It's a mellow, securing April dusk.
A soothing breeze dances through the silver maple, ash, and boxelder trees, making their marvellous leaves shimmer and sway.
In Neva's little cottage garden, roses, poppies, cornflowers, daisies, dahlias, cosmos, claytonias, gypsophilas, and more bloom in quiet harmony.
She rests, leaned back in her cosy balcony on a wooden, cushioned armchair—beautified in a pleasant white summer dress adorned with soft florals. The golden dusk, the playful, feathery breeze, and the sweet scent of April in the air—soothe her soul like a lullaby.
She exhales gently, eyes focused on her tender hands as she knits a light blue sock for her unborn baby.
So far, she has finished a beanie with earflaps, and several pairs of tiny beige and grey booties.
With her husband away—working at a countryside car maintenance store—Neva immerses herself in homemaking. Cooking, gardening, knitting, crocheting… preparing for the little life growing inside her.
The pay is decent, even if not as high as owning the store himself. The garage is only a short walk away, conveniently close.
Rhett doesn't need the job. He could work from home if finances ever dipped too low.
But blending in matters. They're attempting a quiet life.
His real job—as a Special Intelligence Asset of EIS—earns him anywhere from $25,000 to $65,000 a month, depending on mission type and threat level.
Often, he works solo, but sometimes collaborates with his trusted team: Ace, Sky, and Hunter.
His cover job—owning a mid-range auto garage—brings in a steady income of $3,000 to $6,000, managed by someone he trusts.
She knows now—he's quietly, remarkably wealthy.
He hides nothing from her anymore—true to the promise he made after he revealed about being an agent of EIS.
He's prepared for anything.
She admires how sharp he is. How calm. How he flows like a steady river, even in a storm.
He's thought of everything—layered the finances like a fortress, just in case:
His government salary flows into an official, monitored account, as clean and watchable as they need it to be.
But that's only the surface.
Beneath it run deeper streams—black ops funds tucked into offshore accounts, shifting quietly through crypto wallets no one could trace. There are bank accounts under names that don't exist anymore, if they ever did—ghost identities detached from his legal self, near impossible to track or freeze.
And then there's the emergency cash—bundles of it, packed neatly in a fireproof bag tucked behind false drawers and double locks.
Gold coins, old family jewelry—solid, universal, untouched by names or systems.
Prepaid debit cards too, anonymous and ready, accessible from anywhere with a signal.
She doesn't understand all the methods. But she understands the heart behind it.
He's building something enduring. Not just a shelter from the world—but a world within a shelter.
As for Neva—she has nothing of her own. No ID, no card, no bank account. She was kidnapped, after all. Vulnerable. Displaced.
But she's his wife now.
And he's made it clear: everything he has is hers, and everything she has is his.
She has access to all he owns—without hesitation.
He's given her one of his secondary cards.
In time, he'll help her create a new identity, a new bank account—if needed.
Financially, they are stable.
But with a child on the way, he couldn't let their reserves dry out. So, he took the job at the local auto shop—a peaceful job with a generous wage.
He could make more—far more—as an agent. There's a thrill in being a soldier.
A rush. A meaning.
But then he fell in love—and the woman he fell for arrived like a storm in a season most inconvenient.
Yet he married her. And now she carries his child.
And Rhett will give them the warmth of a world they never need escape from.
Neva caresses her small bump, patting it fondly. Her womb stretches, her belly gently swelling with each passing day. She sinks into the realization—slowly, soulfully—that she is growing life. She has entered her second trimester and begins to look forward to the first flutters of movement.
She sighs softly, lifting her gaze. The air hums with the hush before a storm. The sky deepens to grey, dark clouds veiling the golden dusk.
Finishing the last stitch, she sews the tiny sock closed with a yarn darner—her fingers graceful and focused. Another pair, flawless.
Familiar footsteps stir her gaze from the craft—and there he is.
Rhett walks through their flower-laced yard, smiling at her. She mirrors his smile, her heart blooming at the sight of her breathtakingly handsome husband.
She rises slowly, setting the yarn and needle on the coffee table.
She walks toward him, her smile widening as he opens his arms.
He reaches her and pulls her into a warm, familiar embrace.
"I missed you..." Neva murmurs against his chest, peeking up to meet his gaze.
"I missed you more," he says, brushing his fingers through her soft hair—and kisses her, long and tender, pouring into it all the love he'd stored in his silence.
"How was work?" she asks as they stroll back toward the house.
"It was alright," he answers, tucking her under his arm.
"And yours? How was your day? Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine," she says with a small nod. "It was a quiet day."
"What did you do?"
She parts from him gently, walking to the armchair and gathering her yarn, needle, scissors, knitting pins—and the new pair of tiny socks.
"I read, strolled in the garden… and knitted," she says as she returns to him.
He sees the sock in her hands, eyes softening.
"You made another one?" His chest warms. She's already so lovingly attached to their child.
She nods, handing him the tiny piece.
"I did."
"How are you so good at everything?" he marvels, holding the sock between his fingers, awe glittering in his eyes.
"I'm not," she laughs gently, turning toward the doorway. He follows, smiling like a boy in love.
"What would you like for dinner?" her faint voice drifts through the cottage.
"Anything you make is delicious," Rhett shrugs, closing the door behind them—leaving their world sealed in warmth.
Outside, the earth shivers under the coming storm.
Wind rattles the trees, the bushes, the fragile flowering plants.
Dust swirls, petals scatter.
Tonight, the sky will bring more than an April shower.
And quietly, she prays the sky will not mirror the days to come.