The sun is just begun to creep across the dinged-up wood floor of my apartment, an indication that I really need to get myself out of bed. I've languished here for an hour since Offred disappeared out my front door. Looking up at the dingy painted rafters of my home, my thoughts travel back to earlier this morning. From my place propped up in bed, I had watched her go, her hair still loose and down around her shoulders as she crept across the driveway, up the stairs, and towards the house. She had stopped just outside the backdoor and looked over her shoulder up at my window. The simple thought of how she looked at that moment sends a smile to my face an hour later. She had looked peaceful, completely calm. She never looks like that, and the fact that I had a hand in putting it there, it's the best compliment I've ever gotten and she didn't have to say a word. My eyes slide closed as I play it over again against the back of my eyelids. Between that look and the naughty replay of the night before that fight for attention, I'm hard again. I sigh. Guess I could take care of that, but then again, I'm not ready to contaminate the memory of last night with a quick hand job just yet. I am, after all, going to have to live off them for a long time to come, because it can't happen again.

Last night was dumb and reckless. She's a handmaid and I could be salvaged for what we did here in the dark of night. Offred might make it, she's fertile and if we were caught I would take the full blame and say I forced her, but it would still be a gamble. Would depend on how forgiving Aunt Lydia was feeling that day. I don't want to put her in any more danger than she's already in, no matter how incredible our time together was. Plus, I did promise myself to protect her, I can't do that if I'm dead.

I roll out of bed and head for the shower, a cold one, I think. Half an hour later, I'm dressed in my usual black uniform, brushed, shaved, and appropriately cooled down. My stomach grumbles and I swear I can smell coffee from here. I head for the door but hesitate. I don't want things to be awkward, but ditching could say more than awkward silence would. It's not like I'm known for my chitchat. So I pull on my coat and head over to the house.

When I enter the breakfast room I'm greeted with the smell of fresh bread, and the sounds of voices chattering and planning.

Rita doges three other Marthas to bring me a cup of coffee. It's completely full to the brim. I raise an eyebrow.

"Extra coffee rations and extra Martha's, we havin' guests?"

"Delegates," Rita says, a tense smile on her face.

A conversation with Pryce a few weeks ago surfaces. "Mexico," I state, taking a sip of the brew. It's rich and dark and not American. I smile and take another swallow. I'm surprised; I usually get a heads-up on this stuff. It must have happened fast

"The coffee was a gift," Rita says, looking pleased.

"Well, Praise Be."

"When you see the list the Commander and the missus have for you, you'll understand why I brewed it strong," Rita snorts. She reaches into the pocket of her apron, pulls out a sheet of folded paper, and hands it to me.

I unfold it and choke on the coffee I've just swallowed. Rita snorts but spots one of the day-hire Martha's pulling out her best frying pan. "No, not that one," she yells; the woman drops the pan, and Rita cures under her breath. "I'd be better off on my own," she grumbles.

I hold out the list, "Trade ya," I offer.

This brings a smile and chuckle. "If I thought you actually knew the difference between crown roast and pot roast, and I wouldn't lose a hand for reading that, I'd seriously consider it," she smiles.

I finish my mug of joe and hand it back empty to her. She turns and makes her way to the kitchen. "I got muffins for breakfast, and that one," she says, pointing at a pinched-faced Martha in the corner, " will make sure your suit is pressed to perfection. "

"Thanks, Rita," I say genuinely. She nods and dismisses me to my jobs.

I head into the kitchen proper, grab one of the corn muffins from the stack on the island, and head off for chore #1: clear out the coat closet.

I gobble down my breakfast and get started. The closet contains out-of-season coats, boots, and a few broken umbrellas. I gather up the broken rain gear and go out to the garage to toss it and retrieve a box for the rest of the mess. Back inside, I fill it with boots and pile the coats and cloaks on top. Mrs. Waterford stops by to examine the empty closet. "I'll sweep it out once I've moved these," I state, gesturing to my box. She nods.

"You can put that in the closet in the hallway on the third floor. I will go through it next week to see what can be donated," she instructs.

I grab the box and work my up the back staircase. My stomach knots at the thought that I might run into Offred. I laugh at myself. What am I, 16? The hallway is empty, and I deflate a bit. Nope, I'm not 16, I'm 14.I roll my eyes for my own benefit and head back downstairs. I do wonder, despite myself, where Offred is. Her room seemed quiet, and letting her take the day off doesn't sound like something Serna Joy would do. I'm sure she is being kept busy wherever she is.

I pull the list out of my back pocket again and sigh slightly. I need to light a fire under my ass if I'm going to get this all done and get a shower so I don't smell like a gym rat when I take off to retrieve our delegation from the airport.

The next three hours are a flurry of cleaning out fireplaces, oiling hinges, cleaning windows, running rubbish to the dump, and wrapping up a total wash, wax, and vacuum of the car. The day has been busy, and it's kept my mind occupied…for the most part. A few times, my thoughts wandered off to replay the feel of silky soft skin or what my fingers felt like tangled up in long blonde trusses, but I quickly pushed them away. I need to be stronger than my base urges because, though I haven't seen her yet today, I know Offred will appear tonight to meet the Ambassador, and I don't want to appear wanting. I'm resolved to put last night in a box. I will offer her my friendship because friends are all we can be going forward.

I've just started buffing out the wax when hearing my name being called. "Guardian Blaine?" I pop out around the side of the car and find a red-headed Martha standing at the bottom of the stairs with a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. She holds it out to me. "Ms. Rita said you should eat, sir," she says softly.

I throw the buffing cuff on the hood and come over to grab the food. Ham with mustard-my favorite. I shove it into my mouth and take a huge bite. I'm starving. As I chew the Martha shuffles from one foot to the other. "Is there something else?" I ask around my bite.

"Just, that it's two-thirty," she says meekly.

I adjust my sleeve and look down at my watch. "Damn it," I mutter. I need to have the car finished, showered, and head for the airport in 45 minutes. "Okay, and thanks," I say, raising the sandwich at her. She drops her head revelry, as a good Martha is trained to do. "Rita, put your suit in your apartment," she adds, then turns and nearly runs for the house. She's young, and I'm just another guardian to her, I'd run too.

I finish the sandwich in two bites and return to the wax. I finish in record time, but I'm dripping in sweat. I put my cleaning tools in the garage and head home. I have 20 minutes to wash, dress, and put on my very best Guardian persona before heading out to pick up the Waterford's guests.

I hate days like these. It's not the work, I don't mind working with my hands and putting in sweat equity, it's the mindless mute that I'll have to turn into to become the perfect Guardian required this evening. I'm a man of few words, and I'm not one for emoting, but the mindless staring at walls gets to me. I'm not needed for my thoughts or conversation. My only job is to ensure no one hurts my charges. Maybe tonight will not be so bad, I try to convince myself. Since this is my post, I will be heading up the security detail, and that's something.

Deputy Ambassador Catillo and her assistant, Mr. Flores, are easy to find amongst the sea of black, gray, and teal. In soft yellow and charcoal, they stand out like the first flowers that bloom in the spring. It's jarring but refreshing to remember the rest of the world is still out there living their lives like ordinary people who have more straightforward choices, like picking out their own wardrobes.

The two make pleasant chit-chat with me as we drive back to the Waterfords. They stick to the weather and the success of Gilead's summer harvest. They've done their homework. They ask me nothing personal, and Mrs. Catillo carefully keeps her eyes from meeting mine for what Gilead would consider "too long."

Soon, the two are delivered and properly installed in the study with the Commander and his guests, so I take the time to do a quick check on the hired guns, ensure all the Guardians are clear on their patrol parameters, and then make myself a fixture in front of the study, listening for any chatter on my earpiece and waiting to serve the Commander at the drop of a hat.

Martha's flutter here and there carrying plates, tumblers, wine glasses, and bottles of my best-smuggled booze from room to room. The house is abuzz with activity. It is a quiet activity, but movement all the same. It's a nice change actually.

The clock in the parlor chimes six when Offred appears from the hallway. She takes her place next to me, waiting on the call to enter the office, where she's to be the center of attention. She smells of lemon soap, the kind we all use, but it smells different on her, almost floral. I glance at her profile; her skin looks supple and delicate in the soft lights. "Blessed be the fruit," I greet.

"May the lord open," she returns as always when presented with the stupid greeting. I don't know if it's the tone of her reply or just the fact, it's coming from the woman who's been dancing around in my head all day, but I feel my resolve being to slide. I look down at her, "How's your day goin'?" I ask, and I genuinely mean it. I want to know. Does she regret last night, or has she been thinking about it all day as I have?She looks over at me, and our eyes connect. She bites back a smile. Any resolve I had evaporates. "You look pretty," I tell her in a hushed voice.

She smirks. "Thanks, I wore it just for you," she returns with a sultry tone.

My resolve to be "just friends" is a laughable distant memory now replaced with much more enjoyable thoughts. "You shouldn't wear anything for me," I tell her, my voice low and my growing need too apparent.

She shuffles on her feet, and I catch her eyes flicking my way. We stand side by side in our assigned places while the Martha bustle to and fro. The tension between us is unbearable—being this close and still unable to truly see her, talk to her, or even acknowledge what's happening. I'm desperate to connect, to bridge the gap, and that's when I notice how close my hand is to hers.

It's reckless, childish even, but I can't stop myself. Slowly, my hand inches toward hers, my fingers brushing against the warmth of her skin. When her fingers shift, reaching back for mine, a jolt of electricity surges up my arm and through my whole body. My breath catches, and I hear her exhale softly, almost like a sigh. My eyes close instinctively, savoring the moment, the secret connection we've carved out in this oppressive space.

All I want now is to taste her mouth again, but for now, this will have to be enough.

The sound of the door opening pulls me back to the present and the Commander standing in front of me. "Nick, bring her in," he instructs. Reality is harsh, bright, and ugly. This isn't just the soft woman who somehow ignites me; she is the handmaid, the walking womb. They want to look at her and examine her. A fertile woman is something to be ogled.

I escorted her into the office, my feet reluctant to leave, but I was quickly dismissed. I returned to the hall; my only option to pray for her as she surrendered to the wolves.

I've never been so happy to see Mrs. Waterford when she comes to collect me and asks to be escorted into the office to announce hors d'oeuvres. With a knock, I'm back in the room, and it's thick with something I can't identify. As the Commanders and Guardians filter out towards the dining room, Mrs. Catillo pauses in front of Offred, looking her in the eye. "Offred, thank you for your time and thoughts," she says generously.

"You're welcome," Offred says demurely.

The Ambassador doesn't stop there; she continues, "Might I ask, and my apologies if this is too personal, but you have chosen such a difficult life. Are you happy?"

My eyes go to the women, though I know I should be showing off my best 1000-yard stare right she serious?Just a couple of hours ago,I was impressed with her understanding of Gilead etiquette.

The room is tense and silent as Offred pieces together her response. It can't be anything but the approved language, an agreement that her life is just peachy, but still, I hold my breath thinking of the ways this household alone has abused her in the past months.

Her voice is tight, but it's the words she has to say, "I have found happiness, yes," she says softly.

Her answer causes my chest ache in a way I didn't know it could.

The rest of the night is a blur of activity. Dinner, drinks, Marthas fussing over every detail in the house, and Commanders and deligents exchanging pleasantries. It feels like it drags on forever, but by around 10 p.m., the cars finally start arriving to take the guests home. My last task of the night is loading up the Mexican delegates and dropping them off at the only hotel in town.

When I return home, the house is blessedly quiet. A plate covered with a towel is on the table; it's definitely a gift from Rita. I slip down into the chair and sigh. I'm tired. I toss off the towel and find crown roast, some asparagus, and au gratin potatoes. It's room temperature, but it's the best thing I've eaten in months. I'm mopping up the remnants of my plate with a slice of bread when Mr. Waterford calls for me from his office. I sigh, throw my bread down on the plate, and push away from the table.

The office door is open, and the Commander is in one of his leather chairs with a tumbler of brandy in one hand. This batch is one of the better ones I've procured, and my mouth salivates a little. "Blessed evening, sir," I say, straightening my tie.

"Blessed evening, Nick," he says sounding tired and looking troubled. I guess bringing visitors to the zoo didn't go as well as he thought it would.

"Please go collect Offred," he says, standing and going to his desk. There won't be any brandy for me tonight; I'm only here to serve as his errand boy.

I climb the three flights; each step seems harder than the next. I don't want to send her down there. Fred seems off tonight. His pride is wounded, plus the very thought of his hands on her makes my jaw clench painfully. He takes and takes, chipping away at a soul who doesn't deserve it.

At her door, I let out a long breath and rap my knuckles against it before pushing it open. She's sitting in the window closest to me. "Hey," I breathe, happy to just be able to look at her face without worrying someone will see us.

"Hey," she returns softly.

I glance down the hall, making sure we're alone. Damn it. "Uh, he wants to see you in his office," I tell her.

She stands, sighing softly, a clear sign of her resignation to being at his beck and call. It's a reality we're both used to, but tonight, the thought of it sends a rush of anger through me. I watch as she crosses the room and heads for the door, but something inside me snaps. Without thinking, I move, pushing her gently but firmly against the wall, closing the small space between us. I stare down into her eyes, dark and full of need, and I know I should step back, let her go, and forget the impulsive desire coursing through me. But it's too late. The urge to mark her, to claim her in some way, is too strong.

"It only makes it worse," she pants, her breath ragged.

I know it does. But I can't stop. I thought I was strong enough to leave it at that one night, to keep my distance. But I'm pulled to her like a magnet, and there's no resisting it anymore.

My thumb grazes over her bottom lip, then moves to her chin, gently parting her mouth. The sound of her heavy breathing sends a jolt through me, and before I can think better of it, my mouth is on hers. The kiss is soft at first, but the passion lurking behind it surges forward. One of my hands cradles her jaw while the other moves to her back, pulling her closer. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging, then sliding beneath my coat as we lose ourselves in the kiss—our tongues finding each other over and over, desperate and hungry.

I cup her face in both hands, wanting to hold her, to keep her in this moment for just a little longer. She responds with the same intensity, her lips moving against mine without hesitation. I want more—so much more—but sense returns, creeping in like an unwelcome visitor, and she pulls away. Her breath is shaky, but reality is undeniable. Someone's waiting for her, someone she can't refuse.

Without a word, she retreats down the hall and disappears down the stairs, leaving me panting and desperately in need of a cold shower.

.

I lay staring at the ceiling as the clock slips into the early hours of the next day. I want to sleep, I'm physically exhausted from the past couple of days. The last full night's sleep I got was two nights ago. Shit, a lot has a lot happened in the last 24 hours!My thoughts have been decidedly on the events of the night before of course, but something else lurks there too. I don't want to look at it or deal with it, but that moment tonight in the hallway is begging for acknowledgment. I shove the thought away and roll over onto my side. In the dark, I can see clear out my window to Offred's, and to my surprise, I find her perched in her window. I kick back the blanket and settle onto the bench so she can see me. I raise a hand, and she does the same. For a few seconds, we stare at one another across the yard, but then she lifts her hand, extends her pointer finger, and presses it against the glass.

When I next see her sneaking out the back door and across the yard through the chilly autumn night, my breath catches in my chest. I abandon my perch and pull open the door before she can even knock. She steps in, and I close it, pressing her against it as my fingers work the lock.

"You shouldn't be here," I tell her, my eyes roaming over her. She's only in a light slip, showing way more skin than any woman on the street of Gilead does. It's intoxicating. A hand goes to the lock, I need to send her back to her room, but it lingers there, unwilling to proceed.

She looks up at me through her eyelashes. "Unlock the door, and I'll go," she returns, her voice husky.

My eyes fixate on her mouth. I clear my throat and lean further into her.

"Hmm-hum," she hums, her lips pulling into a smirk.

I can no longer play this game and decided I'm okay with losing. My lips capture hers, and my hand on the lock finds a place at the back of her neck, which is tangled up in her hair. The mint of her toothpaste is fresh, making my tongue tingle. "You taste good," I mummer against her mouth.

I feel her lips lift into a smile and she kisses me deeper, letting her hands slide around my waist, and finding their way under my t-shirt. She pulls back after a minute to catch her breath, "I've just brushed my teeth four times, was trying to get the taste of him out of my mouth," she admits, a glimmer of pain in her eyes at the admission. I know this is her reality, but it pains and angers me in a way I didn't think it could until now. I drop my lips to hers again, placing a tender kiss on them. I want to ease her pain. If this is all this is for her, I'll gladly do it. Her head falls back against the door, and she sighs, "This is definitely helping," she purrs.

"Glad to be of service," I mumble against the skin of her neck. She chuckles low her chest and it buzzes against my mouth. It's an incredible feeling. I lavash her neck and ear with my tongue and nip her soft flesh with my teeth, carefully though there can't be any evidence that any of this is happening. A hand slides down from her jaw to cup her breast through the thin fabric she's wearing. I'm literally itching to touch her skin, but I want to let her have this on her terms. So much of her life and her sexuality is about what men want.

It isn't a long wait for her; I've barely begun to trace her other ear with my mouth when her hands begin pulling at my clothing, and she starts pushing us toward the bed. The following hours are tender, demanding, and exhilarating as we learn about each other's bodies. I relish the opportunity to know what makes her hum and what makes her have to bite her lips to hold back shouted expletives.

Later, when we're tired, she lies curled against my chest as I let lazy fingers traverse the expanse of her back. She stifles a yawn. "I set an alarm when I got up for the bathroom a bit ago. Go to sleep," I suggest.

"I don't want to. I want to do more of what we just did," she says with a yawn.

I chuckle, "The spirit is willing, but the body is weak?" I ask playfully.

She bites back another yawn, "Something like that," she returns, snuggling deeper into my side.

She's quiet for a while, long enough that I think she may have fallen asleep, so it surprises me when she speaks again. "I wasn't going to come back here," she confesses as her fingers make lazy patterns across my chest and stomach.

"Hmmm, what changed your mind?" I ask.

I feel her one shoulder rise in a shrug, "I guess I just like how I feel when I'm with you," she says softly.

"I convinced myself it wouldn't happen again either," I tell her.

She looks up at me from her spot resting on my shoulder. "Why did you let me in then?"

I look down into her eyes; they are bright and shining even in the dim room. "Because I touched your hand in the hallway," I admit.

She laughs at this, "Nick, you're easy ."

I chuckle, "Most men are," I quip before getting serious, "Truthfully?" I ask.

She nods.

"I didn't want to be alone," I admit.

This seems to be an acceptable answer. She smiles and softly kisses my collarbone before returning to rest her head there.

"Go to sleep," I instruct.

"Or what? You'll report me?" she asks, her voice already sounding drowsy.

"Neither of us can live on sex alone, and we haven't slept in two days. Go to sleep." And with that, we both drop off into dreamland.

When the alarm I set trills, I wake to find Offred sitting cross-legged on the floor next to my low bookcases, a blanket wrapped loosely around her. She is studying the items there: records, some old National Geographic, some books. I roll over onto my side and raise an eyebrow at her. "What are you doing?" I ask curiously.

She shrugs as her fingers trail over the spines of the books. "Just trying to figure out who driver Nick is."

I give a signal chuckle. "And?"

"He likes military tactics books and jazz and blues," she says, smiling over at me.

I lean over the bed and open the drawer on my nightstand. "This is where I keep pleasure reading; those others are Gilead-issued," I say.

She scoots across the floor and looks down into the drawer at my half-dozen or so books. "Are you going to report me for looking at these?" she teases.

I roll my eyes, "Like that's the biggest issue here," I laugh, trailing my finger along a bare shoulder. "If you see something you'd like to read, help yourself. I'm not sure how often you'll be able to indulge, but you're welcome to them. If there's anything specific you'd like, let me know. The selection is limited, but I can see what I can do." I offer.

She looks at me a little shocked, then a smile pulls on her lips. "I was fine with just reading the military books if that was all that was up for offer," she teases, lifting a battered paperback ofThe Moon is Downby John Steinbeck. She flips it over and reads the back. She raises an eyebrow and snorts, "More war?" she asks, a slight disdain in her tone.

I shrug, "It's Gilead."

She puts the book back and climbs back into bed with me, capturing my mouth in a sultry kiss. "I don't know if I'll be able to concentrate on reading; you see, there's this weird guy who keeps staring at me in the library," she teases. I flip her over and begin peppering kisses on her neck. "Sounds like a creep," I mutter, lapping at her skin.

Her shoulder rises under my administration, "Kinda, but he's really hot," she says matter-of-factly. The snooze function on my alarm goes off again, and I sigh and drop down on the bed next to her. She looks over at me and peeks out the window towards the house. It's still dark, but the sun will start its ascent very soon. "Think I have time for a shower?" she asks wistfully. Her room in the main house only has a tub, and I can only imagine what a pain in the ass that is.

"As long as you don't take long, yeah."

She stands up, leaves the blanket behind, and walks toward the bathroom. She stops just short of the door and looks back at me. "Well, that all depends on you, doesn't it?" she asks, her eyes sparking with desire.

I require no further encouragement. In under a minute, have her pinned against the shower wall.

Later that morning, once I had showered for a second time, shaved, and dressed, I made my way to the main house for breakfast. I find Rita sitting at the table in the breakfast room, nursing a cup of tea.

"Good morning," I greet happily, heading for the coffee pot. I can barely keep a stupid smile off my face this morning. Funny how a simple shower can really put a good spin on the start of the day, I think, flashing back to the brief but intense interlude in one this morning with Offred.

I'm pouring my cup when a kitchen timer goes off. I know it's for bread; I can smell it. I wave at Rita to finish her tea, take the twin cakes out of the oven, and set them on a cooling rack.

I grab a day-old slice from the bread box on the counter, a pear, and my coffee mug and join Rita at the table.

"Thanks," she says, rubbing her wrist.

"Carpal tunnel acting up again?" I ask knowingly.

She nods and sighs. Gilead isn't one for pain meds, so she suffers.

"I know a Martha who swears by this balm she concocts; you want me to get you some next time I see her?" I ask.

She smiles gratefully. "Yes, or the recipe would be okay too," she clarifies.

We sit in comfortable silence as I slowly consume my breakfast.

Rita clears her throat, and I look up. "So, when you get a chance, I think there are some loose floorboards in the 3rd-floor hall, and…the windows and doors all need oiling. They squeak like stuck pigs," she says.

This is clearly a message. What does she know? I sure as hell can't ask her. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

She stands, takes her cup in one hand, and places the other on my forearm. "Just be careful. Those doors weigh a ton. Don't want you to get hurt."

I look up at her, astonished.

"Eat; Mr. Waterford said he wants you to pick up the Ambassador at 9 am."

And that's it. She goes back to the kitchen and starts filling the sink with water to do the dishes.

The rest of the day is a grind of cleaning for Rita and me. The fine china and silverware from last night's event are washed, boxed, and stored, while the entire first floor needs sweeping and mopping. The parlor and dining room get a meticulous once-over to return everything to its usual spotless order. Offred has been spared from this work; she's at the Gilead Government Center prepping for a formal dinner for our Southern guests. It feels strange not having her around, but I know better than to dwell on it.

In the evening, I drop the Waterfords off at the event and meet up with Pryce. He assigns me to perimeter duty, but once I overhear Serena Joy's plan to showcase Gilead's prized "asset"—the children—I trade a favor to land a spot inside. I won't say a word, and I probably shouldn't even look her way, but I need to be there when that silent atrocity unfolds.

When the children are presented like commodities, my entire body tenses. Teeth clenched, jaw locked—my gut twists with fury. This wasn't what I signed up for. When I joined the Sons of Jacob, there was never any mention of selling sex slaves to foreign nations, but then again, they left out a lot of things. The facade they sold us, the lies packaged as values—it all looks like ash in hindsight.

The only silver lining to tonight is that it ends on time. By 10 pm, the event is over, and by 11 pm, we're all back home. I don't expect any visits from her tonight. I can only hope she made it to bed without any further demands from Fred and could rest. The thought of Fred possibly lining up his after-hours "activities" sickens me, but at least if I'm involved, I can monitor the aftermath and know what she's been through. It's a bitter consolation, but in this world, sometimes that's all we get.

The next day is a slower pace, mainly consisting of a series of trips with the Ambassador, Fred, and a couple of other commanders, culminating in a final dinner at one of the two restaurants in the area that is suitable for this level of clientele. Finally, a trip to see our guests off at the airport.

It's already well past the time the household is usually in bed when we get home. I watch Fred disappear into the house as I smoke a cigarette on my steps. Offred's lights are out. Probably asleep. I finish my smoke and go inside. I strip out my coat, shirt, and tie and sit down on the end of the bed I'm tired, exhausted actually, but it always takes me a while to wind down before getting into bed. I reach over, pull open the drawer, and take out the novel Offred inspected the other morning. I go over to the bench, prop my feet up, and lose myself in the pages.

I'm caught off guard when my door opens, and Offred steps in. I thought she was asleep. Her face is drawn tight, and I can see the storm behind her eyes. She's clearly upset.

"Hey," I say, my voice a mix of greeting and concern. It's an invitation for her to speak, to tell me what's wrong.

She doesn't respond, doesn't look at me. She wanders towards the bed. "Hey, what's going on?" I ask, concern building.

She begins to pace, her breath labored. "I should've said something. I should've said something. I should've told her. I should have told her what they do to us," she pants.

I shake my head a little. "You're being too hard on yourself. You were in a room full of Commanders." I point out.

"No, I should've… I said I was happy," she sobs, "I said I was happy!"

I know."What choice did you have?" I ask pragmatically.

Tears shine on her face, and she starts moving for the door. "I can't be here. I can't be here," she announces.

She is free to go, free to do whatever she wants when she's with me, but she can't leave in this condition. Someone might notice, and that won't be good for her. I stand up and follow her across the room. "Sit down for a second," I encourage.

She shakes her head. "I can't. No, I can't," she cries.

I put a hand on her arm, "Talk to me. Hey," I plead, trying to lock my eyes with her, but she refuses to look at me.

She pulls away from my grasp, "Don't." she warns.

"Offred," I call, trying again to connect with her, my concern building.

"If they find us here. If they find us here…"

"Offred..."

She's pacing again. "If they find us together, I'm gonna get sent to the colonies. You're an Eye," she says, shoving me in the chest, "You're untouchable." she spits.

I shake my head, "It's…that's not true," I tell her. The version of my death might look different than what they would do to her, but I'd end up just as dead if they found out about us. But this isn't what she needs to hear.

Her worry turns to anger, "Fuck you, Nick! Fuck you!"

I stand silent. I let her speak the horrible truth. "They don't rape you, do they?" she grinds out through tears and frustration. I don't attempt to remind her of what happened with Serena. I know that isn't what she means. "He doesn't come in here once a month, read you a little scripture, and stick his cock up your ass! I said I was happy!" she yells.

Her words cut deep, but I don't respond. I can't. There's no defense for this world. I approach her cautiously, my heart rendering again faced with her some point will there be anything left of it,I wonder. "Offred," I say gently, approaching her as if she were an injured animal.

"Don't call me that!" she screams suddenly, her anger spilling over. "It's not my name!" She's trembling, breaking apart in front of me.

I freeze. Fuck, you're an asshole. Of course, her name isn't Offred. I've known her for months, and I never once asked. Gilead rots you from the inside out and turns you into what it wants you to be. And I've let it. I'm no better than the rest of them. I'm afucking prick.

I take a single step towards her, but she backs away. She needs space to process. I can give her this: "Can I get you a glass of water?" I ask.

She nods slightly, her breath still ragged, and I move to the fridge. As I fill a glass, she speaks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It's June," she says quietly. "My name is June."

Her forbidden name. June. I turn towards her, repeatedly playing the name in my head. This moment is the most intimate one we've ever shared. It's one thing for her to share her body with me, but her name, here in this place we live it's something special. They take everything from a handmaid. This is all they have left to horde for themselves. I do not underestimate what telling it to me costs her. She's just given me a gift.

I turn back to her, her tear-streaked face, her small frame still shaking. I walk over, stopping a few steps from her. "It's nice to meet you, June," I say softly. Her name feels like a secret, something fragile and precious in this world.

She closes her eyes, fresh tears falling. I gently cup her jaw, and she leans into my touch, kissing my palm. I pull her into my arms, and she clings to me like she's holding on for dear life. I hold her as tightly as I can, cradling her head as she cries against my chest.

There's no more to say. She doesn't stay the night, and nothing more happens between us. Tonight, all she needs is to be held, to let herself fall apart, and gather the strength to keep going tomorrow.

When she leaves in the morning, I press a kiss on her forehead. She sighs.

"See you tomorrow," she says, stepping outside.

I nod and watch her as she descends my stairs. "Try and get some sleep June," I call after her.

She turns back, the moonlight soft on her face, and she smiles, just barely. "You too, Nick."

And then she's gone, disappearing into the night, and I'm left with her name echoing in my mind.