Chapter Text
September 24th, 2020 - Monday, 7:43 AM - DSO Headquarters, Washington D.C.
The fluorescent lights of DSO headquarters had always been dull, but somehow they felt even more dead now. (Y/N) stood in the lobby, her worn messenger bag slung over her shoulder, staring at the security checkpoint like it was the gates of hell itself. The bag was old, a thrifted find from three years ago that had seen better days. The strap was fraying at the edges, the canvas faded from navy to a washed-out greyish blue. She couldn't afford to replace it. Couldn't afford much of anything these days.
She wore dark grey slacks that she'd bought on clearance from Target, $19.99, marked down from $45, and a simple black blouse that was starting to pill at the elbows. Her shoes were black flats, the same pair she'd been rotating for the past six months because new shoes weren't in the budget. No heels. Those were for agents who still had something to prove, who still had careers to protect. She wasn't that person anymore.
Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, practical and unremarkable. No makeup except for a thin layer of concealer under her eyes to hide the dark circles that had become permanent residents on her face. She looked tired. She looked defeated. She looked exactly like what she was: someone who'd lost everything and was still trying to figure out how to exist in the aftermath.
The pendant Jake had given her, the one engraved with "you're my new home," and the dog tags, hung beneath her blouse, hidden from view. She still wore it every day, even though touching it felt like pressing on a bruise that never quite healed. The bracelet he'd given her for Christmas stayed buried in the back of her closet, wrapped in tissue paper, too painful to look at but too precious to throw away.
(Y/N) took a breath and walked forward.
The security guard, a middle-aged man named Carl who'd been friendly to her before, barely looked up as she approached. "Badge," he said flatly, his tone completely devoid of the warmth he'd shown her six months ago.
She held out her new badge. The photo was recent, taken last Friday when she'd been processed back into the system. Level 2 clearance, the lowest tier for field-trained agents. The kind of clearance they gave to administrative assistants and interns.
Carl scanned it, his expression neutral, and waved her through without a word.
No "welcome back." No "good to see you." Nothing.
(Y/N) collected her bag from the conveyor belt and headed toward the elevators, her footsteps echoing too loudly in the marble atrium. The building was busy with the usual Monday morning chaos, agents in tactical gear heading out for assignments, support staff rushing to meetings with tablets tucked under their arms, the low hum of urgent conversations about outbreaks and intelligence reports.
She used to be part of that world. Used to rush through these halls with purpose, with direction, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they belonged.
Now she felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
As she waited for the elevator, she heard it. The whispers.
"That's her, isn't it?"
"Heard she got demoted all the way down. Level 2. Basically glorified filing."
"Can't believe they even let her back. Should've fired her ass."
"Muller took bullets because of her. Nearly died. And she gets to just walk back in?"
"Strategic resource, that's all. They only want her blood."
(Y/N) kept her eyes forward, her jaw tight, pretending she couldn't hear every word. The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, pressing the button for the basement floor, mailroom and administrative services. Her new home.
The elevator ride was mercifully empty. It was rather a quick yet painful ride.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
8:02 AM - Mailroom, Basement
The mailroom was exactly as depressing as she'd imagined. Grey walls. Metal shelves stacked with bins of inter-office mail. A sorting table in the center of the room covered in envelopes and packages. A small desk in the corner with an ancient desktop computer that looked like it had been manufactured sometime in the early 2000s.
Her supervisor, a woman in her fifties named Elena with short grey hair and reading glasses on a chain, looked up from her clipboard as (Y/N) entered.
"Agent (Y/L/N)," Elena said, her tone brisk and businesslike. Not unkind, but not warm either. "Right on time. Good. Let me show you the system."
(Y/N) wanted to correct her, she wasn't really an agent anymore, was she?, but she bit her tongue and nodded instead.
Elena walked her through the process with mechanical efficiency. Sort the mail by department. Deliver priority items first. Use the service elevator to avoid disrupting the main hallways. Keep her head down. Don't engage in conversations unless absolutely necessary. Return to the mailroom by noon for the afternoon delivery run. Clock out at five. Repeat.
"Any questions?" Elena asked, already turning back to her own work.
"No," (Y/N) said quietly. "I've got it."
"Good. Your cart's over there. Building 3, floors six through nine. Get started."
(Y/N) loaded up the mail cart, a rickety metal thing with wheels that squeaked with every rotation, and headed for the service elevator. The cart was heavy, overstuffed with interdepartmental memos and classified envelopes that she wasn't cleared to read anymore. Her arms strained as she pushed it down the hallway, the squeaking wheels announcing her presence like a goddamn parade float.
People stared as she passed. Some with curiosity. Some with pity. Some with thinly veiled contempt.
She kept her eyes forward and kept moving.
10:34 AM - Tactical Operations Wing
The tactical operations wing was where she used to work. Where her old office had been, before they'd cleaned it out and reassigned it to someone else. Where she'd spent countless hours analyzing intelligence reports and coordinating with field agents and actually doing work that mattered.
Now she was delivering their mail.
The cart squeaked as she pushed it down the hallway, stopping at each office to drop off envelopes and packages. Most people didn't even look up. A few nodded absently. No one spoke to her.
She was almost finished with the floor when she heard voices coming from the break room. Female voices, familiar.
"I'm just saying, it's awkward," one voice said. (Y/N) recognized it immediately, Agent Ross, someone she'd worked with on a joint operation years ago. "She's back and everyone's walking on eggshells. Like, are we supposed to pretend nothing happened?"
"I heard she owes the DSO like a quarter million dollars," another voice chimed in. Agent Laurens, probably. "Wage garnishment for years. Can you imagine?"
"That's what happens when you go rogue," Ross replied. "Actions have consequences. I just feel bad for Muller. He almost died because of her stupidity."
(Y/N)'s hands tightened on the mail cart handle, her knuckles going white.
"Is he even talking to her?" Laurens asked.
"Are you kidding? He won't even look at her. I saw them pass each other in the hallway last week during her reinstatement processing. He literally turned around and walked the other direction. It was brutal."
"Can't blame him. She lied to him, nearly got him killed, destroyed her career, and for what? Some foster family that was already dead? That's not love, that's obsession."
(Y/N) forced herself to keep moving, her vision blurring slightly. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Not here. Not now. Not where people could see.
She finished the floor in silence, delivered the last of the mail, and headed back to the service elevator with her empty cart.
The wheels squeaked all the way down.
12:47 PM - Cafeteria
Lunch was a granola bar from the vending machine, $1.50, the cheapest option, and a cup of water from the fountain. (Y/N) sat alone at a corner table, scrolling through her phone without really seeing anything on the screen. Her checking account balance glared at her from her banking app: $247.83. That had to last her until next Friday's paycheck, which would be immediately garnished for the debt repayment. After garnishment, she'd see maybe $300 of her actual salary.
Rent was $950. Utilities were another $100. Her phone bill was $45. That left her with... she did the math in her head, her stomach sinking. That left her with basically nothing. Negative something, actually, if she factored in groceries and transportation.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mom.
Mom: <Hi honey! Just checking in. How was your first day back? Are they treating you okay? Dad wanted me to ask if you need help with groceries this week. We can Venmo you some money.>
(Y/N) stared at the message, her throat tight. Her parents had already helped her so much over the past six months. Her mom had sent her money for rent three times. Her dad had paid for her phone bill twice. Her younger sister had even offered to help, despite being a college student surviving on ramen and student loans.
She hated this. Hated being a burden. Hated being the family charity case at twenty-eight years old.
But she also needed to eat.
Y/N: <First day is fine. And... yes, if you could help with groceries this week, that would be great. I'll pay you back as soon as I can.>
Mom: <Don't worry about paying us back, sweetheart. You're family. That's what we're here for. Love you so much. ❤️>
The heart emoji made (Y/N)'s eyes sting. She locked her phone and shoved it in her pocket, taking a bite of her granola bar that tasted like cardboard and sadness.
"OH MY GOD, THERE YOU ARE!"
(Y/N) nearly jumped out of her skin. A tray slammed down on the table across from her with enough force to make her water cup wobble, and suddenly Iris was there, all five-foot-four of pure chaotic energy, her dark curly hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with loose tendrils framing her face, her scrubs covered by an oversized cardigan that had little cartoon cats printed all over it. Her DSO infirmary badge was clipped to her scrub pocket, swinging as she dramatically collapsed into the chair.
"Jesus Christ, Iris," (Y/N) muttered, pressing a hand to her chest. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Good! You need to be shocked out of this—" Iris gestured wildly at (Y/N)'s entire existence, "—whatever depressing aesthetic you're going for. 'Sad Girl Eating Granola Bar Alone' is not the vibe, babe. We're pivoting. Right now."
"I'm eating lunch—"
"That is NOT lunch!" Iris practically shouted, causing several nearby agents to turn and stare. She didn't care. Iris never cared. "That is a crime against nutrition! That is a cry for help disguised as food!" She shoved her entire tray across the table. "Here. Take my sandwich. And my fruit cup. And my chips. I'm not asking, I'm telling. EAT."
"Iris, I can't take your—"
"Did I stutter?" Iris fixed her with a look that could probably stop a B.O.W. in its tracks. "I said eat. I already ate breakfast, I'll grab something later, and you look like you're about to pass out. So take the damn food before I force-feed you like a baby bird."
(Y/N) stared at her friend, this absolute tornado of a human being who'd somehow decided to make (Y/N)'s wellbeing her personal mission. "You're insane."
"And you love me for it," Iris said cheerfully, propping her chin on her hands and watching (Y/N) with bright, expectant eyes. "Come on. Eat. I wanna see you take at least three bites before I start my interrogation."
"Your what?"
"My interrogation. I have questions. So many questions. But food first. Three bites. Go."
(Y/N) sighed and picked up the sandwich, turkey and avocado on wheat, way better than anything she could afford right now. She took a bite, then another, and Iris nodded approvingly.
"Good girl. Okay, now we can talk. How was your first day? And don't say 'fine' because I can see from here that it was decidedly NOT fine. Your aura is giving 'dead inside' vibes and I don't like it."
"My aura?"
"Yes. Your aura. It's all grey and sad and I hate it. You used to have this like, vibrant yellow-orange energy, and now you're just..." Iris made a vague deflating gesture. "Bleh. So talk to me. What happened? Did someone say something? Do I need to fight someone? Because I will absolutely fight someone for you."
Despite everything, (Y/N) felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "No fighting necessary. It's just... exactly what I expected. People whispering. People staring. Everyone treating me like I'm either contagious or about to have a breakdown."
"Fuck them," Iris said immediately, loud enough that a few more people glanced over. "Seriously. Fuck all of them. You made a mistake. You paid for it. You're still paying for it. Anyone who wants to judge you can take it up with me and I'll tell them exactly where they can shove their opinions."
"That's not really how professional workplaces operate—"
"I don't care!" Iris leaned forward, her voice dropping slightly but losing none of its intensity. "I really don't care, (Y/N). You're my friend. One of my best friends. And I've watched you go through hell for the past six months, actual hell, and you're still standing. That takes strength. That takes courage. And anyone who can't see that is a moron."
(Y/N) felt her throat tighten. "Iris—"
"Nope. No crying. Not yet. We're still in the cafeteria and I refuse to let you cry in public on your first day back. Save the tears for later when we're drunk and watching sad movies. Right now, we're eating and planning your social reintegration." Iris grabbed a chip from the bag she'd pushed across the table and crunched it decisively. "Starting with this weekend. Saturday night. You, me, drinks, possibly karaoke if I can talk you into it."
"I can't afford—"
"MY TREAT!" Iris said loudly, causing someone at the next table to actually flinch. "God, do you ever get tired of trying to turn down free things? It's my treat. It's already decided. We're going out, we're getting drunk, responsibly drunk, medical professional drunk, and we're remembering what it feels like to be humans and not just sad sacks of anxiety. Deal?"
"You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"
"Nope!" Iris popped the 'p' cheerfully. "I'm relentless. It's one of my best qualities. So you might as well say yes now and save us both time."
(Y/N) looked at her friend, this loud, chaotic, absolutely wonderful person who refused to let her drown in her own misery. "Okay. Saturday."
"YES!" Iris clapped her hands together. "Excellent! I'm already planning the outfit. Something slutty but classy. We're gonna look so hot. It's gonna be great."
(Y/N) couldn't help but laugh, the sound feeling foreign in her throat. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet you love me. Now eat your fruit cup and tell me—" Iris's voice dropped, becoming slightly more serious but no less intense. "—have you seen him? Jake? Have you talked to him at all?"
The laughter died immediately. (Y/N) looked down at the sandwich in her hands. "Twice. I've seen him twice since my suspension. Once coming out of the training room. Once leaving John's office. Both times he... he looked right through me. Like I didn't exist. Like I was just another person in the hallway."
Iris's expression softened, her usual manic energy dimming to something gentler. "Oh, honey."
"Don't," (Y/N) said quickly, shaking her head. "Don't give me sympathy. I don't deserve it. I lied to him. I nearly got him killed. I destroyed everything we had. He has every right to ignore me."
"Having the right to do something doesn't make it hurt less," Iris said quietly. "And you're allowed to be hurt even if you think you deserve it. Emotions don't work on a deserve-system. They just... are."
"I just wish..." (Y/N) trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"You wish you could go back and make different choices," Iris finished for her. "You wish you could fix it. You wish he'd look at you the way he used to. You wish it didn't hurt so goddamn much every time you see him."
(Y/N) nodded, not trusting her voice.
Iris reached across the table and grabbed both of (Y/N)'s hands, squeezing hard. "Listen to me. And I mean really listen. You're going to get through this. I don't know how yet, and I don't know when, but you will. Because you're strong and stubborn and way too tough to let this break you. And I'm going to be right here the entire time, annoying the shit out of you and forcing you to eat actual food and dragging you out of your apartment when you try to become a hermit. Got it?"
(Y/N) squeezed back, her eyes stinging. "Got it."
"Good. Now finish that sandwich. You've got afternoon deliveries and I need to get back to the infirmary before someone accidentally bleeds out because I wasn't there to supervise the idiots." Iris stood up, grabbed her now-empty tray, and pointed at (Y/N) with mock sternness. "Saturday. 7 PM. I'm picking you up. Wear something that makes you feel good. We're having fun if it kills us."
"It might actually kill us."
"Then we'll die having fun! See you Saturday, babe!" And with that, Iris was gone, bouncing away with the same chaotic energy she'd arrived with, leaving (Y/N) sitting there with actual food and the ghost of a smile on her face.
4:47 PM - Training Wing
(Y/N) wasn't supposed to be in the training wing. Her mail route didn't include the training room levels. But she'd gotten turned around, or maybe she'd deliberately taken a wrong turn, she wasn't sure anymore, and now she was pushing her squeaking cart through the hallway that led to the main training facilities.
The sounds of combat echoed from behind closed doors. Grunts of exertion. The thud of bodies hitting mats. The sharp crack of gunfire from the range.
She used to train here. Used to spend hours on those mats, sparring with other agents, pushing herself until her muscles screamed and her lungs burned. Used to feel strong and capable and like she belonged.
Now she was just the girl with the mail cart.
She was about to turn around when one of the training room doors opened.
And Jake Muller walked out.
Time seemed to slow down. (Y/N)'s breath caught in her throat, her hands freezing on the cart handle.
He was wearing black tactical pants and a grey DSO t-shirt, both soaked with sweat. His hair was damp, scalp slick, and there was a towel slung around his neck. He looked good. He looked healthy. The bullet wounds had healed, leaving only faint scars that she couldn't see from this distance but knew were there. His chest. His thigh. Marks from the bullets he'd taken protecting her.
For a split second, just one heartbeat, their eyes met.
Grey-blue meeting (Y/N eye color). Recognition flickering across his face.
Then his expression went blank. Completely, utterly blank. Like someone had flipped a switch and turned off everything that made him Jake.
He looked away. Adjusted the towel around his neck. Turned and walked in the opposite direction without a word. Without a nod. Without any acknowledgment that she existed at all.
(Y/N) stood frozen, watching him disappear around the corner, her chest tight and her eyes burning.
That was worse than anger. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything.
He'd looked at her like she was nothing. Like she was a stranger. Like six months of loving each other had been completely erased from his memory.
She forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to turn the cart around. Forced herself to keep moving.
The wheels squeaked all the way back to the service elevator.
5:23 PM - (Y/N)'s Apartment, Capitol Hill
Her apartment was a studio in Capitol Hill, one room that served as bedroom, living room, and dining room, with a tiny kitchenette in the corner and a bathroom that was barely big enough to turn around in. The rent was $950 (a privilege now since she paid a huge advance when she got that huge bonus and benefits from when she almost died), which was cheap for D.C. but still more than she could really afford. The walls were thin enough that she could hear her neighbors' conversations. The heating barely worked. The water pressure was a joke.
But it was hers. For now, anyway. Until she couldn't make rent anymore.
(Y/N) dropped her messenger bag by the door and collapsed onto her secondhand couch, a lumpy thing covered in faded grey fabric that she'd bought off Craigslist for $75. The apartment was cold. She couldn't afford to run the heat much, so she'd been living in layers. Sweaters over long-sleeved shirts over tank tops. Fuzzy socks. A throw blanket that was perpetually wrapped around her shoulders.
Her phone buzzed. Another text from her mom, asking about dinner. She responded with a lie about having leftovers, then opened her banking app again, staring at the pathetic balance like maybe it would magically increase if she looked at it hard enough.
$247.83.
Her next paycheck would be direct deposited on Friday. After garnishment, she'd have maybe $300. Minus rent, utilities, phone bill... she did the math again, her stomach churning.
She was going to have to ask her parents for money again. Or sell something. Or pick up a second job, though when she'd find time for that between her DSO hours and mandatory therapy sessions, she had no idea.
Her laptop, an old MacBook that took five minutes to boot up, sat on the coffee table. She opened it, waited for it to load, and pulled up her bank's website. She'd been selling things over the past few months. Old textbooks from college. Some jewelry she never wore. A camera she'd bought years ago and barely used. Anything to keep herself afloat.
Now she was running out of things to sell.
Her eyes drifted to the small bookshelf in the corner, stacked with books and a few personal items. There, on the second shelf, was a framed photo from California. Christmas. Her family's house. Her mom had taken the picture, (Y/N) and Jake standing in the kitchen, his arm around her shoulders, both of them laughing at something her dad had said off-camera. She was wearing a cream-colored sweater. He was wearing a dark grey henley. They looked happy. They looked like people who had a future together.
That was less than a year ago.
It felt like a lifetime.
(Y/N) forced herself to look away from the photo. She couldn't keep doing this. Couldn't keep torturing herself with memories of what used to be. She needed to move on. Needed to accept that Jake was done with her and build a life that didn't include him.
But God, it was hard.
Her phone sat beside her on the couch. She picked it up, unlocked it, opened her messages. Scrolled to Jake's name, still saved as "Jake ❤️" because she hadn't been able to bring herself to change it.
Their last conversation was from March 19th. The night before she'd left for South Africa. The night she'd lied to him about her dad being sick.
Jake: <I know where you are. I'm coming. And when I find you, we're going to have a very long conversation about us. Stay put. Stay safe. I'll be there soon.>
She'd never replied nor called. By the time she landed, she was already in too deep. Already committed to the lie.
(Y/N)'s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She started typing.
Y/N: <Hey. I know you probably don't want to hear from me. I just wanted to say>
She stopped. Deleted it. Started again.
Y/N: <I saw you today at the training wing. I wanted to>
Delete.
Y/N: <I'm sorry. For everything. I know that doesn't>
Delete.
Y/N: <Do you think we could talk? Just for a few>
Delete.
What was the point? He'd made his position clear. No eye contact. No acknowledgment. No Jake.
She locked her phone and tossed it aside, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
The apartment was too quiet. Too cold. Too empty.
She should eat something. She should shower. She should do literally anything productive.
Instead, she opened Spotify on her laptop and pulled up the playlist she'd made a few weeks ago. The one she'd titled "Stupid Feelings" because she was apparently a glutton for punishment.
Twenty-five songs. Every single one of them a knife to the chest.
The playlist stared back at her:
- Don't Smile - Sabrina Carpenter
- Want You Back - Haim
- Breakeven - The Script
- Anyone - Justin Bieber
- A Little Not Too Over You - David Archuleta
- Hate That I Love You - Rihanna
- The Story of Us - Taylor Swift
- Afterglow - Taylor Swift
- Iris - Goo Goo Dolls
- Hits Different - Taylor Swift
- Sweet Nothing - Taylor Swift
- Chasing Pavements - Adele
- Ghost - Justin Bieber
- If This Was A Movie - Taylor Swift
- How To Save A Life - The Fray
- 'Til I Don't - LANY
- Bye Bye Baby - Taylor Swift
- Saw You In A Dream - The Japanese House
- Death By A Thousand Cuts - Taylor Swift
- Goodbye - Avril Lavigne
- Vienna - Billy Joel
- Evermore - Josh Groban
- If You See Her - LANY
- Thru These Tears - LANY
- Call It What You Want - Taylor Swift
She'd made it at 2 AM on a particularly bad night, when the memories were too loud and the apartment felt too empty. When she couldn't stop thinking about Jake's laugh. About the way he'd hold her while they watched terrible movies. About how he'd kiss her forehead when he thought she was sleeping. About all the little moments that had made up their relationship, the ones that hurt the most to remember because they'd been so normal, so domestic, so full of a future that would never happen now.
The first song started playing, Sabrina Carpenter's voice filling the quiet apartment. Don't smile because it happened, baby, cry because it's over.
Yeah. That about summed it up.
(Y/N) lay down on the couch, pulling the throw blanket over herself, and let the music wash over her. Let herself feel all the things she'd been trying so hard not to feel during the day. The grief. The guilt. The loneliness. The desperate, aching wish that she could go back in time and make different choices.
Want You Back transitioned into Breakeven—"I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing"—and she felt it in her bones. That's exactly what this was. Barely breathing. Going through the motions of existence without actually living.
She'd created this playlist as a form of self-torture, she realized. Each song a reminder of what she'd lost. Each lyric a mirror reflecting her own pain back at her. Anyone played next—"you are the only one I’ll ever love.”
A Little Not Too Over You hit different tonight. Because that's exactly where she was, stuck in the space between holding on and letting go, unable to fully move forward but unable to go back either.
Hate That I Love You came on and she laughed bitterly. Rihanna had captured it perfectly. The frustration of loving someone even when you knew you shouldn't, even when it hurt, even when it would be easier to just stop.
But she couldn't stop. Couldn't turn off her feelings like a switch. Couldn't make herself not love Jake Muller even though he'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her.
The Story of Us played and she remembered the first time Jake had told her he loved her. They'd been in his apartment, tangled up in his sheets after making love, and he'd said it like it was the most terrifying thing in the world. Like he was handing her his heart and hoping she wouldn't break it.
And then she'd broken it anyway. And now they’re “in a crowded room and not speaking.”
The playlist continued, Afterglow with its desperate apology, Iris with its raw vulnerability about wanting to be known, Hits Different perfectly capturing how this breakup felt different from anything she'd experienced before.
Sweet Nothing made her cry. Actually cry, tears sliding down her temples into her hair as she lay there. "They said the end is comin', everyone's up to somethin', I find myself runnin' home to your sweet nothings." That had been them. Finding home in each other when the rest of the world was chaos.
By the time How To Save A Life came on, she was full-on sobbing. Because she hadn't saved him. Hadn't saved them. Had watched their relationship die and been powerless, no, had been the cause of its death.
The LANY songs hit particularly hard. 'Til I Don't, If You See Her, Thru These Tears, each one a different flavor of heartbreak, a different angle of loss.
Death By A Thousand Cuts might as well have been written about her life. Every little thing is a reminder of what used to be. The Chinese takeout containers in her fridge. The playlist itself. The training wing at DSO. The stupid pendant around her neck that she couldn't bring herself to take off.
She let the playlist play through to the end, let herself feel everything she'd been bottling up all day. Let herself grieve not just for Jake, but for the person she used to be. The person who had hope. The person who believed love was enough.
By the time Call It What You Want played, the last song, the one about building a home in someone despite what the world says, she was exhausted. Wrung out. Empty.
But at least she'd felt something. At least for twenty-five songs, she'd let herself be honest about how much this hurt.
She was still lying there, staring at the ceiling, when her phone buzzed with a reminder.
Calendar Alert: Therapy Session - Dr. Martinez - Tuesday 6:00 PM
Right. Mandatory therapy. The DSO's latest requirement for her continued employment. Weekly sessions with Dr. Martinez, a clinical psychologist who specialized in trauma and PTSD and probably had a whole file on her detailing just how fucked up she was.
The sessions were... fine. Dr. Martinez was professional and competent and said all the right things about healing and processing and moving forward. But there was something too clinical about it all. Too detached. Like (Y/N) was a problem to be solved rather than a person who was suffering.
She'd only had two sessions so far. Both had left her feeling exhausted and raw and vaguely like she'd been dissected under a microscope.
But it was mandatory. So she'd go. She'd sit in that too-comfortable chair and answer the questions and pretend that talking about her feelings was helping.
Maybe eventually it would.
(Y/N) closed her eyes, the music still playing, and tried to let herself rest.
11:47 PM - Capitol Hill, Outside (Y/N)'s Apartment Building
Jake Muller sat in his Jeep, parked across the street from (Y/N)'s apartment building. The engine was off. The radio was silent. He'd been sitting here for forty-three minutes, watching the windows of her studio.
The light was still on.
He could see her shadow moving occasionally. Back and forth. Pacing, maybe. Or just... existing. Trying to figure out how to survive another day in the wreckage of her life.
This was the third time this week he'd done this. Parked outside her building like some kind of creep, watching her window, making sure she was okay. Making sure she was safe. Making sure she was alive.
He told himself it didn't mean anything. That it was just habit. That it was concern for a colleague, not concern for the woman he'd loved more than anything in the world.
But that was bullshit and he knew it.
Jake leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. His chest still ached sometimes, phantom pain from the bullet wounds that had healed months ago. The doctors said it was psychological. Trauma manifesting as physical symptoms. They'd offered him therapy. He'd declined.
He didn't need therapy. He needed to forget. Needed to stop caring. Needed to move on with his life and let (Y/N) deal with the consequences of her choices without him there to catch her when she fell.
But every night, he ended up here. Watching her window. Making sure the lights eventually went out, which meant she was sleeping. Which meant she was okay. Which meant he could go home and try to sleep himself, though that rarely worked.
His phone buzzed in the cupholder. He picked it up, glancing at the screen.
Text from Sherry.
Sherry: <Hey. Just checking in. How are you doing?>
Jake stared at the message. Sherry had been checking in on him a lot lately. Ever since he'd come back from South Africa. Ever since everything with (Y/N) had imploded. She was being a good friend. Being supportive. Being everything he should probably appreciate but couldn't quite bring himself to.
Because Sherry had feelings for him. He knew that. Had always known that. And now that he was single again, now that (Y/N) was out of the picture, there was this... possibility hanging in the air between them. This unspoken question of whether maybe they could try again.
But Jake didn't want to try again. Not with Sherry. Not with anyone.
He wanted (Y/N).
Even after everything. Even after the lies and the betrayal and the bullet wounds and the six months of silence. He still wanted her.
Which made him a fucking idiot.
Jake: <I'm fine. Just working late.>
Sherry: <It's almost midnight. That's not working late, that's insomnia.>
Jake: <Potato, potahto.>
Sherry: <Have you talked to her?>
Jake's jaw clenched. He didn't need to ask who "her" was.
Jake: <No. And I'm not going to.>
Sherry: <Jake...>
Jake: <I mean it. It's done. Over. I'm moving on.>
Even as he typed the words, his eyes drifted back up to (Y/N)'s window. Still lit. Still occupied. Still her.
Sherry: <Okay. If you say so. But if you need to talk, I'm here. Always.>
Jake: <Thanks. Appreciate it.>
He locked his phone and tossed it back in the cupholder.
The light in (Y/N)'s window flickered. Then went out.
Jake waited another five minutes, making sure it stayed out, making sure she was actually sleeping and not just lying in the dark staring at the ceiling like he did most nights.
Then he started the engine and drove away.
Tomorrow he'd tell himself not to come back. Tomorrow he'd tell himself he needed to let her go. Tomorrow he'd tell himself that watching over her from a distance wasn't healthy, wasn't helping either of them, wasn't anything except prolonging the inevitable.
But tomorrow night, he'd probably be right back here.
Because he was a fucking idiot.
And because, despite everything, despite the anger and the hurt and the betrayal and silence, he still loves her.
And he didn't know how to stop.