jena

"Yeah, got too many unpaid bills," he muttered. He grimaced slightly, and you could feel the discomfort radiating off him.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, gathering yourself, before turning your head toward him. "You can still participate in the bet," you spoke softly, your voice carrying a gentle warmth.

Frank looked back at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

But this time, you remained looking down, your gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between you. And he ,foolishly, used that moment to really look at you.

Your hair had gotten longer.

It was pulled back in a ponytail, the way you always wore it during shifts so it wouldn't get in the way. But the length of it now, the way it swept back from your face, the few shorter pieces that had escaped to frame your temples, he noticed all of it. And then he turned his head away immediately, before you could catch him staring.

"We could make a bet together," you said softly, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. "And the reward wouldn't be money."

Frank looked down at you properly now, his blue eyes piercing as they searched your face. His gaze held yours, unwavering, as the silence stretched between you.

"What would be the reward then?" he asked after a long moment.

"A kiss."

Frank's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared beneath the strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. His lips parted slightly, then closed, then parted again as he processed the word.

"A kiss," he repeated.

"Yup." You held his stare, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered in your chest. "If you win, you'll get a kiss from me." You tilted your head slightly, the picture of casual confidence even though your pulse was racing. "You can just tell me what you think made Westbridge shut down, and if you're right, you'll get a kiss."

You said it so simply, like it was nothing, like you weren't offering him something you'd both been wanting for nearly a year now.

Frank's eyes moved rapidly across your face, searching, trying to gauge if you were messing with him. He knew you, knew your sense of humor, knew how you liked to tease. But this felt different.

"So?" you asked, and you managed to look assured and unbothered. But your fingers, hidden from his view, were tapping rapidly against the top of the desk, giving away every ounce of nerves you pretended not to have.

Frank stared at you for another long moment. Then slowly, a grin spread across his face. The first real grin you'd seen from him since he came back. "Okay," he said. "You got a deal."

And you smiled, relieved. "Yeah?"

He smiled further at your smile, like he couldn't help it, like seeing you happy made him happy whether he wanted it to or not. "Yeah."

You nodded, smiling to yourself, feeling warmth spread through your chest. You were about to push off from the desk, about to go find a case to work on and give yourself a moment to process what just happened, when Frank's voice stopped you.

"You—" He cleared his throat, and when you glanced back at him, you saw color rising on his cheeks. He closed his eyes briefly, like he was embarrassed by what he was about to ask but couldn't stop himself. "You are talking about a—" He swallowed hard. "A kiss on the lips?"

The question hung in the air between you, and you could practically hear him cursing himself internally for how awkward it sounded.

You couldn't help your giggle.

"Yeah, Frank." You grinned, tilting your head as you watched him narrow his eyes, realization dawning that you were enjoying his embarrassment just a little too much. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "I'm talking about a kiss on the lips."

His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shook his head slightly, a huff of embarrassed laughter escaping him. You grinned wider, delighted by his flustered reaction, by the way the confident doctor who used to charm everyone had been reduced to blushing over the word kiss.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and you caught the small smile he was trying to hide. "You're enjoying this way too much," he muttered.

"Maybe," you admitted, still smiling. "But you agreed. No takesies backsies."

Frank laughed and for a moment, he looked like the man you'd wanted to go on that date with ten months ago. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

"Any more questions?" you asked, your grin turning playful. "I can send you a tutorial on how to kiss if you want, too."

Frank stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. The old Frank would have fired back with something smooth that would have made you blush instead. But this Frank just shook his head with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny," he mumbled, but the smile didn't leave his face.

You grinned, warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him actually smiling. Before you could overthink it, you reached out and squeezed his bicep.

"Just write your theories for the shutdown on some paper and slip it into my locker, yeah?" you asked, still smiling up at him.

Frank glanced down at your hand on his arm, his gaze lingering there for a moment. Then he looked back up at you and nodded slowly. "Yeah."

You smiled once more, squeezing his bicep again and then you turned and walked back, disappearing into one of the patient rooms without looking back.

Frank stared after you. For a long moment, he just stood there, leaning against the desk, his eyes fixed on the empty space where you'd been. His mind was struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You wanted to kiss him.

That was still on the table. After everything, after ten months of silence, after he'd practically bailed on you, after you'd found out he was an addict and a thief, you still wanted to kiss him. He pressed his palm flat against the desk.

You wanted to kiss him.

The thought replayed itself over and over, each time feeling more impossible than the last. He'd ghosted you. Not intentionally, but effectively all the same.

He shook his head slowly.

He remembered that morning he asked you out so clearly. It had been early, barely 8am, and he'd stopped by your locker with a coffee. Your usual order, because of course he knew your usual order, he'd been paying attention for months by then. You'd turned around when he said your name, and the sight of you had hit him like it always did. Your hair was slightly messy from your commute and you'd looked so pretty it had just burst out of him.

"Dinner?" he'd said. Just like that. No smooth lead up, no charming preamble.

You'd held the coffee he handed you and stared at him for what felt like fifteen full seconds. "What?" was all you'd said.

And he'd stared back, mouth opening and closing like a fish, suddenly terrified by his own impulsiveness. But then he'd swallowed and asked again, properly this time. "Do you want to get dinner with me?"

"Dinner with you?" you'd repeated. He'd been ready to bolt at that point. But then your hand had shot out and grabbed his arm. "Hey, are you serious?" you'd asked. "You're not messing with me, right?"

He'd shaken his head immediately. "No."

And then you'd smiled. "I'd love to."

He'd grinned so hard his face hurt. "Yeah?"

You'd nodded again, practically bouncing on your toes, your excitement bleeding through even though you tried to play it cool. "Yes, yeah."

"I'll pick you up at 7pm, okay?" he'd asked, already planning it in his head, already thinking about where to take you, what to wear, how not to screw this up.

And you'd nodded so enthusiastically. "Yes, yeah. Okay. Seven."

He'd walked away from that locker on cloud nine.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head again in disbelief. He couldn't believe you wanted to kiss him.Something he'd dreamed about doing the entire time the day he asked you out. He remembered thinking about it for long stretches, letting his mind wander when he should have been focused on patients.

If he'd do it as he dropped you off after dinner. If he should go for it directly after the meal, while you were still sitting across from him, candlelight and all that. If he should stick with one kiss or let it turn into more. If you'd prefer soft and slow or something bolder. If he should grab your waist. If he should start with touching your waist and work his way up to your face.

It was like he was a teenage boy all over again.

He'd thought he had his game figured out by now. Thought he'd matured past the nervous pacing and overthinking. He'd asked girls out plenty of times before, thought he knew how this whole thing worked.

Nope. You played him down to a boy. Every time.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of the ER with a chart in his hands, realizing he was going to have to deal with this all over again.

God help him get through the rest of his shift, because he was sure he was going to stare at your lips all day. Every time you walked past, every time you spoke, every time you smiled, he'd be watching, waiting, thinking about that kiss he'd somehow managed to wrangle back into existence.

He pressed his lips together and forced his eyes back down to the chart in his hands. Focus. He needed to focus.

But before he could even finish the first sentence, a piece of paper appeared at his elbow.

He looked up to find Princess standing there, arms crossed, expression entirely too knowing. "Write your theories," she said flatly. "Now. Or you'll miss out on that kiss."

Frank stared at her, mouth opening slightly in confusion. And then he turned his head slightly and met Perlah's stare from across the nurses' station. She was leaning against the counter, a massive grin spread across her face. She'd clearly caught the entire conversation as well.

Frank just shook his head. "Can you guys like not listen in on other people's conversations for once in your life?" he mumbled, reaching for the paper.

"No," Princess said suddenly from right behind him.

He jumped slightly, when had she moved?, and shot her a look over his shoulder. She just raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered, and walked away. He sighed, turning back to the paper in his hands.

"Get it right!" Perlah shouted after him, her voice carrying across the ER with zero subtlety. He heard her immediately start gossiping with Princess again. He sighed again and ran his free hand through his hair as he walked back toward his computer.

Get it right. As if he needed the pressure.

Throughout the day, Frank was a man on a mission.

He ran from person to person, cornering anyone who looked like they might have even a scrap of knowledge about Westbridge. Nurses. Techs. A bewildered janitor who just wanted to mop the hallway in peace. He even asked Garcia.

She'd stared at him for a long moment, her expression caught between confusion and delight, before a slow grin spread across her face. "Oh my God," she'd said, voice dripping with amusement. "You're actually trying to win that kiss, aren't you?"

Frank had opened his mouth to deny it, but she'd already started laughing. A laugh that made everyone around them turn and look.

"You're pathetic," she'd informed him cheerfully. "I love it. No, I don't know anything about Westbridge, but please keep running around. This is the best entertainment I've had all shift."

He'd sighed, shaken his head, and walked away to the sound of her still laughing behind him.

Now he found himself back at the nurses' station, leaning against the counter with his elbows, feeling slightly defeated. He'd talked to a dozen people and had exactly nothing to show for it.

"Dana," he called, and she raised her head from the paperwork she'd been buried in.

"Yeah?" she said, her tone distracted but not unkind.

"You got any idea what happened to Westbridge?"

Dana considered him for a moment, then shook her head. "No, kid. Otherwise I'd be winning that bet myself." She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Why you asking?"

Frank straightened up, pushing himself off the counter. "No reason," he said quickly, too quickly, judging by the way her eyebrow shot up.

He looked around the ER, scanning faces, looking for you. It was habit by now, this constant awareness of where you were in the room. He always knew where you were. Always made sure to see you at least once an hour, even if it was just a glance across the department.

But he hadn't seen you in at least two.

His chest tightened slightly as he scanned again. Nothing. No sign of you anywhere.

"Think she's in the stairwell," Dana said quietly, and Frank turned back to her. She nodded toward the door leading to the stairs, her expression softening. "Had a rough patient."

Frank's heart dropped.

You rarely went to the stairwell. Like, truly rarely. It was your spot, he knew, the place you went when things got really bad, when you needed to be alone. But usually, you came to him first. Usually, you found him in the middle of whatever he was doing and just stood there until he noticed, until he pulled you aside and let you decompress.

But that dynamic had been broken now, hadn't it? Ten months of silence had probably erased that right along with everything else. He hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor.

Dana watched him, reading the conflict on his face. "She'll want you there," she said softly. "Go."

Frank hesitated one more second, then turned on his heels and walked toward the stairwell door.

The stairwell was quiet, the way it always was. He stepped inside and immediately looked down. And there you were.

Sitting on the lowest staircase, your back against the wall, your knees pulled up slightly. You weren't crying, which was something, but you looked tired. Frank hesitated at the top, his hand on the railing. Then he stepped down softly, one stair at a time, until he was just behind you.

You turned your head and met his eyes."Hi," you said softly, and you smiled.

You scooted slightly, making room, and he didn't hesitate this time. He stepped down and sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

"Hey," he finally spoke, his voice quiet. "You okay?"

"Rough patient," was all you said softly. You didn't go into details, and he didn't need you to. He knew that sometimes you just needed to sit with someone, not talk about it.

You scooted closer and put your head on his shoulder. He put his arm around your back, his hand resting gently on your far shoulder, and started brushing softly up and down.

You sighed. It was barely audible, but Frank heard it clearly. And when he noticed it was a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't believe that he was still capable of making you feel this way.

You pressed closer, your weight shifting slightly against him, and he welcomed it.

"I missed you," you suddenly spoke, your voice muffled slightly by his shoulder. You kept your head there, hidden, finally having the peace of not worrying about seeing his facial expressions or getting nervous from his pretty face.

Frank's hand, which had been brushing softly against your back, traveled higher. Until his fingers reached the back of your head and started threading gently through your hair. "Missed you too," he mumbled. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

"I'm sorry."

The words were quiet you almost missed them. You stayed still, barely breathing, to hear him better.

"For what I did," he continued, his voice even softer now. "With the date." He swallowed hard, and you felt the movement against your cheek. "I—" He stopped. Started again. "And for lying about the pills. And for stealing."

And as he said it, you both knew what he meant. You'd worked countless shifts together. Treated countless patients. Every pill you'd ever handed out, every medication you'd administered, some of those had been stolen first by him.

You'd thought about that over the weeks since everything came out. Thought about it a lot, actually. But mostly, mostly, you'd thought about it with sadness, that you hadn't noticed, that he'd been suffering right next to you and you'd been completely blind to it.

You lifted your head off his shoulder now, needing to see him. His blue eyes met yours, and what you found there made your heart break. It was pure fear. Fear of your reaction, fear that this would be the moment you finally turned away.

"You don't need to apologize to me."

But Frank shook his head immediately. "Yeah, I do." His voice cracked slightly. "I betrayed your trust. I used our—" He hesitated, the word catching in his throat. "Our relationship to steal from patients."

He didn't say friendship. You noticed that immediately. He said relationship, like he knew it had always been more than that, like he understood that what was between you couldn't be reduced to something so simple.

You stared at him for a long moment, taking in the way his eyes searched yours. And you realized that maybe he needed this. "Okay," you said softly. "Thank you for apologizing, Frank."

His shoulders sagged slightly, almost imperceptibly, relief so profound you could feel it radiating off him. You watched him for a while longer. Then you looked back down at the steps below you, breaking the intensity of the moment just slightly.

"So," you said, a hint of playfulness creeping into your voice. "How's your bet going?"

And Frank let out the biggest sigh in the entire world. It was dramatic and exaggerated. "That bad?" you laughed.

He just shook his head slowly, mournfully, his expression so defeated. "That bad," he confirmed with another heavy sigh.

You smiled softly as he kept talking, apparently needing to unload. "I've asked everyone," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "Literally everyone. Nurses, techs, that janitor who definitely thought I was crazy. I even asked Garcia."

You raised an eyebrow. "Garcia?"

"Who gave me a bunch of crap," he confirmed, pushing a hand through his hair to fix it, a nervous habit you recognized.

You started giggling and Frank smiled. He watched you as you calmed down, your giggles fading, your shoulders still shaking slightly with the last remnants of amusement. And then you finally turned your head, met his eyes and froze.

Because he was staring at you with that soft smile still playing on his lips, the one that said he'd been watching you this whole time and enjoying every second of it.

You got shy immediately. He saw the way your eyes widened slightly, the way you broke eye contact and looked away like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Frank's smile widened. Turned cocky, even.

Because yeah. Yeah, he was still capable of this. Still capable of turning you shy, of making you look away first, of having some small effect on you after everything. After ten months and a destroyed reputation and more shame than he knew what to do with, he could still do this.

You kept your gaze fixed on the stairs, pretending to be very interested in the concrete, and Frank let himself enjoy the moment.

"Your hair's longer," he spoke finally.

His hand came up to your ponytail, tentative at first. When you didn't pull away, he gently wrapped a strand around his finger, twirling it slowly, watching the way the light caught the ends.

You smiled. "Yeah. Thought I'd grow it out a bit." You tilted your head slightly, watching him watch your hair. "You like it?"

He kept twirling, seemingly mesmerized. "Love it," he mumbled.

You smiled wider, then let your eyes drift to his hair, perfectly styled and gelled back. You raised an eyebrow.

"Yours is fully gelled back," you observed. "What happened to letting your hair breathe?" You were teasing, and he knew it. And in response he lightly tugged on your ponytail, just enough to make you sway slightly, and you giggled.

He let go of your hair and reached up to touch his own, fingers running lightly over the styled strands. "You don't like it?" he asked, and his voice was quieter now.

Your smile softened immediately. "I like it," you assured him gently. "Makes you look really serious." You tilted your head, letting your grin turn playful again. "Which I know you're not."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm serious. I can be serious."

You just looked at him, letting the silence stretch. "Frank." He held your stare, chin lifted slightly, like he was daring you to disagree. You grinned. "Sure. If that makes you feel better."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as if deeply wounded by your disbelief. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, betraying him completely.

"I'm just joking," you said, your voice gentler now. "You look as handsome as ever."

You raised your hands slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn't. Your palms cupped his face, warm against his skin, and you felt him exhale softly at the contact. One hand stayed there, resting against his cheek, while the other moved up toward his hairline.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as you carefully picked two strands near his forehead and pulled them down gently, freeing them from the gel. You rubbed the strands between your fingers, working the product out until they were loose. Then you curled them lightly around your finger, watching them fall into place, softer now. You let your hand drop back down, but the other remained on his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.

"Hm," you murmured, surveying your work with a small satisfied smile. "That's better."

Frank stayed silent. His eyes hadn't left your face. He was staring at you with an intensity that made the stairwell feel suddenly very small.

You shifted slightly under the weight of his gaze. "What?" you asked, suddenly self conscious.

"Nothing," he said, but his voice was rough.

You knew that tone, knew it meant the exact opposite of nothing. "Frank." You sighed. "Spill it."

He held your stare, those blue eyes boring into yours. For a long moment, he just looked at you, at your face, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes. "You're making it really hard to wait to kiss you."

You froze. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Then your hand dropped from his face into your lap, and you just sat there, staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Frank started chuckling. Partly at your reaction, which was, admittedly, pretty adorable, but partly because the tension had grown so thick between you that he needed some kind of release, before he did something impulsive, like kiss you right here, right now, bet be damned.

"You can't say stuff like that," you finally managed, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to compose yourself.

He raised his eyebrows, outrage coloring his features. "I can't say things like that?" He gestured between the two of you, voice pitching higher with disbelief. "You're the one who started this whole thing!"

You started giggling. "This whole thing? What's that supposed to mean?"

"The kissing thing!" Frank said, and immediately wanted to die.

Because yeah. Yeah, he'd just said that. Out loud. Like some kind of flustered teenager who'd never done this before. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, could see the way your giggles intensified at his expense.

"You know," you managed as you kept giggling, "we don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Frank turned his head toward you fully, slightly more serious. "I want to," he said sincerely. "Definitely want to."

He smiled, and you smiled right back.

Then you stood up, brushing off the back of your scrubs casually, like you hadn't just turned his entire world upside down in the span of ten minutes.

"Good," you said, looking down at him with that playful glint back in your eyes. "Well, I hope you bet right, then." You smiled, and then you stretched your hands out toward him.

Frank stared at them blankly for a moment, confused. What were you—oh.

You were trying to help him up.

His back. He hadn't even thought about it when he sat down next to you, hadn't considered the consequences of perching on concrete steps for who knows how long. But you had.

And suddenly he could feel the insecurity biting at him. The disgust curling in his stomach at himself, at all the ways he was damaged and not worthy of someone who remembered things like this.

But, you just leaned forward, grabbed his hands yourself and waited. He pushed up, using your grip for balance, and felt the familiar twinge in his lower back as he straightened. You let go of his hands immediately, as soon as he was up, pretending not to see the slight pained grimace he couldn't quite hide.

You just turned toward the door, casual as anything. "Want to work on a case together?" you asked, already walking back toward the ER.

Frank fell into step beside you, matching your pace. "Yeah." He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's my turn this time, though."

You'd always had this thing. When one of you got tired of working solo, you'd grab a case together. And you alternated, each time, whoever hadn't picked last time got to choose the next one.

"I remember," you said, smiling at him.

The two of you worked for a couple more hours, pulling you in opposite directions more often than not. A trauma here, a consult there, a patient crashing in between. You barely got to talk about anything else, just quick glances across the department, brief touches when you passed each other in the hallway.

At some point, Frank had gathered enough intel to form a theory.

He'd pieced together fragments from a dozen different conversations and convinced himself he'd cracked it. He'd written it down on that blank piece of paper, folded it carefully, and slipped it into your locker.

Then he'd spent the rest of his shift praying it was right.

The two of you, in your busy days, completely missed the gathering that happened near the end of the shift. A cluster of nurses and residents huddled around someone's phone. The real reason for the Westbridge shutdown had been exposed. A cyberattack.

Frank caught the tail end of the conversation as he walked past, and the color drained from his face so fast he felt dizzy.

Damn it. He had it completely wrong.

From that moment on, it was better to avoid him.

Most people could sense it. He was pissed. Terribly, deeply pissed. At himself, at the situation, at the cruel twist of fate that had dangled a kiss in front of him and then snatched it away.

At the end of the day, Frank walked toward your locker in the slowest steps possible. Each one felt heavier than the last, dragging against the floor like they didn't want to get there. He sighed to himself, running a hand through his hair, the strands you'd freed from the gel now falling naturally across his forehead.

And there you were.

Standing by your locker, holding his paper. The one with his wrong theory written on it. You hadn't opened it yet. "Walk me home?" you asked, smiling.

Frank summoned every ounce of acting ability he possessed and put on an arrogant smile. "Yeah, sure," he said smoothly, like he hadn't just lost the thing he wanted most. Like he was totally fine with waiting a little longer for that kiss.

You smiled at his reaction, turning to grab your jacket from the locker. Frank watched you for a moment, then stepped forward.

He helped you into your jacket, his hands settling on your shoulders briefly before sliding down to the buttons. He started fastening them slowly, starting from the bottom and working his way up. You watched his face, trying to gauge whether he'd gotten it right. When he reached the top button, he shot you a confident smile. He wouldn't have to keep the mask up for long, anyway. He just had to make it through the walk and to your front door.

The two of you headed out into the cool night air. You chitchatted about dinner plans, what you might make, whether you'd order in, if there was anything good in your fridge.

Soon enough, you were at your front door.

You reached into your bag and pulled out the paper. The paper that would determine whether tonight ended with a kiss or not.

"So." You smiled up at him, trying to keep your voice light. "Did you guess it right?"

Frank stood on the step below you, but he was still at your height. He grinned at you. Weakly, maybe, but a grin nonetheless. While nodding his head, he said, "Guess you'll have to see for yourself."

You hesitated when you saw the way his eyelashes flickered when he moved his head. You knew that tell. Every time he spoke with a grin and nodded his head like that, it was a lie. You'd learned that about him months ago, back when you were just coworkers who noticed things about each other.

"Power supply unit failure," you read aloud.

Frank nodded, shuffling his feet against the ground below. His eyes didn't quite meet yours.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch.

"Guess I got that wrong," he grimaced finally, a self deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "Good thing I didn't bet any money."

You raised an eyebrow. "Was the loss here not just as big?"

You were teasing him. Obviously. Poking fun at his deflection, at the way he was trying to make this about money when you both knew what was really on the line.

But he didn't realize you were teasing. Or maybe he did, and he was worried that you were jokingly hiding your real feelings. He held your eye contact, his blue eyes steady and serious. "No, it's bigger."

You tilted your head, trying to gauge if he was lying. Trying to read him the way you always could. But his gaze didn't waver. He meant it. Losing the chance to kiss you was bigger than any amount of money.

You looked back down at the paper in your hands. Squeezed it slightly. Your fist balled up tightly around the edges, crinkling the corner, as you made a decision for yourself. Quickly, before you could overthink it, you stuffed the paper back into your bag.

You looked up at him. He'd followed your hand movements with his eyes, watching you shove the evidence away, but he still wasn't looking at you directly, like he couldn't bear to see disappointment on your face.

And then you leaned in.

It was a bit awkward, you were too shy to touch him to close the distance properly. But you were confident enough to press your lips against his. A kiss that lasted barely five seconds before you pulled away.

Mostly because Frank didn't react. He just stood there, frozen, staring at you like he was trying to catch up with what had just happened.

You fell back onto your feet. "Thought you deserved a reward for trying," you said, smiling weakly. Trying to hide the fact that he hadn't kissed you back.

Frank stared at you for another long moment, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. And then he finally spoke. "That's it?"

Your head snapped up, meeting his eyes. "What?" you asked, breathless, still reeling from what you'd done.

"That's all I get?" He tilted his head slightl.

"I—what?" you asked again, still unable to quite catch up.

He smiled at your shy reaction, the way you were suddenly flustered, suddenly uncertain, after being so bold just moments ago. And then his hands came up and framed your face and his lips were back on yours.

This time, you were the one who took a second to realize what was happening.

He was actually kissing you. Really kissing you.

You leaned in immediately, closing the small distance until you were chest to chest, your hands flying up to his biceps and gripping them tightly. His lips moved against yours and they felt just as nice as you'd always imagined they would. Better, even.

Frank couldn't help the smile that crept up his face when he noticed the taste of your lips. Vanilla. Your chapstick. You'd planned and hoped for this.

The thought made him smile so wide he had to break the kiss, his lips curving against yours until they couldn't stay connected anymore. You were grinning as well, couldn't stop if you tried. Frank kept his eyes closed for a moment, just making sure this was real. Then he opened them, needing to know if you were okay with what just happened.

You were more than okay. "Do you feel better about your reward now?" you spoke, grinning up at him.

Frank joined you in smiling, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheekbones. "Almost," he mumbled.

And then he leaned in and kissed you again.

This one was longer and slower. Your heart beat frantically against your ribs, pure happiness flooding through every part of you. You would've felt embarrassed about how hard it was pounding, if you hadn't been able to feel Frank's heartbeat against yours at the same time, just as fast, just as overwhelmed.

When he finally pulled back, your noses were still touching, neither of you willing to create any more distance than absolutely necessary.

"Still not enough," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "but it'll do for now."

You smiled even wider, if that was possible. Your hands were still gripping his biceps, your body still pressed against his, and you had never felt more alive.

He watched you for a second, his blue eyes soft for you, before a grin spread across his face. "You knew I wasn't going to get it right," he said, his tone teasing. "You just wanted an excuse to kiss me."

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing softly across your cheek, lingering there like he couldn't stop touching you. His confidence was creeping back, that familiar cockiness you'd missed so much.

"So?" you said, smiling up at him, squeezing his biceps for emphasis. "Are you complaining?"

“The new intern claims Barbie’s been doodling your name with little hearts all over her forms. Somebody’s got it bad.”

Mateo’s statement floats over the nurses’ station diver.

It manages to slam straight into your self-image. Delicate tissue at the best of times, wedged between your left ventricle and the tiny circuit that compels you to adopt every sad house-plant at Trader Joe’s.

Yes it’s true, you do, for the record, employ thematic embellishments. A heart here. A flourish there. (Morale matters; medicine is bleak). That is not the same thing as ‘having it bad’. 

But the problem is apparently people can’t make that distinction, and now you can see it too clearly, a pack of first-years huddled together, snickering over your smittenness, spider-webbing a hairline crack right through the high-gloss competence you spent seventy-eight paychecks shellacking.

It’s that eighth-grade deja vu: the day Jack Harrison caught you tracing Mrs. Jack Harrison in bubble letters on your planner and passed the page down the row like contraband. 

The heat that bursts behind your ears now is the exact temperature of that day, when the whole cafeteria seemed to sync with your cardiac rhythm — thump, she likes him, thump. 

You straighten behind the med cart, ready to emerge and correct the narrative before it mutates any further, when Frank speaks first. “Ignore it. It’s just noise — I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon enough.”

Oh.

Something clamps shut inside you so abruptly it almost audibly clicks.

Like you’ve been fizzing under pressure all shift and someone, somewhere, has just screwed the cap on tight. The carbonation tears around blind, frantic for an exit.

Noise. The word expands until it feels the whole corridor. Noise, as in background nuisance, as in easily tuned out, as in the thin electrical whine of a dying bulb that nobody bothers fixing until someone from maintenance finally rips it out and tosses it. 

So that’s what he hears when you talk? A squeaky hindrance he tolerates out of courtesy? 

The lively back-and-forth you stored under maybe someday morphs, in one breath, into you pawing at a deadbolt while he waits for the scratching to stop. 

You pivot on silent flats, slip down the side corridor before Mateo or Frank registers movement. 

Three steps in, a shoulder clips yours — McKay, clutching a stack of imaging requests. Clipboards explode across linoleum. 

“Whoa, road-runner much?” she laughs, stooping. Her grin falters when she meets your deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Hey, you good? You’re kind of… vibrating.”

There’s no better word for it. Your fingers keep sparking against each other, your chin keeps twitching toward the main hall, and every nerve ending chants the same directive: bolt, wounded-fawn style, into the nearest underbrush before the hunter looks up. 

You drop to your knees, paper edges nicking your skin as you herd the spill into something vaguely stack-shaped.

Out of the corner of your eye, Frank and Mateo both turn at the clatter. Frank’s brows notch, mouth already forming the silent You okay?

You slap the stack into McKay’s hands.

“Peachy!” you babble, already sidestepping to block Frank’s sight-line. “Totally good. Very busy. High-priority sticker emergency. Life or death if you’re, like, six and waiting for discharge.”

Your shoes squeak as you bolt. 

There are several indicators, in Frank’s opinion, that suggest you’ve come down with something terminal, and the first arrives in the form of his inbox. 

Or rather, the absence of its usual infestation. 

When he finally gets ten uninterrupted minutes to wade through his overnight emails, there is only one from you.

A curt administrative note about revised intake-labeling protocol, plus an attached spreadsheet for the week’s front-desk coverage.

It is concise. Properly punctuated. Horrifyingly lucid. 

Frank stares at it a full second longer than necessary, as if more of you might reveal itself under scrutiny.

Because, usually, by this point, there are at least twelve.

They arrive in glitter-bomb bursts throughout the day. A few carry actionable intel. Most are digital magpies’ nests: random URLs, blurry memes, rogue exclamation points, and the kind of half-formed shower-thought nonsense you apparently consider too important to trust to your own mind.

He spends longer than he’s willing to admit at the computer waiting for more emails to come in.

They never do.

The second indicator presents itself when he swipes into radiology and, for the first time in recent memory, does so alone. 

No sudden apparition at his elbow, no imploring eyes, no breathless little “oops, forgot mine again,” delivered as though this is an unforeseeable act of the gods rather than a behavior pattern.

He tends to just hand the badge over without questions. 

There is no point doing otherwise. If not him, you’ll simply latch onto the next available soft touch with security clearance, and Frank would rather it be him. 

He frowns when the reader spits its green light at an empty hallway.

The third, and by far the most worrying, indicator arrives in the break room.

Frank boxes himself into a stolen minute, pours a cup, looks up too late, and finds you standing at the same counter. 

Usually this is your opening. Your preferred habitat. 

You’d reach across his body for sugar you absolutely do not need (you’re sweet enough as it is), clip his front with your ass, crowd his elbow while stirring, then look up like none of it was intentional, like he’s just a piece of furniture placed unfortunately in your path. 

He braces for impact. Nothing happens.

Instead you give a brisk nod, measure out a generous amount of creamer into your cup, and keep your radius fanatically intact. 

You leave before he can tally the damage.

The space beside him turns freezer-aisle cold. Frank’s fingers blanch on the mug handle. He blames the overzealous hospital ventilation for about half a second, then hears the excuse rattle around his own head and die there. 

He has half a mind to go after you. Catch you by the wrist before you get too far, steer you into a vacant bay, and do the whole thing properly since apparently no one else is treating this personality drop as emergent. 

History, exam, differential. What’s been siphoned out of you, and can he replace it?

In a better universe, that line of inquiry earns him one of your usual responses, “Should I unbutton for the stethoscope, Doctor?” 

But he can’t do that. Can’t go stalking after you like some lovesick asshole with a savior complex and a death wish. 

Especially not now when he is, at best, one bad headline away from vaporizing the fellowship he’s been clawing toward for years. He needs HR to stop looking at him like one more incident will finish the job rehab failed to. 

And beyond that, he’s been trying to starve the gossip before it gets any bigger. Partly for himself, sure. Mostly for you. 

This place has a long memory when it comes to his mistakes and a short one when it comes to anything decent he’s ever done. 

He’s not about to hand the hospital a fresh excuse to staple your name to his and let people act like you’re just another piece of collateral from the mess he made of himself. 

But shit he misses you. He wants your attention back on him. And the flirting and the smart mouth and the little collisions of your body with his like you’ve forgotten where one of you ends and the other begins. 

So if he can’t be obvious, he’ll be strategic. He’ll do what he does best. Lay the bait and wait for you to come to him. 

At two he messes with the thermostat. 

There’s a woman in Facilities who’ll adjust it for him without putting in a work order, no questions, an ongoing favor from the time she showed up in the ER with split knuckles and a story about slipping while replacing a vent cover. 

Frank stitched the cut closed in under six minutes, declined the point out that the wound looked a lot more like she’d punched through something than brushed against it, and earned himself a useful little pocket of goodwill in the process.

And, more often than not, Frank squanders that usefulness on you. 

A degree warmer in the mornings, sometimes two if the night crew has left the department with all the ambient warmth of a crypt, timed just before you blow in the front doors, already looking faintly wounded by the concept of central air.

It’s at sixty-six now. 

Low enough to summon you, high enough that no one can accuse him of weaponizing infrastructure for attention.

Although that is precisely what he’s doing. 

But it takes longer than expected for you to appear in his line of sight. And when you finally do, you pay him no mind.

You putter through the department in several layers: cardigan, coat, fleece, thermal tights, hands tucked into your sleeves.

You look pissed. You look adorable. Frank resents learning those two things can coexist so easily.

He tries to catch your eye but you just keep moving through the pit like an overdressed cumulonimbus radiating indignation at every ceiling vent, refusing to seek him out.

It makes no sense. You should have filed a verbal complaint with him by minute eight.

And at minute forty-five he watches (sourly) as Garcia slides up beside you, a still-steaming warmer blanket perfectly folded over her arm. 

“You look frostbitten,” she murmurs, settling the plush square around your shoulders. 

You exhale a blissed little thank-you and lean into her, soaking up the heat Frank had planned to supply by proxy.

Garcia lifts her gaze, finds him across the pit, and winks. Problem solved, ER Ken, she mouths, fluffing the blanket with exaggerated care just to make sure he clocks her fingerprints all over his failed experiment. 

Problem not solved. In fact, freshly enlarged. 

Frank later lumbers down the hallway toward your office like a kicked senior dog chasing the last scrap of affection from its owner. He clutches the print-outs in his hand so tight they rasp with every step. 

He finds you at your desk, hair fallen in stray ribbons across your face, mouth pulled down at the corners while the monitor paints you blue. Concentration or maybe displeasure. Hard to tell from this angle.

He hovers, suddenly unsure whether to knock on the actual door or just the wall of silence you’ve erected. 

He opts for the literal door, two knuckles, two quick knocks.

Your head lifts. Something bright like excitement sparks across your face then the expression collapses, shutters down to business. Like you remembered all at once the circumstances surrounding him and whatever stupid hope had leapt up before you could stop it. 

He hates that expression immediately. Hates that it exists. Hates even more that he can’t quite sort out why seeing it on your face feels like a personal failure. 

“Need this form revised,” he says, lifting the mangled stack. “Thought maybe you could escort me to radiology? Could use the company, and you terrify the techs less than I do.”

It’s needy and transparent and he knows. He doesn’t care how it sounds as long as you say yes.

“I’m, uh, really busy at the moment, Dr. Langdon. Pending labs, two admits… might be a while.” You rattle it off too fast, like reading a grocery list you just wrote in your head. He knows every item is invented on the spot. 

“Humor me, okay? I’ve had seven hours of people telling me to wait my turn. I need one cooperative face before I implode.”

You worry the inside of your lips, eyes flicking to the doorway.

Finally you nod. “Fine.”

One syllable, and it hits like epinephrine. He can’t stop the microscopic lift of his chin, lungs taking in a fuller breath as if permission itself has oxygenated the air. 

He angles toward the hallway, offering the smallest tilt of his shoulder so you can merge. 

“Thanks,” he says, voice pitched towards casual.

“Sure.”

He glances at you to his left. Goosebumps litter the expanse of your arms. He eases his stride so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder instead of half a step behind. “You cold?”

“Nope. Perfectly comfortable.” You answer while simultaneously yanking your sleeves down to your knuckles.

He snorts. “Yeah and I’m the post child for impulse control.”

You stop mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “That’s not funny, Frank.”

His first name. That’s progress, he thinks. Even laced with contempt, hearing it from you feels like an exhale after hours underwater.

He knew you wouldn’t like the joke. Made it anyway, cheap currency to buy a spark out of you. If spark equals fury, so be it. Fury beats indifference every time. 

“Yeah, poor taste. Reflex, I guess.” He winces, thumb rubbing the knot at his collar. 

You huff through your nose and pivot forward again, pace clipped. Frank falls in step a half-pace behind, then edges closer.

“Cardigan looks new,” he ventures. “Color suits you.”

“It’s old,” you say, eyes still on the hallway ahead. 

Frank smothers another wince. Stupid. By this point the day has offered him more than enough evidence that the usual methods are dead on arrival.

Compliments, bait, orchestrated coincidence, all of it useless now that you’ve apparently decided to treat him like a mildly inconvenient coworker.

That’s the part he likes least. The sudden sense that he can’t locate himself in relation to you anymore. 

The part he likes least changes when he finds you twenty minutes later, stationed beside some orthopedic meathead, looking luminously alive.

No longer wan or withdrawn or visibly dying of whatever new strain of virus you’ve contracted. But smiling. A laugh bubbling out, fingers corkscrewing a curl the way they do when you’re charmed.

Apparently you can still flirt. You can still sparkle. You just can’t seem to do it anywhere near him. 

Before his cortex can veto, he’s crossing the floor, stopping dead at your shoulder. 

“Just need a status update on Mrs. Carlson’s tib-fib before radiology locks the board.” 

Mrs. Carlson, insofar as he knows, is fictional, but her imaginary fracture buys him two startled glances and three precious seconds inhaling the vanilla-and-alcohol warmth of your laugh. 

Meathead flips through pages. “Um… we don’t have a Carlson today.”

Frank fakes a thoughtful frown. “Huh. Alias, then. Happens every weekend — patients think we’re the witness-protection program.” 

Ortho squints. “I can pull the day-sheet again —”

“Good idea,” Frank says, nodding like a supervising attending. “Check PACU and the boarding queue; wouldn’t want to miss an imaging window.” 

The guy mutters agreement and slinks off, shoulders hunched in duty. Frank turns to you, expression suddenly softer. 

Crossing your arms, you cock a hip where Ortho had been. “Impressive diversion tactic. Did Mrs. Carlson spring fully formed from your imagination, or is she a previous imaginary friend?” 

The fury’s back again. 

Frank scratches at his jaw. “Didn’t think it through.” 

“You think plenty. Maybe just tell me what you want instead of throwing Jason under a bus.” 

Jason. Stupid name for a stupid guy, he thinks.

What he wants is one honest conversation and maybe your ass back where it belongs — in his personal space. He can’t say that last part though, so he settles for the first in the only terms he knows how.

“What I want is a five-minute consult with you. Somewhere quieter.” He flicks a glance at the empty bay down the hall, then back to your crossed arms. “Please.” 

You study him for a moment, then nod once.

“Bay twelve’s open. Five minutes, then I’m due back at my desk.”

Frank files the claim under Questionable. You treat workstations like bar stools — occupied only until something shinier beckons. It’s not the desk ticking in your head; it’s the idea of being walled in with him past the half-life of your composure.

He watches tension climb your scapulae as you march ahead, timing yourself like a patient on a stress test. 

Bay 12 yawns open and swallows you both.

The instant the noise of the corridor seals off, Frank feels his pulse redeploy to places it has no business patrolling. Temples, wrists, the hollow just above his sternum.

For one beat you stand opposite like combatants in a children’s-duel-turned-board-meeting: arms folded, backs straight, pretending neither of you can feel the static in the air. 

“Right.” He claps once (why did he clap?) and immediately regrets it. “Consult.” 

Your brows tip up, perfectly polite, perfectly guarded. “On our imaginary tib-fib?” 

Frank’s ears go hot. 

“Yeah, about that. I might have — misallocated resources.” He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough that sounds like a car refusing to start. “Look, I just —” A breath, steady, like he tells interns before a lumbar puncture. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… different. Quieter. Less —” he gestures vaguely, like there’s a medical term for starlight. “I thought maybe I’d done something.” 

“Frank, I’ve been at this hospital for three years. You’ve existed in approximately one and a half of them. If I’m different and you assume it’s about you, that’s either breathtaking narcissism or —” a small, lethal smile “— maybe something else.” 

Something else. He recognizes your own bait and still lunges. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” Quiet. Direct. No place to hide in it. “Maybe I did assume it had something to do with me because I wanted it to.” His knuckles sweep his jaw. He never looks away from you. “Because if it’s not that, then I’m standing here making an ass out of myself for no reason, and I’d actually prefer the narcissism.” 

You hesitate. “I’m just… giving you a little breathing room, okay?”

“Breathing room?” He moves toward you impulsively before catching himself, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I don’t — fuck, I don’t want breathing room. What are you doing that for?”

“What do you think?” You laugh, but it’s hollowed out completely. He doesn’t like the sound. “I spend half my shift practically trailing after you. Everyone sees it. I just —,” you purse your lips. “I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than I already have.”

He frowns at that. You’ve never once moved through this place like someone worried about looking foolish. 

You flirt when you want to flirt, laugh when you want to laugh, and say things most people would bury alive before letting them leave their mouths. You leave little traces of yourself everywhere. Lip gloss prints on coffee lids. Heart-dotted notes. Sweaters draped over chairs that aren’t yours. There is nothing cautious about you, nothing particularly governed by social survival.

Even your embarrassment tends to be theatrical, temporary, burned through fast and replaced with another bad idea. He has never known you to care this much about the audience. 

“What are you talking about?”

He watches as your eyes break off and land somewhere past his shoulders, as if the answer might be stapled to the wall.

“I heard what you said earlier.”

Frank’s brow furrows harder, causing a headache. “What?”

“With Mateo.” Your arms tighten across your middle. “About me being ‘just noise.’ About how I’d lose interest soon enough.” Your eyes flick up to his for a second. “So I thought maybe I should help you out with that.” 

Blood sluices out of his skull, then surges back so hard his vision pulses.

For a beat, Frank just stands there, knocked completely sideways by the realization that you heard that, heard those exact words with none of the context that had made them make sense in his head. Christ. 

No wonder you pulled back. No wonder you’ve been different. He’d been cornered by Mateo outside the med-supply cage, half-listening to him gleefully recycle some intern gossip thread like it was harmless entertainment, and all Frank had been trying to do was kill it fast.

Shut it down. Mateo was fishing for a reaction, for confirmation, for anything he could carry back into the staff room and let breed. 

Robby’s got a disciplinary file half built with his name on the tab. One more thing and he’ll be back in that carpeted purgatory explaining how “post-rehab Frank” was just a limited-time offer.

The only thought had been do not feed this. Do not let you become a bigger target than you already are. 

“No, that’s — fuck.” He breaks off, already hating how badly he’s said everything. “That’s not what I meant. I called the intern noise. The gossip. The whole stupid conversation. I meant she’d get bored and move on if I didn’t exacerbate it. I did not mean you.”

If anything, the entire point had been to avoid throwing you under the bus by acting like there was nothing there to poke at. And somehow that attempt has landed here, in front of him now, having done exactly the opposite. 

You look at him for a second like you’re trying to decide whether to believe him and coming up short. 

“I can handle it, you know. I’m a big girl. If I’m too much, or if I’ve been making you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.” The flat seam of your lips is more withering than any shout. “I’d rather hear it straight than keep walking around here feeling like some joke everybody else is already in on.” 

“I know you could,” he says, too fast, like he needs to get there before you decide otherwise. “I know you could handle it. And if that was what this was, I would’ve said it, yeah?” His chest keeps punching at the scrub top, lungs over-ventilating around the terror of being misunderstood.  “I don’t want you to stop flirting with me. I don’t want you to stop hovering or talking or… any of it. I — I fucking need it — You.” 

“Frank…”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he hates that you can see him thinking it.

“If I do something stupid right now,” he says, voice low, “are you gonna slap me?” 

He’s half begging for the hit, half begging on the green light. 

Your exhale stutters into a breathy laugh. “Depends how stupid.” 

Stupid wins. 

Frank closes the last inch and touches his mouth to yours.

Soft at first, like he’s half-afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t. You stay… then soften… then melt, and everything inside him rushes forward. The second your lips part, the kiss deepens. Hunger and apology braided tight.

His hand rises to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hair there, and the kiss tips from cautious to greedy in a single heartbeat. 

He’s been starving himself on purpose, convincing the ache it was dietary. You don’t feed a craving that noble, he’d told himself in a dozen graveyard-shift pep talks. Now the craving is kissing back, and his resolve crumbles like a sugar packet. 

You curve forward, spine bowing until his shoulders hit the curtain and the metal rings screech on the rail, but the world past the vinyl may as well be orbiting another sun. You both break into breathless laughter, but neither of you stops.

They warned you about selfish addicts, a voice needles.

This is exactly what they meant: taking the one thing that makes the ward bearable and unintentionally hurting its feelings to keep it safe — then stealing it anyway.

He swallows the guilt, chases it with another taste of peppermint. 

Frank pulls back just far enough to speak, foreheads still touching. “No more breathing room, okay?” 

You pretend to ponder, then glance at the inch (maybe) separating your bodies. “Pretty sure you just repossessed every cubic inch of it.” 

“Good,” he says, thumb stroking the tendon at your nape like he’s checking his own pulse there. “I’m keeping it.” 

Selfish, a reprimand flickers, but he can’t imagine surrendering the warmth that’s finally tugged his chest open. 

Then the hallway pager shrieks, reminding you that the world still exists and someone probably needs a doctor who isn’t currently making out behind a curtain. 

You both straighten, slower than necessary, Smooth hair, reset badges. 

As you step through the divider he catches your hand, gives it a quick, secret squeeze.

You squeeze back, and the grin you trade in that split-second says everything the rumor mill never could: whatever this is, it’s no longer background noise.

MARIA NOTE hi hi hi thank you for reading and witnessing er barbie and franks FIRST KISS!!!!!!!!!! behind a questionably sanitary curtain, no less. may their pager batteries die forever so we get more smooch time. ₊ ⊹🪻 ✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🪴

Today you’re sunshine, butter yellow and cream stripes curving down a fitted cap sleeve number. Mother of pearl buttons and the tiniest hint of sugar-white lace, bridging the gap at your sternum where you stopped buttoning the shirt up. Frank wonders how many stylets they could’ve ordered with the amount of money you paid for this top. Then he wonders how long it took you to get your hair like that, with the tendrils curling just so, complimenting the soft line of your jaw and the shape of your mouth. The hair in question is pushed behind an ear as you look dutifully between your computer screen and a sour-faced man with a turgid beer belly, on whom your charms are entirely lost. He’s already taking up an attitude with you, at seven in the goddamn morning, and you’re utterly serene. That’s another thing you ought to work on—the way you look at these people, so openly, so receptively, as if it is your greatest, most earnest desire to get each and every one of them seen as quickly and attentively as possible. With your lips slightly parted, and your brows almost imperceptibly raised. It’s just a little too kind. You give these people an inch, and they’d be happy to use you as a rug between here and those all-powerful double doors. 

Frank eyes the man, assessing for any hint of aggression in his body language, and then looks back to you. Only sets his eyes squarely ahead when he’s sure you’re not going to look away from your charge and in his direction—in which case he’d be forced to offer a flat little smile and an indifferent nod of greeting. That happens some mornings. Most, probably. Other than that, and some brief parlay when he’s needed in chairs and you have the relevant patient information, the two of you don’t often have occasion to speak. And so he doesn’t have occasion to think about you. Or how whoever hired you was practically setting you up to fail. To be emotionally scarred for life, at the very least, and to have your confidence slashed in a million different ways. Ward clerks don’t need to be especially kind, or accommodating or pretty, or make every patient feel singularly special with that solicitous look in a set of sparkling eyes. In fact, they should be more like drill sergeants. They should lay down the law, and never take any bullshit from anyone. Frank has seen what scorned patients do to even the most hardened hospital staff given the chance. Putting you in chairs and saying manage these lunatics is like setting up a lightning rod on a roof and expecting it to clear up a storm. 

It’s irresponsible. And, mostly, an egregious waste of money. But he clears the double doors, and the antiseptic fluorescents embrace him like a weary partner, and there is no more cause to think about you. 

Not for a while, anyway. 

Not for a few hours, until he’s peeling off a pair of soiled gloves and absently catching a handful of sanitizer, and someone opens the doors to the waiting room and someone else’s angry words slide through the gap. 

His feet are moving before his brain has made any logistical decrees. 

Instead of the double doors, Frank takes the direct route to your little box office. It feels smaller than he remembers, and smells a whole lot sweeter, which is very odd until he realizes that it’s you, and then he’s inexplicably embarrassed at having considered what you smell like. And by taking note of the fact that it is rich vanilla and an almost arresting hint of lavender. It gets worse when he leans over your shoulder—the scent gets warmer, and a little disarming, the way a good fragrance always does when it sits flush to the skin and invites you to come closer, to try and parse the difference between synthetic and organic. He braces a hand on the desk next to you. No way you should be allowed to wear such a distracting perfume to work. It’s out of place. It’s just not what a hospital is supposed to smell like. 

This whole thought process unfurls in a matter of about three seconds before he’s cutting off the man who’d been yelling at you—the same one from earlier, he realizes with distaste. 

“No yelling in the waiting room. It’s distressing to the patients.”

“I am fucking distressed. I am a distressed fucking patient!”

“Sir, lower your voice or you’ll be removed by security. We have a zero tolerance policy for aggressive behavior.”

For good measure, Frank points to the sign by the nearest pillar. You look in that direction too, like you hadn’t know it was there. Seriously, did nobody fucking train you? Did you wander in off the street? Or maybe out of a perfume commercial?

“Are you going to treat me or is she just going to keep giving me the same bullshit line?”

You begin: “Sir, there are people ahead of you who need—”

“I wasn’t fucking talking to you!” the man explodes, hitting the glass with a meaty palm. Frank looks around for security, but there’s nobody to be found. Fucking budget cuts. Fucking ward clerks. 

“Dr. Langdon doesn’t decide who goes back. I decide who goes back,” you shoot, and while it’s not entirely truthful, Frank is caught off guard (and a little impressed) by the quick, clean jab. “Have a seat or I’ll call security and you’ll have wasted everybody’s time here today.”

The man looks at you, dumb and red as a brick. Then, he chuffs under his breath. That laugh does little to set Frank at ease—in fact, it has him tensing up. It’s a reckless laugh. Like this guy might be about to do something stupid. 

But he just turns around, shaking his head as he walks down the aisle of chairs toward the exit. 

“Unbelievable,” he laughs again. Langdon is pretty sure he’s actually burning holes through the back of this guys jacket as he tracks his flight path, still not quite believing that he’ll leave so peaceably. 

He’s proved right, at the very last moment, when the man is at the threshold of the door. Clearly a coward who knows he’s on the precipice of escape, he looks over his shoulder and yells: “Dumb fucking bitch!”

Frank immediately straightens, rigid with an innate impulse to chase this fucking guy down—but ultimately, is bound in place. Just barely. Just by nature of knowing dealing with assholes is a part of your job, and beating them up is not a part of his. Violence is not exactly endorsed in the Hippocratic oath.

“Dr. Langdon?”

“Hm?” 

He’s aware that he sounds disinterested, that he hasn’t looked away from the rectangle of bright midday light which beckons him in search of retribution. He’s also aware that he might break off a piece of this desk with how hard he’s gripping it. 

“Should I call security?”

“Uh…” he’s drawn back to you, briefly distracted by your proximity when he looks down. You’re expectant looking, eyes clear and wide as usual, combing for information and ostensibly unrattled—but your lips are pressed together somberly. Like you’re keeping something in. “Uh, no. No, if we had security chase down every disgruntled patient there wouldn’t be any left. I’m sorry about that, though. Guy was an asshole. You okay?”

A little nod. One of your earrings catches a drop of light, twisting and arcing brilliantly. Distractingly. 

Jesus, he’s out of it today. 

“I’m good.”

Unconvinced, he does another quick scan of the room. 

“Are you sure? How about you take a break, where’s, uh…”

He draws a blank. 

“Honald? He’s on lunch, I think he’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, why don’t you take yours when he gets back? Just, you know, take a beat. Relax for a minute.”

It’s ridiculous for him to be telling you how to take your break, and he has no idea why he’s doing it, but you nod. 

“Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Good.” Frank straightens fully, pats your shoulder even as he’s already turning around to leave and immediately wonders if that’s something he usually does with his coworkers. “You’re doing great.”

The door is closing behind him before he has a chance to hear your reply. 

Frank is visibly shaking his head and muttering to himself as he walks past central, where Robby is consulting over some files with Dana. He feels Robby’s eyes catch on him and follow his path for a moment before calling out, “Alright?”

“Alright,” Frank mutters uselessly, and goes to make himself useful. Hopefully someone is on the precipice of death via massive internal bleed. That, at least, would make sense to him. There’s an area in which he can demonstrate absolutely competence. 

-

No internal bleeding, but a couple of burns and concussions need dealing with. He handles them quickly and is sauntering up to Dana for something a little more challenging when the door opens again—and there you stand, cradling one limp arm against your chest, and Frank can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing at first, but he’s aware that Dana is exclaiming in that jaded way of hers, already making her way toward you. 

You—looking out of place as you blink against the white light, dazed, glancing around furtively, uncertainly. 

Blood, oozing from your cheek and arm, matting your carefully styled hair to your face and ruining your brand new sunshine-yellow shirt. Frank is in action, beats Dana to you, calling over his shoulder for assistance as he takes you by the shoulders and guides you to a nearby chair before kneeling in front of you. 

“I don’t need—I can walk,” you insist, a little breathless. He sees your gaze drop to the floor as you speak, and your brows furrow a little—surprised by your own pain. 

“What happened?”

“Um, that guy—” you wince as Mattheo, who  seems to have materialized out of nowhere, dabs at your bloody cheek with gauze. 

“Hey, woah, no,” Frank interrupts. “Don’t touch her face. Look at the arm, I got her cheek. Which guy?”

“The guy who was yelling at me earlier, I guess he waited in the staff parking lot, and, um, I went out to grab my lunch from my car, and I saw the tires were slashed, and then, like, he just—I don’t know, someone just grabbed me, I don’t even know what he was holding—”

“He attacked you with a blade? Did you call—”

Frank is forgoing his own sentence, rising up and shoring in a sturdy breath to yell for security, but your hand catches on his forearm and it jars him enough to stop him clean in his tracks. 

“It’s fine, Orlando was right around the corner smoking. I think he got the guy, I don’t know, I just turned around and came right here, I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure what I supposed to do.”

“No, you did great. You did good, you did the right thing. Did you at any point hit your head?” He takes your face in his hands and turns you this way and that, searching for any signs of head trauma. 

“No. I don’t think. I mean, I staid on my feet.”

“Ooh, making me look bad,” Dana mutters, fussing in her way as she sets up makeshift first aid station. 

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Frank insists as he very carefully slides your sticky hair off your cheek and smooths it out of your face. “You didn’t see what he used?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Woah, ward clerk,” Robby says, and Frank is inexplicably annoyed by his presence. “What we got?”

“A low patient satisfaction score, I guess.” You wince even as you say it, and Frank grimaces in sympathetic pain, hand darting back from where he’d been trying to assess the wound. 

Any humor melts from Robby’s voice. “Are you serious? Where the fuck is security?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Frank murmurs to himself, impossibly gentler this time as he dabs away the blood. 

“They got him. Right away. It was my fault, I—”

Frank cuts you off. “No it wasn’t. That’s all on me. I should have taken that asshole seriously.”

“Arm lac is superficial and clotting,” Mattheo reports. “How’s the cheek?”

“Ah… can’t tell. We need a bed.”

“What? No, we don’t, I’m genuinely fine.”

“South 15 is open,” Dana barks. “You’re gonna want that bed, Scarface.”

Robby slams a folder on the counter. “I’m going to find Gloria.”

“Gloria?” You frown, twisting to look at him. 

Frank gently redirects your head and puts a square of gauze in your palm. “Right here, just look forward. Can you hold this to the wound?”

“What does he need Gloria for?”

He’s up and wheeling you with purpose toward the south wing. “How’s the pain?”

“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“When was the last time you received a tetanus shot?”

“Uh… I don’t… remember?”

“Okay, we’re going to need to administer one just in case. Mattheo—”

“I’ll put in the order. Analgesics, too. Any allergies?”

“Not to medicine.” You slump fractionally in your chair, still holding the gauze dutifully to your head. “Fuck.”

“Still doing okay?”

“Yeah. Pretty embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. This happens all the time.”

“What—patients attacking staff?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t we have more security, then?”

We should, Frank thinks as he wheels you into South 15 and cranks the bed up to 45 degrees before guiding you to lie down. But we have you instead. 

“I think Dr. Robby is on his way to make that case as we speak. Can I see?”

Carefully Frank pulls your hand from your face, taking the bloodied gauze with it and does a quick visual examination. The bleeding has stopped and all signs point to a shallow wound. He begins configuring the setup for a quick irrigation and primary closure. Realistically, he doesn’t need to be the one handling such a simple case—in fact it would be a better utilization of resources to have a nurse handle the whole thing so he remains free if he’s needed—but Frank can’t help but feel a little responsible for the whole thing. It was him who said you didn’t need to call security, he who sent you on your ill-fated lunch. 

“Fairly clean job,” he mutters as he irrigates the wound. “Almost incised.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the wound edges are straight enough that we can use glue instead of staples or sutures. Better outlook in terms of scarring, too.”

“Oh, god. I didn’t even think of that. Is that gonna happen?”

“No damage to the dermis, and it’s a low tension area. I can’t make any promises, but scarring should be minimal.”He sets the irrigation tub and syringe on the cart before patting your cheek dry with sterile gauze. “No foreign material in the wound. Cut and dry.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Only if it was funny.”

Frank allows himself to examine the rest of your face for any cue that he might’ve offended you, just in time to watch as you huff a quiet laugh. The corner of his own mouth tugs in response and he focuses on the cut once more—setting aside the shimmer on your eyelids, and the way you haven’t totally eliminated all the stray hairs around your brows. He wonders for no particular reason if you matched your blush and lipgloss on purpose.

Up close and personal, he finds himself searching for indicators of age. Crow’s feet? Smile lines? The working theory is late twenties. Not that it matters. But it could clue him into how much work experience you might have. If you’re in school, and this is just a job to pay for ramen, or if you’re an over-qualified graduate trying to afford downtown rent.

Probably he could just ask, he realizes as he breaks open an ampoule of skin glue. It might even be appreciated—the silence is getting increasingly sticky. 

“Alright, we’re gonna do three coats of Dermabond with thirty second intervals for drying. It may tickle a little, but no glue is getting in the wound itself. This method should minimize scarring. Sound good?”

Frank has the applicator poised above the cut and is about to begin before he realizes you haven’t responded. He leans back to catch your eye, and notes the vacant gaze, set astray at a waxed tile floor. 

“You okay?”

Finally you stir, eyes widening as they meet his and you realize you’d tuned out. “Sorry. Yeah, that sounds great. All good.”

“You heard what I said?”

“Yes. Three layers and it’s gonna tickle.”

“More or less.” Satisfied, he straightens once more, and very carefully, begins applying a thin layer of adhesive over where he’s pinched the wound shut. 

More silence. Adrenaline crash, probably. Someone will have to bring you a juice box. 

“Remind me. How long have you been here?” Frank asks, more in an attempt to make sure you’re not internally spiraling over the moral failure of humanity than because he wants to know. 

“About a month.”

Frank whistles. “Didn’t make it very long, did you?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t really expecting to be attacked, period.”

His hand pauses, and it’s good a time as any to let the first layer dry. Most normal people are pretty upset by witnessing violence, let alone experiencing it. Especially ones who haven’t worked in the field long enough to anticipate the accrual of a few battle scars. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you. For what it’s worth, I can guarantee that guy is already on his way to jail if Orlando caught him at the scene like you said.”

You pick at your white nail polish without moving the injured arm. “Mhm.”

Another silent beat. Frank is about to apologize for not doing more to prevent the whole thing when there’s a knock at the open door. Without looking, he’s sure it’s Dana. 

“How you doing, Doll? Langdon’s taking good care of that pretty face?”

“Yeah, thanks. We’re all good.”

It could be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he feels your cheek heat under his gloved hand. 

Probably a physiological reaction to pain. 

He swallows. “Where’s Mattheo, Dana? We need those painkillers.”

“Backup at the ADC. Shouldn’t be much longer. The cops want to talk to you.”

You hesitate. Langdon chances a peek at the rest of your face as he brushes on the second layer of glue. 

“Do I have to do it right now?”

“No,” Frank interjects, though he doubts Dana would’ve pushed you on it either. “We need to finish this, get to your arm, and then administer your tetanus shot. After that you’ll need at least fifteen minutes of observation in case of any adverse reactions. Dana, can you get someone to bring her a drink?”

“You got it.” Then, very obviously aimed toward you: “Do you need anything else?”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. Keep me posted.”

“Always,” Frank assures, and Dana moves along. 

A quiet moment. 

“Does this actually happen all the time?” you ask without warning. “You guys seem really chill about it.”

“Not really, no. But pretty much everyone has a story.”

You hum absently, and Frank senses something about his answer needs amending. 

“It’s rare for clerks. You guys get that fancy plexiglass.”

“Have you been attacked?”

Memories stir loose, and Frank huffs a quiet laugh. No sense in scaring you with horror stories involving scalpels. 

“It’s pretty easy to win a fight when you have a syringe full of heavy duty sedatives.”

“Maybe I should keep one of those up front.”

“You won’t need it. Today was…” he swallows back ‘my fault’. “Atypical. Lupe’s been here longer than I have and I’ve never seen her get hurt like that. It won’t happen to you again.”

Because I will personally start beating asses if these people want to keep it up, is what he doesn’t say. Anyone who picks on the twenty-something glorified secretary at the front desk is a bully, and there’s no room for that in an ER. 

Frank carefully, unblinkingly watches the final layer of glue set. Wonders what would drive anyone to attack you. You, with your cheerful yellow shirt and that delicate necklace—the dragonfly pendant that dips into the hollow of your throat. The way your hair curls at the ends and dances when you move. Everything about you seems engineered to elicit positive reaction. No, not engineered—that connotes some sort of farce, or mistruth. The pleasantry that you inspire is one hundred percent you. All the pretty trappings just signal your expectations for how you’ll be treated, and consequentially, your inherent nature. 

Or—he assumes. He doesn’t actually know you. 

Regardless, you didn’t deserve the attack. Nobody would’ve, of course. But seeing your shirt all ruined, and the even finish of your face contorted by this long cut, drains Frank of a little of his belief in the goodness of humanity. There wasn’t much to begin with. 

Somewhere in this wash of pointless musing, he’s begun work on your arm. He’s distantly aware of your watching this work, and that you’re holding yourself a little differently with the pain. If Mattheo doesn’t come back soon, he’s going to have to get to the cabinet himself and find you some acetaminophen. 

Suddenly, you’re speaking: “I don’t know if…”

And just as quickly, the sentence tapers off. Frank looks up at you as he works, and then back down. It’s pretty easy from the pensive look on your face to determine your train of thought. 

“I promise you it’s not going to happen again. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t even like getting yelled at.”

“You are on the wrong career path, then.”

“I was waiting for it to get easier.”

He risks another glance. You’re fixedly watching rust-colored saline trickle from your arm into the collection tub. 

“It will. If you stick around.”One last push of saline gurgles from the syringe and into the tray. Clear, now. He sets the tools aside and finds more gauze to pat the wound dry. “Are you thinking of quitting?”

“Can’t afford to,” you say, all too quickly, like you had pursued the idea and run into this immovable wall minutes ago. “I’m very much in debt and looking to get into more.”

“Oh, yeah? Considering med school?”

“Maybe. Or a PhD. Not sure if I want to get into psychology or psychiatry. Now I’m wondering if this is, like… a healthy environment for me.”

Frank half-smiles. “Well, if you did go the med school route, you could probably avoid rotations in emergency medicine. Or—hey, you could come back here. Barring death, I’ll still be around in four years. It’d probably be less intimidating if you knew your attending.”

“Alternatively I’d be so preoccupied with trying not to look like an idiot that I’d accidentally kill a bunch of people.”

“I’m confident that you’re not an idiot. In practice or appearance.”Frank can hear you swallow as he dispenses a small amount of antibiotic ointment into his gloved hand and carefully goes about working it into your skin. “Sorry. Tender?”

“A little.”

“Mattheo should definitely be here by now. If he’s flirting with that intern again I’m going to kill him.”You laugh half-heartedly. Frank smooths a 4x4 over your arm, tapes it in place, and leans back, peeling off his gloves. “Should be good as new in a few weeks. When do you work next?”

“Monday.”

“I’ll find you Monday for a check-in. Until then keep it clean and dry. Princess or Perlah will put together a kit with everything you’ll need, and Mattheo will be here eventually with that other stuff. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

“Uh—”

An intern sticks his head through the door—evidently one who hasn’t made an impression on Langdon. 

“Code blue in chairs.”

“Then you should get to chairs.”

“Right.”

The intern disappears and Frank stands, taking longer than he should to walk to the door and grab some hand sanitizer.

“All good here?” he asks, giving you a once over as his hands rub together. With an air of self-consciousness you smooth your skirt. It’s a nice skirt. Untainted by blood, as far as he can tell. 

You nod once, decisively. “Yup.”

“Good. I’ll make sure someone calls a tow truck and a car so you can get home. But don’t leave until you get that tetanus shot, okay? I’m serious.”

“I won’t.”

Frank nods slowly, and feels like there’s something he should say. He skims his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Nothing comes to him. He knows he’s wasting time. And probably making you uncomfortable—you, just sitting there, back rod-straight and ankles crossed, hands folded politely in your lap. He’s been told he has a tendency to stare. 

In the end, all he can think to say is, “Take care of yourself.”

Again you nod, and Frank is pulled by duty down the hall, leaving you there in your ruined sunshiney shirt, and with your hair streaked in drying blood. 

A strange image threatens to stop him in his tracks—one he hadn’t thought about in the moment, but now sticks to the inside of his retinas at half-opacity. Blooms in full, violent color when he blinks. 

A drop of your blood, tracing its way down the dip in your cheek, clinging to the hollow beneath your jaw. Tracing slowly, all the way down your throat. Catching on the dragonfly pendant, as had the quick, covert trail of his gaze. 

That’s weird, he thinks. An odd image to fixate on. 

Frank shakes his head like he could dislodge the memory. Snaps the edge of a fresh glove extra hard against his skin as he comes up to the edge of the heart attack’s gurney and someone fills him in. 

Yeah—the last thing they needed was another ward clerk. Broader, wiser coverage could’ve stopped the events of the day. More nurses. More security. Shit, you wouldn’t have been attacked if you weren’t ever hired. 

The heart attack is caused by a complete blockage in the left anterior-descending artery. A widowmaker. They stabilize the man, and get him up to an OR without a hitch. 

Afterwards, Frank finds himself passing by South 15. Casts a quick look inside, and finds the room completely empty. 

Good—room for another patient. The whole thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Shouldn’t have taken up time and space. 

We don’t need an extra ward clerk, he thinks for the millionth time. 

Then remembers the way the dragonfly had collected blood and smeared it in impossibly fine lines across the expanse of your chest every time you moved, tracing linked and overlapping circles, like a Spirograph on your skin. The gentle rise and fall of you. 

He comes to a standstill in the empty hallway, an unwilling hostage as something else hijacks his brain and projects the image onto the sterile white wall. Baffled and fruitlessly willing himself to move on. Flexing his hands in time with his own breathing. 

They don’t need an extra ward clerk. 

“You have a tattoo,” she noted standing behind you, paying close attention to how you examined the boy in front of you.

You nodded like you weren't trying to listen close down your stethoscope as you asked the boy to breathe in, listening at his back. “I do.”

“That's... really cool,” she said.

You smiled, small. “Thank you.”

Javadi watched your wrist move and arm flex as you put the stethoscope back around your neck, holding onto it either end. She'd called you down for a pedes case but was finding herself distracted by the beauty of the ink on you.

There were hard strokes of black and lighter ones, all drawn around in swirls that came together to make a sun. She thought it looked like the sun from tangled- one of her favourite movies. But you were a grown woman. Maybe you liked the movie as much as she did.

Javadi shook off the idea as you stood, telling the parents what you found. A small crackle in his breathing but as he'd been down with a flu and fever it might not mean anything terrible. Kept for observation and some blood work was ordered before the two of you were slipping away.

“What does it mean?” asked Victoria, hot on your heels as you walked to the nurses station. “The-the sun, I mean? Not crackles in the chest, I-I know that.”

You chuckled, tapping in to chart. Although you worked floors above on the pedes ward, your vintage disney top under the lab coat representing that, you were down enough on emergency and trauma cases to be a familiar and welcome face.

“Oh, you know,” you said, balancing your elbow on the table and checking on the ink. Your lips quirked at looking at it. “Just a little sun, for brightness and stuff.”

Javadi thought it was fitting. You were a sunshine person, hopeful and kind, like a ray of light in the depths of hell she called the ED. She supposed it came with the job, having to be the hope for the sick children.

Everyone down the Pitt could afford to be miserable, with a good enough excuse in working in the emergency department. You were with kids, helping them and their parents through anything minor to the worst days of their lives.

“Kinda, look to the light, kinda thing?” Victoria asked.

You slowly glanced up at her, finding a new perspective. “Yeah. I like that take.”

“Well, well, well,” said a hoarse voice coming closer to the two of you.

Beyond Javadi you looked past her.

Jack Abbot casually strolled over, hands behind his back, arms pulled in tight muscles and freckles in his dark scrubs. “You know, you're down here so often anyone would think you're after a Pedes attending job.”

You rose a brow, challenging him. “Are you offering?”

“Oh yeah, anything to keep sunshine down here.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, leaving Javadi to look between the two of you. She hadn’t realised the two of you knew each other so well.

Sure, you were the first everyone went to for a pedes case but how often was that?

“Sunshine! That’s funny,” said Javadi, standing between the two of you

Jack rose a brow. “It is?”

“Yeah- yeah,” she said with a clear of her throat. “Cause’- she has a sunshine tattoo.”

Jacks lips quirked up to a smirk. “Really?”

You leaned over the counter, chin resting in the palm of your hand. “Yeah. Got it some time ago.”

“Is it somewhere PG-13?” He asked.

“Well to know that you’d have to buy me a drink first.”

“I plan to.”

The two of you shared a smirk.

Suddenly, Victoria thought she was stuck in the middle of something.

It was Whitaker who discovered it next.

He was working with Abbot and Shen on a patient in trauma one, still waiting for the feeling in his feet to return to him after a twelve hour shift. But he wanted to see this patient through first, even if he could have left now the night crawlers had swept in.

He was shooting an x-ray for the guy in a car crash, checking his ribs after being found pressed up against his steering wheel.

Somewhere else you were stitching up his young daughter.

“The car came from nowhere,” fretted the patient, wincing with every breath. “I swear- I swear!”

“Don’t you worry, sir, we’re gonna get you sorted,” assured Jack, peeling off his jacket and replacing it with a vest.

“Is my- is my daughter okay?”

“She just needed a couple stitches,” said Denis.

Jack stretched up, moving the x-ray machine over the patient. “Don’t worry, your daughter is in the best hands. They lumped you with the second best, I’m afraid.”

The patient gave a huff of a laugh that evidently hurt more than anything.

“Okay… shooting!”

Everyone without a vest backed away.

It was at that moment as Jack hovered shooting the x-ray that Whitaker got his first glance at some ink peeking out from his wrist. His watch hid most of what Denis could make out as a tattoo but he thought it strange that Robby should have his own tattoo also typically hidden behind his watch.

Robby and Jack always called themselves brothers, from their years of friendship and shared experiences in the Pitt.

He just hadn’t realised they were that close.

The x ray was quickly done and the machine pushed away as everyone focused on stabilising the man.

A couple broken ribs, a severely bruised chest.

An OR was free to check on any internal bleeding, get the chest sorted.

The doors pushed open and you walked in, a maybe eight years old propped on your hip, little arms hugging around your neck.

Jack’s lips tilted up at once. “Second visit in one day, upstairs must be boring.”

“Well we do like to call this place the circus,” you teased. “This is Mr Peters daughter, she wanted to check in on her daddy.”

Jack tugged off his gloves and Whitaker watched as he approached you and the little girl. “Your daddy is doing fine, he’s strong. I reckon just as strong as you. He’s gonna go upstairs for a closer look but you can go with him, if you like?”

The girl hid her head closer into your shoulder, mumbling something that Whitaker could just about make out.

“Will you come up with me?” She’d asked you.

You bounced her gently. “Course. Upstairs is where all the fun is anyway.”

Jack hummed. “Hm. She has the best candy too.”

Whitaker watched the young girls eyes light up.

As a team from surgery came to drag the father away you followed behind with the daughter in arms, Abbot and Whitaker following out and taking a moment to watch the crowd dissapear.

“Did good in there, Whitaker,” said Abbot, the both of them tearing off their gowns and gloves.

“Thanks,” he said. The both of them went separate ways. Oddly enough, Jack was following in the steps of the team that took up the man and his daughter.

Doctor Robby wondered over, sliding into his seat. If even one of his day shift was left, so was he. It was his own morale code to not go till everyone on day had, Denis was learning.

“Hey,” greeted Denis. “You know I had no idea you and Abbot had matching tattoos.”

“Huh, yeah...” said Robby of absent-mind as he watched the computer. It took him a second to register what he was saying and look up. “Wait, what did you say?”

Suddenly Whitaker felt like he'd said the wrong thing, seeing his attending look over his glasses at him. Maybe nobody was supposed to know? Maybe it was super personal? Or it was a stupid drunk choice they were both trying to forget and he'd just brought it up.

“Oh god, I didn't, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-”

Robby scratched at his beard. “Jack and I do not have matching tattoos.”

“Oh.”

“What made you think that?” he asked. “Did someone... say something?” there was something akin to mischief in his eyes, alight.

“No! No! I just- I saw something that looked like a tattoo under where he keeps his watch, and I know you have one there too. Or- well- don't know but I've- I've seen-”

“Yeah, yeah I've got one there,” said Robby, looking back to the computer bored. “So does Jack. His is a moon. Mine's something to do with my grandmother.”

“A moon? Oh.”

Somewhere beyond Whitaker, past his shoulders, Victoria passed by, catching the conversation.

A moon on one. A sun on another. Interesting.

Samira was only looking for her patient when she found a shirtless Jack Abbot hiding behind the curtain with you standing behind him.

Both your heads shot up when the whirl of the curtain pulled back.

“Oh. I'm sorry,” said Samira. She was only momentarily shocked at Jack shirtless, SWAT gear discarded in the corner and the typical pedes case worker standing behind him, working on a bad obviously over eighteen.

Jack tried to shrug his shoulders but came away wincing. “S'alright.”

“Have you guys seen my patient?” she asked, going on to describe him.

“No, sorry. This room was empty,” you said, rolling a q-tip along Jack's shoulder blade. “Anything you need help with?”

Samira deflated, taking a seat on the chair in the corner of the room. She was feeling sorry for the patient she couldn't get to in time she didn't realise the look you and Jack shared, one of mutual agreement of apprehension.

“What happened to you?” Samira asked.

“He got shot,” you said.

“You were shot?”

Jack made a 'pfft' noise at the two of you. “Shot at. It was nothing. Hardly a graze.”

You scoffed, reaching over for some bandage and applying it to the wound. “I'll be the judge of that.”

“You my doctor now?” asked Jack.

You bit back a smirk. “Someone has to be.”

Samira had worked with Abbot a handful of times, you maybe more on cases with children that required delicate matters. She never realised the two of you were close enough to tease. Close enough that you would be the first person he runs to for help.

Curious, Samira walked around Jack, standing on the other side of his bed as you showed her the wound.

“Oh. Ouch.”

“See?” you said with a raise of your brows.

Jack's freckled arms crossed over his chest in protest.

“You have a chart?” asked Mohan.

“No,” you said. “We're keeping this off the chart.”

Samira nodded, lips quirking. We?

“Don't need the paperwork from the hospital,” said Jack. “Got big plans tonight, can't have paperwork getting in the way.”

“Big plans?” asked Mohan.

Jack hummed in affirmation.

With your careful bandages around his shoulder he stood and reached for his shirt on the side.

It wasn't just a quick glimpse Samira got of where another tattoo lied. It was a long look as Jack made work at pulling over his navy shirt overhead. At the ache in his shoulder you helped pull it over him and he didn't object, he let you help him like it was natural.

But just under his armpit, on the side of his chest there was a clear stroke of black ink in the curves and strikes of a letter. Just one simple there, no bigger than a finger nail next to his heart.

“All good to go solider,” you said, rubbing his un-injured shoulder.

“Thank you, Doc.”

You smirked. “Don't go straining yourself this evening.”

Jack chuckled, low in his throat. “I make no promises.”

It was only when watching the two of you leave that the hole in her heart for her own devoid love life sung with something other that sorrow. With hope and joy. It was only when she noticed Jack's hand linger on the small of your back as he leaned into say something to you that she realised the slope of the letter at his chest matched the very first letter of your name.

A week later and slowly Samira was forgetting the whole thing. Not forgetting the patient that had ran out on her but forgetting the state she found Jack in, forgetting how you helped him and the letter etched into his skin.

She hadn't told anyone either, because what business of others was it.

It wasn't even hers.

Maybe Jack knew someone in the army had the same initial as you. Maybe it was his mothers name. It didn't have to be yours. It was only seeing him shirtless, seeing you with him that had her thinking of you, she was sure.

But a week later she was brought back to that room.

“Woah- what happened to you?” Robby chuckled as you walked through the ED, a mixture of bodily fluids over your scrubs.

“Emergency c-section, twins,” you said. “I had no time for a gown.”

Robby's smile creased as you squelched closer. Your blue scrubs, typically a baby blue, was dyed darker due to blood, amniotic fluids and what he guessed might have been urine. “They didn't call OB?”

“OB was busy, apparently.”

“Apparently?” he asked, tablet in hand as he followed next to you as you walked to the scrub bin. You walked, arms slightly raised to not let them drop. Robby walked close but not close enough to touch the mess of you.

“Someone in OB has it out me.”

“Evil ex?”

“Yeah, one of yours,” you teased.

“Ouch.”

“I'm cranky.”

“I can tell.”

Santos and Samira were on a case together but stopped when they got a look at you. “Woah, what happened? A pile up?”

“Don't ask,” you grumbled.

From behind you Robby mouthed 'twins' and both knew not to say anymore.

“You know we have gowns for such messy procedures,” said Trinity.

You flashed her a grimace. “You're funny, Santos, must get it from this guy,” you said, slapping Robby in the chest as you stood in front of the scrub bins. However, as an official upstairs pedes resident you didn't have authority for more scrubs. “Is Jack around?”

“No,” said Robby, tapping his own ID cared on the pad and getting you an order of scrubs.

“Thanks.”

Samira wondered, briefly why you asked for Jack when it was probably easier to find some woman for your size. Like herself, for instance.

But in seconds you were pulling off your scrub top, leaving you only in a bra. Your scrub pants were next but you had a thin pair of leggings underneath. No one batted an eyes, except maybe Robby who cleared his throat and turned away, hypothetically hiding you behind his back.

“Thanks again, Robby,” you said, gaining his new scrubs.

“No problem,” he said, leaning over to you. “But you can bring this up to Jack,” he added in a mummer that Mohan just caught.

As you reached up, pulling the scrub top over you Samira caught it again. It was a smaller trace, a think line but there with no doubt.

A simple J in black ink in almost the exact spot as Jack had one of his own.

“Is that-” Mohan didn't get the words out before your scrub top was pulled over, swallowing you from Robby's scrub.

Robby and you looked to her as you pulled on the pants. “What?”

They were all looking at her, expectantly.

“No, nothing, it was nothing.”

“Okay, then.”

But now there was a knowing in there. That she didn't believe in coincidences, not when they were etched into skin.

“You look lovely.” Jack crept up behind you, his voice falling upon your ears with his head quick over your shoulder. He was like hot breath on a glass, there and gone the next second.

You understood why. Knew it had been easier to keep it quiet when things were fresh, yet, things had moved on from new and simple a long time ago and neither of you made to say it. Did you get a banner? Make a public announcement? You had no idea how to do it.

Keeping it on the low was all you knew how to do.

And anyhow, it made things far more exciting.

“Thank you,” you said, passing him a quick smile.

Jack hummed, crowding next to you at the station, leaning an arm on the counter and looking you up and down. “You'd look even better in scrubs that were mine.”

Your eyes rolled. “They're Robby's-”

“Robby's-” he scoffed, shaking his head.

“I had a messy C-section and it was this or several bodily fluids.”

“I'd have rather bodily fluids,” he said.

You hummed. “You think that but then you see me and you'd think different.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You turned your attention onto him, knowing he wouldn't give it up till he had it all. It was something about Jack and un-divided attention, he thrived on it. Giving it to you, or taking it from you. He needed it like sustenance. “Think wet. Think baby fluids that should be in a body on me. Think blood. And probably puke on there somewhere too- I don't even know how.”

“And I bet you still looked beautiful,” he said.

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” you chuckled.

“I would.”

His hand crept up to your ribs, holding there. As if he was anaesthetic himself, his touch was soothing.

He held over where your initial of his name was, just as you did with him where yours was. It still felt fresh though the ink was imbedded into skin for almost a year now.

It was the soft knowledge of carrying each other closer than you already did. Working in the same building wasn't enough, falling asleep next to each and waking up next to each other wasn't enough but the soft initial of each others name might just have been.

Even if it weren't romantical (which it certainly was) the two of you had at least always respected each other in the work setting. It was a bond running deeper than blood, than respect, than love.

Something the people hadn't come up with a word for yet.

Robby passed by the two of them. “I thought you two were being discreet.”

“We are,” you said, you and Jack turning to face Robby as he took his space behind the nurses desk.

“He's all but holding your breast,” said Robby.

“Physical exam,” Jack shrugged. “And I thought I told you to stop making moves on my woman.”

Robby held up his hands in surrender. “I don't want any funny business in my scrubs,” he warned, s sharp look past his glasses at the two of you.

Jack quirked his lips, pretending his innocence. “We'll change into mine.”

You smacked his shoulder.

“Hey,” said Robby, leaning on the counter next to you as if you were all gossiping nurses and not different attendings in your own rights. “You know, Whitaker thinks we have matching tattoos,” he said, nodding to Jack.

You laughed, tilting your head down.

“Oh yeah, I have an R over my heart,” he teased.

Robby scoffed. “Yeah and I got a J on my-”

You looked pointed at them both. “Don't you have jobs to get to?”

Robby surrendered and headed off, making himself busy.

Upstairs would need you soon enough too, there was only so much time you could leave your pedes ward alone. Your hands were gentle on Jacks, squeezing lightly.

Meaning to let go, Jack squeezed and pulled you back.

“Jack? Woah- what- where are we going?”

His thumb worked up and down the back of your hand as he dragged you off. He found an empty room, checking the room before closing the door and pulling the curtains around.

“Jack!”

His hands found their ways up Robby's shirt on your body, pulling at the skin of your waist and drawing you in till he was kissing you, open-mouthed. It was as if he hadn't kissed you that morning, hadn't stole a make out in the car before heading in, hadn't text you in his spare five minutes that he wasn't thinking about you.

He grinned into the kiss, licking into your mouth.

As bad as it was, stealing a kiss in an empty exam room, your hands wound up to his hair, tugging at the strands. Your body curled into his as his hands moved from under your shirt to over, pulling at it.

“Take this off.”

Biting back a smirk you pulled it off you as Jack leant down to kiss at your neck. He bit and sucked, dedicating time to one mark that would be a tattoo on your neck.

Jack was obsessed with marking you, considering you tried you best to be secret.

This wasn't very secret.

“Jack,” you moaned, own hands clawing at his shirt.

He pulled back long enough to toss his off. “When we're done here... when I've made you come on my fingers,” he uttered next to your ear, breath hot. “You're gonna put my scrub top on, you understand?”

Your lips pursed and nodded.

Jack pulled back enough, lips ghosting yours. “Yeah, baby?”

“Yeah,” you whined.

“Yeah.”

His lips crashed into yours again with fire like need. Hie entire body moved over yours, hands steady on your hips to bring you in. You were stumbling around the room, trying to find a wall or bed.

“God,” Jack whined at your lips. “I could eat you.”

He kissed down your neck, over your chest and leant to press a kiss over his initial. He'd been there when you'd gotten it done, as you had when he got his. The two letters in each others hand writing.

Jack came back up and kissed you again before the door sprung open.

“Room three's open why's nobody-”

Jack jumped in front of you like jumping in front of a bullet for you, his arms fell on either side of you, caging you in behind him.

A woman was sat on a gurney, eyes wide at the two of you.

Dana was leading the charge, Mohan, Whitaker and Santos following and eyes falling wide, jaws agape at the sight of you.

Robby walked past, shaking his head and- taking one look at Jack- decided it wasn't a HR nightmare he could deal with.

“We were just...” said Jack, hesitating. “Doing a physical.”

Dana smirked. “I'll say.”

“Sorry, we'll just-” you apologised.

The two of you fumbled with scrub tops but Jack still found enough time in the mess to pass you his own scrub top and take Robby's himself. In sheepish moves the two of you moved by the group, catching only a couple words.

“Did you see those tattoo's?” said Samira.

“Each others inititals, right?”

“How longs this been going on for?”

You’d been out with Shoko all afternoon—Nanami had planned it quietly, a little girl time for the two of you, shopping bags and coffee and easy laughter that felt like breathing after too long without it. He’d told you to be home before seven, voice calm and steady over the phone like always, so you’d said goodbye to Shoko at the curb, hugged her quick, and made it back with minutes to spare.

The dress was new, something soft and simple Shoko had spotted on the rack and pushed into your arms with that knowing smirk of hers. “He’ll lose his mind,” she’d said. You’d laughed then, but now, slipping it on in the quiet of her bedroom, the fabric felt different against your skin. Light cotton that skimmed your body just right, the thin straps delicate enough to slip under careful fingers. You left your hair a little messy from the wind and the trying-on, ran balm over your lips for a soft shine, nothing flashy, nothing forced. Just you, the way he liked you best.

You were waiting by the door when the knob turned.

It opened slow. Nanami stood there, suit jacket already unbuttoned, tie loosened from the day. His eyes found you immediately.

He didn’t say hello.

His gaze moves over you slowly, deliberately, the way warm sunlight travels across still water at dawn. He takes in the unfamiliar lines of the dress, the gentle way it follows the curve of your waist, the bare sweep of your shoulders that he has kissed countless times in darkness and in daylight. His throat moves once, a visible swallow. The silence between you thickens until it feels almost tangible, like heavy velvet drawn across bare skin.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. Your fingers smooth the hem of the dress in that small, nervous habit you have never quite shaken. “Hi,” you say, the word softer than you intend.

Still he does not answer immediately. Instead he crosses the short distance until the warmth of his body reaches you, until you can smell the day he has worn home: paper, ink, faint sweat beneath clean cotton, the cedar that lingers on his pulse points. His knuckles lift slowly. They graze the thin strap at your shoulder with the lightest possible touch, as though he is testing whether the moment itself might dissolve if he presses too hard.

Then, very quietly, he says, “You look beautiful.”

The words settle against your skin like warm breath. You blink up at him, startled into a small, unsteady laugh. “You sure you’re talking to me?”

A faint, tired smirk flickers at the corner of his mouth, fond and worn at the edges. “Don’t be difficult. Not tonight.”

You tilt your head, studying the soft flush that has begun to climb along the line of his collar. “What’s tonight?”

He offers no explanation in words. Instead he reaches for your hand, turns it palm upward with infinite care, and presses the slowest, most deliberate kiss to your knuckles. Then he leads you toward the dining room.

Your breath catches sharply when you see what he has done.

Because it’s transformed.

The overhead lights have been dimmed until the room glows with warm amber. Two slender candles stand in the center of the table, their small flames steady except for the faint tremble that passes through them when you move closer. A bottle of red wine waits beside two glasses already poured, the deep color catching firelight in slow, liquid shifts. From his phone, propped unobtrusively on the sideboard, drifts the brushed-leather sound of instrumental jazz: soft brushes against snare, warm bass notes that seem to breathe rather than play.

You turn to him, eyes wide with quiet wonder. “You…. did all this?”

“I did.” he says, already moving toward the kitchen, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, forearms strong and corded in the low light. “It is not perfect. The food might be questionable at best. But I needed to give you something, not because I owe you anything, but because I need you to know, really know, how much you mean to me.”

The words rise in your throat and catch there like a hook made of silk. “Nanami…”

“Sit,” he says, the single word gentler now, almost a plea wrapped in calm. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

You do.

He moves through the small kitchen with the same focused reverence he brings to every task that matters to him. You watch from the table as he plates soba noodles tossed lightly with sesame oil, topped with tofu seared to crisp golden edges, bright grilled vegetables still carrying the faint char of heat, a delicate scatter of sesame seeds, and one thin crescent of lime laid across the top like a final, thoughtful signature. When he sets the bowl before you and takes his own seat across the narrow table, you lift the first bite to your mouth.

The flavors unfold slowly across your tongue: savory depth, a bright lift of citrus, the comforting chew of noodles, the soft warmth of tofu. Your eyes sting without warning.

“You’re serious right now? “This is… really good,” you whisper around the mouthful.

One dark blond eyebrow lifts. The smallest curve of amusement touches his lips. “I am always serious.”

“I didn’t even know you could cook like this.”

“I do not, usually.” He rests his forearms on the table, watching you with steady, quiet intensity. “But you deserve to come home to comfort too. Not only to give it.”

Your hand reaches across the table before conscious thought catches up. His meets yours at once, warm and sure. His thumb sweeps once, then again, across the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist, a slow, absent caress that feels more intimate than words could manage.

For a long stretch neither of you speaks.

The candles burn lower. Soft pools of wax form silver rings around their bases. The jazz shifts to something slower, deeper, the bass line brushing against your skin like the lightest touch of fingertips. Outside, the city hums faintly, distant and unimportant.

Then, so quietly you might have missed it if you were not already listening with your whole body:

“You take care of me every single day. Even when I come home hollowed out and useless. Even when I have given you no reason to keep being kind. You have never once stopped choosing me.” He pauses, eyes dropping to your joined hands as though the sight steadies him. “So tonight… let me choose you.”

You squeeze his hand. Swallow the knot in your throat and rise without speaking. You walk around the small table and settle into his lap.

He exhales in a long, shaky breath, as though a knot deep inside his chest has finally loosened. His arms come around you at once, strong yet careful, pulling you close until your chest rests against his and your heartbeats find the same slow rhythm. 

He holds you like he’s wanted to all day.

The candles are burning lower now, and the playlist’s moved into something slower—still instrumental, still quiet—but warmer, like the music itself is trying not to interrupt what’s unfolding.

Your wine glass sits forgotten on the table beside cooling bowls. You are straddling his thighs now, the soft cotton of your dress rucked gently at your hips, his thumb tracing idle, reverent circles along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

He does not rush a single thing.

He simply looks at you for a long moment, gaze steady and unguarded, as though he is trying to commit every detail of this exact second to memory in case time ever tries to steal it away again.

“You keep staring,” you murmur, half teasing, half breathless.

His lips curve slightly. “You keep being worth looking at.”

You scoff, heat climbs slowly into your cheeks. The small sound you make dies in your throat when he leans in and presses his mouth to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. The kiss is warm, lingering, achingly gentle. His lips trail downward in a slow, deliberate path.

“You wore this for me?” His fingertips glide along the thin strap, tracing its length with the same care he might use to handle something fragile and irreplaceable.

You nod, the motion small and helpless.

He kisses your neck again, this time slower. “You made it so easy to want to come home.”

You let out a breath, setting your wine glass down on the table behind you, and your hands find his shoulders, steady there as his lips trail lower. Down your throat. Across your collarbone. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t tug. Just eases the strap down again with two fingers, then the other, exposing your shoulders inch by inch.

“You don’t have to—” you begin, voice catching.

“I want to,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Tonight, I take care of you.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your dress.

Up your thighs and over your hips.

And when he lifts the fabric over your head, he pauses—staring, breath caught, fingers spread wide as if to remember the way your skin feels beneath his palms.

“Perfect,” he whispers. The word cracks open on something raw and unguarded.

You lean forward, into him—half-naked in his lap until your lips brush his. The kiss deepens slowly, achingly slowly. One of his hands cradles the nape of your neck while the other slides up the bare curve of your spine. 

He pulls you closer.

Closer.

He is hard beneath you, thick and insistent, and patient, like he’s holding back a fire for the sake of keeping this moment slow, every movement remains measured, controlled, so that nothing about this moment feels hurried or careless or anything less than sacred.

“I don’t deserve this,” you breathe against his mouth.

His lips find the soft curve of your shoulder. “You deserve everything.”

Your body trembles beneath the weight and warmth of those words.

“Kento…”

His name breaks from you like thin glass. His arms tighten around you instantly, instinctive and fierce.

“Let me worship you tonight,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with everything he has never known how to say aloud until now. “Let me give you what I could not find words for before.”

You nod, small and helpless.

He lifts you then, careful and reverent, and carries you to the bedroom, like you’re fragile—but not weak. Like you're Sacred.

The sheets are fresh and cool against your back when he lays you down. He settles between your thighs as though the space there has always belonged to him alone. When his mouth closes over you, hot and open and deliberate, the first sound that escapes you is broken, involuntary, raw.

his mouth already trailing down your chest. Between your breasts. Lower. His hands spreading your thighs slowly, reverently, as if every inch of you is something to be unwrapped, admired, kissed.

He looks up at you.

And when he speaks, his voice is wrecked.

“Tell me what you need tonight.”

He doesn’t make you repeat yourself.

The moment your lips part, the moment your body lifts toward his voice, Nanami slides down the bed and settles between your thighs like it’s his rightful place. Like this—you, flushed and trembling, bare and stretched open—is something he’s been aching to return to for days.

“Kento—” your breath stutters when his palms press flat against your thighs, parting them wider.

“I know,” he murmurs, gaze locked to yours. “I know, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me have you.”

And then—

His mouth settled over your cunt, hot and open, lips sealing soft around your swollen folds like he was drinking you in.

He started slow—broad, flat tongue pressing flat against you, dragging up in one long, reverent sweep from your entrance to your clit, gathering every bit of slick along the way. The heat of his breath curled against your skin first, then the wet velvet of his tongue followed, warm and deliberate, tracing every sensitive ridge with careful worship.

He lingered at your clit, circling the tight bud with the tip of his tongue in lazy, patient spirals, then flattened it again to lap slow and broad, savoring the way you trembled under the steady pressure. Lips closed around the peak, sucking gently—then firmer—pulling the sensitive flesh into the wet heat of his mouth with soft, rhythmic tugs that made your hips lift off the sheets.

Every movement was unhurried, devoted. Tongue dipping lower to push inside you just enough to taste deeper, then sliding back up to flick quick, teasing lashes over your clit before sealing his lips again and humming low, letting the vibration sink straight through your core, fully.

He tasted you like you were something sacred, something he’d waited lifetimes to have on his tongue.

You jolt, the moan barely catching behind your teeth before his tongue slides over you again—again—a slow, deep strokes from base to tip, like he’s not eating you out, he’s memorizing you. Tasting you like you’re something sweet he never thought he’d earn.

Your hands fist the sheets immediately. Your hips twitch.

But he groans low in his chest, “Don’t run from me.”

He drags his tongue over you once more, then settles in—lips sealing around your clit, sucking just enough, not too much. Not yet. His arms lock over your hips, holding you still, and you can feel it—the intention in every movement. The way he slows down whenever you get too close, then deepens it, teasing that pressure until you can’t breathe straight.

He murmurs between strokes:

“So fucking soft.”

“You always taste like this?”

“This pretty little cunt—made for me.”

“Can’t believe I ever raised my voice at you.”

Your eyes blur with tears again, but it’s not sadness.

It’s need.

You gasp, “Kento—Kento, please—”

He lifts his head for just a moment, lips wet, chin slick. His hair’s already mussed from the sheets, and there’s a kind of hunger in his gaze now that makes your pulse stutter.

“I’m not stopping until you come on my tongue.”

You sob then, shaky and helpless, as he dips his head once more and devours you with slow, relentless hunger.

His tongue presses flat against you first, broad and unhurried, the warm, wet weight of it covering your clit in one slow, deliberate sweep that makes your breath hitch and your hips lift instinctively toward his mouth. He lingers there, letting the heat of his tongue soak into your swollen bud, simply resting, breathing you in, the faint vibration of his low hum traveling straight through your core and pooling low in your belly.

Then he begins to circle—lazy, luxurious spirals that trace the sensitive ridge around your clit without ever quite touching the peak, each slow orbit winding the tension tighter inside you. The tip of his tongue drags feather-light along the underside, then curls upward in a languid loop, teasing the hood, coaxing more slick to spill from you until it coats his lips and chin. Your thighs quiver faintly around his head, muscles fluttering with every teasing pass, and he answers with a soft, appreciative groan that vibrates right against your most sensitive flesh.

He sucks next—gentle at first, lips sealing around your clit in a warm, enveloping pull that draws the swollen bud deeper into his mouth. The suction is soft, rhythmic, like he’s savoring the way you swell against his tongue, the way your pulse throbs there. He releases with a wet pop, only to suck again, firmer this time, cheeks hollowing as he tugs the sensitive pearl between his lips and holds it, rolling it lightly with the flat of his tongue while you arch off the sheets, fingers twisting into his hair.

He teases mercilessly—quick flicks that snap sparks across your nerves, then long, slow drags that make your toes curl, then back to those maddening circles, never settling into one rhythm long enough for you to chase release. Every time your hips buck, seeking more friction, he presses one thick forearm across your lower belly, pinning you gently but firmly in place so you have no choice but to feel every deliberate stroke, every flick, every sucking pull.

And when your thighs finally start to tremble—fine, helpless shivers rippling through the soft muscle—he gives in completely. His mouth locks around your clit with sudden, possessive hunger, lips sealing tight as he sucks hard, deep, drawing the swollen bud fully into the wet heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks fast now, relentless little lashes that lash directly over the tip, then flatten broad and drag upward in quick, filthy strokes, then flick again, faster, deeper, relentless.

He drags moan after moan from your throat—raw, broken sounds that rise higher with every pull of his lips, every rapid flick of his tongue. Your hips jerk uselessly against the heavy bar of his arm, thighs shaking violently around his ears, slick flooding his mouth in hot pulses as he works you higher, faster, sucking and flicking and humming low against you until the pleasure coils so tight it hurts. Your fingers yank at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he groans in answer—vibrating straight through your clit—pushing you right to the edge and refusing to let you fall anywhere but straight into his waiting mouth.

He wants you to cry out, wants the sound of your unraveling, wants every trembling sob and shattered moan like it’s something he can drink down with your slick.

You do.

Not loud.

But broken.

“Kento—please—I’m—!”

“Let go,” he growls against you, the words muffled and rough, vibrating straight through your swollen clit. “Now. Give it to me.”

And when it hits, it crashes through you like a wave breaking hard and sudden.

You shatter.

A cracked, desperate cry tears from your throat, voice splintering on his name as your thighs lock tight around his broad shoulders, heels digging into his back. Your whole body seizes, back arching clean off the bed while your pussy pulses wildly against his tongue. He groans deep and hungry at the first hot rush of your release flooding his mouth, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth stays relentless, sealed tight around your clit, sucking harder as your orgasm rips through you in long, shuddering waves.

His tongue keeps coaxing every last twitch, every helpless flutter, every broken sob that spills from your lips. He laps and flicks and sucks through it all, drinking down every slick pulse, every tremble, refusing to let the pleasure fade even a second too soon. Your legs shake violently around his head, fingers yanking at his hair, but he just growls again and presses deeper, tongue working you through the aftershocks until your body finally melts beneath him—wet, gasping, limp and completely undone, chest heaving, thighs falling open in exhausted surrender while he still licks slow and gentle, savoring every last drop of what you just gave him.

He doesn’t let go right away.

Just eases you down with slower licks, gentle kisses, his hands stroking your hips now. His voice low, praising, filled with something thick and wrecked and adoring.

“Good girl.”

 “That’s it.”

 “I’ve got you.”

 “I’ll never stop taking care of you.”

You’re still panting, chest rising and falling in uneven waves, when he crawls back up the bed toward you. The mattress dips under his weight, slow and deliberate, his shadow falling warm across your skin. He settles over you again, forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you gently without trapping you. His face is flushed a deep, uneven rose—cheeks, throat, even the tips of his ears—and his mouth still shines wet in the low lamplight, lips swollen from everything he’s already given you.

He lowers his forehead to yours, eyes so warm they ache to look at, dark lashes clumped faintly with sweat. For a long heartbeat he just breathes you in, nose brushing yours, sharing the same ragged air. Then he speaks, voice quiet, almost reverent.

“I’m not finished.”

The words land soft between you, heavy with need.

“I need to be inside you.”

He kisses you then—impossibly sweet, impossibly slow. His lips move over yours like he’s memorizing the shape, the texture, the faint salt taste still lingering from earlier. Tongue sliding gentle, searching, full of everything he’s kept locked tight behind his ribs for far too long—years of want, of quiet longing, of nights spent imagining this exact moment. You open for him without thought, sighing into his mouth, fingers drifting up to thread loosely through the damp hair at his nape.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, eyes locked on yours, then shifts his weight. One hand leaves the mattress and reaches down between your bodies. You hear the quiet metallic clink of his belt buckle coming undone, the slow rasp of leather sliding free, the softer sound of his zipper giving way. He shoves his pants and boxers down in one rough motion—fabric catching briefly at his thick thighs before he kicks them off the edge of the bed entirely.

His cock springs free, hard and flushed dark, the head glossy with a steady bead of precum that trembles at the slit before sliding down the thick underside in a slow, shining trail. Veins stand prominent along the shaft, pulsing faintly with every heartbeat. He wraps his fingers around the base—long, scarred fingers that look almost too rough for the careful way he handles himself now—and gives one slow, firm stroke, spreading the slickness until the entire length gleams wet in the dim room.

He guides himself to you with the same careful touch, the blunt head nudging your entrance—still swollen, still dripping from before. He presses in one long, measured stroke. Inch by careful inch. The stretch is exquisite, thick heat parting you open again, filling you so completely your breath snags in your throat. You gasp into his mouth; he swallows the sound whole, lips never leaving yours, tongue stroking yours in lazy reassurance as he sinks deeper, deeper, until his hips meet yours and he’s buried to the hilt.

He holds perfectly still for a long moment, letting your body remember him—adjust to the heavy, hot fullness, the way he throbs inside you like a second heartbeat. Your walls flutter around him instinctively, soft little pulses that pull a low, ragged groan from his chest.

“You take me so well,” he breathes against your cheek, voice rough with wonder and something close to gratitude. “Always so warm. So perfect for me.”

Only then does he begin to move, slow rocks at first, just enough to drag the heaviest part of him along every sensitive ridge inside you. Each thrust is measured, deliberate, grinding gently at the base until your spine arches off the mattress and your fingers clutch at his shoulders. Small, helpless sounds spill from your lips—soft whimpers, fractured moans and he drinks them down like they’re oxygen, like he’s been starving for them.

“You are my peace,” he murmurs, hips rolling in that slow, deep rhythm that feels endless, timeless. “You are my reason to keep going.”

The praise turns softer, then filthier by turns, spilling between kisses he presses to your jaw, the sensitive skin beneath your ear, the corner of your mouth.

“This little pussy stays so wet for me, doesn’t it?”

“You like when I talk to you like this?”

“Look at me while I fuck you. Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

“You are so fucking good. So good.”

When the second climax begins to coils, tight and bright and inevitable—he doesn’t speed up. He simply holds your gaze, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye where tears have gathered, catching them before they can fall. His voice drops to a whisper, raw and steady.

“Give it to me again. Let me feel you.”

You do—harder this time. Your body locks, walls clamping down in fierce, fluttering waves, sobbing his name into the crook of his neck as nails dig into the strong muscles of his shoulders. Slick floods out around him in hot pulses, soaking his base, dripping down to the sheets. He follows a single heartbeat later—a low, broken groan tearing from his throat as his hips stutter and his cock pulses thick inside you. He spills deep, hot ropes painting your walls, filling you until it overflows in creamy rings that cling to his shaft with every slow grind he rides through the aftershocks.

He didn’t pull away.

He remained buried inside you, warm and heavy and deeply comforting, the thick length of him still nestled to the base where your body cradled him like it never wanted to release its hold. His arms wrapped around you fully now, one sliding beneath your back to support the curve of your spine, the other curving tenderly around your cheek, thumb sweeping slow across the lingering dampness of your tears. He held you as though he could shield you from every remaining sharp edge the world might still carry, his body a steady barrier of heat and quiet strength.

His lips found your temple first, pressing there in a soft, lingering kiss that carried no rush. Then your cheek, warm and damp beneath his mouth. Finally the corner of your eye, where the last traces of salt clung, and he kissed that away too, murmuring thank you, thank you, thank you in a low, endless litany against your skin. Each word trembled faintly on his lips, weighted with everything he had held back for so long, everything he was finally allowing himself to feel.

You clung to him in return, fingers loose but desperate in the fabric of his shirt, body still trembling from the aftershocks, spent and soft and utterly enveloped. Your legs draped limp around his hips, no strength left to tighten, only the instinct to stay connected. He kept you there full of him, safe and  loved—long after the final shivers ebbed into a deep, quiet stillness, his breathing slowing to match yours, chest rising and falling against your own in perfect rhythm.

The faint tremor in his arms spoke of how much this moment cost him, how much he needed it. His forehead eventually rested against yours again, breaths mingling in the small space between you, warm and unhurried. He stayed exactly as he was, half-hard and deeply seated, letting the intimacy linger without demand or hurry, simply existing in the closeness he had almost convinced himself he didn’t deserve. Every slow inhale carried the scent of you, every exhale a silent vow to never let this slip away again.

He didn’t pull out.

Not even when your legs finally went limp, falling open and slack around his hips. Not even when your throat ached raw from the broken way you’d sobbed his name into the dark. Nanami simply stayed—nested deep, unmoving, like he belonged there more than anywhere else in the world. His breathing was ragged, uneven, each exhale a quiet murmur against your skin: thank you, thank you, thank you, over and over, soft and reverent, as though saying it enough might make it true.

You were the first to speak, voice small and cracked in the stillness.

“You’re still here.”

His answer came low, steady, barely louder than breath.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You closed your eyes, lashes wet against your cheeks. But he lifted his hand to your face again, thumb stroking slow across the tearstained curve of your cheekbone, waiting patiently until you opened them and looked back up at him.

“You never asked me to be perfect,” he said, voice quiet but thick with something painful and honest. “But I keep punishing myself for not being the man I think you deserve.”

Your throat tightened again, fresh heat blooming behind your eyes.

“I only ever wanted you to come home to me,” you whispered. “I wasn’t asking for anything more.”

He nodded once slowly, achingly tender and pressed his forehead to yours so tightly you could feel the faint tremor in his brow.

“I know that now.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with truth, the kind that hurts to hold but hurts more to release.

Then, quieter still:

“I need you.”

The confession landed soft, fragile, like something he’d carried alone for too long.

“I didn’t know how to admit it. That I need someone. That I need you. Not just the comfort…. You.”

You didn’t answer with words. You simply pulled him closer—arms wrapping tighter around his neck, legs shifting to hook loosely around his waist again, drawing him impossibly deeper even though he was already as far inside you as he could be.

And still he didn’t leave you.

Instead he slid one hand beneath your thigh, cupping the soft curve with care, and lifted you both from the bed in a single smooth motion. He carried you to the bathroom without ever slipping free—still buried inside, still breathing against your cheek, every careful step making you feel the gentle drag and press of him within your walls. You clung to his shoulders, face tucked into the warm hollow of his neck, inhaling the faint scent of sweat and cologne and him.

The bath was already waiting—steam rising in lazy curls, the air thick with eucalyptus and rosewood, warm and medicinal and comforting. He must have started it earlier, before dinner, before everything unraveled and came back together again. He lowered you into the water with unbearable gentleness, never breaking the connection between your bodies, guiding you down until the heat enveloped you both.

He watched you sink into it—shoulders loosening, breath evening out—his eyes never leaving your face. You kept your gaze fixed on him, glassy and wide, still a little dazed, still a little raw.

He undressed slowly in front of you, unbuttoning his shirt with careful fingers, folding each piece and setting it aside like it mattered. Then he stepped into the tub behind you, long legs bracketing yours, and pulled you back against his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist—one hand resting just beneath the soft swell of your breast, the other spreading wide and warm across your lower belly, palm flat over the place he had filled so completely.

“You cried for me,” he murmured into your hair, voice barely above the gentle lap of water. “I won’t forget that.”

You whispered back, “I’d do it again.”

He exhaled through his nose, a soft, shaky sound, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the back of your shoulder.

The water laps gently around you both, his fingers moved then, slow and careful, tracing gentle paths, gliding across your hips, tracing the soft curve of your stomach, rediscovering every inch like he was afraid he might forget the feel of you. The water shifted with every small motion, warm ripples brushing your skin.

When he spoke again, the words came out quieter than anything you’d ever heard from him—barely louder than the gentle lap of water against the tub’s edge, fragile and unguarded.

“Thank you for staying.”

The sound of it settled over you like warm steam, soft enough to make your chest ache. You didn’t trust your voice to answer. Instead you reached back through the water, searching until your fingers found his beneath the surface. His hand was large, warm, calloused in the familiar places from years of holding swords and shields and too many burdens. You slid your fingers between his, palm to palm, and closed them together slowly.

Then you squeezed.

Tight. Steady. Silent.

The pressure said everything your throat couldn’t shape: I’m here. I’m not leaving. I choose this—you—every single day. You felt the faint tremor in his grip before he returned it, his fingers curling around yours with the same careful strength he used to hold everything fragile in his life. He didn’t speak again right away. He simply held on, thumb brushing once, twice, across your knuckles in a slow, absent rhythm, as though he needed the small motion to believe this was real.

The water moved around you in soft ripples with every tiny shift of your bodies. His chest rose and fell against your back, steady now, the earlier tension bled away into something calmer, deeper. You leaned your head back until it rested against his shoulder, ear pressed near the quiet thud of his heart. He turned his face slightly, lips brushing the damp curve of your temple—not a kiss exactly, more a resting place, a moment of simple contact that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

You stayed like that for a long time—hands clasped beneath the water, bodies fitted together in the warm cradle of the bath, no words needed. Just the slow rise of steam, the faint scent of eucalyptus curling through the air, the gentle weight of his chin settling against your shoulder, and the unspoken promise that neither of you would let go first.

Eventually his free hand drifted up, fingertips tracing idle, soothing patterns along your arm, then across your collarbone, then down again to rest over your heart. You felt the faint smile against your skin before you heard the low murmur.

“I could stay here forever,” he said, voice rough from emotion and exhaustion and something softer still. “Just like this. With you.”

You squeezed his hand once more. The motion was firm, deliberate, quiet—your fingers tightening around his in a steady press that carried no need for words, only the calm certainty of presence and promise. The warmth of his palm met yours fully, returning the gentle pressure without hesitation.

And in the quiet that followed, with only the soft drip of water and the slow rhythm of your shared breathing, that small gesture felt like the loudest answer you could give.

….

You don’t remember falling asleep in the bath.

All you remember is the solid heat of him behind you, the steady weight of his arms cradling you close, the low murmur of his voice drifting against your ear—things whispered so quietly you weren’t sure you were meant to hear them, things about forever and forgiveness and how he’d never let you go again if you’d let him stay.

When you woke, you were dry and warm beneath soft sheets, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped heavy across your waist.

“Kento?” you whispered into the dark.

“Mhm,” he hummed, voice low and gravelly with sleep. “Didn’t mean to let you drift off in the water.”

“You were warm,” you murmured. “And you kept holding me.”

He chuckled faintly, the sound soft and worn with exhaustion yet laced with unmistakable fondness. It rumbled low in his chest, vibrating gently against your back where you rested against him.

Then he shifted closer, drawing you in with the smallest movement of his body until there was no space left between you. His nose found the warm hollow just behind your ear, pressing there in a slow, intimate nuzzle. 

“You cried yourself to sleep,” he said, so quiet it almost disappeared.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he replied. A pause. “But I’m glad I was there to hold you.”

You turned slowly in his arms. He let you move, pulling the covers higher to tuck them around your shoulders, smoothing his palm down your back in long, soothing strokes. You curled toward his chest, pressing your face to the warm skin just beneath his collarbone, right over the steady, strong beat of his heart.

He whispered again, barely audible.

“You make me want things.”

You blinked up at him, still fuzzy with sleep. “Like what?”

His hand curled gently in your hair.

“Quiet mornings,” he said. “A second toothbrush on the counter. You in my shirts. You in my bed. You in every room I ever learn to call home.”

Your breath caught.

“And you make me want to stay,” he added, softer still. “Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m angry. Even when I forget how to be kind.”

You pressed your palm flat to his chest and whispered, “Then stay.”

“I will.”

Another quiet pause.

Then, almost shyly: “I want to take you out. Not fancy. Just us. Something quiet. Something simple. A night to say thank you. Properly.”

You smiled against his skin.

“I’d like that.”

He held you tighter.

“Tomorrow. After work. No interruptions. Just you and me.”

You nodded against his heart, fingers curling into the soft fabric of the shirt he’d never bothered to remove.

“You’re not just my peace, you know,” he murmured. “You’re my reason to start again.”

You closed your eyes. “You’re mine too.”

And finally, for the first time in weeks, you both fell asleep without tension coiled between you. Just warmth. Just breath. Just the quiet certainty of two people choosing—deliberately, irrevocably—to stay.

….

The next evening, he came home on time.

No tie. No tension carved into his shoulders. No briefcase weighing down his hand. Just Kento Nanami standing in the doorway of your apartment, looking lighter than you’d ever seen him, like the world had finally loosened its grip.

You glanced up from adjusting your coat in the mirror by the door, startled by how quietly he’d let himself in.

He was watching you—not with heat, not yet, but with something softer, something that made your chest tighten and your pulse stutter.

“You didn’t forget,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, voice low and warm.

“Not a chance.”

You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You didn’t need to.

He took your hand and guided you out into the evening. The place was small, tucked away from the noise of the city—candlelit tables, soft music, a quiet corner waiting just for the two of you. Intimate. Unhurried. The kind of place where silence felt like affection instead of distance.

He pulled out your chair before you could reach for it.

You sat, heart fluttering beneath your ribs.

At first you were both quiet. The gentle clink of silverware, the low hum of conversation from other tables, the rich pour of deep red wine into glasses. But his eyes never left you—not once.

When the food arrived, you laughed softly at how he watched you more than he ate, gaze tracing every small movement of your fork, every tilt of your head.

“What?” you teased, mouth curving into a smile. “You’re staring.”

He shook his head, eyes dropping to the table for a heartbeat before lifting again to meet yours.

“I just can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly. “That you stayed.”

Your smile softened. “I told you I would.”

“I didn’t believe I deserved it.”

You reached across the table. Your hand found his—warm, solid, calloused in all the familiar places.

“You don’t have to deserve love to receive it, Kento,” you said gently. “You just have to not run from it when it’s right in front of you.”

He stared at your joined hands like they were something holy.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it:

“I used to come home to silence. An empty space. Just a lamp left on so it wouldn’t feel like the apartment had swallowed itself whole.”

Your chest ached.

“I used to wish someone would be waiting. Even if it was just to ask me how my day was. Or to touch my arm when I looked tired.”

You squeezed his hand.

His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles—reverent, careful.

“And now,” he said, voice barely a whisper, “I come home to you. And you make it feel like I was never lonely to begin with. Like I was just… waiting to arrive.”

You blinked hard against the sudden sting.

He reached up with his free hand and tucked a strand of hair gently behind your ear.

“Thank you,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “Thank you for letting me come home.”

Your throat was too tight to speak. He saw it. Instead of pressing, he simply lifted your hand and kissed your fingers—one by one—slow, lingering presses of his lips against your skin.

No rush.

No shame in the way your eyes shone in the candlelight.

Just him. And you.

And the quiet, steady warmth of a love that no longer felt heavy, but earned—patiently, painfully, beautifully earned.

© torusbabe 2026 .

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT COPY OR USE.

You reach for him gently, both hands brushing his chest, offering comfort without a word. Your thumb grazes a spot just over his heart. “Rough night?” you murmur. “I can draw your bath—”

“Can I please come home just once,” he says, voice sharp and low, “without being smothered?”

You blink.

The words hit harder than a slap. His tone is stripped of affection—just blunt exhaustion, cruel in its honesty. You drop your hands slowly.

“It’s always something with you,” he continues as he walks past you, not even looking back. “Talking, hovering, asking. Just one night of peace. Is that so hard?”

You don’t say anything.

The apartment hums in the silence he leaves behind. A door clicks shut—the bedroom—and your heart follows it, folding in on itself.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, mouth slightly open like you were still halfway through a sentence. The tea kettle lets out a soft pop. The lights feel too warm now, like they’re spotlighting the hurt.

You don’t follow him.

Instead, you turn toward the bathroom.

The bath is only halfway filled when you kneel down beside the tub. You twist the hot water knob gently, the steam rising around your face. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror. You can’t.

You add a few drops of the cedarwood oil he likes, the one that smells clean and masculine and grounding. You test the temperature with your wrist, adjusting it exactly the way he prefers. You fold the towel and set it by the tub, then go to the cabinet for the soft robe he always wears afterward.

Each motion feels automatic. Practiced. Quiet. You’re not sure if you’re trying to comfort him or hold yourself together.

And then—finally—your throat tightens.

The tears come in silence at first. Your hands start shaking as you smooth the towel a third time, then a fourth. A lump forms deep in your chest, thick and choking. You sit back on your heels, lower lip trembling, blinking fast.

“Can I please come home without being smothered?”

It repeats like a loop in your skull. He looked right past you. Like you were too much.

Like your love—your softness, your waiting up, your effort—was noise.

You press a hand to your mouth just as the first sob breaks through. It’s small and ugly, a hitching sound that feels like it doesn’t belong to you. And then another. And another. Your shoulders shake.

You curl forward slightly, arms around your knees on the cool bathroom tile, letting yourself cry.

No yelling. No throwing things. No running after him to defend yourself.

You just fall apart quietly, with the bath still running.

Nanami doesn’t even remember dropping his keys.

He only notices when he hears them clatter faintly to the floor, near the threshold where he’d passed you without thinking—without seeing. They lay next to the small dish you always put out for him, the one with little white sakura etched into the ceramic. The one he never uses, but you keep setting out anyway.

The bedroom is dark.

His jacket is draped across the foot of the bed now, his tie tossed beside it. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, methodically, one cuff at a time. He doesn’t sit down. His body aches from the mission, the tension wound so tightly in his shoulders that it feels like his spine might snap.

But now—it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

No soft voice calling for him from the other room. No footsteps padding toward him. No tea cup gently placed on the nightstand.

The guilt doesn’t come all at once.

It creeps in slow—seeps into the spaces where your warmth should be. He frowns as he steps back into the hallway, bare feet on polished wood, tension pressing heavy on his chest.

And then he hears it.

Water running.

Faint sniffles.

The bathroom door is cracked open slightly.

He stops there in the hall, one hand braced against the frame.

The light inside is soft, golden. The steam has begun to cling to the mirror, and the bath is full—just the way he likes it. Cedarwood and citrus. A towel folded neatly on the rack. A robe hanging nearby. The dim sound of water lapping gently at porcelain.

And you’re gone.

No hum of your voice. No greeting. Not even footsteps echoing through the apartment.

But he sees it: a small folded note propped against the sink faucet.

He steps inside. Picks it up.

You don’t have to talk to me. Just thought you’d still want the bath. I’ll be in the other room. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you.

It hits like a punch to the gut.

His hand tightens around the note until it crinkles.

You hadn’t defended yourself. Hadn’t pushed back. You’d drawn his bath anyway. The same hands he’d brushed off with a cutting remark had turned down the sheets, folded his towel, and left quietly so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

And now, he realizes, he hasn’t heard your voice since.

He finds you curled up in the living room—half-buried beneath the throw blanket, your back to the hallway. Your shoulders are still trembling faintly. Your hand is curled into a fist against your chest, and you’re shaking. Trying to breathe quietly through sobs that won't stop.

You’re trying not to let him hear.

That shatters him.

“Sweetheart…”

His voice is rough. Barely above a whisper.

You flinch. You don’t turn around. He steps closer, slowly, until he’s kneeling beside the couch.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

You don’t respond.

He reaches forward, hesitates, then gently brushes the back of his fingers along your shoulder. The touch is light. Tentative. He knows he lost the right to hold you without permission tonight.

“I was tired,” he says quietly. “That’s not an excuse. But it’s the truth. I came home wound too tight to see what I had right in front of me.”

Your breath hitches. You squeeze your eyes shut.

He shifts closer. His hand comes to rest near your hip, not touching—just there. “You were waiting for me,” he murmurs. “In my shirt. With tea. With warmth. And I… I tore through it like it meant nothing.”

Still nothing.

Until you whisper, voice raw, “I just wanted to say hi.”

His heart breaks. Fully, cleanly, completely.

You finally roll to face him, and the sight of your tearstained cheeks—your trembling mouth, your red eyes—makes him swallow hard.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, fingers brushing your cheek with reverence now. “I came home and treated love like noise. And you still… you still made me a bath.”

You nod, barely. “Because I love you.”

“I know.” His voice is ragged. “And I’ve never deserved it more than in this moment. Please let me make it right.”

You don’t speak again.

But you don’t pull away either.

And that’s enough.

His hand rises to cup your cheek fully, thumb catching the edge of a tear. He leans in slowly, deliberately, resting his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want peace without you,” he whispers. “I want to come home to you. Always.”

The air between you shifts. Warms. Softens.

He doesn't kiss you right away.

Instead, he just keeps his forehead pressed against yours, eyes closed, breath slow and steady like he’s anchoring himself in your skin. His fingers linger on your cheek, tracing soft, penitent circles beneath your eye.

Your hands curl loosely in the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt. You still haven’t said much, and that hurts him more than yelling ever could.

He whispers, “Can I touch you?”

Your nod is barely there. A small tilt of your chin. But it’s enough.

He exhales like he’s been holding it all day.

Then, finally—finally—he kisses you.

Not rough. Not fast. Just warm, and open, and heartbreakingly gentle.

His mouth moves slowly over yours, like an apology spelled out in vowels. He doesn’t try to deepen it too quickly. Doesn’t chase your tongue. He just kisses you again and again, soft and reverent, his thumb still brushing your cheek as if he can soothe the words he never should’ve said.

You sigh into him. A sound of surrender, of ache, of wanting so badly to forgive.

His hand slides down from your cheek to your waist, curling gently around you as he draws you upright from the couch. Your knees come together as he pulls you closer, and he kneels between them, looking up at you now—golden hair tousled, shirt hanging open, eyes full of something wounded and worshipful.

“Let me take this off,” he murmurs, voice low and rough as his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt you’re wearing. His shirt.

You nod again, and raise your arms.

He peels it up slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. He pauses to press his lips to your sternum, just beneath your collarbone. Another apology. Then your ribs. Then the soft curve of your stomach.

By the time he lifts the shirt fully off, you’re flushed all over, breath trembling as you sit in nothing but a pair of soft panties.

“I didn’t even look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You looked so beautiful when I walked in. I didn’t even see you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a soft sound—half breath, half broken plea.

He answers it with his hands.

They slide up your thighs slowly, stroking your skin with careful reverence. He leans forward and kisses just above your navel, then lower, until your thighs are twitching gently under his touch.

“I don’t want you to forgive me because I’m touching you,” he whispers. “But I need to show you how sorry I am. I need you to feel it.”

You nod.

“Lie back for me, sweetheart.”

You do. Carefully. Your body is still tense, unsure—but the warmth in his voice, the softness of his touch, it starts to melt something in you.

He pulls your panties down next—slow, watching your face the entire time, like he’s checking for any sign of hesitation. There is none.

You lift your hips without being asked.

The air feels thick now. Not just with steam or want—but with emotion. That fragile edge of pain that still lingers, now curled tight with desire. He tosses the panties aside, then leans in over your bare body, dragging his lips from your thigh up to your hip, then to your ribs, then back to your mouth.

When he kisses you again, he sighs into it. Like he’s home.

And then, finally, he whispers:

“Let me worship you the way you deserve.”

You’re laid out beneath him like something holy.

Warm, bare, and still sniffling faintly when his hand drags slowly down your stomach—open-palmed, deliberate. He watches you closely. Watches the way your chest rises unevenly. The soft glisten still clinging to your lashes. Your lip, a little swollen from where you’ve bitten it trying not to cry again.

He bends over you again, murmuring low against your neck, “I don’t need to talk to be understood. But you—you’ve always spoken in care. In waiting. In touches. I think it’s time I spoke in your language.”

He kisses your shoulder. Then lower. Then lower.

You tremble.

His mouth hovers just over your breast, and he doesn’t dive in hungrily. He pauses. Waits. His eyes lift.

“Let me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Again. Quieter this time. Your voice barely works, but your body listens for you.

He presses a kiss there—soft and wet, then another, open-mouthed over your nipple. He warms it with his tongue, lips drawing around the sensitive skin until your back arches. You gasp, still soft from crying, and he hums low in response.

“Still so good for me,” he murmurs. “Even when I don’t deserve you.”

His hand slips between your legs, fingers slow as they find you already warm, already soft and aching. You’re slick at the edges—grief and longing swirled together like heat beneath the skin.

You whimper when he slides two fingers down the seam of your cunt.

“You always open up for me,” he murmurs, lips still brushing your chest, fingers now dipping inside, so slowly. “Even when I’ve been cruel. That’s what breaks me.”

You clench around his fingers, a small sob escaping—not from pain, but want.

He stills immediately, whispering, “You okay?”

You nod fast. Then swallow hard. “Don’t stop.”

That’s when the reverence turns filthy.

His fingers begin to move, shallow thrusts coaxing your body open, dragging wet sounds from between your thighs. You moan softly. Hiccuping still. Your eyes glassy and shining in the low light as he watches you fall apart slowly for him.

“I should’ve come home,” he breathes, “and gotten on my knees.”

His mouth trails lower. Down your stomach. Down your hip. He presses a kiss to the crease of your thigh, then bites—just lightly—until you whine.

“I should’ve dropped everything,” he continues, voice ragged, “and kissed you just like this—” and his tongue swipes a long, slow line over your folds, his fingers spreading you open to taste you properly—“until you were sobbing for me in the right way.”

You gasp. Your hips jerk.

He groans against your cunt, wet and open and obscene.

“I’m going to make you come with your thighs trembling,” he whispers. “With your hands fisting the couch. I’m going to eat you like you’re the only damn peace I’ll ever need.”

You’re already close.

You didn’t even realize how tightly wound you were—how much your body wanted to be loved like this. Handled like this. Like every inch of you deserved soft kisses and filth spoken into your skin.

“F-Fuck, ngh- Kento—” you choke, and his tongue circles your clit, his fingers still fucking into you slowly, deeply, until the pressure makes your whole spine curl.

Your thighs lock around his head. You cry out.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when you start to break—hips twitching, sobs turning into moans that sound like yes, yes, yes— not even when you finish, wet and hot around his fingers, pulsing so hard it feels like everything you’ve been holding back is flooding through your skin.

He groans. Kisses your thigh. Kisses your stomach. Then looks up at you.

“More,” he whispers. “Please. Let me keep touching you.”

Your legs are still trembling when he moves over you.

Not hovering—covering. Like a weight you’ve been craving. Warm and solid and safe. His hand slides behind your knee, lifting one leg to hook over his waist as he settles between your thighs. You’re still gasping, eyes glassy, lips parted, flushed from crying and climaxing both.

“You don’t have to—” you start to whisper, but his mouth silences you with a kiss that tastes like apology and salt.

“I need to,” he breathes. “Please. If you’ll let me.”

You nod. Soft. Immediate.

His hands cup your thighs as he pushes them further open—gentle, but commanding. He wants to see all of you. His gaze flickers down as his hips shift against yours, the heavy press of him sliding slow and hot along your slick folds.

You twitch.

“I should’ve come home and touched you like this,” he whispers, guiding himself to your entrance. “Held you open. Slid inside so slow you could feel every word I didn’t say.”

You let out a ragged gasp as he presses in—deep.

Not fast.

Not rough.

Just... there.

Thick and stretching and present. The kind of slow that makes your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open because it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Your body clenches around him immediately, desperate and aching.

“Oh—fuck,” you cry, hands flying to his shoulders. “Kento—!”

His breath stutters. “There she is.”

He pushes in the rest of the way, hips flush against you, groaning as your walls squeeze around him like you never want to let him go.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers against your neck, rocking his hips just slightly. “I didn’t come home to be loved like this. But you—you gave it to me anyway.”

Each slow thrust sinks deeper. More reverent. More filthy.

“You still opened up for me.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your back arches.

“You still made the bath.”

He fucks into you again—so deep—and you choke on a sob, your thighs twitching around him.

“You still curled up alone and cried so I could have peace.”

His pace stays slow, but his voice roughens.

“You deserve more than my silence.”

Your body clenches again. Your sob turns into a moan, high and trembling. “K-Kento—”

He grinds in, deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs, his mouth trailing along your jaw as he whispers, “I’m going to fill you, sweetheart. Slow. Until you forget every second I made you feel unwanted.”

You shake beneath him. You’re not crying anymore—you’re whimpering, soft and overwhelmed, your body too raw to speak back.

But he keeps going.

“You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?” he whispers. “When I take my time. When I stay deep.”

You nod—hard. You can’t find your voice, but your body’s screaming it, clenching around him, trembling again.

“Say it,” he murmurs, biting your earlobe. “Let me hear you say you want it.”

“I-I want it,” you sob. “Kento—I need—”

“That’s right,” he growls, pace still slow but grinding now, filling every inch of you with unbearable fullness. “My perfect girl. So wet. So good. Still letting me in.”

He kisses you again—messy this time, tongues tangling, breath mixing—before pulling back just enough to look into your eyes.

“I’m gonna come inside you.”

You whimper.

“Gonna keep it there. Let it stay, let it soak in while you sleep in my arms.”

You gasp. Your body tenses—tightens—and then you’re coming again, helpless around him, clenching so hard he has to groan your name into your shoulder.

And then he follows—hips flush, cock buried as deep as it’ll go, filling you with slow, aching pulses while you sob and shake and hold on like you’ll disappear otherwise.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Not for a long time.

Just breath and skin and the soft sound of his lips pressing to your temple.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re shaking until he kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I’ve got you. Don’t move, sweetheart.”

His voice is hoarse. Tender. He’s still inside you, still so deep and full and warm, and your body’s trembling under the weight of it—his words, his apology, his love. It’s not just sex anymore. It never was. Not with him.

You let out a tiny, shivering breath. And then another.

Nanami exhales with you, forehead brushing against yours, hand sliding up to cradle your face.

“I’m not leaving,” he whispers. “Not for a second.”

You nod, barely. A blink. A soft noise of understanding, but your body’s too limp, too overstimulated to respond in words. Your fingers twitch at his shoulders, like maybe if you move them just enough, he’ll stay right where he is forever.

He kisses you again—this time slower. Nothing sexual. Just mouth to mouth, patient and real.

Then, after a moment, he moves.

Carefully. Easing himself out of you with a groan so deep it sounds mourning, and your breath catches again as his release trickles down the back of your thigh.

He sees it. Sees your soaked skin and red eyes and how you instinctively close your legs in embarrassment.

“No,” he says, firm but gentle. “None of that.”

He kneels beside the couch and presses his lips to the inside of your knee. “You were perfect for me.”

Then higher. The soft skin of your thigh. “You took me so well.”

Then the bend of your hip, where your pulse still flutters. “You let me say it the only way I knew how.”

He rises again, scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing, and you bury your face in his chest. You’re not crying now, but your body’s still trembling with something you can’t name. A bruise that sits beneath your ribs—not from pain, but from the tenderness of being seen again.

He carries you straight to the bathroom.

The one you had prepared for him.

The bath is still warm, thank god. The water is still milky, lavender-scented, filled with everything you thought would comfort him.

Now, it’s for you.

Nanami sits on the edge of the tub, pulls you into his lap, and steps you both in. He keeps you against him the whole time, arms tight around your waist, your thighs draped over his.

You sit in the water together—quiet, breath mingling with steam, your ear pressed to his heartbeat.

His hands don’t wander. Not in lust. Not now.

They smooth over your back. Up your spine. Across your hips. Slow, reverent. He murmurs soft things in your hair as he dips the sponge in warm water and runs it over your arms, your chest, your thighs—gentle, slow strokes like he’s washing off everything he said, everything he didn’t say.

When he rinses your hair, he cradles your head to his shoulder.

When you start crying again—this time quiet, soundless—he just kisses your temple and says, “I know. I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I should have come home to this. I should have come home to you.”

You don’t say anything.

But you reach for his hand under the water.

And when you squeeze it, he squeezes back like he’s never letting go.

He dries you off like you’ll shatter if he goes too fast.

A soft towel across your back. One hand wrapped gently around your wrist. Every motion slow, warm, methodical—his sleeves still damp from the bathwater, his hair curling slightly from the steam. He doesn’t ask you to stand. He kneels in front of you instead, pressing the towel between your thighs to dry you carefully, like even now, hours later, you’re still too tender for roughness.

You are.

Your body aches, but not badly. Not the way it would if this was just sex. The soreness is slow, deep in your hips, between your legs, in your throat. It’s from the weight of everything that passed between you—the strain of loving him even when he didn’t have the strength to return it.

“Here,” he murmurs, and holds out one of his shirts. It’s soft. Grey. Worn thin and familiar, and you slip your arms through the sleeves like it’s a kind of armor.

He helps guide it down over your shoulders.

Then lifts you again, bridal-style.

“Still with me?” he asks quietly.

You nod against his collarbone. “Mhm.”

It’s barely a sound. But he hears it. His fingers tighten at your waist.

He carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing. Lowers you down onto cool sheets. Then follows, sitting beside you, pulling the comforter up around your thighs before brushing your damp hair back from your face.

You watch him in silence.

His brows are drawn. His throat moves like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how. His hand lingers over your hip without squeezing—just rests there, warm and steady.

“Kento?” you whisper, voice hoarse from earlier.

He meets your eyes.

You know that look.

The aching one. The one that says: I’m scared you don’t want me anymore.

You sit up slowly. Crawl into his lap again, straddling his thighs, your arms wrapping around his neck even though your body is exhausted.

“I’m still yours,” you whisper into the shell of his ear. “I was always yours.”

He lets out a sound—something like a breath that got stuck in his chest all day and is only now finding its way out.

His hands come up. One at your back. One at the base of your skull.

He kisses you.

Softly. Slowly.

But not like he did earlier.

This kiss is fragile. Hungry. Sleepy. It tastes like thank you and I missed you and please don’t ever leave me alone like that again.

You whimper into it. Press your chest to his.

He moans quietly, nose brushing yours, voice shaking as he whispers, “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“And I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you breathe.

“I’ll come home better next time.”

You nod.

“You’re everything,” he whispers.

You press a kiss to his cheek. His jaw. His lips again. Then rest your forehead against his, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I’m right here,” he promises. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

And then he pulls you under the covers, gathers you into his chest, and holds you there long past the moment your breathing softens. You fall asleep to the rhythm of his thumb brushing over your hip. To the warmth of his chest under your cheek. To the quiet, steady reminder that even after his worst days—

He always finds his way home to you.

When you wake, the bed is warm.

You’re tucked in tight—his shirt still clinging to your skin, thighs a little sore, muscles soft and heavy with sleep. The light is dim. Golden. The curtains are only half-drawn, letting in that quiet kind of morning sun that doesn’t ask anything of you.

He’s not beside you.

But his warmth lingers, soaked into the pillow, the sheets, your skin. You stretch slowly, groaning under your breath as you shift your hips, your body still tender in a way that makes your heart ache a little—but not from pain.

From everything else.

The door creaks a moment later.

And there he is.

Kento, barefoot, shirtless, hair mussed, holding a steaming mug in one hand and something wrapped in a napkin in the other. His eyes catch yours instantly.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, softer than your breath.

You nod.

He crosses the room slowly and kneels beside the bed—kneels, again, like it’s instinct now. He sets the mug on your nightstand and rests the napkin beside it. Inside, folded and still warm, is a thick slice of honey toast. Slightly uneven. Burnt just a little at the edge.

You stare at it.

Then back at him.

“I tried to make breakfast,” he says. “But I don’t know where you keep the good pan.”

Your throat tightens. Not because it’s funny. Not because it’s perfect. Because it’s him. Because he got up before you did. Because he touched your kitchen and thought about feeding you.

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper.

“I did,” he says, brushing your hair back with his fingers. “I needed to.”

You sit up slowly and he helps, tucking pillows behind your back. Then he holds the mug out—your favorite tea, steeped just the way you like it. You take it. Hands trembling.

He doesn’t speak for a moment.

But then, quiet—so quiet you almost miss it—

“I don’t know how you do it,” he says. “The way you love me.”

You look up.

His eyes are wet.

Your heart shatters all over again.

“I come home cold,” he continues, “and you make it warm. I shut down, and you open up. I say something cruel—” his voice falters, “—and you still run the bath.”

You don’t say anything.

You just reach for him.

He comes to you instantly. Curls up beside you in bed like he needs the warmth more than the air, arms wrapping around your waist as you pull the blanket over you both. Your tea cools beside you. The toast goes untouched. His head buries into your chest and he exhales like he hasn’t taken a real breath in days.

“I want to be better for you,” he says.

You kiss his hair.

“You are.”

“I hurt you.”

“You healed me.”

He tightens his grip.

And then—

“I love you.”

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

And you do. You’ve always known. Even when he didn’t say it. Even when he walked through the door and gave you nothing but silence and distance. You knew. You felt it in the way he lingered when he took off his tie. In the way he always left the bathroom light on for you. In the way he came back.

And now—

He’s here.

He’s warm.

And he’s yours.

© torusbabe 2026 .

Jack Abbot was normal. He was fine. He was definitely not seething watching you dance with friends. The problem with dating the hottest woman in existence was that he couldn’t exclusively monopolize your time. He barely knew anyone at this wedding, it was your friend’s wedding.

She had too many sisters to have you as a bridesmaid and in the comfort and secrecy of your bedroom you had whispered to him that you just didn’t have it in you to be in so many weddings—most of your twenties had been spent traveling around the country to be in friends’ weddings.

Now, he was watching you in a gorgeous plum dress dancing around barefoot with girls you’ve known for over a decade. Some of their husbands were tolerable. Your best friend and her husband were here. Most of the time Ted was fine. Drunk Ted cared a lot about golf and Jack, drunk or sober, couldn’t give a shit.

When P!nk’s “So What” ended you meandered back over to Jack and to his surprise (and delight), collapsed in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m a little tipsy.”

“So I see,” he replied, lightly pushing your hair back away from your face. Your nice hairdo had long since come unraveled and kept falling in your face.

“I like you so much,” you said leaning into him.

“You don’t love me?” He asked with a smile on his face. You snorted.

“Of course I love you. But I also like you.”

“Thanks?”

“I don’t think all my friends like their husbands,” you whispered a little too wet in his ear. He had to resist the urge to push you away to wipe it off.

“What makes you say that?”

“Take me back to the hotel and I’ll tell you,” you said laying your head on his shoulder. It definitely didn’t look comfortable, largely speaking to your exhaustion. You had been dancing and jumping with your friends for multiple hours.

“C’mon, babe,” he said shifting your legs off his lap.

“Ugh,” you groaned standing again. “I need to tell Claire goodnight.”

“I’ll get our stuff,” he said.

The send off had been a few hours ago, before the elderly relatives had left. Now, it was just a fun party with friends. He loved watching you light up and enjoy being around your people. He loved his people, but they were far more subdued than yours.

Across the dance floor you approached your friend who threw her arms around you with heartfelt but drunken balance and coordination. It made his heart swell, watching how happy you were. Fuck, he loved making you happy. All he wanted in life was to make each day just a little easier; he wanted to do his best to make you happy.

By the time you’d extricated yourself from your friend’s embrace and made your way back to him, Jack had a hold of your purse and coat. He also had already dug your ugly Birkenstocks out of your purse so you didn’t have to put your heels back on.

“Fuck you’re so good to me,” you said, holding onto him while you slipped the shoes on.

“Well if that’s all it takes,” he replied, helping you into your coat.

He kept a hold of your bag when walking out to the parking lot. Just like his mother taught him, he held the door open on the rental car and shut it gently behind you. When he got into the drivers seat, you had dug your water bottle out of your purse.

“Ugh, I’m already sobering up,” you complained.

“So you don’t want drunk fast food?”

You gasped dramatically. “Do you kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?”

Jack laughed and grabbed your hand as he turned out of the parking lot heading back to the hotel.

“What did you mean earlier about your girlfriends not liking their husbands?” He asked pulling into a greasy fast food joint. It rarely mattered which one as the point was disgusting food.

Once the French fries and chicken and burgers had been acquired, Jack pulled into a parking spot towards the back of the lot. One of the first things you both discovered you’d had in common was growing up in small towns. It meant that you both had fond memories of idling car conversations and the occasional makeout. Even now, a long away from your teen years, you both adored your post party ritual.

“So,” you began, curling your legs up. “Abigail, not technically my friend, but she’s a good time. Was talking to me about how glad she was that her husband couldn’t come and that was fucking bonkers to me. Why would you marry someone you don’t like?”

“You would be sad if I couldn’t come?”

“Sure, I like spending time with you. It’s not like it would ruin it for me, I basically barely hung out with you tonight, but it’s fun coming back and kissing you before dancing to Pitbull songs with everyone.”

“I think that’s a compliment,” he laughed.

“But seriously!” You said nudging him. “I like being around you. It’s fun. You’re just as fun as my friends.”

“Even though I can’t dance with the energy of a drunk college girl?”

“Even then,” you laughed. “Hear anything good with the spouses?”

“Ted likes golf,” Jack sighed.

“God he’s so boring,” you laughed. “But she needs boring after the shit head she used to be married to.”

“Do your friends think I’m boring?”

You scoffed. “No, they think you’re a crazy adrenaline junky, not boring. Did you notice the groom’s sister had a fucking weird speech?”

For the next hour you both sat in the car, eating food that would clog your arteries and gossiping about the wedding. It was life giving and comforting in ways you never wanted to lose. You’d had this with friends but Jack was the first man you’d ever dated who wanted to do stupid shit with you. He wanted to go to weddings of people he didn’t know. He wanted to sit in a slightly too heated car talking shit about speeches. He wanted to do nothing and everything with you.

“What’s that look?” Jack asked.

“I dunno,” you sighed. “I just really fucking like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I really fucking like you, too,” he said. “Even if you dance like a baby giraffe.”

“Fuck off!”

When you both got back to the hotel, Jack helped you search for the various pins hidden somewhere in your hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he said mouth at your bare shoulder.

“Are you trying to get in my pants, Dr. Abbot?”

“You’re not wearing pants,” he said, bracketing your body against the counter of the bathroom. “You are, however, wearing a gorgeous dress I’ve wanted to peel off with my teeth all night.”

“Your teeth, huh?” You asked making eye contact with him in the mirror.

“God I’ve wanted to touch you so bad all night,” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss right near your hairline.

“You look so good in that suit,” you grumbled, pushing your ass back against his groin. “Kept coming back to kiss you so everyone knew you were mine.”

Jack’s eyes fluttered closed as he buried his face in your neck. Being wanted by you was intoxicating. Knowing that you coveted him as much as he coveted you was more than enough to turn him on. He could feel the ghost of your cunt clenching around him. It had been two weeks since he last fucked you. Both of your jobs had been hectic.

But now, in the privacy of the too expensive hotel room, he had you at his mercy.

“Look at me baby,” he said softly against your ear, relishing in how you shivered against him. “All mine, right?”

“Only yours,” you breathed. “I’ve missed your hands.”

He ran his hands from your thighs up your dress to cup your tits. The strapless dress was held up by tape and some intricate ties in the back. He pulled the tape off your chest gently and then yanked the fabric down under your tits, bra and all. You looked so good. In the dim light of the bathroom, he drank in your heedy gaze.

“Beautiful,” he said attacking your neck again.

Having you in his bed for so long, meant Jack knew just how to kiss you and play with your chest to make you soaked. It’s like he had a cheat code to turning you on. It helped that most of the night had been subtle foreplay between you both. During dinner his hand was definitely too high on your thigh but he couldn’t bear to move it.

“Fuck, baby, take me to bed. It’s cold as shit in here,” you groaned.

“Anything for you,” he said. “How hard do you want tonight?”

“Rough,” you replied.

He wove his fingers through your hair, close to the roots and pulled. He drug you back into the main room and tossed you on the bed face first. Holding you down with one hand on your upper back, he slowly pulled the zipper of your dress down.

“Look at this sexy body,” he said. “All for me.”

You wiggled a little as he unhooked the strapless bra with one hand. It had taken him nearly a year to master, but it was one of his most used bedroom skills. Letting you go, he pulled off the dress harshly, taking your underwear with it. Then you were face down on the bed, naked and already dripping for him.

You had arched your back, preening under his gaze. With a sharp smack to the meaty part of your glute, he watched you jump and settle back into your skin. A few more spanks and he quickly shoved his fingers inside you making you gasp.

He loved all the noises and movements you made during sex. For the duration of your relationship, he had been making a running catalog of how to get you to do a sound or movement. While he harshly fingered you, enjoying the way you squirmed under him, he began unbuckling his belt and pants.

“Feel good, baby?”

“Fuck me, please,” you panted against the comforter.

Shoving his pants down just low enough let out his dick, he pulled his fingers out of you and rubbed your wetness along his cock. Just the smell of you was sending him over the edge. He made sure to clamp down on your hips tightly, hoping to leave a bruise for you to enjoy, before careening his hips into yours aggressively.

There was a grunt as the air was knocked out of you. For a moment he paused, enjoying how you felt. Your cunt always felt so fucking good against his dick. You were so warm and wet and you clenched so beautifully when he spanked you. As much as he loved to be the one furiously fucking you, he also loved having you in charge.

He always enjoyed feeling your nails rake down his back. He was desperate to feel you closer against his skin, so while he had your hips pinned to the bed, he quickly ripped off his button up and undershirt so he could wrap his arm around your neck and pull you up against his body.

Once he felt you against his chest, he began to thrust ferociously against your cunt. He loved how it fluttered and the grunts and groans you released as he harshly pounded into you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jack growled harshly. “You feel so good. Made for me. Carved for my fucking dick, isn’t that right?”

“Just for you,” you said breathlessly.

You were clutching onto the bicep his had wrapped around your neck (more so your chest than neck, but it had the same effect). He felt you meeting his thrusts sending shockwaves through both of you.

“I love it when you’re rough with me,” you heaved against his assault. “Harder, please.”

Your tone was always so breathy and almost whiny when you got worked up like this.

“Anything for my naughty girl. Do you like this dick pounding into you. Does it feel good to have someone treat you so meanly?”

“Fuuuck,” you groaned arching against his grasp more. “You feel so good inside of me.”

“You make me so fucking crazy, pretty girl,” he hissed against your ear. “Watching you tonight was like my own personal dream. The prettiest girl in the world dancing and jumping but always coming back to me. Can’t be without me can you?”

“No, I can’t,” you whined as one of Jack’s hands roughly kneaded your tits. “Your hands are so good.”

“Rub your clit for me, baby. I want to feel you cum on my dick. I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“Yes please,” you mumbled. He felt one of your hands leave its iron grasp on his arm. “You fill me up so good.”

Jack felt himself getting close so he pulled out and finished taking off his pants. Getting his prosthetic off quickly was a hard fought for skill, but he managed to push you flat on the bed covering your body with his own before slipping back inside of your warmth.

He wrapped his arm around your throat again and grinned at how you moaned wantonly.

“So pretty when you’re being used by me.”

“Please,” you managed.

“Prop your hips up, baby,” he said getting on his knees to allow you room.

The harsh sounds of him slamming into you filled the room while he kept whispering debauched things in your ear:

“You’re made for me and only me.”

“Using you feels so sweet.”

“Are you going to cum on my dick?”

“I’m so fucking deep, baby.”

“I’m going to make you cum so hard.”

He was so focused on making sure you came, he didn’t noticed how you turned your face.

“Please, daddy, harder,” you moaned.

His hips stuttered and to control himself, he bit into the muscle of your shoulder. He almost felt guilty for how hot he found your cry of pain to be.

“Rub your clit and say it again,” he mumbled against your skin.

Your hand snaked underneath your body, and gasping under his assault you said,

“Harder, daddy. I want to feel you cum inside me.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned.

He was so close when he felt the tell tale flutters of your cunt against him. He nearly wept with relief you finally were close enough for him to say,

“Cum on my dick, pretty girl. Show me how good I make you feel. Milk me. Milk daddy.”

You cried out as you tensed and gasped underneath him. He made sure to keep moving as you clenched against him until your shaking thighs collapsed. He continued his furious pace until he felt himself orgasm. It felt like he came forever. When he finally collapsed and rolled over next to you, he chest was heaving.

“Daddy, huh?” He asked.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you laughed. “But you clearly liked it.”

“Surprise for me, too,” he huffed. He pulled you against him, reveling in how your naked skin felt against his.

“You’re sweaty and hot,” you grumbled, nuzzling your face against his chest. It was said like a complaint but you weren’t moving away.

“So are you,” he laughed. You tweaked his nipple.

“I’m fresh as a daisy.”

He laughed and kissed the top of your head. “Want to shower first?”

“Yes please,” you said. “Will you keep me company?”

He snorted and nodded.

The accessible bathroom had a removable shower chair that he used while he waited for you. Unlike the shower at home, it wasn’t big enough for Jack, his shower chair, and you. So he watched as you tied your hair up and quickly rinsed off. He noticed your wince when you gently cleaned your vagina.

“Do you want me to check it?” He asked a little concerned.

“Nah, just sensitive. You did a good job.”

“Wow, did I get an A-plus in sex?”

“Fuck off,” you laughed.

While Jack showered, you began working through your nighttime routine. You took off whatever make up hadn’t been sweated off during the wedding or the following sex and washed your face. By the time Jack got out, you were brushing your teeth.

Before leaving the bathroom you kissed him and said, “I love you.”

“Wuv yew,” he said with his toothbrush in his mouth.

Using his crutches, he made his way back to the bed, pulling on a pair of clean boxers before sliding into bed with you. Like you always did, you slept on the side farthest from the door. It was one of the many things that lingered from the war. Jack wanted to be between you and anything unexpected.

He pulled you against him, in the dark, enjoying how warm and soft you were.

“A good night,” he mumbled.

“And good sex,” you said.

He laughed and closed his eyes, feeling so much love and affection for you leaking out of his chest.

“Hey,” you said after a while. “You awake?”

“Hmm?” Jack asked sleepy.

“I just really like you.”

Jack laughed softly. “I really like you, too.”

1. pilates class @ 7am — tomorrow!!

2. build-a-bouquet @ 2pm

3. charm bracelet making workshop @ 3pm

4. pottery! @ 6pm

5. watch the sunrise @ ???

6. friendship bracelet and love island night @ 8pm

7. herb garden creation @ 9am

8. farmers market @ 11am

There is exactly one sound on earth known to make Emergency Department attending physicians with decades of experience under their belt run for the hills and cower under cover – and that’s high heels.

Your high heels, specifically.

It’s not a common sound in the emergency room or the hospital as a whole; most healthcare employees are in sneakers, clogs, or boots the entire time they’re clocked in. But not you. Always dressed pristinely – today it’s high-waisted tailored slacks and a mock-neck sleeveless blouse, effortless and simple with legs that go on for miles and miles – you stalk through the hospital with a mission.

Robby spots you first, strolling in from the offices with eyeliner sharp enough to slice. As his eyes widen, he flips around, briefly touches Abbot and Park on their backs, and hisses, “Find cover, gentlemen. It’s the Viper.”

Abbot breaks into a near run toward the closest open patient room he can find. While Robby scans the area for his hiding place, Park asks, “What the hell’s going on?”

Robby hustles in the opposite direction with a shrug. “Every man for himself, Shark.”

Then a bright, clear, loud woman’s voice bowls down the ED like an oncoming storm. “Dr. Park, just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Even Al-Hashimi claps him on the back and runs off with a whispered, “Good luck.”

You join him in the next second. In your heels, which aren’t even that tall, you’re looking him square in the eyes. Smiling through lips coated in a deep maroon, you ask him, “How’s the transfer to the ED treating you, doctor?”

Arms crossed over his chest, Brendon eyes you suspiciously. “Ah, good, so far. I prefer trauma to ortho. The stakes are higher. Feels good at the end of the day. Accomplished.”

“Glad to hear it. I just need a couple minutes; I know you’re busy. Can we talk here or would you like to go to my office?”

Not noticing the way every single doctor and nurse is nervously glancing in your direction, Brendon mutters, “Here’s fine if it’s quick.”

“Great!” You unlock your briefcase on the nurse’s station and remove a binder as thick as a textbook. Voice still sweet and teasing, you tut at him, “You’ve made yourself very difficult for me to find, Brendon Park.”

“I’m usually in surgery,” he replies, confused and suspicious. He vaguely recognizes you from somewhere, but he can’t quite place it. Probably just flitting around the ED when he’s been here for consults, but it’s entirely possible you’re the hot woman on PTMC’s billboard over I-376. “What’s this about?”

You introduce yourself, shaking his massive hand with yours (blood red stiletto manicure and all), and explain, “I’m the Emergency Department’s Patient Advocate Supervisor.”

“Ah,” Park sighs, eyes raking up and down your accentuated curves, “you’re my new Kevin. He was a huge pain in my ass; I hope our relationship will be better.”

“No, Kevin is a patient advocate and a damn good one, considering he had to deal with your mountain of issues; ortho’s equivalent of me is an idiot who lets the monkeys run the circus,” you correct with harsh eyes. All pretense of pleasantness gone. Brendon looks at you like you’re speaking Klingon, so you slow down your words like he’s a child and explain, “The patient advocates give their evaluations to me. I analyze them and write reports on each and every doctor in the department.”

His brows furrow. “I thought that was Gloria’s-”

“I don’t work for the hospital,” you say, offended by the very idea. “Hospital employees are beholden to the board and the bottom line. I’m a medical malpractice lawyer that the hospital contracts from a private firm to whip their doctors into shape. I don’t care about anything but how patients get treated while they’re here in the ED. I’m more than happy to testify against you in court, recommend probations and suspensions, advocate for salary cuts, or whatever else you might need to be a little more motivated to do your fucking job.”

He lets out a defensive half-chuckle sound, not quite believing the way you’re speaking to him when he’s used to nothing but deference from his coworkers. “I do my job just fine.”

You tap the thick binder and say, “This is your disciplinary folder, Dr. Park. You cut up patients just fine – and that’s an apt description, considering your outcomes aren’t any better than the other surgeons you treat like imbeciles despite doing identical work to yours.” He scoffs and goes to argue, but you barrel ahead, “Don’t ever interrupt me and don’t ever try to correct me; I don’t say things unless I’m completely certain they’re backed up by the data.”

With wide eyes, Brendon confirms, “That’s my file?”

“Yes. You have more patient complaints than any other surgeon in the hospital. I had to switch it from a folder because it has so many entries your previous PAS didn’t go through, so now I have to deal with a two-year backlog. She didn’t do her job of keeping you in line and I won’t be repeating her mistake. Your luck has run out; I expect you in my office at five this Friday for a comprehensive review of your existing file and every Friday after that until your performance improves.”

With his mind reeling, all Brendon can get out is, “Ah, I usually head out early on Fridays. Do a long surgery in the morning and get home by three or four.”

“I know that; I have your schedule history.” With a pat to his shoulder, you smile and tell him, “I want you to spend every weekend from now on thinking about how fucking annoying it is that some bitch from legal won’t let you leave the hospital until seven – and remember that it’s your own fault for being an asshole to patients and it’ll end as soon as you try to be nice and smile for once.”

Slack-jawed, Brendon just watches as you turn on your red-soled heels and head toward your next victim. After a couple of steps, though, you turn back toward him and add, “Oh, and welcome to the Emergency Department. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

And all that’s left of you is a waft of warm, citrusy perfume. Park leans against the nurse’s station and breathes out slowly as the other attendings gradually reappear. Baffled, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”

Robby slaps him on the back. “A good public reaming by the Viper is a rite of passage in the Pitt; you were bound to get your first one sometime. You’re one of us now.”

Feeling dizzy and breathless, Brendon says softly but confidently, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”

Robby shakes his head and snorts out a laugh, “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”

“No, no, I can see it,” Jack cuts in, chuckling too. “You’d have the tallest, smartest, meanest children around.”

“I’m serious,” Park insists. A smile threatens his lips. “Give me six months, boys, and I’ll have a ring on that finger.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Robby replies simply. “I heard she dumped her last boyfriend because he polished her shoes with the wrong rag. She doesn’t want a man; she wants a whipping boy.”

Brendon looks between them both and sighs almost wistfully. “A girl like that? I’d let her whip me any time she wanted to, especially if I ruined her $1,000 heels.”

It’s Jack’s turn to laugh. Shaking his head as he grabs a new chart, he mutters, “Something is deeply wrong with you, man.”

That evening, Park waits around your office for you to leave, hustling behind you when you stroll past in your stylish knee-length coat, ready to brave the autumn air. You see him in the corner of your eye and hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

“No, no, I don’t need anything,” he assures, quickening his pace to match step with your relentless one. “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, Ms. Viper.”

You cut him a smirk. “Based on your file, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s how things usually go for you.”

“Well, I’d like to apologize for making your life so difficult over dinner and expensive wine.”

You stop in your tracks and turn around; he nearly barrels into you as he stops short. “Are you seriously asking me out on a date right now?”

“Yeah, I absolutely am. Are you saying yes?”

“Wow, you really do have all the social grace of a baboon.” With your hand on his chest, you give him the cruelest and most effortlessly dismissive laugh he’s ever heard, like he’s a snail by your foot and not an attractive, successful doctor. It makes him shiver. “You’re punching above your weight class, Dr. Park.”

But he just gives you a hunky grin, undeterred. “I can bench almost twice what I weigh; how much bigger do I need to get to take you out?”

You chuckle and reply, “Lift a thousand pounds with one hand.”

“No problem; give me two days.”

Trying to push down how charming he is, you turn at the entrance to the parking garage and tell him simply, “I’ll see you on Friday for your review.”

“Perfect.” He nods and, like it’s an assignment, confirms, “I’ll be done by then for sure.”

Friday afternoon, right on time, Brendon knocks on your office door. He pushes it open when you call for him to and slips inside with the air of a child who knows he’s in trouble.

“Sit,” you order, nodding to the chairs on the opposite side of your desk. He does so right away, clearly waiting to hear what you have to say instead of jumping into something himself. You set the contents of his disciplinary file on the desk and gesture to the piles. “Well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Dr. Park.”

He tries out a smirk to keep some semblance of confidence. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. “Been a bully your whole life, then?”

“I meant more that-”

“Yeah, I’m not stupid.” You show him each of the three piles of paperwork and explain, “Since you started in the ED, I’ve been sorting through the complaints against you. This tallest stack is complaints I can handle myself without your help or where your help would only make things worse.”

“What does that mean?”

You level him with a gaze so stern it makes him squirm. “Ones where the problem was your personality, basically.”

“Brutal.”

“Like you.” When he hears himself in your words, Brendon doesn’t like it. For maybe the first time in his life, he questions his own behavior. So it sounds like an opportunity when you go on, “This one is complaints that I’ll have to pass on to the review board if you refuse to help me resolve the problems.”

After pinching the bridge of his nose, he taps the smallest stack of two thick documents held together by binder clips. “And this one?”

You sigh and tell him, “These two are going to the review board no matter what.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, turns out that-” you show him the cover page of each complaint “-pressuring parents into high-risk surgeries for their child isn’t very nice.”

“Well,” he bites back, still pushing up against his over-groomed ego, “being a good doctor isn’t about being nice.”

“You’re right.” You match his intensity. “It’s about effective patient care, which is impossible if your patients don’t trust you.”

Gesturing like he’s trying to find the right words to grab, he argues, “The kid would’ve died without the surgery.”

You let out a harsh laugh. “And when you gave a blood transfusion to a Jehovah’s Witness?”

“They came in unconscious and had no identification of their religious status.” He throws his hands up defensively. “Could not possibly be construed as misconduct.”

“Clearly the complainant disagrees.” You sigh and lean back in your chair, fuse burning short at his constant belligerence. “Look, Brendon. Your surgical work is fine – good, even – but your bedside manner is nothing short of atrocious. You don’t spend enough time getting informed consent, you don’t listen to concerns, and you regularly exhibit disrespect to patients and other doctors. Now, I understand that surgeons receive more complaints than other specialties – less face time with patients, uncertainty about post-op results, all that. But you, doctor, are a true outlier among outliers. And if you want to keep your job at this hospital, then you need to cooperate with me in resolving these complaints.”

Your words hang heavy in the air for a minute. Brendon hates that you know exactly how to deliver a monologue that makes him feel like he’s in the time-out corner and absolutely deserves it. There’s never been a coworker – or a woman, frankly – who’s put him in his place like this. Finally sounding on the border of humble, he asks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever I say.”

“In practical terms, please.”

You can’t help but let out a laugh at his pouty tone. “You’re going to take mornings off surgery for the next two weeks to meet with aggrieved former patients. You will listen, you will sincerely apologize, and you will agree with every single thing I say to convince them not to escalate.”

His eyes widen and he balks, “You seriously expect me to not do surgery?”

“My proposal has already been cleared by hospital administration and the meetings are scheduled. I’ll add them to your calendar.”

Reaching for anything to get out of what he imagines would be the worst thing on earth – trapped with a gorgeous, cruel woman who hates him and a jilted patient – Brendon mutters pathetically, “I thought we weren’t supposed to apologize to patients for fuckups.”

“That’s a myth and one that makes my life way more annoying on a regular basis.” You rifle through some papers on the cabinet behind your desk and hand him a pamphlet on malpractice, explaining, “Physician apologies cannot be used to demonstrate guilt in a court of law and they’re actually the number one reason patients agree to mediation and ultimately drop complaints.”

Brendon absently flips through the pamphlet, trying to resign himself to his fate. “What do I do, then?”

“Come to my office first thing in the morning,” you start, giving him a ‘don’t you dare’ look when he opens his mouth to crack a joke about that. “Wear a light-colored button-down and your white coat. Mousse your hair instead of gelling it so it’s soft. Practice looking like a human being in the mirror.”

Once again, his expression turns to a mix of offense and dread, scoffing, “What, like I’m a murderer trying to convince a jury I’m not a psycho? The damn Menendez brothers in their pastel fucking sweaters?”

You can’t help laughing at the irony. “Brendon, listen to yourself.”

He sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his end-of-day-loose hair. “Christ, I really am an asshole, aren’t I?”

“Acceptance is the first step in recovery,” you lilt. Then you pick up a few of the files and say, “Now, let’s go over the meetings I have lined up for Monday morning. The more prepared you are for what they’re going to say, the better we can handle it.” Watching him tentatively take the first file and read over it with furrowed brows, you go on, much softer, “I know everyone at the hospital thinks I’m a bitch – and, to be fair, I am – but it’s only because I want your patients to have a good experience with you. When your patients view you as competent and trustworthy, they’ll return to you for care, they’ll follow instructions better, and ultimately your outcomes will improve. So just work with me here and we’ll get this figured out.”

He nods slowly, guilt trickling into his veins as he actually reads over the details of the complaints for the first time. Patients who felt dismissed, who didn’t understand his decisions, who ended up with post-op complications they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up. After what feels like forever, his voice lowers and you see a flicker of humility in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I trust you. I don’t-” He swallows hard, averts his eyes, and manages to admit, “I don’t want to be the kind of doctor people avoid. I want to be better.”

You reach across the desk and give his forearm and small, affirming squeeze. When you smile at him earnestly for the first time, it makes his heart flutter a little too embarrassingly for him to acknowledge. “That’s all I need to hear for us to work together.”

The two of you make it through reviewing the first week’s-worth of low-level complaints by seven, going back and forth to understand his perspective, the patient’s, and the advocate’s. You hate to admit it, but when Brendon actually accepts that there’s a problem and gets determined to fix it, he’s…good. He cares. He has the work ethic of an ox and you can tell he’s the kind of man who needs to right his wrongs.

It doesn’t hurt that most of the complaints against him have to do with him being hard-headed, not incompetent or malicious, usually bulldozing patients because he’s right and wants to do the best he can. Not like some of the ED doctors who have fewer complaints that are much more serious. You know he just needs to find the balance of that skill and confidence with communication and understanding. He’ll be the best of the hospital if he can do that.

Your watch beeps at seven, interrupting the flow of your conversation. You stand up first to make it clear that Brendon’s officially free, saying, “Thank you for coming in and for your understanding. You can do this.”

As you collect your things and he does the same, he ensures, “So we’re done for now?”

“Yeah, we are. You can head out.”

“Great.” He opens up your office door to let you walk through and says seriously, “Let’s circle back on that conversation we had earlier this week now that we’re off the clock. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Your biceps aren’t looking any stronger since we last went over this; sure you’re ready to lift that thousand pounds for me?”

All cocky again, he whistles and muses, “So you have noticed how big my arms are.”

You nudge him in the arm with your elbow as he falls into step next to you. “I’ve noticed your scrub tops are a size too small, yes.”

“God, you are far and away the most brutal, beautiful  woman I’ve ever seen and I can tell you’d sucker punch a bear if it didn’t mind its manners,” he absolutely swoons. While you try not to smile, he goes on, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into song, “I’m smitten over here. I’ll take you somewhere nice, dress up like a gentleman, the whole damn thing. What do you say?”

“I only date doctors with a patient satisfaction score in the double digits, Brendon.”

“God, my name sounds so good in your mouth it’s like this is the first time I’m hearing it. You can make the meanest insult sound like a song. What a gift.” While you laugh and push out of the hospital’s front door toward the parking garages, he follows behind you like a puppy and goes on, “Plus, I know for a fact my patient satisfaction score is 51 because Robby was thrilled to have a doctor who scored lower than his 65. I’m proud of that.”

With an eye roll, you remind him, “You really shouldn’t be.”

“And you really should go on a date with me. I’d treat you so well; you have no idea,” he insists as you walk through the parking garage toward your reserved spot halfway down the first row. “I’d lick this garage floor right now if you’d let me open your car door for you.”

You stop next to a sexy little silver Miata and snicker, “I’ll let you do that today, but only because I have my hands full.” Brendon immediately drops to his knees and bends toward the ground with his tongue out, making you shriek out a laugh and smack him with your purse. You cover your smile with your hand and chastise, “You’re horrifying.”

“And you’re just a few more interactions from falling in love with me.” He stands up with a satisfied, goofy grin that’s far too boyishly charming for his features and opens your car door, stepping back and gesturing with a flourish. “Get home safe, beautiful.”

You slide into the front seat, settle your belongings, and tell him, “If you smile like that at your patients, you might actually have a chance with me, big guy.”

He salutes and promises, “I’ll spend the whole weekend practicing for you.”

The whole ride home, you have to keep forcibly wiping the school-girl smile from your face. You’re totally aware that Brendon Park can 1000% wear you down. Definitely not your usual type with his wolfish smile and domineering attitude, but gorgeous, broad, and just cocky enough to turn you on without intimidating you.

The problem is that his very existence is an annoyance to you. If you were going to date a doctor in the ED, it would be Abbot, who seems to actually give a shit about making your job easier and treating his patients like people and not puzzles. Shen is by far too happy and Al Hashimi is too sweet. Robby repulses you on a visceral level for more reasons than you can name.

But Brendon Park? He’s a big question mark for you. All you know about him is from his file, which doesn’t paint a particularly flattering picture. When he talks and smiles, though, you can sense a sweetness in him that he doesn’t show often. Maybe that means he can open up and be better – but you doubt it.

That flicker of hope in your gut? You aren’t sure whether to stoke it or blow it out.

You fully expect Brendon to drop his crusade to go out with you after a couple of rejections. He could have any girl he wanted with a snap of his fingers, you’re sure, so there’s no way he’d keep going for someone as off-putting and crass as you. Especially after two full weeks of morning meetings that essentially consist of you bending him over and letting patients spank him red, you’d guessed that his interest would fizzle out into something more akin to begrudging tolerance.

But no.

Brendon Park is not a man easily dissuaded.

Every time you spend two hours on Friday afternoon verbally beating the shit out of him so he’ll become a better doctor, he inevitably goes through the same routine.

“Go out with me, gorgeous, I’m begging you,” he tries again. His latest addition to the song and dance is insisting on carrying your file box and briefcase out to your car because, quote, ‘your manicure is too sexy to risk chipping.’ Sticking right by your side, he swears, “I’ll get on my knees right now if you just say yes.”

You meet his too-pretty blue eyes and insist, knowing it’s only about 40% true now, “Not in a million years.”

“No problem,” he beams, “I’ll wait a million and one just to sweep the floor in front of you so you don’t get any scuffs on those designer shoes.”

“Cute, but how about you start working on that list of calls for me instead? Give me an update the next time you see me.”

“Oh, I’m already on it,” he assures like a dog showing off a new trick and hoping for a cookie, “but if it gets me another single solitary second breathing in that perfume of yours, I’ll go double time.”

You roll your eyes and ignore it – but you’re smiling, and that’s enough for Brendon.

By the time you and Brendon are on the last week of his patient apology tour, your resolve is about as strong as a toothpick. He’s bringing you coffee and pastries every single morning, just setting them on your desk without a word while the two of you prep. He always compliments not only what you’re wearing but the little details alongside it – your perfume’s top notes, the shade of your lipstick, the way your earrings catch the light. With every ounce of his earnest affection, he can tell your resolve is wearing very, very thin, but it’s definitely still there. He can smell the blood in the water even if he isn’t quite sure when or how to make the final strike.

Brendon figures out his plan of attack because of the wisdom of one Dana Evans.

You’re working on the floor of the ED today because a nasty bug has taken out two of your patient advocates. In picking up their workload, you end up floating through Brendon’s peripheral vision all day. For everyone else, you’re the viper who might bite their neck at any turn. But, for Brendon, it’s like, well, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is just there for him to gaze at in between surgeries.

While going over plans with him and a few nurses, Garcia turns to him and offers, “One of my friends wants me to set her up with a doctor and I said I’d try. Park, you’re single, right? She’s funny, pretty, successful. Maybe a little nice for you, but you never know.”

Brendon smirks, glancing in your direction, and answers, “I’m single, but I’m not available.”

Princess rolls her eyes and cuts in for the sake of the gossip: “What the hell does that mean, Shark?”

“I’ve got a girl in mind,” he replies easily, voice smooth and cool as a saxophone. “Got a feeling she’s finally gonna give me a shot soon.”

Garcia faux-gasps. “You’re groveling for a girl? You know you’re, like, eight feet tall, buff, and rich, right?”

“And that means there’s nothing sexier than a woman who needs to be courted.”

“Ew.”

Absently listening to the exchange, Dana glances up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re cock-blocking yourself with her, Park, you know that, right?”

Princess looks between Park and Dana, beyond nose, and presses, “With who, exactly? This girl works at the hospital?”

“The Viper,” Dana explains like that’s not some top-shelf, high-value chisme. “He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks now. It’s obvious.”

Garcia’s mouth falls open in horror. “You like her?!”

“Shut up,” Brendon hisses, nervous about the potential of you overhearing just a few feet over. He narrows in on Dana and demands, “What do you mean? I’ve never put more effort into trying to convince a girl to date me.”

“Kid, she likes you already. She laughs at your bad jokes and she squeezes your arm like it’s a prize tenderloin she’s thinking about buying. She wants to go out with you.” Staring him down from over her glasses, Dana explains, “But you know what’s not attractive? Being the reason she had to work overtime almost every day this month. You wanna go on a date with someone after you spend four hours defending them to angry patients and lawyers?

This isn’t some playground back in the ‘90s when we tried to convince girls it was cute for a boy to pull her pigtails or tease her. A lady like that expects better for herself. You’re clearing all these complaints for her, but, in the meantime, you’re collecting plenty of new ones. Bring her all the coffees and donuts you want, but until you’re a guy she can actually rely on to make her life better instead of worse, it’s a lost cause.”

“Damn, Evans.” Brendon lets out a long, slow breath, watching you talk with a patient using those soft eyes you don’t give to anyone else. God, you’re so beautiful it aches. The harshness of you and the softness, too. With a sharp nod, plan solidifying in his mind, Brendon claps Dana on the shoulder and says, “Heard.”

After the very last patient from the backlog of Brendon’s complaint file leaves your office, you stretch your arms above your head, down the last of your coffee, and tell him, “Congratulations, Dr. Park. You’re officially rid of me until you get a brand new complaint – so, I’m guessing I’ll see you this afternoon?”

With a shit-eating grin, he muses, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?”

Shrugging like it’s easy and obvious, he explains, “I’m not gonna get a single complaint this month.”

You bark out a sharp laugh and start preparing for your next meeting. “For the first time in your career? Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he vows, almost somber in his conviction. “I’ve got a brand new wave of motivation.”

You lean forward and balance your chin in your hands like you’re tuning in for a gossip session. “Do tell.”

“Turns out my bad behavior has a direct negative effect on the girl I like, so I’ve gotta shape up if I want to make her mine.”

Your heart flutters and you unintentionally bite your lower lip before catching yourself and admonishing your brain for responding to something so…so…charming. As he leans in your doorway, lingering instead of leaving, you ask, “And what do you think the odds are on that?”

“Oh, they’re astronomical.” Sounding positively wistful, he gazes at you affectionately and continues, “She never gives me the time of day and she scares the shit out of me; it’s the most amazing thing that she still absolutely knocks my socks off. I’ve got no idea what the hell’s wrong with me when it comes to her.”

“Yeah, me neither,” you giggle. Fuck, you didn’t mean for it to come out as a giggle. Shaking your head and averting your eyes to your computer because the embarrassment of being caught feeling all flirty and cute is too much, you say,  “Get back to the ED, Brendon; I’ve got my next meathead doctor in a few minutes.”

“No problem, gorgeous, but I’ve gotta tell you one more thing, though.”

You look back at him, careful to keep your face together and not too wooed. “What’s that?”

He steps forward and leans over your desk, hands planted on the tabletop. His eyes bore into yours. “My odds may not be good, but they’re not zero. And that minuscule chance? That keeps me going. You’ve just gotta give me a single second and you’ll fall in love for the rest of your life, I promise you that.”

A little breathless, you meet his baby blues. “Do you?”

“I’m gonna treat you so well and make your life so much easier; it’ll be impossible not to fall for me.” Then, so confident it steals whatever’s left of your breath, he cups your cheek and says, “I’m gonna fix this whole department’s patient satisfaction scores starting with my own and then I’m gonna learn how to shine your shoes just how you like. I’d do nothing but sit in your closet with a dehumidifier to make sure the humidity for your leather heels is just right if that’s what you wanted.”

You swallow hard as his touch stays on your face long after he withdraws his hand. “Sounds a little scary.”

Brendon shrugs, smiles, and backs toward the door once more, always reluctant to leave you. “Then you’ll just have to give me something else to do to make you happy. Let me change your oil; you don’t even have to be there while I do it. Or I can mow your lawn, bring over my own push mower and everything to make sure I get the stripes just right how you want them. I’ll hand wash your floors with my toothbrush. Anything.”

You shake your head and sigh tenderly, “What am I gonna do with you, Brendon?”

“Whatever you want, whenever you want. Have I not made that clear enough?” Brendon’s eyes rake over you once more like he’s memorizing the sight of you to savor for the rest of the day. “Man, even when you’re rejecting me, you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. The things I would do for you if you’d even brush a hair off my shoulder.”

“That would be the most action a man’s gotten from me in a very long time.”

“Yeah? How long?”

“I’ll see you later, Dr. Park.”

“See you soon, Viper.”

Brendon makes absolutely zero attempts to ask you out for the next 30 days straight. You’re honestly starting to believe he may have lost interest until he waltzes into your office at 5PM on a Friday, the last day of the month. He knocks dramatically on the door frame even though it’s propped open.

In the middle of collecting your things, you shrug on your jacket and sigh, “Can I help you with something, Dr. Park.”

Standing with his hands suspiciously bashfully behind his back, Brendon steps into the office and informs you seriously, “You should sit down for this, gorgeous.”

You lean against your desk and nudge, “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he announces, voice grand like he’s about to call an auction, “you, the Viper of the Emergency Department, are about to agree to go out with me, your humble subject, and, after your many rejections, I have to imagine that’ll be so shocking for you that you might pass out.”

With your stomach full of butterflies you can’t deny, you hop up on your desk dramatically and gesture broadly like a queen for her jester. “Alright, Sharkie, go ahead.”

Brendon’s smile only grows at your teasing. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Dana told me this morning that I had to check my mailbox because it had gotten too full. The whole time I worked in ortho, I think I checked my box maybe once. When you get served, they put the notice right in your hand, so why bother? But I go to the mailroom and she’s right; my cubby’s got a million fucking envelopes in it.” From behind his back, he hands you a stack of cards. “They’re from patients. My patients.”

He lets it hang as you inspect the papers he’s handed over. Like he said, they’re all cards and they’re all from patients. There are hand-drawn ones from kids with pictures of sharks, sentimental ones from old ladies, ones with shitty jokes from the convenience store. There have to be twenty of them here, each one telling a story of a doctor who truly made them feel seen and cared for.

The last of your resolve crumbles into dust.

Brendon steps forward, studying your expression carefully, and says softly, “Turns out that while I’ve just been trying to impress you, I actually became a better doctor for my patients. And a better man, I hope. So, first and foremost, I wanted to thank you for that.”

When he doesn’t launch into another attempt to ask you out immediately, you let the silence linger for a moment. Thumbing through the cards, you make your mind up once and for all. You meet his baby blue eyes, let a small smile part your lips, and reply, “Okay.”

His eyebrows go up. “Okay?”

You nod and sigh out, “I’ll go on a date with you.”

He fist pumps the air in a way so dorky and adorable you almost back out and lets out a dramatic whoop, “Fuck, yes! Jesus, I really didn’t think that would work.”

You roll your eyes at him even though it’s become physically impossible to suppress your delighted smile that matches his. “Alright, slugger, calm down. I’m just a woman.”

Brendon shakes his head and scoffs, “Au contraire. You aren’t ‘just’ anything.”

“Well, regardless, you win.” You take a Post-It from your desk, scribble your phone numbers on it, and hand it over to him. “Text me your address. Make me dinner tomorrow night.”

“Make you dinner? You know I could get us a table at any restaurant you wanted.”

You cross your arms over your chest and challenge, “And I want you to cook for me. It’s the perfect test for a man.”

Staring down at your phone number in your swoopy handwriting like it’s made of diamonds, Brendon absently asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“It means one of the three things.” You explain seriously, “He can already cook, which is a green flag. He can follow a recipe, which means he’s teachable, or he utterly fails and that means he can handle being humbled, which is sexy.”

“It’s sexy when a man gets humbled?”

“What exactly do you think has been going on between us?”

“Honestly, I haven’t heard a single word since you agreed to date me.”

Perhaps he should feel a little bad for wanting to wake you up so early, when even Phoebus Apollo still hasn’t fully roused himself from sleep, and the Pittsburgh towers stand in black silhouettes against the indigo sky.

Perhaps he should feel guilty for peeling back the twisted sheets to get an eyeful of your prone body. Eyes trailing up your legs, snagging on the curves of your thighs, the supple bend of your ass. 

Maybe he should feel apologetic for reaching out and grabbing a handful. Hand running under the hem of the stolen shirt and up your tummy to cup your breast. For rolling your nipple between his fingers and pinching it gently.

But after the night he’s had, he can’t even muster a smidgen of regret. And the sound you make, and the way you arch your back into his touch strikes any trace of repentance from his mind. And when you slowly blink yourself awake and beam at him like he hung the stars in the sky by hand, he can’t help the way his heart skips violently in his chest and all the blood in his body pools straight to his cock. 

“Mornin’, honey.” He gives you a breathtaking smile of his own, fingers still lazily playing with your nipple. 

“You’re back.” You bite the words out around a yawn. You roll onto your back, nudging a foot into his lap. 

“In the flesh.” He switches to your other breast, showing it the same attention. 

“Sun’s not even in the sky, and you’re already feeling me up,” you tease, toes brushing over his hard cock. 

“Sorry.” Jack shrugs with a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t help myself when you look like this.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “When I look like a sleepy mess?”

Jack shakes his head. “When you look like you’re mine. Wearing my shirt, in my bed. A man can only be so strong for so long.”

“Something tells me that apology’s not genuine.” You try to be coy in your response, but there’s a small tremor in your voice from his words.

Mine. Oh don’t you love being Jack’s. 

His hand glides down to the crux of your thigh. “Somethin tells me you don’t really mind.” Jack rubs at the growing damp between your legs. “Barely touched you, honey.”

You spread your legs lazily. “I missed you.”

“That right?” He tugs at the waistband. 

You nod, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Really missed you.”

“Well, shame on me for leaving you all alone. Ought to apologize for my actions.” His thumb nudges your clit. “Why don’t you come over here and show me how much you missed me, darling, and I can show you how sorry I am.” 

The words barely finish leaving his lips before you’re already moving towards him, much too turned on to bother with the facade of apathy. 

You crawl into his lap, lips hungrily seeking his own. Jack slings an arm low around your waist, fingers already digging into the curve of your ass. He squeezes hard, molding your pliant body against his own.

Not that you give him much choice, almost knocking him back with the force of your kiss. Your fingers twine through his grey curls, tugging sharply just as your teeth rake over his bottom lip. Jack hisses, equal parts pleasure and pain. And it’s not long before he’s grabbing a handful of your own hair, angling your mouth so he can push his tongue between your lips. Easily dominating you with one gesture. 

Your hips rock against his slowly, languidly. He slaps your ass sharply, urging your stilted rhythm. You’re greedy this morning. Rubbing your clit down on the rough fabric of his jeans. Taking your pleasure with hungry moans pressed against tongue and teeth. 

“Poor baby,” Jack groans against your lips. “Was only gone for 12 hours.” He slides his hand between your legs once more.

Your hips buck, chasing the sweet pressure of his thumb on your clit. “Too long.” You tilt your head back, a whimper choked in your throat.

“I can see that.” He mouths at your pulse. “Can’t even do my job without you jumping on me as soon as I get home.” His middle and forefinger push your panties to the side to play with your cunt. 

“You started it,” you pant, angling your hips so his fingers slip into you shallowly. 

“Hm, did I?” He nips at your throat. “Not how I remember it.” With a crook of his wrist, Jack’s fingers fill you. A poor substitute for the real thing, but you can’t find it in your heart to care. “See, I’m just a tired old man, comin’ home from a grueling 12 hour shift. And you seduced me, wearing my shirt and that underwear I love. Sleeping in my bed. Then you climbed in my lap and started kissing me.”

You mumble something under your breath, half moan, half breathless whisper. 

“What was that, honey?” He asks, fingers still playing with you, ratcheting up the intense storm inside of you. 

“You’re bein’ mean.” You clench around his fingers. 

Jack’s arm locks around your waist, stopping your frantic hips. “Oh?” He asks with raised eyebrows. “Am I?” Mischief dances in his green eyes. 

You nod, against your better judgement. 

“Oh, baby, you don’t know mean. If I was being mean, I wouldn’t let you come. But I’m a gentleman, honey.” His fingers fuck into you, a hard pace that leaves your body boneless. “So I’m gonna make you come with my fingers, and then you’re gonna ride my cock until you come again.”

Jack holds you in place, wanting you to save your energy for later. His deft fingers play the chords of your body. Curling and angling just right. Each thrust of his fingers devastating in its accuracy. Filling your body with the golden light of ecstasy. Your head swims with it. And when he adds his thumb back into the mix, nudging your clit with each pass of his fingers, you’re a goner. 

Your legs try to close on his fingers, but he keeps them open as he works you through your orgasm. 

“Just like that, baby,” Jack’s voice is a husky whisper in your ear. “So pretty when you come.” He slides his fingers from your cunt, groaning at the wetness that coats his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.” His tongue laps at the digits. 

You watch his movement, pupils blown wide with lust. 

“Want a taste?” Jack asks. His cock throbs painfully when you nod and stick your tongue out. He pushes his fingers deep into your mouth, only stopping when you gag. “Now was that mean?” He pops the buttons on his jeans. 

“No,” you admit reluctantly. 

“Gonna ride my cock? Make yourself come again?” He lifts you slightly so he can free his aching dick from his pants. He rubs his spit-slicked hand over himself, taking the edge off slightly.

You nod, tongue curling over your lips, tasting the remnants of yourself. 

“Say it.” Jack’s eyes burn into yours. 

You wrap your hand around his, stroking him slowly in tandem. “I’m gonna ride your cock,” you whisper, eyes still locked on his. “And I’m gonna make myself come. Like a good girl,” you add, just to watch his lust filled pupils blow wider. 

“My good girl,” he corrects, nudging his nose against your own. 

“Your good girl,” you amend, knocking his hand away to line his cock up. 

Jack busies himself by removing your shirt. His hands find your tits immediately, his lips follow soon after. Tongue laving at the sweat beading on your chest. He presses reverent kisses to the side of your breasts, before mouthing at your nipple. 

He looks up at you, mouth still pressed on your skin. “C’mon, honey. What are you waitin’ for?”

You hook your panties to the side, rub your slick cunt over his cock. Jack lets out a huff of impatience. His hand comes down on your ass harshly, quickly rubbing the sting away. 

“Darling,” he says through gritted teeth. 

You hum, still rocking against him. 

“Now who’s being mean?”

“Am I?” You look down at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“Cuz it’s fun.” You shrug. “Payback’s a bitch, baby.” You press a light kiss to his lips, pulling back with a smirk before he can deepen it. 

He groans. “You gonna make me beg?”

You nod, lips dancing across his jaw. “How badly do you want me?” Your teeth rake against the shell of his ear. 

Jack shudders, warmth rushing across his face. “You know how bad,” he mumbles, hips rocking his hard cock up against you. 

“Wanna hear you say it.” You nip his earlobe. “Tell me.” 

Jack cups your jaw, fingers rubbing absentmindedly at your cheek. “Want you bad, baby.” His voice is a low, husky whisper. “So bad it hurts. Need to be inside your sweet pussy to take the pain away.”

“Yeah?” You slip the tip of his cock inside of you and Jack groans. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your breast. “Please, honey.” He presses an open mouthed kiss to the skin, and then the gentle skate of teeth as he bites teasingly. 

You feign deep consideration for a moment, balanced above him. Hips rocking shallowly to coat him with your warmth. Jack’s breath comes out in labored pants against your collarbone. It must be killing him to be patient. To not take control, grab your hips and yank you down on top of him. Put you on your back and fuck into you. 

You might as well reward him. 

“Relax, baby. Let me take care of you,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair to cup the back of his neck. “Take care of my old man after his grueling 12-hour shift.” 

Jack looks up at you, a smile on his face. A smile that morphs into a slack-jawed mask of ecstasy as you slide down onto his cock. His groan so full of relief, it’s almost painful. Bubbling up inside of him until it rumbles out of his throat into the quiet room. 

He holds your gaze, whispering quiet praises as you move your hips forward slowly. Savoring the fullness of him within you, the subtle stretch and tightness with every roll back and forth. It’s good. So achingly good. 

“Shit, baby. You feel fucking amazing,” Jack whispers. “Feel like home.” 

You bite your bottom lip, a moan on your tongue. “Want me to move faster?” 

“Nah, honey. Take your time. Just wanna feel you.” One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other splays across your back, holding you close to him. 

So close, your body slides against him with every undulation of your hips. So close he can feel your heart beating in your chest, keeping time with the frantic pace of his own. So close your breaths mingle and twine. Honeyed moans and adulations dripping from your tongues. So full of love, full of worship, they fill his chest with light and warmth. Building and building. Until he’s so close to that wonderful edge he could burst. 

And in any other case he might feel embarrassed to last so briefly. In any other bed, in any other place, he might put it off as long as he could. Fight through it. But not here. Not in this safe space, this home that you’ve both created. Where connection and pleasure is the goal. Where the little death is one to be savored, and not staved off. This hedonistic dance that leads to more and more. 

A different pace. One he’s still getting used to. 

And so when the sensation of your warm cunt grows to be too much. When the waves of pleasure slam against the dam of self-control and it starts to crack and crumble. He comes without warning. A firecracker in the dark early dawn. Filling you until he’s spent and boneless. 

Jack collapses on the bed in sweaty rapture. That bright smile on his face once more mirrors your own. 

You lean over him, fingers tracing the lines of his face. Nails playing in the stubble that lines his jaw. “Doing okay?” 

He gives you a thumbs up in answer. “Never better.” 

“Just checking. I know heart attacks are common for men in your age bracket. Especially after such vigorous activity–”

he effortlessly wore a pair of navy scrubs with a faded pittsburgh baseball cap pulled low over his brow line making her cheeks warm as she noticed his broad biceps peaking out from under his sleeve.

her eyes glanced towards his salt-and-pepper stubble and she waved as she noticed his hospital id clipped to his waistband.

she bit back a smile, noticing he had the most confused expression she'd ever seen directed at a coffee menu.

"is this your first time here?” she chirped.

he looked over at her— hazel eyes meeting hers. “is it that obvious?" he gave her a crooked sideways smile that caused her heart to flutter.

"a little." she chuckled but the second she said it, her face fell. "oh— sorry." she winced. "i’m sorry! that sounded mean."

"it did." he said flatly.

"oh my god—” she panicked walking her hands, motioning that she didn’t mean it that way.

"i’m kidding, kid.” his mouth tugged into the faintest smile making her gasp out as relief washed over her so visibly that he almost laughed.

"i was told to come here," he said as he stepped up to the register. "apparently the coffee across the street doesn’t hit the spot like this place does."

she giggled. "yeah, i’ve heard that before."

"you have?" he rose a brow, tilting his head causing her to to the same.

"mostly from doctors like you." she shrugged.

"how do you know i’m a doctor?"

"i mean..." she pointed sheepishly. "the badge gave it away."

he looked at it, "right."

great job. you moron, he thought.

she looked at him as he looked at the menu and ten back at her.

“i’m going to be honest." drawled.

"okay."

"i have no idea what any of this means." he pointed at all of the specialty items causing her to smile widely.

"t— the menu?"

he nodded once, "feels like i'm taking another board exam." he joked making her laugh— a bright sound that a couple people turned to look as she covered her mouth.

"oops, sorry."

"for laughing?" he tilted his head.

"i laugh really loud." she blushed shaking her head.

"i don't think you do."

"you don't?"

"no." he said as he found himself studying her for a second. she had this habit of apologizing for things that didn't need apologizing for.

"so," she said, trying to recover, "what do you usually drink?"

"eh” he shrugged, “a black coffee."

"no flavor?" she wondered.

"nope."

she nodded, "okay, any sugar?"

"no."

"creamer?"

"nah." he shook his head making her tilt her head, her hair fanning over her face.

"so, just a coffee then."

"yes, please."

"hm,” she pretended to think very hard, “i think i have just the thing." she chirped making him smile.

"i was hoping you'd say that."

she turned to make the drink while he looked around the shop. it was cozy, quiet and nothing like the emergency department he'd left twenty minutes ago.

"you know,” she hummed, her voice carrying over the sound of steaming milk, "you look less confused now."

"it’s because i’m not looking at the menu anymore."

"that helps." she mused.

"it does."

she finished pouring the coffee before grabbing a lid as she reached for a marker, she hesitated. she did it all of the time, the little smiley faces on the cups.. but he looked almost too serious for that. she bit her bottom lip, tapping the marker against the cup— then, before she could overthink it she drew a tny smiley face.

"there you go." she huffed out with a smile and slid the cup across the counter.

jack reached for it, looking down at the cup then back up at her. "you drew a smiley face."

eery ounce of confidence left her body, “oh.. i—” she laughed, “i do that sometimes.. b-it if people don’t like it i can—”

this is so embarrassing, she thought.

“you do it for everybody?"

she nodded quickly, “yeah, most of the time."

"why?"

she shrugged, "i don't know."

she gave him a bashful smile as she averted her eyes from him while giving him a tiny smile. “i think coffee should make people smile before they even drink it."

he looked at the cup again and then at her. "damn that's a good answer."

his words made her shiver causing her hands to rub her hands together ti distract herself on how nervous he was making her. her heart was beating so fast she almost thought he could actually hear it.

“i’m glad." she said quietly as he took a sip. jack paused, rolling his eyes making her stomach drop in anticipation.

"this is really good."

she stated at him while he started back. neither of them looking away from one another. neither of them moved. she opened her mouth to say ‘thank you’ but someone behind him politely cleared their throat.

he stepped aside, "right." he shook his head motioning for the person to walk up to the counter but her coworker came form the kitchen waved down the customer towards them, noticing how her cheeks were bright pink and the order man stood staring at her with a molten hot stare.

she laughed softly, "busy morning." she said, nervously twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

"guess so." he hummed. he picked up his coffee again before heading toward the door but just before he pushed it open, he glanced back. "you know..” she looked up, "i never got your name."

for a second, she completely forgot how to speak as she opened and closed her mouth a few times before finally spitting it out to him. he repeated it quietly, like he was making sure he'd remember.

"jack." he pointed to himself making her laugh.

"i know."

"you do?" he asked in slight confusion.

he pointed toward the hospital badge still clipped to his waistband causing him to look down.

"i really should stop forgetting that's there." he blushed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck out and ofnervous habit.

"it keeps giving you away." she joked.

he laughed.

"i guess i’ll be seeing more of you” he smiled causing her to nod slowly.

"i hope so." she tilted her head as she watched him walk backwards towards the front door.

hack nodded once, biting his bottom lip like he was in his mid twenties all over again before disappearing out the door.

the little bell chimed behind him and stood there for another few seconds, staring at the door.

"you forgot to charge him for the extra espresso shot." her coworker's voice snapped her back to reality.

"w— what?"

"you gave him a double shot." her coworker laughed as she fished off the counter filled with croissant crumbs.

"i did?"

"mhm."

"oops." she shook her head before looking at the computer to see how she put in his order.

her coworker smirked. “you were flirting it up with that silver fox.” she laughed excitedly.

"hey! i was not." she protested.

"you absolutely were."

she looked down at the register, "do you think he'll actually come back here?"

you let out a sleepy huff, still too warm to move very much. “you’re so annoying.”

“mm.” his thumb strokes over your cheek, “yet you keep me around.”

“obviously,” you smile.

he laughs under his breath, shaking his head before leaning in to press an absentminded kiss against your temple.

“you did so good, honey,” he whispers, “i know you get in your head sometimes.” his eyes meet yours, “but you never have to with me.”

your cheeks burn immediately. you don’t know what to say in return. you think pressing a kiss to his cheek and then hiding in his neck is enough.

his fingertips trace up and down your neck.

“sweetheart,” he smiles and tries to scoot away, so you come out of your hiding again. he tries again, “baby, look at me.”

his thumb strokes slowly along your shoulder before his fingers disappear into your hair, gently scratching at your scalp.

you only hum against his neck.

another kiss lands in your hair.

he slips two fingers beneath your chin, not forcing you, just waiting. “can i see you?”

after a second, you finally peek up at him.

your cheeks are warm enough that you know he notices immediately.

his thumbs brush over your skin.

“cute.”

before you can complain, he leans down and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

when he pulls back, he’s smiling to himself.

you let out the most dramatic sigh, “you’re impossible.”

“yeah?”

“mhm.”

you lean forward anyway, stealing another kiss.

he kisses you back without hesitation, smiling against your lips before resting his forehead against yours.

for a long moment, he just looks at you.

there’s so much warmth in his eyes that it makes your chest ache.

“what?” you whisper.

he shakes his head.

“just thinkin’.”

“about?”

“about how special this is.”

your expression softens.

“jack…”

“i mean it.” his thumbs sweep gently across your cheeks. “i spend so much of my life watching people lose the people they love. watching families fall apart in waiting rooms. watching days change in a heartbeat.”

he pauses, “then i come home and i get you.”

your eyes sting.

“you’re the best part of my day. you are home.”

you pout.

he brushes another strand of hair behind your ear, “you have no idea how beautiful you are.”

you immediately shake your head.

another kiss brushes your forehead, “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever met.”

your eyes drift shut for a second.

“inside and out.”

he really does a great job to leave you speechless. you lean forward and kiss him.

when you pull away, your forehead finds his again.

“thank you,” you whisper.

he frowns just a little.

“for what?”

“for being the perfect boyfriend.”

his eyebrows shoot up.

your fingers find his hand, intertwining with it, “and… thank you for making me feel safe.”

your voice grows even quieter.

“all the time.”

he just stares at you.

like the words hit somewhere deep. his eyes glisten for the briefest second before he smiles and lets out the smallest laugh.

“my girl,” he whispers and kisses your cheek.

he shakes his head.

he brings your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles before leaning in to kiss you again.

“i’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you always feel that way.”

his nose nudges yours.

“that’s a promise.”

you smile. “i love you, jack.”

he grins.

he leans in and kisses you again, smiling against your lips halfway through.

“i love you, honey.”

you share another kiss before you let your head fall against the pillows again.

you push one leg out from beneath the blankets with the biggest sigh imaginable, chasing even the slightest bit of cool air. it doesn’t help much. your skin is still warm, your breathing still uneven enough that your chest rises and falls a little faster than normal. you flop dramatically onto your back, throwing an arm over your eyes.

jack watches the whole performance with the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth. his hair is glueing to his forehead, a little crease settled beside one eye from where he’d been lying on the pillow.

“you alright there, honey?” he asks, amusement slipping into his voice as his fingertips drift lazily along your forearm.

you groan, “too hot.”

“yeah, tell me about it.” the blanket is so far down jack’s body you can see his packs glistening.

you kick the blanket away from your leg another inch.

he chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “baby,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your forehead, “you gotta use the bathroom anyway.”

your eyes stay firmly closed.

“mmm… no.”

“that’s not really how this works.”

“i’m comfortable.”

he lets out another laugh, the kind that rumbles low in his chest, before leaning over the side of the bed. “you’re killin’ me.”

his hand disappears over the mattress until his fingers find his discarded t-shirt on the floor. he picks it up, gives it a little shake, then turns back toward you.

“arms up.”

one eye cracks open.

you let out the most dramatic sigh he has ever heard, but you still lift your arms above your head.

“atta girl.”

he smiles to himself as he carefully slips the shirt over your head, taking his time so it doesn’t catch in your hair. his hands guide your arms through the sleeves before he gently tugs the fabric down over your shoulders, smoothing it absentmindedly where it’s twisted.

it absolutely swallows you.

the neckline slips off one shoulder just slightly.

“well,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against your cheek, “that’s a pretty nice view.”

you immediately duck your face toward the pillow.

“don’t.”

“you really need to get used to me giving you compliments.”

you peek up at him.

his thumb brushes gently beneath your cheekbone before he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss against your cheek. another follows near your jaw, then one at your forehead as he smiles against your skin.

“because you,” he stops to kiss your jawline, “look,” another kiss, “hot.”

you shake your head.

“now,” he says with a fond smile, giving your nose the tiniest nudge, “go humor your very persistent doctor.”

you groan so dramatically that it makes him laugh all over again. “fine. if i even manage to get to the bathroom.”

he winks at you before his face breaks out into a proud grin.

he offers you his hand.

“c’mon, i got you. let’s go clean you up and then how does pizza in bed sound like?”

Since the faithful meeting when he was still just a boy, with nothing to his name, nor without any knowledge of his godly descent. He would remember that day for the next few years, while fighting his way up to Mount Olympus and proving his worth. While dreaming of you every single night, with nothing but shimmering stars and the gentle splashing of a brook reminding him of the kindest soul he's ever met. With benevolent touch and bewitching eyes. The sweet power that helped him lick the wounds, and the lovely giggles following him in dreams every night.

After years of hardships, he finally ascended to heaven and got the recognition of his father. Became the golden child, a precious sweetheart, with a massive combat body compared only to Ares's and the strength of a thousand monsters locked up in the deepest parts of Tartarus. He was a monster himself, some may've said, but with a kind heart and, oh, such handsome looks.

Light hair as if bleached by the Mediterranean sun and deep eyes, thick as hazelnut paste, with the gentleness never seen among warriors. Broad shoulders that could lift a thousand mountains and split the seas, without a droplet of sweat sliding down his curved muscles.

He was nothing but a demigod, but his name and fame spread around the country like a fire. The strongest man alive, the greatest hero, a myth, whose travels and deeds ended up on the pages of local storytellers and curved smoothly within the marble walls of his temples. His journeys spread wide across the long coastlines and mountainous peaks, with the nymphs whispering of his slayers like little birdies.

Of the King of the Thrakian Gigantes, he has killed to free the princess from his clutches. Of the Libyan giant, son of Poseidon, who abused the travellers crossing his land and made them compete in wrestling matches. Of the Prometheus he has freed, and the eagle feeding on his flesh, killed by Heracles himself. His father, Zeus, wasn't merry upon hearing the news, but Heracles was no one if the most dear child of his – thus the Gods and mortals did not feel Sky Father's wrath.

There were lots and lots of myths and tales celebrating Heracles's deeds, praising his half-godly figure and spreading the fame.

What mortals, gods, and other divinities didn't know, however, was why.

Why was he doing all of it?

Why was he trying to achieve an almost godly rank?

Why did he want to sit among the highest ones and praise in glory?

Why?

Because for Heracles, or Nanami Kento as his mortal parents named him, it was always you.

And what would be the easiest way to ask for the precious Nymph's love? Became the greatest, strongest, most praised warrior of the Mediterranean Sea, of course. Was there anything beautiful creatures like you loved more than the fame and glory? Not really.

At least that's what he thought.

Until he finally met you again, high on the Olympus' peak, basking under the flaming sun and dipping naked body in a river. You weren't alone, as other little birdies chirped right to your ear, with soft voices and girlish laughs, glancing at the river's calm waters.

And as beautiful as they were, his pleading eyes were reserved solely for you.

Nanami Kento has never met Aphrodite, but how truly angelic could she be if his heart already raced for a simple nymph? What could she possibly have that you might've lacked?

Did her hair bounce the same way as yours? Were her eyes shimmering slightly as if cursed by the stars? Was her skin soft and plush, with flushed cheeks and lips plumped like the freshest peach, he dreamed of caressing with his own? Was Aphrodite's voice as mesmerising and honeyed as yours, tickling the deepest parts of his brain?

What did her laugh sound like? Was it as bewitching? Could she also sway her hips with the swelling of the ocean's waves? Would she be willing to help him the same as you did?

Was her heart as compassionate as your?

Because that's what Nanami Kento thought – of you, being the loveliest petal, with the tenderness and kindness not seen among any of the patheon's gods.

That's why he approached you with confidence and pride, with eyes never leaving your blooming face and his heart swelling under the single giggle slipping through your cheeks.

He was hopeful and full of anticipation to once again hear your gentle voice soothing his mind.

But when you saw him... oh dear.

"What do you want?" your voice slashed his heart. "Why are you here again?"

Well... maybe, actually, it wasn't his first time meeting you on Olympus.

Not the second and third, even.

The fourth? Maybe fifth.

You stopped counting after seeing him the third time, with the same beseeching look and broad shoulders hunching under your irritated gaze.

The first time he asked for your hand was surprising. You were surprised as to why the strongest man alive wished to marry you?

A simple nymph, bathing lazily under the Greek sun and stuffing herself full of rich olives while days were passing by. You were nothing but a small deity, playing over the rivers and gossiping with other sisters while sipping the sweet wine sneaked out of Dionysus's cellar.

He talked of some meeting years ago, and your healing power, but Mnemosyne could only remember when and where it had happened.

For too many men healed by your powers walked this earth, and too many of them wished to see your slippery figure once again.

Coming back to the same river again and again, in hopes of catching your fleeting shadow or a single melody of your laughter, looming over the waters as men possessed.

The sole look on their faces was truly miserable, but seeing them like that was, well, quite fun.

You liked it and watched them secretly, as their tears and pleadings were drowning in the depths of rivers.

So how surprising was it when one of those sorrowful admirers, driven by an obsession, managed to rise in glory and turn out to be the mightiest's son.

Oh, how problematic he was, following you like a shadow and turning the Mountain upside down, just to ask for your hand. You thought that the first rejection would stop his further pleadings, but when Zeus himself decided to visit your small cottage and beg to finally accept the offering – the highest one too could not bear the misery of his son – you finally gave in.

Did you accept Heracles's proposal? No.

Were you willing to do it? Maybe.

"My love, I've come to ask–" he started, standing over the river's edge and covering the hottish sun.

Other nymphs giggled quietly, and you knew how eager they were to step into your shoes any second. Jealous of having such a man as Nanami Kento wrapped around your finger, ready to plunder the mortal world for a single glance of yours.

"I already said no," you quickly added, looking at his curled shoulder with a sly smile.

"Is there anything I lack, love?"

He kneeled, closing up the distance between you. You rested arms on the river's edge, looking up with doe eyes. He tried, really tried, to not glance at your naked body, with crystal droplets paving their way down the plush of your breasts. But you were nothing if not daring, taking the pleasure in the way his huge palms fisted and hazelnut eyes swirled between wet hair covering your nipples and plush hips swaying slowly in the water.

"You're covering my sun," you chuckled, and he smiled shyly.

"I'll bring you a thousand other suns if you'll ask me to."

A gentle hum slipped through, and you once again traced over his figure. Golden hair and warm eyes. Creamy skin coated by a thin armour and nothing but a white cloth hugging his hips. Muscles so big they seem almost unreal, covering him thickly and massively, making Nanami Kento the biggest and the most powerful man the world has ever birthed. His fingers were long and thick, but always oh so gentle, whenever he pushed a single strand of hair behind your ear.

The most intimate and only gesture you've ever allowed him for.

"I don't want another sun, just move away from this one," your voice was soft, but the words made his shoulders falter even more.

"I'll do whatever you ask me for, my love. Just, could you please rethink–"

You raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that?"

His sandy eyebrows creased, with a small wrinkle forming between them.

Because he didn't know.

He truly, honestly didn't know why you would be willing to marry him, being sure of nothing but only the fact that he loved you deeply. Maddeningly, almost, verging on following you miserably like a dog if you just asked him to. Ready to shoot a sun down, just to bring you a piece of warmth.

But he didn't want to be like Apollo - drive you mad till death would seem more pleasant than accepting his feelings.

But he also didn't want to let you go, waiting eagerly for the day when–

"Fine," you suddenly said.

What?

"I'm sorry?" he couldn't swallow it, tracing the cunning smile forming on your face.

"I said fine, I'll marry you," you giggled, pushing away from the shore and swimming a few meters back. "But firstly, you'll need to prove yourself to me."

Your naked body swirled, as if melting together with warm water, before swimming closer once again. Kento was still kneeling near the edge, with thick thighs and knees touching the grass. Your wet hands rested on his muscles before you lifted yourself up. But only in half, with crystal droplets dripping down from nipples and hips still hidden under the gentle waves.

He almost burned.

Oh, was he dying?

Was your touch that sizzling, fragrance so maddening, that he truly started to burn from the inside?

He didn't dare to touch you, but hazelnut eyes traced the watery paths carving your skin, oozing down the plush neck, collarbones and swirling between the soft breasts.

You were close, too close, with your nipple almost touching his iron-covered chest and lips tracing the little bobbing of his neck. Kento fought hundreds of monsters, but none of them felt as heavy as your hands on his bare thighs, bearing all of your weight solely on his muscles.

Not because you were heavy – oh dearest, he could lift you up with a pinky if you wanted to – but because the idea of you touching him willingly made him feverishly weak.

"You're very, very strong, right?" came out giggly, sweetly, with a thumb circling his skin.

He nodded, a voice stuck in a throat.

"How strong, hm?"

"The strongest."

"No one can beat you, right?"

His head shook. "No one, ever."

You lifted yourself up higher, with hips slowly surfacing out of the water and knees landing on the lush grass.

Bare and wet, with the softest skin not dared for his touch and alluring eyes never leaving his.

He truly was the strongest, with clenched fists and gaze holding yours, never, ever, sliding lower than down to your breasts.

And, oh, you were having so much fun, watching his crumbling composure.

"Then, should you prove your strength, I will marry you," your eyes shone upon seeing a tremble of his lips.

"Really?" came out in a whisper so quiet that only you could hear it. "You promise?"

You chuckled, slowly, slowly, climbing up his lap. His kneeling thighs between yours, breasts fully pressed to his light armour, dripping heat looming over creamy, bulged cloth wrapped around his hips.

"Mhm, I promise," you nuzzled against his neck, breathing in the musky fragrance that wrapped him tightly. "If you'll finish twelve missions, I will give myself to you," backing up, your arms wrapped around his neck. "Will become your sweet wife. You'll be allowed to do with me whatever you want," your voice was dripping with seductiveness, curling around his neck like a viper, only to finish him off with a poisonous kiss.

And Nanami Kento was more than eager to be killed by those sweet lips of yours.

"What is it? I'll do whatever you want, love."

He should know that the devilish smile that curved your lips was nothing but bad news.

You told him all twelve missions, one more horrendous than the other, with other nymphs' breaths catching in the background and his fists curling right next to your hips that straggled his.

A flimsy, creamy cloth was keeping his cock away from your heat. Feverish and sticky, with honeyed juices already smeared around his bulge, and your eyes not leaving his even for a second.

Hera herself, Zeus's wife, would be more merciful to her husband's bastard child than you were. The twelve labours sounded almost impossible, bizarre, absolutely savage even for a man like him.

But if that was your wish, then be it.

After you finished talking, he didn't say anything for a minute. Stared, with a pale face and furrowed brows. Golden hair caught the last rays of sunshine, basking his face in warm flames.

"Are you willing to–" but you didn't finish, when suddenly, you were gripped by your hips and placed back in the water.

Not a single word left his mouth, when he raised himself, gave you one last glance and turned around, disappearing in the lurking forest before the sun fully set.

Other nymphs quickly curled around you, watching his muscular back with sorrowful eyes.

"Sister, weren't you a bit harsh for him?" one asked.

"Dear, those labours... he may end up dead before finishing them all," another added.

You sighed, wondering whether you'd actually gone overboard.

☾ 𖤓 ☾ 𖤓

He didn't visit you the next day.

Or the day later.

He didn't visit you even a week later, and when it prolonged to two, you started to worry.

Maybe you truly carried it too far?

But then, one night, while indulging with sister nymphs in the small, wine-party, one of them mentioned:

"Have you heard, dear? He killed the Nemean Lion."

You stalled, with throat clenching around the sipping wine.

"What did you just say?" you mumbled between the harsh coughs.

She slapped you gently on the back. "Your first labour – he did it. Strangled the lion with his own hands and skinned it for its fur."

It was true that the lion had been quite a trouble and a few gods had already tried to wrestle him, but you didn't expect Kento to do it so effortlessly.

With bare hands.

You didn't talk at all for the rest of the evening, wondering whether Nanami Kento would truly be able to finish all of your unachievable labours.

But after the first one, his next accomplishments came one by one. Sometimes over a distance of a few weeks, sometimes a month. And for this whole time, he didn't show himself even once.

You didn't catch a single strand of his golden hair nor the gentle, hazelnut gaze. Heavy, musky smell stopped following you around, and at some point, you even started to miss the deep voice that came to haunt you in dreams.

That space, dreams, seemed to be the only place where he appeared more human than ever. Long fingers grazed your cheeks and neck before slowly dripping down to your swollen breasts and soft belly. In that other, unfamiliar but at the same time so magnetic world, Kento was bolder than ever – more ferocious, brave, using his massive body to pin yours. Spreading your plush thighs, circling creamy clit with his fingers, warm eyes following every changing expression of your face.

You would wake up wet. Feverish. With pulsing heat and sweat dripping down your spine, before turning on your bed and glancing over the window, as if in a wish to see a piece of this golden hair.

And while you were trying to understand those new feelings, Kento was finishing labours one by one.

After the lion, he killed a Hydra, a monster with nine venomous heads, cutting each one of them with his sword, before dipping the silver into its poisonous blood.

Then he captured the golden-antlered deer alive, the most precious pet of goddess Artemis, before sending it straight to your cottage.

When you saw the animal chewing on the grass surrounding your place and drinking water from the river curling around the house, a deep sigh rolled from your lips. At least the deer looked quite well and indeed rather graceful.

For his fourth labour, he travelled to the land of the Centaurs and captured the Erymanthian boar, solely to return it to the King of Tiryns. It was a, well, sort of a present for a king, whose wife liked you very dearly.

The fifth labour was of the humiliating sort, and you thought that he might take offence. You forgot, however, that a man in love was prepared for all sorts of hardships and degradations, thus cleaning the stables of Augeius in a day was nothing but a pleasure break from killings. The stables were known as one of the biggest and filthiest ones, impossible to clean even in a month, but the idea of you becoming his wife was enough to forget about his ego.

Months were passing by, and the number of labours started to diminish rather quickly. On the contrary, all the little gifts you've asked for were coming one by one, till your deer got himself a precious, Cretan bull from Knossos, and a little hybrid cattle of Geryon straight from a foreign country, who was said to be born of a divine goddess. One day, three golden apples belonging to the Nymphs of the West appeared on your table, and you hid them quickly before the praying eyes would see the stolen treasure. Oh dearest, you were nothing but a simple nymph compared to the reputed Hesperides, with no other goddess but mother Hera having a single golden tree in her garden.

Nymphs started talking. Whispering, gossiping about the possessed demigod who plundered through the mortal realm and played havoc. They knew what his reason was. Everyone knew, together with gods and Zeus himself, absolutely furious over the foolish challenge you've brought upon his bastard son.

What frightened you greatly, however, was the last labour. The one you feared the most, knowing that it could've ended up badly not just for him, but for you too. For your justification, you truly thought that he would drop out (or be dead) after the first mission.

Thus, when the news of Cerberus, Lord Hades's dearest pet, being kidnapped spread around Olympus, you almost fainted.

It was best to keep good relations with all the gods and goddesses, as no one knew when one of them would turn out to be helpful.

However, keeping the especially good affairs with God of the Underworld himself was particularly beneficial, and his rage was the last thing all the deities on the Mountain desired.

And yet, you managed to get on his nerves.

His visit was to be expected, and you tried to prepare yourself. Three animals in your garden, together with golden apples hidden under the bed, only fueled the rage of all the deities disrespected by your challenge. You paced back and forth, looking outside the window, as if expecting the earth to suddenly open up and birth Hades's obsidian chariot to appear in front of your cottage.

But instead, three days after the Cerberus kidnapping, a gentle knock pealed inside the wooden walls.

And as it turned out, it wasn't Hades who decided to place you a visit.

But someone, who you truly, really, didn't wish to see, and maybe standing face to face with Tartarus itself would be a much more pleasant option than meeting–

"Good morning my dear, my I come in?"

–his wife.

Aphrodite, in all her fullness, dressed in a flimsy, rosy dress and whitish sandals, stood right in front of you. With a sweet smile and a single strand of soft hair caressing her flushed cheeks.

"My Goddess," you murmured, opening the doors wider. "Yes, please."

She lifted up misty robes and came inside, looking around your small cottage with a little nod of her head. You didn't have many occasions to face the most beautiful goddess herself, thus your eyes traced shyly every curve, every bump, every flush of her body. Hips hugged by a rosy dress, hair falling over the shoulder, and gentle eyes, currently looking outside the window at the golden-antlered–

Oh dear.

"My Goddess–"

"You know, Artemis really liked this deer," she chuckled, sitting down at the table. One hand placed on her belly, the other supporting a tilted head. "I was rather surprised that your man managed to steal it," she stopped for a minute, before laying eyes on your face. "Well, before he stole Cerberus, too."

You wanted to refuse, he's not my man, but a wave of shame washed over your body. You lowered your head and bit down on lip. "My Goddess, I'm–"

She, however, continued. "I'm expecting, you know?"

Yes.

You've noticed.

From the moment she came inside your cottage and never took a hand off her belly.

Your eyes slowly looked up. "Does Lord Hades know?"

"You see, I wanted to tell him. Around three days ago, I think?" Great heavens. "But then our lovely dog went missing, and I've never seen him so, hm, devastated."

Your knees buckled up, hitting the wooden floor with a faint hump! "My Goddess, I'm so sorry. I didn't expect him to actually do this."

Aphrodite didn't say anything for a second, looking at your trembling body and cheeks burning with shame. You knew how protective she was of her husband. How bizarre, but rather lovely their marriage was, with Lord Hades quite enjoying being walked like a dog by his mesmerising wife. You didn't know that they tried for a child, but it should be fairly obvious – how could the goddess of fertility and her madly obsessed husband not have children?

And you? You somehow managed to ruin such a precious moment.

A deep sigh rolled over before she helped you stand up. "Please, it's fine, dear. Don't worry," you sat next to her, still too embarrassed to look up.

You groaned, covering face with hands. "I really thought he would drop out after the first one! This foolish man!"

Aphrodite giggled, resting her hearty face on a hand. "He's just a man, after all. A desperate one at that – the most dangerous type. My husband is quite similar, although I would rather not test how far he would be able to go to grant my wishes."

You answered with a chuckle before finally looking at the goddess's face.

Oh, she was so, so beautiful.

"What I mean is, I'm not mad at you, dear. Rather amused, I must say. I'm glad your man is ready to go through such hardships, just to–"

"He's not my man," you quickly added with a deep sigh. "I promised him my hand under the condition of finishing all twelve labours. I just didn't know that he'll actually–" you groaned again, and Aphrodite laughed. "I'm sorry for ruining your surprise. Lord Hades surely will be overjoyed."

She hummed, circling with fingers the plush of her belly. "Yes, well. Tears will be shed, I suppose. My husband cries more often than I expected, but it's fine," you were almost sure that she bit her tongue, before saying I like him that way. "Cerberus is back and healthy, so you shouldn't worry. I guess your... Heracles took him only for a simple walk."

You sighed with relief, seeing amusement dancing in the goddess's warm eyes.

"Well, I guess he'll come back soon for his reward," she chuckled, slowly standing up. "I'd better go before Choso stalks me out. He doesn't know about the baby yet, but tends to be rather overprotective," you accompanied her till the doors, tracing the bloom that has spread over her cheeks. Oh, she really must've loved him dearly. "But please, next time give me a warning before my husband comes back home crying. In case I'll have other plans for that day."

You nodded with shame before she waved you goodbye.

As much as you adored Aphrodite, she truly was the most beautiful but terrifying goddess in the whole pantheon.

☾ 𖤓 ☾ 𖤓

So you've expected him to come the same evening.

But when he didn't, something panged in your chest. Oh well, maybe you should be relieved after trying so hard to get rid of him. Maybe after finishing all twelve labours, he decided that your hand was, in fact, not worth a bean. Maybe during his travels, he met another woman (a princess even?) and decided to marry her instead. Maybe–

"Sister..." one of the nymphs called, and you quickly collected wits.

The evening was of the warm sort, with the river's water nuzzling your bare skin kindly. Little droplets reflected the warm rays of the sunset, with a mix of orange, purple, and pink spreading over the forest. Birds were slowly going quiet, letting the crickets step in shyly and prepare for the symphony that was soon to spread near the river's bank. First fireflies, too, were timidly floating your way, with a gentle buzz of their paper wings.

You looked at her, seeing that she, in fact, was glancing somewhere over your shoulder. With an open mouth and eyes big as porcelain plates. "I think you have a visitor."

Your head turned, gaze immediately landing on the figure emerging slowly from the forest.

Heracles.

But this time he looked... oh.

"Good grief," the nymphs gasped, seeing the approaching monster.

Because no other word could the describe the man who has set his eyes on you.

With lion's skin draped over his shoulders, bulgy scars slashing naked arms and torso, swirling over pecks, thighs and even neck, as if some brute tried to cut him to pieces. Golden hair was still slightly marked by the crimson hues, as though the blood still gripped it mercilessly.

What shocked you the most, however, were his eyes. With no trace of gentleness from months before, rather filled with something... predatory. Beastly, maddening, with a gaze fixed on your frozen figure, still dipped in water.

Before you knew, other nymphs quickly flew away with terrified gasps, burdened by the heaviness of the atmosphere he spread around.

"Kento–" you whispered, as he came closer.

But before you could finish with a foolish question of what happened to you? His massive body steeped in the water. Gentle waves nuzzled him only till the ribcage, and you choked, when muscular arms lifted you up and sat on the shore.

Crystal droplets dripped down your breasts, nipples, down through the plush belly, naked heat, when he gazed up at you from below. With pledging, possessed gaze, focusing on nothing but your face.

"Tell me you want it," came in a whisper, quickly dissolved by the first melody of cricket's.

"Want what?"

His palms curled around your waist, face nuzzling against the softness of your belly, before he sighed deeply. "Me. Tell me you want me. You want everything that will happen the second you give me your consent."

A shiver dripped down your spine, and your lip trembled when his muscular arms tightened up. Something warm, feverish, started to coil in your stomach every time his breath hit your skin.

"And what will happen, if I may ask?" you knew that playing with fire would end up badly, but you wanted him to say it.

All those filthy, nasty, messy things you dreamed of every night and knew he did too. You could feel it, right now and before, with your legs still dipped in the river and feet poking something hard.

He looked up, with a dark hazelnut gaze, taking in your cunning smile. His arm lifted, thumb grazing the lower, slightly opened lip. "In details?"

You giggled. "Of course."

Fat finger pushed inside, landing right on your wet tongue. Plush muscle welcomed him warmly, with lips wrapping around it and giving a gentle suck.

His brows furrowed, and another arm pulled you closer to his dipped body, moving your hips right over the edge. Gaze still fixed on your face, but he could feel the heat of your cunt on his chest. From this perspective, you looked nothing but divine, with wet hair curling around your shoulders, plump lips sucking wetly on his thumb and eyes, fucking hell, looking down at him with a sly amusement.

"Tell me," you whispered, taking his thumb out and nuzzling cheek against his calloused hand. "My answer will depend on it."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought finishing the twelve labours was enough."

The arm curling around your body suddenly dropped down, with long fingers tracing the smoothness of your tummy, thighs, circling, pinching, smoothing wet skin, before going down... and down... and down.

Till your breath hitched and lips once again fell open.

"Hm? Did you lie to me, my love?" he whispered, with a big thumb plastered to your puffy clit. "Have you deceived me?"

You didn't answer, but instead spread legs a bit wider, inviting his massive body in. He chuckled, seeing your hips hovering over the edge and creamy cum dripping straight to the river. "They do say to never trust a nymph," his eyes glanced down, thumb placing small circles on your clit. "Did you deceive me, then?"

Your head shook. "T-tell me," slipped almost beggingly. "What will you d-do-"

His arms shifted, with big palms landing under your thighs and pushing them up, till you folded easily like a leaf. Your back hit the soft grass, knees pushed against the breast, while his massive body was still dipped in a river.

Now, with your bare heat right in front of his face.

"Firstly," he dipped down, placing gentle kisses on your inner thighs. "I will work on your pretty cunt till you'll be nothing but a whiny mess," his teeth dipped into the fat of your belly pouch, before licking it sweetly. "Then, I'll stretch you out on my fingers, getting hard over your moans and maybe dragging my cock against your legs," lips traced down, through the mound of your cunt, right till the drenched folds. With two fingers, he spread them open. And groaned. "Fucking hell."

"A-and then?" you whimpered feeling his warm breath on your clit.

"And then you'll go on your hands and knees, spreading yourself nicely like my good wife," he gave you the first lick. Long, sweet, heavy, plastering his tongue to your trembling clit, till a pitched moan bounced from the river. "Gods, you taste so good, my sweet fucking wife."

Theoretically, you weren't even engaged yet, but this word, combined with his deep voice, somehow made you even wetter. Spongy tongue once again swirled around your clit, with lips sucking, grazing, ravishing it madly, as if Nanami Kento waited for this moment at least a millennium.

For finally feasting on your honeyed juices and swallowing all the precious moans that slipped past your lips. The sugary mmm Kento, and, sososo good, or, p-please put t-the finger in.

He was spreading you wide open, with your hips hovering over the river's edge and his nose grazing your clit. You trembled every time his hard cock nudged your feet, with wet pads smoothing its leaking head.

Your finger curled around his golden hair, pushing him closer, deeper into your cunt, riding his tongue with a starved desperation to release the knot that already fastened in your lower belly.

And when his long finger pushed inside, your pussy clenched.

"Fuck, my love, you're still so tight," he grumbled, looking up at your falling breasts and arched back. "So beautiful," floated in a whisper, before he lifted massive body up and slowly came out of the water. "My beautiful, beautiful wife, does it feel good?" long fingers curled inside your tight walls, sending another shiver down your spine. His lips wrapped around your wet nipple, sucking on it with a gentle hum. "Mmm, so sweet, you're so sweet everywhere."

"K-Kento, it f-feels so–nghhh–good, so so so good," a pitched whimper slipped through when he added another finger.

He pumped your squelching pussy, with lips sucking on your nipples and eyes looking up every few seconds, just to take a pleasure in your ever-changing expressions. Slightly lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, single strands of hair stuck to your forehead, and fingers still curled in his hair.

You looked beautiful, mesmerising, folded as if ready to be bred, with rolled belly and lifted thighs. He could already imagine your fat ass hitting against his abdomen and drenched cunt swallowing cock. Your back curved in the most delicious arch, and knees biting into the lush grass.

Oh, he could already think of sweet tears that will roll down your cheeks and soft belly pouch being slowly, slowly filled with his cum, till you'll be begging, whining, crying for him to take his cock out and–

"K-Kento, I'm gonna–" you whimpered, feeling his fingers pumping you faster. Lips sucked on your nipples as if he wanted to milk you out.

It felt overstimulating, feverish, too much, with his massive body almost fully lying between your thighs, pinning you into the ground.

"P-please let m-me–"

"No, my love. You won't be cumming in any other way but on my cock."

He took out his fingers and flipped you on your belly. Big palms traced the fat of your ass before lifting your hips up – just as he promised. With your chest stuck to soft grass and dripping cunt opened up widely, looking like the prettiest, the juiciest fruit he'll ever tasted.

You couldn't see his cock, but, well, could definitely feel it. The moment he took drenched, creamy robes off, it sprang up and nudged right against your hole. Sticky and feverish, with a pulsing head sliding through your dripping cunt, collecting all the cum that Kento's fingers dug out. A tremble washed over your body, feeling the fatness of his shaft and single veins curling around its length.

It felt so... heavy. He didn't even put it in yet, but you could already feel its heaviness dragging between your folds, with its head nudging your desperately fluttering hole.

"You want it, right?" He asked, spreading your ass cheeks and spitting heavily right between them. Fat spit slid down to your pussy, before he pushed it right inside. "Say it, my love. Tell me how much you want it."

"K-Kento, I want it s-so bad, please," your hips rolled against his cock, glazing it with saps. When he didn't move, you tried to reach for it and push it in yourself, but he locked both of your hands on your back. "Kento!"

"I asked you a question. How much do you want it?" his voice was low, stern, as if he was tired of all the bullshit you gave him for the past few months. "Do you want me to push inside?"

"Y-yes!"

"Do you want to feel me here?" his fingers circled your tummy, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Mhmm, yes yes yes," you cried and he chuckled.

His cock, finally, pushed slightly, slowly inside, with sticky head catching on your entrance. "Do you want to get bred? Hm? Get stuffed so full, till you'll be feeling it in your throat?"

It was filthy, disgusting, nasty, but, oh, did it make you tighten around his cock like a little slut. Crying, moaning, and choking, while he pushed further, stretching your clamping walls and sliding through the creamy cum that stuck to his length.

You knew the strongest man alive would be well-hung, but when the head of his cock grazed your cervix and he still tried to thrust inside, something inside you broke.

"P-please, Kento, it's too muc–"

But your dear, gentle, always so careful hero turned out to be nothing but a filthy, possessed beast. You expected to hear his kind voice, sorry pleadings, maybe even a soft hand smoothing your bulging belly.

But instead, you felt it between your shoulder blades, as he pressed you harder against the grass. With his full weight hovering over your trembling body, heavy breaths nuzzling your neck, and cock thrusting deeper.

Nanami Kento was anything but gentle.

"Fuck, forgive me, my love. But I think I deserve a little treat after everything you put me through," and before you could protest, he shoved his length.

Fully.

Till his balls smacked against your cunt and big hands pulled your ass to his hips. Till you moaned in a mix of pain and pleasure, feeling his massive weight in your belly, lungs and throat.

"Fuck," he groaned, tilting head back, trying not to cum right that second, with your walls locking him in a deadly clutch. "My love, baby, dear, ughh, you need to relax," he moved, sending a shiver down your spine.

But how could you relax, if his girth was already smudging your womb? Dear heavens, how could you relax if every move of his was brushing this spongy spot inside?

"Kento, p-please move s-slower–ahhhh," you moaned, gripping the lush grass crumpling under your trembling hands.

It seemed, however, that he was already gone, with his thrusts quickly changing from gentle waves to aggressive crushes, dragging his pulsing cock through your pinkish walls. You felt him everywhere.

His hands on your ass, gripping the jiggly fat and pulling you over and over and over on his cock, somehow thrusting it even deeper. Smooching your pudgy womb, kissing plump g-spot, scratching feverish walls with even more sticky cum dripping down the grass. You've never been so drenched before, feeling his length moving inside without any obstacles. It was smooth, delicious, electrifying, with his fingers slowly sliding between your folds and finding the pulsing clit.

And when he pinched it? Dear gods, your hips started meeting his thrusts, with your hole accommodating him even deeper, sweeter, swallowing his fat cock and clamping down as if desperately trying to milk it dry.

Nothing but filthy squelching filled the evening air, and your moans tingling his ears like the loveliest melody.

Oh, and you looked exactly as he imagined. With swollen lips and tears swirling in the corners of your eyes. His name slipping every few cries, and eyes trying to look back at his massive, sweaty body.

His broad chest breathing heavily and lidded eyes, taking in the way your cunt sucked him in.

"Fuck, my love, you're so–nghh–I can't longer, fuck," he rambled, quickening his pace, with every thrust going straight to your womb. "Do you feel good, tell me dear, is it good?"

You could barely whimper, feeling the knot in your belly slowly, slowly, untying, and eyes rolling back. Thus, nothing but simple, "Mhm, K-Kento, gods, feels so, nghhh, mmm gonna c-cum," could slip away.

His fingers played with your clit – rolling, pinching, slapping it gently with your gluey juices sticking to his fingers. He lifted them up, licking the skin clean. "So sweet, fuck, you taste so heavenly. My pretty, pretty wife will eat your cunt out every fucking morning. Spread you wide on the table and fill with cum before the sunrise," his fingers went back to your clit, already feeling the spasmatic clenching on his cock. "Like it that much, love? Your pussy is swallowing me so nicely. Can't wait to see you swollen with my children, heavens."

"K-Kento, please, let me cum–mhmmm."

"Can't wait to be bred, huh?" he chuckled, but you pushed your hips out, meeting every single thrust.

"Yes, yes, yes, I can't wait t-to, ahhhh, fuck cum inside me."

Your words seemed to ignite something within him, because the next second, his reddened tip got glued to your womb, as if sucked in by your muscles. Fingers still circled your clit, harshly, with a pinch, till your thighs started shaking and feet curled. A quivering cry escaped your clenched throat, and Kento finally, finally, started cumming.

Or, well, flooding you with his seed, till your head spun and lower belly started to swell.

"Fuck, my love, you better pray it takes," he mumbled, resting his wet forehead between your shoulder blades.

He came deep, filling every corner of your trembling cunt with warmth, planting his gluey seed right inside your womb. It felt heavenly, maddeningly good, with his fingers still working on your clit and gathering all the watery cum that gushed right against his palm. Long tongue traced your sweaty back, soft lips placing gentle kisses right down your spine.

He thrusted gently, keeping his softening cock inside as if trying to make sure that not even a droplet of his cum will land anywhere but inside your womb.

"I meant it," he muttered after a while, before changing your positions. You lay spread on his chest, with his cock still nuzzled inside. "I want to have a family with you. A big one."

"How big?" you mumbled, too tired to even lift up your head.

"Ten?"

Oh dearest.

Your eyes somehow looked up, tracing the completely stony expression of his face.

"You must be joking."

"Not from such affairs, my love," his fingers gently nuzzled your back – a touch completely different from the violent thrusts of his hips.

"Not even the oldest gods of this pantheon have that many offsprings."

He looked down with a warm smile before placing a single kiss on your forehead. "Then it seems that we need to set up a new tradition."

And after going back to your cottage and getting stuffed full in every possible position, you started to regret that the strongest man alive with the stamina of a thousand bulls, was supposed to become your husband.

And for the dessert, as the last fic from this collection, we're getting the most heartbreaking angst, aka Satosugu as Alexander the Great and Hephaestion.

I got a request for the second part of Hades!Choso, and because it's my fav fanfic from this collection, I will be making it (that's why you got the preview hehe) :) It will be posted here, where I'll be adding all my other historical, myths, tales based fics.

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There’s no way the universe should be this insistent on fucking you over.

Your shitbox of a car died a day before you were set to present your research at a conference in upstate New York in the middle of January. It was the biggest opportunity of your medical school career so far, and was going to secure your residency. But you couldn’t afford to fix it or buy plane tickets and there was no bus that could get you from Pittsburgh to Syracuse in time.

So when your program advisor called you into his office to say he found another student driving to the conference that would be willing to carpool, you nearly jumped for joy. Until the next words out of his mouth put a bullet in the brain of your newfound hope.

“-Jack Abbot! You’ve met him, right? You’re in the same year.”

Yes, you had met Jack Abbot. Several, miserable times. 

Every interaction you’d had with Jack ended with you seething and him smirking. He seemed to be addicted to pushing your buttons every chance he could.

But you didn’t have a choice. And you’d definitely made sure to verify that Jack was your only option. You must have asked every other student you had classes with, but they were either flying or not going at all. So you were stuck with him.

Stuck in the confined space of the cab of his small truck, side by side on the bench seat, for five and a half hours.

Everything about him pissed you off. His perfect curls were irritating, especially since you were sure he used 15-in-1 soap to wash it, the woodsy scent of his aftershave made every breath feel agonizing, and the way his legs were spread wide was obscene. It was his car, you had no right to complain that he was taking up so much space. But god did you wish he was cowering against the door like you were. You wished he put more space between the two of you, but the small cab left about a foot between you, even with you folding your body into the farthest corner your seatbelt allowed. It was entirely too close for comfort.

You’d made it a point to avoid looking at him as much as possible since this disastrous ride had begun 2 hours ago. So far, you’ve managed to mostly succeed, focusing on the falling snow and the freezing scenery outside. But you felt his eyes on you every few miles. His gaze was hot whenever it landed on you. You could feel it, even through your thick sweatshirt and jeans. 

But Jack didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said a single word since you’d met him in front of your apartment building at 1 pm and loaded up your bags into the covered bed. It was unusual for him. Normally, he liked to goad you into a reaction, sending barbs your way constantly. So the silence unnerved you. You didn’t know how to exist in a space with Jack Abbot when you weren’t on the defensive.

And then the universe decided to fuck you even harder.

The snow was falling even harder as Jack pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller back road. You wanted to question him, but you didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. Plus, you didn’t know where you were. For all you knew, Jack had driven through this area a thousand times before. 

But the farther you got down the road, the heavier the snow was getting and the slower Jack was driving. You hadn’t seen another car or building for the past 30 minutes and the plows clearly weren’t running out here. 

And then - truly the cherry on top- the engine started sputtering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack braked hard, the tires slipping slightly as he pulled off the road onto the shoulder.

“What the fuck?” You looked over at him for the first time in an hour.

Jack threw the truck in park before he was grabbing his coat. “Stay here.”

Where the fuck did he think you were going to go? You were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a snowstorm. The cab of the truck was pleasantly warm, and the burst of cold air when Jack opened his door convinced you even more that you were not going to get out.

You watched him round the front. He popped the hood of the truck, hiding him from view. What the hood didn’t hide, though, was the cloud of smoke that billowed out.

“Oh fuck me,” there was no way you were making it to the convention. You checked your phone. No service. Of course.

The hood slammed shut and you jumped, looking up to watch Jack walk back around to the drivers side. He slid back in, shutting the door hard behind him and scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“We’re fucked.”

“What are we going to do?” You chewed on your bottom lip as you looked at the land around you. “I do not want to die of hypothermia in your shitty truck.”

“My truck isn’t shitty,” he sounded like a petulant child.

“It just fucking died on us,” you leveled a glare at him. “I’d say that makes it shitty.”

He grumbled something under his breath.

Both of you sat in silence for a moment.

“We need to find somewhere to shelter,” Jack was looking out the windows.

“There is nothing out - ”

“There,” he was pointing into the trees at something that you could not see. Everything blended together in the dim lighting and haze of falling snow.

“What?”

“There,” Jack started gathering a few things scattered around. His phone, his water bottle, and the keys made the cut, all being stuffed into the pocket of his heavy duty coat. “There’s a cabin.”

“Bullshit there's a cabin. I don’t see anything,” you really didn’t. All you could see was a mass of black and gray and green.

“There is,” he opened his door again. “Are you coming or are you going to freeze to death here?”

There wasn’t much of a choice. You could already feel the chill creeping in through the thin glass of the windows now that the engine was dead. You could follow Jack into the woods and either find shelter or freeze to death in the snow, or stay in the truck and freeze to death in the carcass of his shitbox.

No matter what, the threat of hypothermia was real and, even though you weren’t officially a doctor yet, you knew the risks. So you gave one last long suffering sigh, and opened your door. 

You were immediately thankful you’d put leggings on beneath your jeans that morning. The temperature change slapped you in the face as soon as you stepped out into the ankle deep snow.

Jack was rifling through the bed of the truck, pulling out his duffel bag. You watched him hesitate for a minute, before abandoning the garment bag containing the suit he’d packed. You tried not to think about just how good he’d look in a formal get up.

“Grab your shit,” Jack was pulling on a pair of gloves. His cheeks were already rosy from the freezing wind. “We’ve gotta get there fast.”

You gathered your things, yanking your own gloves and coat out of your bag. You left your own garment bag containing the gown you’d thrifted for the final banquet in the bed alongside the covered poster board for your research. It was going to be ruined if you and Jack ever made it back to the truck alive, given that there was not a chance you’d be making it to the conference, you didn’t bother trying to save it.

“Lead the way,” you slung your bag over your shoulder, pulling the hood up over your head to try and shield you as much as possible from the chill.

Jack led you across the frozen road and down into the treeline. The snow came up to mid calf, soaking your feet through your boots. Very quickly, you started to shiver, trying to curl into yourself as you walked.

You were both grateful and pissed to see the shape of the cabin come into view. You needed to get warm, but you did not want to admit Jack was right. 

It took about 20 minutes for you to reach the front porch. By now, the snow was falling so hard that you couldn’t see the road or the truck through the haze.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Jack tried the door handle, sighing with relief when it swung open. 

The inside of the cabin was simple. About the same size as your studio apartment back in Pittsburgh. It was dark, but you could see a fireplace against one wall, across from a full sized bed. There was a small kitchenette and a small bathroom you could see through a half open door. The whole place was dusty and looked like it hadn’t been used since last summer, but it would have to do.

Both you and Jack tumbled in. It was cold, but at least the sturdy wooden walls kept the wind chill out.

“You got a lighter?” Jack was already moving towards the fireplace, inspecting a few of the logs piled next to it. He seemed to approve of a few of them, piling them up.

“Yeah, here,” you fished a lighter out of your jacket pocket, tossing it to him as you set your bag down on the bed. 

You watched him for a moment. He shed his coat, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up as he set a few scraps of newspaper alight. With a gentle few breaths, he grew the flame before placing it under the pile of logs he’d formed in the fireplace. It took a moment, but gradually the flames grew until there was a bright, flickering fire lighting up the small room. 

You could feel the warmth it was putting off starting to seep into you, but it wasn’t enough. Your coat was still on, but you were shivering beneath it. 

Jack noticed, doing a double take over his shoulder when he saw you still standing by the bed.

“Come over here.”

“I’m fine,” your voice was unsteady.

“You need to get warm,” Jack was untying his boots, digging through his bag for a new pair of socks as he discarded the damp pair he’d been wearing. “You’re gonna get frostbite.”

“No, I’m not,” but you were moving towards him, crossing the small room to stand beside him in front of the fireplace.

“Take off your clothes.”

You looked over at Jack like he’d grown a second head, ready to tell him off. But the words died in your throat when you saw he was stripping his shirt and hoodie off, leaving him bare from the waist up. You froze for a moment, eyes wide and brain buffering, until his hands grabbed for the zipper of his jeans.

“What the fuck?!” You spun around, trying to will your blush away.

“We need to get into dry clothes and get warm,” the shuffling sounds of his clothes hitting the floor was tempting you to turn around. You wanted just a little peak.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t.”

And then Jack’s hands were at your waist, pulling up your sweatshirt.

“Woah!” You spun away from him, putting distance between you and begging your heart to slow down its rapid beating.

“I’m not letting you blame me when your toes fall off,” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. He’d changed into a plain black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and thick wool socks. God damn it, he looked good. “I won’t look, but you need to change.”

“Fine,” you walked back towards your bag. “Don’t look.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack’s eyes raked over you once before he was turning back to face the fire.

You moved quickly, stripping out of your layers. You’d been planning on being in a nice, cosy hotel and convention center, tucked safely away from the cold, so you’d only brought jeans, slacks, and your comfortable sleep shorts. Tight, spandex shorts that left very little to the imagination. The leggings you wore under your jeans were soaked up to the thighs with melted snow and unwearable.

So you grabbed your most modest shorts, although ‘modest’ was a stretch. They were tight and short, covered completely by the oversized crewneck you pulled on after. You didn’t have too many options for socks, stuck with a relatively thin pair of white ankle length ones. Your nice, insulating ones were soaked from your trek through the snow.

“Is it safe yet?”

You glanced over at Jack, silhouetted against the fire. His shoulders looked a hell of a lot broader than you’d realized, the muscles of his arms standing out. God fucking damnit.

“Yeah, it’s safe,” you cleared your throat, looking away from him as you moved your bag away from the bed, setting it on the floor by the nightstand.

“That’s what you’re wearing to not freeze?”

His judgmental tone made you bristle, reminding your traitorous mind that you did, in fact, hate this man.

“I didn’t have a lot of options,” you unnecessarily straightened your duffel, looking anywhere but at him. “I didn’t plan for you to get us stranded in the fucking woods. I packed for a fancy hotel and a conference, which is where we would be if you didn’t try to kill us.”

“I didn’t try to kill us,” he scoffed. You risked a glance at him. He was digging through his own bag. “I took a shortcut to go around the traffic on the interstate. Here.” 

He wadded up a pair of flannel pants and threw them at you. You caught them, trying not to take a deep breath. They smelled like detergent and that addicting smell of his cologne.

“These are fucking ugly,” the idea of wearing his clothes and being stuck in such a small space with him triggered your fight or flight instinct. Seeing as flight wasn’t a reasonable option with a blizzard outside, you decided to fight. 

“By all means,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Freeze to death because my pants are ugly. I’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘peace and quiet’? I didn’t say a fucking thing the whole car ride!”

“Yeah, and it was fantastic.”

Grumbling to yourself about what a dick he was, you gave in. You were fully aware he was trying to get you to wear the stupid pants. You could sacrifice your pride to put them on and deny him the satisfaction of you going silent.

“Maybe if I’d said something, we wouldn’t be stuck here,” you tugged the god awful pants up over your shorts, having to double know the waistband to keep them up around your hips.

“Oh so you agree, this is your fault,” Jack looked smug. He sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, his legs spread out before him. His feet were blisteringly close to the flames. You hoped his stupid socks caught on fire.

“How is this my fault? I didn’t tell you to drive off the main road in the middle of a snowstorm. This is your fault,” begrudgingly, you made your way towards him. You sat down 3 feet away from him, relishing the wave of heat that greeted you once you were close to the fire. The rest of the space was slowly warming up, but the cold still seeped in through the fogged over windows and wooden walls.

“Well I wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t have to drive you to this stupid convention,” Jack leaned back on his palms. He looked calm and relaxed, and that made you even more irritated.

“Oh, so you only took this backroad because of me,” you stretched out your hands to warm your frigid fingers. “Glad you admitted this was attempted murder.”

“‘Attempted murder’ my ass,” he shook his head, narrowing his eyes. His gaze scanned you from head to toe. You told yourself the shiver that ran through your body was from the cold. “I would be nice and cosy in my apartment if it wasn’t for you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I only agreed to go to the conference because you needed a ride.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed. That didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would Jack do that? He’d been a massive dick since you met him. Every group project or hospital rotation you ended up on with him was hell. He pushed your buttons, poking and prodding at you with sharp little quips until you snapped.

Jack didn’t say anything. He turned his face back towards the fire, focusing on the flickering flames.

“Jack…?”

He stayed silent. 

You didn’t know what to say. You were confused. He hates you, so why would he agree to be locked in a car with you for an extended amount of time. Maybe he truly did want to lure you out into the woods and kill you. 

But why? Sure, you were classmates, both competing for residency spots in a technical sense, but that wasn’t strictly true. It pained you to admit it, but Jack was in a league of his own. He was smart. Annoyingly so. He was constantly at the top of your class, leading test scores by a mile. You weren’t stupid, not at all, but Jack was something else. You weren’t competition for him.

“Did you…” How do you ask a classmate if he planned to kill you? You swallowed hard, suddenly very nervous. “Did you bring me out here to - to get rid - ”

“Jesus Christ, [name],” he finally looked at you again, sitting up and resting his elbows on his outstretched legs. He looked horrified. “You think I agreed to drive you, took a shortcut, and sabotaged my truck to - to what? Kill you?”

“Then why did you agree to drive me?” You couldn’t wrap your head around it.

“Just drop it, ok?” He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw and looking away.

“Just doesn’t make sense,” you were mumbling. You scanned him, reading the tension in his shoulders.

“Drop. It.” This was the most emotion you’d seen him exhibit in all four years you’d been in school together. His jaw was clenched.

In the flickering light, it was hard to tell if his cheeks were flushed from the rising heat of the fire or if he was actually blushing.

“No, I’m not going to drop it,” you finally had a chance to push his buttons, but you also wanted to know why he’d go out of his way to drive 12+ hours round trip if he wasn’t presenting or trying to network at the conference. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I like you, alright?” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ve liked you for years. I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to spend time with you. I like being near you, I like talking to you when you’re not being a bitch - ”

“Don’t you fucking dare call me a bitch, Jack Abbot,” you were still trying to process his confession, the wheels in your brain turning at a snails pace.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, I’m fucking this up,” Jack took a deep breath, lifting his head to look at you. His expression was pained. “I like talking to you when you’re not trying to piss me off, and even when you are, I still enjoy it. You’re smart, you’re gorgeous - incredibly gorgeous. And we’re about to graduate soon, we’re both leaving for residency in a few months and I couldn’t - I couldn’t not say anything.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Jack paused for a moment at your silence, but then he carried on like he couldn’t stop.

“I practiced this whole little speech for the gala at the end of the weekend,” he laughed sardonically, running a hand through his curls. “I was gonna pull you to the side, somewhere pretty and romantic and tell you how amazing I thought you were, how beautiful you looked in whatever dress you brought. I was gonna ask you out on a date when we got back to Pittsburgh. And then I fucked it up. I swear, I didn’t know my truck was going to die.”

He was definitely blushing now. “And I didn’t take a shortcut. I went the long way around to get more time with you since I knew you’d ignore me as soon as we got to the hotel. But I really was trying to avoid traffic on the interstate! I just didn’t expect it to start snowing so hard.”

For a second, you were quiet. You still didn’t know how to respond, but words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

“The car ride back would have been awkward as fuck if I said no.”

Jack laughed, eyes crinkling as he shook his head. 

“Yeah, it would have been,” he sobered up, hope sparking in his eyes. “But I was willing to risk the humiliation if there was a chance you’d give me a shot.”

Would you have given him a shot? You didn’t know. For years you’d been so insistent that you hated him, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been attracted to him since day 1. You’d noticed him immediately at orientation, but you hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him until the first randomly assigned group project in your cadaver lab. He’d been a know-it-all, correcting your technique with a scalpel, raising one of those condescending eyebrows and judging every move you’d made. It rubbed you the wrong way, and clouded your perception of him.

You’d written him off after that, but the two of you kept being forced together. Same professor assigned group projects, similar friend circles, same hospital rotations. Every interaction just reinforced your view of him. It pissed you off every time you caught him staring at you, every time he sat next to you in lectures, asked to share your notes, when he poked and prodded and teased you.

But everything looked very different with the knowledge that he’d been into you since the beginning. Now, he looked less like a piece of shit that wanted to torment you and more like a lovesick puppy that wanted your attention. Either way, it wasn’t a flattering look for him, but the latter option was much more forgivable than the former.

“So?”

You jumped, ripped out of your thoughts to find Jack staring at you again. 

“So…?”

“Do I get a chance?” He looked terrified of what your response would be.

“I - ” you didn’t know. Your mind was spinning, trying to parse out your feelings and figure out exactly how you were feeling about the situation.

“It’s ok if you don’t feel the same way,” his hand ran through his hair again, tugging at his curls as he went. “I get it, I’ve been a dick - ”

“No - I mean, yes you have been, but,” you took a deep breath. “I - I don’t know. I had no clue you felt this way. I’m just… trying to process this.”

“Ok, yeah, yeah that’s ok,” Jack was nodding, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah, I mean, you don’t owe me an answer. And you can say no.”

He laughed again, but it was gruff and self deprecating.

“I swear I’m not going to kill you if you say no.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

Both of you were quiet for a moment, and then you burst out laughing. A real laugh, not the sad imitation Jack had let out previously. You felt hysterical, the situation did not call for the intensity of the laughter spilling from you, but it did help to diffuse the tension that had been rising in the confined space.

When you were able to calm yourself, both of you gasping for breath and staring into the flames, your thoughts turned back to everything. You were hesitant to just accept, still struggling to reframe the last 3 ½ years now that you had more context. But you were curious. 

“If we live,” you broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “If we make it out of this fucking murder cabin, I’ll give you a chance.”

Jack snorted, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Then we better survive.”

The two of you sat there in front of the fire for a few more hours, passing bags of chips and candies back and forth, trying to make the time go by and conserve the batteries of your phones. You drifted in and out of conversation and silence. Surprisingly, you found yourself enjoying talking to him. For the first time since you’d been introduced, you had a pleasant conversation. Neither of you brought up his confession or your tentative acceptance.

Instead, you asked about him. And you learned a lot, shockingly. You knew the basics; he was a few months older than you, he was too smart for his own good, and he’d sold his soul to the Army and would be doing his residency at a military hospital. You almost envied the fact that he got to skip the stress of match day. Almost. You would absolutely not trade that stress in exchange for the next 10 years of your life.

Jack was from Maryland, and he was getting to go back to do his residency at Walter Reed. You saw his eyes light up with hope when you told him your first choice for residency was John Hopkins, but he didn’t say anything. You’d be pretty damn close to each other if you got lucky, but you didn’t dwell on that.

His first name was actually John, and he looked disgusted by it, but his expression softened when you laughed after he revealed he was actually John Andrew Abbot III. You pretended not to notice that, too.

You shared information of your own, also. Jack smiled when you told him about your childhood pets. He laughed when you told him silly stories from undergrad. He stayed quiet, letting you speak when you shared about struggling to make ends meet while still in school.

It endeared you but also pissed you off that he knew just how to react. He was empathetic and sweet when he wasn’t pushing your buttons.

You liked talking to Jack, you realized. You liked getting to know him.

The two of you had started yawning about an hour ago, but neither of you were ready to stop talking. It was only when the conversation finally lulled and you found yourself fighting against your increasingly heavy eyelids.

“We should get some sleep,” Jack was pushing himself up from the floor, dusting off his hands and sweats as he went. He extended a hand to you, and you found yourself not hesitating to take it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. His hand was warm and steady, and you found yourself fighting off a twinge of disappointment when he let go. “You can take the bed.”

“What? No,” there was only one bed in the one room cabin. It was so small, there wasn’t even room for a couch. The only other furniture in the space was a small kitchen table and two chairs, and a beaten up armchair covered by a thin white sheet. “Where are you going to sleep?”

He shrugged, shifting his duffel closer and moving the clothes in it around until he seemed satisfied with the shape. “Here, in front of the fire. I can make sure it keeps going all night.”

“No,” you grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards a small linen closet neither of you had bothered to peek into so far. “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. We…” 

He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between your face and your hand still holding onto his bicep. You let go, taking a step back.

“We can share the bed,” you glanced over your shoulder. The bed was small, probably full sized. Just barely big enough to fit the two of you, although you’d have to scoot pretty close to the edge to avoid touching. 

“I’m not complaining about sharing a bed with you,” Jack looked at the bed too. “I think I’ve made myself clear about that - ”

You swallowed hard. You hadn’t let yourself think about that aspect of his confession. In fact, you’d beaten it back into the shadowy corners of your mind as aggressively as you could. You wouldn’t survive however long your confinement was going to be if you let yourself think about the more physical implications of Jack being into you.

 He looked down at you. The light from the fire was dancing across the planes of his face, knocking the breath out of your lungs with how ethereal he looked. He was handsome everyday, but he looked unreal in this lighting. 

“ - but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You haven’t told me how you feel, and you haven’t agreed to go out with me - not that that means you have to… y’know…” he seemed to be struggling to find the words. He was blushing again. “Be… be that close to me.”

“I - ” you paused, searching for the right words. You really were starting to be willing to give him a chance, especially with how well your conversations had gone. And yes, fine, maybe you’d been physically attracted to him from the beginning, but when you’d found yourself in moments of weakness before, you’d imagined any sort of physical or intimate encounter being… well, not nearly so emotionally charged. In those late night fantasies, it was rough, aggressive, something born out of hate and frustration. But now, he looked nervous, his eyes soft and apprehensive. You once again didn’t know how to handle this type of interaction with him. 

So, you decided to be an adult about it. For fucks sake, you were 26. You could share a bed with a man who just confessed he’d been in love with you for years and who you’d been fantasizing about for just as long.

You cleared your throat, taking your hand off his arm. “We can share a bed without… without it being anything more.”

“Right, right, of course,” Jack let out a breath. “As long as you’re ok, then yeah.”

“Yeah,” you were a big fat liar. “It’ll be fine.”

So the two of you got ready for your doom. You gathered your toiletries as Jack threw a few more logs on the fire to hopefully keep it going all night.

The bathroom thankfully had running water, even if the rest of the cabin had no electricity, so you were able to take turns brushing your teeth. You went first, taking many deep breaths and giving yourself a silent pep talk in the small, dark room. 

“All yours!” Your smile and chipper attitude felt forced when you let him have his turn. You sat on the side of the bed with your bag, digging through it, searching for nothing to give your anxious hands something to do.

“You ready for bed?” 

Jack came out of the bathroom, crossing to the other side of the bed and starting to pull back the covers. You stook, giving him a nod and pulling back the ones on your side. Both of you slipped in silently.

“Good night,” Jack rolled over, his back to you, facing the front door.

You followed his lead, turning your back to him and trying to snuggle in underneath the thin blankets. “Good night.”

Jack’s pants and the residual warmth in your clothes from sitting in front of the fire for so long helped lull you to sleep, and quickly, you found yourself falling under.

When you woke, it was to a warm presence at your back and freezing air nipping at the exposed skin of your face. It was completely dark in the room, no light coming in through the windows or from the now extinguished fireplace.

You pushed back, chasing the heat behind you. That’s when you became aware of several things at once. 

That warmth behind you was Jack. The entire length of his body was pressed against yours and his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, one above and one below, keeping you firmly in place. Those arms were underneath your sweatshirt, one palm resting just below your breasts and the other right above the waistband of your borrowed pants. His face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin.

You tried to shift, to move out of his hold and restart the fire so that you didn’t have to confront exactly how hot the skin on skin contact was making you deep inside.

Jack didn’t let you move, though. His arm tightened around you, tugging you back against him even more firmly. That was when you really felt him. The hard length of his cock was pressed against your ass.

He was still asleep, but that didn’t stop his hips from grinding forward. You gasped, clenching your thighs together. Involuntarily, you pressed back against him again. His hand shifted up, sliding over your breast and loosely squeezing the flesh.

“Jack,” your voice was quiet and broken around another gasp as he pushed his length against your ass again.

He mumbled something incoherent, before squeezing your breast again. The hand on your stomach dipped lower, his fingers just beginning to slide underneath your bottoms.

You were existing between sleep and waking, half convinced this was some sort of extremely vivid dream.Your pulse was racing, hips pushing back to meet his at every sleepy movement. Both of you were breathing harder, the cold seemingly beaten back by the rising heat between you. 

“[Name],” you could just barely make out the slurred groan of your name breathed against your neck. It sparked even more heat in your core to hear him say your name.

“Jack?”

God, you sounded fucked out already. Jack’s hand was pushing even farther into your pants and under the shorts you wore beneath.

The first brush of his fingers over your folds had you whining, and that was when Jack finally woke up.

You felt him freeze behind you, his hands tightening on reflex, dragging his fingers through your folds and against your clit. It ripped an embarrassing moan out of you, your hips pushing back against his cock in response to the jolt of pleasure.

“[Name]?” Jack’s voice was sleepy and confused. 

“Jack,” you whined in response.

“Oh fuck,” he pulled back, hands leaving you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Wait - ” but Jack wasn’t listening

“Fuck, I told you I wouldn’t try anything, I’m so fucking sorry. That - I can’t believe I did that. Fuck.”

“Jack, stop,” he was sitting up, elbows on his knees and hands in his hair. The heat in you died when you saw him so upset. “Jack, look at me.”

“I’m sorry - ”

“Stop apologizing,” you pushed him flat onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips and leaning over him. Your hair created a curtain, closing the two of you into a little bubble.

“But I - ”

“Shut up!”

And then you kissed him. He froze for a moment, but he quickly melted into you, his hands coming up to grab your waist. He let you lead for a moment, his lips following the slow, languid rhythm you set.

Until your tongue swiped over the seam of his lips. Then, his hold on you tightened and with a firm buck of his hips, he was rolling you onto your back. He settled between your legs, grinding his length against you as his tongue stroked against yours, licking into your mouth and swallowing the noises that leaked out of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

“Fuck,” Jack pulled back, gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours. “Are you sure - ”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” you bucked your hips up against his, tugging on his hair as you did. He groaned, meeting your thrust. “Wanted this for a long time.”

“I thought you hated me,” Jack’s hand was slipping back underneath your sweatshirt to push it up. His thumb dragged over your newly exposed pebbled nipple.

“Yeah, I did,” your back arched, pushing your chest even further into his hand. “Doesn’t mean you’re not hot, though.”

“Yeah?” He was smirking, his lips ghosting over yours. “I’m just that irresistible?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you pressed your lips against his, drawing him into a filthy kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him back down so you could chase your own pleasure with his body. One of your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging your nails down over his chest and abs.

He moaned, grabbing your hand on his chest and pinning it to the mattress beside your head. He broke the kiss, nipping at your lower lip as he went.

“Unless you want this to end way too soon, you better fucking stop that,” his voice was low and ragged, fingers flexing against your wrist.

“Stop what?” You wanted to both know exactly what was driving him crazy, and to play dumb and rile him up.

“Touching me,” he ducked his head, nipping and sucking at the skin of your neck. “Looking so fucking good underneath me, all of it.”

“See,” you bit back a whimper. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.”

Your back arched and your hips bucked up again as he sucked a dark mark into the skin below your jaw.

“I don’t, but I don’t want to cum in my pants, either,” he moved lower, to a new, unblemished patch of skin. “So either take your pants off or tell me to go take a cold shower.”

“Gotta let go of my hand first,” your teeth dug into your lower lip as he licked a stripe up your neck.

“Are you gonna keep it to yourself?” Jack pulled back to look down at you. You grinned back up at him and he rolled his eyes.

“No.”

He laughed, releasing you and sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. His hands came down to the drawstring, undoing the bow at lightning speed, pushing the pants down your hips. Jack groaned as your shorts came back into view.

“These little fucking shorts,” he stripped the pants off you, lifting your legs into the air as he did. “Made me hard earlier.”

His hand trailed over your hip, brushing across the fabric until he was stroking a finger over your covered slit. Your teeth bit into your lip even harder to smother the whine that he was drawing out of you.

“You’re fucking soaked,” that little smile tugging at his lips was smug and self satisfied. He pressed into you a little harder, circling your covered clit through the spandex. “Is this all for me?”

“You’re an ass,” your teeth were gritted. Every circle he made had your hips twitching up, little sparks shooting from the light touch.

“I think you like that about me,” Jack’s hand left you for just a minute, long enough for it to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts. For the second time tonight, the first with both of you fully aware, his fingers dipped below your soaking folds.

Jack leaned forward, his unoccupied hand braced against the bed by your head. His eyes fixed on yours, chest heaving as he watched every shift of your face while his hand moved. He was exploring, teasing, fingers wandering through every soaked inch of you, the tips just barely dipping into your entrance and then moving back up to circle your clit.

“Fuck,” you were panting, trying to move your hips against his hand, guiding him to the right spot. But every time his fingers found where you needed him, he’d move them away, smiling as he worked you up.

“Jack, I swear to god, I’ll - ”

“You’ll what? Hmm?” He slowed to a stop, his index and middle finger sandwiching your clit between them, pressing down to keep you from rocking into them and chasing your pleasure. “C’mon, tell me what you’ll do.”

“If you don’t make me cum in the next 2 minutes,” his cocky demeanor made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. You hated it, but it fueled the heat and desire curling low in your stomach. Judging from the hard length of him you can just barely make out through his sweats, he was enjoying it, too. “I’ll never let you touch me again.”

His face fell, hardening into determination. “Is that so?”

“Yes - ”

Jack’s fingers pressed directly against your clit, rapidly drawing tight circles around your clit. It was like an electric shock to your body after so much of his teasing. Your back arched, eyes falling shut as your moans filled the air.

“How’s that? Is that what you wanted?”

“Shut - fuck - shut up!”

You were impossibly close, already wound so tightly that you were dangerously close to snapping beneath him.

“I thought you liked it when I was a dick?” Jack leaned even farther over you, his lips closing around your nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue and scraping over it with his teeth. 

“Stop fucking talking, Jack!” You felt him laugh against your skin, sending vibrations through your breast. 

Your hand tangled in his hair, yanking at the strands. He groaned, switching to your other breast and sucking hard.

You cracked, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand and hips. He didn’t let you, pushing his body even farther into yours to keep them open as he worked you through it. Your legs shook and your hips jerked against his fingers that were still going, drawing even more tremors and cries out of your lips.

You writhed beneath him, forced to let each wave crash over you as Jack held you through it.

“Fuck - no more,” it was nearly impossible to get air into your lungs, but as the sensations died down and overstimulation, Jack backed off.

He pushed back up, easing his hand out of your shorts. He let you breath for a moment, his hands rubbing over your thighs until their trembling slowed to a stop.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” your voice was breathy.

“Can I fuck you now?” 

You cracked your eyes open to look at Jack. There was a small wet patch on his sweats, right over the head of his cock. Fuck, he looked long and thick.

“Yes, please,” your hands found the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down.

Jack laughed, his hands joining yours to help remove the shorts from your legs. 

“I should have made you cum 3 years ago,” he threw the shorts over his shoulder once he got them free from your ankles. “So nice and polite.”

“Shut up and get naked, asshole,” you sat up, reaching for his sweats, tugging them down his hips. 

Suddenly, you were face to face with his cock. He was bigger than you though. The flushed length of his cock slapped against his stomach when it was freed, the leaking head smearing clear fluid against his abs.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned forward, licking a stripe up the length from base to tip. The skin was smooth and soft, his cock twitching beneath your touch.

“Fuck!” Jack’s hand grabbed your hair, pulled your head back and away from him as he hissed. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Isn’t that the goal of sex?” You smiled up at him, straining against the hold he had on you to try and get your tongue back on him. 

“Yeah, but I’m trying not to embarrass myself and end this way too soon,” Jack guided you by your hair, easing you down onto your back again. “You can blow me later, right now, I think I might die if I don’t get inside you.”

“Then hurry up,” you lifted your legs, hooking them around his waist and pulling him down onto you.

“Alright, alright,” Jack slipped a hand between your bodies, grabbing himself by the base. You forced yourself to breathe as his tip swiped through your folds, coating his cock in your fluids before he was lining himself up. He pressed in slowly. You felt yourself part around him, your walls stretching around the crown of his head. You were impossibly full, and he was barely in you.

He kept pushing in, both of you panting and looking down, eyes locked on where you were joined. You didn’t think you could take anymore, but he kept going, your walls sucking him in and pulling him into your depths.

“Fuck,” your head dropped back when he bottomed out. He ground forward, staying fully seated inside you and letting you adjust.

“Oh shit,” Jack sat up between your legs, hands gripping your hips, keeping them pressed fully against his. The shift in angle had you keening. “Look at that.”

Your eyes cracked open, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

“Can fucking see myself, holy shit,” one of his hands left your hips, tracing around the very visible sight of his cock outlined in your lower stomach. You were transfixed, watching with bated breath as his fingertips brushed against your skin. Goosebumps broke out across your body at the sensation.

“I wonder…” Jack trailed off, eyes still focused on your stomach. His hand moved, gently laying over the outline of his cock. He let it sit there for just a moment, palming his length through your skin.

And then he pushed down. 

Both of you cried out at once. You’d already felt full, but the added pressure of his hand made his length feel even bigger. He was everywhere, completely consuming you from the inside out.

“Holy fuck!” His hips jerked into you, snapping against a spot deep inside you that had you arching in his hold.

“Oh fuck, Jack!”

“Yeah? You feel that?” Jack started moving, his hips withdrawing and punching back into you, rapidly working his way up to a punishing pace. You couldn’t answer with words. He was pushing the breath out of your lungs with every thrust. “God, you’re so full of me, baby.”

And then Jack hiked your legs up over his shoulders, releasing the pressure on your stomach in exchange for keeping your thighs pressed tight to his chest. It opened you up even more to him.

“Oh my god,” Jack bent forward, burying his face back in your neck, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. He was rutting into you, groaning as he chased his pleasure.

You were getting close again, too. Every thrust had the neatly trimmed hairs at the base of his cock grinding over your clit as his tip slammed home against your g-spot. Your eyes were closed, lost in the pleasure. You couldn’t move, completely pinned beneath him and forced to take the overwhelming pleasure.

“Jack! Please!” Your hand tangled in his hair again, holding the strands tightly. It was your only lifeline and you used it to tether yourself to reality. 

“Oh fuck,” Jack was panting into the skin of your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close. C’mon, cum for me. Please, need to feel you.”

You were so close, only a hair's breadth from your peak.

When Jack bit down on your shoulder and his hips stuttered, you came again. You clamped around him, walls spasming and squeezing while he rutted even deeper into you. Jack was groaning your name while he spilled deep inside of you. The hot pusles of his release propelled your own, the two of you pushing each other even higher.

He finally let go of your legs, helping to ease them down until they were resting on the mattress on either side of his hips. He didn’t move to pull out, though. The two of you stayed wrapped around each other, his softening length buried inside you, until the cold was too much to bear.

“So,” Jack gingerly climbed off of you, the cold air rushing in. “Can I take you on a real date now?”

“If you get me a washcloth to clean up with and get the fire started, I’ll marry you as soon as we get out of here,” you were shivering now.

Jack grinned, leaning back down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Promise?” 

you stay careful like usual.

too careful.

when he sits next to you during work dinners, you both leave a respectful inch of space between your shoulders, even though every part of you wants to close it. you keep your hands busy.

but at times, you let it slip, forgetting yourself. one hand lifts, hesitates, then falls back into your lap like it forgot what it was reaching for.

your urges never go away with time. they only get worse.

when you start dating?

it doesn’t feels real.

being with nanami feels like a dream you’re going to wake up from. you expect the ground to vanish beneath your feet or for him to suddenly tell you there’s been a mistake. him choosing you feels impossible.

the need hums under everything—conversations and silence alike. you want to lean onto his shoulder. you want to tuck yourself against his side. you want to hug him and feel him hug you back.

instead, you hover. you angle closer. you daydream the same exact way you did before you started dating. it feels like nothing has changed since he confessed and you confessed back.

you’re terrified he’ll notice your odd hesitation. terrified he’ll think you’re needy or that he’ll think you don’t know how to show love at all.

the first time you grab his arm it’s an accident.

you’re walking leisurely in the cold together, conversation tapering off, when that familiar ache swells in your chest. before you can think, your fingers curl into his sleeve and you tug his arm toward you, hugging it to your chest.

and then reality crashes back in.

you freeze. your grip loosens. heat rushes to your face.

“sorry,” you mumble, already pulling away. “i didn’t mean to- i just—”

nanami slows.

not flinchingly. not with surprise. just enough that you have to slow too.

he looks down at you, expression calm. not judging or confused. it’s almost like he’s been aware of you all along.

then he gently shifts his arm back into your grasp. settles it there.

“you don’t need to apologize, honey,” he says, the words dripping like the sweetest chocolate. “if you want to hold onto me then please do.”

your breath stutters and you feel too warm despite the cold.

after that, it all becomes a quiet unreal constant.

you hold onto his arm when you walk together. it’s tentative, like you’re testing whether you can really do this or not. you still glance up at him, checking, but he never pulls away. never stiffens.

but still, you always still hesitate. you’re not used to the feeling this comfortable and safe with a person.

when you sit beside him on the couch? you tell yourself you’ll wait. give it a minute. be normal. but it never lasts long. you’re always hyperaware of him. so eventually you find yourself leaning into his broad shoulder.

you brace for him to move.

he never does.

sometimes you catch yourself gripping his bicep too tightly, overwhelmed by how good it feels, and you immediately start to pull back.

that’s when his hand settles over yours.

warm. grounding. unshakable.

he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to. his thumb traces slow, absent minded circles against your knuckles, like reassurance spoken in a language you finally understand.

being with him still feels like a dream you’re afraid to break.

but kento stays and lets you stay too.

soon enough you learn his hugs are devastating, much like everything about him.

the first real one catches you off guard. you’d meant it to be brief—arms barely around him, already preparing to pull away—but he wraps you up properly, one arm firm around your back, the other settling at your shoulder like it belongs there. he holds you close without squeezing or rushing like he assumes you’ll stay as long as you need.

you short circuit.

but then you’re melting into him before you can stop yourself. your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

his warmth seeps into places you didn’t realize were cold as his hand rubs slow circles into your back.

you start finding excuses—lingering goodbyes, quiet moments where you hover close enough that he opens his arms without a word.

he knows you so well it scares you.

each time, it feels like you’re borrowing something you’re afraid will be taken away if you ask for too much.

and somewhere along the way, you realize your touch starvation doesn’t stop there.

it spreads.

you start noticing his mouth even more than you did before.

it’s unfair, really. the way his lips curve when he smiles at you—small, restrained, meant only for you. the way they part when he exhales, when he speaks quietly, when he’s concentrating. you catch yourself staring far too often, eyes dropping to his mouth before you can stop them.

and want them badly to be on yours.

the realization startles you every time.

your body leans forward before your brain catches up. your gaze lingers a second too long and you have to look away, flustered, heart racing, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

but he has.

one evening, you’re sitting close on the couch, supposed to be listening to him talk. your attention keeps slipping—eyes flicking to his mouth, then back up, then down again. each time you tell yourself stop and each time you fail.

nanami pauses mid sentence when it happens for the fifth time.

you look up, startled, only to realize he’s already looking at you. amused.

“are you going to kiss me… or should i?”

you freeze, mortified. your mouth opens, then closes. “i- i wasn’t! i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to stare, i just—”

he shifts closer with a huff.

he lifts a hand, fingers brushing under your chin, just enough to tilt your face toward his.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he says quietly. “i just wanted to know what you wanted.”

you swallow.

the answer feels terrifying and simple all at once.

so you lean in—terribly clumsy and hesitant but there.

more a brush than a kiss at first like you’re testing whether this is real. for half a second, you’re convinced you’ve done it wrong.

then nanami hums softly and closes the distance for you.

the kiss is gentle. he keeps it slow, like he’s letting you adjust, letting you realize you’re allowed to want this. his hand stays warm at your jaw, thumb resting lightly near your cheek, steadying you as your body instinctively leans closer.

you sigh into it without meaning to.

you clutch at him, the ache in your chest easing little by little. when he pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

your breath is shaky. your lips tingle.

nanami doesn’t tease or rush.

“you can do that anytime you want.”

and somehow the tender words makes your chest ache all over again.

because you’ve wanted this closeness for so long.

and now, finally, it’s yours.

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older-bf!nanami who loves the way you whine and beg. he’ll hold your hips down so you can’t chase your own pleasure, looking at you with that calm face while you tremble and plead. “shh… be good for me,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead even as he denies you again. “i’ll let you cum when i think you’ve earned it.”

older-bf!nanami who has gotten noticeably more veiny with age. his hands, forearms, and especially his cock are heavily veined. when he’s fully hard, the thick veins running along his length are so visible, and you can feel every single one dragging against your walls when he slowly pushes inside you.

older-bf!nanami whose dick is thick, heavy, and slightly curved upward. even when he’s soft, it’s impressive. when he’s hard, it’s almost intimidating—fat head, those veins, and always leaking for you. he loves how you struggle to take all of him, enjoying the way your pussy stretches around his girth.

older-bf!nanami who is constantly teased by satoru about your age gap. gojo never misses an opportunity to poke at him. but nanami has grown completely used to the teasing. he doesn’t get visibly annoyed anymore. instead, he just sighs, adjusts his glasses, and replies something like, “at least my girlfriend doesn’t run away when i speak, gojo.”

older-bf!nanami who tolerates the jokes but draws the line when they go too far. if anyone ever implies you’re “just a phase” or “with him for the money,” nanami’s expression turns icy cold in an instant that makes everyone shut up immediately.

older-bf!nanami who sometimes gets mistaken for your father in public. waiters, store clerks, or strangers often say things like “it’s so nice to see a daughter spending time with her dad” or “your daughter is beautiful, sir.” he stays perfectly polite on the outside, offering only a small smile, but you can feel the way his hand tightens on your waist.

older-bf!nanami who acts unfazed in the moment, simply correcting them calmly with “she’s my girlfriend, actually.” but the moment you’re alone, especially in the car or back home, he feels stupidly lucky, almost greedy, that someone as young and beautiful as you is his. and it always leaves him with a sudden urge to claim you right away.

older-bf!nanami who often ends up fucking you in the car shortly after. the second you’re both inside, doors barely closed, he’s already pulling you into his lap or pushing your seat back. his hands are impatient as he tugs your clothes aside, breathing rough against your neck while he pushes inside.

older-bf!nanami who gets especially talkative during these quick, needy car fucks. between deep thrusts he’ll whisper things like “let them think i’m too old for you… as long as you keep moaning for this old man’s cock.” he loves making you cum fast and hard, one hand covering your mouth so people walking by won’t hear you.

older-bf!nanami who, after cumming deep inside you, stays buried in you for a while, gently stroking your hair and kissing your temple. he’ll softly say, “i don’t care what anyone thinks… you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

older-bf!nanami who has started getting a few silver strands in his hair. you sometimes find them when you’re playing with his hair, especially at his temples. he used to be a little self-conscious about it, but now whenever you touch the grey hairs he smiles.

older-bf!nanami who especially loves when you kiss the grey hairs at his temple or run your fingers through them while he’s inside you. it makes something possessive and soft twist in his chest at the same time. he’ll press you deeper into the mattress and whisper, “these grey hairs are because of years of waiting for someone like you.”

older-bf!nanami who secretly worries that he’s too old for you. sometimes when he sees you laughing with people your age, a fear settles in his chest. he never says it directly, but he makes up for it by being even more attentive—spoiling you more, fucking you harder, reminding you with every touch that no one else could ever take care of you the way he does.