Well, here we are: last chapter.

Huge thanks to everyone who has commented and/or messaged/inboxed me on tumblr. Your support is super appreciated :)

Someone had asked if I was planning on doing a full length of the rival gang AU. I am, so be on the lookout for that. Also be on the lookout for s2's rewrite sometime soon.

Every single time she visited, Riven was asleep or in physiotherapy or doing some scan. It was like the universe was doing everything in its power to keep him from her. All she wanted was 5 minutes with him to know he was okay – Nabu and Aisha, who had seen him, assured her he was, but Musa wanted to see it with her own eyes – and tell him she loved him. She spent every moment she could there, heart pounding with anxiety, but it was never the right moment.

Faragonda cancelled as much as she could, but the studio insisted that Musa continue to promote. They weren't as heartless as her former label would have been, but it still angered her that they would insist she work when they knew what was going on – she'd spared them no detail in hopes that they would let her cancel everything.

It didn't work.

That was why she, Aisha and Mirta found themselves on a plane to Chicago. If it wasn't bad enough that she had to be ripped from Riven's side – the side she'd never been by since he was removed from the breathing tube – but now she was being forced to his hometown. Literally one of the few places in the country that would serve to remind her of him at every turn. Every restaurant they went to, every corner they drove past, Musa would find herself wondering if Riven had ever been here, what he thought of it, what his favourite places had been.

They would be in Chicago for 4 days; the only two things they hadn't been able to cancel were the first and last day. She shouldn't have been surprised, certainly given the nature of the last one, but it only served to convince Musa more that the universe really didn't want them to be together. Thankfully, Nabu and Flora – who Musa had seen multiple times while waiting in Riven's room – had promised to keep them all updated with near-hourly texts. Knowing that she was stuck in Chicago for those 4 days, she rebooked all the appearances that they'd cancelled; better to stay busy and keep her mind off Riven as much as possible.

She felt like a robot, going through the motions of a performer. Wave. Hug. Smile. Sing. Dance. Laugh. Make small talk. Laugh. Nod. Smile. Wave. Sing. Dance. Laugh. Hug. Smile. Wave. Sing. Laugh. Dance. Sing. Wave. Make small talk. Laugh. Over and over and over until she couldn't stand her own voice anymore. Most of her interviewers were compassionate and, having heard the story from multiple news outlets, wished Riven a speedy recovery.

Hours melted into one another, drowning her in them until the last appearance was barely visible. But it came. After four agonizingly long days, helped only by Nabu and Flora's updates, Aisha and Mirta's upbeat attitudes and understanding, and her friends' virtual support (and constant cheering on), Musa made it to the last interview.

It was a benefit for a charity – a fucking kid's charity at that. Musa wasn't surprised the label hadn't wanted her to cancel; it would reflect poorly on her. It was a charity she'd supported for years, though, and Musa thought they would understand. Her label – she was considering making them a former label – wasn't so convinced that the charity or her fans would get it. Musa knew her fans would. As much as it had annoyed her, she knew that they loved the idea of her and Riven – and would understand, and support, her staying by his side. She might not look herself up, but Tecna and Mirta did, dutifully reporting any interesting – usually so ridiculous it's hilarious – finds to the singer. Apparently there had been many edits of her and Riven.

She was the before-last person to perform. The finale was given to Celine Dion and, as much as Musa knew she had power vocals, she wasn't down to follow Celine. She went on, letting herself get carried away in the sounds of the audience singing her own songs back to her; remembering part of why she loved what she did, even if it meant missing things or people. This was her first show since the album released – not just a single song, but a full mini set. The rush of performing made her feel more alive than she had in weeks. She could stay there forever, listening to them sing to her, completely unaware that minutes earlier she'd been waiting impatiently for tonight to be over.

Now, she never wanted it to end

But it did.

She was thanked and sent off-stage. Celine crossed her in the green room, congratulating Musa on a phenomenal performance. Celine headed on stage, and Musa headed back to her dressing room. With the screams of the crowd no longer deafening her and pumping her with adrenaline, she was left to count the minutes until she'd be back on a plane to New York. All 450 long, slow minutes.

She pushed open her dressing room door with her back as she scrolled through her phone. It had been almost 6 hours since Flora or Nabu had sent an update, and she was starting to worry. Surely, they would have told her if there had been some sort of complications. It would suck to learn about it via text, but it was better than leaving her waiting in agony. One hand reached out to flick the light on while the other scrolled, endlessly refreshing the page hoping desperately that something would pop up that said still good.

"Musa?"

Of all the things to expect someone in her dressing room was not it. The voice nearly stopped her heart. It was too deep to be Aisha or Mirta. She almost turned around and ran out the door, paranoid that her stalker had somehow escaped from the jail he was being held at, until she recognized the voice. It had been weeks since she'd heard it somewhere other than in her head, and even longer still since she'd started longing for it to want to talk to her.

Her eyes lifted from the phone slowly, terrified that she was imagining the whole thing. He was there, lifting himself from the couch, flinching in pain at the movement. His eyes met hers and, unsurprisingly, the rest of the world faded away. The people walking and talking outside her dressing room, gone. The ticking of the clock on the wall, gone. The whispers of the roar of the crowd that made its way backstage, gone. It was just the two of them.

"Riven?"

It took 2 weeks for them to release him from the hospital even if he insisted he was fine from the moment they'd removed the breathing tube. He hated hospitals, always had. They were too quiet and invasive. Worse yet, it meant he had no freedom to go and do what he wanted. He didn't even want that much: just to see Musa. And maybe take a walk – a short one since he had trouble walking for more than a few feet – somewhere that wasn't a stark hospital hallway or the physiotherapy room.

He hated the wheelchair they'd stuck him in to 'avoid overworking his leg'. He had spent his whole life being active – he liked being active. Darcy had made him watch some movie once - Me and you or something like that – about a girl that becomes a caretaker for a guy in a wheelchair. They fell in love and all that crap, but all Riven could do was wonder why the guy wanted to die when he had money and luxury and love. Now he got it. Having such a big part of who he was ripped away sucked, and all he could do was thank whichever God existed that, with enough physio, his leg would heal and he'd be back to his formerly athletic self.

"What would you like to do with your first day of freedom?" Nabu asked, teasing him about his use of the word when Nabu had picked him up earlier, once Riven was out of the shower. His first real shower since the morning before they'd boarded the flight back to New York; he never wanted to have another sponge bath as long as he lived. Riven wheeled himself into the living room of his apartment where Nabu had made himself comfortable. It was a good thing his building had an elevator and hallways wide enough for him to navigate in with just a bit of trouble, but it felt weird. It wasn't home anymore.

"Find Musa." Riven's response was certain, firm. Never in his life had he been so sure of his next step. When he had pictured his life as a kid, he'd always hoped for action and adventure. Somewhere in there he would meet a pretty girl and they'd fall in love, but that would be the B plot. He'd never thought the great story of his life would be a love story; that action, and defeating the villain, would take the back seat to getting the girl.

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that..." Nabu grimaced. "She isn't in New York."

"Where is she?" He had her schedule somewhere buried under 2 weeks of unanswered emails, but Nabu had the information; Aisha went wherever Musa did if there was a performance involved. If Musa was anywhere within the US, Canada or Mexico, he would find a way there.

"Chicago."

Fuck.

Did it have to be Chicago? Jersey, Washington, Fucking Hawaii. Anywhere but Chicago. Riven swore when he'd left that the only reason he would ever go back to that shithole was if Flora was hurt or dying.

"When does she get back?" He asked tentatively, hoping Nabu would say something like Oh, they'll be back tonight. Of course, he wouldn't be that lucky; Nabu had to give him a sorry look and say: "They're there for another 2 days."

"Well that's just fucking great. I hate Chicago." Riven grumbled, fishing his phone out of his back pocket. He pulled up every travel site he could find and started looking for flights to the windy city. From the corner of his eye, he could see Nabu giving him a questioning look. Did the man really think that he was going to wait 2 days for Musa to get back? He knew what Nabu would say: you've already waited a week and a half, what's another 48 hours? The answer was too much; another 48 hours was too much. He was already aching to tell her, to hold her and have her. He didn't want to wait. He would take the 11-hour drive if he had to. "I know you think I should wait, but I'm not going to."

They were on a flight to Chicago the next day. With every passing hour, Riven grew more and more anxious – and more and more excited. With every passing hour, he got closer to having the woman he loved in his arms; to being able to see her and talk to her. He knew she'd been at the hospital – and often – but they had constantly missed each other, and Musa's busy schedule didn't give for a whole lot of time to just hang out and wait.

Finally, they were in Chicago. Riven ignored the pit in his stomach that made him feel like the angry teenager that had left almost a decade earlier. All his focus went onto what he was going to say when he saw her, but he kept coming up blank. No words seemed to be enough, no feeling grandiose and intense enough, to tell her how he felt about her.

Her detailed schedule – a security risk when it came to the stalker – came in incredibly handy for them now. He knew exactly where she would be, when she would be performing and what she would be performing – not that the last one mattered much. Once they were close to the venue, he called Mirta. Mirta, who had not-so-subtly been pushing for them to get together since, at least, the photoshoot, was more than ecstatic to meet him outside and get him backstage.

Musa's dressing room was nice. Simple, but nice. A dark green velvet couch with gold accents with a glass coffee table on one side, a vanity station with 600 lights like in the movies on the other. Floral arrangements that Flora would fawn over covered random surfaces and art that he knew Musa would love covered the walls. There was a basket in the middle of the coffee table with various snacks, one of Musa's few requests for her dressing rooms.

He took a seat on the couch and waited for her to finish her set. The light, set on an automatic timer, turned off while he was waiting, but he didn't get up. The walk from the cab to the dressing room had put enough stress on his leg, and he was saving what little strength it had for the walk back out.

Musa came in a few minutes later. He recognised her small frame in the light of the hallway. Riven watched as she flicked on the light and closed the door beside her. Her eyes – her perfect, deep blue eyes – were fixed on her phone, her eyebrows creasing above them. Riven groaned internally; you would think after having been stalked for the last few months, she would pay a bit more attention to her surroundings.

"Musa?" She hesitated, so he pushed himself up, hoping that the movement would cause her to look at him. Sure enough, her eyes flicked up, and their gazes met. Her mouth, painted a breathtaking ruby red, opened in a small O, any words lost on her tongue.

"Riven?" Her voice caught in her throat and her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He tried to force himself to speak, but he found himself at a loss for words. She was so beautiful. And she was here, in front of him – she was real. And she was talking to him. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home? You need to be healing."

Musa was beside him faster than he could register. Her hand gripped his arm and directed him back down to the couch. He let her push him down, grabbing her free hand with his and gently pulled her onto the couch with him. From the couch, Musa looked up at him, still questioning why he was there.

"I wanted to see you... I needed to see you" he found himself whispering. Musa's eyes fluttered in surprise, and he swore he saw the faintest blush spread across her cheeks. He cursed himself for not preparing something to say. He wasn't good with words, but Nabu was. He could have had him write something out. Would it be weird to jump straight to I love you? "I've missed you."

"You have?" Why was she surprised? She had to know that he loved her as much – maybe more? - than she loved him. Unless... had Aisha not told her? She really wanted him to be the one to make the move, huh. He should just dive in then. "It's funny," Musa commented dryly before he could say anything else.

"What is?"

"When we first met you told me you had no interest in being my friend. Now you miss me. I guess you were wrong." Musa chuckled softly. Her eyes drifted off, staring at the door behind him or maybe nothing in particular. "I ha-"

"I don't want to be your friend" he said before the words had fully run through his mind. He could slap himself for that one. Musa looked like she'd been struck and she turned her face away from him so fast it made him want to cry. God, he was such a fucking idiot.

"Oh... well th-"

"No. No, no, no. Listen to me, please." Riven slid himself closer to her – as close as he possibly could without sitting on her. His hand lifted to cup her cheek and stop her from moving away from him. With her chin lifted, Musa's eyes met his. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. He let his thumb slide across her cheek and caress it, trying to pour all the love he held into that one touch.

"I don't want to be your friend. I want to be so much more." Musa's eyes crinkled curiously. Riven silently cursed Aisha for not telling her about his feelings. If Musa had known, he could just kiss her, but he didn't want her to feel pressured or cornered. He wanted full confirmation from the singer herself that she wanted him to kiss her. Instead, he leaned his forehead against hers. He could feel her breath on his face, but all he could focus on was the way she was looking at him – hopeful and loving. "I never... You were not the person that was supposed to make me feel like this. At least I didn't think you were, but I guess I was wrong. Musa, I am so in love with you that it terrifies me a little. But you also make me happier than I ever thought possib-"

Her lips hit his with such force that he had to use the arm of the couch to steady himself. He had dreamed of kissing her for so long, savored the memory of their night together and the way she had fit with him so perfectly. Real life was so much better. Her lips were so much softer, so much sweeter.

When they pulled apart, Musa pushed her hand up through his hair and forced his forehead back onto hers. She looked up at him with so much love and so much joy that it made his heart swell and sing. Her smile could light the entirety of Manhattan, but it was only for him. All of her was for him.

A year and a half later

He could spot the deep purple dress Stella had stuck Musa in – a low-cut, long-trained number that Musa had loved – from a mile away. He had been looking for her, but it helped that she was so beautiful in it that he'd have to be blind to miss her. Riven watched in never-changing awe as she stepped out of the car and out to hundreds of flashing lights. She posed and smiled at the cameras while Mirta ran around behind her and fixed her train for the best possible shots.

This was their arrangement: Riven went to select events and never walked the red carpet. He'd walked one once – the Grammy's a year earlier – and had absolutely loathed it. The forced smiles and bright lights were just not for him. He much preferred to stay out of the spotlight and be a silent support to her ever-burning star. She, in exchange, was a constant, vocal support to him. When he'd told her that he'd gotten into security because of a childhood inability to protect his mother from abuse, she'd found a domestic violence shelter in the Bronx in need of a security guard and had pushed him to volunteer. He had still been on desk duty at work, so it seemed a good way to get time away from his prison. It turned out that, as boring as the job was at times, he felt a lot more passionate about it than he had about babysitting diplomats. Eventually, the shelter had offered him a full-time position. The salary was much higher than he'd expected it to be, and, though she'd never admit it, he had a feeling that Musa had some part in that number. She would never have actively done anything – she knew too well that he'd be upset – but, seeing how shelter salaries were paid from donations, that wouldn't have stopped her from convincing her multi-millionaire friends to donate to a worthy cause.

"Not a fan of the red carpet?" An older man with a southern twang came up beside him. His grey hair was slicked back and he wore a simple black tux, not unlike the one Stella had stuck him in. Riven would've been happier in nice jeans and a button-down, but the blonde had insisted that, if he was there to support Musa and her twelve Grammy nominations.

"Not my thing, no" Riven chuckled. He hated talking to strangers, but the old man seemed sweet, so he gave him the benefit of the doubt.

"Mine neither" the man laughed, unbuckling his tux jacket and pushing it back so he could put his hands on his hips. "I was on one years ago and I hated it. I told my wife on the way home that, as happy as I was for her, I never wanted to go to one of these dang things again."

"Who's your wife?"

"Oh, sorry. Carl Dean," he said, extending his hand for Riven to shake. "I'm Dolly Parton's husband.

"Dolly Parton is married?" Riven questioned aloud. He'd never been a fan of the blonde's music, but Musa swore that the woman was a genius.

"Has been since '66."

"And you… never attend these things?"

"That's correct." Riven smiled at the man. It gave him hope that he and Musa could last even with him stepping away from the spotlight instead of into it with her. If Carl Dean and Dolly Parton could make it work for over 50 years, surely he and Musa could too. "Only reason I'm here tonight is cause she's hosting this year and I wanted to see it."

"Riven, by the way" he told the man, realising he'd never introduced himself and hearing the little Flora voice in his head scolding him for being impolite.

"I know who you are. I heard about you two: the popstar and her bodyguard falling in love. That's the stuff of movies." Carl Dean chuckled kindly, offering Riven a friendly smile. "How you liking being the boyfriend of one of the top artists in the world?"

"Well, husband actually" he corrected, bringing his hand up to show the wedding band that had been added to his hand only a week earlier. He smiled widely as Musa walked up to the two men and wrapped her arm around his waist. The hand he'd been showing snaked around her shoulders and he kissed the top of her head, ignoring the taste of hairspray that covered his lips. "And it's been great."

Musa and Riven hung around, talking to the man, who'd introduced himself as Carl Dean to her, for a few minutes more before heading into the main hall. She should've been paying attention to the ceremony, but her focus seemed to always drift back to her husband beside her.

Her husband.

God, she really loved calling him that. Maybe she'd even become one of those obnoxious people who would refer to their husbands as hubbie when he wasn't around.

She won 7 of her 12 nominations, and Riven was beside her to cheer her on through all of them. When she walked up on stage for her Album of the Year win, she noticed Alicia Keys, the announcer, glance down at the wedding band on her finger and give her a coy smile. She knew the ring would be noticed eventually, but she'd expected it to be at the after party or the next day in the tabloids, though Musa did also slip the word husband into every single one of her acceptance speeches.

Later that night – more early the next morning – Musa sat in the living room of their apartment, flipping through a photo album. She had sold the condo and bought a new one as soon as she could – there was no way in hell she was living in the same one her stalker had found and subsequently shot Riven in.

"Muse?" Riven's sleepy voice called behind her, flicking on the living room light and ridding the space ofi its shadows. "Why are you up? It's 5 am."

"Can't sleep" she shrugged, looking over her shoulder at him. He had slipped a pair of pajama bottoms on – disappointing... she would never tire of seeing him naked. "I'm still buzzing."

He took the seat beside her on the couch and she felt the warmth of his arm wrap around her shoulder and the point of his chin on her shoulder. Musa leaned into him, letting his warmth and smell wrap her up completely. She could die happy in his arms.

"Our wedding album, huh?" He flipped through a few pages, pointing out his favourite shots. The album had been delivered earlier that day and they'd not had a chance to flip through it yet. Stella wouldn't call it much of a wedding album since they'd not had much of a wedding, but Musa loved all of it and wouldn't change it for anything. They'd gotten married at the courthouse on a more or less spur of the moment decision.

A week and a half earlier, they'd been sitting down watching a movie. She'd said something – a random comment that she couldn't even remember – and Riven had smiled at her. One of those smiles that oozed love even if he would just shake his head and say nothing when she looked at him and asked why he was smiling. Marry me he'd asked calmly, as if he were asking the simplest question. Musa said yes just as easily.

The wedding had been very simple: them, their closest friends, Musa's dad and the judge that had married them. Riven had worn black jeans and a white button-down shirt – and only because Stella and successfully nagged him into it. Musa wore a red shirt inspired by a traditional qipao and a pair of jeans – a bit of her and a bit of tradition to make her dad happy. Once the ceremony was over, they'd had a catered dinner at home and then they hung around; a nice, low-key evening in perfect match to the couple.

"You put our vows in here?" Riven asked as Musa flipped to the last page. The courthouse hadn't let them say vows – the time for them wasn't allotted – so they'd opted to write them for each other to read whenever they wanted or needed to.

"Yeah, so we don't lose them." Musa eyes roamed over the letters, side by side in the protective plastic. Riven claimed he wasn't much of a writer, but she thought his vows were perfect. If anything, hers were a bit of a mess too. She'd been so emotional while she wrote them that she was pretty sure they were a garbled mess.

Riven's eyes skimmed over the letters, smiling softly as he read over her words. Her eyes drifted away from the pages and over him, taking in every piece of him. She still couldn't believe she'd been lucky enough to have such an incredible person come into her life even if it was in a less than lucky way. "I love you" she whispered, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

He turned his head to pull her into a kiss. A soft, gentle kiss that painted her world all the colours of the rainbow. When he pulled away, he leaned his forehead against hers, much like he had that fateful night when he'd first told her he loved her. "I love you more."