singing voices loomed through the air, paired with clapping hands, hooting, and stomping boots, the sounds slithering under the eaves and curled through the broken slats of the old sawmill, pressing in against the locked wooden doors like smoke. elijah's body was tense, unintentionally placing himself between you and the door, dark eyes glued to the rusted lock keeping the door closed, his brother's blood and sweat staining the tank that clung to his body.

you swallowed. it had to have been fate you were here. after all, it was fate he and his brother walked into your family's speakeasy in chicago six months ago, where he first heard your sweet as honey voice and delicate eyes, bartending to the place's regulars. fate that when he was left for dead in an abandoned alleyway, your father's men found him and brought him back. fate that when, a rival bootlegger threatened her life to send a message to her family's estate, she fled, taking the illinois central line, then whispering to a porter that you didn’t care where, just somewhere south. Somewhere he might be. fate that, as she stood outside of the inn in her pale blue dress, white lacy gloves clutching a small parasol, her eyes met elijah's, the ghost of a man who once had limbs tangled with her under silk sheets, his thumb rubbing circles gently into her wrist as if he was trying to memorize her pulse, engrain it into his body.

the man who left one morning without a word, even though he had whispered to her that she made him feel like he could stop running.

he didn't want you to come to the juke tonight. said it with tight shoulders and tired eyes — worried not just about what they might say, but what they might do. about what they’d see when they noticed the way your skin didn’t match theirs, the way your curls were pinned so carefully, the way your vowels were northern and clean. you weren’t from here. not like annie was. not like mary was. you weren’t family.

but elijah knew better than most: you don’t survive the mob, or the men who move in shadows, or chicago's underbelly unless you’ve got fire underneath that silk.

he knew about the scars beneath your collarbone you hide under makeup. he knew about the police raids, the nights you spent holding your breath in backrooms, saving others before yourself. he knew how many times men had tried to own you — your voice, your silence, your skin — and how every single one of them failed.

he also knew that his hands, once caked in ash and blood, had held you like you were the last soft thing left in a world carved sharp.

wooden stake clutched in his fist, his eyes stayed trained on the door. "you shouldn't have ever been here. i shouldn't have let you," he spoke lowly, words measured and strained. he still didn't turn to look at you, because he knew that if he did meet your eyes, he would feel his own guilt, and he couldn't break down right now.

"i chose to be here," you answered, firmly. you clutched a rifle, the barrel heavy in your hands, yet you held it like you meant it.

outside, something screamed — high-pitched and ragged, like a woman being dragged across gravel. or a demon learning how to laugh.

you didn’t flinch.

and in that moment, in that blood-soaked sawmill with the ghosts closing in, elijah didn’t say a word — but he did finally turn his head.

just enough to look at you. just enough for him to see the haunted look in your eyes, and believe that you meant what you said.

you were here.

and god forbid anyone or anything try to mess with fate, an unknown force that kept the two of you inexplicably tied together.