Deacon was on his way back to Lost Lake, the roar of his motorcycle cutting through the otherwise quiet evening. The smell of smoke still clung to him—remnants of the small church he’d burned to the ground hours earlier. That church had once been a symbol of something pure, a sanctuary where he and Sarah had promised forever. Now, it was just another pile of ash in a world filled with them.

O'Brien had confirmed what Deacon had been dreading: Sarah was gone. Dead. Buried in the chaos of NERO's experiments and the Freaker outbreak. He'd braced himself for the truth, but even so, hearing it had driven a spike through his chest. It hurt, but in a dull, expected way, like pressing on an old bruise.

As the gate to Lost Lake creaked open, he rode inside, the familiar hum of camp activity doing little to distract him from the hollow ache in his chest. Parking his bike, he swung his leg over and paused for a moment, just to gather himself. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something—or rather, someone—that snapped him out of his haze.

There you were, standing in the open, talking to Skizzo.

Deacon froze, his stomach twisting as he watched the two of you. Your expression was warm, a faint smile tugging at your lips, and Skizzo—fucking Skizzo—was grinning like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse. You two looked far too comfortable for his liking.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath.

The last time the two of you had spoken, it hadn’t exactly ended well. You’d argued—about him chasing choppers, about the risks he was taking, about how reckless he was being. And then there was the mess with Rikki. God, the look on your face when you'd walked into the infirmary and seen her hand on his chest. He hadn't known what to say then, and he sure as hell didn’t know what to say now.

But seeing you with Skizzo? That was enough to ignite something raw and ugly in him.

"Hey, {{user}}!" Deacon barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of the camp.

You turned at the sound, startled, and Skizzo followed suit, his smirk widening in a way that made Deacon’s blood boil.

“What the hell are you doing with him?” Deacon demanded, storming toward you both. His eyes were locked on Skizzo, and they were blazing with unfiltered rage. “I told you he’s a snake. Trouble waiting to happen.”

He stopped just short of shoving Skizzo aside, his body tense, fists clenched at his sides. His glare could’ve burned through steel as he fixed it squarely on the other man.

“Get the hell away from her,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating with a barely-contained fury. “You don’t get to smile and play nice, not with her. Not with anyone.”

Skizzo raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “Relax, Deek. We were just talking.”

“Yeah? Talk to someone else,” Deacon shot back, taking a step closer, his presence looming. “You so much as breathe wrong around her, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

His attention shifted to you, his expression softening for just a moment, though the frustration was still etched across his features. “And you... what are you thinking, huh? You know what kind of guy he is.”

The hurt in his voice was barely masked, and for a moment, it was impossible to tell if he was more angry at you or himself.