Chapter Two-hundred Eight-One: The Cost Of Mercy

Chapter 281

The Cost of Mercy

The engine of the 1970 Shelby Mustang Cobra rumbled one last time before falling silent. Fabien leaned back into the worn leather seat, closing his eyes as he took a long, shaky breath to steady his racing heart. The adrenaline was finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion. After a few quiet moments, he pushed the heavy door open and climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath his sneakers as he made his way to the front door.

The house was silent as he stepped inside. He moved with mechanical precision, shedding the day's weight. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair, then sat down to tug off his sneakers and peel off his socks, tossing them into the laundry basket. Every movement felt sluggish, his body still recovering from the strain of the encounter.

He walked toward the bathroom, the cool tile floor a sharp contrast to his skin. Stepping inside, he avoided his reflection in the mirror and stripped out of his dolphin shorts and briefs. He turned the shower dial, waiting for the steam to fill the small space. As he stepped under the spray, Fabien stood perfectly still, letting the warmth envelop him. His gaze remained fixed on the water at his feet as it immediately turned dark red. He watched intently as the liquid, thick with his own dried blood, began to swirl and spiral rhythmically down the drain—a grim, hypnotic reminder of the battle he had just survived.

Fabien finally turned off the faucet, the silence of the house returning as the last of the water vanished. He stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, briskly drying himself off before pulling on a pair of green plaid pajama pants. Exhausted, he made his way to the bedroom and climbed into bed, settling in beside Celeste.

Celeste turned to him.

Celeste: “Where were you?”

Fabien paused.

Fabien: “I was detoured after work, and I had to rescue Lena from a sex trafficker and then Narcisse.”

He replied.

Celeste: “You rescued Lena?”

Fabien nodded.

Fabien: “She popped in during my shift and asked for a drive home.”

He inhaled sharply.

Celeste: “Why did you drive her home?”

Fabien: “Because she asked nicely during my shift… We got detoured, took a scenic route, and then a fake police officer stopped us and kidnapped her, taking her to an abandoned hospital filled with venomous spiders.”

Celeste looked away.

Celeste: “You know she crushes on you, right?”

Fabien let out a heavy, tired breath, closing his eyes as he sank deeper into the mattress.

Fabien: “I didn’t think about that. Honestly? My only concern was getting her out of that place alive. The rest... that’s not something I have the energy to worry about right now.”

Celeste furrowed her eyebrows.

Celeste: “Bullshit!”

Fabien drew a long breath.

Fabien: “Celeste, I am beyond exhausted now. I had to face Tristan’s crazy fucking uncle on my own, try to get her an antidote because that spider’s bite would have killed her in an hour, and Percy being Percy had one of his kooky minions spot us…”

He exhaled a long breath.

Fabien: “Can you please cut me some slack and save this petty drama for later?”

He gave her a beseeching look.

Fabien: “Please?”

Celeste turned around.

Celeste: “This is what happened with Jaxon and Chelsea.”

She pouted. Fabien’s jaw tightened.

Fabien: “Celeste, listen to me. Jiro jumps from person-to-person. He did this before he decided to hop onto you or even Chelsea. I don’t do this shit. I drove Lena home to be nice to Jordi’s kid sister. I don’t have ulterior motives.”

He said resolutely.

Fabien: “And I know Lena tends to do this, too, but this isn’t the point.”

He said exasperatedly.

Fabien: “And frankly, if I wanted to be with Lena, I would be. But I chose you, Celeste. I’m here, in this bed, with you. Can we please just let the jealousy go for one night?”

He pulled the covers up, hoping the conversation—and the tension—would finally end.

Celeste: “NO!”

She pouted. Fabien’s jaw tightened, and he turned his back to her, pulling the quilt up to his chin.

Fabien: “Celeste, I’m done. We can talk about this when I’ve actually slept, but I am not doing this right now.”

He muttered, his voice strained and final, determined to drift off despite the heavy tension lingering in the room.

Celeste pulled the covers off him. Fabien didn’t even open his eyes, merely letting out a long, ragged sigh of defeat as the cool air hit his skin.

Fabien: “If you want to freeze, go ahead, but I’m not playing this game tonight. I’m too tired.”

He remained motionless, refusing to engage further, his body aching for the rest he desperately needed.

Celeste: “You wouldn’t be if you didn’t play hero!”

She huffed. Fabien turned around to face her.

Fabien: “What was I supposed to do?!”

He snapped.

Celeste: “Get Ashley to save her!”

Fabien laughed a mirthless laugh.

Fabien: “That fat chick gets her arm broken by Blair. She can’t do shit.”

He ran his hand through his hair.

Fabien: “You’re acting like I had a dozen options, Celeste. I had one. I had to get her out before the poison killed her and before that sex trafficker or Narcisse got her. I was the only one there until Percy came and administered the antidote, not to save her but to stick it to Jiro. If that’s a problem for you, then I’m sorry, but I’m done arguing.”

Celeste: “And you won’t be done until I say you’re done, Fabien. You chose to put yourself in that position, and you chose to put her before me. Don’t you dare act like the victim here.”

She crossed her arms, her eyes flashing with hurt and stubborn resentment. Fabien let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, his voice raspy from exhaustion.

Fabien: “I never chose her over you, Celeste. I am NOT acting like the victim! I chose to do the right thing because a life was on the line. If you can’t tell the difference between saving someone and choosing them, then I don’t know what else to say to you.”

He turned onto his side, facing away from her again, his posture stiffening as he closed his eyes, determined to find some semblance of peace in the dark.

Fabien: “You can keep shouting, but I’m done.”

Celeste scoffed, her voice low and tight with lingering frustration.

Celeste: “You’re ‘done’? That’s convenient, ain’t it? Just shut down and act like your ‘good deed’ absolves you of everything else.”

She sat up, the movement causing the bed to shift, and stared daggers at his back.

Celeste: “We aren’t finished talking about this, Fabien. Not until you admit that you prioritize her feelings—and her safety—over ours.”

Fabien remained silent for a long moment, the darkness of the room doing little to hide the tension radiating from him.

Fabien: “If that’s what you need to believe to keep this fight going, then fine. Believe what you want. But I am not going to sit here and validate a narrative that doesn’t exist just so you can feel better.”

He shifted, his body aching in protest as he tried to settle into a more comfortable position, his eyes remaining squeezed shut.

Fabien: “I chose to survive tonight. I chose to get home to you. That’s the reality, Celeste. I am not listening to anything else.”

Celeste threw the sheets on him and rose out of bed.

Fabien: “Where are you going?”

Celeste: “Away from you!”

Fabien watched her go, the adrenaline finally leaving him completely, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. He didn’t move to stop her. He was too tired to fight and far too tired to plead. He let his head sink back into the pillow, the room’s darkness suddenly feeling heavier as he listened to her footsteps fade away.

~

The following day, Fabien finally stirred, the digital clock on the bedside table glowing with a harsh “3:21”. He lay still for a moment, the silence of the room amplifying the heavy, lingering weight of the previous night’s argument with Celeste. With a slow, pained groan, he pushed himself up and climbed out of bed, his muscles stiff and protesting every movement. Shuffling across the floor, he made his way back toward the bathroom, the echo of their unresolved tension following him like a shadow in the afternoon light.

In the bathroom, the fluorescent light flickered to life, casting a stark, sterile glow over the room. Fabien reached for his toothbrush, his fingers brushing against the cold porcelain of the sink. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic slowness, applying a strip of paste and beginning to brush. Each stroke was deliberate and methodical, the repetitive motion providing a small, grounding anchor in the wake of the previous night’s chaos. He rinsed his mouth, the cool water a brief relief against the stale taste of exhaustion, and stared blankly at the drain for a moment before setting the brush back in its holder.

Fabien caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the harsh fluorescent light revealing a patch of white, wiry stubble along his jawline that he hadn’t noticed before. He ran a hand over the rough texture, a grimace forming as he reached for his razor and shaving cream. He worked quickly, the blade scraping away the growth with rhythmic efficiency, until his face was clean once more. Only then did he turn to the shower dial, ready to wash away the rest of the day.

He turned the shower dial again, listening to the familiar hiss of the pipes as the water warmed. Stepping into the stall, he let the spray hit his shoulders, the heat seeping into his sore muscles. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the damp tile as he lathered soap over his skin, focused on scrubbing away the last invisible remnants of the hospital, the spiders, and the lingering sting of Celeste’s words. Under the steady drumming of the water, he felt the heavy mantle of the previous day slowly begin to lift, replaced by a quiet, hollow stillness.

Fabien finally reached for the dial and clicked it shut, the sudden silence of the bathroom heavy in the humid air. He stepped out onto the bath mat and grabbed a fresh towel, briskly wiping the moisture from his skin. Once dry, he moved back into the bedroom to pull on a pair of clean white briefs. He followed with a faded black Rush band tank top, a heavy red flannel shirt he left unbuttoned, and a pair of well-worn blue jeans.

Fabien stepped out of the bedroom and into the quiet living room, his eyes scanning the rooms for any sign of Celeste.

Fabien “Celeste?”

He called out, his voice sounding thin and uncertain in the still air. There was no reply, only the rhythmic ticking of the cat wall clock. As he moved through the house, he began to notice the small, jarring absences—her keys were missing from the hook, her purse was gone from the table, and the bathroom counter looked strangely bare without her things. A cold, hollow weight settled in his chest as the reality of her departure truly set in. He stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by a lingering sense of emptiness that confirmed she was gone, leaving him alone with the heavy, unresolved echoes of their argument.

~

Celeste paced the length of the polished floor, her leather mules clicking rhythmically against the hardwood. She wore an off-the-shoulder white tiger-stripe top and a denim skirt, her expression clouded with lingering resentment. In the center of the room, Deimos was shirtless, wearing gray gym shorts and sneakers as he worked out on a weight-lifting machine, his muscles straining with every controlled repetition.

Celeste: “He just shut down, Deimos. He acted like saving Lena somehow made him untouchable, like I didn’t even have a right to be angry that he was out all night with her.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation, her voice echoing in the sparse gym.

Celeste: “And then he has the nerve to tell me he’s ‘done’ and goes to sleep? He prioritized her safety, her feelings, and then left me to deal with the fallout alone.”

Deimos didn’t break his rhythm. He exhaled slowly as he pushed the weighted bar upward, the metal plates clinking softly. He waited until he finished the set, slowly lowering the weights before finally glancing toward her.

Deimos: “Well, first of all, I agree with you. Lena should have gotten a cab home. We both know why she did that bullshit.”

Celeste: “Thank you!”

She threw her arms up.

Deimos: “These girls do this inane bullshit of playing the damsel in distress, so the man will come out and save her. Look how it worked out for Chelsea.”

He drew a long breath.

Deimos: “In the same breath, Fabien doesn’t jump from person-to-person, unlike Jaxon. Maybe he’s trying to make up for how he acted when he was with Craig. I don’t know, but I wouldn’t rush to help anyone, except Tristan, Monica, and you. Everyone else can fuck themselves.”

He huffed.

Deimos wiped the sweat off himself.

Deimos: “Look…”

He began.

Deimos: “Tristan went to save his secretary, Erin, from a mind-controlled DashDish driver. Rosemary Ferraro planted a letter for the Pink Top Ripper to target Erin because she felt she flirted with Tristan and thought he was dating Ivy.”

He folded his arms over.

Deimos: “Whether Erin crushes on Tristan or not…, I don’t know, but I know Tristan loves me. He saved her because Rosemary set some traps, and Narcisse made it worse. My point is Tristan saved her because it was the right thing to do.”

He stated. Celeste pouted.

Celeste: “I don’t think Erin pretends she always needs help from Tristan. He briefed us on him following her during Rutherford’s rampage, but that was legit. She didn’t overstep boundaries! Lena fucking IS!”

She hissed. Deimos resumed his workout.

Deimos: “That’s a good point. Rosemary didn’t take it that way, but it’s fucking Rosemary, and Ivy is like her goddamn mother.”

He huffed.

Deimos paused his workout, letting the weighted bar settle into its rack with a final, heavy clang. He sat down on the weight bench, his chest still heaving slightly from the exertion. Without a word, he reached down and unlaced his sneakers, tugging them off before peeling away his damp socks. Almost instantly, a pungent, reeking odor filled the small gym space, thick and overwhelming.

Celeste wrinkled her nose, recoiling instantly as the scent hit her. She stepped back, waving a hand in front of her face in a futile attempt to clear the air.

Celeste: “Ugh, Deimos! Your feet fuckin’ stink—they smell like a locker room death trap in here!”

She groused, her expression one of pure disgust as the stench continued to linger in the cramped room. Deimos rolled his eyes.

Deimos: “And I am working on that!”

He snapped and stormed off to the bathroom to use the shower.

~

Shortly afterward, Deimos emerged onto the patio fresh from the shower, clad in clean blue gym shorts. Nearby, Celeste remained seated, lost in her own thoughts.

Deimos: “Look, Celeste, I know it hurts, but this is Jaxon. Jaxon is a great bandmate, but he fucking sucks as a lover. This was never meant to work out, but Fabien isn’t like this. Don’t make the same mistake I did. I’m lucky I got Tristan back.”

He stated and sat down beside her.

Deimos: “Besides, a few months earlier—before she decided to crush on Jaxon— she crushed on Tristan. He took her to a goddamn ball.”

He said with bitterness in his tone. He raked his fingers through his damp black waves.

Deimos: “She’ll jump onto the next man in a few weeks. Don’t push away Fabien because of whatever Hallmark bullshit idea Ivy planted in your head. It didn’t work out for Ivy… or her mother.”

Celeste listened to him and took it in. She took a deep breath and composed herself.

Celeste: “She’s still overstepping boundaries.”

Deimos nodded.

Deimos: “I agree with you, but Fabien can’t control what she does, no more than we can control what Ivy, Narcisse, or Dougal does.”

He drew a long breath.

Celeste stared at Deimos.

Celeste: “...Dougal has been pretty quiet. Last I saw him was when he and his Darashinai attacked Jax, Fab, and me in the funhouse.”

Deimos gazed intently at her.

Deimos: “Funny, Tristan mentioned Dougal has been quiet. Maybe that fat fuck is back in jail. I’ll check the international papers.”

~

Lena walked down Juniper Street and made her way up the walkway of Fabien and Celeste’s house. She wore a light blue floral sundress, a sunhat adorned with a light blue ribbon, and white butterfly sandals.

Cradled carefully in both hands was a pastel tin, warm to the touch and lined with wax paper. Inside rested a fresh batch of heart-shaped blueberry and carrot muffins—Fabien’s absolute favorite —baked with meticulous care, right down to the tiny sugar crystals dusting each golden-brown top. Her heart beat a nervous, fluttering rhythm against her ribs.

Reaching the front porch, Lena smoothed down the lace hem of her floral sundress, took a deep breath to steady her trembling hands, and gently pressed the doorbell.

Moments later, the door swung open. Fabien stood in the threshold, looking exhausted. He rubbed the back of his neck with an easy grin that immediately made Lena’s cheeks flush warm pink.

Fabien: “Oh, hey, Lena! How are you feeling?”

He greeted her, stepping aside with a welcoming motion.

Fabien: “What brings you by? Come on in out of the heat.”

Lena: “Hi, Fabien.”

She managed, her voice coming out a little softer and higher than she intended. She stepped into the cool entryway, the familiar, comforting scent of tea and cedar welcoming her inside.

Lena: “I was... well, I was baking earlier, and I remembered you said how much you loved these. Since I promised you a batch, here you are.”

She held out the tin, lifting the lid to reveal the neat row of heart-shaped blueberry and carrot muffins. The sweet aroma of cinnamon, roasted carrots, and tart berries filled the space between them.

Fabien’s green eyes lit up with genuine delight.

Fabien: “No way! Are you serious? Blueberry and carrot? Thank you! I didn’t think you would do it.”

He eagerly took one of the muffins, admiring the crisp edges before taking a generous bite. A look of pure bliss washed over his face.

Fabien: “Incredible. Seriously, these are even better than the bakery downtown.”

Lena felt a giddy warmth swell inside her chest, her fingers clutching the edges of the tin as she looked up at him through her lashes.

Lena: “I’m really glad you like them. I made sure to add extra blueberries just for you.”

Fabien: “You’re too sweet.”

He chuckled warmly, taking another bite and leaning against the kitchen counter behind him.

Lena: “It’s also for you rescuing me…”

She said softly. Fabien paused, recalling how much of an emotional and physical toll that took on him, and then Celeste gave him the third degree.

Fabien: “...You don’t need to thank me for that.”

He said, forcing a smile.

As Fabien reached into the pastel tin to pluck a second muffin, Lena’s gaze drifted downward, tracing the lean line of his denim down to the tiles of the kitchen floor. He was barefoot.

Lena found her attention helplessly anchored there. After a grueling shift darting between crowded tables, sizzling wing fryers, and sticky bar taps in heavy athletic sneakers, she might have expected exhaustion to leave its mark. Instead, his bare feet appeared strikingly immaculate. The pale arches were sculpted and flawless, the skin smooth and completely devoid of any dust, rough calluses, or sweat from his hours at the diner. There wasn’t the faintest trace of odor in the warm kitchen air—only the comforting, spiced bouquet of warm cinnamon, crushed blueberries, and the faint, clean cedar of his home.

The sheer perfection of the sight made Lena’s breath hitch slightly in her throat. She pressed the tin a fraction closer to her chest, her fingers tightening against the painted tin as a fresh surge of heat rose up the back of her neck. He carried an effortless, radiant freshness about him, moving with a relaxed, graceful stride that made even the ordinary act of walking across his own kitchen look light and frictionless. It seemed almost impossible that someone who spent all day on his feet could look so utterly pristine, but standing there, Fabien seemed completely impervious to the grime and exhaustion of the outside world.

Fabien took another appreciative bite of the spiced pastry, entirely unaware of where her gaze had wandered. He leaned back against the edge of the counter and comfortably crossed one barefoot ankle over the other. The casual shift in his stance only served to draw her eyes back to the smooth, pale contours of his feet against the floor.

Fabien: “You’ve got a real gift. Most people overmix the batter when they fold in carrots, but this is so light.”

Lena hastily dragged her eyes back up, praying the flush blooming across her cheeks wouldn't betray the wandering trajectory of her attention.

Lena: “I… I grate them very finely.”

She managed to murmur, her voice soft and slightly breathless, adjusting the delicate pink clip in her purple curls with one trembling hand.

Fabien sealed the pastel tin with a crisp snap, carefully sliding the remaining muffins into the refrigerator. With an exaggerated sigh of utter relief, he ambled into the adjoining living room, shedding what little formal posture he had left. He collapsed backward onto the deep cushions of the sofa, letting out a contented groan as he stretched out his long frame. He kicked his legs up, casually resting his bare feet over the sofa’s plush armrest in full view.

From the kitchen doorway, Lena lingered, the empty space where the warm muffin tin had just rested leaving her fingers fidgeting against the floral cotton of her sundress. She found her eyes drawn right back to his propped-up feet. Up close, resting effortlessly against the dark upholstery, they looked just as flawlessly immaculate as they had on the kitchen floor—soft, pale, and completely unbothered by the long hours he spent sprinting across Danny Donger’s hardwood floorboards or rescuing her last night.

Fabien: “Man…”

He murmured, tossing one arm over his forehead and closing his eyes, a serene smile tugging at his lips.

Fabien: “You have no idea how good it feels to finally kick back.”

Lena took a tentative, hesitant step toward the living room, the heels of her sandals clicking gently against the floorboards before she caught herself and walked softly across the rug.

Lena: “You... you really work so hard, Fabien…”

She murmured, her voice laced with that delicate, breathless admiration. Her gaze stayed fixed on the pale curve of his insteps and the relaxed splay of his toes.

Lena: “You deserve to relax.”

Fabien: “Tell me about it.”

He chuckled softly, his voice muffled slightly by his forearm. He shifted slightly to settle deeper into the cushions, his bare soles flexing just a fraction against the armrest.

Lena stood frozen in the doorway, the quiet of the living room amplifying the frantic thrum of her own heart. The air felt heavy, charged with a sudden, electric impulse that tightened her chest. Fabien’s feet, propped so carelessly against the armrest, seemed to occupy all the space in her vision. They were perfectly still, the pale, smooth arches and the slight, relaxed curl of his toes beckoning her with an intensity that made her palms itch.

It was a reckless, impulsive thought—the kind that usually made her retreat—but the sight of him so unguarded, so serene after the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, chipped away at her hesitation. Her fingers, still trembling slightly from the thrill of being in his home, twitched at her sides. She took a breath, her resolve wavering for only a second before she gave in.

Lena moved across the rug, her footsteps barely making a sound. Fabien was still drifting, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and rhythmic. She hovered over the sofa, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. With a shaky, decisive motion, she reached out.

Her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of his arch.

The reaction was instantaneous. Fabien’s entire frame jolted, his legs kicking out instinctively as a startled, breathy laugh erupted from him.

Fabien: “WAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! WHAHAHAHAT?!”

His eyes snapped open, wide and disoriented, as he scrambled to pull his feet back, his body arching off the cushions. He let out a breathless, wheezing laugh, his face flushing instantly as he looked up at her, caught completely off guard.

Fabien: “Lena! What—what was that for?”

He tried to suppress a smile, but the surprise still held him, his shoulders shaking with the fading remnants of his laughter. He looked at her, his expression a mix of bewilderment and amusement, his feet still twitching involuntarily from the lingering sensation.

Lena felt heat rush up her cheeks, her pulse skyrocketing.

Lena: “I... you looked so relaxed, I just couldn’t help it…”

She murmured, her voice barely a whisper, though a playful, defiant glint sparkled in her eyes. Lena: “You seemed like you needed a wake-up call.”

Lena didn't back down. Seeing the composed, heroic Fabien reduced to a squirming, laughing mess was an intoxicating shift in power. She lunged forward, her fingers dancing with renewed vigor against the sensitive, pale skin of his soles. She traced the high, delicate arches and dug her fingertips into the soft hollows just beneath his toes.

Fabien's laughter transitioned into high-pitched, desperate shrieks.

Fabien: “AHHAHAHA! LENA! STOP! PLEAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHEASE! WAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

He thrashed wildly, his shoulders hitting the sofa cushions as he tried to curl into a ball, but the position of his legs over the armrest left him completely exposed. His toes curled and splayed in a frantic, rhythmic dance, every light brush of her nails sending jolts of unbearable electricity through his frame.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA!!”

The exhaustion that had weighed him down moments ago was forgotten, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming agony of his own sensitivity. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he wheezed, his face turning a deep shade of crimson.

Fabien: “I’M GONNAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA DIE! NON! HOHOHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

He reached out, his hands hovering uncertainly as if he might try to use his barrier, but the relentless tickling kept him too disoriented to focus.

Lena giggled, her purple curls bouncing as she leaned over him, her focus entirely narrowed down to the way his immaculate skin twitched under her touch. She moved her thumbs in slow, torturous circles over his heels, making him let out a particularly loud, strangled yelp. For a moment, the tension of the previous night and the shadow of Narcisse vanished, replaced entirely by the sound of his helpless, hysterical surrender.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! LENAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Lena’s fingers danced across the sensitive skin of his arch one last time, relishing the way his entire body jerked with uncontrollable laughter, before she suddenly pulled her hands away. She retreated a step, her palms tingling from the contact.

The sudden stop left the room feeling strangely silent. Fabien gasped, his chest heaving as he tried to regulate his ragged, uneven breathing. His face was flushed, tears of mirth glistening at the corners of his eyes, and his feet continued to twitch involuntarily against the sofa armrest, as if still anticipating her touch. He stared up at her, blinking against the haze of his own laughter, his expression a dazed mix of relief and lingering bewilderment.

Lena stood over him, her own chest rising and falling in tandem with his. The sight of him so unraveled—so completely at her mercy—was a heavy, intoxicating secret she wasn't sure she wanted to share with anyone else. A sudden, sharp realization of what she’d just done washed over her; the boundary she had teased was now firmly, undeniably crossed.

She looked down at him, tracing the disheveled line of his hair and the rapid pulse thrumming at the base of his throat. Slowly, deliberately, Lena bit her lower lip, the faint pressure blooming in her mouth. She didn’t look away, even as the gravity of the quiet moment began to replace the chaotic laughter, leaving the air between them thick with a tension that was entirely of her own making.

Fabien slowly sat up, his movements stiff, his breath hitching as he tried to regain his composure. He rubbed a hand over his face, his skin still prickling with the remnants of the sensation Lena had just forced upon him. The room felt stifling, the heavy silence amplifying the sound of his own ragged heart, which refused to slow down to a resting pace. He looked at Lena, his gaze lingering on her flushed, expectant face, and felt a confusing cocktail of irritation and something far more complicated that he lacked the energy to untangle.

Fabien: “Lena...”

He let out a long, weary sigh, dragging his hand down from his face to rake through his hair. He didn’t have the capacity for games, not today, not after everything he’d been through—the hospital, the spiders, the soul-draining argument with Celeste. The tickling, while startling, had felt dangerously close to intimate, and that was the last thing he needed right now.

Fabien: “I… I don't know what to say to that.”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting heavily on his knees, his eyes dropping to the floor to avoid the charged silence between them. He felt a throbbing headache blooming at his temples, a physical manifestation of all the stress converging at once.

Fabien: “You’ve got a hell of a sense of timing.”

He looked up again, his voice raspy and devoid of his usual easy charm, his green eyes dark with exhaustion.

Fabien: “I’m not… I’m not in a place to deal with this right now. Not with everything else going on.”

Lena knitted her eyebrows.

Lena: “What do you mean?”

Fabien sat there for a moment, the silence of the house pressing in on him, before the familiar, restless itch in his fingers took over. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. His hands were still trembling slightly—a lingering echo of the frantic, helpless laughter that had just wracked his body—but he focused on the ritual, finding comfort in the simple, predictable motion.

He tapped a single cigarette out, placed it between his lips, and retrieved his silver Zippo from his pocket. He flipped it open with a sharp, familiar clink that echoed through the quiet room. He struck the flint, the small flame igniting instantly, and lowered it to the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, the harsh smoke providing a stinging clarity that cut through the haze of his exhaustion and the lingering, confusing tension Lena had left in her wake. He exhaled slowly, watching a blue-gray plume curl into the stale air of the living room, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Celeste had been just hours before.

Fabien: “Lena, that took a lot out of me, the whole rescuing.”

He confessed, letting the smoke drift slowly from his nostrils.

Fabien: “You were this close…”

He pinched his thumb and index finger together, leaving only a tiny sliver of space between them.

Fabien: “To being sold to a sex trafficking ring, and then Tristan’s fucking psycho uncle, Narcisse, had you.”

He said as he ran his hand through his white hair and inhaled another long drag. Lena gazed at him.

Lena: “And you saved me.”

Fabien smiled a bit.

Fabien: “I did. I’m sorry… I’m just… tired.”

He rubbed his eyes and took in another long drag.

Lena felt the playful energy drain out of the room, replaced by a sharp, stinging pang of guilt. Watching him stand there, his shoulders slumped under the weight of an exhaustion she could barely fathom, she realized how reckless she’d been. The tickling had been a selfish impulse—a way to connect, perhaps, but one that ignored the wreckage he was clearly still sorting through.

She slowly let her arms fall to her sides, her fingers uncurling from the fabric of her floral sundress.

Lena: “I… I’m sorry, Fabien.”

Her voice was quiet, stripped of its previous teasing lilt. She took a tentative step toward him, then stopped, giving him the space he clearly needed as the smoke curled around him.

Lena: “I wasn’t thinking about what you’ve had to carry today. I just… seeing you home, safe, I guess I just wanted to see a smile. To make things feel… lighter.”

She looked down at the tips of her butterfly sandals, then back up to meet his gaze, her expression earnest and heavy with remorse.

Lena: “Thank you for saving me. I know I say that, but I mean it.”

A smile curled on Fabien’s lips.

Fabien: “Look, don’t worry about it. You’re good, Lena.”

He nodded.

Lena: “I just wanted to make you happy and make you feel appreciated after what you did for me.”

She said, straightening the hem of her dress.

Lena: “Aside from Jordi and my grandmother, no one ever came to rescue me, but you did.”

She embraced herself.

Lena: “I was scared…”

She murmured.

Fabien sighed, a long, ragged sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day. He let the smoke drift from his lips, his green eyes softening as he looked at her—really looked at her—instead of just through her. Her admission of fear cut through his exhaustion in a way he hadn’t expected. He wasn't the type to offer grand comfort, especially when he was this drained, but he couldn't simply brush her vulnerability aside.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray, his movements slow and deliberate.

Fabien: “Lena.”

His voice was raspier than usual, worn thin by the hours of strain. He didn’t stand up; he just leaned his head back against the sofa, watching the smoke swirl toward the ceiling.

Fabien: “You don’t have to be scared. Not anymore.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The house felt unnervingly large and hollow without Celeste’s presence, and Lena’s earnestness filled the gap in a way that left him feeling exposed.

He took one final, slow drag before crushing the cigarette out.

Fabien: “I'm just glad you made it back in one piece. That’s enough for me.”

Lena rose and dusted herself off.

Lena: “I will leave you alone, Fabien. You need some rest. Call me if you need anything.”

She said softly as she rose and left his house.

Fabien slumped back against the sofa cushions, his body feeling less like his own and more like a collection of bruised, protesting limbs. The silence of the house, once a sanctuary, now pressed against his eardrums like rising water.

His feet still tingled. The sensation was maddeningly persistent, a ghost touch that reminded him of the sheer, helpless vulnerability he’d felt when she’d lunged for him. Why? he wondered, staring up at the darkened ceiling. She was grateful, sure, but that touch... it had been too intimate, too playful for a house that was currently crumbling under the weight of Celeste’s absence. It was a bizarre, jarring contrast to the rest of his day.

He thought of the muffins sitting in the fridge. A kind gesture. A sweet one. But it felt like a peace offering for a war he hadn't started.

Celeste. His chest tightened. He closed his eyes, replaying their argument for the hundredth time. How could she not see the difference between choosing a woman and choosing a life? He wasn’t a knight on a white horse; he was just a guy who happened to be driving a Mustang when the world went to hell. If he’d left Lena there, he wouldn't have been able to look himself in the mirror. Was that so hard to understand? Why did doing the right thing have to cost him the one thing that made the rest of it bearable?

He felt the phantom itch of the Zippo in his pocket, a craving for a hit of nicotine to dull the sharp edges of his exhaustion. He was too tired for another cigarette, too tired for another thought. He just wanted the world to stop spinning for a few hours. No spiders, no Narcisse, no jealous accusations, no ticklish ambushes.

He let his head loll to the side, his gaze drifting to the empty spot on the sofa where Celeste usually sat. He hoped she was safe. He hoped she was coming back. But as he finally sank into the cushions, he realized he didn't have the strength to chase her. Not tonight.

The silence of the house was absolute, yet inside Fabien’s head, the static remained. The cigarette had been a temporary reprieve, a sharp bite of smoke to puncture the suffocating quiet, but it wasn't enough to settle the tremors still vibrating through his nerves. His chest felt heavy, the hollow ache of Celeste’s absence mingling with the lingering, maddening ghost-sensation of Lena’s fingers on his arches. He needed something more substantial, something to force the world to slow down and stop its relentless, jagged spinning.

He pushed himself up from the sofa, his joints popping in protest, and made his way toward the cluttered shelf in the corner. He moved with a heavy, deliberate gait, his bare feet sliding against the hardwood. Tucked behind a stack of old vinyl records, he found the glass piece—thick, sturdy, and well-used. He pulled it out, the cool glass grounding in his hand.

Fabien walked to the kitchen, filling the chamber with water until it was at the perfect level. He got the cannabis from a small baggie and put it in a grinder.

He prepped the bowl with practiced, mechanical movements, his thumb flicking the lighter to life—not the Zippo this time, but a simple Bic. The flame danced as he drew the smoke through the water, the rhythmic glug-glug-glug filling the kitchen with a low, resonant sound that felt strangely comforting.

He exhaled a thick, white cloud that hung heavy in the still air, watching as it dispersed against the dim kitchen light.

He leaned back against the counter, the initial hit hitting him instantly, smoothing over the sharp, raw edges of his anxiety. The tightness in his jaw finally began to slacken. For a long, quiet moment, the room stopped feeling like a crime scene of an argument, and the memory of Lena’s laughter—and his own helpless, shrill shrieks—started to recede, dulling into a hazy, distant thought. He closed his eyes, letting the smoke spiral out, finally feeling the frantic pace of his pulse beginning to match the slow, steady rhythm of the house. He wasn't fixed, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, the noise in his head had finally been turned down to a dull, manageable hum.

~

Perched high in the branches of the ancient oak, Celeste watched the dual moons cast long, shimmering shadows across the yard below. The cool night air should have been soothing, but it only served to sharpen the jagged edges of her resentment. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that bedroom, listening to Fabien—her Fabien—shut her out with that cold, final tone.

“I’m done.”

The words echoed in her mind like a taunt. How could he just switch off? How could he dismiss her hurt as petty drama when she’d spent the night agonizing over his safety? He acted as if playing the hero absolved him of the reality of their relationship, as if driving Lena home and letting her cross those lines was just another mundane chore.

She clutched her knees to her chest, her leather mules dangling precariously from her feet. She knew Deimos meant well—he always did, in his gruff, no-nonsense way—but he didn’t understand the specific, suffocating sting of seeing Lena in their kitchen. It wasn’t just that Fabien saved her; it was the way Lena looked at him. That wide-eyed, breathless adoration that made Celeste want to scream. She saw the muffin tin, the way Lena lingered, the way she touched him—and Fabien, oblivious or just uncaring, just took it. It’s nothing like Erin with Tristan; it’s not comparable.

He thought he was being “nice.” He didn’t see that he was inviting a wolf into their sanctuary under the guise of kindness.

Celeste bit her lip, the taste of metallic frustration coating her tongue. She didn’t want to be the jealous girlfriend; she hated that role. It made her feel small, petty, and ridiculous. It made her feel like Ivy. But sitting here, miles away from the warmth of the house, she felt anything but powerful. She felt discarded.

She looked toward the house, searching for a sign of him, but the living room was dark. He was probably asleep. Probably convinced he was the martyr of the story, the man who did the right thing and got punished for it.

Fine, she thought, her grip on the branch tightening until her knuckles turned white. Let him sleep. Let him think he’s finished talking.

She wasn’t going anywhere yet. She needed to be high up, where the air was thin, and the problems felt a little smaller. But as she watched the moonlight dance on the hood of the Mustang in the driveway, a cold, hollow ache settled in her chest. She had the super strength to tear this tree down, the durability to survive a fall from here, but she didn’t have the strength to fix the one thing that actually mattered. She was left sitting in the dark, wondering if she was the only one who realized that their “us” was currently holding on by a thread—and that the thread was fraying fast.