In the Wake of Desire
Soft light filters through the open window, gently pulling you out of sleep's warm embrace. The air is cool, and the room is quiet, save for the soft sound of Joan’s steady breathing. You blink a few times, disoriented, before realizing she’s holding you close, her arm draped over your waist, fingers lightly tracing the curve of your back. The warmth of her body against yours is grounding and comforting, yet there’s an underlying tension in the air—something you can’t quite place.
“Sweetheart,” Joan murmurs, her voice low and steady, pulling your attention to her. “I want you to do something for me.” She gently tilts your chin, guiding your face to meet hers. The sunlight bathes her in a warm glow, her hair shimmering like a halo, and for a moment, she looks ethereal–angelic. She’s watching over you with such tenderness that it takes your breath away.
She leans in just a little closer, her eyes never leaving yours, and the air between you feels thick with something unspoken. “Show me,” she whispers, her voice soft but insistent. There’s a tremor in her gaze, as though the request is both a plea and a command. “Show me what you are. I want to see the light you carry inside you. The part of you that’s pure. That’s good.”
You hesitate for a moment, a flutter of uncertainty in your chest. Joan’s gaze is unwavering and intense yet gentle, as if she’s waiting for something you don’t fully understand. She’s always been so sure, so confident in her control, but in this moment, there’s a raw vulnerability in her eyes that pulls at you, urging you to trust her.
“Please,” she breathes, her voice soft but thick with a hunger you can’t quite place. “I need to see it… I need to see the light you hide. You’re not like them, and I want to understand you.”
You take a slow, shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you feel her hand still on your face, warm and comforting. It’s as if she’s giving you space to be something more than you’ve shown her before.
“I’m not afraid,” she adds, her thumb gently brushing against your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid either. Show me.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and tender, as the tension between you both thickens. The thought of letting her see the side of you that’s always been hidden, the part that’s always felt dangerous, untouchable. It feels both terrifying and freeing.
You close your eyes, your breath shallow, and let yourself feel the shift inside you. Slowly, you extend your hand towards Joan, not out of any conscious thought but because the pull between you feels too strong to ignore.
The moment your fingers brush her skin, the air around you seems to crackle, and light begins to pulse softly from your body. At first, it’s faint—a shimmer, like the first rays of the sun at dawn, but it quickly grows, swirling around you, wrapping you both in a warm, golden embrace.
Joan stares at you, wide-eyed, her breath catching in her throat. “What… what is this?” Her voice is barely a whisper, filled with awe and something more—something that stirs in her chest. She reaches out, hesitating, before her hand finds its place on your wrist. The light flickers like the softest flame, yet it’s constant, filling the space with a divine glow.
“It’s… me,” you whisper, the words almost too soft to be heard. “I don’t know how to explain it, Joan. This is who I am.”
Her eyes search yours, filled with wonder and disbelief. “You… you’re not like anyone else,” she murmurs. “This isn’t—” Her voice falters as she watches the light flow from you, bathing the room in a soft, golden radiance. It’s so pure, so beautiful, that for a moment, it feels like time has stopped.
The warmth of your magic washes over her, and Joan closes her eyes, leaning into the sensation, as though she’s being embraced by something more ancient and protective than she can comprehend. “You’re an angel,” she breathes, her voice trembling with reverence. “A real angel…”
Your chest tightens at the word, the weight of it sitting heavily in the air between you. But in that moment, you realize she’s not afraid. She doesn’t recoil or question you. She simply accepts, as though your light is as natural as breathing, something that belongs with her.
The light swirls around you, filling the room with warmth, and Joan’s eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat. The brilliance of your magic overwhelms her, and before she can stop herself, the words slip out.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she stares at you. The words feel ancient, heavy with centuries of belief, but in this moment, they’re more than just scripture. They’re an invocation, a prayer to something higher.
You feel the shift in her as she speaks, the way her fingers tighten around your wrist, pulling you closer. Her eyes are full of something you can’t name—something between reverence and fear. She continues, almost as though compelled by something beyond herself.
“Yet, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Her gaze softens, and for a moment, she’s no longer looking at you as a mere mortal but as something more—something divine. “For Thou art with me.”
The words echo in the air, and for the first time, it feels like she truly understands, even if she can’t fully explain it. She’s not afraid. She’s entranced, caught between the religious teachings she’s held onto and the undeniable truth of what’s standing before her.
“Are you... sent from Heaven?” she asks, her voice trembling, as though the very question could shatter something inside her. “My savior to bring me back from damnation?”
Joan’s breath comes unsteady, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around your wrist. There’s something almost fragile in her expression, something teetering between devotion and devastation.
“I…” Her lips part, but the words fail her. Instead, she lifts a trembling hand, hovering just above the light that still lingers around you. Her hesitation is brief. Then, as though drawn by something beyond her own will, she touches you.
It starts at your cheek, her fingertips ghosting over your skin like a whispered prayer. A sharp inhale—her own, yours, you can’t tell—cuts through the quiet, and then she presses her palm fully against you, as if confirming you are real. Warmth floods her touch, and her lashes flutter as she exhales, like something in her has just unraveled.
“You…” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. “You are holy.”
Her touch is reverent, burning and delicate all at once. You should pull away, you think—you should say something, deny whatever sacred image she’s built of you in her mind. But you don’t. You can’t.
Joan strokes her thumb across your cheek, her touch both hesitant and possessive, as though afraid you might disappear if she loosens her grip. The light still lingers in the air, the warmth of it pulsing gently between you, casting shadows along the sharp angles of her face.
“Joan…” Your voice is quiet, uncertain. You search her face, trying to understand the depth of emotion flickering in her eyes. It’s too much. The way she’s looking at you—it’s too much. Like she’s unraveling, like she’s breaking apart and holding herself together all at once.
“Say it,” she whispers, her voice raw with something you don’t quite recognize. “Tell me you were sent to me.”
The weight of her words settles over you, heavy and consuming. The reverence in her gaze makes your chest tighten. You weren’t sent from Heaven. You weren’t anyone’s salvation. But Joan looks at you like you are. Like she’s already decided.
Your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t know what she wants from you—what she needs from you. Your silence only makes her tighten her grip, fingers sliding down to trace the line of your jaw. The way she touches you feels like worship, and it terrifies you. “Joan,” you try again, softer this time, but she shakes her head.
“You don’t understand,” she murmurs. Her hand trails lower, ghosting over your throat, then down, pressing over your collarbone. “You were made for me.” Her fingers flex, like she’s trying to ground herself in the feeling of your skin beneath her hand. “You’re… perfect.” Something twists inside you. A shiver, a flutter of warmth—something you can’t name.
She exhales sharply, eyes flickering between your own. Her other hand rises to cradle the back of your neck, and you’re caught, unable to move, unable to breathe. “Let me feel you,” she whispers, her lips barely inches from yours. “Let me prove it.”
Her fingers glide down your throat, slow and deliberate, pressing just enough to feel your pulse flutter beneath her touch. A shuddering breath escapes her, and for a moment, she just watches you, taking in every reaction, every tremble beneath her hands.
“You were made for me,” she murmurs, almost to herself, as though speaking it aloud makes it real. Her hands drift lower, mapping over the curve of your collarbone, the rise and fall of your breath. She moves without hesitation, with purpose, like she’s committing every inch of you to memory.
The room feels smaller, the air thick with something unspoken. Joan leans in, her lips brushing against your temple, a soft, reverent press of warmth before she trails lower, her breath hot against your skin. Her mouth lingers just beneath your jaw, and then she kisses you there—slow, searching. You can feel her sigh against you, the way she exhales like she’s finally breathing for the first time.
Her hands continue their descent, teasing over the fabric of your nightgown before slipping beneath, her fingertips tracing the bare skin below. She moves with aching slowness, dragging this moment out, savoring it. When she finally presses her lips to yours, it’s not rushed or desperate—it’s consuming, a slow claiming, like she’s taking her time proving to both of you that you belong to her.
Every touch sent a shiver through you, pleasure blooming beneath her fingertips like something electric. Your skin was alive with sensation, every nerve attuned to her, drawn to her.
"So sensitive," she murmured, her lips brushing against yours in a teasing whisper before trailing lower, pressing warm, lingering kisses along your jaw. Your breath came in quick, shallow pulls, each one tangled with the warmth of her touch. Beneath the haze of sensation, a deeper need stirred—a quiet, aching longing for more. For her to unravel you completely.
“Look at you,” Joan murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers trace slow, lazy patterns across your skin, as if she’s memorizing every inch of you. “So soft… so perfect.”
She kisses your cheek first, then the corner of your mouth, lingering, savoring the warmth of you beneath her lips. There’s something almost hesitant in the way she touches you—not because she’s unsure, but because she wants to take her time, to draw this out for as long as she can.
“My angel,” she breathes, the words reverent, as though they carry a weight only she understands. “God didn’t send me salvation, He sent me you.”
She cups your face in her hands, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet hers. There’s something desperate in her gaze, something that makes your stomach flutter. Like she’s not just touching you—she’s worshiping you.
“You were made just for me,” she says again, softer this time, pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw before moving lower. “And I’m going to show you exactly what that means.”
Without warning, she leans in, pressing her lips to you—reverent, exploratory. The first taste of you pulls a moan from deep within her, raw and unrestrained, sending a shiver through you. A small, gasping sigh escapes your lips, fingers twitching against the sheets.
Joan wraps her arms around your thighs, anchoring herself to your warmth as she pulls you closer, desperate, devoted. Her breath is hot against your skin, her grip firm as if she’s afraid to let you go. And then, with a slow, aching hunger, she buries her tongue inside you.
You gasp at her eagerness, your fingers tangling in her hair as your body responds instantly to her touch. “Mmm—yes… right there,” you breathe, voice trembling. “J-just a little—ahh, yes, keep going… just like that. God, that’s so good.”
Your moans spill out in breathless, incoherent syllables, your thighs trembling as you chase the crest of your pleasure. Joan seems to sense it, the way you’re teetering on the edge of bliss, and she doesn’t hesitate—her fingers slip inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right. At the same time, her lips replace her tongue, wrapping around your aching bundle of nerves, drawing you in deeper, pulling you apart.
As she works you closer to the edge, Joan’s breath becomes more uneven, her body shifting slightly as if trying to anchor herself in the same growing tension that you’re experiencing. Her fingers never falter inside you, but there’s something restless in her—something she can no longer deny.
Her free hand drifts down, trembling slightly as it slips between her own legs. A soft gasp escapes her lips, and her movements become more frantic, almost desperate, as she touches herself in time with the rhythm she’s setting for you. She’s lost in the sensation of giving you pleasure—her own need rising as she watches you fall apart beneath her, the way you’re completely undone because of her.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Joan murmurs, the words rasping out of her as she speeds up, pressing against herself. “You make me lose control… feel so good, watching you fall apart for me.”
Joan’s breath quickens as she watches you, her fingers still moving inside you, guiding you closer to the edge. Her own hand works faster now, as though she can’t contain the pleasure building inside her, drawn tighter with every soft, desperate gasp you release. She’s completely lost in you, in the way your body shivers and trembles under her touch.
"You feel so perfect," Joan breathes, her voice thick with desire. Her eyes lock onto yours, her grip on you tightening as she watches your face contort in pleasure. "I need you... need to feel you fall apart just for me."
Her fingers move more urgently, driven by the rising tide of her pleasure, but she never breaks her attention from you—never loses sight of how you’re unraveling beneath her. Every movement feels like worship, like she’s offering herself to you just as much as you are to her.
A low, breathy moan escapes Joan as she presses her fingers against her clit, the sensation adding a frantic edge to her motions. She’s trembling now, the need to finish building in her voice as she looks down at you. "Come for me, angel... show me how much you need this."
Joan’s movements grow more insistent, her fingers curling deep inside you, perfectly attuned to every shiver, every gasp, every helpless sound spilling from your lips. Her pleasure mounts with each motion, each whimper she pulls from you, her hips subtly rocking into her touch. She’s completely lost in you—drunk on the sight of you writhing beneath her, on the way you cling to her, fingers fisting in her hair like she’s the only thing grounding you.
“That’s it,” she murmurs, her voice nearly shaking, caught between reverence and desperation. “Give in, my sweet thing. Let me feel you—let me have you.”
She’s trembling now, undone by her own touch, by the way you’re coming apart for her, by the way your body arches into hers as if you were made for this. Her breath catches as her pleasure crests higher, as the tension coils tight inside her, the sensation heightened by the way you gasp her name, the way you break beneath her hands.
“Oh, God—” The words spill from her lips like a confession, like an oath, but she isn’t thinking of Him. Only of you. Only of how you’re unraveling for her, how your pleasure drags her deeper into the abyss.
And then it happens—your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut as a sharp cry escapes you, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Joan feels it, the way you clench around her fingers, the way you tremble in her arms, and it’s too much—she chases her release with a desperate moan, shuddering as she finally lets herself fall with you.
For a moment, there’s only heavy breathing, the warmth of her body still pressed against yours, her hands still gripping you like she’s afraid to let go. She rests her forehead against your thigh, her breath warm against your skin, her fingers twitching where they still rest against you.
Slowly, Joan lifts her head, her gaze meeting yours. And when she speaks, her voice is raw, breathless—filled with something that sounds dangerously close to devotion.
“I love you,” she whispers, and this time, there is no hesitation. Only certainty.
Silence hangs between you, thick and trembling, the only sound your uneven breaths mingling in the still air. Joan’s words echo in your ears, sinking into your bones, wrapping around your heart like something sacred.
I love you.
It doesn’t sound like a mistake. It doesn’t sound like something she wishes she could take back. It lingers—soft, raw, unguarded. And for once, Joan Ramsey does not flinch from the truth.
She stays there, her head resting against your thigh, her hands still gripping you as though afraid you’ll slip away. Her breath is warm against your skin, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak again. Maybe she’s waiting. Waiting for judgment, for rejection, for you to recoil from the weight of her love.
But you don’t.
Instead, you reach for her. Your fingers thread through her dark hair, gentle, reverent, as if touching something holy. Joan exhales sharply, shuddering beneath your touch, and when she finally lifts her head, her eyes find yours—wide, searching, almost afraid.
“Joan…” your voice is soft but steady, carrying none of the hesitation she must have feared. You brush your thumb against her cheek, feeling the way she leans into it despite herself, as though she’s spent her entire life aching for this kind of tenderness.
Her lips part, but no words come. It’s as if she doesn’t know what to do now that the truth has slipped free.
You could say it back. The words sit on your tongue, warm and certain, ready to be spoken. But instead, you let your hands speak for you—pulling her closer, guiding her up until she’s wrapped in your arms, her body molding against yours like she was always meant to be there.
Joan melts into you, burying her face against your neck, her breath shaky, uneven. You feel the way she clings to you, her fingers digging into your skin, like she’s terrified you’ll disappear.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispers at last, voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it. “Just… let me stay like this. Just for a little while.”
You tighten your arms around her, pressing a kiss to her temple, your lips lingering against her skin. “As long as you want,” you murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The afterglow clings to you both like silk, warm and heavy, but Joan doesn’t move away. Instead, she lingers, her fingers ghosting over your skin as if committing every inch of you to memory.
She exhales, slow and measured, then shifts onto her elbow, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead. Her gaze is unreadable, something between reverence and restraint, like she’s caught between indulgence and the need to pull away. But she doesn’t pull away. Not yet.
Wordlessly, she reaches for the glass of water by the bedside, sitting up just enough to press it to your lips. The act is surprisingly tender—careful, almost hesitant. You accept it, taking slow sips, your throat still raw from breathless gasps and whispered pleas.
When she sets the glass down, she leans in, her hand resting against your cheek, her thumb stroking absentmindedly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”
Her voice is different now—low, lacking its usual sharpness. It’s almost gentle.
Still, she doesn’t let go. Instead, her fingers trace down your arm, following a path over your wrist before entwining with yours.
She shifts again, this time reaching for a cloth, dampening it with cool water before bringing it between your legs, cleaning you up with a touch so soft it makes your chest ache. She doesn’t say anything as she does it, only watching, her brows slightly furrowed, her lips parted as though she wants to speak but doesn’t know how.
You don’t stop her. You don’t flinch away.
When she’s finished, she sets the cloth aside, but still—she doesn’t move away. Instead, she wraps an arm around you, tucking you against her, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. And just before sleep threatens to claim you, you hear it—so quiet it’s almost swallowed by the night.
“Mine.”
A prayer, a promise, a plea.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The loud, jarring slam of the door swinging open startles you from sleep. You barely have time to process the sudden chill in the air before a sharp voice cuts through the room. “Well, well. Isn’t this cozy?”
Your body tenses, eyes flying open—only to find Joan already awake, holding you tightly. Her arms tighten instinctively around you, her grip possessive, unwavering. The warmth of her body is still wrapped around you like a shield, but now it’s something more. A declaration.
Fiona stands in the doorway.
Her gaze sweeps over the two of you, taking in the way Joan cradles you, the way your body is still pressed against hers, boneless and pliant from sleep. Her lips curl—not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer—just something knowing.
Behind her, Luke lingers, his expression shifting rapidly from confusion to disbelief to something dangerously close to betrayal.
“Mother?” His voice is rough, like he already knows the answer but doesn’t want to believe it. Joan doesn’t move, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t loosen her hold on you. If anything, she draws you closer.
Her chin tilts upward, eyes cold, voice smooth. Unbothered. Untouchable. “What are you doing in my home, Fiona?”
Fiona scoffs, stepping further inside, the heels of her shoes clicking against the floor. “Please, Joan. You think a locked door is going to keep me out?”
Her eyes flick to you again—still drowsy, still tucked securely against Joan’s chest. Something flickers across her face, something unreadable.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” she muses, shaking her head. “Stealing away a pretty little thing like her. Though, I have to say, I expected you to put up more of a fight before you lost yourself.”
Joan finally smiles. It’s slow and deliberate. Dangerous. “Who says I lost?” Fiona lets out a low chuckle, the kind that curls at the edges with amusement but never quite reaches her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs, shaking her head as she takes another slow, measured step forward. “That’s adorable.”
Joan doesn’t react; she just tilts her head, her grip around you never loosening, her fingers slowly tracing over your arm in lazy, absentminded strokes—a display, a silent message.
This one is mine.
Luke, however, is far less composed. He’s still standing in the doorway, still staring, his mouth opening and closing like he can’t quite find the words. “Mother…” His voice is tight, tinged with something raw. “Tell me this isn’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his face twisting. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”
Joan’s lips curl, not quite a smirk, but something dangerously close. “And what exactly do you think it looks like?” Luke takes a step forward now, his hands clenched at his sides. “It looks like you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”
Fiona hums, not disagreeing. She moves to the side, leaning against the nearest surface with all the ease of someone watching a game unfold before them, thoroughly entertained.
“It’s fascinating, really.” She gestures vaguely toward you, still nestled against Joan, the sheets barely keeping you covered. “I never thought I’d see the day Joan Ramsey let herself be undone.” Her lips purse. “Over a witch, no less.”
Something inside Joan flickers at that, but she masks it well.
She exhales through her nose, slow and deliberate, and finally—finally—untangles herself from you. But she does it carefully, almost reverently, as though letting go is something unnatural to her.
Then she stands, tall. Steady. Unshaken. Joan meets Fiona’s gaze head-on. “Call her that again.” Fiona raises a brow. “Oh?” Joan’s voice dips—dangerous, steady. “Call her that again, and see what happens.”
Fiona studies her for a moment. Then, instead of responding, she shifts her gaze to you. “And you?” she muses, bored, curious, calculating. “Are you just going to sit there and let her speak for you? Or do you have something to say?”
The weight of their eyes falls on you. Luke’s, pleading. Fiona’s, amused. Joan’s… expectant. Waiting. It's up to you to choose.
You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, but your voice is steady, unwavering. “I have nothing to say to you.” Fiona’s brows lift in amusement. “Oh? Nothing at all?”
Your gaze doesn’t leave hers. You don’t shrink away. “I don’t owe you anything.” Something flickers across Fiona’s expression surprise, intrigue, something almost akin to approval.
But Luke looks like you’ve struck him. “You don’t mean that.” His voice is hoarse, searching, desperate for something, for the girl he thought you were. “She’s manipulating you.”
You shake your head, exhaling slowly. “No, Luke. I made my choice.” And then you turn to Joan. She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken. But her eyes are locked on you, sharp and assessing, full of something unreadable.
And then full of warmth. Something softens at the edges, something subtle. You chose her. And she is never letting you go. Luke goes still. Fiona’s smirk falters just for a second. But you don’t hesitate. Your voice is clear, steady, a truth that’s been waiting to be spoken.
“I love Joan.” It’s not just defiance. Not just a choice. It’s everything. Joan inhales sharply. Her grip on control, on restraint fractures. Her name in your mouth, shaped with love, not fear. Her name, declared before those who would tear her from you. She has never heard anything more sacred.
Fiona exhales, shaking her head with something between amusement and frustration. “Well, shit.” Luke’s expression crumbles. “No—” Joan moves before she thinks. She reaches for you, fingertips brushing your cheek, tilting your chin up, needing to see you, to be certain. And when she finds no fear, no doubt, only love… Her lips part, but for once, Joan Ramsey has no words.
Fiona clicks her tongue, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between you all. Then, with a smirk, she shakes her head. “Love, huh?” She exhales a laugh, sharp and knowing. “Well, that’s adorable. But tell me, sweetheart, what happens when she decides you’re just another sin she needs to repent for?”
Joan’s jaw tightens, her fingers curling at your waist like she's ready to defend you, but she doesn't say anything. “Watch your mouth.”
Fiona raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Hit a nerve?” She looks at you like she’s trying to read your soul, her words sharp as glass. “You sure about this, angel? Sure you won’t wake up one day and find yourself crucified for it?”
You don’t blink. Don’t waver. “I’m sure.” Joan tightens her hold on you, as if the very act of standing your ground requires her protection. And in a way, it does. Fiona sighs, rolling her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, don’t come crying to me when it all burns down.”
She takes one last glance at you and Joan, her gaze hard but tinged with something almost respectful. And then she turns on her heel, leaving with a final, almost mocking, “Try not to get excommunicated, Joan.” The door clicks shut, and the room feels quieter, emptier.
Luke lingers, but only for a second. His gaze falls to you, full of something that hurts to see. It’s almost as though he’s saying goodbye without saying it aloud. Finally, he walks away, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the distance.
And then there’s just you, and Joan. The air feels heavier now, filled with quiet certainty—this is yours. This is real.
Joan exhales slowly, her hand still resting on the small of your back as if grounding herself through your warmth. She doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, she watches the door, like she’s waiting for it to swing open again, like she might still be pulled from this moment.
But no one comes. “I need to tell you something,” she says at last, her voice soft, barely breaking the silence. “Before this goes any further. Before you look at me like that again.” You blink, turning toward her. “Like what?”
“Like I deserve you.” She finally meets your eyes, and the expression there makes your stomach twist—haunted, resolute. “I’ve done something. Something unforgivable.” You stay quiet, waiting.
“He was going to leave me,” she begins, slowly, carefully. “My husband. Said I was... too cold. Too much. Too everything. He packed a bag. Said he’d found someone else.” Her jaw clenches. “Said he wanted freedom.”
She’s trembling. Just slightly.
“I knew he was allergic,” she continues. “To bees. Terribly so. I knew he didn’t always carry his pen. And I knew he wouldn’t check his car.” She laughs, once, sharp and humorless. “So I filled it with them. Bees. Dozens. Hundreds. I stood at the window and watched him go.”
Your breath catches. “He died before he made it to the hospital,” she says, and for the first time, her voice cracks. “And I didn’t feel sorry. Not then. I felt relieved.”
Joan turns toward you now, fully, her eyes wide and raw. “But now I look at you, and all I feel is guilt. Because you… you make me want to be something better. And I don’t know if I can be.”
You don’t flinch. You just reach for her hand, lacing your fingers together. “I was so angry,” she says. “I thought… if he could just be gone, then maybe I wouldn’t be left again. I wouldn’t be unloved.”
You don’t tell her it was wrong. She knows that already. What she needs isn’t punishment. It’s someone who won’t run. You lean your head against her shoulder. “You’re not unloved now.”
Joan lets out a shaky breath and turns her face into your hair. “Do you believe in second chances?” she asks. You close your eyes. “No.” Her breath stills. “I believe in choices,” you whisper. “And I choose you.”
Her arms tighten around you like she might fall apart otherwise.
Outside, the wind rustles the trees. Somewhere in the house, the old walls creak like they’re settling around this new truth: she killed for love, and you stayed anyway. Joan presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Say it again,” she murmurs. You smile. “I choose you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The days that follow settle into something quiet. Not perfect, not easy—but real. The house feels lighter now, like the walls have let out a long-held breath. There are no more secrets waiting behind doors. No more shadows trying to take you from each other.
Joan still wakes before you sometimes, lying beside you in the soft golden light, just watching. Like she’s memorizing your face. Like she’s making sure you’re still here. You always are.
She brings you tea in the mornings, her hand brushing yours with a tenderness that’s new and unhurried. You help her tend to the garden, your fingers brushing in the soil, laughter blooming between you like wildflowers.
One evening, you curl up together on the worn couch, a blanket tangled around your legs and your head tucked beneath her chin. Her fingers trail idly along your spine. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no tension in her shoulders. No storm in her eyes. Just the slow, quiet settling of someone who knows they are no longer alone.
“I used to think I’d have to pay for what I’ve done forever,” she whispers into your hair. You tilt your head to look at her, your palm resting over her heart. “You’re not paying anymore. You’re healing.” Joan closes her eyes at that, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “With you, I think I can.”
You stay there long after the fire dims to embers. The night wraps around the two of you gently, not to hide, but to hold. To cradle something reborn in softness, and hard-won love.
No one comes to take it away. Not Fiona, not the past, not even the guilt. Just the two of you, safe in the quiet glow of something true. You are hers, and she is yours.
And for once, that is enough.