The following weeks fly by, a first in Gilead history for me. The job isn't easier, I don't like the Waterfords any more than before, but what I do have that I didn't before is nightly visits from June. I wouldn't say it's become a routine; that would imply I have control over the situation. This affair is in her hands. I refuse to be another man who takes advantage of her, but I have to admit that every time I look out my window and find her looking back, waiting for the all-clear, I feel relief that she's granted me another night with her. And it's not just the sex; I mean, it's fantastic, the best I've ever had, but it's more than that. It's tangled up in bedsheets with her and hearing my name on her lips. It's being there for her after she's had to go to his office or holding her when all she can do is cry. It's her pressed into my side as she sleeps. It's her talking about her before life, about the friends she misses, her passion for literature, the kind of music she loved, and her favorite Chinese restaurant. She even tells me about her husband and the daughter she lost to Gilead. I ask about Hannah, her daughter, wanting to hear more about another person in the world who is part of June, but I never inquire more about Luke, and she doesn't offer any further information. I do feel guilty; I'm not so callous not to care that I am sleeping with another man's wife, but when June comes to me in the dark of night, I also can't turn her way. Tonight isn't any different. I'm lounging on the bench by the window when June comes calling. Without a word, she straddles me where I sit, barely giving me time to close the curtains. After a few rounds, June extracts herself and goes over to the counter to retrieve a plate covered in a napkin. She perches next to me on the bench and pulls the gingham towel off with a flourish. Cold ham, cheese, several slices of bread, an apple, and a small jar of mustard are stacked on a kitchen plate. I raise an eyebrow.

"What, you never have anything but water and crappy beer I can't even drink, she defends playfully.

"At least it's not tuna," I tease with a wink.

She laughs while she spreads a bit of mustard on some bread. "Watching you choke that down was the highlight of my week, you know," she admits.

"Yes, I know. You smirked at me the whole time," I return, assembling a sandwich too.

She sighs, leans back against the window, and takes another bite. I join her, taking a chunk out of my creation. "Mmmm," I mumble around the food in my mouth.

"See? "Snacks, right?"

"Ham and mustard is my favorite kind of sandwich," I tell her.

She perks up at this. "Wow, a factoid. And to think I was just beginning to believe that you were just a pretty face with a great cock," she teases.

I nearly spit my sandwich out and look at her with wide eyes.

She tosses the last bit of her sandwich into her mouth and crosses her arms smugly. "What? You've heard me say cock before," she dismisses with the bat of her eyelashes.

I laugh, "It's not that, it's just...I feel so objectified," I tease.

She looks me up and down for a second and takes my sandwich out of my hand. She puts it on the plate and straddles my lap. "What? You have an issue with that?" she purrs, her hands sliding up my chest.

My hands find her slim waist. "No, not at all. I just want to be sure it's enough to keep you coming back," I admit.

Her mouth falls to my neck and works its way up to my ear, "Oh, yes, I can assure you, it's more than enough," she coos.

My head falls back and hits the window—time for a location change. Standing, I scoop her up and bring her over to bed. I gently lower her to the mattress, letting my tongue lap the soft skin behind her ear as a hand finds her breast. My fingers minister to the needs of the nipple as I nip and lap at her neck. She wiggles under my attention, silently reminding me I'm not the only one who might see her naked, so I can't leave any marks. I reluctantly moved on, passing her breastbone to the slight swell of her bust. I give it my full attention.

"Nick," she pants. I look up at her, kissing her softly between her breasts. "I need you to show me that asset I find so alluring …and like fucking now," she demands. Never wanting to disappoint, I give the lady what she wants.

She's asleep when I wake from a post-coital nap. I grab my watch and check the time. Almost 5am, shit. I'll need to wake her soon. I snag my long-forgotten sandwich from the plate and take a bite. The bread is kinda dried out, and the mustard is gloppy, but I eat it anyway, leaning against the edge of the table. My eyes naturally travel over the ravishing creature sleeping in my bed. I leisurely take her in. So often, I'm forced to look away from her and pretend she doesn't exist, so I treasure these moments.


In sleep, she looks younger than her 32 years. The usual stress lines between her eyebrows and around her eyes have smoothed out, leaving her features soft. Long lashes rest gently over her pink cheeks, and her blonde curls fan out across the pillow, catching pre-dawn's soft, diffused light. June is undeniably beautiful, and in moments like this, it's hard not to feel the pull of that beauty.

I let out a quiet, satisfied sigh, finishing my snack before grabbing my old sweatpants from the floor and heading for the bathroom. Once relieved, I wash my hands, but something in the mirror catches my eye—June's red dress, hanging on the back of the door beside one of my black shirts. I turn, studying the familiar garment, and for a moment, I can't help but imagine another life.

I imagine a life where I work at a garage, and she writes a book. Where the clothes hanging here aren't uniforms of a dystopian regime but maybe her favorite sweater and something I wore to dinner the night before.

I sigh. It's a nice dream, but a dream all the same. I turn off the light and step quietly back into the bedroom, ready to wake her.

When I see her, though, I have to stifle a chuckle. Since I'd left, June has sprawled across the bed, tangled in the sheets. One foot dangles off the edge of the mattress, and one arm is flung across the bed while the other covers her eyes, her mouth hanging open in a silent snore.

A smile tugs at my lips as I walk to the end of the bed. I reach down and run a finger along the bottom of her foot to wake her, but when my finger touches her skin, I pause. The surface feels rough—scarred.

Confused, I squat down to get a closer look, gently taking her foot in my hand. My stomach twists when I see it: the bottom of her foot crisscrossed with scars—old, deep ones.

"Oh my god," I whisper under my breath, shocked. "What the hell…"

I glance up at her peaceful face, stunned by what I've discovered. Suddenly, the weight of the life she's lived, of all the things I'll never fully know about her, hits me like a punch to the gut.

"What are you doing," a sleepy voice asks.

I run a thumb over the raised area. "What are these from?" I ask, looking up at her.

She sits up abruptly, pulling the appendage out of my grasp. "It's nothing," she dismisses, exiting the bed in search of her underwear.

I grab her bra from under the bed near me and stand up. I hold it out to her, "June, talk to me," I request.

She snags the underthing, turns away from me, and starts to dress.

I don't wish to hurt her, only to share her burdens in our little time together. It's all I can do. I touched her shoulder and gently turned her to face me. Her eyes are on the floor. With a finger, I lift her chin. Her eyes are tear-stained. "What is it?" I ask gently.

She sniffs, shakes her head, and wipes her eyes. "It's nothing," she dismisses, but there is no power behind the words.

I shrug, "Clearly, it's not. What happened?" I implore again.

She seems to consider my offer, then sighs. "It's...Aunt Lydia..."

Of course, it was that cunt. She's just as likely to take out an eye as she is to scream at a wife for the mistreatment of a handmaid. She a fucking psycho. "And she did this to you because…."

June's face scrunches up, a mix of confusion and disbelief. "You really don't know, do you? ...But you're an Eye."

I shake my head, letting out a snort of bitter laughter. "That's not how it works. I don't get handed more info than what's needed to do my job. Handmaids? They're off-limits. A non-starter. I watch people and listen where I can, but they don't tell me anything unless it is necessary for what they need me to do." I pause, running a hand through my hair. "Like with Ofglen. I didn't know about her past until they had me keeping tabs on her for subversion. Even then, I wasn't told everything."

Her eyes search mine, gauging whether to believe me or not, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air between us.

She searches my face for any hint of a lie, her eyes narrowing with doubt, but after a long moment, she chooses to believe me. Her expression softens, and she lets out a sigh. "Oh… I see." Her voice trembles slightly, but she presses on. "Well, I tried to escape when I was first at the Red Center. Moira and I… we tied up a couple of Aunts, took their clothes, and tried to catch the train out of town."

I can see the memory playing behind her eyes, her voice growing quieter, more fragile.

"Moira made it, at least to the train. I hope she got away." Her eyes drop to the floor, lost in the hope that her friend found some kind of freedom. "That was the last I saw her. I didn't make it, though. I got caught."

There's a brief silence, heavy with everything unspoken—the punishment that followed, the scars on her feet, the ones I never knew existed. I open my mouth to say something, but no words seem enough.

My mouth falls open, stunned. "So… they beat you on your feet?" The disgust in my voice is unmistakable, the very thought turning my stomach.

"With rebar fixed into a handle." She says matter-of-factly.

"Oh my… jeez, June," I mutter, my hand instinctively rubbing her arm in a soothing gesture.

She gives me a weak smile, a resigned shrug. "The experience didn't disable me. I'm grateful for that. Some girls aren't as lucky."

Being beaten with rebar is something to be grateful for?The thought sends a wave of rage and disbelief crashing through me.

Fuckin' Gilead.

She shrugs away the memory. "Can you get me my dress? It's in the bathroom," she asks as she pulls on her tank top.

I shake loose the anger that grips me and go and get her dress for her. I'd instead focus on June completely during our limited interludes; I can hate the world in my own time. She takes the garment from my outstretched hand and slips it over her head. "You know, some days I really miss other colors, like yellow. I'd love to wear yellow today," she mutters as she tugs on a sock.

I gaze at her, imagining her in yellow. Not many people could wear yellow, but I think she could.

With her boots secured, she comes over to stand in front of me, her hands tracing gently over my bare chest. "Anything interesting happening for you today?" she asks, her voice light but curious.

I shake my head. "Not really. Commander's heading to Lawrence's again, and I'll probably spend most of the day winterizing the car," I reply. "You?"

She snorts. "Oh yeah, tons of big plans. Rita and I are thinking of grabbing a quick lunch—sushi, of course. Then, we're off to the multiplex to catch that new alien movie. Looks a bit gory, but hey, I'll see anything with Brad Pitt in it." She rolls her eyes playfully.

I chuckle, pulling her into my arms and planting a kiss on her temple. "Just don't go getting any ideas. Word is, he's an economan in California now."

She pulls back slightly, narrowing her eyes at me. "Really?" she asks, half-smiling.

I laugh. "No idea. I'm an Eye, not a psychic."

She grins and playfully pinches my ass in retaliation. We laugh together, and I pull her close again, both of us glancing out the window as the first light of morning begins to fill the room. The sun is cresting, and it's time for her to go.

I lean down and kiss her softly, a little longer than necessary. "Be safe today, okay?" I whisper against her lips.

She shrugs, giving me that familiar, defiant smile. "You know I'll try," she says. "Same with you. Keep my prized possession in good working order," she adds with a smirk, cupping me through my pants.

I roll my eyes, laughing, and kiss her again, this time with more urgency. "Now get out of here before Rita wakes up," I tell her, giving her a gentle shove toward the door.

With one last hug, she lets go, disappearing into the early morning, leaving me standing there, already counting down the hours until I see her again.

The drive to the Lawrence house is quiet today. Fred is absorbed, silently brooding over a newspaper article that outlines the backlash to one of his policies. The silence is welcome, a rare moment of peace, and I'm content to let it stretch out as I enjoy the drive. The scenery outside is breathtaking. Last night brought the first hard frost of the season, and the trees glitter like they're dusted with diamonds under the sunlight.

I always loved this time of year as a kid. The anticipation of snow, of pond hockey, and the upcoming holidays. My brother and I lived for hockey. We were too poor to play in a league, but my mom always found a way to get us used skates so we could play at the park. She was like that—always finding ways to make life feel full, even when we didn't have much. Christmas was the best. Every year, there was a tree, even if it meant sneaking out to cut one down ourselves in the middle of the night from the local forest reserve. She always saved enough food stamps to make cookies, and no matter how tight things were, there was always at least one gift waiting for us on Christmas morning.

It felt special. Loved. Even in the toughest times, she made it feel like magic. Now? I helped kill that kind of magic for kids today. There's no joy left in Gilead, no holiday cheer, no spark of warmth. I helped build a world where moments like those don't exist anymore.

We soon arrive at Commander Lawrence's, and Fred disappears behind closed doors to conduct "business" with him. I decide to set up shop in the kitchen, posting myself at the counter where I'm greeted with a full cup of premium coffee and fresh pastries. As I take a sip, I savor the rich, complex flavors of real, foreign coffee. Being the architect of Gilead's economy certainly comes with its perks, and Lawrence clearly knows how to enjoy them.

The Lawrence household runs with more staff than the Waterfords'. Two Marthas, a driver, a gardener, and a handmaid—though it's the one-eyed Martha, Cora, who's the real reason I've posted up in the kitchen. Cora is far from pleasant. She despises the intrusion of guests in the house and doesn't hide it, at least not around me or the other staff. Her cranky demeanor keeps me amused during the endless hours of waiting around. There's something refreshing about her lack of pretense, something that makes this quiet vigil a little more bearable.

As she bustles around the kitchen, grumbling under her breath about one thing or another, I take another slow sip of the coffee and lean back, settling into the moment.

I'm on my second scone when Cora stomps back into the kitchen, carrying a tea tray that's been well picked over. She slams it down with a grunt. "Looks like I'm making a big lunch now," she mutters, yanking the fridge open with more force than necessary. I watch her head toward the back stairs, which run straight down to the kitchen. "Hey, Ofjoseph, get your lazy ass down here!" she yells up.

A few seconds later, the handmaid comes stomping down the stairs, arms folded across her chest in defiance. I know they've got a handmaid here, but this is my first time actually seeing her. She's a redhead with sharp green eyes, her face dotted with freckles, and she's smaller than I expected, just a wisp of a girl.

"I'm not lazy," she snaps at Cora, glaring. "You know I keep Mrs. Lawrence company when people come to the house!"

Oh, a spitfire. I can't help but smile. I know a handmaid like that.

Cora spins around; her face is red with fury. "You can shove your excuses. I need to make lunch and I don't have any chicken for the soup," she growls.

"Well, if you had sent me with the token yesterday, I would have gotten some, but you forgot," Ofjoseph says with air quotes on "forgot."

I bite back the smile and take another sip of my coffee. While I'm happy, this isn't how things are with Rita, June, and me, I'm enjoying this floor show.

Cora slams the coupon on the counter. "Go and get some," she spits.

The handmaid snorts, "Ofronald doesn't come until 1 pm. You know this, we go shopping at the same time every damn day!" she tosses back.

Cora looks like she's about to explode when I interject. "I'm free right now; I can drive you to All Flesh," I offer.

Cora and Ofjoseph turn and look at me like I've sprouted a second head. I hold my hands up in defense. "Look, it sounds like you're in a bind here. I'm a driver, and I'd also kinda like to have some soup," I offer.

Cora softens a tad. "Thank you," she mutters reluctantly before turning back to the handmaid. "Go get your fuckin' cloak; the man doesn't have all day," she says in exasperation.

Ofjoseph gives her a death glare but turns to fetch her outwear.

Cora says nothing more; just turns to a basket of root vegetables and grabs some carrots. Ofjoseph and I leave the house to the sound of chop, chop, chop on the cutting board.

The ride to All Flesh is quiet; the handmaid keeps her eyes out the window as we travel a couple of miles to the store. Once there, I escort her in. I feel out of place standing amongst the bevy of handmaids and Marthas. Outside of the cashiers and guardians, men generally don't come into places like this; it's women's work to do the shopping. I shove my hands in my pockets as I idly wait, but as I watch the women move around the store with their baskets, I remember June's complaints about my lack of snacks. I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and look inside for the food tokens I have stashed there. They are generic, but they allow me to get whatever I want, which is one of my "man" privileges.

I head down one of the narrow aisles in search of the handmaid. "Ofjoseph, do they have crackers and cheese here?" I ask casually. She looks a bit surprised but doesn't hesitate. She leads me down a small aisle lined with boxed, canned, and jarred goods. Like the produce section, it's limited—this store, after all, is All Flesh and specializes in meats—but they carry a few convenience items.

I grab a couple of cans of fruit and a box of crackers. Ofjoseph points out where the cheese is, and after I pick up a wedge, we make our way to the meat counter, where I finish the errand with a small smoked sausage.

Ofjoseph and I checked out and returned the car. We are a few blocks from the store when Ofjoesph speaks directly to me for the first time. "You don't have a wife?" she asks.

"Nope," I say, holding up my left hand as proof.

"Your Martha a terrible cook?" she asks; clearly, my shopping has perplexed her.

I chuckle, "No, Rita's amazing. But sometimes I don't feel like putting on pants to get a snack," I lie.

At this, her eyebrows lift in surprise. I bite my tongue. My language has apparently loosed up after spending so much time with June. I've crossed a line of polite conversation with my pants remark. "Oh, um, sorry about that," I offer, looking back at her in the mirror.

She shakes her head and smiles. "It's fine. I just haven't had a normal conversation in so long, and it shocked me," she admits.

I nod, "Yeah, the rules are pretty strict, especially for handmaids." I agree.

We sit in silence for a minute at a stoplight.

"No wife, and you can't date in Gilead…must be lonely," the woman says, her voice low.

My eyes widen, and concern begins crawling up my spine.

"There's a park up here on the left; it's empty all the time, if…if you were feeling lonely, that is," the handmaid says, trying to sound seductive.

I look at her evenly in the mirror. She doesn't shy away. She's ballsy. I admire that, but she's playing a dangerous game.

I pull the car over on an abandoned stretch of road and put it in park. I undo my seatbelt, and she moves to do the same, but I hold out a hand. "No. Stay where you are," I tell her. She looks confused, then petrified.

I take a deep breath and try to look non-threatening. "That was stupid," I say flatly. "I could report you for that; you'd be on the wall by sunset."

She looks down as a tear traces down her face. I feel like an ass, but she needs to know. Needs to be careful.

"Why the hell would you make such an offer?" I ask plainly.

She sniffs, running her hand under her nose. "This is my third posting, and well, I don't think I'll be getting pregnant," she tells me.

"So you ask a random driver?" I ask, shocked.

She shrugs. "I need to get knocked up, or it's too colonies for me," she sniffs.

I reach into the pocket of my coat and hand her a handkerchief.

"You seemed nice. You don't have a wife, but you're cute…I figured I'd try. I figure if you turn me in, then at least, my death would be quick instead of waiting for my skin to rot away from the nuclear waste," she cries.

I ponder my response for a second. What do I tell this girl that won't get me likewise get me killed? "Look, don't worry about the colonies," I start, deciding on the truth.

She looks up, dabbing her eyes.

"You had a kid before all this, right?"

She nods. "Yes, two girls," she says, fresh tears of longing springing in her eyes.

I nod, agreeing with her. "Yeah, no way they're putting a proven womb out to pasture," I confess. I want to tell her the truth—that the whole "sent to the colonies" thing for handmaids is mostly a scare tactic, a line of bullshit. The reality is, after three households, they're usually moved to a new district to start the process over. It's all about fear conditioning, making them believe they're always on the edge of death or exile. Fear is a powerful motivator, enough to keep anyone in line. Enough to make the Ceremony seem like the only way out.

Ofjoseph sniffs and looks me in the eyes; a tiny bit of hope glimmers back at me. "You think?"

I shrug, "I'm just a driver, but what I know about Gilead is they don't like waste. You just got to keep your chin up," I suggest. "And don't ever offer yourself up to a man who isn't your commander unless you are 100% certain it's safe." I think of June and the risk she took with me, and it makes my hands clench. "I could've been an Eye for all you know!" I warn.

The small woman sinks back into the seat, her eyes drying. "Are you going to turn me in?" she asks.

"No!" I exclaim. "Why would I take the time to warn you if I was?"

She sighs in relief. "Thank you," she finally says.

I give her a nod and turn back to the wheel. "Thank me by staying alive," I state.

That is the last thing we say to one another. When Fred and I head out that afternoon, I spot her in a bedroom window, looking down at us. She lifts her hand, mouths the words thank you, and then disappears behind the curtains.

Back at home, I spend the last part of my day changing the tires on the car out to snow tires and swapping out the carpet floor mats for rubber ones. I'll drop it off for winter undercoating tomorrow, but I want this out of the way. With the last tire in place, I put away the jack and head into the house for dinner. I find June setting the table when I come in. She offers me a covert smile as I wash my hands. The room smells of rosemary and meat, and my stomach grumbles. "You know what's for dinner?" I ask, drying my hands.

June moves closer, standing by the sink under the pretense of washing her hands. "Meatloaf," she says casually.

"Awesome!" I respond, genuinely excited. It's been a while since we've had it, and as much as I like Rita's meatloaf, but the breakfast scramble she makes with the leftovers really gets me. "Don't oversleep tomorrow," I warn her, "You don't want to miss the masterpiece Rita creates with the leftovers."

June's lips curve into a sly smile, her eyes glinting as she looks up at me. "Sleep in? Ha! You're funny," she snorts. "Besides, I never miss breakfast. I'm always so hungry in the morning… for some reason," she adds with a wink.

God, she's beautiful when she flirts with me.

The sound of feet in the hall, and we both take a step away from each other. Rita comes in with a smile. "Good evening," she chirps.

I eye her suspiciously. "What have you done? Did you slip something into the gravy?" ask, lifting the lid and investigating the pot with faux concern.

Rita huffs and shoves a loaf of bread and a knife in my hands. "Table," she demands.

I acquiesce and go into the breakfast room. I set the loaf down on a cutting board already on the table and start cutting slabs as the ladies enter with plates filled with meatloaf, green beans, and small baked potatoes.

We all sit and say a quick grace before digging in.

"Wow, Rita, this is amazing," Junes says, pointing her fork at her meat. "I've never much-liked meatloaf."

Rita cocks an eyebrow and looks smug. "You've clearly never had mine."

"Nick says you are a wizard with the leftovers, too," June says around her food.

"He did, did he?" Rita smiles and fans herself.

I level my eyes at her. "Don't start acting all humble now, cats out of the bag," I tease.

We all chuckle.

"There are spiced poached peaches for dessert," Rita half sings.

I sit back and take the Martha in. "Seriously, who did you hurt?" I taunt.

She rolls her eyes but leans in conspiratorially: "Mrs. Waterford is leaving for her mother's in the morning; she'll be gone overnight!" She beams.

"I didn't know about that. I guess I'm not driving her," I state, stabbing a green bean with my fork as a feeling of dread drops over me.

Rita wiggles in her seat. She's happy. A whole night without Serena breathing down her neck is a real Godsend for her. On the other hand, I know this generally means a trip to Jezebels for Fred. I look at June out of the corner of my eye; she seems unfazed. Should I tell her? Warn her? Maybe nothing will happen; perhaps Fred's learned from his past mistake,I think, but that is highly unlikely.

"She's riding out with another wife; there's some sort of anniversary dinner or something like that," Rita says, not noticing my darkened eyes.

June does, though. I feel her gaze on me, so I try to hide my concern. It's one night, and the Commander hasn't had me set anything up, so there's a chance I'm overreacting.

After dinner, I help clear the table, then head down to the Commander's office, feeling the weight of unfinished business hanging over me. I need clarification about Jezebel's, and I'll sleep easier once I get it. I knock on the door, but there's no answer. Pushing it open, I'm met with cold darkness. The room hasn't been touched. He's not here.

I check the parlor and dining room—both empty. A sigh escapes me as my eyes drift toward the stairs. He's probably retired to his room for the night. Damn.

Back in the kitchen, I find June standing by the sink, drying the last of the dishes.

"You comin' over?" I ask quietly, trying to keep my tone casual, though anticipation hums under my skin.

She glances at me from the corner of her eye, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe," she replies, teasingly.

I move to lean against the counter beside her. "I went shopping today," I say, offering a subtle hint.

Her eyes light up with interest, and she smirks. "You've got more than beer? Wow, you really know how to treat a lady," she says softly, her tone dancing on the edge of rebellion. This entire exchange is treason, but I don't care.

"I'm capable of taking a hint," I reply, trying to match her playful tone.

She finishes drying the dishes, turning to stack them in the cabinet. When she faces me again, there's a spark in her gaze. "You're not going to tell me what you bought, are you?" she challenges.

I shrug, walking toward the door. "Nope," I tease.

She laughs but gives me a nod. She'll be there.

An hour later, she's padding through my door and heads straight for the fridge. She pulls it open and peers in. "Cheese, nice. Oh, smoked meat. And where the hell did you get these, she says, holding up one of the two chocolate chip cookies Cora sent home with me.

"The Lawrences are loaded," I tell her. "Their Martha sent them home with me," I tell her.

She turns around, a hand on her hip. "A Martha sending baked goods home with a single man…not suspicious at all," she jests.

I shake my head, "Yeah, Cora's not like that," I dismiss.

June crosses the room to sit next to me on the bench seat. "I wouldn't be so sure," she says, running a hand up my leg. "Any woman would be thrilled to catch your eye."

I laugh out loud at this.

Her face scrunches up, "What?"

"Cora only has one eye," I chuckle.

June's mouth drops open, and she tries to look disgusted with me, but she's barely holding it together.

"She's the meanest Martha I think I've ever met," I laugh. "She's all about barking orders and hating people. I'm not sure she registers I'm a dude!"

June looks unconvinced. "I sure she knows you're a man," she counters.

I shake my head, "I think you have to meet her to understand. Trust me, the cookies were a thank you because I took her brazen handmaid to All Flesh so lunch could be saved," I tell her.

June sits back, leaning against the wall. "Oh, that is where the groceries came from," she says, connecting the dots. "I wonder if I know her?" she wonders aloud.

"She said this was her third posting, probably a class above yours."

June's forehead crinkles, and she squints at me. "Getting chatty with the handmaid?" she asks.

Is that jealousy?

"No… well, not exactly. I mean, we talked, but it wasn't…" I trail off.

Her arms cross over her chest, and she levels her eyes at me. "Please, continue. I look forward to your complete sentences."

I think that is jealousy. Hum.

I consider her for a second. "She offered to make a lonely man less lonely on the way back to the house," I confess.

June's eyebrows shoot up. "I was teasing! What the hell, Nick!" she scoffs, shoving my leg away from her.

I raise a hand, "I declined! Of course, I declined," I state, taking her hands in mine, but her face is still wary. "If it makes any difference, she wasn't coming on to me because of my impossible good looks; she was just trying to get pregnant."

"Pregnant by a driver…sounds familiar," June sighs.

"She's in her third house, and she's afraid."

There is understanding on June's face. "The colonies," she mutters.

"Yeah, exactly. I tried to tell her without telling her that the colonies thing is just a farce. Made sure she knew the danger she was putting herself in by making the proposition to a stranger. Hopefully, I got through to her."

June stands and starts to pace.

"What?" I ask, standing to follow her.

"They aren't sending us to colonies after three failed families?" she asks, clearly surprised.

I shake my head. "No. They are shipping them off across the country; tell them they are getting a second chance," I tell her. "It would be a waste to trade proven fertility for questionable sperm. I know the edict says only women are infertile, but the leaders aren't that stupid. They know most of us are shooting blanks," I confess.

She takes a sharp breath through her nose and lets it out slowly. "So, if I don't get pregnant in the next year, then I'm headed for what…California?" she asks.

The very thought makes me anxious. "I don't know. I don't have the specifics," I tell her honestly.

She collapses on the end of the bed, her head in her hands. She begins to shake. At first, I think she's crying, but then I hear the trill of humorless laughter.

I sit down next to her and put a hand on her back. She shakes her head and looks up at me. "The options are so bright and cheery. They get to rape me and keep taking my kids, just all over the country instead of just the East Coast. Just so fucking great!"

I take what she's said in for a minute. There is nothing good to say here, nothing that makes any of this any fucking better. I drop my forehead to hers and breathe her in. "I'm sorry," is all I can think to say.

She closes the gap between us, pressing her lips to mine. The kiss is sad and full of pain from which there is no escape. I kiss her back, letting my thumb lower her mouth to mine. I lower her to bed and kiss her deeply. "As long as I can, I'll try to keep you safe," I promise between kisses. She accepts my offer, but I know she won't hold it against me if I fail because my chances of success are infinitely small.

Tonight is different. It's not without passion or desire, but something else exists between us. This feels like making love, not just sex. A fact that doesn't elude me, even if I try to ignore it. To admit any feelings of any kind is a recipe for disaster. This thing between us doesn't have a happy ending, I know that, but I also know something has been sneaking up on me for months, and now it's here, and at some point, I'm going to have to face it.

When I wake the next morning, I find June standing, blanket wrapped around her, looking at something on my nightstand. When I call out to her, I hear the clang of metal, my dog tags. She saunters over to the bed, and I pull her down to join me. I wrap her in my arms and look down into her face. So much of our time outside this room is spent pretending the other doesn't exist, so I try to take advantage of the little time I'm given. I kiss her neck and run a hand along her arm, caressing her face. I want to remember her like this when the day gets long, and I feel beaten down. She pushes me back against the mattress; it's time for her to go. She sits next to me for a moment, and I grasp her arm, wanting so badly to pull her down and keep her here with me. But time is not on our side. She stands her hand on my bicep and mine on hers. She pulls away, and our hands slide down the other arm until only our fingertips are connected, and then she's gone, over to the window seat where she's left her clothes.

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching June as she prepares for the day, preparing for another battle in this brutal world. Her movements are deliberate, pulling on her clothes with practiced efficiency, and I can't help but let my thoughts drift back to where it all started for me—the path that led me here.

That room at the Worthy Path Career Counseling Center. The name made it sound more respectable than it was. It was a dingy storefront in a rundown strip mall with flickering fluorescent lights, tacky inspirational posters, and uncomfortable plastic chairs. You could smell mildew mixed with stale coffee if you inhaled deeply enough.

I was there, in my cheap shirt and an even cheaper tie, looking for a way out. That's where I met him—Commander Pryce. I was desperate for a job, any job, but life kept getting in the way. My dad's health was failing after years in the steelyard, requiring constant care. And then there was Joshua, my brother, who always needed bailing out of trouble or picking up from whatever bar he'd found himself in. I was the only one left fighting to keep us afloat, barely making enough from temporary gigs to keep the lights on. If my dad hadn't paid off the house with my mom's insurance money, we would've been homeless.

Then, that day came. The day Pryce told me there were no more jobs to give. Back then, I didn't have as much control over my anger as I do now. I ended up in a fight before security tossed me out into the freezing February air. I was angry and lost, when he caught up with me in the parking lot. The real Pryce. I remember that moment as if it happened yesterday. It took one shitty cup of coffee and some well-placed promises of a "better future" to reel me in. "Come to a meeting," he had said, casually dangling a job offer. I didn't care about the rhetoric or the agenda he was peddling, but I cared about that one thing—getting a job. I took the bait. Biggest fucking mistake of my life.

If I could change one moment, it would be that. But life doesn't hand out do-overs. I exhale slowly, glancing at the dog tags June had been eyeing earlier. They don't mean much anymore. I'm not a soldier, not in any way that matters. But I've held onto them, a token of sorts. A reminder of the day I realized I'd made the wrong decision. My first day on the front lines, standing there with a gun in my hand, looking across the street at a bakery shop full of armed civilians—people like me, just trying to survive in a world turned upside down.

That day, I understood it was all bullshit. Since when did making the world "better" mean killing kids who worked at fast food joints or college students who just wanted to be left alone? Disagreement had become a death sentence, and I was part of it. I almost died that day, too—part of a wall collapsed on me during the fighting. If it weren't for those dog tags deflecting a piece of metal aimed at my heart, I wouldn't be here now. I remember sitting on my cot that night, those tags in my hand, wondering why I was spared. Searching for some kind of reason.

As I look at June now, I think I might finally know. Maybe I was saved to keep her alive. Maybe that's my purpose. I don't know how I'll do it, but it doesn't matter. I've chosen to do it, and that's enough.

I grab the dog tags and go to where June is sitting, putting on her stockings and boots. "I want you to have these," I tell her holding the chain out to her.

She looks up at me, a questioning look in her eyes. "Those are yours," she dismisses, pulling the zipper up on her boot.

I reach down, take her hand, and place them in her palm. "They saved me once," I tell her.

She looks down at the metal and runs her thumb over it.

"They don't have my name or anything on them; that info rubbed smooth years ago, so they shouldn't lead back to me if someone finds them."

She clasps her hand around the offering and smiles up at me. We have nothing of our own in this place, so she understands the gesture. "Okay," she agrees. She pops the ball out of the closure, loops the chain around her ankle several times, and closes it. She carefully pulls on her stocking over it, making sure the metal tags lay flat against her skin, before pulling on her boot.

She stands and loops her arms loosely around my shoulders. "Stay safe today," she says. It's a phrase we've been sharing for a while now when we separate. I nod. "You too."

We kiss, and she heads out back to the main house. I sit on the bench by the window, looking out at the backyard for a long time. She disappeared into the house long ago, but I can't seem to pull myself away. I lay my head back against the wall and take a deep breath. The room smells like her. Like lemon soap, but not just lemon soap, I'm convinced that when applied to her skin, it changes into something new, something heady. It's intoxicating. I sigh and sit up. Enough mooning over a girl, I've got shit to do. I get up, get dressed, and go to the house. Rita is standing at the stove, humming to herself, and the room smells amazing. I walk over and look over her shoulder.

"You're in my personal space Blaine," she admonishes playfully.

I step back, grab a mug, and fill it with my allotted coffee. "You are magic, you know that, right?" I question, taking in an appreciative sniff.

She looks back at me with a raised brow.

"What?" I ask, sipping my coffee.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. Just nice to see you smile," she returns.

I scoff, "I smile," I argue.

"No, you don't," she snorts.

"You're making my favorite breakfast," I argue.

She goes to the fridge for the eggs and stops to look up at me. "Sure, it's the breakfast," she teases with a wink.

I don't get to reply because the Commander enters the kitchen.

"Blessed Day, Commander," Rita says, pouring him a cup of coffee.

He takes it and nods. "Yes, Blessed Morning," he returns.

"Breakfast should be ready in about five minutes, sir," she says, cracking eggs into the pan on top of the meat, pepper, and potato mixture she's already been working on.

"Yes, smells great!" he says, heading out of the room. He's just about out when he stops and looks back at me. "Nick, I have a package that needs to be picked up at the tailor's, can you do that after breakfast?" he asks.

It's funny that he even asks; it's not like I can decline. "Of course, sir," I agree.

He nods and disappears down the hall.

I hear feet on the stairs, and my lips want to lift into a smile, but noting Rita's comments this morning, I push it down and take a drink out of my cup instead.

June bounces in and breathes in deeply in appreciation. She goes to the cabinet, grabs plates and cups, and puts them on the counter.

"Table, please," she says to me, shooing me with her hand.

I look at her and scoff. "Must I remind you of my man card?" I tease.

She rolls her eyes and goes to the drawer with the cutlery. "Yes, I'm sure it's very shiny, don't forget the glasses," she says.

Rita chorales. "Well, aren't we all extra chipper this morning?"

June looks confused but goes to the table with the flatware.

I glare at Rita, but she simply smiles. "Set the table," she says, squeezing my arm.

She disappears with Commander's plate, and when she returns, June has doled out heaping portions onto each of our plates. Outside the windows, the season's first snow has begun to fall. It won't stick, but it's pretty all the same. The breakfast room feels cozy, with the fire in the fireplace and a great meal.

"You know, this kind of feels like Christmas breakfast," June says, sighing. "I know there is no more Christmas, and I'm at least a month early, but still."

Rita hums in agreement. "You're right; there is a holiday feel in the air," she agrees, looking from me to June but saying nothing else. She definitely knows something or thinks she does.

We all dig into our meal, easy banter flowing between us. All too soon, the reality of our day sets in. We all have things to do. Once I've helped move the dishes into the kitchen, I bid the ladies a good day and head off on my errand.

The tailor is busy when I arrive, but when the man behind the counter spots me, he disappears into the back room and comes back out with a large brown box. He hands it to me with a smile. "Tell the Commander that it's the finest I could find on short notice."

I nod and take the box out to the car. I put it in the back and stare at it for a second. The box is sealed, so I cannot know what it is, which is annoying. This particular tailor procures black market items, mostly things like make-up and lingerie. Wives might all look the same on the outside, but most of them are sporting high-end lingerie under their teal box is too big for panties and bras.

I take the box into the house and directly to the Commander's office.

"Ah, my order," he says, gesturing for me to put the box down on the table by the bookcase.

I want to ask about it, but it's not my business, and to ask would be a serious infraction.

"Nick, one more thing," Fred says before I can leave. I turn and look at him. "Close the door."

Damn it. I do as requested, "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?" I ask.

"I've made some arrangements at Jezabel's tonight. We leave at nine," he tells me.

Panic erupts, shooting up my spine. "That short notice, sir. Are you sure it's wise?" I ask anxiously. I generally set these nights up, checking the client list to make sure the wrong people aren't there when he is. He's going off-script. That's never good. Fuck.

"I've checked the list, Nick, it's fine." He says dismissively.

"Yes, sir, of course. Nine o'clock."

With a wave of his hand, he's done with me. I leave the office and go to the kitchen. It's quiet. My eyes slide closed. There is still a chance this is just one of his usual visits, but the chances are infinitesimal.I let out a defeated breath. Well, if we're going to Jezabel's, there are things I need to do before then. The black market doesn't feed itself.

Despite my growing dread, I manage to procure the items needed to make a few trades and send a runner to Jezebels to let them know I'm coming and ready for a swap.

At 9:00 pm, the Commander parades into the kitchen with a teal cloak and a small stack of travel documents in hand. My fists clench under the table. I knew it. I prayed against it, but…son of bitch Fred, you are a fucking idiot, my mind screams. He hands me the items. "We'll be right down." He states, sauntering out of the room.

I thumb through the stack of forms he's handed me, one for him and one for Serna Joy , June, no. I dig my fingers into my eye sockets until they sting, and vomit threatens the back of my throat. Heeled feet sound on the stairs; it's show time. I slip back into Gilead soldier mode and steel myself for what's to come. I need to be strong for June's sake.

Waterford strides into the room like a cat that got the canary, followed by June dressed in a mini dress. She's all sparkles and loose curls. She stops just short of me, her eyes locked on mine. Her fear and panic shine clearly in the dimly lit room. I'm sorry, June. I'm so sorry!

"Mrs. Waterford went to visit her mother; she won't be back until tomorrow." Fred touts, slipping his overcoat on. I guess this is his sick way of saying, "Let's have some fun."

I place the teal cloak I've been handed onto June's bare shoulders, daringly letting my fingers run gently down the length of her arms. I'm here June.

"Where are we going?" June asks in a voice that isn't hers. This must be who she is when she has to be with him.

Fred steps into her personal space, leaning in close. "You don't want me to spoil the surprise, do you?" he whispers. June gives him a coy smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Together, they walk out the door toward the car. My fists clench instinctively, my mind filling with violent images of driving them into his skull.

The drive across town is torture. I can't stop my eyes from drifting to her in the rearview mirror, watching the way she sits stiffly beside him while Commander Waterford prattles on about his so-called accomplishments. Most of it is bullshit, of course. My stomach churns as he takes her hand, holding it possessively as she belongs to him. My teeth grind together, rage bubbling under the surface. I know this is her reality—this is the nightmare June has to live every day—but seeing it in person? It's a mindfuck like no other.

June smiles, playing her part, soothing Fred's ego. "It's amazing," she coos, her voice dripping with false admiration. But her eyes—those pleading eyes—silently beg me to understand. None of this is her fault, and there's nothing to forgive. I know that. Yet, we're both locked into our roles. She in hers, me in mine. The words I want to say, the ones that could calm her anxiety, are trapped behind the invisible walls of Gilead. I can't speak them, not here, not now. All I can do is look back, helpless, while she pretends for him.

"Coming to a checkpoint, sir." I manage to get out, sounding relatively normal.

"Pull up your hood, Mrs. Waterford," Fred says seductively.

June looks alarmed.

"It's okay, you're with me," he says, so full of himself I think he might explode. If only.

We pass the guard station without incident. I wish for the millionth time that someone would catch him at his tomfoolery, but then again, maybe not, at least not tonight. Getting caught today would be bad for June, so I resend the thought.

June silently fussed with her hood, her discomfort palpable. "You're very quiet. Aren't you enjoying yourself?" Fred asks. He's either completely ignorant or getting off on seeing her squirm. Knowing him as I do, I would put money on the second option. Fucker.

"It's just ..it's so beautiful at night. I don't usually get to see it like this," she stammers, indicating at the passing night skyline.

"Ah, but tonight you aren't you," Fred soothes creepily.

She manages to look pleased, but it doesn't quite hide the panic in her eyes.

We draw closer to Jezabel's by the second. "Sir, we're almost to the river," I announce.

"I'm going to have to ask you to get down," Fred says to June, tapping his lap.

June's features go from panicked to terrified. He ignores it. "Past the gateway, not even wives are allowed. Women aren't allowed," he explains.

He's right; it's only Martha's and women forced into prostitution live on the other side of the river.

She settles down into the floor boards, her head in his lap. I bite the inside of my cheek and taste blood. I get us through the checkpoint as quickly as possible so she can get off the floor and away from Fred's crouch.

"There now, was that scary?" Fred asks as if he's talking to a child. "But a little exciting, too, am I right? There is so much more excitement to come," he coos, his voice low and sultry.

"I can't wait," June returns, breathy from nerves. We lock eyes for a second in the mirror, but she soon goes back to looking out the window.

I've seen and heard too much from this driver's seat to claim innocence. I chose my allegiance a long time ago, so I'm to blame for the shape of this world, too. I glance up in the mirror at June, and an old memory creeps in—one that still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It was the first time I met Fred Waterford. I was driving some Commanders around, and they were discussing the handmaid program. Fred had asked me what I thought of it. What did I say? Did I call it barbaric, tell him he was sick? No. I said it was better not to form attachments.

I still remember the way Fred turned to me, asking, "Better for whom?" And without missing a beat, I'd said, "Everybody."

The worst part is I believed it. Not the handmaid program, but the attachment part. I'd spent so long after losing my ma, then my dad and brother, convinced I didn't need anyone—that letting people in was a weakness. I'd been willing to turn a blind eye, to let them treat people like cattle, just to keep my guard up. And now, here I am, realizing how wrong I was.

It's funny how it took just one tiny blonde to shatter the life philosophy I thought would protect me.

The ally is dark, and the pavement's wet from an evening rain shower when we arrive at the private entrance of the club. My body moves robotically as I release the passengers into the night. Fred places a hand on June's lower back and guides her into the building. He tells her proudly that she's contraband and leads her into the service elevator like a lamb to slaughter. The trip is only a few floors, and soon, we exit into a back hall that connects the kitchen and main floor. Fred removes her cloak and hands it to me. June's eyes dart around at our surroundings, and I swear I can see her heart beating frantically through her dress.

"I almost forgot," Fred coos, pulling a pair of earrings from his pocket. He holds them up to her ears like she's a dolland asks me over his shoulder, "There, doesn't she look beautiful?".

No, she looks petrified. "Yes, sir," I agree, looking down at the floor.

Without further ado, Waterford places a hand on June's back and leads her down the hall toward where the action is. Being the coward, I am, I flee the scene. I step into a broom closet and close the door. I stare into the dark and try to catch my breath, but it doesn't help. I reach up and pull a string, and the tiny room is bathed in a dim golden light. Tossing the cloak in a corner, I turn to the nearby slop sink and vomit...several times. When the nausea eventually abates, I run the tap to clear the sink, then stick my head under the faucet to rinse my mouth. Rage and worry light every nerve in my body; I can't seem to take a full breath.

A soft tap on the door pulls me back to reality. The door cracks open, and Beth sticks her head in. "Hey there," she greets.

I affix my Gilead face and turn around. "Hi," I return, pushing back nausea.

"Everything okay?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I let out a dry chuckle, exhaling through my nose. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just one of those weeks," I lie, pushing past her into the hallway.

She doesn't press further, just nods, and we make our way down to the kitchen. "Tell me about it. It's been a beast here too. Must be a full moon or something," she says, attempting to lighten the mood.

I collapse onto the nearest stool, running my hands over my face.

"I was surprised to see your Commander's name on the guest list tonight," she says, pouring me a glass of her signature blueberry lemonade, the ice clinking as it settles into the glass.

I take it from her and take a long sip, trying to focus on anything but the night ahead. "Yeah, he decided last minute. The missus is out of town."

She smirks knowingly. "When the cat's away, the mice will play, huh?"

My eyes close, and my grip on the glass tightens. I know exactly what kind of "play" Waterford has in mind.

"Brought a guest with him tonight?" she asks, her voice casual, but I can tell she's fishing for more.

I set the glass down, my knuckles white. "The handmaid. Who else?"

She looks appalled. "Seriously? What the hell is wrong with him?"

I grit my teeth. "He's a narcissistic pervert," I mutter.

"Careful, there are ears everywhere," she warns, glancing toward the walk-in freezer.

I drain the rest of the lemonade and set the glass down a bit harder than intended. "Got anything stronger?" I ask, the request surprising even me.

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Nick Blaine wants a drink? Like, to drink, not just to trade?"

I get it. It's not like me. I've always avoided booze, seen firsthand what it did to my dad and brother. But tonight... tonight's different. I need something to dull the edges. "Is that a problem?" I ask, my tone sharper than I intended.

She hesitates for a second, then shakes her head. "No problem at all," she says, heading to the cabinet. She pulls down a bottle of brandy and a glass and sets them in front of me.

I pour a good amount and knock it back in one go, the liquid burning down my throat. "Ah," I cough, wincing at the bitter taste.

"Sorry, all we've got back here is the cooking stuff. Didn't think you'd want to break into your stash," she says apologetically.

I wave her off. "It's fine," I rasp, pouring another shot. Before I can raise it to my lips, her hand covers the glass.

"Seriously?" she asks, her concern showing now.

I move her hand gently, toss the drink back, and stand. "I'm going to grab the stuff for the trade," I say, ignoring her question.

The cool night air hits me like a slap, but the alcohol buzz keeps me warm. I haul the duffle bag over my shoulder and head back inside, where she's already laid out her offerings.

"Brandy, scotch, vodka... top-shelf stuff courtesy of our Russian friends," she explains.

I nod, eyeing the haul. "Hair dye?" I ask, surprised.

"Their wives like their illegal chemicals," she shrugs. "Speaking of…"

I dig into the bag and pull out the goods. "Everything's here. Oxy, Percocet, speed... pregnancy tests. What's the ketamine for?" I ask, half-knowing the answer already.

"Some of the guests have 'Sleeping Beauty' fantasies," she says bluntly. "But the girls use it too. They'll spike the guy's drinks and go through their phone after they pass out."

I shake my head. This place is rotten to the core. "The Eyes, thank you for your service," I say, though the words taste bitter in my mouth.

She catches my expression and tilts her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I lie again, reaching into the bag for a final item. I hand her a bundle wrapped in a towel—a bunch of fresh basil from the mistress's garden.

Her eyes light up as she inhales the scent. "Ah, thank you."

I nod. She's one of the few people in this hellhole I actually like. "It's fresh," I say.

She grins, clearly pleased. "Stick around, I'll make that pesto that got me a James Beard nomination," she jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

I force a smile. "Maybe another time."

She shrugs, then steps closer, her hand sliding down my belt to cup me lightly. She's casual about it like everything between us has been. "Not tonight," I say softly, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She pulls back, unfazed. "Okay."

I grab my box of booze and hair dye and head for the door, feeling her eyes on me.

"Pleasure doing business with you," she calls after me as I leave.

My goods properly stashed away in the back of the car, I head back inside to wait. I lean against a cinder block wall and shake out a cigarette; hoping the nicotine will calm my nerves. The lighter flicks, catching the end of the cigarette as a waiter pushes through the swinging doors leading to the main dining room. I should stay here, maybe have Beth make me that pesto, but I can't. Despite the damage it will likely do to my psyche, I have to see. I anchor my body between the two doors and let my eyes pass over the room full of half-naked women and completely intoxicated Commanders. Like magnets finding their opposite, I quickly locate June in the crowd, her bare back's expanse and golden hair glowing under the subdued lighting. I take another drag off my cigarette and watch as Fred calls the elevator.

It's happening again. I don't know why I feel surprised now that the moment has come. I've been sick with the idea of what he's planning, but some part of me—buried deep down—was still hoping he'd learned his lesson. That maybe tonight would be just about showing off his pretty handmaid, getting her drunk, and keeping up appearances. But Occam's razor is a bitch.

These past weeks, every move he's made mirrors the last time. First, the office visits. Then the trips to Jezebel's. It's the same old playbook, pushing and taking until there's nothing left to give. I've seen this all before—too many late-night drives, too many whispered instructions. And I know how it ends. I can still hear Rita's screams from that day. Still feel the dead weight of the last Offred as I cut her down from the light fixture, her body cold and lifeless in my arms. It's a moment that's burned into me, something I'll carry to my grave.

But I will not let the same thing happen to June. I can't. The thought of her, slack and broken, replaying in my mind for the rest of my life… It will destroy me.

I take another long drag I turn back for the kitchen, kicking the door as I go. I disappear down the hall, finding a small alcove filled with chairs. I perch on one and let my chin fall to my chest. The cigarette is gone, and I consider a second, but my stomach roils at the thought. Chain smoking is my pressure relief valve, but not even that seems like enough at the moment. I want the night to end. I need to see with my two eyes that June's in one piece, at least physically.

The next hour is horrible. I pace. I end up smoking despite the persistent taste of vomit in the back of my throat, and I pray, even though, at this point, it feels futile. Finally, I get the message that they're coming down. I retrieve the cloak and wait in the hall for the pair. I feel the smallest amount of relief when I finally see her. I help her into the cloak, and we all head outside.

Fred looks like a cat who'd got the mouse. He has that air of someone who's just fucked. I want to punch him in his sated face and make him bleed.

"Don't worry. We'll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin," Fred says playfully to June as he climbs into the backseat after her.

June's eyes catch mine in the mirror; they are so incredibly sad that it physically pains me to see them.

The drive home is quiet; having gotten what he was after, Fred relaxes into the back seat to enjoy the ride. June alternates between looking out the window and looking at me in the mirror with her haunted expression. When we're home, Fred sweeps June into the house; after all, she'll need to wash, and he'll need to hide the evidence of his misdeeds before Serna returns in a few short hours.

I go home, but I don't sleep. So many thoughts tumble through my head. After sitting and staring at the wall for several hours, I give up and go to the house. I put a kettle on the stove and stand over the sink, looking out the window while I wait. I freeze when I hear feet behind me, but Rita's soft voice greets me.

"It's very early, Guardian Blaine."

I look at her; she's already dressed for the day. I look at my watch and see it's already five.

"Long night?" she asks.

The kettle comes to a boil, and I pull it off the burner. "You want a cup?"

She nods.

I take down a second mug and drop a tea bag in it before filling both with hot water. I gingerly hand her hers. For a long time, we stand in silence, sipping our hot beverage. Finally, Rita names the elephant in the room. "He took her last night, didn't he?" she states, her voice immeasurably sad.

A long, shaky breath leaves me, "Yeah."

"She, okay?"

I shrug, "In one piece, at least physically," I state. I suddenly feel overwhelmed; I've been fighting it all night, but I can't anymore. My fist connects with the counter with a thud, splitting the skin on my knuckles. "I can't…" I grind out.

Rita approaches cautiously, handing me a dishtowel for my now bleeding knuckles. "She's stronger than the first," she states.

I absently dab at the blood, "It'll….I'll…if she…I can't..." I ramble.

She squeezes my arm. "You won't have to; she'll make it. We can help her," she promises.

I want to believe her, but promises are hard to keep here.

A small tinny alarm goes off on Rita's wrist. She groans. "I got to go; I have to make breakfast for the McKinneys," she says.

"Another sick Martha?" I ask. This is the third in as many weeks.

She frowns, "She passed yesterday evening. A new woman is starting later this morning, but Kelsey, George's Martha, and I are pitching in, in the meantime. I'm making breakfast there, and I'll have the driver bring it by," she tells me, grabbing her cloak from the hook.

"You want me to drive you?" I offer, "It's cold out."

"No, it's only a few blocks, and I could use some time for silent prayer," she returns.

"Go in Grace," I tell her.

With a wave, she's gone.

The room is silent now. The only sound is my own breathing. I think about what Rita said:"We can help her."But how? From where I stand right now, I have no idea how to do that. The very thought of Fred touching her makes me want to murder him, but that would only land me on the wall. And what good would I be to June then?

How do I keep my promise to save her? I'm too close to be objective. What I've had with June these past weeks—this pull between us—is nothing like my arrangement with Beth. I can't compartmentalize my feelings for her; I can't just put them in a box and take them out when it's convenient. The truth is,I'mthe problem. If I want her to live, I need to back away, put distance between us.

I hate this idea. I know she will too. But if it's the only way to keep her safe, then I have to do it.

I straighten up, feeling a small, bitter relief from coming up with some kind of plan. Now, I just hope I have the balls to follow through.

I spend the morning trying to focus on my list of chores. It's a monolithic task, but at least it gives my idle hands something to do. As the hours pass, anticipation about the coming confrontation with June turns to worry.

The sun is new in the sky when I hear a car in the driveway. Mrs. Waterford has returned. I make my way into the hallway and stand at attention.

Fred meets Serna at the door. They exchange pleasantries about her trip, and he has the audacity to say he was lonely while she was gone. I'm sent to fetch her luggage from the hired car.

I collect the hat box and bags and enter the breakfast room. June is at the counter having her breakfast. My heart starts hammering in my chest. She smiles at me; I'm not ready for this. I keep walking, no greeting…nothing. I'm an asshole. When I come back through the kitchen, I'm like a train on a track, not stopping or slowing.

"She home?" June asks.

"Yep," I mutter.

"Nick?" she calls, clearly aware of my avoidance.

I stop but don't turn back to look at her.

"See you later?" she whispers.

The very thought of seeing her in private makes my head swim, but I have to stick to the plan. I need to protect her…even if it's from me.

I don't respond, but I turn to see her from my peripheral. She looks confused. "Nick?" She says softly.

This is it, "We can't do this anymore." I tell her, finally having the nerve to look at her. That's a mistake; her face is drawn and disappointed.

I turn to leave, but she pulls me to a stop with my name. "Nick!" she whispers loudly. I should keep moving, but I can't deny her.

"You know I had to go with him last night, right? You know I didn't have a choice. I don't have any choices."

God, she thinks this about her being with Fred. I nod my understanding. June, it's not that, not in the way you mean. I'm not mad at you. No, you're perfect. I hate HIM. And I hate how I feel when I think about what he's doing to you. I hate that wanting to be with you could kill you.

"Why?" She asks, her eyes getting glassy.

Why? Why? Because…because I'm worried I'm putting you in danger, which isn't safe.

"You gonna talk to me?" she asks. "Talk to me," she pleads, standing up. My silence is hurting her; I can see it in her face, hear it in her voice. My heart squeezes painfully. "Talk…Talk to me, Nick!" She begs.

I'm a coward. I say nothing. I keep my feelings close to my chest. I can't and won't reveal them.

"I don't know anything about you, you know. Nick, you won't tell me anything. So, I don't know anything. I don't know who you are."

But still, you manage to have a piece of me….

"Jesus, Nick. Fuck is this it?" she asks, becoming angry through gathering tears. "Is this it? Is this enough for you, this bullshit life? Is this what you want? You want to polish his car and, once in a while, try to get a Handmaid pregnant? Is that enough for you?"

No, it's not. "We're being stupid," I say, pushing forward. I soften my approach, "You know we're being stupid," I try to reason.

She sobs softly.

"It's too dangerous."

Her eyes glisten, "No, it isn't."

"You could end up on the wall,"and I can't live with that.

"But at least…at least someone will remember me. In this place…at least someone will care when I'm gone." A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek.

That's it, though; you can't go. I won't allow it.

"That's something!" she sobs. "That is something."

She turns to leave, and I feel like my heart is being pulled from my chest. Why can't I let her go? I follow her. "Wait, wait, wait, wait. Hey, hey," I beg, pulling her to stop.

"What?" she cries.

I give up, "My name is Nick Blaine. I'm from Michigan," I tell her. An olive branch. I know it's lame, not enough, but I hold it out anyway.

But she's not having it. She's angry at me for hurting her. "Well, under his eye, Guardian Blaine," she spits, then storms from the room.

I stand alone in the kitchen, looking at the spot she occupied. What the hell have I just done?