@skymouth

a boarding school electrical system short circuited while everyone was asleep and fire rapidly spread. it happened around the dormitory area, and it was already too late when the school’s staff noticed. 

twenty burn victims of various degrees and several smoke inhalation cases later, john only arrived home past ten in the morning. 

john was on auto pilot. long forgotten was his usual dunkin’ pit stop, the music he always had on was non-existent and he is pretty sure he drove past a red light or two.

he needed to get home, he needed to get to you. 

john found you in the kitchen putting away this week’s grocery. he counted himself lucky for meeting you a couple of years ago. parker had introduced you to him, a friend of the girl she was seeing at the time, who apparently had the same taste in music and watered down coffee as him and, to his luck, worked remote as an IT coordinator for some company in australia. finally someone who had the same schedule as him. 

he dropped his keys on the small, intricately detailed and too-expensive-for-keys-bowl you had insisted on buying on a trip to turkey, saying you wanted a “statement” piece for the console table you had near the door. john shrugged off his jacket and slipped off his shoes, putting them away in the hallway closet before making a beeline to you. 

“good morning, honey.” you greeted him when you felt arms snake around your waist and his chest flush against your back. 

“morning.” his answer was muffled by your hair. 

“how was the shift? i saw the news of the fire.”

“awful.” it came out muffled again. john hugged you tighter. 

“yeah? you need to unwind, huh?” you asked, knowing exactly what he needed when he got monosyllabic. “why don’t you go take a shower, baby? i’ll be right there.”

“okay.” he kissed your temple. “love you.”

“love you too.”

john had always been calm, annoyingly so. 

your first date was a double date with lisa, your best friend and, at the time, roommate, and her then… something, parker. lisa had been gushing about john for god knows how long before you finally accepted to go out with them. he was equals part charming and confusing, so effortlessly funny and so effortlessly nonchalant that you wondered if he had actually liked you. a few days later, you ended up learning he did. parker had brought take out and told you between bites of thai chicken that john couldn’t stop talking about you, complaining all twelve hours of the shift that he felt like an idiot for not asking for your number, and incessantly begging ellis if she could give him yours, but as girls girl who knew better and put other women before any of her male friendships, parker told john she would talk to you first. you smiled with the story, for some reason, something about john had spoken to you, maybe his cute face or his effortless jokes, so you asked ellis for his number this time and instantly shot him a text asking him out on a second date. the rest is history. 

john liked that about you. actually, he loved that about you, how authoritative you were and the way you always took charge of things. one of the hottest things that always got him worked up was watching you work on his nights off. he loved paying attention to you on meetings, how eloquently you spoke and the way your voice changed when you had to be a boss; never demeaning or lacking respect for your employees, but so stern and commanding that made something inside of him stir and a spark fly through his dick. 

you changed to more comfortable clothes, just a loose t-shirt and pyjama shorts and laid in bed to wait for your boyfriend. john came out of the bathroom just a couple of minutes later, hair damp and sporting a pair of boxer shorts. he made his way to you, silently crawling on top of the bed until he reached your chest, so he could lay his head on it and hug your waist.

john stayed there in silence for a few minutes, counting your heartbeat before he finally went to kiss you. 

there was a pattern to his actions when john was like this. he would hug you for a bit, slowly sneak a hand inside your shirt so he could squeeze your soft stomach and play with your tits when he felt like the moment was right. meanwhile, his kisses would start on your neck, where he would alternate between pecks and love bites until he reached your lips, where you would make out until you were both breathless and john would be begging you to fuck him. 

but something must have really fucked john up today because everything was out of order and more desperate. 

his lips was trembling against yours, the kiss was way too messy to be enjoyable and his fingers on your clit were rough, wrong. you held his wrist and pulled back, stopping him. the rejected look he gave you almost broke your heart, and you schooled your tone so you didn’t break him even more. 

“john, baby, lay on the bed, please.”

he gave you a small smile. “yes, miss.”

you got up, tied your hair back with the scrunchie you kept on your nightstand and went back to the bathroom for the bottle of lube, and roamed your drawers on your way back for the magic wand. 

“you ok?” you asked him when you set between his spread legs and set the two items beside him. 

he gave you a weak nod. “about to be better.”

air left your nose in a semi contained snort and you shook your head. “you already kno–“

“green to keep going, yellow when i need to slow down and red to stop completely.” he interrupted you, knowing exactly what you were going to ask.

you nodded. “okay, good boy.”

you made your way up to john’s lips, kissing him softly before you trailed your lips down his body, paying close attention to his nipples. he was already hard just from it, his hard on poking your belly through his boxer shorts. knowing it would be worse if you tried to playfully torture him a bit, you latched your fingers onto the elastic of his boxers and pulled the garnment down. 

john hissed when the cold air touched his already leaking, angry red tip, muttering a small “fuck” when he saw you open the bottle of lube and squirt it on the palm of your hand. you rubbed your fingers against your palm, working the lube a bit while your left hand ran aimlessly against his right thigh. 

“shit.” john moaned when you finally wrapped your digits around the head of his cock, working it in soft and slow circles. 

“my baby had a rough day, didn’t you?” you asked. 

“mhm.” john nodded fast. his body was taut, muscles holding against itself as he was controlling himself to not come too soon. 

you dipped your head, left hand still going up and down his thigh as you took his balls to your lips, alternating between them to give both some equal attention. the hand on his head picked up pace, now working on his length. 

john was a mess under you, panting and repeatedly babbling a chorus of “please, please, please”, begging for something even he didn’t know what it was. 

the hand beside your head gripped your hair and you felt his thigh jerk, making you stop all of your ministrations instantly. 

“john…” you said sternly.

“sorry, miss.”

“we’ve talked about this, baby. no touching me unless i tell you to. will i have to tie you?” you softened your tone.

“no. it won’t happen again, miss.”

“good.” you kissed his tip and got up to strip down. 

it is beside john where you sit back down on the bed, making sure to spread your legs wide enough so he could see how wet you were. john’s eyes followed your every move, traced your body along your hands, circling your clit with your fingers. the wet squelch of your fingers plunging in and out of you made him squirm, his hands closing and opening over and over again by his side as he tried his best not to touch you. 

“what should i do with you, huh?”

“c–can i eat out, miss?” john asked. 

you smiled. “umm, not sure if you are deserving of after you tried to touch me.”

“please, miss.” he begged. 

with your fingers still inside of you, you sat on your knees, free hand roaming around the bed to find the wand. john looked at you with hopeful eyes, that rapidly changed when he realised what you were going to do. 

you turned the wand on on the lowest setting and propped it just below his balls. 

“open your lips.” you ordered him and john complied immediately. at last, you pulled your fingers from inside of you. they were shiny and slick with your juices and you made sure to spread some over his lips. you pressed the two digits against his tongue and john was quick to start sucking your fingers clean. 

“good boy.” you kissed the corner of his lips. “remember that you only get to come when i tell you to.

the “yes, miss” he tried to say was muffled by the way you worked your fingers deeper inside his mouth. slowly, in and out, again and again until you were fucking his mouth, making john gag on your fingers and his spit mix with your slick. 

john took a deep breath after you pulled your digits out, coughing a little. 

“colour?”

“green.”

you nodded and tipped your head to the side, silently telling him to scooch down the bed. john, being the good boy that he is, complied instantly, getting a kiss as a reward. you grab the wand back from his balls and finally position yourself with his face between your legs. he looked up to you in adoration as you hovered over him, eyes pleading, begging for you to sit on his face. you took some pity on him. “you can touch me now.”

“thank you, miss.” he said and started running his hands over your thighs and stomach, kissing your thighs but never crossing the line, trying not to reach your pussy before you told him to. 

john needed this, needed the touch and the feeling and you knew it, so you let him do it until he regulated. 

“okay?” you asked and he nodded.

not wanting to extend it, you lowered yourself and john wasted no time, attaching his lips to your clit, alternating between licking and sucking it. 

you take the wand once again, amping the vibration to its medium setting, putting it right on his tip. john shudders under you, his movements faltering a bit and it only fed you, making you feel even more powerful. you started to ride his face, hips moving with the vibration of the wand as his tongue licked into you. the feeling was sensational, and that combined with his hands squeezing your breasts, playing with your nipples made your orgasm sneak up and wash over you. 

“you are so good, john. so good to me.” you kept praising him as you rode out your high. somewhere in the middle, the wand’s was set to the max, and john tapped your thigh fast, making you get up. 

“yellow! yellow! fuck!” he exclaimed breathlessly and you yanked the wand, turning it off as you sat by his side. 

“talk to me, baby. want me to stop?”

john shook his head. “no. i just–“ he let out a small laugh. “it’s too much and i really need to cum.”

bringing yourself to him, you hugged him and kissed his lips. “okay, honey. you were so good to me today. where do you want to be?”

“inside you.”

“yeah? you wanna cum inside me?” you asked sweetly.

“please.”

“okay, baby.” you said as you got up and threw a leg over his thigh, positioning his cock against your entrance and slowly sinking in.

you rocked slow, picking up just a bit of speed as you encouraged john to thrust against you, but he was already so worked up that he came fast. 

john sat up with his softening member inside of you and pulled you close, hiding his face between your breasts. he breathed in and out, timing it with your heartbeat. his fingers squeezed your sides as he hugged you, and tried his best to cherish the moment. 

“thank you.” he said after a few minutes. 

“anytime, handsome.” you said between kisses to his cheek and temple. “wanna talk about what happened?”

he sighed. “same old. a bunch of drunk people, car crashes and pedestrians being ran over. got a dv case so bad that jack almost got a punch in on the husband. he would have if i didn’t hold him back.” he took the bottle of water you had materialised from somewhere, he was so out of it that he hadn’t noticed you had moved, and drank most of it in one gulp. “then… the fire. just a bunch of teenagers, you know? the oldest was seventeen. most of them have third degree burns, we–we did our best, but i don’t know if they’ll get out of it.” he started sniffling. 

“john, look at me.” he did. “you are an incredible doctor and you did your best to give those children and their parents some resemblance of hope. it’s not your fault if they don’t make it.”

he nodded and cleaned his tears. “i know.”

“i love you, okay? i’ll always be here for you.”

“i know. i love you too, angel.”

silence fell upon you and you realised how sticky the middle of your legs and thighs felt, highlighted by the sweaty glow of your skin. “how about we shower, sleep and i order you your dunkin’ monstrosity when you wake up?”

he pursed his lips. “do we have the ingredients to make it at home?”

a few months into the relationship, you told him that you knew how to make any of the dunkin’ regular drinks at home, and ever since learning that, whenever he is down, john preferred the homemade over store bought. 

you nodded and smiled. “i’ll make it for you.”

You have a recurring dream. Or is it more of a nightmare? You can't tell.

In your dream, your human form transforms into that of something markedly inhuman, a grotesque thing to see unfold behind your eyelids.

Your skeleton shrinks to a size just a fraction of what it is now, the excess skin, with nothing to cling to, spreading in a fleshy pool on the floor. Your spine bends out of shape like a pole vaulter's pole over the high horizontal bar, canted forward at an extreme angle and forcing you on your hands and feet. Bones break; your pelvis shortens, your arms lengthen, and what were two hands become two feet. Like the dinosaurs that evolved to carry their massive weight, you've become quadrupedal.

The excess skin retracts, like the tape of a leash being pulled back, and snaps securely into place. And you have a little tail, starting right around the sacral region, an extension of the canine spine.

Metamorphosis: the worst part of the dream. Becoming something other than human. The simulated pain that comes with it. But after, you're happy. Loved and cared for by a shapeless owner. You're a dear thing to them.

A pet.

But distantly, even while using your baser brain, you can tell that something is wrong. You're not meant to be like this.

And yet, you're happy.

So. Nightmare, or not?

You don't know, but you don't have the time to dwell on it. Your half hour lunch break is almost up, your ramen cup is empty, and today you're stationed at the cash registers.

It's a slow day—slower than usual, at least—though. Pittsburgh is just coming out on the other end of a big, freak snowstorm, and there is but one customer in the store right now.

You clock back in on the employee app and exit the break room to tend to him, tossing your empty cup into the bin on your way out.

"Ready to check out, sir?"

So, even though you told yourself to drop it, as you scan and punch in his purchases for dog food, chew toys, and other assorted items, you think back on your dream.

Being employed here should explain its origin. You see these kinds of owners all the time: people who cherish their pets, spoiling them rotten. Who wouldn't want to be doted on? Loved? Asked for nothing but companionship in return.

Hey!

The snapping of fingers rings out, cutting and sharp.

Are you there? Can you give me my receipt already?

You startle, and you're brought back down to earth. You shake your head.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir." You rip the glossy paper from the receipt printer, holding it out to him. "Here's your receipt. Thank you for shopping at Animal Kingdom."

The man scoffs, snatching it out from your hand. He collects the handles of his paper bags and murmurs, "space case," before leaving the store.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were daydreaming again. In front of a customer. If your boss had happened to see that exchange, you would have never heard the end of it.

You can't lose this job. You don't have much else going for you.

The next day.

Or the next week.

Does it matter?

Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

That is a short summary of your life as of the past near decade since you graduated high school and have been working at the pet store. It's not much, but you make do. There is the noticeable absence of a social aspect in your routine...

nothing new there, though.

You do not hate your life, but there is not much to love. It flashes by, but it is also stagnant. And it is lonely.

You peer into a tank, sighing when you see a dead one. The black of the comet goldfish's eyes stare inanimately at you. Its brethren clear the way as you scoop it out, then bag it, throwing it into the dumpster in the back of the store.

Goldfish do not have a three-second memory, as the myth suggests, but retain memory for up to three months. Its brothers could be mourning it in its death, for all you know.

Sometimes, you daydream about the ocean. Seahorses come to mind. Being one in a pair of mates. Having a partner for life. It's a heartwarming thought, but you imagine that the ocean is one hell of a scary place for a pair of frail seahorses.

You can't have it both ways. Tank or ocean.

So, then, maybe instead of a seahorse, what you are is a remora in need of a shark. Feeding on its bacteria and dead skin, you'd be set to roam the big blue, accompanied and safe. Survival by way of symbiosis. A sad existence, though, to need a creature so much more than they need you.

Scratch that. Tanks are safe. Not the ones here, but a good owner would take care of their fish.

The PA system squeals with feedback as it's turned on.

Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup. Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup.

You sigh. More dead goldfish.

You're stocking shelves in the avian aisle when a customer softly calls out to you. Finches and parakeets chirp in the background, rowdy in their cages.

"Excuse me, miss?" he says, approaching you, his steps audible and heavy.

You turn around and almost drop the bag of birdseed you're holding.

Hazel-green eyes and a sinful scruff. Middle-aged or so.

The man is handsome. More handsome than anyone you've ever laid eyes on in the store. Maybe even in the small world you live in between here and your apartment and the bus ride to the grocery store. You've never seen him before, but you get the feeling that you recognize him from somewhere.

"Let me help with that," he offers, taking the bag from your hands and placing it on the bottommost shelf beside you where it belongs. He shifts his weight to his left foot when he stands to full height again, a flicker of pain sweeping over his features.

"Thank you, sir. You didn't have to—"

"It's not a problem. Mind helping me with something in return?"

You nod, clasping your hands in front of you. "How can I be of assistance?"

The man holds up a dog collar from his cargo pocket.

"I'm adopting a dog soon. Want to make sure that I'm gettin' the right size."

"Oh, well, all our collars are adjustable and should be able to fit any size dog. May I?" You hold your hand out palm up so he can pass it to you, but he shakes his head.

"This one isn't. I think I got the right one, but I'd just like to check."

You're not sure where he got the collar. You look at it more closely and are stumped when, yes, it's a slip-on. Non-adjustable. It tightens when the leash is pulled, a corrective action, and is loose-fitting otherwise when the dog is compliant. There must be a new supply of them that was put up that you were unaware of.

He clears his throat and clarifies, "could you try it on?"

"Try it on?" you repeat, stunned. "Uh, that's..."

Your eyes widen slightly when you catch sight of your boss standing a few feet behind the man, nodding his head and giving you two thumbs up, as if he had heard the conversation and were encouraging you to... try on the collar.

The customer experience is our number one priority.

You gulp. Why does this make you nervous? Just get it over with.

"Sure. Anything to help."

The man releases the tension in his shoulders, relieved that you agreed. "Thank you, miss. You're a lifesaver." He stands closer to you, raising his hands up to your head to collar you.

You duck down a bit to make it easier for him, looking at the gray vinyl floor. You think of your dream, your body breaking and bending and twisting from a force beyond your control.

The dog he's planning on adopting must be a larger breed, because though you would consider yourself to have an average-sized head, it does in fact fit.

It sits, weighty yet comfortably, around your neck. You instinctively touch the cool, metal sliding ring resting at the hollow of your throat with your fingers.

"Beautiful," he says.

You're starved enough for attention that you pretend he's saying it to you and not to the fit of the collar itself.

He winks cheekily. "I think this'll fit my girl nicely."

He's adopting a female dog, then.

"Will that be all?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to check out."

You go to remove the collar yourself, your fingertips brushing the polyester material of the climbing rope, but he interrupts you.

"Here, I got it."

His fingers, thick, you note, graze the sides of your neck when he removes the collar. You smile shyly at him once it's no longer around your neck, your faces a bit too close to be polite.

You follow him to the register to ring him up, making idle conversation, "the weather's been nice lately, hasn't it?" "It sure has. I hope you take advantage of it, miss," and hand him his receipt, and then he's gone.

That was not the strangest thing you've experienced in this store, but it was strange.

You double-check the aisle with the collars, rubbing your fingertip along the circumference of the metal ring of the exact one the man had purchased. You don't know why you felt the need to confirm that they were here.

What attracted you to this position out of high school was that it had decent benefits, decent pay, and it was one bus ride away from your parents' home and then, when you moved out, walking distance to your apartment.

What's keeping you here now, though, you're not too sure. You planned to go to the community college at some point when you had saved up enough money to study something, but that never came to pass. You got trapped in the comfort zone.

A little too late now to regret not having done more for yourself, so you try not to. There's still time if you were to somehow get the courage to change your life.

The bell rings as a couple strolls in. You recognize them as two kids, now adults the same age as you, who went to your high school. It's been years since you've come across anyone from then, and you had almost convinced yourself you were the last of your class in Pittsburgh.

They don't recognize you when you ring up their cat food. A few cans of the wet variety.

It's better they don't. You don't have the fondest memories of your high school years.

"You two are a cute couple," you say, bagging the cans. Not for any reason besides to make some small talk.

Engage with the customers. Communicate. Connect. That's what separates us from them.

"Thanks! We just got engaged," she says, holding her left hand out, a giant, gleaming rock on her wedding finger. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Me?" you ask, almost appalled. "No, I haven't had the, uh, best of luck in the dating department."

She beams. "There's this speed dating event happening soon. I'm one of the organizers. You should consider signing up."

She hands you a flier from her purse, and you skim through the details before folding it up into squares, placing it in your pocket, knowing you'll likely find it in the washing machine later, torn to shreds.

"Thanks. I'll think about it." You pass her the receipt and bag of cat food. "Have a great rest of your day, you two."

Your boss, Mark, tends to hover. And in his hovering, he tends to overhear.

You're eating lunch in the break room with Katy, a woman who's long in the tooth and has a mean bite. She tolerates you, though. You're not sure what that says about you as a person, but you won't shoo away company.

Mark takes a seat beside you in what was an empty chair, and Katy stands up, her chair screeching as it's pushed back. She doesn't like Mark, so her lunch is as good as over.

He stares holes into her retreating back before turning his attention to you. "I happened to overhear that customer inviting you to a speed dating shindig. Are you going?"

You shrug, twirling your soggy noodles over and over again in the cup. "Um. I dunno. I haven't thought about it, to be honest."

"You have to go. How many years have you been working here, and you're still single?"

You're taken aback. "Why does that matter?"

He shoves his phone in your face, a selfie of him and his wife lounging on the deck of a beach bungalow, sick in love.

You remember when Mark went away on his honeymoon last year. You were temporarily assigned manager. It was one of the worst weeks of your life.

"You have to take chances. Put yourself out there. I swore off the apps, but I gave it one more chance, and look. I got married."

You don't know on the dot when you two got close enough for him to speak to you like this. But you are his longest-lasting employee and younger than the rest, so maybe he feels paternal toward you.

You do see him more than your actual father now that you think about it.

You sigh, yielding. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out."

What do you have to lose? The event is Friday, and you're not scheduled to work. You can dip out the moment your anxiety spikes too high.

Mark claps a hand over your shoulder. "Excellent!"

He leaves you alone in the break room, and soon enough you can hear him getting into it with Katy.

Looking down into your cup, you frown. Your noodles are not only soggy but have now turned a ghoulish gray. You wouldn't feed this to your pet.

An elderly man brings in his sick cat, thinking that the pet store is an animal hospital. He's dizzy with worry and scarcely gets his words across. You feel bad for the pair of them and look up directions to the nearest clinic.

The cat, cradled in the arms of its owner like a baby, then pukes all over the front of your shirt and on the floor, some splashing onto the toes of your sneakers. Mark takes over, directing the man two streets down to a veterinary clinic, and you excuse yourself to clean up, using the paper towels in the employee restroom to fruitlessly wipe away the stains on your shirt. Of course you don't have spare clothes in your locker. You smell like cat puke the rest of the day.

One day, you're going to quit this place.

Mark and Katy get into a spat about pricing inaccuracies.

"I only label the prices. I don't set the prices. Don't pin this on me, Mark."

"But you're supposed to check that it matches the one in the POS before you stick them on the merchandise!"

And when you try to break up what is looking to become a fistfight, Katy accidentally slaps you across the face.

"Look at what you fuckin' made me do! Are you okay, hun?"

You're going to quit this place.

Today nothing bad happens. You clock in, and you clock out. But all through your shift, you have this crushing, despairing feeling in your chest because you know you're never going to quit this place.

Tomorrow is the speed dating event. As you think about what you're going to wear while mopping the floor along an aisle, a pair of boots comes into view.

The same ones he had on last time. You look up, and there he is, the man who collared you.

"Hey, there. Remember me?"

How could you forget? That interaction didn't leave your mind for days afterward. Every time you passed by the shelf with those collars, you thought of him.

"Of course. Is everything alright?"

You don't see too many repeat customers. Customers in general, quite frankly. Big box stores and online shopping and pet subscription boxes are forcing stores like these to close. It can be a ghost town at times. The dirt and dust tracked in from the outside are more imaginary than real.

You almost want it to happen—the store closing. Then you'd be forced to move on. You're not so lucky, though.

He rubs the nape of his neck. "I need to return the collar I bought."

You peer out past the endcap and look to the cash registers crowded in the middle of the store, a few aisles down.

Empty.

"Someone should be manning the registers. So sorry about that."

You set the mop and bucket to the side, the wooden handle leaning against a shelf with a wide array of cat and dog treats, and place down a wet floor sign.

He shakes his head. "I'm in no rush."

You lead the way to the registers and process his return, typing codes into the computer. You ask, curious, "is there a reason why you're returning this? Something wrong with it?"

He mulls over his answer. "No, it's not that."

You glance at him, quirking a brow. The cash drawer pops open, and you hand him his cash back, his fingertips skimming yours.

"The adoption fell through," he explains, shrugging. "Have no use for it now."

You wonder what made the adoption go sideways. Was it a behavioral issue, or was it simply a matter of personality? "Sorry it didn't work out. But I'm sure there's a dog out there waiting for you to be their owner."

He huffs a laugh. "You might be right."

You're home, immobile on the couch, when you should be on the bus that goes downtown. There's another one arriving in twenty minutes.

You showered and put on some makeup, but if you don't get dressed now, you're going to be late. And if you're late, you'd rather not go because then you'd be giving a bad impression.

Is anything good going to come out of this, though? Speed dating, as far as you know, is hit or miss. And you're like a magnet for misfortune.

Your phone vibrates in your lap. A text from Mark.

I want to hear all about your dates tomorrow!

You groan. You should've switched your schedule around to have tomorrow off of work.

Though you drag your feet, you get off the couch and get dressed. At the very least, you can tell him you went and showed your face. You make it to the bus stop just in the nick of time and are the last to board.

It rained earlier, and the inside of the bus smells like the aftermath of getting caught in it. Except worse. Like a damp dog instead of damp human skin intermingled with petrichor. You hope it doesn't rub off on you.

The speed dating is held at a small party venue. You feel out of place among the other women, who are dressed in nicer clothing and have bigger, prettier smiles. Your dress is itchy, and your heels pinch your toes. Already, you're regretting this.

You arrived a little too late to get yourself a drink at the cash bar to untangle your knotted nerves. You get signed in and are given a nametag, then are seated at a table by one of the volunteers. You're told to wait.

"We'll be bringing out the other half of the participants soon. Your first date will be here shortly."

The other half being the men, you suppose. The flier said this was a straight speed dating event. Currently only women are seated at the tables.

They must be waiting around in one of the connected rooms. After a few minutes, a set of double doors on the far end of the room open, and a diverse group of men file in. Skinny, heavyset, short, tall, black, white, and everything in between. All in their twenties to fifties. All handsome.

Last to enter is someone you least expect. It's as if he can tell you're watching him, because his eyes cut to yours instantly.

The man from the store heads straight toward you and sits across from you. The man isn't just "the man" anymore, though. His name is Jack, according to the name tag stickied onto his polo shirt. It's funny. How he has known your name from the moment you met, pinned to your work shirt right above your breast, but only now are you learning his.

"This is unexpected," he says, chuckling in a low, deep voice. "Looking for love too, huh."

In this slant of light, much more vibrant than the dull fluorescent in the pet store, his eyes look wolfish, almost. Angled at the inner and outer corners. An almond shape. The outer iris is a dark, forest green with flecks of amber splashed around it. The full, gray head of hair on his head and white, scruffy beard round out the animalistic look.

His shirt fits him like a glove, the bulge of his biceps glaring and distracting. The topmost buttons are popped open, and you sneak a peek at the skin of his chest, flushed pink. A little white fur there, too.

You snort, a heat rising to your cheeks. Your heart is hammering. Meeting him here has to mean something. Doesn't it?

You allow your delusions to take root, your confidence seemingly growing and blossoming from nowhere.

"Maybe I've found it already," you tease. "What are the odds we'd meet again here?"

The corner of his lip ticks up. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Let's see how well you can hold a conversation."

Each couple has ten minutes together before an alarm rings and the men are shuffled to the next table. 

Two minutes, everyone! Start wrapping up your conversations!

You've managed to hold yourself above water for eight of them. Jack is easy to talk to, though, so you give him most of the credit.

You're amazed he doesn't just up and leave.

On top of his looks, after learning he's an emergency physician over at PTMC and a decorated combat medic veteran, "medically discharged on account of my leg being blown off. It's okay. You can laugh about it. I do," you think your chances with him are even lower than where they're buried six feet under.

"Do you have any pets?" he asks. "Maybe take advantage of an employee discount?"

You huff a laugh. "There's no discount, unfortunately. But no, my apartment doesn't allow pets."

He hums. "One of the nice things about owning a house."

You nod. And a whole lot nicer to live in than your shoddy apartment, you're sure.

"So, um..." you start, floundering.

Time is running out. You should make the most of the minute and thirty seconds you have left with him, but you don't know what else to say.

He picks up the slack. "A few more things I want to ask, sweetheart."

The pet name stirs up something in you. Makes you feel like a lovestruck puppy. You try to keep calm. "Go for it."

"What would you consider your biggest strength?" His elbows on the table, he interlocks his fingers, resting his chin on his hands.

You choke on a laugh. He arches a brow.

"Sorry. Just feels like an interview question."

He chuckles, the fine lines around his eyes creasing. Your face lights up because you made him do that. You want to see what he looks like when he smiles big and wide, his canines exposed.

"You can interpret it as one. Isn't that what speed dating basically is?"

"Good point." You chew on a fingernail. "Maybe loyalty? I've been at Animal Kingdom for almost ten years and have no intention of quitting." It's not loyalty as much as it is you chickening out of handing in your two-week notice time and time again. You hold back a grimace. "And, you know, if we were to be in a relationship, I'd be loyal to you, too. But that goes without saying."

"Loyalty," Jack repeats, mumbling to himself. "And your biggest weakness?"

"That's… harder to answer," because I have so many, all equally detrimental, you don't say. "I tend to daydream a lot? Get lost in my head," you decide on. "It's a thing at work. My coworkers tease me about it. It's not really been an issue, though."

He shakes his head. "That's not a weakness. I find that endearing. The world needs more dreamers like you."

The alarm sounds out, almost shocking you out of your chair. Time is up.

He watches you for a moment, glued to his chair when he should be moving to the next table.

"Why don't we get out of here?" he asks. "You said you rode the bus, right? I can drive us back to mine."

Your brows shoot up to your hairline. "What, really? Don't you want to talk to the other women?" You gesture around the room.

"I don't need to. I found you, and I'm taking you home, if you'll allow me." He stands, offering his hand to you, and adds, "my perfect match."

Jack brings you back to his house. A one-story rancher with a sleek, gray shingled roof and a manicured lawn. You wonder with his schedule if he does the upkeep himself or pays someone to do it.

During your date, he told you that on the weekends, or his version of them, anyway, he used to volunteer for TEMS as a SWAT physician. He has healthier hobbies now, though. "Got shot one too many times." But with how long his shifts run at the hospital, it's a miracle he has free time at all.

You shut the passenger door of his truck and follow behind him as you walk up the stone path. He unlocks the front door and gestures for you to enter.

As you remove your heels in the doorway, you take in the view of his house. The walls are professionally painted, and the floor is waxed. Open concept with ample room for him to navigate in his wheelchair. The couch is made of natural fabric and is gorgeous, especially compared to the tattered one you have back at home. The coffee table is bare, save for several open and scattered medical journals with their pages dog-eared.

On the minimalist side. Not a photo is hung up in sight, like all he has space for are the bare necessities. A home absent of traces of anyone but him. It seems he's been on his own for a long time.

"Come on," he says, leading you gently by the elbow and nodding his head at the couch. "Sit. Let's talk a little more. You want somethin' to drink?"

"Water, please."

Your glass of water is left untouched.

Conversation is a pretense for what Jack wants to do with you. Part of which involves capturing your lips with his and slipping his tongue into your mouth. Running papillae over the white of your teeth.

When was the last time you kissed someone?

He doesn't let go of you when he guides you toward his bedroom, clumsily walking backward in the hallway, his arms wrapped around your waist and his lips on yours, not giving you a chance to catch your breath.

"Ever been with an amputee?" he asks, parting from you, humor in his voice.

You fill your lungs, chest rising and falling fast. You're so out of practice it's embarrassing. "I can't say that I have," you admit. "But it doesn't bother me at all."

"Good."

You make it to his bedroom, and he gently guides you to sit back on his bed. It dips as he plops down beside you. He lifts his right pant leg and, with a stifled groan, works the socket loose and removes his prosthesis, along with his socks and liner, and massages his residual limb, rough hands rubbing down swollen tissue.

His wheelchair sits by the bedside as well as a pair of forearm crutches that lean against the nightstand.

"I've been on my feet for too long today. Usually take it off as soon as I get home." He tuts. "Skin is irritated as all hell."

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask sincerely.

He smiles wryly, a combination of hurt and relief on his face. "You can come 'ere."

He draws you in with an arm around the waist for another kiss, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. His lips feel warm on yours. Rough from being slightly chapped, too. He bites your lower lip, and you feel those canines you wanted to see in a smile earlier. Hard. You gasp into his mouth.

"Sorry, sweetie. Just got a little excited," he mumbles. The skin of your lip punctures, splits open, and is raw. His teeth are sharper than you would've expected from a red-blooded man. He swipes his tongue over your throbbing lip. "Forgive me?"

You can smell the blood like a bloodhound. You nod. You don't mind the pain.

"Is it okay if we take things further?" he asks, resting his forehead against yours.

"You want to?" Though you feel a bit stupid for asking. What else would he have brought you back for?

"Course. Unless you don't. We can stop here, and you can stay the night, sleep in my guestroom. Don't want you going home at this hour."

"Jack, I'm flattered, but... why me?"

"Why not you?"

You stumble over your words. "I—I dunno. I just. You didn't even give those other women a chance." You shrug. "It's just hard to believe ten minutes was enough to decide you wanted me."

He pats your thigh, giving it a little squeeze. "I think you're special. This was meant to be. Maybe you don't see it, but I do."

You look down at your lap, unsure. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger.

"Look at me. Don't get lost in your head. Just try to enjoy this. I'll make it easy," he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

You whisper "okay," wrapping your fingers around the thick of his wrist.

You trust him. Maybe too implicitly.

A tiny drop of blood wells up from your lower lip. He swipes it away with his thumb and brings his thumb to his mouth, streaking red across his lips before kissing you again.

You haven't had the most sexual partners. But of all the ones you've slept with, this time with Jack proves to be the most... white-hot and passionate.

You were more than happy to accommodate any position he was comfortable with. You offered to be on top, but he wanted to "see what you look like panting under me."

A pillow is placed under your hips to give you a bit of lift, which puts less pressure on his knees as they support his lower half, his body draped over yours. His forearms are braced by the sides of your head, and he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss.

His thrusts are punishing. You can barely reach far enough into your mind to pause to ask if his stump is causing him discomfort, let alone string together words. He seems fine, though. Or more so focused on your pleasure than on his pain.

Then again, he's been fucking like this for as long as he's had his amputation, and that was some time ago—years of experience under his belt during which you were in high school. The thought spreads more heat to your belly.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. Sweat sticking you together, a drop trailing down the valley of your breasts. His pelvic bone grinds into your sensitive, swollen clit, fat with arousal, insistent with every rock of his hips.

When Jack had undressed and you got sight of his cock, flushed an angry red, you couldn't contain your moan.

He asked, honestly, "see what you do to me?" while stroking himself to full mast. "How can you think I don't want you? Just need some cock to set you straight."

You whimper into his mouth as his cockhead punches far inside of you. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving welts in their wake.

He parts from your lips, breathing out against your ear. "Gonna let me come inside this pretty cunt? Give me a litter?"

You whine, nodding, crystalline tears falling freely down the sides of your face to your ears when the head of his cock hits your cervix. You're distantly aware that you're on birth control, but that doesn't come to the front of your mind when you tell him, "yes, come inside me, Jack."

And he does. His come spits out of his cockhead and sprays your inner walls, flooding your cunt. Your inner muscles work his length, work as much of his come into your womb as they can.

Once your heart rates have settled, Jack rolls over and carefully scoots himself onto his wheelchair by the bedside.

"I'll be back. Need to wash up my leg."

You sit up, covering your chest with the comforter. "Would you like any help?"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me—you should rest."

"I'm not worried. I'm offering because I want to."

Your straightforwardness surprises you both.

He smirks, chuckling softly. "Alright, then."

He bends forward at the waist to collect his boxers from the floor, shuffling into them, and then tosses you his t-shirt to wear.

You throw him a toothy grin as you put it on and follow him into the ensuite, willfully ignoring the come slowly leaking out between your wobbly legs.

You slide the glass shower door and help him from his wheelchair onto the shower bench, one of his hands clasped in yours, his other around a grab bar.

You reach for the detachable showerhead and open the tap, check that the temperature is a comfortable warm, and then hand it to him. You sit on the edge of the tub as he proceeds to lather his stump with antibacterial soap, rinse, lather, and rinse again.

He watches you watch him, a glint in his eye. "You're a good girl, aren't you."

"What—what do you mean?"

"Watching and learning my routine, I can't help but think this is you preparing for the future."

"The future? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

"No, because I'm hoping this isn't going to be just a one-night stand. I want to take you out. On a real date." He reaches for a towel on the nearby rack to dry off his residual limb, now clean. "One turns into two, two into three, and the rest will be history. You'll let me wine and dine you, right?"

You scoff, though mirthfully, not quite believing what you're hearing.

"So?" he urges. "Don't leave a man hanging."

You shake your head, laughing. "I'd love to go out on a date with you, Jack."

"So, what happened with the adoption?" you ask. It's not been bothering you not knowing, per se, but the question has been bouncing around in your head, and your curiosity has gotten the better of you. "Like, was the dog misbehaving or something?"

He beats around the bush. "We just, uh, didn't see eye-to-eye."

"Explain that statement."

He rubs his palm down your back, kneading tense muscles. "She was more… high-energy than I was prepared for. I don't think she would've been happy with me. It's not good to force a dog into a home."

That feeds your curiosity, though you can't come up with a worthwhile response. You yawn and cuddle up to his side, dropping the subject. His thick fingers manipulate your body with ease, loosening hard muscle that connects to tendon that connects to bone. Sleep takes you.

He prepares you both a light breakfast before he leaves for his double shift. He lets you spend the better half of the morning here, asking that you lock up before taking the Uber he ordered for you home, which will get you back in time to get ready for your midday shift at the pet store.

He kisses you on the cheek goodbye. You capitalize on the moment and steal the shower for yourself. You use his products. They smell like him. Woody sandalwood and vetiver and something inherently masculine. In the bedroom, you get changed into a pair of boxers, a plain t-shirt, and some sweats he left behind for you, your underwear conveniently missing and your dress rumpled from last night.

Your Uber is arriving soon.

You make sure you have your phone and purse before you leave. On the ride home, you have a stupid smile on your face.

The text reads, when are you free for our first date?

You start seeing each other casually.

Matinee movie showings to bottomless mimosas (and manmosas) at brunch. It offends him when you pull out your wallet, so he pays for everything.

Normally one-night stands are just that, but somehow you have beaten the odds.

He picks you up for coffee, and afterward, you both decide to take a stroll in a park a little drive away, which has a number of benches throughout in case his leg aches.

You've been here before when you were but a child. There's a pond in the near distance that serves as the marker for the halfway point for the trail. You rush ahead of him to get to it.

All you hear is the gust of the wind blowing past your ears as you run, excitement bubbling up within you like you're that child again.

Then, he whistles. Loud and piercing; enough to make you stop in your tracks. Birds caw as they fly from the surrounding trees.

You're such an idiot. It's an unconscious thing but a behavior you'll need to correct: leaving him behind because he can't walk or run as fast as you can. On account of the prosthesis and, well, his age.

You turn back around and jog to make up the distance between you.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I wasn't thinking." You offer your hand. "So I don't run away again."

He grunts, interlocking your fingers. "Careful, or I might have to put you on a leash next time."

A farmer's market on a Sunday. You stop at a stall to sample the pierogis, rich and warm, the scent of buttermilk and clean dough lingering like the press of a kiss on your forehead—a cozy, nostalgic kind of scent.

You're a messy eater, you. You get sour cream all over your chin, lips, and fingers and lap the tang clean. He watches the pink tip of your tongue coat itself in white as if hypnotized. Dips his finger into the dollop of sour cream on his own plate and brings it to your lips. You laugh, but then suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, humming around the sun-warmed salt of his skin and sour-fresh goodness.

He pulls his finger out of your mouth with a pop and dips it into the sour cream again. Offers it to you again.

"Lick it this time," he orders. "Slowly."

A blur around you; the stall and the market are too busy for anyone to notice or care that you're licking cream off his finger like a kitten with a bowl of fresh milk. You are in your own world.

He invites you over for dinner on one of his nights off. After some back-and-forth, you wear him down enough that he relents and lets you help him prepare it. Next to the pot, on the kitchen counter, is a film packet of De Cecco spaghetti. On a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, two halves of a loaf of fresh Italian bread with garlic butter spread on top.

You excuse yourself to the restroom while he watches the garlic bread bake and the spaghetti boil, standing in the kitchen on his forearm crutches.

At the dining table, you recreate the iconic Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene, as cheesy as it is. When your lips meet, it's a little gross: the grease of meaty tomato sauce coating lips, pieces of pasta trapped between teeth, saliva dribbling down your chin when he kisses you like he's trying to swallow you whole.

He chuckles when you pull apart. "You look a mess," he teases. He wipes the lower half of your face with a paper towel.

You can't remember the last time you were this happy. Jack tells you the same.

A half turn of the season since you've started dating. He offers you a key to his house.

You're a bit worried about how fast your relationship is progressing and refuse it, but you're over so often that he says, "might as well," and presses it into your palm.

"Thank you for trusting me." It's not as if he's asking you to move in. Still, you don't take advantage of it. It's left dangling on your keyring, untouched.

That is, until you decide to treat him after a miserable week of work. He should be coming back from his shift in the next ten minutes or so. You spent the morning preparing a feast of all his favorite breakfast foods.

As you dry the last of the dishes with a towel, you hear the jangling of keys and the front door opening. Jack is home.

He calls out your name, sensing your presence, and you smile as you walk up to him.

"I knew it was you," he says, the corners of his lips curling up. His nose scrunches up as he inhales the salty smell of bacon. He looks to the dining table, whereupon lie heaps upon heaps of food. "Sweetheart, did you make us breakfast? For the week?"

You nod, giggling and stealing his backpack from where it's slung over his shoulder and hooking it onto the rack. "I did. And I did it after finally using the key you gave me."

With a hand to the back of your neck, he brings you closer, planting a kiss on the tip of your nose, dusty with pancake mix.

"I love coming home to you."

Your pupils dilate and your heart leaps.

If you had one (dreams don't count), your tail would be wagging.

Man has a total of two hundred and six bones in the body. Canines have approximately three hundred and twenty-one. Yours crack, splinter, pierce internal organs as they fragment to make up for that one hundred and fifteen number difference. In the first few minutes, you feel nothing. You just hear the snap, crackle of collagen yielding to the force of the transformation.

Then, devastating pain. It is the worst pain you have ever felt. And in the liminal space between wakefulness and sleepiness, you can register it all along your body.

You wake up breathless, swiftly scanning your torso and upper and lower extremities under the covers.

Human.

You turn to Jack. He is fast asleep, puffing out soft breaths. You sneak out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, chugging it down to calm yourself.

You return to bed and, after some tossing and turning, fall back asleep, picking up where the dream left off. The pain is gone. You're something dog-like again. Your owner comes into view.

They have a material quality to them now. Not shapeless and indeterminate like they were before; the shape of a man. But like a mannequin in shadow, he has no discernable features.

He pets your head and tells you it's going to be alright. You roll over, show your belly to him. He is proud.

In the morning, you wake with a yawn and a stretch, feeling much better than when you had woken up in the middle of the night.

Jack is looking down at you, resting his head on his hand, his elbow propped on his pillow. He pets your head, swipes his thumb across your sleep-glossed cheek.

"G'morning. Sleep well?"

Lunch at work is spent not with a ramen cup but with finger foods and cake.

Mark is throwing Katy a retirement party.

Though she's been here just shy of five years, she's old enough now to receive benefits and has decided, "I'm fuckin' done with this shit."

Mark was over the moon when she came to him with the news, and he hired someone right away to replace her.

Animal Kingdom is small, one of the smaller branches in the small food chain of stores. There's a total of ten employees, and the others are a mix of full- and part-timers.

Everyone is here today for the party, though. Except the new kid who's watching over the store in the meantime. You feel a bit silly wearing the dog ears headband you were handed at the breakroom door, but the others have them on, and you don't want to be a spoilsport.

You wish Jack were here. And at the same time, you don't. This place has its way of sinking its teeth into you. And he has better things to do than be your shoulder to lean on at a work party that you'd rather clean out litter boxes than be at.

As people gather around Katy as she says a few parting words, "good fucking luck, the lot of yinz," you're tapped on the shoulder.

You turn around, your eyes widening.

"Jack? What are you doing here?"

He regards your dog ears with mild curiosity before his eyes drop to yours. "I thought I'd stop by and bring you lunch. Young man at the register led me back here. Is this a party?"

You pull him by the wrist to the corner of the room before anyone can spot him. "Yeah, one of us is retiring." You look down at the lunch bag by his side. "What'd you get?"

"A sandwich and chips from that place you like."

You hold up your plate of half-eaten pigs in a blanket, sticks of carrots, and sheet cake. "You should've told me you were dropping in. I would've saved my appetite."

He shrugs. "It's fine. You can eat it later. I really just came here to see you. I missed you."

You flash a smile. "I missed you, too."

He jerks his chin toward the group exchanging war stories. "Do you have to stay?"

"I mean, it's either this or I go back to work."

"How about a third thing?"

He encloses your wrist in his hand and leads you out of the room. None of your coworkers notice, too wrapped up in Katy's commemoration.

"Is there a storage closet or somethin'?" he asks, looking up and down the hallway.

You giggle. "Seriously, Jack? Here? I could get fired."

"Would that be so bad? You could just stay home with me," he says nonchalantly. "In fact, why don't you quit? You know I'll take care of you."

"I can't just quit. This job is all I have besides you."

You're joking. But not really. But Jack, he is joking. Or at least you tell yourself that. But he doesn't really seem to be joking, either.

"Uh-huh. Well, tell me where we can get some privacy, and you won't get fired."

You point to a room a few doors down from the break room, walking toward it. You hand him your plate and fumble with your set of work keys, singling out the one to the storage closet. The door opens, and he ushers you inside, locking it behind him.

The plate and the sandwich get set on a shelf among some cleaning supplies. Immediately, Jack is pushing you back against the wall, untucking your work shirt from your slacks, which he then unzips to pull your underwear down around your mid-thigh.

"Fuck, Jack, slow down," you whisper. "We have time. The party won't be over for another, like, fifteen minutes."

"'m sorry. Just want you," he mumbles before pressing his lips to yours.

He frees himself from his jeans and boxers and pumps himself to hardness. You can hear the slick motion of his fist moving up and down his shaft. You clench your thighs, your cunt sticky-wet.

He secures a hand on your hip, and with the other, rubs his cockhead through your folds, gathering your slick to line himself up and sink into your cunt. Once he's to the hilt inside you, his hand goes to cradle the curve of your jaw, his fingers making contact with the temple pieces of your headband.

"Fuckin' love seeing you wear this. So cute. My puppy," he emphasizes with a sharp thrust of his hips. The ears flap with your movement.

His words simultaneously make your stomach turn and a heat spread across your cheeks.

"You like it? I thought it was silly," you half giggle, half moan against his lips.

His hand reappears on your hip to join the other, his fingers bruising your flesh in a tight squeeze as he all but spears you onto his cock. The wall at your back prevents any escape. Your hands grip his shoulders, fingernails digging in, barely contained moans tumbling past your lips.

"Why don't you be a good girl and give me a little bark, huh?"

It's not lost on you how bizarre this is. The headband is bad enough, but Jack's request is a little too on the nose. What was an ambiguous, happy, and horrifying dream is bleeding full tilt into reality.

The dreams have not stopped and, in fact, have persisted since meeting him. Have become a closer mimic of reality, however uncanny.

And yet, you do it anyway. You indulge him with a pathetic bark.

"Ruff!"

He throbs inside of you, picking up the speed of his thrusts. His pubic bone bullies your clit, and you clench down on him, an orgasm pulled out of you embarrassingly fast.

"Fuck. That's it. That's my good puppy. Come on your daddy's cock."

He slaps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as you keen, your eyes squeezing shut and your legs shaking like jelly as he fucks you through the tail end of your release.

He spills inside of you, and after, he asks you to "get on your knees, puppy. Wanna gag you on my cock."

When you return to the break room after seeing Jack out of the store, the salt of him lingering on your tongue, the party is over.

"Where have you been?" Mark asks, transferring the leftover sheet cake to the fridge. "You know what? Never mind. Can you take over for the new guy? He let someone walk out with an aquarium."

"Turn around. I wanna see you," he says.

Facing him, the spray hits your back and shoulders. Warm, soapy water cascades down into a swirl at your feet.

Jack is just in front of you, sitting on his shower bench, lathering shampoo onto his head of curly hair. By his side is the detachable showerhead, the flow of water reduced to a trickle. He presses the button, the flow returns in full force, and he rinses his hair.

"You're so pretty, puppy," he says, voice throaty with lust.

After the tryst in the supply closet, the pet name stuck.

His eyes scour your body, and instinctively you cross your arms over your chest and cross your legs, despite him having seen your naked body more times than you can count.

He pats the empty space next to him, setting down the showerhead. "C'mere."

You sit beside him, mumbling, "this is such a waste of water."

He chuckles. "Forget the water. You're right where you belong."

He pulls you closer so you're half seated in his lap and cups one of your breasts, slippery with soap, squeezing the curve of it until the fat plumps up in his hand. He leans down to suck a bruise onto the side of your neck as he thumbs your nipple.

You whimper, your spine tingling, your sore cunt clenching down on nothing. It seems no matter how many times he makes you come, no matter how many times he fucks your cunt full, you can never get enough of him.

Just before this, he took you from behind, his body weight like an anvil on your back, your neck trapped in the crook of his arm. Yet it was tranquilizing, as if you had been slipped something; you were too high off his body heat and the drag of his cock along your walls to know fear.

With one word, one snap of his fingers, one puppy-dog-eyed look, you come crawling. And when he's away during the day, your brain is so wired to him that even the scent he leaves behind on his pillow makes you salivate, your clit throb.

He stops the attack on your neck and angles his head lower to lick along your collarbone, but you pull him by the scruff of his neck before he can get carried away.

You level him with a serious look. "Please don't take what I'm going to say the wrong way, but I feel like... I feel like I'm getting Pavlov'd by you. Calling me 'puppy' doesn't help matters."

He stares at you, unblinking. Like he's stuck processing what you just said. Then he laughs. You laugh, too.

A ridiculous notion after saying it out loud. No, if anything, what you feel for him is closer to love than a response to classical conditioning.

Still, maybe it's easier to swallow, to say you're no better than a dog, than to admit such big, human feelings.

"What are you trying to say?" he asks.

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. "I think I like you too much. Is what I'm trying to say. It's not a bad thing. It's just. You make me a little crazy. Is all."

He laughs again, his chest spasming against your back. You fight the urge to press your thumb into the tip of his canine to test how much pressure you need to apply before it bleeds.

"If we're pouring our hearts out... I also think I like you too much."

He says it so sincerely your heart nearly beats out of your chest.

After a second, he adds, "I can stop calling you puppy. Just tell me what you want," he murmurs, nosing your pulse point, fingers gripping your thighs to pull them apart.

He thickens beneath you, the head of his cock poking your ass cheek.

"No, I think—" You break on a moan when his fingers run along the seam of your cunt, splitting you in two. You can hear how wet you are with every upward and downward motion, even over the running shower water, and your face feels like it's on fire. "I think it's growing on me."

"Good," he rasps, teasing the rim of your hole before breaching it with the tips of his fingers, stretching you open. "Let's get out of the shower. I want to eat puppy's cunt."

You are at his house more than you are at your apartment. Before his shift tonight, he fucks you nearly into an early sleep.

Puppy, puppy, puppy—

It rolls off his tongue so often you're not fazed by it anymore.

He ruts into you from behind as you lie on your side, cocooned by his strong arms and thick thighs. His chin hooked over your shoulder, he pants heavily onto the side of your neck, licking stripes up along delicate skin, and then the stabbing of possessive, sharp teeth breaks skin, ensnaring you, like he's a dog with a bone afraid to lose the one good thing he has.

Daddy, daddy, daddy—

He comes inside you and lazily grinds his hips against your ass, plugging you up.

Daddy and his puppy. Daddy and his puppy.

After, he sits by the bedside in his wheelchair as you're curled up under the covers, thumbing the apple of your cheek. You worked a closing shift last night and an opening shift this morning. You're bone-tired.

"Catch up on some sleep, puppy. I'll be back to wake you up in the morning. You're off tomorrow, right?"

You nod, murmuring something nonsensical. He presses a light kiss to your hairline, and then he's wheeling out of the bedroom to the ensuite to take a shower.

On the cusp of unconsciousness, you hear him return and rifle through the drawers for his scrubs, roll his liner and socks onto his stump to attach his prosthesis, and return his wheelchair to its spot. A routine so familiar to you, your ears are sensitive to the slightest deviation in it.

It's odd. He's moving slower than usual this morning. By now he would be in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee and tuning in to the evening news. lagging behind not on account of his prosthesis but as if he were delaying getting to work.

You're already asleep before you hear him shut the front door.

When you stir, you feel something wrapped around your neck.

You impulsively scratch at it with one hand, panic chipping away at the corners of sleep clouding your mind, and with the other, push the covers back to get up to check the mirror in the ensuite.

Why does it feel like...

You stop dead, your eyes popping open, wide awake, once you see what it is that is encircling your neck.

You gingerly press your fingers to the black choker collar, the word "pup" written in cursive across the front of the titanium heart-shaped lock dangling in the center of it.

You must be dreaming still.

You pinch yourself, rapidly blinking at your reflection.

No, you're not asleep. This is life.

A million questions pop up in your head at once:

Did Jack put this on while you were asleep? How did you not wake up? How did you sleep through the night with it on? Why the fuck did he collar you? Again?

With shaky hands, you reach your fingers to your nape, checking for a buckle or clip. You feel bile rising up your throat when you don't, though you guessed as much.

The keyhole on the heart isn't just for aesthetic purposes. You need the key to unlock the pendant and take off the collar, which you suspect Jack has somewhere on his person. The leather band is thick, and unless you want to risk nicking your carotid artery using one of his kitchen knives to cut yourself out of it, you're left with no option but to wait for his return.

Pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit into place in your mind but bring with them more questions.

The collar he had you try on at the store. Was that so he knew what size to get you to fit into this one? But that would mean he had planned to pursue you before that encounter, wouldn't it? The adoption. Was that a lie fabricated to talk to you or a genuine truth that preceded this turn of events? You don't know for sure. His fascination with calling you his "puppy." At least that seems cut and dry.

The implication is becoming clear. All this time, Jack has been waiting for what he thought might be the right time to collar you and make you his.

He didn't bother asking permission to do it. He didn't have to. In his mind, you had already given it.

This is too much. You are disgusted by his violation of your body. And yet, you feel as though you should be more disgusted than you are.

The line is blurring. You ask yourself again, is this a dream or a nightmare?

You grip the sink and take a deep breath, your mind made up, your heart not so much. You've never picked a lock before, but it shouldn't be too hard to learn. At home. You hastily gather what of your things you have sitting around the house into one of Jack's old army bags and order a rideshare back to your apartment.

Just your luck, though, that as you're about to run out the door, he walks through it.

He eyes the duffel bag in your grip and the choker collar around your neck.

"Sweetheart," he drawls, hands held out in front of him, careful to approach, like any sudden movement of his and you'll bolt. "I can explain."

You shake your head. "Let me go, Jack. Why don't you give me the key and—and let me go. Please. This... this isn't working anymore."

He steps closer. "I thought you would be open to it. We've been dancing around this for a while now. Got it custom made for you and everything."

"You can't just collar me while I'm asleep and not expect me to freak out!" you shout.

The skin of your neck itches. Sweat creeps up along your nape. You grip the heart-shaped pendant, pulling it side to side, rubbing your skin raw as the collar rotates.

"Let's talk about this, alright? I wasn't planning for—you woke up earlier than I thought you would." He curses to himself. "I should've been here."

You scoff. "Like it fucking matters whether you were here or not. You don't... you don't do this without discussing it first! Please, just give me the key. Now."

You stare each other down for a few more seconds before he drops his hands by his sides and sighs, digging one into his scrub pocket. He flashes the key and then tosses it to you.

"I wish you'd hear me out, but I won't force you to stay." Below his breath, just within earshot, he mumbles, "I thought you were the one."

You don't respond. Instead, you pocket the key and shoulder past him to rush out the door. A far enough distance away from his house, on the walk down the street where your ride awaits, you sling the duffel bag over your shoulder and fight with the lock to take off the collar.

You feel like you can breathe again once you hear a click. You unhook the shackle of the lock from the loop, and the collar comes loose. You're tempted to throw the collar, lock, and key into one of the neighbor's trash bins, but for some inexplicable reason, you don't.

As you hop into the backseat, tears roll down your face.

Jack was the one good thing you had.

He doesn't reach out to you, and perhaps that's a good thing.

But despite doing what you thought was right in leaving, it hurts that he let you go in the first place. But it doesn't hurt as much as it should because you see him every day. At least you think you do.

On the walk to the pet store, you see a head of curly hair in your periphery, a bit of natural copper clawing through the silver.

At work, you catch a figure passing by the storefront window out of the corner of your eye, too quick for you to be sure it was him. But how else do you explain the sudden swivel of your head if not pure instinct?

On your day off, while at the grocery store picking up ingredients for the week, you stumble into the arms of a man after being pushed by the cart of a rambunctious kid recklessly steering it for his parents. He catches you by the waist, asking, "are you okay?"

You nod absently, turning your head to the apologetic-looking kid behind you. When you face the man again, he's already disappeared, the heat of his hands on your waist gone with him. Only then do you register that his voice sounded familiar.

That same evening, you look out the window of your bedroom. The shrubs bordering the sidewalk shake, and you watch as a man-shaped shadow stretches out along the pavement, growing in size as he walks away from the street light.

You're either seeing what you want to see, or Jack is keeping tabs on you. You're inclined to think the former, but pitiably, you wouldn't be too put off by the latter. Though you tell yourself you're done with him, inwardly you feel conflicted because it's possible you overreacted.

He was right, after all. You two had been circling around a specific dynamic, for lack of a better term. And instead of catching your tail, you tucked it out of his house.

Prophetic, almost, what with the dreams you've been having to enter into a relationship with him. But the way he went about collaring you frightened you, as it would anyone. This fallout could've been avoided had he just communicated his desires better.

Since leaving his house that day, your dreams haven't felt much like nightmares. When you wake, all you remember is the latter part of the dream. Head scratches and belly rubs and endless, endless praise.

What truly is there left to be afraid of, you wonder.

The mold spreading out on the ceiling is the tipping point.

It is fascinating, though, despite it being a nuisance. How little it needs to subsist on to stay alive. How it branches out to seek more decaying organic matter to feed its belly, voracious.

The unit upstairs reportedly left the water in the kitchen sink running overnight, clogging the compromised, fragile plumbing system that runs through your apartment building and causing it to leak into your bedroom ceiling.

When you turned in for the night, there was nothing but an off-white popcorn ceiling. And like magic, when you woke, there was nothing but diseased black and green tucked between all of its bumps and ridges.

For the sake of covering his ass and not for the sake of your health, your landlord is asking that you spend a few nights elsewhere. The mold remediators won't be able to come in for another week.

It's been just over a couple of weeks since you broke things off with Jack and a little less than that since you stopped seeing him in every corner.

You are tempted to call him, but call your father instead. Your childhood home isn't too far from here. You haven't spoken to him in months now, but this is an emergency. You can't afford a hotel.

I'd love to have you, but now's not a good time. You should be able to figure something out. Why don't you crash at a coworker's? You're still working at the pet store, aren't you?

You hang up. It'll be another few months before you call him again, if that.

Another night sleeping under the mold won't kill you, you suppose. But you'll have to figure out something soon.

You fall asleep. You dream. You are already transformed.

Your owner appears, and he—

He went through a transformation, too.

Back when the dreams started, he was incomprehensible—an enigmatic entity that was felt more than seen. Then he was the shape of a man, a mere silhouette. Now he is just man.

He has hair on his head and eyes and a nose and lips. Freckled and sun-spotted skin. Two arms and two legs, one of which is a prosthetic leg.

But maybe he was always this way. You just couldn't see him for who he was. How could you have. You hadn't met Jack yet.

He says something you don't understand, but you know he's disappointed in you; his voice is lower pitched, drenched in resignation.

Bad dog. 

You wake up feeling nauseous and have a rotten taste in your mouth.

The mold smells. The mold is alive and breathing and healthy, and it smells. The mold is affecting your dreams.

The mold is why you reach for your phone on the nightstand and call him.

He picks up, and immediately you start.

Can I stay over for a few days? I have fucking mold on my ceiling, and it's making me sick, and I don't have anywhere else to turn.

The line is silent for a few seconds. Then, do you want me to pick you up?

Yes. If it's not a bother.

I'll be outside in thirty.

Both of you are silent in his truck; he steals glances at you at every red light, but you look straight ahead.

Out the window, from the corner of your eye, you see a man walking his dog, which stops at a red fire hydrant so it can take a leak.

As soon as you walk through the front door of his house, you say, "we need to talk."

He nods and gestures to the couch.

You throw your (his) duffel bag stuffed with a week's worth of clothes onto the floor by your feet as you sink into the cushion.

"Do you want to start, or should I?" he asks, settling in beside you, not too close, but not too far, either.

"You can start." You wring your hands. "I'm still figuring out what I'm going to say."

"You sure?"

You nod.

Alright. About what I did—"

"You could've asked me," you blurt out. His maw snaps shut. "You could've asked me what I thought about wearing a collar. About incorporating kink into our relationship. Instead, you forced it on me while I was asleep like a creep."

His shoulders sag. He looks so tired. Lifeless, almost.

He must have been hurting as much as you were in your absence, doubly so because of the guilt you can clearly see reflected in his eyes.

A stab of pain washes over you.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should've talked to you about it first. It was shortsighted of me not to."

A dry laugh. "It was. I would've heard you out."

He sighs. "It's not an excuse, but a small part of me thought you might run if I had brought anything up." His hand hovers over yours, but after a moment's hesitation, he sets it back on top of his knee. "I fucked up. We were still new and fragile, and I should've waited until we had that discussion. But as soon as I had the collar in my hand…" he trails off. "I was overeager. An old, overeager creep, as you put it."

"I didn't say old," you murmur.

"If all you want is a place to stay, then please, stay. Take the guest room. I won't bother you while you're here." He pauses, his stare burning a hole through you. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you every fuckin' day."

You're the one reaching your hand to his this time, as calloused, familiar, and warm as you remember.

"I—I missed you, too, Jack. Maybe I should've let you explain your side of the story before storming off, but I was… overwhelmed."

He shakes his head. "No, I get it. I don't blame you for it. It was my fault."

You angle your body more toward his, your knees brushing. "Look. I'm willing to pick back up where we left off. Even… try some things, if you catch my drift—as long as we're on the same page at all times."

He raises his brows, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah? You're sure?"

"Part of why I'm here is because I have no other place to go… but I've also had time to think. I want to do this with you. I guess the mold was the push I needed to clear the air. We'll start slow?"

He brushes his thumb over the pulse point of your wrist. Your pulse ticks.

"Whatever you want."

With that, you gently pull your hand away from his to rifle through your duffel bag, retrieving the collar and giving it back to him.

You reattached the heart lock, though you lost track of the key's whereabouts.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, turning it around in his hands like it holds some world-shattering secret, before meeting your eyes again.

"You kept it?" he asks.

"I couldn't get myself to throw it away," you admit.

"But what do I with it? It was supposed to be for you."

"I dunno. Save it as a memento? It's pretty, but it's not really my style. And I'd like to pick my own."

"Pick your own," he parrots, stupefied.

"If and when I'm ready for one, yes."

You take off work for the week using the last bit of vacation time you have. He does the same (though he has a lot more time to burn than you do).

"I'm not lettin' this week go to waste," he says. "Gotta lot of catching up to do."

That first night, you sleep in the same bed like no time has passed, cradled in his arms, his broad chest rising and falling against your back, soft breaths puffed out along the sensitive shell of your ear.

At sunrise, you feel him hard and insistent, slowly grinding his cock against the curve of your ass, a pathetic wetness pooling between your legs.

"Mornin'," he grunts, anchoring a hand on your hip, drawing you closer into the bulk of him.

"Good morning to you, too," you tease, pressing back against his erection, voice soft with sleep and longing.

Too impatient and with a cunt too empty to take your time, you turn around in his arms and push him onto his back, hovering over him, fumbling to pull his cock out of his boxers.

With some spit and a few strokes of your hand, he's stiff, bobbing up toward the ceiling, pre-come dribbling from his slit.

You peel off your underwear and sink down on him inch by painstaking inch, a pleasurable fullness curling your toes once you're seated on his cock.

You've never felt as complete as you do when he's inside you.

"Take what belongs to you, baby. Fuck, this cunt missed me, didn't she?"

He grabs fistfuls of your ass and bounces you on his cock while thrusting up into you, watching your breasts shake beneath the cotton of your sleep gown, your hard nipples poking through the thin fabric.

"Gonna come, Jack. Oh God—please, please, please—"

"My pretty baby. My pretty baby and her tight, puppy cunt—"

Hearing "puppy" again tightens the coil living in the pit of your stomach, a dormant, hibernating thing if not for Jack. A choked cry, and then you're falling apart, landing on his chest, bawling into the crook of his neck because you have him again.

You do away with slow. You just can't help yourself when it comes to him.

He orders a collar—strictly for play, a removable one—and leash set online. Not custom-made quality like the collar before, but it will suffice.

The material of the collar is black leather with gold-plated metal used for the buckle and the O-ring. The chain of the leash is the same gold-plated metal; the handle is the same black leather.

The set arrives the next day.

Breakfast (and brunch and lunch and dinner) at home because he doesn't want to share you with the world just yet if he can help it, hoarding the sweet, honey-ripe scent of you so no one can get a whiff.

Like a dog caching his prized possession.

And afterward, hands fisting the sheets, face down, ass up, you're a sticky, syrupy mess of sweat and slick.

His hands are like hot stones over the flesh of your hips, deliciously warm, fucking you back onto his cock with every thrust, a pillow placed under his residual limb for maximum comfort, his weight distributed more to his left side to put less stress on his right knee.

You feel him more deeply in this position. Digging through your stomach, clawing up your throat.

He wraps the excess length of the chain around his hand and tugs, forcing an arch to your back, choking you firmly yet tenderly, his grip taut but controlled. You grow lightheaded; it's a difficult thing to breathe around the thick of his cock and the tug of the leash.

Adrenaline pumps through your veins. Your cunt clamps down on him, your hole leaking with nectar.

He loosens his grip on the leash, and your head drops forward onto the mattress. Oxygen enters your bloodstream with every ragged intake of breath.

Your brain feels fuzzy. A warmth settles over you. Your orgasm is indulgent, saccharine, so much so you can taste it: fresh spring air and sifted sugar and milkweed nectar. You're a trembling, twitching thing under Jack, who continues to ram your cunt, chasing his release.

"Who's daddy's good girl, huh? Tell me."

He slaps his hand over the skin of your ass cheek when you don't respond.

Your tongue thick in your mouth, your voice wrecked, but you manage to cry out, "me—I am—I'm your good girl!"

"That's right, puppy."

It starts when the headband makes itself at home on your head. A reminder of the years you spent working with Katy that you brought with you because you knew he'd love seeing you wear it again.

He's thick in his hand, pumping himself as he sits in his wheelchair, cockhead leaking and swollen, a slick glide of his fist along his shaft, wet with pre-come and a copious amount of your saliva.

Kneeling by his feet, your tank top is pushed up over your breasts, your nipples stiffened into little peaks. The chain of the leash dangles between you, clink, clink, as he grips the handle.

You suck on the tip of his cock as you massage his heavy balls with one hand, the other gripping the armrest on his chair. A frothy, milky mess coats the base of his cock, dripping down to his balls and soaking your fingers.

"Sit back," he grunts, his voice a thick rasp.

You obey. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers itching to touch him again.

He continues to stroke his cock with one hand. He stares at your breasts, the saliva dripping down your chin, your glassy eyes, your furry little ears, the collar around your throat. "Fuck, puppy." He spills into his hand, a strangled groan passing between his lips, come sticking to his fingers. He scoops as much of his seed as he can, reaching his fingers to your lips.

"Lick me clean."

And you obey.

The sticky salt of him coats your tongue as you wipe his fingers clean, sucking them into your mouth from pointer to pinkie. He pets your tongue, pressing his fingers into the pink meat of it, and then shoves them as far down your throat as he can until you're a blubbering, choking wreck.

"That's my good girl," he praises. "How about I feed you daddy's come in a dog bowl next time? Would you like that?"

The white of your eyes goes bright, and you nod.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping the spit on your heated cheek. "I can't hear you, puppy."

"Ruff! Yes, daddy."

After a scene, there is a comedown.

You bathe together in the bathtub, bubbles floating in the water, foamy, thick, and dreamlike, seated between his legs, your head resting on his chest, your fingers tracing the lines on his palm, reading what offshoots led him to you. To this.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," he says, his chest rumbling when you adjust yourself in his lap, the hand you're not occupied with, resting on the soft curve of your belly, possessive and protective, squeezing in warning.

"Were you really adopting a dog? When you first told me about it in the store, I mean."

He shakes his head. "No. That was just an excuse to talk to you. And…" He hesitates for a second, and you crane your neck to meet his eyes. "And get a measurement for the collar I had planned for you."

You huff a laugh. He's such a freak.

What does that make you?

"Okay, I thought that might be the case. And when you came back to return it?"

"Another excuse to talk to you," he says, smirking.

"So, then, what about the speed date?"

"That was a happy coincidence. A work buddy of mine forced me to go because he said my loneliness was depressing him. I couldn't get out of it. It took one minute for me to know I had made the right choice in chasing you. The rest of the date was just a bonus."

You sit with that for a moment.

"Where did you first catch wind of me?"

"Take a guess," he says.

"PTMC?"

You last went when a coworker got bit by a dog someone had brought in for grooming and were the one to drive them (in their car) to the emergency room. They ended up quitting, and grooming services were discontinued.

He hums in affirmation. "I was passing by as one of the interns stitched up the dog bite on the patient's forearm. You were there on the other side of them, holding their hand. You caught my attention. Somehow I knew you were who I've been looking for all my life."

"Huh. I guess I was too distracted to notice you," you muse. "But you… you sensed something in me."

"You could say I sniffed you out. Part of me was impressed by how calm you were. It was a nasty bite, but you didn't flinch."

You shrug. "I wasn't the one who got bit, though. I'd have more than flinched if it were me. But dogs bite. That's what they do if they're nervous or scared. It's not fair to blame them for following their nature. All I could do was try to be there for my coworker."

He holds you tighter to his chest, the heat of his palm searing your water-slick, slippery skin. "But you're a good puppy," he whispers in your ear, teasing. "You wouldn't ever bite me, right? Give me a reason to muzzle you?"

You giggle. "I could. Dogs also bite out of love, you know."

"Or possessiveness," he grunts.

He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, as if proving his point.

What he likes, you like, and vice versa. You feed off each other. One continuous feedback loop of codependency tying you together.

He can't keep his hands off you.

Father-like, in the way that he takes care of you after unmaking you like no father should. Whispers of praise after "taking my cock like a good girl." Epsom salt baths he runs for you and your sore muscles after stretching your body like a rubber band. Feeding you at the dining table because you're still a messy eater and "daddy's messy, messy girl." Like some owners feel their pets are, to them, their children.

Though, at times, it feels like he is the feral mutt.

In his wheelchair parked right at the edge of the bed, he eats you out as you lie on your back, your legs thrown over his shoulders, ankles digging into the wide expanse of his back.

His fingers dimple the fat of your thighs, bruising them in his firm grip. His tongue laps your folds, swirls around your swollen clit; his teeth nip at the delicate, divine crease of skin that separates inner thigh from cunt, half man, half beast. You yank the hair on his head; to push or pull him away, you don't know, but regardless, he doesn't separate from you until you're crying against the flat of his tongue.

He likes you best naked, or as close to it as possible, your body accessible to him at all times.

"This cunt is mine," he growls when he splits you in half with his cock. "No one else's."

His, his, his, his, his.

He likes when you crawl to him naked on all fours, collared, your asshole stuffed with the fluffy tail plug he ordered along with the collar and leash set, the chain of the leash dragging along the wooden floor behind you.

He twists the bulb of it around inside you, pulling a mewl from your lips.

"Such a dirty pup, letting me play with your asshole like this, huh? Maybe I stuff her with my cock next time."

He likes watching you piss yourself on his boot outside in the backyard like the filthy pup you are, a sobbing, hot-cheeked, and humiliated, inconsolable mess after a full day of being plied with water, letting go in just your panties and a little T-shirt that is translucent and clings to you after he jerked off and pissed on your chest. Animals being animals.

You like pleasing him. You like being the sole proprietor of his attention. You like being his.

He whistles as soon as he gets through the door. He left for a few hours, though you begged him not to.

"You're supposed to be on vacation, Jack. You're supposed to be shacked up with me."

"They called me in for an all hands on deck. I have to go, pup. I'm so sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Wearing just one of his oversized T-shirts, you come crawling and stop a few feet from where he stands in the foyer, hooking his backpack up on the rack.

He whistles; you crawl.

"There she is, my good girl," he greets. "I thought about you all day today."

You giggle. "Oh, did you, now?"

"Yeah," he grunts. "And that pretty cunt of yours."

He has a smirk on his face, but a flash of something hurting crosses over his handsome features, and you notice.

You cock your head, your brows furrowing, and drop the act. "Jack. Do you want a massage?"

He sighs, holding his hand out to help you up from the floor to lead you to the bedroom.

"You always know just what I need, sweetheart."

He perches himself on the edge of the bed, and you kneel by his feet, looking up at him with a compassionate smile, lifting the pant of his scrubs to release the locking mechanism on his prosthesis and shrug it off his residual limb.

You step away for a second to retrieve the prosthetic ointment in the ensuite so you can lather it on his skin.

Massaging his limb for him, hearing his groans of "pup" and "that's a good girl," steepling fingers into sore muscle, rubbing prosthetic ointment on his residual limb, on the scar of his suture line, his hand on your nape to tether himself to you, you know this is where you are meant to be.

Your landlord says the mold has been removed, and you can return to your apartment unit.

The past week felt like a fever dream. Skin-to-skin throughout most of it all. Waking up with the sun and falling asleep under the moon together. There's no part of you that Jack hasn't claimed.

But all good things must come to an end. You both will return to business as usual. Though, fundamentally, things have changed.

You're with Jack. And he won't be letting you go. Mold or not, you won't be seeing your bedroom ceiling again except to say goodbye.

On your first day back at the pet store, you're tasked with overseeing the adoption event that has been planned for a few months. A big playpen in the middle of the store near the cash registers, where puppies of various breeds chase each other's tails and nap under the sticky heat of a pet store with the rooftop HVAC unit shorted out.

Perhaps it's the swelter stalling the cogs where your rationality functions, but one puppy in particular stares at you like a baby or a child would when it's processing new information, and it seems to follow you around with its eyes as you circle the playpen to help customers fill out their adoption applications.

There must be something about your face it finds interesting. Or maybe it sees the invisible but common thread between you, as if it knows what you and Jack get up to in your free time.

Laughable how your mind plays tricks on you, but you're a touch unsettled regardless. It's too much, isn't it? Working at the pet store. Walking through the door to a man that calls you "puppy." The dreams.

You hope all of them get adopted today. They deserve good homes.

Yours is with him.

It seems like Jack will be getting his wish, after all.

"I quit."

Mark looks up at you from a stack of paper over the rim of his glasses. 

"You quit," he repeats, dropping the paper and interlocking his fingers on the desk. "On the spot, or are you giving me notice?"

Your throat bobs.

Mark has been a good boss to you, but it's high time you get out of here, preferably before you hit a decade spent in this time sink. 

"On the spot."

He clicks his tongue.

"I can't say I expected this, if I'm being honest. Especially since we lost Katy not too long ago. But I'm happy for you, truly. The question is how quickly can I find a replacement…" he mumbles.

"You're happy for me?"

"Of course. I think you're a bright young lady. The world is your oyster, and I believe you can do whatever it is you want in this life."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, wow. That's… that's very kind of you to say, Mark."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what are your big plans?"

Trade one leash for another.

You can't tell him that, though.

"Well, remember the speed date I told you about? Um, I've actually been seeing the same guy for a while now, and, uh, I dunno. I dunno what's in store for me. But he'll be there to help me figure it out." 

Mark smiles. "Good for you. Aren't you glad I pushed you to go to that thing? Don't say I never did anything for you."

The dreams have stopped. It doesn't matter why, but you speculate it's because you quit your job and moved in with Jack. There is no reason for a prophecy to mask itself as a dream anymore if it has been fulfilled.

Your dreams are as boring and mundane as they can get nowadays, but at least when you wake, you have him.

Late in the summer, in the Spanish villa he rented out with a view of the sparkling sea just outside the balcony doors; the position you first had sex in all those months ago, except the backs of your knees are hooked over his broad, freckled shoulders.

Over the past two weeks you have done nothing but tan half naked under the sun, sipping on tinto de veranos by the beach with Jack by your side, his standard prosthesis switched out for his waterproof one.

One of your hands held in his, his other around the handle of his cane padded with a sand tip, he strolled with you along the shoreline, gawking at you as you wore the little bikini he then ripped off you later, biting into the sun-kissed skin of your ass and breasts and tracing tan lines with his tongue.

Now, though, he bears down on you, and he fucks your cunt mean, a bit viciously, an arm wrapped under your waist, his other hand gripping the side of your neck, forehead to sticky forehead, your collar glinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window.

He went alone to the local square to get bocadillos for dinner: crusty, fresh bread smeared with tomato pulp and drizzled in olive oil, stuffed with jamón serrano and Manchego cheese.

"I know you're up to something, baby. But fine, I'll indulge you. If I come back to you touching yourself like the horny pup I know you are, we're going to have a problem."

When he returned, you were in bed, naked, and in your hands was the day collar you chose and bought for yourself a few weeks prior—paid for with his money, because you're his pup, his responsibility, his baby—as well as the key and screw that went along with it.

You were waiting until the last day of your vacation, a vacation he couldn't be pulled in to work from, for him to put it on you.

A subtler choice than the one he initially picked for you, a dainty, thin chain laced with diamonds that stops just above your collarbone. No one will bat an eye at it unless they look close and see that the only way to remove it is with a hex key the size of a toothpick.

He dropped the sandwiches on the floor and didn't bother taking off his prosthesis, too emotional about collaring you, about having your trust to wear this symbol of his love and his ownership around your neck at all times. With trembling hands, he fastened the ends of the chain around your neck, tightening the screw with the hex key, and then pressed a kiss to your nape.

You've been wearing the play collar for so long it's become something of a comfort to you. You started to miss the feeling of it around your neck when you were done with a scene and went to bed in his arms.

But now, you have this.

You angle your head down to bite his neck so hard ripe blood pours into your mouth, so hard he groans, his chest rumbling, his thrusts stuttering. Along with the iron of the blood, you taste the meat of him: sun-screened, Spanish sun-shined, and sweat-slicked.

"Fuck, puppy. That's—that's a bad fuckin' girl. This is the thanks I get?" But you know he likes when you mark him. "Maybe what you need is a time-out. Put you in a cage." But you know his threats are empty.

He's a sucker for you. If you were to be thrown in a cage, he'd throw himself right in there with you.

You smile wide at him, your teeth stained red. "I love you, Jack. You can't blame a dog for telling you that in the only way she knows how."

He bites you, too, on your collarbone, on the stretch of skin right below your chain, though a lot more delicately because "I fuckin' love you. My baby, my puppy."

You tremble like a leaf in his arms when you come, and he spills inside you not long after, a trail of your combined release leaking down the cleft of your ass, your legs scrumptiously sore after being folded in half and fucked through the mattress.

Your love for each other, a sick kind of dependency, obligate mutualism. One species can't survive without the other. You need him, and he needs you.

He's man and beast and yours all at once.

And you're his baby pup.

You're his.

Three weeks later, Derek had zero matches.

Not a disappointing handful. Zero. 

You on the other hand, had not bothered to download any apps.

You hadn't really meant to make a statement with this. It had just been a busy three weeks. You'd finished a full sleeve on a regular, taken three new consultations, and rearranged the whole studio. There simply hadn't been time to curate a selection of photos for a profile.

This was what you told Trinity on Thursday night, sitting in the back room of your shop, eating takeout.

"You haven't downloaded any apps," Trinity said, around a mouthful of noodles, "because you don't actually want to do this."

"I've been busy."

"You know what you haven't done?" She pointed her fork at you. "Anything. You have done nothing. Derek is out there failing spectacularly at the thing he begged you for and you are pretending this is a scheduling issue."

"I just don't think apps are really my.."

"Y/N."

"..thing, I'm more of an organic.."

"Y/N."

"..meeting people naturally kind of.."

"Y/N."

You looked up.

Trinity had put down her fork, which was how you knew she was serious.  "You have been with Derek since you were twenty. You have never, as an adult, gone on a date with anyone who wasn't Derek. You don't know what you like because you stopped asking yourself that question before your prefrontal cortex finished developing."

You opened your mouth.

"I love you," Trinity continued. "Derek is someone you have outgrown. You know it and I know it and I think somewhere in the part of him that isn't currently refreshing Hinge, he knows it too. This open relationship thing isn't evolution."

The shop was quiet around you. The flash art on the walls looked down from their frames.

"So," Trinity picked her fork back up. "Saturday. You and me. Roomie Dennis is meeting us at Dillon's at nine. You're going to put on something that isn't a work hoodie, you're going to go to a bar like a normal adult woman, and you are going to at least look at other human men and remember that they exist."

"I know men exist."

You thought about saying something. Several things, actually, arranged in a pretty solid argument about how you were fine, how the situation was fine, how you didn't need to go to a bar to prove you were a person. "Fine," you said.

"Saturday. Nine o'clock. Wear the black top." 

…

Dillon's was a bar that had been there forever. Dark wood, low lighting, a jukebox in the corner that still worked if you fed it right, and a bartender named Pete who remembered what you ordered after the second visit. It smelled like old leather and something hoppy and wasn't trying to be anything other than exactly what it was.

You had been here maybe a hundred times. You had never once come here with the intention of meeting someone.

"You look like you're waiting for a root canal." Dennis said, appearing with a fresh drink and an easy grin. Dennis was beautiful and knew it. But he used it as a resource for other people rather than a mirror for himself. He handed you the drink. "Relax. You're not here to find a husband. You're here to remember you are your own person."

"Trinity's been talking to you."

"Trinity texts me a lot of things." He clinked his glass against yours. "Drink. Look around. Remember that the world is full of people who aren't Derek."

You drank. The world was, in fact, full of people who weren't Derek. You weren't sure what to do with that.

The three of you had claimed a corner of the bar around nine, and for a while it was just good.  Trinity in her off duty clothes looking like someone had cut her loose and handed her a gin and tonic, Dennis telling a story about their neighbor's emotional support peacock that had genuinely no business being as long as it was, you laughing until something in your chest loosened a little. 

This was fine. 

Then, around eleven, Trinity met someone.

She was tall, with close cropped hair and had cheekbones that belonged in a museum, and she was looking at Trinity from three feet away like she had already made several decisions about the rest of their night. Trinity looked back. Something passed between them that was frankly none of your business.

"Go," you said.

"I'm not going to just leave you."

"Trinity." You pointed. "Go."

She did pause long enough to squeeze your arm and say "text me when you're home" and then she was gone, absorbed into the low light of the bar with the tall woman.

Dennis lasted another twenty minutes before he ran into someone he knew from his climbing gym, and then there were two of them, and then there were four, and then there was a whole situation happening at the other end of the bar that Dennis was at the center of like he always was, like a very charming sun with a small solar system of people around him.

You were alone at a bar for the first time in approximately a decade, with a drink that was three quarters gone and no particular plan for the next hour of your life.

You thought about going home. Derek would be awake, probably on his phone. You thought about what Trinity had said and the ten years that had quietly passed while you were busy building a life that was genuinely yours in every way except the one that mattered most.

You went to the bar top and ordered another drink.

"That's either a good sign or a bad one," said a voice to your left, "depending on what you're drinking."

The man settled onto the barstool next to you. He was older than you, late forties maybe, with salt and pepper hair that looked like it had started the evening neater than this.

He nodded at your glass. "Whiskey sour?"

"Whiskey sour" you confirmed.

"Good sign then." He caught the bartenders attention. "I'll have whatever she's having."

You should have looked back at your drink. That would have been the sensible thing. Instead you said, "Long night?"

He glanced at you, and there was something in it. A brief recalibration, like he'd expected to be left alone and had just revised his preference. "Long week," he said. "You?"

"Long decade, honestly."

The corner of his mouth moved. "That specific?"

"Very."

Once his drink came, he turned it once on the bar, a slow rotation. You noticed his hands. Large, careful, the hands of someone who used them precisely. You noticed other things too, cataloguing details. The slight wear at the collar of his shirt. The way he held himself, upright without being rigid, comfortable in his body.

"Jack," he said, and offered his hand.

"Y/N," you said, and shook it.

His grip was warm and brief. "So," he said, settling back. "The decade."

"I wasn't actually going to elaborate on that."

You looked at him. He looked back at you, and there it was the thing you hadn't been expecting, the thing that made you stay on your barstool instead of picking up your drink and relocating. He had the kind of eyes that were paying attention. Not performing attention. Actually, specifically, interested in you.

It had been a long time since someone had looked at you like you were something worth figuring out.

"Ten years with someone," you said, because apparently you were doing this. "We opened the relationship three weeks ago. His idea. He has zero matches thus far."

Jack considered this. "And you?”

"Didn’t download them. Instead, I cleaned my autoclave more times than necessary. If that gives you any indication of how I’m handling it."

Then the smile arrived "You're a surgeon?"

"Tattoo artist."

Something shifted in his expression, interest sharpening. His eyes moved briefly to your arms, to the ink there, the way people's eyes always did, and then back to your face, and unlike most people he didn't immediately start asking you what they meant or whether they hurt. 

"What do you do?" you asked.

"ER attending." He paused. "And some other stuff."

"Some other stuff," you repeated.

"SWAT medic shifts. When I'm needed."

No shit. You looked at him for a moment. His strong muscles pulling at his shirt. "So.. long week."

You talked for three hours.

Not continuously but always back to each other, always the thread of it intact. He told you about his army medic deployment without making it a hero story, just a thing that had happened to him that had made him who he was. You told him about opening your studio at twenty four with nine thousand dollars and a business plan you'd written on graph paper. He asked you questions like he actually wanted the answers. 

At some point you stopped thinking about the open relationship and Derek. You stopped thinking about going home. You were just here, at this bar, on this barstool, talking to this man who laughed at your jokes and it felt like something you hadn't known you'd been hungry for.

Which was exactly why, at half past one, when the bar was thinning out and the jukebox had cycled back around to something slow, you picked up your jacket. "I should go."

He didn't argue, just nodded in agreement. "Yeah."

You slid off the barstool and he stood when you did, the reflex of someone who'd been raised a certain way and hadn't bothered to unlearn it and you were suddenly aware of how much space he occupied when he was standing. How solid he was.

How close.

"It was good to meet you, Jack," you said.

"You too, Y/N."

You waited for him to ask for your number, but he didn't. He just looked at you with those eyes, easy and steady, and said "Don't forget my name."

You thought about saying something smart. Something that matched it.

Instead you just nodded, once, and walked out into the night air with your heart doing something complicated in your chest that you absolutely were not going to examine until you were home.

..

Your favorite coffee shop was four blocks from your shop, which meant you went there approximately every day and had therefore developed a loyalty that was less about the coffee and more about the fact that the barista at the counter knew your order.

Tuesday morning. Six days after the bar and you were waiting for your order, scrolling through a client's reference photos on your phone with one hand and thinking about how to translate a very detailed Japanese woodblock print into something that would read well on a shoulder, when someone stepped up to the counter beside you.

"Medium dark roast. Black."

Every single hair on your arms stood up. You looked up slowly, hoping very much to be wrong about what you were about to see.

Jack Abbot was standing inches away from you in what appeared to be post shift clothes. Dark pants, a grey fitted shirt with the sleeves pushed up. His hair was slightly disheveled. There was a tiredness around his eyes that hadn't been there at the bar.

He looked good and that was deeply inconvenient.

He turned and his eyes landed on you and did the same thing yours had just done. A half second of processing and then something that settled into warmth.

"Tattoo artist," he said.

"ER attending," you said back. 

The corner of his mouth moved the way it had at the bar, that almost smile. "Small city."

"Very small, apparently."

The barista set your coffee on the counter. You picked it up and held it with both hands and tried to look like a normal person.

"How's apps going for the boyfriend?" he asked.

"Still nothing."

"And you?"

"Nope." you said. Holding your tongue back from saying and it might have something to do with you. This person standing in front of me that I can’t seem to stop thinking about. 

He laughed and you couldn't stop yourself from enjoying it. Didn't want to.

His order came up. He took it, and for a moment you were both just standing there in the morning light of the coffee shop with your respective drinks, and it should have been awkward, but it wasn't. 

"How's the composition coming?" he asked.

You blinked. "What?"

"The shoulder piece. You were looking at reference photos." He nodded at your phone. 

You stared at him. "You could see that from over there?"

"I have good eyes." He looked down at his cup and smiled. "And..I was looking."

There it was again. That quality of attention. He'd just been looking, so he said so. Straightforward. 

"The reference is very detailed. Too much for the placement. I need to pull out what matters and let the rest go."

You were embarrassed then. By how much you were talking, but with him it felt easy. Felt like he wanted to hear it. 

"I have to get back," you said.

"Me too. Just got off a shift and my bed is calling my name. " He lifted his cup briefly. "Good to see you, Y/N."

"You too, Jack."

You made it exactly half a block before you stopped on the sidewalk in the thin morning sun and pressed your free hand briefly over your face and stood there for a moment, just breathing.

…

You didn't tell Trinity.

This was not a decision you made consciously. It was more that every time you opened your mouth to bring it up you got as far as so a weird thing happened and then something stopped you.

You couldn't name what the something was. Which was its own kind of answer, probably.

Derek had finally gotten a match on Hinge. He told you about it over Thai food from a spot he'd found near his office. He was nervous in the way he got when he wanted your permission for something and was working up to asking for it, and you gave it before he got there because it was easier and because part of you was simply, unexpectedly, relieved.

He went on the date on Friday. You worked late, finished a geometric back piece on a client who fell asleep halfway through.

You pulled out your phone. Derek had texted a photo from what appeared to be a rooftop bar, his arm around a woman with a bright smile, the caption reading she's really cool! Hope your night is good. 

...

You were between clients on a Thursday afternoon when the bell above your shop door announced someone.

This happened sometimes. The by appointment or by chance on the door was genuine. You believed in leaving room for the unplanned, for the person who walked past a window and felt something pull at them and followed it inside.

Some of your best work had come from chance clients. Your assistant, Bella,  handled walk ins on most days, did a quick consultation, got them on the books.

You were not prepared for the specific walk in that came through your door just now. 

Jack stepped inside and stopped. You'd designed the space with the same intention you brought to everything, It looked like a place that felt like home. People felt that when they walked in.

Jack felt it. You could see him feeling it, his eyes moving slowly around the room, taking it in.

Bella looked up from the front desk. Looked at him and then looked at you. 

"I've got it," you said.

She went back to her computer with the poorly concealed vibe of someone who was going to have questions. and lots of them.

You crossed the floor and stopped in front of him and waited for him to finish looking. His eyes landed on a woman's face in profile. One you'd drawn at twenty three. He looked at it for a long moment. "Yours?" he said.

"All of it's mine."

He nodded slowly. Then he looked at you "I was in the neighborhood." he said.

You looked at him and quirked a brow. "You were in the neighborhood?"

"Broadly speaking."

"The hospital is eleven blocks away."

"It's a big neighborhood." Not even a flicker of embarrassment. "I wanted to see your shop."

You stood there for a moment looking at this man who had walked eleven blocks out of his way on a Thursday afternoon and was telling you so without any apparent intention of making it smaller than it was.

Something in your chest made the decision your brain was still debating. "Let me show you around."

He asked questions that showed he'd already been thinking. About the difference between styles, about how you decided what went on the walls versus what stayed in your portfolio, about whether the design process started with the client or with you.

You answered them. All of them. More than you usually did.

He stopped at your station and studied it. "Organized," he said.

"Everything has a place."

"Same in an ER." He looked at the tray. "You have to be able to reach what you need without looking."

"Exactly." You paused. "Although my tools are slightly less.."

"High stakes?"

"I was going to say scary, but sure."

He laughed and you walked him back to the front and he stopped at the door and you were close enough that you were suddenly aware of the particular gravity of him, the way a room organized itself slightly around where he was standing.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card and then turned it over and wrote ten digits on the back and he held it out. "In case you need it." he said. "For anything."

You looked at the number and smiled. “Anything?”

The almost smile arrived fully this time, unhurried and genuine and just slightly devastating. "Anything."

The bell above the door announced his exit and you stood at the front of your shop turning the card over and over in your hand.

Bella appeared from the back. "Who," she said, "was that."

"Just a walk in.” you help the card up to your lips, tapping it against the smile that refused to go away.

…

It happened on a Wednesday, which felt wrong somehow. Momentous things should happen on weekends, or at least on a Friday when the week had built to something. Wednesday was for grocery runs and laundry.

And yet.

It started with a broken pipe.

Your upstairs neighbor had a pipe situation at seven in the evening that became a ceiling situation in your apartment at seven fifteen, which became a you cannot stay here tonight situation by seven thirty when the super looked at the spreading water stain above your bedroom, calculating how much this was going to cost him personally.

Derek was in Portland.

This was the other thing that had happened, quietly, over the past two weeks. Derek had matched with the rooftop bar woman, whose name was Sienna, and Sienna lived in Portland, and Derek had mentioned a visit, informing you of a decision already made. You had said have fun and meant it, or at least a part of you had meant it, and now he was in Portland and you were standing in your hallway with a go bag and nowhere obvious to go.

Trinity was on a double shift. You knew this without checking because Trinity's schedule was a fixed star in your sky, reliable and brutal. And plus she and Dennis didn’t have that much room to start with and you felt like a burden.

You sat in your car outside your building for ten minutes, bag in the passenger seat, and considered your options. You took the card out of your wallet. You had looked at it more times than you were going to admit to anyone, including yourself.

Without thinking too hard about it you said a simple fuck it and you called him.

He picked up on the second ring. "Y/N."

Just your name. Like it fit naturally.

"Hi," you said. "I have a weird situation."

"Tell me."

When you finished there was a brief pause. "I have a guest room," he said. "It has a bed and a lamp and I think a spare toothbrush somewhere. It's not exciting but it's dry."

"Jack, I cant.."

"I’m off tonight and I was going to eat leftover soup and watch something forgettable on television," he said. "You'd be doing me a favor. I hate eating soup alone."

That got a laugh from you. You sat in your car in the dark and catalogued all the reasons this was a complicated idea. There were several. They were legitimate. You thought about the water stain and about Derek in Portland with Sienna, who seemed nice, genuinely.

"I like soup." you said finally.

"Then come over."

…

His apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that was older than it looked and better than it had any right to be. High ceilings, good bones, the comfort of a space that had been lived in deliberately. Books on actual shelves, not for decoration. A kitchen that showed evidence of real use. A couch that was deep and worn in exactly the right places.

It looked like him. Everything was where it was for a reason.

You stood in his entryway with your bag and felt suddenly like you were seeing something private.

"Soup's already on the stove," he said from the kitchen. "Chicken and rice. Hope that works."

"That's..yes." You set your bag down. "You actually made soup."

"I said I had leftover soup."

"I thought that was a.." you stopped. "Never mind."

He appeared in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel over one shoulder, looking at you. "Why would that be a figure of speech?"

"People say things they don't mean."

"I don't."

He disappeared back into the kitchen, and you stood in his entryway another moment, holding that statement in the quiet.

You hung up your jacket and followed him in.

…

You ate at his kitchen table with an ease that should have required more history than you had. He told you about his recent shift. Some small victories. And you told him about the back piece you'd finished the week prior, the client who'd fallen asleep halfway through, the way people sometimes came in for ink and what they actually needed was to be still for a few hours while someone took care of them.

"That's most people," he said.

"The falling asleep part?"

"The needing someone to take care of them part." He turned his spoon once in his bowl. "People don't let themselves have that enough."

You thought about ten years of being the one who smoothed things over. Who held the shape of everything together so it didn't come apart. You thought about when the last time was that you had simply let someone take care of you.

You set your spoon down. Looked at the table for a moment, then back at him. "I want to stay tonight," you said. "Not the guest room."

His expression shifted slightly, but he didn't say anything yet, just waited, because he could tell you weren't finished.

"I'm still with Derek," you continued, keeping your voice even. "The arrangement is..we're open, that's real, I'm allowed to do this. But I need you to know that's what this is. I'm not..I can't offer you more than tonight. I don't want you to think this is something it isn't."

You held his gaze while you said it because you'd made this decision and you weren't going to look away from it now.

Understanding arrived and something careful behind it. "I'm not asking you for more than tonight," he said quietly. Then, after a second, softer, "But I want you to be sure."

"I'm sure."

He looked at you for one more moment. "Okay," he said.

…

He was unhurried in a way. Like a deliberate kindness, even as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand.

He shifted his weight, his limb unbuckled and cast aside on the floor, leaving him balanced over you. He moved with practiced strength, using his leg to help brace his torso as he loomed over you. "You've been looking at me like you're afraid I'll break," he rasped, his voice dropping low that made your toes curl. "Stop thinking. Just feel how much I want you."

He asked without asking. It wasn't in words, but in the way he moved. He reached down, his fingers slicking through your folds.

"You're so fucking wet for me," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips when he heard your breath hitch. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me inside you."

You tried to say something, a nervous joke to break the mounting intensity, but it came out as a desperate whimper. He laughed and the sound of it against your skin made the air feel safe in a way you hadn't known you needed.

"Good girl." he whispered, the praise hitting harder than the touch. "Stay right there. Don't move a muscle for me."

The sheer size of him felt like a promise kept. He positioned himself at your entrance and he paused for a heartbeat, watching your face, before he drove home in one devastating motion.

You couldn’t help your back arching off the sheets as he filled you to the absolute limit. It wasn't a sharp spike. It was a swell, an all encompassing heat that filled every hollow place you’d been hiding.

His rhythm was a punishingly beautiful cadence. Because of his reach, he leaned heavily into you, his chest crushed against yours, his skin slick with sweat. He pulled nearly all the way out before sinking back in, each stroke hitting deeper, harder, grinding his hips against yours until you were sobbing his name.

"I’ve got you," his hand leaving your wrists to cup your face, forcing you to look at him while he wrecked you. "Take it. Take all of it."

Your walls clamped down around him, the friction becoming unbearable. He didn't speed up. He simply pushed harder, his movements becoming more urgent. The tension finally snapped, shattering into a thousand points of warmth. You shook beneath him and he followed you a second later, a groan escaping him as he buried himself to the hilt.

Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring when he kissed you.

It had started innocently enough, if anything involving Jack Abbot could still be called innocent after the last few weeks. A late dinner that turned into drinks after because neither of you had been ready to call it a night. A table tucked into the back corner of a low-lit restaurant where the candles guttered in their glass holders and threw amber light over the lines of his face, catching in the silver at his temples and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The place smelled like charred citrus and expensive liquor and rain drying off the pavement outside every time somebody opened the front door.

He’d looked unfairly good all night.

Not in a polished, trying-too-hard way. Jack never looked polished. He looked lived-in. Worn in all the places that mattered. Dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, broad hands around a whiskey glass, wedding ring still on the finger he never seemed to think about until you caught him turning it once with his thumb when the conversation went quiet. Hair a little mussed by the end of the evening, not styled so much as left alone, with that slightly unruly way it had of falling however it pleased. Tired eyes that missed absolutely nothing. A mouth better suited for dry remarks than pretty ones, which only made it matter more when he said something gentle.

Especially tonight.

Tonight he’d been quieter.

Not cold. Never that. Jack’s silence had texture to it. It had weight. It lived between you in the pauses after a joke, in the way his gaze rested on you a beat too long before he looked down at his drink, in the warm press of his hand at the center of your back when the hostess led you to your table. He listened like he always did—completely, with that unnerving kind of focus that made you feel not just heard but studied—but there had been something else under it tonight, something steadier and darker and impossible not to notice.

Want.

It ran beneath everything like a live wire.

By dessert you’d been so aware of him you could barely taste what was on your plate.

By the second drink you’d stopped pretending not to know what was happening.

By the time you stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the city had gone glossy and dark around you, the street damp from an earlier shower, the air cool enough to wake up the skin at your throat. Traffic hissed past. Somewhere half a block over, music thumped behind a closed door. Jack stood beside you while you got your coat settled, one hand low and brief at your waist to steady the fabric, and that simple touch hit with such clean force you nearly lost the thread of whatever you’d been saying.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His mouth tilted at one corner, not quite a smile. “You good?”

“Fine,” you said, and heard how unconvincing it sounded.

That earned you a soft exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah?”

You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead you found yourself smiling back at him, warm all over and a little breathless in a way the cold air did nothing to fix. “Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t starting anything.”

That was the problem. He hadn’t had to.

The walk to your building wasn’t long, but it felt stretched thin with awareness. Your shoulders brushed once at the crosswalk, then again half a minute later, and the second time neither of you corrected it. His stride was easy despite the slight unevenness that was more apparent on longer walks, a detail you never stared at because you knew he’d hate that, but one you were always aware of all the same. He carried himself with that same unshowy competence he brought to everything—like whatever hurt, whatever history he hauled around with him, none of it got to dictate the terms.

He asked if you’d had a good time in that low voice of his, the one that always seemed to land somewhere below your ribs.

You told him the truth. “I had a really good time.”

His glance flicked to you, then forward again. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?”

“That was me agreeing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re a real charmer, Abbot.”

“I got you out with me twice, didn’t I?”

“More than twice.”

“Then I’m doing better than I thought.”

It should’ve been easy, that exchange. Light. Harmless. But something in his tone kept it from floating away. He said things dry, understated, almost like he was trying to throw a layer over them before they could mean too much. The trouble was, he meant everything.

At the entrance to your building, he reached past you to get the door before you could, his sleeve brushing your bare wrist. The clean scent of his cologne—cedar, soap, the faintest trace of something smoky—slid through the cool night air and settled into your head. You stepped inside first, and he followed you into the quiet of the lobby, where the overhead lights were dimmer than they ought to have been and the old tile floor clicked faintly under your steps.

Neither of you said much in the elevator.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the opposite. It was crowded.

He stood beside you with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose, looking at the changing numbers over the door like he wasn’t acutely aware of you standing there in a dress he’d spent all evening trying not to stare at. You could feel the heat of him beside you. Feel your own pulse ticking faster with every floor.

When the elevator opened, he let you walk ahead of him down the hall.

At your door, you turned, keys already in hand, and that was where everything slowed down.

There was the hallway, quiet and softly lit.

There was the muffled hum of somebody’s television behind a neighboring wall.

There was the jangle of your keys going still in your hand.

And there was Jack in front of you, close enough now that the details sharpened all at once—the tired set of his eyes, the crease beside his mouth, the shadow at his jaw, the way he looked at you like he’d spent all night being careful and was running out of room to do it.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said, because somebody had to say something.

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then came back up. “Anytime.”

He should have left then.

You felt it—the point where the evening could still split into two different endings. One where he kissed your cheek, maybe, or touched your arm and told you to get some sleep. One where he walked back down the hall and the two of you did this again another night, and another after that, stretching the tension until it frayed you both raw.

Instead he stayed where he was.

So did you.

“Jack,” you said quietly.

He inhaled. Held it for half a beat. Let it go.

There was something almost brutal in the restraint of him. He wasn’t a young man fumbling his way into impulse. He wasn’t careless. He looked like somebody standing on the edge of a decision he’d spent a long time refusing to make.

When he finally lifted a hand, he did it slowly enough that you felt every inch of the movement. His knuckles brushed a loose strand of hair back from your cheek. The touch was rougher than it should’ve been, callused, warm. It left your skin tingling in its wake.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, voice quiet enough to disappear into the hall, “and I won't trust myself to be a gentleman."

The line should’ve made you laugh. It nearly did. But the way he said it—worn and honest and a little wrecked around the edges—sent a pulse of heat right through you.

“Maybe I don’t need a gentleman tonight.”

Something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Not exactly. More like the last brace of restraint giving under pressure.

He kissed you then.

Not tentative. Not careless either. Just deliberate in a way that made everything in you go still before it all rushed back at once harder than before. His hand moved to the side of your neck, his thumb settling just below your ear, and his mouth covered yours like he’d thought about it too many times not to do it well. There was no rush in it at first. Just heat. A long, deep first taste of him that had your keys slipping against your palm and your free hand catching at the front of his shirt.

He made a sound—low, rough, barely there—and kissed you again like that sound had gotten away from him.

The second one broke something open.

You felt him step in, felt the wall cool against your shoulder blades, felt the shift in him as the carefulness started to burn off. His mouth moved against yours with more urgency now, still controlled, still precise, but the control had stopped being distance. It had become intensity. His hand slid from your neck to your waist and held there, firm enough to make your breath hitch.

When you kissed him back harder, he answered at once, a low sound catching in his throat as his tongue swept into your mouth. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, messier in the span of a breath, all that hard-held restraint giving way to something far more dangerous. You tasted whiskey and heat and the sheer force of how badly he’d been trying not to do exactly this.

That was maybe the most dangerous part of him, the responsiveness. The fact that for all his steadiness, for all the hard-earned discipline in him, he felt everything. Every small shift. Every shaky breath. Every press of your fingers into his shirt.

He pulled back only far enough to look at you.

For a second all you could hear was both of you breathing.

His forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes stayed closed, then opened. You saw it then, plain as anything—the want, yes, but also the other thing beneath it. The hesitation. The knowledge of what this was.

His hand at your waist tightened once.

“I was trying to take this slow,” he said.

You swallowed. “Maybe slow is overrated.”

That almost-smile touched his mouth and disappeared again. “You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, not speaking. You knew enough about him by then to understand that silence wasn’t emptiness with him. It was effort. It was him sorting through what he was willing to say, what he was willing to let you see.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Lower. Stripped down.

“You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

The truth in it went through you even faster than the question itself.

You could have made a joke. Could have eased the pressure, given both of you an out. Instead you said, just as quiet, “Probably the same thing you’ve been doing to me.”

His eyes shut briefly, as if that landed harder than he’d expected.

When he opened them again, there was less distance in them than you’d ever seen.

“I haven’t…” He stopped, jaw working once. Started again. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

Not dramatic. Not overexplained. He didn’t say her. Didn’t say wife. Didn’t have to.

The history was there all the same, a shadow laid carefully at your feet.

Something in your chest ached.

Your hand came up to his face almost without thinking, palm against the rough warmth of his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Just a little. But enough.

“I know,” you said.

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh in a different mood. “Do you?”

“I know this isn’t casual for you.”

“No,” he said, and there was nothing dry in his voice now. “It’s not.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around you.

You could feel the next moment waiting. Could feel the choice still sitting there between you, changed now but not gone.

Jack stepped back a fraction, not far enough to leave, just enough to give you room if you wanted it. His hand slid from your waist but didn’t leave you entirely, fingertips skimming your side once on the way down.

“Tell me to go home,” he said. “I’ll go.”

The generosity of that nearly undid you.

He meant it. Even like this. Even with his mouth still pink from kissing you, his breathing heavier than before, his whole body carrying the strain of holding himself in check. He would go if you asked. He would walk away from this and take it with him.

You fumbled the key against the lock on the first try and heard the tiny metallic rattle it made. Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted slowly back to your face.

“Jack,” you said, opening the door. “Come inside.”

The look he gave you then was enough to make your knees go weak.

Not triumph. Nothing so easy. Something deeper, denser, almost disbelieving in its intensity.

The door swung inward. You stepped back into the apartment, and he followed you in.

The click of the door shutting behind him sounded louder than it should have.

Everything changed with that sound.

The apartment was dim except for the lamp you’d left on in the living room before the date, its warm light spilling across the hardwood floor and the books stacked on the coffee table and the throw blanket half-fallen from the couch. Familiar space, ordinary space. Except not anymore. Not with him standing just inside the door, shoulders squared beneath the dark shirt, looking at you like crossing that small distance had cost him something real.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Jack dragged a hand over the back of his neck and gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked around once, like he needed somewhere to put the force of what he was feeling and found nowhere for it to go. Then he looked at you again.

“You ask me in here,” he said, “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

Heat bloomed low and hard in your stomach.

“Good.”

That did it.

He crossed the room in two steps and kissed you again, not careful this time. Still controlled—he would always be controlled, even like this—but no longer pretending he wasn’t half out of his mind with wanting you. His hands found your waist, then your back, then settled hard at your hips as he walked you backward until the backs of your knees met the couch. He stopped there only long enough to look at you, chest rising under your palms, eyes dark and fixed on your face like he was giving himself one last second to think better of this.

Then he kissed you again.

Deep. Hot. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth slanted over yours with enough force to make your breath catch, and when you opened for him, he took full advantage, tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that felt far filthier than it should have, all heat and intent and hard-won control fraying at the edges. A wrecked sound broke from him when you clutched at his shirt, and he answered by pulling you closer, one hand spread wide at the small of your back, the other still locked around your hip like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. The kiss went molten in seconds—slow nowhere, urgent everywhere—until the room, the lamp, the whole apartment blurred at the edges and there was nothing left but the drag of his mouth on yours, the press of his body crowding you into the couch, and the staggering relief of finally being touched by him the way he’d clearly been denying himself all night.

This close, you could see the tiny shifts in him. The effort. The disbelief. The sheer force of everything he’d spent the whole evening packing down until it had nowhere left to go.

“Still want this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want this.”

His eyes held yours another second, confirming, grounding, making sure.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened back up for him. The sound he made was low, almost pained, and it undulated through you. His hand slid from your back to your hip, his fingers pressing into the curve there, pulling you closer until you felt the hard line of his erection against you stomach.

He didn’t lay you back against the couch, instead turning you both, sitting first then pulling you into his lap so you straddled him. The position was intimate, decisive. Your dress rode up your thighs, the worn microfiber of the couch scratchy against your bare skin.

His hands settled on your hips, holding you there. He looked up at you, his eyes dark in the lamplight. The grey at his temples was silver now. He was studying your face, reading every shift, every breath.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He reached for the first button on his own shirt. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled for a second. He got it open. Then the next. He pushed the fabric apart, revealing the taut plane of his chest, a dusting of dark hair. He didn’t remove the shirt, just left it hanging open.

His hands returned to you, sliding up your sides, over the dress. He found the hem. Gripped it. Lifted it slowly up your body. The cool air touched your stomach, your ribs. He pulled it over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind the couch. You sat before him in just your bra and panties, exposed in the soft light.

He didn’t move for a long moment. His gaze traveled over you—the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts above the lace, the softness of your stomach. It wasn’t a leer. It was an inventory. A remembering.

“Christ,” he breathed, the word full of awe.

He leaned forward and put his mouth on the skin between your breasts. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. You felt the scrape of his teeth, the wet stroke of his tongue. Your back arched, a silent plea.

His hands went to the clasp of your bra. It gave way. He peeled the lace down your arms, letting your breasts spill free. His control was a visible thing, a tightness in his jaw as he looked at you. Then he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out. His tongue was rough, his suction relentless. He lavished one breast, then the other, until the peaks were hard and wet and aching. His free hand cupped the weight of you, his thumb circling the neglected peak, and the dual sensation made your thighs clamp around his hips.

“Please,” you heard yourself say, not knowing what you were asking for.

He understood. His hand slid down your stomach, over the front of your plain cotton panties. They were already damp. He pressed the heel of his hand against you, and you rocked into the pressure.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, and then you were bare, straddling him, his open shirt the only fabric between you. The head of his cock, trapped within his dress pants, pressed insistently against your damp heat.

He looked down between your bodies, watching as your wetness darkened the fine wool of his pants. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He brought his hand back, his fingers glistening now with your arousal. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.

The groan that left him was raw, unfiltered, your name leaving his lips in a breathy exhale.

His hand returned to your, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit. He circled it once, twice, a slow, maddening tease. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.

You gasped, your head falling back. He was deep, his knuckles pressed against you. He curled his fingers, searching, and brushed a spot that made your vision blur. A wet, squelching sound filled the quiet room as he began to move his hand, a slow, thorough fuck with his fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, and the fullness was exquisite. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles in time with the thrust of his hand. The coil in your belly pulled tight, too fast, too soon.

“I’m close,” you warned, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, met his gaze. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes locked on yours as he worked you with his hand. He saw the exact moment you started to come. Your cunt clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a pulsing, milking grip, and a broken sound tore from your throat. He kept his hand moving, drawing the orgasm out until you were shuddering and limp against him.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and shining. He brought them to his mouth again, his eyes holding yours, and licked them clean with a slow drag of his tongue.

“My turn,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

His hands tightened on your hips, lifting you just enough. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.

He freed himself, his cock springing hard and thick against his stomach. The head was flushed dark, already drooling pre-come. He guided you with a firm pressure, the tip of him nudging against your soaked entrance.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained.

You dragged your eyes from where your bodies met, finding his. His gaze was locked on yours, unblinking, as he began to lower you.

The first inch was a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that made you gasp. He stopped, his whole body rigid, letting you adjust. His breath shuddered out.

“Okay?”

You nodded, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “More.”

He lowered you further, another excruciating inch, and the wet, tight slide drew a groan from deep in his chest. He was thick, filling you completely, and the sensation was overwhelming. You felt every vein, every pulse.

He didn’t move, just held you there, impaled on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. A fine tremor ran through his arms. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.

Your name was a broken moniker on his tongue.

He lifted his head, his eyes glassy. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking you cheekbone. Then he kissed you, deep and slow, his tongue mirroring the join of your bodies below.

He began to move you. His hands on your hips set a deliberate, rocking rhythm, lifting you almost off him before pulling you back down. The drag was exquisite, a wet, slick friction that made you whimper into his mouth.

The sound of your bodies repeatedly meeting was obscene—a steady, squelching slap of skin on skin, your wetness coating him with every rise and fall. He broke the kiss to watch, his eyes dark with a kind of ravaged hunger.

“See that?” he rasped, his gaze fixed on where he disappeared into you. “See how you take me?”

You looked down. The sight of his length, glistening with your arousal, sliding in and out of your swollen flesh, made you clench around him. He groaned, his hips jerking up to meet your next descent.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that. Keep squeezing me.”

His control was fraying. The measured lifts became more urgent, his thrusts upward harder, deeper. The couch creaked beneath you both. He found an angle that made you cry out, a spot that sent sparks up your spine.

“There?” he gritted out, chasing it.

“Yes—yes. Right there.”

He hammered into that spot, his rhythm turning relentless. The wet slap of your bodies filled the room. Sweat gleamed on his chest. His open shirt was damp, sticking to his skin.

You felt the coil tightening again, a fierce, fast build. “Jack, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Come on my cock.”

It shattered you. Your cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and you sobbed his name as the waves tore through you. He watched you fall apart, his expression one of awe and agony.

His own release followed, triggered by your clenching heat. He drove up into you one last, deep time and held there, his body bowing against yours. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse filling you. You felt the warmth spread deep inside.

He collapsed back against the couch, taking you with him, still joined. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. His heart hammered against you ear. His breath was ragged in your hair.

When the both of you finally came apart, it was slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you was quite ready to break the spell of it. You stayed where you were for another minute, straddling his lap, foreheads nearly touching, both of you breathing hard, before you shifted off him and onto the cushion beside him, legs unsteady and skin still warm everywhere he’d touched.

The apartment felt quieter than it had before, though nothing outside had changed. The same distant traffic moved below the windows. The same lamp burned in the corner, casting soft gold over the room. Somewhere in the building, plumbing knocked faintly in the walls. But inside the cocoon of your living room—couch cushions displaced, throw blanket dragged half to the floor, both of you breathing easier now—everything had settled into that strange, suspended calm that only came after something long anticipated had finally happened.

Jack sat at the edge of the couch for a moment, elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth while he caught his breath.

The sight of him undid you in a wholly different way than before.

Hair a mess now. Shirt hanging open, damp with sweat and pasted to his skin. Head bowed slightly, broad back rising and falling, the hard lines of him softened not by weakness but by exhaustion, by release, by the fact that he wasn’t trying to be anything except exactly what he was. When he finally lowered his hand, he stared down at the floor for a beat, then scrubbed both palms over his face.

You smiled despite yourself. “You okay?”

His laugh was short and rough. “Ask me in ten minutes.”

“Bad sign?”

He turned his head to look at you then, and something in his face gentled so completely it made your chest tighten. “No,” he said. “Pretty much the opposite.”

You shifted closer, pulling the blanket up over yourself. He noticed at once and reached for the edge of it automatically, tucking it around your legs with absentminded affection before leaning back into the couch. The movement was so instinctive, so quietly caring, that it hit even harder than it should have.

Jack looked tired.

Not in the everyday way you’d seen before, not the end-of-shift version of him with that brittle edge to it. This was different. Looser. A little stunned, maybe. As though some locked room inside him had finally been opened and he wasn’t yet sure what all the fresh air in it was going to do.

You touched his arm. “You got real quiet.”

“That surprises you?”

“No.” Your fingertips traced once over the coarss hair on his forearm. “Just trying to figure out if I should be nervous.”

His brows drew together faintly, and he turned more fully toward you. “About what?”

“That you regret it.”

The answer came so fast it was almost sharp. “No.”

You believed him immediately.

Not because he’d said it quickly. Because of how he’d said it. Clean. Certain. Like the idea itself offended him.

Jack exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment to where your hand still rested on him. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer.

“I don’t regret you.”

The simplicity of it made it land harder than anything more elaborate could have.

He was quiet another second, then added, “I think maybe I’m trying to catch up to the fact that this was a terrible idea.”

Your heart sank for exactly half a beat.

Then his mouth twitched.

“Terrible,” he repeated, “because now I’m not gonna be able to think about much else.”

You laughed, relief bright and immediate, and he finally smiled properly—small, tired, devastating.

“There he is,” you murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

He shook his head, but there was no argument in it. Only that faint lingering disbelief, like he still couldn’t quite accept that this night belonged to him now too.

For a while you sat there in the warm quiet, tucked against his side, his arm along the back of the couch behind you. Not rushing. Not filling the silence for the sake of it. It was one of the things you had learned fastest with Jack: the right kind of quiet could be its own form of closeness.

At length, he tipped his head back against the cushions and looked at the ceiling.

“I should probably go,” he said, without sounding like he meant it.

You angled your face up toward him. “You should?”

“No.”

“Good.”

That drew a softer laugh from him. He turned then, lifting a hand to brush his thumb over your cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it almost made you stop breathing. His eyes searched yours for a moment, not guarded now exactly, but open in a way that felt rarer than anything else he could have given you.

He looked less haunted like this.

Not healed. Not transformed. Nothing that false. Jack Abbot was still Jack Abbot—still a man built from long nights and hard choices and grief he carried with practiced silence. But some of the strain had eased from his face. Some old brace had loosened.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

You went without hesitation, folding into him, his arm coming around you with a firmness that made the whole world outside the apartment feel irrelevant. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested his cheek there, and the intimacy of that nearly outmatched everything that had come before.

No performance in it. No seduction. Just the truth of him.

After a minute, you felt his mouth move against your hair.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

He sighed, caught. “I said this date got out of hand.”

You smiled into his chest. “In the best way.”

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah.”

The room was warm. The lamp cast everything in honey-colored light. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere far off and then faded, taking the city back with it. Jack’s hand moved once, slow and absent over your back, then stilled there as though he’d found where he wanted it.

If you’d looked up just then, you thought you might have seen it plainly on his face—the knowledge settling in, undeniable now.

Not that he’d wanted you.

That part had been obvious for weeks.

No, the more dangerous thing.

nanami tried to be reasonable. he tried to tell you that you needed rest, that you were sick, that this could wait, but you'd just shaken your head and hooked your leg around his hip, and the sound you made when he'd accidentally pressed against you — half groan, half whimper, all desperate need — had shot straight to his dick like a live wire.

so now here he is.

here he is, kneeling between your thighs on the rumpled sheets of your shared bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold and amber. here he is, watching you completely fall apart beneath him, your skin flushed an impossible pink, your lips parted and wet and whispering his name like a prayer.

and here he is, losing his goddamn mind.

because you're hot. not just in the way you always are — the way that made him fall in love with you in the first place, the way that still makes his breath catch when you smile at him across the dinner table — but actually, physically hot. like a furnace, like sin wrapped in skin and slick heat and the kind of wet that has him groaning before he's even all the way inside.

nanami sinks into you slow — he always does, because well… he's nanami kento and he believes in savoring things, in making them last — but the moment the head of his cock pushes past your entrance, he freezes.

"f-fuck," nanami breathes, and his voice cracks on the word, splinters right down the middle.

you're so warm.

you’re so impossibly, unbearably warm; it's like slipping into a bath that's just this side of too hot, the kind of heat that steals your breath and makes your muscles go liquid. your walls flutter around him, clenching and pulsing like you're trying to pull him deeper, and he has to brace one hand against the headboard just to keep from collapsing on top of you.

"kento?" your voice is soft, hazy, your eyes half-lidded and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with him. "you okay?"

nanami laughs — it was a short, broken sound that's half sob, half something else entirely.

"am i okay?" he repeats, like you've asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. "sweetheart, you're—"

his hips twitch, an involuntary little thrust that sinks him another inch deeper, and the sound you make is so sweet, so wrecked, that he has to close his eyes.

"you're so hot. inside. it's—god, it's like—"

nanami can't even finish the sentence, he doesn't have the words for what it feels like. the heat is radiating through him, climbing up his spine, settling low in his belly like embers catching flame. every single nerve ending is on fire, every muscle pulled taut, and he hasn't even started moving yet.

you shift beneath him, trying to take more of him, and your hand comes up to cup nanami’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. your skin is warm too — not as searing as the rest of you, but warm enough to make him lean into your touch like the tide answering the moon.

"then move," you say, simple as anything else, like you haven't just turned nanami’s entire world inside out. "kento, please. i want you to move."

he's never been able to deny you anything, so he moves.

slow at first — because nanami is trying, he's really trying, to keep some semblance of control. he pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, then pushes back in with a steady, rolling movement that has you arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. the wet sounds are obscene, amplified by the quiet of the room, and every single one of them makes his stomach clench with want.

but it's the heat that undoes nanami.

every single thrust feels like coming home and getting burned at the same damn time.

your body is so hot inside, so slick and welcoming and tight, and nanami can feel the fever radiating off you in hot waves; it's in the way your breath stutters against his neck, in the way your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist, in the way your pulse flutters wildly against his lips when he leans down to kiss your throat.

"you feel—" he gasps, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering. "you feel incredible. i can't—fuck, sweetheart, i can't think."

and nanami can't.

his brain has completely short-circuited, reduced to nothing but static and sensation. every logical thought has been burned away by the heat of you, replaced by something primal and desperate and almost frightening in its intensity. he wants to be gentle. he wants to take his time, to worship you the way you deserve, to show you just how much he loves you with every careful, deliberate movement.

but his body has other plans.

nanami’s hips are moving faster now, snapping against yours with a rhythm that's more urgent than he intended. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat, and nanami knows he should care about that — nanami knows the neighbors will probably hear, nanami knows he'll be embarrassed about it tomorrow — but right now he can't bring himself to give a single shit.

not when you're making those sounds.

soft little gasps and moans that pitch higher every time he bottoms out, your head thrown back against the pillow, your throat bared and vulnerable and so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. your hands are everywhere — tangled in nanami’s hair, scraping down nanami’s back, gripping nanami’s hips like you're trying to fuse yourself to him.

"k-kento," you whimper, and it's broken, shattered, the kind of sound that goes straight to nanami’s dick and makes him see stars. "kento, don't stop. p-please don't stop."

"not stopping," he grits out, and his voice is ragged, wrecked, nothing like the composed, collected man he usually is. "never stopping. not when you feel—fuck, not when you're this—"

nanami loses his words again, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, breathing you in. you smell like sweat and illness and something uniquely, achingly you, and he wants to live in this moment forever. he wants to drown in the heat of you, in the tight grip of your body, in the way you moan his name like it's the only word you remember.

you're clenching around him — tighter now, your orgasm building, and he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your nails dig crescents into his back. but more than that, he can feel the fever; the heat that seems to intensify with every thrust, radiating from your core and soaking into his skin, making him sweat, making him need.

"sweetheart," nanami gasps, and his voice breaks on the word, splinters into something raw and desperate. "i'm—i'm not going to last. you're too hot. you're so hot, i can't—"

you turn your head, catch his mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and clumsy urgency. it's not graceful — nothing about this is graceful — but it's real, it's you, and he groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst.

"then don't," you whisper against his lips, and your voice is thick with fever and want and something softer, something sweeter. "don't last. i want to feel you. want you to—ah—want you to cum inside me. please, kento. want to feel you."

nanami going to die.

he's actually going to die, right here, inside his wife, and he's going to die happy.

his hips snap forward harder, faster, every single ounce of control he had evaporating like water on hot pavement. he's gripping your thigh with one huge hand, holding you open for him, and the other is fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. nanami’s whole body is trembling — from the effort, from the pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming muchness of feeling you like this.

"you're everything," nanami hears himself say, and his voice sounds so strange, so distant, like it's coming from someone else. "you're everything to me. fuck, sweetheart, i love you. i love you so much. i love—"

he's rambling now, words spilling out of him unchecked, and he simple can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.

you're so hot, so wet, so perfect, and every time he pushes inside you, he swears he can feel your heartbeat, he can feel the fever thrumming through your veins, he can feel the way your body clings to him like it never wants to let go.

your orgasm hits you without warning — nanami feels it in the way you gasp loudly, in the way your back entirely bows off the bed, in the way your nails rake down his spine hard enough to sting. but mostly nanami feels it in the way you clench around him, a vise of slick, searing heat that pulses and flutters and tries to completely milk him dry.

"oh god," you sob, and there are tears on your cheeks — from the pleasure, from the fever, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "kento, oh god, oh god—"

nanami watches you fall apart beneath him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a silent scream, your whole body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. and through it all, you're so hot, so impossibly, devastatingly hot, and nanami can feel your orgasm like it's his own, nanami can feel it in the way your walls massage his desperate cock, nanami can feel it in the way his name falls from your lips like a benediction.

he follows right after.

there's no warning, no buildup — just a sudden, violent crest of pleasure that crashes over him and drags him under. he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips flush against yours, and spills inside you with a groan that's almost a sob. the heat of you surrounds him, consumes him, and for one perfect, eternal moment, there's nothing else in the universe.

just you.

just him.

just the two of you, unreservedly tangled together in the sweaty sheets, trembling and gasping and so full of love it might actually kill him.

nanami collapses on top of you — careful, always careful, one arm bracing his weight so he doesn't crush you — and presses his forehead to yours. your skin is still warm, still flushed with fever, but there's a softness in your eyes now, a drowsy contentment that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

"that was—" you start, but your voice is hoarse, faded, and you have to clear your throat before trying again. "that was not how i expected tonight to go."

he laughs, breathless and a little unsteady, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"you're sick," he says, like it's just now occurring to him. "you have a fever. i shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"

"kento." you cut him off with a hand on his cheek, turning his face so he has to look at you fully. "i wanted to. i want to. always want to, with you."

he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath, and when he opens them again, there's something soft and wondering in his gaze.

"you're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, but it sounds like a declaration of love.

you smile — that bright, brilliant smile that made nanami fall in love with you in the first place — and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and sweet and tastes like forever.

"good," you whisper against his lips. "then you'll die happy."

nanami laughs again, real this time, and gathers you into his arms. you're still too warm, still sick, still in need of soup and water and cool cloths and rest, but right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

right now, you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.

As if he has something to prove, Jack kisses you goodbye for a solid three minutes. It's an entanglement of tongues, bodies pressed together as he braces one hand on the roof of your car. His other is on your hip, bunching your scrub top, his pinky dragging across the soft skin of your belly. When he finally releases you from the dizzying kiss, he presses one last peck to your brow and whispers, "I love you."

"I love you, too," you whisper back, but it feels heavy, like something's beneath the words, waiting to break free. Truthfully, you're thinking of more than just Jack. Perfect, doting, loyal Jack, who should be more than enough for you. He's given you all of himself, and in return, you're still trying to recover pieces of your heart from his best friend.

Jack is stable. He's good. He's open with you.

But Robby is... Robby.

And you don't think you can live without either of them.

You bite your lip as you drive home, working the chapped skin between your teeth until you bleed. You've got love on the brain, and you're so preoccupied that it feels like running on autopilot. By the time you get through your front door, you can feel the tears starting to build. The bubble pops as you shower off the long shift, and you fall into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

You're back to the day shift in two days, but thankfully, you have a rare day off. You sleep for a handful of hours, but even the blackout curtains can't stop the reminders of the day. Across the city, Robby is back in the Pitt, and you can't help but feel like you should be there too.

There's a synergy between the two of you. Sure, you and Jack work well together, but it's not the same. Even before you were sleeping with Robby, you were making space for him in your mind. You memorized the instruments he preferred, the techniques he specialized in. You anticipate his needs before he voices them. In a differential, you're reaching for the tools and meds required for the procedure before he's finished talking.

That dance translated well to the bedroom. There was no learning curve when it came to sex. He knew how to touch you, and you knew how to unravel him. There weren't any questions, just instincts. Just pleasure, skin on skin.

And in the silent moments after, something like love.

You now know your mind was playing tricks on you. Robby made it clear where you stood with him before his sabbatical, and you doubt that time away has changed the facts. It was just sex, and now it's over, and you're with Jack.

Jack calls on his way to work, just to check in. You tell him you slept fine, even though you didn't, and he tells you he loves you, that he'll come over after his shift for a breakfast date. Your stomach is in knots when he hangs up. You aren't sure if he can see through you. You hope he can't.

Just after eight o'clock, there's a knock on your front door. EB meows, as if announcing the arrival of a guest, and you scratch her behind the ears before walking over to it.

You open it slowly, hesitating for a moment. The world slams into focus when you see it's Robby.

Robby, holding a bouquet of daisies. Your favorite flowers. You're allergic to roses, and you've never mentioned it to anyone but Jack, and somehow, Robby's figured it out, too. He holds up the bundle, sheepish, exhausted.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

"No," you snap.

You try to slam the door, but he stops you, hand firmly pressed against the wood. His brown eyes are wide, pleading. "Honey, please. I just want to talk. That's it."

You shake your head. "I can't."

"Please," he begs. There's a wobble in his voice you haven't heard since PittFest. His eyes are glassy now, and there's a tremble in his hands as he tightens his grip on the flowers. Your name is a desperate sound he utters so reverently that it sounds like a prayer.

You step aside, and you let him in.

EB greets him immediately, paws on his knee, waiting for him to pick her up. He does, and you take the flowers into the kitchen, clip the stems, and place them in a vase with water. The whole time, you're listening to Robby coo as he pets EB, greeting her with a softness usually reserved for scared, young patients.

"Hello, Miss Elizabeth," he murmurs. She chirps contentedly back. "I missed you too. Yes, very much."

You emerge from the kitchen, watching him hold her like a baby. EB, the traitor, doesn't seem to care about the tension or the fact that he's been away for several months. Hell, he abandoned her, too, but she's forgiven him instantly.

EB, satisfied, hops down and runs away, the bell on her collar jingling as she disappears into your bedroom, probably to bask in the window and watch the city.

You shift from foot to foot. "Well?"

"So... you and Jack, huh?"

You nod.

"He's... he's liked you for a long time," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's good. You two. It's a good thing. Happy for you."

You can see right through Michael Robinavitch. It's like you've been studying him all your life, learning each intricacy, every facet of the tangled web that all amounts to one person. One man, who despite it all, still lives inside you, in a broken place you've tried to bury.

You scoff. "After everything, you're going to lie to my face?"

"What do you want me to say?" Robby asks. "That I miss you? That the entire time I was away from you, I felt like I couldn't fucking breathe? That no matter what I saw or how far I went, the world was only beautiful knowing you were in it? Because yeah, I feel all of those things, but Jack is my best friend, and you're—" He trails off. Scoffs. Rests his bearded chin against his fist as he thinks for a moment. "Look, sweetheart, I don't expect you to forgive me."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I have to make this right," he murmurs. "The whole time I was away, I kept thinking about what kind of man I want to be, the kind of man you deserve. And yeah, that's Jack. That's just who he is. But that doesn't mean I'm not trying. To be better. To be worthy of you."

He collapses onto the sofa like a puppet with its strings cut. His head falls into his hands, and he rubs his eyes, biting back a shaky breath, narrowly holding back a sob. "Fuck." He says your name again. "I tried so hard not to love you. And now I'm trying so hard to keep you, and you're already gone."

You sit down beside him slowly, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of your lungs. When you were a kid, you fell out of a tree and broke your arm. It felt a lot like this, like everything punched out of you, a second before the pain registers.

"I'm not angry anymore," you admit, after a second that seems to stretch on forever. "If that's what you're worried about. I'm not. I was for a while, and then I was just heartbroken. I wasn't planning to fall for Jack, it just happened, and I won't hurt him. I won't."

Robby nods, resigned to his fate.

"But I'd be lying if I said I didn't—" Your voice cracks. Your hands are balled in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. "I don't... I can't..."

He holds his breath.

"Damn you," you say. "All I wanted for months was for you to love me back, to want me, to open up to me, and you took your sweet fucking time, waited until I'd put myself back together and fell in love with your best friend, to say it. That's not fucking fair!"

He nods. "I deserve that."

"You're an asshole! I trusted you! I loved you!"

The past tense of the phrase lands hard, as tangible as a punch. Robby flinches, and you hate the satisfaction it brings you, hurting him even half as much as he hurt you.

"Do you still?" he asks.

"How could you ask me that?"

"Please," he whispers your name again, insistent. "Just tell me."

"I love Jack."

"That's not the question, is it?"

You stare at him, chest heaving. A tear slides down your cheek, and his thumb brushes it away, rough skin against your softness. His palm lingers, warm and heavy against your face. He cradles your jaw like he's holding the whole world in his hands.

"Michael," is the only thing you can say. A single spark in the darkness.

"I love you," he tells you. "And I'm so sorry for hurting you, for running, for lying to you and to myself. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I love you. I love you—" His mouth brushes against yours, and it would be so easy to kiss him, to forgive him, to let him put you back together and fill all the cracks he made with his golden love. But you can't do that. You can't.

You won't do that to Jack.

You push him back, getting to your feet. A ragged breath spills out of you. "Don't."

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I shouldn't have..."

"I love Jack," you bite out, reminding him as well as yourself. "I'm in love with Jack."

"Okay," he says. "I understand."

He stands slowly, composing himself as he starts walking toward the door. You catch his arm before he can make it past the threshold, and for reasons you don't understand, you turn him around.

"But I love you too," you confess. "And it's ruining my life."

He wraps his arms around you, and as your face presses against his chest, you let yourself fall apart. He lets you cry until his shirt is wet, and then he tucks you into bed before he goes.

Your next shift is something straight out of hell. It's a Saturday, pledge weekend at the college, the kind of hellish weekend that bleeds between day and night shift. You show up at six in the morning and are on until ten o'clock that night.

Three overdoses, severe dehydration, coupled with Molly, two assaults, one hazing ritual gone horrifically wrong, and DUIs, disasters, and every trauma under the sun. By the end of it, you're exhausted. Everything hurts.

You get behind the wheel of your car, and you cry.

You cry for the eighteen-year-old girl who chose water instead of beer, and got spiked with a roofie anyway. You cry for the boy rushing a frat who never stood a chance. You cry for the baby with SIDS, for the massive aneurysm, for the hospice patient.

Knocking on your window forces you to compose yourself. You roll it down.

Robby.

Robby, who uses the sleeve of his Carhartt jacket to wipe your tears away. Robby, who tells you, in a quiet, sweet voice, that he'll drive you to Jack's, so you're not going home alone.

You shouldn't let him drive you anywhere. You don't trust yourself alone with him. Not since he put you to bed and you admitted you love him. Yet for reasons you can't understand, you let him drive you to Jack's. You tuck yourself in, this time.

When you wake up, Jack is coming home. You can tell by the sounds that it's been a long day. His prosthetic drags across the carpet, his weight shifting uncomfortably on his good leg. His belt rattles, and then layers of his clothes fall away. The soft rustle of fabric is all you hear before the bed dips. Then his prosthetic hisses as he unlatches it. The sheets lift to accommodate him.

Jack climbs in slowly, hand splayed across your stomach, sliding under your shirt. His fingers are a little cold, raising goosebumps on your flesh as his rough palm glides up to your breast. His thumb sweeps over your nipple, tweaking the sensitive flesh there. The pebbled peak responds to him at once. Your back arches, ass pressing against his groin as he strokes your breast, finding every spot that drives you wild.

You're wearing one of his old army t-shirts, worn with holes along the collar. Your panties are sticky with want, the way they always are when he's around. His other hand slides down the curve of your belly, bunching the fabric of your panties and tugging them down the creamy skin of your thighs.

He needs you, and you need him. So as he shucks off his boxers, you bend just enough to expose your slick cunt to him. He notches himself at your entrance, his thick cock breaching your hole.

The stretch always takes a moment to adjust to. It's a delicious sting that always fades into pleasure. You gasp as he sinks into you, inch by inch. He's so thick you can feel him pressing against every needy, slick spot inside of you. You moan louder, rocking against him as he ruts into you again and again and again.

His fingers find your clit, stroking in that perfect rhythm that unravels you. You come undone around him, and he's close behind, spilling thick ropes of his cum into your needy cunt.

After, your tangled bodies are intertwined under the blankets. Jack's breath is a gentle whisper against your hair near the crown of your head. He kisses you there, gently.

"Tough day," you murmur.

He nods, smoothing your hair off your forehead. "I heard Robby took you home."

You're trying to read him, but you can't quite figure out what's lurking under the surface of his words. "Yeah. I was upset."

"I'm glad," Jack says softly. "That he was there."

"Yeah."

Your fingers trace the ridges of his chest, the hard lines of muscle. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I know." He kisses your brow. "I know, baby."

Your grip tightens around his middle. You sniffle.

"Oh, honey, no," he whispers. "Don't cry."

"I just..."

"I know," he tells you. "I know. The two of you have been head over heels since the beginning, there's no denying that. And Robby... he just wants you to be happy."

"I am happy."

"He said he'd retire," Jack says.

The air is knocked out of you. "What?"

"If you asked him to, he'd leave the ED. If I asked him to, if I wanted him to leave us alone, he'd do it. That kind of love? I've never seen him feel that way about anyone."

"Are you gonna leave me?" you dare to ask.

Jack's eyes widen, panicked. "What? No? Of course not!"

You're relieved. You can't help the sigh you let out, as the tension bleeds out of you. "Then what are you saying?"

"I'm sayin' that you make me happier than I've been in a long time." There's a haunted look that crosses his face for a moment. You know he's thinking of his wife, the first great love of his life. You've never doubted your place in his heart, not for a second, but you wonder sometimes if you'd ever have a chance with him in another life.

"And Robby's my best friend," Jack continues. "I hate seeing him so miserable. I hate seeing you so sad."

"I love you," you say again, helplessly.

"And you love him too," Jack replies. "I'm okay with that. I think we should get together, the three of us, and talk about it."

"I don't know, Jack."

"He was ready to give up the ER for you." He says your name, so fiercely it all but knocks you on your ass. "That's how much he loves you. God, baby, you look at me like I'm the sun, but he's the moon. You don't gotta pretend anymore."

You kiss him, and it's wet. Desperate. Fierce. A kiss that starts something anew in the ashes of the old.

Then he rolls you onto your back despite his exhaustion, slips inside you again, and whispers "I love you" against your throat between gentle thrusts.

Your whiskey sour glass is dripping onto the cardboard coaster on the bartop, but you're pretty sure your palms are sweatier. You shouldn't be as nervous as you are, but your back is rigid, and your lip is between your teeth.

Jack was busy with SWAT all day, and Robby's always the last man out of the Pitt. You changed out of your scrubs in the locker room at work. Your comfy clothes are your armor: a baggy t-shirt, worn blue jeans with a hole in the knee. Your heartbeat is a hummingbird's wings in your throat.

You love Jack. You love Robby. These facts are unchanging, like absolute laws of the universe. You feel like an alien when you think about what it all means. Beyond just loving two men, what are you doing here? What's the long game? Is there one?

You tried googling different things about polyamory and throuples, but they all seemed to be stereotypical, miserable arrangements. You gave up halfway through a Reddit thread, embarrassed for even turning to the internet for answers. You're a doctor, for chrissakes. You should be more composed and open-minded than this.

Robby arrives first. The bell hanging on the dive bar door rings, a gentle chime followed by his footsteps. He slides into the stool beside you, his face pinched. For a moment, his hand hovers, like he can't decide if he should touch you or not. If he can.

You decide to hug him. That's neutral enough.

The second his arms fall around you, his grip tightening, you feel the tension in his body melt away. His nose brushes against your hair, breathing in the smell of your shampoo. He squeezes, just once, before letting go.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you reply.

His brown eyes are imploring, searching your expression. "I was surprised when Jack suggested we all... get together."

You down your drink, signaling the bartender for another. "Yeah, me too."

"Hey," Robby says. Your first name follows, so gentle. All day, you've been identified by your last name, with sharp orders to direct you around the Pitt. Work is a clear terrain, defined by rules and hospital hierarchy, but this? This is no man's land. "I don't want to come between you and Jack."

You snort. If only he knew. Your mouth opens to launch a reply, but then Jack's arm slides around your waist, and he plants a deep kiss on your lips that makes the world stop spinning.

And Robby? Robby has the grief-stricken look of a man being taunted by everything he's lost.

"I need a drink," Jack decides. "A couple rounds, to start. This is..." He chuckles.

You pound back a shot of tequila. Top shelf, concentrated. For courage. Your head is spinning.

You find yourself in a corner booth, sandwiched between Jack, whose hand is resting on your thigh, and Robby, who's nursing an old-fashioned. You'd crack a joke about him being old if you were feeling bolder.

"Look, man, I never meant to cause any trouble for you both," Robby starts.

"You didn't," Jack assures him.

Robby nods. It's a weighted movement, like he's not so sure.

"You two are my favorite people," Jack continues. "I want you to be happy, and seeing you two trying not to love each other for my sake. That's not what I want."

"I meant what I said," Robby says nervously. "You want me out of the picture, I'll go."

"Come on, brother, the Pitt needs you. She needs you." Then quieter, "I need you around."

"So what are you saying?" Robby ventures carefully. His eyes flit to yours. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

"I'm sayin' whatever she wants, I'm game. I'm saying—fuck—I'm willing to share if you are."

Disbelief straightens Robby's shoulders. "Share?"

You nibble your lip. Robby's thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, pulling it free from the cage of your teeth. "Gonna hurt yourself, honey," he murmurs.

"What are you thinking, pretty girl?" Jack asks you, coaxing you to be brave.

"I love you, Jack. And I love you, Michael. I do." You suck in a breath. "I'm thinking I don't deserve this. Both of you. I don't..." You trail off. "It doesn't feel real. I feel like I'm gonna wake up and lose you."

"You won't," Jack says fiercely.

"I know I don't deserve you," Robby tells you. "And yet, you're still here, still wanna be mine."

"Ours," Jack corrects him. "If she wants to be."

You nod. "I want... everything with you. Both of you."

Jack's smile is wicked, hungry. Robby's grip on your chin tightens just so.

"Let's get out of here," you murmur.

You're not sure which man reaches for his wallet faster.

You wind up at Robby's apartment. In terms of proximity, it's the closest to the bar, and you're not sure EB needs to be in the audience for this encounter. The second the door shuts behind you, Jack's hands run across the arch of your shoulders, massaging. The tension bleeds with the press of his thumbs.

"You okay?" he asks, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You nod.

Robby's gaze is molten, whiskey, sharp with need. "We don't have to do this."

You interrupt him with a kiss.

It's... relief.

You haven't forgotten what it feels like to kiss Michael Robinavitch, but the memory has faded with time. The scratch of his beard, the way his nose presses against yours. He nips your lower lip for access before his tongue slides into your mouth. It feels like wildfire, his kiss, like coming home. He's taller than Jack, so he gathers you around the waist and drags you onto the tips of your toes to kiss you deeper. All the while, Jack is behind you, his mouth ghosting across your neck.

"Show me," Jack orders. "Show me how you take care of her, Robby."

The other man gives a nod before he lifts you into his arms, carrying you to his bedroom without missing your kiss for a second. You're drunk off his kiss, drunk off the attention. Robby lays you down on his bed, untying one of your sneakers, then the other. His lips press gently to your ankle. He rises, unzipping your jeans.

"Arms up," Robby orders.

You obey.

Jack's deft fingers undo your bra, nipping at your pulse point, the spot that drives you wild. "You want him to fuck you, baby?" Jack asks. "Hm?"

You nod.

"I think he should earn it," Jack says, dragging your earlobe between his teeth. "He broke your heart, didn't he?"

Robby sucks in a sharp breath. "Jack..."

You nod, reassuring him with a sweet, soft smile. "I forgive you, Michael."

Robby relaxes, his dimples making a rare appearance. "Gonna spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

You touch his face, touch brushing across the lines of his face, the weathered marks of experience. You love the grey in his beard, the streaks in his hair. You love every part of him. "I love you," you tell him.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he murmurs, and then he kisses you chastely.

"You're so sweet, aren't you?" Jack rasps. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and you take the digit into your mouth, dutifully running your tongue across it, taking him inside. "What the hell did we do to deserve a good girl like you?"

You release his thumb with a wet pop. "I love you, Jack."

"I know," he says.

"Did you just Han Solo me?"

"I saw the opening. I took it."

Robby snorts. "You're an idiot, man."

"A generous lover, thank you," Jack remarks.

Your cheeks heat as you realize you're nearly naked, jeans loose on your hips. Your panties are soaked beneath them, and you'd be embarrassed about being so worked up if you weren't enraptured by the attention.

You turn, tugging impatiently at Jack's shirt. "Off."

He complies, his smirk wicked, cutting. Like a look alone can make your clothes fall off. His broad, chiseled chest is on display, and the dusting of his freckles is familiar. You've traced the constellations with your mouth a thousand times.

Your eyebrows raise at Robby. "Your turn."

"I dunno, honey," he says. "I'm not in half as good shape as he is."

"Can't keep up?" Jack taunts.

You smack his arm. "I want to see you, Michael. You're perfect."

He groans. "How could I argue with that?"

Slowly, Jack unbuckles his belt, shedding his tactical pants. His boxer briefs are tented, a wet spot growing on the light grey fabric where his thick cock is straining to break free. He sits down on the bed, massaging his thigh above the prosthesis.

"You can take it off," you assure him, looking at him through your lashes.

Jack nods. "What do you think, Robby? Think I should hold her and play with her pretty tits while you make her come on your mouth?"

"I think you've never had a better idea in your life, brother."

Robby strips off his clothes, layer by layer. Jack's prosthetic hisses as he releases it, centering himself on the bed, a pillow propping him up. He draws you onto his lap, hands in your hair, tongue tracing his name on the roof of your mouth. Then Robby grabs your shoulders and flips you onto your back. Your shoulder blades press against Jack's hot, bare torso, his calloused palms skimming over your ribs, then cupping your tits.

Robby kisses your naval, then traces a path across your pelvis, planting kisses on your hipbones, the way he knows unravels you. His teeth close around the band of your soaked panties, and then he slides them down. His fingers all but tear the lace down your thighs, and he leaves them hooked around one ankle as he settles between your legs.

Jack tweaks your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and you whimper into his mouth as he moves in for another kiss. Robby's fingers are gentle as he spreads your folds, gathering your wetness and inspecting you, like he's memorizing the view all over again.

Your thighs are wrapped around his shoulders when he spanks your pussy lightly. "Still with me, sweetheart?"

You whimper.

"We've barely touched you, baby," Jack prods. "Answer him."

"Yes," you whisper.

"Fuck, I've missed you," Robby groans, and then his tongue swipes across your clit.

You all but fly off the bed as Jack bends, sucking a hickey into the swell of your cleavage as he plays with your nipples the way he knows you like. Meanwhile, Robby's tracing your favorite notes into your clit, playing your body like his favorite instrument. He moans into your pussy, working his tongue in and out of your aching hole.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." He nips your thigh. "Never should've left you. Never gonna leave you again."

His nose bumps against your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, and then he returns to suckling your clit, hooking one finger in your fluttering pussy.

"Think she's getting close," Jack says. His cock twitches against your spine. "Gonna let her come, Robby?"

Robby nods. "Come on, honey, give it to me. Come all over my face. Wanna feel it."

Jack's hand closes around your throat, his fingers pushing your chin up. His eyes lock on yours. "You're gonna come for him, and then you're gonna suck my cock while he fucks you. That sound good?"

You nod frantically.

"Greedy girl," Jack grunts. "Another finger, Robby."

"Don't tell me how to fuck my girl, man."

"Ours," Jack reminds him.

"Yours," you whimper. "'M yours. I'm yours."

"Come for him, baby," Jack orders.

And you detonate.

Your orgasm rips through you all at once. Between Jack's attention on your tits and Robby's fingers scissoring in and out of your cunt as he gives your clit a good, long suck, your body is a supernova. It's an overload of your nervous system, like every cell in your body is replaced with pleasure. You might black out, for a moment there, but then Robby's kissing you with your taste on his mouth and your release slick in his beard, and you remember yourself.

"On your knees," Robby says. "Make him feel good."

You stick your ass out, letting Robby settle behind you as you peel Jack's underwear down. His cock springs free, smacking thick and hard against his belly. You pull his boxers low enough to free his heavy balls, the thatch of hair greying. You love the sight of Jack's cock.

Your hand closes around the base. You place a gentle kitten lick to the tip, and Robby rewards you with the first swipe of his long shaft through your slick. The blunt head of him catches on your clit, and you shiver.

"Please," you beg.

"You shouldn't talk with your mouth full," Jack teases, tugging your hair.

You take the hint and suck him into your mouth, stuffing as much of him down your throat as you can. The sound Jack makes is a drug you'd smoke if you could. A hit of the purest pleasure. His hips rock into your mouth, spit dribbling down his shaft as you suck.

Robby's cock breaches your entrance, splitting you open, just enough. "Fuck," he groans. "So fucking good."

Then he slams his hips home, filling you completely. His blunt head meets your cervix, his balls slapping your ass as he stuffs you completely full. You cry out around Jack's cock, which only eggs him on. Robby starts to move, slowly, at first, then more desperately.

"Not gonna last, honey, squeezing me like that," Robby groans. "Fuck!"

"Gotta make her come one more time, man," Jack says, but his voice is raspier. His own release is sneaking up on him, and his thrusts are sloppier in your mouth now. "Fuck, wait."

Jack pulls you off of him. "Look at him when he's inside you, baby. Show him how much you missed him. How much we missed him, yeah?"

You nod. You give Jack one more kiss before Robby flips you over again, his mouth crashing into yours at the same moment he sheathes his cock inside you again. His thumb runs across your clit with each thrust, and the coil in your belly is building. White-hot pleasure rushes through you.

Jack's hand is on his cock, stroking slowly, his hungry expression just taking you in. "That's it, baby. Come for him. Show him how much you love him."

"Michael," you cry out.

"Love you, sweetheart," Robby gasps against your throat. "Only you. I'm yours."

Tears prick your eyes as you come undone. Robby's right behind you, slamming home one, two, three more times. Hot ropes of his seed paint your insides white. You're starry-eyed, spent. When you finally come back down, Robby's slowly easing out of you. He presses a sweet kiss to your brow. "Jack's turn."

"Jack," you cry. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," he tells you. "You can take it."

You nod. "Want you."

Robby's lips graze your shoulder as he pushes you up, into Jack's arms. His fingers still trace their way through your hair as you shift your gaze to his best friend.

Jack kisses you, drawing you up into his lap. He lifts you, his cock parting your swollen, sensitive pussy. "Just relax," Jack coos. "Let me do all the work, baby."

He lowers you onto him, and it hurts so good, the stretch, the burn. Robby's bigger and longer, but Jack is thicker, and the way you're riding him could split you open. You're shaking on top of Jack, walls fluttering around him.

"Gimme another one, baby," Jack pleads. "I know you're close. Come on." You nod, tears spilling over the apples of your cheeks. "You okay?"

You nod again, words failing you.

"Our beautiful mess," Jack muses. His cock keeps rutting into you, hitting that gummy spot that always ruins you.

You come for him again, one aching, final time. The sobs are spilling out of you now, and you feel so impossibly full, so high, so loved. Jack follows you over the edge a few thrusts later, and the mess between your legs coats his pubic bone. When he pulls out of you, you're spilling all over the sheets.

Robby disappears into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth. Slowly, he cleans you up, then tosses the rag at Jack with a wry grin.

As Jack cleans up, Robby dresses you again, in pajamas you thought you lost. You must have forgotten them here. The fact that he kept them makes your chest sting with fresh emotion.

When Jack's clothes are back on, he kisses the corner of your mouth, your nose. He runs his fingers across your cheek and then tucks you into his chest, bicep curled around you.

Robby's behind you, his body curved around yours like a quotation mark. He hums into your hair. "Love you, sweetheart," Robby breathes into your hair, voice thick with sleep.

"You did so well for us," Jack adds. He kisses the line between your furrowed brows. "Our girl."

"Ours," Robby says.

And you fall asleep between them, just like that. It's the perfect moment, and you're certain this is exactly where you're meant to be.

I've never written a threesome scene before or had one, so I don't know how realistic or good that was. Don't @ me okay?? Also sorry if Jack and Robby were slightly ooc. I was doing my best to imagine, LMAO.

He does that again and again— rubbing the pads of his fingers against the soft, sensitive nerves of your g-spot— and it feels good, but not entirely satisfying. He keeps up the circles with his thumb. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately trying to lure his fingers in deeper, begging to feel him fill you up. No such luck.

You pout at him and he pouts right back. Keeps crooking his fingers shallowly, coos a condescending “What, baby?” as if he doesn’t know you’re aching.

“Want more,” you breathe out. “Please.”

“Not yet, pretty girl.” He says with a shake of his head. He knows what you like— knows internal orgasms are your favorite, when he drives his fingers in nice and deep and sponges over your g-spot on the way. But that’s not the point. He has a goal. “Work with me. I want you to cum just like this— I know you can.”

Your pout turns into a full fledged scowl. Partly because he’s right— you can feel an orgasm building, can feel the arousal pooling in your belly despite the almost agonizingly empty feeling of your pulsing walls. Your start grinding down on his fingers rhythmically, chasing the pleasure. Still, you gripe. “Frank.”

He ignores your complaint as a smirk forms on his face. “There you go, princess. Fuck yourself on my fingers.” His eyes flit down to gaze appreciatively at your rolling hips. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Keep going. Take what I’m giving you like a good girl.”

You can’t hold back your moan with him talking to you like that. You keep rolling your hips, getting closer and closer despite feeling more and more empty. His grin widens. “That’s it. Cum for me.”

And you do. Pleasure spreads through you like fire catching and your eyes fall closed. Your pussy spasms wildly around his fingers, which never falter in their shallow movement, and bliss momentarily overcomes the acute need burning deep inside you. “Good girl.” Frank praises. You open your eyes.

“Frank.” It comes out breathless and weak, but it’s still undeniably reproachful.

“Jesus, baby.” Frank laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. “Only you could complain after I just made you cum twice.”

“I want—“

“More. I know.” He leans down for another kiss, his taunting grin connecting with your frown. “I’m gonna give you more, princess. Gotta trust me.”

He finally slips his fingers in deeper, and you swear you could cry with relief. Instead you just moan.

“Theeeere you go.” Frank coos. He adds a third finger, finally giving you that stretch you’ve been craving. “That better, sweetheart? You like that?”

“Yes,” you whimper. You rock your hips, urging his fingers in deeper. You moan when he drags them over all the tender spots deep inside you, letting the tips nudge against your cervix. “Oh my god, fuck, yes.”

Frank smirks. “Attagirl.”

He thrusts his fingers into you steadily, working you up agaun. You’re practically writhing against the mattress, fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The deep internal stimulation is so intense in the wake of two orgasms. You’re still so sensitive. “Frank, holy shit.”

“Shhh.” He soothes. The hand of the arm braced by your head reaches over to smooth a stray hair out of your face, then caresses your cheek. “I’ve got you. This is gonna be a big one, baby.”

Your head bobbles, and he nods along with you, furrowing his brows to mimic your frantic expression. “I know. Come on, pretty girl, you can do it. I’m giving you what you wanted, remember? Let go for me.”

Your back arches and you let out a long moan as you cum again. You clamp down around Frank’s fingers like a vice, and somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear a string of praises in his voice, but it’s far away, like you’re somewhere else. All your senses are overwhelmed by pleasure.

“Fuck, baby.” Frank’s saying when you finally start to come down enough to process your surroundings. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

His thumb swipes away tears you hadn’t even realized you’d shed. You shiver, and jesus, your fucking teeth are almost clattering.

“Oh my god.” You murmur simply, voice shaky. Frank laughs. He looks somewhere between awed and cocky.

While Abbot gives his typical obnoxious pep talk about nightcrawlers and the wild west, you stand to the side while shifting on your feet and studying the electronic board ahead—its colorful fields filled to the brim, as always, with cases that never seem to cease in volume.

When the speech finally concludes, you jump slightly, then turn to walk away... Until Abbot calls for you.

You swing back around to him with a forced cheery smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes.

"You alright?" he asks while resting a calloused hand against your upper arm in concern.

You nod while glancing past him. "Yeah. Fine."

"Didn't join in tonight. Getting tired of your old man already?"

Your eyes flit back to his and you shake your head. "Just thinking about getting to waiting patients." Swerving around Jack—not wishing to give him an opportunity to dig any deeper than surface-level—you head in the direction of an occupied trauma bay.

In the middle of a debridement, a patient's local anesthetic wore off—something you were meant to be keeping in mind, as they were going to require further dosages as you worked to ensure that the site was kept good and numbed while you cleaned—and were made more than aware of that fact when they started howling in pain due to your negligence.

Gently pushed aside when Abbot came sprinting into the room, you stood idly by and sniffled quietly while your eyes filled with tears and apologies poured forth from your lips. "I'm so sorry," you'd whimpered while wiping at your cheeks and mentally berating yourself to get it together!

Once the patient was given a dosage of anesthesia and another resident was summoned to take over, Jack pulled you into an empty room to check in with you.

"Sweetheart, what has been going on with you?" he asks gently with crossed arms.

Wrapping your own around yourself, you shake your head in denial. "I just forgot by getting lost in what I was doing. I'm so—" you clamp a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Jack sighs, then takes a step forward and does something unexpected: he wraps his arms around you before tucking you beneath his chin and safely against his chest. "You look exhausted. Are you not sleeping well?"

You yawn and decide to give in. You screwed up, so he deserves explanation. Plus, you're too beat to try and worm your way out of this. "I think I have SAD."

You can't help but feel the least bit pitiable for it. You're surrounded by people with broken bones, burns, lacerations, and unidentified chest pain. Meanwhile, you're in a depressive mood because it's gotten cold outside.

He hums. "You taking anything for it?"

You shake your head. "I had a script for vitamin D once, but I don't feel like it made me any happier. Or any less stressed, for that matter."

Jack runs a hand up your back. "I thought you seemed off lately. I didn't know if it was something outside of here, or work itself."

Your eyes water. "All of it."

"Startin' to worry me. You're not taking breaks, you're taking on more cases than you can handle—"

You pull away while wiping your tear-stricken cheeks with the sleeve of your undershirt. "I'll be fine."

Truth is, you had hoped that by overwhelming yourself here, your bouts of sadness would subside because you were more than occupied and didn't have time to think about anything else.

Jack makes to reach out to you, but you turn and head for the door. "I have patients to get to. I'll be more mindful from now on. I'm sorry, Dr. Abbot."

He watches with disappointment as the door clicks shut behind you.

You're standing idly by and observing Dr. Garcia perform an emergency thoracotomy on a patient with penetrating trauma when you end up having to squeeze your thighs together due to a suddenly straining bladder. Continually shifting your weight from one foot to the other in hope of relief does you little good, though.

Just another way you've been neglecting your own wellbeing lately: by not even bothering to use the restroom regularly.

Hopefully it doesn't result in a UTI. It'd just be another issue to add onto the already growing pile.

Abbot glances to you curiously and watches as you rotate your neck and squeeze your eyes shut before popping open again. Trailing his own lower, he notes the familiar little dance you seem to be doing and sighs.

This damn girl.

Discreetly, Jack silently crosses the room to reach you, then turns and leans in close. "Go to the restroom and relieve yourself."

You glance up to him and blink.

"Go potty, sweetheart," he mumbles before stepping away.

You turn and exit without anyone noticing.

The next time Jack takes note of your obvious self-neglect is when he's passing by the computer station just as you're making to stand, and you sway on your feet before thankfully catching yourself on a nearby counter.

Circling back around, he settles a hand on your hip and guides you in the direction of the employee lounge.

"What're you—"

He stops just outside the door and slides his hands into his pockets while nodding toward the room's interior. "Go get a snack. I'm not going to have you passing out from hypoglycemia."

You roll your eyes, then open your mouth to insist that you're fine and will eat a Snickers later, until he crosses his arms and steps forward with an unwavering expression painted across his features. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

You stare blankly at him. "I'll be okay. I had a protein shake before I left the house. I'll have a granola bar later."

Jack grips your shoulders and spins you around while ushering you into the break room. "You're going to have a cup of Ramen, which you will finish every bite of, as well as a juice box, and only once both are on your stomach will I deem you fit to return to work."

A juice box? What, are you five?

"I really am fine," you insist.

He blocks the doorway. "Since you seem incapable of looking after yourself, I'm taking up the obligation instead."

You glance away in humiliation. "I'm not an invalid."

Jack sighs with remorse. "Honey, I didn't mean it like that. But you're worrying me sick. How can you expect to properly look after your patients if you're continually putting your own needs aside?"

Walking further into the room, you yank a container of Ramen off the counter. "I just have to get through to Spring. I'll be fine."

"That is months away," he counters. "So until then?"

You peel the lid off the thin cardboard bowl and toss it into the trash. "I eat my Ramen and drink my stupid juice box," you mumble while filling the container up to the designated line at the sink.

You're slurping up a mouthful of seasoned noodles when Robby waltzes into the lounge for a bottle of water before he clocks out.

Grabbing a cold one from the fridge, he looks at you with a sportive expression. "I'm sorry," he begins with a chuckle. "Are you having a snack in the middle of your shift?"

You narrow your eyes while chomping down on your noodles—sending them sliding back into the bowl. "Jack made me."

He leans back against the fridge. "Jack made you?" Robby asks incredulously before nodding toward the table. "He make you drink the juice box, too?"

You sip at it, then mumble your response. "Yes."

He softens then, with only a slight, playful grin now upon his lips. "Are you alright?"

You shrug while stirring your noodles. "Just not myself lately."

Robby's tennis shoes squeak quietly against polished tile as he heads for the table you're seated at. Pulling out a chair, he seats himself across from you before leaning back. "Something happen?"

"SAD."

He sighs. "Are you taking any—"

You hang your head. "I swear you're both two halves of a whole."

"Guessing he asked the same thing?" he inquires while unscrewing the lid on his bottle.

You return to your noodles. "Yes."

"And?" he asks while leaning forward.

"No."

Robby shakes his head while sliding his clasped hands atop the table. "Do one of us need to write you a prescription?"

Now finished with your noodles, you go in for the juice box so you can finally get back to work. "I'll be fine."

"And how many times have you fed that line to my supposed 'other half'?"

You glance to him and sip the remaining dregs with a frown. Releasing the plastic straw, you reply quietly. "Couple times."

Robby leans back with a sigh and a hand planted atop his thigh. "Well, I suggest you take Dr. Abbot's advice and do a better job of looking after yourself going forward."

He rises, then comes to your side and rests a hand between your shoulder blades while looking down at you. "Otherwise, one of us will. And speaking for myself, I already have enough patients to worry about as it is. So do you."

You crumple the juice box before standing. "I will," you supply—desperate for them both to crawl off your back. "You don't need to worry, Robby," you finish while tossing the item into the trash.

Sliding a tender hand down the side of your neck, he purses his lips. "I hope not." He heads for the door. "Need to be able to look forward to seeing my favorite girl every night before I go home."

Robby turns the handle to finally head out. "Don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here for me to set eyes on."

You watch as he leaves, completely taken aback by his comment. But it nevertheless causes you to warm all the more toward him, now knowing he's so fond of you.

When you wake the next evening, it's with a renewed vow to yourself, your patients, and coworkers: you'll be making every effort going forward to do considerably better. More bathroom breaks—including stops for water afterward—and you have a shopping bag full of nonperishable snacks you plan to lock away in a drawer at the computer station to munch on when you're charting.

Small efforts, but all good steps in the right direction.

Standing in your bathroom, cast in only the soft yellow glow of a nightlight—too early...or, rather, late for the glare of an overhead bulb—you brush your teeth while doing your best to keep your eyes open.

And then a firm, heavy knock resounds from your front door. Your plastic toothbrush clattering from your hand and landing in the sink, you quickly swipe your phone from the porcelain countertop and when you check your outside camera, your jaw falls open.

"Is—Is everything okay? Did something happen at the hospital, or with Robby, or—"

Abbot raises a brow while easing his way inside and over the threshold of your home while brushing past. "Robby always the first thing on your mind in the morning?"

You cross your arms while turning around—curious as to the bag he holds. "No. You two just seem attached at the hip."

He blows a raspberry, then hands you the bag—which seems to have some heft to it—before bending at the waist with a groan to untie his shoes.

"What is this?" you ask while gently lifting the item.

"Breakfast," he replies. Tossing his shoes to the side, Jack stands upright while settling his hands against his back and lightly stretching.

"W-Why?"

He takes the bag again, then plants a palm against the small of your back. "Kitchen?"

You pad in that direction.

Once you've reached it, Jack reaches up and switches on the hood light atop the stove—you're thankful that he didn't go for the ugly hanging chandelier overhead instead, which you plan to replace when you finally have the funds—before opening and closing cabinets in search of a plate.

"I can just eat it with my hands," you say while peeling the brown paper bag open—not that you even have an idea as to what's inside.

You assume some sort of sandwich or biscuit.

You've only just removed plastic utensils when he slides a plate in front of you and snatches the bag away. As he's pouring the contents of a steaming breakfast bowl onto it, you look at him. "How...How did you know where I live?"

He smirks, then steps away to throw away the now empty plastic container and bag.

"Wait," you blurt. "Did you look in my employee file?"

"Took down your cell, email, and home address," he retorts before glancing toward the hallway you emerged from but a few minutes earlier. "Bathroom this way?" he asks while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

"Yes..." you reply with furrowed brows while watching him disappear around a corner.

Talk about making one's self at home...

Jack is satisfied to see you cleaning the plate in front of you while also sipping on the bottle of orange juice he purchased.

You bristle at the sound of his heavy, ambling footfalls, and open your mouth to begin hounding him with questions until you feel a brush suddenly being run through your hair.

You jerk in your seat and a forkful of scrambled eggs plop back onto the plate in front of you. "What're you doing?"

"Your hair. What's it feel like?"

You toss down the fork before spinning around. "Why're you doing this? The—The breakfast, and you having my information, and now trying to—"

"I told you," he says while settling his hands on his hips. "I am taking up the mantle of your personal babysitter. At least until the seasons change." He shrugs. "Probably until well after, if I'm being honest." He circles his finger. "Turn back around."

"But—"

He leans in close while gripping the back of your chair. "Finish your breakfast, young lady. Now."

You gulp at his demanding tone, and ultimately do as you're told.

You raise a brow at the feel of him parting your hair before consistently running a finger through it and tightening as he goes. "Are you braiding my hair?" you ask between chews.

He hums in response.

"How do you know how?"

He snorts. "These hands can do more than just hold a scalpel." He happens to slide a finger down the back of your neck. "And braid hair, but that's a conversation for another time."

You remain silent while sipping at tangy OJ.

"There was a woman I served with. Hurlston was her name. Her daughter was only a few months old when she got deployed. Got into her mind that she needed to know how to do all these fancy hairstyles for whenever she got older. So, she ordered one of those big fuckin' Barbie doll heads and practiced on it constantly. Complicated shit.

"When there's down time in the Army, there's a few things you can do: read, write letters, watch movies, some plays games... She did hair. Sometimes, I watched when I got bored with a Tom Clancy novel. Learned how to do just a basic braid that way. French? Had her teach me that."

Your plate now being clean, you swirl your juice around to occupy your hands. "Why? Just...boredom?"

Jack shrugs while tying a band he found in your medicine cabinet around the end. "That. And...if I ever got married again, or had a daughter of my own, I figured it'd be something worth knowing how to do."

He squeezes your shoulders while taking the plate to slip into the dishwasher. "Finish your juice and then we're going once you're dressed."

Jack seems to be set on going the extra mile with this. Such as him not allowing you to so much as carry your own bag, and when you slide into the passenger seat...

"Ok, I can get my own seatbelt—" you sigh with irritation as he clasps it into place anyway.

Placing one hand on your seat's headrest and his other forearm across your lap, Jack remains close while speaking. "I am only gonna say this once, so you need to listen."

You draw your knees inward and keep your eyes on his arm before finally meeting his gaze again.

"You need someone to look after you for the next few months. Sweetheart, I refuse to turn a blind eye when someone that I care deeply, deeply for is suffering in silence. All your 'I'm fines' are bull, and you know it. So, until the change in seasons—hell, probably even past that, given where we stand, like I said earlier—you can consider me glued to your side. That means giving you designated break times at work, ensuring you're eating three square meals a day, as well as snacks, bath time here at your home or mine, bedtime—whatever I need to do to ensure that you're being looked after the way you not only need to be, but deserve."

Your chin wobbles. "I'm not a child, Jack. I can—"

"No, but if you need someone to father you—or...or just act like a surrogate husband when things get dark, then baby, that's what I'm here for. Alright? All the shit you're having trouble carrying right now? Put it on me. I can handle it. Okay? I am not losing you to depression—seasonal or otherwise. Because, sure, right now maybe it's forgetting to eat or use the restroom, but what about when you don't have the energy to bathe, or the mental fortitude to get out of bed every evening?"

You sniffle while settling a palm atop the back of his hand. "Are you sure?"

He slides his hand out from beneath your own, and cups your cheek. "My purpose at work is obvious. Outside of it?" he swipes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Honey, you're it. And I couldn't be more thrilled."

Jack sort of moves you into his home in the middle of the fall season. Nothing drastic like furniture, but he does have you pack up the basics: clothes, toiletries, hobbyist materials like your laptop, some books, a journal, and so on. And as your newly designated caretaker, he only thinks it fair that he pay your rent and utilities while you're away, since he's the reason for your sudden absence from your domicile.

He once makes a joke while giving you a bath—yes, something which most certainly sent you reeling the first time he drew one for you—that if you give up your lease, then he won't have to worry about checking on dripping faucets once snow starts to fall.

In way of repayment, whenever you're both off, you try doing chores and general tidying up around his house while he watches TV or works on bullet reloading. Until your pacing and utterly inane babbling finally does Jack's nerves in...

After yanking you into his lap one afternoon in the living room and practically cradling you in his arms while threatening to shove his thumb in your mouth if you didn't calm the hell down, you finally got the message that you needed to sit and shut up for awhile.

Now, he gives you designated chores on a chart on the fridge for you to do a few times a week, so as to occupy you, and time set aside for you to talk your little heart out where he listens until you've run out of words. He adores talking with you, but God if you can't be a chatterbox at times when you get excited.

It honestly gets to a point that, when you're outside of the ED—which you're once again flourishing in because of Jack's consistent, precise direction—you almost wholly turn your mind off and otherwise leave it in more capable, trusted hands because you feel so safe and taken care of with him.

Jack drives you home, bathes you, puts you in clean PJs, makes you dinner, and even tucks you in right next to him every morning.

He'd initially tried out the arrangement of giving you his bed—he refused to listen to your protestations when you insisted it be the other way around—while he would sleep on the pullout couch, but it didn't last long because of his back.

Turned onto your side with Jack behind you, he runs a calloused palm beneath your camisole and up your back, trying to coax you to sleep. "Do you need a cup of warm milk?" he whispers.

You pop open a curious eye. "That actually sort of sounds disgusting."

He smirks. "I thought so, too, but figured it worth offering if you thought it'd help."

He tugs the hem of your camisole up to just below your breasts, then returns to massaging your back. "There's another tried and true method that usually helps get me to sleep."

You close your eyes again. "Hm?"

He grows quiet for a moment. "Be easier to get started on if you took your clothes off."

You sigh in irritation. "I don't think my attending is supposed to say things like that to me."

He chuckles. "I think that ship sailed when I appointed myself your caregiver, sweetheart."

Rolling onto your other side, you drag yourself closer, then burrow into the warmth his bare chest provides. "Goodnight."

Cupping the base of your skull, he tilts your head back and brushes a kiss over your lips. "Good morning."

You tangle your limbs around him before making to count up to a hundred in an attempt to finally drift off.

"Maybe we should move to Alaska," he mumbles. "Then there'd be no reason for this to ever end."

You shake your head while giggling. "Go to sleep."

you eat, always talking about your shift, the funny, weird patients you got or the difficult cases you dealt with, or joke about whatever shenanigan jack put you through the night. he loves when he makes you laugh, you are always so serious that he takes it as a win.

then it is time to leave, and john asks if you want to come back to his, to which you always do, and the drive back is always silent, except for when you start singing along together to some 90s song the both of you love so much .

the dynamic changes when you arrive at his. you are the one to kiss him first and the one to take him to his room and undress him. john always eats you out first, makes sure you come at least once since he isn’t sure he will last long. you ride him, sometimes sit on his face when he is feeling a bit more energetic. he comes and you cuddle for five, ten minutes, and what he dreads the most happens: you get up, make up some poor excuse for why you have to leave and john replies with a “yeah, see you tonight.”

today is no different. he watches you dress up with that same pain in his chest he gets every time he sees you put your bra on.

you are tying the strings of your scrub pants, looking around the room for your bra when he blurts out “do you really have something to do?”

you look up at him, only to be met with a panicked face. “umm–“

“i– i mean, you should stay. we could sleep for a bit, i’ll make you lunch, maybe watch something before our shit… please.”

a soft smile appears on your lips and you nod. “yeah!” you point to your scrubs. “i’ll need a shirt though.”

“of course! top drawer, whatever one you like.”

roaming this drawer, you find an old beat up shirt from his upenn days.

you take your pants off, forego your bra and pull the shirt through your head. the kiss you give shen is deeper than the ones you have given him before, and he feels like he is going to pass out.

maybe he has passed out and is dreaming right now.

“you know,” you start as you pull to his side, laying your head on his chest. “you should’ve asked me sooner.”