Chapter Text
The prison gates clanged shut behind her, but the sound barely registered. Linden walked out like a ghost, her coat soaked through from the rain, her eyes hollow. Seward was gone. She had promised herself she wouldn’t break—not until she got home. Not until she was alone.
Holder leaned against the hood of her car as she emerged into the storm, his lanky frame hunched under his hoodie, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.
“You ain’t drivin’,” he said, voice low but firm, already reaching for her keys. “Long haul back to Seattle, and you look like you ain’t slept since last week.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice clipped, automatic. But her hands trembled as she handed over the keys, betraying her. She was too tired to argue, and Holder knew it.
He didn’t say anything else, just opened the passenger door for her and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine hummed to life, and they pulled out of the prison lot.
The rain thickened as they reached the forest highway, a narrow stretch of road that felt like it had been forgotten by the world. Trees loomed on either side, their branches clawing at the sky. The windshield wipers struggled against the downpour.
“Visibility’s crap,” Holder muttered, squinting through the glass.
“Go slow,” Linden said. “Animals cross here at night.”
The words had barely left her mouth when a sickening thud jolted the car.
Holder slammed the brakes. “Shit,” he breathed.
They got out, flashlights slicing through the dark. The forest swallowed them quickly, the wet earth sucking at their boots. A few yards in, they found it—a baby deer, its legs twisted unnaturally, eyes wide with terror, its cries sharp and high-pitched.
The sound was unbearable, a raw, primal cry that echoed the ache in her own chest. Holder crouched beside the deer, his face grim as he assessed the damage.
“It’s bad,” he said, his voice barely audible over the rain.
He stood, handing her his flashlight. “Hold this.”
She knew what was coming.
She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, but she could still hear the deer’s cries. The sharp crack of Holder’s gun split the air, and the screeching stopped. Silence followed, heavy and final, broken only by the patter of rain.
Linden stumbled back toward the car, her flashlights dangling uselessly at her sides. The rain hid her tears at first, but by the time she reached the car and leaned against it, her shoulders were shaking, her breath coming in ragged sobs. She’d seen too much death today—Seward’s cold, mechanical end, and now this innocent creature, broken and gone. It was too much, too cruel, too heavy.
Holder appeared beside her, his own face drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He stepped closer, his hands reaching up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing against her wet cheeks.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to,” she said, voice cracking.
He leaned down, hesitant at first, his breath warm against her skin. She didn’t pull away. Her hands found the damp fabric of his hoodie, fingers curling into it, anchoring herself to him. His lips met hers, soft but sure, a quiet promise in the midst of the storm.
She pressed closer, and his arm slid around her waist, pulling her against him, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold seeping into her bones.
The kiss deepened, desperate and raw, a release of everything they’d been carrying. For a moment, there was nothing else—no rain, no death, no pain—just the two of them, clinging to each other in the dark.
A gust of icy wind tore through the trees, followed by a low rumble of thunder. They broke apart, breathless, their foreheads nearly touching as they stood there, rain dripping from their faces. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.
They climbed back into the car, the silence between them different now—not heavy, but shared. Holder started the engine, and they drove on, the forest fading into the rearview mirror as the highway stretched toward home.