Archive of Our Own

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I stare down the grocery list like it was a battle I could personally win.

Like it was something I’d been prepared for—trained for. But no amount of Ark simulation training could have readied me for the sheer chaos of the New Republic. Nothing could have brought me up to speed with the loud, nonsensical demands scribbled across the page, the margins overflowing with unnecessary details and last-minute reminders designed to taunt me.

I frown at the chicken scratch, the longer I looked, the worse it got. What had first passed as merely messy began to take on a terrifying new structure.

Scratched-out words overlapped like arguments that never reached a conclusion—rewrites stacked on rewrites with increasing urgency. There were at least three distinct handwriting styles competing for dominance across the crumpled paper, each item a desperate afterthought clawing for space. For dominance. For an impending headache only one promise away and I feel my right arm tremble in response.

More and more, it becomes clearer. Glaring, even. 

This must be the New Republics tactic to torture me.

And it seems someone—Kenji—had decided that this was the best route to get a reaction out of me. That tasking me with supplying this family, was the ultimate payback for the times I apologetically shot him in the leg. Finally, the citizens New Republic learned that that simply writing the list wasn’t enough to kill my last remaining sanity.

That the anarchy needed to be lived in, and the evidence is scribbled right before my eyes.

I can still hear Kenji’s voice trailing after me as I left, each new demand shouted like a sudden revelation that could not, under any circumstances, wait. It had been rewritten. Added to. Refined. It was the remake of a remake of an already remade list, redone three times over if only to ensure maximum confusion and maximum suffering. The entire page felt alive in a restless, frenzy kind of way.

It made me wish for the inhumane torture methods of the Reestablishment. I would rather be apart of a lot other things than pointing daggers down at a list with absolutely no discernible order.

My mind loops are the same things, clinging to its sincerity. It’s the only thing keeping my feet to the ground. 

The whole list read like evidence of a slow, unraveling madness captured in ink, complete with a dark coffee stain bleeding into the right margin. And somehow, I’d been put in charge of trying to interpret it.

"Make sure you don't forget the corn dogs—!" Kenji had called out as I slipped into my coat.

Then came Winston, from somewhere deeper inside the room—his tone low, grumpier, and threaded with a heavy, ironic judgment. His exact words hadn’t quite reached my corner of Nazeera's hallway, but Kenji’s typical dramatics certainly did. I’d caught his loud scoff in response to whatever Winston said before he shouted another reminder, his voice pitching just slightly with an entirely unnecessary level of irritation. "I don't care if they're processed pieces of hell, Winston! I need them like my life depends on it—and since when did you become such a health nut anyway?"

"You'll give yourself a headache if you keep glaring at it, Rosabelle," James says from beside me, his voice accompanied by the familiar, high-pitched squeak of turning shopping cart wheels. "You can't make sense out of the senseless."

I startle. Not at the sound of the wheels rolling over the concrete floor, but at him.

The smooth cadence of his voice pulled me violently out of my own head, dragging me away from the coffee-stained page where Winston had inevitably spilled his cup during his turn at the scribbling match. James's voice clawed at me, bringing me sharply into the present, back to the bright lights and ambient noise of the shopping center.

I risk a glance up, my eyes finding his face, focusing on the faint, easy smile playing at his lips as he stared back at me.

I’d forgotten him, if only for a single moment. But looking at him now, the impact was exactly the same. Just as powerful.

Looking at James is like looking at the sun. He’s so bright and beautiful that I have to look away, if only to catch my breath. And yet, all at once, the sight of him is striking all over again. He is striking in a way that feels almost calculated.

It makes me dizzy with an emotion others would call delight.

He’s wearing an off-white hoodie with the actual hood pulled up. The action of it is executed so poorly, the fabric barely concealing the bright bronze of his hair. I note, with an increasing fever, that it’s a little messier than usual, but somehow, he makes it look intentionally easy-going without being a nuisance. Layered over the hoodie is a blue denim jacket—minus his usual yellow kite pin. I watch, hypnotized, as he adjusts the black glasses resting on the bridge of his freckled nose.

I hadn’t realized when we first stepped out of the house, that this is his idea of a disguise.

I try to shake it off, forcing the emotion down into something more manageable. In a pathetic display of composure, I attempt to settle back into my own skin. Try to steady my breath. Try to will my pulse to slow. I attempt a lot of things to conceal my feelings, but it backfires completely; I know it does. I can practically feel James buzzing with unspoken humour, finding something deeply amusing in the way I suddenly snap my gaze back to the page.

"How is this an effective way of…" I pause, pressing my lips together as I rake my brain for the proper term to describe whatever this nightmare is. "…shopping?" I ask, a little hesitantly, my voice coming out oddly breathless. "How is this supposed to work, exactly?"

We slow to a stop, the cart James is pushing protesting with a sharp squeak as the wheels lock into stillness. James seems to consider this, considering my words with grave seriousness.

"It's not," he says definitionally.

I turn just enough to look at him fully. He is the spitting image of casual unbotheredness. "That's very reassuring."

"Mhm." He leans in, just slightly, peering down at the page as if he’re assessing the structural damage of a bombed building rather than a list of groceries. His shoulder barely brushes mine in the process. The contact is light, accidental, and entirely avoidable. I try not to die on the spot.

We continue down the aisle, but James never fully move away from me. 

"There's kind of no system to this," he adds, "at least, not when Kenji's tasked with making most of the list."

"I've gathered as much," I say dryly.

James shrugs, pushing the cart a little further. "The man has a talent, though. He remembers the good stuff."

"Right," I deadpan.

James shakes his head, a bright, boyish smile breaking through as he confides, "The bright side is this: a Costco is the perfect place to get lost in while you scramble to find Warner's—" His eyes glance over my shoulder, taking in one of the hundred things everyone apparently desperately needs. "Truffle-infused burrata."

I blink at him, my mind blanking at the unfamiliar combination of words. Confusion laces itself tightly around my features.

James mirrors my expression, looking equally bewildered. "…whatever the hell that is."

My eyes flick back to the page, my brows faintly furrowing as my gaze drags over its impossible lines, as if it might suddenly explain itself if I just look hard enough. "And this," I say, lifting the paper in a pointed gesture, "…warehouse is supposed to carry everything everyone wants?"

James doesn't hesitate. "Not only do they carry all of it," he says, steering the red cart forward again, "but they'll convince you to buy three times more than what you originally came in for. I'm telling you, it's a place of pure wonder."

"Sure," I murmur, completely unconvinced. "Of course it is."

We pass through a few more aisles, each labeled precisely, with people gathered at every turn. They cluster around massive displays, entirely unbothered as they dig through row after row of seemingly endless stock. The sheer scale of it feels excessive in its deliberation. Overwhelming in its application. Though, I suppose that is to be expected from a warehouse, as strange as it is to callously label it as such.

I hear James exhale beside me. It sounds like a dramatic sigh, though it carries no real irritation. Instead, his features lighten, and only a quiet amusement takes form, its presence threaded with a touch of awe. My caution, apparently, is entertaining to him.

It makes me want to kick him, just a little.

"I told you I'd take you here with the lights on," he adds, that hint of a smile bleeding back into his voice. "You'll see I wasn't making fun of you once we make it to item number one on that list."

A frown finds its way back to my lips as I cast a sideways glance between the paper and his face. "Item one is already making fun of me."

James only hums, like he’s enjoying this a little too much, which, unfortunately, he is. I know this with a horrible clarity, the equal parts satisfaction and joy radiating off him as he continues to guide the shopping cart down the next aisle with an easy, practiced familiarity. He moves like he’s wandered this jungle of a warehouse thousands of times before. Though, I realize now, that is most definitely the case.

The inner workings of the New Republic never cease to amaze, annoy, and completely baffle me. Watching the ease with which James navigates every section of the store makes me wonder about what growing up for him must have been like. I can't help but imagine it—what it was like to witness the dawn of this new age, to be a part of a global revolution after enduring so much darkness. So many questions linger in the crowded corners of my mind, like classified files still marked with red underlines and question marks, desperately wanting answers. James, like myself, grew up under the Reestablishment's prime. We didn't know what the world was like prior to their absolute governance; we only had the occasional story to fuel our delusions of what life used to be.

I wonder how he had taken this massive shift in what was once his reality.

I wonder what the reconstruction of a world that was presumably "normal" in a far-off age must felt like to him; especially when that reconstruction involves building something that borders a strange, fantastical tale of buy-in-bulk items layered as far as the eye can see.

"Read it out to me," he says, and I startle a little, breaking out of my thoughts once more. "I want to hear how bad it is. What's the first thing we need to grab from this sacred Costco prophecy?"

I narrow my eyes at him, hesitating briefly before lowering my gaze back to the list of horrors. I force myself to focus as I start from the very top.

"…Nazeera wants a dining table."

There’s a tick.

James glances over at me as we brush past strangers walking in the opposite direction, all nudging their own oversized red carts across the gray concrete floor.

"Just the table?" James asks, his tone cautionary.

I pause, squinting, and adjust the page slightly as my thumb grazes the dark circle of the coffee mark. "Wait," I say, leaning in. "There's smaller writing underneath it. I think it's from Nazeera."

At this, James snorts. "Of course there is. What’s it say?"

My eyes scan the erratic handwriting, barely making out the fine print. "She wrote that she already has the dining table chairs."

James lets out a short, amused laugh, as if I’ve just confirmed something deeply validating. "She bought the chairs first?"

"Seems so."

"But not the table?"

"No," I say. "Not the table."

James shakes his head, smiling to himself like this is the least surprising news he's heard all day. "Incredible. That's just incredible."

I tilt my head at him, shooting him a hard look. "It's impractical."

"I know," James says, laughing under his breath. "Chairs—but no table? How that's even possible gets funnier by the minute." He shakes his head, his grin widening. "Oh, man. Priceless. Absolutely priceless."

I feel a literal error in my brain. "It still seems entirely backwards."

"That," he says, steering us toward a massive section dedicated to furniture, "is because our dear Nazeera doesn't operate under the same laws of reality as the rest of us. She's great, isn't she?"

I smile in response, incredulous at the playfulness dancing across the blue of his irises, before quickly forcing my attention elsewhere. Anywhere.

"So now we're expected to find a table here," I say slowly, "that matches chairs we've never actually seen before?"

"Exactly," James affirms.

"In a warehouse, in a residential neighborhood, that happens to be the size of a small country."

James points a finger at me. "Now you're getting it."

I huff out a soft breath before the scene before us takes focus, my gaze finally landing on the staged displays all around us. Bit by bit, I take in the artificial living rooms—full, plush sofas, perfectly arranged dining sets, and beds dressed like they belong in those fancy, post-war New Republic magazines rather than actual, real-life homes.

So strange. 

"Go on," James urges softly. "What else?"

I clear my throat at the display around us, fixing another look at the list. "Lamps," I read aloud. "But not just lamps—'something warm, not clinical.'"

James raises a brow, surprise lighting his features. "Nazeera wrote that?"

"No, she didn’t," I clarify. "Winston noted that last part down."

"Ah, that makes more sense," James nods. "A lot of sense. An aesthetic demand at its finest."

"He specified that in particular," I point out. "With an exclamation mark, and also underlined it twice for extra emphasis."

"I respect it."

I shoot him a quizzical look. "Do you even know what that means?"

”The exclamation mark and underline?”

My brows pinch together. “James. The aesthetic part. Do you even understand what that would mean? 

James gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "First off, how dare you, Rosabelle Wolff. I was told once that I'm a halfway decent interior decorator."

A scoff slips out of me before I can stop it—the sound coming off as light, almost playful. It surprises me. Kills me, but in a way I've become familiar with. It takes a new form entirely.

"Really?" I deadpan, reaching for some semblance of control I know I won't find. Not with him. Especially not with him.

The effect he has on me is too great, and despite myself, I feel my lips twitch with barely suppressed humour.

James, of course, doesn't miss this.

"Yes, really," he says lightly, a soft chuckle following.

I try to stare at him, try to look unimpressed.

"C'mon, Rosabelle," James muses, nudging the cart slightly forward toward a display of floor lamps, all glowing with delicate, amber tones. "It wouldn't kill you to have some faith in me. It's not rocket science. It's all about avoiding anything that looks like it belongs in a sad hospital room."

I glance toward the lamps, then back at him, crossing my arms. "You say that with a concerning amount of confidence."

"That's because I'm right," he says, already drifting toward the display area. He stops in front of one particular lamp—tall and slender, with a sleek black stem and a soft linen shade that casts a warm, honeyed glow. Its appearance is almost dreamlike, gentle in a way that lamps usually aren't, and the thought strikes me as odd. James, as always, is grinning, gesturing toward it like he's unveiling something revolutionary.

"Okay," he says, features smug. "This one."

"You picked that one at random," I say.

"I did not," he counters, a smug expression shadowing his features.

I raise an eyebrow, trying to steady myself. "So that's your grand pick?"

He clicks his tongue. "You're just not seeing it, Rosabelle." He shakes his head in mocking disappointment. "This—" he taps the base lightly, "—is balance. It's warmth without being suffocated or burned alive. Hell, this lamp alone is minimal without feeling sterile. Nazeera's place needs something that actually screams home, and not something that just makes you wanna scream. It'll round out her place, especially since she's finally getting some couches."

I fix him with a steady look, waiting for a conclusion. He doesn't stop. If anything, the passion in him ignites tenfold, a smile spreading across his face as he continues on.

"And the lighting," he points out, boasting as he gestures to the glowing light spilling across the concrete floor. "It's ambient. Calming, like you're tucked into a cloud, nestled in and sleeping against its plush exterior. It would honestly make her house look a little more lived in."

I stare at James for a moment longer, then at the set of lamps, and then I break. I roll my eyes. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"I'm not, I swear I'm not," he says with a blink. "Cross my heart and hope to die, Rosabelle. I am not—in any way, shape, or form—making fun of you. There's a science to this kind of stuff."

"It is not a science," I argue.

James arches a brow. "Says who?"

"Actual science."

"Well," he says plainly, a gleam in his eyes, "think whatever you like. But it totally is a science."

I open my mouth, ready to continue the pointless argument—to stubbornly prove him wrong—

"Sorry to interrupt," a voice cuts in smoothly.

We both startle, straightening instantly. I pin my gaze toward the unfamiliar voice, meeting an equally unfamiliar face. He is outfitted in a red vest with an adjoining name tag.

Jeff.

I realize he is one of the workers.

Jeff smiles politely between James and myself, his arms crossed behind his back. "Is there anything I can help with regarding our lamps?"

James comes back into himself almost instantaneously. He adjusts his glasses, careful not to shift too far from the hoodie that barely covers his sharp features.

It is a surprise that he hasn't been found out sooner. There is nothing ordinary about his appearance. Nothing calming in regards to the broad expanse of his chest, the brutal cut of his jaw, the sun-kissed look of his bronze hair, or even the freckles scattered generously across the strong bridge of his nose.

Clara once noted that James looked like a storybook prince.

I didn’t disagree. 

I quickly pull myself from my thoughts, just in time to catch the way James relaxes into a more casual stance. Easygoing. Almost friendly.

Like a switch being flipped, something in him changes instantly

"We're all good," James smiles. "However—" he turns to me with a playful look, "—I was just telling my girlfriend about this lamp here." James points toward the damned lamp, and Jeff’s gaze follows right after as James continues. "And why it works."

Jeff stares at the lamp for a second before locking eyes back onto the two of us, his eyebrows lifting. "Oh?"

James nods once, serious in a way that I’ve become quite familiar with. He is about to become utterly and completely unbearable for the next few seconds.

"You see, the thing about light—good lighting—" he begins, pointing vaguely toward the ceiling like he's delivering an important university lecture, "is that people underestimate its emotional impact. A bad lamp can destroy a household. Relationships end over bad overhead lighting, Jeff. Don't you agree?"

I press my lips together.

Jeff stares at James, genuinely considering his words. "Really?"

"Yes, really," James says, almost emphatically. "It's all about the ambiance. Bad lighting can ruin the mood instantly, but this lamp?" he declares dramatically, shifting toward it once more, "it's a damn miracle worker. It's warm. It's inviting. Dependable. It says I have my life together, while still whispering, but I'm still fun. I'm still good."

I have to force myself not to look away.

"Now compare that," James adds, pointing a finger toward another display, "to that thing over there. It's clinical. It's practically laughing in our faces, Jeff. Mocking us with its hostile, ugly little glare."

Jeff stares at the other lamp with a sudden, genuine turn of suspicion.

James notices and I can tell he’s about to nearly loses his composure. He pushes on, too stubborn to ever dare to lose focus. "You walk into a room with this lamp," he says, and even with his sunglasses on, I can practically see his eyes gleaming, "and you immediately trust the homeowner. You think, wow. Someone emotionally intelligent lives here."

A strangled sound catches in my throat—somewhere between a gasp of disbelief and a horrible laugh—and I try my best to disguise it with a cough.

James eyes me for a second, his stupid grin growing. Jeff, on the other hand, looks practically transfixed.

"And the glow," James continues without end. "It's perfect for late-night introspection. Or soup."

Jeff's head pops up. "Soup…?"

"Yeah, soup," James says with a knowing look, patting Jeff on the shoulder. "Nothing wrong with a good old-fashioned bowl of soup and cozy lighting that would bring tears to an uncultured eye."

Jeff nods slowly. "Wow."

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it begins to hurt.

"Wow…" Jeff says again, starstruck. "Wow—I mean… wow. I never… wow."

Jeff's astonishment is something to study as he blinks between James and the fixture. When his dazzlement finally finds its way back to James, he stares at him like he hung the moon.

James, of course, is eating this up, finding the situation more than amusing. I can already feel the retort he'll throw my way the second Jeff leaves. I don't need to look at him to know he's bubbling with unbridled excitement, and it takes everything in me not to roll my eyes again.

"Home decor isn't as valued as it should be," James finally says, crossing his arms. "You know what I mean, Jeff?"

"Yeah," Jeff agrees. "Yeah—I just—wow. That was all so incredibly well put. I've never seen so much care put into a lamp of all things… wow. I never thought about it like that before."

”Throw in another wow, and I just might believe you,” James chuckles, and the urge to kick him has never been so enticing. 

Jeff laughs with him, but he looks so charmed that it’s hard to fathom if his astonishment is real or not. 

James, of course, does not miss a single beat.

"Most people don't," James says solemnly. The mock awe in his voice is striking enough to make me turn sharply away.

I turn with all my might in hopes of disguising my reaction as inspecting another shelf, my shoulders tightening as I kill the urge to laugh. But it crawls up my throat nonetheless. When I finally find the courage to glance back, James catches it immediately—the tiny crack in my composure—and satisfaction flickers across his face so quickly it's almost imperceptible.

Another version of myself would be mortified.

Another version of myself would try to deaden my mind. To kill my senses, calling back my defences as fast as possible in hopes of regaining control once more.

But it's getting harder now.

It is harder to find my way back to the familiarity of my old self—to a version of me that considered this softness a weakness that needed to be killed. Now, it seems that something has broken within me. My cage door is unlatched; I am unbridled and unafraid of the world beyond. My life is levelled by unpredictability, filled with unplanned moments, and I no longer yearn for an exit door.

This change is the fault of no one other than the man standing across from me, ranting about the true purposes behind lamps.

Jeff let’s put a low whistle, visually impressed. "I mean, seriously. You have a real eye for interior design."

James finally breaks, grinning so brightly it takes my breath away. "Thank you. Finally, someone understands me."

Jeff turns to me, his features never wavering from the astonishment that paints his face. "Your home is in good hands, miss. You're lucky. You bagged a good one."

I manage a small, wordless smile in response.

Jeff doesn't waver, turning back to James, beaming with every word. "I hope you have a fantastic day in your future endeavours, sir. Truly, I do." He pauses for a split second, quickly finding himself. "Oh—and please let me know if you need anything else!"

And without another word, Jeff practically slips away as James grabs the boxed lamp from the shelf beside him with an annoying confidence, hauling it straight into our cart like he's just accomplished something Nobel Prize-worthy.

"How was that?" James asks, grinning from ear to ear.

"Horrible," I say at once.

"Liar," he says easily. Then, with a glance in my direction, "Who knew you could be such a sore loser."

I narrow my eyes at him, falling into easy step beside him. "I am not a sore loser. He was only feeding your ego because he's on the payroll. It's simple customer service."

James just waves me off. "No, no. I definitely changed that man's life. He'll never look at lamps the same way again."

Despite myself, my mouth still twitches.

He catches it instantly and the idiot looks more pleased than ever. 

James grabs the cart again, steering us away from the lighting section and toward the sprawling maze of dining furniture ahead. Tables stretch across the new showroom floor in polished rows of oak, walnut, marble, and glass.

"You're so full of yourself," I mutter finally.

"Oh, yeah?” he hums, entirely unbothered. "Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you'll start to believe it."

I bite my lip, glancing around the massive display. "So," I say slowly, trying to change the subject. "We're also buying a table. In this place. For chairs that already exist."

James nods once. "That would generally be how a dining set works, yes… but I guess we're only paying for half the set."

"I suppose you weren't exactly lying about the buying furniture part."

"I'm hurt you ever doubted me, Rosabelle."

"I still doubt you."

"Even with all this lovely evidence around you? Cruel."

I send him what I hope is a flat look.

He answers back with a silly, knowing expression of his own.

I sigh. "I think Winston would be proud of your lamp pick."

"Thank you," he says, not so humbly. "Was that so hard?"

"Yes."

"Whatever," James says, laughing a little.

The cart squeaks softly beneath James's grip as we continue further into the showroom, settling back into that easy rhythm we always seem to find without meaning to. Like we've done this a million times before. It should be unsettling—I should find this unsettling—but I don't. Step by step. Comment for comment. Decoding vague messages and notes and wants and needs from people who were once my enemies has become familiar. More familiar than I'll ever care to admit.

My heart relaxes, my brain no longer spinning with thoughts—with the need to plan every exit point and backup plan in case things become dire. Instead, my duty now is reading a list of things to grab, interpreting instructions, and lending my ear to James—who insists he somehow understands the necessary psychology of furniture arrangements.

We slow in front of a row of dining tables, the polished wood gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights.

"That one's too depressing. Looks like something a divorced father of two would have lying around," James decides immediately, nudging the cart to emphasize his ridiculous point.

"It does not," I argue.

"It totally does," he argues back.

"Okay," I say slowly, "what about that one?" I point toward a light marble piece, and I can already sense his answer.

James squints at it, and his distain already made clear. "I don't think that would be Nazeera's scene."

"Is that a no?"

"A very hard no."

I tilt my head. "And your reasoning for this?"

"It's just plain ugly," he says pointedly. "Super ugly. I wouldn’t wish a lamp like that on my worse enemy."

Again, I snort before I can stop it.

James brightens, and somehow his grin intensifies in an annoyingly charming way that feels far too directed. Far too warm. He smiles at me like he'd been waiting for exactly that sound.

And that revelation alone makes my head spin with thoughts that are too mortifying to name.

"There it is," he says fondly, his voice in awe.

I look away instantly, fix a look toward the other side of the store. I try, and fail, to salvage a presence of what is left of my mind. When I turn back, James is still there.

His gaze catches mine, and my heart skips a beat. "And there it is, again”

"What?" I say, fixing my eyes on anywhere but him. 

James lean in closer to me now than he was moments ago. "That laugh. I love it.”

I hate the way my stomach flips.

"I love it a lot, actually," he almost whispers, no trace of shame or embarrassment coating his confession. "I love the sound of your laugh.”

At some point, my eyes trail away from him, and I keep them locked on a random piece of furniture. However, once again, this aim proves pointless. I can feel him study me, his eyes lingering as the back of my neck get terribly hot.

"It's my favorite sound in the entire world," he adds, and it's like he's carved out my heart if only to be closer to him.

Sometimes I wonder if he fully knows the effect he has on me. If he knows how deeply I feel every inch of his words as they press into my skin, sinking into my bloodstream to become another part of me because James says things so easily. He drops his words so casually, so out of nowhere, that I don't know if I want to know if this is a calculated evil on his part, or something he's completely oblivious to.

But there is nothing about James to be misunderstood. Nothing of him that should not be taken to heart. It makes me swallow with a need so deep that I fear it will never be enough. That I'll only crave more—more of him. Of everything.

The weight of him is so much. So overwhelming, that I forget where we are for a moment a d a heat creeps viciously up my cheeks.

"Don't be an idiot," I say finally, but I feel breathless.

"Noted," he says, sounding entirely too pleased. "Should we add that to the list?"

I hit him, softly, on the shoulder. “Let’s continue.”

An hour has passed.

A full sixty minutes, and the list has never felt more endless as we brush past another gigantic aisle of this impossibly endless warehouse.

"Alright, how many more things do we need to grab?" James asks, heaving in a set of diapers Juliette and Warner specifically asked for.

I glance back down at the list before looking up at him again. "We have at least fifty more items to grab."

"Fifty?" Even through his glasses, I can make out his eyes widening in genuine surprise. "Jesus."

"Didn't you say that Costco is the perfect place to get lost?" I say, throwing his own words back at him.

"First of all," he says, exasperated, "how dare you. Second of all—how dare you."

"I don't understand why you're so surprised," I say, ignoring him as I pocket the list once more.

James shifts his glasses, pushing them back up to the bridge of his nose. "I dunno. I just—" he wavers, looking back down at the overflowing cart of items, "—I think I might've severely underestimated the sheer amount of stuff we needed to buy."

"You think?"

"No, seriously," James says, looking genuinely concerned now. "We might need a second cart at this rate."

My eyes flick toward the large cart beside us, its very being perched next to one of the aisle shelves. It's like the cart is staring back, mocking us.

Annoyingly enough, I can't help but agree.

We aren't close to being finished, and we're nearly packed to the top. Boxes of items crowd against paper bags, folded blankets, diapers, a lamp, a table, and more. They're all awkwardly balanced next to one another, sitting at odds like a final warning sign that one more item will cause the whole thing to collapse. It's absurd.

What's even more absurd is the bulk of the warehouse. It seems James was not lying about the quantity of the stuff. Of the enticing offers squared away around the store, screaming for your attention. And your wallet.

It also does not help that James still keeps throwing in things that aren't, in any capacity, specified on the list.

"You're the one who keeps throwing things in at random," I remind him.

James furrows his brows in exaggerated offense. "Hey. Every future purchase I've made has been super essential."

"Really?"

"Yes, really,” he mimics. 

I glare at him for a second longer before reaching into the cart and pulling out one of his latest additions. In my hand is a small, decorative candle set. I lift the thing slightly, holding it as if it might explain itself under scrutiny. It, of course, does not.

"And these were essential, how?"

"They were on sale," James says immediately, as if that settles the matter entirely.

"And?” I lift an eyebrow.

"And they smelled nice."

I narrow my eyes at him, leveling him with a look that seems to fly right over his head. He pushes the cart forward once more.

"Also," he continues, unbothered, "they look very expensive."

I open my mouth, about to ask how that would even categorize itself as a necessity, before James quickly cuts me off.

"And might I say, most importantly," he's smiling in that infuriatingly effortless way that makes you want to believe whatever absurdity he's about to pull you into, "—they're mostly on Warner's tab."

And then it all makes sense.

"You're not even a tiny bit ashamed?"

James shrugs. "He's rich. I think he'll be okay if there's an extra ten dollars added to the final total."

"One day, your scary older brother is going to get the better of you."

"Nah," he shoots back, "he likes me too much. Besides, as long as you're in Juliette's good graces, you're basically the equivalent of a walking hall pass. Take Kenji, for example; he's number one on Warner's hit list and yet, here he stands. He truly is an inspiration."

I set the candles back into the cart. "You're unbelievable.”

"I’m efficient," he corrects, thought can’t tell if he’s joking. "And besides, don't act all innocent. You said they smelled really nice, as well."

"They did smell really nice," I admit reluctantly, refusing to meet his eyes as we trail on.

James points between the two of us triumphantly. "Exactly, that’s what I thought. We're partners in crime."

I wrinkle my nose. "I don't like that phrase."

"Even when I say it?" he teases.

"Especially when you say it."

I shake my head, looking at the crumpled list for the hundredth time. "We still need to grab dish soap. A few little storage containers. A lot of towels. General groceries. And apparently, Adam wants something called an airfryer." I glance up at James, throwing him a questioning look. "He underlined that three times."

"Oh, shit," James says, perking up. "That's actually not a bad idea. Buying an airfryer seems kind of genius."

I fix a look at him, nonplussed.

James keeps walking for approximately two more seconds before it finally dawns on him, the realization visually striking him as he snaps his head toward me.

"Right..." he slows slightly, tilting his head toward me as two passersby clear the area, lock in on their own conversations. "Yeah, shit. Well… I mean. Like. Okay—" he restarts. Refreshes. Tries again. "Okay—well, you've definitely seen an airfryer before, right?"

I hold his gaze with unblinking eyes. 

He frowns.

"You have," he says again, as if that alone would conjure an explanation. "No, no… Rosabelle, you definitely have. It's the… y'know? The thingy! Over at Winston and Kenji's place, they have one laying around."

"Winston and Kenji have a lot of junk laying around their house," I say back.

James opens his mouth. Closes it. "Touché." He shifts, turning to me fully as we rest in a random aisle. "It's… an air fryer is… Okay. Wait. Basically, it's like a cooler version of a microwave—no, that's not it. What I mean to say—" he stops, frowns. "Shit. Fuck. Okay, I don't know why I'm explaining this wrong."

I watch him struggle to find his words, watch his mind chart off to places unknown, and I can't help but find it amusing. I lightly press my hand to my mouth, suppressing a rare laugh as my amusement only grows louder.

And James notices this. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That face."

"What face?"

He exhales in mock offense. "That face,” he restates. “The one you make when you enjoy my pitiful suffering."

"You're suffering?" I look him over, unfazed. "You look completely fine to me."

He rolls his eyes, but the act comes off sillier than what he probably intended.

"Okay, whatever, little Ms. Liar," he jokes, turning back toward the cart, steering it as I follow close behind. "Okay, well, basically, an airfryer is exactly what's in its name. It's a cool invention that cooks food really fast and really well. It can kinda cook anything. It's like an oven with fewer steps and easier instructions. A baby could handle an airfryer with the right attitude.”

"Oh," I blink. "That sounds… nice."

"It's kinda great if you're a total disaster in the kitchen," he remarks, his mood brightening once more. "Makes cooking a lot easier, I guess."

"So… the story of your life?" I flash him a brief, teasing smile.

James stops short, cutting a sharp look my way, but there is no heat behind it as he looks me over. "Ha-ha, Rosabelle. Since when did you become such a comedian?"

"What?" I ask, trailing after him as we circle another corner. "You practically admitted it yourself. Being hopeless in the kitchen and all."

James huffs, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "I definitely did not."

"Oh, but you implied it, though."

James scoffs. "First of all, rude. Second of all, I can cook. I've been improving a hell of a lot. Winston said I've moved away from the swamp water stage of cooking, and into the stage where my meals look halfway edible." Then, he pauses, looking up. " Okay… well, he said they look 'visually edible,' but I think that counts for something."

"I see," I muse, the smile refusing to leave my face, "I suppose we all start from somewhere."

"Hey—" James starts, before a sudden movement slices through our peripheral vision, silencing us at once.

A hand waves directly in our line of sight.

Every muscle in my body tenses before eventually locking in place. The reaction is a reflex—a ghost of a former life. My pulse spikes violently, my breath snagging somewhere painful in my chest while adrenaline floods my bloodstream at a humiliating pace. My mind narrows into a cold, primal assessment before logic can intervene.

Threat. Danger. Run.

Then, clarity returns with a jarring thud, and I run countermeasures to remind myself where I am. To force myself to look beyond the edges of my mind, and to the non-threatening sight before me.

I am safe.

There is no real danger.

There is no need for violence or bloodshed, or anything of the sort.

I am safe.

I am safe.

I am looking at an elderly woman standing beside a table, an array of food littering the tabletop. I flick my eyes back up to the woman, who is still smiling, unaware she almost sent my entire nervous system into total collapse. I swallow, my throat feeling a little dry now.

"So," she says, clapping her gloved hands together. "Would the two of you like to try our limited-time caramel churro bites? I promise you they are to die for."

I stare at the older woman, the silence stretching a second too long to be natural. Beside me, I feel James studying the interaction, and I turn to him slowly, noting his poorly concealed interest.

Before I can find my voice, the older woman places a tiny paper cup in my hand.

I stare down at it suspiciously. Then, at James. He offers me nothing but a small smile, and I feel a little confused by this entire exchange.

"Do we…" I ask slowly, "pay for this?"

The woman laughs warmly. "Oh, goodness, no, sweetheart. It's free. Please," she urges gently, "try it! It's very good!"

Free.

Free.

I glare down at the sample like the concept itself is a glitch in the fabric of reality.

The woman passes James a sample as well, and I watch this exchange as if from outer space.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says kindly.

Free.

It's free.

The word sits heavy and unrecognizable in my mind. I can't help but continue staring at the sample like I could make sense of it all. I can't help but stare at the sample and wonder: Where is the catch?

I've never stepped foot in a place like this before, and I can't help but hope my ignorance isn't plastered all over my face. It's hard to imagine, even with the evidence staring back at me, accepting a gift without a price. To hold something a stranger has given to you, without some sort of catch.

On the Ark, nothing was free.

On the Ark, even a scrap of bread would cost you something.

On the Ark, I was never given anything without a cost, because every hour of safety cost me something. My life—my sister's life—was transactional. It was paid for in bruises and blood and death.

So much death.

If I wanted to put food on the table for Clara or give her a kindling of wood so she wouldn't freeze at night, I had to be willing to die for it.

Die, I told myself.

Die.

I lick my lips, and try to calm my nerves, even as they slice pieces of my heart in the process. 

Here, a stranger is offering me a simple, mindless, sweetness just because I happen to walk past. Everything feels vaguely implausible. Dangerous, even. 

It should be.

And yet, it's not. 

James accepts his would with significantly less existential dread and took a bite with no issue. 

I feel frozen, and I know that I look stranger by the minute by prolonging this moment—But I can't help it. I can't stop it.

"Rosabelle," I hear James whisper from behind me. 

"Yes?" I breathe.

"It's not poisoned," he says lightly. 

I turn to face him, and I hear the woman choke out a laugh. 

"Posioned?" She parrots as I scan James features for a chance at asylum. 

Any playful amusement is wiped clean from his face and replaced by something else. Something I can't entirely name, but he softens with a sort of understanding, and he gently urges me to try—even as he doesn't say I word. His body lanague tells me enough and I take a steadying breath. 

I press my lips together, turn back to the woman and clear the pounding in my head in hopes of appearing calm, collected and not all strange. 

"—it's certainly not posioned…" she continues, still mumbling to herself but she doesn't seem at all angry. Which is just as unevering, but I don't dare to keep analyzing what would be pointless. 

"Thank you," I manage, holding the sampler up. "We were just joking."

Then, I take a bite. 

And the flavour hits instantaneously. 

The exterior is crisp with cinnamon sugar, while the centre dissolves into something by molten and warm—caramel rich enough to almsot feel offensive. Criminal. It's so good it should be outlawed, and I feel struck in a way I haven't in years. 

I had forgotten how good these kinds of desserts were. How amazing sweet butter and spice dance across my pallet and it catches me off guard once more. 

My eyes widen before I can mask it. 

This, I think, is the taste of a world that doesn't require me to bleed.

Clara.

Clara would love this. 

I can already picture her expression with a startling clarity—the brightening of her pale eyes as she grins from ear to ear, pushing the dessert in my face for me to try because—oh my God, Rosa! This is amazing, this is the freakin' best. This is so good! It's good, right? You should try it, too. Take a bite as well, Rosa.

I soften at the inevitability.

"Do you like it?" the woman asks kindly.

I sputter, pulled from my thoughts too slowly. I'm still trying to reconcile the sugar on my tongue with the lack of any real consequence. James answers for me.

"It is really good," he says easily. "Like, really good, ma'am. I think we'll grab a box. Where can we find it?"

The woman brightens, excitedly pointing down the aisle. "Just down the far left, dear," she says to James. Then, she turns toward me, her eyes teasing. "I'm glad you didn't find it poisonous."

I can't help the slight pink tinting my cheeks as I nod, murmuring a thank you as our cart rattles forward again.

We start down the aisle, and before I can get a word in, James is the first to speak.

"We should definitely grab a box for Clara," he says casually, his voice cutting through the hum of the warehouse. "She'd love this."

My steps falter. James slows immediately, glancing toward me with mild confusion.

We should grab a box for Clara.

She'd eat this up. She’d devour it with same wide-eyed grin, as she swipes at her face for any remaining crumbs clinging to the red of her cheeks. 

Something inside my chest constricts with a startling, tectonic force, and I'm left wondering how I'm still standing. How I am not falling through the floor, plummeting to my death—and it's because of him.

James.

Again.

James is the reason my heart is pounding so wildly in my chest.

We should grab a box for Clara.

She'd love this.

He says it so naturally. Like the thought is an objective truth. Like he understands the architecture of my thoughts before I can even voice them—before I can breathe life into them.

His kindness is not for my own benefit, but because he cares. Genuinely cares.

My mind flashes back to Ark Island, to the cold, suffocating climate of the Reestablishment. To Sebastian calling my sister a parasite while they systematically drained her life to keep a leash on mine. I spent ten years watching Clara die in increments as I scrambled for scraps and medication, while my hands grew bloodier by the minute.

No one had ever cared for her but me. 

No one had ever smiled at her but me. 

No one has ever saw her as anything but burden or weapon agaisnt my crumbling humanity. 

Until him.

James Alexander Anderson. 

Th youngest brother of three, but he couldn't be more different. He is a baffling contrast to his older brothers, so striking it's hard to look at him all at once. His affection knows no end, it doesn't know any fear, just stubborn, unwaveringly loyalty. 

All right. Okay. Where'd they take your sister? The asylum, Right? But like, how do we get there? 

He didn't even know her. 

Yet, he had been willing to risk his entire mission, his whole life, for a little girl he'd never seen, let alone met. And he did so without any questions, without even asking for help. 

I'd asked him about this on our way to the New Republic, he simply scoffed. Dismissed my question like I was the one being ridiculous.

She's a kid. He had said. That's different. 

His words ring inside my mind, and I feel a warm twist in my chest.

He'd thought of her, only her. 

She’s a kid. That’s different.

I have to fight back a dangerous, searing heat building behind my eyes as James takes an almost panicked step toward me.

Where’d they take your sister?

"What?" James asks carefully now. "What's wrong? Rosabelle? Rosa?"

The asylum, right?

I shake my head, trying to find words that seem lost in my tongue and this only starts to confuse him more. 

"You don't think Clara would like it?" he asks again. 

But, like, how do we get there?

I blink in quick successions, forcing the fog to clear. 

And then, I break.

I love him.

I realize I love him more than he'll ever know—with a ferocity that makes my skin feverish and my soul reshaped into a new, lighter form.

I realize I love this idiotic, stubborn man in a stupidly crafted, supermarket-turned-warehouse of all things. I could laugh if this weren't any more absurd than it already was.

"No," I say, then softer, steadier, "No."

A fury of emotions press unexpectedly against my throat. I swallow past it.

I love him. So much.

"No?" he echoes. "You don't think she'd like it?"

"No—" I say again, quickly this time. "No—wait. No—I—"

Now, I want to kick myself a little.

"I'm… confused, Rosabelle," he says, smiling curiously as he takes another careful, tentative step toward me. "Unless… has Clara tried this before and didn’t like it? Shit… maybe we should get her something else or—"

"No! Sorry," I cut in, still breathless. My words feel lost in the void, and I desperately try to cling to my sanity, to my reasoning and lines of logic. I try and try and try to must up the courage to find my next words, to convey them wouldn’t cause James to worry. I inhale, and exhale, and restart when I look him directly in the eye, my words more ordered.m"What I mean to say is no, that's not it. You're right. Clara would love it. We should get a box for her to try."

Something gentler flickers across James's expression. If I hadn’t studied the lines of his face so many times, gotten known each and every expression that’s ever crossed his face, I would’ve missed it. I would have missed the small, effortless, and devastating sincerity sparkles in his eyes. How it makes his smile all the more magical, and alluring. I want to hold him close, I want to breathe him in. I want to tell him everything that clampers in the landscape of my thoughts. I want—

"Okay," he nods, "we'll grab her a box."

"Okay," I echo, nodding back, "let's grab her a box."

I thought splitting up for a little while would be a good idea, but it seems I severely underestimated how easily one could vanish in a place like this.

Item number fifty-seven on the list is a simple box of crackers.

Specifically, it is a very particular brand of crackers—also known as animal crackers—painted in a box so vibrantly it's hard on the eyes. It's a green so terrible it should be labeled radioactive, but no other cracker brand will suffice. It has to be this one in particular, and it appears two highly trained operatives are failing miserably at finding a simple box.

This request was from Alia Kent.

She's James's sister-in-law, and my file on her is a little too limited for my liking as I scroll through the main pieces of information I've collected about her. We've only met a handful of times, but each one was nice, even though they were brief. Alia is Adam's wife, and together the two of them run a sort of design firm. They also run charity events together, and Alia had asked James and myself to participate a few times when we could find the time.

Clara might enjoy helping organize those kinds of events. Maybe one day.

Regardless, Alia only asked for one thing, and it was a particular brand of animal crackers for her only son, Roman Kent.

Roman, from what James has told me, is the sort of child whose preferences seem to reinvent themselves every other day. One week he adores a particular brand of animal crackers; the next, he refuses to even look at the box. It’s honestly astonishing that both Alia and Adam manage to keep up with him at all. The level of patience required alone deserves some sort of formal recognition.

Still…

There’s something oddly comforting about it.

A child allowed to be difficult about food is a child who has never been touched by desperation. It’s a child that has never faced despair nor had to wonder if there would be food at the table at all. A child who is permitted to complain about flavours and textures and shapes is a child untouched the colder realities of the world.

Roman gets to be careless with his wants because the world has never demanded survival from him. The world has wanted nothing but for him to be child, clingy and needy enough to have wants shared with his parents.

And perhaps it’s invasive of me to think so deeply about someone else’s parenting choices, but I find the devotion behind it strangely beautiful. They have built him a life soft enough for pickiness. Safe enough for preference.

Unfortunately, my appreciation for the sentiment is doing very little to soothe the headache currently drilling itself into my skull.

Finding this specific brand feels less like grocery shopping and more like some elaborate punishment designed specifically for me. I wander aimlessly through endless aisles beneath merciless fluorescent lights, scanning shelf after shelf until my neck aches from the effort. The harder I look, the less I seem to find.

I’m beginning to suspect every employee in the store has been swallowed whole by towering shelves and industrial-sized cereal boxes.

Hopefully James is having a less miserable time than I am.

I turn another corner and nearly walk directly into a cluster of girls. They’re all bright sweaters and loud laughter, a chaotic blur of perfume and high-pitched energy. I sidestep them quickly, muttering an absent apology as I resume my increasingly desperate search through the snack aisle.

Animal crackers.

Specifically the ridiculous little frosted ones Roman apparently likes this week.

“So,” one of the girls says suddenly, her voice dropping into a dramatic stage whisper that slices clean through my concentration, “if you had to choose… would you rather date the General of Defense or his little brother?”

My eyes widen before I can stop them.

What?

“Oh my God, you’re evil for making me choose,” another girl groans, though she sounds delighted by the question. “I mean, Aaron Warner Anderson is obviously gorgeous. And powerful. And I heard he speaks, like, seven languages?”

A dreamy sigh escapes someone beside her. “That’s disgustingly romantic.”

“I’d pick his younger brother,” a third girl declares immediately, her voice thick with absolute conviction. “James. No question.”

The collective gasps around her are so scandalized I almost laugh.

On the Ark, conversations like this simply do not happen. People do not casually gossip about high-ranking officials in the middle of grocery stores like characters inside some terrible romance novel. It feels bizarrely surreal to witness. Especially in real life. 

“Seriously?” one girl says. “You’d choose James over the Aaron Warner?”

“Absolutely,” the girl says without hesitation. “Have you SEEN him?”

Something unpleasant twists sharply in my chest.

“He’s tall, well connected,” she continues dreamily, “and those freckles? God. Oh, and don’t get me part on his—”

I hate that I already know exactly what she’s about to say.

“YES. God, you’re being sooo real, girlie,” another interrupts. “His eyes are insane. Like genuinely unfair. They’re so blue it’s actually ridiculous. If he ever looked at me for longer than five seconds I think I’d literally melt.”

“Well… when you put it that way,” another girl gleefully chimes in, and I can practically hear the shimmer in her eyes. “He’s really, really cute, isn’t he?”

”The cutest!”

”And funny, too. How many guys can you say are actually funny—“

”O.M.G. You’re so right. He is so charming, and his laugh?”

One girl, who I cannot discern from the others—not that I could to begin with—sighs dreamily. “Oh it’s like music to my ears. I wish I could get a recording of his laugh. I’d totally make it my ring tone.”

”Holy shit, why didn’t I think of that? That’s brilliant!”

”I still have that picture of him at that one coffee shop in the Ship District.”

”Girl,” one of the others barks out a laugh. “I’ve been having that picture. It’s hung on my wall. I get so distracted in the morning getting lost in the blues of his eyes…”

”They’re so blue,” one says. “I could drown in them. And thank him for it.”

”I think you already mentioned the blues in his eyes—“

”Sue me! They’re his best quality!”

The girls dissolve into shrieks and laughter.

The more I listen, the more I’m convinced.

I could drown in them… and thank him for it…

I think I’ve died. I think I finally dropped dead, and my bloodied corpses has been sent directly to hell.

“Oh, stop it!” Another girl giggles, shoving her friend playfully. “Now you’re making me agree with you.”

They continue spiralling deeper into the discussion, enthusiastically listing all the things they apparently adore about James while I stand frozen beside a display of pretzels, clutching the edge of the shelf hard enough to make my fingers ache.

My head pounds.

The air suddenly feels too thick and too warm and I feel somewhere lost at sea. 

And somehow, despite the humiliation of it, despite the deeply irrational sting curling through my ribs. I still find myself listening.

I realize, with growing horror, that I’ve leaned slightly closer. Inch, by horrible inch, my body finds itself arching closer to the cackling voices. 

"You know, there's been a happy little rumor flying around as of late," one of the girl continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, gushing whisper, "that he's an exceptional kisser. Like, literally life-changing. A girl at a party a few years ago said that, and it's stuck with me since."

I choke and the sound is involuntary—a sharp, strangled hitch in my throat that I can't suppress. The sudden shift in subject is so jarring, so out of left field that I try and fail to trick myself into thinking that I misheard. But the sidelong glance I get from the girls across from me says otherwise as I pretend not to notice, pretend to not have eavesdropped on their very privately loud conversation. Still, even after their glances leave my body, my composure is still long gone as I pretend to be extremely fascinated by the sodium content on a random nutritional label.

My ears are ringing.

My cheeks are hot.

My heart is pounding so loud, I feel like the entire warehouse can hear me by now.

I suppose it will never cease to surprise me how famous James and his family are. Which, logically, makes sense. James is a part of the family that personally built and took down the Reestablishment. He is familiar with the most powerful, most influential people on the planet, and it only makes sense that people would be interested in their lives. Interested in him.

Yet, the public's fascination with James and the others is different. He's not exactly treated like a political figure; instead, he's treated more like a celebrity.

Kenji, despite James's protests that it was embarrassing, told me stories of how groups of people would line up around corners for the chance to see him. How several girls our age had literally leaped into his arms for a chance at contact. Kenji had even told me that he and Warner accidentally stumbled upon a coffee shop counting the literal days since James last had coffee there.

My lips curl and a hot, prickly feeling crawls up my neck at the cackling group. I feel green with something I refuse to name because I know it's childish, but I can't help it.

"Where did you even hear that?" the first girl asks, her voice drifting back to me as I feel my right arm tremble a little.

"Ugh, stop it. I'm so jealous someone got to kiss him," the second girl adds, her voice practically a whine. "How do you even know that's true. Do you really think he's that good?"

By the second, the urge to bash my head into the steel of the shelf is becoming more enticing.

I almost can't believe what I'm hearing.

Almost absentmindedly, I trace the edge of my lower lip, and particular sort of memories start crashing into me, making remember gentle touches, and soft—

The other girl shrugs. "He's definitely good. You can tell this kind of thing just by looking at him," she says with an odd sense of peace. "He just has that look about him. With the way he stands, the way he moves, and that smile? There isn't a single thing about him that would make me think otherwise."

One of the girls snickers. "God. What I would do to test if that rumor is true," she murmurs in an undertone. "I bet him being a good kisser doesn't stop there. I bet he's even better in—"

"Rosabelle?"

I jump out of my skin, stifling a surprised gasp as I rip my hand away.

I whirl around sharply, my face hot, as my heart thumps hard against my ribcage like a trapped bird. My chest heaves as I stare at the man in question, but as I take him in, the oxygen in my lungs seems to vanish for an entirely different reason.

Instantly, the girls' scandalous whispers and the white-hot jealousy leave my body at once as something else takes root. Quickly, my emotions reorder, replaced by a stunned, heavy silence.

James is standing there with a look of pure, unadulterated pride. But it's not the random bag of kale chips he's carrying on his person that makes him proud, before tossing the bag into our horrible cart. No, it's worse.

Sitting squarely on the bridge of his nose, replacing the black glasses from just moments ago, is a pair of oversized, neon-pink butterfly frames. Even worse, the new pair of glasses is encrusted with cheap glitter and flared at the temples in a way that makes him look spectacularly stupid.

I bite back a laugh.

"James," I manage to say without laughing, though my mouth still twitches as I point toward him. "What… what is on your face, and why?"

He grins, a wide, idiotically charming expression that crinkles the corners of his eyes behind the pink, plastic wings. "You like them? I found them at the eyeglass station near the pharmacy. I figured my current look wasn't doing me justice. That I needed something a little more casual."

"I—I don't know what to say." My brain is struggling to reconcile this dork with the described heartthrob a lifetime ago.

"Don't worry, you don't have to say anything, because guess what?" he’s still grinning before I see it. Another pair of glasses, the twin to the horrific neon-butterfly sunglasses, but instead of pink, they're an electric blue. "I got you a pair, as well. Buy one, get one free."

And before I can react, he leans in and gently slides the frames onto my face.

James steps back, framing my face with his hands as if he were snapping a photo of me. "Ta-da! Now we're a set."

I stand there, stunned, as the blue plastic wings slide down the bridge of my nose. Slowly, I meet James's gaze, looking at him through the tinted blue film, and laugh. At him. At us. At everything.

"You're so weird," I say, shaking my head. "So, so weird."

James doesn't flinch. He just adjusts his own frames with an extreme look of dignity, his grin never wavering. "Whatever, Rosabelle. This weirdo—" he shifts, grabbing something from the cart and lifting it up for me to see, showcasing the item like he has just discovered lost treasure, "—found little Roman his animal crackers."

Before I can answer, my pager buzzes, and I quickly grab it from my pocket.

It's from Clara. Seven messages.

Clara: Rosa please don't forget to grab the gummy bears~~

Clara: the sour ones specifically plsssss :DDD

Clara: more specifically the big bag ones!!! kenji said adam is running low on the good stuff :( so pls don't forget 

Clara: also Kenji promisedd that sour gummies are really really good !!!!! :3

Clara: and one more thing, make sure ur stupid boyfriend doesn't take any. he's banned. he's done. he always takes all the the red ones and saves none for nobody (me) 

Clara: i'm still sooooo angry at him !!!!!!! >:/

Clara: plsssss make sure u tell him thatttt rosa. 

I smile faintly and I type a quick response. 

Rosabelle: I'll grab you a bag at the checkout line.

Clara: ur the best sister ever!!! Thx uuuu <3

James leans in, trying to take a peek with a practiced noisiness. "Oh, what are you smiling at?"

I shut the pager off and slide it safely back into my pocket, keeping my gaze fixed on him, my smile refusing to fade. "Clara says you always eat all her red gummy bears."

"Okay," James scoffs, his hands going up in defense. "I don't eat all the red gummy bears. Your sister is exaggerating. Besides, if anything, I'm doing her a major favor. Everyone knows that the yellow sour gummies are the best."

"Then why do you take the reds?"

"Oh," he says simply. "It's because they're Kenji's favorite, and he pissed me off last week. So, if I don't, he will. It's survival of the fittest."

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Oh,” James says easily. “Because they’re Kenji’s favorite, and he annoyed me last week. So now I take them before he can.”

I stare up at him, crossing my arms. “That’s your reasoning?”

“Well, yeah. Absolutely it is,” James says smugly. “It’s classic psychological warfare. Survival of the fittest.”

“You cannot be serious right now.”

“I’m extremely serious,” he says, adjusting the glittery pink butterfly glasses sitting crooked on his nose. The effect ruins the intimidation entirely. “Clara was just unfortunate collateral damage, and for that, I’m sorry. Kinda. Sorta.”

I stare at him for a long moment. “You people are exhausting.”

James quirks a brow. “You say that like you’re not one of us now.”

You’re one of us now.

“I am very much not one of you.”

James gasps softly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Rosabelle Wolff. After everything we’ve been through together.”

“We are in a warehouse made grocery store.”

“We are currently in a warehouse made grocery store. And yet—“ James sighs. Dramatically, taking a step back like I genuinely wounded him. “The betrayal still hurts.”

I let out a short laugh despite myself, shaking my head. “You make absolutely no sense.”

“I don’t have to make sense to you,” he says with a shrug. “I just have to make sense to me.”

“That somehow feels worse.”

“Probably because it is, but who wouldn’t want to make sense to me? Look at me.”

I nudge at him with my shoulder, motioning toward the cart when he stops walking again. “Sure,” I say dryly. “Come on. Keep pushing before you start another fake war.”

He laughs under his breath and starts moving again, the wheels squeaking faintly against the floor.

And somehow, somewhere between the fluorescent lights and James wearing ridiculous pink butterfly glasses with complete confidence.

I realize I’ve been smiling a lot lately. 

Apparently, I had gone momentarily blind when James and I first walked into this Costco. Though, it feels somehow convenient that I somehow manage to miss the massive section dedicated to a food court, I genuinely do not know.

Truly, there is not a singular reasonable explanation for how I failed to completely notice this part of the warehouse. 

The thing is practically unavoidable. A true commissary for the craze behind this ever so confusing place.

Regardless, once we finally survived the checkout line, James insisted that we sit down and grab something small to eat before heading back to the Waffle. I'd been hesitant at first, uncertain if stopping for food was totally necessary, but my feet ached miserably and—more embarrassingly—a part of me didn't want our little outing to end yet.

Which, frankly, felt like its own kind of problem.

Even still, prolonging this a little while longer didn't seem like the worst idea in the world. And I liked it, liked being here. Despite James and me being everyone's errand boys, I would do it again. I would suffer a hundred different kinds of headaches to experience this new side of our lives together.

It's such a stark contrast to the start of us, but I love it nonetheless.

I love it all. 

"Alright, bone apple teeth," James says, laying our shared ice cream sundae down on the white laminated table. He's already folded his pink butterfly glasses, hooking one glittery wing over the collar of his hoodie, while I slide my pair up to the top of my head like a headband. "It's French for enjoy your meal. I think."

"Bone apple teeth?" I say back as he takes a seat. "I don't think that's how you pronounce it."

"Probably not," he says, flashing me a crooked grin. "I never really paid attention when Warner tried to teach me French."

Surprise courses through me. "Your brother tried to teach you French?"

“Yeah. And Spanish, too.” James peels the lid off the sundae before handing me a spoon. “Warner went through this phase when I was younger where he decided I needed to be more refined.” He says the word like it personally victimized him. “ Warner argued that learning all those languages would broaden my horizons or whatever.”

I accept the spoon carefully. “And did it?”

He snorts. “Hell no. Not that I disagree, it probably would’ve done me wonders, but I dunno.” He shrugs, pulls a face. “It never worked out. The whole thing lasted maybe three weeks before Warner realized I was only picking up on memorizing the swear words.”

I angle my head at him. “Why does that not surprise me in the slightest?”

James points his spoon at me, circling around my general direction. “I’ll have you know I was an excellent student, a great kid. I was charming, clever, and deeply gifted.”

“You forgot unbearable.”

“Eh, that too.” He grins. “I just got bored easily. I was sorta a hyperactive kid, but a good one at that.”

There’s something strangely fascinating about hearing James talk about his childhood. Every new detail feels mildly unbelievable. The idea of a younger James tormenting Aaron Warner—the same Aaron Warner most people still find as terrifying as they do enticing—plays in my head like the setup to some elaborate Shakespearean comedy.

I can almost picture it too clearly, and the thought of it all makes it harder to fight the smile playing at my lips. 

“Well,” I say, leaning forward slightly, “how much French and Spanish did you actually learn?”

“French?” James shakes his head immediately. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“And Spanish?”

A dangerous sort of confidence flashes across his face then.

“Enough to survive.”

“How ominous.”

“It hits ominous at all, it’ll actually do us some good,” he says, “let’s just say that if we ever get lost somewhere, I can ask for directions to the nearest library.”

“Just the library?” I scoop up a bit of ice cream, bringing it to my lips, and the cold delicacy is just as delicious as I had imagined.

James steals a bite of the sundae before answering. “Think about it, Rosabelle. It’s genius.”

“How exactly is that genius?”

“Because,” he beams, gesturing dramatically with the spoon, “libraries have books. Books can translate things. Which means library equals survival.”

I consider him slowly. “That might be the worst emergency plan I’ve ever heard.”

“No, no—you’re not seeing the vision.”

“I’m seeing us stranded somewhere while you accidentally set an entire library on fire.”

James looks genuinely offended. “Why do you all insist on portraying me as some kind of public safety hazard?”

“Because you are one.”

“That is slander,” he says just before taking another bite of ice cream. “And I will not take for it.”

“You once caught a microwave on fire making instant noodles,” I point out.

“I was making us a fancy dinner, and the microwave was a dud. It probably a manufacturing mistake.”

“Okay.” I take another scoop. “But how exactly does Instant noodle classify as fancy.”

He shifts. “Because your wonderful, elegant boyfriend was making them.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, shaking my head as I take another bite of the sundae. The ice cream is painfully cold, sweet enough to make my teeth ache a little, and yet I take another thousand more bites for its delicious relief. 

Across from me, James narrows his eyes., clearly not done

“If anything,” he says, pointing at me with his spoon, “you’re the clumsy one.”

"I most certainly am not clumsy," I fire back. "Name one time I was ever clumsy."

James raises a dark brow. "Interesting, because I remember the time you mistook a certain disguise for a ninja costume—"

"Nevermind."

James laughs again, his voice softening with an unbearable triumph as he takes another spoonful of the sundae. I grimace, trying to shove the humiliating memory into the deepest corner of my mind. Let the thing starve and die, and hope to never revisit it again.

"You're never letting that go, are you?" I mutter as I look down at my spoon.

"Absolutely not." I can practically feel his grin on my skin as it lingers for a second too long. "It's too funny. Truly, it's one of my top five favorite moments."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You're horrible."

"Yeah, yeah." James scrapes his spoon along the side of the plastic dish, chasing the last streak of syrup before gesturing toward me with the sticky utensil. "So, Rosabelle, clumsiness aside, how would you rate this experience out of ten? And please, be specific, and don't forget the compliments and praise."

I tilt my head at him, letting a beat of silence stretch between us. "Does ten signify excellence and one signify an absolute and total disaster?"

"Standard metric, yeah."

"Then I rate it a one," I deadpan.

James actually recoils, looking like a wounded animal. "A one? After I braved the Sunday afternoon crowd for you? I nearly lost a limb to a rogue shopping cart."

"Yes," I slowly say. "A one."

"And your reasoning is…?" he trails off, his eyes brimming with a need for further explanation.

I take another generous spoonful, letting the cold sweetness melt across my tongue once more. I make sure to take my time, studying James, savoring his anticipation as if he were part of the dessert.

"I simply don't wish to give you the satisfaction of a ten. You should reflect on that."

"Ugh," he groans, sinking back into the plastic chair, crossing his arms over his hoodie like a Victorian lead in those tragic dramas Kenji had made Clara and me watch once. "Unfortunately, because of you, you've made me such a glutton for punishment. The crueler you are, the better."

I roll my eyes and talk myself out of kicking him in the shins under the table. "Don't be such a weirdo."

"Weirdo?" James echoes, and this time, he sounds scandalized. "Coming from you? That's a bit rich. You could stand to be a little more creative with the insults, you know? I'm practically giving you the best material over here."

"Fine," I say, lifting my spoon to finish my last bite of the sundae. "How about: stupid boy with a stupid pair of glasses?"

"Again with the glasses?" He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Lacking. Derivative. You can definitely do a lot better than that, Rosabelle."

The air between us changes then, almost too suddenly, like waking up from a good dream.

The noise of the crowded warehouse store—the clatter of metal, the screech of tires on concrete, the hum of a thousand strangers—it all begins to dissolve into a soft, static blur, dulling my senses and easing my heart. My eyes flick down to the empty plastic cup, and I try to breathe.

For the first time in five years, I wasn't looking for a shadow. I'm not looking for the floor to drop from under me, swallowing me and finally giving me peace of mind.

"Okay," I whisper, deflating. "Fine. This was… it was…" I look everywhere but at him. "…nice. This was nice. Really nice."

After a beat, I build up the necessary courage to look back at him, and he stills. I can tell he wasn't prepared for my answer. That he wasn't prepared for the sudden shift as the plastic blue light becomes something new. It doesn't vanish; instead, it deepens, turning the blue of his irises into something molten and steady, and I feel like I've been lit on fire, my senses all over the place.

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't tease.

If I didn’t see the slight rise and fall of his chest, I would’ve thought he was a statue. 

James just studies me, his gaze drawing me onto the shore once more.

James blinks a few times, clearing his throat. "You didn't find this, uh," he stops like he can't find the words, and this time, I fill in the silence.

I can't stop myself from talking.

"I like this," I admit again. "The quiet parts. These quiet parts." The confession feels heavy, like a secret I hadn't known I was keeping. I trace the rim of the cup, watching the way the condensation clings to my skin like tiny, cold diamonds.

James still doesn't say anything.

"This normalcy. The running around, the loudness, everything. It's a little at odds. I didn't think I could do this. Most of the time, I feel like I'm existing at a frequency the rest of the world can't hear. I was afraid—so afraid—that I wouldn't remember how to be a person again. How to do things like this, with you. I thought I would hate it because I couldn't do it, couldn't live without some kind of mission, but I don't." I look up at him, my defenses crumbling to dust as something new shatters from deep within me. "But here… with you… it makes me feel like I'm finally standing on solid ground."

I don't realize it, but my other hand is clenching in on itself, my nails threatening to bite into my palm.

James reaches across the table, his hand reaching for mine, settling onto it with a warmth so addictive I nearly breathe a sigh of relief. Nearly.

Then, his voice hits me, making me sputter all over again.

"You deserve the ground, Rosabelle," he says, and his voice is low, touched with a beautiful ache, and even with all this noise, his words cut across as clear as day. "You deserve to breathe without permission. You deserve it all. I want you to realize that you deserve a life that is wonderful, and boring, and fun, and forgiving. You deserve it all, and more. I want you to see things without the fear of getting hurt."

My mind is a wreck. My once dead heart is hammering so loudly in my chest, I don't know what to make of it.

Without hesitation, he leans in closer, and the world narrows until there is nothing left but the gold streaking across the bronze of his hair, and the heat radiating across the warmth of his skin, the freckles tearing at my seams.

"I am going to give you back every second they took from you. I'll give you the last ten years, and the next fifty. And I want to be a part of it all. I want to see it all with you, Rosabelle—the movies, the music, the sunrise, the silence. I want to do every mundane, ordinary thing a thousand times over just to see the way your eyes light up when you laugh. I'd do it forever if you never had to be afraid ever again."

My heart is a bird trapped in a cage, its wings beating against my ribs until it hurts. There's a million things I want to say to this, but it's like James grabbed a sledgehammer and smashed the final trace of my guarded defenses, making me melt at the edges.

He's done it so many times, but every single time feels newer by the minute, and no amount of preparation can prepare me for the presence of him.

"James."

"Yes?" he breathes.

The heat in my cheeks is a wild, untamed thing. I finally look back at him, my eyes clearing as a smile chips away at my features. "You're incredibly cheesy."

He blanches at this, his grand declaration halting mid-air. "What?"

I tilt my head, the fog in my mind and the slight sting in my eyes clearing as the absurdity of our surroundings rushes in. "So cheesy, James. In fact, I would have considered your speech wholly romantic…" I trail off, gesturing broadly to the crowded cafeteria, "…if you hadn't decided to rip your heart out in the middle of this Costco."

James stills for a few seconds, and with each beat, the shock on his face dissolves into a slow and wicked grin that reaches all the way to his eyes. Slightly, he leans back, the moment instantly forgotten.

"Rosabelle," he says. "My dear, dear Rosabelle."

"Yes, Alexander?" I roll my eyes, already bracing for impact. "What is it?"

“Ugh, don't call me by my middle name," he says, cringing a little. "It makes me feel like I'm some sort of founding father."

I bite my lip to stifle another laugh.

“But because I love you enough, I’ll let it slide," he says slowly, leaning a fraction closer. "Mainly because I want you to know that I would rip my heart out for you anywhere." His voice is entirely devoid of shame, dropping into that low, effortless cadence that always manages to spike my pulse to dangerous levels. “Time and place, sleepyhead. Just say the word.”

I shake my head. "You really have no dignity, do you? ," then, I add in, "and I would like it if you would reframe from calling me sleepyhead."

"There is no shame when it comes to you," he chimes in cheerfully. "Never when it comes to you. I'd deliever a Shakespearean sonnet next to the tires if I thought it would make you laugh."

The heat in my face builds to an almost dangerous degree, warming me from the inside out. I pick my spoon back up, pointing the plastic edge like a makeshift weapon to shield myself from the easy smile tugging at his lips.

"You're so ridiculous," I breath out. "Completely hopeless."

"Yeah?" James leans in, his voice dropping into a low, amused drawal that vibrates straight through me. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm just hopeless in love with you—"

He didn't get to finish. 

I don't bother to let him finish.

Without thinking, the plastic spoon clatters on the table, forgotten and the distance between us vanishes just as fast. 

I reach across the table, grab a fist full of his hoodie as my fingers tangle into its fabric with its own accord as I pull him toward me. In a and I just make out James' eye widen in surpise as my lips meet his. 

The kiss is brief, but the impact is like a gunshot and When I pull back, all that shameless, easy confidence melt away at his edges and he’s left, blinking at me as colour rushes to his face. 

I smile as I take him in, the stunned, speechless expression on his face. Somehow, I smile wider, suppress the urge to touch my lips in hopes of forever memorising as I still feel the soft press of his lips on mine just seconds ago.

With him, every kiss feels like I first kiss, and it takes mental gymnastics not to pull him in for another. 

“I—“ He sputters, cutting himself off, looking around, and his ears are completely red. “I was talking. That was, uh, really rude of you, Rosabelle.”

”Was it?” I drag my heated gaze to his lips, considering him then. “Because you don’t seem awfully offended right now.”

Something small tugs at his lips, and he leans in a little closer as if to tune out the barrage of noise rumbling through the self-made warehouse. “I definitely am, but maybe do it one more time so I can be really sure—”

James stops suddenly as we both hear the familiar buzz of his pager.

He shifts and draws it out of his pocket, and a shadow casts over his features, immediately clouding him in a way that I've seen before, but could never fully make out. It's a version of James that's hardened, intense in a way that painfully reminds you of the strategic way he makes himself out to be the fool, only to stab you in the back, laughing as he does. The shift in personality is deliberate, striking in a way that's unnerving as he scans his pager, reading each line as if he were on a mission.

"What's wrong?" I say quickly, collecting myself as I attempt to read his expression. Trying to gather enough data that will clue me in on what's going on inside his head. "James?" I say again, my voice tight with worry. "Is something wrong?"

James places his pager face down and closes his eyes with a sigh.

My pulse quickens, my voice tight as I try again. "James?"

"Kenji," he states harshly, his jaw tight.

I blink. Once, twice, and three full, agonizing times later, the confusion still sticks to me like glue. I study the tense lines of his shoulders, at the crease between his brows, and his annoyance still festers deep within his frame.

"I'm sorry…?" I barely muster out, my brain short-circuiting.

"He will be," James says, his voice laced with a dynamite blend of pure and utter annoyance. “He will be.”

"I don't understand.” My anxiety gives way to sheer bewilderment. Profound disorientation builds by the second. "What happened? What's wrong?"

James shuts his eyes for a second, opening them again when he speaks. "We apparently forgot the ice cream," he replies, leaning back. He’s the picture of complete defeat. The temporary embodiment of a waving white flag.

"Oh," I deflate, the tension evaporating in a single second. I stare at him, incredulous. "Is that all?"

"Is that all?" James repeats, baffled. He looks at me as if I had just suggested we walk into a war zone unarmed. "Kenji will take us not getting ice cream as a personal attack. Hell, he'll probably petition to charge us with treason."

A breathless, startled laugh escapes my lips, the last of my nerves finally dissolving. James just shakes his head, a faint, reluctant smile now tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the dramatic display of despair still crossing his features, ruining whatever effective seriousness he thinks he has left.

“Well,” I say, sliding out from the chair and offering him my hand. “We had better move fast, then. I’d rather not be charged with conspiracy to commit treason. Again.”

James stares at my outstretched hand, and for a moment, his expression softens just enough to let me know the unraveled, flustered boy from a moment ago still survives underneath it.

With a quiet, defeated huff, he takes my hand anyway. A second later, his long fingers curl around mine and I pull him up from the confines of our shared table.

“That joke wasn’t funny the first time,” James chimes, steadying himself, “and it isn’t funny now, Rosabelle.”

“Who said I’m trying to be funny?”

He exhales through his nose. “Whatever.” Then he tugs me closer, toward the red cart stacked with the impossible amount of stuff from the impossible list that has been haunting us for hours. “Off we go, once again. Such a poor tragedy.”

I lean into him, pale strands of hair brushing his arm. “A true tragedy indeed.”

The heavy thunk of the tailgate closing echoes our hard-fought triumph. 

Against all odds—and the general laws of physics and vehicle capacity—every item on that terrifying list managed to find a home. Everything, miraculously, had been packed just as planned, tucked into place with nothing more than a few strategic pushes to get it all in.

Though this feat alone could be attributed to a certain person's vehicle, which James had somehow managed to borrow.

Adam’s truck.

Even now, I still can’t fathom the exact mix of shameless pleading or expert-level negotiation it must have taken for James to pull off such a rarity. I wonder how James had even brought up the conversation of using his elder brother's truck, or how he managed to walk away with the keys for an afternoon, but I’m far too drained to interrogate a miracle on wheels.

As the Costco lights recede in the rearview mirror, the rhythmic flashing of street signs takes over, guiding us down the lit, silent stretch of the early-afternoon roads. I can feel a soft sigh building up in the back of my throat, but I stifle it and let the truck's cozy warmth envelop me instead. I let myself sink into the plush seats, burying myself in their welcoming comfort as my bones finally settle beneath my skin.

I consider myself capable, and incredibly athletic when it comes to traveling long distances. Back on the Ark, I would often take Clara on hikes across the frozen terrain, if only to distract her from the hunger in our stomachs. Those walks were a luxury for both of us, and a younger version of me wouldn't have even broken a sweat.

Evidently, my time with James has turned me into something of an optimist, because I completely overestimated my ability to withstand the hard concrete floors of Costco. My legs feel sore just from the sheer amount of steps we took in that one place alone. It’s remarkable, really.

“So?” James drawls, tilting his head in my direction without taking his eyes off the road. The scenery outside the window passes in a blur, and James is still wearing those ridiculous glasses, their pink frames sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“So, what?” I echo back, feigning ignorance because I know exactly what he’s about to ask.

A ghost of a smile traces his lips. “What’s your updated rating? You still wanna stick with a one?”

I let out a long, exasperated sigh and shift further into my seat. “You’re really obsessed with this whole rating system. I thought my previous answer was good enough.”

“Not even close,” he replies instantly. He shoots me a quick sideways glance, the dashboard light reflecting off the pink of his lenses. “I take my ratings very seriously. Among other things.” He emphasizes that last point specifically, a smug grin now tugging at the corners of his lips. “So give it to me.”

Maybe it’s the tiresome day, but I finally surrender, leaning my head back against the headrest. “Fine. If you’re going to keep asking, I suppose there’s no way out of this.” I pause, choosing my next few words more carefully. “I wouldn't mind doing this again, like I already said. It was fun. I know Clara would jump at the chance to come with us next time, so I’ll boost the ranking.”

“To a ten, I hope,” he teases, his fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel.

“A five,” I smile. “A five out of ten.”

“A five…” James repeats.

“Still not good enough?”

He considers my words, his eyes turning to mine for a fraction of a second. He looks back to the road, but the smile never leaves his lips.

“I can work with a five.”

The moment quiets as we pass by a few more streets, the world passing in flashes. I’m struck by the ever-growing beauty of the New Republic. It will forever be an area of wonder for me, leaving me curious as to how exactly they managed to restore so much that was taken from the world that once was.

My eyes follow the passing buildings, until I catch the faint drumming of James’ fingers on the steering wheel as we smoothly turn another corner. I shift in my seat, angling my head toward him once more, and catch the thoughtful way the city lights and the setting sun shift gold and white across the sharp cut of his profile. Then, casually—

“You know, speaking of Clara,” James begins, pulling me back to the present. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, and I watch the action, transfixed. “The Ship District always hosts these summer festivals. They pop up at random, specifically when we’re having a particularly good upcoming summer.”

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know the New Republic hosted festivals.”

“Yup. They station themselves around the seaside—or, well, the part of the shore that isn’t polluted—and they kind of go from there,” he continues with a shrug. Even without him looking directly at me, I can tell he’s trying to gauge my reaction in his peripheral vision. “It’s surprisingly popular. Juliette thought it was the best way to bring the communities closer together. There’s a lot to do there, too. Eating fried dough—”

“Fried dough?” I say carefully.

“Don’t knock it till you try it, Rosabelle. It’s surprisingly delicious. That’s not even the best part, though,” he softly adds. “There’s a shit ton of carnival games, and a few amusement rides, too. They have just about everything to keep you busy.”

“That sounds quite nice, actually,” I admit.

“It is,” he beams, turning another corner with ease. “And I figured since you enjoyed this little outing…” He glances back at me again, a hint of something softer in his gaze, despite the pink that lingers around his eyes. Quickly, the spike in feeling is masked, hidden behind his usual, sillier expression. He clears his throat. “It’s next weekend, actually.”

My eyes widen in surprise.

James takes this in and nods once. “I know, it's a little short notice, but still worth it. The festival planners set the whole thing up pretty fast. One second the deck by the shoreline is empty, and the next there are ten different people trying to convince you that throwing rings at glass bottles is worth twenty bucks because there’s a small prize at the end.”

“Is throwing rings at glass bottles the kind of thing that's considered entertaining here?”

“It can be with the right attitude,” he says, and points a finger to himself. “And you’re looking at a champion. I’m really good at winning the big plushies.”

“Did you go to a lot of these things growing up?” I pull my knees up to my chest, feeling a little tired.

“Whenever Juliette and the others found the time. I still remember my first time going to a place like that,” he stops for a second, and something in him shifts. “I didn’t think places like this even existed. So when the others started bringing back pieces of the pre-Reestablishment era, it felt like I was entering another world—a more colorful, flashier one.”

“Ah, I see.”

James drums his fingers on the steering wheel once more before taking a breath. “It was the highlight of my childhood. I want you and Clara to see these things, too. They’re cool.”

“Alright, then it’s decided,” I say firmly. “It’ll be nice to spend a day with just the three of us. You’re right—Clara would love something like this.”

“And you?” he asks, giving me a quick glance.

“I will too,” I reply. “Especially the part where you lose every game.”

James scoffs. “Me? Lose? In what world, Rosabelle.”

“This one,” I say immediately. “You’re about to discover what it’s like living in a reality where I beat you at your own strengths. I’ll make sure Clara gets the better prizes.”

“Wow,” he says, properly grinning now. “Who knew you could be so cocky.”

I push back a few of my stray hairs. “I think you might’ve rubbed off of me a little.” 

“I’ll take that as a massive compliment,” he says as he turns the truck down a wide, sweeping boulevard. 

My eyes turn toward the truck’s window once more, and I’m greeted with the bones of what was once Sector 45. Bit by bit, the industrial, sterile, and deadened corpse is slowly melted away and replaced by the grander architecture of the central New Republic. Even in the fading light, the city is breathtaking. Gleaming glass towers kiss the sky from faraway distances, while citizens walk down bustling sidewalks. They all blend seamlessly with the area, laughing and talking and meeting in pairs. They all exist in the warm hum of sunlight and breathe air that doesn’t feel clouded with misery and hopelessness.

This was the kind of place I used to dream of, and now I live in it. Live in the middle of it, experience it in waking moments. It’s surreal. It’s all a stark contrast to the quiet, frozen isolation of Ark Island.

There are no soldiers patrolling the corners, no desperate glances exchanged over empty rations. No worries about surveillance, about being watched and fearing that one wrong move might lead to your grave. On the contrary, all that remains is just life. Everything around is just moving forward. Outside this window is an ordinary day, and my heart begins to slow into a quiet, calming beat.

At this, something new passes and my eyes start to flutter. I blink against the urge to let them fully close as the steady hum of tires continues to roll smoothly against the asphalt.

Exhaustion circles around me, clinging to my tired joints and the slight ache in my legs, leaving me debating whether I should just let it win. Logically, I know that we are not far from the Waffle House, but I’m grasping at straws, reasoning with a mind that yearns for a pillow and blanket as a heavy fatigue wraps around me.

My eyelids start to shutter close with every passing second, and I have to consciously force them open every time they manage to drop.

The… Waffle.. Is… Near…

Adam’s truck eases to a smooth stop as the traffic light ahead shifts to red. The intersection is surprisingly calm, framed by tall, restored brick buildings that glow against the vibrant colors of the city. To my left, I can just make out the movement of James resting his forearm along the steering wheel as he turns fully toward me. At some point in the haze of my groggy mind, he had pushed the pink frames up into his hair. They settle nicely atop his head, catching the generous strands of gold that glint handsomely through the brown. Then, his gaze lands on me. Blue eyes assess me, taking in the way I’ve sunk deep into the passenger seat, as if the plush fabric itself has begun to claim me as its own.

My eyes drag open, a slow frown pulling at my face as a confession settles on my tongue. “They’re right, James. I could drown in the blues in your eyes.”

James startles a little. “Huh? What does that mean.”

A hazy smile passes through me. “And I’d thank you for it.”

”Hey,” he says quietly, his voice gentler now. I find myself wondering how long this intersection has been red for. “Are you getting sleepy?”

”No,” I hastily answer, the words barely making it out cleanly before a yawn fractures it halfway. “Not tired.”

James lets out an amused breath. “Right. Of course, sleepy—“

”If you call me sleepyhead, I will toss you out of this truck.”

Outside of myself, this earns me an unrestrained laugh, as James shifts in own seat. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Message received. No more sleepyhead from me. At least, not for a few more hours, no guarantee.”

”You’re… so annoying,” I mumble. “And loud.”

”Oh, yeah?”

I nod absentmindedly.

James expression doesn’t lose its softness. If anything, it depends to a dreamlike amount as he delicately draws my hand upward. I let him guide it, let his own, larger hand rest easy against his own until there is nothing but the quiet air between us. You could hear a pin drop carry the force of a drum as I watch through heavy lids. He brings my knuckles to his mouth and presses a slow, unspoken kiss there. He lingers for a single moment, the action long enough to make a whole new ache shutter down my spin, the need in me crazy enough to almost wake me from the blur of tiredness. 

He pulls back slowly, his lips brushing my skin a final time. When my hand falls back into his, he doesn't let go, at least, not right away. His thumb drifts over my knuckles in an absent kind of motion. I pray he doesn't let go, because I like this. I like his warmth. I want him to kiss me again. I hope he kisses me again.

James finally shifts back into gear as the light finally changes. He lets go of my hand, and I blink a few more times, another yawn threatening to come out. 

“Rosa,” I think I hear James say.

I yawn regardless. “Yes?”

”Do you mind if I turn on the radio for a bit?”

“Mmh.. ‘kay,” I murmur, already halfway gone.

My eyelids flutter again, but not before I catch a glimpse of James reaching for the radio. With a mild click of the dial, a brief rush of static gives way to music, the melody unfurling to fill the truck and the small space between us. An unfamiliar tune drifts in, and as I look toward the radio's glowing screen, a sense of distance washes over me. I feel outside of my own body as I read the text on the display:

—Now Playing—

“Something” — 20XX Remastered Version by The Beatle

My eyes finally close shut. 

You're asking me will my love grow..
I don't know, I don't know…

“Rosabelle.”

You stick around, now it may show…

“Hey, Rosabelle.”

I don't know, I don't know…

“It’s time to wake up, sleepyhead.”

My eyes pop open, still half-drowned in haze of sleep, in the sea of my dreams. Everything feels slightly off-centred, and far too brought to be real. It’s almost like the world has been turned upside down a notch without warning, even as the sun has dropped a little lower toward the horizon. 

“Didn’t I…” I mumble, voice rough with sleep, “didn’t I just tell you I would toss you out of this truck if you called me sleepyhead, again?”

As clear day, a grin breaks across his face like he’s physically incapable of not funny my waywardness funny. 

“Then it’s a damn good thing we’re not in the truck then,” he says wickedly.

I rub at my eyes, trying to clear the stubborn fog that still clings to my vision. My body feels heavy in the way it always does after waking up from a nap—greedy, craving more sleep than it needs, and reluctant to fully wake up as I quiet another yawn that leaves my system. The warmth of the seat still wraps around me even as I unbuckle myself and shift. It is only then I realize my head is resting at a much better angle than I remember. It feels perfectly supported, and I look down to discover the cause of my comfort: a neck pillow. It is tucked in right behind me, its sudden familiarity striking.

It’s Adam and Alia’s neck pillow, the one I vaguely remember seeing when James and I waved them off for their long road trip with Gigi and Roman.

Oh. 

I squint at James. “Did you… the stuff, did you… did you bring it all—“

”I already brought everything in,” he interrupts me with a dismissive wave. 

My brows knit immediately, and I frown as a result. “You should’ve woken me up. I could have helped. There was a lot of things that needed to be brought in, too much to carry, even for you.”

He lifts an entertained brow. “Even for me? Ouch.” A pause. “It really wasn’t a lot of stuff. Rosabelle, so don’t feel too bad. I also made Kenji carry most of it for everyone, anyway.”

James seems particularly pleased about this admission and it earns something like a tired laugh for me—though it presents its self more like an exhale.

A final rub of my eye chases away the last bit of sleep. James watches me, taking it all in as if he’s memorizing the moment—capturing it on film to revisit later. To replay it ten times over and never get tired of it. To remind himself that I am here. That I am real, awake, and smiling at him with my whole heart.

The sight only draws him nearer, making him needier as he reaches for me. He lightly brushes a few stray hairs from my face, and the lingering touch against my cheek is so intentional it makes my own body ache with a barely contained need.

I want to scream.

”I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” he says to me, his voice a murmur. He reaches around me, takes off the neck pillow. “You looked so peaceful.”

The words land heavy in my chest, and a fervour engulfs me in a way I was never taught to deal with. For a mere heartbeat, I almost consider leaning back into his touch, almost consider the need to beg for him to fall back into the ease, but I stop just short of it. Swallow it for now, decide to revisit the feverish desire later. 

“Still,” I breathe, frowning slightly. I take his hand, and give it a squeeze. The world outside feels irrelevant now when in contrast to him.

James angles his head toward the direction of Nazeera’s almost furnished house. “Let’s get inside. Everyone is starving and Clara and Winston want to order pizza. Nazeera and Kenji are trying to convince them otherwise,” he chuckles. “They want to order breakfast for dinner. Again.”

Still holding my hand, he carefully pulls me toward him. I follow his motion and the moment I step down from the truck, the ground feels whole. I let go of his again, already missing the contact and I take a glance back up at him.

“You all want to order out? After all the groceries we went through the trouble of getting?”

James shrugs. “Eh, it’s a lazy day,” then, completely unbothered, “so, what are you craving?”

We start walking toward Nazeera’s house, the day closing in around us. 

“Pizza, I suppose,” I decide without missing a beat.

“Me too,” James agrees. He suddenly draws me in, wrapping an arm around me. 

“We should order it with pineapple.”

James stops, turns to look at me. He’s staring at me like I suggested we should kick puppies for a late afternoon treat. 

“Ew,” he cringes without thought. “Bad choice. Very bad choice. Nevermind. That’s what your sister said to order too, yuck.”

I throw him a look. “You’re just like your nephew. So picky.”

”I am not picky,” he says too stubbornly for it to true. “I love you, Rosabelle, but I can’t help that I have good sense of taste. A normal sense of taste.” 

I bump lightly into him from the side as we reach the set of doors. “I love you, too, but I wouldn’t classify you as having a normal sense of taste.” 

James’ retort is instantly eaten up the moment we push open the door. Inside the house, voices overlap one another, laughter spilling out across the floor. The moment we both step in, Clara spots us and lights up. She runs in our direction like she’s been waiting for this all day.

And just like that, I fall back into it.

I fall, headfirst, into the noise of these loud, sensitive people. With James by my side and Clara clinging, my heart expands just a little more.

Pizza for dinner it is.

⋆˙⟡