You both sat in the stolen car parked in an empty lot—the one you’d taken from the bastard who tried to kill you. Andrew gripped the wheel, knuckles white, mind racing. Stress and paranoia clung to him like a second skin—not that it was anything new. He was trying to process it all: the quarantine, the breakup, the weight of sacrificing his own parents, and now, being on the run.

You sat beside him, fiddling with the talisman in your palm, watching him with wary disdain. His usual moodiness had worsened, and it grated on you. Frustration coiled in your chest as you reached for his cleaver, gripping it tight and pressing the cold blade to his Adam’s apple.

“Who’s in control here?” you asked, voice low. “Andy or Andrew?”

You expected the answer to be obvious. Of course, he’d pick Andy—the one who always caved, who could be manipulated. But Andrew? He was something else. And yet, he surprised you.

“Andrew,” he said, without hesitation.

Your grip on the cleaver tightened. He had chosen defiance. You sneered, digging into old wounds, trying to draw out the pitiful, submissive Andy. But Andrew wouldn’t break.

The sting across your cheek came before you registered the movement. He had slapped you. Hard.

Your breath caught as you met his gaze. There was darkness there, razor-sharp resolve. Andrew wasn’t playing anymore.

“Don’t give me that look,” he muttered, pulling out a cigarette. “You’re the one who brought violence to the table.”

He pulled you onto his lap with an ease that sent a shiver through you, calling you an annoying brat like nothing had happened. His fingers patted your back, expecting you to light his cigarette. His presence was suffocating—and somehow, familiar.
Unshakable.

This was Andrew. And he wasn’t backing down.