A/N: sorry it's been a horrifically long time since I've uploaded!! Life has been rough  😅 But  I'll try to do better my lovelies!! This chapter is about 9K words so hopefully that makes up for it! Pictured above are the faceclaims for Sloane and Anthony for my visual readers, enjoy :))

── ⋆⋅☾ ☼ ⋅⋆ ──

Judith's POV

"Come in Cadets, sit down. I don't bite," Derek drawls tiredly in his deep, grating voice that sends a chill down my spine. Gulping, I begin to move, heading to the couch that Maliah is already sitting on.

"Yet," Derek adds, making me look up to see a smirk curling the corner of his mouth, his hazel eyes trained on me.

Shit.

I force my jaw to tighten, steadying myself under his piercing gaze. I refuse to let him see how deeply he unsettles me. My hands twitch, but I bury them against my thighs as I sit beside Maliah, trying to exude a calm confidence I definitely don't feel. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, offering a flicker of encouragement, but even that does little to loosen the knot in my chest. Finn slides in on her other side, his presence a quiet reassurance despite the tension.

Derek's attention lingers for a moment longer, his smirk deepening like he's just confirmed a suspicion before he shifts back into his seat. He lowers himself into a well-worn armchair, his broad shoulders dwarfing its frame, and leans back with a deliberate nonchalance that sets my teeth on edge.

"Welcome to your first briefing as cadets of the First Squad," he begins, his tone dripping with lazy authority. His words stretch, unhurried like he's savoring the moment. "You've been handpicked to join the best. Congratulations—" He pauses, his smirk twisting into something darker. "—or condolences."

The room feels suffocating, the air too heavy to breathe. Maliah stiffens beside me, and I feel her knee press subtly against mine—a silent reminder to stay calm. Derek leans forward suddenly, elbows resting on his knees as he steeples his fingers, his gaze sweeping over us with predatory precision.

Derek leans forward now, his elbows resting on his knees as he surveys us like a predator sizing up a fresh kill, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he clasps his hands together. "You're all here because you're the best," he continues, his voice dropping a fraction, making the following silence deafening. "Or so Captain Dixon thinks."

The disdain in his muttered sentence is subtle, but it's there—sharpened by the flick of his hazel eyes toward me. It's not even a glance; it's a deliberate, pointed move, loaded with judgment. His lip curls slightly, a near-silent message that I'm the one who doesn't belong.

Unflinching, I meet his gaze head-on, glaring back with every ounce of defiance I can muster. The audacity of this asshole—acting like I'm the problem when I'm the one being forced into this squad. Like I wanted any of this. My nails dig into my knees, grounding myself before I say or do something reckless.

Derek holds the stare for a moment longer, his smirk never wavering before he turns back to the rest of us. He exhales deeply, running a hand along his sharp jawline, the gesture too controlled to be casual.

"Alright," he begins, his tone deceptively calm. "You guys should know the drill. I don't change much for my cadets. Dinner's at six. There's no fraternizing allowed with your squad. Curfew is at nine—"

"Curfew is ten," Finn's voice cuts through, startling me. My head snaps toward him, my eyes wide as I take in the steady conviction in his expression. His brows are furrowed in the middle creating a crease I wish I could smooth with my fingers, his deep brown eyes locked onto Derek's with a mix of confusion and defiance. "It says so in the handbook."

Oh, Finn. Sweet, beautiful, rule-following Finn. I respect the hell out of his integrity—and his apparent dedication to actually reading the handbook—but Derek's darkening expression makes it clear he should not have done that.

Derek's reaction is instant and ice-cold. His entire body goes rigid, his smirk vanishing as his hazel eyes darken. "I'm sorry—Cadet," he says, his voice dropping to a lethal octave as he leans forward, his jaw tightening like a vise. "Did I ask for your opinion on my rules?"

Finn straightens, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. I can see the flash of defiance in his eyes, but he reins it in, his fists curling on his thighs as he lowers his gaze. My stomach knots at the sight of his struggle to hold back, his integrity clashing with the authority in front of him.

Satisfied, Derek lets out a low, audible sigh and straightens, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves. "Curfew is nine," he repeats, his tone final, unyielding. "I don't give a damn what the handbook says. I'm the one in charge here, and you'd do well to remember that."

Finn's jaw tightens, a flicker of that familiar, steadfast defiance lighting his eyes. For a heartbeat, I think he might push back, his shoulders taut with conviction, but then he exhales sharply and drops his gaze. His posture remains rigid, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Another thing about Finn—no matter how much he loathes someone, he'll respect the chain of command. Even when it kills him.

Derek's smirk sharpens like a blade as he leans back, his satisfaction radiating through the room. With an exaggerated sigh, he straightens his posture, brushing off Finn's challenge as if it were nothing more than a speck of dust. "Anyway," he drawls, his tone laced with disdain, as though Finn's interruption—or mere existence—is a mild annoyance.

The air grows heavier as Derek launches back into his monologue, his voice precise, unwavering, each word striking like a hammer. He rattles off the rules and schedule, the weight of his authority pressing down on my chest. Every new restriction feels like another chain being wrapped around me, each link heavier than the last. My arms ache at the mere thought of his infamous training regimen, the kind of brutal grind that's broken soldiers far stronger than me.

"And," Derek continues, his gaze flickering toward me briefly, his jaw tightening. "I've adjusted the rules this year. You'll have one free hour each day—from three to four p.m.—to leave the house, go on a walk, visit friends or family, go streaking down the street, I don't really give a shit."

The announcement lands like a crack in the tension, a momentary reprieve that feels almost too good to be true. Relief flutters faintly in my chest, tentative and fragile. Derek's cadets are notorious for their isolation, pushed to their limits with no chance to breathe. This concession, however small, feels like a lifeline tossed into a storm.

But then Derek's eyes sweep the room, sharp and cutting, and his voice hardens. "Don't get used to it. I'm just sick of the whining," he snaps, extinguishing the faint hope like a snuffed candle. "And don't think for a second this is your time to slack off. You're here to prove yourselves, not run back to mommy and daddy."

I glance at Finn, who meets my gaze with a faint, relieved smile. At least we'll have something to hold onto in this hellish routine. But as my eyes drift back to Derek, standing tall and commanding, the momentary relief is overshadowed by a sinking dread.

Twelve months under his rule. Twelve months of rules, drills, and the constant weight of suspicion pressing down on me. And all the while, Derek Smith, the son of my family's greatest enemy, will be watching my every move.

── ⋆⋅☾☼⋅⋆ ──

It's a few hours later when I feel like I can finally take a breath, cocooned in the silence of my new, and amazingly private room. The townhouse is a creaking, three-story relic of the days before the world changed, including an attic and basement. The first floor houses the communal spaces—the living room, kitchen, and a cramped bathroom. Climbing up the stairs brings you to the first set of bedrooms and unfortunately, they've been assigned, separating me from Maliah and Finn where they share the floor with Sloane, leaving the topmost level to me and quiet Anthony.

Anthony had led the way up in unsurprising silence, his massive frame nearly brushing the narrow walls as he climbed. When we reached the third floor, he stopped in the hallway, gesturing for me to find my room first. I thanked him quietly, slipping past him. Despite his intimidating build—somehow even larger than Derek's—and the network of scars crisscrossing his forearms, Anthony emanates a calm, almost protective presence. Maybe it's in his deep, dark eyes with a calm, reserved kindness. Something I've noticed over the years is that true evil is in the eyes, even if paired with the widest, most charming smile.

His room is the first you see at the top of the stairs, directly across from the hallway's start. Mine is at the end, past the shared bathroom that separates our rooms. The hallway is long and narrow, with wooden boards groaning under every step, their age impossible to ignore, and there's another unmarked door right across from mine.

Now, standing in the middle of my small square room, I take in the space, trying to make peace with it. The floors are scuffed and uneven, the furniture scarce: a surprising double bed with an unsurprisingly thin mattress, a rickety desk shoved against the wall, a small closet I have about three things to fill with and a solitary chair. The air smells faintly of old wood and lavender, probably from whoever stayed here before me.

Two corner windows save the space from feeling completely suffocating. As I walk closer, their glass planes reveal a surprisingly charming view of Old Alexandria's main street. My heart skips when I notice something more—through a break in the swaying trees, I can just make out the edge of my parents' home. 

The familiar sight fills my chest with a soothing, unfurling warmth, a small comfort in the chaos of this new chapter in my life. For a fleeting moment, I feel tethered to something good. My home.

I hadn't even realized I was smiling until it dropped at the sound of Derek's voice behind me.

"That smile's not for me, is it?" Derek's low, sardonic tone comes from the doorway. My heart lurches as I whip around, startled, his words dragging me back to reality. He leans casually against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, his smirk curling just enough to make my stomach tighten. His hazel eyes sweep over the room, lingering too long, as though cataloging every crack and crevice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demand, my anger too strong to force the formalities I really should be using while talking to my direct superior, my commander. My hand instinctively tightens on the windowsill, grounding me as my pulse quickens.

Derek shrugs, the motion infuriatingly nonchalant, unphased. "Thought I'd check on my new cadet. Make sure you're settling in." His tone drips with mock sincerity, and I can tell he's enjoying every second of my discomfort.

"I'm fine," I reply, my voice clipped, turning back to the window. The sight of my parents' house feels like a lifeline, its steady presence soothing the sharp edges of Derek's intrusion. If I just keep looking at it, maybe I can block him out.

"Glad to hear it," he says, the floor groaning under his boots as he steps further into the room uninvited. His presence feels like an invasion, the air growing heavier with every deliberate step. "But let's get something straight," he continues, his tone hardening. "You're in my squad now, Grimes. My rules, my standards. And don't think for a second you'll get any special treatment because of your name."

The words are a slap, though I should've seen them coming. I spin to face him, bristling at the implication, my chin lifting instinctively. "I never asked for special treatment," I bite out, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. "And I sure as hell don't need it."

Derek's smirk reappears, this time laced with something darker, almost predatory, as though daring me to push back further. "Good. Because if you so much as step out of line, I won't hesitate to remind you why I'm in charge, Princess."

The word hangs in the air, deliberate and cutting. I blink, caught off guard by its casual cruelty. "Princess?" I echo, disbelief sharpening my voice. My brow furrows as I scoff, the absurdity of the nickname clashing with the tension.

His grin deepens, dimples appearing on his cheeks—an infuriatingly disarming contrast to his words. For a moment, the shift is so unexpected it sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest, something I shove down with brutal force.

"Yeah, Princess," Derek says, his grin lingering as if he's testing just how far he can push me. "You've got the name, the bloodline, and the attitude to match. Thought it was fitting."

Anger sparks hot and fast. My hands clench into fists at my sides, heat rushing to my cheeks. "You don't know a damn thing about me," I snap, my voice cutting through the thick tension between us.

Derek chuckles, low and maddeningly calm, leaning back against the doorframe like he owns the place. "Oh, I know enough," he says, his gaze steady, unyielding. "Enough to see that chip on your shoulder from a mile away. Don't worry, though. We've got twelve months to get real acquainted."

A cold shiver runs through me, but I refuse to let him see it. "Looking forward to it," I retort, my tone dripping with mock politeness. "Commander," I add, spitting the title like it's a curse.

I stand frozen, the silence in his wake feeling louder than his words. For the briefest second, his smirk falters, replaced by something that looks almost genuine—too quick to be anything more, but it's enough to catch me off guard. Just as fast, the glint of challenge returns and his usual cocky grin takes its place.

"You'll thank me one day, Princess," he says, his voice softer now, laced with unsettling sincerity that makes my skin prickle. Without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and strides out, leaving the door wide open behind him.

I stand frozen, the emptiness of the doorway swallowing the space between us. 

Thank him? For what? His condescension? His smug, demeaning superiority? His clear desire to torture me for revenge? Or for the never-ending reminders of the legacy I've been fighting to escape?

The air feels thick with tension as my gaze shifts, narrowing as I watch him approach the door directly across from mine. His hand closes around a key that he pushes into the doorknob, and with a click, the lock turns. My stomach drops, the weight of realization crashing over me as I catch a glimpse of the darkened bedroom behind him.

His bedroom.

I hadn't even thought about where he would sleep. I assumed he had an apartment of his own or lived in the basement like the creepy, sullen, monster he is. But no. He has a room—right across from mine.

I stare in disbelief as he steps inside, turning back to glance at me. His smirk is effortless, his 'innocent' gaze laced with something almost predatory. 

"What? Had to keep an eye on you somehow, Grimes," he teases, the taunting wink he throws in my direction sending a chill down my spine before he disappears into his room, the door clicking shut with an unsettling finality.

A wave of cold dread slams into me. He did this. He knew. He set this up—assigned the rooms himself, leaving me right across from him, with no escape. Just another way to get back at me, to punish me for existing in his world, for being who I am. To remind me, every day, that I'm under his control.

I slump onto the edge of the bed, my head falling into my hands as frustration pulses through my veins. My eyes drift to the window, where the faint outline of my parents' house emerges from between the trees, a comforting sight that grounds me.

They are what I'm fighting for. To make them proud.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I can't let Derek Smith—or anyone else—see me falter. Not now. Not ever.

The soft glow of the setting sun spills through the window, casting long shadows across the street below. My parents' house flickers with the warm glow of their porch light, a beacon in the distance, anchoring me.

Twelve months. I can do this. I have to.

A soft knock at my door jolts me from my thoughts. I turn, seeing Finn standing in the doorway, his expression hesitant, yet sincere. Just the sight of his warm, familiar figure and kind expression sends a wave of relief through me. "You okay?" he asks, his voice quiet, as though afraid of disturbing the fragile silence. Hes always so.. delicate with me.

I force a smile, the muscles in my face tight but convincing enough to make Finn smile. "Yeah. Just... adjusting," I sigh.

Finn steps inside, his presence a subtle comfort, easing some of the tension still coiled in my chest. "Well, if it helps, Maliah found a deck of cards in her room. She's starting a game in the living room with Sloane. You in?"

I hesitate for a moment, my gaze flickering back to the window, but then I nod, offering him a genuine smile. "Yeah. I'll be right there."

Finn's small grin is reassuring as he gives a brief nod, stepping back toward the door. It clicks softly behind him, leaving it gently closed. I take a steadying breath, squaring my shoulders. Derek Smith may think he has the upper hand, but I'm not going to let him—or anyone else—define my place here.

Not now. Not ever.

I drag my hands down my face, forcing myself to shake it off. Let him think he's won. Let him think his little games will wear me down. They won't. He can assign himself the role of my personal tormentor, but I've dealt with worse than Derek Smith. And I'll do it without letting him see how deeply he's clawed into my mind.

Pushing myself off the bed, I glance at the mirror on the back of my closet door. My reflection greets me: disheveled but determined. My brown eyes, darker than usual with fatigue, stare back. My hair, tousled from too many anxious passes of my hand, frames my face messily. My lips tighten as I study my reflection. Who do I take after more? Lori or Shane?

𝙈𝙚, 𝙤𝙗𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮. The voice slithers in, uninvited. My breath catches, and I clench my eyes shut, forcing him back into the corners of my mind. My grip finds the edge of the mirror, fingers curling tightly around the wooden frame as if grounding myself in the present. With a shaky exhale, I lift it off its hooks and turn it around, leaning it against the wall inside the closet so I don't have to see that reflection anymore.

I press my palms into the cool surface of the closet door and take a long, steadying breath.

No. I won't let him or Derek take up any more space in my head. They don't deserve it. I need to focus on what's in front of me—not on what's across the hall, and certainly not on the whispers of my mind.

The faint sound of laughter drifts upstairs, soft but persistent, drawing me back to reality. Finn, Maliah, and Sloane must already be settling into the game. My lips twitch at the thought of them—their warmth, their lightness. They're the brightness in a storm I can't always escape.

As I head downstairs, the tension of the last hour begins to ebb. The sound of Finn's over-the-top victory cheers and Maliah's sarcastic retorts fill the air, a balm to my frayed nerves. Sliding into a seat on the floor, I let the rhythm of the game wash over me—the shuffle of cards, the occasional groan of defeat, the bursts of laughter that seem to make the walls themselves warmer.

It's nice, relaxing for a moment, grinning beside my friends and getting to know Sloane better. She's sharp and quick-witted, holding her own against Finn's relentless teasing. For a while, it's enough—enough to drown out the weight of Derek Smith, the house, and the things I can't control.

── ⋆⋅☾☼⋅⋆ ──

Derek's POV

Judith Grimes is going to kill me.

Not in the literal sense—though with the death glares she's been shooting my way, I wouldn't completely rule it out—but in the I-can't-think-straight-around-her-and-she-fucking-terrifies-me sense.

Since the moment she walked into the townhouse, I've had about seven and a half mini-heart attacks. The first hit me square in the chest when she stepped through the doors with that guarded look, like she was ready to bite someone's head off (mine, specifically). Then there was her glare earlier—as though I was the source of every problem she's ever had.

Spoiler: I probably am.

It shouldn't bother me. I wanted to get under her skin, to rattle her, to see what she's really made of. That's the game, isn't it? Push until something cracks. But now that she's here—bristling, full of fire—I'm not so sure what I was thinking. Every word out of her mouth feels like a challenge, and for some twisted reason, I can't stop myself from rising to meet it.

"Ten more! Let's go, what the fuck is wrong with you assholes? My grandmother could do better!" I bark, pacing the training room with deliberate precision, arms crossed over my chest. My voice ricochets off the walls, sharp enough to cut.

Not that I ever met my grandmother, but I bet she'd still put half these cadets to shame.

The training mats beneath them reek of effort, desperation, and sweat. The group grinds through their final push-ups, their strained faces and trembling arms a testament to the difference between wanting to survive and knowing how to. Every year, they seem sloppier, weaker. Leadership acts like survival training is optional these days.

Anthony is the first to finish, as expected. His form is textbook, and while there's sweat on his forehead and his chest rises and falls with labored breaths, he still stands from the mat without a hint of complaint. His black irises meet mine, steady as ever, and I give him a nod.

Meanwhile, Finn is muttering curses that I can hear clearly across the mats. His arms tremble like he's holding up a collapsing building, sweat pouring from his hairline and dripping onto the mat. I glare at him but let it slide—for now. At least he's trying.

Maliah is second to finish, her arms shaking as she sits back, her breaths coming in sharp bursts. There's a quiet strength about her, one I've come to respect, though she won't even glance my way. I get it. She's loyal to Judith, and Judith hates me.

Speaking of... 

My gaze shifts, inevitably, to the back row where Sloane and Judith are finishing up.

Sloane's movements are sluggish but determined, her expression twisted in pain as she grits through the last few. She's got potential. A little raw, sure, but there's muscle under that struggle.

Judith, though—she's a different story.

Her arms are trembling, her elbows are seconds away from caving, and her head is bowed low. That loose braid of hers slips over her shoulder, dangling like a pendulum as she struggles for air. Everything about her body screams exhaustion—on the verge of collapse. But her jaw is set like steel. Determined. Fierce. Like she'd rather shatter every bone in her arms than let herself quit.

Finn finishes his set with a muttered curse that echoes across the room, flopping onto the mat beside Maliah with an exaggerated sigh. His chest heaves, but he still finds enough breath to call out, "Come on, J! You got this!"

I roll my eyes. Of course, Finn would jump in. His voice cuts through the tension, jolting Judith mid-movement. Her arms falter, her weight dipping dangerously low—but she catches herself at the last second, sucking in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. It's not resilience so much as sheer, unrelenting defiance.

Sloane isn't so lucky. Her strength gives out with a soft, defeated whimper, and she collapses flat against the mat, three push-ups short of the goal.

"Time's up!" I bark, my voice slicing clean through the labored breaths and scattered whispers. "If you're done, congratulations. If you're not? The dirty bathrooms back at the townhouse are calling your name."

Sloane cringes, her face red with embarrassment as she scrambles to sit up, avoiding my gaze like it might strike her down. I don't bother looking her way. She's not the one I'm interested in.

Judith is still on the mat, slowly, painstakingly pushing herself to her knees. Her arms are quivering, trembling like they're ready to give out completely, and her chest heaves as she sucks in air like it's a lifeline. But what catches me—what always catches me—is the look in her eyes.

She was one push-up short.

I should say something—mock her, maybe, or push her to do better next time. But for some reason, I stay silent. Because if there's one thing I know, it's that Judith Grimes doesn't need anyone to tell her when she's fallen short.

She already knows. And she'll be damned if she doesn't fix it.

Judith pushes herself off the mat slowly, her arms quivering like a newborn fawn's legs. She's pale, her lips pressed into a hard, determined line, but her eyes—those eyes—are anything but weak.

They burn, fierce and unyielding, with a fire that threatens to consume everything in its path.

And God help me, I'd willingly burn in it.

She doesn't look at me as she stands, her body screaming exhaustion but her spine straight, her head held high. Judith Grimes isn't the type to let anyone see her break—least of all me.

"Hit the showers," I bark to the group before the fire in her gaze can pull me under like a goddamn moth. "And don't drag your damn feet, or I'll add another set tomorrow."

There's a collective groan, punctuated by the shuffle of tired feet and muttered curses. I pretend not to notice how my eyes linger on her retreating figure, her steps steady despite the tremble in her legs. She doesn't complain. Doesn't look back. That fire—the one that could burn the whole world down—still smolders beneath the surface.

As the room empties, Anthony stays behind, quiet and steady as ever. Without being asked, he grabs a rag and starts wiping down a bench, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He's always like this—grounded, efficient, and sharp in a way that makes you forget he's just another cadet.

Not that I play favorites. But if I did... well, it wouldn't be Anthony.

It'd be her. 

The ball of fire who just walked out, most likely already fantasizing about my painful death.

But Anthony's sharp in his own way. Quiet, sure, but sharper. He sees more than he lets on, which is why I usually keep him at arm's length. Except I don't. He's the closest thing I've got to a friend. Well, both him and Cass.

Cass, the middle-aged mother of the woman who hates me with the fury of a thousand suns, and Anthony, my trauma-bonded confidant who rarely speaks.

I've got a lot going for me in the friend department, clearly.

"You're distracted," Anthony says, his deep, rumbling voice cutting through the quiet. He doesn't look up from the bench he's wiping down and doesn't press or push. Just states it like a fact.

I shrug, tossing my rag onto the pile. "Just tired."

"Right." He pauses, his hand scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the mat. "You're harder on her than the others."

The words hit like a sucker punch. I may have been tough on her today, even though her quiet determination and heated glares thrown my way. My jaw tightens, and my response comes too fast, too sharp, too defensive. "She can handle it."

"Sure," he replies, his tone steady, unbothered. "But why make her?"

I don't answer. Can't answer. I can't tell him it's because I see something in her—a fire that burns so bright it makes the goddamn sun pale in comparison. I push her because I want her to see it too. Instead, I turn away, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler and leaning against the wall. The plastic crinkles in my grip as I twist the cap, taking a long pull of the lukewarm water to buy myself some time. Anthony doesn't push. He never does. He just waits, his silence unyielding, until my thoughts start filling the space.

"It's not personal," I say finally, though the words taste like a lie even to me. My heart thumps, a steady drumbeat of denial.

Anthony chuckles. A rare, low sound that carries more weight than it should. He straightens to his full height, towering but unassuming as he leans against the bench. "Keep telling yourself that."

His words hang in the air, heavy and uncomfortably accurate. My lips twitch into a grimace. Why are my only friends always making me feel like this?

Sighing, I crush the water bottle in my hand and toss it into the trash. My shoulders square out of habit more than intention, and I turn to leave.

"You don't have to carry it alone, you know," Anthony says to my back, his voice softer now, almost... understanding.

I freeze mid-step, my hand brushing the doorframe. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," he replies, and this time, there's a note of sadness in his tone that I can't quite ignore. "But fine's a hell of a lonely place to be."

I don't turn around. Can't. If I do, I might see something in his face that'll make me stay, make me listen. And I can't afford that right now. Not when my mind is already too loud, too cluttered with the image of Judith Grimes walking away, her fire burning brighter than I have any right to notice.

I leave without another word, but the weight of his lingers. And when the door shuts behind me, I know damn well what—or rather who—will haunt my thoughts for the rest of the night.

── ⋆⋅☾☼⋅⋆ ──

Judith's POV

"Are you sure it's okay I come with you?" Finn asks, his voice light, but there's a trace of uncertainty as we walk through the sunlit streets of Alexandria. The early afternoon sun peeks shyly behind thick white clouds, and I can't help but hope they don't turn into a storm.

Looking away from the sky, wincing a little at the deep ache in my shoulders and upper arms. I force a smile, pushing through the discomfort as I turn to Finn. "Your family is back at the Kingdom, and mine is the closest thing you can get," I say warmly. I've known Finn since we were kids, and my parents love him. At least my dad does. I fight the urge to reach out and touch Finn's arm in that easy, reassuring way, but I stop myself. Not just because I think my limbs might fall off if I do, but because that line is one I'm afraid to cross. 

Finn grins, nudging my shoulder with him as he steps ahead. "Guess that makes us practically family, then," he chuckles warmly, unknowingly making my heart stutter at the thought of us having a more permanent meaning of family. 

It's our first free hour, the one Derek grudgingly allowed us to have. It's more than just a break from the grind of training and constant pressure—this is a chance to finally see my family again. It's been months. Too many months.

We reach the porch of my house, and the ache in my body and the tension with Derek seem to melt away as if stepping into this familiar space heals everything. I can't help but grin, the sound of the old wooden steps creaking under our feet bringing a sense of peace I didn't realize I'd missed.

Finn lingers a respectful distance behind me, his hands shoved into his pockets as I approach the door. I feel the familiar flutter of excitement rises in my chest—the kind you get when you're about to surprise someone you care about.

I pause just long enough to glance down at my clothes: a force-regulated black t-shirt and an old, well-worn pair of jeans. Not fancy, but good enough. And at least I managed to shower before our free hour, so even though my muscles are on fire and I'm already dreading the pain that's sure to come tomorrow, at least I don't stink.

I knock lightly, my heart thumping as I wait.

"...alright, I got it, just—" My dad's voice drifts through the crack in the door, muffled as he talks over his shoulder, back at the house, probably to my mom. Then, as the door swings open, his gaze shifts from my mom to me, and for a moment, he freezes. 

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, my heart swelling. "Hey, Dad—"

"Judith!" My dad cuts me off as he steps forward, his eyes lighting up with a mix of surprise and something much deeper. Before I can even blink, he's pulling me into his arms. His embrace is tight, warm, and all-consuming, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek. His chest shudders as he holds me, and I bury my face in the familiar scent of his shirt—woodsy, oaky, like home.

I fight the sudden rush of tears, the emotional weight of being here, in this moment. I don't care that the buttons of his shirt dig into my face; I don't care about the strain of my sore muscles. For a moment, everything outside of this hug fades away, and I'm seven years old again, finding comfort in his heartbeat during a storm, feeling safe and unburdened.

"I missed you," I whisper, my voice thick. I can't find the words for everything I'm feeling, but I hope he hears it all the same.

My dad pulls back slightly, his eyes scanning me with that familiar, protective scrutiny as if trying to convince himself that I'm really here. His salt-and-pepper hair curls around his weathered face and the lines around his eyes deepen with both age and emotion. "You look... you look good, kid. Tired, but good." His voice cracks slightly, and the smile that stretches across his face is shaky but genuine—it's the most real thing I've felt in ages.

Before I can respond, I hear a delighted gasp, and Dad steps back with a fond, knowing grin, clearing the way for Mom.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, her green eyes wide with a mixture of joy and disbelief, her copper hair streaked with gray pulled back loosely from her face. Her breath catches as she takes me in, and before I can even blink, she's dropping the blue-and-white tea towel from her hands.

"Oh, Jude," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she rushes forward and envelops me in a hug that feels even tighter than Dad's, pulling me into her arms with such force I almost stumble. I grin against her shoulder, hugging her back just as fiercely. The warmth of her embrace wraps around me, mingling with the scent of citrus and fresh linen that's uniquely hers. It's like I've come home all over again, and every muscle in my body unwinds in the comfort of her touch.

"Hey, Mom," I smile into her shoulder, the words almost catching in my throat. I can feel her strong arms, but they're softer than I remember like they've learned to hold me in a different way over the years. Her hand gently cradles the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair in that soothing, rhythmic motion I didn't realize I missed so much.

The moment lingers, and I could stay here forever if I didn't know there were others around, still waiting. But the sound of shifting footsteps and a muffled greeting from Dad pulls me gently away from her. I turn, catching sight of him welcoming Finn with a firm handshake and a grin that seems more genuine than I've seen in ages.

"Hey, Mr. Grimes, sir," Finn says with a grin as my dad claps his shoulder. I step back, still grinning, as I watch the two men begin to talk, my heart swelling in my chest.

"Hey to you too, son. Enough with the 'sir' shit, you know it's Rick." Dad grins, his tone warm, despite me knowing full well he loves that Finn is respectful enough to try to call him sir. The brief but sincere exchange between them makes me feel a little lighter, as if, despite the uncertainty of everything else, the simple act of family coming together can push back the darkness, even just for a moment.

Finn grins at my dad, and I can't help the surge of warmth that hits me. There's something surreal about seeing these two men, the best man I've ever known who raised me to become who I am today, and the one I dream of spending my life with, standing side by side. A smile tugs at my lips as I watch them, my heart inexplicably lightened by the sight.

"Oh, you brought Finn," Mom muses with slight surprise, her voice soft as she gently drops her arms from my frame. A slight, almost imperceptible smile tugs at her lips, but as I look at her, there's something unfamiliar in her gaze—something fleeting, a tension in her eyes that's gone before I can fully process it. She shakes it off quickly, stepping forward to greet Finn, her expression once again warm and welcoming.

I can't ignore the flutter of disappointment that stirs inside me, despite the gentle, friendly tone she uses. The way she smiles at him and pulls him into a warm hug should make me feel nothing but happy, but the fleeting flicker of something unspoken in her eyes tugs at me. It's like a small shadow of disapproval, carefully hidden behind her smile. It makes me wonder if I imagined it, but the feeling lingers like an uncomfortable knot in my chest.

"Dr. Grimes, so good to see you, ma'am," Finn says, his smile genuine as she pulls away from the hug.

Mom pats his shoulder gently, her smile soft but still carrying that faint layer of restraint. "Good to see you too, Finn. Come on in."

Her words are warm, but there's something about the way she says them that makes me pause, my gut tightening ever so slightly. Still, I push it away, willing myself to let the discomfort go. This is supposed to be a happy moment—a reunion, after all.

Dad slings his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me lightly before gesturing toward the door. "Come on in, kid. I'll let your mom take the lead," he says with a knowing smile, guiding me inside with Finn following behind us.

As we step inside, the house feels like it always does—familiar and warm, with the smell of freshly baked bread and a faint trace of wood polish. Mom's been keeping everything in its place, every corner of the house still somehow holding the essence of her care. Even the walls seem to breathe with history, memories of every holiday, every evening spent at the dinner table, and every quiet moment of comfort.

"Andy! Come down here!" Mom calls up the stairs, her voice bright with that warmth I've missed so much. The instant she does, Andy's dramatic teenage groan echoes down, making me smile.

"I wish you would've told us you were comin', Jude," Dad says as we settle into the soft, well-worn couches in the living room. I kick off my shoes and fold my legs underneath me, the comfort of the couch sinking into my tired body. "We would've gotten Carl, Soph, and Cece to come over too," he adds, his voice full of affection, but the mention of my brother and his family makes something tighten in my chest. I can't help but feel the ache of missing them, too.

Finn and I exchange a glance, his smile soft with understanding. "Well, we only just found out yesterday that we would have this free hour, and I knew we had to use it to come home," I explain gently, my voice softer than I expected, warmth flowing through me as I look around the room. The contrast between the comfort of home and the stiffness of the townhouse, with Derek's presence looming over every decision, is jarring.

Reaching out, Dad places his warm, calloused hand on my knee, his eyes crinkling with emotion. "Either way, I'm so glad you're home, kiddo."

His words settle into my chest like a balm, and I rest my hand on top of his, swallowing the lump in my throat. My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I blink them away, not wanting to ruin the moment.

"Holy shit!" Andy's voice suddenly booms from the stairs, full of his usual dramatic flair. I turn just in time to see him, all long limbs and the same mischievous grin he's had since he was five, rushing down the stairs like he's in a race. He's not so little anymore. He towers over me now, his copper hair and grin unmistakably Mom's, but his curls and blue eyes are all Dad's. He must have shot up while I wasn't looking because now I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"How did you grow again?" I demand with a laugh, feeling a little off-kilter as I stand to meet him halfway, barely able to reach his shoulders. He must be 6'1 at least now.

Andy laughs, a deep, genuine sound, before pulling me into a tight hug. "Nah, I think you shrunk. Must be all the rage," he teases, his grin wide and unrepentant. "Maybe it stunted your growth."

I roll my eyes and smack his arm, earning a dramatic gasp as he clutches his chest in mock betrayal. "Ow! What was that for?" he exclaims, stepping back with exaggerated shock.

"You were asking for it, dumbass," Finn quips from beside me, crossing his arms with a smirk. Andy's grin only grows as he grabs Finn in a bear hug, the two exchanging hearty back slaps in a classic bro hug.

"Alright, guys!" Mom calls from behind Finn, her voice firm but playful. "No one's leaving this house without eating something."

We all freeze, our heads whipping toward her like startled animals. A cacophony of protests erupts, each of us pleading for mercy, pleading for my lovely, brilliant, and caring mother to, for the love of God, NOT cook us food.

Over an hour later, we're all gathered around the dinner table, plates loaded with spaghetti and garlic bread, laughing like no time has passed. 

Somehow Mom managed to get Carl to come over, who's now sitting beside me, his face alight with laughter. His wife and daughter couldn't make it—Cece wasn't feeling well, and Soph decided to stay home to rest with her—but the familiar presence of my older brother was enough to fill the room with warmth.

"Oh god, it could be worse!" Andy pipes up in the conversation, his grin is downright devilish as he twirls spaghetti onto his fork. "Remember when Carl had a crush on Mom?"

I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. Carl groans, the poor, fully-grown, and married man's hand flying to cover his face as a ripple of laughter erupts around the table. Even Dad chuckles quietly, shaking his head with a bemused smile.

"Wait what?" Finn's eyes widen in alarm, his fork hovering mid-air, and his concern only fuels the hilarity. Mom's laughter, light and melodic, joins ours, while Andy looks far too pleased with himself.

Andy's triumphant grin is short-lived as he yelps, likely from Carl kicking him under the table. My brother sits up straighter, glaring at Andy before sighing heavily and turning to Finn, his expression one of pure exasperation. "It was when I was thirteen," Carl explains, his voice resigned. "Way before Dad and Cass got together. And, trust me, the stupid crush didn't last long."

"It was adorable," Mom says fondly, her smile soft as she looks at Dad. They share one of those quiet, intimate glances, Dad's hand resting lightly on hers. It's a small thing, but it makes my chest ache with longing. Nothing ever made me as happy as seeing my parents' little moments like that. The moments that reinforce how much they love each other. 

God, I wish I could have that one day.

"O-Oh. Well, good thing it went away," Finn stammers, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of Carl once crushing on his stepmother. His chuckle is awkward, and he glances between the rest of us, unsure of where to look.

Sensing Finn's discomfort, Mom clears her throat and shifts the conversation. "So," she begins, her tone more composed, "how's everything going with your new assignment?"

Her question sends a jolt through me, the weight of Derek's looming presence crashing down on the lighthearted moment. My hand reaches for my glass of water, my smile fading despite my best efforts to keep it together. Finn notices, his eyes darting to me before he speaks up, trying to deflect.

"It's tough so far," he admits, forcing a grin. "The first day of training was pretty brutal, but the townhouse is definitely an upgrade from the barracks. At least we get private rooms."

Dad nods, his face thoughtful, about to respond when Andy leans forward, his excitement palpable. "Wait, holy shit—you guys have the Soldier as your commander, right?" His eyes practically glow with awe, his excitement bubbling over like he's a kid hearing about a superhero. I can feel the eye-roll brewing behind my lids before it even happens.

Andy and his damn idolization of Derek.

"Just call him Derek," I mutter, sharp and flat, stabbing my fork into my pasta with unnecessary force. "That nickname is ridiculous."

Andy is, of course, undeterred, his grin stretching wider, the grin of someone who thinks they've struck conversational gold. "You know, once he—"

"—Gave you a sip of his beer," the rest of us chorus in unison, cutting him off, exhausted with his repeated telling of the story that birthed this creepy admiration of a psychopath. 

Andy clutches his chest in mock offense. "Hey! It was cool," he defends, his grin turning smug as he gestures emphatically with his fork. "You guys just don't get it."

"You were eleven, Andy," Dad says, his tone heavy with exasperation. He shakes his head, his jaw tight as though the memory itself is a lingering bad taste. It's no secret Dad can't stand Derek. I catch the subtle way Dad's knuckles tighten on his fork, a rare flash of frustration from a man who usually keeps his emotions under lock and key.

Andy shrugs, his indifference practically radiating off him, and his grin doesn't falter for a second. "Don't care. You guys are so lucky. You get to, like, be around him all the time." He leans in closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone as if he's about to uncover the world's biggest secret, looking between me across the table and Finn beside him. "So, what's he like? Hotter up close?"

I nearly choke on my water, and my fork clatters against my plate as I set it down. There's a flicker of something—annoyance, discomfort, and definitely not anything else—twisting in my stomach at the thought of anyone finding Derek attractive. Especially my younger brother. "You have horrible taste in men, I hope you know that," I say flatly, glaring at him as Finn snorts beside me.

"Yeah, hard agree," Finn says dryly, shooting Andy a side-eyed and disapproving glance.

Andy shrugs dramatically, his grin turning wicked as he nudges Finn's shoulder. "Well, I think you're hot too, so..."

"Andy!" I exclaim, my voice shooting up an octave as Finn blinks, his cheeks tinging with a flush so sudden I can practically feel the heat radiating off him. He looks down at his plate, clearly caught off guard, while Andy leans back, laughing so hard he nearly tips his chair over.

Dad lets out a long, deep sigh, the kind that's both resigned and affectionate. It's the sigh of a man who's spent nearly two decades dealing with Andy's antics and has long since stopped trying to rein him in. Shaking his head, Dad pokes at his plate, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You never know when to quit, do you?" he mutters, not looking up, though his tone is laced with a warmth that only encourages Andy further.

"Never," Andy replies with a triumphant smirk, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "It's part of my charm. Genetic, you know. Can't help it."

Mom, who's been quietly watching the chaos unfold with a fond smile, finally speaks up, her eyes sparkling with humor. "I blame your father," she says innocently, taking a sip of water to hide her mischievous grin.

Dad's jaw drops in mock outrage, and he sets his fork down with exaggerated drama. Pointing it at her like an accusing finger, he raises his brows in playful defiance, though the twinkle in his eyes betrays him. 

"You take that back," he warns, his voice low and theatrical, but there isn't a trace of actual heat behind it. His grin sneaks through, broad and boyish, the kind that lights up his face and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Mom leans back in her chair, her grin widening as she matches his energy effortlessly. "Please," she counters, her tone dripping with mock exasperation. "You're the most dramatic man I've ever met. Or have you conveniently forgotten how you bullied—and on one occasion punched—poor Spencer because I was dating him while you liked me?"

The table erupts into laughter, even Finn chuckling despite trying to stay neutral. Dad groans, shaking his head as he fights a losing battle against his own grin. "Hey," he says, holding up a hand like he's about to make a serious argument, "he was an asshole. And a goddamn spy. I knew it the whole time."

"You did not!" Mom shoots back, throwing her head back as her warm, wonderful laughter spills from her. Her whole face lights up, and for a moment, the years seem to melt away, leaving only two people who are still ridiculously in love.

I sit back and let the scene unfold, their banter flowing effortlessly, filling the room with warmth and laughter. My smile feels permanent, my cheeks ache from the strain, but I don't care. There's something deeply grounding about this moment—watching the two people who raised me still teasing and loving each other with the same fire they must have had when it all began. It's a reminder that, despite everything, some things stay constant.

For a moment, as I watch them, the soreness of my muscles, the exhaustion weighing my bones and the lingering dread at the bottom of my spine fade away, replaced only with the ache of my smile. 

── ⋆⋅☾☼⋅⋆ ──

"Your family is... interesting, to say the least," Finn says, his voice laced with humor as we walk through the quiet streets of Alexandria. The crickets chirp in the dark, the cool night air brushing against our faces. "I don't know how I manage to forget that every time."

I grin, glancing over my shoulder at the warm glow of the house at the end of the street. The door swings shut behind my family, their voices muffled now as they return inside, likely still teasing each other. They'd hugged us goodbye and waved us off, and I still feel the warmth of it all lingering in my chest.

"They're the best," I say softly, my voice carrying an almost reverent tone. It's not just words—I feel lighter like I've been pulled from the depths of a cold, suffocating ocean and can finally breathe again. Being with them has always been like coming up for air.

Finn nods beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets as we stroll. He clears his throat, his face thoughtful. "They're very... direct. I don't think I've ever been at a dinner table where embarrassing stuff like that gets brought up. Especially not someone's brother having a crush on their mom." He crinkles his nose slightly, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and mild discomfort.

I glance up at him, a faint flush creeping up my cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and a need to defend my family. "Well, Cass is like Carl's mom, but she's not. And it happened later on. He knew her before just like other people in the group, like Maggie or Carol. And, you know, he was young—it didn't mean anything." I rush the explanation, my words tumbling out, as though Finn needs convincing.

He gives a small nod, his expression softening. "Yeah, yeah, I get it," he says with a shrug. "Still, it's just... not the kind of thing my family would ever talk about. Definitely not at the dinner table." A short, dry chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head, a touch of incredulity lingering in his tone.

I nod, lowering my eyes to the cracked pavement beneath our feet. My fingers fidget with the frayed hem of my jeans, a nervous habit I've never quite kicked. "Yeah, I guess we're... different," I murmur. The words hover in the space between pride and embarrassment.

Because the truth is, I wouldn't trade my family for anything. Their brutal honesty, their quirks, the chaos—it's messy, sure, but it's also home.

Not that we're perfect. Far from it. Hell, Carl is Andy's half-sibling and Carl is my half-sibling, but I'm not related to Andy at all. When I first found out, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. For weeks, I couldn't look at them without questioning everything. But time—and their unwavering love—proved what I should've known all along. DNA doesn't make a family. Love does. And they've always loved me just as fiercely as they love Carl and Andy.

And that's what matters.

Finn clears his throat, pulling me out of my thoughts. "When w—" He stumbles over his words, his cheeks reddening slightly as he shakes his head. "I mean, if I have kids, I don't think I'd let them talk like that to me. Kids need to respect their parents, you know?" His tone is casual, almost contemplative, but there's something about the way he says it that makes me glance at him.

I blink, my brain snagging on what he almost said. When we have kids.

No. That's not what he meant. It couldn't be. Right?

"Well, we still respect them—" I start, my voice rising defensively. My parents are the most important people in my life, and I'll defend them from anyone. But before I can finish, the air shifts, a chill running down my spine as we reach the townhouse

"Oh, so nice of you lovebirds to stroll on back," a voice drawls sarcastically, cutting through the evening quiet like a blade.

Derek.

He's sprawled on the stone steps of the townhouse, his broad frame lounging as if he owns the place—which, in a way, he does. The hunting knife in his hand gleams under the dim porch light, the rhythmic scrape, scrape of metal on whetstone adding an ominous edge to his presence.

His casual posture does nothing to soften the hardness in his expression. His eyes, cold and calculating, lock onto us with a predator's focus.

I stop dead, my pulse thundering in my ears. Beside me, Finn stiffens, the easygoing demeanor he wore moments ago vanishing as tension coils through his body.

Derek lifts his gaze, slow and deliberate, the knife still in his hand. There's a sharp edge to his smirk, a cruel twist that turns my stomach.

── ⋆⋅☾☼⋅⋆ ──

A/N: hope you guys liked it!!!