Chapter Text
True love; it almost seems like finding it is impossible, like some wild dream that has only the slightest chance of coming true. Why is that? Why is it so hard to find? To be able to look into someone's eyes and see down into the depths of their soul, to be so connected that communication with words is unnecessary, to be completely and utterly perfect for each other … that's true love, and that's what I feel for you, right here, now, in this instant; it's electrifying …
The words of the novel seemed to linger like mist in Monica’s mind, long after she’d read them. She sighed, warm and wistful, her head resting against the arm of the couch as thunder rolled in the distance. Rain pattered steadily against the windows in waves, a constant hum that filled the quiet of the log cabin. It was the kind of afternoon made for solitude—dim and peaceful, the fire crackling beside her and a sappy romance novel balanced lightly in her hand.
The rain had been threatening for days, heavy clouds dragging low over the treetops, the air saturated with the smell of something impending. Now that it had come, the forest outside looked relieved. The wind danced through the trees like a choir, their branches swaying as if in reverent gratitude. Monica leaned further into the cushions and pressed her fingers between the pages, marking her place, before flipping the book over to study the cover.
A blond-haired man on a white horse, his royal garb shimmering with gold. One hand extended, touching the face of a barefoot girl in a weathered, simple dress. Her auburn hair whipped in the wind, eyes wide and adoring. Behind them, an older man raced forward with a fist raised, rage written across his noble face. A castle loomed in the background, all spires and stone. The title curved in elegant gold: Forbidden Love.
Monica narrowed her eyes. It was dramatic, yes—but undeniably romantic. She glanced up, across the room, to the leather armchair beside the hearth. Andrew sat curled into it, long legs drawn up, nose buried in a weathered book so old the title was worn off the spine. His expression was unreadable, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes scanning the pages with practiced speed. He looked every bit the thoughtful scholar in his loose gray sweater and plaid pajama pants, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The firelight danced in the lenses, catching gold in his tousled hair.
He looked too perfect, too peaceful, and so very unaware of her watching.
Except, of course, he wasn’t.
Andrew had felt her eyes on him for minutes now, and though he hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned his head, he was grinning inwardly. She had a way of looking at him like she didn’t mean to, like she’d caught herself wondering, just for a moment, and then forgot to look away. He’d read the same line at least seventeen times, but he didn’t mind. Not when it was her.
She finally glanced back at her book, squinting again at the illustration. Andrew let his gaze slide toward her just as she looked up. Their eyes met. She smiled.
“You know what I hate about these stupid books?” she said suddenly, waving the paperback in one hand, “they’re just so predictable. It’s always the same: a man and a woman fall hopelessly in love, everything’s wonderful, and then something tragic happens, or someone forbids them from being together. And then there’s angst and tears and misunderstandings, and finally, they’re magically back together and everything is forgiven.”
Andrew chuckled, soft and warm. “And yet, you read them anyway.” He nodded toward the growing stack beside her.
She sighed. “Well, yeah. I just wish…”
“You wish one of them would surprise you,” he finished for her, “but how? Should someone die at the end? Should the lovers part ways forever?”
She tilted her head, uncertain how he’d put it into words before she had.
“I mean,” he added, “most people wouldn’t keep reading if there weren’t some version of a happily-ever-after.”
“Oh. Right.” Her voice faltered. He meant people in general. Not her. Of course.
Still, she found herself oddly disappointed.
Monica looked out the window, pretending not to notice the strange flutter in her chest. The rain had turned the clearing to a muddy tapestry, and the trees stood tall, almost noble, beneath the mist. Thanksgiving was tomorrow. For once, they weren’t working—no cases, no emergencies. Just the three of them tucked away in the woods, with Tess humming in the kitchen and the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air.
Their last assignment had been long and grueling. A bombing at a junior high had shattered a community, and they’d stayed behind for months to help pick up the pieces. Tess had coordinated logistics and support. Monica had counseled grieving parents and shell-shocked children. And Andrew—he’d met thirty children at the gates of Heaven on day one.
It had taken its toll.
The Father had granted them rest now, a rare gift.
“You okay?” Andrew’s voice broke the silence, low and familiar.
“Yeah.” She offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He lifted the book. “It’s some philosophical tome. The title’s so faded I couldn’t tell you, and even if I could, I doubt I’d explain it well.”
She laughed, grateful for the shift.
“You looked confused,” he teased, "like you just tasted cough syrup.”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, I just… it’s silly. I felt like you read my mind, that’s all.”
He tilted his head, more curious than amused.
“I was going to ask you what you were reading,” she added quickly, “and then you just… said it. Word for word. It’s probably nothing.”
Andrew sat up, book forgotten in his lap.
“Maybe not nothing,” he said gently, “maybe it’s just that I know you pretty well.”
She looked at him, heart suddenly loud in her ears.
“I know how you take your coffee—two sugars, a little cream. I know you’d rather listen to Mozart than turn on a radio. You pretend you don’t like cartoons, but you’ve watched Beauty and the Beast more than once. You love the rain but hate being caught in it. You’ve never learned to swim because the deep end terrifies you. You devour cheesy novels, even when you roll your eyes at the plot. You’re more devoted to the Father than anyone I know, but sometimes you wonder what it would feel like to just… be human . And you work so hard on every case because deep down, you’re afraid of letting anyone down.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. His voice was calm, but every word landed like a stone in her chest.
“I know you, Monica,” he said, smiling softly, “and you know me. That’s something special.”
She nodded slowly. He always had a way of making her feel seen, which was both terrifying and oddly comforting.
After a moment, Andrew stretched, yawning dramatically.
“Come on,” he said, walking to the window. “It’s stopped raining. Let’s go help Tess, and if she kicks us out of the kitchen again, maybe we’ll walk. We could use some fresh air.”
He turned to her, eyes glinting. Then, with exaggerated flair and calling back to the cover of her silly novel, he reached for her face and touched her cheek.
“Let’s go, Princess.”