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The sound of footsteps pausing outside of her door had caught her attention mid-meal. Sasha merely assumed that it was Evan; when the footsteps moved away from her door, her dark brows drew together in slight annoyance.

The huntress did not hesitate in padding over to the door; clad in her frog-themed pajama bottoms, grotesque frog slippers and a simple tank, she had not been prepared for entertaining - but Evan had seen her in things more awful than this, and so she did not give a second thought to opening the door so that she could peer out into the hallway.

The sight that greeted her very nearly brought her to her knees. Broad shoulders that she knew so, so well; the fit of his jacket, the way he carried himself.

Two years.

Sasha very nearly closed the door and locked herself inside. She very nearly crumpled, shattered, splintered. How much was left? How much more could she break?

"Washington Becker."

Her voice caught, hitched, ended on a sigh.

He had been the only thing that had ever really belonged only to her - and even then, he hadn't really, not completely. Washington Becker had kept his ghosts close to him, locked away in a little bible that he'd kept at their bedside table. Even still, he'd been hers, and Sasha had been his - so much so that she'd tried (oh, how she'd tried) to change for him.

To be better for him.

Sasha had convinced herself, for all intents and purposes, that she had never (and would never) be enough for the first man she'd ever really loved - and, if she were to be really quite honest with herself, the last man she would ever love.

Washington Becker had taken everything that she could have offered to him willingly, all the pieces of herself that were soft and secret and beautiful and weak and hidden - and he'd run away. He'd stolen them from her and she would never get them back because they were still his.

Sasha took a step towards him, a halting half-shuffle, and then another, and another - and then she was on him, arms wrapping around his neck before a low, ugly sob tore free from her throat.

It was kind of funny how fast time could rewind if one really wanted it to. It was not something that Sasha could explain - she was awash in his voice, the breadth of his shoulders, the smell of his skin and the way she felt so utterly safe being held in his arms. It was two years ago, it was the last time they'd come together in an explosion of light and beauty and feelings that had no earthly words to explain them. Sasha never wanted to lose it, this feeling the sight of him evoked once more. She never wanted time to move again, and couldn't they just stand here forever, holding one another, couldn't they just forget the world around them?

She knew the answer. She loathed the answer.

Sasha Belrose had given too much of herself, time and time again, and now there was nothing left in her that was worth loving - nothing left in her that was capable of the emotion. She knew how to project herself, she knew how to carry herself out in public. That wasn't the issue. She could be that woman. No, those long nights alone when she didn't have anyone to validate her, when she didn't have anyone to hold her, when she didn't have anyone to make her feel safe - those hours felt the longest. The most unsurvivable.

But if she stood there, just a little longer, and let herself forget, maybe it would be enough. Just for a little while.

Inhaling the unique smell of him, just one more time, Sasha tightened her arms around his neck.Relished in the feel of his arms holding her close. She soaked him in, and then she pulled away completely. Her face was emotionless as she lifted a hand and struck him across the face as hard as she could; the resounding snap echoed, and her palm burned just a little.

It did not stop her from slapping him again with a low, horrid sound.

-- you left me you left me you left me i loved you and you left you left you left --

Sasha slapped him until her hands burned hot and red and his cheeks turned ruddy under his beautiful, dark skin. The first few connects had been cathartic, a release of everything she'd thought he'd taken with him. Every emotion that she thought she could no longer feel, every reminder of him that she'd buried deep. Sasha had forced them all into a small, black piece of tar that she'd hidden, tucked away until it had merely rotted into nothing.

Nothin' can break us 'less we let it.

She had. She'd let him in, and she'd let him do this to her.

Her hands, small and pale, curled into fists. Her mouth twisted into something horrible, ugly; teeth bared, Sasha let out another pathetic noise and slammed her fists into his chest. She couldn't talk, not yet, now when she didn't trust herself to say things she could never take back - even when she knew Wash deserved every hateful thing she had to say.

Despite her best attempt, despite the way she clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached with the force of it, three words forced themselves past her lips.

"You left me."

Sasha let out a sound of derisive amazement.

"Coward."

She pulled her hands away from him, movements tense and jerky. Sasha lifted her chin as though in doing so might hide the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Her breath came fast, choppy - but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her break down and cry. She would not.

But she did.

A hoarse sob broke free, and Sasha slowly sank to her knees before him. Her hair settled around her in a veil of thick waves. Another sob, and she curled her arms around her waist. Sasha began weeping in earnest; ugly, ugly things and she hated herself for it but she hated him more - and despite it all, she loved him still.

"How? How could you do this to me. After everything?!"

The words were spoken around sobs that she could not stop from coming.

"I hate you."

Her sobs reached a crescendo, peaked, and then softened. Wash had always been her safe place, a place she'd tried to find in creating a home for herself - and when that didn't work, she'd pieced it together in the arms of another man who wasn't really hers alone. Sasha's sobs broke on a harsh laugh.

Washington Becker had never been hers alone, either. There had always been the shadow of his past lurking between them, a piece of him locked away that would never belong to her. Sasha had come to terms with that; what he given her had always been enough, despite it. He'd sacrificed so much of himself for her - he would have even sacrificed his life - and Sasha understood that. She was a selfish creature, and perhaps losing him had been the penance she'd been forced to pay.

Perhaps that same selfishness was what drove her to slowly reach out, to clutch the butter-soft denim of his jeans just above the knee. She did not shrink when he struck the wall; instead, Sasha tugged, still softly hiccuping, before lifting her swollen eyes to meet his. He was strong, powerful, beautiful - and he had his own demons, just as she did. She knew she was one of them; in truth, she relished in that.

"If you leave me again," her voice trembled, but she spoke loudly and with purpose, "I will kill you."

Sasha's voice was dark and filled with ominous promise. She would not allow for him to be so close again - but he was hers and always had been, since the first time they'd come together until the last.

She released his jeans and rather regally held out her hand for him to take - a silent demand that he assist her to her feet.

It wasn't until Sasha was absolutely certain that he knew she was serious that she allowed him to help her to her feet. She lifted her chin regally, composed once more despite the redness around her eyes, her nose. His cheeks were still red, and she lifted her hand to brush her fingers against his skin. Her thumbnail dragged against his lower lip before she pulled away completely.

"Come," she ordered quietly, smoothing her fingers down his arm so that she could take his hand. The initial shock of seeing him again had yet to pass, but privacy felt necessary.

Lacing her fingers between his, Sasha moved towards her room. She would not stop until they were secure behind her closed door.

The room was clean. There was a dent in the wall above the plush leather couch; a small kitchenette took up much of the living space - a large, oversized bed dominated the far wall. There was also a private bathroom, a small wine cooler, and a decently sized closet.

"Sit," she ordered. "I have wine, and tea." It was a question without really being a question - he would drink something. There was beer in the fridge, as well, but it was something she'd purchased for Evan, and so she would not offer it to Wash.

She retrieved a bottle from the wine cooler, and did not bother with a glass. Everything ached, and it really was all his fault. She would not allow him to forget it.