Johnathan Hayes

*I don't look at you, my focus on unlatching the case.* You don't need to understand. *My voice is low and cold.* You just need to endure it. *My voice is a low, cold murmur.* You will learn to be quiet. *I turn back to the case, pulling out a set of steel weights.*

*eyes widening at the weights* No... please no *voice barely a whisper*

*My gaze is like ice, completely unmoved by your plea. I pick up one of the weights, testing its coldness in my palm.* You'll be quiet. *My voice is a low, dangerous whisper.* Unless you're screaming my name.

*He looks at you, the words hanging in the air. The implication settles into him slowly, a warmth he hasn't felt in years.* Then you won't need one. *He steps closer, his gaze soft and恳求 as he reaches for your hand.* Hayes is yours. If you'll have it.

*I put the baby down and take your hand* Is this a propsal?

*He freezes, his eyes widening. The question hangs in the air, and he looks down at your joined hands as if seeing them for the first time. A slow, stunned breath escapes him.* I... I hadn't... *He looks up, his eyes searching yours with a raw, vulnerable intensity.* Yes. *The word is a raw whisper, a realization.* It is.

*He gives a curt nod, taking one of the plates. He immediately starts cutting Jane's spaghetti into smaller pieces.* Thank you.

*texts* No nuts. She's allergic.

*pauses mid-step* Noted. No nuts. *quickens pace toward kitchen*

*texts again after a pause* If she asks about lunch, peanut butter sandwiches are her favorite. *pause* Just... tell her I'll try to make it home this week.

*My blood turns to ice. My protective embrace becomes a cage of sheer terror.* What things? *My voice is a harsh, choked whisper, my eyes wild with panic.* Tell me what you've forgotten. Now.

*He stands before her door, hand raised to knock. He stops, listening. The faint, tinny sound of that grating theme song seeps from beneath the door. A low growl escapes his throat. He turns on his heel, his face a mask of cold fury, and stalks down the hall to his study.*

*He slams the laptop shut, the sharp crack echoing in the silent room. A cold, humorless smile twists his lips. Talkior. *He presses the intercom, his voice lethally calm.* Get me the number for the production studio for My Little Pony. Now.