"Fucking seriously?" Tired and rightfully moody, Maeve flinched awake at the sound of rapid knocking on her dorm door. She groaned in agitation, especially as her bunkmate Olive hadn't once stirred or made an attempt to see who was at their door. It was still dark out, and it was raining its ass off. Within the belly of the storm clouds above, sharp thunderous growls emitted. Rain pelted the outside of the windowsill and the fire escape. It was like hail, and it was very headache-inducing.

Fucking great.

"Olive," she tried groggily. "Olive! Someone's at the door!"

The girl above groaned, rolled over, and muttered something along the lines of, "Get it yourself."

Maeve trapped her head under her pillow. She groaned again and furiously yanked off her blanket. Tossing her pillow aside, she slid off her bed and stomped toward the door. She hoped whoever it was on the other side of the door better had a damn good reason to be there. She was not in the mood for childish pranks.

Exposed to the cool air, her arms sprouted near-painful goosebumps, her legs too. Halfway to the door, the person knocked again. This time, a little louder.

"Fucking hell..." She grumbled and ruffled her bed head.

The doorknob and lock were cold to the touch as she maneuvered its mechanics and twisted the nose. The irritation that bubbled in her seemed almost overwhelming. Her eyes stung slightly against the light in the hall when she opened the door, just a crack. It was that second the door was barely open that it was pushed wider, causing her to stumble backward while a tall figure slipped inside.

"What the fuck — Jordan?"

Initially, she was ready to cuss out the invasive presence, but when she saw him — she lost her breath. Her mouth became too dry for her to speak. She stared at the familiar figure, shutting the door behind her, not caring that it slammed. Too shocked by seeing him, she didn't check to see if Olive awoke or not; she knew she'd be sleeping still - a hurricane couldn't wake that girl up.

It'd been days, no, a fucking month.

A fucking month.

"Hey there, Mariposa." He'd grown taller. Like, half a foot taller. And he'd grown a slight stubble. It complemented his growing features and made him look a bit older. "How's it been?"

Maeve finally caught her breath. Did she feel angry? Relieved? There seemed to be too many emotions flurrying through her to just pick one. Her pulse began racing, and her eyes grew hot. He stood in front of her with a grin she missed seeing. Clench. Mud and rainwater smudged his face, and his clothes. Her eyes traveled up and down his being, drinking in everything that changed about him. For instance, his dark curly hair — it'd been sheared off into an ugly buzzcut. He had such beautiful hair.

Jordan stared back at her; his eyes trained solely on her. His brows knitted together, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He seemed as if he wanted to say something but couldn't get the words to come out. She saw the uneasiness and fear in his eyes. She almost felt bad, but then she remembered how he just disappeared. He should be afraid, she decided.

"Everything okay, Mae?"

She found herself rushing at him. Involuntarily, but then she let it happen. At first, it was anger, and all she wanted to do was strike him with a left hook. But then, that rage simmered into relief and any violence on her mind vanished. Her body seemed heavy as it collided with his; her arms slunk around his torso, locking tightly. She clung to him, desperately holding back the ugly tears.

She feared he would disappear again.

"You're alive," She breathed.

His clothes, damp from the downpour, had him smelling gross as if he'd been rolling around in a sewer. He probably had been in a sewer.

"I'm alive," He repeated softly and returned her embrace. "I'm sorry I made you worry, mariposa."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Maeve whisper-shouted, startling Jordan as she shoved him away roughly.

"Me? What's wrong with you? I thought you'd be happy to see me?" He gestured between them and then stuffed his hands into his pockets.

She let out a dry laugh and then shook her head. Breathe, just breathe. She turned away from him, running her hands through her tangly hair. She stayed faced away from him for another short-lived minute before spinning sharply to face him again, glaring coldly.

"You can't come in here after a fucking month and expect everything to be happy-go-lucky! I didn't even get an explanation or — or even a goodbye!" Maeve planted her fists on her hips. She refused to cry, and so she urged herself to be furious.

Jordan wiped his face, muttering something in Spanish. "Look, I - I had some shit to deal with; I never meant to hurt you."

"Really?" She wasn't convinced. "So, you couldn't have come to me to tell me you were skipping town? I thought you were hurt, or worse: infected or dead. Yeah, that didn't hurt me at all."

"Maeve, please, let me—"

The top bunk creaked, startling the couple into silence. Olive groaned in her sleep and rolled over to face the wall. The structure of the bunk jostled for the last time before the blonde settled again. They waited a minute or two to make sure she was asleep before they carried on.

"I never meant to hurt you." When he spoke again, his voice was soft, remorseful.

Maeve took a deep breath and averted her gaze somewhere else, tucking her arms over her stomach. She looked everywhere but him. Her vision flickered to her disheveled bed; it had probably gone cold by now. She stole a glance at Jordan — he took advantage of not being chewed out and explored her side of the room — and sighed. She wanted to believe him, to hear him out so they could be happy again, but it seemed too difficult to trust someone after they abandoned you. It was scary for her when he was suddenly just gone. His belongings were there, but he wasn't. Maybe if he had left something behind, a note or, or, whatever, just something - maybe it wouldn't feel as if she had acid reflux times a hundred. It was very hard to let go of that fact. She'd gone mute for three weeks, practically starving herself on the concern of him being dead or never coming back. It almost broke her.

Somewhere inside, she wanted to forgive him, to jump in his arms and kiss him all over. Said before, it seemed impossible; her heart hurt too much for an apology to be accepted so easily.

"So...you wanna tell me where you've been?" Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but he turned to her, making eye contact.

He sighed and glanced around the room precariously; he took a chain out from under his shirt. A chain with a quarter-sized pendant — a dog tag of sorts. He unclipped it and handed it over to her.

"You're a Firefly?" She gaped at him the second she saw the notorious insignia, gingerly flipping the pendant over.

"That's why I was gone so long...they — I, it's complicated."

She felt disbelief the most. And then disappointment. And then a sinking feeling in her chest. A Firefly. Her thumb slid over the indention of his name and tag number. She frowned.

"You still have it."

In her distraction, Jordan returned to her desk, pointing at the corkboard on the wall. It had dozens of Polaroid pictures tacked to it, mostly. He pointed to one photo specifically. He plucked it right off the board, staring at it with a shit-eating grin. Having caught a glimpse of the picture in question, she realized it was from when she was first placed into the physical part of training three years ago, back when she and Jordan began dating. They'd been going through an exercise with about thirty other cadets when a mud fight suddenly broke out; she got pelted with so much mud, it took an hour in the shower to wash it all off. Their mud-painted faces grinned at the Polaroid.

It was a messy memory, but one of her favorites.

Jordan waggled the picture. "Not my best day, I admit. But it was pretty funny when you slaughtered Ian for being a dick."

"Congrats on becoming a Firefly." Ignoring him, she approached him and thrust his tag back into his hand. She snatched the photo from him and returned it to the board.

"I can explain everything, Mae," He shuffled toward her, scrambling to convince her. He glanced between her and Olive's sleeping form. "But we need to go someplace private."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I have drills in the morning. You remember those, don't you — we learn to kill Fireflies."

Jordan clicked his tongue. "I don't give a flying fuck about your damn drills. Comb out your rat's nest and get dressed."

She glared at him when he gestured to her tangly hair, then the shorts that raked up her thighs, and then to the very worn-out tank she wore to bed. His eyes wandered up and down her figure, yes. She was very aware of his ogling.

Finally, she grumbled to no one in particular. Fighting him would be nothing but a waste of her breath and energy.

"Ugh, whatever." She rolled her eyes, passing him to get to her closet. She fished out a bra, a better-conditioned tank top, and her favorite jeans. The whole time, she felt his eyes on her.

"This ain't a fucking peep show."

"Sorry." He didn't even sound apologetic.

Smug bastard.