Sleep comes in short, restless spurts tonight. I toss and turn, replaying the conversation I had with June in the kitchen. The words we exchanged, what I said, what she meant, what Iactuallymeant—it all blurs together, tangled like a fishing line at the bottom of a tackle box. My apartment is cold, my bed even colder. But it's her voice, her question that keeps echoing in my head:"Is this enough for you, this bullshit life?"

It's not. It hasn't been enough for most of my adult life. But that question… it's lodged under my skin, irritating places I didn't even know were still capable of feeling.

The spaces in my mind and heart I thought had gone numb—they're tingling again, threatening to come back to life. And if I let them wake up, pain will follow—then anger. My ability to endure this "bullshit life" will be compromised. But sticking to the high ground, keeping those parts of myself numb, means closing off from her completely.

I know that much. There's no way I can keep her near and carry on as I have. I'm not so dim that I can't see her presence is fueling this change. And now, that shift is clouding my judgment—my ability to keep her safe, too, isn't it?

I roll over, groggy and disoriented, before dragging myself out of bed. I shuffle to the bench by the window, looking out at the house where I know she's still asleep. Can I really let her go? I rest my forehead against the cool windowpane, closing my eyes for just a moment. The next thing I know, I'm startled awake by a persistent knocking at my door.

I rub the sleep from my eyes and stumble across the room. As I open the door, I'm met with Rita standing on the other side, a worried expression on her face.

Running a hand through my hair, I try to shake off the drowsiness. "So you're not dead. Good," she says, clearly annoyed.

I step aside to let her in, but she stays rooted on the landing. "It's 10 a.m.," she scolds.

"Damn…" I mutter, realizing how late it is. "I haven't been sleeping well. I guess it caught up with me. Is the Commander pissed?"

She shakes her head. "Hasn't noticed yet. I told him you were working in the garage."

"Thanks," I say, pulling out a clean shirt from the dresser.

Rita watches me for a moment, her stance rigid. She's not here just to give me a time check. "I can be ready in five minutes," I offer, sensing something more behind her stare.

She nods, but her arms remain crossed, her eyes still locked on me. "What's wrong?" I ask, concern building.

"What happened with Offred?" she asks quietly.

I sigh, pulling on the shirt. "Nothing," I say, brushing it off as I reach for a tie.

Rita's gaze sharpens. "Bullshit. She's pale, withdrawn."

Shit. I focus on tying my tie, avoiding her stare. "You mind?" I ask, gesturing to my pants.

She turns around, but I know she's not going anywhere. I quickly swap my sweats for my uniform pants, the clank of my belt signaling her to turn back around. I exhale, hands on my hips, weighing my words. "Things got complicated. I told her we needed to step back," I explain.

Rita doesn't buy it. Her arms mirror mine, but she's agitated. "That's what you're calling it?"

I turn to the window, frustration bubbling up. "It's none of your business, is it?"

She laughs dryly. "Like hell it isn't. Do you think you're the only one who was hurt by what happened to the last girl? You think you're the only one who's let this one in closer than you meant to?"

My anger fizzles out as quickly as it flared. I rub a hand over my face, trying to release the tension. "What if it gets her on the wall?" I sigh.

Rita pauses, stepping one foot into the room. "Isn't that her choice to make?" she counters.

"I don't think I could live with it," I admit quietly.

She chuckles, though there's no humor in it. "We're already past that, Nick. We already care."

I shake my head. "I want to keep her safe. I can't do that if I'm too close."

"Wrong again," she says firmly. "You're the one who's made the connection. You're the one who can give her the information she needs to survive here. If she doesn't trust you, how can you help her when she needs it? And you know she will need it. That girl… she's unpredictable, a live wire."

I rub my chin, knowing she's right. I try one last excuse. "She has a husband in Canada."

Rita's lips purse. "And how she deals with that—again—is her choice."

"I'm not sure how I feel about being an adulterer," I mutter.

Rita leans against the counter, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Technically, Gilead annulled all those marriages. So, she's not married."

I give her a look. "Semantics, really?"

She sighs, pushing off the counter. "You're right, it's complicated. The husband, the handmaid thing, the chance of being caught—it's all a risk. But I've never seen you more at peace than these past few weeks, and that's not something you should ignore."

"But what about her?" I ask, genuinely worried.

"How did she react when you called it off?" Rita asks pointedly.

I let out a humorless laugh. "She was… pissed."

"There's your answer," she says simply.

I scratch the back of my neck, conflicted. "I'll think about it," I say, not ready to commit to anything just yet.

Rita nods and turns to leave, but before she goes, she pulls something from her pocket. "Found these in the kitchen; must've fallen off," she says, placing my dog tags on the counter.

I pick them up, running a thumb over the cool metal. "I didn't lose them," I say, my voice low. "This is a clear 'fuck you.'"

Rita snorts. "See? She's spicy. Good luck with that, whatever you decide," she chuckles.

She tugs at my arm, pulling me out the door after her. "Come on, I'll make you brunch. What do you want?"

I smile, the tension lifting just a little. "Got any meatloaf left?"

Lunch tucked away, I immerse myself in the task of an oil change and a transmission flush on the Benz. I'm up to my elbows in grease when a pair of shiny shoes appears near my head. I roll out from under the car and find the Commander there, a wickedly satisfied grin on his face. "We're going back to Jezebel's. Tonight," he announces.

I get up from the trolly and stand, wiping my hands. "That's really short notice, sir," I state. "There is no time to check the lists," I warn him.

He waves me off, "I'm not worried," he dismisses. "Plus, how can I let a begging woman down?" he asks, his creepy smile playing on his thin lips.

This is June's idea? What the…

"We leave at ten," he states, then turns and marches out of the garage.

I go over to the workbench and pick up my watch. It's nearly nine now. He's getting confident, too confident. Not checking the lists, going while Serena's home, this whole thing is progressing too quickly. But then again, this sounds like it was June's idea. Something doesn't add up.

I toss the rag into the bin and move toward the car, finishing up the last few steps of the maintenance. I tighten all the caps, give the engine a final once-over, and lower the hood. With the car now ready, I pull it out to the driveway.

The thought of what's happening gnaws at me as I head back to my place to clean up. The hour until we leave passes far too quickly.

As we drive along, the chatter between the handmaid and the commander is minimal. At one point, I hear Fred ask her if she's happy. She coyly responds, "Beyond." It might be my self-centeredness, but I feel like the response is pointed at me-to make me angry. It works.

Fred confirms my suspicions, he thanks her for suggesting an encore at Jezabels. I grind my back teeth. She looks at me in the mirror, her hard gaze unwavering.

"I guess I'll have to think of a way to thank you," she flirts. There is no question now; she's throwing jabs at me. I grip the steering wheel - hard.

"Oh, I'll think of something," Fred coos.

Images of him touching her, making her groan, flash in my head, but I keep driving.

"Sir."

"Yes, what is it?" he asks, frustrated by my interruption.

"We are coming up to the checkpoint," I tell him, trying to focus on my job and not the feeling clawing at the back of my brain.

Fred sighs, "Oh, you're no fun! Nick's no fun, is he?" he asks June in a sing-song voice.

"Mmmm-mmm. No, Nick just needs to chill," she returns pointedly.

I glance back at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are hard, cold even, a wall firmly in place..

"You heard her; you just need to chill," Fred laughs, thankfully oblivious to the subtext between us.

We pull up to the entrance, and I step out first, opening an umbrella to shield them from the drizzle. I keep my eyes forward, deliberately avoiding any glance in her direction.

We're back in the elevator, heading up to the brothel, and Fred, always looking for a chance to gloat, leans in with a smug smile. "Doesn't she look stunning tonight?" he asks as if expecting me to agree. I glance over at her, forcing a neutral expression. The truth is, no—she doesn't look stunning, not like this. The makeup, the flashy clothes—it's all a mask. She's far more beautiful when it's just us, no pretense, no costumes. The memory of her bare skin against mine flickers in my mind, and I push it away, focusing instead on the polished metal of the elevator doors.

Fred laughs, pleased with himself. "He's so chill, he's speechless." Oh, good one, Fred, you're so witty. "You're too much for him to handle," he states confidently. I want to shoot him with my gun.

"We won't be long. We're going straight up to the room," he declares.

"Yes, sir," I say quietly. Juststraight to the raping, gotcha.

June speaks up, "I thought we'd have a drink at the bar," she says coyly.

I can't help but look over at her. Something is definitely up. The fact she even wanted to come here, and now prolonging it with a drink? What are you up to? I worry.

In the hallway, I'm left holding the cloak again, watching them walk down the corridor. My concern churns inside me, overriding any instinct for self-preservation. I've already voiced my concerns to the Commander—questioning him further is risky—but I can't help it. June needs to know. Whatever she's planning, she has to be careful.

"Sir," I call out, making them pause and turn toward me. "This trip was put together so last minute, we don't know who might show up tonight," I say, my eyes locking with June's.

Fred's hunger for whatever he's after tonight must outweigh his desire to reprimand me because he replies, "You're a good man, Nick. Always looking out for me."

No, I'm not. A good man would shoot you and take her far away from this place, I think, biting back the rage bubbling inside me. I watch them disappear down the hall, each click of June's heels tightening the knot of self-loathing in my gut.

Shoving the cloak into the cleaning closet, I step back into the hall and spot Beth reaching for a bottle of vinegar on a high shelf. Without thinking, I walk over and grab it for her. She looks up, surprised, with a faint smile playing on her lips.

"Nick!" she exclaims.

I nod and toss an arm around her waist, leading her toward the kitchen.

"What are you doing back so soon? I didn't see your guy on the list, did I?" she asks, pointing at the spot she wants me to set the gallon of vinegar. The fact she reads the list daily is not even a blip on the radar between us.

"You are correct; he's not on the list," I nod.

"Oh Damn! The handmaid again?" she asks, twisting off the top of the container I retrieved for her.

I nod.

"He's…something!" she says sarcastically.

"He's an asshole," I growl.

Beth lifts the vinegar and pours about half the bottle into a jar with a spout at the bottom. I watch her, trying to push aside the anger brewing inside me.

"What are you making?" I ask, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere else.

She grabs a container of blue dish soap and squirts in a healthy amount. "Cleaner for the bathrooms," she says, reaching in and turning the whole thing around with her bare arm. "Do me a favor and pour that cup over there in here," she requests.

I pick up the glass and immediately smell lemon juice. I pour it in, avoiding her sleeve, which is precariously close to the surface of the liquid. I don't think much about what cleaning looks like in Gilead; it's not a job I have to do as a man. Even as low-status as I am, Rita cleans my apartment.

"No 409?"

She squints at me and snorts, pulling her arm out of the jar. "All those chemicals? Really, Nick, it's like you don't live here sometimes." She grabs the plastic lid and screws it onto the jar. "This works better anyway," she states.

She goes over to the sink and washes her hands. "You want?" she asks, raising a suggestive brow.

I shake my head, "Thanks, but he's not planning on staying long," I return.

She comes over and grabs my lapels. "Doesn't need to take long," she offers.

Her pretty gray eyes are inviting, and that is usually enough to start things working for me below the belt, but there's nothing. I hug her but shake my head. "Not tonight," I say softly. She squeezes me and lets go. "Okay. How about some pasta?" she offers instead.

I nod. "Yeah, I could eat," I respond, but even as I agree, I know it will be hard to force anything down.

We go into another part of the kitchen, and she disappears around the corner. Then returns with a steaming bowl and puts it in front of me.

"Any news?" I ask, always looking for information as I've been trained to do.

From further in the kitchen, someone calls Beth's name. She looks back and holds up a finger. Reaching into her apron, she produces a fork. "I'll be back in a second," she says and turns to address whatever requires her attention.

I sit at the small table with mismatched chairs and pick at the food. Mostly, I just shove it around the plate as it gets cold. My thoughts are never far from June. If I hadn't been such an ass and pushed her away, maybe she would have told me what she's up to. Maybe I could have taken whatever risk that needs taking.

Beth reappears after a while. She leans casually on the chair across from me. "I got nothing," she tells me in answer to my earlier question.

"Nobody's planning anything stupid?" I ask, June's eyes flashing my head.

She shakes her head no.

"You ask around at the bar?" I ask

"Mmm-hum," she hums in the affirmative. "The girls in here do two things, they get fucked, or they get fucked up. They aren't in the best shape for a rebellion." She tells me, noticing the lack of missing food from my plate. "What's wrong with your pasta?" she demands. "That's the best fucking carbonara you'll ever get, I swear." She boasts.

I look down at my plate before going out on a limb. "Anybody says anything about the Waterford's Handmaid?" I ask, trying my best to sound nonchalant.

"Why? Is she trouble?" Beth inquires.

I don't respond, just give her a look, waiting for her insight.

"No, not a word," Beth says firmly, her expression serious.

I nod and stand, grabbing my jacket, ready to leave.

"Nick?" she calls after me. I pause, turning slightly to let her finish. "A driver poking around, asking questions? Good way to get yourself on the wall," she warns. If only she knew.

There's a brief silence before she speaks again. "Stay here with me... for old times' sake," she suggests, her voice softer now. "I can make you something else," she offers, a hint of concern in her tone.

I shake my head, every nerve in my body coated with worry. "They'll be done soon," I reply, unable to hide the irritation that creeps into my voice. I sit back down, sighing heavily, the weight of the situation pressing down on

Beth's eyes flash in sudden understanding. A small smile pulls on the corners of her mouth as she sits down. "It's the Handmaid," she declares. "You're sweet on her, aren't you?" she asks, her face soft.

I stare at my pasta and shake my head, but I can't keep a stupid smile from pulling at my face. I glance up at her, guilty as charged. I take a fork full of pasta and shove it in my mouth. I don't want to talk about it.

"It's dangerous, my friend," she warns. Yep, I know, Beth. I'm an idiot.

She gives me a sad smile.

I chew my food; no response is needed here; she knows I know better. "You're right; this is incredible," I state.

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head at me, but her face remains kind. She's telling me she's sorry for my plight.

Fred and June return in under an hour. June looks upset, maybe even distraught. The drive home is silent. Fred even doses off. June keeps her gaze out the window as she bites on her thumbnail.

They slip quietly into the house, and I retreat to my empty apartment. I go straight to the window as soon as I'm in, hoping she'll head to her room. I need to see her to find out what happened tonight. But it's too dangerous to go over there. If she's still upset and we argue, someone might overhear. I'll have to wait, even though the uncertainty is eating at me. The light comes on in the bathroom but goes dark after about 5 minutes. The space stays dark after that.

I peel off my Gilead armor and fall into bed.

A shake of my arm pulls me from sleep, and I sit up, startled. Rita stands beside my bed, her face pale and tense. "Get dressed. They need the car right away," she urges, thrusting a pair of pants into my hands. There's an edge in her voice that sends my pulse racing—something's wrong.

My thoughts go straight to June. "Is everyone okay?"

"It's not her, but another handmaid. She's taken her child. They want Offred to talk her down," Rita explains, her voice frantic as she throws open my closet in search of a clean shirt.

I'm up in seconds, pulling my pants on over my boxers, not caring that Rita's in the room. My heart is pounding in my chest. Rita shoves the shirt into my hands, then moves to the dresser, fumbling with socks.

"Where?" I ask, grabbing the socks from her trembling hands.

"Longfellow Bridge," she says, picking up my shoes from next to the door.

I yank on the socks and shoes, moving faster than I thought possible, then follow her out the door, coat in hand. The adrenaline surges, leaving no room for hesitation.

Just as I pull the car out of the garage, the Waterfords and June rush out of the house.

Ladies in the back, Fred takes the passenger seat, and we are off. "Don't mind the speed limits; we have a dispensation," he states.

I bob and weave through traffic, making the trip to Longfellow in half the usual time. When we pull up, the Waterfords and June are rushed out of the car and down the bridge. I step out and find the closest Guardian. "What's going on?" I ask.

"Handmaid fled her posting in the night, returned to her old posting, and grabbed the kid. She's threatening to jump off the bridge."

I rise onto my toes and spot the handmaid standing precariously on the handrail, her red cloak billowing in the breeze like a flag of defiance. The tension in the air is palpable, the surreal and heart-wrenching scene, as her figure teeters against the wind, a symbol of everything that's broken in this world.

"Which household?" I demand.

"Putnam," the younger Guardian responds.

Ofwarren. June mentioned her before—this must be her friend. I quickly thank the guard and weave through the cars and the growing crowd. From a distance, I can see June standing near the handmaid, her gaze locked on the woman holding the baby dressed in white. I can't hear what June is saying, but the handmaid seems to be responding, the tension between them vibrating in the cold air.

A gust of wind bites into me, hard and sharp. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, cursing myself for not grabbing gloves or a hat before rushing out. The cold bites at my skin, but it's not the weather that has me shivering—it's the fear. If this goes south, June will bear the blame. My mind races, but I bow my head, letting a silent prayer escape my lips—not to the twisted god of Gilead, but to the real one, hoping he gives June the right words, the ones that will save both the woman and the child.

After a few minutes of conversation, the handmaid turns to June and hands over the baby. Praise Be. Relief courses through me for a fleeting second, but then, before anyone can react, the handmaid leans in, kisses June's forehead, and without a word, steps off the side of the bridge.

June stands there, stunned, the baby cradled in her arms, her mouth hanging open in shock. A wave of chaos shatters the silence. The Putnams and Waterfords rush forward, desperate to recover the child, while Aunt Lydia and the Guardians lean over the railing, looking down at the icy river and calling for boats. People move in a flurry around me, but June is frozen, staring at the spot where her friend disappeared, her eyes wide and unblinking.

A sick feeling churns in my stomach as I realize what she might be thinking. Is she considering this easy end too?

I push through the crowd, weaving past frantic bodies, and make my way to her. When I place my hand gently on her back, she startles, turning toward me with tear-filled eyes, as if only now realizing what has happened.

"I'm sorry," I say softly.

June sniffs, her voice barely a whisper as she shakes her head. "Maybe she's free now," she says, her words so soft that only I can hear the weight of the blasphemy they carry.

I feel the knot in my throat tighten, not knowing what words could possibly comfort her. Freedom in Gilead is a myth, but maybe, in that fleeting moment, her friend had found something resembling it—something no one here could take from her. Still, it was a bitter freedom, paid for with everything.

I keep my hand on her back, the only comfort I can offer. "Maybe," I murmur, understanding how hollow it sounds, but it's all I can give her.

Gently, I steer her away from the scene. "Come on, it's freezing out here," I say, my voice soft but insistent, guiding her back to the car. She moves beside me, still silent, her face unreadable but for the tears lingering in her eyes.

At the car, I pull open the door and help her inside. Her hand grasps mine. "I thought about it, Nick," she admits, still staring at the bridge.

I squeeze her hand, "I know you did," I respond. "And it might make me a selfish asshole, but I'm glad you didn't go through with it," I admit.

Her eyes finally come back to mine.

I let go of her hand and get behind the wheel to wait for the Waterfords. I put down the partition. "Can we talk?" I ask warily, looking at her in the mirror.

She adjusts herself in her seat. "You were pretty clear the other day," she says evenly.

I sigh and squeeze the wheel with my hands. "I'm not wrong, it's dangerous," I start.

She groans and looks away.

"But I was reminded recently that you're a person who has her own mind and the right to make your own choices," I say, Rita's words echoing in my head.

June huffs, a humorless laugh escaping her. "Not according to the government," she mutters, her eyes distant.

I nod, understanding her frustration. "With them, maybe. But not with me. I don't want that kind of control over you. Or anyone for that matter."

She finally looks over at me, her gaze sharp. "So, does that mean you didn't mean it?" she challenges.

I let out a small laugh, leaning my head back against the headrest. "No, I meant it. We shouldn't keep doing this. But what I meant and what I want...those things don't always line up," I admit.

She smirks, rolling her eyes. "Classic battle—head vs. penis, huh?"

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Yeah, something like that." My eyes find hers in the rearview mirror, and for a moment, we hold the gaze. "But it's more than that, June. You know it is. I want... to be near you. With you. For as long as we can make it work."

She laughs out loud, covering her mouth with her hand. "You've barely told me anything about yourself," she points out.

She's right. I rub a hand over my face. "Yeah, I know. I'm working on it. It's not easy for me," I admit.

She tilts her head, studying me for a moment. "Hazard of being an Eye?" she asks, her voice softer now.

I shrug. "I didn't talk much before, but yeah, the job doesn't exactly help."

She glances out the window, checking for any prying eyes, then leans forward, sliding her hand through the gap in the partition. "Truce?" she asks, her voice gentle but serious.

I glance down at her hand, then back up at her face, surprised by the offer. After a beat, I take her hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Truce," I agree quietly.

She quickly pulls her hand back, slipping back into her handmaid's mask just as Commander Waterford strides back toward the car. Her expression shifts, neutral and unreadable, as if nothing had passed between us.

I turn forward, pretending to adjust something on the dashboard. Before Waterford reaches us, I murmur under my breath, "Come over tonight. We can talk about your friend. And maybe... what you were planning at Jezebel's."

Her eyes flicker with acknowledgment, but she says nothing as the Commander opens the door and climbs in, oblivious to everything.

"Nick, Mrs. Waterford will be going home with the Putnams, and I need to be dropped off at the council," the Commander directs. Then you can take Offred home. I'm sure she's quite tired after such an eventful morning," he says.

"Yes, sir." I return. An empty house. Sounds like the perfect timeto apologize to June properly.

Fred turns to June, putting a hand on her thigh. "That was amazing work out there, Offred. You saved that child, you save baby Angela," Fred says.

June doesn't bat an eye at Fred's inappropriate touch, keeping her composure with ease. She smiles warmly, the picture of compliance. "Praise be. I'm glad to be in His service," she says, her tone syrupy and sweet, as though she's reciting scripture. Then, without missing a beat, she asks, "Did you hear anything about the handmaid?"

It's remarkable how smoothly she plays him, slipping into her role without hesitation. Her words are laced with false sincerity, but only someone paying close attention could notice the tension beneath them. She plays him so well—always two steps ahead, even when she's forced to be in his shadow.

"Only that she's alive," Fred replies, his tone flat. "The Aunt mentioned she was your friend?" The question is more of a passing curiosity, lacking any real depth of concern.

A brief flicker of relief crosses June's face, but she quickly masks it. "We went through training together," she says, her voice steady, revealing nothing more than the bare minimum.

Fred sighs, as if this situation is merely an inconvenience for him. "Well, if she makes it, things might be difficult for her," he adds, the coldness of his words barely disguised by a veneer of sympathy.

I glance at June and see the grim expression on her face, knowing full well she doesn't need Fred's cold reminder of what's likely in store for Ofwarren. It's written in the lines of her features—she knows how this will end. Fred's insensitivity only deepens the ache.

Luckily, the council building is just around the corner, and we pull up to drop him off. I lean over. "What time for pick-up, sir?"

"This is bound to be a song and dance," Fred replies, irritation creeping into his voice. "Let's plan on five." He's annoyed, as if dealing with the near-drowning of another human is just a bureaucratic inconvenience.

As soon as he's gone, we head the short distance back home. The silence between us feels heavy. I break it gently. "I really am sorry about Ofwarren," I offer.

June's eyes remain distant, her lips pressed into a thin line. She doesn't respond immediately, but I can feel the weight of her thoughts hanging between us.

"Janine," June says softly, her voice heavy with emotion. "Her name's Janine."

I nod, feeling the weight of her words. It's important to remember that the woman is more than just a handmaid, more than just Ofwarren. She's a person with real pain and a real name. "She had it bad at the Putnams?" I ask gently, not wanting to push too much but knowing June needs to talk about it.

Offred shrugs. "I know he was rapping her outside the Ceremony, and Mrs. Putnam resented her for it. So you know - the norm." She states plainly.

I cringe. I know this is the ugly reality for Handmaids, but hearing it laid out so plainly still hits hard. It's one thing to know it happens—but another thing entirely to have it spelled out by someone who's lived through it.

June nods slowly, her eyes distant. "Yeah," she whispers, "but for someone like Janine… it broke her. She's a delicate soul. Taking her baby...it broke her." Her voice is laced with sadness, a deeper grief for her friend than she allows to surface fully.

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, anger stirring inside me. "The whole system is broken. They take these women, strip them down to nothing, and expect them to... function." I shake my head, the words tasting bitter. "It's not right. None of it."

June glances over at me, her expression softening. "You know that better than most," she says, her voice low, as if we're sharing a secret.

I meet her eyes briefly before looking back at the road. "It doesn't make a difference, though. Knowing it's wrong and doing something about it... Those are two different things."

We pull into the driveway and get out. "Can I come up now?" she asks, looking up the stairs outside my unit.

"Not right now, in case Serena shows up. Let's go inside." I suggest.

June shuffles on her feet a second, "Rita," she points out.

"Yeah, about Rita," I say, guiding her towards the door. "She knows," I admit through a smile.

June's eyes widen, "What! How?"

"Apparently, we need to keep our guard up better around her," I chuckle.

We enter the breakfast room and pull off our coats; Rita is in the kitchen washing dishes.

"Oh, my goodness, how did it all turn out?" she begs, turning and wiping her hands on her apron.

June's bottom lip quivers, and she pulls it between her teeth.

"The baby's fine," I say, glancing at June. "Thanks to June. But the handmaid… she's in the hospital. She jumped into the Charles."

Rita sighs in relief briefly before turning her surprised eyes on us. "June?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

June nods, offering a faint smile.

Rita crosses over to her, taking June's hands gently. "June… you look like a June," she says warmly. Then she glances between the two of us, her expression becoming more serious. "And you two have mended fences?"

June shifts uncomfortably, clearly adjusting to the realization that Rita knows more about what's been happening between us than she thought. But to her credit, she doesn't let it throw her off for long. "Yes," she says, her voice playful but steady, "he finally realized he was being a horse's backside, and I've graciously forgiven him."

Her tone hints of teasing, but I can tell she's still processing the idea that our secret isn't as hidden as we'd hoped.

Rita bursts into laughter, the tension in the room easing. "About time! You two hungry? What am I saying—I'm sure you've got plenty to talk about. There's food in the fridge if you need it. I've got beds to strip," she says with a wink before disappearing up the back stairs, leaving us alone.

I glance at June, catching the playful glint in her eye as she arches a brow. "Graciously forgiven, huh?" I ask, shaking my head in mock disbelief.

She shrugs, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I'm calling it my woman card," she teases.

The play on my earlier "man card" joke cracks me up, and I chuckle, shaking my head at her.

Her gaze shifts toward the stairs where Rita had disappeared moments before. "So... she knows," she snorts, amusement mixing with a hint of awkwardness.

I laugh again. "Yeah, she knows. What exactly she's pieced together? Who knows. But she's figured out that we're... 'friends,'" I say, carefully choosing the word.

June's face turns serious, "Do you think Fred or Serna know?" she worries.

I shake my head, hoping to reassure her. "No. We're careful—barely together when they're around, and we never draw attention. It's different with Rita." I point out. This doesn't have the effect I was hoping for so I add, "You know that if Fred had any inkling that something going on, he wouldn't just stand by. He's all smiles with that 'Nick, you're a good man' routine, but let's be real—if he suspected even a hint of something, I'd be on the Wall by sundown. The fact that I'm still standing here means we're okay," I say, trying to ease her worry, even though we both know Gilead's watchful eyes are always lurking. The weight of it never fully goes away.

She looks at me, her eyes softening as my words sink in. "I can see why you wanted to put an end to this," she mutters, gesturing between us with a subtle wave of her hand.

I take a deep breath, then step closer, invading that small space between us. "Yeah," I admit, my voice low. "But... I guess I want more than just this bullshit life," I say, throwing her own words back at her.

Her eyes flicker with recognition, and for a second, the tension between us shifts. It's as though we've both acknowledged something real, something more than just survival.

Her breath comes out in a soft rush, the sound thick with desire. She leans in closer, her lips almost brushing mine. "My bedroom's upstairs, and that's where Rita went…"

Without hesitation, I take her hand, leading her into the parlor. As soon as I shut the door, she's on me, pushing me back against it, her lips crashing into mine with an urgency that makes my head spin. I cup her face, pulling her in closer, letting my tongue trace the line of her lips until she parts them for me. The taste of her, the feel of her—it's intoxicating. I've craved this, craved her, for days.

Her hands weave into my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan. The sound comes from deep inside me, primal, and I can feel the tension between us building. I push her back gently until we reach the sofa, and then I pull her down with me. She straddles my lap, her knees pressing into the cushions on either side of me, her hips perched above mine.

She pulls back, her eyes dark with want as she looks down at me. "Let's not break up again," she says with a playful grin.

I can't help but smile back. "Yes, ma'am," I agree, my voice rough. She leans in, her lips capturing mine once more, her hips grinding against me, pulling a low growl from my throat. Her mouth moves to my neck, her fingers expertly undoing my tie and the first few buttons of my shirt.

Her lips trail down, nipping at the skin just below my collarbone, and then she bites—just hard enough to send a shock of pleasure through me. I groan, half in pleasure, half in warning. She soothes the bite with her tongue, but then she does it again, and again, each one sending my pulse racing.

"That's definitely going to leave a mark," I groan, my hands gripping her hips tighter, the heat between us impossible to ignore.

She smiles against my skin, her breath hot as she whispers seductively, "Yes, I know." Her lips brush against the spot she just marked. "It'll be my little secret. I'll see you all dressed up in your shirt and tie, and I'll be the only one who knows it's there." Her voice is a sultry murmur, and I feel her grin against my neck. "I like that thought."

Her words send a shiver through me, and I can't help but pull her even closer, my hands slipping under her dress, gripping her thighs. The idea that she'll carry this moment with her, hidden just beneath the surface, makes my pulse quicken. "You're dangerous, you know that?" I growl, feeling the tension between us build even more.

She chuckles softly. "Only with you," she teases, her lips finding mine again.

The heat between us escalates quickly. I'm tugging at her dress, sliding it up and out of the way as she works on my belt and zipper, removing the last barriers between us. My hands trace up her legs until they meet thick cotton, and I mutter a curse under my breath. She wasn't expecting this either—she never wears these when she comes over. She chuckles softly and lifts herself, her hand joining mine as she pushes the fabric aside. Then, she settles back down, pressing us together in the most intimate way.

My head falls back, hitting the wooden frame of the sofa, but I barely notice. We're lost in each other—kissing, moving, breathlessly whispering each other's names. It's everything makeup sex is supposed to be—intense, electric.

Afterward, her body collapses against mine, both of us breathing hard. "God, you're good at that," she pants, a smile in her voice.

I run my fingers through her hair, still catching my breath. "Right back at you," I manage to say.

We lie there for a moment, wrapped in the quiet aftermath. Then she sits up slightly, her eyes locking onto mine, serious now. "It's not just this," she says, motioning between us with a soft hand. "Not just your good looks or...well, this." She gives a light laugh but quickly turns sincere. "I joke, but it's more than that for me. This—what we just did—is incredible, but it's how I feel when I'm with you. Safe. Peaceful."

Her eyes search mine, vulnerable, as she continues. "That's why I was so..." she pauses, clearly searching for the right word.

"Mad, angry, livid," I offer up with a smile.

She smiles softly but shakes her head. "Hurt. I was hurt," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

I reach out, my hands gently sliding up and down her arms, trying to offer some comfort. "I'm sorry, June," I say quietly, my voice carrying the weight of the words. "And I meant what I said in the car—this, us—it's more than just the physical side of things." I gesture between us, indicating the space we share. I pause, meeting her gaze, letting her see the truth in my eyes. "If you had forgiven me and didn't want to continue that part of it, I'd still be grateful just to have you in my life."

She arches an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "You'd be good without the sex?"

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Good? Hell no!" I laugh lightly, then meet her gaze again, this time more serious. "But I could have handled it. I just want to be close to you, to try and keep you safe." I mean every word.

She rests her forehead against mine, and we just breathe each other in for a while. When we hear feet on the back stairs, we both groan but pull away. Like always, our time is limited , dedicated by the world around us. We both get up and straighten our clothes, and she runs a smoothing hand over the rumpled cushions of the couch. She goes to the door but stops short of opening it. She turns on her toes and kisses me again, deep and sweet. "Till tonight," she offers.

I nod. "Yes. And don't think I've forgotten about last night's trip," I say, looking at her knowingly.

She smirks and raises her shoulders. "I'll let you see if you can get it out of me," she teases playfully, then opens the doors. "Oh, and fix your hair," she says as she heads for the kitchen.

I reach up and find it in disarray. I stop at a mirror in the hall and pat it down. I fix my tie and follow her to the kitchen.

June collects the shopping tokens from Rita and then grabs her bag.

"See if they have Swiss cheese; if not, provolone will do," Rita instructs. June dips her head in understanding. "Praise be,' she chirps and heads over to get her cloak.

I lean against the counter and watch her head out the door.

"So, she's seeming all better. Very forgiving," Rita jokes.

I rub a hand over my face to hide the smile that has popped up and go to the fridge for a snack.

Rita grabs her basket of wet laundry off the floor and heads towards the door to hang it to dry but pauses for a second. "Hey, try not to fuck it up again," she says over her shoulder.

I look at her, letting my eyes lock with hers for a second. "It's Gilead, so no promises…but I'll do my best," I commit.

She seems satisfied and heads out the door.