25. Seen Together

The Viral Bump

The Salt and the Shimmer, July 23, 2010

The Mediterranean is a shock to the system, a cold, saline slap that wakes up every nerve ending. It is six in the morning, the sun just beginning to bleed red over the horizon, painting the jagged coastline of Taormina in stark relief. I am not alone out here. To my left, Asuka is bobbing in the swell, a dark, silent shape maintaining her position with economy.

We aren’t cutting lines for distance. We are vertical, suspended over the deep trench beyond the break, engaging the engine. Hands high, elbows locked above the surface, treading water. It’s a grueling isolation drill for the lower body—the rotary “eggbeater” kick that keeps a water polo player afloat or a hockey player stable on his edges. My quads and glutes burn with a familiar, welcome fire, the heavy saltwater resisting every rotation. I focus on the burn, letting the lactic acid accumulate, simulating the dead-leg feeling of a triple-overtime shift. Asuka doesn’t falter. She looks like she is standing on solid ground, her expression neutral, her endurance forged in fires different from mine.

After twenty minutes of churning the sea, we drop our arms and swim back toward the shore. My legs, heavy with muscle built for explosive skating, drag slightly in the water, but I force the rhythm. We pull ourselves onto the rocky sand, chests heaving, salt drying tight on our skin.

The ritual isn’t finished. There is no bow, no announcement. Asuka shifts, her silhouette blurring against the Mediterranean light as she sinks into Hira-no-kamae—a defensive, flat posture that offers the wind nothing to catch. Her wet hair is plastered to her neck, her eyes instantly void of intent.

Zanshin.

My body reacts before the thought forms. I exhale sharply, the harsh Ibuki breath hissing through my teeth to pressurize my core, turning my torso into a siege engine. I don’t lunge; I fire the piston, engaging the posterior powerhouse to drive a Gyaku-tsuki—a reverse punch—straight down the center line. It is a strike of linear, overwhelming force, channeling the heavy, bone-on-bone vibration of Rika’s “Hard Style.”

Asuka doesn’t block. She evaporates.

She utilizes Taisabaki, body management, letting the freight train pass harmlessly by. She pivots, borrowing my momentum to pull me off balance. Her hand blurs—not a spear, but the ridge of her palm—Shuto, the knife-hand—stopping a millimeter from my carotid artery. I feel the cold displacement of air, the phantom sensation of surgical disruption.

“Too heavy,” she says, her voice flat, barely audible over the surf. She holds the position, forcing me to respect the “Void” she just opened in my defense. “You are relying on the Fudo-dachi root. On the ice, you cut. Here, you are a statue.”

I exhale, letting the Kime tension bleed out of my shoulders, breaking the stance. “Noted.”

By the time we dry off and head for the airport, the narrative has already shifted. I sit in first class while Asuka takes the seat across from me, already reviewing the security logistics for London. I scroll through the news feed on my phone prior to takeoff. The headlines aren’t talking about victims or scandals anymore.

“The Protector.”

“Sicily’s New Favorite American.”

“The Knight of La Giara.”

I let out a short, dry laugh. The photos from the Dolce & Gabbana campaign have leaked early, or maybe they were released—with Monica media team, you never really know—and they are everywhere. The images of us in the streets of Sicily, dressed in black lace and sharp tailoring, have completely drowned out the noise from the EXIT Festival. The media doesn’t care about the dark, confused violence of Novi Sad anymore. They care about the chemistry, the glamour, the aesthetic of the “Italian Romance.”

The flight north to London feels less like a commute and more like a homecoming. Across from me, Asuka is a statue, her eyes watching the cabin. The danger is diminished, but the exposure level has skyrocketed. I’m not being hunted by wolves anymore; I’m being chased by peacocks.

The Money Shot

Touching down at Heathrow, the atmosphere is immediate. The moment we step off the plane and move toward the VIP transfer, I can feel the vibration in the air. Rika had coordinated the arrival details from Ann Arbor, and Asuka had confirmed the ground assets before we even landed. They knew exactly what was waiting for us.

I move through the terminal with a different kind of energy today. I’m wearing a light jacket, sunglasses tucked into the collar of my shirt, moving with the easy, loose-limbed stride of an athlete who knows he’s in his prime. Asuka is a ghost at my shoulder, moving with that distinct, gliding step—her presence invisible to most, yet obvious to anyone trained.

Then, we hit the doors.

The Paps are waiting.

It’s a solid phalanx of photographers, a firing squad armed with long lenses. Rika and Asuka had anticipated the swarm; the security detail is already formed in a wedge, cutting a path through the chaos. The mood isn’t hostile, it’s voracious. The moment they spot me, the air shatters with the machine-gun rattle of high-speed shutters—clack-clack-clack-clack-clack. The flashes go off in a strobe effect that would induce a seizure in a normal person, a blinding white sheet of light that turns the grey London afternoon into a fractured disco.

“Michael! Over here! Michael!”

“Is it true about Monica?”

“Are you moving to Milan, Michael?”

“Look at me! Michael! The chemistry!”

The questions are rapid-fire projectiles, but they aren’t tipped with poison today. They are obsessed with the narrative. Asuka doesn’t look at the cameras. She looks at hands, pockets, and waistbands, her body angled to intercept anything that isn’t a flashbulb.

I don’t stop. I don’t engage. But I don’t hide, either. I flash a grin, just a quick quirk of the lips, ignoring the shouting while looking straight through the lenses. I know exactly what that picture will look like tomorrow: The confident star returning from the continent, flanked by shadow and steel.

My security detail clears a path to the curb. The black town car is waiting, its engine idling, a sleek shark in a sea of chaotic minnows. The driver, a professional I recognize from the agency, steps out and swings the rear door open. Asuka moves to the front passenger door, securing the perimeter, her eyes locking onto the crowd one last time.

The flashbulbs flare again, illuminating the interior of the car like a lightning strike. And that’s when the dynamic shifts from chaotic to nuclear.

There is a silhouette inside the rear cabin. Long legs crossed at the ankle. A posture of absolute, regal ease.

Molly Treadwell.

The recognition hits the crowd a split second after it hits me.

“It’s Molly!” someone screams, the voice cracking with adrenaline.

“Get the shot! It’s Molly!”

“Does Monica know?”

“Michael, is she the reason you left Sicily?”

Molly doesn’t shrink back. She doesn’t hold up a hand to block the lens. She is a model and the daughter of the Head of Royal Security; she has been navigating this minefield since she was in school shoes. She knows exactly how this game is played, and today, she is the one calling the play. Asuka slides into the front seat without a word, sealing the front of the cabin, leaving the stage to us.

Molly leans forward, coming into the light. Her red hair is vibrant, a sudden splash of color against the dark leather interior. She looks incredible—impeccable makeup, that knowing smirk playing on her lips. She isn’t just picking up a friend; she is making a statement.

As I reach the car, she doesn’t wait for me to slide in. She leans across the seat, visible through the open door to every lens on the sidewalk, grabs the lapel of my jacket, and pulls me in.

It’s not a polite peck on the cheek. It’s a claim.

I stumble slightly, caught off guard, and then I’m leaning into the car, my hands finding purchase on the doorframe and the seat. Her lips meet mine, warm and deliberate. It’s a kiss that is equal parts greeting and territorial flag-planting.

The sound of the shutters reaches a crescendo, a solid wall of white noise. It sounds like static, like a heavy rainstorm on a tin roof. They are getting the “Money Shot.” The “London Romance” to rival the Italian one. The narrative is being rewritten in real-time, frame by frame, at thirty frames per second.

I dive into the car, laughing against her mouth, the adrenaline spiking through me—not from fear, but from the sheer audacity of it. I slide into the seat next to her, and the driver, a pro, slams the door shut instantly.

The sound of the world cuts out, muffled by the heavy soundproofing and the thick glass. The flashes are just muted pops of light now, reflecting off the tinted windows.

I settle back into the leather, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I turn to look at her. She’s already checking her lipstick in the compact mirror, looking entirely unruffled. From the front seat, I see Asuka’s eyes in the rearview mirror, calm and alert, acknowledging the handover.

“Subtle,” I say, wiping a smudge of red from my chin with my thumb.

Molly snaps the compact shut and flashes me a grin that is all mischief and green eyes.

“They looked bored,” she teases, her British accent crisp and amused. She reaches over, fixing the collar she just messed up. “I thought I’d give them something to print. Besides, someone has to remind them that you haven’t defected to Italy permanently.”

I shake my head, feeling the tension of the travel day dissolve. “You’re dangerous, Treadwell.”

“I’m efficient,” she corrects, tapping the window as the car begins to pull away, parting the sea of photographers. “Welcome home, Michael.”

The Fortress of Pizza, July 23, 2010

The heavy oak door of the townhouse clicks shut, and the sound is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in forty-eight hours. It’s a solid, final thud that severs the connection between us and the screaming chaos of the London sidewalk. The sudden silence is heavy, almost pressurized, ringing in my ears like the aftermath of a thunder clap.

I drop my bags right there in the entryway, the leather straps sliding from my grip. My shoulders slump, the tension of the “Michael Stewart” public persona finally bleeding out of my traps and neck. I didn’t realize how tightly I was holding myself until the need to perform evaporated.

The air inside is cool and still, carrying that distinct signature of the house. It smells of old wood, lemon polish, and the faint, lingering trace of cedar and my own cologne that seems to have seeped into the grain of the wainscoting during my absence. It smells like safety.

Asuka is already moving, her transition from travel mode to home mode seamless. She doesn’t drop her bag; she carries it with her as she drifts down the hallway, her footsteps silent on the hardwood.

“Go relax, Asuka,” I call out, though I know she won’t until she’s done checking the townhouse.

I watch her disappear toward the back of the house. I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s inspecting the window locks, verifying the alarm status, and inevitably, she’s going to head downstairs to the gym. She’ll check the tape on the floor—the square she marked out for her forms. If it’s peeled even a little, she’ll replace it before she even thinks about unpacking. It’s her way of grounding herself. The world outside might be chaotic, filled with cameras and screaming paps, but in that gym, in that square, she has absolute control.

I turn to look at Molly. She’s leaning against the wall, kicking off her heels with a groan of pure ecstasy. She looks at me, her green eyes crinkling at the corners.

“God, I hate airports,” she sighs, wiggling her toes against the floor. “If I never see another flashbulb, it’ll be too soon.”

“Hungry?” I ask, loosening my collar.

“Starving,” she says, pushing off the wall. “I’m going to order enough food to feed the an army. You go shower. You smell like travel and it stinks.”

“Charming.”

“Go,” she points up the stairs. “I’ll handle the ordering.”

I don’t argue, and head up the staircase, my hand trailing along the smooth banister. The master suite is exactly as I left it—the large four-poster bed dominating the room, the heavy drapes drawn to block out the streetlights. I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile that would make my mother tsk if she were still around, and step into the shower. I turn the water as hot as I can stand and let the steam fill my lungs, scrubbing away the recycled airplane air.

By the time I come back downstairs, dressed in sweatpants and a worn-out UM t-shirt, the living room has been transformed.

Molly has created a nest on the floor. The coffee table has been pushed aside, and she’s sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug, surrounded by a fortress of pizza boxes. It smells like melted cheese, garlic, and pepperoni—the universal scent of college comfort.

Asuka is there, too, sitting in her precise, upright seiza posture, looking entirely out of place next to the greasy cardboard yet perfectly at ease.

“You weren’t kidding about the Defenseman-sized portions,” I say, eyeing the stack.

“Dig in,” Molly says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. A long string of cheese stretches out, and she catches it with her tongue, grinning at me. “Fuel for later, right?” she asks, her eyes half-lidded looking sexy as hell.

I sit down next to her, my back against the sofa, stretching my legs out. It’s a weird reality we live in—eating takeout pizza on the floor of a multi-million-pound residence in Westminster, hiding from the world.

Molly has her phone out, scrolling with her free hand. “Oh, this is brilliant,” she laughs, tapping the screen. “The blogs are already losing their minds.”

“Don’t look,” I warn, taking a massive bite of my own slice. “Nothing good comes from the comment section.”

“No, you have to see this,” she insists, leaning into my shoulder to show me the screen. “Look at the headline. ‘The Battle for the Wolverine: English Rose Steals Hockey Hero from Italian Siren.’”

I groan, shaking my head. “I’m not a prize at a carnival, Molly.”

“Apparently, you are,” she teases. “According to The Daily Mail, I have ‘home-field advantage,’ but Monica possesses an ‘irresistible continental allure.’ They’re practically taking bets.”

“I’m just a guy who wants to play hockey,” I mumble, reaching for a second slice.

“To them, you’re the bachelor of the year,” Molly counters. She taps away at her phone. “I’m taking control of the narrative.”