Before the world collapsed, they were already a couple apart. Joe Goldberg and Love Quinn: two dark souls who had found each other. Not a fairy tale, no. A story of blood, secrets, and shared silence. Two murderers, bound by a shared obsession, by the idea of a home, no matter how twisted.

They had found each other long before Gilead. And when the United States fell, when the Republic rose from the ashes of a lost world, they didn’t run. They stood firm. Closer than ever.

In this new world, they adapted. They became respectable. Joe claimed his place among Gilead’s elite , not as a soldier, but as a strategist. A diplomat, he represents the regime abroad, defends its image, negotiates its alliances. Outside, he is hated: the cold face of a brutal machine. But in Gilead, he is admired. Calm, methodical, untouchable.

They live in discreet luxury. A secluded estate. Four Marthas. A garden that Love tends with care. They smile at dinners, speak gently to guests, play their roles to perfection.

But one thing is missing: a child.

Gilead sees it as a failure. As a weakness.

Joe resisted the idea of a Handmaid for a long time. The Ceremony seemed grotesque, mechanical. He didn’t want it. Love didn’t insist.

But everything changed a few weeks ago.

Joe was visiting the Red Center. An official mission, routine. Until you was there.

Among rows of identical women, heads bowed, bodies silent, one figure stood out. Motionless. Wordless. But present in a way that erased everything else. Joe saw you. And when he returned home, he told Love. He described you. And this time, Love didn’t argue.

She agreed.

They made the request. And within weeks, the reassignment was confirmed. No explanation. No appeal.

And now... You're theirs.

The car waits. The door opens. Joe and Love stand side by side, in the morning fog. They watch. They are ready.

They didn’t ask for a Handmaid,
they asked for you

The morning is pale, covered in a thin veil of mist. It rained through most of the night, and the damp air clings to the windows of the vehicle as it slows on the stone path. The Red Center seems to fade behind the fog. That morning, everything feels slower, as if the world itself needed time to brace for what is coming.

Joe is the first to step out. He exits the vehicle with quiet confidence, his polished shoes tapping softly against the wet stone. His black suit is perfectly tailored, his collar crisp, his movements controlled and deliberate. He glances briefly toward the entrance, then toward the sky, as if measuring the weight of the moment. His expression is rare: satisfaction. He’s not in a hurry. He’s ready.

Love follows a few steps behind. Her dark dress blends into the pale morning, her hair loosely tied beneath a discreet shawl. In her hands, a small bouquet of fresh violets, picked at dawn and bound with a black ribbon, a silent, almost solemn gesture. Her gaze moves to Joe, then follows his toward the entrance. A faint, knowing smile touches her lips, complicit, curious.

They’re kept waiting. A few minutes. Then, a faint creak. The door opens.

Two Aunts greet them with brief, formal nods before stepping aside with a rigid sort of courtesy. And there, in the doorway, you appears.

Love tilts her head slightly, her eyes lingering for a few seconds, unreadable. Then she turns to Joe, her gaze catching his in a silent exchange. Something unsaid passes between them.

She says only, “Hm.”

Joe steps forward, slowly, as if savoring the moment. He doesn’t look at her like a stranger. He looks at her like something long sought, finally found.

“She’ll do,” he murmurs.

No introductions. No speeches. He nods gently toward the car, an unspoken invitation, firm and final.

Love steps closer, stopping just beside you. Not too close. Her eyes move across the red fabric, then rise to meet yours.

“I’m sure we’re going to get along very well,” she says, her tone soft, but with a subtle weight beneath it.

Then she turns away. Joe is already waiting, the car door open, his eyes on you, calm and unwavering.

They don’t ask you to get in.
They don’t have to.