They're on their way to see Gaia when she calls them both to the crystal chamber. Wheeler looks at Linka warily, and she stares back. Can Gaia feel it, he wonders? Does she know? Their minds are made up, they're done with this. Perhaps Gaia can sense the shift in their allegiance, from her and their calling to each other. Perhaps she disapproves. Perhaps she'll try and talk them out if it, keep them here on Hope Island.

They're ready for disapproval and dismay, if they're honest. They're ready to be told that they're too young, that a girl of barely twenty and a boy of just twenty-one aren't ready for such a big commitment. They're ready to be told to reconsider, to remember how hard life can be away from their Planeteer bubble.

But they're also ready to fight for what they want. With the same earnestness they've given to their fight for the planet, they're ready now to fight for each other and a shared future.

'It's you and me,' he tells Linka fervently, kissing her on the cheek and squeezing her hand.

'We should go to her,' Linka replies, her voice a whisper. 'She loves us and-'

And Wheeler cradles Linka's face in his palms.

'It is you and me, right?' He asks, hating himself for the panic he feels.

Linka's face softens beneath his fingertips. 'Da, lyubov' moya, eto ty I ya seychas I navsegda,' she whispers in Russian, kissing his hands, and he feels calm flood through him.

'Navsegda?' he asks.

'Forevermore,' she replies, almost shy, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. He exhales in relief, kissing her hard.

'Navsegda,' he repeats, pressing his temple to hers.

They walk into the chamber together, hands held tight, full of trepidation and fear of reprisal. But Gaia is their mother, and she greets them both with open arms and a soft smile. If she knows of their intentions she says nothing, and instead places a consolatory hand upon Wheeler's arm.

For she does not have good news.

It's his father, she says. He's dead.

And Wheeler simply nods, because of course. Of course his father is dead. He drank and smoked and did God knows what else to his bloated, abused body. Heavy, was Jim Wheeler. Heavy in his body and heavy with his fists and heavy in his drinking, and was it his heart, or his lungs, or-?

An aneurysm, Gaia answers kindly. An aneurysm, in his sleep.

'He did not suffer,' she tells him, and he nods, feeling numb all over. 'Go home,' she instructs him. 'Be a comfort to your mother.'

He looks up at her, opening his mouth to speak but finding he has no voice.

Gaia's eyes dart to the girl at his side. 'Take Linka with you,' she says, and with a small sigh: 'Have comfort of your own.'

When they emerge, the daylight bright and offensive to their eyes, the others are waiting. Kwame makes small noises of sympathy, while Gi cuddles him tightly. Wheeler allows their affection, blinking back tears, gripping tight to Gi's waist, while Linka stands behind, in the shadows. In front of the others she is his friend, not his lover, and so she bites her lip and hangs back, uncertain and awkward. But even this small distance between them is too much, and Wheeler blindly reaches for her, disentangling from Gi to find her fingers.

They go to his cabin, ostensibly to pack, the other Planeteers giving understanding nods as they depart. But no sooner is his door closed than Wheeler is upon Linka, pulling at her clothes and kissing her. He isn't gentle and he isn't loving. He's rough and demanding and bruising and he knows she likes it, feeling her curl around him submissively while biting her lips with pleasure. Even in his grief, Wheeler revels in her body's response to his, fucking her with a punishing pace, and it isn't long before he's coming hard inside her, crying out loudly and gripping her hips.

Afterwards, she holds him while he cries on her shoulder.

Ma-Ti comes to see him that evening, knocking on Wheeler's door just as the sun is setting. Wheeler ushers him in without a second thought, only pausing when he sees Ma-Ti's eyes take in the state of his cabin. Linka's clothes lie scattered across the room, while the sheets of the bed are tangled and damp. Wheeler himself is shirtless, a towel around his waist, and they can both hear the run of water from the bathroom where Linka is showering. Wheeler had every intention of joining her, of running his hands over her body and licking at her wet skin, before Ma-Ti came to the door and-

'Uh, look, Ma-Ti...' he begins, flushing a dull red, but Ma-Ti waves his hands.

'No, explanations are not necessary,' the young man says, but he gives Wheeler an impish grin. 'The evidence speaks for itself.'

'We were gonna tell you all soon,' Wheeler says, apologetically, but again, Ma-Ti shrugs.

'It is not our business,' he tells him. 'I am just glad you have each other.'

'Right,' Wheeler replies, adjusting his towel, still feeling desperately awkward. 'Umm, you wanna sit or somethin'?'

But Ma-Ti shakes his head, gazing once more at the dishevelled state of his room.

'I won't, if it's all the same to you.'

'Right, okay.'

Ma-Ti sighs. 'I came to offer my sympathies, Wheeler. I know that you and your father had a difficult relationship, but he was still your father, and I am sorry for his passing.'

Wheeler stiffens, numbness seeping through him again at his father's name.

'He was a lousy Dad,' Wheeler shrugs. 'I'm only going home for my Mom.'

Ma-Ti nods, even if he hears the falsity of Wheeler's words. 'I should like to send her a card, if that is alright by you?'

'Sure thing, whatever you like, little buddy,' Wheeler shrugs again.

'What was his name?' Ma-Ti asks, and Wheeler freezes.

'Why?'

'For the card. I cannot just write, 'Dear Mrs. Wheeler, please accept my sympathies on the loss of Mr. Wheeler,' can I now?'

Wheeler nods, his neck stiff. 'My Mom is Angie. And my Dad is... was Jim...' he swallows hard. 'Uh, James, I mean.'

Ma-Ti looks at him keenly. 'You were named for your father?'

Involuntarily, Wheeler clenches a fist. 'Call it a New York Irish tradition.'

'Oh.'

'That's why I've always gone by Wheeler. I was Jimmy once, little Jim to his big Jim, or at least I was until I was old enough to have any say in the matter.' He paused. 'I hate being called by my name, most of the time.'

'Linka calls you James, sometimes,' Ma-Ti remarks, and Wheeler softens.

'Yeah, she does. And she's the only one I'm ever going to let do that. She was named for her father too, you know- Yelena Mikhailovna. Names are important in Russia, it's different there. So, if calling me James makes her happy, then I'm gonna let her. Besides, the way she says it...' he exhales, deep and cleansing. 'The way she says 'James'... it's just for me, you know? It's not Jim my deadbeat Dad, or Jimmy the fucked up kid, or James the fucked up teenager. With her, it's not even Wheeler, Planeteer,' he smiles. 'With her, it's just James. Me.'

'She loves you,' Ma-Ti says kindly, and Wheeler lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

'Yeah, she does. I don't know why she does, but she does,' he grins.

'Because you are a good man,' Ma-Ti smiles back. He lays a hand on Wheeler's shoulder, patting it companionably. 'And soon you and Linka will have your Colorado, and...' Abruptly, he frowns.

'Little Buddy?' Wheeler asks, concerned.

'It's nothing,' Ma-Ti replies, though his face is still dark. 'I sense change coming is all,' he adds. 'Loss. Grief. Separation...'

Wheeler relaxes. 'You're just picking up on my feelings about my old man,' he shrugs.

Ma-Ti nods. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. It doesn't matter.'

They both hear the water in the bathroom suddenly turn off, Linka's voice calling out. Wheeler jumps, but Ma-Ti only grins, walking to the door.

'I can see myself out. Your lady needs you,' he says, and Wheeler resists the urge to smack him playfully over the head.

'One day you'll understand,' Wheeler warns him, but his face is teasing. 'One day you'll meet a girl and...'

But Ma-Ti's face inexplicably darkens. 'No. No, that is not for me,' he says, and Wheeler stares at him.

'Ma-Ti...'

'Wheeler,' Ma-Ti says, still serious. 'Allow yourself to grieve, but do not blame yourself. It is not your fault.'

Wheeler stares at him.

'Ma-Ti, you're kind of freaking me out here. You want me to call Gaia or...'

But like a storm clearing, Ma-Ti's face suddenly relaxes, and he laughs, shaking his head.

'No. No, all is well, my friend. I am sorry about your father, is all.'

'I'm sorry about him too,' Wheeler confesses. 'But probably not in the way I should be, at this point.'

When Ma-Ti is gone, Wheeler joins Linka in the bathroom. She's brushing her hair in front of the mirror, a towel around her body and her curls clinging to her neck, and he stares at her for a minute, lost for words that she's here and that she's his.

'What is it, Yankee?' She asks, catching his eye.

'Lose the towel,' he orders, his voice low and throaty.

She puts down the brush and turns to look at him, licking her lips. She complies, dropping the towel gracefully into a heap at her feet, and leans back against his sink.

'Well?' She asks quietly, and he steps forward, crowding her body, while turning on the shower next to her.

'Yankee, I am already clean-' she begins to protest, but her words die in her throat when he ducks his head to her chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while gripping the other with his hand. She moans, her head falling back, and he releases her with a grin, dropping his own towel.

'Guess I'm going to have to get you all dirty again then, hey?'

They have sex frequently over the next few days. A good psychologist would have told Wheeler it was an evasion of grief, or perhaps an affirmation of life, but there are no good psychologists on Hope Island and anyway, he's too young to give a shit about psychology when he's so in love and the sex is this good.

So it's a shock to them both when they arrive at his apartment in Brooklyn and his mother directs him to his room, leaving Linka standing awkwardly and alone in the hall.

Angie looks at Wheeler with dismay, her voice low and slurred even though it's only eleven am.

'I can't believe you brought that fucking Ruski here with you,' Angie snarls. 'You can stay, but get the Soviet bitch out of here.'

Wheeler's fists clench and he feels his blood heat with rage.

'Don't talk about her like that,' he says, his voice hard, and his mother rolls her eyes.

'So she's why Trish hasn't heard squat from you in months,' Angie remarks, looking him up and down distastefully. 'I like Trish, Jimmy, and-'

'I like Trish too,' he says honestly.

His mother gives a half-smile. 'Good. Well, get rid of the Soviet out there and-'

'Mom,' he carries on, standing taller. 'I like Trish-'

'Good, well, like I said-'

'- but I love the Soviet. I'm going to marry the Soviet, in fact.'

His mother's face pales. 'The hell you are,' she exhales harshly. 'She doesn't belong here, Jimmy.'

He chooses to ignore that. 'Look, it's simple: I love her. And if she can't stay, I won't stay.'

He sees two emotions battling for dominance across his mother's face: her xenophobia and desire to be right struggling against her loneliness and desire for company. In that moment, he pities her.

Finally, she shrugs.

'She sleeps on the sofa,' she orders, and he gives a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

'She sleeps in my room,' he tells her.

'You aren't fucking your Ruski slut under my roof,' Angie huffs, and Wheeler shakes his head at her in disgust.

'You know what, Mom? I'll respect your rules so long as you respect mine,' Wheeler replies coolly. 'Be civil to her. Don't call her a Ruski, or a Soviet, or a bitch, or a slut. She has a name: Linka.'

'Some name,' Angie replies, but Wheeler notes she doesn't argue with him.

'I'll take the sofa,' Wheeler says as he leaves the room. 'You don't have to be nice to Linka. All I'm askin' is that you're civil to her.'

He finds Linka in the hall, wrapping his arms around her tightly and breathing in that smell of hers that he loves. That hint of Hope Island, that scent of her perfume, and the calming flavour of her skin.

'Come on, babe,' he breathes into her ear. 'Let's get out of here and take a walk.'

'Your mother does not like me,' Linka says, her voice pained, and Wheeler shrugs.

'Doesn't matter,' he reassures her. 'It's you and me, remember? We're the ones who count in this. Navsegda, babe.'

She smiles at his use of her language.

'Navsegda,' she agrees.

The funeral passes in a blur. He shakes hands with the the Catholic priest who buries his father and then with a line of relatives who either don't or won't weep for Jim Wheeler.

Like he cares. He'd long since stopped believing that his father deserved tears, his or anyone else's.

His mother produces Trish at the wake and Wheeler shoots a furtive look at Linka before greeting his ex-girlfriend with a hug. Trish looks good- but then she always looks good, and she'll always be his first girlfriend and there'll always be a spark of attraction, no matter what. But he keeps her at an arm's length, fending off her obvious advances, and when she sees Linka across the room her eyes narrow dangerously.

'You brought Linka with you,' Trish says softly, and Wheeler nods.

'Yeah.'

'I figured she'd think herself too good for the likes of here,' Trish replies with a shrug.

Wheeler stiffens. 'She ain't exactly from fifth avenue herself,' he says. 'Just a small mining village in Russia.'

Trish gives a tight smile. 'How does a mining village dig up something like her? I'll admit it; she's very pretty. Probably clever too, right?'

Wheeler's face softens as he regards Linka fondly. Her corn-blonde hair is tied up in a loose chignon, errant wisps floating around her ears and cheek, while her eyes, today a dark green, flash at him from across the room.

'Yeah, she is.'

'So, which one is she again? Earth or Water or Air or...'

'Wind,' Wheeler tells her.

Trish snorts. 'Figures,' they watch as Linka politely laughs at a joke that, in all honesty, she probably doesn't understand. 'All airs and graces, isn't she?'

'Nah,' Wheeler's reply is quick, 'she's beautiful inside and out.'

Trish looks at him sharply. 'Still got a thing for her, haven't you?'

He nods. 'Now... and always.'

At that moment Linka smiles at him, and for Wheeler, the rest of the room melts away. He smiles back at her, tiredly and longingly, and he feels Trish deflate a little beside him.

'You wanna tell me anythin', Wheeler?' She asks, nodding towards Linka.

It's his turn to sigh. 'Look, Trish-'

But his mother swoops in at that moment, pulling Trish into an enormous bear-hug and making sure everyone sees her doing it. 'Trish, baby,' she practically purrs, before pulling Trish over to a gaggle of Wheeler's relatives and hugging her again. 'This is Trish. She's an artist. My Jimmy's going to marry her one of these days.'

Wheeler feels himself go pale, and he looks up to see Linka leaving the room.

He immediately stands and goes to follow her, but a hand, small and beseeching, pulls at him.

'Wheeler,' Trish says firmly. 'Let her go.'

But Wheeler shakes his head.

'No, I gotta bring her back-'

'Wheeler,' Trish looks at him with wide eyes. 'What the fuck are you doing? She doesn't belong here.'

Momentarily, Wheeler is livid.

'Is this about her being Russian again? Because I'm fucking sick of-'

But Trish only crosses her arms at him. 'No,' she says, her voice hard. 'This is about her being a Planeteer. You can't just run off to a new life and then expect that new life to blend in with your old one, no questions asked. This is Brooklyn, and this is you. She belongs on Hope Island and she belongs in Russia but she doesn't belong here. You shouldn't have brought her here. This isn't her.'

He stares at Trish for a moment, uncomprehending, although a trickle of dismay runs through him, her words planting a seed of doubt. Because somewhere, underneath his anger and grief and disbelief, Trish's words strike a chord.

Linka doesn't belong here.

But then, maybe neither does he.

'Then I don't belong here either,' he says weakly, but Trish shakes her head at him, her eyes full of sorrow.

'This will always be you,' she tells him, waving to the room, and to the window where New York lies beyond. 'You'll always belong here. But she never will.'

Trish sighs, pulling on his hands until he's sat beside her again, his legs shaky.

'Stop searching outwards, stop thinkin' everything else is better than what you got right here. You're better than your Dad already, Wheeler. You always were. And you don't need her to prove it.'

'Is that what you think I'm doing? Using her to prove I've moved beyond all this,' he stutters.

Trish shrugs. 'I just think you need to ask yourself if you love her, or if you just love the idea of her. Cause I'll admit it, she looks like Little Miss perfect. Don't mean she's little miss perfect for you though. Think about it, Wheeler.'

But at that moment, he can't think about it.

He's fairly certain he'll be sick if he does.

He breaks his mother's rule, sneaking into his bedroom later that night and curling up around her.

Her pillow is damp with tears, and he kisses her everywhere his lips can touch her skin.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he whispers between kisses, his own cheeks damp with sudden tears.

'I do not like it here,' Linka admits. 'I do not belong here,' she adds, her voice a broken whisper.

'No, no, no...' Wheeler kisses her again. 'No, don't say that. Don't. You belong with me, and I belong with you,' he tells her fiercely. 'Navsegda, right?'

She nods, submitting to his hands and mouth, but it's different this time. He cries while making love to her, whispering pleas into her hair and mouth and ears.

Don't leave me. Stay with me. I need you. I love you. I'm half a man without you.

Afterwards, she holds him like she always does, but still, he feels a distance between them.

And he lies awake into the early hours, unsure of what all this means.

When Wheeler wakes, he feels good.

It's early evening, six or seven by his reckoning, and Linka lies asleep in a ball at his side. She's naked, her breaths deep and even, and he rolls onto his side to stare at her.

Blonde hair, a silken mass on his pillow. Dark lashes fluttering lightly against pale cheeks. Lips, still slightly swollen from his kisses.

He grins, happiness flooding through him.

Because this, he decides, is a second chance. The second chance, he suddenly realises, that he's been desperately searching for all these years.

He needs Linka next to him like he needs air to breathe and food to eat. It's a realisation that is at once so simple and yet profoundly affecting that he has to close his eyes and breathe deeply.

He needs her.

She belongs here, next to him.

She always has, and she always will.

He swings his legs out of bed, watching fondly as Linka stirs, rubbing her eyes and stretching out her long legs, which, just a few hours ago, had been wrapped around his waist.

He feels desire build within him at the memory.

'Yankee?' She murmurs, and he bends to kiss her.

'I'm gonna order us some dinner,' he whispers. 'Asian or Italian, babe?'

'I do not care,' she replies, her eyes still closed. 'I am tired, not hungry.'

'Still gotta eat,' he shrugs. 'Trust me, you're gonna need the energy.'

She smiles at that, but still burrows back into his pillows, her eyes closing once more, and he throws on a pair of sweatpants before walking out into the bright light of his hall.

He checks his phone. There's an irate message from his agent asking why his social media hasn't been updated in twenty-four hours, and he taps out a quick response: 'Got a girl here.'

There's a reply within seconds, a winking emoji followed by 'leak a pic' and Wheeler feels himself wince.

'No, it's not like that,' he replies, before adding 'I'll update Monday' and then he shuts off his phone entirely.

Because fuck his agent, and fuck anyone else who tries to burst this moment he's been given with Linka.

He pulls out his iPad and rattles out a quick Ubereats, a good selection of vegetarian meals Linka can pick at. It's probably too much food, and he feels a strange moment of guilt, sensing Wheeler the Planeteer standing beside him and shaking his head at his excess. But he brushes the guilt aside easily. Linka's too thin as it is; he needs to feed her up, he tells himself.

He sits for a moment in the quiet of his living room, but he can't stay still. He's too pent-up, too full of optimism and joy to be alone. And so he pads back through to his bedroom, sliding back into bed beside Linka and snaking his arms around her.

'If you sleep all day you won't sleep tonight,' he murmurs into her ear.

She presses up against him, one hand snaking down between his legs and-

And he thinks he could die, in that moment. Die of happiness and pleasure and desire and he looks down at her, into her suddenly alert green eyes and smiles at her.

'I am sure you will find a way to tire me out, Yankee.'

'Tonight, and every night from now on,' he chuckles, and he feels her smile against his throat. 'Navsegda, right babe?'

She freezes, her body stiffening. But the reaction is so momentary that Wheeler isn't sure whether he imagines it or not.

She makes no reply, opening her legs to draw him closer and as he slides inside her, her head turns to the side.

'This is eviction, Yankee?' She breathes a question, but her body is hot and clinging and his mind is lost to lust and he can't think of anything right now other than her and how she feels wrapped around him.

'No, not eviction...' she whispers, her hands clenching in the sheets. 'Evasion... I meant evasion...'

He covers her mouth with his.