Alice was silent for a long moment. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She just stared at him—at the raw pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped like he’d been carrying the weight of a hundred lifetimes.

  Then, gently, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her forehead to his. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “That… must’ve been unbearable, Arthur.”

  He didn’t answer right away. His breath was shaky, and for a second, she felt a drop—warm, silent—land on her shoulder.

  “I thought I lost everything after I killed Ray and everyone,” he murmured. “I thought I didn’t deserve peace. Or warmth. Or anyone who’d look at me like I was still... human.”

  His voice cracked, and he shut his eyes tightly.

  “But then you came,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And I don’t know what I did to deserve it… but thank you. For staying. For seeing me. For making me feel like I’m still worth something.”

  Alice’s grip around him tightened. “You are worth something,” she whispered fiercely. “To me—you always will be.”

  Days had passed since Arthur opened up about his past. Now, the morning sun spilled softly through the kitchen window, casting a golden glow across the room.

  Alice stood at the stove, carefully preparing breakfast for the two of them. She pinched a bit of salt with her fingers and sprinkled it into the simmering pot of soup. With gentle, practiced motions, she took up a ladle and stirred the pot, her movements calm and content.

  She brought the ladle to her lips for a small taste, then smiled—bright and genuine. The color was slowly returning to her cheeks, no longer the ghostly pale shade that had lingered through her illness.

  Resting her palm against her face, she closed her eyes and let the warmth sink in.

  “Perfectly delicious!” she announced in a cheerful, almost musical voice.

  Suddenly, lost in the rhythm of cooking, Alice felt a gentle warmth wrap around her from behind—arms circling her waist, a familiar presence pressing close.

  When she glanced over her shoulder, a soft blush colored her cheeks. “Good morning, Arthur,” she said with a bright smile.

  Arthur slid his hands from her waist up to her abdomen, pulling her even closer. Then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed her deeply. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured against her lips, before burying his face into the crook of her neck and closing his eyes.

  Alice let out a small laugh, her fingers gently combing through his hair before placing a light kiss on his head. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she whispered. “Why don’t you sit down at the table?”

  But Arthur only shook his head slowly, nuzzling closer as if to say he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

  In the end, she prepared the food all by herself, all while Arthur stayed latched onto her like a lazy cat. When everything was finally ready—the plates set, the food steaming on the table—she turned to him with an awkward laugh.

  “Arthur, we’re about to eat,” she said, nudging him gently. “Can you sit in the seat next to me?”

  He reluctantly let her go, his hands trailing as if he didn’t want the moment to end. Before sitting down, he leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Sorry... I zoned out. I should've helped you with preparing the food..”

  Alice settled into her seat, carefully taking a sip of soup before adding a small scoop of rice to her plate. “That’s totally okay,” she said, then paused, giving him a pointed stare. “But next time, no cuddling while I’m cooking. That’s officially a house rule.”

  Arthur, unmoved by her warning, took a bite of his food in silence, clearly enjoying it. No reply. No reaction.

  She pouted, furrowing her brows. “Arthur…”

  Still nothing—just another bite.

  Letting out a dramatic sigh, she slumped back in her chair. “Fine, I get it!”

  After breakfast, the clinking of dishes faded into soft footsteps and the quiet rustle of fabric as they moved through the room, gathering what they needed. She stood by the counter, fingers hesitating for a heartbeat before twisting open the familiar bottle. The pills slid into her palm—small, pale reminders of the battle within her. With a sip of water, she swallowed them silently.

  Their clothes for the day were already laid out. Once dressed, she adjusted her scarf in the mirror, met his eyes briefly, then nodded. Together, they stepped out the door, the soft creak of its hinge breaking the stillness as sunlight met their faces.

  The spring air greeted them with a gentle breeze as they walked side by side. The streets were calm, a few bicycles gliding past, the distant bark of a dog echoing between buildings. He noticed the way she tucked her hand into her coat pocket—something she always did when the wind touched her too sharply.

  They didn’t speak much on the way. They rarely needed to.

  At the bus stop, she leaned lightly against his shoulder. He pretended not to notice how much weight she was putting there. Instead, he watched a leaf spin lazily to the ground and said, “Looks like rain might come later.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  She smiled faintly. “Let it wait until we’re back.”

  When the bus arrived, they boarded, found seats near the back, and sat in silence—her head resting against the window, his gaze fixed ahead. The city rolled by in soft colors, but all he could focus on was the pale reflection of her face in the glass.

  The crack of the door echoed through the quiet clinic. It slid open with deliberate care, as if the one entering wanted to be heard.

  Dr. Fye sat at her desk, absorbed in Alice’s medical records, her brow furrowed with quiet focus. The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her attention away. Strange—

  the clinic wasn’t open yet, and Teresa hadn’t clocked in.

  She looked up—and froze.

  There, standing close in the doorway, was the last person she ever wanted to see again.

  The man who had dragged Arthur through hell.

  The one who wielded him like a weapon, never once seeing him as human.

  Douglas.

  He stepped into the room with a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, as composed as ever.

  “Good morning, Dr. Fye,” he said in that calm, calculating voice that always carried more threat than warmth. “It’s been a while since I last saw your face.”

  Dr. Fye’s eyes widened, stunned by the sight of him. She rose sharply, slamming her hand against the desk. Her expression twisted into a deep frown, though her voice stayed composed—too composed.

  “What are you doing here, Douglas?”

  She didn’t need to yell. The weight in her words—and the fire behind her eyes—said enough.

  But Douglas, as always, treated the room like it belonged to him. He stepped in without permission and hesitation, as if the years of silence between them meant nothing. With practiced nonchalance, he sat onto the old sofa in the corner, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back like he had all the time in the world.

  “Don’t be so cold, Dr. Fye,” he said, a faint, mocking smile tugging at his lips. “We worked side by side for nearly two decades. I’d say we made a good team.”

  Dr. Fye smirked, a bitter curve to her lips, shaking her head slowly. “Those days... they were hell for me,” she said, her voice low and edged with a quiet fury. “If I had known what you were really up to, if I’d seen through your lies, I would have never agreed to work for you.”

  She sank back into her chair, the weight of her words settling in the air between them, thick with resentment.

  Douglas took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his chest before exhaling in a long, measured breath. The scent curled through the room like a quiet intrusion.

  Then he chuckled—a low, humorless sound that echoed off the room.

  “How’s Arthur?” he asked, almost casually.

  But his eyes told a different story. They locked onto her—sharp, unflinching, dissecting. He wasn’t asking out of concern. He was looking for something else.

  She swallowed hard the moment Arthur’s name slipped from his lips.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, eyes dropping to the papers on her desk, fingers tracing the lines like they held answers. But her focus wasn’t there. It was on him—completely.

  “You locked him in a cage,” she said, the edge in her voice sharper now. “Stripped him of any life outside your orders. So don’t act like you care. Why are you asking about him now? I don't know where he is.”

  Her eyes darted between the file and Douglas, unable to hold still. Her brow furrowed, and a sheen of sweat clung to her forehead. She looked composed at first glance—but something trembled just beneath the surface.

  Like part of her was afraid of something. Afraid of exposing her lies.

  Douglas slowly rose from his seat, the sound of his movement deliberate and measured. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, taking a slow drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung thickly in the air.

  “Haven’t you forgotten?” he said, his voice calm, yet laced with an unsettling certainty. “This city has always been ours. I know everything that’s happening inside it. I know what he’s up to. I know what he’s going through.”

  With a swift motion, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He reached for his holster, drawing a pistol with cold precision and lifting it to point directly at her forehead.

  “War’s breaking out sooner than I anticipated,” he continued, his voice shifting into something darker, more commanding. “And I need him back as soon as possible.” He stared down at her, eyes cold and unblinking, as if daring her to challenge him.

  “Release him from his suffering, Douglas,” she said firmly, her voice unwavering despite the barrel aimed squarely at her. “He’s a human being—not a weapon to reload when war calls. After everything he’s endured… he deserves to be free.”

  Douglas stared at her, the pistol steady in his hand. But what caught him wasn’t her words—it was her eyes.

  They didn’t flinch.

  They gleamed—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous to men like him: Unshakable resolve.

  “I’m doing this for the sake of our country,” Douglas said, his tone eerily calm. “We’ve already suffered too many casualties trying to hold back the tide of hatred from our enemy." He lowered the pistol and slid it back into his holster with precise ease.

  “You should’ve known that from the beginning,” he continued, his words almost accusing, like a cold wind slicing through the room. “We’ve seen it with our own eyes, how cruel our true enemy really is. And you know... his existence is the only thing that can prevent even more deaths. More pointless, meaningless deaths from our own people.”

  He turned and began to walk away. The silence stretched with each step. Then, just as he reached the door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

  “Tell him I came,” he said coldly. “And if he refuses my orders—” his eyes darkened, voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “I’ll take his happiness from him again. And this time… it’ll be far crueler than the last.”

  The door slid closed, leaving the room thick with a suffocating silence. Dr. Fye stood motionless, the lingering presence of Douglas pressing down on her like a physical weight. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a slow, steadying breath.

  When she opened them again, she exhaled slowly, the sound quiet but heavy.

  “What should I do at this point in life?” she muttered, her voice barely audible, as if seeking an answer that could never come. She frowned, the weight of her responsibilities pulling at her more than ever. Every choice felt like a step further into a maze with no clear exit.