Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snow, soft as breath, drifts across the Lumon lot in slow spirals. 

Not real snow. Not the good kind that sticks, or bites, or coats the sidewalks with a perfect, virgin-white blanket. But a grey, sleeting flurry that lands nowhere, means nothing, just circles and disappears. 

It lands in Mark’s hair and melts instantly, trickling down the back of his neck in thin, icy rivulets. The Lumon building blurs behind him, faceless and dreamlike as he crosses the near empty parking lot, key fob in hand, tethered by the gut to the beers in his fridge that drag him home each night. He finds his car on autopilot. Second row from the exit. 

The folded index card flutters in his grip.

Dear Mark, 

Whilst carrying boxes in a room today you slipped on an overhead projector slide and sustained a minor blow to the temple. 

Enclosed, please find a gift card to Pip’s Bar and Grille. 

Congratulations on the gift card. 

He doesn’t remember falling, of course. Not the slip, or the hit, or the brief collision that apparently warranted a bandaid taped to his forehead and a compensatory gift card for his inconvenience. All he knows is it happened, because they told him it did. 

With a gruff sigh, Mark slides into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut behind him, cocooning himself in silence. Stillness. Cold. 

He does not start the car.

Hands slack on the wheel, eyes distant, he exhales slowly, watching his breath fog the windshield. The cabin smells faintly of the stale gas station coffee that he bought this morning and never finished. There are crumpled, flakey pieces of tissue across the console. Twenty minutes, he’d cried. Silent choked gasps into his fists, sitting right here in this very spot as the sun rose pink over the perimeter trees. Twenty minutes of convulsing grief that left his throat raw and his hands shaking too hard to pick up his lanyard. 

That was before the elevator. Before the switch. Now? Nothing. 

An emotion started and never finished. 

There’s no sorrow or lingering rage, not even the dull cathartic ache of existing after a tearful release. Nothing presses against his ribs other than lungs full of cold air. Just blankness. Just the hollow.

At least Severance fucking works, he thinks, with a tight sort of irony. Takes care of him exactly the way he wanted it to. Pulls him into the building in the morning and spits him back out in the evening, peeled right down to the scaffolding. He goes in fractured and comes out sterilized, scraped clean. A drive in car-wash for the mind. 

Still, feeling something couldn’t hurt. 

He raises his hand to his forehead, fingers brushing the crusted edge of the cut beneath his bandaid. Pressure flares sharp beneath his touch. He presses harder, digging down into the frayed nerve endings. 

Pain flickers behind his eyelids. It twitches his cock in his slacks. It doesn’t comfort him, but he’s there. 

Somewhere in town, the bar on West Baird Blvd is wheeling out its happy hour signs. There will be a quiet drone of bad jazz. The curl of steam off rocks glasses, still hot from the dishwasher. The bartender who nods without warmth. It’s familiar. Home-adjacent. Mark drums his fingers on the wheel. The idea of going to his empty house makes his stomach cramp. 

He shoves the key into the ignition, decision made. 

The engine turns over with a reluctant growl. A sharp, bitter gust of air gurgles through the vents. He grits his teeth until the blast goes warm, then leans back, watching the windshield ice melt at its corners. The sky is darker now, the lot seems cavernous. Mark’s fingers wrap tight, one around the wheel and one around the stick as he shifts into reverse. Snow and asphalt crunch. The car glides backward out of the spot, then forward. 

Mark rounds the far end of the lot. It’s all muscle memory. Driving by feel, mind elsewhere.

His lanyard catches the last of the sunlight, glinting like a blade as he yanks it over his head with one hand. 

It catches on his collar.

He tugs it free.

And then— a flash of motion. Charcoal grey. Vibrant auburn. Specks of white.

The sound will echo for the rest of his life. A dull, hollow, thud. The screech of breaking tyres, just a fraction too late. Rubber screams— she doesn’t. Her body rolls across the hood with a sickening grace.

Mark’s chest snaps against the seatbelt as the car shudders to a stop. His lanyard falls into his lap. His breath catches on a gasp in his throat. Ahead, in the glow of the headlights, a woman lies splayed near the painted exit arrows. Crumpled like a marionette with the strings cut. Red hair halos across the asphalt. 

She isn’t moving. 

He blinks at her for a full second, maybe more, before he’s able to move. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, already scrambling. “Fuck— fuck. Fuck. Please don’t be dead—”

He’s running. 

Her body is limp on the asphalt as he approaches. Not even a twitch of movement. Mark stumbles toward her, knees buckling as he drops down beside the woman onto the wet ground and reaches out without knowing where to begin. His hands hover, panicked, useless. His mouth opens and closes.

“Hey— hey— fuck. Come on. Are you okay? Lady, are you alive?”

No response. He rolls her gently onto her side so that he can see her face. Her eyes are shut, lips slightly parted. A slow, misting breath slips from her lips like steam from a kettle. Not dead. Not dead. He repeats it over and over again in his mind, clutches the thought like a buoy. 

“You’re alright,” he tells her. “Fuck. You’re alive. Okay. You’re alive.”

She’s young. Thirty, maybe younger. Her face is flushed from the cold, nose tipped pink. Freckles dot the bridge like pinpricks in a perfect linen napkin. There’s a nasty graze on her cheekbone, and a thin angry slash that seeps dark red and disappears into her hair. Her hair itself is already damping from the puddle beneath her. A thin trickle of blood drips from her nose.

Sleeting snow gives way to rain. Thick and heavy and cold. It beads on her lashes and stains the blue cashmere scarf around her neck, blooming in dark patches. Mark tries to shield her face with his hands but they’re shaking too badly to  be of use. 

“Help!” he yells, throat already raw. “Somebody! Help. She needs help—”

Nobody answers. Of course not. The lot is near empty. The building behind them is already darkening, and they’re at the far end of the lot, too far for the sound to carry. Floodlights flicker in the distance, casting the lot in a sterile, nauseating glow. 

Something crinkles under Mark’s knee. He looks down. 

A flower.

Not just one. Five or six, scattered across the ground around her. White roses, now wrinkled and sodden, bow unraveled. His hand shakes as he picks one up. The stem is cracked, the head sagging under its own weight. The delicate petals are bruised. Another lies near her hand— he reaches for it too. And another. 

“Oh, no,” he mumbles, absurdly. His voice is shaking, almost childlike. “Your pretty flowers. I’m so sorry. You dropped your fl—”

A sob catches in his throat.

“Here,” he whispers, taking her limp, pale hand in his and arranging the stems clumsily into her palm. Her fingers are slack. He tries to curl them around the flowers.  “There, see? Got ‘em. They’re fine. You’re fine.”

Mark clamps his hand around hers to keep her fist held. 

She doesn’t stir. 

“Help!” Mark calls out again. “Somebody call an ambulance.”

The blood on her face has begun to mingle with rainwater, creating a slow pink stream that runs along her cheek and jaw, then down her neck. The knees of his trousers soak through to the skin where he’s pressed to the ground. Cold and damp has found its way into his shoes. Everything is wet. Everything is shaking. 

With one hand still clutching hers around the bouquet, he uses his free hand to press two fingers into the column of her throat. A pulse— faint but present. His breath shudders with relief. 

“Okay. Okay. You’re—okay,” he whispers to her. “Just hold onto the flowers. That’s it.”

She’s not waking up. Nobody is coming. 

He has to move her.

Mark rests her hand across her chest, then rocks forward, scooping her into his arms. One arm beneath her knees, the other cradling the back of her shoulders. She’s lighter than he expected, even beneath layers of damp wool. Her head rolls backward, exposing her throat from under her scarf.  “Woah, no— hey,” he stammers, jolting her upward so her head falls forward, not back. 

She slumps against his shoulder. “That’s it, that’s better. Just lean on me,” he tells her. “Okay. Let’s get you into the car.”

Mark carries her the short distance to his car, still idling where he left it, and throws open the passenger side door, being careful not to shake her too much. He settles her into the seat gently, trying not to let her head loll too far one way or the other. One leg sticks out, her ankle awkward and bent. He adjusts it with trembling hands. Pulls the seatbelt across her chest.

Mark closes the door. He stands outside a moment longer than necessary, hand braced against the roof of the car, staring down at her through the window. She looks impossibly small. Damp hair. Pale skin. There’s a line of blood drying near her ear. Her fingers, smeared with dirt and rain, twitch once and go still.

The wipers scrape wet and rough against the windshield. A constant, ticking metronome. 

He glances back at the Lumon building. 

Then turns back to pick up the roses.

-x-

Streetlights blur and fade as they pass, each one a refracted, distant star. The wipers flick frantic now, useless against the onslaught of rain. The wheel is slick beneath his palms from sweat. 

Mark’s eyes flick between the road and the woman. Her head is forward, chin tucked against her chest now. Her hair is beginning to curl in damp, frizzy waves. The seat belt is twisted awkwardly across her. He can’t adjust it again, not while driving. 

She hasn’t moved. No twitch or limbs or groan of pain. 

Gemma’s face flashes in the rearview mirror. Splayed across the backseat, neck bent, mouth open. Not breathing. Mark blinks and she’s gone. 

The woman in the passenger seat is shaken and her lashes flutter as the car jolts over a pothole. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

His foot presses harder to the gas. 

“You’re okay. It’s just a knock, right? You’re— Good lord,” he chuckles weakly. “You’re gonna wake up in a minute and yell at me. Go ahead.”

The heater is too high. It’s starting to fog the windshield, but he doesn’t turn it down. Doesn’t want her to get cold before they reach the emergency department. Everything will be alright once they get there. This is an emergency. He’s not a criminal. This was an accident. 

Gerhardt Memorial Teaching Hospital looms on the horizon. 

Mark hears a pounding knock on a closed door in his mind.

“Are you Mr. Mark Scout?… May we come in? It’s regarding your wife.”

That was it. The beginning of the end.

He drove there with both hands locked on the wheel, foot to the floor, gnawing the inside of his cheek until he choked on blood and bile. By the time he got to the hospital — this fucking hospital — they wouldn’t let him see her. Said there was no point. Said it was better to remember her as she was.

Mark doesn’t remember the funeral, but he remembers being here.

And now—

Now this woman, silent beside him, bruised and bleeding. If he takes her there, if he drives under that curved awning. If he pulls up under those flickering lights, just past the ambulance bay. If he lets her out of his sight. 

She’ll die too. 

The moment they take her through those sliding glass doors, they have her. It’s out of his control. This can’t be out of his control. Not again. He won’t live through this again. 

“I’m, uh. I’m gonna take you home, okay? Uh, not your home. Mine. Back to my place,” he tells her, voice catching. He glances over at her, but she doesn’t react. “Gonna clean you up, and you’ll be fine. It’s just a bump, right? Just a little scrape. I’ve seen worse. That’s all this is. You’ll be just fine.”

They pass the exit to the hospital, Mark doesn’t look back. Instead, he takes a left at the blinking yellow light, the one just past the gas station that always smells of hotdogs and diesel. He used to stop there for cigarettes, back before Gemma made him quit. A long time ago now. 

It occurs to him, in a moment of panic, that his house might not be clean.

The couch has crumbs in the cushions. The hallway still smells of damp from the pipe that burst at the start of the window. Beer bottles litter the coffee table. He doesn’t have guest towels. Hasn’t done the dishes. 

He almost laughs, but his throat can’t make the sound. 

Mark’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. “I don’t usually drive like that. I’m careful, I don’t— this isn’t— my Dad always used to say, ‘ten and two grip, son’. But I wasn’t, um— my lanyard got caught. And you appeared out of nowhere.”

The town falls away behind them, giving over to houses tucked in behind barren trees, fences warped from frost. He rounds the familiar corner where the maple leans too far into the road — the city should really see to that before somebody gets hurt. His porch light glows pale yellow ahead. One bulb is flickering. He’ll fix it tomorrow. 

He pulls smoothly into the driveway. When he cuts the engine, the silence returns. He doesn’t move for several seconds, then slowly, he turns to look at her. 

“Okay, let’s get you inside.”

His hand trembles on the door latch. When he pulls open the passenger side door, she doesn’t stir. Her head is tilted toward the window now, hair clinging to her cheek. Her face is waxy in the light, a thin sheen of sweat glistens her forehead. Sweating is good. Means she isn’t too cold. 

“That’s it. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, bending down.

It takes no effort to lift her again, but as he does it, he’s awkward, a little clumsy as he holds her against his chest like a child. Or a bride. Her head falls against his shoulder. 

The porch creaks beneath his steps. 

-x- 

The door shuts behind them and the world narrows. Outside, dusk filters through bare branches and pooling gutters, but inside, it’s warm. The radiators are on a timer, set to turn on fifteen minutes before the workday ends, so that by the time he gets home, Mark can strip down to his underwear and a loose bathrobe and grab a beer all before the car engine has cooled. 

There will be none of that tonight, of course.

Mark kicks the door closed with his heel and tightens his grip on the woman in his arms. She’s soaked through. Her hair, her scarf, her coat. Her torn, grazed pantyhose. The heat of her breath against his neck is reassuring. As long as she’s breathing, she’s alive.

His keys clatter onto a pile of unopened mail, most of it bills or circulars from Lumon. The living room is dim and lopsided. He flicks on a lamp in passing. A mug with a dried ring of coffee sits abandoned on the end table next to two remote controls and a battered old coaster. Mark kicks aside a balled-up sweatshirt and lowers her down into the worn, misshapen cushions. 

The woman doesn’t stir as he removes her heels, setting them down with a soft click beside the couch. He adjusts her legs gently, careful of the ankle he can already see is double the size it should be. He fumbles with the buttons of her coat, trying not to think too hard about his hands on her, about the dull heat of her body as the coat slips off in stages. One sleeve, then the other. He pulls it from beneath her and drapes it over the chair. 

One of her hands slips down, hanging toward the floor. He lifts it, cradles it for a moment longer than he needs to. Her sweater sleeve is torn and there’s gravel embedded in the graze that runs down her wrist. 

“I’ll clean that,” he says, mostly to himself. “Get you fixed up. Get you warm. Then tomorrow—“

He stops.

Tomorrow, what?

He doesn’t know. That’s a problem for later. That’s a problem for a version of him with less blood pounding behind his eyes. For now, she just needs to be okay. 

He crouches in front of her, studies the shallow rise and fall of her chest. No obvious disturbance to her breathing. The cut on her face is seeping slower now the blood has dried at the edges. 

He steps back. 

“Okay,” he breathes, pacing once in a tight circle, rubbing both hands through his hair. “You need— I need— I’m gonna clean you up. Just… sit tight, alright? Don’t go anywhere.”

A stupid joke. 

Upstairs, the overhead bulb in the bathroom flickers on like an interrogation lamp. What happened, Mr. Scout? How did this woman end up in your home? Why didn’t you take her to the hospital, Mr. Scout? Why haven’t you called anybody yet? The mirror is streaked from his half-assed cleaning effort and the cabinet door squeaks on its hinges. 

Inside, he manages to salvage half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, an ancient roll of bandage wrap, antiseptic cream and a few bandaids. He gathers what he can. Fills a bowl with warm water, testing the temperature with his knuckles trembling under the tap, and picks up a clean yet worn flanel.

Back in the living room, she hasn’t moved. He kneels beside her and sets the bowl onto the coffee table with his armful of supplies. The water inside sloshes gently, steam curling upward like breath. He dunks the cloth, wrings it out, and starts with her face.

The first touch is hesitant. Cloth to cheekbone, avoiding the worst of the gash. Blood lifts in lazy red smears. Her skin beneath is cool and flushed, scraped raw from the asphalt. He repeats the motion until porcelain white emerges beneath cracked, drying blood. 

“There you are,” he murmurs. “You’ve got… freckles. Look at that.”

He dabs, wipes, dabs again. Her skin brightens with each pass. The cut isn’t deep— angry, yes, but won't need stitches. It’s good. He’d never forgive himself if it scarred. Blood has crusted along her hairline in a thin, copper edge. He brushes it away in gentle circles. Her face is delicate up close. Sharp cheekbones, arched brows, lips full and a little parted. 

“Pretty girl,” he whispers before he can stop himself. “You’re too pretty to be bleeding like this. I’m sorry.”

The flanel finds her chin, her jaw. He tilts her face slightly toward him with his free hand, fingertips resting lightly at her temple. Then, carefully, he runs his thumb across her lower lip. 

It’s impossibly soft. 

Her eyelashes flutter.

Mark freezes. Pulls back. 

Jesus. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “That was… Sorry.”

Her bangs are stuck to her forehead. He brushes them aside with his knuckles, tries not to linger on the shape of her brow or the curve of her small ear.

“What’s your deal, anyway? You work for Lumon?” He chuckles as he dips the cloth once more, turning his attention to her hand. “Of course you do, you were in the parking lot,” he laughs in self deprecation. “Sorry, dumb.”

The side of her palm is torn raw, right up the side of her wrist. There’s gravel embedded in her skin. He wipes away what he can.

“What department are you in? Hope it’s nothing important, you might have to call out tomorrow. Or, no. Monday, I guess.”

Her nails are neat, immaculate and professional. Rounded to a delicate curve, a cool neutral tone. The only imperfection is a scuff over the nail of her grazed, swollen, purple-looking ring finger. His thumb brushes the curve of her wrist.

“You didn’t do these yourself, I can tell. My wife used to go to a salon sometimes. Said she could never sit still for long enough to not smudge them if she did her nails at home. I bet you’re the same.”

Mark dabs peroxide on a cotton pad and presses it to the scrape. He inhales sharply through his teeth, feeling a phantom sting in his own skin as he works. She doesn’t flinch. 

The bandages go on clumsily. His fingers fumble the tape. 

He does his best.

He scans her body for any other visible injuries and lands on her ankle. It’s swollen, pink and puffy where the joint flares beneath the sheer nylon stretched over it. The skin is grazed along the outer bone and the side of her calf, blood and grit caught in the fabric. It’s starting to bruise already.

“Oh no. Shit. You poor thing.”

The pantyhose have torn at the bend, snagged and sticking to the wound. He hesitates, fingers hovering just above her skin, before curling his fingers into the edge of the torn hole in the fabric. 

He rips. 

Not viciously, just enough to split the already fraying fabric. It tears with a hushed sound, elastic threads snapping with small twangs. He peels it back slowly, inch by inch, just enough to let the abrasion breathe. The skin is hot to the touch. Gently, he cups her heel and raises her leg just enough to slide a pillow beneath. 

When he’s satisfied, he sits back on his heels. 

“There. Much better.”

Even unconscious and bleeding, splayed awkwardly on his tattered old couch, she’s beautiful in a way that unsettles him. An inconvenient, fragile kind of beauty, that he can’t look away from. 

Mark drags the recliner as close to the couch as he can get it, then drops into the cushions. The dent in the seat is deep, formed by his slouch. He sinks into it and exhales, rubbing his hands down his thighs, then leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.

He stares at her until his eyes begin to sting. 

“I don’t know what your name is, but, uh— Please don’t die.”

-x- 

A sound cuts through the low din of a dreamless sleep. A sharp breath, wet with pain. A stiffles gasp. The soft scrape of fabric shifting on upholstery. 

Mark jolts awake, heart slamming against his ribs. 

For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. The dark is thick, unfamiliar. He isn’t in his bed. A dull throbbing pain creeps up his neck and his mouth tastes like copper. But then, he hears it again. A low, broken whimper. 

The shadows in the living room rearrange themselves into something terrible. 

The woman is trying to move.

Her hand claws weakly at the backrest, nails catching on the fabric. Her face is twisted, squinting against the dark. Her brow shines with sweat. A small cry escapes her lips as she shifts, then her hand flies to her side, fingers curling tightly over her ribs. She sucks in a sharp, panicked breath and chokes on a series of coughs.

“Hey—hey, no, don’t—” Mark is on his feet, blinking sleep from his eyes as he crouches at her side. “You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s alright.”

She tries to sit, manages an inch, then cries out again, the sound sharp and desperate. Her body folds back into the cushions, breath coming hard and shallow. Her hand clutches at her side, knuckles white.

“Easy, easy—don’t move.” He holds out his hands like he might catch her in place. “You’re safe, okay? You’re hurt, but you’re safe.”

Her eyes find him in the dark, wide and blurred. She’s breathing too fast. Her chest trembles. Mark leans in closer. 

“What’s your name?”

Her lips part. A pause. Then a scratchy cough.

“H’lna,” she splutters. “H-h-lena.”

”Helena?”

She nods.

“Okay.” He nods quickly. “Okay, Helena. Helena what?”

She says something, but it’s slurred. Muffled. He can’t catch it.

“Alright. That’s fine. Doesn’t matter right now.” He swallows. Her forehead is damp. Her eyes keep fluttering, trying to stay open. “Are you in pain?”

She nods once. Small. Almost apologetic.

He exhales. “Okay. Okay, just—hang on.”

He rises fast, nearly stumbles, disappears into the kitchen, grabs the bottle from where he left it on the counter—extra-strength painkillers from a wisdom tooth extraction he had last year, half-used, the label curling at the corners. 

Back in the living room, he shakes two pills into his hand. Hesitates. Adds a third. She’s small, but she looks like she needs it.

“Here,” he says, kneeling beside her again. 

Her eyes barely track him. Her hand twitches as if to reach, then drops. He steadies her chin with one hand, then slides the first pill between her teeth.

“Open. That’s it. Good.”

Another.

He brings the third to her lips but she shakes her head, wincing in pain with her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“It’ll help,” he murmurs. “Just one more.”

She parts her lips, allowing him to rest the third pill on her tongue. Then, he lifts her head gently, cradling it in the crook of his hand. With the other, he brings the bottle of water to her lips. 

She tries to drink in gulps.

He pulls the bottle away, catching the trickle of water beading down her chin with his thumb. “No. Small sips.” 

She nods and tries again, slower this time. “That’s good, Helena. You’re doing good.”

When the bottle lowers, her head sags forward, body wilting. He guides her back onto the pillow, grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drags it over her.

She’s already slipping. Her lashes droop low. The trembling in her shoulders stills as her mouth softens and that fragile breath steadies, just barely. Mark watches her settle, eyes locked on her face. His hand still cups the back of her head. Her hair is damp again, clinging to his palm. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

Her breath hums faintly beneath the sound of the ticking clock. Mark stares at the shape of her on the couch—this stranger, this bleeding, broken girl, who soon enough is going to wake up and start asking questions that he can’t answer —and the weight of it finally settles.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter this time. “Now what the fuck am I going to do with you?”

Chapter Text

They say that criminals are most often caught returning to the scene of the crime. 

It’s inevitable. Some primal urge draws them back– fingertips twitching, boots retracing their steps over already-damned ground, desperate to see the hole they left in the world. That’s how they get caught. By circling back. Looking too long. Not knowing how to let go. 

This is not that. Not even close.

What happened tonight was an accident. Not his fault. The kind of thing that could happen to anyone. A mistake. Misjudgement. A blip. And Mark, he is not a criminal. He’s an honest man, a decent man. 

So, just a moment here can’t hurt.

Five minutes. Maybe ten. Then he’ll go home. 

The Lumon lot is a vast, circular mirror of itself, spanning out and surrounding the building like a shield. Bright, halogen lights pulse dull against the slick blacktop, turning puddles into blood spills and shadows into bruises. The building looms in the distance, darkened now. 

Mark’s coat hangs heavy around him as he walks. Boots slapping wet against the concrete. The air bites. He keeps his hood up, head low, hands jammed into his pockets. 

Helena’s car is still there.

Right where she left it in the back of the lot. Or, rather, where she intended to pick it up after an ordinary day’s work. Right where he took her from it. She has parked slightly crooked, nose just over the painted line. The windshield is streaked with rain, snow accumulates at the edges.

He approaches slowly. 

No cones. No tape. No angry red note tucked beneath the wiper from the parking authority. No signs that anybody has noticed the car— or the absence of its driver. The relief that flutters up in his gut curdles too fast. Guilt, maybe. Something darker? Because this silence— this absence of consequence— it’s unsettling. 

Mark places his hand on the driver-side window, palm flat to the cold glass.

The inside is sterile. Not in the way of a neat person, but of someone trained to leave no trace. Leather seats, spotless. Dash wiped clean. Empty cupholders. No gum wrappers or old receipts or sunglasses. There’s a canvas tote hooked around the headrest of the passenger seat. He leans in closer, squinting, but he can’t see what’s inside. 

There is no hint of who this woman is, or what she does, or who might be missing her. No proof that she existed before she lay bleeding on his living room couch. 

The car belongs to a ghost.

Mark’s jaw ticks. 

He looks around once more, then turns and walks back to his Volvo, footsteps echoing a little louder now. He slumps into the seat and yanks the door closed harder than he means to. For a moment, he just sits there, hands limp on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at nothing. 

As he drives away, none the wiser about the woman awaiting him, the Eagan Emporium grocery bag rests neatly in the passenger seat. 

-x- 

The rain has softened into a mist by the time he pulls into the driveway. It blurs the windshield in whisper thin strokes. Barely enough to trigger the wipers. 

Mark kills the engine but doesn’t move at first, staring down the street as though something might materialise in the dark. A neighbour. A cop. A god. But there’s only the gentle creak of wind through brittle trees and the dim orange pool of light leaking from the front window. 

He reaches across the seat and picks up the grocery bag, then braces himself for the cold. 

Inside, Helena is still where he left her. 

She hasn’t shifted. The blanket hasn’t moved. But her breathing, though faint, is steady. Her head has lolled a little to one side, a smear of hair clings to her cheek. One arm hangs limply off the cushion, just fingers brushing the rug. Mark pauses in the doorway, bag still clutched to his chest, and stares at her.

Good. 

Or, not good. Obviously. Of course not. But it’s… manageable, for now. Convenient, even. In the most horrible, practical way. 

He sets the bag down on the coffee table beside her. Like something a man brings home to his wife.

“Got you some things,” he tells her. “Leaving them here while I take a shower, okay?”

Then, refusing to think too hard about why, Mark walks back to the front door, turns the bolt, and pockets the key. It’s muscle memory. That’s all. The same motion he does every night. Though when he walks upstairs with the key clenched in his palm, that’s new— usually, he leaves it in the dish. 

The bathroom light flickers once before warming into a low yellow glow. He tosses the key onto the counter beside the sink, watches it spin once, then settle.

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror. Damp, pale, bloodless. Eyes heavy. There’s dried grit along his jawline and something dark under his nails. He touches his face—his fingers feel wrong. Like someone else’s hands. Like he’s wearing them.

He undresses without looking. Piles his clothes in the corner, peels away his socks. The bathroom is warm. Clammy. A bead of water slides down the inside of the mirror as he steps into the shower.

It hits him like a shock at first. Hot water. Too hot. He flinches. Then sighs. Lets it come.

Her blood leaves him in ribbons. Faint and rust-red as it coils down the drain.  Along with her sweat. Her scent. The dark, smear of gravel. The metallic tinge of guilt. Dampness from the snow and rain. All of it washes away. He presses his palms flat against the tile, lets the stream beat down between his shoulder blades. The pressure loosens something in his chest. His head hangs forward, hair dripping into his eyes.

He thinks about her there, in his living room. Fragile. Still. 

Breathing shallow through parted lips.

T-shirt too tight, damp with rain. Hair curling at the edges. The sharp edge of her collarbone. Soft, delicate lips. He wonders, when they open, what colour her eyes will be.

Mark’s stomach pulls taut. Something coils in his gut. Thick and hot. Spiralling downward.

He jolts his hand back. 

“No–fuck,” he mutters aloud, eyes slamming shut. 

Sharply, he twists the dial. Cold water barrels over him like punishment. He gasps, but stands under it with gritted teeth. Lets it freeze him. Lets it scald away whatever that was. Whatever it was becoming. 

By the time he gets out, the steam is thick and heavy in the air. He dresses in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. No socks. The air is cold outside the bathroom, and his toes curl against the tile.

He gathers blankets from the linen closet. A second pillow. A spare towel, just in case. When he passes the mirror again, he can’t look at his reflection.

-x- 

Mark hears a shuffle of movement before he reaches the bottom of the stairs. 

Slender, bandaged fingers outstretched toward the grocery bag on the coffee table. Her nails make a light, scraping sound on the paper. The sound is almost delicate. A metronome with no melody. Her head is still tilted to the side, spine slumped into the cushions. 

Mark freezes on the final step, heart catching in his chest. 

She’s awake. 

Her fingers tap again— a slow, mechanical rhythm against the label printed in bold green ink. 

“Oh,” he says softly, stepping forward with the blankets still folded under one arm. “Hey, sleepy. You’re up.”

Helena doesn’t look at him. Glassy, lidded eyes, still fogged with sleep and pain, blink up, but they don’t find him. She taps the bag again. A little harder this time.

“Alright, alright,” Mark chuckles, crossing the room to stand near her. “Be patient now. Let me show you what I got you.”

Her nostrils flare as he pulls the bag toward him, careful not to crumple it too much. 

“Okay, lets see,” he murmurs, reaching inside. 

“You uh— you look like a girl who eats healthy. Got that glowy skin thing. So– clementines.” He lifts the mesh bag for emphasis, the oranges bright and plump under the lamplight, then rests it on the table. “Couple of protein bars. Some mixed nuts. That kinda thing— figured you wouldn’t be up to a meal.”

She doesn’t react, just stares blankly back at him. A slow breath wheezes out of her. 

Mark continues. 

“Gatorade. Blue, obviously.” He sets the bottle beside the snacks.

Men’s pyjamas follow— large, soft flannel. Plaid in muted navy and forest green, still folded and sealed in the packaging. “Didn’t know your size.”

Still nothing from her. 

The magazines come next. He fans them on the table, all glossy and vibrant, smelling faintly of ink. One shows a model in a white terrycloth robe holding a bowl of blueberries; another with bold promises about better sleep, better sex, better skin.

“These were by the checkout,” Mark says lamely. “They’re… I don’t know. Something to look at.”

He hesitates, fingers brushing the last item at the bottom of the bag— a pale pink tube of lipgloss. He doesn’t take it out. 

Too much. 

He folds the bag shut instead, then repositions the magazines to a neater angle, aligning their spines with the edge of the table.

She shifts slightly—just enough that the blanket slips off one shoulder. The collar of her t-shirt is stained from the fall, and there’s a pink mark beneath her ear that’s begun to bloom. Mark reaches instinctively to adjust the blanket, then stops himself. His hand hangs mid-air for a second, then withdraws.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, unclear if he’s trying to reassure himself or her. “You’re doing so good. Looking a lot better.”

He leans back on his haunches. Takes a glance at the meagre collection of offerings he’s assembled. A care package for a convalescent friend. 

Mark rests his hand on her knee. “Let’s try a few sips of Gatorade. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

-x- 

It happens fast.

One moment she’s sipping from the bottle, lips barely parted around the rim as Mark cups the back of her head. Eyes lidded, breath strained from the effort, shoulders swaying on each swallow. 

The next moment, her body jerks. A wet, heaving retch curls her forward. 

“Jesus– fuck,” Mark gasps, tilting her head to stop her from choking.

Blue liquid comes up in a wave, but it’s laced with something darker. Gritty. A ribbon of red. Then more. A slow, sickening curdle of colour splashes across the blanket in her lap, down her front and onto the floor in long, violent streaks. 

“No, no, no— hey, no— fuck. No, no.”

Helena coughs and gags and splutters a mouthful of congealed blood onto her clothes. Her whole body trembles with it. 

“Christ,” Mark whispers, pressing a hand to her back. He can feel the tremor through her spine. “You’re alright. You’re gonna be okay.”

He’s shaking now too. 

Blood. 

Lots of it. Soaking through her blue cotton t-shirt. The stain is spreading across her chest in a wide, marbled bloom. Gatorade. Blood. Bile. Pink at the edges, rust-coloured near the collar.

“Oh no,” he mutters, voice small. “No, no—your shirt—look what happened to your shirt…”

Helena’s head lolls forward again, her temple knocking into his shoulder. Her weight sags there, breath ragged against the fabric. 

Mark’s eyes stay fixed on the stain. 

“I can clean that,” he whispers. “We’ll get you changed. It’s not ruined. It’s okay.”

The blanket is wet, too—soaked through now, heavy with vomit. He peels it back carefully, grimacing as it sticks to her abdomen, balls it up and tosses it into the corner in a clump. His breath is shallow, panicked.

“Just need to get this off you. That’s all. Get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better.”

As he lifts her, her body falls into his arms like wet fabric. He raises her gently from the couch, gatherers her close, with one arm beneath her thighs and one braced around her back. She’s pilant now. Not limp, exactly, there’s still tension behind her joints, but she isn’t resisting.

She groans against his neck.

Mark climbs the stairs as slowly as he can. Kicks open his ensuite door with his foot. Steam still lingers from his shower, clinging to the smudges on the mirror. The overhead bulb hums quietly, flickering once. It’s too bright. The wrong kind of light. Hospital light. Interrogation light. It casts her face in shadow as he lays her gently down onto the cold tile floor, propped up against the cabinets.

She murmurs faintly, lashes twitching.

He kneels beside her and reaches for the faucet, twisting the handle until the water runs warm and quick, gurgling into the tub like a throat clearing.

“I have to get you clean,” he murmurs. 

She doesn’t answer.

He leans in, speaking low. “Helena? Can you hear me? I’m going to take your shirt off now. It’s dirty. I just… I need to get you out of it. Okay?”

Her head lolls toward him. Her lips part.

A murmur, barely more than breath, “mmhm.”

He takes it as yes.

”I won’t look.”

Trembling hands find the hem of her shirt tucked into her waistband. He tugs, but the fabric clings stubbornly. There’s no way it will lift— not with her arms, limp dead weighs, not with the way it’s pasted to her skin. 

He reaches for the scissors. 

The drawer squeals on its runners. Sliver blades glint under the overhead light. His hand doesn’t tremble, but his breath does.

“Hold still.”

He slices upward, straight through the middle. The cotton splits without resistance. Two halves peel back, exposing the rigid line of her torso in cautious stages. 

Fuck. 

Bruises bloom dark and violent, splattered across her stomach and ribs like ink blots on pale linen. Yellow-green at the edges, deep purple along the rise of bone. Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. 

“I didn’t do this,” he stammers. “I didn’t— Fuck. No. Good lord, I didn’t mean to do this.”

Her bra remains. It’s white, barely lined. A pale band of lace tracing the top of her breasts. It’s elegant. Incongruously so. 

“Do you want this off?” he asks, voice a rasp now. “Or… should I leave it?”

Her eyes stay closed. She doesn’t speak.

But her lips part. A murmur—faint and fragmented. 

“Right. Yes. On. I’ll leave it on.”

He reaches for the zipper of her skirt.

His fingers fumble at first. It sticks. He curses softly under his breath and tries again, gentler. The zipper slides down. The fabric slackens around her hips.

Mark closes his eyes, peeling the skirt downward, careful not to touch too much skin or linger where he shouldn’t.

The pantyhose are next—ripped and smeared with blood. Torn at the ankle, clinging damply to her knees. He pinches the waistband delicately, inching them down with slow, almost surgical precision.

He leaves her matching white cotton panties in place.

Don’t look.

Mark gathers her into his arms and lifts her toward the tub. The water is steaming now, and has risen into a generous depth. 

“Easy,” he says. “Easy now…”

He lowers her in, supporting her under the arms, easing her slowly until the water cradles her. “That’s it. That’s better.”

Encouraged, Mark glances around for a cup. Seeing none, he tips the toothbrush out of its holder and runs the container under the tap.

“Not exactly a spa,” he chuckles. “But I’ve seen worse.”

Crouching beside the tub, he dips the cup and pours water gently over her shoulders.

Her lashes flutter.

“That’s right,” he soothes. “You just sit back. I’ve got you.”

The water flows down her chest in slow rivulets, catching in the bruises along her ribs, painting her skin slick before sliding away. He scoops another cupful and lets it run over her arms, then across her collarbone.

The next pour drips across her stomach. Her breath catches briefly, then settles again. The tension in her face slackens. No less pale, but less clenched.

“Is that nice?”

No reply. Her eyes remain closed, but her body is no longer curling in on itself in shivering pain. Mark watches her for another beat, then rises.

“I’ll let you sit for a while. Just soak. I think the heat’s doing good.”

She doesn’t answer, but he nods to her anyway, as though she had.

“I’ll be right in the bedroom. If you need me.”

Leaving the door ajar, he crosses to the bed. The covers are still rumpled from earlier, but he doesn’t fix them. He just sits. Folds his hands. Watches the gentle line of her back above the tub rim, the soft steam rising around her shoulders.

-x- 

“H-hey.”

The word is soft. Slurred. It catches in the dark like a hook.

Mark’s eyes snap open.

He’d nodded off sitting on the edge of the bed, hands still clasped between his knees. The steam from the bathroom has dulled the air, turned it humid, like breathing through cloth.

“Hello?”

He rises fast.

“I’m here,” he calls gently, stepping back into the bathroom.

Helena is still propped against the back of the tub, barely upright, but her eyes are open now. Glazed. Unfocused. One hand has slipped further into the water. The bandage is damp at the edge. She blinks slowly at him.

“Out,” she mumbles.

“You got it.”

He crosses quickly, grabs a towel from the counter, and kneels beside the tub.

“Okay, alright. Let’s get you out. Just lean on me, okay?”

She doesn’t respond, but she shifts. He wraps the towel around her shoulders before lifting her again, trying to keep the bulk of her covered. Her hair is wet and sticking to her neck. Water trickles down the inside of his forearm as he adjusts his grip. She makes a soft, involuntary sound—discomfort, maybe, or just exertion.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath warm against her ear. 

He props her against the counter, careful to ease the weight off her injured ankle. 

“I brought you some clothes earlier,” he says. “They’re just—uh, they’re men’s pyjamas, but soft. Figured that was safest.”

Helena makes no comment.

He helps her into the flannel pants first, careful to keep the towel across her lap. Her legs tremble faintly. When he offers her the shirt, she fumbles once, then stares at it, eyes slightly confused. Her lips part, but no words come.

“Let me,” he says.

Holding the shirt open, he helps her into one sleeve, then the next. Her movements are delayed, like underwater gestures. She winces slightly as she pulls the fabric over her bandaged hand.

“Just a few more things,” he says. “Painkillers. Water. Then we’ll get you back on the couch.”

She leans there, swaying faintly, while he rummages through the medicine cabinet for the bottle. Shakes two pills into his palm. Then hesitates.

Three.

“Here.” His hand is gentle beneath her chin, lifting her face. “Take these.”

Her mouth opens obediently. He presses the pills past her lips, then tips a glass of water toward her.

She gulps. Water spills down her chin. He catches it with a thumb.

“Easy,” he says. 

She blinks. Her expression softens.

“Who—” she croaks faintly, voice sandpaper and sleep,“—are you?”

Mark freezes.

A hundred lies flit through his mind—stranger, neighbour, doctor, nobody. But there’s something in her eyes. Something soft, uncertain and childlike. It makes him pause.

He can’t lie to that .

“Mark,” he says finally. “My name’s Mark.”

She nods, then sways again. He catches her.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay. Easy.”

Still leaning against him, she slurs, “Wh’s going on, Mark?”

“You got hurt,” he answers quietly. “But I’m looking after you now.”

“Okay,” she whispers. A pause. “Thank you.”

He nods once, throat tightening.

“Oh. Uh. That’s okay.”

Her weight shifts again, less coordinated now. Eyes drooping. She’s fading. When her knees buckle, he catches her fully, arms closing around her in one smooth motion.

“You’re alright,” he says again. “Let’s get you settled.”

Though the bed is right there, he doesn’t lay her in it. The sheets aren’t clean, which matters somehow. 

Instead, he carries her back downstairs, where the couch waits, still rumpled. He lowers her gently onto the cushions, pulls a clean blanket over her, and kneels beside her once more.

One hand curls near her face, the other still bandaged, resting awkwardly across her stomach. The new pajamas are too big on her. The collar droops wide at the neck, one sleeve sliding nearly off her shoulder. She stirs now and then with small, involuntary twitches, but doesn’t wake.

Mark sinks into the recliner to watch her. 

Her chest rises and falls in soft, laboured rhythm.

-x- 

Later, he’s on the floor.

The couch looms behind him with his back pressed to it, warm through the fabric. Helena sleeps still, now curled slightly onto her side. Her bandaged hand hangs down off the couch.

Mark cradles it between his own. His thumbs rub gently along the line of gauze, slow and repetitive.

“She was driving home from a charades night with the women from her book club,” he says into the dark.

His voice is quiet, intimate, just over a whisper.

“I didn’t want to go. I’d had a long day. We’d argued earlier, don’t remember why. And I was supposed to give her— uh, something. Just needed a little more time to work on it first.”

The room is still. Only the occasional creak of pipes beneath the floorboards breaks the silence between his words. 

“I used to think if I’d just gone with her—if I’d driven, or ridden in the passenger seat, or just been there, somehow— I could’ve stopped it. Could’ve kept her safe. But I didn’t.”

He draws Helena’s hand tighter to his chest. One of his fingers traces the curve of her wrist.

“And now you’re here,” he murmurs. “And you’re hurt. And I don’t—know how bad it is. Or what comes next.”

Her breath is steady behind him. 

“But I know I’ve got you. You’re here. And maybe if I take care of you—if I do it right this time… you’ll be okay. And somehow, that makes up for—whatever. Doesn’t matter now.”

He presses his lips to the inside of her hand. Not a kiss. Just contact. Just warmth.

“I’m gonna look after you,” he whispers. “Until you’re better.”

His eyes close.

For a long time, he tries to think of anything but the grief welling up in his chest. But nothing comes to mind. 

So, he keeps talking.

Not all at once, but in fragments. Little drifts of memory pulled from the corners of his mind like lint from an old sweater. Each one barely a story. Just flashes. Sensory things. Colors, textures, the smell of something.

“We had this tradition,” he murmurs, eyes unfocused now. “Every year on the first snow, we’d take the afternoon off and we’d spend the whole day inside. Window cracked open. First flakes coming down. Blankets. Bad movies. Eat peanut butter sandwiches on paper towels.”

He smiles faintly to himself.

“They always stuck together. The paper towels, I mean. But that was part of it.”

Helena doesn’t stir.

“And had this awful lamp,” he says. “A pink one. Bright, retro-looking thing. We put it in the corner by the armchair and agreed to keep it until it broke on its own. It lasted two weeks.”

The couch shifts behind him.

A slow exhale.

The back of Helena’s knuckles brushes his shoulder once. Then again. Then her hand rises and slips into his hair.

Mark goes still.

Her fingers stroke gently through it, lazy and affectionate. Half-asleep.

“Helena?”

“Tell me another one,” she whispers.

Mark swallows. “Okay.”

He reaches for something else, something harmless.

“We used to walk the perimeter trail by the old Ganz campus, along the part where the trees got low, almost arched overhead, like a tunnel. It made the air smell like leaves and moss. Once, we got caught in the rain, and I held my jacket up like some shitty umbrella.”

He chuckles softly at the memory. “It didn’t work, but, you know, that’s what you do for your wife.”

“That sounds nice,” Helena says softly.

His chest tightens.

“It was.”

Another pause.

Her hand still rests in his hair, nails dragging gently across his scalp.

“I don’t remember it.”

The words land quiet, barely shaped. As if she’s not talking to him exactly, just releasing a thought.

Mark turns slightly, enough to glance back at her. Her eyes are open now, but bleary, unfocused. Her expression is soft, without defences. Confused, maybe, but not afraid.

“You… don’t remember it?” he asks, cautious.

Helena shakes her head slowly, fingertips trailing down the back of his neck.

“No. Sorry. But sounds like we had a great day.”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

She looks at him like he’s the only thing tethering her to the ground. Like whatever version of her that remains awake is suspended entirely in the gravity of his voice.

“You’re a good husband,” she murmurs again. 

And now he hears it differently—not as a question, but as a truth she’s decided on.

“I…” he starts.

But the rest doesn’t come.

He thinks of the blood in her vomit. The bruises across her ribs. The fear that cracked through her like a scream when she tried to stand. And now—this softness. This gentling. A mind trying to explain its own breakage in the only language it has left: comfort.

He could correct her. But what would that do? Shatter her again? Send her plummeting back into panic and fear? 

No.

No, he won’t do that to her.

“I’m here,” he says instead, barely a whisper.

Helena smiles faintly. Her eyes begin to drift closed again.

Chapter Text

There is light. Warm, golden and endless. 

It pierces through the leaves in fragments, cascading from above, catching on the tips of tall grasses that sway in rhythm with the wind he doesn’t feel. The forest is hushed, but not silent. Everything hums with invisible life, the slow pulse of a world untouched. Insects dance. Water babbles. The underbrush shifts with the momentum of each step.

Mark moves without thought. The ground is soft beneath him. Damp, sun warmed moss. Twigs snap and leaves crunch, clinging to the soles of his bare feet. Tall, narrow trees, trunks white as bone, stretch upward in a canopy of green that obscures the sky beyond.

There’s a figure ahead, drifting through the trees.

Red hair, glowing like firelight. Body brushing the tall stalks as she walks. Every part of her bends with an elegance that defies gravity. Her dress is pale and sheer, delicate white, the hem licking at her knees. Her bare feet make no mark on the ground. When she glances over her shoulder, her smile is sunlight through water. 

His wife. 

The knowledge settles somewhere deep in his gut. He reaches for her, and her hand is already outstretched, slipping into his. Their fingers mesh like twine twisted tight. 

She tugs him closer, forward, deeper into the trees. Her pace is unhurried. Each step breathes. The canopy parts in places, dappling her with light. He can’t stop looking at her. At the way her bare shoulders glow. The smattering of freckles on her unbroken skin. Her fingers tighten around his and he feels something in chest collapse with longing. 

“Helena, where are you taking me?” he asks her quietly. 

She doesn’t look back. 

Before them opens a meadow so pristine it feels like a painting. Wide, open, full of light. Lush with wildflowers in bloom. Short grass that laps at their ankles as it ripples in the breeze. Butterflies hover at the edges, floating between impossibly thin petals. The air is golden and deliciously warm. 

She walks a few paces ahead of him, a barefoot Persephone reborn, trailing her fingertips through the flowers as she goes. He watches her move, spellbound. The sway of her hips, the way sunlight clings to her skin. Everything about her is soft-edged and gleaming. Untouched by accident or injury or memory.

She lowers herself into the grass without sound.

Mark follows, drawn like a tide to her gravity.

They lie together in the tall grass, side by side at first, breath syncing, the world around them whispering with wind and bees and sun. Her hand finds his chest and rests there, as light as a feather. His own hand covers it, lacing their fingers together. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, shimmering.

When she turns her face toward his, he kisses her.

Slowly, tenderly. Her lips are warm, they part against his. The moment stretches, timeless, endless. His hand cups her jaw, then drifts to her hip, the dip of her waist. She sighs against him. He moves over her, one knee brushing the inside of her thigh, the grass curling around them like the walls of a secret place. Their limbs fit without tension. He kisses her again, longer this time, the sound of it lost in the wind.

When he breaks away, he looks down at her.

She glows.

Hair fanned around her head like a crown of fire. Freckles kissed across the bridge of her nose. Her bangs have fallen forward again. He smooths them back, gently. The moment stretches.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers. “You could stay here forever.”

Her eyes are wide, watching him.

Mark drags the edge of his knuckle along the unbroken skin at her temple. “Would you like that?” he asks her gently. 

Glassy eyes flicker, but she doesn’t answer. 

“Mark,” she says, quiet.

A breath. A ripple across the surface.

He leans in again, trailing his fingers down the side of her neck. Her skin is flawless. Pale as cotton, warm as sun-soaked marble.

“Mark.”

Sharper this time. Urgent. 

A breeze rises, but it’s colder now.

“Mark.”

The sky above twists—color bleeding into grey. The meadow is vanishing. The scent of wildflowers curdles into something putrid. His chest constricts.

He feels the name again, more forceful, pulling. Tugging.

“Mark.”

His eyes open.

The ceiling above him is flat and colorless. His body is stiff, bent to the will of the recliner beneath him. His mouth tastes like dust. Pale morning light bleeds in at the edges of the room.

And Helena—broken, real, trembling—says his name again.

-x-

Mark wakes with a shudder. A chill at the back of his neck, a twitch at the base of his spine. He’s curled sideways in the recliner, limbs folded awkwardly, spine twisted. The blanket he threw over himself at some point in the night has slipped to the floor.

Every muscle is stiff. 

His breath fogs faintly as it leaves his lips. The heater hasn’t kicked on yet. Or, it has,  and it’s losing the battle to the early morning chill that knifes through the loose window panes. 

From the couch, there is a low, rasping cough. Thick and wet at the edges. 

“Mark.”

He jolts upright. Pain spikes down his neck like something has been pinched, but he doesn’t pause to stretch it out. He’s already twisting, rising, padding across the carpet toward her. 

She’s shivering. Her body is curled in on itself beneath the blankets and the flannel pyjamas. The too-large collar is askew at her collarbone, a bruise peaks out from beneath. Her hand grips the throw blanket so firmly that her knuckles have whitened. The bandaged hand lies slack near the edge of the couch, fingertips brushing the carpet. 

Her lips are parted. Her brow is furrowed. The gleam of sweat across her forehead catches the light.

“Helena?” Mark crouches low beside her head, voice pitched soft, cautious. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re alright.”

The lie falls easily from his mouth.

She stirs, lashes fluttering. Her mouth moves without sound. Then, again, “Mark.”

His name is small and cracked and wrong in her mouth.

“I’m here,” he says. One hand reaches up to smooth the damp hair back from her temple. Sweat and dried blood come away on his fingertips.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Her gaze shifts slowly, like her eyes are moving underwater. They don’t quite meet his. Her voice is barely audible. “B’thrm.”

“You need the bathroom?”

A tiny nod. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. Yeah. Of course. We’ll go slow.”

Gingerly, he peels back the blanket. Her pajama pants have twisted around her thighs in the night, riding up where she’s curled. Her ankle— still twice the size it ought to be —looks angrier than before, the bruise blooming purple-black against pale skin. He winces on her behalf.

“Don’t try to walk, alright? Let me carry you.”

She doesn’t respond, and her eyes fall closed again. Mark slips one arm beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders. Her head rolls against his chest as he lifts her. He feels the dampness of her skin soaking through his shirt.

At the bathroom threshold, he bumps the door open with his hip and nudges the light switch with the side of his shoulder. The bulb above flickers once, then stabilizes into a stark yellow glare. The brightness is cruel. Her eyes squeeze shut at the intrusion.

“Sorry. Just a second more.”

He sets her down gently, easing her upright against the counter. She sways, one hand reaching instinctively for the edge of the sink. Her weight lists toward her bad ankle, and Mark lunges to brace her before she slips.

“Easy,” he warns. “Mind your foot.”

Her reflection in the mirror is a ghost: hollow-eyed, pink-lipped, sweat-slicked. The bruise on her cheekbone looks darker now. Her hair clings to her temples in thin strands. She stares at her own image like she doesn’t recognize it.

“Can I have my toothbrush?”

The words are small. Innocent.

Mark’s heart stutters.

“Yeah. Of course,” he says. “One second.”

He’s already turning before the implication hits him. Her toothbrush. A full night of sleep has done nothing for her disoriented mind. 

She still thinks this is her house.

A queasy kind of quiet blooms behind his ribs, but he ignores it. Upstairs, the medicine cabinet gives up an unused toothbrush—pale green, a leftover from a two pack—and he grabs a tube of toothpaste and a folded washcloth from the linen closet before returning.

She hasn’t moved. Her palms are flat to the counter. Her eyes are lidded. Her shoulders tremble faintly. Mark places the items gently on the counter beside her hand.

“I’ll give you a minute,” he murmurs. “If you need anything, just call.”

She doesn’t answer.

He backs out slowly. Leaves the door ajar.

In the hallway, he leans against the wall, breath caught high in his chest. The air feels colder out here now. More real.

He tells himself it’s a good sign. She’s talking. Asking for things. Wanting to clean up. These are normal behaviors. Normal people want their toothbrush. Even if she’s still confused. She’s awake. And speaking. That has to mean something. 

He rubs a hand down his face, smearing sleep from his eyes, and stares at nothing. Then pushes off the wall and moves toward the kitchen, already thinking about tea and toast and kicking the boiler into submission.

He’ll make her breakfast. Something light for her stomach. He’ll take care of her. 

She just needs a little more time. 

Mark moves on autopilot. Cabinet. Bread. Toaster. He keeps his movements quiet and careful. The butter knife clinks as he pulls it from the drawer. The kettle hisses as it warms to life. Every sound anchors him. Each mundane task is a thread, tethering him back to reality. 

The bottle of painkillers rattle faintly in his palm. The label is old, faded and curling at the edges. He had them on hand from a dental procedure last winter, but between these, and all the ones he gave her last night, they’re down to the last few in the pack. He studies them for a moment before shaking three capsules into his hand and placing them delicately beside the mug of peppermint tea. 

Toast pops. He startles.

The slices are pale gold, just barely crisp. He butters them slowly, spreading the rich, melting warmth right to the edge of the crust. A meal. A gesture. Proof that he can do this—that he’s capable of care, of tending, of good intentions that lead somewhere other than disaster.

This isn’t madness.

It’s kindness. It’s just until she remembers.

Because she will remember—he tells himself that firmly. The confusion is temporary. The head injury, the pain, the feverish murk she’s floating in—it’ll clear. She’ll blink back into herself like a woman waking from a deep sleep, and the pieces will fall into place.

She’ll ask him what happened, and he’ll tell her. Gently, honestly. She stepped out in the dark. He didn’t see her. He panicked. He’s sorry.

And she’ll understand.

She’ll thank him. Maybe not right away. Maybe she’ll cry, or yell, or demand to be taken home. That’s fair. She has a right to that. But in time—she’ll see, what he’s doing for her is a good thing. He’s keeping her safe. 

He brings the tray to the living room with both hands. Tea, toast, pills. Napkin. No crumbs. He’s even sliced the toast in half diagonally, the way Gemma used to prefer. 

The bathroom door clicks.

Mark looks up and Helena is leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other clutched weakly at her side. Her face is wan and pale, but her hair is smoothed back behind her ears, damp at the ends. Her mouth is still slightly red from minty burn of the toothpaste.

The sight of her standing upright sends a pang through his chest so sharp he nearly drops the tray.

“Hey,” he breathes, stepping forward. “There you are. Let’s get you back on the couch.”

She nods, but it’s barely a movement. Her legs are trembling beneath her.

With one arm curled around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, he lifts her again. She doesn’t resist, only sags into his chest like something pliable, loose with exhaustion.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “Almost there.”

The couch receives her like a cradle. He lowers her gently into the nest of blankets, adjusts the pillow behind her neck, then settles beside her with the tray in his lap.

Her eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused.

“I made you some toast,” Mark says, offering a smile too soft for the shape of his face. “And tea. You didn’t eat anything yesterday. Or at least not before you got here—home, I mean. Not before you got home.”

He needs to keep up the lie. It’s a comfort to her. She’d be afraid if he told her the truth now. 

She turns her head slightly toward the smell, but makes no move to reach for it.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

A pause. A breath. Then, flat and hoarse, “Bad.”

His smile falters.

“Okay,” he says gently. “That’s okay. We’re getting there.”

He tears a piece of toast off with his fingers and holds it near her lips.

“One bite, just for me?”

She takes it slowly, chews without enthusiasm. Her jaw works with resistance and she swallows hard.

Mark sets the toast aside and picks up the pills. “These’ll help.”

She opens her mouth and lets him place them onto her pink, soft tongue. He lifts the mug to her lips, supports the back of her head. She sips. The steam fogs her lashes. A drop escapes down her chin; he catches it with his thumb.

“There,” he whispers, brushing her hair away from her face. “That’s better.”

She sinks a little deeper into the cushions. Her knees draw slightly toward her chest. One hand curls around the hem of the blanket.

“You’ll be back on your feet in no time,” he tells her. “You’re already looking better.”

Her eyes are half-lidded, but she doesn’t look away. And he believes it, if only for a second. Because if she can eat. If she can drink. If she can sit upright and say his name— Then she’s healing.

And if she’s healing, it won’t be long before he can explain to her exactly what happened, and get her back to her own home where she belongs.

-x- 

The warning comes just in time. A low whimper, barely shaped, slips from Helena’s lips as she tries to shift upright. One trembling hand clutches at her stomach, the other gropes blindly toward him, fingers flexed. 

“Mark,” she chokes out, or tries to. His name is thin and panicked, lodged in her throat. “I— I’m going to—”

She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to, he sees the panicked, frantic look in her eye. 

He’s up from the couch in an instant.  One arm slips around her waist as he hauls her upright. Her injured leg drags between them, foot scraping against the rug. She’s burning hot, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. 

“Hold on,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “Just—fuck, just hold on.”

The bathroom isn’t far, but the distance feels infinace. Every step is heavy, lurching and wrong. She’s sobbing now, soundless, desperate shudders wracking her body. Her face is ashen. Sweat mats her hair to her temples. 

They reach the toilet just in time.

He kneels with her, one arm clamped around her ribcage to hold her steady as she crumples to the floor. The bathroom tile is icy against his news. Her head jerks forward as the first, violent wave hits.

The retching comes from deep within, brutal in its force.

Blood. Thick and gritty, laced through bile in marbled threads. It coats her lips, stains the corners of her mouth. Her hands brace uselessly against the floor.

“No, no—hey,” Mark whispers, cradling her forehead with one hand, holding her hair back with the other. “Fuck— fuck. Fuck.”

Her body convulses again and he feels the dry heave ripple down her back, lungs howling in protest. She coughs hard, then slumps forward, a wet sob catching in her throat.

“Why is this happening? You were getting better,” he mutters, “you looked better.”

She coughs. Chokes. And begins to cry. 

“Sorry,” she moans, the words barely audible. “I’m so—sorry, I don’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh, no,” he whispers fiercely, wrapping both arms around her now, pulling her gently against his chest. “No, don’t apologize. Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re sick, that’s all. Just sick. We’ll fix it.”

The air reeks of bile and blood. 

Helena trembles against him. Her body has given up its fight for now—just a soft, shivering weight in his lap, head tucked beneath his chin. He rocks her slightly, a slow rhythm that isn’t quite soothing, not to her, but to him. His hand finds the back of her neck, rubs gentle circles. “You’re going to be alright,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

A washcloth—damp and forgotten—lies on the edge of the sink. He reaches for it blindly, brings it to her mouth, wipes away what he can. The blood comes off in smears, staining the towel pink. He wipes again, slower, catching the trail that’s begun to drip down her chin.

“Here,” he says, guiding the mouthwash bottle into her hand. “Rinse. That’s it. You can do that for me.”

She obeys, weakly. Sloshes the liquid and spits. Another cough. A thread of saliva stretches from her lip. Mark catches it with the corner of the cloth.

Then she slumps. Her body folds against his, all tension gone. Her face presses into his chest. Her breath is ragged.

“Am I going to die?”

“No,” he whispers firmly, breathless with the weight of her. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry. You’re going to be just fine, I promise.”

It feels like a lie. No—worse. It feels like prayer. A hollow, hopeful noise clawed from the throat of someone who no longer believes in god but can’t stop mumbling the name.

He rocks her harder. He can’t stop. One of his hands clutches the back of her head, the other pressed to her spine. Helena lets out a small, wounded noise, animal in nature.

His heart cracks. 

His mind flips through theories of what the fuck is happening to her—internal bleeding? concussion? organ failure? Sepsis? The words blur together. Nothing sticks. Only the blood remains. Her blood. On her lips, in the toilet, on the tiles.

On his hands. 

His phone is on the coffee table. A few steps away. He could make the call right now. An ambulance. A doctor. He could lift her into the car right now and leave her in the hands of somebody who knows what they’re doing. 

But he doesn’t move. Because if he lets go of her now, if he hands her off, if he surrenders— He loses her.

They’ll ask questions. Why he waited. Why he didn’t bring her in sooner. Why she was in his house to begin with. Why he didn’t call the second she hit the pavement.

Mark tightens his grip, as if he can will it to stop by sheer force. As if wrapping his body around hers tightly enough might hold her together.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says aloud. The words feel hollow.

She doesn’t stir. Only breathes, faintly, through parted lips, the smallest shudder left in her shoulders. Her body slack in his arms, crumpled and damp. A fevered mess of blood and pain. 

Mark holds her, rocking back and forth on the bathroom floor, whispering the same three words into the crown of her hair like a litany, like superstition, like spellwork.

“I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. ”

-x- 

The house has gone quiet again. Not peacefully so—there is no peace to be found here—but in that grim, suspended way that hospitals and funerals go quiet. A hush that isn’t silence, but fear wearing a soft coat.

Mark paces. Movement for movement’s sake. Back and forth, around the edge of the coffee table and the armrest of the couch, like a clock pendulum. His socks drag against the carpet. One hand rubs the back of his neck in slow, distracted passes. The other hangs loose at his side, fingers twitching.

On the couch, Helena lies curled beneath two layers of blankets, barely stirring.

She’s paler than she was this morning. Her skin—already lily-white—is now nearly translucent, the blue veins beneath it visible in a delicate network along her throat and wrists. One hand is tucked beneath her cheek. The other rests limp on the edge of her stomach, fingers splayed. The rise and fall of her chest is shallow and uneven.

He can’t look at her for long.

Instead, he turns again—pivoting on the ball of his foot—and mutters another soft, broken curse under his breath. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Three more steps. Turn. Again. Fuck.

He tried searching her symptoms online. Big mistake.

Page after page of the words internal hemorrhage and delayed onset trauma and ruptured spleen , had narrowed his vision to a point. Panic lanced up through his ribs, sharp enough to bend him over the sink. He closed the laptop hard with a slam that made the glass of water beside it jump.

Mark presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars bloom behind his lids.

She needs help. Real help. But the thought of dialing the phone turns his stomach.

What would he even say?

Hello, I have a woman in my home who thinks she’s my wife, but isn’t. I hit her with my car last night and took her here instead of to the hospital. She’s vomiting blood and I’m too scared to call anyone because I think if I do, she’ll die. Or worse, they’ll take me away from her.

It’s madness. All of it.

The skin beneath her eyes is bruised, shadowed. Her lips have dried into a chapped seam. Occasionally, her head twitches. Once, her hand flinches open and closed again in a slow, unfocused gesture, like she’s reaching out for something.

She stirs. Not fully—just a flicker of movement. A small, pained sound at the back of her throat.

Mark is at her side in an instant. He drops to one knee beside the couch and leans in, brushing a damp lock of hair back from her temple. Her skin is clammy. 

“Shhh,” he soothes, dragging his thumb slowly across her cheekbone. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

Her forehead is warm. Or maybe not. He can’t tell anymore. His own skin is too hot with anxiety, his fingers too numb from hours of tension. He presses his palm to her head, then to her throat, then back again, as if the answer will come to him in comparison.

It doesn’t.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re okay, honey. Just go back to sleep.”

The word catches in his mouth. Honey.

He hasn’t called anyone that in years. Not since Gemma, but it slips out so easily now, like it belongs here. He watches her face for a reaction, but there’s none. She’s drifting again, back to that place he can’t follow. A fevered underworld.

He settles back onto his heels. Lets his fingers curl around the edge of the couch. Feels the rough weave of the fabric press into his skin. The quiet swells around him. The sound of the radiator. The soft, pained rhythm of her breath.

He can’t go on like this. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Mark grabs his phone. 

The shrill dial tone is already ringing before he considers that he should have called from a withheld number. But the call clicks through regardless. A voice as chipper as it is soulless floods the line.

“Kier Medical Centre. How can I help you today?”

Mark opens his mouth and finds it dry. 

“I… yeah. Uh.” He swallows. “Hi. I need to… I think I need to speak to a doctor. It’s urgent.”

“Can I get your name?”

A beat of silence, then—“Matt,” he says. “Uh—Scott. Matt Scott.”

A pause, the soft clack of a keyboard. “Alright, Mr. Scott. What’s going on?”

“I got… hurt. Yesterday. Took a hit to the ribs. There’s uh— bruising. Like a lot. Been throwing up since.”

“Was this from a fall?” The receptionist’s voice sharpens a little. “Car accident? Sports injury?”

“Doesn’t matter. I just— uh. Got my shit rocked, I guess,” Mark mutters, pacing in a tight circle near the kitchen. His eyes flick to the couch—Helena is motionless. “Feels bad.”

“And you’ve been vomiting?”

“Yeah. On and off.”

“Any blood?”

He hesitates. “Some.”

“Fever?”

“A little.”

“How high?”

Mark scowls. “I didn’t measure it. Just hot. Clammy.”

Another clack of keys. Then a different tone. “You need to go to the ER, Mr. Scott. This could be serious.”

His spine stiffens. “And if I can’t get there?”

“Sir, you really need to find a way,” she replies crisply. 

He feels the frustration bubble over in him before he can stop it. 

“Fuck you. You don’t know what she needs—” he catches himself, swallows the rest. “What I need.”

A silence blooms on the line.

“Sorry,” he adds, softer now. “I’m just. It’s a lot right now.”

A beat.

“Do you have anything at home for pain?” she asks.

Mark glances at the bottle on the counter. “Yeah. Leftover meds from last year.”

“I’d caution against taking expired painkillers. They can make you very sick.”

“Fine,” he says. Then, immediately, “Can you prescribe more? Something strong. Over the phone. So I don’t have to come in.”

“I’m afraid not. We’d need to see you in person before prescribing anything. Can I get your date of birth to look up your record, Mr. Scott?”

That does it.

“No. Forget it. This was a fucking waste of time,” he growls, and slams the phone back into the cradle hard enough to rattle.

The kitchen returns to silence, broken only by the steady buzz of the refrigerator and the faint whisper of Helena’s breath in the next room. Mark stands still for several seconds. Breathing through his teeth. One hand still wrapped tight around the phone like it might lunge back at him.

-x- 

Mark inhales deeply, counts to ten, then pours Helena a glass of water. It chills his fingers, slick with condensation, as he crosses the room toward her with careful steps. 

She is still nestled into the crook of the couch where he left her. More peaceful now. Her face remains pale, but no longer waxen. The deep flush has ebbed from her cheeks. Her lashes flicker now and then, a subtle indication of the fevered sleep that has begun to quiet. 

“Brought you more water.”

Helena’s eyes open a little. Her gaze floats for a moment before settling on him with slow, fond recognition. Mark lifts the glass to her lips. She drinks. A cautious swallow, then another. 

Mark exhales, long and careful.

He reaches for the bottle of pills on the table. His thumbnail flicks across the expiration date.

They can make you very sick. 

“Let’s try without these for a while,” he suggests softly, returning the bottle to its place. “The pain might be worse, but that’s okay. You’re so brave, aren’t you, honey?”

Helena nods weakly.

Minutes pass in silence.

He refills the glass and offers it again. She drinks more this time—thirstier now, more trusting of the act. He watches the motion of her throat as she swallows, the soft indent of her collarbone shifting beneath the edge of her oversized flannel pajama shirt. When she finishes, she lets her head fall back onto the pillow with a quiet sigh.

Mark sets the glass down and leans back onto his heels, fingers loosely interlaced, resting on his thighs.

Ten minutes.

Then twenty.

The clock ticks with serene indifference.

Nothing.

There’s no gagging. No retching. No blood. 

By the time a full hour has passed, a kind of warmth begins to seep back into his chest—slow and cautious, like a foot testing uncertain ground. Maybe the worst is behind him. It was the pills that made her sick. Nothing more. A few hours for them to work out of her system and she’ll be as good as new. 

Then he can explain everything. 

“Okay, you should rest for a while,” he tells her, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. It clicks faintly in his hand as he flips through the channels until he lands on something soothing. A nature documentary narrated in low, dulcet tones. He lowers the volume to just above audible and rests the remote by her hand.

From the couch, Helena stirs.

She shifts with small, feline movements—barely lifting her head, just enough to blink at the screen and then toward him. Her body remains draped across the couch in loose, boneless repose, but there’s more coherence in her gaze now. Her fever has dulled to a simmer. Her breathing has steadied.

Mark pauses at the edge of the room, unsure whether to leave or linger.

“Call me if you need me,” he offers, nodding toward the hallway. 

She shakes her head.

“Don’t leave.”

The word is quiet. 

His chest tightens.

“Of course,” he says gently. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll stay.”

She lifts her hand and pats the couch beside her head, a slow, open-palmed gesture. He hesitates, then crosses to her. He sinks onto the edge of the cushions, careful not to jar her. Helena shifts again, inching upward, inching closer. And then, without asking, she rests her head on his lap.

Mark freezes.

Her hair, still slightly damp from earlier, spills over his thigh in soft, rust-colored waves. One arm curls beneath her cheek. The other remains draped across her ribs, fingers barely moving. She sighs—a quiet, contented thing—and closes her eyes.

He doesn’t breathe for a moment.

He should move her. He should say something.

But her face is so relaxed, her shoulders soft, her body sunk deep into the cradle of the cushions. It would be cruel to disturb her now.

Mark’s fingers hover above her temple, unsure. And then they land—featherlight at first, tracing the edge of her hairline. He strokes slowly. From temple to crown. Over and over again.

Mark exhales. He remembers this.

Not her, but the gesture. The sensation of hair slipping between his fingers. The slow scratch of nails over scalp. The way it used to soothe Gemma when she had migraines. The way she used to say, “don’t stop,” in that lazy, half-drunk tone that meant she was falling asleep.

His fingers trail lower, dragging through Helena’s hair in long, even passes. The movement becomes rhythmic. Meditative.

“That’s nice,” she murmurs, not quite opening her eyes.

He smiles before he can stop himself.

“Oh, that’s nice?” he echoes, voice lilting with teasing softness. “You like that?”

His nails graze gently across her scalp.

A pleased sound escapes her—a contented hum at the back of her throat. “Mm. Thank you, honey.”

That word again. She must have heard him say it to her. 

Mark swallows hard. His hand stills for only a second, then resumes, gentler than before. His other arm slips from the back of the couch to rest lightly over her bandaged hand at her abdomen. He leans back into the cushions and shuts his eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

She’s here.

She’s safe.

He’s a good husband.

-x- 

A knock at the front door cleaves the silence. 

Mark jolts upright.

For a disorienting moment, he forgets where he is. The couch, the blanket, the soft weight of Helena’s head in his lap—everything rushes back in like cold water. His body tenses beneath her. The television drones on, oblivious. On screen, a snow leopard stalks through pale terrain, every movement a study in patience. His pulse spikes.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Shit.”

He slides out from beneath Helena with delicacy, careful not to jostle her head. She stirs slightly, a soft noise escaping her throat, but doesn’t wake fully. He folds the edge of the blanket up to her chin, tucks it around her shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You don’t need to get up. Just stay here. Go back to sleep, alright?”

She makes a soft sound, no more than the flutter of air against her lips. Her eyes flicker, but don’t open.

Mark rises, fast now, pacing to the hallway in quick, soft steps. Each one feels too loud. He presses his back to the wall and peers through the small window beside the door. A figure waits on the porch.

He flicks the chain lock in place and opens the door just a few inches.

Devon peers in and raises both brows. “Uh— hi?”

Mark sighs, sagging against the frame.

“What is it with the chain?” she asks, half-laughing. “Expecting a SWAT team?”

The sigh turns to a groan as he closes the door, unlatches the chain, and opens it again.

 “What do you want?”

She places a hand on her hip, the other resting protectively over her bump. “Wow. Charming. This how you treat all your guests?”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are half-lidded, jaw tight. 

Devon blinks, then huffs. “Did you forget?”

“Forget what?”

“Dinner without the dinner,” she says, as if it’s perfectly normal. “Tonight. My place. Ricken asked you last month. Remember?”

Mark rubs his forehead. “I thought that was yesterday.”

“Got moved to tonight.” Her lips twist upward. “You just weren’t gonna come?”

“I’m busy.”

“Uh-huh.” She shifts her weight. “Busy with what? Work stuff?”

The edge in her voice is deliberate. He stiffens—shoulders rising, mouth drawing into a flat line. But then he sees the glint in her eye. A jab. A joke. Severance humor, the kind that hurts in retrospect.

His jaw loosens. “Yeah,” he says, voice cool. “Work stuff.”

Devon’s smile fades slightly. Not enough to signal concern, just a gentle deflation.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” she says.

“I’m fine.” Mark leans one shoulder against the doorframe, blocking her view with a casual stance he hopes reads as disinterest, not obstruction.

“Sure?” she asks again, more softly this time. “You don’t look great.” Devon reaches up before he can stop her. Fingers hover near his temple, the blue Lumon bandaid is long gone, but the cut beneath is still tender.  “And that cut looks pretty gnarly.”

Mark jerks his head back. “Don’t.”

She withdraws her hand slowly. “Jesus. Okay.”

They stand like that a moment—two silhouettes in a doorway, the threshold between them heavy as a drawbridge. Devon shifts her weight. Mark glances over this shoulder. The hallway stretches open behind him, and beyond it, the living room. The couch.

Helena. 

A pale tangle of limbs buried in blankets. The slow, uncertain rise of her chest. A red patch on the pillow that might be old blood or just the shadow of her hair. He can still hear the sound of her retching—still feel her body curling into him, small and fevered, as he wiped blood from her lips and said you’re okay even when he knew it wasn’t true.

She’s lying there right now.

Asleep.

Sick.

Not just concussed. Not just bruised. She could be bleeding inside. Dying slowly while he talks about dinner plans with his sister on the porch.

He looks back at Devon.

And something in him cracks.

“Dev,” he says, voice low.

She straightens slightly. The wind settles.

“There was… an accident.”

The words slip out raw, half-formed. Not a lie, but not yet the truth.

Devon tilts her head. Concern flickers across her brow. “What kind of accident?”

Mark opens his mouth. Then closes it. His throat contracts around the panic. 

Then, he sees her face change—imagines it, anyway. 

The slow widening of her eyes, the horror. Stepping back, hands flying to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. The way she’ll  recoil when she heard what he did. When she realizes how long he’s waited to tell anyone. 

He sees the ambulance.

The flashing lights. The slow procession down the front steps as they enter his house. Helena, limp in a stretcher. Oxygen tube over her face as they wheel her away from him.

His throat contracts. Heart lurches. Mouth goes dry. His fingers curl against the inside of the doorframe.

“I slipped,” he says abruptly.

Devon blinks.

“At work,” he adds quickly, swallowing the rising nausea. “They… left a note on my car. Said I hit my head. Gave me a gift card.”

Devon exhales. “Jesus, Mark.”

“Yeah.” His laugh is humorless. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I’m okay,” he says. “Just… not feeling great.”

Devon watches him for a long beat, the tension stretching thin. Then, with a gentle nod, she concedes. “Okay. Dinner another time, then?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Should’a called.”

She shrugs. “You don’t have to apologize. Just—don’t go dark on me, okay? I’m too pregnant to keep driving over here when I can’t get hold of you.”

He nods. Doesn’t speak. A leaf skitters across the porch.

She turns to go, but Mark darts out his hand to stop her. 

“Hey. Do you still have those painkillers from when Ricken broke his wrist?”

Devon glances over her shoulder. “Why?”

“For my head,” he says quickly. “I can’t get an appointment. You know what it’s like. Just need a couple days’ worth. Are they still good?”

She squints. “Mark.”

“Come on. Please.”

A sigh. “Fine. I think they’re still in the cabinet. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

Relief unspools in his chest.

But then—

“But, if she gets worse, you need to take her to a doctor.”

His spine stiffens.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Devon blinks. “I said—if it gets worse, you need to see a doctor.”

“Right,” he mutters, already pulling the door closed. “Got it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Jeez, man. Just—sleep it off. You’re acting weird.”

Mark lingers in the open doorway long after Devon has turned away.

She moves slowly, one hand curved under the taut swell of her belly, the other swinging at her side as she descends the front steps. Her coat flaps gently in the wind. The sky has cooled several shades in the past half-hour, thinning to a flat, breathless grey, the kind that swallows sound and refuses light. 

She glances up just once, eyes catching the front window. He doesn’t know if she sees him there. The engine grumbles to life. She pulls away with a little lurch, the way she always does, tapping the gas too fast.

The street begins to empty again. The spell of her presence—brief, destabilizing—starts to unravel, and he’s left standing on the stoop as the door to his house rests open behind him, spilling warm air onto the porch like blood from a wound.

Mark is just about to close the door when he sees him.

A man, standing motionless at the far end of the street.

Too far to be casual. Too close to be coincidence.

Everything about him is wrong.

Dark grey suit, jacket unbuttoned, collar wilted with sweat or sleep. His tie hangs like a noose halfway down his chest. One side of his shirt is untucked. His shoes—black and shined, too formal for the weekend—are planted on the sidewalk with the posture of someone who has nowhere else to be.

He’s staring directly at the house.

Not glancing. Not peering. Staring.

Mark’s stomach knots. The man tilts his head. Steps forward once. A slow, deliberate movement, directly toward the house. 

The knowing look on the man’s face sends a chill down Mark’s spine. 

He  stumbles backward into the house and slams the door shut, fingers fumbling over the chain. Locks twist. Bolt thrown. The blinds, the lights—he needs them all shut. Every opening in the house, every exposure. He moves on instinct, a hunted thing darting from corner to corner.

Behind him, Helena still sleeps.

His heart hammers against his ribs, not with the wild beat of a sudden scare, but with something heavier. Deeper. An animalistic dread, ancient and low in the spine.

They know.

Whoever that man is—he knows.

He saw something.

Mark stands in the center of the living room, surrounded by darkened windows and thin slats of light that feel like crosshairs. His palms sweat. His mind reels.

This is all wrong.

He looks at Helena—at the shape of her, impossibly still on the couch, one pale arm curled beside her face, the blanket half-slid down to her waist. Her breathing is slow and shallow. A faint wheeze in the back of her throat.

She looks so small.

So fragile.

And it hits him, all at once, like a freight train to the sternum.

What the fuck am I doing?

Anybody could look through the window and see her like this. Just one look and they’d know she doesn’t belong here. 

Mark’s hands tremble.

He crosses the room, kneels beside her again. His voice cracks as he says her name. Quietly at first. Then again, louder. “Helena. Hey—hey, honey, can you hear me?”

Her eyelids flutter. Her lips part. She makes a small sound that could be pain or confusion or just the thick silence pressing against her chest.

“We have to go, okay. I’ve made a mistake.”

He reaches for her. Arms sliding beneath her knees and shoulders, cradling her against his chest. She’s so light. A faint noise escapes her, soft and drowsy.  Mark carries her across the living room carefully, each step measured. 

He looks down at her—lashes trembling against fevered cheeks, mouth parted in exhausted trust.

He continues past the hallway. Past the kitchen.

To the narrow door that leads to the basement. He opens it slowly, quietly, the hinges creaking with age.

The stairs below descend into thick shadow. Cold air wafts up from below—earthy and stale. The unfinished concrete, the boxes piled against the walls, the space that never quite stopped smelling of mold and forgotten paint.

“We’re going downstairs for a little while. Alright?”

Just for a little while, he tells himself. Just for now.  Then he can keep her out of sight until this shitstom blows over. 

One foot finds the first step. The wood moans under his weight. Then another. He descends slowly, deliberately, every movement heavy. The stairwell swallows them one inch at a time, light growing thinner with each step, the walls narrowing, the air tightening around them.

Behind him, the house recedes.

Ahead, only quiet. Only dark.

He carries her down into it—this woman who doesn’t know she’s been taken. She has no idea. No sense of what’s happening or where they’re going. Yet, she’s pliant in his arms,  her cheek nestled against the curve of his neck. Trusting, like a child. 

As the last of the light slips from Helena’s skin and the shadows close around them, Mark doesn’t stop.

He just keeps heading down.

Chapter Text

The basement hums with its own kind of silence. Not a true hush. It’s an uneven, broken thing, fractured only by the low, constant grumble of the furnace and the occasional shift of fabric as Helena stirs. 

Mark is hunched in a fold out camping chair a few feet away. Elbows resting heavy on his knees, eyes on her. He’d tried to share the couch with her through the night, until he woke to the soft, impossible weight of her curled against his side, breathing slow, tangled in sleep.

Untangling himself had been a delicate act. 

The couch is old leather, cracked and sunken from decades of use. One armrest splits at the seam, exposing the greying foam beneath. He should’ve tossed it when he moved, but after Gemma’s death, he could part with nothing— like the faintest trace of her might still cling to the stitching. 

Helena rests beneath two thick blankets, damp hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Better than watching her freeze to death. Her bandages have darkened at the edges overnight. Wheezing breaths hiss past dry, cracking lips.

It’s early in the morning, though the basement knows nothing of the sunrise. The sickly, exposed lightbulb overhead stains everything in its dim yellow glow, rendering her sprawled limbs ghostly, faintly sinister.

A faint whimper of pain slips from her throat.

Mark stands, joints stiff from sitting too long. He crosses to her side and crouches, one hand steadying himself on the edge of the couch.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Helena."

A crease tugs at her brow. She stirs. Lips part, then close.

"Come on,” he coaxes gently. “Let me see you."

Eyelashes flutter. Her gaze drifts across the unfinished ceiling, the bulb overhead, the looming shelves of boxes, then lands on his face.

Relief drags through his chest. A smile tugs weakly at his mouth. "There you are."

“Mark?”

“Yeah. I’m right here.”

She tries to sit up, groans softly at the effort.

"No—don’t do that yet," he soothes, easing her back down. "You’re okay."

Her ankle looks worse than yesterday. He starts with her hand instead. Damp, puckered gauze peels away as he murmurs reassurance, fingers steady despite the thrum beneath his skin. No signs of infection.

“Looking a lot better than yesterday,” he tells her, wiping the tender, grazed flesh with a damp cloth. “Still sore, I know. But healing. You’re doing really good.”

Heavy-lidded eyes track him as he works. When he leans forward to apply a fresh bandage, she reaches up. Her fingers graze his forehead, brushing his hair aside to expose the healing wound just above his brow.

“You got hurt too?” 

A faint flinch ripples through him, but he doesn’t pull away. "Not as bad as you."

She keeps her fingers near the cut for a moment, then brushes the side of his cheek with her knuckles. Gentle, soothing caresses as she gazes up at him, brow furrowed. 

“What happened to us?”

Mark pauses. His throat dries. “How much do you remember?”

"Not a lot," she admits, voice faint. "Fragments."

The lie curls in the back of his throat. He delivers it carefully.

"There was a car accident."

He watches—waits for recognition. Her expression crinkles, splitting the dried blood at her temple. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, frowning, nostrils flared. 

“It was raining,” she whispers, trailing her fingertips down to his shoulder and brushing the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t remember the rest. Were we the only ones hurt?”

This time, he lies without hesitation. “Yeah. Just us. We—uh,” he winces. “We hit a tree.”

When she’s ready, he’ll tell her the truth.

 For now, she nods faintly, like it makes sense, like it slides into the hole where the memory should be. Her fingers fall away from his arm. 

He returns to her injuries. Her ankle is purple. No less swollen. She winces as he tries to maneuver a pillow beneath her heel and he mutters an apology as he brushes his palm over the joint. Warmth radiates from the skin.

“Did the doctor say how long until my memory comes back?” 

He stiffens. She’s so certain. Of course there was a director. Of course a professional has cared for her. Her trusted husband— the man tending to her, cleaning her wounds, stroking her hair— did the right thing. She believes him. Completely. It should soothe him. It doesn’t.

Mark breathes through it. Pushes the spike of guilt down where it belongs. Smiles, small and steady, and nods as reassuring as he can manage. 

“Hopefully not long,” he replies gently. “It might be a little fuzzy for a while, but that’s normal. You’re already getting stronger.”

Her eyes drift shut. Acceptance curls around her features.

Mark stands. Fidgets, desperate for an outlet for his frantic, restless energy. He begins digging behind a stack of boxes, unearthing an old CRT television and the tangle of cords that accompany it. A VCR dangles by its tail. He mutters under his breath, stepping over crates, tugging cables.

“What are you doing?” 

Her voice floats across the room, soft with sleep but threaded with something lighter now—curiosity, maybe. When he glances up, she’s watching him from the couch, head tilted, eyes glassy but alert. There’s the faintest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Trying to set up this shitty old TV,” he grumbles. 

She giggles. The sound is breathy and delicate and slips beneath his skin.  “Are you struggling?”

“No,” he lies, narrowing his eyes at a knotted tangle of cable that appears to have three separate ends. “Maybe.”

He crouches beside the ancient box set, jabbing the plug into the wall socket, then slaps the side of the TV with the flat of his palm. Dust billows. The screen remains dark for a beat too long. Behind him, she laughs again. He glances over his shoulder, and she’s still watching him, amusement lighting up her face. 

The first real spark of life since he brought her here.

He’s helping her. She’s getting better. 

He made the right choice. 

"Feeling under pressure?" she teases. "I could look away."

Her eyes twinkle and a real smile tugs at his lips, the first in days. He wants to bottle the sound of her giggle, store it somewhere safe. Something to open later when everything collapses.

The screen flickers suddenly—white static, humming like a heartbeat. Helena lets out a soft cheer, clapping once before catching herself and wincing.

“Victory,” he mutters, triumphant, reaching for the nearby milk crate. Inside is a dusty box of VHS tapes, all cracked plastic and curling labels. He lifts it with a flourish and places it in her lap. “Pick one. Dealer’s choice.”

While she’s distracted, he turns. The far shelving unit looms in the corner—metal, bowed slightly at the center from weight. Gemma’s shelf. Everything he couldn’t part with. Photo albums, her crafts, sweaters that still smell faintly of her perfume. Her wedding dress.

He moves quickly, grabbing the old sheet folded on the workbench. It’s stiff with age, but he throws it wide like a curtain and drapes it over the shelves, swallowing the memories whole. He tucks it tight at the edges, as if fabric alone can hold the past at bay.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

"Why don’t we just go back upstairs?"

Her voice cuts softly through the quiet. He turns. She holds two tapes in hand, blinking up at him like the thought has only just surfaced.

"Wouldn’t it be more comfortable?"

A jagged thread of panic coils in his chest. He thinks of the man from last night—the one on the street, just standing there, tie loose, staring at the house like he knew something. That tightening of Mark’s chest, the twist in his gut, rushes back to him in an instant.

He can’t tell her that. 

Can’t explain the panic or the blinds drawn tight, or the way his ears have been ringing since Devon left. Can’t tell her that he’s terrified someone will see her. 

So he smiles.

“The sunlight was giving you a headache, honey,” he says lightly. “Don’t you remember?”

She frowns slightly. Blinks. Then nods. “Oh. Right. No, sure. I think so.”

That’s it. No suspicion. Her trust wraps around his lie like a comforter, dulling the sharp edges.

It makes his stomach turn.

He crosses the room and sinks onto the couch beside her. She leans into him without hesitation, shoulder brushing his. Her head settles against his upper arm. Instinct urges him to pull her closer. To press his lips to her temple and make another promise he can’t keep. But he stays still.

She sighs softly. Her hand slips into his, twining their fingers together. 

And still, he says nothing.

Outside, the day begins to lift. Inside, the lie holds. For now.

-x- 

The cursor blinks against the search bar. A steady, metronomic pulse.

Woman missing + Kier 

His fingers hover, hesitant for a breath longer than they should be. Then, he hits enter. The screen fills. Local news articles. police bulletins. The last six months summarized in fading headshots and dwindling hope. He scrolls for two pages. 

None of them are her.

His stomach knots and the nausea climbs.

Young woman + missing + Sunday + Kier

The new search yields the same parade of strangers. A teenager who ran away and returned two weeks later with a tattoo and an older boyfriend. A confused elderly woman who wandered off during a snowstorm. Less of a happy ending, there. 

Nothing about the woman lying in his basement.

Lumon + Kier + woman missing + parking lot

Nothing. 

His stomach knots. He presses backspace, watches the words vanish one letter at a time. Wipes his palms against his jeans. Exhales through his nose, and types again.

Helena + Kier + Lum—

Mark’s phone buzzes on the counter beside him. His whole body jumps. Screen lit with a name that drags guilt straight through him.

Devon: Your curtains are drawn, so I guess you’re still asleep? Meds on your front step. Go easy, they made Ricken drowsy. Don’t die before the baby’s born!

He sighs. The unfinished search stares back at him. It hums with all the answers he doesn't want. Fingers hover, frozen, before deleting the partial entry and slamming the laptop shut. No one's looking for her. Not yet.

The front door groans as he opens it. Cold air needles across his skin. On the step, a brown paper bag sags into the snow. Inside, the half-empty bottle of painkillers clinks softly against a folded card and a king-sized chocolate bar. He unfolds the card as he closes the door behind him.

Get well soon — Dev & Bump

Mark refolds the card, pockets the pills, and leaves the chocolate in the bag.

Downstairs, the basement air presses heavier than the main house. Damp and close. The thin smell of sweat and sickness curls at the edges of the room. Helena is still curled beneath blankets on the couch, her skin glossy with fever. Any trace of earlier amusement is gone, replaced by a chalky, pallid stillness.

“Helena?”

No answer, just a hitch in her breath. 

He sets the bag down and crouches beside her. Sweeps the bangs from her face and rests the back of his palm against her forehead. Something his mom used to do when he got sick. 

“Helena, hey.”

She stirs, face pinching as a strained groan leaks from her lips.

“Shit. Where does it hurt?”

Her hand rises weakly, pressing to her abdomen. Her face twists in pain. “Here.”

Panic slices through him, but he swallows it down. He peels back the blankets. Her thin pajama top clings to her ribs, soaked through with sweat. The bruising along her side has deepened—angry, purpling, blooming out like ink beneath her skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry you’re hurting. Just hang tight.”

The pills rattle in the bottle. His hands fumble with the childproof cap, breath tight in his throat. Two small, chalky tablets tip into his palm. He helps her sit, supporting her weight as she swallows them with trembling sips of water.

“Too hot,” she mumbles, voice cracking.

“I know, honey. I’m sorry. Let me get something to cool you down.” 

The basement bathroom flickers under weak fluorescent light. Water hisses from the tap as he soaks a flannel, wringing it out with shaking hands. His reflection stares back from the mirror, pale and drawn. Eyes ringed in exhaustion and the sour fog of guilt.

When he emerges, Helena is holding the folded card in one trembling hand. 

“Who’s Dev?”

Mark freezes in the doorway. The weight of the moment hangs, suspended.

She lowers the card to the floor, curling back into the couch. “Is she my friend?”

Crossing to her, he places the damp flannel against her forehead, cool water beading along her hairline. The pill bottle bearing Ricken’s name slips into his pocket, unnoticed. “Devon’s my sister,” he tells her softly. “She dropped that off this morning.”

A faint nod, eyes fluttering half-shut. “That’s nice. We must get along.”

“You do,” he says, brushing back her hair, the motion automatic.

It’s not an outright lie. Devon and Gemma got along. No reason to think she wouldn’t like Helena, too, if they ever met. 

“And she’s pregnant?” she asks after a while.

“She is,” Mark tells her, forcing a smile. “Due any day now.”

His arm curls beneath her shoulders, propping her up, adjusting the pillow. She sags against him, eyes closing briefly in relief.

“Do we have kids?”

The question knives through him. Gemma wanted them so badly it detonated their marriage from the inside out. 

“No.”

“Did we ever talk about it?”

She blinks up at him, waiting for his response. His throat tightens. The more she asks, the closer the lie is to crumpling around him. For a moment, he stares back at her, then shifts his gaze away. 

Her head tilts, brows knitting faintly. Concern etched across the fever-flushed softness of her face. “Are you okay?” she asks him. 

Mark exhales more tension than breath. He watches her try to adjust on the couch and wince again, pain flickering sharp across her features.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he deflects, tucking the blanket tighter around her. “Let’s take it easy with the questions. You get upset when you’re confused. Just rest. Let your mind settle. It’ll all come back to you.”

She nods, faint and slow. Her body slackens into the couch, her breathing shallows.

“Can you do the hair thing again?” she murmurs, voice slipping beneath exhaustion.

He blinks, caught off guard. “The hair thing?”

Weakly, Helena lifts a hand to stroke the top of her own head, demonstrating with her fingers running through the strands. “It helped me sleep.”

Mark swallows, then nods. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

He adjusts her again, carefully shifting until her head rests in his lap. Coppery hair spreads across his thigh like silk, still damp at the roots. Slowly, gently, he begins threading his fingers through the strands. Scalp to ends. Her breathing steadies beneath his touch. One hand curls loosely against her chest, the other rests at her side.

He watches her until her eyes close fully, until the little twitches fade and her mouth parts in that soft, unconscious way that means she’s truly gone under.

He keeps his hand moving. The guilt gnaws deeper.

-x- 

It’s dark now. Heavy, velvet blackness presses in from all sides, muffling sound and sense alike. The basement breathes faintly around him—familiar in shape but wrong in texture. Leather couch beneath him. Scratchy blankets twisted under his hips. But unease trails its fingers across the back of his neck.

Somewhere to his right, Helena stirs.

She’s curled beneath another blanket, hair tumbling across her shoulders in a spill that gleams faintly even in the dark. Her eyes glint when they find him, reflecting back the dim light filtering from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough with sleep.

Instead of answering, she smiles. 

“Come closer.”

She beckons him with the crook of her finger.

The distance between them collapses like a trick of the dark. One moment, apart—the next, his hands are on her. Tracing heat beneath the blanket, palms gliding over her waist, the curve of her ribs. Her skin hums beneath his touch, fever-warm, impossibly soft.

She shifts beneath him, hips tilting, breath catching.

“Mark,” she breathes, lips parting, lashes low. “I want you.”

Desire coils low in his spine, heavy and hot. The tension in his shoulders melts as he presses into her. Fear unwinds, replaced by the heavier, familiar pull of unbridled lust.

 Their mouths meet wet and slow. Her lips part under his, her breath snags, soft and sharp. A faint gasp stabs straight through his chest. His body rolls against hers, grinding against her core. 

But—

The couch creaks. Loud. Unnatural. Wood groaning beneath the pressure like the room itself recoils. His fingers tangle in her hair and find—fabric? Thread? No, something rougher, heavier. He pulls back slightly, blinking through the thick air.

The blanket has twisted around his wrists. Tight now. Twisted and coiled into ropes.

A slow, puzzled laugh bubbles in his chest. “Helena. What are you—” 

Words falter. Her hips roll, pinning him beneath her, thighs bracketing his hips with shocking strength.

“You said you’d take care of me,” she murmurs, voice slow, eyes flaring with quiet malice. “Did you mean it?”

The basement stretches, elastic and unreal. Shadows crawl like fingers across the walls. The ceiling recedes into black nothingness. Mark tries to move—just his wrist, his hand—but the blanket tightens further, a slow constriction around his arms. His breath catches.

“Hey, that’s— Stop it. What are you doing?”

Helena leans in. Her hair slips like silk across his cheek. The couch sags beneath them, the cushions dipping impossibly low. The whole room tilts, pulling him under.

Her hands skim his chest. Linger at the hollow of his throat.

“You want me to stay down here forever, don’t you?”

Delicate fingers close, slow and steady, around his neck.

“Wake the fuck up, Mark,” she breathes. Her head tilts. A curious child examining a dying insect. “This has to end one way or another.”

Panic blooms. His lungs seize. Heels scrape uselessly against the couch. His nails rake across her wrists, but she doesn’t flinch. Her grip holds. Small hands. Impossible strength.

The walls pulse. His vision narrows. Her face stays close, lips brushing his, breath warm against his cheek as his own turns shallow, frantic.

“Shh,” she soothes with a chaste peck at the corner of his mouth. “Stop fighting. Close your eyes. It’ll be over soon.”

Black creeps in at the corners of his eyes. His pulse thrashes beneath her fingers. His body strains one final, useless time—

A sharp clatter of metal jolts him upright.

The gasp tears from his throat, chest heaving as the room spins back into focus. The remnants of the dream still press against him—the phantom weight at his neck, the ghost of her grip, the velvet drag of her voice—and for a sickening beat, he doesn’t know if he’s awake or still locked inside it.

“Fuck,” Helena mutters softly. 

It snaps him fully into consciousness.

Helena stands near the workbench. Barely. A can of nails topples at her feet, silver scattering like teeth across the floor.

She sways. One hand braced on the counter. The other midair, fingers curled, trembling. Her legs quake beneath her, fever pressing pallid across her skin.

"Jesus—" His voice cracks as he lurches to his feet, heart still thundering. Dream induced sweat clinging. 

Helena startles, eyes wide, swaying like she might fold to the ground.

"Are you alright? What are you doing?" He’s already reaching to steady her.

Her mouth opens—the smallest hitch of breath. "I—" A pause. The edges of her voice fray. "I was… I was looking for something to eat."

Mark freezes for the briefest second. The words stumble from her like they’re half-built, scaffolded by uncertainty. But the weak flush to her cheeks, the glassiness of her fever-bright eyes, the way her knees bow faintly under her weight—it all tugs his mind to one conclusion.

She’s still sick. Still confused. Fragile.

Relief slides through his chest, quiet and heavy. 

He crouches, scooping the scattered nails back into the tin. "Looking for food in the toolbox?" he teases softly, still fighting the pounding of his heart.

A faint, hesitant smile ghosts across her face, but her eyes dart, brief and sharp, watching him. 

He pretends not to notice.

"C'mere," Mark murmurs, looping his arm gently around her waist. "You shouldn't be up."

Her legs buckle as he guides her, and she sinks down with a low exhale. The blankets swallow her frame, shoulders trembling faintly beneath the layers. A tremor runs through her when his hand brushes her temple, checking for fever. 

A flinch. Small, reflexive and gone in an instant, but it's there.

His palm lingers a beat longer than necessary. "You're burning up," he says quietly, tucking the blanket around her more snugly. "You’re confused. You really shouldn't be wandering around." 

He straightens, brushing damp strands of hair off her forehead.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, curling into the cushions. “I just wanted some food.”

 "How ‘bout I go get us something," Mark offers, easing away. 

“From upstairs?”

Mark mentally catalogues the contents of the fridge. Six pack of beers. Half a carton of eggs. Expired milk and a questionable block of cheese.

“Uh. No, I’ll have to go out.”

Her curious gaze follows him. "I thought… the car was wrecked?"

The question punches through his composure. Just for a second, he stills—a taut, wire-drawn hesitation as he narrows his eyes, scanning her face for a moment too long—then the lie slides easy from his mouth.

"We have two cars," he answers, tilting his head to one side. "You don't remember?"

A beat of silence stretches between them. Helena's eyes lower, her expression unreadable for a moment. The edge of her lip twitches.

"I'll come with you.”

"No." Too sharp. It slips out before he can temper it.

The faint crease in her brow deepens, the veil of meekness faltering for the briefest instant. "I could do with some fresh air," she tries, voice wobbling at the edges, but underneath there’s quiet, coiled insistence.

Frustration simmers beneath his ribs. His jaw clenches.

"Do you remember how sick you were?" His voice rises, tight with the brittle edge of panic. "Do you want that to happen again?"

The words land like a blow. Her face stills. Eyes widen, lips parting—fear blooming bright across her features. Her body recoils, curling slightly in on itself, making her look impossibly fragile and small.

Regret grips him immediately. But the fear—it works.

She exhales, nodding faintly, voice barely a whisper. "No. I don’t."

A breath of quiet falls over them.

“Okay, honey,” Mark coos, smiling at her as she settles. “You just stay right here. I won’t be long. What do you want to eat?”

Helena returns his gentle smile twofold, eyes wide and round as she gazes up at him.  "You can surprise me," she says softly, gaze dipping beneath lowered lashes. "You know what I like. Right?"

The shift in her tone eases the knots in his chest. His shoulders lower, tension bleeding away, and his apprehension quiets. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her forehead and straightens.

"Won't be long," he promises.

At the top of the stairs, the basement door clicks shut behind him.

The bolt slides into place with a faint, metallic click. Just to keep her safe.

-x- 

The bell above the door of Pip’s Bar and Grille tinkles faintly as Mark shoulders his way inside, hunched against the bite of the wind that follows him. Old grease and crackling music clings to the low, stagnant air. Brass light fixtures cast everything in a buttery glow, low enough to pretend it’s intimate, high enough to expose the sticky gloss of the menus.

A young man with an immaculate black apron and the kind of forced politeness you only learn on the clock steps up to the podium. His smile is sharp  and rehearsed.

“Good evening, sir. Dining with us this evening?”

 His eyes flick down, catching the edge of the Lumon gift card pinched between Mark’s fingers. The subtle shift in his posture is immediate. 

“Ah, congratulations. If you’ll follow me, I can escort you to the VIP section.”

Mark doesn’t budge. The card, slick and corporate-shiny under the lights, catches briefly against his thumb as he adjusts his grip.

“Actually, can I just use this for takeout?”

A blink. Hesitation cracks his veneer for half a second. “Are you sure? With this”—he taps the card lightly, a performative gesture—“you’ve got access to the lounge area. Private bar, comfortable seats, complimentary dessert. It’s—”

“Takeout,” Mark interrupts, firmer this time. His mouth twitches in what might pass as a smile. “Please.”

Then, a quick recovery of the kind all service workers master. “Of course.” The host reaches for a laminated menu tucked beneath the podium, sliding it toward him with a polite smile. “Take your time.”

Mark offers a tight nod and sinks onto the hard wooden bench by the window. The menu sits heavy in his lap, but his eyes skim the text without registering the words. The warmth in the restaurant prickles faintly at the back of his neck.

His phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a name he’s learned to dread in the smallest, most suffocating ways.

He answers, pressing the phone too tightly to his ear.

“Hi, Ms. Selvig.”

“Mark, dear. I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t put your recycling bin out today.” Her voice, lilting and dripping with concern, snakes down the line. “Everything alright?”

His pulse skitters, but his voice stays even. “Yeah. I’m just… I’m out at the moment. Picking up dinner.”

A sharp, delighted inhale. “Dinner out? How lovely.” Her voice lingers on the words as she drawls. “Entertaining tonight, are we?”

“No.” It comes out sharper than intended. He reigns it in. “It’s just for me.”

“Mm. Well, I can always go into your yard and bring your bin out for you. No trouble at all.”

“No. Don’t go into my yard.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he cuts in, voice tightening. “Thanks, but—no. I’ll handle it.”

She exhales softly, a clipped, polite sound of retreat. “Of course, dear. No trouble.”

“I’ve gotta go,” Mark adds quickly. “Thanks for checking.”

He ends the call before she can reply.

The phone slides back into his pocket, fingers still twitching with leftover adrenaline. The laminated menu sits limp in his other hand, unread. It takes him a moment to remember why he’s even here.

Right. Food.

Mark drags his eyes over the menu, though nothing really registers—the text blurring, looping back on itself in neat, corporate font. Doesn’t matter. He orders the first thing that sounds edible. A grilled chicken salad, a baked ziti, and extra bread rolls on the side.

The server scribbles down his order, nodding politely as Mark slides the gift card across the counter. 

“You’re welcome to wait in the VIP section—”

“I’ll wait outside,” Mark cuts in, his voice tight around the edges. “Need some air.”

The server’s mouth presses into a polite line. “No problem, Sir. Your order will be right with you.”

Mark slips out the side door into the evening air. The sky has soured into a dull bruise of grey and purple. The street is quiet. A hushed lull that only deepens the churn behind his ribs.

Ms. Selvig’s voice still rattles in his head, thinly-veiled curiosity curling beneath her every word. Her eyes on his yard, her fingers itching at the latch to the side gate. 

Moving Helena to the basement was the right call. Necessary. He tells himself that firmly, pacing a tight line along the sidewalk. She’s safe down there. Hidden. Out of Selvig’s line of vision. Out of everyone’s.

But the tension knots tighter in his shoulders. Helena’s face—flushed, sweating, eyes sharp beneath the glaze of pain—lingers behind his eyelids. The brittle edge to her voice when she asked to come with him. The flicker of unease when he touched her.

Pain, he tells himself. Disorientation. That’s all it is. She’s not herself yet.

But… it’s been two days.

Two whole days in his house.

She doesn’t remember her own name—not properly. Doesn’t remember anything. The accident. Where she works. Who she is. If she doesn’t start remembering something soon, he’s going to have to tell her. The truth. All of it. Because he needs to know who she is. He needs—

“Hey, kids.”

The voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts.

“What’s for dinner?”

Mark startles, shoulders jerking tight. A man leans against the lamppost a few feet away. Rumpled navy suit, shirt wrinkled, grey beard unshaven, eyes bloodshot but alert.

“The fuck?” Mark mutters, instinct steering him to sidestep.

The man shifts, blocking his. 

“Don’t freak out,” the stranger says. His voice is steady, weirdly casual as he eyes Mark with an almost playful smirk. “You sound different here.”

Mark freezes. Recognition snaps like a rubber band. The man from outside his house.

Panic spikes hot in his chest. “Are you following me?”

“Relax.” Hands lifted, palms open. “I’m Petey. Just want to talk.”

Mark’s heart kicks hard against his ribs. His fists curl. “What do you think you know?”

Petey’s brows knit together in confusion. “A lot, Mark. I know a lot. But—”

Mark shoves him. Hard. 

It’s not graceful, just an aggressive burst of adrenaline and fear. Petey stumbles back against the brick wall behind him, palms splaying to steady himself.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Mark snaps, voice fraying. His pulse roars in his ears. “You don’t know anything. I’m looking after her.”

“Looking after… who?”

Mark steps back, shaking his head. “You can’t have her.”

Petey blinks. The confusion deepens.

“What are you talking about, man? Are you… are you alright?”

Mark’s hands shake. His vision tunnels. The sidewalk warps beneath his boots.

“Leave me alone,” his voice cracks. “Stop following me. She’s mine. You don’t know what you’re— this isn’t— I’m not a bad guy.”

Petey exhales, hands still raised in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he soothes. “This isn’t a good time. I get it.”

From his coat pocket, he produces a small, red envelope. Offers it with a careful, deliberate gesture.

“When you’re ready,” Petey says.

Mark snatches the envelope, crumpling it slightly in his fist. His breath comes fast, unsteady. Petey backs away. The dark suit fades into the dim wash of streetlights, swallowed by the quiet of the lot.

Mark bolts back inside.

The server hands him his takeout in a neat paper bag, stapled shut, but Mark barely registers the exchange. By the time he reaches his car, he’s shaking. He shoves the envelope deep beneath the passenger seat, jamming it as far into the shadows as it will go.

Once again, out of sight, out of mind. Along with everything else he can’t face.

The engine groans to life, and Mark drives home.

Fast.

-x- 

The car door thuds shut behind him. For a moment, Mark stands still in the dark, paper bag sagging in his grip, the chill gnawing at the edges of his jacket. The engine ticks softly behind him, cooling, quiet, like it’s holding its breath too.

His pulse still jackknifes against his ribs. Petey's voice curls through his head—the smug, cryptic smirk, that fucking red envelope, now shoved so deep beneath the passenger seat it might as well be buried six feet under with the rest of his mistakes.

Inside the house, warmth folds around him. The bolt slides home with a faint metallic clack, the last thin thread of the outside world cut clean. 

Mark stands in the quiet, bags in hand, pulse trampling itself. His eyes rake the familiar shadows. Kitchen. Couch. The soft hum of the fridge. The thin whine of the radiator. All of it harmless.

He carries the food to the basement door, flicking the lock, then nudges it open with his knee. The stairs creak, old wood groaning under his weight as he descends into the cooler dark.

Helena’s curled on the couch, wrapped in blankets, knees tucked up to her chest. Head lolls to one side, soft spill of her hair catching the low lamplight. Eyes half-lidded, heavy with sleep, tracking him as he moves.

Tension loosens in his chest. Coiled dread untangles as he takes in the sight of her, small and delicate. Almost fragile. The basement’s damp, grey air hasn’t hurt her. The threat of the outside world can’t touch her in here.

"Hey," Mark says, setting the takeout on the old camping table near the couch. The metal legs rattle faintly as the bags land. “Brought dinner.”

Helena stirs, gaze dragging slowly to the bags, then back to him. A faint, sleepy smile curves her lips.

"You always take such good care of me," she murmurs, voice thick with drowsy warmth. "Such a good husband."

That smile, gentle tilt of her head, fond, familiar cadence—it wraps around him like a comforter. She’s safe. He’s taking care of her, just as he promised he would. 

"Someone has to," Mark answers, voice steadier now. He unpacks the food and settles into the couch beside her. "Can't have you wasting away on my watch."

A quiet giggle bubbles from her lips. She sinks deeper into the blankets, lashes low, eyes bright.

“Guess I’m lucky,” she teases.

“Yeah.” His mouth twitches. “Real lucky.”

Plastic utensils clatter faintly onto the table. He arranges everything with unconscious care, salads to one side, rolls stacked neatly, napkins folded. Faint, savory smell of roasted chicken rising in the air.

Helena inches closer.

It’s subtle, at first. A slow, languid drift of her body across the couch. Knee brushing gently against his thigh. Head tilting, eyes bright beneath the haze of fatigue. That soft smile lingers.

"Thank you, honey. It smells delicious. Makes me feel spoiled," she teases, voice low and fond, almost dangerous in its sweetness. 

A grin tugs at his lips, drunk on the ease of the illusion. 

"Only the best for my girl, right?”

She leans in—body shifting, reaching for the cutlery, hips angling toward the table.

His eyes track her without thinking. Drawn to the dip of her waist beneath the oversized flannel, the delicate stretch of her neck as she leans forward. Breath catching, eyes lingering on her ribs, the smooth line of her throat, faint pink flush high on her cheeks.

Distracted, Mark peels back the plastic lids, fingers clumsy with quiet anticipation.

Her arm slips around his shoulders.

Mark startles—surprised by the contact—but the smile blooms before he can stop it. His head turns toward her, already sinking into the easy rhythm of affection, of safety.

The smile dies the instant her other hand appears, clutching the knife to her fingers, pressing it tight beneath his jaw. 

Dull plastic, but sharp enough to bite. Sharp enough to freeze him in place. Her arm cinches around the back of his neck, pulling him flush, elbow closing him in, vice-tight.

“What the fuck are yo—”

The words garble uselessly in his throat as the blade presses harder, nicking at his skin, threatening despite its cheapness. 

Breath hitching, heart jerking against his ribs, he stares at her. Helena’s gaze stays steady. 

From between the sofa cushions, her fingers slide out a photograph. It’s timeworn and faded, edges curled and soft. She slams it onto the camp table hard enough to rattle the legs.

Their wedding photo. 

Mark and Gemma’s.

"That's not me," Helena breathes, voice low and flat, plastic blade firm beneath his chin.  

Panic detonates behind his ribs. The fragile shell of his like ash between them. 

“Helena, wait—”

“Shut up.” Her voice is sharp now, cutting clean through the quiet. Her grip tightens. Her breath fans hot against his cheek. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I know you're not my husband.”

His pulse bucks against his throat.

“So,” she continues, words trembling on a tight, furious breath, “you’re going to tell me what’s going on.” 

Her elbow tightens around his neck. 

“Right. Fucking. Now.”

Chapter Text

“Helena, wait—”

“Shut up.” Her voice is sharp now, cutting clean through the quiet. Her grip tightens. Her breath fans hot against his cheek. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I know you're not my husband.”

His pulse bucks against his throat.

“So,” she continues, words trembling on a tight, furious breath, “you’re going to tell me what’s going on.” 

Her elbow tightens around his neck. 

“Right. Fucking. Now.”

The plastic teeth of her near-useless weapon nip at his jaw. The extent of the damage it could inflict, Mark presumes. but Helena, wide eyed and determined, doesn’t waver. Her hand shakes faintly where she grips the handle, but the threat is steady enough. She isn’t backing down.

“I’m waiting.”

Mark exhales slowly. Her vice like grip around his neck tightens with the motion.

“Put the knife down, Helena.”

“No.”

The tip nudges upward. Barely a graze. Like the dull bite of a persistent insect. It shouldn’t matter— in her weakened state she couldn’t hurt him even if she tried— but it gnaws at him. Frustrates him. Her looking at him with those defiant, wild eyes. Self-satisfied and confident in her ability to get the drop on him. 

Next time he won’t be so careless.

Slowly, he raises his hand. Splays his fingers wide, covering hers entirely around where she grips the blade. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t loosen. The plastic edge digs harder. A pathetic scrape along his skin. 

“Are we married?”

Two paths fork before him. One paved with the lie, its smooth clean laid bricks winding deeper into the fantasy. The option where he soothes her into submission, with a gentle stroke against her wrist. Of course, sweetheart, why would you ask me that? Tell her she hit her head, that’s why nothing makes sense. Repeat the lie until she folds into it and stops asking

The other is lined with the truth. Honesty about the accident. Their relationship, or lack-thereof. About how he has no idea what the fuck to do next. And if he’s honest with himself, both paths lead eventually to the same destination. To her discovering him for what he is. What he did to her. 

Every path dead-ends in her eyes widening, her voice trembling, her mouth shaping the word he refused to hear since the second he carried her out of that parking lot: kidnap.

He loosens his grip on her hand.

“No, Helena,” Mark tells her. “We aren’t.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “Then… who are you?”

“You don’t know me. We met two days ago.” 

“Did you—” her throat bobs around the words. “Did you drug me? Is that why I have no memories?”

“No.” The denial comes so fast and automatic he forgets to hold back. “I hit you with my car.”

Helena sucks in a sharp, trembling breath.

Her face crumples. “I—” The sound chokes. She jerks her hand from beneath his, releasing him from the headlock. “I need to get the fuck out of here—”

Panicked, she scrambles away with shaky uncoordinated movements. She falls from the couch. Makes it halfway across the floor before her foot lands unevenly and her ankle buckles under her weight. A guttural, pained cry rips from her throat as she collapses onto the floor. The plastic knife falls from her grip.

“Shit,” Mark hisses. 

He stands from the couch. Crosses the room toward her. His shadow casts long and uneven over where she cowers below him. 

“Stop,” she chokes out. 

Helena fumbles for the knife, lifting it weakly in front of her using both hands. Mark reaches down, curls his fingers around her uninjured wrist. He disarms her with the effortless cruelty of taking a flower from a child.

Her eyes flick toward the stairs. He sees the intention before she starts the pitiful crawl, dragging herself toward the first step. Mark blocks her path before she can haul herself upright.

“No. You can’t leave.”

Her face pales. 

“Help! Somebody—” It’s weak, frantic, not a real scream. Her lungs are shot, body spent with exhaustion. 

Mark’s breathing labours as his frustration and fear rise unchecked. “Don’t do that,” he yells over her.

“Help me! Please—”

“Helena, stop,” he snaps, louder now. The sound ricochets off the walls. “You’re making this worse—fuck, you’re making me angry—Helena, stop! Enough!”

She freezes. Completely still. Her body is rigid beneath him as he shouts himself hoarse to silence her. Any lingering determination melts away beneath the sheer terror in her expression. She’s trembling. So small, crumpled at his feet. Her lips part, her eyes wide and wet. 

Mark’s own pulse hammers at his temples. His chest rises and falls with shallow, tight breaths. He catches himself. Pulls back from the edge of whatever he almost did to keep here. Reminds himself he’s not a bad guy.

He extends his hand toward her. The same hand that plucked the knife from her, now offered like peace.

“C’mon,” he tells her softly. “Let’s get you back on the couch.”

Helena recoils. Winces as she moves her injured ankle. A fresh cry of pain rips from her and tears spring to her eyes. 

Mark crouches to her level. 

“See? Now you’ve hurt yourself.” He tilts his head, keeps his eyes kind. “You gonna keep doing this? Huh? Keep crawling around, making it worse? Or are you gonna let me help you sit up so you can eat your dinner before it goes cold?”

She trembles like a leaf in a storm. Barely able to speak. Eyes glossy with tears that stream down her cheeks. Her throat bobs as she swallows down whatever fight she has left. 

Helena nods.

“Yes to which?” Mark presses. “Worse? or dinner?”

Her gaze drifts to the food. Cooling, untouched. A sad monument to normalcy on the table. She offers another weak nod.

Mark breathes out a quiet, relieved sigh.

“Okay.” He crouches, slips an arm around her waist and helps her upright, easing her back toward the couch. “Good girl. Let’s get you settled.”

Mark sits beside her and pops the lid of her baked ziti. Luckily, it’s still warm. Makes for a much more pleasant dining experience. Steam curls upward between them as the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce fills the space between them. 

Helena’s eyes track his every movement. He doesn’t hand her the cutlery. Instead, he lifts the plastic fork. Twists it gently through the pasta and cuts her a small, manageable bite.

“Here.” He holds the fork toward her.

She hesitates until Mark raises a brow, then with a trembling exhale she takes the fork from his grip. Brings it to her lips and eats with slow, mechanical chews. Swallows. Returns the fork to him. Her skin is cold and clammy as their fingertips brush. 

Another bite. Another handoff. 

He doesn’t rush her. The pace is slow, each movement choreographed to lull and soothe. 

Mark breaks the quiet while cutting her next bite. “Two days ago, I was leaving work. Pretty normal day,” he chuckles faintly. “I was in my car, you were on your way to yours.”

The fork pauses midair.

Mark coaxes gently, “eat.”

She obeys. Another bite. A slow, reluctant swallow.

His voice softens as he continues. “I didn’t see you. Just—there you were. You stepped out and…” He winces as the sound reverberates in his skull. Thud. Crunching metal. Tires on wet asphalt. “I hit you.”

A soft whimper catches in Helena’s throat. Her eyes glaze once more, shimmering wet at the edges. She presses the back of her hand to her lips. 

“Hey, hey,” Mark soothes, reaching for her wrist to steady her tremor before she drops the fork. “Relax, okay? It was an accident.” His voice tilts upward with mild amusement. “Nobody ever teach you to look before you cross the street?”

Helena’s shoulders tremble. Her chin dips. Another bite; another handoff.

”Why… can’t I remember anything?”

He brushes a little of the crispy cheese from the edge of the container onto the next bite. That was always Gemma’s favourite. 

“You hit your head pretty hard. It’ll come back.”

She nods again. 

“Why am I here?” Her voice cracks on the question. “Why not a hospital?”

Mark sighs sharply. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “People die in hospitals.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re safe here,” he cuts her off. “I had to keep you safe. And I’m going to take you home—“ He pauses as her breath catches. “Just as soon as I figure out where home is for you.”

Helena’s eyes glisten with a deeper unease now. Her lips part, brow creasing as she puzzles through the information laid out for her.

“Why did you say we were married?”

He chuckles softly at that. “Misunderstanding on your part,” he admits regretfully. “But it seemed to calm you down and I didn’t correct you. So that’s on me.”

Briefly, he considers reaching for her hand. Pictures his steadying grip over her trembling fingers as he rubs his thumb in slow, soothing strokes. He settles for meeting her gaze. 

“Look, Helena…” he lowers his voice. “I’m not a bad guy.”

Tears cling to her lashes.

“Am I?” he pushes. 

She shakes her head.

A smile tugs at his lips. “See? You get it.” He leans in slightly, as though he’s her co-conspirator. “But I’m worried if I let you go, other people… they won’t see it like we do. Do you understand?”

Her eyes dart briefly to the stairs. To the door. Back to him. 

“Do you understand, Helena?”

Another shuddering breath, followed by a short sharp nod. 

“Good,” he tells her.

The rest of the meal passes in fragile quiet. Helena eats what she can manage. Her trembling fingers pass the fork back each time, her gaze flickering downward, unable to meet his eye. She doesn’t finish more than half — her body’s too weak, her appetite eroded by fear and pain— but it’s a start. After she’s done, Mark reaches into his pocket. The faint rattle of pills follows. 

He holds the amber bottle between them. 

“Here. These’ll help you sleep.”

Helena recoils, shaking her head and pressing her lips together.

“And with the pain,” Mark urges gently, twisting the cap. “You’ll feel better after a little sleep. In the morning I can figure out how to get you home, okay?”

“Okay,” she echos. 

Her chin dips in defeat and she holds out her trembling hand. Mark slips two chalky tablets onto her palm and offers her a bottle of water to take them. As she swallows, her throat bobs weakly.

Silence folds around them as time passes.

It doesn’t take long. First, her breathing slows, growing heavier by the minute. Next the lines of her face slacken with creeping drowsiness. Her body sags into the couch cushions as the last of her energy drains away. Mark eases her down gently, shifting the blankets around her, careful of her injuries. He tucks them tight beneath her chin as she murmurs something unintelligible.

Delicate fingertips linger by her cheek. “I’m so sorry, honey,” Mark whispers. He has just enough self restraint to stop himself from kissing her on the forehead.

Helena doesn’t answer, sleep has already taken her. 

-x-

Through the night, sleep comes in fragments. Fleeting, broken moments of rest torn away at the slightest sound. The faint groan of pipes as the house settles. Wind pressed in tight, rattling the door frames. Helena’s slow, rhythmic breathing, soft as tidewater. Any whisper or cough or creak is enough to startle Mark awake.

He hovers by her, like an anxious parent crowding their newborn. Measuring the fragile rise and fall of her chest beneath the dense, thick blankets as he waits for proof of life. Confirmation that her small, fragile body is still there. Still breathing. Only the relief never comes. He’s left with the primal, guttural panic of responsibility and stripped of wonder. All he has is the sick, coiling dread that something will happen when he isn’t looking.

For a while, Mark tries to sleep in his own bed. He lies awake, staring at the hairline crack in the ceiling. In his delirium, he sees bars there. Caging him as the walls close in. He sees himself from above, pacing between rooms, phone in hand, stomach knotted with the dense, strangling realisation that he’s slipped too far down the rabbit hole. He blurred the line between protector and jailor and he can’t see a way out. 

Sleep comes in fitful patches on the living room couch. His dreams slide sideways, feverish and formless images of wet pavement underfoot, the gleam of headlights and damp, red hair spread like a spill of wine. Or blood. When the morning light creeps in, his head is heavy with a dull, constant throb.

Mark sits on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, phone clutched in his palm. His thumb hovers over the screen as he clears his throat. Coughs once, sending a sharp pain through his chest. The dryness in his throat is almost unbearable, but he does nothing to fix it— the more authentic the croak in his voice, the better. If he’s going to all out sick, it needs to sound believable.

He is poised to dial— prepared apology about a head cold on the tip of his tongue— when the phone buzzes in his hand. The screen lights with a name that chills the back of his neck more effectively than a draft ever could.

Milchick.

Mark’s stomach plummets. He answers on the third ring.

“Uh… Mr. Milchick. Hi.”

The returning voice is bright and chipper. “Good morning, Mr. Scout. Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Uh. No. Not at all. I was— actually I was just about to—”

“Leave for work? No need,” Mlichick interrupts. There’s a rustle of paper on the other end. A quiet whisper of voices that Matk can’t hear. “I am calling to inform you that the severed floor will be closed for the duration of the day.”

“What— why? Did something— is everything okay?”

“Security incident,” Michick tells him. “Nothing that ought to concern you. But in the meantime, while our resources are in use to resolve the matter, all severed employees are invited to take a personal day.”

Mark’s grip on the phone tightens. His mouth goes dry. They know. Somebody reported her missing and they know. His head spins as fight or flight curls hot beneath his skin. It’s only a matter of time before the police turn up here and—

“Oh, and, Mr Scout?”

“Yeah.”

“I must inform you that you are in serious violation of Lumon policy.”

Mark’s blood runs cold. “I—” His voice wobbles. “Listen, I can explain—”

Milchick chuckles. “No need. Just report to reception at your soonest convenience to retrieve your lanyard, and that will be the end of the matter.

“My… what?”

“Your lanyard,” Milchick repeats. “It was found in the parking lot on Friday. Leaving your identification unattended is a serious breach, Mark. You know that.”

The floor feels unstable beneath him. His stomach twists. “That’s—right. I… I must have dropped it.”

“Mm.” A faint, polite noise of acknowledgment. 

“I can pick it up today.”

“Very well.” Papers shuffle again. “Good day, Mr. Scout.”

The call ends with a soft click, leaving the house unnaturally still. Mark lowers the phone with faintly trembling hands. He shouldn’t leave Helena, that much is clear. She’s still weak and confused, but with just enough fight left in her that if she manages to leave while he’s out, she could ruin his life. But his only chance of clawing this back from spiralling any further is to figure out who exactly Helena is.

And to do that, he has to head into the belly of the beast.

-x- 

Every step Mark takes through the Lumon parking lot feels like a risk. As though he treads on the thin, deceptive layer of ice that forms over a lake, knowing that at any moment the surface might crack.

He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have left the house, or left her alone. But every rational impulse is suppressed by the static that has fogged his brain for three days now. He needs to quietly collect his lanyard before anybody starts to ask questions. That stupid fucking plastic rectangle with his face on it, dropped directly at the scene of the crime. 

Accident. Not crime.

That thought circles him like a vulture. His fallback. His prayer. His excuse.

As his eyes scan the lot, he locks onto something that near bowls him over with a nauseating wave of both relief and dread. Helena’s car is still parked exactly where she left it— crooked over the painted line, streaked with snowmelt. 

Nobody has noticed. Or if they have, nobody cares. She’s still missing, locked away from the world in his basement. And yet her absence is deathly silent. There’s no sign of disruption. No security huddled in corners. No police in the parking lot. Not even a murmur of panic as he steps through the sliding glass doors into the atrium.

The receptionist is young. Pale, polite, and vaguely startled-looking in the way all Lumon temps are. Mark rattles off his name and employee ID, and she slides the lanyard across the polished counter with the detached enthusiasm of somebody processing dry-cleaning. His photo mocks him from the plastic badge.

“You should’ve reported this moment you realised,” comes the voice from just over his shoulder.

Mark startles. His blood runs cold as he turns. Helena. He’s talking about Helena. They caught the accident on tape and tricked him here to arrest him. It’s over. It’s all over. It’s— “I don’t know what you’re— I’m sorry, what?”

Milchick stands behind him with a wide, dazzlingly professional smile. “Your missing lanyard, Mr. Scout. Our policy is to report a security breach at the earliest convenience.”

His shoulders loosen. “I didn’t notice it was gone.”

“Sloppy,” he muses. “Unlike the man I have come to know here.”

“Won’t happen again.”

Milchick hums, eyes narrowing slightly, the corners of his mouth hitching upward. Not quite a smile, not outright suspicion. Somewhere in the elastic, unreadable in-between. 

Mark clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “The, uh… security incident. Everything okay?”

The flicker across Milchicks face— just a momentary pause— is subtle, but Mark catches it. 

“A power outage interfered with the severed floor elevator. It should be up and running in no time.”

“That’s, uh. Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

Milchick tilts his head, watching him a moment longer than necessary, then claps Mark’s shoulder with a light motion that lands as both a reassurance and a warning. “Your innie will be disappointed to have missed the day.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Mark tells him as he tucks the lanyard into his coat pocket and makes his exit.

Cold air nips at his neck as he steps back through the sliding glass doors. The steps stretch ahead, slick with residual rain water. Mark moves with haste, thudding down each one. A woman speaking into her cellphone passes him at the base of the stairs, shoulder brushing his faintly as she moves. There’s something familiar about her, though Mark can’t put his finger on what.

“…do not breathe a word of this to anybody until we know where she…”

Mark recognises that voice. It’s harsher and brittle at the edges, but he knows it all the same.

“Mrs. Selvig?”

His head whips around to face her, but the woman is gone. Swallowed by the lingering bustle of workers.

Fuck. 

Paranoia. Sleep deprivation. That’s all it is. His own brain, gnawing at itself like a starving animal. He’s seeing things. Hearing things. Not thinking straight. Trying to make sense of the hellish reality he has created for himself, as the consequences of his actions spiral rapidly out of his control. 

He slams the car door harder than intended. It shudders shut, sealing him into the chilled air of the cabin. His breath fogs the windshield in uneven bursts. With a ragged exhale, he brings both fists down hard against the steering wheel. 

“Fuck,” he spits, voice loud and sharp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Another blow. Harder this time. Frustration without direction. Panic without shape. His hands fly to his head, dragging through his hair and tugging at the strands. He leans forward, elbows on the wheel, and presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets hard enough to see stars. His breath comes fast. Each inhale catches sharply in his chest. 

A memory flickers through.

“A lot, Mark. I know a lot.”

Petey. The man in the street. The one with a smirk like he knew things Mark didn’t want to hear. His hand shoots out blindly, scrambling beneath the passenger seat. He reaches into the gap between the floor and upholstery, past the old crinking food wrappers, faded receipts and a broken umbrella before finally closing over the bent corner of the red card. 

“When you’re ready.”

He yanks it free, hands trembling. 

It's a cheap, flimsy card. A little damp at the edges, ink slightly smeared around the birthday cake in the centre, but the handwriting inside is clear enough.

“Mark, sorry about the card, I had to grab something and it’s not appropriate, though I’m sure you’d be a fucking awesome niece…” Mark reads aloud, eyes narrowing in confusion. He’s about to shove the card right back beneath the seat where it came from. Clearly this Petey guy is just as fucked up as he is. But something further down catches his eye. 

We’re not monsters, Mark. Not real ones.

He stares at the line for a long time, rubbing his thumb over the words. 

No. He isn’t a monster. He didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Everything he has done since the accident has been to help her. Keep her safe. He’s feeding her. Cleaning her wounds. Telling her the truth now. He could have left her to die in the street but he didn’t. That has to count for something. 

He’s not a monster. 

He skims the rest of the card. Something about Lumon. Their actions. The situation on the severed floor. None of it means anything to Mark. There’s no mention of Helena, just an invitation to learn more. On the back, there’s an address. A plot number and a street name he doesnt recognise. 

Mark wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. His palms sting. His temples throb with the dull ache of adrenaline receding. Then he puts the car into gear.

Home first. Check on Helena. Then the address. 

-x- 

He tells himself to act normal, as though that word holds any meaning anymore. It will be over soon. Check Helena. Find Petey. Get answers. Take her home. Straightforward enough, if he doesn’t get too bogged down in the details. 

Mark locks the front door behind him and places his keys in the dish like always. Shrugs off his coat. Hangs it gently beside the rest and toes off his boots to sit beneath it, restoring a sense of order. The grey, morning light does little to illuminate the dim hallway, but he doesn’t linger long. 

In the kitchen, Mark opens the cabinet. Fills a glass slowly from the jug in the fridge. Exhales deeply as he watches the steady stream of water, before lifting it to his lips. The water is cold. His heart won't slow.

You’re okay. She’s asleep. You’re okay. 

He grabs Helena a bottle from the fridge, then snags an apple, a granola bar and a pack of saltines from the pantry. Nothing substantial, but enough to offer breakfast if she wants it. He carries it all in one hand toward the basement door. The key clicks into the lock. Turns. The mechanism releases with a soft thunk and the door swings open on its hinges. 

And Helena is standing there. 

Her silhouette is framed in the low basement light, red hair in a loose halo around her face, both hands gripping a baseball bat high over her head.

“Fuck,” Mark yells.

She lurches forward. The bat arcs clumsily through the air in a desperate, two-handed swing. 

Mark reacts faster. 

He drops everything— the water, the crackers, the apple that thuds to the floor at his feet— and surges toward her. One hand clamps around her wrist before the bat can connect with his temple. The momentum is lost and it lands with a muted, ineffectual thud against his shoulder.

Her body pitches backward, thrown off balance. She flinches away, tries to strike him again, but her foot slips off the edge of the top step. Her injured ankle strikes the step behind her. Then her knee gives. 

She screams, eyes wide with desperate panic as she starts to fall.

Mark’s free arm hooks hair around her waist. 

“Helena—hey—” He’s panting already. “Careful. Don’t — You’re going to fall.”

She doesn’t hear him.

She’s clawing at his arms, at his chest, trying to twist out of his grip. The bat slips from her fingers and crashes down the steps, bouncing against the walls as it goes. Her screams grow louder. Less coherent. The kind of raw, instinctive sound that makes your throat ache just hearing it.

Her fingers close around the doorframe. She wrenches toward the light, the open house, the outside— “Get the fuck off me. Let me go.”

“Stop! Jesus Christ, stop—Helena, please.”

He slams the door shut with his shoulder. The latch clicks home with harsh finality. The sound of it shuts her up more effectively than anything else has. Then she screams again, louder, wilder.

“Help me! He’s going to kill me. Somebody, please.”

“Fuck, I’m not going to hurt you, I just need you to—”

“Somebody help me!”

Mark’s hand finds her mouth. Clamp down hard.  Her body is smaller than his. Lighter. She’s still weak, but God, the force in her is primal, like she’s fighting not for freedom but survival. He presses his palm over her lips. She bites down hard enough to bruise but Mark doesn’t relent.

“Shhh—hey. Shh. I’m not— I’m not going to hurt you.”

He speaks in soft, urgent half-sentences. Nothing calms her. She twists again, elbow driving into his ribs, feet kicking out behind her. The panic in her body is animalistic and furious. Mark tightens his grip. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t let her go. Not yet.

“I said stop,” he says again, louder this time. “Helena, please. I’m helping you— I’m trying to—”

His arm around her waist tightens, pulling her flush against him. She thrashes in his grip, struggling, clawing at him frantically as he carries her back down the stairs. Her elbow connects with the side of his head.

“You need to calm down,” he hears saying as they reach the bottom. “You need to just fucking calm down.”

He sets her down too hard. Her shoulder knocks into the arm of the couch. She scrambles sideways, making herself small in the corner, but there’s nowhere to go. Her face is pale with fear. Her chest heaving. 

He towers above her.

“You can’t fucking do that. What the hell were you thinking?”

Her face crumples. She presses herself back into the cushions, away from him, as far as she can get. 

“I’ve done nothing but try to keep you safe and this is how you treat me?” Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She’s crying—quiet, shaking sobs that hitch in her throat. “Say something,” he demands, stepping closer. “Say something, goddamn it—”

Her body goes rigid. He sees it all at once. 

Terror so complete it has outgrown language. She can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

The moment appears to him from the outside. As if he’s floated an inch above his own skin. As if he’s walked into the room and found some stranger standing over a frightened, cowering woman. Yelling. Looming. Taller than her, stronger than her, dragging her down the stairs, locking the door behind her, demanding her gratitude and compliance.

“What the fuck am I doing,” he whispers.

He sits. Right there, on the second step from the bottom. Elbows on his knees. Head in his hands.

And he begins to cry.

“I’m so sorry.”

It takes a while for the crying to stop. Not because it’s loud or dramatic — it isn’t. It’s the opposite. Quiet and involuntary, almost embarrassed. His face stays buried in his hands. His shoulders move. That’s it. He doesn’t make a sound. He tries to slow his breathing. Inhales through his nose, exhales shakily. But his lungs won’t cooperate. Every time he thinks he has it under control, it catches again, sharp and choking in the center of his chest.

He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t dare. The shame has formed its own gravity now. He could be crushed beneath it. The silence thickens and swells. He can feel her watching him from where she’s perched on the couch with stunned, doe-like stillness.

He tells himself not to say anything. That talking will only make it worse. But the silence aches and the words slip out. 

“My wife died.”

There’s a pause. A long one. He doesn’t look at her, just stares at the floor. At the worn grooves in the wood. At the dust collecting under the radiator. 

“It was a car accident. Two years ago. She was driving home from playing fucking charades. Some asshole blew through a red light, she swerved and hit a tree. The other guy drove off before the police arrived.”

He leaves out the part that makes him sick to his stomach. That he’d been waiting at the kitchen table for her return, divorce papers in hand. That the only reason he wasn’t in the car with her was that he needed time to get them finished. He rubs at his face like he can physically scrub the memory out of himself, but it’s still there—the guilt and regret and self-hatred—just beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t there. I didn’t get to see her. They just handed me a ziplock bag full of her things. The hospital—” His voice hitches. “They said they did everything they could. But I don’t know. I don’t think they did.”

He drags one hand down his face. Palms his jaw, his temple. He still hasn’t looked at Helena.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

That part he whispers.

“I just—when I saw you, lying there, bleeding—” He stops. Forces breath into his lungs. “I put you in my car to take you to the ER, I swear. But when we pulled up I— I didn’t think, I just— I saw my wife. Dying alone in that fucking hospital and I…”

Finally, his gaze lifts. Helena is huddled on the couch, knees pulled up in front of her.  She’s pale, still trembling faintly, but she’s listening.

“I thought maybe I could fix it this time. Maybe I could do what I should’ve done for her.”

Helena’s lips part slightly, but she says nothing. The air between them hums with tension until eventually, she speaks. 

“Take me back to the hospital.”

Mark flinches, shaking his head. 

“You don’t understand. Hospitals—” He cuts himself off. Shakes his head. “Hospitals don’t fix anything. They didn’t fix her. They just… let her die.”

Helena sits up straighter. Her eyes narrow just slightly.

“Then take me to a police station,” she says, firmer. He starts to speak but she cuts him off. “Or leave me at a bus stop. Anywhere, I don’t care. Just don’t keep me here.”

Mark’s hands curl slowly into fists.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Mark.”

“I don’t want to go to jail,” he snaps. The words burst out of him, unfiltered. “I’m not— I’m not a monster.”

Helena’s expression falters. Her face tightens, mouth twitching slightly at the edges. Mark’s breath comes faster now. His chest heaves with each inhale. The trembling is back.

“I was trying to help you,” he says, voice rising. “You were hurt, you didn’t even know your own name—you still don’t know anything about yourself.” He stands too fast. The motion pulls the room sideways for a second. He staggers and braces himself on the edge of the couch. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t plan this. I don’t want to— they’ll arrest me, Helena. Is that what you want? To destroy my life because I tried to help you?”

Helena doesn’t answer. She just watches him, wide-eyed and frozen. Not terrified like before, but wary all the same.  Mark drops back onto the step. 

The pressure behind his eyes is unbearable. “I’m not a bad guy. I just can’t let you go.”

Silence.

Then, softly. “Okay.”

She moves toward him with slow, tentative caution, as though she’s approaching something wounded but dangerous. Her movements are measured. There’s a new kind of calculation in her eyes. She kneels at his feet, just close enough to reach out for him.

She takes his hand.

Mark flinches, but he doesn’t pull away. Her fingers wrap lightly around his, thumb stroking a small, slow arc against the side of his knuckle. Her skin is cold against his.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Just breathe.”

Mark’s eyes begin to well again, but he blinks the tears back. He can’t look at her for long but he lets her hand stay where it is. He watches the way her thumb moves, over and over, grounding him in that tiny repetitive motion.

“You’re okay,” she says again. “Just breathe. You’re not going to jail.”

He nods, barely. A broken tilt of the head. He closes his eyes, desperate to lean into her touch. Her voice is the only sound in the basement.

“You did the best you could. It’s going to be okay.”

Helena’s thumb is still stroking his hand when the weight of everything finally settles. Like dust, it doesn’t fall all at once—it floats, drifting into the cracks, coating his bones with the soft, powdery knowledge that he’s gone too far to pretend this is salvageable. He breathes into the quiet, lets her touch anchor him, and slowly, with the unsteady movements of someone surfacing from deep water, he lifts his head to meet her eyes.

“You okay?” 

He nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She nods back, a careful mirror. 

Mark shifts back onto the step behind him. He pulls his hand away from hers, not because he wants to, but because keeping it there any longer might make him keep talking. Pleading for her understanding. He rises to his feet and moves away before the warmth of her palm can cool and make him miss it.

He exhales and pushes himself up, joints cracking.

“I need to go,” he says, voice still hoarse. “There’s a man. He— he might know something about you. Petey.  He left me this bullshit cryptic note.” Mark gestures vaguely to the stairs, to the world that still runs without them. “I don’t know for sure, but I can’t not check. If he knows who you are, then maybe this can all be over.”

Helena blinks slowly. She’s still sitting on the floor, legs tucked beneath her, the faintest pink blooming on her cheekbones from the heat, or the crying, or both. Her lashes are wet. She looks up at him through them.

“Wait,” she says.

He pauses.

Her expression is neutral at first, but it flickers with something more plaintive as she meets his eyes. “Do you think maybe I could take another bath first?”

“A… bath?”

She nods. “I feel kinda gross.”

“There’s a shower down here,” he tells her, nodding toward the bathroom door. “Use it while I’m gone.”

“No, wait,” she says before he starts to climb the stairs. “ I can’t stand up for that long. My ankle still really hurts.”

He doesn’t answer.

Helena tugs her shirt tighter around herself. “Please?” 

Mark hesitates. He doesn’t know if he trusts her. If this is all just a game to get her closer to the door. But her eyes are wide and round, just slightly glassy. Her brow knits, forming a small divot in the middle. He exhales, rubs the back of his neck, then gives a short nod.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

He reaches out his hand. She hesitates, just a beat, then takes it. Her fingers are cold again. She winces when she shifts to stand, and before he can ask, she speaks again.

“I’m in a lot of pain. I don’t think I can make it up the stairs. Could you…?”

She trails off, but the question is clear. Mark doesn’t answer right away. His heart thuds heavy. There’s a strange, dangerous tenderness blooming under his ribs again. It makes him feel warm and wrong all at once. He tries not to let it show as he bends down and scoops her into his arms. She settles into him easily. Her head comes to rest just under his chin. Her breath is warm through the collar of his shirt.

She smells like his laundry detergent.

Careful not to jar her, Mark carries her up the stairs slowly. Every step, he waits for her to twist, kick, scream. But she stays quiet in his arms as he carries her back into the light. Mark’s mind buzzes with things he doesn’t want to name. Tries not to remember how much he used to ache for this kind of closeness, even with Gemma. Especially with Gemma, back before the beginning of the end. 

He brings her to the second floor. His bedroom is still dim, the curtains drawn. The sheets unmade, his pillow dented from the brief, restless moments he tried to sleep. The door to the ensuite bathroom creaks when he nudges it open with his shoulder. In the bathroom he sets her down gently on the closed lid of the toilet. Steam coils upward from the faucet as he runs the bath, the tub gurgling softly.

“Towels there,” he mutters, pulling one from the rack and setting it on the counter.  He turns his back to her. Hovers in the open doorway, facing the door. The sound of water fills the silence between them. 

For a moment, there’s nothing. 

“You look exhausted.”

He says nothing, just keeps facing forward.

“You should go lie down,” she says, softer now. “Just for a few minutes. You haven’t slept all weekend.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’ll stay. I won’t… you know, look or anything.”

“Suit yourself.”

There’s a brief silence behind him. Then, a sigh. The sound of fabric shifting. A huff of frustration.

“Mark?”

He turns around.

She’s struggling with the buttons on her pajama shirt. Her injured hand keeps missing the threads. Her brow is furrowed, her lips parted in a soft, breathy scowl. “I can’t get it.” She looks up at him with wide, helpless eyes. “Will you help me?”

Mark steps forward slowly, walking toward her. His throat bobs as he swallows. 

She doesn’t flinch away as he reaches out. His fingers close around the first button. Begins to undo them, one by one. His knuckles brush her chest, the hollow of her throat. Her skin is warm and flushed pink. He doesn’t look directly at her, but he sees enough. The outline of her collarbones. The soft curve of her ribs beneath the nasty bruising.

When the shirt falls open, she lets it slip from her shoulders.

“I need help with the rest,” she whispers. She says it like a secret. Only for him.

Mark’s throat works around a mumbled, “okay.”  He pulls at the bow on the drawstring pants. The knot slips loose and they fall easily past her hips. She steadies herself on his forearm as she steps out of them. 

Finally, he reaches behind her. His hand spans the width of her back. The clasp comes undone easily beneath his fingers. The bra falls to the floor. She’s naked now. Standing in the steam, pale and flushed and trembling. His eyes peel away from her breasts just a moment too late. She sees him looking. And instead of flinching or covering herself, she reaches up. Pushes a lock of hair from his damp forehead. Her fingertips trace a line above his brow.

“Go lie down,” she whispers. 

His heart gives a small, unsteady lurch.  Her voice sounds like Gemma’s. Or how he remembers it. He stares at her for a moment too long, then nods—entranced, resigned, something in between. As he leaves, he bends to pick up the discarded pajamas from the floor.

“What are you doing?”

He looks down at the clothes in his hand. “I’ll bring you some fresh ones.”

Her face tightens almost imperceptibly. Something close to frustration seems to flare, vanishing just as quickly as it arrives. 

“Oh,” she says. “Okay.”

Mark steps back into the bedroom, his limbs oddly weighless. His head is full of something floating and warm. As she closes the door behind him, he hears Gemma’s voice on the other side. I’ll be right there. Clear as day, like he still lives in the life he lost.

“Take your time, honey,” he murmurs through to her. 

He drifts toward the bed, body heavy with exhaustion, powered only by the leftover adrenaline that bloomed the moment her pajamas slipped from her shoulder. He drops fully clothed onto the bed, laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The comfort settles into him like a drug as his mind begins to blur.

Thoughts come loose at the edges. The blend. One slips into another, like the colours of the bruising beneath her skin. The image of Helena standing naked in the bathroom refracts and reforms in his mind, lit differently now, light spilling in from the open window as she stalks toward him. Steam curls behind her, spilling from the open doorway. 

She lays down beside him. Tucks herself into the curve of his body without a word. The fantasy builds on its own now. Her shoulder brushing his. Her thigh slung over his hip. Fingers in his hair. Lips against his neck. Her mouth finds his, kisses him slow and sleepy, until the room heats and she’s gasping gently into him and he’s holding her as though he’ll be allowed to keep her.

She wants to stay.

He presses the heel of his hand down into the heat blooming beneath his waistband, his fingers clumsy with exhaustion and shame-soaked longing. The pressure against the fabric of his jeans is grounding as his body tightens with the heat that takes root in the hollow of his belly.

A violent, shattering crash pulls him from his thoughts.

Glass shatters against tile. Followed by the abrupt, metallic ring of something heavy tumbling to the floor. Then a faint, muffled string of curses from Helena. 

Mark jerks upright.

He stares in a daze, chest heaving, unsure whether he imagined it— whether the noise was part of the fantasy crumbling, or something dangerously real. Then there’s another sound. More urgent this time. Movement. The scrape of something dragging against porcelain. A shuffle. A pained grunt of effort.

He’s on his feet in an instant. Throws the bathroom door open with a force that rattles the frame. Steam blurs his vision, but he sees Helena’s body half-in, half-out of the window, arms straining for balance.

She’s wrapped in his bathrobe, standing on the lip of the bathtub, one leg hoisted awkwardly onto the window ledge, her fingers braced against the sill. The sash is open. The mirror lies in pieces across the floor, torn from the wall where she must’ve clung to it for balance. 

The image of her desperation to flee is grotesque in its beauty.

He sees it now.

She was never reaching to comfort him, she was climbing over him toward her escape. 

“You fucking tricked me.”

Her head jerks around. Their eyes lock. She hauls herself further through the opening.

Everything fractures.

There’s a blur of movement as he lunges toward her. Glass crunches underfoot and Mark cries out at the pain. Her foot slips on the porcelain edge of the tub. A scream. A clash of breath and motion and noise. The world narrows into heat and velocity as Helena makes her split-second choice— tumble through the window, or let herself be dragged back to safety.