17. Roman
ROMAN
It’s been a hard week. Hard in the kind of way that settles into your bones and refuses to move no matter how much sleep you get or how much whisky you pour down your throat. Atlas didn’t just find a microphone in the underground six days ago; he found cameras too.
We tore the place apart the second we realised we were compromised, ripping at loose bricks, pulling panels from the walls, turning the entire space upside down until we started finding them.
Every time we thought we’d reached the last one, Atlas’ software flagged another signal buried somewhere deeper in the room.
They’re tiny things, carefully tucked into corners and beams where no one would ever think to look.
He nearly traced the source too. We were seconds away from having something real when his entire system locked up without warning.
Whoever is watching us didn’t simply shut the programme down; they reached straight through the firewall and burned everything.
I swirl the whisky slowly in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch on the dim kitchen light as the ice knocks softly against the sides. I just stare at it before tipping the rest back. The burn slides down my throat but barely registers anymore.
The radio hums quietly in the background and the first notes of ‘Turning Page by Sleeping At Last’ drift through the kitchen.
My nose scrunches immediately. The piano presses straight into something raw in my chest and irritation spikes through me as I lean forward across the island, grabbing the open bottle.
The glass lands back on the counter with a clink as I pour myself another generous measure and the music continues to play behind me like some cruel reminder of everything I’ve been trying not to think about.
The house has been quiet all week as well and I hate it.
It’s not the peaceful kind of quiet that settles over a place at the end of a long day, but the heavy kind that hangs in the air like someone died and no one quite knows how to talk about it yet.
Even the boys are subdued, which is saying something.
Riggs hasn’t made a proper joke in two days, and the few comments he does say falls flat.
Atlas barely leaves his laptop, hunched over it for hours as he tries to piece together information that keeps slipping through our fingers.
Victor sits by the windows more often than not, watching the drive and the gates like he expects someone to appear at any second.
Felix hasn’t slept and all I’m consuming these days is whisky.
I swirl the glass in my hand again and stare at the dark liquid inside it, realising distantly that the bottle has become a permanent fixture on the kitchen island this week.
I never thought I’d see the day I’d complain about silence, but right now it is unbearable.
For once I need something loud enough to drown out the thoughts running through my head.
She’s not dead.
I would feel it if she was… wouldn’t I?
Something that big couldn’t just happen quietly.
It wouldn’t slip past me unnoticed whilst I sit here drinking whisky and pretending the world hasn’t tilted off its axis.
If Fae was gone there would be a cosmic explosion tearing straight through my ribs and stealing the air from my lungs before I even understood why.
I wouldn’t be breathing normally. The universe would have to stop, the ground would split open beneath my feet, because losing her would be the kind of thing that doesn’t happen gently.
It would shatter everything.
I exhale and lean my weight back against the counter. The kitchen lights are dim, the only real glow coming from the lamp over the table where the boys are scattered around with half-finished drinks and empty plates.
I reach for my phone and glance at the screen, noting immediately that Dad still hasn’t messaged me back. The absence shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but lately his behaviour has started to feel… off.
Mum says he’s been keeping strange hours, disappearing into the city for late nights without offering much of an explanation when she asks where he’s been.
When I talk to him, he’s evasive in a way that feels wrong, like he’s measuring every word before he says it.
He even completely lost his temper with me the other day when I asked who he had at gunpoint over the phone.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, pushing away from the counter.
It’s barely eight thirty but I’m done for the night.
The music alone is enough to send a sane man crazy, and I don’t have the energy to sit here pretending I’m fine.
My chair scrapes harshly against the floor as I start toward the kitchen doorway.
The sound is loud enough that I see the guys’ heads snap up and their own chairs shift slightly as they register the sudden movement. I ignore them and keep walking.
I barely make it halfway to the door before the front door swings open. The sound stops me mid-step. A rush of cold night air spills through the hallway and I frown at the simple fact that everyone who lives here is already inside the house. No one should be coming through that door right now.
Then I see her.
Mum stands just inside the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hall.
I find myself cataloguing her features. Her shoulders are drawn tight, her breathing is slightly uneven like she’s been moving quickly, and the look on her face sends a sharp thread of unease through my chest. She looks unhinged in a way I’ve never seen before.
There’s anger simmering under her eyes, but it’s tangled up with something else too… fear.
“Mum?” I step towards her as my chest tightens with worry. “Mum—what’s wrong?”
Chairs scrape loudly behind me as the boys start moving too, everyone pushing back from the table at once as they walk to where I’m standing to take her in.
Mum doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, she gives us all a small, soft smile and then steps into the hallway, leaving the front door open.
My frown deepens as I step closer to hug her.
“I bring gifts,” she says before nodding back toward the open door.
I turn to look, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
My brain refuses to process what I’m seeing because standing there, framed by the cold night air, with huge green eyes darting uncertainly around the room, is Fae.
My entire body goes still as the world seems to tilt slightly on its axis.
She looks different. Skinnier than I’ve ever seen her.
The soft fullness of her cheeks is gone.
It’s been replaced by sharper edges that make a painful twist pull through my chest. Her shoulders are drawn to her ears, and the way she stands there frozen in the doorway watching me carefully splinters something deep inside my ribs.
My vision blurs suddenly. I realise distantly that my eyes are filling with tears, but I can’t seem to move. For weeks she has existed as a ghost in my head. A memory. A voice. A promise I kept chasing through empty buildings and dead ends.
And now she’s standing right in front of me.
Alive.
I take a step forward, finally breaking out of the frozen state I’d been trapped in, and the movement seems to trigger something in her.
Her entire body starts shaking. The sight of it hits me so hard my chest physically aches.
Instinct takes over and I move faster, closing the distance between us with my eyes locked on hers.
By the time I reach her, my chest feels like it’s about to split open.
I pull her fragile body into my arms as she goes rigid against me.
Her muscles tighten like she doesn’t quite know what’s happening, but I don’t let go.
I hold on like I’ve been drowning for weeks and she’s the only thing keeping me above water.
Then, slowly… so slowly it almost hurts to wait, her hands clutch the front of my shirt like she’s holding on for dear life.
I bury my face in her hair. She doesn’t smell like vanilla and honey anymore.
The warm, familiar scent that has lived somewhere deep in my bones for years is gone.
In its place is the sharp, sterile trace of antiseptic soap and the faint bite of the cold night air that still clings to her clothes.
The realisation hurts. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to pull her away from everyone else right now, march her straight upstairs, and scrub every last trace of wherever she’s been off her skin until she smells like herself again.
“Tinkerbell…” I whisper hoarsely, finding my voice for the first time, and she shudders against me.
“Hey Ro…” she whispers back.
Everything inside me gives way at once.
My knees buckle and I sink to the floor, pulling her down with me as my arms wrap around her like I’m terrified she might vanish if I loosen my grip even slightly. A broken sound tears out of my chest, raw enough that I barely recognise it as my own.
I’m crying. Properly crying.
My forehead presses into her shoulder as I rock slightly where we’ve collapsed and my hands grip the back of her shirt at the same time her body trembles against mine with silent sobs of her own.
She’s here.
My hands move over her back, her arms, her hair, the curve of her shoulder, cataloguing every part of her like I’m afraid I’ll wake up and discover this is a cruel dream.
She’s here. She’s actually here. I pull her closer, trying to soothe the tremors running through her body even though my own are just as bad.
I lose track of time, lost in the simple reality of having her in my arms again.
“Share!” Felix suddenly barks from somewhere behind us.