joss waved her over, already grinning.

“You’re late,” Joss said. “Married life slowing you down?”

“Some of us work for a living,” Trina shot back.

“And some of us are learning how to save lives,” Joss said, smug. “Checkmate.”

Two mugs landed without being ordered. “So, Mrs. Cassadine,” Joss said. “How’s Paris? How’s the ring? How’s the man?”

“Paris was beautiful. The ring’s perfect. The man is… still Spencer.”

“So: dramatic, charming, occasionally unbearable?”

“You forgot devoted. But yes.”

They laughed until the window fogged. Eventually, the conversation softened.

“I heard about the airport,” Joss said.

“It was tense,” Trina admitted. “Spencer and Morgan. Mostly Spencer’s reaction. We handled it. He apologized. He’s learning.”

“The Cassadine learning curve,” Joss mused. “A miracle in progress.”

Trina smiled, thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking about Morgan too. How it ended. Or didn’t.”

“You mean how you married someone else?”

“I mean how I never really said goodbye. Not properly.” She folded her hands. “I never played with his heart, Joss. I didn’t flirt to feel seen. I was lonely. He was kind. That was it. It wasn’t love. I think he knows that now, but I want to be sure.”

“You don’t owe me that,” Joss said, squeezing her hand. “But I’m glad you said it. And for what it’s worth? You couldn’t fake a feeling if you tried.”

“Thank you.”

“Besides,” Joss added, “anyone who’s seen you and Spencer in the same room knows what real looks like.”

“Messy and loud?”

“Exactly.”

They clinked mugs. “So what’s next?” Joss asked.

“A conversation with Morgan,” Trina said. “Then I close that chapter for good.”

“Promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t look back.”

“To not looking back,” Trina said, lifting her cup.

“And to finally getting your fairy tale,” Joss answered, smiling into her coffee.

Chapter Text

The waterfront was painted in late-afternoon gold. Trina stood at the railing with the wind threading her hair and the low lap of waves against the pier. Footsteps approached.

“You came,” she said.

“You asked,” Morgan replied.

They stood with a few feet between them. Gulls called. Somewhere a saxophone played something unhurried.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she said.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” she answered. “You were good to me. You showed up when things were messy, and you didn’t have to.”

“Guess I wasn’t too bad for a stand-in,” he said, half-smile crooked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t make yourself smaller because I didn’t fall in love. The timing and the friendship mattered. You mattered.”

He let out a long breath. “I wanted to be angry. I tried. I can’t be. Not at you.”

“Good,” she said gently. “There’s nothing to be angry about. You loved me honestly. I’ll always be grateful.”

A breeze lifted a curl; he reached as if to fix it, then dropped his hand. She smiled—tenderness that no longer hurt.

“He’s lucky,” he said.

“We both are.”

“You’re really happy?”

“I am.” Steady as bedrock.

“You’ll find that too,” she added softly. “Maybe not today. But you will. Your heart deserves to be met.”

“You sure do know how to end a story.”

“No,” she said. “I just learned how to tell the truth.”

She stepped in and hugged him—brief, sincere. “Take care of yourself, Morgan.”

“You too, Mrs. Cassadine,” he said, and smiled like he meant it.

At the corner, Spencer waited, window down, hand outstretched. Trina didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. Two doves lifted from the pier behind her, bright wings catching the light as they rose in the same direction.

The triangle had always been about choices. Trina had finally chosen peace.

Chapter Text

Paris — one year later… The chapel looked the same—ivy climbing toward a gentle sun, petals tumbling across old stone. Inside, the same officiant smiled as another couple stood where Spencer and Trina once did. They sat near the back, fingers loosely twined; Trina rested her head on his shoulder.

“Déjà vu,” she whispered.

“Except this time, we get to watch someone else panic about vows,” Spencer murmured.

She laughed softly. Stained glass scattered color over the pews. When the newlyweds kissed, sunlight broke just so, as if Paris remembered them, too.

In the garden, two white doves lifted from the wall, wings flashing.

“Always two,” Trina whispered, awe threading her voice.

“Always,” Spencer said into her hair.

For a long, perfect moment, the world held still—no ghosts, no rivals, no unfinished things. Just two souls, certain. The doves wheeled higher until they were no longer shapes against the light but part of it—disappearing into blue, together.

End.

🕊️ Before I close, I just want to say how grateful I am for Spencer and Trina — a pairing that gave us something rare, beautiful, and worth holding onto. Their story wasn’t always easy, but the joy, chemistry, and heart they brought to our screens still mean everything.

Sydney, Tabyana, and Nicholas gave us scenes so powerful that we’re still here — loving, remembering, and hoping.

I don’t know what the future holds, but like Spencer once said, “Hold on to hope.” Until — or if — they return, I pray the writing continues, carrying forward the love they always deserved.

⸻

To everyone who read this story — thank you. Finishing this meant more to me than you know. After a major MS relapse ten years ago, many of my cognitive abilities were affected and with them, my confidence. I never thought I’d write creatively again.

But this fic changed that. I don’t know if this will spark future writing, but it reminded me that even when life rewrites us, we can still reclaim our voice, our passions, and our joy.

Thank you for every read, every comment, and every quiet visit. Your support helped me finish something I once believed I’d lost the ability to do.

I’m grateful you were here.

With love,
— Exsneaker82head 💛