Today marks my last week on security, but SFO doesn’t know that yet. Clock strikes 4 a.m., and quietly, I slip out of Maximoff’s bed and find a pair of my boxer-briefs in his drawer. I search for pants.

Almost all of my shit is in his room: clothes, toiletries, a few medical texts that I dug out recently, and my electronics. I prefer it this way. Not only because security’s townhouse contains Thatcher, and the less time I spend around him, the better. But because Maximoff will sometimes scrutinize all of my belongings in his room and start to unknowingly smile.

It’s cute as hell.

I pull my black pants to my waist, and Maximoff blinks awake beneath his comforter. He extends his left arm to reach for the bedside light.

“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, fishing my belt through the loops. “It’s mail day.” The Omega lead schedules a specific day and time to examine our client’s mail. It’s usually at 4 a.m.—when all the famous ones should theoretically be asleep.

Maximoff collapses back and pinches his tired eyes. “Have fun with that.” His brain must start waking up because he quickly asks, “Are you telling them tonight?”

I pull a black V-neck over my head. “Technically, it’s morning.”

He growls into an uncontrollable yawn. “I don’t think you realize how annoying your technicalities are.”

“Trust me, I do.” I smile as irritation scrunches his brows. “Man, that’s partially why I keep them up, just for you.”

“I’m partially honored.”

I grin and hook my radio on my waistband. Before I go, I return to the bed. And I hang my hand on the headboard and dip down towards him. Close enough to kiss him, and as much as I want my lips against his lips, teasing the hell out of him is too good to pass.

“I’m going to tell SFO,” I confirm.

“Need help or any backup?” he asks. We’ve discussed Omega’s possible reactions, and the only one that I can’t predict is Thatcher Moretti. The rest should be fine. My friendship with Oscar and Donnelly is easy for a reason. We roll with the punches and almost never hound each other.

“I’ll be okay.” I linger for a second.

Maximoff is staring at my mouth.

I smile wider. “You think I’m going to kiss you?”

“Who said I wanted you to?” He’s only looking at my eyes now. Trying to beat me at the whole teasing thing. It’s not going to work.

I lower closer, planning on pulling away at the last second, but he clasps the crook of my neck. Our breaths meld, and our mouths meet like a fucking magnet. I rest my knee on the bed, my hand dropping to his jaw—fuck, Maximoff…his tongue parts my lips. Driving the kiss deeper, a coarse noise scratches my throat.

His left hand sneaks up my shirt.

Shit.

I’m almost about to climb on top of him. I tear our mouths apart. “Damn,” I breathe hard and step back before I end up in bed with him.

Maximoff smiles like he won something. “Looks like you wanted to kiss me.”

I walk backwards. “Never said I didn’t, wolf scout.”

My words and smooth tone must relax him. He oozes into the pillow, as much as he can for being in a sling and without heavy pain medication.

It’s always hard to leave when I love being around him. But this’ll be our regular routine when I restart my residency. And to be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Exiting the attic, I skip rapidly down the narrow staircase. Cats dart out from under the Victorian loveseat, and then I scare Walrus with my foot. He scurries beneath the iron café table.

“Stay there, you little bastard,” I warn, slipping through the adjoining door. Shutting out the calico cat behind me.

As soon as I’m inside security’s townhouse, I’m met with a stench that I can’t pinpoint.

Let’s just say it smells worse than Ben Cobalt’s rank B.O.

Akara looks up from the leather couch. “I know,” he says, clutching a Lucky’s Diner paper coffee cup, “I can’t figure out which one it is.” He motions with his index finger to the mound of boxes and envelopes. Packages are scattered across the coffee table and the hardwood floors.

Wicker laundry baskets, that aren’t used for laundry, line the brick wall. A name written on a travel tag is attached to each one. And a heavy-duty trash bag hangs off the fireplace mantel.

The smell stings my nose. “I’d say it’s rancid, but I’m not sure that’s the right word.” I step over Quinn’s spread of packages that pile up at the door.

“It’s probably food,” Quinn says, slicing through a cardboard box with a utility knife.

“Even spoiled food doesn’t smell like that, little bro,” Oscar replies, ripping open a manila envelope. He’s seated on a leather barstool at our high-top table. Security’s furniture is more comfortable and less pastel than everything in the neighboring townhouse.

And it’s not a surprise that Oscar is in Philly. Or Donnelly, who straddles the armrest and flips through a few letters. All of SFO spent the night since Charlie and Beckett are crashing in Jane’s room, and Sullivan is asleep in Luna’s bedroom next door.

We all stayed out late for trivia night at Saturn Bridges. Maximoff said most of his cousins would normally pass on those invites. But Charlie showed. Beckett showed, and so did Sulli and Luna.

Whenever they all assemble together, Omega inadvertently gathers. And very fucking soon, my role with the famous ones and security will shift drastically. I don’t try to predict how it’ll feel.

All I know is that I’ve never been afraid of the great unknown, but I’m definitely cautious going forward since I’m leaving more things behind than usual.

I pluck latex gloves out of a box. Every guy already wears a pair. Mail day is a minefield of the good, the bad, and the disgusting.

Oscar unfolds a letter. “Dear Charlie,” he reads. “Get Well Soon.” He crumples the letter and free-throws it into the hanging trash bag.

“Cold,” Donnelly says, reaching for a yellow mailer.

Thatcher glances up from a letter he’s been reading. “Charlie doesn’t want to read his fan mail?”

“The guy rarely does.” Oscar balls another letter. “I’ve been instructed to destroy all condolences.”

I snap on my gloves and tuck one-fifth of Maximoff’s mail under my arm. Drumsticks lie next to a carton of to-go coffees. I frown and pick up a wooden drumstick. “What’s with these?” I ask Akara.

He answers while texting. “Some teenage girl mailed them to me.”

That makes little sense. “How does the public know you were on the drumline?”

To my knowledge, most personal facts about SFO haven’t been unearthed. Especially since we deleted our social medias.

Then again, I haven’t been actively checking social media threats or keeping in touch with tabloid shit. When my relationship went public, I relinquished that responsibility to the tech team.

Just making that choice made me realize I was already pulling away from security.

Akara looks up from his phone. “Did you know Brock Carson from high school?”

“Never talked to that debate nerd, no.” I twirl the drumstick between my fingers.

“That debate nerd posted our yearbook on Reddit.” Akara returns to texting. “There’s a whole thread trying to find info on ‘Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend’ and they spotted me in the yearbook’s band section.”

I roll my eyes. Not thrilled that people are digging this hard into my past. I consider myself a fairly private person. Not many ever step into my business unless I let them. But I chose to be a public figure. I’ve known how invasive this could be.

Still, the creep factor is real.

“Let me guess,” I say, walking backwards to the open barstool opposite Oscar, “my senior photo is floating around the internet.” I had green hair in that picture.

“All over,” Akara nods.

Predictable.

I drop the mail onto the high-top table in a heap.

“Boyfriend’s going to love that photo,” Oscar says to me, being serious. I hold onto that fact and almost laugh.

I lean my ass on the barstool. “He’ll most likely save it as his lock-screen.”

And then he’ll make an excuse about how it’s because I hate the picture.

Oscar cuts a box open. “No, he’ll print that one out, Redford. Then he’ll frame it and hang it in every house you’re in for eternity.”

Eternity?

My brows rise at Oscar. He stares at me right in the eye, and I doubt anyone else but Donnelly realizes how he’s not joking right now. And then Oscar nods at me like he knows.

He knows that what I have with Maximoff isn’t temporary. Not just on my end, but on my boyfriend’s end, too. It’s not something he’s expressed before.

But I remember that Oscar was at the crash site. Holding an umbrella over us. He heard Maximoff and me. Saw him say his goodbyes. Saw us together, thinking it could’ve been the last time.

Raw emotion squeezes my throat.

I nod back.

We don’t need to exchange any words. I pass him an envelope addressed to Charlie that slipped beneath my stack.

“Thatch, anything good?” Donnelly asks.

“Thatcher,” he reminds him, folding a letter. “And it’s private.” Thatcher gently places the letter in a wicker basket labeled Jane.

I sort through six get well soon cards sent to Maximoff and save them. He’ll read each one, even if it takes him hours. The next envelope, I freeze on the return address and the familiar name.

“Oliveira,” I say, “why is your mom sending cards to my boyfriend?” I flash the envelope at Oscar.

“I have one for you. Hold on.” Oscar lifts a few boxes and grabs a letter. He chucks it at my face.

I catch it easily.

Oscar nods to me. “She didn’t know if she should send you two separate invites or one together. I went through seven phone calls in one hour, Redford. Just to reassure her that two were fine.”

I cock my head. “Did you tell Sônia that I wouldn’t have given a shit either way?”

“Yeah, I reminded her who you are.” Oscar grabs two more letters. “And then she pulled the Farrow has no mom on me. Look, she’s fucking frazzled that the Boyfriend is a Famous Boyfriend. Additional note: you both need to RSVP separately.”

“Sure.” I rip open the one addressed to me and read the invitation.

Please join us for the confirmation of our daughter Joana Raquel Sousa Oliveira.

My brows arch. For as long as I’ve known Oscar, I’ve only met his eighteen-year-old sister once or twice.

“I know,” Oscar tells me, “but it’s a big deal.”

I skim the details.

Location: a local Catholic church.

Date: a Sunday afternoon next month.

I frown.

Shit.

Probability that I’ll be stuck in the hospital working that day = extremely high.

What’s worse: years ago I couldn’t attend Quinn’s confirmation for the same reason. This’ll be the second time that I bail on the Oliveira family, and I’m not feeling great about it.

Maximoff will definitely want to go, and I would’ve loved to be his date to this. There’ll be others.

It reminds me how Maximoff has been planning our “first” formal date. In my eyes, we’ve been on a hundred-and-twelve dates already. In wolf scout’s eyes, they were all “semi-dates” since I had to keep up the bodyguard charade. I couldn’t eat dessert off his plate. Couldn’t kiss him. Couldn’t even hold his hand.

All restrictions are gone now, and honestly, I love how much Maximoff is treating this like it’s all new, all over again. Because there are very few feelings I love more than experiencing firsts with him.

I slip the invite into its envelope.

Oscar holds out two more cards to the guys. “Moretti, Kitsuwon.” Thatcher and Akara grab their invites.

I eye Donnelly who easily brushes off the rejection. Caring and loving parents worry about guys like Donnelly befriending their children. On paper, he reads like a bad influence.

In reality, he’s not.

I recognize the greatest benefit of having a father who really only cared about medicine. I was able to invite Donnelly everywhere. And Donnelly always said yes and came along.

I unsnap a rubber band off a package. “Joana is finally going through with it?” I ask Oscar since I witnessed the Oliveira family meltdown when she refused to get confirmed two years ago. I wasn’t raised in a religious household, but her decision appeared like a familial betrayal.

Quinn chimes in, “Only because our avó stopped talking to Jo.” He uncovers an alien plushie from tissue paper.

Thatcher pockets his invite. “If I’d been confirmed late, my grandma would’ve done the same to me.”

Oscar discards a Charlie Motherfucking Cobalt mug. “She’s lucky that I’m picking up our avó from the airport next week.”

I skim another get well card. “You volunteer for that, Oliveira, or were you selected for the slaughter?”

“My confirmation gift to my baby sister,” he explains, slicing open another box. “What’d I miss when Charlie went to the bar?” He means from tonight. We all joined in trivia with the famous ones, but we were also all on-duty. Consequently, Oscar had to follow his client away from our booth.

I trash homemade chocolate chip cookies. “Just how Ben hasn’t been able to drive since the crash.”

Donnelly adds, “Jane said his foot keeps shaking on the pedal.”

Oscar mutters a curse. “I have fifteen years of driving experience on Ben, and I was having issues keeping the Range Rover on all four wheels that night.”

Quinn hurls an empty box at the fireplace. “Paparazzi should’ve backed the fuck off.”

“They won’t,” Akara says, flipping through a handcrafted Sullivan Meadows scrapbook. “The best the parents can do is keep filing lawsuits.”

But none have stuck yet. The Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts have also requested that the bodyguards drive for the younger kids until further notice.

Donnelly rattles his open mailer upside-down, and a lacy thong falls to the floor.

We all see it.

“Smell it, Donnelly,” I say with a rising smile. “Could be the mystery scent.”

He pinches the pink thong between gloved fingers and sniffs.

Quinn gags into his fist.

“Nah,” Donnelly says, “just smells like pussy.” He flings the panties into the trash and reads the card aloud. “Beckett Joyce Cobalt, I came in these thinking of you.” He smirks. “My guy has so many admirers.”

Silently, Thatcher dumps a ball gag and dildo in the trash. All mailed to Jane.

Oscar swigs a Ziff sports drink and reads, “Dear Charlie, I want to have your babies. She left her phone number.”

“Can’t blame her.” Donnelly reaches for a new package. “Who wouldn’t want to have some Cobalt babies?”

Thatcher casts a reprimanding look but stays quiet.

I spin a knife between my fingers and then point to myself with the blade. “Me.”

Donnelly grins. “That’s just because you’re all up in that Hale dick.”

I laugh into a smile, about to dish it back—and then the unknown stench unleashes itself tenfold. We all recoil.

“It’s this,” Quinn chokes and coughs into his bicep. He just flipped the flaps to a cardboard box, the contents not visible. Everyone is asking what was sent to Luna.

I’m about to stand off the barstool and see for myself. But Quinn starts taping up the package. Then he rises to his feet and places the box in Luna’s wicker basket—

“Whoa!” all of us basically shout some sort of expletive.

Quinn ignores us. Leaving the package in her good mail.

Thatcher glares at me, as though I caused the youngest bodyguard’s “bad” behavior from my short “mentoring” days. I’m not taking the blame for this shit.

I glare back at Thatcher.

I quit.

Slinging those two words out in anger is not what I had in mind today. I bite my tongue hard.

“It’s not trash,” Quinn says, still choked from the smell. He coughs into his fist.

Akara digs in the wicker basket and inspects the taped package.

“What the fuck is it?” Oscar asks.

Quinn takes a seat around his mail piles. “Really shitty perfume that spilt.”

My brows spike. “Sounds like trash to me.”

Thatcher crosses his arms. “Farrow, you should’ve instructed Quinn better. Told him that liquids need to be thrown out.”

I did.

His assumption that I didn’t grates on me. I grit down to keep from spewing out, I’m quitting, you fucking tool. Instead I say simply, “I’ll keep that in mind.” While I stand, I rest my shoulders up against the brick wall.

Thatcher uncrosses his arms. He looks surprised that I’m admitting fault.

Akara carries the perfume package to the trash bag.

“Wait!” Quinn springs to his feet and extends an arm, an angered scowl crossing his face. “Just wait a fucking second. I know what I’m doing.”

Akara raises his shoulders. “Quinn, we don’t allow liquids—”

“Luna asked me not to,” Quinn retorts. “I get that I haven’t been a bodyguard as long as any of you, but I’ve been here long enough. And I fucking know if a client asks you to do something, you do it. Sometimes, even if it’s illegal—”

“No,” Thatcher says sternly. “Not if it’s illegal. You can say no.” His glare drills into me again.

I’m starting to believe Quinn Oliveira wants Thatcher to murder me.

I still lean casually on the wall. And to Thatcher, I say, “I never told Quinn that he couldn’t say no.” That implication is not even close to who I am.

“Wait a sec,” Akara interjects, box in hand. “Quinn, did Luna specifically ask you not to discard liquids?”

Quinn scratches his unshaven jaw. “No…I was trying to keep this private, but if you all have to know…” He motions to the box. “Luna asked me not to throw anything away that’s from her boyfriend.”

Boyfriend?

Voices collide together, everyone asking the same shit.

I peel off my gloves and then comb my hair back. If anyone had known about Luna Hale suddenly having a boyfriend, it would’ve been her older brother.

And Maximoff knows nothing.

I question whether this “boyfriend” is real. “Have you seen him?” I ask on top of the mounting questions.

“When?” Donnelly asks.

“For how long?” Akara wonders.

Quinn runs two frustrated hands through his thick, wavy hair. “MyGod,” he snaps. “Shut the fuck up and I’ll tell you!”

We all go quiet.

Quinn breathes out. “It’s been about a week.” He shifts his weight and before Akara asks, he says, “Yeah, I did a background check. The guy panned out.”

Donnelly slips a pen behind his ear. “Does he live in Philly?”

“How old is he?” I ask.

“What does he do?” Oscar adds.

Quinn hangs onto the fireplace mantel. “This stays between us.” He tries to send a warning look my way, but I’m not having it.

“I’ll tell you upfront,” I say easily. “There’s absolutely a hundred percent chance that I’ll share this with Maximoff.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because he’s my boyfriend. It’s as simple as that.”

Oscar leans forward on his stool. “Redford can leave the room. I want the fucking details.”

“Same,” Donnelly says, unsnapping his gloves. Just to remove his septum piercing.

Quinn expels a breath and then nods to me. “It’s alright. Stay. I’m guessing Luna will tell Maximoff soon, so it shouldn’t matter.” He starts unleashing the news. “So the guy is named Andrew Umbers. Twenty-two. He’s originally from Houston but now lives in Philly. He created some kind of start-up for a parking app. And yeah, I’ve seen him.”

Everyone is quiet. Processing.

Thatcher straightens letters in his hands. “Did Luna tell you not to share?”

“No…I have no fucking clue what she’d think if I told everyone,” Quinn admits. “And look, before you guys say anything, you should know that their dates have consisted of eating takeout at his apartment and listening to NPR. It feels like he’s just using her.”

I grit down. I’m not happy about anyone using these families, let alone the Hales. This is exactly why most of them have trust issues. And I sense the real irony here: the public believes I’m using her brother for fame.

But I’m not going to apologize for loving him. And wanting to be with him.

We all talk about Luna and the intentions of her new boyfriend. Mainly ways to protect her, and I hang back and look at each guy.

This is it.

I’ve had some of them in my lives long before I joined security. So I’m not losing them. But I am leaving behind Omega. The camaraderie, the brotherhood. A protective force of men who will jump into the wildfire, no questions asked.

And I’ve been here before. Way back when, I believed I’d lose my job once the families and security found out I was with Maximoff. I was ready to accept that, but there is more peace in choosing this path now than being forced here back then.

“Redford,” Oscar calls out. “What’s going on?” He’s been reading into my features.

“I have something to say.” I comb both of my hands through my hair and step off the brick wall. My shift in demeanor causes the living room to go silent.

Akara is confused.

I didn’t tell anyone in advance. Not even the Omega lead, and that’s mostly because I need this to be less of an ordeal. Just quiet and easy. Not a big mess.

“This isn’t about Luna,” I start off. “I appreciate everything you’ve all done for me so I could remain my boyfriend’s bodyguard.” I glance briefly at Thatcher. Because back in December, he was the deciding vote that helped me keep my job.

He’s scowling like I’m far from genuine.

If I didn’t believe those words, I wouldn’t have said them.

I swing my head to the Omega lead. “And Akara…o’ captain my captain.” I wouldn’t call anyone else that but him. “All the times you’ve put your neck on the fucking line for me, I was grateful then and I’m still grateful now.”

Akara nods. “You’re quitting security, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m quitting. I need to finish my residency.” And before they ask, I add, “Not for my father, but for me.” I first look at Donnelly.

His lips slowly lift, unlit cigarette in his mouth. “We’re getting our Meredith back.” He slow-claps.

I smile. “Man, you know I’m a Christina.”

“I don’t get it,” Quinn mutters.

“It’s Grey’s Anatomy, little bro,” Oscar says, clapping with Donnelly before he walks over and pats my shoulder, bringing me in a hug. He whispers in my ear, “We’re going to keep your guy safe. Don’t agonize over it.”

I already have been.

A hell of a lot went into this choice. And I look at ease, but he knows this is far from easy for me. Someone else will be filling the job description of protecting Maximoff Hale. As his boyfriend, that job should be mine.

I protect the people I love, and choosing the medical path sometimes feels at war with protecting Maximoff. But I have to remember that I haven’t lost that ability. At the charity auction, I was there for him as his boyfriend in the end. Not as his bodyguard.

And the same job got done. I don’t need the radio or the gun or the title.

I pat his back in thanks before we separate.

“You sure?” Akara asks me, phone frozen in his hand. He holds the power to alert the rest of the Tri-Force. To turn my choice into a reality.

I listen to my gut that says push forward. “I’m sure.”

Akara hesitates, looking like he wants to change my mind, but after a pause and a once-over, he sees that I’m set. And he starts texting. “You’ll need to stay on Maximoff’s detail for one more week while we sort out a transfer.” He looks up. “Sound good?”

“Perfect.” I already knew the protocol. “I’ve packed most of my shit. I’ll be out of security’s townhouse before then.” It’ll be more official than it has been, but I’ll be living with Maximoff. And I’ve never “officially” lived with any of my past boyfriends before, so this is just as new for me.

Thatcher should be ecstatic that I’m no longer living one floor apart from him. I’m not expecting the guy to jump for joy. But a mocking clap seems in the realm of possibility.

But as our eyes lock, he appears the farthest thing from happy.

And I’m certain.

He’s going to make this difficult for me. Messy and fucking loud. “Thatcher—”

“You’ve had one foot in, one foot out from the start. I told you that months ago.” He tears off his latex gloves. “And I’ve known you’re committed only to yourself, but I didn’t realize how fucking selfish you are until right now.” His biting tone is dying to gnaw me apart.

I run my tongue over my molars. Seething inside out. At first, I want to just let him believe what he believes. My actions haven’t been able to convince him anything different. Not the marathon run in the dark Poconos mountains. Not every push-up, every sit-up, every time I listened when I would’ve rather disobeyed.

If he wants words, not actions, then I have those too.

“Wherever I am, I’m all there,” I say strongly. “I’ve always been committed to security, and the fucking millisecond that I felt drawn somewhere else, I chose to leave.” That’s the truth.

But Thatcher glares.

I glare, stepping further off the wall.

And he says, “That’s how you plan to spin this?”

My nose flares, hot-blooded anger craving to twist my face. There is nothing more I can give him than what I feel. He’s still choosing not to believe me. “I’m not warping shit,” I tell him. “If you don’t see it the way I see it, then fine. Leave it alone.”

Akara, Quinn, Oscar, and Donnelly all stand rigid. Watching. Tensed. But not surprised that we’re butting heads again.

Thatcher steps over a pile of mailers. Rolling the sleeves of his plaid flannel. Like he’s boiling as hot as me. He nears me and says, “Did you even consider Maximoff when you decided to quit on him?”

I glare unblinkingly.

He’s dead serious.

He truly believes that I don’t give a flying shit about Maximoff. I almost let out a pained laugh. Fuck, I’d do anything for him.

I’d even choose security for Maximoff, but here’s the thing: Maximoff would resent me. Every day, every minute, he’d hate me. We are so alike in that we want to give each other what we need. And he wouldn’t, for a second, let me stay in security out of chivalry.

“Wow,” I say flatly. “Did I even consider my boyfriend when I made a life-altering choice that would directly affect him?”

Of course I did. Of course I’ve struggled. Of course I’ve beat myself up at the terrible timing. But I’m the one who wakes up to those forest-greens that scream don’t coddle me, just love me.

Just love me.

Not this fucker.

“Your client, your boyfriend, just broke his collarbone,” Thatcher spits out, pointing at my chest. “He just had surgery and lost his job, and you chose this moment to quit on him—”

“Say that shit again and we’re going to have bigger problems,” I sneer.

“When one of us quits, we have to hire someone new,” he growls, unable to stop spewing more. “And these families have to learn to trust a stranger to protect them all over again.” His glare grows hotter in a single pause. “Your client, the guy you left behind, will get someone new in his life. You should be worried about that after what’s happened between you two.”

I hear what he’s insinuating. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know Maximoff is impressionable.” He cups a hand around his fist. Like he knows what he’s about to say will set me the fuck off. “If he fell for someone like you, he’d have no problem falling for his new bodyguard—”

I explode forward to hit him; I’m going to fucking slam my fist in his fucking face—and then Oscar wrenches me back, my feet smashing boxes. And he means well by restraining me.

But the other guys don’t catch Thatcher in enough time. I jerk in Oscar’s grip as a reflex, seeing the pair of knuckles, and my friend lets go too late—Thatcher’s fist slams into my cheek.

My head whips, the stinging pain familiar from all the blows I’ve taken in a ring.

Yells pierce the air. Oscar shoves Thatcher backwards, and Donnelly tries to jump the six-foot-seven guy. But Akara stops another fight from breaking out.

I don’t move.

I’m staring at the floorboards, my self-restraint greater than my rage, and I look to the door that connects the two townhouses. And I’m confident about where I want to be and where I need to go.

Tuning out SFO, I head to the adjoining door to find Maximoff.

It opens before I even grab the knob. And my boyfriend fills the doorway. He looks at the welt on my face, and then his eyes basically murder Thatcher a hundred different ways.

Maximoff almost charges.

“Wolf scout,” I say, quickly putting a hand on his waist. Guiding him into his townhouse. I kick the door closed behind me, my smile almost rising. Maximoff trying to protect me has definitely become one of my all-time favorite things.

His thick hair is disheveled like he just sprung out of bed, and his drawstring pants ride low like he just raced down the staircase. He must’ve heard the shouting.

He holds my hip and glowers at the door like he’s cursing Thatcher for eternal damnation. He really wants to go back in there and fight on my behalf.

I can’t stop staring at him. Feeling how much he cares about me, his hand rises to my cheek. Hovering over the welt.

I clutch his hand in mind and lower them to our sides.

“He fucking hit you,” he says.

I nod a few times. “I love that you want to stick up for me. But among other things, your dominant arm is bound to your chest.”

Maximoff glances at his red sling, then looks right at me. “I’m stronger than you with just one arm.”

I laugh.

Shit, I can’t believe I’m laughing after that shit show. But he brings me this effortless joy, and I cling onto that for dear fucking life.

“He took you quitting that badly?” he asks.

“I’ll catch you up in the car.” And before he asks, I tell him, “We’re going to my old neighborhood. And I’m going to talk to my father.”

Right now. There’s not a better time than the present. Because there will never be a good time.

Maximoff doesn’t question the abruptness. As soon as I start to lead him to the garage, he’s pace-for-pace in step with me. Hand-in-hand.

Like a soldier prepared for love and war.