Saturday, March 26th, 2016—Mount Pleasant, South Carolina

They meandered further into the marshes, the property lines expanding until Sasha pulled up at a gate. Tom would have missed it even if the modern convenience of Google maps still worked. They left his truck to inspect, chains and a padlock still held the iron gates closed, and without comment, Tom retrieved the bolt cutters they'd had the foresight to bring from the rear seat. It was a good sign, surely? Perhaps she'd be lucky enough to find their home untouched... rains had caused silt to rise, and Sasha was glad Tom was there; no way she'd be able to force them open herself. Inside the truck once more, Sasha drove the overgrown quarter of a mile-long driveway. Gravel churned and crunched beneath tire; a satisfying sound that had always accompanied her return from missions and signified home, and as the towering structure drew near, looming through tendrils of Spanish Moss, her astonishment grew.

Tom exited the vehicle, brows lifted. It was stunning. A two-story modern colonial Lakehouse, evidently custom built, clad in a mixture of white siding and careful millwork. It was well proportioned, with expansive windows framed by powder blue shutters and anchored with a generous wrapping porch and proud columns. The right wing housed a three car-garage… had to be at minimum 5,000 square feet—more—Tom assumed, and it backed up onto the river with its own private dock.

He had questions.

Several of them.

But Sasha's demeanor shifted, and Tom felt it. Followed her gaze to the giant red X poking out behind an overgrown palm, and he sobered. "Let me clear it first." It was not a question, but a command.

That her husband's corpse lay rotting in their house still was an unthinkable thing—yet if no one had been here—that's exactly where he may be, and while refusing to concede even the slightest level of control remained Sasha's defining characteristic, some things Tom would never allow her to suffer in his presence.

Her fear was visible, and she nodded, his relief that she'd extended authority profound.

Ascending the porch steps, Tom tested the door. It was still locked, and he perceived again something he couldn't subject her to witnessing—the visual of him kicking it down. It felt disrespectful—but her small scoff interrupted his internal musing.

"There's a key in the dirt of that planter," she murmured, pointing to his right. It was clear she was lost in recollection… Tom assumed about the choice to keep a key outside of a locked door. He'd argued with Darien for doing the same, and since they'd agreed against doing so in St. Louis, he figured her husband had buried it.

After entering, Tom was greeted by a double-height foyer with a generous brass chandelier at its center and an oversized staircase to its right. Through the foyer, an extended archway led into the main living space. Floor-to-ceiling French windows framed a perfect view of the rear porch and tributary beyond, and the varied herringbone patterns of light oak flooring gleamed in the expansive natural light they cast. The ceilings had to be at least twelve feet. More. It looked like the stuff Darien used to show him when they'd discussed renovating.

Very expensive and out of their budget stuff.

Tom made efficient work of the ground floor, finding nothing amiss. A little mess: it was clear her husband had been here for some time based upon the supplies stacked in the garage and preserved goods lining the pantry and counters. On his way to the second floor, he happened upon a wedding picture, framed, and set on a piano.

Something blanketed his heart—not jealously—but difficult to label.

She looked so beautiful.

A simple clean-lined, no-frills backless dress and she laughed while her husband gazed at her with enamor. He was tall. If Tom had to guess, six four or five. Slim but not weedy, athletic. Took good care of himself, looked to be in his early to mid-forties. Clean cut with short brown hair, a little peppered but not enough to be considered gray, like him. He was an attractive man, the type people likely found universally appealing.

Moving on, Tom checked the remaining square footage. Counted five bedrooms in total and two independent offices outside the formal and informal living spaces. When he appeared again outside, Tom found Sasha leaning against one of the squared pillars. Immediately, she straightened.

"All clear," he said.

She exhaled, but when several moments passed with no further action, he perceived her level of fear. He'd felt the same things in Virginia. Wasn't ready for the collision of reality and the ghosts of memories he'd rather forget. All the small things taken for granted because he hadn't known they were lasts. The last dirty bowl in the sink. The last packed lunch for their kids. The last time he'd taken Darien in their sheets.

Tom extended his hand, waiting patiently when she considered it, lip drawn between her teeth, before accepting his help.

It's what she'd asked for, after all, in not so many words.

Stepping back into the home she'd been so excited about was surreal. They'd barely lived in it for six months before she was sent to Asia. She'd spent more time aboard the Nathan James than in these walls. Stood in the foyer, she squeezed Tom's hand before letting go. He'd helped her take the first step, but exploring was something that she needed to accomplish alone.

She tested a light switch by the door that Tom was softly closing—power was out—as she'd expected. They'd stopped seeing signs of occupancy about six miles back. It was harder to get supplies out here; needed to be more self-sufficient and risked flooding if a hurricane rolled in. The air was stale and a little musty. The humidity of the South had seeped into the wooden surfaces in her absence. Through the foyer, Sasha progressed until standing in their living room. Immediately, her gaze was drawn to her piano. Pressed a key just to hear it.

Still in tune.

Through the dust, she traced a finger, stopping to pick up her favorite from their wedding day. It only dawned now that her memories had faded enough that she could no longer project the sound of Chris' voice… his smell. It felt like a different life. One that she'd dreamed. She put the picture down gently as Tom watched from the Foyer.

Headed to her office.

Everything was the same, precisely as she preferred it. Mail stacked neatly, awaiting her return. She swallowed. Something so mundane now marked a timestamp of the day it had all stopped. Simply ceased coming because the number of dead was too great.

She went to the kitchen, taking in the sheer number of cans and preserved goods that were stacked on almost every surface. He'd tried to ride it out here then. She approached the island, opening the drawer where they kept keys and all the miscellaneous crap that usually got left out.

She was a neat freak and wanted order. He loved her, so he did as she asked.

His keys were gone.

She pulled the drawer open further, and that's when she spotted it. Goosebumps prickled her flesh.

Sasha,

I have no idea if you'll ever make it back here. It's been three months since you were last able to contact me. I did what you said. I gathered supplies and got my parents in time. They've been here with me since this started. I try every day to reach you on the channel you gave me, but I can't get through. I'm sure it's just poor communications.

I know you're out there somewhere working on a way to come home, and I wish I could've been here when you finally make it. Dad's been exposed. We didn't find out in time. Mom has started a fever. We're headed to their cabin in Tennessee. When you come home, I don't want you to find us this way.

I'm so sorry that I have to leave you.

Please know, being with you made me happier than I have ever been. Marrying you was my greatest achievement. You are the most important thing in my life. I'll be thinking of you when it ends, and know that given a choice, I'd choose this again—exactly as it is. Don't blame yourself for accepting that mission—if you were here, you'd be dead too.

I love you so much, and I'll see you on the other side.

- Chris x

Her hands were shaking. She re-read it several times.

There it was.

The confirmation.

She'd known this. Knew the chances of him surviving were slim to none. When she'd finally been able to check the existing registries after making no contact and turned up nothing? She'd accepted it fast and kept moving—refused to look back—but having a timeline, a concrete and definitive answer as to how made it real.

Sasha sank onto a counter stool. Braced an elbow against the cold marble, unaware that she was crying until wetness touched her fingers.

"I don't want you to find us this way."

He'd never given up, and she'd convinced herself so quickly that there was no hope. Mentally cut ties so she could survive. Chris deserved so much more. She'd almost given up, and it wasn't the thought of her husband that had kept her alive.

Sasha cringed.

After a considerable time, Tom found her that way, staring at the wall.

When he approached, she wordlessly produced the note. Wasn't crying anymore, just processing, but those cheeks were flushed, and the whites of her eyes were red. Carefully, he took the letter and read it. Chris Cooper appeared to have been a good man. A thoughtful man who realized what he had, and who loved her as he should—unselfishly.

Tom could only hope that Sasha would internalize his parting words.

With great care and respect, Tom placed it on the island counter and stooped to kiss her temple. Intending to give her more time, he withdrew, but Sasha's arms encircled his waist, and she buried her face in his torso. Now leaning against the island, Tom stroked her hair while cradling her.

He'd deserved more.

The plan was to stay for two nights before driving back. Tom watched while Sasha lit another candle and placed it on one of the four side tables beside the sectionals. They'd chosen to sleep beside the fireplace in the living room. While Charleston was temperate compared to St. Louis in the early spring, the sun was setting, and a distinct chill had already settled within the house. The generous and plush sofa cushions were arranged beside the heat in a makeshift bed. Fresh covers from the linen closet provided a barrier against the dust, and now she was going through boxes.

Were it not for the circumstance, Tom would consider it perfectly romantic.

There was plenty of firewood stacked in the garage. Food and fresh water they'd bought with them, and the liquor cabinet was far from depleted.

"Thank you," Sasha said softly when Tom handed her a glass of bourbon.

He placed the bottle behind her on the coffee table and then sat, leaning casually on an elbow. "This is a big house."

Her lip seemed to tug upward. "His parents owned a manufacturing company in Tennessee. He sat on the board, worked with the investors, did mergers and acquisitions…" trailing off, she scanned the space. At some point in her life, this had become normal. Softly, she shook her head. "It is a little excessive." She stared at the custom molding work and reclaimed oak beams framing the ceiling, somewhat embarrassed that it was comparatively bad taste to have such luxury. Even back then.

"So, you married a millionaire?"

"Multi-millionaire." The correction was made in jest with a coy grin.

"Forgive me. I should have known."

"If it makes you feel any better, commanding a three-billion-dollar destroyer still wins the day. Especially now."

Tipping his head, Tom raised the glass before taking a sip. Not the same. But a noted gesture—he was still a man with rooted values who'd lived a traditional life in which he provided—part of his purpose. He'd never be able to give Sasha the life she'd been living, not that he was under delusion that she wanted him to, but he was still a product of Jed Chandler's teachings… and his old man's words seemed to haunt increasingly of late.

"I never needed any of this. We could have lived in a box, and I would have been happy." She seemed to get lost for a moment. "Just came from two different worlds."

She took her own sip, enjoying the burn while the amber liquid flowed down. This was the life her mother would've killed for. A cold and calculated woman who'd sucked her father dry in more ways than one; hers was the upper-middle-class family extended far beyond its means. Perfectly turned out in public. The unbreakable couple with a precious little girl, pretty as a button to be paraded around, but it was all for show. Cold at its core.

And here they were again.

She a mystery, and he fixated on what shaped Sasha into a woman who couldn't seem to believe in letting someone in. Not entirely. The intensity of the drive that kept her running, parallel to the one that kept him chasing.

Intoxicating.

Inhaling, Sasha came back to the present and smiled. "Hungry?"

"This was our honeymoon," she said, passing him the photobook she'd had printed. Tom thumbed through them, some kind of tropical vacation, looked like Bora Bora, if he had to guess.

It twisted again in his chest, but he pushed it away. He had her again now, and that had to be enough. Even if he couldn't quite dispel the awful ache of what ifs.

"You look happy," he offered.

Sasha pondered for a moment. "I was." It was nostalgic, and when Tom was done, she returned the book to its box. "But I'm happy now too—with you," she assured him, not missing the something in her gaze. Sasha grabbed another box and Tom didn't miss the delicacy with which she handled this one. Intrigued, he shifted closer to look inside, and his stomach fell.

"You still have that?" Came his breathy question.

To anyone else, it was a birthday card. But that card held everything he'd felt laid bare in a way he'd never been brave enough to do so again. The last desperate attempt to change her mind after she'd broken his heart not three weeks before her 23rd birthday.

"How could I not keep it?" Her brows furrowed. "I read it almost every day for a month after I left… and I still know every word," she whispered.

"So why didn't you just come back?" He couldn't help it, couldn't prevent the hurt in his tone. It was a question that had simmered in his psyche for sixteen years.

"Tom, we didn't work. I get the feeling you thought I'd just grow out of it. Hit my late twenties and suddenly get broody?"

The hollow cheek suck and avoidance of eye contact let her know she'd hit a nerve. He couldn't say he hadn't wondered about it before they'd reconnected, but now? It was no question at all. She'd had her tubes tied after jumping through hoops to convince a Doctor that she wasn't going to lose her mind and suddenly crave babies despite spending her entire life sure that she wasn't interested in that.

"But you're so good with Sam and Ashley. They like you better than me most of the time," he hedged, running with a conversation she'd never quite granted him.

"They're older. I was never there, drowning in diapers and formula. Never had to give anything up to enjoy them and I can hand them back anytime. You and Darien did the hard stuff, Tom. I get to be the good cop and the friend. It's not the same," she countered.

True, and Tom could identify that. But it hurt. Still.

Prior to the virus, that had been one of the worst days of his life, and he'd be lying to say it hadn't obliterated his ego that he'd poured his soul out, and by the time he'd returned from thanksgiving at his parents, she'd left.

Changed her phone number and said nothing else.

Sasha moved the box away. She hadn't meant to open old wounds; rather, she was trying to show him how much he'd meant despite the misguided choices, though as she considered it now, it probably wasn't the best way to communicate that. Scooting closer, she reached for him. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to re-hash the past… I just wanted you to know how much it meant to me."

The tension left his frame, and he sighed. Pulling her with him until they lay together, her head nestled between shoulder and chest.

Comfortable silence followed, warmed by the crackling logs as the sun finished its descent and the orange hue darkened to inky blue.

"Do you remember that road trip?"

Tom could hear the smile in her voice.

"The one where I had to get you ice at o-three hundred because we had too much sex?"

She snorted, and his fingers resumed their lazy trailing over her arm.

"We were crazy," she uttered wistfully.

And they were.

When the world had been simple and their spirits free, they'd soared together in stolen time with no inhibitions, but Tom couldn't help those old doubts from knocking again. The ones that told him he knew Sasha, and she was not one to be tied down for too long. Bound by fixed obligations; kids and emotional baggage. He was damaged goods at this point, and he knew it, and while loath to admit, he was scared she'd wake up one day and realize she didn't want this life. Didn't want him, and he wouldn't be able to blame her for that.

Sure, the world had changed, but he'd planned to grow old with Darien. They'd travel once the kids moved on, enjoy their golden years together, and he'd become a grandfather one day. Experience the things he'd missed out on deployment and the Navy, the distant stories he'd share as they grew.

And Sasha? Well, she wasn't much for planning the future. She'd fallen for Chris and his quiet but confident way. He was handsome and loyal. A go-with-the-flow kind of man, who only sought control in the boardroom. It had worked. It was easy. Fun. Sparked instant connection when they'd met in an airport lounge, bound by the same lonely long-haul flight back from Asia—she from a mission, though she'd lied about it—and he returning from an investor meeting.

Sasha sensed the shift, and she propped herself upon an elbow. He was deep in brooding. "What is it?"

"Just thinking." His thumb brushed her cheek. "It's nothing."

Pensive, she considered his choice not to open up. It was hard to be vulnerable, and she couldn't expect emotional transparency from him, not when she wouldn't even tell him about her dreams… but it almost stung.

"What do you want to do with it?" he changed the subject.

"I'm not sure. Seems like a shame to waste it. Maybe we could keep it? Use it as a vacation house?"

Tom's fears eased a fraction. We. Plans for the future. Plans that included himself and the kids.

"Could bring a couple generators. It wouldn't take much to get it cleaned up. It's still in great shape."

She smiled. "Do you think they'd like it?"

"Are you kidding? They'd love it. We could fish out on the dock, maybe even swim in the summer…"

Biting her lip, Sasha again shifted higher so they were face to face. Lazy and unhurried, Tom studied her; the smooth expanse of her skin, the slope of her nose where it came to a delicate point, the touch of pink dusting her cheeks.

A year shy of forty and she was still flawless.

He trailed the pad of his thumb along a random path until it brushed her bottom lip, and they softly parted. It blew fresh oxygen on the fire that simmered every time they were together like this, hidden from the world.

Sasha's fingers encircled his wrist, and Tom drew closer, captured her mouth in a branding kiss—his tongue was laced with hints of the bourbon—and she moaned, free hand slipping beneath his sweater and shirt to rake against abdomen. Months of physical therapy and strength training had put him back in remarkably great shape, and those muscles flexed so deliciously when he shifted to cover her body with his. Now pressed into the cushions, he kissed a path down the elegant column of her neck to that spot she loved, just above collarbone.

Her breathy gasp sent a jolt to his groin. The way her fingers scraped through his hair, pulling goosebumps to his skin. Over the solid strength of her thigh his palm spread, dragging higher to the waist of her jeans, then up over sensitive ribs, earning a squirm and soft laugh before once again morphing into a sound that drove him wild when his hand closed over her breast.

Sasha tugged at the shirts, a straightforward request for him to take them off, and he complied, tossing them aside with a soft rumple. She sat up and kissed his bare chest, skin so warm against her swollen lips, and she fumbled his belt buckle before getting it undone.

Thought became hard when she started leaving open-mouthed kisses against his abs—mouth tantalizingly close to his dick, and he tangled his hands in her hair.

"Are you sure?" he managed to say.

"It's just a house," she whispered, unbuttoning his pants and lowering the zipper.

Just a house with ghosts that she'd barely lived in.

The memories she cherished most belonged to the condo she'd long since sold.

Lost.

His breath caught when her hand dipped beneath his boxer briefs, all focus drawn to the incredible rush when she touched him. Need swelled with a force that still stunned—a conflicting exhilaration of intimate familiarity that somehow felt fresh every time—and then her mouth, warm and wet, took him and his body jerked.

A groan was torn from his throat.

She knew exactly what he liked.

The fire cast an orange glow against her porcelain skin, and the visual of Sasha before him this way made it hard not to thrust in her mouth. Instead, he hissed, fingers curling tighter in silky hair, and closed his eyes. Let his head fall back, and the skill of her tongue supercharge the desire settled deep in his belly…

"Sash."

His raspy warning seemed to reverberate through her body, and she eased off, finding Tom's hands immediately tugging at her clothing.

Now bare, Tom took the moment to admire how magnificent she was, mystified to this day that Sasha still loved him. Wanted him.

Something inquisitive touched her expression, and with her head tilted, she shimmied and grinned. "Are you gonna stare at me all night or finish taking off your pants?"

The last of his garments joined the pile, and then he drew closer upon the cushions. She kneeled, and his hands found purchase around her delicate waist, then trailed them up the muscular planes of her back before moving down to cup the supple flesh of her rear while she nipped kisses against his throat and collarbone. She was pressed to him; the fiction created by the gentle swell of her abdomen against his over-sensitive erection maddening. A hand tangled again at the base of her skull, and he tilted her mouth to his, drinking deeply of a kiss he knew well.

Sasha moaned. Trailing a finger up sturdy thigh until she reached the neatly healed scar below his right hip. She pushed him down, straddling his body with ease, and he groaned when her slick core brushed against his shaft. It sent lightning through her spine, and he swelled upward.

God, she wanted him.

His attention was lavished upon her breasts, thorough with just the right amount of pressure to make her wild but not sting, and her breathy sighs fell rampant from her lips.

She needed relief.

To be filled so perfectly. Angling her hips, she took him deep in a single thrust.

Tom's hands flew to her hips. No matter how many times they did this, it snatched the breath from his lungs; world condensed into a single unrivaled connection, and he lost himself within her. Sought to give her all that he was. Her hips rocked slowly; their chests pressed together while he held her close and buried his face in the delicate hollow of her neck. She pleasured herself on him languidly, every hitch in her breath, gasp, and goosebump upon her skin sacred to him.

The room filled with the sound of the fire and slick skin, and she drew herself further back, switching from rocking to pull him out before burying him again, and Tom couldn't prevent the sound.

Those drove her insane.

Deep raspy notes that set her blood alight in ways too salacious to name, and she intended to savor every second of their ability to make love without fear of his kids overhearing.

"You feel so good," she uttered.

He groaned again. It was enough to make him drive up into her, an intensity replacing the gentle rhythm she'd set. In his shoulders, her fingers dug, and she threw her head back, close to overwhelmed by the sensations Tom could create within her body.

"I love you," he mumbled against her neck, teeth dragging against the skin, before kissing it and repeating the action over the sharp angle of her jaw. He was thrusting exactly where she needed, and something rather desperate slipped past her lips through a moan; felt herself fluttering around him and knew he'd just taken her to the point of no return. It was like she'd fracture in the most tantalizingly indescribable way. And when the hand buried in her hair tugged gently until his lips were close to her ear, and all she could hear was his desperate breathing, she could hold out no longer.

She came hard, body locked in intense waves of pleasure, and it pulled him over the edge. Grunting, Tom spilled himself, hips snapping deep with jerky thrusts—ten to fifteen seconds of torturous bliss so good it almost hurt—before collapsing from their seated position to lay tangled on their sides. Collective labored breaths blanketed the air, and she gazed at him, soft and sated, trailing her fingers across his jaw.

Every so often, they had moments.

Perfect ones.

Where time and space didn't rule, and the love she held for Tom seemed to explode in every cell. It was like a wave, overwhelming, yet strangely comforting after the break, and she smiled when he stroked her temple, content to lay still together beside the fire lost to the world.

It was beautiful.

This was one.