Author's Notes: This is a companion piece to 3.10 "Burned." Spoilers ahead. The performances in this episode hit just the right notes, particularly Kate Kelton's Jordan. I'm not a fan of the character, per se, but I do think the character has added an interesting element to the show. I hope this isn't the last we'll see of Jordan McKee.

Disclaimer: You know I don't own Haven, its characters, etc.

She's surprised Nathan is there. Briefly hopeful actually, until he stands against the block wall of the jail cell, arms crossed, hands tucked. Off limits, his body language and cold stare scream even though he speaks very little.

But the cell doesn't feel any less dark with him glowering at her, spitting out that she's free to go. Free? That's a matter of perspective, she decides as she unconsciously tugs at her gloves and approaches him casually.

She knows she should walk away. Get away while she can, while she has her pride intact and before he changes his mind and closes the cell door, shutting her in the physical prison, a perfect companion to her temporary, Troubles-imposed prison. But she can't. Not yet. Nathan matters. He shouldn't, but he does. He is her weakness. She needs him to understand that her actions with Ginger were based on what is best for their town, for their people, their kind.

No, not his people. Not anymore.

Nathan's made his choice, she reminds herself. And it's always her. Audrey Parker. If it weren't so patently ridiculous and futile and…painful, she would laugh.

And still she tries to plead her case one last time. No more tears. Cold logic on the surface. Beneath, she wills him to believe in her. Fool. She's been so wrapped up in his touches, his kisses, his breath against her neck. They mean everything to her, nothing to him. He damns her for using him, but he has done the exact same thing. Same recipe. Different flavor.

She is far less surprised when he utters the words, "There is no us."

And just like that, she feels as though the air has been sucked from the room, sucked from her very lungs. But she refuses to grovel. "Yeah, I figured that part out." She practically sneers as she speaks, her tone calm, condescending, even as it belies the anguish that four simple words inflict. The ache cascades through her very nerve endings and takes up residence. It intensifies. Abject agony. For an instant, she fathoms the pain her touch causes. Yet she walks past him, holding her head high, and affects the mask she has perfected over the years.

And Audrey watches. How fitting that Audrey be here for the end when it is obvious she's been present throughout.

She pauses as she passes Audrey—this strange entity who takes away not just the Troubles, but what Jordan wants most. Normalcy.

This isn't over.