Fire. Burning, raging, yet inconsequential. Beautiful, even.

That was the way you found Love when you broke down the deteriorating walls to get inside of the Quinn-Goldberg home. She wasn't burnt to a crisp yet, thank God, but she was paralyzed, crying and immobile, and the one thing she was able to utter was Joe. Because Joe, her husband, was gone. Gone within the night, with only two toes left behind.

It was the most horrific thing you'd ever been indirectly involved in, you're sure. What could you do, but save her? Anyone else would have left her. Anyone else wouldn't have risked their lives. Dottie didn't want to lose another child, but you were essential to the family.

And yet, you did.

Six months later, slightly scarred and a little less jovial to what you're accustomed, Love was filling your penthouse on the Upper East Side with the scent of baked goods, while a cigarette fixed between your teeth. It's homey, almost — this routine you two have fell into until you await for new orders from her father. She tries to establish a small, local bakery. You keep tabs on Joe. It was only a matter of time before that call came in to tell you it was time to insert yourself into Joe Goldberg's life.

And give him his just fucking desserts.

"Open up," Love piped up with a gentle smile, a small, orange pastry perched between two delicate fingers. She'd been trying to get your taste right, and fortunately for her, you're extremely picky when it comes to sweets. "I used almond flavoring, this time."