❝The liar's punishment is not in the least that he is not believed, but that he cannot believe anyone else.❞

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

✩

1.0 : flashback

OR

season 4, episode 2 : the angel maker (ctd.)

"THERE HAVE BEEN SOME STRANGE HAPPENINGS IN THIS CASE, BUT I URGE YOU NOT TO ABANDON REASON IN THE SEARCH OF THE TRUTH." Hotch cuts a commanding figure, standing in front of every Lower Canaan police officer, hands in his pockets, brows furrowed. "This is not the work of a ghost, and it's not the work of a killer come back from the dead."

"This is somebody who lives here, in Lower Canaan," Fin continues, cross-legged on the desk next to Hotch. She feels most comfortable like this; it reminds her of being a kid, and it's distracting from the heavy subjects they cover in these profiles. Especially this one. "And–" She takes a deep breath, wills her heart to steady– "this person is a woman."

"Her last victim, Sid Rutledge–he was the Angel Maker's mule," Morgan says, resting his hip against Fin's desk, arms crossed. "He smuggled items out of Hawkesville Prison, including the semen that was planted at the first crime scene."

"She killed Rutledge because he knew she was the copycat," Spencer continues from the far side of the room. "And also because he was blackmailing her."

"We now know that Rutledge was transferred to Hawksville from a female prison, in the wake of allegations that he was using his position to leverage sexual favors from inmates." Fin can hear in Morgan's tone exactly what he thinks of Rutledge, and it ain't good.

"And we have a pretty good idea that this is exactly what he did to our unsub," Fin adds, her eyes scanning the group of cops in front of her. Mostly male, mostly white. Typical Ohio. "In exchange for keeping quiet, he wanted sex."

"Because she shot him in the junk, right?" asks a red-haired officer near the front.

"That, and the fact that he took a PDE-5 inhibitor shortly before his murder," Spencer replies, adjusting his tie. Fin notices his voice is slightly higher than it was before and is he–blushing?

"A what?" Dobson asks, frowning.

"Viagra," Morgan explains.

Spencer's eyes meet Fin's and he clears his throat, looking away quickly. He is blushing! Aw, he's embarrassed to talk about sex. Fin thinks that's kind of cute.

"We're looking for a white woman in her mid-thirties," Hotch says, his tone of voice clearly saying 'let's get this back on track, kids'. "And she's highly intelligent. And she's not just a fan, she's a groupie."

"Now, she's not what you would normally expect," Morgan says. "More often than not, they're attractive–"

Miss Mississippi 1977–

"They're well-educated–"

High school diploma, four years at USM–

"They're successful–"

Top of her class, offered positions at every law firm in Biloxi–

"Some are even married."

She was– Fin, stop. She wasn't a groupie; she was just a psychopath. Fin digs her fingernails into her palms, willing her mind to focus, concentrating on the pain, inhaling sharply through her nose. This is not about her, this is about stopping the unsub.

"Generally, they fall into types," Spencer says, and Fin notices he's watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Some are reformers; they're on a mission to save or rescue these murderers. Often, this type of groupie has been raised in a repressive religious environment and specifically have been exposed to the ideals of sexual repression and subjugation of women."

"Our unsub is a different type," Morgan continues. "One who suffers from hybristophilia."

Derived from the Greek words hubrizein– "to commit an outrage against someone"–and philo– "having a strong affinity or preference for". When some of the officers look confused, Fin explains. "Hybristophilia is a deeply rooted sexual attraction to men who commit violent crimes. Our unsub feels empowered by guys like Ryan, empowered with confidence that she lacks, which comes from low self-esteem and–I hate to say it–daddy issues."

A few of the officers chuckle and a few give her lewd looks, but Fin doesn't mind. It was a good joke; it was worth it. She can feel Hotch's gaze boring a hole into the back of her head, but oh, well. It's gotten her mind off of–well, it's a good distraction.

"Well, the victims were raped," says one dark-haired officer, shrugging. "How do you explain that?"

"She's using an instrument to simulate the sexual assault," Morgan replies. "This is something that she keeps in her 'rape kit', along with the weapon she's using to bludgeon her victims."

"This is a list of women who visited and wrote the Angel Maker while he was in prison," JJ says, standing up from her chair near the window. She's been quiet all this time; Fin almost forgot she was here. "We've started to track these leads, but the list is extensive, so we're gonna need your help."

Hotch nods to Sheriff Dobson. "Thank you." Which means the profile is over.

JJ passes out the sheets of paper to the other officers and Fin checks her phone. No new messages or calls, which means Emily and Rossi are still at Shara Carlino's office. She was a fan, visited Ryan dozens of times, and definitely a suspect for the murders.

"Hey."

Fin looks up, clicking her phone off. It's Spencer, hands shoved deep in his pockets, brow furrowed in concern. "Hey, doc. What's up?"

He lowers his voice, steps closer. "Are you okay?"

Ah, shit. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Spencer asks again. "You just–you seem off today."

Because I am off. But Fin pastes what she hopes is a convincing smile onto her face. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

Of course you don't. So Fin tries another strategy. "Spencer–" She gestures for him to lean closer so she can whisper to him: "I'm on my period."

His mouth forms a massive 'O' and he nods vigorously, making absolutely no sound. Obviously, Fin's not on her period, but she's not about to tell him what's really bothering her, not when she's known him barely three months.

"I've just had really bad cramps today." Fin shrugs noncommittally. "I'll be fine once the Advil kicks in."

Spencer's bright red, but Fin's surprised he hasn't run away yet. "Can–can I get you anything?"

Aww. Fin shakes her head. "That's sweet, Spence, but I'm okay, really." She almost feels bad for lying to him; she didn't know he'd be this much of a gentleman.

"Okay." He nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, I'll be around if you need anything."

"Thank you, Spencer." Fin smiles up at him, and as he walks away, a small part of her wonders if she should've told him something else. Not the truth, though; that's too painful.

And throughout the day, when a bag of chips, a Rice Krispie treat, and a Snickers bar mysteriously appear on the desk she's working at, Fin wishes she could smile at the sweetness of it all, but it just makes her feel guilty, guilty that she's manipulating someone into believing a lie.

But a lie's better than telling him the truth; Spencer doesn't deserve the burden of the truth.

✩

Alarms should not go off before seven a.m. Fin wonders if the FBI has any jurisdiction over that. But she manages to drag herself out of the wonderfully comfortable hotel bed and into the bathroom to brush her teeth, despite the fact that the sun's not even up yet. Damn these miserable hours.

Since the weather looks to be a little chilly, Fin opts for a long-sleeved beige top and black slacks, and instead of her typical high-tops, she grabs her black combat boots. I'm always into changing it up.

Within ten minutes, she's downstairs in the lobby, and then she's in the back of an SUV with JJ, Rossi, and Morgan–apparently, Spencer, Emily, and Hotch have been at the station for nearly an hour. Overachievers.

"Wow, look at that sunrise," JJ says, turning around as she steps out of the backseat and staring up at the sky, which is painted orange and pink, like vibrant cotton candy.

"In any normal universe, I wouldn't be awake to see the sunrise," Fin grumbles, yawning.

Morgan chuckles. "Get used to it, sister. There have been cases where we didn't sleep for days at a time."

"You ever thought about quitting?"

"Not even once."

"God, you people are weird." Fin walks into the police station, shaking her head. "I need coffee."

Spencer and Hotch are sitting at a desk against one wall, reading through several files, but when the door opens, they both look up. Spencer's eyes meet Fin's and he jumps up, grabbing a coffee cup from beside him and hurrying over to her.

"Well, good morning to you!" Fin laughs, taking the cup from him and sipping it carefully. "You didn't have to bring me coff–Eugh!" She almost spits everything onto the carpet. That is definitely not coffee. "What the hell is this?"

"It's green tea," Spencer says quietly, a flush creeping up his neck. "I, um–I made it for you. I read that it's better for–" He lowers his voice even more– "period cramps than coffee is. It contains a chemical compound called L-theanine, which relieves stress and muscle tension, and also contains roughly ⅓ of the caffeine that a standard cup of coffee does."

Oh, right, the period thing. "Spencer, when did you brew this?" Fin asks, ignoring Morgan's sniggering behind her.

"About–" He checks his watch– "About an hour ago. Why?"

She holds up the tea bag string, trying not to laugh. "You can't brew green tea that long, otherwise it gets really bitter. You have to take the tea bag out first."

Spencer's mouth forms a large 'O'. "Is–is it really bad?" he asks, wincing.

Fin nods, pursing her lips. She won't tell him this, but it tastes like burnt dirt. "It was a really sweet thought, Spencer, but I think I'll risk the coffee today." She smiles up at him. "Thank you, really."

"'Thank you, really!'" Morgan pitches his voice up higher, mocking Fin. She smacks him on the arm playfully.

"Dick."

"Bitch."

"Guys." Hotch is using his 'dad' voice again, but this time, he's on the phone. "There's been another murder. Prentiss, Morgan, we're going to the crime scene with Sheriff Dobson. Rossi, Finley, and Reid, I want you three to keep working on the letters, figure out which ones were sent to our unsub."

So Fin, Spencer, and Rossi sit at a desk, reading through dozens and dozens–hundreds and hundreds, if you're Reid–of disgusting letters. They creep the shit out of Fin; serial killers professing their love to women? No thanks. But there are a few that stick out: ones addressed to a woman called "Dove". The writing is strange, stilted, and from what they've read, Ryan was a literate, poetic guy. It doesn't fit.

"Here's another one to 'Dove'," Spencer says after a while, holding up a sheet of paper, chewing on his bottom lip. "November 2nd, 2006."

"Same thing?" Rossi asks, pacing in front of the desk. He's a classic type B personality–short attention span, easily bored.

"Yeah." Spencer nods. "'Weather is good here. Out in the garden all day. Birds land on the fence. The moon is full now.'" He passes the paper to Rossi so he can read it.

"He got an hour a day in a concrete yard," Rossi says, frowning. "There was no garden. There were no birds." He chuckles humorlessly. "Death row haiku."

"I mean, I've had illiterate boyfriends who could write better than this," Fin says, shaking her head. "You've got to really try to write that bad."

Spencer's eyes widen slightly. "I think he did," he mutters, his fingers still tracing lines on the letters in front of him. "He tried very hard to put each word, each letter even, in the right order."

Oh, my god. Fin's jaw drops. "It's a code."

"This steganographic method–"

"Try saying that five times fast," Fin says, smirking.

Spencer glares up at her. "It would have allowed him to write letters that don't appear enciphered. The real message would be hiding in plain sight."

"What do you need to crack it?" Rossi asks immediately.

Spencer thinks for a second, then says, "The ability to clone myself and a year's supply of Adderall."

"You're funny, doc," Fin says, ruffling his hair. "I'll make you some tea. Green tea has a chemical compound called L-theanine that's been proven to help brain function–"

"Ha, ha," Spencer says dryly, rolling his eyes and brushing his hair back into place. "I think I'll risk the coffee."

"I'll put a pot on," Rossi says, hastening over to the coffee bar.

And the game is on. Spencer spends the majority of the next four hours staring at a whiteboard, mumbling to himself, writing with a marker, erasing what he's written, and drinking lots of coffee. It stresses Fin out to watch him, so instead she reads the letters and when he asks for a new one, she brings it over.

After a while, JJ gets a call from Morgan, asking her to bring the files on Delilah Grennan to Maxine Chandler's house, so Fin helps her load up the boxes into one of the SUVs and makes four cups of coffee for her to take to the others. Spencer just happens to know how everyone takes their coffee, which is lucky, because no one else does.

Between Rossi's pacing and Spencer's mumbling, Fin's not sure how much more anxiety she can handle, so when Emily comes rushing into the station asking frantically for a laptop, she's more than happy to help.

After a few seconds of searching, Emily points at the screen. "The puncture wounds on the victims' stomachs represent constellations."

"Constellations?" Fin wrinkles her nose.

"Don't tell me this guy was following the zodiac," Rossi says with an air of disgust.

Emily shakes her head. "No. These are from a family of constellations known as the Heavenly Waters."

"Well, I guess we know how he came up with the nickname," Morgan says, walking over with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. "Thanks for the coffee earlier, by the way." He directs this at Fin, who grins.

"No problem, D."

"That's why he'd open up all the windows after each kill," Rossi says, and Fin can almost see the lightbulb above his head. "So their souls could be released into the sky."

"Delphinus, the dolphin–" Emily points to each constellation in turn– "Equuleus, the little horse. Anything sound familiar?"

"His origami things," Morgan replies, nodding.

"Of course everything's tied to the stars." Fin throws her hands up in the air, rolling her eyes. "I mean, could these guys be any more stereotypical?"

"There are nine constellations in the Heavenly Waters," Hotch says, leaning close to the screen over Emily's shoulder. "The Angel Maker killed six."

"Yeah, our unsub continued where he left off," Emily answers. "First she did Vela–" She flips through the crime scene photos of the punctured abdomens– "and then last night, she did Carina. The only one left is Columba."

"The dove," Fin says, and then–oh, my god. "The dove. Wait a minute–the 'Dove' that Ryan's code letters were addressed to!"

"One more kill and she completes his set." Rossi nods grimly.

"And she knew the meaning of the stomach wounds, something even we didn't know," Hotch says.

"She must have been a lot closer to Ryan than we thought," Morgan finishes, his eyes darting between Hotch and the laptop.

"They weren't just close." Across the room, Spencer speaks for the first time in a few hours, stepping back from his whiteboard. "They were in love."

"Oh, my god–" Fin's jaw drops. "Spencer, you figured it out?"

He nods, gestures the rest of them over. Fin's honestly not too surprised; he is a literal genius, but aside from that, it seems like there's nothing he can't do.

"How'd you crack it?" asks Rossi, who does seem a tad shocked.

"I profiled the author," Spencer replies. "Cortland Ryan was on Death Row with several high-ranking members of the Aryan Brotherhood."

"He got the code from the Aryans?" asks JJ skeptically, walking up behind them, her hand on her belly. Fin's noticed she does this in stressful situations or when anyone mentions children; it's sweet and comforting, and Fin knows she's gonna be an amazing mother.

"Either that, or he read a lot of 16th-century literature." Spencer points to the whiteboard, which is filled with letters, numbers, and notes scribbled into the corners where he's worked out the cipher. "The Aryans liked to use a cipher based on a 400-year-old code written by Sir Francis Bacon."

"Like Elizabeth I, that Francis Bacon?" asks Fin, raising her eyebrows. The Aryan thing is total bull, but they sure are committed.

Spencer nods, clearly impressed.

"So it's a binary code," Morgan says, studying the whiteboard closely.

"Yeah. Bacon used a twenty-one letter alphabet. This one's twenty-four. Each letter is assigned a bit string of five binary digits."

"Wait, like computer code?" Fin asks.

"Exactly like computer code. This combination yields thirty-two possible encodings. Normally, you would use a computer to run all those combinations, but it was quicker just to do it longhand until I found the right one." Spencer says all this very fast, hardly pausing for breath, still staring at the whiteboard in deep concentration.

Emily's lips are parted slightly in surprise, and she reaches out and pokes Spencer in the cheek. He flinches away from her, frowning. There's the 'you've got to be kidding, bitch' face again.

"He's so lifelike," Emily says with a completely straight face.

Fin snorts and JJ covers her mouth to hide her smile, but Spencer just rolls his eyes and leans over to grab the rest of the letters from the desk beside him. "Now, we don't have a complete record of their correspondence, but I was able to make a chronology. The woman he calls 'Dove' established contact shortly after the trial."

The memory hits Fin like a freight train, so much so that it feels like her brain falls over. Dad, at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper with a pencil in his mouth, concentrating on his crossword puzzle. Oliver to his left, holding that damned blue truck he loved and spinning its squeaky wheels. Lars in her high chair, singing a song she doesn't know the words to and doing the jazz hands, just like Ollie showed her.

And little Fin, barely more than five years old, calmly eating her eggs and listening to the chaos around her.

This was before what they call the 'stressor'.

The trigger for everything horrible she ever did.

And Dad used to call her his dove.

"Fin?"

Shit. Fin jerks her head up, pastes a confused look onto her face. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?" Emily asks, concern in her voice.

"Fine. Yeah, I just need to use the restroom. I'll be right back."

Ignoring the stares from everyone else, Fin hurries to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She sinks down onto the toilet, running her fingers through her hair, trying to control her breathing, her heart rate. Control yourself. Get over it.

Nothing about this case is similar to her, except for the fact that the unsub's a woman, so why is this bugging her? Fin leans back against the toilet, feeling the cool glass press into her back, closing her eyes. You dumb bitch, just suck it up.

Her therapist used to tell her that flashbacks were normal, common even, and that she should embrace them as memories and move on, but that was years ago and she can't even remember the last time she had a flashback. In college? After Nick? She can't remember.

So she treats it like a panic attack and breathes deeply. In for five seconds... Out for seven... In... Out...

There's a gentle knock at the door. "Fin?" It's JJ.

Fin takes another deep breath, makes sure her voice won't shake. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay..." JJ doesn't sound convinced. "It's been over half an hour, so I just thought I'd check."

Half an hour? It seemed like only minutes– But Fin stands up, brushes her shirt off, turns the sink on. "Be right there!"

She dips her hands in the cold water and splashes some on her face, feeling the droplets trickle down her skin, sooth the heat of her forehead, her cheeks. And then she puts on her brave face and steps outside, ready to pretend like nothing happened, just like she always does.

"Fin, grab a vest and get in one of the cars," Hotch says, throwing the file in his hands back into one of the cardboard boxes. "We've got our unsub."

✩

Faye Landreaux, CPA, works out of her home. She's Chloe Kelcher's next victim–and Chloe's already at her house.

"Sheriff, I need you to bring all your vehicles around to the front," Hotch says now to Dobson. "Facing forward with lights off. And I need a megaphone."

Dobson nods and goes to relay the message to his officers. Morgan's going to sneak into the house, someone will distract Chloe while he gets Faye out, and then hopefully, they snag Chloe and she goes to prison for a very long time.

"Hotch, I don't think you can get through to her," Emily says, standing behind one of the squad car doors.

"No, but maybe she can." Hotch hands his megaphone to–Fin?

"Me?" Fin tries to pass the megaphone back to him, but he shakes his head.

"You're a woman, you're experienced in psychology and counterterrorism. You're the best person to talk to her."

"Profile's clear," Spencer says from Emily's other side. Is that concern in his voice? "You can't talk this woman down."

Hotch shakes his head. "No, but just to occupy her. If we're right about the M.O., she's left a window open somewhere. Morgan will find a way in. We just need to buy him some time."

Fin's hands are shaking already and she twists the hand not holding the megaphone into the pocket of her slacks.

"Finley, you can do this," Hotch says firmly. "Just focus. She's a hybristophiliac suffering from a terrible delusion, and she needs your help."

And just like that, Fin switches the emotion off. She's not Hazel Finley, girl with a traumatic past. She's Hazel Finley, FBI agent, criminal profiler, experienced psychologist. And she can damn well do this.

Her fingers tighten around the megaphone handle. "Okay. Okay, I can do this."

"Hit the lights," Hotch says to Dobson. The squad car lights come on and the siren blares.

Fin raises the megaphone to her lips, takes a deep breath. Faye's life is on you. "Chloe, this is the FBI. We know you're in there and we know what you're trying to do." Deep breath. "I know you think finishing Cortland's mission is going to bring him back, but he wasn't who you thought he was. You thought you were special, that he loved you, but he was a psychopath, a narcissist. He wrote the same words to dozens of other women."

To her left, Spencer's scribbling frantically on a notepad, then holds it out for Fin to read. "'Without the flesh, there is only the soul. You don't need to touch me to feel the love I have for you.'" She mouths 'thank you' to Spencer, who's already writing again. "Does that sound familiar? To Carla Kettinger, he wrote–" She squints at Spencer's new sheet of paper– "'Ever since your visit, I am crazed with thoughts of you. Already you have entered my dreams. Each time you appear to me, I am embraced by a feeling of trust and belief, as if I've known you all my life..."

The letter goes on and on, and Fin's stomach churns with the worry that Morgan will find Faye dead–or that Chloe will kill herself before they can get to either of them. But she presses on, determined to get inside Chloe's head. "Chloe, it's not your fault that Cortland made you feel this way, and it's not your fault that your baby died."

Out of the corner of her eye, Fin sees Morgan and a blonde woman she assumes to be Faye sprinting around the side of the house–thank god–at the same time that a tortured scream echoes out of an open window.

Relief shudders through Fin, but she has more to say. "It's over, Chloe. Faye is safe with us. There's nowhere else to go."

But nothing happens. No one appears. Fin drops the megaphone, looks questioningly at Hotch.

"I think we've got some tear gas," Dobson suggests hopefully. "I'm assuming it's still good."

"What the hell? No! That's a person in there, Sheriff," Fin snaps. "She's not a psychopath and she's not doing this because she wants to. She's grieving the loss of someone she loves."

"Well, anyway, maybe she'll do us all a favor and put herself down," Dobson replies, cutting his eyes shiftily at Fin.

"Sheriff, if I weren't an FBI agent, I'd jump over and strangle you myself right now," Fin growls, her fingers tightening around the megaphone handle.

"Finley!" Hotch is using his dad voice, which can't be good. "That is enough!"

But before he can reprimand her any further, the door to the house opens. Everyone's guns fly up. "Chloe, drop the gun," Hotch says commandingly.

She's tiny, the clothes she's wearing swallowing her almost whole. Pretty, too, except for the blank, almost mournful look on her face. Fin levels the gun at her chest and prays she'll go peacefully.

But so far, no good. She just matches Hotch's gaze and keeps on walking, her gun held down at her side.

"Chloe, drop the gun," Hotch says again, his grip tightening on his Glock.

Chloe just keeps walking. That blank stare is creeping Fin out. It's like she doesn't hear them.

"Damn it, lady, drop it!" Dobson shouts. You can hear the panic in his voice.

Chloe stops halfway down the path–

Looks up at the sky–

Mumbles something–

Aims her gun right at Fin–

And a bullet tears through Chloe's chest. She and Hotch both drop to the ground.

Emily and Dobson rush out to clear Chloe's body, but Fin's more worried about her boss. He's hunched over, clutching his ears, groaning. Rossi's trying to talk to him, but she knows he can't hear anything.

"Hotch," Rossi says, trying to pull his hands away from his ears. "Hotch!"

"Rossi, stop." Fin pushes him out of the way, takes Hotch's arms in her hands. "Hotch, I need you to listen to me. Put your palms over your ears and your fingers on the back of your head."

He slowly does as she asks. This is like muscle memory to Fin; she remembers teaching it to Lars when she had her first punctured eardrum. "Now put your index fingers on top of your middle fingers and snap them down on my count. One...two...three...one...two...three..."

She keeps counting until his hands fall down by his sides and he straightens up, looking dumbfounded. "How–how did you–?"

Fin shakes her head. "Just remember that next time your ears start ringing."

✩

"Does anyone have directions back to the airstrip?" asks Fin, walking up to the group of SUVs with JJ. It's a beautiful morning, she got to sleep until seven-thirty, the sun is out, and she just saw Sela Dobson give Hotch a plate of brownies. Today is a good day.

"Town's only got one road," Morgan replies, fiddling with the keys in his hand. "We'll find it."

"Yeah, Morgan doesn't like to follow directions," Emily says, a smirk on her face. "You'll learn that about him."

"Yeah," Spencer replies, grinning. "He likes to 'vibe it'." Spencer knows what the word "vibe" means?

"Okay, smartass." Morgan tosses Spencer the keys. "You drive."

Emily sighs. "Oh, great. I'm riding with literally anyone else."

"Hey!" Spencer protests, sliding into the driver's seat. "I'm a good driver."

"I'm riding with Morgan, too," JJ says with a grin, climbing into the backseat of the next SUV over.

"Y'all are all rude," Fin says, glaring playfully at them. "Spence, I'll ride with you." She hops into the passenger seat of his SUV. "As long as you let me pick the music."

"Deal." Spencer starts the engine, smiling. "What do you want to play?"

"Hmm..." Fin cranks the radio dial until she finds a station playing "Mr. Brightside" by the Killers. "Ah, yes."

Spencer tilts his head to the side. "So you like this music?"

"Yeah. Why, don't you?"

"I really don't listen to much contemporary music," Spencer replies. "I prefer classical music. It helps me think."

"Oh, I'll get you listening to modern music yet," Fin says, grinning. "Wait until you hear Amy Winehouse."

They sit and listen to the song as it winds to a close, and then Spencer passes her a bar of chocolate across the console wordlessly. Fin bites her lip, guilt stabbing her stomach as she realizes how far this lie has gone. But she breaks off a piece, hands it to him, and listens to his ramble about the origins of chocolate as "Beautiful Day" by U2 begins.

"It's a beautiful day...Don't let it get away..."

~

OMG we just hit 500 reads i'm so happy ;-;-; thank you all so much. it feels like i just started this story and now it's already grown so much!

also don't worry about voting or commenting; i'm not gonna be one of those authors that begs for votes or comments. i'm just here to share my story with as many people as i can <3 and i love each and every one of you so much!

and one more thing: poor fin ;-; my poor bebe

but just wait mwahahaha it gets so much worse