jena

Your schedules never seemed to align to both have a day off, and Jack was getting antsy at the prospect that he had kissed you days ago, but couldn’t take his girl out for a date. 

A particularly stressful case one evening broke his patience. 

An MVC trauma case had rolled in just before his shift was about to end, the man was in his late-thirties and the crash seemed to have paralysed his lower limbs. He worked to treat the most imminent problems, but Jack could tell the man knew what had happened to his legs, and was grieving silently. 

Not long after he’s finished treating the man, a tall, blonde woman rushes into the trauma room just as Jack was about to exit, and the look on her face was fear followed by complete devastation. He watches her sob as she rounds the table to sit next to her partner, moving strands of hair away from his face so she can lean in and press her forehead against his.

Jack stands off to the side watching the scene unfolds, and his breath hitches as he hears the couples’ cries, their pleas of love for one another, the fear that she had almost lost him; lost him before they could finally get married, he overhears. 

The woman promises that nothing could ever change the love she has for him, begging to scrap the big, fancy wedding they’d planned, wanting to elope, not bearing to waste another day of not being married to him.

Something twists low in his chest, patience wearing thin and excuses himself from the room, desperately needing to find you.

He couldn’t wait.

Jack’s shoulders are tight when he exits the trauma room, shaking his head and searching for you, hoping you hadn’t left for the day.

───

You’re zipping your bag up where it rests on your chair, when a low, familiar voice startles you from behind. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

“Uh, going home and sleeping. You should try it sometime, y’know–” You begin to tease back, turning to look at him, but his face is serious, tight, making you falter. You’re about to ask what had happened, never having seen him so disturbed.

He speaks before you can ask, shaking his head and commanding,

“No. C’mon, we’re grabbing food.” His voice is gravelly as he grabs your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, before picking up your coat holding it out for you to slip into it. Your heart warms at the sweet, domestic gesture. Nervously, and heavily blushing, you turn, and let him drape you in the coat. You move to take the bag from Jack, but he shakes his head, holding it tighter. 

“Let’s go.” His voice is low, and you feel his hand rest on the small of your back, guiding you to the exit. You almost just let yourself fall into the comfort of allowing Jack to take over, enjoying not having to think for once.

“Jack– hold on.” You say a little flabbergasted. Shen and Lena give you both an amused look as you pass, clearly they seem to know what’s going on whilst you’re left in the dark.

“We’re exhausted, I look a mess right now– we just finished a 12 hour shift!” You try and reason with him as he hurriedly leads you to his truck. 

“So?” He gives you a look that implies what you said has no grounds for protest, whatsoever.

You scoff, completely taken aback, and swivel to face him once you reach his truck, searching his face for an inkling of an idea as to what’s up with him.

“Jack–” You try, but he just leans past you, and opens the truck door for you, nodding his head signalling for you to hop in. 

“First of all. You ain’t a mess, sweetheart.” He says, almost offended by the notion. 

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you watch as he reaches for the seatbelt and buckles you in, and before pulling away, he rests his forehead on yours and whispers, “You looking fuckin’ amazing all the time.” 

You can't help but let out a flustered whine at his praise, blush covering your face as you meet his intense stare. His expression begins to soften once he looks you over, realising you’re finally here with him. He softly brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“Diner food okay, doll?”

───

You feel the car come to a stop across the street from a 24/7 diner downtown, it’s cutesy, it has a retro feel to it. You go to open the door, but his hand gently catches your wrist mid-movement. 

“Ah ah. Stay.” He commands with a soft-but-stern tone, willing you to obey. 

You smile to yourself as you watch him round the hood of the truck, you’ve never received this kind of princess treatment, and your heart clenches. You thrum with anxiety as you wait for him to open your door, begging yourself to not make a fool of yourself and somehow faceplanting out of the truck.

Checking that no cars are passing, he opens the door and holds his hand out for you to take. You can’t stop your smile from growing or the heat covering your face, utterly touched by his gentlemanly gestures. 

“You don’t have to do all this, you know?” Your voice is quiet, but slightly teasing as you hop out of the truck, holding his hand. “I already like you.” 

Jack sighs when looks down at you, wrapping an arm around you to rest on your hip before moving you to the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the road. 

“I ain’t doing this to impress ya.” He grumbles out, bringing his lips to your temple. “It’s how you deserve to be treated, honey.”

You’re speechless. 

He needs to stop making you blush, you’re already flustered and overwhelmed by all of his actions within the short span of time you’ve left the ER, and the date has barely begun. 

You’re barely able to focus or think straight, which is why when you reach the doors to the diner, you mistakenly make a move to open the door, and Jack almost hangs his head in soft frustration

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” He says in disbelief. You look up at him with a confused expression, watching as he enters your space, and opens the door for you. God, he’s so traditional. Your grin is wide as you stare at him, unable to keep it off your face as you enter the Diner.

You let him order first, as you stare up at the menu above the counter. You’d heard him order a savory dish, something with eggs. It’s healthy, and though you’d wanted something sweet like pancakes you start overthinking, not wanting to look unhealthy or childish in front of Jack, completely baseless worries. 

He turns to look at you, seeing your brows are furrowed and a worried look paints your face as you’re trying to decide. He reaches back, squeezing your hand tilting his head. “Honey, get whatever ya want, yeah?” 

Your smile is tight and shy again when you order the pancakes, nerves wracking your body for no good reason, just another moment anxiety seems to spike randomly.

“Will that be separate or together?” The cashier asks about payment whilst finishing up the order, and both you and Jack speak at the same time.

“Separate–”

“Together.”

His tone is final as he looks at you with an incredulous expression that you even tried to offer to pay on your first date. You begin to shake your head, feeling guilty about making him pay for you, but he taps his card and gives you a stern look.

While you’re waiting for the food he wraps you in his arms and whispers into your hair.

“Let me take care of you. Please.” His voice is gentle but pleading.

Your heart clenches as you look up at him from where you’re wrapped around him, face touching his chest. Vulnerability flickers in your eyes, unsure if you should admit to Jack just yet, how hard it is for you to let go and be cared for. 

But he just smiles, patting your hair, and silently, you think he already knows.

Grabbing your food, you look for a place to sit, but you notice Jack is… walking out? You frown again, catching up to him with confusion painting your face. Did he not want to eat together? Had you completely misinterpreted this as a date? Maybe he just wanted to grab food before going home.

He snorts at the confusion, back tracking a little and cupping your face with one hand, a thumb stroking back and forth across your cheek. 

“You think I was gonna take ya to a diner for our first date?” He croons, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, kid, who have you been hanging around with before me?”

───

What you hadn’t expected was for him to bring you to a remote spot that overlooked the city. It was still early in the morning, a fresh spring fog coating the city from above as you sat on a bench and had breakfast.

You’re too in your own head, you know this. But you can’t stop. You’re painfully aware that this is a date, you want to act the right way, say the right things, be charming, be funny. But it inevitably leads to complete silence from you and jumpy eyes darting around focusing on anywhere but him.

Sighing, he sets his takeout container on the bench beside him, before scooting closer to you. 

“Hey, what’cha worrying about over there?” He nudges his knee with yours. He meets your eyes and finds insecurity and so much shyness. He tilts your head up using his fingers on your chin, making sure you really hear him when he speaks.

“You still get me so nervous.” You breathe out shakily, laughing a little at the prospect knowing he’d already kissed you stupid days ago.

“You got no one to impress, yeah? S’just me.” He teases a little, recalling your words from earlier. 

“Plus, I already got a taste of those lips, doll.” This raises a shy laugh from you and you groan while you nudge his knee back playfully, clearly calming down. He has a way of easing you, making you comfortable around him like no one ever has. You lean your head down against his shoulder, bringing your hand to trace patterns on his scrubs. 

In the comfortable lull between you both, you break the silence.

“What happened today? Why were you so… worked up?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment by bringing up negative emotions.

Jack pauses, you feel him tense beside you. But he places a hand on your thigh and rubs his thumb back and forth comfortingly, searching for the right words.

“I just… didn’t wanna waste any time.” He admits softly, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“I know what I want, and we’ll go as slow as you want– but I’m not waiting around to miss key moments with you.” He leans down to where you rest on his shoulder and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lingering there for a moment after his admission. 

Your breath hitches at his intensity, realising how serious he is, that he really wants this, wants you.

“Now,” he pauses, using his hand to lift your head off his shoulder. “I’ve been dreamin’ about kissing you again for days.” His rough voice whispers, searching your eyes for permission, any indication you want this as much as he does.

You don’t give him time to find it.

Immediately, you lean in and crash your lips to his, faster and passionate than your first. 

Jack is genuinely taken aback by your little show of confidence, and he makes a surprised whine at feeling your lips again. 

You pull back, wide eyed and shocked at what you had done. “Fuck–”

He growls at you having broken the kiss. You don’t get time to sit with embarrassment at how desperately you’d kissed him, you notice how blown out his pupils are and he immediately cups your face bringing you back in. 

He had so effortlessly taken over, comforting you and pleasing you with one kiss that your worries dissipate, your body relaxes into him, and you let yourself feel it.

For the second time, Jack had kissed you stupid.

First Personality Shifts

Slowly, but surely, Jack was getting you to come out of your shell. He was discovering parts of you he hadn’t known existed, and loved it.

He was encouraging you to grow, to flourish, which is how he discovered how sassy you could get. 

The night shift were working overtime, wrapping up cases here and there, during a particularly brutal shift. You’d been working around 15 hours now, exhausted but powering through.

You and Emma, a day shift nurse, were assisting a trauma case led by Jack and Dr. Robby, much to the dismay of Shen and Ellis. It was a particularly tricky case, you’d all been in that room for ages, holding your breath during a risky procedure as the room stays silent. 

After a while, you watch Jack and Robby step back from the patient, letting out a breath of relief before Robby raises his thumbs, signalling everything went perfectly. You see them smile, their eyes crinkling from under the mask.

Small cheers and laughs filter through the room, the tension easing out.

“You’ve still got it, man.” Jack praises Robby. 

Robby almost looks reluctant to accept the approval. 

“Nah man, that’s all you.” Robby retorts, his hand patting Jack’s back whilst Robby went to leave the room.

“Take the compliment, Robby.” Jack raises his voice to reach where Robby was leaving the room, knowing how his friend gets. Robby pauses in the doorway turning to face Jack.

“No, seriously, brother. Everyone could learn a thing or two from you.” Robby says loudly enough so his residents can hear, making it a point.

You hear them go back and forth for a while, your brain is finally slowing down from exhaustion, they do this all the goddamn time, which is why you don’t even process it when you blurt out your next sentence.

“Careful, Jack’s ego is inflated enough as is.” Your voice is somewhat quiet, you really meant it for just Robby and Jack. 

The room erupts in small giggles, Robby’s eyebrows lifting in surprise and smirking at Jack. He can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Oof, damn girl.” You hear Ellis joke from behind you.

Your wide eyes shoot up to meet Jack’s, your tired brain catching up and afraid you’d offended him. But he’s stood there, completely still, and grinning so hard. He almost looks proud. 

Jack didn’t think he could fall for you any harder. 

He was wrong.

───

You had finally gotten comfortable enough to ask for his comfort.

Before you met Jack, you couldn’t imagine asking for help for the littlest of things, afraid of inconveniencing people. Jack had reassured you, time and again, that he wants to be the person you go to when you need help. 

So you do.

At first, it was adorable for Jack trying to get you to ask for help. Being a slight tease about it, encouraging you to use your words.

You’d had a rough shift, you weren’t meant to be going to Jack’s place after work, but god did you need him today more than ever.

You’d been in the room for a few trauma cases, neither of which had ended with the patients pulling through, one being a pediatric case. You’d also opted to do an evidence collection for a sexual assault patient, knowing how busy Lena had been tonight, the floor needing her more than ever, so you’d taken over for her.

Safe to say, by the end of the night, you were a wreck. You felt on the verge of tears for hours, like the littlest thing could set you off. You were emotionally depleted, you wanted to just switch off, and you knew Jack could help.

So you approached him quietly, anxiously, your hands fidgeting. He was grabbing his bag out of his locker, so you slid in next to him, your back against the lockers next to him searching his face, checking if he’s too tired, because you wouldn’t want to be a burden.

“Hey, baby.” He smiles at your appearance next to him, glancing over at you. 

“Everything okay?” He says gently after noticing your stature. He can tell you’re anxious. He pauses from where he’s gathering his stuff in his lockers, turning to face you fully now. You’re staring into his eyes, you’re hesitant.

“Talk to me.” He commands gently, his hand coming to yours to break apart your nervous fidgeting.

You swallow the lump in your throat, asking for help always ended with tears for you and you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now.

“Jack.” You just whine, silently begging that he’d understand what you need without you having to vocalise it. Your eyes water slightly, needing his comfort desperately.

“C’mon, baby, use your words.” He coaxes, his hand cupping your cheek. “You can do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth across the apple of your cheek, catching any tears if they fell.

“I need you.” Your voice is shaky, broken. It’s all you can manage without completely breaking down at work.

“Yeah?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you, but a smirk tugs at his lips. “Atta girl.” His praise causes an involuntary, but quiet whine to leave you. 

He’ll stop the teasing for tonight, he sees how much you need him and the fact you had even verbalised your need for him was progress. He’s so proud of you.

“You need me, baby? C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, beckoning you into his hold. You’re a little embarrassed as you hug him, worried someone will find you like this, all vulnerable and mushy. 

“You did so good, baby, asking me for help.” He strokes your hair, comforting you. “C’mon. I’ll bring you home.” 

A protesting whine escapes you before you realise, the idea of him dropping you home alone upsetting you. You had just said you needed him, hadn’t you?

“Hey, hey.” He says quickly, needing to settle you down before you get more upset. “I meant home. Our home. You’re mine, baby. Imma take care of you now.”

───

However, one particular night, he uncovered an unexpected, but one of his favourite sides of you.

It’d been a rare evening where most of the night shift were off for the day, well at least those fun enough to drink with.

You and Jack hadn’t even bothered to try and hide your relationship around your coworkers, they knew too much. It wasn’t much of a problem anyways, not that either of you were overly affectionate at work. 

Lena supported you, but continued to encourage you to err on the side of caution, worried you’ll get hurt. Shen, however, lived for teasing you both. 

With a few drinks in your bloodstream, you had shuffled closer to Jack within the booth, searching for his touch. Shen, sitting opposite you both kept giving you knowing looks. It’d started with your thigh against his under the table, a gentle, grounding presence. But drink after drink, it hadn’t been enough. You wrap your arms around his forearm, your head on his shoulder now.

You’re definitely feeling the drinks, tipsy if not drunk, and you’re practically all over Jack. It's like you wanted to crawl into his skin. He’s definitely enjoying how clingy you’re being tonight. He leaves soft kisses in your hair from time-to-time, not trying to go full on PDA in front of his friends. But you were making it very hard for him to keep his cool. 

The drinks get to your head, making you both loose-lipped and a little sleepy. 

Your eyes fall to his hands. His fingers idly trace around the condensation on his glass as he politely listens to a story Ellis is telling. Truthfully, you hadn’t been clocked into the conversation for a while now, Jack occupying so much space in your mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.

His hands just looked so good. They were so big and veiny, and his fingers were so thick. You don’t know what had gotten into you, but you were so incredibly entranced by his hands. 

Without thinking, you slide your hand that rested on his bicep, down his arm until it landed on his hand, gently pulling it away from his glass. He lets you, doesn’t even look down to see what you’re doing, assuming you wanna hold his hand. But you just turn his hand over, palm facing up, and reject his attempt at intertwining your hands together.

You let out a small, short whine in protest. Keeping his hand laying flat on the table while you take your nails and gently trace your fingers in his palm, up his fingers and back down. They were so worn, tough. Nothing like your soft hands.

This touch from you makes him shiver, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. He glances down at your face, your eyes are glazed over and you seem completely infatuated by his hand. He watches you turn over his hand again, and you begin to trace his veins, like you’re completely hypnotised.

His breath comes out shakily, now completely zoned out of Ellis’ conversation. 

“What’ya doing, honey?” He whispers quietly into your hair, ensuring no one else can hear him.

You peek up at him from where you rest on his shoulder. God, you’re drunk. He’s so beautiful.

“Your hands are realllyyyy hot.” You blurt out, drunkenly as you continue to toy with his hands. By the power of the universe, the table had erupted into laughter at Ellis’ story at the same time you’d blurted that out, such that no one heard.

He stills at your comment and almost barks out a laugh. He holds it in, not wanting you to get all shy on him. Not when his shy girl has gotten so confident. 

“Is that so, baby?” He practically growls into your ear, lifting a drink to hide his smirk.

“Mhmmm.” You hum in affirmation. Your focus shifts from his arm to wrapping both hands around his bicep, it flexes slightly as he brings his drink to his lips. “Y’r arms too. Soooo big. Wanna bite ‘em.”

He genuinely chokes on his drink at that, something possessive stirring in his chest. His shy, sweet girl, completely fawning over Jack. 

He blinks around, making sure no one heard what you said, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else hearing your desired rambles for him. Looking up, he notices Shen’s cocky smirk as he glances between the two of you. Jack’s about to tell him to mind his own business, but you beat him to it, by doubling down.

“Like it's unfairrrrr.” You mumble into his bicep.

“Unfair?” Jack asks, confused.

“How are you sooo– ugh!” 

He tilts your chin to look at him, wanting to know where all this flattery is coming from, and you have a lovestruck tired expression.

You pout as you take him in, his curls, his scruff, his face. 

Oh.

Something more present and aware flashes in your eyes the longer you stare at him, like you’re realising you spoke the words out loud. Your eyes widen slowly, mortified, and heat rushes to your face as you stare at him silently, replaying everything you just said. In public.

You dart your face around the table and make eye contact with Shen who's laughing under his breath. Oh fuck. You probably just embarrassed Jack and yourself.

You detach from him so quickly it gives him whiplash.

“Oh my god, I’m so–” Your voice is incredibly apologetic, horrified, and you won't even look at him in the face.

“No, hey. none of that.” Jack’s voice is firm. He brings his hands to cup your face, making you look into his eyes. “I like you like this, cheeky, confident.” 

You want to be happy at his words, but you can’t help but feel guilt and nausea stir in your stomach. Your drunk brain is making it very hard to think straight. You bite your lip anxiously.

“Do you…” You hesitate, looking into his eyes. “Do you wish I was more like that?” You have to ask. Maybe sober you wouldn’t feel so insecure, but you’re tired and your mouth is still feeling braver than your brain. 

“God, no, honey–” He pauses trying to find the right words, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. “I mean– Don’t apologise for this. I want you, every version of you.” His tone is pleading. You calm down a little at his words, feeling silly at how quick your mind jumped to the worst case.

“Want you even when you’re drunk outta your mind and thirsting over me like this–” He teases which gets cut off by a groan from you. You can’t help but smile as you hide your face into his neck again.

First Time

You’d been dating Jack for a little while now, but you still hadn’t had your first time together. Jack waited for your signal, he wouldn’t push, he’d wait until you were comfortable enough to be with him.

Which you were. You wanted to be intimate with Jack for so long, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your brain, stopping you from initiating.

Your past relationships, as Jack had slowly realised, weren’t exactly the best. You weren’t ever cared for like you are with Jack, which extended to sex. Sex had never really been about you and your partner, it’d always been about his pleasure, his needs. 

And now you’re with the most perfect guy, you don’t know how to navigate being intimate in a way that isn’t focused only on him. 

This thought was really getting to you one evening. You and Jack were at his place, just having finished dinner, and now you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap as you absentmindedly watch TV. His hand is giving you gentle strokes up and down your leg, and you can’t stop thinking about needing to warn him about your relationship with sex.

“Jack?” You ask gently. He doesn’t look over, he continues stroking your leg whilst humming in response.

You bite your lip anxiously.

“Um– I need to tell you something.” Jack’s hand falters his motions on your leg and he turns his head quickly, concern flashing on his features. Your tone, so nervous and anxious, had worried him, his chest twisting.

“Baby, what’s going on?” He coos, but he’s definitely on edge.

“It’s nothing, really. Um–” You pause, realising you hadn’t thought about a way to approach this with him. “I just really wanna have sex with you–” You blurt out. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. You wince and close your eyes in embarrassment. That’s definitely not the right way to do this

Jack’s face is even more confused, amusement flashing his features.

“Right. Baby, I’ve been waiting for you…” He reminds you gently. 

“No, no, I know.” You huff frustrated. “I– it’s about that. I just– fuck.” Your frustration builds at yourself for not being able to articulate your words well.

Jack sits up now, sensing your discomfort. He brings you closer to him, leaning on his shoulder now.

“Honey, focus, you’re okay. You can tell me anything.” His voice is immediately grounding. You breathe out shakily.

Silence hangs between you both, before you finally admit it.

“I can’t finish during sex.”

Silence continues to permeate the room. You’re so mortified. You don’t turn to look at his face. You can’t.

“You mean– you haven’t or you can’t?” His voice is gentle, a hand coming to stroke your hair. He’s definitely suspicious of your confession.

“I dunno… both, I guess. I’m not saying this to make it a challenge– people have done that before and it just makes it worse. I’m just warning you beforehand my body is wired differently and I don’t want you to feel bad if you can’t make it happen–”

“Oh, honey, is this why you’ve been hesitant to have sex?” He asks softly, interrupting your rambling.

You just hum in affirmation, embarrassed. 

Jack mulls over your words, he won’t argue and tell you he will make you finish but he seriously thinks this is a product of your previous boyfriends being inattentive and careless with you. Anger twists in his chest thinking about you thinking you’re somehow inadequate when it was your boyfriends who just took and took. 

“Listen to me, baby.” He tilts your face to look at him now. “I don’t care about that y’hear me?” He watches your expression falter, eyes full of vulnerability.

“If you can’t? Fine. I don’t want you any less, I just wanna make you feel loved, baby.” He can tell you’re still hesitant, but you nod. 

You smile shyly and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his lap as he plays with your hair. 

The days following your conversation you think over his words more, and a few days later, you tell him you wanna do it– be with him. 

He checks in multiple times throughout the day, making sure you’re okay, that you’re absolutely sure. But you also notice how much more often his touches linger. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but you can’t stop thinking about him. Everything about him that day is so much more gentle and careful with you. 

That evening, when he leads you onto the couch your body is thrumming with anxiety. You know what's about to happen, he knows. Why are you so scared? You’ve never been more tense, more afraid of something going wrong. This is the man you love. 

When you both sit on the couch, cuddling like you always do, he doesn’t make a move. Maybe he’s waiting for you. Your leg shakes as you try to figure out what’s meant to happen, what you’re supposed to do. 

Before you can overthink it, you drape yourself over his lap and crash your lips to kiss, a hungry desperate kiss. 

He returns it, a grunt of surprise before melting into it. Hands coming to gently rest on your face. The kiss is almost rough, your tongue intertwining with his. You can do this, you can make him feel good. Your brain already slips into making sure he’s pleased, unable to shake the habit from the past.

You move against his lap, and he groans in pleasure. The noise he makes thrills you, wanting to hear it again, you’ve never heard him like this. You try to grind again but he pulls away breathless, shaking his head.

“Baby, slow down.” He practically laughs caressing your cheek. He can’t lose his cool already, not when he plans to make you feel good.

Fuck.

Shame floods your chest and your cheeks heat, climbing off of him and curl up next to him. You somehow messed this up, you want the couch to open and swallow you up.

“Oh, my sweet girl. C’mere.” He coos, turning to face you. He realises how his words may have come across like a rejection, and that’s the last thing he wants you to think.

“I don’t wanna rush this” He places a hand on your thigh, dipping his head trying to find your eyes. He can tell how nervous you are, how much you’re overthinking this. “Lemme take over, yeah?” He asks softly. 

You meekly lift your head to meet his eyes before nodding. His eyes are blown out, he looks hungry. But there's an edge of restraint, he's holding back.

You don’t even have time to feel guilty before he cups your face and brings your lips to his again, slow, passionate. 

He leans forward, crowding you back against the couch until he’s lying over you. Your heart jumps at the closeness, the position you’re in.

You become breathless, almost gasping for air between each kiss. 

Jack moves from your lips, placing sweet kisses down your jaw. Your body erupts in goosebumps, you’re practically shivering at the contact. You don’t even register your hand lifting to comb through his hair, pulling him down onto your jaw for more.

You feel his lips twitch into a smirk.

“That feel good, baby?” He rasps. The low grumble of his voice has you bucking your hips into him, desperate for him. You get completely lost in his kisses–

“Words, baby.” He commands pulling away to look into your eyes. He smirks smugly as he sees how wrecked he’s made you with just his kisses.

You blink processing his request, breathless and annoyed he’s stopped kissing you.

“Yeah– please, Jack. Don’t st– ah!” You’re cut off by his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck, just below your ear. You whine as he sucks on your skin, for sure leaving a mark. Your body shivers again with the thought of him marking you that you involuntarily tug at his hair, which provokes a growl from Jack.

He detaches from your neck breathlessly dipping his head like you’ve just wrecked him with a simple tug.

“Do that again.” He commands low, before hungrily returning to your neck sucking more spots over and over.

A surge of confidence fills you knowing you have the capacity to make him feel just as wrecked as he does you. You continue to rake your hands through his curls, tugging occasionally loving his whines, as he sucks spots lower and lower down your collarbone and chest. 

His hand trails under your shirt, his cold hand making contact with your tummy and you tense involuntarily. He pauses looking up from where his head rests on your chest.

“You need to slow down?” His tone is so soft, gentle, it almost makes you cry.

“Nononon– please keep going,” you almost beg “Your hand was just cold.” You laugh embarrassed while stroking his hair.

He smirks at your neediness trying not to tease you more. 

He holds eye contact while his hands trail up your torso, goosebumps erupting throughout your body once again. You get flustered as he stares so intensely and you try to look away.

“Eyes on me.” He coos, bringing his fingers to tilt your head back to face him. Heat rushes in your face, your body practically shakes with anticipation. 

He lifts your top off so slowly, that you almost just beg for him to hurry up, for him to touch you. His hand slowly slides up from your hips up to your breasts, a hand coming to cup you over your bra as he returns to sucking spots at your collarbone. You get lost in the sensation once more, not noticing his other hand working at removing your bra. Once you peel it off he just stares. You almost go to hide, feeling self-conscious under his stare.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” He groans before directly leaning down and taking a nipple into his mouth.

Your hands grip the couch roughly and your back arches into him involuntarily.

“Fuck– ohmygod–” you whine at the sensation of his tongue swirling your nipples. You feel jack smirk against your breast, cocky fucker, before returning to suck on them hard. 

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good, you had no idea kisses and touches like this could wreck you.  

His teeth unexpectedly grazes your nipple and you moan. Your body shakes with overwhelm, you bring your hands to cup jacks face needing him to pause. 

His lips detach from your nipple and his pupils are black. He looks like a man starved. He tries to go back to sucking but you hold his face steady.

“Need– fuck– need a break, feels too good.” You pant. 

Jack blinks and his cocky smirk returns.

“Oh yeah?” He rasps, with a mock condescending tone. 

You want to even the playing field a bit so you paw at his shirt, needing him to take it off, which he complies by ripping it clean off so quickly you barely register it. He leans down to capture your lips again, but you push your body upwards into his to manoeuvre you both into sitting position. You’re on top of him now, your turn to wreck him. 

His eyes narrow and smiles at your little show of dominance, and he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, for now. 

You lean down to return the kisses he gave you. You test out his sensitive spots, kissing and sucking spots along his neck whilst raking your nails along his biceps, his back, his chest. 

His breathing is shallow and you hear him whine. 

Bingo.

You continue sucking in that spot on his neck, one hand tugging in his hair and another raking nails on his bicep. You love the sound of him falling apart. 

You feel his hips involuntarily buck into your and you know you have him under your finger. It’s your turn to smirk against his neck, peppering small kisses up his jaw before locking eyes with him and grinding down straight into his lap. 

His hands jolt to your waist, not roughly, but a firm presence. He holds you down as he groans loudly, coming to rest his head on your chest. You try to move again but his hands on your waists prevent it, and he sounds destroyed. 

Your smug, cocky victory is short lived. 

His hands are on your thighs in an instant and you’re suddenly jolted upwards, your legs wrap around his torso as you let out a startled yelp. He’s carrying you. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, baby.” He murmurs into your neck as he carries you towards his bedroom.

You’re plopped down onto his bed and you bounce a little. You don’t even get time to speak before he’s on you again, his kisses desperate.

His hands paw at your bottoms, sliding them off in one quick go before he cups your panties.

“You enjoy almost getting me to blow my load in my pants, hmmm?” He teases feeling how wet you are already. “Making me feel like a fucking teenager again–” He growls before latching onto your breast again.

His hand slides your panties off as he sucks you, and it all feels too good you whine as you paw at his belt, wanting him to take his pants off too, to be on equal playing ground.

Groaning, he reluctantly detaches again before quickly working at his belt. The sound of the clink and him sliding it through the loops has your stomach flipping as you breathlessly stare at him from the bed. 

As soon as they’re off he’s on you again, his fingers coming to your clit, spreading the wetness from your folds up and making small circles. You jolt a little at the feeling, not expecting his touch there.

“Jack– fuck– what’r you doing? You don’t have to–” You begin to tell him to not waste his time on you, you already know you won't be able to cum.

“M’working you up, baby.” He coos, not slowing his motions. “No pressure to finish, yeah? Just wanna make sure it doesn’t hurt.” 

You hesitate, staring into his eyes and you realise he’s being sincere. You swallow a lump in your throat, feeling extra vulnerable at the lengths of care you feel he’s taking for you. You nod before falling back against the bed, just letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his touches.

You feel the way his fingers move slow circles against your clit, how they adjust every time your breath hitches, as he’s searching for the right tempo and pressure to make you feel good. 

You can hear how wet you are, you almost feel embarrassed how his fingers glide through your folds so easily. He continues to pepper gentle kisses down your neck as his fingers stroke you, they move lower and lower until they reach your entrance.

You gasp as he pushes his fingers inside you, feeling full.

You let out small whines of pleasure as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He shushes you by placing his soft lips to yours, continuing to mumble sweet words.

“Just let go for me, baby.”

“Thaaaats it.”

“Rub your clit for me.”

You reach down to add pressure to your clit and immediately jolt at the feeling. It feels different. The pressure from his fingers inside you, curling upwards and continuously thrusting at a consistent pace is getting to you. 

Your lower stomach twists, he sucks on your neck as he rubs against the spongy spot inside you, you realise the pressure feels good. That the way you’re rubbing yourself as he thrusts into you while whispering is working. You try so hard to keep it there. Keep rubbing. Keep focused on the feeling. Focusing on his words–

It disappears. 

“Fuck!” You huff frustrated, tears welling in your eyes. He pulls his fingers out immediately, worried he’s hurt you and you curl up into yourself. “I can’t do it.” Your voice is wobbly as you berate yourself, wiping a tear off your face.

“Hey, easy, baby.” He soothes by rubbing a hand on your back. His heart clenches at the sight of your teary eyes.

“M’sorry, Jack,” you sniffle. “You spent so much time on me and I couldn’t–”

“No. Hey.” He stops you, firmly. “No apologies. M’not mad, not upset.” He coos, moving your hair away from your face.

“I did all of that because I wanted to. You didn’t ruin anything, y’hear me?” He cups your face making you look into his eyes.

You nod shyly, but you’re still feeling low about it, he can tell.

“Jack– It’s okay if you wanna just fuck me now. M’ready. I want it too.” You whisper looking up into his eyes, still on the verge of tears.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence.

“No.” His tone is final.

He has an inkling that you’re in your own head too much, putting too much pressure on yourself to perform even when he told you there’s no expectations. He can feel your frustration, just wanting to fix this for you. An idea lands in his head.

“I’m not done with you.” He says gently whilst moving down your body again. “If you’ll let me, I wanna try something else, yeah?” 

“But–” You begin to protest, feeling guilty he has to try so hard on you.

“It’s for me. Not for you. Humour me, okay?” He asks so politely, you don’t wanna deprive him of something he enjoys. So you nod. 

“Lay back for me completely, baby.” You oblige, breathing heavily. 

 You feel his fingers in your folds again, they linger on your clit before he gently thrusts them back inside you. You lie back, continuing to feel the pressure but you can’t shake the guilt.

You feel his hot breath ghost over your mound. You jerk your head up, he’s staring directly at you before he places his lips directly on your clit and sucks. 

Your body jolts, arching your back off the bed, your hand landing in his hair once more. You were not expecting this.

“Jack– ohgod.” You breathe as he simultaneously works his fingers inside you and tongues your clit. He smirks at your reaction.

“That feel good?” He’s cocky, but he’s also checking in on you. You nod fervently and guide his head back down. He obliges wordlessly and gets back to working your clit. You’ve never been made to finish with someone else's fingers, but no one has ever tried this. 

He hears your small whines and it takes all the restraint in his body to keep focused on you, as much as he wants to just take his cock and slide it inside you, to watch your eyes widen as he fills you up, he wants you to feel good. 

You feel the familiar pressure build in your lower stomach. 

You start squirming, your lower half somehow both chasing his mouth but trying to get away from it. You’re getting overwhelmed, your body experiencing too much at once, and this is where you usually tap out, where it dissipates.

Jack senses it. He feels you clenching around his fingers. Feels your whines becoming more high pitched and breathless. He doesn’t want you to think too much about finishing, can’t have you waiting for the build because it’s gonna drive it away.

He doesn’t change his pace, his fingers continue thrusting, and his tongue doesn’t speed up on your clit, he keeps everything consistent.

“Jack–” You whine, feeling overwhelmed but knowing it’s not going to work, edging towards overstimulation.

He glances up to meet your eyes but doesn’t stop his motions, searching your face. He can see you’re wrecked. He’s desperate for you to fall off the edge, you’re right there. 

So he distracts you.

In one smooth motion, he removes his mouth. You almost whine in sadness before he replaces them with his fingers, eliciting a stronger reaction from you, and he says, in the most casual tone:

“You finish your charting?” 

What?

“My– Jack– what?” You huff out breathlessly but he doesn’t slow his fingers from toying with your clit and thrusting inside you

You try to answer his question, racking your brain.

But you can’t think.

It feels too good.

Your mind goes completely blank.

And you let go.

You fall apart completely. You clench around his fingers and your legs shake involuntarily.

“Fuck–!” You moan loudly. Jack continues to work you through your orgasm, not stopping for a minute.

He pulls the pleasure from your body, the only thing you register is the waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. Your back is arched off the bed and your eyes are squeezed shut as Jack manages the impossible.

You didn’t know it could feel this good.

You finally start squirming trying to get away, and he eases his fingers out of you. You’re practically shaking, breaths coming out heavily as you lay on the bed completely destroyed.

You feel him slide up the bed, tucking himself under you so your head rests in his lap and he just strokes your head, moving strands of hair out of your face from where they’ve stuck to you as you’ve gotten sweaty. 

You slowly calm down, coming back to yourself and shyly open your eyes. He’s already staring down at you, smiling so wide. 

Despite yourself, you blush. Like he hadn’t just made you completely fall apart.

“My sweet girl.” He coos, stroking your cheek.

You try to hide your face in your arms, feeling impossibly shy at his words.

“Oh, c’mere, baby.” He coaxes you out of hiding. “Y’getting all shy? After I just made you cum so hard?” He teases gently and you groan, turning around to sit in his lap, resting your head in his neck.

“Jaaaaack.” You whine.

“Okay, I hear ya, baby. No more teasin’,” he rubs a hand down your back, then his tone gets impossible quiet, like you’ve never heard before. “That was okay, right, sweetheart?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours.

You can’t help but laugh. 

“Okay?” You scoff.

“Jack, that was– everything.” You tell him, kissing his cheek. 

He settles down a little after that, the brief shyness leaving him. 

“My turn, please.” You beg whilst reaching down to his crotch where you can feel the erection poking through from where you’re sat above him.

He grabs your wrists as you touch the waist band of his shorts, stopping you, you frown.

“Darlin’, believe me. Any other night, absolutely,” He pauses stroking your cheek. “But I need you so bad right now, need to be inside you.”

“Oh.” You whisper, a shy smile coating your face as you realise how wrecked he is. Rising from his lap and allowing him to remove his boxers, you settle back down onto the bed. He’s on top of you in an instant. “Jack– I can get on top, wanna ride you.” You say shyly.

“Fucccck,” he groans. “Baby, I want that, but I’m not gonna last. Next time. Let me feel you this way. Please.” He begs while positioning himself between your legs.

You wrap your legs around him as the tip of his cock slides through your folds. Your breath hitches when it nudges against your clit, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock makes it twitch against you, and he lets out a low groan at the feeling. Jack repeats the motion a few times before bringing the tip to your entrance.

You instinctively brace, knowing how painful it always is. Jack sees this, leaning down to kiss your neck and calming you down, relaxing you.

“S’okay, relax.” He coos before dipping his head into your neck, and pushing in.

He pushes in slowly, so slowly he’s losing his restraint. 

But it doesn’t hurt. 

He’d worked you open so well, kept you so relaxed, you just feel full.

You moan as he bottoms out, a hand tugging at his curls and the other gripping his bicep. You nod fervently,

“You can move, please, move–” You don’t even finish your begs, your permission is all he needs to start letting go and thrusting into you.

You swear you’ve never felt so good in your life, the level of intimacy is unmatched.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He whines 

His eyes meet yours as he thrusts, and as always his stare is intense. His pupils are blown and he looks destroyed. 

He fits so perfectly inside you, you’re so full, you can’t help but moan. 

You’re clenching around him so perfectly, your breasts bouncing with every thrust and he can’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re doing so good f’me.” He praises even though he looks like he’s on the edge. 

Holding himself up on one arm to continue his movements, he brings a second to your clit.

You don’t expect his touch once more, so lost in how full you feel, how heavenly it all is, that you hadn’t realised how close you were again, and his simple touch pulls a second orgasm from you.

You fall apart even more, gripping his hair, nails leaving marks on his bicep as you shake around him, clenching. 

That’s all he needs to finish.

Your beautiful moans, the way you don’t break eye contact, the feel of you coming undone on his cock, he’s gone.

His thrusts stagger, becoming more desperate and frantic, his hold on your waist tightens as he grips onto you bringing you down onto his cock. His head lulls next to your head, hot breath in your ear as he groans, his seed spilling inside you. 

He’s completely wrecked, his last few after-orgasm thrusts jolt you, overstimulating. He lets his body go and completely crashes down onto you like a weighted blanket, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.

You’re both breathing so heavily, he’s still inside you as your aftershocks move through you, clenching involuntarily, but he seems to enjoy the feeling even as sensitive as he is.

“Y’were perfect for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear. 

Your heart clenches at his words, how soft he’d been with you the whole time. He was so caring, so focused on you, praising you throughout the whole thing, he never took, he just kept giving and giving. He made sure it didn’t hurt. You realise that you’ve been accepting subpar treatment your whole life and just brushing it off.

In your post-orgasmic blank brain, you can’t process the emotions and a few silent tears spill from your eyes at the complete overwhelm of emotions.

Your sniffles are what alert Jack, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart drops into his stomach, panic flooding him.

“Hey, hey, talk to me.” His tone is so soft you feel guilty for worrying him. He moves to pull out, but you’re not thinking straight and you lock your legs around him, not wanting him to leave.

You just reach around and koala-bear hug him. He settles a little knowing he hasn’t hurt you, that you still wanted him touching you.

“Gotta talk to me, baby.” He pleads, cupping your face.

You’re not silent for much longer, calming down enough to stop his worry.

“You– felt so good.” Your voice is high pitched, almost shy. “You cared for me.” You sniffle.

Jack’s heart practically breaks.

“Oh, baby.” He coos, bringing you into his chest. Peppering many kisses into your hair. “M’always gonna take care of you.” He says so gently you can’t help but let out another tear, but you’re smiling now.

“I love you.” You whisper, eyes full of tears, him still inside you. 

He breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Baby you got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” He kisses you, soft, passionately.

“I love you too.”

You had been three weeks into your clinical placement at the Pitt. Three weeks of a schedule that left approximately forty minutes between your last lecture and your first shift, which was theoretically enough time to eat and practically never was. You had been reviewing a chart and trying not to think about the fact that you hadn't eaten since six that morning, which was getting harder as the afternoon wore on and your body made its feelings increasingly known.

Jack Abbot had appeared at the nurses' station, assessed the board, and placed the granola bar beside you without breaking stride.

You had looked at it. Then at him.

He was looking at the board.

"You haven't eaten," he said. Not a question.

"I'm fine," you said, the way you always said it, the automatic deflection of someone who had been managing on insufficient resources for long enough that it had become simply the texture of life.

"You've been here since seven," he said. "It's three-fifteen."

Your stomach, with exquisite timing, made a sound that was heard by the nurse three feet to your left, who looked up with the expression of someone pretending they hadn't heard anything.

You ate the granola bar.

Jack said nothing, which was, you would come to understand, one of his most fluent languages.

It happened again the following week. And the week after. Not always a granola bar, sometimes a sandwich from the cafeteria, set down with the same wordless efficiency. Once, a proper coffee from the place down the block, which meant he had gone out of his way, which you noticed and did not mention because mentioning it would have made it into something and you were still at the stage of pretending it wasn't anything.

You thanked him. He said mm and returned to whatever he was doing. The pattern established itself.

And then, on a Tuesday in November, he appeared at your elbow with an expression that suggested he had been thinking about something and had arrived at a conclusion.

"When do you eat?" he said.

You blinked. "Sorry?"

"Your meals," he said. "I've been watching your schedule for three weeks and I can't find where food is happening."

There was something in the directness of it that caught you off guard, not unkind, just completely uninterested in the polite fiction that everything was fine. Jack Abbot, you were learning, had a particular relationship with the gap between what people said and what was actually true, and he had very little patience for living inside it.

"When I can," you said.

"Which isn't enough," he said.

You looked at him, and he looked back, and something passed between you that was simply the acknowledgment of a true thing, and you were tired enough that you didn't try to talk around it.

"It's nursing school," you said. "It's temporary."

"Temporary doesn't mean it doesn't matter," he said, and the simplicity of it landed somewhere real, and you looked at your chart and said nothing.

He was quiet for a moment, in the way he was quiet when he was making a decision.

"I have a proposition," he said.

He laid it out with the precise economy of a man presenting a clinical plan.

His therapist had suggested he needed something outside of work — an activity, a routine, something that wasn't the hospital. He had not been implementing this suggestion. He was spending his days off doing paperwork. His therapist had strong feelings about this. He had, he said, with the slight stiffness of someone being honest about something they found uncomfortable, been told that the paperwork needed to stop.

You had kept your face admirably neutral.

The proposition was this: you planned the day off. Something real, something outside these walls, something with no blood in it. He didn't care what. In return, he ensured you ate — lunch, on shift days, and whatever you wanted on the days out.

"You want to pay for my food," you said carefully, "in exchange for me planning activities for you."

"I want to make sure you're eating," he said, "in exchange for you making sure I leave this building occasionally."

"As friends," you said.

"As an arrangement," he said, which was not quite the same thing, and you both knew it, and neither of you said so.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay," he said.

And that was that.

The first Saturday was a farmer's market, chosen partly for practicality and partly because you wanted to see what Jack Abbot did with an unstructured morning and fresh air. The answer, it turned out, was that he moved through it with the same assessing efficiency he moved through everything — stopping at the stalls that warranted stopping at, bypassing the ones that didn't, and having opinions about cheese that were both unexpected and extremely specific.

He picked up a hard sheep's milk variety at the third stall and looked at it with the focused attention of someone making a clinical decision.

"This one," he said.

"You've had it before?" you asked.

"No," he said. "The texture is right."

"You can tell the texture from looking at it?"

"Yes," he said, simply, and bought it.

He was correct. You ate it with bread from the bakery two stalls down, standing in the cold with paper bags in your hands, and it was genuinely excellent, and he looked at you in a way that was trying to be neutral about being right and not entirely managing it.

He paid for everything. You tried to protest at the bread and he looked at you with an expression that communicated the protest was not going to be successful, and you let it go, and he carried the bag, and the two of you walked back through the market in the November cold and talked about things that had nothing to do with the hospital. He told you about Pittsburgh — the city he had grown up in and never really left, the particular relationship of belonging to a place so thoroughly that leaving it had simply never seemed like the right option. You told him about the town you'd come from, flat and quiet and nothing like this, and he listened with the quality of attention he gave things he was genuinely interested in, which was total and unhurried and made you feel like the most interesting person in the market.

At the end of it, walking back through the cold, he had said: "That was not bad."

"High bar," you said.

"I don't set low bars," he said, and the corner of his mouth did the thing — small and tucked away and entirely real — and you looked at the street ahead of you and told yourself, very firmly, that corners of mouths were not your business.

The weeks passed and the arrangement continued and something grew inside it that neither of you named.

A gallery, where he had quiet and considered things to say about almost everything, delivered in the low voice he used when he was talking about something that mattered. A walk along the river in the cold where he produced a thermos of coffee from somewhere without being asked and handed it to you with the practicality of someone who had simply anticipated what was needed. A bookshop where you had spent two hours moving between the shelves and he had bought four books and looked more comfortable than you'd seen him anywhere outside the hospital, the managed quality of him softening in the particular way it did when he was somewhere he felt permitted to just be.

And every shift day, without fail, food appeared.

Not always from him directly — sometimes it was Dana, handing you something with the composed neutrality of a woman who was absolutely making something of it and had decided not to say so, or a note on the counter in handwriting that was exactly as efficient as you would have expected. You ate. You organised Saturdays. The weeks turned over.

You were careful.

You were careful because naming it would risk it, and the thing that was growing inside the arrangement was — it was good, in a way that things you were afraid to lose were good. The quiet particular warmth of someone who had decided to pay attention to you and was extremely thorough about it. You did not want to say I think this has stopped being an arrangement and have him step back into the professional distance and have the Saturdays stop and have the coffee stop appearing, and so you said nothing, and he said nothing, and the something kept building without a name through November and into December.

The gallery had a winter exhibition.

You had mentioned it once, three weeks before, in passing — barely a sentence, just there's a winter exhibition at the gallery I like, I've been meaning to go — and had moved on, and had not thought about it again.

On a Wednesday, Jack appeared at the nurses' station and said: "Saturday. The gallery."

You looked up. "You remembered that."

"I remember things," he said, which was both true and an understatement, and went back to the board.

You looked at the space where he'd been and felt something warm and complicated settle in your chest, and said nothing about it, and went back to your chart.

The gallery was warm and hushed in the particular way of places where people were looking at things carefully.

You moved through it side by side, the months having produced a comfortable physical proximity that didn't need to be negotiated anymore — you had learned each other's pace and stopping points, knew without discussing it when the other one was ready to move on. The winter exhibition was all cold colours and deep textures, paintings that felt like weather, like standing inside a season. You moved through them slowly, taking your time, and the city outside was doing exactly what the paintings suggested it should be.

At the back of the room was a large canvas — blues and greys, the colour of the river at this time of year, the kind of painting that felt less like looking at something and more like being in it. You both stopped in front of it at the same time, without deciding to, and stayed.

The gallery was quiet.

"It looks like the river," you said, after a while.

"In winter," he said. "Yes."

"Do you like winter?" The question came out softer than you'd meant it, something in the room making the small personal questions feel permitted.

"I like that it's honest," he said. "It doesn't pretend to be warmer than it is."

You looked at him then.

He was still looking at the painting, his hands in his pockets, the gallery light catching the grey at his temples and the lines of his face, and you thought about all of it — the granola bar and the cheese and the thermos of coffee and four books in a bag and a passing comment filed for three weeks — and the thing that had been building quietly for months arrived at the surface all at once, and you were too tired of being careful to push it back down.

"Jack," you said.

"Mm."

"I think this stopped being an arrangement a while ago," you said.

The gallery was very still.

He turned to look at you, and you were facing each other in front of the painting that looked like the river, and his face was doing the open thing, the fully unguarded thing that only came out in particular lights and particular moments, and there was nothing managed about it.

"I know," he said.

The two words landed with the weight of everything they contained — not a surprise, not a confession, just the quiet acknowledgment of something that had been true for a while and had been waiting to be said.

"When?" you said.

He was quiet for a moment, thinking about it properly rather than reaching for the nearest answer.

"The farmer's market," he said. "The cheese."

You stared at him. "The cheese."

"You trusted me," he said. "Without tasting it first, without asking anyone else — you just took my word for it." He paused, looking at you with that steady, direct quality. "I wasn't used to that. Someone just — trusting that I was right about something small, without needing proof first."

"You were right," you said.

"I know," he said. "But you didn't know that yet."

You held his gaze and thought about how precisely that was the truest thing anyone had said about him in your presence, and about how characteristic it was that he had fallen somewhere between a stall and a piece of sheep's milk cheese because someone had simply trusted him.

"I knew before the farmer's market," you said.

"When?" he asked, and his voice had dropped into the quieter register, the real one.

"The coffee from the place down the block," you said. "You went out of your way. You didn't say anything about it, you just — did it, because you'd noticed I needed it." You looked at him. "Nobody does that without meaning something by it. I knew then."

He looked at you for a long moment, and the gallery was very quiet and the painting was the river and the city outside was cold and honest, and then he said:

"I'd like to take you to dinner. A real one. Not the arrangement." He held your gaze, steady and certain, the particular certainty of a man who had thought something through completely and was not going to qualify it. "I'd like to do that properly."

"Okay," you said, and your voice came out softer than you'd planned.

"There's something I need to say first," he said. "Before dinner. Before anything else."

"Okay," you said again.

He turned toward you slightly, closing the distance between you to something that was barely a distance, and his voice stayed low and even but the managed quality was entirely gone from his face now.

"I haven't done this in a long time," he said. "Wanting something like this. I'd — stopped expecting it, I think. Stopped making room for it." He paused, choosing carefully. "And then you came into my hospital and didn't eat enough and trusted me about cheese, and I found myself making room again without deciding to." He looked at you with the full direct quality of it, the thing that felt like being actually seen. "I want you to know that it isn't the arrangement for me. It hasn't been for a long time. What I feel for you is — it's real, and it's not temporary, and I wanted to say that clearly before we go any further."

Your chest did something so large and so complete that you didn't have a word for it.

"Jack," you said.

"I know it's a lot," he said.

"It's not a lot," you said. "It's — " You stopped, because the thing you wanted to say was also large and also real and also needed to be said properly. "I came here from a flat town where nothing happened and I thought nursing school would be the whole thing, the entire shape of the next few years, and then you put a granola bar down in front of me and looked at the board instead of at me and I thought — I thought, this person sees things." You held his gaze. "You see things, Jack. You saw that I wasn't eating before I'd even noticed you noticing me. You went out of your way for a coffee and didn't mention it. You remembered a gallery exhibition I said once in passing." Your voice was very steady and very honest. "I have been falling in love with you since November and I need you to know that it's not the arrangement either. It's you. Just you."

The gallery held them both in its warm quiet hush.

Jack looked at you for a long moment — at your face, at the particular open quality of someone who had said a true thing and was letting it sit — and then he closed the remaining distance between you and his hand came up to your jaw in the certain, unhurried way he did things, tilting your face toward his, and he kissed you.

It was not tentative. It was not the careful, exploratory kiss of two people testing something uncertain — it was the kiss of someone who had decided, completely and without reservation, and was acting on it. Warm and thorough and entirely present, his hand steady at your jaw and the other finding your waist and pulling you in close enough that there was no distance left between you, and you kissed him back with everything that had been building since November, since the granola bar, since the coffee he'd gone out of his way for, since the farmer's market in the cold.

His mouth was warm and certain against yours and he kissed you the way he did everything that mattered to him — with total attention, with nothing held back, with the particular quality of someone who had waited long enough that there was no reason to be anything other than completely present in the moment. You felt it everywhere, the warmth of it spreading through you in the specific way of something that had been heading here for months and had finally, irrevocably, arrived.

When you finally pulled back you were both slightly less composed than you'd been thirty seconds ago, and his forehead came down to rest against yours, and his hand was still warm at your jaw, and the gallery was very still around you.

"Dinner," he said, eventually.

"Yes," you said.

"Tonight," he said.

"Yes," you said again.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, and his face was doing something you had never seen it do before — open and warm and slightly undone, the fully real version of him, the one that lived underneath all the professional composure, and it was the best thing you'd ever seen.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," you said.

On Monday, Dana set a coffee on the nurses' station in front of you without comment.

You looked at it. Then at her.

"He's in surgery," she said, with complete composure. "He asked me to make sure you had one."

You picked up the coffee and held it in both hands and thought about all the ways a person could say I'm thinking about you without saying it, and about how Jack Abbot had been saying it since November in every way except out loud, and about how last night at dinner he had said it out loud too, plainly and without ceremony, over pasta and good wine in a restaurant that wasn't the hospital, and about how you intended to keep hearing him say it for a very long time.

"Dana," you said.

"Mm," she said, already moving.

"Did you know? From the beginning?"

She paused.

Looked at you over her shoulder with the expression she wore when she was deciding exactly how much to give.

"Since the farmer's market," she said. "He came back with cheese and looked different." A beat. "Drink your coffee."

You drank your coffee.

Down the corridor, somewhere past the double doors, Jack Abbot was in the middle of something that had nothing to do with you, and had still, in the margins of it, made sure you were taken care of.

Some things, you thought, didn't need an arrangement.

you stand near the sliding glass doors, a walking, breathing vibrance of color and sound that completely disrupts the boring stillness of the building. as a public high school art teacher, your personal style leans heavily into a loud, unapologetic alt aesthetic. today, you are wearing an oversized, patch-covered denim jacket over a band tee, fishnets under ripped jeans, and combat boots that click heavily against the linoleum. the faint jingle of your stacked necklaces and piercings accompanies every tilt of your head, and your arms are a living canvas of tattoos that stretch down to your knuckles.

you are waiting to pick samira up from her shift. since her car broke down a couple of days ago you agreed to pick her up. afterall, you shared an apartment and she’d had to drive to work more than once when your own car didn’t want to cooperate, so it was only fair. to pass the time, you pace around, minding the people around you to make sure you don’t bother any of the doctors and nurses around you. you pass the time, humming to the tune blasting through your headphones, entirely oblivious to the stares of the passing staff.

from across the central nurses' station, dr. jack abbott stops mid-sentence.

he is holding a patient chart, his expression usually a mask of calm, focused professionalism. but as his gaze lands on you, his hands freeze. he watches, utterly fascinated, as you throw your head back and laugh at something on your phone, your smile bright enough to cut through the oppressive hospital lighting. you are entirely out of place in his world, yet he cannot seem to look away from your magnetic energy.

"earth to jack," samira says, snapping her fingers in front of his face as she approaches the desk with her own stack of files. "robby said he needs the lab results for the girl in bay five."

jack blinks, clearing his throat as he quickly adjusts his white coat, a subtle flush creeping up his neck. "right. sorry. just... noticed someone near the ambulance bay."

samira follows his gaze, her eyes softening into an immediate, knowing smirk when she sees your familiar figure pacing near the glass doors. "ah. that's my best friend. she's here to pick me up."

jack doesn't say anything else, but his eyes trail after you until you and samira finally exit the building, your loud, animated hand gestures visible even through the glass.

the next day, the hospital is calmer than usual, with few intakes and only few complicated cases, but jack’s mind is entirely elsewhere. he waits until a mutual break in the doctors' lounge before he casually slides into the chair across from samira, holding two cups of fresh coffee.

he hands one to her, offering a practiced, easygoing smile. "rough shift yesterday. did you and your friend manage to get some rest?"

samira takes the cup, her dark eyes flashing with sharp amusement. she leans back, watching him over the rim of her mug. "we did, yeah. though she stayed up until 2:00 am grading watercolor projects. why do you ask?"

jack shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. for a man who handles high-stress medical emergencies without breaking a sweat, he looks remarkably nervous right now. "she just... seems very different from you. a bit of a polar opposite."

"she is," samira agrees, enjoying his transparent curiosity. "she teaches art at a local high school. i’ve lost count of how many half-finished sculptures and stray paint supplies i’ve found laying around the apartment. but she's the best person i know."

"an art teacher," jack echoes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he pictures your vibrant energy in a classroom full of teenagers. "that fits. she certainly has a presence."

"she does," samira says, leaning forward with a sudden, calculating glint in her eye.

she recognizes that look on jack's face; the clean-cut, professional doctor abbot is completely smitten by a girl who looks like she belongs at a underground rock show.

"in fact, she's been trying to drag me out to this new dive bar downtown for weeks to celebrate the end of the school semester. i think i'm finally going to give in tonight. you should come with us, jack. get out of the scrubs for once."

jack hesitates for a fraction of a second, his usual reservations wrestling with the image of your bright smile. "i wouldn't want to intrude on your friends night."

"trust me," samira says, hiding her grin as she stands up to return to the floor. "you won't be intruding at all."

"i was thinking of getting a new tattoo," you casually comment, adjusting the heavy silver septum ring in your nose as you look at yourself in the mirror of the dive bar’s restroom.

you have fully leaned into your favorite look tonight: all plaid and leather, covered in enamel pins, heavy eyeliner that accentuates your expressive eyes, and your favorite platform boots. 

"cool. where this time?" samira says as she finished retouching her lipstick.

“honestly? no idea. but one of my students drew this beautiful moth the other day and i asked for her permission to get it tattooed.”

samira’s eyebrows lift. “what did she say?”

“she asked me if i had hit my head.” you chuckle. “no, but seriously. it’s really good. girl has talent.”

finally, you slide out of the restroom, instantly absorbing the atmosphere of the bar. they’re playing an old classic rock tune, the neon signs are buzzing, and the air smells faintly of beer and fried food. it’s perfect.

but as you approach the booth samira pointed at, your eyes widen slightly. sitting in one of the cushioned seats, looking incredibly handsome in a casual dark sweater and jeans that show off his broad shoulders, is the doctor you saw briefly at the hospital yesterday. jack abbot.

you’d noticed him moving around, carrying a air of professionalism around him. you noticed the way he respectfully corrected the interns, how he was open to help anyone who approached him for help. and of, course, the fact that he was of the most attractive men you’d seen in a long time also didn’t go unnoticed.

the moment you’d gotten into your car, you couldn't help it nad had asked samira about him. she’d told you how much she admired him, how much she enjoyed working with him.

“why you ask?” she’d questioned, turning to look at you as you drove.

you simply shrugged. “just curious.”

"hey!" now your voice naturally carries over the music as you slide into the booth opposite him, leaning your elbows on the sticky wooden table. "you're samira's coworker, right? jack?"

jack looks up, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak. up close your energy is overwhelming in the best possible way. the sharp contrast of your dark, alternative aura against your warm, animated expression takes his breath away.

"i… yes," jack stammers slightly before catching himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. "i'm jack."

samira watches the exchange with a playful glint in her eyes and finally sits down next to you.

"it's nice to meet you doc," you laugh, waving a hand casually, the silver rings on your fingers catching the red neon light. "should we order the loaded fries? because if i don't get carbs in my system after dealing with thirty freshman who think drawing dicks on their desks is avant-garde, i am going to pass out."

for the next two hours, the dynamic of the table is entirely driven by you. you are loud, passionate, and hilarious as you recount stories of your high school art students, your absolute disdain for school board budgets, and a bunch of anecdotes involving some of your students' parents.

jack is completely smitten. he doesn't just listen; he hangs on every single word you say. every time you laugh, his entire face lights up. whenever you lean in to emphasize a point, your hand occasionally brushing against his arm, a spark of pure electricity flashes in his eyes. he asks you insightful questions about art theory, about your experience as a teacher, genuinely interested, his deep voice a smooth, grounding anchor to your rapid-fire storytelling.

you, however, are completely, blissfully oblivious.

you think he is just being polite. you assume that a clean-cut, successful doctor like jack abbot is just being a good sport by hanging out with his colleague’s weird, loud friend. you treat him with the easy, teasing familiarity you show everyone, entirely missing the way his gaze lingers on your lips or how his hand hovers near yours on the table.

samira sits back, sipping her drink, watching the entire exchange unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a master chess player. she sees jack practically vibrating with a desire to ask for your number, and she sees you, completely blind to the fact that you have just brought a brilliant medical professional to his knees.

"you know," samira announces suddenly, checking her phone with an incredibly unconvincing look of surprise. "i completely forgot i promised to call the supervisor back about the weekend schedule. i need to step outside where it's quiet. and honestly, i'm exhausted. i might just take a rideshare back to the apartment."

jack knows she's lying, fully knowing the supervisor isn't going to pick up any work calls at this time, but he doesn't say anything. instead, he calmly takes a swig of his beer.

you blink, confused. "wait, really? but we haven't even finished the fries!"

"jack will help you finish them," samira says smoothly, sliding out of the booth before you can protest. she catches jack’s eye, giving him a subtle, encouraging nod that says don't mess this up, before turning to you. "don't stay up too late, babe."

the silence that settles over the booth after samira leaves is suddenly charged with a completely different kind of energy. without her presence acting as a buffer, you suddenly realize how close jack is sitting across from you. the red neon light casts long, dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and the intense, focused warmth in his eyes.

"well," you say, laughing a bit nervously as you pop a fry into your mouth. "i guess it’s just us now. sorry if i bored you with all the art talk. samira usually tunes me out after ten minutes."

"you didn't bore me at all," jack says softly. he leans forward, crossing his forearms on the table, closing the distance between you. the noise of the bar seems to fade into the background as he looks at you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "in fact, i don't think i've been this entertained during a conversation in a very long time. you're passionate about what you do. it's... beautiful to watch."

you freeze, a fry halfway to your mouth. your heart does a sudden, erratic skip against your ribs. you look at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke, but his expression is entirely earnest, filled with a raw admiration that makes your cheeks flush hot.

"wait," you say, your loud demeanor suddenly dropping into something softer, a little vulnerable. "are you... are you flirting with me right now, dr. abbot?"

jack lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes fixed entirely on yours. "i've been trying to flirt with you since i sat down. thanks for noticing."

"i don’t usually do subtle, jack," you mutter, a sheepish smile breaking across your face as you fiddle with one of your rings. "if you want my attention, you’re gonna have to be as straightforward as possible."

"good to know," jack says, his smile widening into something incredibly charming. he reaches across the small table, his large, warm hand covering yours, his thumb gently tracing the edge of one of your rings. the contrast of his clean, unblemished skin against your inked hand is striking, and it sends a shiver straight down your spine. "then let me be completely direct. i want to take you out. on a real date. you pick the loud, non-traditional place you want to take me to."

you look down at his hand on yours, then up into his steady, hopeful eyes. the realization that this incredibly handsome, structured man is genuinely captivated by your chaotic, alt self sends a rush of pure excitement through you.

"a real date, huh?" you tease, your usual bold confidence returning as you flip your hand over to interlock your fingers with his, your silver rings clicking against his skin. "you think you can handle a loud art teacher, doc? i don't exactly do quiet dinners."

"i think," jack says, his grip tightening around yours with a fierce certainty, "that i can handle exactly whatever you want to throw at me."

both of the young men looked to robby— who did nothing to ease the growing nerves— as he nodded in confirmation. 

“she’s right.”

“b-but the patient is a teen. and—” “teens still need physicians. especially ones who specialize in their age group of medical care.” it was said matter of factly to ogilvies excuse. a poor one. because even a med student should know that. everyone knows that. “and seeing the extent of the injury, and the type it is, ortho needs to get in on this. it’s standard procedure.” robby explains lightly. still obvious in his tone of voice. but not demeaning.

ogilvie stays quiet. a crease between his eyebrows. almost as if he's slowly dissecting what was just said. whitaker paled next to him. “oh boy.”

—

"let's just let them assess the patient and uh— unless asked directly, just" whitaker motioned with his hands "try to keep to yourself." it was said carefully. unsure if it was more for himself than ogilvie. even if being aware of med students eagerness.

and off the side, tablet in grasp, robby laughed under breath.

they were still fresh. one more than the other. easy to spot and easier to kill. figuratively speaking. and while he finds humor in it now, the attending knows what it's like to have been bit by the shark and his wife. never has he admitted to it, but its happened once or twice in his career.

both exceptional and outstanding physicians, you guys were also extremely brutal. you more so than your husband.

robby was known to be hard. he was known to be honest. but your honesty couldn’t compare. your voice never raised. it never fell. it was collected. too collected for someone who was about to chew someone else out. he’d experienced it himself. and after that, he was careful on where to dip his toes.

“dr.park.” 

you’d come in first, and not long after, your husband did. your eyes briefly panning over the room before landing on familiar ones.

“doctor.”

ogilvie stilled at the address. remembering just why you referred to him as that.

“I see you’ll be joining us?”

the student glanced over to whitaker. the advice from earlier apparent. he looked back to you, then to brendon— who was staring expectantly above his lashes— as if looking to the man would help the ms in answering his wife. james couldn’t tell what was worse. your stare. or brendons.

“she’s talking to you, genius.” park says it drily. the students brain catching up as he slowly nods. “I uh, yes.” you make a face of faux approval.

“okay then. feel free to interrupt during the assessment.”

your teeth already sinking in and he hasn’t even done anything. yet. robby pursed his lips at the penetration of your words. knowing what you meant, seeing as he was there for the first time.

“why don’t you go ahead and begin the presentation.” your head motioning for him speak. and albeit the initial impression he made with you, you were being genuine, even if your words came off as a bait.

“a tibial eminence fracture?” brendons brows raised as ogilvie finished.

“that’s what I heard.” you murmured from the patients side. “rare.” sending the kid a warm smile, a subtle hand squeeze— all before turning your body around. the switch was startling. if someone saw, they didn’t say anything. and they wouldn’t want to.

“xray?” you glanced up in expectancy.

robby pulls out the screen. brendon nodding when he sees it. “clean break.”

“anesthetics?” you asked, attention still on the patient. robby listing off the meds.

yours and brendons eyes find each others. surgery. a silent agreement. his head nodding as your gloves come off. “I’ll prep the OR.”

your eyes rolling at the announcement that you were waiting to deliver to the patient before brendon did. your eyes catching wet ones as the kid looks to you for assurance. trying to lift the weight of the situation, you make a face, hand waving back to where your husband walked out.

“he never listens.” you prop up the gurney rails to get him ready. “our boys do better.” the corner of his mouth perking up from one side as he wipes his nose. his hand grasping yours. squeezing like earlier if not tighter.

“do you guys know each other?”

the question has you smiling. exposed. out in the open. even if there were others still in trauma. the innocence of it causing your front to break. you glance to where brendon left. but before you could answer—

“they’re married.”

and just like that, you were back. giving one last squeeze to the kids hand as they wheeled him out. your head turning to ogilvie who stared wide eyed.

—

her fingers faltered at the tablet, trying to keep her mind on the patient as she waited. ogilvie stood off to the side. eyeing her as he himself waited. dana had told him to assist. insisted on it apparently. from what ogilvie told the resident.

and when robby came by to see where things were at, looking to samira for an answer on why the student was in there—without actually asking—she carefully explains. “dana thought it’d be a good opportunity for him to—”

“I don’t know why- i was looking to get in on the trauma that came in. I wanted to practice my intubation for my medical procedure log but I was told I’d be learning a lot if I were to help dr. mohan.” the med student interrupts. robby and samira share a quick look before robby clasps his hands together and nods. albeit not being okay with the charge nurse assigning his students to cases without letting him know, he sees…why she did it.

the attending bites his lower lip. “I think dana is right. you’ll learn from this so just uh—” he scratches his beard. “wait for peds. dr.park is an exceptional pediatrician—”

“dr. park?” ogilvie asked looking to samira then back to robby.

“yes, she's—” “a child was abandoned?” your gloves snapped on as you walked in.

“dr.park.” robby acknowledged. you spare a side glance and a lifted hand. a wave. “present the case.”

ogilvie speaks as samira opens her mouth, "sats 99 on room air, normal bp, normal pulse…” your eyes brief them over, before shifting your attention to the small patient.

“well hydrated.” robby says from behind.

“how’s she doing?” you asked as you adjusted the blanket.

“she's seems happy enough. we got a quick a point-of-care CBC.” samira said softly. patiently waiting for you to examine baby jane doe.

“we don’t know the birth history and—” he speaks again.

“I’m aware.” you interrupt this time. sparing the kid a look. “you said so in the case presentation and it’s the indication you gave me. unless you—” “I know I just wanted to validate.” samira and robby don’t say a thing.

your head tilts as you stare at him. eyes sharpen. “student?” you question.

“dr. ogilvie. I’m actually a student doctor,” “I didn’t ask. it was a yes or no.”

that seemed to shut him up pretty quick.

“are you aware that you interrupt, doctor ogilvie?” not even looking at him when you speak as you go back to checking the child. it wasn’t even said as a correction to his introduction moments ago. but rather a bite to his need to have that acknowledgment. you look at him. expectantly. waiting for an answer that has seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“I was just telling you.” it’s a poor attempt to explain.

robby shakes his head, hands behind his neck. lips pressed tightly together. this is why dana was insistent.

“and I’m telling you.” you correct him. your tone hard. no room for arguments.

you look back to the baby, offering a smile to her before dropping it when you turn to those standing off to the side. “she looks good, no obvious source of infection, there’s a possibility of it being benign but since we don't know her history," your eyes find ogilvie's. “let’s get labs done.”

you give your orders as the gloves come off.

“I’ll be back in a few to check in.” you walk around and begin to leave. “and doctor?” you direct to ogilvie, your hand on the handle of the door. the young man turns to you.

“I get wanting to learn, but this isn’t a competition. so few words of advice—considering it is a teaching hospital— learn a thing or two about respect. do not to interrupt when someone is talking to you.”you grit and push at the door. “—even my kids know that.”

it quiet for a minute after you leave, the only noise comes from the small patient as she coos.

“that was dr. park. she's one of our attending pediatricians.” robby starts off slowly, picking up from earlier. his head tipping toward where you just walked out.

the student stands there, looking startled. “she works with kids?"

samira gives a tight lipped smile and robby laughs before he himself walks out. “just you wait.”

—

the med student stared at the man, who was assessing the amputation in front of him. shocked. because that was not the doctor he saw earlier.

“—clean wound. no crush injury. rapid transport time. replantation is a go. I'll book an OR. irrigate the hell out of this with 3 liters."

"3 liters?"

"of saline, genius."

"thanks, shark."

the surgeon walks out but not before giving a side eye— glaring— at the two young men.

"I thought dr. park was a pediatrician?" ogilvie questioned. eyes on robby for clarification.

"dr. park is pediatrics." robby slowly nodded "dr. brendon park, her husband, is orthopedics." the students' eyes widened when he finally caught up to his words.

“there’s two of them?”

—

He was halfway through microwaving leftover pad thai when the noise stopped. Not the usual pause—just complete silence. Then a crash so violent his fork clattered to the floor. Glass shattered. Something heavy hit the ground.

"Hey—" He was at your shared wall before he realized he'd moved. "Hey, you good?" Nothing. Not a groan, not a whimper. Just silence.

Frank's pulse kicked up before his brain caught up—emergency mode, the kind that bypassed his thoughts. He was out his door in three strides, pounding on yours.

"Hey, open up!" The wood rattled under his fist. No answer. He fumbled for his phone, dialing 911 with one hand while his shoulder hit the doorframe, assessing.

"EMS, I need—" A gasp cut him off as he twisted, driving his heel just above the knob. The door flew inward with a splintering crack.

The scene hit him in layers. The tang of blood, glass glittering like ice across the floor, and you—curled on your side, one arm bent beneath you at a sickening angle.

He dropped to his knees, phone forgotten, fingers already at your throat. Thready pulse. Shallow breathing.

He rolled you gently onto your back. A hiss escaped your lips—pain. That was good. Conscious-ish. Your eyelids fluttered.

"Hey. Stay with me." His hands moved on autopilot, checking for spinal misalignment, the telltale uneven rise of a flail chest. Right side wasn't expanding right, he thought. Shit.

You caughed, a wet, jagged sound, and your hand spasmed against his wrist. "'M fine," you slurred, trying to push him away.

Frank caught your wrist before you could swipe weakly at his face. "Yeah, no," he said, voice low and firm. "You're about as fine as a turkey on thanksgiving."

Your ribs were a mess—he didn't need imaging to know that. The way your breath hitched told him everything.

Sirens wailed in the distance, close but not close enough. He shrugged out of his scrub top, wadded it into a makeshift pillow to elevate your ankle—already purpling beneath your tights.

"Look at me," he ordered when your gaze skittered sideways. Your pupils were uneven. "C'mon, it's concussion protocol. Count backwards from ten for me."

"Ten," you mumbled, then blinked up at him with sudden clarity. "Wait—my performance is—"

"Is canceled," Frank finished, pressing two fingers to the pulse point below your jaw. "Unless your boss is into interpretative trauma." The joke landed flat, but your mouth twitched anyway.

The ambulance bay doors slid open with a hiss, light spilling over the gurney as Frank jogged alongside it, one hand on the rail, the other keeping pressure on the makeshift bandaged he'd rigged from your own torn leotard.

"Pneumothorax on the right," he said to the waiting trauma team, his voice slicing through the noise. "Get me a 14-gauge, stat."

Your fingers scrabbled at the sheet, knuckles white. "No—no tubes," you gasped, arching as another wave of pain hit. Frank caught your wrist, thumb pressing into your racing pulse.

"Listen to me," he said, ducking his head so you'd see nothing but his face, nothing but the certainty of it. "You're gonna feel like you're drowning in about ninety seconds if we don't do this. And I didn't kick down your damn door just to watch you suffocate."

The trauma nurse handed him the needle kit, and he didn't miss the way your breath hitched at the sight of it. "Hey, eyes on me. Breathe through it."

The needle slid between your ribs with a pop that made your whole body jerk. Frank's free hand clamped down on your shoulder, holding you still as the trapped air hissed out.

"There," he muttered, watching the color creep back into your lips. "Breathe. Just breathe." Your chest rose—shallow, then deeper—and Frank felt his own lungs unlock.

The trauma team swarmed around you, rattling off numbers he barely processed. Someone started an IV; another tech cut away your ruined tights to expose the ankle swelling. Through it all, your fingers stayed twisted in Frank's scrub pants, knuckles brushing his thigh every time you tensed.

Nazely, who was on shift, gave a questioning glance at Frank—protocol said he shouldn't be the one doing this, not when it was personal.

Frank ignored her. "She's jumpy with strangers," he lied smoothly.

Nazely handed him the clipboard with imaging results. Frank scanned it, then held it out of reach when you craned your neck.

"Broken ribs four through six, mild pneumo, grade two ankle sprain—"

"Sprain?" You tried to sit up, wincing. "That's it? I can dance on a sprain."

Frank caught your shoulders before you could rise more than an inch, his grip firm but not unkind. "You also have a concussion that would make it worse," he said, flipping the chart around to show you the CT scan. "See that shadow? That's your common sense taking a vacation."

You squinted, then groaned when the motion sent a spike of pain through your temple. "I have rehearsals," you muttered, finger splucking at the hospital gown's thin fabric.

"And I need to sleep," Frank shot back, nudging your IV line away before you could tangle it. "Neither of us is getting what we want tonight."

He paused, watching your teeth sink into your lower lip. The stubborn set of your jaw was familiar—he'd seen it in the mirror enough times after his own shifts.

"Look," he said, softer now, "you're looking at six weeks minimum. Probably eight."

Your breath hitched—not from pain this time. Frank saw the moment it hit you. The missed performances, the lost contracts, the brutal math of recovery time versus your career.

Frank watched you blink rapidly—too fast, the way people do when they're trying not to cry in public. He'd seen it a hundred times in the ER, the stiff upper lip before the dam broke.

Without thinking, he reached out and thumbed away a tear that escaped down you cheek.

"Hey," he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear over the beeping monitors. "You know what they call a dancer with a sprained ankle?"

You glared at him through wet lashes. "What?"

"Still a dancer." He shrugged, squeezing your fingers lightly when your breathe caught again.

Nazely cleared her throat, holding up a clipboard. Frank took it, scanning the discharge instructions. "Eight weeks," he confirmed, scribbling his signature with a flourish.

"And before you argue—" He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. "I live next door. I will narc if I catch you dancing."

The morphine hit your bloodstream, softening the edges of your pain until your fingers unclenched from the bedsheets. Frank watched your eyelids grow heavy, your breathing evening out as the IV drip did its work.

He should've left when the night shift took over. Should've gone home, showered the ER stink off his skin, maybe burned these scrubs.

Instead, he found himself leaning against the doorframe of your hospital room, arms crossed, studying the way the lights painted your bruises in shades of purple.

"You're staring," you mumbled, voice thick with drugs.

"Just observant," Frank said, pushing off the frame to drag a chair closer. "Also because you're concussed. Which means you get a pass on bad decisions tonight. Including this little act you're pulling where you pretend you didn't almost perforate a lung."

You huffed, turning your face into the pillow. Your ponytail had come undone at some points, strands fanning across the cotton. "I've had worse," you lied.

"Yeah? Like that time you sprained your wrist doing whatever in the bathroom?" Your brow furrowed, and he grinned. "Your shower's right against my wall. I hear things."

You made a noise halfway between a laugh and a whimper. "You kicked my door down."

"I'll pay for that," you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut against the harsh lights.

Frank snorted, pulling out an ice pack and adjusting it on your ankle. The swelling had gone down, but the skin was an ugly motted purple.

"With what? Your dazzling personality?" He ghosted a fingertip over the edge of the bruise, checking for swelling. Your breath switched—not from pain this time, he realized, when he caught the way your lashes dipped.

Interesting.

You rolled your eyes, but the motion pulled at the stitches along your hairline. A hiss slipped through your teeth. Frank was out of his seat, fingers gentle as he checked the bandage.

"Stop that," he chided, thumb brushing her temple. "You'll rip your pretty head open."

The morphine drip beeped a lazy rhythm as you finally drifted off, your fingers slackening in Frank's grip. He should've left by then—should've gone home in his own bed, his own problems.

But the way your breath hitched in sleep, the way your brows pinched even under sedation, kept him rooted to the chair.

You stirred first, blinking against the light's glare. Frank, who'd been pretending to read your chart for the past hour, watched as you took stock of your body—the ankle brace, the rib binder, the dull throb behind your eyes.

"You're still here?" Your voice was sleep-rough, edged with something like amusement.

Frank set the chart down with a quiet thump. "Door's still busted," he said, "Figured I'd stick around to make sure you were okay."

You groaned, letting your head fall back against the pillow. "I feel like I got hit by a bus."

"Not a bus, but a coffee table," Frank corrected. His fingers lingered on your ankle brace—just a second too long to be purely clinical. "Same difference."

The heart monitor betrayed you with a quickened rhythm. Frank's mouth quirked, but he didn't comment, just raeched for the cup on the bedside table.

"Take a sip," he said, holding it to your lips.

You took a sip, studying Frank over the rim of the cup. His new scrubs that he changed into for the morning shift were already rumpled, dark circles under his eyes like coal.

"You look worse than I feel," you said, voice still rough from the tub they'd shoved down your throat.

Frank barked a laugh, running a hand over his face. "Gee, thanks. You try playing hero after a double shift. It's not as glamorous as the movies make it seem."

You shifted, wincing as the chest tube pulled. "Hero, huh?"

"Don't let it get to your head." Frank's thumb brushed your wrist where the IV disappeared under the tape. A casual touch, except his fingers lingered, tracing the blue veins beneath your skin.

You exhaled through your nose, glaring at the ceiling. "I hate this."

Frank smirked, leaning back in the chair. "Yeah, well, I hate getting startled by my neighbor trying to fix her room with her face."

A laugh escaped you, sharp and sudden, followed by a wince as your ribs protested.

"Easy," he said, softer now.

"You really didn't have to stay," you murmured, voice rasping against the rawness of your throat.

"Kicked your door down, didn't I?" His grin was all teeth, but his fingers were gentle as they smoothed a stray hair from your forehead. "Might as well see the job through."

The morphine drip beeped its steady rhythm as your eyelids fluttered shut—only to snap open again when Frank's pager buzzed against his hip.

He cursed under his breath, fumbling to silence it, but not before you caught the emergency code flashing across the screen.

"Go," you mumbled, waving a sluggish hand toward the door. "Someone's probably bleeding out in the lobby."

Frank hesitated. "Promise me you're not going to do anything stupid while I'm gone?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Doc."

Frank lingered in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he was physically resisting the pull of his pager. "Six weeks," he said abruptly, "That's how long you're benched."

You blinked up at him from the nest of pillow. "Yeah, we covered that. Along with the part where my understudy can't do the—"

"I'm taking vacation time." Frank's fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the doorframe. "Starting tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Someone's gotta make sure you don't re-collapse your lung. And I also owe you a new door."

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. "You don't have to—"

"Yes," Frank said. He cleared his throat, adjusting the stethoscope looped around his neck. "I do."

"You're not my keeper, Langdon," you muttered, but the protest lacked bite.

"No," he agreed, stepping back toward the bed. "But I am the guy who kicked you door down." He reached out slow, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers lingered—just shy of touching the bandage at your temple. "And I'd like to be the guy who takes you to dinner when you're not full of stitches."

The heart monitor erupted into frantic beeps.

Frank smirked, withdrawing his hand to point at the screen.

"I'll take that as a yes."

That damn monitor.

It dings, and he’s brought out from his trance, feet dragging on the floor with the irritating shuffle sound. At least at ten p.m., there’s hardly any people littered around the hallways to see him in such a state. 

His keys rattle as he puts them in the keyhole, and he’s acutely aware of how loud the sound is in the otherwise silent hallway. Maybe, if he were any less dead to the world, he’d care enough to be considerate. 

Then, it swings open, and he’s hit in the face by an air conditioned warmth, the smell of lasagna, and the yellow glow of the living room lamps still switched on. Among them sits your silhouette, head bowed, no doubt so lost in a book you didn’t hear him come in. 

He smiles only to himself, as all sixteen hours of dread and worry melt away with just your figure presented before him. Reminded, immediately, that he too has everything

The door clicking shut behind him alerts you, and your head pokes up from the couch. You brighten, instantly, and he drops his bag down to the floor with a heavy sigh. 

“When you said you were gonna be late, I didn’t think you meant this late,” you say as he makes his way over to you, arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind the couch, burying his face into your neck. 

“Me neither. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, lips tickling your skin with the movement. 

“There’s lasagna in the fridge,” you hum, kissing his forearm just before he loosens his hold and leans back. 

His head turns to glance at the aforementioned fridge, “Yeah, I can smell it. I gotta have a shower first.”

You peer up at him through your head tilted back over the couch edge, and when he returns his gaze from the kitchen to you, he laughs, seeing you bat your eyelashes so subtly. 

“Do you want something?” he braces his arms beside your head, lowering his face down.

“Do you?”

“I could use the company.”

You jump up in victory (narrowly missing colliding heads with him), racing around the couch. He lets you drag him towards the bathroom, allowing you to exert all the effort into getting the two of you there. Tiredly, he watches you. Your pyjamas—for lack of a better word, really they were his blank navy t-shirt covering some loose shorts—hang off your body, and your hair is still slightly damp, so he knows you’re only joining him in the shower for more time with him, instead of practicality. 

You looked so excited, though. To spend time with him. Never mind the suggestiveness behind your fluttering lashes and smug smile. 

“Do I have to do everything?” you grumble, and his mind returns to his body as his skin tingles from your fingertips brushing his waist.

“It never goes unappreciated,” he tilts his head, before letting you lift his shirt over his head. 

“It will, because you’re tired, and kind of grumpy, so I’m gonna be doing all the work,” you huff, rambling to yourself, really. A string of complaints he knows if he tried to rebut, you’d defend instantly. 

He helps you out by taking the bottom half of his clothes off, so you can focus on removing your own articles of clothing—again, technically, they’re his—before he loops his arms around your waist, dropping his lips down to your jawline. “I will make it up to you tomorrow morning, I promise.”

“Ohh, I am holding you to that one, Dr. Langdon,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again. You drop your hands back by your side after that, jerking your head towards the shower. “In, before I change my freaking mind.”

“Yes ma’am,” he obeys instantly, stepping beneath the shower head.

He takes one for the team, at least, and turns it on, copping the fallout of ice cold water before it begins to heat up to a reasonable temperature. 

You get what needs to be done out of the way. Granted, he has to duck down so you can reach your hands up to lather the shampoo against his scalp. It’s a welcome massage that almost makes him forget about how long and unkind this day has been to him. 

If he were any less attuned to everything about you, perhaps he’d not catch the art of your hands dancing across his skin suggestively when you brought body soap into the routine. However, he did. Your fingers lingering a little longer than necessary on his thighs, and your eyes spending a bit too much time looking down. Telltale signs of what you were about to do, and yet his breath hitched when you lowered to your knees anyways. 

One shift straight from the deepest, darkest depths of hell itself, all drowned out by the sound of the water hitting the shower floor right behind him, and forgotten about immediately from the way you peer up at him. 

You were so pretty. A perverse thought to have when you’re on your knees in front of him, though he believes you always look pretty. It’s just, he’s had a really bad day, and you’re confidently leading the mission of distracting him. Brain fried from too many clinical mishaps and body aching from too much running around, he thinks he deserves to tilt his head back and let how pretty you are right now overwhelm his focus.

“Fuck,” he breathes out when you let your lips make contact with his cock, dragging your tongue up the underside of it. 

With keen interest, you watch him. The way his face contorts when you take him into your mouth, and the way he has to brace a hand onto the shower wall when you use your hand to cover what you couldn’t fit. Grunting when you set a steady pace, one his exhausted brain couldn’t quite keep up with.

You were inexplicably good at this, and it has always been his kryptonite. Sometimes, you would play this card when you were arguing over meaningless things. Like what to have for dinner, or what movie to watch, and you are effectively able to turn him into putty within your hands. 

So, that, on top of how much slower his braincells were moving, he is just forced to entangle a hand in your hair to keep himself upright. Pure selfish need, and not at all to hear the way you mewl in surprise at the feeling of his fingers dragging along your scalp. Entire body on fire with need because you are, at the end of the day, pleasurable by giving. 

“Yeah,” he rocks to the side to hold his head against the wet tiles, fluttering his eyes shut as you work his cock expertly. “Fuck, baby. You’re so good at this, you know?”

You hum in content, and he lazily smiles, staring down at you through half-lidded eyes. You were partial to praise, he knew that, and so he focussed on decorating the air with them. Instead of—perhaps the more pressing matter—not coming. 

“Prettiest thing in the world—shit—look at you,” he lets his hand glide down from your scalp to your face, cupping your cheek and holding your head, gently. His other hand, still supporting his weight against the wall, clenches into a fist when you lose eye contact with him to take him further into your mouth. He curses, a little louder this time. “You need to—fuck—baby, I need you to stop, or slow down, or—or something, otherwise this is gonna be over real soon.”

You don’t listen. In fact, you hum again, the note vibrating around his cock and making him moan. You follow that by quickening the pace you were going, and it’s what finally breaks him. 

He tries to warn you. Stammering out a string of, “Hey—hey, okay, you can—oh my God—stop, honey. Pull back. I’m going to—” that is ultimately cut off by his orgasm. One you don’t back down from, and one that leaves his chest heaving. 

Leaning back on your heels, you stare up at him, and he falters upon seeing your throat bob with a swallow. A lopsided grin stretching across your face as you stand from the shower floor, saying nothing as you reach behind him and turn the shower off. 

Plunged into quiet, with the only sounds being both of your breathing, you stare at him until he cracks first, laughing and hanging his head, wet hair falling in front of his face. 

“My knees hurt,” you sigh, taking slow steps out of the shower, finding a towel to wrap around your body. 

“Do they?” he asks, following close behind you. When you nod, he places his hands on your waist, giving you half a second of a warning before he’s lifting you to perch you up on the bathroom counter. “Let me see.”

Moving the towel out of the way, he crouches down so he can look at your knees, clicking his tongue when he runs his fingers over the skin, and your face distorts in discomfort. 

“Happens when you kneel on a hard surface,” he points out, and you glance down at him, annoyed. 

“Really? I’m appalled. I knew I should’ve brought a pillow into the shower.”

“That would’ve gone well,” he muses, standing back up, using his palms to rub circles onto your kneecaps. “I think staying off of the shower floor and some rest will fix you right up.”

“Thank you, Doctor. What would I do without you?”

“Have perpetually sore knees, I’m sure,” he says, ducking down to kiss your lips when you open them to protest with something along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t have sore knees without you’, probably. 

You drag him to bed soon after, the post orgasmic haze wearing off and leaving him jellylike in the bathroom. You have to force him through the doorway and into bed, at which he hits the mattress with such force you’re surprised it didn’t collapse the floor beneath it. 

“Goodnight to you too,” you huff, leaving the room for only a short second to switch off all the lights. 

Once you’ve returned, he’s staring at the doorway expectantly. Foolishly, you fall for the wanting look in his eyes, and climb right into his arms without the hint of a second thought. 

“I am sorry you had a bad shift,” you murmur, drawing circles onto his chest with your fingers. 

“Only up from here,” he sighs, and though you know that perhaps for tomorrow that may be true, there’s a hundred more shifts just like today waiting for him to live through. It’s a thought that keeps you antsy at night. 

“Only up from here,” you agree with a nod. 

When Frank wakes up the next morning, his alarm isn’t going off. There’s no sun peeking through the curtains, however the time on his phone reads 04:18, so at least it isn’t the middle of the night. Not at all a reasonable time to wake you up, he knows, but he’s got forty-two minutes until his alarm starts blaring, and he really has to get up. Plus, he promised to make it up to you, and he thinks this waking up before his alarm thing is for a reason. 

Slowly untangling your arms from his, he rolls you onto your back, pausing when you stir, then placing his lips against yours. 

He trails kisses from your mouth down your jawline, hands running up the sides of your body, until you begin to rouse. 

“What time is it?” you mumble, voice coated in that sleep-induced husk that makes him smile. 

“Early,” he whispers, nipping your jawline. “You can go back to sleep after, I promise.”

“After what?” you frown, confused. 

“I make it up to you.”

You’re still too half-asleep to make the connection in his words, all up until he’s kissed his entire way down your body, stopping short of where your pyjama shirt ends, and your thighs begin. Then, you remember, and you let your limbs sink into the mattress. 

“Yeah, okay,” you agree. It sounds halfhearted, but your legs part on instinct, so he continues with hooking his fingers into your pyjama shorts’ waistband and pulling them down your legs. 

His breath is warm against your skin, his fingers parting your folds and making you squirm.

He jolts you awake with one long stripe of his tongue, emitting a moan from you almost instantly. Letting the sensation settle into your bones until you’re painfully on edge and waiting for whatever he does next. Then, he does it again. 

“This is being mean, not making it up to me,” you scold, quietly, head lulling to one side and keeping your eyes transfixed on him. 

“Just wanna take my time with you,” he replies, calmly, dragging a finger up, through your slit, gathering both the wetness from his saliva, and from you naturally, before he brings it back down to help push a finger into you. 

“Oh,” you gasp, eyes darting up to the ceiling in an attempt to focus on something other than him. Frank, who is between your legs, hair falling in front of his face, and staring at you with piqued interest. 

Piqued interest like he has to figure you out, as if he doesn’t already know every single thing that makes you come. If he really wanted to, he could have you convulsing in two minutes. He has. 

He twists his finger around until he hears you involuntarily whine, and so he makes true to his promise to make it up to you, and leans forwards, attaching his lips to your clit. 

You moan, the added assault on your already sleepy body doing nothing for helping you remain composed. He circles his tongue around your clit, index finger creating a steady pace of movement. 

“Frank,” you whimper.

“Yeah, baby?” he lifts his head, looking up at you, removing the stimulation on your clit, but keeping his fingers at their same rhythm. 

“Hi,” you simply smile at him, and he laughs.

“Hey,” he rests his cheek on your thigh, waiting a few seconds before he adds a second finger in, a shudder rolling down your spine at the stretch. “Feel good?” When you nod, he slows his thrusts right down, “Words, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, Frank,” you nod, eyes fluttering shut, “feels good.”

He hums in content, and takes that opportunity to lean forwards again and reattach his mouth to your core. 

Flicking his tongue over your clit rather quickly, causing your body to jolt from the unexpected sensation. Then, he does it again, and again, and again, until you’re reckoning with a tightening knot in your stomach, and stumbling over incoherent ‘please’s and curse words. 

He pulls back just at the last second, replacing his tongue with his thumb, for no reason other than to commentate. Asshole. 

“Yeah, there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs, palm outstretched on your abdomen to keep your hips firmly on the mattress as you come. “Look at you.”

Your chest heaves, and you stare at the ceiling to recollect yourself, before your eyes divert back to him. He pulls his fingers out at that moment, bringing them to your lips. Instinctively, you part them, and he pushes them into your mouth, where you refuse to break eye contact. It’s a power play that doesn’t really work, because he drags his fingers back out soon after, and lifts himself back up to peck your lips. 

“I have to go get ready now,” he informs you, quietly, and you let out a disgruntled moan. “I know, but I do.”

“Or, you could call in sick.”

“Not happening, stop being a bad influence,” he gently bites the corner of your mouth. 

You frown when he steps off the bed, leaving you tangled within sheets. Alone. You hope your wide, desperate eyes are enough to get him to get back into bed and forget about his important job that the two of you know he does actually have to go to. 

They aren’t, so instead you call, “Come back to say goodbye?” when he heads towards the bathroom. You catch his nod. 

However, that’s the last thing you catch. 

When six o’clock rolls around, and Frank heads back into the bedroom to stay true to his word, he finds you fast asleep. Head on his pillow, curled up and holding the duvet between your arms. Early morning sun only just peeking through the gaps in the curtains, thin beams of light decorating what skin on you he could see.

And you still remember how didn't feel like you were antagonists at all the day he left, when he gave you his most genuine smile through the frustration he felt as you kissed his cheek and told him to get better.

So it's safe to say you have no idea what you're going to say to him once you're confronted with it. Should you act like nothing happened? You don't want to come off as mean. But can you act like his best friend all of the sudden? That seems like a bit too much.

You think you have enough time to think about it until walk into the locker hallway and he's standing right there, letter in hand as he reads it carefully.

He looks good, is the first thing you can think about. Casual clothes look good on him, making you wish you had more opportunities to see that side of him. Hair covered by the sports cap, bomber blue jacket hugging his torso and jeans that fit him just right. The bag slung over his shoulder tells you he's in here for the same reason as you.

"Langdon." The name slips easily from your tongue. Not Doctor Langdon, not Frank — just Langdon and exactly like you'd call him before. "You're back." As if it's some kind of surprise.

Frank looks up, and you're surprised by the way his lips stretch into a wide smile. You're too used to the roll his eyes that's followed by a smirk, not a warm smile.

“Hey.” His voice is unusually gentle, and to add up to your shock he steps in for a hug. “It’s so nice seeing you.”

His hands find your upper back, head almost against yours. It takes you a moment too long to react, hands moving from their awkward place at your sides to rest on his waist rather uneasily.

"Am i the first to see you?" You ask once he pulls away, as casually as possible.

"Oh no, there was big 'welcome back' sign when i walked in." He jokes, though you catch an undertone to it.

You notice how subconscious he seems to suddenly be, like he feels that no one has paid any mind to his absence. Which is a lie, because you didn't realize how his antics with you were a big part of your day until he was gone. And you find yourself talking about him with Mel without even realizing.

So instead of feeling like rolling your eyes at his smug remark, all you want to do is be nice to him.

"It's good that you're back." You settle truthfully.

"Couldn't let you steal my thunder for too long." He playfully remarks, though it's obvious he doesn't mean it.

"Sure." You snort, having to busy yourself with opening your locker to hide how warm you feel.

Frank stands there for a second, still looking at you like he wants to say something but doesn't in the end. You pretend not to pay attention as the locker doesn't open when he clicks on the numbers, huffing in frustration once he looks over at the letter in his hands.

He kneels down to where is new locker now is, and you now feel bad for having a top shelf one as if you're superior to him.

Then you see it from the corner of your eyes, the way his face contorts with pain once he bends forward before quickly masking it away. It makes your stomach sink with realization, and you think about how he probably feels like it's mockery that suddenly his locker is at the bottom. A little reminder of the pain on his back that got him here.

The gears turn on your head as your next words come out impulsively, "Would you mind trading lockers with me?"

Langdon shoots you a confused look before you rush to explain.

"It's not that high up but i struggle to reach the back sometimes." You wave your hands towards your locker, hoping the excuse doesn't sound too made up.

Because if he were to inspect it, he'd realize it's a complete lie. Sure, you'd rather have a locker one row down but you can still reach just fine with little effort.

"Yeah, sure." He seems to take it, seemingly unaware of the true meaning behind.

His ears turn a little pink as he gets up, face slightly angled away and making you have to fight back a wince at the sight.

You pull the few things you keep in you locker out, transferring them into the new one as you trade codes.

"Sorry for the bother." You give him a small smile of appreciation, as if he's the one doing you a favour. You want him to think that, because the last thing you wish is for him to feel like you're pitying him.

"It was no bother." He murmurs as he pulls out some scrubs from his backpack before stuffing it inside the locker. His expression being free of pain brings relief to you.

A sense of protectiveness washes over you and you decide that if there's anything you can do to make this easier for him, you'll do it. Not because you think he needs coddling, but because that's a friend would do. At least that's what he seems to want to be.

You make way to the break room for your first coffee of the day, sipping on it a while later as Robby does a short debriefing before the shift starts. You watch as Frank's face falls at being told to take over triage, though you suppose it has some fairness to it — but you still throw him a sympathetic glance.

Your paths don’t cross much again until you’re midway through the morning, looking forward for a second coffee as you catch a small break.

And you’re surprised by his presence for the second time. Frank is sitting on one of the chairs of the break room, fingers playing with the bracelet in his wrist as he looks ahead.

“Oh, hey.” You greet, not wasting any time as you pull a cup and pour the brown liquid into it. “Want one?” You question politely once you realize he doesn’t have one.

His only answer is a nod, stance a little anxious. You don’t ask him about it, settling for making him the coffee the way you remember him liking before quietly placing it in front of him.

“Thanks.” His smile is tight.

You turn your back to leave, stopping on your tracks once he calls your name. “Do you have a second? Kinda wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Course.” You soften, pulling the chair beside him to sit. To be truthful, you’re not sure if you do have a minute but you’re praying no one interrupts it.

“I wanted to say that i’m sorry.” He starts, voice steady to make it clear he means it. “For a lot of things, really. Mostly for abandoning and disappointing you, none of it was your fault and i ended up just putting it out on you and making your time here a bit more miserable.”

Your heart tightens in your chest, and although you don’t agree with a lot of what he’s just said it’s still nice to know he’s acknowledging it. That he’s put thought into this and is trying to improve his communication.

“You didn’t abandon us. And you sure as hell didn’t disappoint me.” You retort with a reassuring look, even when you know he doesn’t believe it. “I was worried if anything.”

“I’m still sorry.” He clears his throat, sitting up straight in his seat. “I was addicted and made it everybody else’s problem. That’s not fair— even if our whole thing was being mean to each other.”

“You’re forgiven, then.” Your hands reaches to squeeze Frank’s, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“I kept like— meaning to text you.” The doctor cringes as the words come out, “Just didn’t know what to say. Felt weird.”

“It’s okay.” You chuckle.

But knowing that he had felt the same as you all these months brings relief to you.

“Missed you.” Frank breathes, vulnerable.

“Don’t go growing sweet on me, Langdon.” You huff, but the squeeze you give to his fingers tells him it’s okay.

You feel giddy once his cheeks turn slightly rosy at your words, a smile that shows teeth on his mouth. The roles would’ve been turned a few months ago, his flirty remarks thrown at you as you huffed in frustration when your skin grew as hot as a flame.

“You’re different.” You assert gazing at him.

“Good different?” He inquires softly, thumb tracing your knuckles timidly.

“Still under observation.” You shrug your shoulders, soft under the attention that he gives you.

You feel different around him now, more comfortable. Knowing him felt different before, all the ocasional intimate moments you shared with him didn’t come close to what this one feels like.

“So mean.” He gasps in false offense.

A laugh bubbles out of your throat, as gentle as you feel. You notice his eyes flicker to it but don’t think much of it.

The door opening has you pulling apart from his hand, as if being caught red handed. You’re not quite sure why you do it, because friends can hold hands.

Dana eyes you both with raised eyebrows before focusing on you without making any comment on it. “Mckay needs you on trauma 2.”

“Yeah, i’ll be right there.” You get up in a jump.

The nurse is out before you know it, already busing herself with something else.

The moment turns awkward and you avoid making it worse by heading towards the door with slight regret. Before your hand touches the handle, you turn back.

“You can still text me, you know? Just— about whatever if you need to.” Your suggestion is clear, hopeful look in your eyes.

“Yeah, i will.” He nods before picking up the coffee you made.

You leave the room feeling lighter, the weight on your shoulders finally off. Maybe it was meant to go this way. All you needed to start again was a little push.

The interaction has you feeling like a teenager, giddy and emotional. Your stomach tingling even more than used to when he’d brush his fingers against yours for more than needed.

Maybe different is good.

<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ

The keyboard clicks under your fingers as you type fast, something you've gotten better at over the years of charting that piles up if you don't learn to be organized.

It's always a nice short moment to rest your legs before getting back to running back and forth, from patient to patient. So you've started looking at it as a relaxing period.

You roll your neck as it starts to feel a little stuck from being in the same position for long, tapping your finger victouriously against the table as you finish what feels like enough for now.

"Think fast." Langdon appears on your right, throwing you a packet that you manage to catch successfully.

It becomes familiar once you turn it, your favourite chocolate. And maybe it was a hunch because you don't remember ever mentioning it to him.

"Thank you." You shoot him a grateful look, it has been a few hours since you last ate. "I'll pay you back later."

"Don't worry about it." He brushes your idea off, standing in front of the big screen to take a look at the patient list. "Choose your next patient yet?"

"Nope." You manage through a mouthful.

"There's a guy who thinks he got bitten by an exotic spider, has it in a jar and everything." He brings up before suggesting, "That could be cool. You should check it out."

You find yourself unable to hold back the amused glance you throw him. "I might."

The doctor's answer is a hum, hands behind his head as he stretches. You pretend not to pay attention to the skin that peaks from under his scrubs shirt.

With a sigh, Langdon bends on one knee to tie the laces of his snickers that seem to be undone.

You're about to reach for an ipad when you hear him groan, caught midway through getting back up for a second. It's obvious that the sound comes out without his permission, teeth coming to bite on his lower lip.

"Fuck." He curses, hand pressing against his lower back and neck red from either embarrassment or pain.

You rush to get up from your chair, thorn between doctor and friend mode. "Langdon," Your call is careful as you approach him with worried eyes.

"M'fine." He mumbles, not looking you in the eye. An immediate lie that you can see is reflexive.

"I didn't even ask if you were." Your words are soft, somehow proving a point. You watch him exhale, eyes shutting for a second longer from what you think is probably his ache flaring.

"Just got up too fast, don't worry about it." He brushes it off, still his teeth are gritted.

You touch his arm with your hand, "Are you in pain? You can sit for a bit, i'll cover--"

"I don't need help." Frank interrupts sharply and fast, taking a step back so your hands falls.

You chuckle nervously, "I didn't say you do."

The tension builds in your chest as he starts to build a wall between the two of you, refusing to let you see any vulnerability that comes from prickling on his back. You try not to let it get to you, maybe he's not ready to acknowledge it yet and would react like this with anyone else.

But are you anyone?

"You insinuated it." He crosses his arms with a huff, blue eyes set on anything but you.

You fight back a scoff, about to say something when he steps in again.

"Look, just don't tell anyone about this." It's almost a beg, though the way he looks towards you makes you sure he's mad at you.

Now you just feel frustrated, because you don't think you've given him reason to think you go around telling things about him. Or that he can't trust you. The frown on your face probably tells him exactly how hurt you feel, because he steps away again before you get a chance to speak.

"Gotta go check on a patient." He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly before practically running from you.

You watch him walk away until he's out of your sight, aware of how stupid you look standing there like you were stood up on a date.

"Trouble in paradise?" Dana questions with a sly grin when you finally go back to your chair.

"Dunno how this ER is ever a paradise." You ignore what she's so obviously hinting at, doing your best to look like it's not affecting you.

"Is there something i should know about,?" She asks more seriously now, tucking her glasses on the collar of her scrubs.

"There's no something." You huff, unaware of the scrunch of your eyebrows.

"Right." She snorts sarcastically. "You seemed to be at his throat a few months ago. And now you're actually nice to him. So there is something, honey."

"I just know when to stop, he doesn't need that right now." You refer to the dynamic you had before. Though you can feel it building back up after the last interaction.

"He sure as hell still looks at you like the sun shines out your ass." The nurse's smile is teasing as she says, but her look tells you she's being honest.

"He doesn't" You wish he did. "Besides, he used to hate me too." You prompt.

"Cause it was the only way you'd pay him attention." She retorts with raised eyebrows before adding, "That boy is head over heels for you."

You remember how your first impression wasn't the best, the way he immediately eyes you up and down and acted confident, way too confident. As if you had no option but to already be charmed by him.

Yet you barely spared him a glance, even when he looked taken aback. And from then on the bickering started. You pretended to hate him, he did too. That was the easiest way through the path you didn't want to go into in the first place.

You catch yourself almost believing Dana's words, having to shake yourself out of it when you notice her knowing stare.

"I need to stop listening to you." You declare, getting up from your chair with the intention of distracting yourself with a patient.

"Kids these days." Is the last thing you hear her mumble.

<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ

You make it your task to not be gloomy over one interaction for the rest of the day. Try to distract yourself with seeing as many patients you can, consequentely not having to see Frank again without having to look like you're avoiding him.

This not to mean that you're angry at him, you just have no idea how to act after that. Maybe tomorrow you can come back and pretend that it didn't happen, exactly like he wants.

So you get through your shift just as if it's just another one without him — like the many others in the past few months.

By the time it’s over you’re grouchy, bag thrown messily over your shoulder and earphones on as you make your way outside. The bus station is the last place you want to be right now and you feel like you might just take the long walk home.

The timing feels perfect, the 4th of july fireworks erupting through the sky when you’re making your way through the parking lot. It has you stopping for a moment, eyes looking up at the sparkling.

Hands stuffed on your jean’s pockets, you feel a little relieved at the fresh air hitting the back of your neck over the humid weather. A sigh leaves your nose, shoulders slumping as the tension of work leaves your body.

A hand touching your arm has you jumping, finding Langdon staring at you with an apologetic but tempting smile.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s now beside you on the sidewalk, back on his casual clothes.

“It’s fine.” You shrug, turning your attention back to the fireworks.

The silence between you goes slightly unnoticed by them, but becomes evident once the noise starts dying down.

“Heard about your closed cervical reduction.” You prompt, chewing slightly on the inside of your cheek in a nervous antic.

“Yeah.” He perks up, excitement in his voice. “I think i’m still shaking.” His hand lifts in the air, you try not think too much about how attracted you are to it.

“That must have been pretty cool.” You reply, a little regretful of not having been there to witness.

“Didn’t know i still had it in me.” Frank admits, self doubt all over the frown on his eyebrows.

“Of course you do.” You retort immediately, like it’s obvious. Because it is.

His whole expression softens at your words, big blue eyes staring right into yours and you think of how much he looks like a kicked puppy right now. It makes you want to smile.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.” His apology is genuine. And he looks regretful for having to do it for the second time today.

Your reflex is to want to say that ‘it’s fine’. But you don’t. Because it actually feels good to know that he is sorry. So you nod slowly, accepting but not leaving space for anything else.

“It’s still a little bit of a— sore subject? My back.” Langdon tries, grimacing at the way his words come out. “I’m working on it, i promise.”

You let your lips pull into a sympathetic smile, “I understand. Didn’t mean to make it seem like you’re weak or in need of help.”

“You didn’t.” He asserts with a shake of his head. “It was hurting. It hurts even more today because of how long i haven’t worked for.”

Your shoulders brush and you feel a shiver on your arms, even over how warm it feels. “Is there anything i can do to help?”

“Are you by any chance a good massager?” The doctor jokes with a teasing smile.

But you take it in consideration, fingers moving before you get to rethink your actions.

His eyes widen once he realizes what you’re doing. “I was just joking, you don’t—”

“I can do it.” You interrupt.

Your hand reaches for his lower back, moving closer as you press your fingers into the muscles there to try to bring some tension down. You use your thumb to make slow circles on the muscles on either side of his spine, pleased when he lets out a sigh.

“You forget i’m a pretty good doctor too.” You play, voice lower.

“You are.” He hums, a little distracted by the touch of your fingers even if over his shirt.

The realization of the intimate moments has your heart pounding against your ribcage, almost jumping out of your throat in the process. You’re glad he can’t feel how hot your skin right now.

“Does that help?”

“Yeah.” Frank breathes, air puffing out of his lips slowly — you can’t help but look at the way his throat looks good as it does, not even when he adverts his eyes back to yours.

You wish you had the courage to slip your fingers inside his shirt and feel his skin that radiates with warmth over the shirt.

With sudden embarrassment you pull away, breathing in a little too hard as you try to make yourself look composed. But the man next to you seems just as flustered, hand running through his hair like it became messy for no specific reason.

“Hey.” He calls after another moment. “Wanna go out for dinner?” It comes off casually, his lips pressed together in a line of an awkward smile.

You chuckle in surprise, “As celebration for your successful return?”

Something flickers in his eyes, “Sure.”

As much as you want to, it could get too late really quickly and you don’t have the will to walk all the way home late at night. “I’d love to, but i’ll have no way to get home after.”

“I can drop you off.” He says simply.

“Are you sure?” You ask with uncertainty, feeling a little like a bother.

The look Langdon throws you tells you he’s offended you’re even asking, eyebrows raised because the answer is obvious. “Never been more.”

“Okay.” Your words are sheepishly, “Thanks.”

“C’mon.” He motions with his head towards the street, arm reaching out for a moment like he’s going to wrap it around your shoulders before he drops it back on his side.

You end up getting take away, finding an empty bench on the park and making yourself as comfortable as possible with boxes scattered all around.

The hum that leaves your throat is honest as you have your first bite, stomach finally happy after not having a real meal for hours.

“I don’t know how you like those.” Frank grimaces as you stuff a french fry inside your mouth.

“They’re perfect.” You shrug with indifference, more interested in the food in front of you.

“They’re soggy.” He points with a bite of his own burger, sauce on the corner of his lips in an adorable way.

“More for me.” You retort happily.

Langdon can’t help but it set his eyes on you for longer than needed, taking in your tired expression and wrinkly clothes. Your untied shoes and the way you curl into yourself, eyelids closing and opening slowly. He could look at you like this forever, vulnerable and sweet.

“What?” You frown as you notice his staring, napkin coming up to your mouth in attempt to clean the reason of it.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head with a small smile. “‘S just weird. Us not arguing all the time.”

You cock your head to the side in confusion, “I guess.”

What you don’t know is that he’s scared you liked him better before. Because what you said about him being different is true and your words have stuck on his brain like a vine. He’s just hoping you mean it in a good way.

“Do you miss it?” The vulnerable question comes out before he gets to stop it, voice small.

“Miss what?” You ask after a sip of soda, still unaware of his distress.

“Our bickering.”

You pretend to think for a moment. “A little.” You answer teasingly, smirk on the corner of your lips.

Frank’s stomach drops just a little, “Wow. So rude.” He tries to joke back, but the way his chuckle comes out force has you looking at him.

“Frank.” You bump your shoulder with his as reassurance, “I like different.” I like this version of you. Although you don’t say it.

He takes it, relaxed at your words.

Conversation flows easily between you, and he feels like an absolute idiot for taking so long to finally get to know you and what you like. He’s wasted too much time. So he listens to you talking your mouth off about a movie you watched a week ago, paying attention like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever told him.

You talk about whatever comes to mind, work swirling into the conversation as you talk about your first day at work.

“I don’t even know why you hated me so much!” He quips in as you go on about how meeting everyone was.

“To be fair, you came off as quite cocky. Y’know, with your whole—” You gesture with your hands. “Perfect tidy hair and bluest eyes ever thing.”

Your defence has him grinning widely. "You think my hair is perfect?"

And the worse is that you truly do, eyes catching the strand that falls across his forehead in the most perfect pattern. You’d be stupid to say he’s not beautiful as hell. You’re sure a lot of girls think the same, it has brought a certain green eyed monster way too many times.

“Jerk.” You huff, not denying.

“I was trying to impress you, by the way.” He adds as if it’s an obvious thing.

“Right.” You snort in disbelief.

“What?” Langdon inquires, raised eyebrows. “You’re pretty.”

You’re hot at the compliment, food discarded as you clean your hands with a napkin just to have something to do other than looking embarrassed.

His fingers come to grab at yours, pulling your attention back to him and making it impossible to avoid his words. “Honest.” They squeeze your skin.

You can almost hear your heart as his eyes trace every inch of your face, stopping for an extra second once they land on your lips. The urge to lean in is stronger than you, only until you almost get to feel his breath against your skin.

Frank angles his body towards yours back, hand dropping from yours to rest on your knee. His thumb brushes over your jeans, tentatively eyeing you as to make sure you’re okay with whatever is happening. You don’t seem to hate it at all, your own eyes glued to his lips.

He clears his throat gently, “I want to do this right, i promise. I’m not screwing up this time. And i-“

“Frank.” You stop him.

“Yeah?” He’s almost waiting for your rejection.

“Shut up.” You mumble, holding back a smile at the way his eyes look a little glassier when he’s up close.

“Okay.” He nods vigorously, letting you take charge as you pull him into a kiss.

Fingers immediately reach into his hair, leaving it messy as you run them through it like you’ve always dreamed about doing. He hums at the gesture, free hand coming to rest against your ribs.

You’re sure he can probably feel your heart beating wildly against them, moving closer on the bench so his hand slips down to the slot of your waist more comfortably.

The soft squeeze he leaves there has you melting against him, fingers wondering down to his bicep and squeezing it in retribution. His muscles flex under your touch, pulling you flush against him with gentleness. His nose presses to yours with a sigh, intoxicating taste invading your mouth and having you never want to kiss anyone else again.

He’s the one to pull away after a few minutes, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek for good measure and keeping you close even without his mouth on yours.

“Everyone’s betting on this at work.” You sigh at his mouth against your jaw. “We should pretend to hate each other and make them all lose.”

“They’re all betting on us getting together?” He asks unfocused.

“Yeah.” Before adding with a tease, “Wonder where they got that idea from.”

He hums with a pinch on the softness by your hip, “Don’t think i’m gonna be able to pretend i don’t wanna kiss you all the time.”

You could be okay with that. You think as he pulls you into a warm hug, pressing one last long kiss to the top of your head.

Leon and you have been together for months now, and you were a little bit —too much— inexperienced about sex, at twenty something you only had two boyfriends in your whole life, including him, but everything you knew about sex, Leon taught you. He was experienced: knew where to touch, where to kiss, where to bite and lick. Well, of course he knew, at forty-nine he almost knew anything. He was steady, confident, experienced and attentive, he lived enough to know what he craved and he wasn’t ashamed to ask for it. On the other hand, you still blushed when he whispered in your ear what he was going to do with you, and those red cheeks were his obsession.

You both were in bed, sharing kisses before sleep. But with him, it could never be just kisses. That man was always hungry for you, regardless day or time. He cupped your cheek and looked at you. “Can we try something?” he asked, “Try what?” you replied. “You, sitting on my face, sweetheart. I told you before: I want to eat you properly.”

Clearly you have never, never done that, not even considered it. So, your first thought was an absolutely no. “I-I don’t know, Leon” you whisper, shifting uncomfortably. “What if I’m too heavy? Plus, I might not… smell great… and what if I suffocate you?” He cut you off with a low, desperate sound, fingers tightening on your hips. “Please.”

You kept overthinking about it, but the way he was taking off your clothes and leaving a trail of kisses in your whole body made you —almost— forget all of your insecurities.

“You’re perfect and I’m so in love with you, I’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks. Let me worship you properly. Sit on my face and use me, I need it so badly you can’t even imagine how much.” He murmured, his voice filled with an unhidden hunger, as he kept kissing every inch of your naked body.

He was begging for it, and you could notice his cock twitching in his boxers at the mere thought of it, leaking precum all over his underwear. He desired you, no matter what.

You bite your lip looking at him: “You’re sure?” Leon replied instantly “baby, I’ll die happy if you smother me.” He gave you that deep tone and that exact smirk. “Please. Ride my entire face, use my tongue like your personal toy, don’t care if i can’t breathe, just… fuck, just sit please.”

You nodded, your cheeks were red but you crawled up his body, positioning your knees on either side of his head. He looked up at your wet pussy, and he couldn’t stop but imagine it wetter with his saliva. “Go lower, gorgeous.” Still hesitant, you sighed and obeyed. His hot mouth open and eager beneath you, hands gripping your ass, pulling you down harder and desperately. “Atta girl,” he murmured.

Leon finally got what he wanted, and he didn’t waste time.

His tongue dragged through your folds, licking up every space like a starved man —and he was—. He sucked your clit into his mouth, the obscene “pop” filling the room. His tongue flicking faster in your whole cunt, then he plunged it deep inside you, fucking you with hot strokes.

You cried out, feeling your thighs trembling. Of course he knew it’d feel good, but you were experiencing a lot of new sensations. Little sounds escaping from your lips.

He was completely buried in your cunt, nose pressed against your clit. “Fuck, princess, you taste so good,” he managed to growl between long licks. “So fucking sweet. But you should grind on my face, baby.”

Emboldened by his desperation, you started to move: you rocked your hips, sliding your soaked pussy over his tongue, his lips, and even his nose. You were using him, and he didn’t even complained. In fact, he enjoyed the moment when you started to ride his entire face with increasing confidence, moaning for it. His hands squeezed your ass, spreading you wider, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You looked down. The sight was obscene: his handsome face completely hidden beneath your cunt, blue eyes locked in yours, his dirty blonde hair —with some gray strands— messy between your thighs.

Your hips kept moving on their own, grinding down against his eager mouth, his tongue worked your clit in tight, fast circles, savoring every drop of you.

“I want you to cum all over my tongue. Smother me while you do it.” He said, or you guessed so. You pressed down harder, fully sitting now, your ass cheeks smothering his face as you grind faster. His tongue lapping, sucking, fucking you relentlessly.

Your thighs started shaking violently, and he noticed it, so he sucked hard. When you lifted your hips just a little, spasming, he thrusted two fingers deep into your pussy, curling them against your g-spot while his tongue flicked mercilessly. He wanted you to come as soon as possible, and you did.

You came with a broken cry, grinding down hard as your orgasm crashed through you. Your pussy clenched and flooded his mouth, juices dripping down his chin and cheeks. He kept licking and sucking, drinking you down. His hands still on your ass, holding you firmly in place as he continued with worshipful licks, cleaning you up gently while you twitched from overstimulation.

He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.

But then he’d just… Left.

You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.

There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.

But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.

You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.

“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.

“You talking to me?”

“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”

The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.

“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”

“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“

“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“

“You said that already.”

You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”

His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.

Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.

In the store, you’d hadn’t  been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.

He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.

And he’d laughed.

That night, he’d just laughed.

“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”

“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”

The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.

He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.

“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.

He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.

“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.

He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“

“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”

“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”

You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.

“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I.”

“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“

“And why should I trust that?”

He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I swear I won’t.”

“Promises mean nothing.”

“My promises mean something-“

“Not to me, they don’t.”

He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.

The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.

He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.

“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”

And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”

“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“

“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“

“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“

“I am not going to shoot you-“

“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“

“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.

And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.

But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.

Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.

“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.

Ben had followed.

And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.

Then it had been gone.

Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.

So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.

It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.

And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.

Now, you’re careful.

After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.

Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.

No one could know who you are. What you were to him.

Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.

Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.

Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.

But still.

You’d hoped he would.

“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.

And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.

“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.

“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.

“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“

“You liked Paddington 2-“

“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”

You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.

“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”

And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.

“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.

Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.

“You got no idea.”

And you wish you had.

You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.

If you had, he might still be next to you today.

You broke a cup.   

The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.

Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.

I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.

That he had been everything.

You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.

And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.

Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.

It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.

There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.

This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.

No.

This is new.

Which means Ben- He’s alive.

He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.

He left you.

It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.

He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.

You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.

He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.

Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.

And then he left.

Just left.

Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.

But not back with you.

Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.

He didn’t come back.

Ben couldn’t fucking find you.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.

Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here. 

But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.

He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.

Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.  

It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.

Although he had always listened.

But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.

Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.

He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.

And then you’d smiled at him.

He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.

There were things to be angry about now, though.

You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.

Hollow.

Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.

Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.

If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.

And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.

He just had to find you first.

Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.

All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.

The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“

“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.

“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“

He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“

“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes. Yes- Sir-“

“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.

He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.

“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”

Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.

“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”

Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”

“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.

Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.

You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.

And Ben had known. 

“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.

That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.

Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.

You still worked there. You weren’t gone.

Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.

“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”

Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.

He had to go find you.

You get home, and you feel like nothing.

It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.

You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.

Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.

You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.

You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.

You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.

This is just always going to hurt.

“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”

You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.

Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.

“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”

You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.

Or you’d just pass right through thin air.

And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.

You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.

Then he left.

And you’re not anyone’s anymore.

Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.

“Ben?” You whisper.

A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.

“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”

He takes a step forward.

You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.

Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.

You shrink away.

“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“

He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.

You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.

“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.

He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.

Ben sees you. You can see him.

And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…

“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”

Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.

“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”

“You left.”

And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.

“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”

Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.

“I saw you on TV.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“

“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”

The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.

“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“

“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“

“You left.” 

“No, I didn’t-“

“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.

It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.

“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“

Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.

Weak.

“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”

Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.

But Ben doesn’t leave.

He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.

His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.

Still calls it yours.

“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”

You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.

“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”

Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.

Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.

“Why should I believe you?”

Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.

Just focused.

“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“

“Swear it?”

Ben nods, and you tilt your head.

“You swore you’d come back.”

“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”

You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.

“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.

“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

“Prove that you are.”

A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.

You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Be- Ben-“

He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.

“Ben-“

“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”

God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.

Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.

He doesn’t even come up for air.

“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“

He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest. 

“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”

“I- Ooooh-“

You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.

“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”

“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“

“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”

You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”

Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.

“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“

“You- Benjamin-“

“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”

The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.

“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”

“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.

Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.

“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”

“Ben-“

“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”

Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.

“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”

“Mmmh.”

“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.

“Ben-“

“Say it.”

“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“

Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.

It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.

“How- How big is your dick?”

He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.

“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”

You pout slightly. “I am being good.”

Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.

“Ben-“

“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“

“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“

You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Then you realize.

Shit.

“Ben, I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.

“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“

Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“

He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.

Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.

“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”

His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.

“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”

You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.

“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“

“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”

“Oh- Okay.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.

“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.

You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“

You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.

“Good girl.”

The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.

He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.

Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.

“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”

Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”

And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.

You still might cry.

Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway. 

“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“

“I love you.”

You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.

Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.

You both will.

“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“

You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.

Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.

Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.

“Say it again.” He mutters.

“I love you.”

You offer it easily. It’s his to have.

And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.

It means he’s on a fucking mission.

“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”

You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.

“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.

It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.

“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”

You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.

“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.

Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.

“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”

“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.

His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.

“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“

He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.

“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.

He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.

Another warning.

“That’s- Fuck-“

He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.

“More, Ben, more-“

A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.

He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.

Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.

You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.

And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.

Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.

Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.

Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.

Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.

“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.

“Be- Ben-“

“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”

Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.

Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.

And again, Ben stops.

You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.

“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“

He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.

“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“

Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.

But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.

Take it. He’d said.

You don’t think you have a choice.

“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.

The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.

“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”

You glare at him, and he just grins.

“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”

He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.

“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”

Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.

And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.

“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”

You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.

“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”

You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.

Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.

But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.

“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”

He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.

Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.

“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”

You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”

“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ben- Oooooh-“

He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.

“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“

You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”

You had a smart, sharp retort.

It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.

Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.

“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.

“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”

You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.

Ben laughs, prowling up over you.

“You’re fucking drooling.”

“You’re pretty.”

“I am not fucking pretty.”

“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”

He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”

“You are a show pony.”

That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.

“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“

You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.

That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.

You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.

Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”

You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”

A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.

“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”

His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”

Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.

“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”

You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.

“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”

He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.

“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“

He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“

Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.

It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.

“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“

You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.

Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.

“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”

You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.

After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.

Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.

You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.

You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.

He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.

“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.

No pants. Unhelpful.

“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”

“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”

“I am not slobbering-“

“Yeah, you fucking are.”

You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.

“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my boss-“

“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”

You blink at him.

And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.

“You love me?” You whisper.

He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.

“Of course I do-“

“Say it.”

He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“

“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.

This time, it’s going to work.

“Please?” You add.

Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.

You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.

“I love you.” He grunts.

You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.

Meant to remind you that you have time.

“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.

“You’re real lucky-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.

He always lets you. Because he loves you.

“I am.”

✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.

You found the clean dishes by accident.

You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.

The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.

He had told you to let yourself in.

He always did now.

That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.

You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.

Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.

“Of course,” you muttered.

The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.

You started unloading it anyway.

Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.

You were simply a helpful person.

A generous person.

A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.

You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.

You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.

You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”

Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.

It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.

You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.

Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.

And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.

But this—

This was different.

Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.

And the vest.

God help you, the vest.

It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.

It should not have done anything to you.

It did several things.

Several immediate, humiliating things.

Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.

His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.

Heat rushed up your neck.

You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.

Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”

Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”

“You put a mug in it.”

“It’s visiting.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.

You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.

 Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.

You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”

Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”

“Good.” You croaked. 

“Long.”

“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”

Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed. 

You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised. 

Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.

You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I didn’t.” Jack replied. 

You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.” 

“No.”

Somehow, that was worse.

You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.

Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.

“You’re flustered.”

You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”

“Badly,” Jack murmured. 

You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”

His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.

When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.

But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘oh.’”

“I did.” 

You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”

He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.

Mistake.

Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.

You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”

You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.” Too fast.

He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.

You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.

His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”

“No.”

“You sure?” He asked. 

“Yes.” You answered quickly. 

Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”

You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug. 

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.

You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.

Jack caught that too. “Good job.”

Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.

That was the problem.

He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.

You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”

His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”

You glared, “You know.”

“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder. 

“You absolutely do.”

A beat passed.

His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.

When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”

Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You shook your head, “I do not.”

He raised a brow, “No?”

“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.

Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.

You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”

A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”

You opened your eyes.

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.

You swallowed.

Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.

Which was, frankly, rude.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.

Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”

“No.” The single word landed low.

Your hand slipped on the counter.

Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.

More focused. “Oh, baby.”

Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”

His head tilted. “Why?”

“Because I’m already—” You stopped.

Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.

You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”

He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”

You hated him.

You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.

Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.

Not yet.

His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.

Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.

Barely. Not enough. Too much.

His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”

Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?” 

His mouth curved. “The vest.”

Oh. Right. The vest.

You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.

Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.

When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.

His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

You nodded.  

He waited. Right. Words.

“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.

“Hands on the counter.”

Your breath left you. “What?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.

Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.

“You good?”

You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.

“I’m good.”

Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.

“Then, hands on the counter.”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.

The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.

You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it. 

Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.

Behind you, Jack did not move.

The silence was deliberate.

You felt it travel down the line of your spine.

Your skin prickled. “Jack.”

His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.

Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.

He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.

The vest touched you first.

A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.

Your fingers curled against the counter.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.

You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.

His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”

One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.

Still, your breath went uneven.

Jack heard it.

His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”

Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”

It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.

The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.

Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.

His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.

There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.

His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.

Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.

His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint. 

You started to turn your head toward him.

 His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”

Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.

You faced forward again.

Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”

You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”

His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”

Your face burned. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.

Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”

Your stomach flipped. “What?”

“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder. 

The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.

You went silent.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.

His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.

Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.

You caught it.

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”

Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving. 

You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.

His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”

Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”

His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.

Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.

“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”

You swallowed hard. “That was one?”

His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”

The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.

Your fingers flexed.

Jack saw. “Hands.”

You flattened them. 

He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.

Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.

You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.

Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.

Not gone. Changed.

You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.

But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.

Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.

Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt. 

You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.

Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

He trusted it.

His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”

The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.

You lifted your hands slowly.

The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.

Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.

The silence made your pulse beat harder.

Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.

You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.

The shirt stopped. You froze.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”

Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”

His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.

A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin. 

“No?”

Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.

“Please.”

Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.

His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”

The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.

“Take it off.”

A pause.

Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way. 

The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.

The air touched your bare skin.

Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two. 

The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”

Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”

His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”

“You weren’t home.”

His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”

The words landed low and heavy between you.

You started to lower your arms.

Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”

You froze.

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”

Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.

Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.

Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.

Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”

His fingers paused.

You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”

Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”

His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”

A shiver moved through you.

Jack felt it.

His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”

Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.

He had not told you to.

Jack noticed.

You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”

Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”

For a second, he was silent.

Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”

The praise hit harder than you expected.

Your breath shook.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.

Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”

You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders. 

Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.

“Behind your back.”

Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.

Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.

Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.

His mouth curved. “There she is.”

The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.

Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.

Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.

Your breath caught.

Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.

“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.

Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”

His grip settled.

His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.

Your lips parted.

The air left the room.

Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.

You felt it everywhere.

He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.

You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.

Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.

He liked that.

You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.

Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.

You should have found that funny.

You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.

“Jack.” His name came out thin.

He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.

You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.

You were not trapped.

You were held.

There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.

His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.” 

Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.

You closed your eyes.

The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.

He did not ask again.

He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.

And because he trusted you, you gave him more.

A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.

Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.

“Easy,” he murmured.

Your body listened before your pride could object.

A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.

You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.

“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.

Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.

Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.

He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.

Your breath broke. “Please.”

The word slipped out raw.

Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.

Not yet.

“Please what?”

You made a sound that was not quite an answer.

 He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.

Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”

His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”

Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.

“Please don’t stop.”

His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him. 

The knowledge made your knees weaker.

Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.

You were close enough now that the room started to slip.

The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.

All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”

You shook against him.

He felt it. 

He gave you more. 

Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—

Jack stopped. Completely. 

For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.

It didn’t.

You were too far gone for that.

Your body tried to follow his hand.

Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”

You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”

“I’ve got you.” He murmured.

“You stopped.” 

His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”

You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”

His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”

Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating. 

“And I want to hear you do it again.”

For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.

You whispered his name.

Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”

Your pulse jumped.

His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.

Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.

“Slow.”

One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.

He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.

Almost.

His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.

“There,” he said softly.

Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”

The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.

Then he bent slightly.

“Jack—”

His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.

Then he lifted you.

The counter was cold beneath you.

You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.

The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.

Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.

Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.

He caught your wrists. Fast.

Your breath stopped.

Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”

You made a soft, frustrated sound.

His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”

You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”

“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”

Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.

His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”

Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.

Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”

The word went through you with humiliating ease.

Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”

You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”

“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.

Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.

Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.

Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”

Oh.

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”

Your face burned. “That was mean.”

“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”

The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.

Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.

His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”

Your throat worked. “I’m good.”

His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”

Your fingers curled harder around the counter.

Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.

You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.

Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked. 

The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”

His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”

The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.

Soft. Patient. A beginning.

Your head tipped back against the cabinet.

Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”

“I know.” The smile was in his voice.

You hated that. You loved that.

His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.

Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”

Your grip tightened immediately.

The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.

You let out a shaking breath. 

Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”

The words emptied your lungs.

Jack lowered his mouth. 

The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control. 

“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.

Jack paused. Barely.

You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”

You inhaled sharply.  

Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.

You tried to move.

Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.

Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.

His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.

Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.

Your eyes flew open.

He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”

Your voice had vanished. You nodded.

Jack’s hands stilled.

 The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.

“Yes.”

His mouth curved. “Tell me.”

Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”

He rewarded you immediately.

Your breath broke.

Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone. 

One hand slipped. Only an inch.

Jack lifted his head. “No.”

The word was quiet. Your hand froze.

He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”

Your face burned. “On the counter.”

His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”

He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.

Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.

Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.

“Jack.”

His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now. 

You used it. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”

You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”

“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”

Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.

 He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.

Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.

Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.

Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”

You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.

He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.

Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing. 

“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.

You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”

His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”

Your cheeks burned.

You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”

Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.

Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”

He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”

You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”

“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.

And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.

You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.

Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.

Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.

The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.

Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”

His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.

So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.

 “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.

His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.

Jack noticed. His smile deepened. 

You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.

Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.

For one second.

Only one.

Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”

The words landed low.

Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.

You stared at him.

Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.

A reminder.

The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.

Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”

Your fingers flexed in his hold.

He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”

It was not a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyes darkened.

For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.

It had not.

The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.

Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.

Your breath caught.

He noticed. “Soon,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”

His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”

Your pulse kicked. “What?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”

The kitchen seemed to go quieter.

You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.

Your fingers curled once against his.

Then you lifted your hands.

Slowly.

Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.

The wood was cool behind your knuckles.

Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.

He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.

His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”

You nodded once. “I’m good.”

His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”

Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”

Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.

Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.

Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.

 “You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.

 You looked at him. Really looked.

At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.

Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”

Your breath caught.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.

You heard the shift of his belt. 

The low rasp of a zipper.

Your whole body went tight.

Jack felt it immediately.

His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.

Jack’s hand came back to your hip.

He looked at you. Waited.

Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.

His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.

Jack stopped. Completely.

Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.

Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”

Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.

His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”

A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.

Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”

He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.

You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”

Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”

He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him. 

Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.

You were shaking again.

Already.

Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”

You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.

He held you there.

“You did that on purpose,” you managed. 

“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.

That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.

Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”

You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.

Jack groaned.  A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.” 

Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.

The gear scraped against your skin.

His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.

“Jack.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.

“You keep saying that.”

His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”

Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.

 His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”

Your eyes closed.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers tightened.

“Just like that.”

Your body answered every word.

Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.

“Stay with me.”

Your eyes opened.

He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”

“I’m—” You tried. 

“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”

The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.

Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.

“Oh, fuck.”

Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”

His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.

“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”

The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.

His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.

“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”

You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.

“Jack,” you whispered again.

That was what did it.

His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”

His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.

His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.

For a long moment, there was only breathing.

Yours. His.

The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.

Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.

Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.

His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”

Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”

His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”

You nodded against him. “I’m good.”

His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.

Gentle now. Careful.

The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.

He lifted his head and looked at you.

His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.

You reached up and touched it with two fingers.

Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”

You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”

Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”

You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”

His smile softened. “Come here.”

“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh. 

“Come here anyway.”

This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.

Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You did so good,” he said quietly.

Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.

You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

You laughed, boneless and breathless.

He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.

Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.

Your eyes opened.

“The spoon,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.

You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.

You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”

“I know.”

“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.

His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”

His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”

You ended up in Jack’s bed after. 

Not right away. 

There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.

Then one of his shirts.

Then water.

Then bed.

The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.

He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.

This one was warm. Settled.

His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him.

His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.

Just Jack.

“Hey,” you said.

His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”

He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.

He didn’t.

His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”

Your brow softened. “For what?”

Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”

The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.

Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.

You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”

His jaw moved once. “I know.”

His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”

Oh.

That landed deeper than you expected.

You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.

“You don’t.”

Jack’s arm tightened around you.

Not much.

Enough.

You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.

But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.

And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.

“clownfish are important to the ecosystem,” mm says, clicking through the security cameras on his laptop.

soldier boy stares at him.

mm doesn’t blink. “they are.”

“everybody shut up,” butcher says, tapping his earpiece. “darlin’, you in?”

inside the event, crystal lights drip from the ceiling, champagne floats around on silver trays, and every rich person in the room is dressed with clothes that cost more money that you’ve ever seen. ever. 

you move through them easily, smile soft, shoulders loose, dressed nice enough to belong but not expensive enough to threaten anyone. fresh face. clean record. perfect bait.

“i’m in,” you murmur, barely moving your mouth.

on the feed, soldier boy’s eyes drift up. only for a second. then, they stay there.

because you’re not bristling. not glaring. not calling anyone butcher’s commie toy or threatening to rearrange their jaws. you’re smiling. laughing lightly at something some man in a navy suit says. touching his sleeve just enough to make him feel chosen before slipping away.

soldier boy sits up a little.

butcher catches it and smirks. “interestin’, innit?”

“shut up.”

mm zooms in on the ballroom entrance. “deep’s coming in from the west side.”

and there he is.

the deep walks in wearing a blue suit that’s too tight across the shoulders, grinning with all the confidence of a man who has never once heard himself speak. there’s a little dolphin pin on his lapel. no. not dolphin.

clownfish.

you have to bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh.

“i see him,” you say.

“remember,” butcher says, “make him feel special. man’s got the spine of wet cardboard and twice the insecurity.”

“mhm, i know the type.”

soldier boy leans toward the monitor. “why the hell does she have to get close?”

“because,” mm says, “his phone’s encrypted. we need him unlocked, distracted, and away from cameras.”

“and she’s the distraction?”

butcher grins. “look at you keepin’ up.”

on screen, the deep spots you. it’s almost too easy. his gaze catches, sticks, then does that horrible little full-body scan men think nobody notices. you turn before the deep can reach you, letting him follow.

“hi,” he says, sliding beside you at the bar. “i’m kevin.”

you widen your eyes just enough. “i know.”

his grin grows. “yeah?”

“of course.” you glance down at the little pin. “saving the clownfish is… really brave.”

in the van, mm mutters, “oh, that was painful.”

butcher whispers, “beautiful.”

the deep laughs, already preening. “yeah, well, somebody’s gotta speak for the little guys. people don’t realize clownfish are, honestly, kind of misunderstood. very emotionally complex.”

“i can tell.”

“can you?”

“mhm.” you lean in slightly, lowering your voice. “you seem very connected to them.”

his hand lands on your lower back. not hard. not aggressive. just entitled. too familiar. your smile doesn’t move, but your eyes flicker once.

in the van, soldier boy’s hand curls against his thigh.

butcher notices. of course he does. “steady, granddad.”

soldier boy glares at the screen. “she doesn’t need to let him put hands on her.”

“she knows what she’s doing,” mm says, and there’s warning in it.

inside, you laugh at another terrible joke. the deep keeps drifting closer, voice dropping into that awkward, bro-ish attempt at seduction.

“you know, most people here just want selfies,” he says. “but you’re different.”

“am i?”

“yeah. you listen.”

oh, that almost breaks you. poor thing. “maybe you’re worth listening to,” you say, and somewhere in your ear butcher makes a strangled sound that might be pride.

the deep swallows. “there’s, uh… a quieter place out back.”

“lead the way.”

soldier boy straightens fully now. “out back where?”

mm switches feeds. “service hallway. alley exit. no interior camera after the door.”

“no camera?” soldier boy snaps.

butcher’s voice cuts in, low. “that’s the point.”

“that’s stupid.”

you guide the deep through the side door into the alley, night air cool against your face. the city hums beyond the brick walls. distant traffic. wet pavement. trash bins. romantic, if someone has suffered enough brain damage.

the deep steps close, smiling. “so, uh… this is kind of crazy, right?”

“very crazy,” you agree.

he kisses you. it’s bad. not horrifying, not memorable, just wet and overconfident and salty like he just had his mouth deep in some seaweed. you let him have three seconds. four, because his hand slides toward his pocket and you need him distracted.

then your hand moves.

quick. clean.

the tiny syringe sinks into the side of his neck.

his eyes fly open. “what the—”

“sorry,” you whisper, patting his cheek. “for the clownfish.”

he stumbles back once, twice, then drops like a sack of morally confused potatoes.

you exhale, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and tap your earpiece. “seaworld is down.”

the van screeches into the alley thirty seconds later.

butcher hops out first, laughing under his breath. “that’s my girl.”

“never say that again.” you say, although you’re beaming with something close to pride.

mm crouches, grabbing the deep’s phone from his jacket while you climb into the van. soldier boy is already inside, arms crossed, expression carved out of judgment.

you hand the phone to mm. “we’ve got maybe ten minutes before fish boy wakes up.”

mm nods. “nice work.”

soldier boy looks you over, slow, mean, unreadable. “perfect little bait, huh?”

you turn to him, still tasting expensive champagne and seaweed. “funny,” you say. “my bait works on everyone but you.”

his eyes narrow.

you smile, sweet as poison. “guess you really are too old and fucked up to catch.”

butcher barks a laugh from outside.

soldier boy just stares at you. then his mouth twitches. not a smile. not yet. “keep telling yourself that,” he says.

you sit across from him as the van doors slam shut, pulse still high, lipstick slightly ruined, and the deep unconscious in the alley behind you.