Dane made it back to town in half the time, the dust of the road still clinging to his coat. The engine barely cooled before he was through the door, his boots leaving imprints on the scuffed floor.

  Gavin was at the desk, boots up, flipping through a stack of reports with a half-eaten protein bar cmped between his teeth. He gnced up as Dane entered, eyes narrowing slightly at his friend's tense demeanor. "So? What's the convict like?"

  Dane tossed the truck keys onto the desk harder than necessary. They cttered, spun, and stopped with a dull thud against the worn wood. "Like a damn ghost carved out of stone. No expression, no questions. No gratitude." His voice was tight, restrained.

  Gavin pulled the protein bar from his mouth and studied him, sensing the turmoil simmering beneath the surface. There was a beat of silence, as Gavin read the minute shifts in Dane's expression, the tightness in his jaw. "You just left her there?"

  Dane's fingers curled, nails biting into his calloused palms as he wrestled with the memory. "She didn't ask for help." His voice emerged clipped, restrained, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw.

  Taking the protein bar out of his mouth, Gavin gave him a long, knowing look, catching the faint flickers of emotion Dane couldn't quite mask. "That's not what I asked." His tone held a gentle challenge, an unspoken understanding passing between them, forged from years of shared battles and unspoken ghosts.

  Dane didn't respond right away. He rubbed the back of his neck, the movement betraying his discomfort. He leaned against the desk like the weight of the world had hitched a ride on his shoulders, bowing him down. Weariness etched lines into his face that hadn't been there before.

  They sat in silence for a while, the air between them thick with what-ifs and things that couldn't be undone, regrets and choices that lingered like specters. The ticking of the old clock on the wall seemed deafening in the stillness.

  Eventually, Dane pushed off the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. "We need to hold a town hall. Give folks the news before the gossip gets to 'em."

  Gavin raised a brow, his expression guarded. "One full day rotation?"

  Dane nodded, his eyes downcast. "Yeah. Spread word quiet for now. Don't let 'em know why. Make it sound routine. I don't want panic. We reveal it on our terms."

  Gavin gave a grunt of approval, inclining his head slightly. "Got it." He set the reports aside, slower this time, the papers rustling softly, then looked back up at Dane, hesitation flitting across his features. "She see the house?"

  Dane's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping as he clenched his teeth. "Yeah." The word fell like a lead weight between them, carrying the burden of unspoken truths.

  "How'd she take it?"

  Gavin's question lingered, probing at the raw edges of whatever Dane was holding back. The sheriff's shoulders slumped infinitesimally, the weariness etched into the lines around his eyes deepening. "Didn't." The single word hung in the air, heavy with implication, a veil drawn over the pain it concealed.

  Another beat of silence stretched out.

  Gavin let out a breath and leaned back, like something heavy had settled on him too, weighing down his shoulders. "You're not gonna tell me you're fine," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "I know you, Dane. You do dumb shit when you're trying to protect something."

  Dane was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant. "I was mean," he finally muttered, the words ced with regret. "I told her... not to be a burden. Dropped her at the ruins of her house, no shelter, no support, just her damn backpack and that look—" He broke off, shaking his head, a flicker of self-loathing crossing his face. "What the hell was I trying to prove?"

  Gavin's voice was quieter now, ced with understanding. "You wanted her gone. You know this town is not going to welcome her back. She probably knows that, but she also thought she was coming to a roof over her head."

  "Yeah, but I'm the sheriff. I'm not supposed to throw wounded dogs back into the fire." Dane's words were ced with a bitter edge, his eyes haunted.

  A pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

  Then Gavin leaned forward and said, without any judgment: "You think she's gonna snap?"

  Dane exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I don't know," he admitted, weariness weighing down his voice. "I think if she was gonna, I just gave her the final reason."

  Gaven didn't answer, sensing there was nothing more to say. The silence stretched between them, den with uncertainty and unspoken fears, a weight they both carried in the depths of their eyes.

  Nightfall

  Later, after the sky turned violet and the dust settled into the corners of the town, Dane was damn tired of paperwork. He should've delegated it all to Gavin, but that always ended in a bigger headache. He'd tried it before—once. Whether it was malicious compliance or Gavin was just that bad at it, Dane still hadn't figured out. Either way, it was easier if he just did it himself.

  Gavin had left earlier to do his nightly patrol before calling it a night. While he didn't spare Dane from the paperwork, he at least saved him from walking the perimeter. Gavin liked being out on the road. Watching things. Dane used to—but not so much anymore.

  He was fucking tired of thinking about Virelli. Tired of seeing the bnkness in her eyes pying on repeat behind his own. He ran through different scenarios in his mind.

  He'd read the reports. The bombing of the dam. The destruction of the SVC offices. How it all seemed to come out of nowhere. The former sheriff had left meticulous notes on Mia Virelli's mounting frustration—her paranoia, her anger, her desperation as her parents got sicker and sicker. Her belief that SVC was to bme.

  The mayor had filed compints too. Accusations of her growing hostility, the tension she brought with her everywhere. Dane didn't doubt any of it. He understood what it meant to watch someone you love waste away. But bombing a dam? That was beyond grief. That was a choice.

  They said she was brilliant. Could've gone far. She'd stayed moonside to take care of her parents instead of chasing schorship offers. Sacrificed everything. Then turned to terrorism.

  And yet... he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed something.

  Don't get him wrong—he hated SVC more than she probably did. They'd convinced desperate kids to sign on for experimental tech, barely tested, and shipped them off to fight a war that was already lost by the time they got there. And when the war was "won," they left them behind. Broken. Modified. Forgotten.

  But SVC had kept its promises, at least on paper, here. The water was technically drinkable again. They'd said the rest would take time. So people waited. And people died anyway.

  Leaning as far back as his chair allowed, Dane looked out the office window toward the clinic across the street. As he hoped, he saw Elian at the door, locking up for the night. Crime was low, but he still had controlled meds in there.

  Elian Rho had no right being that beautiful in a pce like this.

  He didn't style his hair like he had back in the city, but it still curled at the ends. He was trim in that frustrating, healthy way, and Dane knew from experience he was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. He'd seen Elian wrestle a fried-out Gen5'er—one of their own, lost to a spiral of PTSD and a fried brain—pinning him down with calm, precise movements until the sedative took effect. Slender didn't mean weak. Not when it came to Elian.

  Scks, buttoned shirt, looking like the official medical professional that he was—and somehow still looking like peace incarnate. Elian Rho had a calming presence that seemed to radiate from within, a gentle aura that soothed even the most frayed of nerves.

  Dane shut down the office slowly, methodically going through the routine motions. He turned out the lights, checked the back door to ensure it was secured, and locked everything tight. While he didn't always bother locking his own home, the office was a different story – that stayed sealed at all times, a necessary precaution in their line of work.

  He crossed the street, hands deep in his coat pockets, the chill night air nipping at his exposed skin. The night was still young, and nocturnal creatures had begun to stir in the brush, their faint calls and rustlings breaking the silence. Dane climbed the steps to the clinic, his boots scuffing against the weathered wood.

  And as he ascended, he gave one more thought to Mia Virelli, wondering where she was sleeping tonight and what troubles might be pguing her restless mind.

  At the top of the stairs, he knocked, the sound echoing in the stillness. Moments ter, Elian answered the door already half-smiling, eyes soft with exhaustion but sparking underneath. Like he knew exactly why Dane had come, and exactly what he needed.

  They didn't speak. The moment the door clicked shut, Dane had him against it, one hand braced near his head, the other cupping Elian's jaw as he kissed him like it had been years, not just days. Their mouths crashed together—urgent, breathless, all heat and teeth. Hands tangled in fabric. Elian's fingers fumbled with Dane's shirt, frustrated by the grit and starch of his uniform.

  "Off," he muttered against his lips. "I want you, not the badge."

  Dane chuckled low, breath hitching, and reached down with practiced ease. His fingers found the familiar csps of his gun belt, that ever-present weight slung around his hips. It was more than a tool—it was a boundary. A symbol. The st piece of his role that never truly left him.

  He unhooked it with quiet precision—click, shift, release. Then id it down beside the bed with the kind of care you reserve for sacred things. Gun facing the wall. Holster locked.

  Elian didn't touch it. He never did.

  It was an unspoken rule between them—Dane handles the belt. Just like Elian handles his medical bag. And yet, even after ten years, Elian's eyes tracked the movement with shameless hunger.

  "Gods," he murmured, leaning against the wall now, shirt halfway up, skin glinting in the soft mplight. "You know I'll never get tired of watching you do that."

  Dane gnced over his shoulder, half-smirking. "The belt?"

  "Mmhmm." Elian's voice dipped, all teasing warmth. "The way you take it off like you're still half on duty. Even here. Even with me."

  He stepped in close, grazing his knuckles along Dane's stomach without dipping too far. Not yet. "You get all careful. All precise. Like you're undressing power, not just clothes. You know damn well I'd never touch that belt—but stars, Dane, the way you move when you're unhooking it?" He leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, voice low and wrecked. "It makes me want to be ruined."

  Dane exhaled hard, heat curling low in his gut. His hands gripped Elian's hips.

  "I should start wearing it more often."

  "You should," Elian purred, already walking them toward the bed, "but only if you promise to take it off for me just like that."

  Dane let him have the lead for a breath—just enough to see the mischief in his eyes, the way he bit back a smile. But the second Elian sat on the edge of the bed, Dane moved. Fast. Precise. A little hungry.

  He kissed him again, then pushed him down slowly, following until their bodies were flush. Clothes peeled away piece by piece—Dane's shirt, Elian's loose sleep pants. Dane's calloused hands swept over warm skin, mapping familiar ground, re-learning the shape of safety.

  But tonight, Dane didn't rush. He couldn't. Not after the day he'd had. Not after the girl—the one who returned like a ghost—and the bitter words he'd thrown at her like stones. Not after the guilt that clung to him like sweat.

  He kissed Elian's neck, his colrbone, down his chest—tasting him like penance. Like maybe, if he was soft enough, slow enough, he could scrape the shame from his bones. Elian arched into him with a quiet gasp, legs falling open to cradle Dane between them. No hesitation. No fear. Just take what you need.

  Their bodies found a rhythm that was slow, deep, and reverent. Dane moved like a man holding something breakable, even as Elian moaned and whispered his name, begging him not to hold back. But Dane couldn't rush—not tonight. Not when every thrust felt like a prayer. A confession.

  He buried his face in the crook of Elian's neck and let the words spill out.

  "I was an asshole today," he whispered.

  Elian's fingers threaded through his hair, steadying him. "You did what you thought was right."

  "Doesn't make it right," Dane muttered. "She was already down. I just made sure she stayed there."

  "You protect this town like it's your own skin," Elian said, voice soft, hips rolling up into Dane's with a shiver. "But you forget sometimes—you're allowed to care about the ones who don't wear a badge."

  "I'm trying," Dane whispered. "But I don't always get it right."

  "You're still here," Elian murmured, brushing his lips over Dane's. "That counts for something."

  And then he wrapped his legs tighter around Dane's waist, pulled him deeper with a breathy gasp.

  Dane groaned—raw, grateful. His rhythm faltered, his restraint fraying.

  "I don't deserve you," he rasped.

  Elian looked him dead in the eye. "You deserve everything. Even this."

  And stars, Dane believed it. For one fleeting, fragile second—he let himself believe it.

  He moved faster now, deeper. Their sweat-slick bodies sliding together in the dark, the headboard knocking gently with the rhythm of their bodies. Elian came first, moaning Dane's name like a vow, fingers digging into his shoulders. Dane followed moments ter, spilling into him with a broken sound that felt like release and apology in one.

  He colpsed into Elian's warmth, their breaths syncing slowly as the room returned to stillness. His chest heaved. His hands trembled.

  "You okay?" Elian asked softly, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

  Dane didn't answer right away. Just id there, heart pounding, Elian's hand warm over it.

  "Yeah," he said finally. "I am now."

  Later, tangled in Elian's sheets, Dane y on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His mind raced with the day's events, repying the encounter with Mia Virelli over and over.

  Elian rested beside him, one hand spyed over his chest in a comforting gesture. He already knew about Virelli—Gavin would've told him. But he didn't say a word, sensing Dane's turbulent thoughts. Just gave him presence. Pressure. The steadiness of knowing he wasn't alone in this confusion.

  Dane turned slightly and kissed the top of Elian's head, a silent thank you for his unwavering support. "She didn't even blink," he murmured, his voice rough with bewilderment. "Her childhood home was ash, and she just stood there. Who... does that?"

  Elian's voice was soft in the dark, a soothing balm against Dane's agitation. "Some wounds run too deep for the surface. And too deep to show to a stranger."

  Dane exhaled slowly, his breath carrying the weight of his frustration. "She looked right through it. Like it was just another damn pile of rock. I thought maybe—hell, I don't know what I thought. Screaming? Crying? Something."

  "She spent years in prison, Dane," Elian said gently, his tone ced with understanding. "That changes people."

  Dane snorted, his disbelief palpable. "It was a minimum-security rehab facility. Her worst punishment was the shes. And they healed her right after. She didn't come out of some torture hole."

  "I'm not saying she did," Elian replied, his words carefully measured. "But isotion still scars people. Even soft cages can harden someone, if they're in long enough."

  Dane didn't answer, his jaw flexing as if he wanted to argue, but the fight drained out of him. Elian let the silence stretch between them, giving Dane the space to process his thoughts.

  After a moment, Dane muttered, his voice tinged with frustration, "I don't like it. None of it adds up."

  Elian gnced at him, a soft huff of a smile tugging at his mouth, a hint of affection in his eyes. "You're sleepy."

  "I'm pissed," Dane grumbled, shifting deeper into the pillow as if seeking refuge from his own turbulent emotions.

  "You're pissed and sleepy," Elian said, a gentle tease in his tone.

  Elian leaned in and kissed Dane's shoulder, a tender gesture that spoke volumes. "That's usually when you say things you mean."

  Dane didn't reply, but he didn't need to. Elian didn't push, content to simply be there, tucked in beside the man who never quite knew how to articute what he felt—and who, for tonight, was still here, anchored by Elian's steadfast presence.