Dana approaches you somewhere in the hour of 12PM. She looks at you over the rim of her glasses, all blonde strands of hair and each wrinkle in her forehead lined with concern for someone, more or less, adjacent to you. It makes you sink in your seat. You had been residing at the main workstation with three of the residents painfully assorting patient files since the CEO in his Fourth of July garb had made the announcement of preemptively shutting off all computer systems; leaving the ED without electronic health records, connected charting etc. 

(You know, all the stuff that makes the department chug on like a semi-well-oiled machine.) 

Being somewhat of a specialist in the art of expressions and the silence that comes with it, you were able to conclude that Dana Evans—the guardian of the PTMC—was not approaching you for a long-overdue chinwag. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

“You need to talk to him.” Dana commands in her usual gravel tone. 

It makes you nervously scratch at your brow-bone. “I know. I’m getting round to it. Just after—” 

“Now.” Dana interjects. She leans her whole body into the workstation, her voice drops down to barely a whisper, “He’s acting up. Being a real Fourth of July spectacle. All this before he hops on that godforsaken motorcycle for three months. You’ve got the most Robby jargon out of all of us. Put it to use.” 

You let out a deep exhale. “Fine.”

You stand at full height and Dana gives you a half smile that was a tamer version of amusement.

Things were not fine. In fact, things were so far out of the ballpark of fine, that you would never put Robby and the definition of ‘fine’, or ‘okay’ or, overall just ‘good’ in one sentence. He was a man on the precipice of a life-altering decision that those around him would suffer the consequences that he had made; much longer after his three-month sabbatical on the road came to a screeching halt. 

The signs had been there. Ever since you had begun at the PTMC as a fresh-faced attending with a basket full of naivety. It just took a couple of years for the signs to start catching up to you. And by then, your efforts to salvage the good pieces of Michael Robinavitch, had fallen through the cracks of a prepaid tombstone. 

For the most part, colleagues would acknowledge the mental health problems that trickle down from behavioural changes from their peers, and then they’d be able to go home without the additional weight of it upon their shoulders. No skin off of their noses if they weren’t the ones paying for the extensive therapy sessions. 

However, for you, that wasn’t the case. Since—

“He’s your husband.” Dana calls after you. 

You throw a hand up in retaliation, the sizeable rock on your ring finger catching the hazy overhead light. “Thank you, Dana.” 

The reminder wasn’t needed. Everyone—including the one who married him—was well aware that Dr. Michael Robinavtich had managed to be tied down. Motorcycle and all.

You had fallen in love prior to the catastrophic events from COVID, that had been the pipeline to Robby's mental health downfall. It had been exhilarating, and sometimes still was, at the beginning of the inner workings of a relationship that was blossoming beneath Gloria Underwood’s watchful eye. All the sneaking around, keycards slid beneath clipboards, kissing on company time. The pair of you felt like giddy teenagers copping a feel. 

He proposed to you within two years. Now, you were waltzing around the PTMC with a double barrel surname that was seemingly quite the tongue twister for those who took the time to read it. (This including Dennis Whitaker who went beet red when you had corrected his feeble attempt of reciting it back to you.) 

You peer into Pedes to find him as predicted—coddling Baby Jane Doe.

Robby’s head turns as you speak, “Hi,” you tilt your head and smile softly at the infant lazily dozing on your husband’s shoulder. “How is she doing?” 

“Oh, just lonely.” he lilts. 

You nod, smoothing a finger back and forth against her cheek, “She likes you.” 

“Well…she’d be the only one.” Robby mumbles as he places the infant back into the hospital cot. You smother the growing frown on your face when he straightens to full height. “You need me for something?” he asks quietly. 

I need you to come back to me. 

You settle for, “Just making sure you’re okay. You know—After how we left things this morning.” you say, deciding to take the brunt of whatever force you may be hit with—taking Dana out of the collateral damage. 

Things had been left on a sour note in the apartment you both shared in the downtown area of Pittsburgh. The looming presence of Robby’s three-month sabbatical with his cognitive well-being balancing on the line of a fraying thread had made quite the topic of conversation over his black coffee and your nourishing choice of breakfast. Therapy was always at the centre of your tedious endeavours to ensure Robby came back to you in one piece during the early hours before work; and getting him to listen was no easy feat. 

Your last ditch attempt to undertake your husband’s reluctance to get help was thrown back at you beneath venom and animosity. It had almost given you whiplash. Robby escaped the confines of the apartment with a slam of the door after insisting that if you put more of your efforts into ‘minding your own business’, you’d be able to resolve whatever unearthed issues you had rolling about in your mind—such as your unrelenting desire to help those who don’t want it. 

The motorcycle ride without the helmet must’ve given his head a good shake, because when you entered the sliding doors of the PTMC; Robby began loitering around you enough to make it obvious he felt a little guilty on how he had left things.

(Never go to bed angry. Never hop on a death trap after searing your wife with the hot iron rod of your pent up anger. Or, something like that.)

Robby takes a deep inhale, there’s a sort of playful glint in his eye as he speaks, “You know, when you continue to ask someone if they’re okay, it starts to get a little repetitive.” 

“Marriage is repetition.” you don’t miss a beat, the lightheartedness that swoops the conversation feels a little foreign; considering the circumstances. “Sue me for taking my vows seriously.” 

“Hm.” Robby hums, the blue latex gloves snapping off his hands, “Is this a welfare check?” 

He shrouds your personal space for a moment. Not enough to seem intentional, but you knew his actions were the end result of your magnetic presence—hence why he married you. You watch him cock his head in a roguishly handsome way, crows feet beside brown eyes exposed when he scrunches on eye shut. Michael Robinavitch was many things; but dense was not one.

His flirtations were consciously placed. 

The room fills with the bustle from the central area of the ED when Robby pushes the door open, wedging it open with one foot to allow you to depart from Pedes. He looks down the slope of his nose at you, a faint smile catches at the corner of his lips when you size him up in passing. 

“Are you open to one?” you bump your elbow into the softness of his stomach, habitually holding your hand beneath the sanitiser. It takes all your efforts to not look up at him. 

You begin to walk together. 

“Uh…nope.” 

His answer takes a subtle jab at your heart. “Then consider it as me just being nosy about how you’re feeling.” 

“That—” Robby halts you both, his fingers ghosting your elbow to allow a gurney to roll past. His eyes follow it as he continues, “—Is just a less fancier way of dressing this up as a welfare check. Have you seen Dana?” 

She’s the one that sent me, is what you want to say. 

“She’s talking with Emma.” you reply nonchalantly, “Robby, can you just…talk to me? Please? You’re deflecting.” 

“No, I’m running an Emergency Department.” Robby retorts, placing a hand on your back to keep you with him as he wades through the chaos of going analog. His eyes flit to you for a second and he softens at the melancholy you carry in your expression. “Sweetheart, I’m fine and sort of in the middle of something. Pin this conversation for later, okay?” 

“Sure.” you murmur when he walks away. Dana takes up the rear-end of the conversation, slotting herself shoulder to shoulder with you—an iPad balancing in the crook of her elbow. You don’t look at her when you say, “That went well.” 

“Plenty of time, honey.” Dana grits, patting your back, “You’ll get through to him. As for now, I’ve got a case in South 15. Right up your alley. Lookin’ real pretty for a distraction, hm? Come on.” 

Robby is distracted when he returns to the central hub. The patient chart is a mere prop in his hands. The information untouched by his plethora of clinical knowledge, because all he can hear is you laughing at something that the handsome Radiologist—Dr. Barker—has said. It hadn’t bothered him when his staff members, Princess and Javadi, had been stood gawping at the man from afar. Was it a little inconvenient considering the circumstances the ED were squashed under? Yes.

Until it became a hinderance to their performance; it wasn’t his problem. 

As for you…it was different. 

There was no overt behaviour that would lead anyone to believe that you were doing anything but being friendly until the wet reads came through for your patient in South 15. At an arms length from the guy, but still conversing in a way that shows off two of Robby’s favourite things about you: your genuine toothy-grin and the nose scrunch do when you find something funny. 

When Dana throws him a look in passing, he reverts back to the patient chart. Then your laughter carries across the room a minute after, and Robby decides that’s enough time spent with the pretty boy from upstairs that has set up camp in the middle of the ED.

He idles up next to you with all the curiosity of a Chief Attending and not a husband that reeks of jealous intrigue. 

(Professional before personal. The walls of the PTMC were a shield to the outside noise.) 

“Dr. Robby.” Barker greets. 

You turn your head to see Robby practically flush with your back. “Oh—Hi.”

“Dr. Barker.” Robby glances at you from his peripheral and chooses to ignore the mild perplexity that sits in the crease between your brows. His hands clutch his elbows when he crosses his arms across his chest, head tilting at the Radiologist. “How long on this patient’s imaging?” 

“Another fifteen minutes. Tops.” Barker answers after checking the process. 

“Then I assume you can circle back on the jokes in fifteen minutes.” your head whips to glare at the Chief Attending-gone-rogue on being tactful around his professional peers, “Catalogue of patients on that whiteboard. They won’t treat themselves.” he chides. 

You give Dr. Barker an apologetic look and walk by Robby who follows like a dog on a leash. Once the Radiologist is out of ear shot, you speak freely, “Are you seriously time-keeping my conversations?” 

“No.” Robby drawls, “Just making sure one of my best Attending still has her head in the game.” 

“That’s rich.” you scoff with minimal malice, “Dr. Barker is a good guy. The way you spoke to him back there—” 

Robby interjects. “Ho-ho, sounds like you like him.”

“I do.”

“More than me?” he angles his body into yours to make room for an oncoming nurse. (He doesn’t miss the small but wicked smile on your face.) 

You mull it over when you reach the board. “Only time will tell. You’re still on probation from your morning tantrum.” 

Robby lets out a rare cackle that spreads the amusement across his weathered features and you beam up at the sight of his crows feet making an appearance under the circumstances of lighthearted humour. The palm of his hand rubs the span of your back as you stare at the whiteboard, making it a sight to behold for the forthcoming med students. 

“I—Uh,” Robby starts, removing his glasses and scratching the skin behind his ear, “I want to apologise for how this morning went.” 

“Mhm.” you only look at him when you feel his eyes bore into your side-profile, “I forgive you. Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be mad at you, Robinavitch.” you remark setting the base layer tone as nothing short of sarcastic. 

Robby inhales and speaks on the exhale, his voice only just audible to you, “Would…a five minute break in an on-call room make up for any of it?” 

He looks hopeful.

You pray he shares the same sentiment on his three-month sabbatical. Unlikely, but negativity didn’t pay the bills. 

The insinuation is clearer than glass. On-call rooms were meant for a sole purpose of providing the staff at the PTMC a safe space to rest in privacy. It required a keycard to gain access to. 

It was also the same space that Robby and you took advantage of for displays of affection that were crossing the boundaries classified in the Human Resources pamphlet you were both given on how to navigate an appropriate workplace relationship; and the power imbalances that could come with it. 

Gloria Underwood would turn in her ivory white tower if she knew what the pair of you got up to behind that particular closed door on the company dime. 

Robby’s offer was tempting. His handsome face and optimistic eyes were even more. 

“I’m happy where I am.” you advise him, without sounding too pained at the sacrifice. 

Robby surrenders. “Happy wife, happy life.” he states with his hands up, then deciding to give Ogilvie and Joy a show by pulling you in by your shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. It was the least he could do, if the on-call room was off the menu. “Shout if you need me.” 

“Shout.” you whisper when he trails off, leaving you with the ambient hospital noises. (And, Joy and Ogilvie.) You point at them, “You two. With me.” 

Eventually you return to the middle of the Pitt, swiping two patients off of the white board with two fingers—too lazy to find the eraser. You weren’t sure what part had soured your mood. Either from the med-student Ogilvie’s unwavering need to put his foot in his mouth in front of patients and plummet those all important patient satisfaction scores, Louie’s passing, the foreboding presence of your husband’s three-month sabbatical; or catching the loose ends of Noelle Hastings and Robby’s conversation. 

He catches sight of you in passing—your face providing nothing but the word: hypocrite—whilst he absentmindedly bobs his head along to Hastings sugary rambling over McKay’s patient case. His forehead creases as she speaks, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously. Robby’s eyes flit over to you in the hopes that just this once, you may be a figment of his own imagination. 

Despite jealously being relatively beneath you in your marriage to one of the PTMC’s eligible bachelors, without being too presumptuous, Robby feared that seeing him converse with his non-committal ex, may be the cherry on the cake for how your day was going.

(Hastings always had a habit of lingering. Which made it look even worse.) 

Perlah comes up beside you, patient charts in abundance in her grasp. 

“Not bothering you?” she asks with a subtle jerk of her head in Robby and Noelle’s direction.

You shuffle through some results, “Give it a couple of minutes.” you murmur. 

Perlah lets out a laugh that catches both Noelle and Robby’s attention nearby. Their heads turn at the abrupt sound, which in turn breaks up their train of thought over the long winded discussion. Noelle squeezes Robby’s bicep before they go their separate ways, and suddenly your patient’s results need to be read millimetres from your face; when Noelle strolls into the workstation with a content expression on her pretty face. 

“You did that on purpose.” you whisper to Perlah behind your clipboard.

Perlah shrugs innocently and departs to ask Robby for a second-opinion. 

The case manager perches at the edge of the workstation you happen to sit at, happily tapping at the surface of the workstation.

The thing about Noelle Hastings was, that she was neither a friend nor a foe to you. She was simply an extension of Robby’s history of avoidant attachment that extended the length of seven-weeks. There was zero animosity toward her as some would anticipate you to have. She was kind, assisted you in insurance cases on the best outcome for the patient and even when she stepped over the invisible boundary that separated a fleeting situation from a marriage, with nostalgic remarks over her shared time with Robby; Noelle Hastings well-manicured nails were always far from digging into your husband. 

She was aware of this. Respectful. Part of you assumes she was trying to find a middle ground to bond over with you. Understandably, it could get a little awkward when your previous sexual endeavours’ wife is waltzing around the workplace. 

Even more awkward when she catches herself going all gooey whenever she was within close proximity to his charm. (Worked on her for years. It wasn’t going to stop now. Even if it wasn’t intentional on his part.) 

She speaks in the direction of Dana, “You know what Motorcycle Mike’s sabbatical is really about?” 

Dana remains unbothered, “I never try to guess what’s going on in that head of his.” 

You shift in your seat, and it highlights yourself to Noelle. 

“You’re not going with him?” Noelle tosses the net with a polite smile and you’re suddenly pulled into the conversation, no longer a bystander pretending to be busy.  “Uh, no.” you shift, rubbing the palms of your hands against your thighs.

Dana also responds, “You kiddin’? We’d go cuckoo bananas if we lost her to a three-month sabbatical too.” she peers over the brim of her glasses at Noelle, “Behind every great man, is a greater woman.” she proclaims. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Noelle laughs. There’s a thought that churns over in her head and you’re left surrendering yourself to yet another boundary crossed when she decides to vocalise it. “It’s just…That’d drive me crazy. You know? Him being off the radar for three whole months. The man couldn’t sleep without the TV on in the bedroom. How is he going to survive all that silence?”

You take the comment in your stride, shutting the monitor off and standing. Dana throws you an empathetic look as a woman has been in the game for thirty years. Someone like that learns to become observational when being patient-facing means the little expressions matter.

And with the rise and fall of your chest; Dana can come to the conclusion that you’re upset by Hastings throwaway comment. 

So, she defends where you won’t. 

“Little respect, Hastings.” Dana is casual in her directness. She glances at the pretty woman, “It goes a long way.” 

Noelle looks mortified. “Oh—No. I’m sorry. I overstepped.” 

“It’s fine.” you reassure her, gulping at the tightness in your throat, “You made an observation that has stood the test of time. Robby is a big boy. Three months to reflect, alone, is healthy. TV on or not.” 

Now, you’re irritated. 

It’s enough for the conversation to not chase you when you depart the workstation—Dana left to lowly chuckle in amusement at the underlying sharpness in your tone. You weave through bodies on autopilot, ears ringing from the seed of doubt planted by Hastings over Robby’s time away. It made you think that perhaps you had been too enthusiastic over the idea of a three-month sabbatical with little to no contact with a man on the brink of catastrophe. Too laidback in putting the power in the hands of his mind that had nothing but malicious intent over his body. 

It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Neither you or Robby could recall an official vacation that he had partaken in—aside from your honeymoon. Now? You weren’t so sure.

Everyone else had told you otherwise ever since it had been announced. 

“Everything okay?” by some hideous trick of fate, Robby matches the strides in the walk you were taking around the parameters of the department.

He had spotted you from the window of South 22 and excused himself with the reassurance from Dr. Al-Hashimi that she could hold down the fort. Being married to you came with unlimited perks, one being that Robby was able pinpoint your tells that signalled a combative mood. Not necessary toward him; but the idea wouldn’t be so far fetched. 

(It was all in the downturn of your lips. And the tightness in your jawline.) 

“You tell me. Does having to listen to your ex question my decision to not saddle up on a three-month sabbatical with my flight risk husband, whilst also sorely reminding me that she also knows you leave the TV on through the night, make a good case for everything to be going okay?” you quip, narrowly avoiding Ahmed’s call to the betting pool. 

Robby blows out hot air. “Could’ve said devoted husband.” he jokes. It crashes and burns when you spare him a stern glance. “Okay. How about we take in some fresh air in the Ambulance Bay?” 

“Lead the way.”  It doesn’t take much further and the summer air of Pittsburgh clings to your bodies in all the wrong places. It preemptively sets the tone as you scuff your feet against the ground, arms tightly bound across your chest in an effort to translate your hardened exterior from the events of the day. 

Honestly, it felt close to dogpiling once Hastings became—unintentionally—involved. 

Robby takes in the scenes of the empty Ambulance Bay, his eyes find his beloved motorcycle still in tact at the side of the building. He takes a step forward in order to block it from your line of vision. 

After a moment, an arm wraps around your shoulder and you’re suddenly curled into your husband’s side. His lips find your temple and they stay pressed against your skin to resolve some of the bad feelings running about in your chest. 

You close your eyes as Robby repetitively presses chaste kisses to the same spot, relishing in the physical affection that you will be deprived off for three months. Or further; depending on how far Michael Robinavitch was willing to go. 

The thought alone makes you recoil out of his touch. 

Robby’s brows quirk in confusion. “Too hot?” he asks naively. Unprepared. 

“We—” you sigh, “—We need to continue the conversation from this morning.” 

“No…we don’t.” Robby informs, his expression still unwavering in adoration, “It’s water under the bridge. I apologised.” 

“I’m talking about the part where you accept the therapy sessions on this sabbatical.” you start, feeling the prompt shift in the atmosphere, “Jack has given me all the information for his therapist—” 

“Sweetheart. I am begging you not to start this shit again.” Robby has the palms of his hands flush against each other in a begging motion that’s sent in your direction. “I don’t need a therapist on this trip.” 

“Throw me a bone here, Robby.” you exasperate, “You’re obviously not well. Is it really so bad that I’m making sure I get you back by the end of this?” you feel your patience chip, the skin of your neck prickling with frustration.

Robby chuckles. “Oh, you’ll get me back. I’ll make sure of it.”

The morbidity of his answer makes you pause. 

You blink at him, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means…stop telling me how to feel.” Robby narrows his eyes, throwing a sarcastic smile your way. 

“Then what are you feeling, Robby?” you snap at him, the humid summer air clinging to your skin. 

He chuckles lowly, “I really don’t need you to be my shrink.” 

You shake your head, “This isn’t what a shrink does. You would know that if you just see one for two days of the week whilst you’re away. Jack’s therapist does virtual appointments—” 

“I already gave you my answer to that.” 

“Holy shit.” you clench your fists and tap them against your forehead to relieve your frustrations, “I’m not asking you to lobotomise yourself on this sabbatical, Robby. It’s fucking therapy.”  

Robby sneers, “No? This—” he gestures to the space between you in circles, “—feels an awful lot like a lobotomy. Cut it out.” 

“Cut it out?” you repeat, “I’m not a child.”  “Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” Robby crosses his arms, the argument was beginning to feel like being inside a pressure cooker, “You’re upset over this morning. Over the sabbatical, clearly over whatever bullshit Hastings said to you. About Louie. You can’t regulate your own emotions at work and you have the nerve to tell me I need fucking help? That is fucking hypocrisy.”  “Oh, quit projecting.” you look around for a minute to take a break from the intense stare down. 

“Why…are you doing this right now?” 

You watch Robby rub at his temples. “Why? Because you’re lashing out. You’ve been doing it to Mohan, Dana and Al-Hashimi all fucking day. You’re upset that Langdon is back and you’re punishing him for your own feeling of failure.” 

“Mohan is tough love.” Robby cherrypicks. 

“Cut the shit, Robby. You’ve been wearing her down and you know it.” you gesture to the ED just beyond the sliding doors, “She had a panic attack and you belittled her over the same shit you did last year in Pedes!”

Robby shakes his head in disbelief, “You’re really bringing that up right now?” 

“Yes. I am.” you retort plainly, “Robby. Can’t you see this is all happening because I love you?” you collect your voice beneath a whisper when an EMT strolls by you. 

Robby waits until they vacate the premises to speak as he drags his fingers along creases in his forehead. “Yeah. I do. And, right now…I need you to love me less.” he conveys cruelly.  Your worry ebbs into hurt. Fingers curling tight enough that your nails are pressing crescent moons into the palm of your hands. His words lay flat against your chest like wet cement. Any further rebuttals you had lined up dissipate and you’re left with a blank slate, jaw slack as you try to make sense of it all. 

The Ambulance Bay plunges into icy waters. Robby nervously drags his thumbnail across the top of his brow bone as he cranes his neck to look inside the building. It wasn’t evident to you at the time, but his inner turmoil flares at the sight of your broken expression. 

Even when you gather yourself up with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip, Robby does nothing. He allows you the action of brushing past him to escape the jaws of his verbal brutality, throwing yourself back into the chaos of a holiday weekend. 

He’s left with the whir of ambulances in the distance.

Robby watches you leave, mumbling a ‘shit’ under his breath. He drops his head back to take in the humid air through his nostrils; the brief solitude condemned when Baran Al-Hashimi appears. 

“Robby?” Baran calls from the doors, offering a hesitant smile, “Perlah has notified me that Ms. Kovalenko—the burn patient—is ready to be seen again.” 

Robby swings his hands around his body, releasing the tension by smacking his palm against his other hand that was curled up into a fist. He strains a smile, “I’ll be right there.” 

Robby takes a shot at a breath to exhale any leftover poison on his tongue from your spat—being wise to the fact that patient satisfaction scores would increase without personal baggage. The dispenser spits the sanitiser into his hand and he chooses to open the door with his back; checking for any sign of you amongst the sea of people marching about. 

The pit in his stomach grows when he can spot you in the middle discussing a case with McKay. Your back is turned, but Robby has been with you long enough to see the tension taught across your shoulder blades from the deep laceration he had caused by projecting his frustrations for a second time that day. 

He takes a mental note to make amends by any means possible. And promptly too. 

He enters the room with one last look at you. “Hello. How’s it going in here?” 

“We were just discussing your wife.” Perlah informs with a friendly smile, fingers busy with the task at hand. When Robby looks inquisitive about how the topic turned to you in his absence, Perlah adds, “She just came to find me for a patient. Said hello. Ms. Kovalenko was curious about the double-barrel surname on her badge. It got us talking. All good things.” 

Robby hums warmly. “A conversation I’m always happy to partake in.” he perches himself on the nearby stool—both Perlah and Ms. Kovalenko watching as he fixes his posture.

“Beautiful.” Ms. Kovalenko states. 

“Very.” Robby concurs earnestly—he wants to say that you are the eighth wonder of the world. 

(The argument puts that sort of compliment on hold for the time being.) 

“Too good for you.” The red-haired woman quips. 

“Ooh. I’ll have to agree there too.” he lilts, the pang of guilt smothered behind a professional glaze. He pats the tops of his thighs, “Did I miss all the gross stuff?” 

“Timed it perfectly.” Perlah replies. 

“Excellent. My job is all about delegation and time management.” Robby chides with a brave face; hoping his emotions weren’t too raw on his face over the mention of you. 

Perlah and him get into a lighthearted back and forth over his imminent departure at the end of the twelve-hour shift, which piques Ms. Kovalenko’s interest over the finer details. 

“He’s leaving us for three-months. On a motorcycle.” Perlah shifts in her chair, happy to invite Ms. Kovalenko further behind closed doors. 

Kovalenko’s brows raise to her hairline. “Motorcyle? You’re joking.” she whips her head round to stare at Robby, “Why would you do this?” she asks sternly. 

“Why? Why? Because…uh—” 

“You’re a middle aged man. Don’t be stupid.” she spits back, “What about your wife? Is she happy about this decision?” 

“She is…moderately humble about it.” Robby rolls closer to the sharp-tongued patient, narrowly averting his gaze to the injury concealed beneath a thin cloth. 

“Moderately humble.” Kovalenko repeats sardonically with a few nods of her head. “Forgive me for being blunt but, do you think that is the equivalent to being happy, Dr. Robinavitch? I pity your wife. Very sad.” 

Robby hangs his head and huffs out a laugh, “We cannot stop the world from spinning just because one person doesn’t like the way it goes round, Ms. Kovalenko—How about we focus on your care?”

There’s a significant pause. 

“Us women are what make the world go round,” her lips quirk in satisfaction when Robby’s brown eyes drift from her burn site, “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Once the elderly, fiery-haired patient with a nasty burn on her thigh is discharged from Robby’s care—not without a stern lecture and some wonderful insight about his lack of appreciation for women in general—it’s evident that all signs are pointing to resolving the conflict that had transpired between you two. 

If there was one person Robby was not willing to part with on a sour note for three whole months…it was you. 

The better half of him. The center of his gravity. The only person strong enough to flip the heavy hourglass in time before he drains himself entirely.

Also, the woman that was apparently hard to track down in a department he knew like the back of his hand. 

(He worries you left. But that wasn’t in your nature. Hurt feelings or not.) 

“Where—“ he pauses, “—is my Attending?” Robby checks the surrounding areas as he speaks directly to Dana who was standing at the workstation with Monica Peters—the Pitt’s once renowned cynical clerk until things went south over technology. 

Dana lets out an amused scoff, looking down at the clipboard pressed against her stomach; strands of blonde hair loose around her face.

“She’s been demoted to just Attending? What’d she do?” she quips in her usual tone that has Robby flaring his nostrils, “She’s writing up the death note for Javadi. McKay’s cancer patient—Roxie—she passed away.” 

Robby frowns, “Where’s McKay?”

“MIA.” Dana drawls, now fiddling with the prescribed box of nicotine gum, “She seemed pretty upset coming from the Ambulance Bay. Anything you want to tell me?” 

“It’s been a long day.” he calls flippantly, already parting through the sea of pandemonium. 

He puts the plethora of questions about McKay’s whereabouts on the back burner for the time being. 

Dana raises her voice over the hospital buzz, “Make amends, Cap.” 

He gives the charge nurse a two-finger salute. 

For once, he makes it to his destination uninterrupted by an emergency that requires his presence in the trauma room. The door to the room that had been dimly lit aside from the salt lamp glow, clicks open as Robby arrives; finding you slipping out the gap and closing the door quietly behind you. 

You haven’t seen him yet. 

For observational purposes, the Chief Attending watches you press your forehead against the cool glass of the narrow window of the door. His stomach sinks when he can see your shoulders shudder as you take a deep breath to fill your lungs with air that kept evading you. 

He doesn’t feel like there’s ever going to be an appropriate time to speak to you in order to rescind his previous declarations. Even more so now, as you conceal the notion of silently weeping in the middle of the ED. 

“You need a coffee?” Robby’s voice makes you jolt. For once, he shrinks in confidence under your unsteady gaze. His tired eyes take in the vision of your watery ones and his expression melts into tenderised sympathy. He nods, “Come on.”

The staff room is empty when you enter, aside from the manikin that Nurse Jesse took great pleasure in decorating, before he was wrongfully detained by ICE agents for intervening with patient care at the core of his interests—just another reason to confirm that the holiday weekend had been nothing short of twenty car pile-up that you were being forced to look at. 

The box of donuts from upstairs is empty, the clock above is ticking closed to the end of the day shift; even when the job wasn’t truthfully done at the stroke of 7PM. You take the seat closest to the wall, muscles sighing from the imminent relief of pressure. 

Robby stands at the coffee machine—if you can even call it that. It sputters a watery version of coffee into a styrofoam cup, and he dumps two packets of sugar into the liquid in order to salvage some sweetness amidst the bitter tone of the room. 

He slides the cup over to you and fishes a protein bar from his pocket, patting it to emphasise the notion that dinner had been served. 

Your stubbornness prevails as you push the bar away from you, despite having not eaten for almost seven hours. 

Robby sighs at that. The refusal doesn’t surprise him. You were always prone to a petty hunger strike when it came to Robby providing you with food to nourish your body after an argument. It was sort of his way to build up to an apology. 

He drags the spare seat across the flooring and plants it in front of you.

The fabric of your scrubs brush against his when his knees bumps yours as he sits. The close proximity invites his scent into your bubble, the undertones of his aftershave prominent enough for you to recognise the fragrance as the one he wore on your wedding day. 

Robby rests his elbows on the tops of his thighs as he lean into your space.

As the words form on his lips into a coherent icebreaker that he was easing into, the door to the staff room whips open to reveal Trinity Santos. 

You look up at her. Robby doesn’t. 

“I need an Attending.” 

Robby answers for the both of you. 

“Go find Dr. Al-Hashimi.” he sings. 

Santos mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes as she shuts the door behind her. You give Robby a certain look—one he’s been given before—that tells him you weren’t in favour of brushing off the RS2 in favour of squashing the hostility that he brought upon the both of you. 

He gives you a meek but crooked smile. Crows feet prominent as he tries to warm the atmosphere. 

“I need you…to understand something here.” Robby starts, his hands falling to the sides of your kneecaps. He can barely look at you when he talks, “If I don’t go on this sabbatical, I am not so sure it’ll stop me from…” he trails off. 

The room falls silent. 

He can barely say it himself because verbalising it would make that little more of a tangible thing. 

You can’t conjure up the fight to protest; so you hang your head. 

“What upset you about Roxie’s case?” Robby takes a different approach. He tilts his head like a curious dog when you look back up from your lap. 

You mull it over. “Do you ever stand in a room with a wife and a husband, one of them is dying in front of the other’s eyes.  And they just have to watch it happen at their bedside?” 

Robby gives a curt nod. 

“Do you ever put yourself in their shoes, Robby?” you question, “How that would feel? To have the most meaningful part of you slip through your fingers and you don’t have the control to stop it. This—” gesture with your finger between your bodies, “—Is how that feels for me.” 

“Yeah—”

“No.” you shake your head, “You don’t get to sit there and tell me you know how it feels from my perspective. I love you in ways that you aren’t reciprocating. You know why?” 

“Why?” Robby whispers. 

You continue, “Because, if we loved each other equally, there wouldn’t be a shadow of a doubt to get the help that you fucking need.” your voice trembles, “I cannot keep pushing through this fog around you, Robby.” 

“I know.” Robby’s expression melts. Brown eyes softer than ever. “I know.” 

“Then get help. Please.” 

Robby cups the back of your head when tears begin to shed from your eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” he presses his lips to your forehead, “I’ll do it. I’m sorry.” 

The moment is held sacred against your hearts. There’s a particular weight that lifts off of your shoulders when Robby gives in, but even then…your heart was still heavy from the outcome of your previous argument in the Ambulance Bay. 

Maybe three months apart would mend those open wounds. (Absence made the heart grow fonder. Apparently.) 

Robby finally pulls back with a pained expression on his face; as he memorises your features close-up. “What I said before—I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure how I’d do in life if I didn’t have you up my ass about everything.” 

“I hear Montana has a lot of fresh oxygen. You can use all of that up with consistent apologies during your sabbatical.” you grouse, wiping at the wetness that Robby misses when he drags his thumb across your cheekbone—ridding you of a lash that had latched onto your skin. “You know, people divorce for less.” you say. 

Genuine laughter ripples from Robby’s chest, the moment of reconciliation solidified in your acerbic intonation. (Part of him wonders how many lives he has left before the reality of divorce comes to life.) 

Instead of answering back, Robby forgoes professional protocol by pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It takes a few swallows to dislodge the lump in his throat, smothering his own upset when you pull away to meet his gaze.  

The door opens for a second time. 

Dana holds onto the handle, staring at the scenes before her over the rim of her glasses. “Would you look at that. It’s a Fourth of July miracle. Can this wrap up so we can do rounds and get the hell out of this godforsaken place? Two more minutes, lovebirds.”

Robby stands at the foot of the bed. It’s well after midnight and whilst you have shed into the comforts of your sleepwear, Robby is clad in a thick Carhartt jacket and dark jeans with his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He is looking like the epitome of a reckless motorcyclist about to venture on the open road after a gruelling twelve—and some additional hours—shift at the Emergency Department.

You are sat with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Ready to bid your husband goodbye; praying it’s rather a ‘see you soon’ sort of farewell.

His confirmation in the Staff Room didn’t sit all that well in your stomach. 

“You have got everything?” you ask, twiddling with the hem of his jacket, “Wallet? Phone? Cash? The list of phone numbers I wrote down for you?” Robby nods along as you list it off, “Toothbrush? Phone charger? The little First Aid Kit I bought?” 

“Check.” Robby affirms. 

There’s an unfamiliar feeling rolling about in the air of your bedroom. Robby and you had rarely spent time apart—as unhealthy as it may sound to other couples, it just works for you. Nothing more than a week, when you decided to take a well-earned break from the seventh layer of hell named the Pitt. 

Three months would feel like a lifetime. 

You sigh deeply, “Call me. Or text me when you arrive at the first hotel. I love you. Kind of.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Robby leans down to kiss you sweetly. His hand captures your jawline to deepen the kiss to gratify his needs. He barely pulls back to look at you, “I’ll miss you.” 

“I’d hope so.” you kiss him again. Your hands rest against the broad-line of his shoulders, whilst his free hand clutches your back to press your body into him. You whisper against his feverish kiss, “You’re running late to get on the road.” 

“I’ve got time.” Robby answers back. 

The change in pace happens abruptly. One minute you’re exchanging a bittersweet goodbye, and the next, your t-shirt has been yanked over your head, leaving your chest exposed; nipples hardening from the cool air. 

Robby bends to capture a nipple into his mouth, his beard creating a sweet fiction alongside his tongue swiping at your bud. He groans against your tit, and you take the opportunity to slide his bag from his shoulder—his jacket coming off quickly after. 

Once he pays attention to your neglected nipple by repeating the same actions, he pulls back with his hair sticking up in all directions as a result of you tugging at it. 

His pupils are blown wide. 

“You want me to take care of you before I leave, hm?” Robby asks, his tone dripping in saccharine.

You nod, breathless. 

He dips his head to press wet kisses down your navel whilst you instinctively lift your hips when his fingers hook at the sides of your flimsy excuse for underwear; which he stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans for later. The air thickens, the silence filling with lewd groans from Robby’s mouth as he lifts and parts your thighs, pressing them up to your chest to expose your slick core. 

His callus palms smooth across the length of the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps in his wake. Brown eyes drift from your aching pussy, up to your face to observe your reaction when he drags two fingers from your seeping hole and upward to your sensitive clit. 

You jolt and whimper from the sensation and Robby clicks his tongue, shushing you as he repeats the same action. 

Once he gathers enough of your juices on his two fingers, he applies pressure to your clit and begins to rubbing in slow circles. You whine, legs making effort to drop down to relieve the pressure; only for Robby’s free hand to pin them against your chest again. 

“Robby…” you manage to say. 

Robby cocks his head to the side to watch your hole clench around empty air. “That feel good?” 

Your brows pinch with your eyes fluttering shut. Instead of answering his question, you bring a hand to bite down on—which Robby promptly swats away. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me know.” 

You nod, “Uh-huh.” 

“Good. Fuck, look at you.” Robby drags his fingers down to your hole and eases them in with little resistance. He groans when your walls clench tightly around his digits, “How can I leave this?” 

Unable to respond again, your hips tilt when Robby curls his fingers upward into you, enough to make your jaw clench. He presses his thumb-pad against your clit, rubbing at a pace that he’s well aware that you appreciate. 

Long-term commitment does wonders to mapping out the hot spots of your anatomy. 

The room fills with a schlicking sound with Robby pumping his fingers in and out of you at a gentle pace. 

“I’ve got you.” Robby mumbles, jaw slack at the sight of you arching your back off of the mattress. He takes his free hand that had your legs pinned and applies weight to your lower stomach, picking up the pace with his fingers. “Ooh. There it is.” he says as your walls fit snug against his fingers.

“I’m—Fuck.” you whinge, spots lining your vision. “Robby, please.” 

Robby bobs his head a handful of times, arm beginning to ache from the relentless back and forth motion. His restraint is minimal, quick to shift himself halfway off the bed so his eyes are level with your swollen lips. You’re soaked. He can see at the base of his fingers collects your cream, which allows his thought process is thrown out the window. 

Suddenly, Robby has all the time in the world before he has to leave.

When his mouths latches onto your clit, that’s when things become a little more desperate. His moans vibrate against you, sending you squirming; stomach tensing as he sucks at your swollen nerves—if anything, he wants to leave a lasting impression upon his departure. 

Robby swaps between kitten licks and suckling at your clit—his tongue occasionally dipping to taste the closeness at your hole. His thick fingers work at your insides. Eyes flit up to see your mouth open, bare chest panting from the coil in your stomach on the precipice of snapping. 

It is Robby’s favourite things; watching you come undone. 

His own hips find friction against the mattress as you let out a guttural moan from the back of your throat, body curling into the orgasm that your husband pulls from you. 

You push at Robby’s head when he sucks at your clit out of greed. Too sensitive, you slump into the mattress with the palm of your hand lying flat against your forehead. 

Robby straightens up at the end of the bed with a smug smile, eyes twinkling. “You okay?” 

You wordlessly give him a thumbs up, whining when he pulls his two fingers from your vagina.

After a minute, you rest on your elbows to watch your husband fiddle with his belt. “Let me help.” you advise, moving onto your knees to assist him. 

You’re brought into a bruising kiss as you tug the belt from the belt loops, tossing it to the ground with a ‘thunk.’ It’s light work—removing Robby’s jeans and boxers in one swoop—as you had been in this very position several times throughout your relationship; able to visualise the steps in which Robby matches your nudity. 

As you look down, Robby huffs, “Give it a second, sweetheart.”

His cock still semi-soft, he wraps a hand around the hardened base and gives himself a few pumps so the rest of his shaft could catch up. 

He sheepishly chuckles, “If I was a few years younger—” 

“I don’t care.” you kiss him to halt the self-deprecation, “Means I get to steal more time off of your sabbatical.” 

It had always been an explanation during sex. The first time it had happened, Robby insisted his level of attractions toward you hadn’t depleted, rather it was just his age showing at the worst possible time—something he’d take more gray hairs and wrinkles over any day. 

Never stunting his performance, nor was it a deal breaking factor for you, every time since Robby’s delay in stiffening; you had to remind him there was nothing wrong with it. 

Slow and steady wins the race. 

You lick your lips, watching Robby work his shaft in his hand, his wedding band catching the warmth of the salt lamp at your bedside. He lifts his free hand whilst you watch, the two fingers that had been deep inside you now edging their way into your mouth. 

“Taste that?” Robby asks lowly, “You’re ovulating, sweetheart.” 

His fingers leave your mouth with a faint ‘pop’ and it seems to do the trick as Robby’s tip is flushed red, his slit beginning to bead with precum.

You lower yourself back down onto the mattress with Robby following you. His callus palms come to the plushness of your hips, and he turns you over so your front is lying flush against the tousled sheets.

He dips to press a kiss between your shoulder blades before hiking your hips upward so you are resting on all fours.

Robby hums as he drags his cock through your wetness, “I’m going to miss you.”   

Your fingers curl into the cotton sheets, goosebumps trailing up the length of your spine. Robby kisses your back again, the tip of his cock nudging at your hole. He gives you both a minute before sinking himself in inch by inch; his lips pressing to your skin to smother the groan eliciting from his throat. 

There’s no rush in his movement. There’s around thirty seconds of adjusting before he sinks further into your pussy, his head dropping back when he is to the hilt. 

Robby stays in your warmth without moving for a minute. 

After a minute or so, his hips begin to shift, the softest part of his stomach pressing to your ass when he buries himself deep. Stabilising himself by grasping onto your ass cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh; Robby’s brows furrow from the searing pleasure as he looks down to see his shaft already coated in your arousal. 

You hang your head, letting out a whimper from feeling so full. 

“Jesus—You feel good.” Robby grits behind you. He watches your back muscles tense when he slides his cock out slowly, “Are you going to miss this, baby?” 

You can’t answer. The tip of Robby’s cock plunges into a spongy part, and your vision is lined with white spots. 

Robby gives you a second and repeats the motion until his desire to hear you reaffirm his question takes over. He frees a hand from grappling at your backside, his fingers curling around your throat to tilt your head back to look him in the eye. 

“Tell me.” 

You almost cry, “Yes—fuck—yes, I’ll miss this.” 

“Uh-huh.” Robby grins, “You will.” 

The hand being used to force eye contact is removed and you whine when Robby fully pulls out of you. He flips you back over onto your back with ease, folding your legs up to your chest again before sinking back into you without warning. 

Your back arches as much as it can from being pinned; Robby dips to smother it with a sloppy kiss. 

Your hands curl around his neck, whimpering when you feel him pulse inside you. Well aware that it wasn’t going to last long. 

His thrusts are shallow and restricted to contain his own climax for a little while longer. The tip of his cock brushes against a sensitive part, and he’s left breathlessly chuckling when you tighten yourself around him. 

“You’ll make me cum doing that.” Robby lifts his head, eyes squeezing shut. He drags himself out of you until the tip of his cock is at your opening. You clench to suck the majority of his shaft back in. “Shit baby. Fuck it. Keep squeezing me like that. Just like that.” 

“Fuck, Robby.” is all you can muster, hands clawing at his back when he picks up his pace. 

Robby folds your legs back up to your chest for a third time that night. His thumb catches your clit—unsure if he can drag another orgasm out of you with little recovery time. “Let me fuck you right there. You feel it? You’re so fucking tight.” 

“Robby—” you babble.

“Hm? What is it, sweetheart?” Robby pants, the slapping sounds echoing in the room. 

You free your legs from his grasp and wrap them around his middle. “I want—I need you to cum inside me.” 

“Fuck. Don’t say shit like that.” Robby laughs, his pace faltering. He looks at your expression and realises you’re being serious. “Is that what you want? For me to cum inside you? What if you get pregnant?” 

“I don’t care, I don’t care.” you plead. 

Robby shakes his head, “Okay, okay. I’ll cum inside you.” his thrust start to get sloppy at the thought, “Are you going to lay here, long after I’m gone, with my cum leaking out of you? Is that what you’re going to do?” 

You nod vigorously. 

“Fuck. Ask me nicely.” he commands. 

“Please, Robby.” you breathe out, “Please.” 

Robby nods, sweat beading his hairline from the exertion. He dips his head to bring you into a searing kiss, “I love you.” he mumbles against your lips. 

There’s fewer words spoken after that. The bed creaks as Robby begins to pound into your pussy with one goal in mind. His soft stomach brushes against your pubes as he barely pulls out of you, hungry with need to stay deep within your walls. 

Your legs lock around his middle and Robby lifts your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your backside as he brings your lower half up; fucking into you with desperation. 

You babble his name, “I’m going to cum again.” you repeat over and over with the hot feeling returning in your stomach. 

“You can do it, sweetheart.” Robby encourages, thumb applying pressure to your already sensitive clit. “Give me one last one before I leave. Let me feel it around my cock.” 

The climax ripples through you for a second time at his words. Walls clenching around him so tightly, it made thrusting into you near impossible. Robby continues as best as he can, watching your face twist in painful pleasure. 

It’s enough to send him over the edge with you. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Robby grits out before his words are smothered beneath deep groans as he shoots hot ropes deep inside you. His body weight slumps on top of you, skin slick with sweat as he ruts into you a few more times for good measure. 

You can feel his cum seep out at your opening, around his shaft that was still tucked deep in your pussy. Robby twitches inside of you, moving deeper a few times to ensure you’re stuffed to the brim. 

He kisses the side of your face as he pants out, “I have no idea what I’ll do without you for three months.” 

The familiar melancholy returns to your stomach at the realisation that this was the conclusion before three months without him. 

“…Just come back to me, Robinavitch.”

A/N: thank u to my sweet @novatheory for listening to my rambling over this fic and reading the snippets of drafts i would send at random times. mwah!!!!

i. 

There had been a time when Frank was young and naive. When he believed that, if he got through enough shitty weeks, he would eventually be granted some kind of reprieve. 

That the powers that be would shine down upon him as a thank you for dedicating his life to first doing no harm. 

He doesn’t remember when he stopped having that kind of hope. Maybe after his fifth year of working at PMTC, when the day passed without comment and he realized he really was just another piece of the failing system. 

Maybe right before his stint in rehab, when his world crashed around him so easily. 

Maybe in the divorce that followed, when he couldn’t overlook the fact that he could still love Abby and that he’d never be able to return to being the man that she deserved. 

After enough piling up, it all kind of blurred together. Shit was still shit. 

And even though Frank had worked to pull himself into a better headspace, there were still days when he wondered if sobriety was worth it in the end. 

It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning, and Frank knows that today is going to be one of those days— the kind of day that should be required to come with a warning as soon as his eyes open, in red flashing letters: hey, today is going to suck. You are going to be late to work. Some asshole is going to take your parking space. Someone is going to die and yours will be the last hands to touch them. 

Something, anything, to let him know that maybe he should pre-appoint a therapy session, or at the very least call out from his shift. 

Life is not that kind though, and he ruminates on the fact as he barely contains the urge to slam the door to the breakroom behind him. Frank restrains himself though, opting to shut it firmly instead. 

He turns, his back pressed against the door for a moment’s worth of rest, before Frank Langdon startles. 

Honest-to-god, hand to his chest, startles. 

He hadn’t expected anyone else on the floor to be in the breakroom at this time, an unfortunate oversight on his part. He’s proved wrong by the sight of a form curled into the couch. 

You. 

Frank racks his mind for your name - once his heart settles back to rhythm - but the only thing he can come up with is something that sounds like it might be the correct string of syllables.

The new nurse? A travel contract? He isn’t sure. 

His fingers run through his hair, and he feels like an ass because he doesn’t know why he remembers who you are. 

Then he thinks about the fact he’s currently in the middle of having his own shitty day, and it’s still only Tuesday, and you’re not even conscious—so why should he feel bad?

Frank’s moment of rambling thoughts is fleeting, interrupted by the way you shift, as if the couch would accept you as its own if you folded yourself enough. 

He’s just about to turn around, to head back into the ED where things make more sense, and leave you to your lights-on nap, when he hears you speak—

“That’s not sterile anymore.” Your voice is soft but indignant. 

Frank squints, trying to determine if you’re asleep, faking it, or in the middle of a nervous breakdown. 

Your forehead tilts against the couch’s back cushion, and Frank knows that no one can fake finding comfort in the scratchy material. 

He waits, wondering if there’s more to the argument brewing in your dreaming subconscious. He could stick around, find some entertainment in another person who seems to be just as stressed out as he is.

The silence stretches over several, long seconds. Frank decides that he can’t stay to throw his pity party or find out if you’ll wake up to explain who you were chastising. The page shoved into the front pocket of his scrub pants chooses that exact moment to remind him of his responsibilities, choosing that exact moment to vibrate. Frank grabs the device, glancing at the screen. 

A room number. A code number. 

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, recalibrating himself from man-with-emotion back to Doctor Langdon. 

His hand reaches for the door knob, half a second from bolting out of the break room—then he pauses. 

Before he can think about it too much, Frank flicks the lightswitch off.

ii. 

Frank wonders sometimes what age is too old to work in the Emergency Department. 

That’s not to say that he doesn’t love his job, or that he regrets putting himself back into the pitt after clawing himself up from rock bottom. 

Sure, Jack and Robby are still going at it. But as Frank slides his backpack off of his shoulder, onto the hook at the doorway of his apartment, he scoffs at himself for having Abbot or Robinavitch as his role models. 

Perhaps good men, but not without their lack of problems. 

And Frank has kids that he likes to see more than once a quarter. 

Combining that with the pain that still shoots from his vertebrae to leg, he thinks there are days where maybe peds wouldn’t suck. 

No, scratch that—peds would suck. And cardio. 

Frank is seven steps into his apartment when he’s run through every option, resigning himself to the career that he knows best. 

On the brighter side of things, Frank has served his weekly sentence at Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center. Three days, a little over thirty-six hours, and now—the blissfully hot spray of the shower as he tries to scrub away every moment from his last shift.

Even better is when he changes into the pajama bottoms and worn t-shirt that he pulled from the dryer. Laundry would be tomorrow’s problem. 

Tonight was for his shower, inhaling leftover noodles, and finding you.

The Respiratory Technician. The answer to PMTC’s staffing prayers eight months ago. Agreed to get coffee with him six months ago. 

And now, present-day, Frank does the calculation to remember that you still had two days left in your shift rotation. Even if you hadn’t texted him earlier, he would still recognize the soft hum of the sleep machine coming from his bedroom. 

Frank lived closer to the hospital than you did. It didn’t take a lot of time in your relationship with him for you to trust him when he offered you to crash in his space after a tough day at work.

Or whenever. 

He rinses out the taste of noodle broth, the mouthwash leaving a minty flavor in Frank’s mouth, and he’s finally got a reason to be glad that his bathroom isn’t an immediate part of his bedroom. 

It doesn’t take a genius to guess that you were already asleep for the night. And Frank knows that, generally, you’re a heavy sleeper, but he still didn’t want to tempt fate by making more noise than necessary around you.

Carefully pushing the door open, the smallest bit of ambient lighting shows Frank that yes, you are curled underneath sheets and duvet, happily unaware of the world around you. 

He steps further into the room, closing the door behind him. The room was neat enough, and small enough, that full light isn’t required in order to maneuver to the bed.

The muted roar of rain noise disguises Frank’s movements as he slides between the covers—not that he was trying to be sneaky, but he knew all too well the frustration of being woken up in the middle of a work week. 

Even though the sound machine went a long way to settle his mind, his body still felt as if it had another three hours to go, like he’d missed something and he’s going to have to jump out of bed at any moment. 

He tries to stay very still. Laying on his back, he tries to count how many times the ceiling fan circles around. When that proves impossible, Frank’s attention turns to looking for any spiderwebs that might have appeared. It’s too dark though, and he tried to keep the walls clean. 

Halfway through hefting a sigh, he feels the mattress move. 

You’re shifting, turning so that your body settles into the space against his side. A hand curls against his bicep, your forehead mushes against his shoulder. Even though Frank isn’t sure how you’re comfortable, he’s learned to stop questioning and to let you be. 

His breathing eventually falls into sync with yours. He’s still not fully committed to falling asleep yet, but his eyelids start to feel heavier and he’s thinking about resting them when— 

Your hand squeezes against Frank’s arm. You mutter something he can’t hear. Then, more clearly: “Frank’s got it.” 

He’s very aware of the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He can feel his brow furrowing and thinks that you both probably look like you’re thinking hard. 

Frank handles a plethora of things throughout the day—patients, and their symptoms, and their charts, and even their insurance companies if the need arises. He handles the department floor, and the dance that he still has going on with Robby, and the med students that make him wonder if he ever looked that young. 

Sometimes the things he handles involve you—like glancing over the lab values of your patients when you bring a folder to him to confirm your thoughts, then bristling when another resident talks down on you in front of him. 

And the softer times—your keys in his pocket during after-shift beers; a hand between your shoulderblades on the walk back. 

Frank handles many things, juggling them in a way that his counselor suggests is not sustainable long-term. And yet.

When your brow smooths over and a small snore slips from between your lips, Frank knows that he would hold whatever you would give him—tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.  

iii. 

Once upon a time, a flyer hung in the PMTC breakroom, announcing a movie marathon to be held as a joint effort between the newest round of med students. 

One of them had the bravery to approach Doctor Langdon about it directly, saying that Sofia had the biggest selection of DVDs they’d ever seen before, and complete sagas with director cuts that was really cool, and a couple of the other students had agreed that it would be a great bonding experience.

At the time, Frank’s mind flooded him with a ridiculous amount of thoughts, all at once—did med students really have that much extra free time now? Do they not have anything better to do? Did they draw the short end of the stick and get sent to extend personal invitations to the doctors? Did their little group really think the idea would work? 

His mouth closed almost as soon as it opened. Ever since Trinity, he’d worked to keep his knee-jerk reactions to himself—so instead of saying that’s the stupidest thing he’s heard all day, and he’s already been in an operational meeting that was mandatory, so instead of wasting his time why don’t they find a life to save?, he simply says no, turning away before they can attempt a follow-up. 

Frank thought he handled it nicely, then he didn’t think about it at all. 

At lunchtime that same day, McKay caught him as Frank swapped tablets from the charging station, one of her eyebrows raised as she leaned against the counter, as if she were waiting for him. 

“Heard you got a real stick up your butt today.”

Frank took a second before he glanced up at her—because surely she hadn’t been speaking to him? He was having a great day. “What?”

She hummed, halfway shrugging. “Hollie asked me if you had any movie related trauma because you, and I quote, shat all over his invite for Moviepalooza.” 

For the second time that day, Frank opened his mouth to respond then promptly closed it. “I don’t have movie trauma,” he settled on saying, giving Cassie - who he had thought was on his side - a pointed look. 

Cassie laughed, pushing off the counter. “I’ll let her know,” she called out, walking away.

Fast forward several months to your living room on date night. Pizza had been ordered for dinner, and eaten, and now your feet lay across Frank’s lap as you both sprawl across the couch. 

A movie is on, mostly as background noise at this point. It was a title that both you and Frank had seen before, and the story was more than halfway finished. 

Frank’s hands sit against your shins, palms warm, as he idly remembers the Moviepalooza disaster, and how it is that his life is a collage created from strange moments in the hospital.

His gaze drifts to you, leaning against the couch and seeming to fight the urge to close your eyes. He thinks, fondly, that you are one of the strange things that came from the hospital. 

Not that he would admit that aloud. 

You stifle a yawn, and Frank shifts, lifting his arm in invitation. “Come here,” he says. Simple. 

You rearrange yourself, pulling your feet from his lap and shuffling until your head finds the spot between his chest and shoulder. “Still watching the movie,” you mutter.

“Of course,” he replies, gathering you in his arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head when you settle. 

Frank feels your hand move, sliding across his abdomen until it rests against his chest. It doesn’t take long after that until he feels your breathing slow, and he can practically count down to  the moment until you go completely silent. 

Maybe it should bother him - the way you’ve taken to his life like ivy to a wall. Maybe he should’ve kept to himself more, said no the first time instead of come over. 

But when Frank glances down, sees the soft curl of your eyelashes against your cheek and the way it seems like you’ve finally nodded off, he knows instantly and completely that any other choice would’ve been a selfish act of cowardice by him.

He watches the rest of the movie in silence, lines that he could recite by heart if he wanted to. The ending scene starts to build, one of his favorites, when Frank hears you mumble. His attention drops down to your face again, focusing on you to hear—

“Love you.” 

It’s sleepy, barely there, but Frank knows that he couldn’t mistake those two words that you’ve said. He makes an effort to keep his grip on you relaxed, nonchalant, like you hadn’t tilted his world on its axis without even knowing it. 

Love you. 

He had suspected it for a while now - that the nagging feeling behind his ribs had a name. He knew, even if he hadn’t spoken about it, even if he hadn’t fully admitted it yet—and you had beaten him to the punch, all while dreaming. 

iv. 

It’s Saturday morning. Early, judging by the lack of light in the room. Your phone chimes, a short series of text messages, finally rousing you from your nestled spot. 

Frank: good morning Frank: looping back now Frank: breakfast?? 

You squint at the phone, the information processing in your brain. You remember Frank waking up before you, untangling limbs and mentioning that he was going for a run. You remember muttering a bye, and the way he kissed you before walking out. 

With clumsy, still-sleepy fingers, you swipe to unlock your phone to text him back. 

Yes please Bagel? 

There was a bagel shop not too far away from Frank’s apartment, and you were pretty sure that it wouldn’t be out of his way to stop at. 

Frank: got it :) Frank: send your order?  Frank: see you in 30-ish. 

You give the messages from Frank a heart reaction. Opening the bagel shop’s website, you scroll through the menu to find your selection to screenshot and text back. 

After another few minutes of lazing in bed, you decide to haul yourself up. A trip to the bathroom to freshen up and change into day clothes. 

You start a pot of coffee, enjoying the peace of the morning by idly scrolling social media and waiting for Frank to come back. 

Almost exactly thirty minutes later, you hear the sound of keys in the front door. As silly as it was, there was something nice about knowing that Frank was the kind of person to take care that his front door was locked. 

His footsteps are predictable as he moves from door to kitchen. Not rushed, steady. Your head tilts up when you’re certain he’s in the same room as you. Your eyes go first to the bag held in his hands, the large logo of the shop proudly displayed, and you smile. And then—ah. 

Frank Langdon in all of his morning glory.

A goofy sweatband that he insisted on wearing on his head. Bright running shorts to match his shoes, and a thin grey t-shirt that showed the efforts of his run. Calm breathing, but still with a soft flush at the edge of his cheeks. 

He looks so alive. He looks healthy. 

You don’t want to say it aloud, don’t want to ruin a perfectly normal moment by vocalizing the thoughts in your head—that you’re glad he runs now, chases the pavement instead of other indulgences—so instead you just say, “hey there.” 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he steps closer to the kitchen table, a suave move that’s interrupted by Frank stubbing his toe against a chair. He hisses a curse, dropping the bag onto the table as he takes a seat into the offending chair. 

The first reaction you have is shock, manifesting in a laugh that you quickly slap your hand over. You quickly stand, your chair scraping behind you, and go to Frank. He’s got his forehead pressed against the table, arms shielding his face from being seen. 

“Hey,” he mutters into the wood. One of your hands comes up, rubbing between his shoulder blades in a motion that you hope soothes. 

“Hi.” Another greeting, softer, solely to diffuse any awkwardness. When Frank lifts his head to look over his shoulder, your hand goes still against his back. “Good run?” 

He lets out a huff, a spark of humor returning to his eyes. “Good run,” he echoes. “No dogs. And,” he nudges the paper bag in front of him, “Got the bagels.” 

You let yourself grin at him. Finally stepping away from him, you grab mugs from the cupboard. 

Soon, the table is set - two plates to mix and match bagels. Full cups of coffee and a container of this week’s choice for creamer. 

Sitting across from Frank, you grab the bagel marked with your order, intent to dig into breakfast and chat about nothing in particular—a comfortable routine built from months of quiet weekends. 

Food raised to mouth, you’re just about to take your first bite when Frank opens his mouth to speak. 

“Did you know you sometimes talk in your sleep?” He asks. He looks the opposite of malicious, with pretty blue eyes and a bit of cream cheese from his breakfast over his upper lip. 

“What?” 

Frank shrugs, then wipes the debris from his face. “Just—something you do sometimes.”

“Oh my God.” You sit your bagel down on a plate to cover your face. “What do I say? Did I do it last night?”

“No, not last night,” he replies. You separate your fingers in order to peek at him—see his smile, a dimple popping to suggest that he’s amused by your mortification. 

You sink lower into your seat. You sometimes had suspicions that you talked in your sleep, but each time you tried to catch yourself proved to be unsuccessful. No recording app had caught you, and anytime someone else had mentioned it… you assumed they were lying. 

“Frank,” you groan. “You cannot be serious. I don’t talk in my sleep.” 

He lowers his bagel to his plate, brushing off his hands to rest his chin into his palm. Then he looks at you, with the kind of patience that makes you feel like it’s okay he’s considering your face. “You do,” he reiterates. “Never anything bad - at least that I’ve heard.” 

“I hope I disappear. Right here and now.” 

Frank snorts, reaching over to grab your fingers from your face. “No, you don’t.” 

“I really do.” You let him take your hand anyway, still sulking at the newfound knowledge. 

“It’s almost always about work,” Frank says. You raise an eyebrow at the slip of information. 

“Almost?” 

He hums his confirming answer, then takes a sip of coffee as if he isn’t stalling. “Almost,” he echoes. “Usually when it’s been a stressful week. You talk about the lab a lot.” 

You can feel your face heat at the thought. All the possible scenarios; some you weren’t proud of. You never looked to start beef with the lab. It just happened. And you always apologized after. “I’m disappearing now.” 

“You don’t have to do that. It’s… cute?” 

“You can’t say that like a question!” 

“Sorry. It is cute. Statement.” 

You sink your head against the table, mirroring the posture Frank had taken earlier. “Is there anything else I should know about?” 

There’s a pause. You wonder how your life could have derailed so quickly. 

Frank tugs on your fingers. It’s not impatient, but clear that he wants your attention. “Hey, look at me.” 

You peek up, eyebrows barely clearing over your forearm as you reluctantly comply with Frank’s request. 

“Nothing bad,” he says. “Never anything bad.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” 

You straighten, just enough to feel like maybe you could face the rest of the morning with what little dignity you had left. 

“I love you, too.” Frank says it so abruptly that you’re positive you’re in a dream. Or that you’ve misheard him. Or you’ve maybe had a stroke, and missed part of the conversation. 

A beat. Then another. And you remember that he was telling you about all the times you’ve talked without remembering what you’ve said. 

“Oh my God, Frank, you cannot be serious.” You sound more like a whining child than someone who was having their feelings confirmed. “I did not say that.” 

“Cross my heart,” he replies. He’s serious, but—you can just see the pink rising at his ears, a different flush from his earlier exercise. 

His hand hasn’t let go of yours. And when you glance at his eyes, he still looks so sincere. He looks like he’s waiting. 

“You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” you mutter. 

“Baby, I’ve known for a while,” he says slowly, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “About myself. You just beat me to saying it.” 

“It doesn’t count in my sleep.”

“It definitely counts.” His grin has returned. The one that makes you wish that he didn’t know when he was right, or that he was handsome. You want to punch him, just a little. “You can always say it again. If you want to.” 

He’s quick to add the last sentence, and you think that even if Frank Langdon is an idiot - an overeducated, incredibly competent doctor idiot - he’s not the worst one. 

You swallow, telling yourself that there’s no reason why you shouldn’t say it again. Believing that you weren’t nervous, you straighten, looking at the clear eyes that stare back at you and the strands of dark hair falling across his face.

“I love you first, Frank.” 

Frank brightens. You watch as it happens, how his face relaxes and he looks like you’ve handed him the world next to the spread of breakfast between the two of you. 

Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.

First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.

Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.

There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.

Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.

He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.

Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.

Then, you happened.

And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.

Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.

He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.

(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)

To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory.  And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.

It frightens him.

His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.

All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.

But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.

He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.

No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.

──────────

You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.

Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.

You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.

That’s when you saw him.

Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.

“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”

His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.

“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).

You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.

He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”

His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.

Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.

It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.

“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”

“Oh, um…I don’t think…”  you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.

Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.

Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.

“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”

“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.

You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.

When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.

You never finished your question.

Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.

Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.

──────────

The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.

It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-

(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)

The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.

He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.

(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)

He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.

He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.

You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.

Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.

But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.

(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)

“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”

Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).

 “Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.

You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”

“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.

Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).

“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”

While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).

Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.

“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.

You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.

(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)

“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.

You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.

“I’ll…”

“Yeah.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.

“Of course, Andrew.”

Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.

With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.

And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.

Andrew didn’t blink.

──────────

You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.

You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.

The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.

That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.

“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.

He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”

“So…not keen on loud noises either?”

“No.”

For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).

You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.

That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.

“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”

He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”

Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).

“Andrew?”

The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.

The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.

“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)

Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’

“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.

“There’s no password on your phone.”

“Yeah…I know.”

“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”

You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.

“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’

He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.

“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”

This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.

“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”

“So, it’s a yes? Really?”

He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.

“Yes. And…”

His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.

“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”

Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.

“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”

 “Unfortunately…yes.”

You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”

“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”

You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.

And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.

──────────

Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.

So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.

First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)

He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.

He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).

He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)

Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.

He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.

(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)

He forces himself to think of something else.

Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).

Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.

He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.  

He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.

(Breathe. One. Tw-)

A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.

Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.

He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.

Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.

But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.

“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.

He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.

“Something wrong?”

“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”

That makes him huff.

“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”

You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.

You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.

“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.

“You sure?”

He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.

You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.

“No. Not…not really.”

“Yeah, figured.”

You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.

“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”

The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.

He stares at the ceiling again.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)

The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”

“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.

After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.

Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.

His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.

He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)

Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty. Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.

So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.

──────────

You were so, so late.

You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.

(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)

You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)

You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).

The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.

His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.

“You ran here?”

“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”

He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”

A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”

You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”

You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.

“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”

“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.

“You look terrified.”

“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”

“Y-You know Whitman?”

A pause.

“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”

Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not…”

“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”

And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).

He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”

You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.

“I look stupid!” you complained.

“You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”

“You’re doing good.”

“I almost died.”

“You didn’t.”

“Socially, I assure you I did.”

Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.

(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)

“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”

You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”

He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”

You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.

But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.

He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”

(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)

But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:

“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”

“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.

(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)

Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.

“Try again.”

You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.

“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.

“You are.”

You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.

So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.

You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…

His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”

You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.

It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.

And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.

──────────

You are screaming and he is too late.

He is always too late.

Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.

You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.

You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.

“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”

He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.

He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.

He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.

He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)

The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.

(What if…No.)

He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.

Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.

The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.

You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.

He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.

He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.

(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)

His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.

“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.

“You don’t look okay.”

“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.

Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”

(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)

His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.

You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.

“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.

He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.

Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.

Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.

(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)

The memory hits so hard it hurts.

He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.

But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.

He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.

You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.

(Your heartbeat. Steady. There. One. Two. Three. Four. It’s there. You’re alive.)

The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.

He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.

But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.

Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.

His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.

 “I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”

The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)

“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”

The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.

And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.

“I’m not leaving Andrew.”

He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.

You promised.

──────────

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”

Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.

Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.

The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.

It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.

You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.

You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.

Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.

(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)

A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.

The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.

You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.

“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.

But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.

Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.

(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)

You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.

(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)

The phone only rang once before he picked up.

“Yes?”

That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.

“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”

“What happened.”

You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”

(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)

“I’m so scared.”

In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.

“Where are you?”

No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.

You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.

“I’ll be there in five.”

You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”

“Five.”

The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.

You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.

It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.

“You okay?”

You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.

“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.

You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.

“Did anyone hurt you?”

You blinked at him. “No.”

“Touch you?”

“No.”

“Follow you?”

You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.

“Say anything to you?”

“Just…offered me stuff,” you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. “But I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.”

You weren’t sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadn’t been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didn’t mean being like him. That you wouldn’t caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.

The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.

“Are you angry at me?”

The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.

“I’m not angry at you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I’m angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasn’t there sooner. But not at you.”

The light shifted to green, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.

“You call me,” he added quietly. “The second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?”

You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You don’t.”

And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.

The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that you’ll only be to shake off with a cold shower.

You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.

And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.

You liked that he had been scared.

You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.

That he didn’t even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.

And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.

He didn’t put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.

When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.

“You’ll be good?” he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.

You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to ‘stay’ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.

He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.

“Good night,” he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.

“Good night, Andrew.”

You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadn’t moved until he heard the lock click.

Only then did he walk back to his truck.

You would maybe not murder Craig after all.

──────────

Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.

And you don’t act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says you’ve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.

He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.

He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even just…acknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.

Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)

You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.

But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.

So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.

That is the part of himself that scares him.

And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.

And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?

You sway on the board.

He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesn’t come and by the time his body reacts, you’re already too far from his reach.

You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.

Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesn’t register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesn’t feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.

Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but it’s the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.

(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)

The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he can’t afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.

Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.

“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.

He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you don’t move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.

(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)

“It’s not deep,” he says after his inspection, even though he knows you’ll need stitches. “You still with me?”

Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is small.

He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,” he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.

You nod, and that’s enough for him.

He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.

He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.

“Stay with me,” he says softly.

Your lips twitch despite the pain. “Bossy.”

He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.

While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.

“Talk to me,” he says after a moment.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesn’t interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.

(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)

Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding – controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing thread…The order is important. Order means control.

 You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.

“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. “Hold still.”

He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.

“I should have caught you.”

“It’s not your fault, Andrew. Don’t punish yourself for it, okay? I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.

Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.

“You’re going to need stitches,” he murmurs.

You study him for a second. “You’re very serious about this.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not dying, Andrew.”

“I know.”

“You look at me like I am.”

His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, he’s already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.

“Hold still,” he says instead.

He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.

The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.

“Breathe,” he says low, “Just breathe slow for me.”

You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.

“You’re okay,” he says, trying to convince himself.

You give him a small, tired smile. “I told you. I’m tougher than I look,” you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. “Andrew.”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you can’t look too closely. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing,” you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. “You can’t patch me up and ignore yourself.”

He swallows, and before he can argue, you’re already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.

“You shouldn’t…”

“None of that,” you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.

You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesn’t look at the wound. He looks at you.

At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.

Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you don’t let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?

You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. “Can you stay? Just for a bit. So…we can check on each other.”

He could tell you it’s starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job. He could tell you he’ll call you tonight to see how you feel.

But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”

He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.

He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.

After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. “I like it when you called me sweetheart.”

He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.

“Go to sleep now.”

You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.

“You scared me,” he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure you’re gone.

His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.

“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)

When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there won’t be any nightmare.

Because you’re there.

──────────

You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.

In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.

Craig had dragged you to the bar “just for a bit,” (which in Craig language meant ‘indefinitely’) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.

Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.

“El Craigo has already left?” he asked without looking up.

“’Flee’ would be a better word to describe what happened.”

“And so now you’re just…” he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, “…miserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?”

“It’s a soda.”

“You know what? That’s so much sadder.”

You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, “Can I ask you something without you telling Craig?”

That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.

“Depends how embarrassing it is.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” you protested automatically, then faltered. “Fine. It’s…a little embarrassing.”

“A little?”

“A lot,” you admitted.

He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. “Fine. What?”

You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. “It’s…” you cleared your throat. “It’s about Andrew.”

(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)

Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. “Oh, I see.”

You groaned immediately. “Oh, please, can you not react like that? You’re making this worse.”

“I haven’t reacted! I’m just…not quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.” he waved a hand. “What’s your question?”

“It’s just…” you stopped. “I don’t know how to tell if he…”

(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)

Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. “If he…what?”

“If he likes me,” you blurted out in one breath.

The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“You’re fucking with me. Right?”

Your face burned instantly. “Okay, great. Never mind, I’m just gonna dig my gra-”

“Easy tiger. Don’t get your panties in a twist. He’s obsessed with you.”

You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.

“That’s not true.”

“It is deeply true,” Deran replied flatly. “He reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.”

You blinked. “Well…I thought he just liked order.”

“Oh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. But…not that much.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Surely that doesn’t mean…”

“He drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,” Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. “He cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his ‘scary stare’ to me the last time I drank in your mug.”

Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. “B-But he doesn’t…He doesn’t say anything.”

Deran snorted. “Yeah, that’s Andrew.”

“It’s just...sometimes I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”

“Neither do we,” he deadpanned. “Welcome to the family.”

You exhaled, frustration spilling over. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”

Deran considered you for a moment. “Just…let him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the whole…relationship thing.” he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. “And for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.”

You nearly choked on your own spit. “I am subtle!”

“I mean, yes,” he conceded dryly. “You are subtle…for Andrew and Craig. So don’t be proud about it. That’s the lowest level of subtility possible.”

“I hate you, Deran.”

“Yeah?” he replied with an amused smile. “Well, get in line.”

There was a pause before he said quietly. “You’re good for him. Just…don’t screw it up. You’re in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you this…”

You straightened slightly.

“…if you’re not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You don’t get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldn’t recover from it.”

You shook your head immediately. “I swear, I won’t hurt him. He’s…he’s-”

You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.

“He’s important. To me. I don’t want to fix him, because I don’t think he’s broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldn’t recover from losing him too.”

Deran held your gaze for a long moment. “Alright.”

You tilted your head. “Alright?”

“Alright,” he repeated. “You pass.”

“Was-Was it an interview? Are you serious?”

“Yep. And congrats, you got the job.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.

“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a beat.

“What?” you asked.

“Having a sister you can annoy.”

“That’s…extremely sweet of you.”

“Don’t ruin it,” he warned, pointing the towel at you. “I will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.

Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. “And if you hurt him, I’m stealing your car and slashing your tires.”

“O-Okay.”

He had a little smile before straightening up. “Welcome into the family.”

──────────

He has not told you.

No one has told you about the job.

Craig said it wasn’t necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didn’t argue, telling himself it was better if you didn’t know the details, better if you didn’t have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.

He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.

The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, who’s following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.

Andrew doesn’t turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)

“You asked me to babysit Nick,” you’re saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, “and you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didn’t say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!”

“Jesus, lower your voice.”

“Lower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!”

It isn’t only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. It’s fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesn’t know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.

Andrew turns then.

You’re standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. That’s not exactly Disneyland.”

“We’ve done jobs for years,” he snaps. “We’re good at it.”

Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like you’re resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.

“You know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get caught.”

You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.

“Repeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. That’s not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.”

Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesn’t know when you learn about it. Doesn’t know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.

If you know – truly know - why aren’t you running away? Why are you still here?

(He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. It’s too much. It’s too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)

“We’re not idiots, just trust us, okay?” Craig argues, rolling his eyes.

“You left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,” you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. “You are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.”

Craig winces. “We don’t have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.”

Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.

Craig gestures toward you. “She’s acting like we’re amateurs.”

You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. “Fuck.”

Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. “I’m okay, Andrew. I promise.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesn’t give himself permission to look away.

(You’re about to cry. It’s his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesn’t like when it’s too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)

“I just…I thought you all trusted me,” you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.

Craig’s shoulders drop while Andrew’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.

“We do,” Craig says, less combative now. “That’s why I asked you to watch Nick.”

“That’s not making me feel like you trust me. It’s making me feel like I’m a convenience.”

The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.

His gaze doesn’t waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.

Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, “Jesus, bro, this is the worst time,” under his breath.

“Okay,” he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. “I fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. About…probably a million other things. I didn’t mean for you to feel unsafe.”

You don’t look convinced.

“Trust me,” Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, “I got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.”

Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.

“Now, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,” Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.

Andrew doesn’t let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he won’t be able to see his failure in time.

 “We’ve planned it,” he murmurs finally.

You hold his gaze. “And if something goes wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you don’t want to hear it.

(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesn’t come home because he won’t ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)

You are still waiting, searching his face.

“Then I handle it,” he says quietly.

You shake your head, your jaw working as if you’re trying to physically hold yourself together. “Promise me to come back safe.”

His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.

His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.

“I won’t let anything happen to me,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s meant as a vow or a lie he’s trying to force into becoming true. “I promise,” and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.

He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.

He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.

He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.

He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.

He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.

Andrew’s hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. It’s delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.

He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.

And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesn’t stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being ‘down bad’ all the way to his truck.

The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craig’s bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. It’s so soft.

“And baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,” you murmur.

He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrew’s.

(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)

You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

“Andrew.”

He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, “I came back.”

You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.

“I’m fine. I promised you I would.”

Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him you’ve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, “Thank God.”

His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacket’s pocket, “Turn around,” before adding a quiet, “Please.”

“Bossy,” you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.

He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesn’t step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.

“Andrew,” you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. “It’s…It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.

He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.

Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs.

You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.

Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.

──────────

When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.

Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.

He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didn’t need to count.

In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)

Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, “My baby is a strange one,” she whispers to his new stepfather, “But useful.”

Andrew heard it. He didn’t know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didn’t want to say wrong.

At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.

(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. That’s why he always counted till four.)

The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didn’t respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldn’t remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.

After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.

At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldn’t say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didn’t explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?

-

When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.

You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didn’t know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you – which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.

But it was alright, because now, you had your cousin’s fingers clutching onto your hair, “She’s holding me!” you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.

The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and you believed her.

At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.

And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. “You can be anything my little monkey,” your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.

And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?

──────────

Deran’s bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrew’s attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.

Because the truth is…he doesn’t know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night you’ve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?

Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, there’s no map. And he hates that he can’t predict your next move.

You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isn’t affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.

And he knows he shouldn’t be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, he’s counting it.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.

Always.

(Oh, how he doesn’t trust that word. Doesn’t trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)

And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesn’t reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrew’s brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isn’t the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.

“You’re not being subtle, you know that?” Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.

“Don’t start.”

Craig raises his hands innocently. “Jesus, relax.” He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”

What’s wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesn’t compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.

What’s wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.

What’s wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.

And what’s wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your ‘customer smile’.  You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.

(Andrew doesn’t know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this man’s blood on the bar.)

Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.

His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrew’s vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.

Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. It’s not the customer smile. No, it’s the real one that unravels him each time.

“Hey, honey,” you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.

Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.

The stranger glances between you. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”

“My boyfriend,” you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrew’s face.

His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.

He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. “No worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,” you tilt your head, thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s the boxing or the prison time. But don’t mind him…he almost doesn’t bite.”

The stranger’s smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrew’s chest. “Oh, um…yeah. Sorry man, I didn’t know she was taken.”

Andrew doesn’t raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. “She is.”

“Right. I’ll go back to…the match.”

Andrew doesn’t blink and keeps track of the man’s back until he is laughing again at his friends’ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, who’s still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.

His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.

“You okay?” he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.

You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he can’t help but think about those lips and the way they said ‘honey’.

(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)

He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.

“Andrew. I’m good, I promise,” you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. “Let’s get out of here, please. It’s too loud.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craig’s have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.

The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesn’t understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.

It’s only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.

“Still got it on,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.

(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)

“Looks better on you than it did in the store,” he adds.

Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.

You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. “Thank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.”

His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesn’t trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.

(Good. You think he is good. If that’s what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says under his breath.

“Why?”

“Because I’d do anything if you asked.”

Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. “Anything?”

He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. “If you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.”

Your hand pauses against his.

“Andrew…” you murmur, but there’s no panic in it, no immediate rejection. “You know why I wanted to reject him, right?”

He doesn’t answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.

“You know why I’d reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m not available.”

“You’re not?” he asks, as his mind races.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Are you?”

The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.

(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)

“Are you available Andrew?” you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.

He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.

You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. “No?”

“No.”

Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. “How long?” you whisper.

He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.

“Before the party? When I called you to help me?” he nods. “Before our night on the couch?” another nod. “Before our first skateboard le-?”

 “When we met. And you brought pastries,” he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.

“Andrew. Honey. Please, look at me.”

He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that it’s because your lips found his.

And for the first time in Andrew’s life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.

Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he can’t control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.

The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.

You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what it’s like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and now…now he understands what it means to be full.

He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.

You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.

He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. “Show off.”

“Yeah?” he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, “Yeah,” skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more he’d pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.

“Dimples,” you murmur.

“What?”

“Dimples, Andrew,” you repeat, delighted, like you’ve just discovered something rare. “I didn’t know you had them.”

(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)

“I do,” he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. “So do you.”

Your eyebrows lift. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. “Right there…”

Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. “I forgot.”

Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that you’ve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how you’d taste, how you’d moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.

“Maybe…” you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”

He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.

He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.

He feels, walking around to the driver’s side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.

──────────

“Maybe…” you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”

The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if he’d ask you for permission, you’d grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.

But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.

He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know him…you recognize a man who’s trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.

(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying – miserably – to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a ‘honey’ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything?  Fuck. Focus.)

He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.

Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesn’t help your craving for more.

(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand so…that would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)

You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.

His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.

“We’ll be there in five,” he declares without looking at you.

“Andrew, it’s at least ten minutes away,” you say, with a barely contained smile.

“Five.”

“I’m timing you, you know,” you smirked, pointing at the car clock.

The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block – while Andrew doesn’t do so much as blink.

“See?” he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.

You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.

You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. “Show off.”

Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.

He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time he’s not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.

A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. “Andrew!”

(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)

He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: “I feel like your bride right now.”

His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).

The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. “You are.”

He carries you inside like he’s done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.

“Careful,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Keep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-”

Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you can’t stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you don’t ever want to be pulled out.

Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.

(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)

He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, “We can just kiss. If that’s what you want. I don’t need more. Just you,” he murmured in a broken voice.

The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.

“Andrew,” you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. “Take me to bed.”

He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. “Bossy,” he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.

You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.

“I want to taste you. Please,” he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.

The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.

“Don’t want to mess it,” he says, folding it neatly on his chair. “You look pretty in that.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.

“Andrew,”

He doesn’t respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.

“You don’t have to Andrew.”

He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, “You don’t want it?”

“I…I’m not saying that. I just…I don’t want you to feel obligated to it. I know it’s not…what men like the most,” you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.

“It’s what I want to do the most, right now,” he says with a sinful gaze. “Can I?”

“Yes. Okay. Sure,” you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.

You don’t think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having ‘real sex’ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.

You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.

“You taste delicious,” he goes, coming up for air by an inch. “Just like how I dreamt,” he adds, making you feel close to delirious.

He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.

“Andrew, please. Just like that. It’s perfect,” you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.

Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If there’s a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.

When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard.

“You,” you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. “I want you. Like right now. So please…take off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.”

His lips twitches again to the side, “Anything.” as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.

His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. That’s when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink – and takes his time to be fully inside you.

For a couple of minutes, the two of you don’t move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that you’ll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.

Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. “I love you.”

The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and it’s you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.

“I love you, Andrew. My Andrew,” you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. “So good to me.”

His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. “You really think I’m good?”

“Of course you are. Look at me, honey,” you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. “You are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. And…I’m so lucky to have you,” you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.

You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that you’ll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you – as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.

You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.

He lets out a desperate moan. “I won’t…last long. ‘m sorry. You feel so…”

“It’s okay,” you encourage him. “I want you to come.”

He slams his cock one more time and goes. “Wh-Where?”

“In me,” you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.

“Really?” he breathes.

“Please.”

The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.

After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

You brush a kiss on top of his head. “What?”

“Tomorrow, we’re picking out your dress.”

it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.

he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.

that should have been the end of it.

but it wasn't.

because the next week she pointed it out again.

and the week after that… and the one after.

soon it became part of their routine.

coffee, pastries, the townhouse.

every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.

sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.

jack never teased her about it.

he just listened the way he always listened.

collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.

it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.

—

months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.

she looked up immediately.

"what.. really?" she said in disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.

"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signature sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.

the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…

when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.

sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.

the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.

it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.

jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.

watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.

watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.

he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.

even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.

she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.

"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.

her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.

her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.

"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.

she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.

he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.

it looked like she wasn’t visiting.

or imagining.

she was just belonging.

as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.

the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.

that was when the trouble started.

because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.

and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.

by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.

jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.

“it's okay," she said softly.

nobody had even asked a question.

jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.

"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.

the fireplace.

the staircase.

everything.

"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.

jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.

because she wasn't being dramatic.

or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.

the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.

she loved things completely, with her whole heart.

"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.

jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.

"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.

his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.

then he nodded toward the room around them.

"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.

confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"

"you don't have to dream about it, baby."

the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.

"i bought it."

she blinked…once…twice.

the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of pure confusion.

"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the room.

still nothing.

her mouth opened slightly.

closed it.

opened again.

jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.

"you..." her voice disappeared.

jack nodded trying to get it out of her.

"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.

another heartbeat passed.

then another.

finally her eyes widened.

not a little.

a lot.

the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.

"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.

jack's expression softened immediately.

"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."

the tears arrived instantly.

jack sighed.

because of course they did.

she slapped both hands over her face.

which somehow made it worse.

"sweetheart—"

"you bought me a house?”

his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."

"a whole house, jack."

"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.

then immediately started crying harder.

“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”

the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.

of course he caught her automatically.

strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.

the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.

safe, comforting, home.

kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.

they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.

the house quiet and waiting.

finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.

her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.

beautiful.

"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.

"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.

she laughed softly. "the windows."

his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.

not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.

the windows.

the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.

"the balcony." her voice trembled.

"the flower boxes."

jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.

"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.

and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.

—

later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.

the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.

jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.

she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.

their house. their future.

their home.

jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving her the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.

"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.

and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.

“I hate when they do this,” he muttered, and you didn’t respond, knowing he wasn’t really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry. 

When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as you’d seen in a while.

“Smurf will forgive them soon,” you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. “The novelty of raiding their big brother’s house will wear off.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. “I think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,” you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash. 

“You picked them,” he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home. 

The peaceful bubble you’d surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. “Oh.” Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. “You’re home.” Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing. 

You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. “We went shopping today. I’m trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.”

Cath’s eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrew’s new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath. 

“I didn’t realize you moved in,” she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin. 

“She didn’t,” Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed. 

“I figured,” she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didn’t hit her. 

The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.

“What’s going on?” He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening. 

He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrew’s jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. “Want some?” He offered, holding it out.

You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. “You know he’s a dick about this shit,” you snapped, taking a long drag.

It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile. 

You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. You’d learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between. 

Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. “Yeah, he’s the dick,” he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. “How was the little shopping spree with Pope?”

Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. “Fine,” you grit out, hoping he might take the hint. 

“You run into Cath?” He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off. 

Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. “What’re you getting at, Deran?”

He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. “That my brother’s a fucking idiot,” he shoots back, tone casual. 

“Am I that obvious?”

The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. “I don’t get it, man,” Deran continues; clearly, he’s taken something that’s loosened his tongue. He’s not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you aren’t exactly close. 

“Get what?” you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles. 

“You hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.” You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. “Cath can’t even look him in the eye.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat. 

“No, but you’ve come the closest.” You don’t think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. It’s easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending you’re not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesn’t reciprocate is that you haven’t shown him how you feel. 

But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants. 

A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craig’s weed wafting off him.

“Did you smoke?”

He nods and you frown. “You don’t smoke,” you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair. 

“Why not?” He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff. 

That’s how it happened the first time. You’d been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. He’d probably been hurt by a comment you hadn’t meant. You got high off weed, and you’re sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly. 

It had taken you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what you’d done the night before. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap. 

Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. 

You shook your head, “I don’t either,” but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor. 

“We should try again.” Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words. 

“What?” You squeaked out.

“We should try again,” he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. “Neither of us remembers anything.” You don’t know why you almost said no. Almost denied what you’d wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasn’t right. 

Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So you’d nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly. 

It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. That’s how the first time you actually remember happened. 

And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. You’d go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.

The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasn’t always consistent. 

It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.

But, at the very least, that meant he didn’t just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. You’re not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew. 

When it did happen, you’d pretend he wasn’t thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didn’t bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him. 

It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through. 

You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didn’t like you. But she hadn’t minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house. 

However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.

You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been. 

His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. You’d been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in. 

“Well,” she rasped, a tight smile on her face. “Isn’t this cute?”

Andrew’s arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. “You’ve been around a bit more, hun.”

You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrew’s shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. “I guess so.”

Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. “Are you two finally dating?”

“No,” Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didn’t seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.

“We’re not dating,” he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner. 

Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. “‘Course not,” she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.

You grit your teeth, pretending like you weren’t just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldn’t take much for her to wrench the two of you apart. 

“You have plans this Saturday, sweetie?”

You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. “Don't,” he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation. 

Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. “Well?”

“Uh,” you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. “No, no plans.”

“Perfect,” she hummed. “You can join Pope and me then.”

“Smurf,” he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didn’t typically butt heads with her like this. 

“That’s enough, baby. Don’t be rude.” Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides. 

“Andrew,” you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away. 

“Let’s go,” he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didn’t give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house. 

He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal. 

Like you ever would. The idea was laughable. 

Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldn’t say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in. 

When he’d stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didn’t get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldn’t. So, you’d let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind. 

He didn’t speak. He hadn’t the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does. 

The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didn’t help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured. 

“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” 

Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. “I need you to-”

“There you are!” Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.

“Here I thought you weren’t going to show. I should’ve known better.” She reached forward and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. “My baby boy doesn’t disappoint.”

You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldn’t meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch. 

It didn’t matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didn’t play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boys’ lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrew’s. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time. 

Andrew needed a win; you weren’t about to be another disappointment. 

Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands. 

“God dammit,” you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground. 

“Weak stomach?” Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear. 

You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. “No,” you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out. 

“You’ll have one by the end,” she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadn’t deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You weren’t keen on being so close to her, anyway. You’d rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer. 

Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didn’t look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other man’s fist connected with his face. 

Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesn’t get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away. 

Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrew’s ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him. 

Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasn’t going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out. 

Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch. 

You didn’t want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also weren’t going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didn’t stop until you reached Andrew’s truck. 

Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldn’t take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage. 

With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles. 

You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway. 

“How bad does it hurt?” You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles. 

“I thought you left,” he muttered, stepping even closer. 

You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. “Smurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured she’d be done with it if she thought I ran scared.” 

“But you didn’t.” He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didn’t quite believe you. 

“I didn’t,” you smiled softly. “Now, keys, I don’t trust that you don’t have a concussion.” He didn’t argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. “Let's get you home,” you murmured, rounding the front of his truck. 

The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didn’t push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. “Come on,” you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit. 

He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place. 

It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek. 

You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. “Why? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?” He let out a little huff and you figured that’s the closest to a laugh you’d get today. “I’m not scared of you, Andrew,” you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment. 

When he still wouldn’t meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand. 

You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didn’t have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him. 

“So,” you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. “Why the change of plans?” You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt. 

Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone. Instead, he’d told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table. 

It should be telling you don’t belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class. 

Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didn’t mean class. And you’d known Andrew before they’d made a name for themselves. This wasn’t your sort of place, and you knew it wasn’t Andrew’s. 

“I thought you might like it,” Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didn’t want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Well,” you hummed, struggling for a kind word. “It’s nice,” you settled on lamely.  

His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. “You don’t like it.” You must have an even worse poker face than you thought. 

Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. “It just doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”

Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. “I thought you’d be sick of my sort of place.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Why would you think that?”

He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. “It’s just something Baz told me.” Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. “When he and Cath started dating, he said she didn’t like just hanging out at the house all the time.”

Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. “I’m not Cath,” you remind him, though you’re sure you’re both bitter about that fact. 

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. “I know that-”

“Then don’t try to treat me like her,” you cut in, your tone far more venomous than you’d meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I want to leave,” you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You don’t wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before you’d even had a chance to order. 

Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know you’re too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend you’re on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder you’re barely even a second choice. 

Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels. 

“Let’s walk,” you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesn’t shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance. 

It’s not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But he’s not usually this tolerant. He already doesn’t like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.

Normally, he’d have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But he’s leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally breaks the silence. 

You bite your lip and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. It was nice,” you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, “The restaurant idea was nice. It just wasn’t for me.” It was for the woman you actually want to be with. 

Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. “I wasn’t…”

“Hm?”

He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. “Never mind,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide it’s better not to push. You’ve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more. 

When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. You’re not hungry anymore; you don’t want to watch a stupid movie with him. He’s made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone. 

“Come on,” he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just tired,” you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back. 

He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. You’ve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him. 

You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him. 

But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. You’re not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you. 

You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. It’s not that he’s never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isn’t just giving you gentleness as a courtesy. 

His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed. 

It’s different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasn’t his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldn’t hurt. 

That was the last night you were together. You didn’t know- he didn’t tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldn’t have known how badly it would’ve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz. 

Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesn’t have anyone. 

He had you. Clearly, though, you didn’t count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If he’d done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldn’t surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrew’s place as the eldest son. 

What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasn’t even hers and she still let him slip into Andrew’s place. Like he’d never been there at all. 

You weren’t allowed at the trial; you’re not even sure if you’d want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent. 

You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month. 

Sometimes, you couldn’t believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?

A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month. 

Andrew,

I really don’t know if you’re getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I can’t come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didn’t hate me so much. 

I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t see you. And sorry about how your family’s acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal. 

There’s no guarantee when they’ll let you go. But whenever you’re free, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for you. I’ll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me. 

You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. He’s in prison; you doubt there’s anything particularly exciting he’d like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now. 

But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasn’t responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didn’t think they were sending any or reaching out, either. 

It shouldn’t have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasn’t there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were. 

For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurf’s patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You weren’t a threat, not anymore, but that didn’t mean she liked you any more than she did before. 

You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. “I think this might be for you.”

You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her. 

It was a letter, but not to you. He didn’t say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasn’t good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldn’t play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved. 

Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up. 

“It’s not for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear. 

“He didn't want anything except what’s between your legs. I don’t want you, and my family doesn’t. Leave, or I’m going to have to make you, honey.”

And you did, just like she ordered. But you didn’t just leave her house; that wasn’t enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely. 

Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didn’t want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future? 

But you didn’t have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach. 

It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. You’d just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out. 

Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send. 

They’re letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. She’d scoffed as she’d tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. You’d been dealt with. Cath wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of. 

Pope didn’t expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. He’d only told one person he was getting out. And he’d been hoping to see you, but he wasn’t surprised when you weren’t there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, it’s not like you’d miss something so big on purpose. 

But you hadn’t been waiting for him at Smurf’s either. You’d already warned him they’d sold his home. But you didn’t tell him they’d given his room away to his twin sister’s kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died. 

He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldn’t look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister he’d lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated. 

There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you weren’t here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but he’d held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again. 

He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldn’t talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.

So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away. 

Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. “Where is she?” He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm. 

Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. “Oh.” Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you. 

“Forget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,” her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldn’t look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.

“Just another skank looking for a quick fix,” Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadn’t been there since they’d rebranded him Pope. Like you weren’t the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on. 

He knew you. You weren’t an addict. You weren’t like Ren, hooked on Craig because they’d both shot each other up one too many times. You’d never cared about the money he might’ve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him. 

Pope refused to believe that you’d just left. That you wouldn’t have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbye 

But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone. 

He tried to check all your socials, but you’d deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if you’d ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left? 

Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But you’d survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?

He checked all of the letters you’d sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to. 

When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.

Deran

He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck are you talking-“

Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. “Don’t play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who I’m fucking talking about.”

Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. “Look, man, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Pope tilted his head with a frown. “Even me?”

Deran scoffed and sneered. “You're kidding me? Especially you.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Do you really want to do this?” Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldn’t mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted. 

Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. “Fucks sake,” he huffed. It’s not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you. 

Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm. 

You’d moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadn’t been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed. 

The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place. 

As luck would have it, he’d parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking. 

He’d imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without. 

You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t give a shit who saw; he just wanted you. 

But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you. 

He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didn’t grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you. 

By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrew’s leg bounced as he watched the last one go off. 

Then, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyone’s view as he pushed it into your lock. 

His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters you’d sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.

He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. He’d almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers. 

He couldn’t decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him. 

He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house. 

The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while he’d been gone. 

He’s aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he can’t trust that you won’t just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. It’s not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldn’t stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. He’d rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see the hatred in your eyes. 

At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges don’t preemptively announce him. 

You don’t move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in. 

Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until he’s hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. There’s a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed. 

He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, you’re ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood. 

He tries to say your name, but you’re jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least you’re marginally prepared. 

“It’s me,” he calls out. 

“What?” You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. “Andrew?” You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers. 

“Hey,” he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you don’t; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head. 

“What- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.

You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you don’t jerk away. You also won’t meet his eyes. “Why are you here, Andrew?” He hates that there’s no familiar warmth when you say his name. 

“What do you mean?” Where else would he be?

“I mean,” you snap, finally meeting his eye. But it’s cold, the way you look at him. “Why are you here? In my house,” you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom. 

Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what he’d been preparing for. But he can’t tell if catching you off guard was the right call. 

“I told you I was coming back.”

You narrow your eyes and shake your head. “When?” You huff. 

Andrew frowns. “In my letter,” he’s sure he must’ve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family would’ve given it to you. 

“Oh,” you scoff and jump to your feet. “No, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.” You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. “Cath,” you elaborate, patience running thin. 

“I never sent her a letter,” he insists, not having a goddamn idea what you’re talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way you’re eyeing that bat is disconcerting. 

“Are you seriously trying to lie to me right now?” You demand, pacing in front of him. 

He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.

“I never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.”

A part of you softens. You’re still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I never got anything. When did you send it?”

“A few months ago.”

“No,” you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. “I’d already moved. Smurf would’ve-“

You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. “God, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,” you snap. 

Your eyes shoot up to his, “Did you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?”

Pope grimaced, thinking about it. “Yeah, when we were kids.” You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. “No,” you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. “But I can’t do this again. I’m so glad you’re out, I really am. But I can’t go back to being what we were.”

Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. “What we were?”

“You can’t just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.”

“That’s not what we were,” he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.

“You never called to anything else,” you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile? 

“I never called it anything.”

“Exactly,” you snap. “Andrew, I don’t know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But you don’t get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. It’s not fair.”

His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what you’ve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how he’d ever treat anyone else?

“It was never just sex.” He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. “I love you,” he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. “I thought you knew that. How could you not know?” It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.

“How would I?” You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s not like we talk about our emotions a lot.”

Pope swallows roughly. This isn’t how he works. He can’t just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isn’t good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isn’t working either. 

“I love you,” he promises. “I’ve waited three years to see you. And when you weren’t at the house today, I thought…” he can’t finish. He’d had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last. 

You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you. 

You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. “I never stopped loving you,” you whisper. “I was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, you’ve always stayed with me.” He pulls back and you nod. “Always,” you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes. 

“Please,” he whispers, hardly even caring he’s this close to getting on his knees and begging. “Can I stay here tonight?” 

You frown and shake your head. “Of course,” you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. “As long as you want.” He’s sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for. 

Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. He’s not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again. 

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                 ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 Can't call it love then call it quits 💿

Bob drops his bags to his feet and hugs you tight before he leaves. Tight and suffocating, the way he would if he was leaving for six months. You wonder how intense he would have made it if it had actually been six months.

It’s only a matter of a couple of weeks – it’s not much for what the mission involves, but for codependent, emotionally attached Bob, it feels like the most challenging thing he has ever had to do, and he’s more afraid of being away from you than he is for the actual mission, he’s pretty sure.

He leaves you one of his hoodies and promises he will do his best to find the time to call you.

The second day, he calls you at eleven in the evening. You stay on the phone for almost three hours, listening as he tells you about every single detail of the trip and about the so-called “classified” mission plans he’s not supposed to tell anyone about. He complains about how demanding and overbearing Valentina is for a good quarter of the call, and tells you how much he misses you already for half of it. 

You tell him how chaotic being in the Watchtower feels without his calming presence around, tell him how nothing changes the fact that John and Ava can't stop fighting.

You hear it in his voice when he starts to feel tired, too familiar with how softly honest he gets when the exhaustion starts to weigh on him. It takes him a few tries to explain what he means, repeating his words with a warm chuckle when he stumbles over them and makes a mess of the syllables. 

He doesn’t fight it when you advise him to hang up and get some sleep. 

His lucidity resurfaces when he remembers he forgot to ask you to water the few plants he has managed to keep alive, and to feed the fish he got after his psychiatrist told him having an animal to take care of could help him care for himself at the same time. Like two sides of the same coin – take back what you’ve been given, treat others the way you would like to be treated or something.

So you have a mission of your own, and you take it very seriously – you take pictures and research his plants to know how often you should water them, and you carefully read the instructions of the fish food to know how much is enough and how much is too much. It becomes a routine as the days pass, and you take a picture of the fish to send to Bob, snapping when it opens its mouth to eat the particles before they reach the bottom of the aquarium.

Bob usually texts back asking how you’re doing, and when he doesn’t have the time to, he responds with an assortment of emojis; a smiley face, a fish, a thumbs up and a heart. Which you’re sure, looking for the emojis just takes as long as a full conversation.

It feels weird not having him around the Watchtower, but as long as you’re kept busy, the days pass and don’t seem to drag, and if your schedules match, he’s just a video call away. It is at night that it particularly hurts, when you get in bed and he never joins you, when you wake up in the middle of the night and he’s not here to cling to. Instead, you hug and bury your face into his hoodie, or sleep in his bed when you happen to miss him too much.

On the tenth day, the fish food runs out. Only a few specks fall out of the holes, and the fish hurries and catches them in no time, swimming around afterward like he’s expecting more. “I hope there’s more somewhere or we’re both fucked, buddy” you mutter to the fish, letting the empty container rest beside the aquarium. If there is any logic behind this and Bob has backup food somewhere, it shouldn’t be far from the aquarium. 

You try the first drawer. It’s a mess. Tangled cords and cables, crumpled takeout menus, a pair of broken headphones, a bag of your favorite candies that he offers you when you’re feeling down. It makes you smile and your heart aches a little. 

There is loose change at the bottom of the drawer, buttons, and things you can’t even comprehend. But there’s nothing that resembles the fish food, so this drawer is out. 

The second drawer is more organized. Notebooks, the console controller he’s been meaning to try to fix for ages, a stack of papers that look like past prescriptions, painkillers, and a small, forest green velvet box tucked in the corner. The fish food still isn’t there and you’re about to close the drawer, until you freeze when your gaze rests over the corner of the drawer again when the information hits the right place in your brain. You know you shouldn’t or you will ruin something, you know what it is even before you reach for it, but your hand runs faster than your brain and you have to make sure, and you’re not sure you’re even truly processing the information. You stare at the box for a while as it rests in your hand. 

Unopened, neat and pretty, the velvet soft. 

And you know it should remain like this. 

You try reasoning yourself, try to come up with reasonable reasons why a box like this would be there except for the obvious reason, telling yourself not to open it, like it’s a forbidden artifact holding an ancient curse. But everything leads back to reality, and once you lift the lid, you know it was everything you expected – it couldn’t have ever been anything else and it was stupid to think otherwise in the first place. 

Bob bought a ring. 

You close the box just as soon as you open it, like it’s suddenly burning your hands, putting it back right where it was.

You forget to feed the fish.

Bucky has to shake you out of your thoughts during dinner that evening. When the rest of the team asks how Bob is doing, you respond briefly and don’t elaborate the way you usually would, too shaken by your discovery, standing somewhere between excitement and dread, turning it all around your head. You chew on your food while John’s voice drowns into your ears, only imagining Bob going to the jewelry store, dawned by the responsibility to take a decision on which ring to pick. Wondering how long it has been in this drawer, how he plans on doing it all. Hearing his voice in your head already, stumbling over the proposal because he’s talking too fast, face flushed red while he tries to explain how much he loves you. Wondering if you’re even ready for something this big.

You love him; of course you do, but you hadn’t even begun to think about this aspect of the relationship.

You stray away from contacting Bob too much the next day; you stick to texts only, because you know you will struggle pretending that there isn’t something gnawing at your brain if you hear his voice, or worse, if he sees your face.

You get a text while you’re out shopping for the fish food with Yelena, and when you see it pop up onto your screen with Bob’s name, you don’t bother opening it, immediately shoving your phone into your pocket with a small sigh. When you glance back at Yelena, you know by the look on her face that she knows something’s not right. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, putting back the can of food she had been holding. 

You consider pushing it away, but you’re pretty sure you need friendly advice on this. “Do you think Bob is thinking about marriage?”

She makes a face like she had been expecting everything except this. “Wow. Like, eventually, or right now?”

You give her a light shrug and tear your gaze away from her, pretending to look through the different varieties of fish food though you’ve been knowing which to pick for a while already. “I don’t know”

She doesn’t follow right away, like she’s thinking about it.

“I mean, if you proposed to him, he would say yes right off the bat without even thinking about what it implies.” she declares, knowing how deep he’s in for you. She had been suffering from his heartache before he gathered the courage to confess his feelings for you, after all. “I’m not sure about the real thing. I mean, maybe not right now. Too much commitment for him, especially with what he has gone through and his life at the moment”

You nod. It aligns with your train of thought.

“But eventually, definitely” she affirms. “I’ve never seen someone so lovesick, it kinda disgusts me sometimes” she grins, only meaning to tease you. You grin back at her and give her a playful nudge of your elbow, shaking your head with a laugh when you pick up the fish food from the shelves.

When you’re in line for checkout, you open Bob’s texts.

I got those crispy fried stuff you like at lunch today 

I miss you

It makes you stupidly smile, and you send in your response before it’s your turn on paying. 

I miss you too, babe

Your conversation with Yelena somehow eases your worries for the next few days; it makes the apprehension of Bob coming back less daunting, and your excitement grows with each day that passes. 

He comes back on the fifteenth day – sooner than expected, by two days, because the mission got wrapped up sooner than planned, and he’s relieved; because he gets to go home, and because he knows he would have ended up hurting Valentina if he had to spend those extra days with her.

You figured he would talk a lot; about the trip, the mission in itself, the environment, his progress on using his powers. It’s usually when you want to kiss him most, when he’s proud of himself and when he goes on about something that excites him, but this time, he doesn’t bother with words when you close the door to his bedroom behind you. He kisses you, gentle and slow, like he’s savoring what he’s been deprived of for weeks, hands resting over your hips when he backs you up against the door and comes even closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, hand in his hair, and the snowball rolls and you end up under him in his bed while he kisses you like he wants to consume you whole, his hand trailing down your body until it slips under your clothes.

You kiss along his jawline when he lies back beside you when you’re done, his face prettily flushed, his breathing still uneven while he stares at the ceiling with that dazed, blissed out expression you love bringing on his face. 

“Missed that too, right?” you ask with a teasing grin, hand resting over his throat while you kiss his cheek a couple more times. 

His eyes close with contentment, an internal laugh running through him. “Oh yeah.”

Your fingers brush away the hair sticking to his face, and he smiles when he watches you, kissing you one last time before he reluctantly pulls himself upright, quickly rearranging the clothes he had barely shed, too eager earlier to bother taking them off.

You do the same before getting comfortable still lying on his bed, cheek resting over his pillow, listening as he tells you about his last day on the mission and about the trip back home while you watch as he starts unpacking his travelling bag – he knows if he leaves it in a corner of his room he will let it rot and won’t touch it for weeks, and he’s been working on this kind of stuff in therapy – facing problems instead of running away from them. 

It gets you thinking. About your own personal current problem. Bob still has no idea you know about the ring, and you feel like you’re lying to him by not letting him know.

Lying to the man who sleeps wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in the night. Lying to the man who loves so desperately and honestly that sometimes it scares you only because you don’t know how someone can feel something that deeply and handle it.

It feels unfair to hide it from him and to think about pretending to be shocked when the time eventually comes and he proposes; you know you will feel awful knowing you hid this from him.

You stop him before you get lost in his words and stop listening to him altogether. “I need to talk to you about something”

Bob perks up, his narrative already dropped. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he puts the shirt he’s holding back in the bag, walking back to the bed when he sees the look on your face, sitting in front of you. 

Your head shakes and you give him a small smile. “No, everything’s fine. It’s just– I ran out of fish food the other day” Bob’s head turns towards the tank like he’s expecting you to tell him the fish is dead. “He’s okay,” you grin, seeing the soft relief over his face when he looks back at you. “But it’s– I figured you’d have more somewhere and I looked through your stuff, and…” you trail off, but there’s no use beating around the bush. “I found the ring.”

His soft, worried frown turns into an expression you can’t quite decipher. Then, his mouth gapes just slightly, and you witness every stage of his thought process hit him in real time. Confusion, questioning, realization, horror. His mouth moves, no sound coming out as he searches for his words, unable to get anything intelligible out. 

“Oh my god,” he eventually whispers as he turns around and gets up from the bed again, a hand covering his face as he paces around processing the information, rubbing over his eyes. 

You get off the bed and join him, carefully resting a hand over his arm, trying to quiet his frantic desperation. “It’s okay, Bob.”

“It’s not even–” he gestures around aimlessly, his gaze everywhere but on you, still looking for his words. “Fuck”

He lets out a small, frustrated sigh. “It’s– I was manic when I bought it. I felt like I was doing so great, I was finally starting to have control over my powers and things were so good between us and– and I guess I got carried away, you know how it gets” he explains frantically, brow furrowed. The words settle and still between you, and suddenly, it all makes sense. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, I just… it’s crazy, I know” he huffs out humorlessly. “I mean, I’d want to marry you, I know it, but we haven’t been dating for that long and I don’t even know if you would wanna get married, and I don’t want to trap you into this or something, or pressure you into something you don’t want” he rants, a nervous laugh punctuating it, his eyes squeezing shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose like an ache has developed there suddenly. He doesn’t say anything for a few, the room getting awfully quiet suddenly, but you know there’s more, it’s obvious over his face, so you let it sit. 

“I don’t even know if I want to, really. Or if I’ll ever be in the right place to” he admits in a small chuckle, voice softer in confession. “It just went so great with my parents, so,” he scoffs, voice pained with sarcasm, his hands falling to his sides again. 

You take a hold of them, and for the first time since you dropped the bomb, Bob’s gaze meets yours, like your touch is steadying him. His eyes are filled with worry and apprehension of your reaction, explaining why he felt the need to justify himself this intensely. 

“It’s okay,” you nod. “We don’t have to think about this right now. We have all the time in the world to figure it out and to know what we want for sure.” his eyes set to where your hands are holding his, his gaze softening with vulnerability, and his hand squeezes around your fingers softly. “We can love each other the same even if we never get married. It’s… really, it’s just a formality” 

He nods, gaze still down. One of your hands slides away from his to brush beneath his chin and have him look back at you. “I love you and I’m happy with you either way, you know that, right?” his mouth pinches into a sheepish smile, and he nods, eventually reciprocating the grin over your face. 

A sense of relief washes over his face, and he brings you closer to hug you to his chest. “I love you too” he murmurs, the tension in his limbs easing a bit, the thumping of his ribcage still frenzied against your ear.

You sit together over the edge of his bed when you pull apart, grabbing his travelling bags to help him unpack. There’s a soft expression over his face, gratitude hitting him as he watches you move and neatly fold his clothes before you pass them over to him so he can sort them into piles to put away later. You both move in comfortable silence, until something hits Bob suddenly.

“Are you disappointed?”

You look back at him, a confused expression etched over your face. “Of what?”

He shrugs lightly, busying himself by digging through his toiletry bag. “You could have been expecting me to propose and now you’re disappointed that I can’t do it”

“Oh– no, Bob” you assure him immediately, hand resting above his. He gazes back at you, uncertainty masking his face again. “I don’t think it’s something I’d want right now. I’m not opposed to it eventually, but it’s not an absolute necessity either. Our happiness doesn’t have to depend on that, I’d love you the same whatever we decide to do”

Your words lodge themselves somewhere beneath the panic and self-consciousness and all the ugly little fears he carries in his brain, those about being difficult to love, even more on a long term aspect, and those about being abandoned.

You can see him trying to believe you, trying to let the reassurance sink in instead of immediately searching for hidden disappointment behind it.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly after a moment, like he needs to hear it again to be sure.

Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand. “Yeah.”

His gaze lingers on your face, studying you carefully, looking for any hint of hesitation or disappointment.

There’s none.

You kiss his cheek before you get up from the bed and take the pile of shirts to put it away in his closet, and he progressively visibly relaxes, more at ease now that this whole thing isn’t dawning on the both of you anymore.

“Hey, uh… do you like the ring at least?” Bob asks gingerly, though with less nervosity than if he had asked earlier, a faint grin over his face. “I had such a hard time making a decision. I mean, now that you know, we can get it changed if we ever decide to get married one day”

You break into a soft laugh and nod. There’s a gentle beaming smile over Bob’s face when your hand slides into his hair. “I love it. It’s really pretty. And very careful of what I like”

He nods, a sheepish, proud smile over his face. 

It’s his first time turning a rushed decision into something right, at least.

And now his fear of the future isn’t as clouded as it used to be.

—

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After your last class, you caught the bus back to the house you shared with your roommates, making it back just in time to meet the pickup truck that pulled up in front of the house. A tall, brown-haired guy with big, dark eyes hopped down and walked around the front of the truck to meet you on the sidewalk. 

“Are you the one who called about a smoking car?” Up close he was even cuter than you’d originally thought. You really hoped you weren’t blushing.

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m guessing you’re here to take a look at it?”

“Right on.”

“It’s the one right behind you.” You gestured to the slightly rusty and slightly beat up grey hatchback that he had just parked in front of. He turned and gave out a low whistle as he took it in. It wasn’t necessarily a sight for sore eyes, but it had certainly seen better days, most of which you hadn’t even seen since you’d bought it used two weeks before you came out to Briar for your freshman year.

He gave it a walk around, tracing parts of it with his left hand as he looked it over.

“How long you had this thing?” He looked to you as he asked.

“Three years now. I bought it used.” He nodded along.

“It’s definitely been used, you could say that again.” He snatched a ratty looking rag from the back of his truck and clutched it in his right hand as he popped the hood open. A cloud of smoke appeared as soon as he did so, causing the both of you to cough.

“Looks like an engine problem. It’ll have to come into the shop so we can look at it there.” He shut the hood, the rest of the car creaking as he did so.

“Fuck,” you cursed under your breath, already tallying up how much this would end up costing you. Even with the rising bus rates it would probably still be cheaper than maintaining this piece of junk. The guy looked at you, appearing to study your face.

“I can drive it to the shop for you, if you want. It’s not too far and it should hold up,” he suggested, catching you off guard with the offer.

“Is it even safe to drive at all?”

“Probably not, but I’d rather drive it than have it blow up with you in it.”

“How likely is it to blow up?”

“Three percent. Maybe five.”

“And what’s your history with luck?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I’d feel really bad.”

“About watching me blow up?”

“Yeah, you probably have a lot to live for, I’d hate to be an accomplice to your life coming to an early end.” 

“And I’d feel even worse if I had to watch a pretty girl blow up in her car right in front of me just because she didn’t want it to be me in that car.” You smiled and looked away at the compliment. “It’s a five minute drive. I can manage.” You sighed, running your hand through your hair as you looked up to see him opening the driver’s side door and begin to climb in. Before you knew it, you were climbing into the passenger seat beside him. He looked at you with what you admitted to yourself was a really cute smile as he clicked his seatbelt into place.

“Are we making a suicide pact here?”

“Hopefully not,” you sighed, fishing something out of your backpack on your lap. “But, you probably need these,” the keys to the car dangled from your hand.

“Actually no, those are irrelevant,” he deadpanned, taking them from you and turning them in the ignition. You held your breath as the engine coughed to life, more smoke leaking from under the hood. You clutched the ‘holy-shit’ handle as if it might actually save you if the car were to blow up, which was seeming like more and more of a possibility.

“Are you sure this is safe?” You couldn’t tear your eyes from the gray smoke coming from the front of the car, as he began to reverse out of the spot.

“It’ll make it to the shop.”

“You didn’t actually answer the question.” He glanced over at you as he shifted the car to drive.

“What? You don’t trust the complete stranger you just met five minutes ago?”

“Can’t say I do, stranger.” He let out a short laugh as he pulled onto the street, the car so far staying together.

“So, do you go to Briar?” he asked moments later as he pulled up to the stop sign at the end of your street.

“Yeah, I’m a junior,” you replied, gripping the holy-shit handle even tighter as he made a left turn.

“No shit, me too. What’s your major?”

“English. You?”

“Business.”

“Really?” He looked over at you momentarily, a smile back on his face.

“Yeah, is that surprising?”

“Kinda. You don’t seem like a business guy.”

“Must be hard to figure out someone’s whole life path in less than fifteen minutes.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, letting you know that he was joking.

“Even harder, when I don’t know their name.” 

“It’s John.” You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, which caused him to look at you with a smirk.

“Okay, business makes sense for you now.”

“Oh okay, English major and what’s yours?” You told him your name and he sighed.

“Yeah, I can’t say that I know what would qualify as an English major’s name anyways,” he replied, which made you laugh again. “Do you do anything outside of school?”

“I work at the bookstore in town.”

“You like it there?”

“Yeah, it’s great. Do you like working at Logan & Sons?”

“Well, I kinda have to, considering I’m one of the sons.”

“Ah, so you’re a nepo baby.” John let out a low laugh.

“Oh yeah. Working at the middle class mechanics shop my dad opened thirty years ago has really gotten me places.”

“Then we’re in the same boat, ‘cause going with my mom to her salon job when she couldn’t afford a sitter has gotten us to the same place.”

“Working middle class jobs that our far more richer classmates will never have to work because they can afford to go to our school without a full-ride scholarship?”

“Exactly!” You both laughed. You were surprised to find that you were already pulling into the Logan & Sons yard. John killed the engine, taking the keys out of the ignition and presented them to you in the palm of his hand.

“See? Made it safe and sound.” You took the keys from his hand, a small shock passing between the two of you as your fingers lightly grazed. “You can hang out at the desk if you want while I take a look. It shouldn’t take too long to diagnose her.” You tugged your backpack out behind you, figuring that you could get some homework done while you waited. You followed John around to the desk at the back of the shop and took a seat on the stool there while he rifled through a few drawers, pulling out some miscellaneous tools.

You tried really hard to focus on the homework you’d pulled from your backpack, but your eyes kept flicking towards the guy hunched over the front of your car. His arms flexed as he fiddled around within the car, causing you to put in real effort to drag your eyes away from them whenever he turned to grab a new tool. You had just done so when he fully stood, closed the hood and walked back towards you.

“So good news,” he started, wiping his hands on a rag he had procured from somewhere. “I can fix her up. Bad news is I’ll need a few days to do it.” You nodded along, internally crying at how much your car’s stay at the shop would probably end up costing you.

“Great, thanks.” You stood, beginning to pack your backpack and mentally trying to figure out when the next bus would be.

“I can give you a ride back to your place.” John announced, tapping his hands on the desk.

“Oh, that’s okay. You’ve already done more than enough for me, honestly,” you waved him off, not wanting to take up any more of his time.

“I actually need to grab my truck,” he said with a small smile. “So too bad.”

“Alright, I guess I don’t get a choice then,” you replied with a matching smile.

“Hang tight, I’ll be right back.” He walked past you on his way to the staff room located behind you, a whiff of his - what you could only describe as intoxicating - cologne surpassed the overwhelming smell of motor oil and grease of the workshop. He emerged from the room a minute later with another person following behind him.

“Jules here is gonna drive us back to yours so I can get my truck, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course.” The drive back to your house passed practically the same as the drive to the shop had, this time with Jules asking you the questions about your job and studies, intercepted with your directions on where they should turn. You thanked Jules once they had pulled to a stop behind John’s pickup, both you and John climbing out of the car. 

“Y’know I was gonna say that I’ll give you a call once I’m done with your car, but I realized I don’t have your number.” John noted once Jules had pulled away back towards the shop, holding out his phone in your direction.

“Well, that would’ve just made your job that much harder, wouldn’t it?” You joked back, taking his phone and creating your own contact. You typed in your number and nicknamed yourself ‘english major📚’ before handing it back to him. He smirked as he read it, typing something in himself before returning the phone to his back pocket. Your own phone buzzed with a new notification. Taking it out of your pocket to see that you had received a text from an unsaved number that read ´business major john📊.’ You laughed as you returned your phone to your pocket, meeting John’s amused doe-like eyes. 

“There, now your job is the slightest bit easier.”

“Thank god. Otherwise I’d just have to show up to your house again.”

“And that would just ruin my day, honestly.” You sighed jokingly, gaining a laugh from John. “Thank you again for everything, I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem. It’s actually kind of my job.” You laughed, eyes closing momentarily and keeping you from noticing the look in John’s eyes as he watched you. “Hey, I should get going. But I’ll keep you updated on the car and-” he paused, one hand on the driver’s side door handle. “If you ever need a ride anywhere just let me know.” You thanked him again as he swung up into the truck. He flashed you that smile that you’re sure you’ll never be able to get out of your head before he pulled away from the curb and onto the road, his left hand waving out his open window.

“Oh, I’m screwed,” you thought to yourself as you turned to finally go into the house.

business major john📊: i’m thinking it’ll be about five days to fix your car up btw

business major john📊: but again if you need a ride at all until it’s done just let me know

english major📚: wow do all your customers get the uber option??

business major john📊: only the english majors

english major📚: well i’m a lucky gal then

english major📚: and thank you but i’ll probably just borrow my roommates’ cars if i need :) 

business major john📊: offer still stands for whenever :)

english major📚: you’re a hockey player?

business major john📊: maybe

business major john📊: stalking much?

english major📚: my roommate informed me actually thanks😁

business major john📊: that scare you off?

english major📚: i’m canadian if anything i’m scared in

business major john📊: so you know puck then?

english major📚: a little

business major john📊: you got a favourite team?

english major📚: will my favourite team make or break my car?

business major john📊: depends

english major📚: big oilers fan over here🧡💙

business major john📊: woof we can work on that🫩

english major📚: and yours is??

business major john📊: bruins all day baby🐻🐻

english major📚: yikes

english major📚: looks like we both got some work to do

hockey boy john🚩: how many packs of tissue do you need in your glove box?

oilers girl😬: i’m not paying you to snoop in my car🤨

hockey boy john🚩: i needed to check your registration for smtg

hockey boy john🚩: was definitely not snooping☝️

oilers girl😬: uh huh i’m so sure

hockey boy john🚩: still don’t trust me?😪

oilers girl😬: we’ll see how my car turns out

tissue hoarder🤧: is phil graham your friend garrett’s dad??

car snoop🫵: how are you a hockey fan at briar and only just realizing this?

tissue hoarder🤧: why would i pay any attention to the rangers?

car snoop🫵: fair point

hockey snob🫩: i should be finished with your car tomorrow :)

#1 Rangers fan😰: great sounds good!

Hockey snob🫩: if you don’t wanna take the bus i can pick you up after class tomorrow and you can wait around the shop while i finish up

Hockey snob🫩: only if you want tho👍

#1 Rangers fan😰: that’d actually be great if you could thanks!! :))

Hockey snob🫩: like i said any time :) 

Hockey snob🫩: where’s your last class tomorrow?

#1 Rangers fan😰: in the english building at the far west side of campus

#1 Rangers fan😰: if that’s too far for you tho i can meet you at your last class

Hockey snob🫩: don’t even worry about it

Hockey snob🫩: see you tomorrow :) 

#1 Rangers fan😰: see ya :)) 

Leaving your last class of the day usually presents no surprises, except for today, which featured John Logan waiting outside the English building. He didn’t notice you at first which was great as you hastily brushed your hair behind your ears as you made your way towards him. The sun was hitting him at the perfect angle, highlighting his strong features. You were luckily able to close your mouth just in time before he turned his head and met your eyes. That smile that you had in fact not been able to get out of your head for the past few days adorned his face.

“Hey, Rangers fan.” He greeted you, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Don’t say that, anyone could hear you!” The sarcasm is clear in your voice as you hurried down the steps ahead of him. His long legs easily caught up to you, joining you stride for stride. “You didn’t have to come down, y’know? Your truck isn’t that hard to spot.”

“Just in case you forgot what it looked like,” he shrugged. While it had been a week since you had last seen each other in person, the two of you had been texting practically nonstop since then, allowing you to fall into easy conversation about how your days had been. You told him about how your classes had gone and he told you about the jokes his friends Dean and Tucker had told at practice that morning.

“Y’know you should come to a game sometime,” John suggested as your seatbelts clicked into place almost simultaneously. “I bet you’ve probably got some fun chants from back home to share with the crowd.”

“Yeah and some my dad taught me that probably wouldn’t go over well with the NCAA.” The drive from campus to the garage was filled with talk of hockey and your families, exchanging the different ways in which you had gotten into the sport.

“My dad always taped Oilers games, still does, and since I barely saw him during the week because of his crazy work schedule I would sit and watch them with him,” you shared. “I’ve never seen him more excited than when McDavid was drafted in 2015.”

“That’s like my brother when I got into Briar for hockey. He’s the reason I started playing in the first place.” You noticed the shift in John’s grip on the steering wheel at the mention of his brother. His eyes kept straight ahead at the road so you couldn’t be sure, but you had a feeling that there was something about his relationship with his brother and hockey that was a touchy subject.

“Are you two close?” He looked over at you, almost taken aback, as if you had taken him out of a trance.

“Yeah, sorta. Our parents weren’t really around so we kinda had to fend for ourselves. Take care of Jules and each other. We bonded over that stuff.” He cleared his throat after sharing, as if airing out his relationship with his siblings had dislodged something for him.

“Sounds like you guys really care for each other.” The ends of his mouth quirked up in that smirk you’d come to memorize.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

As John’s truck pulled into the Logan & Sons lot you noticed that your car had been moved to a different spot since you’d brought it in a week ago.

“I wouldn’t let anyone else work on it so my brother told me to move it so he could still take on new clients,” John explained, noticing my confusion.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do it all yourself, I wouldn’t have cared if someone else had worked on it.”

“I would’ve.” John climbed out of the truck, leaving you dumbfounded in the passenger seat. Shaking yourself out of it, you followed him out and back around to the other side of the desk in the corner of the shop. “It shouldn’t be too long, but make yourself at home.” Once again, you pulled a notebook and pen from your backpack, attempting to start the assignment you’d been assigned earlier today. But yet again you found yourself getting distracted by the contracting muscles in the arms of the guy working on your car. It really was embarrassing how many times you caught yourself practically drooling instead of planning out your essay.

“All done!” John called out about forty-five minutes later, slamming the hood closed. You had actually managed to get yourself to focus on your essay this time around and you looked up to find him dangling your car keys from his pointer finger in your direction. “Wanna take it for a test drive?” You practically ripped the keys from his finger, grinning at the idea of being able to drive your own car again instead of one of your roommates’. You felt almost shy as John climbed into the passenger seat beside you, your cheeks and tips of your ears going red. You twisted the key in the ignition and watched as absolutely no smoke emerged from under the hood and no clunking sound interrupted the purr of the engine.

“Oh we’re so back, baby.” John laughed at your reaction. You couldn’t help the grin on your face caused by your freshly working car and the guy in the passenger seat who you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past week. You slowly pulled out of the garage, guiding your car around the side of the building and to the front of the lot. John pointed you to a spot for you to park, which you do, sighing as you shifted into park. “You brought my girl back!” You exclaimed, grinning at John who returned the expression. “You’ve got the magic touch, Johnny.”

He chuckled at the nickname. “Johnny, huh?”

“What no one calls you that?”

“My mom did when I was younger. But I like it better coming from you.” The ease with which he expressed this caught you off guard, losing your breath momentarily. His eyes were soft and your heart softer as you shared a moment in the calm silence. You could’ve lived in these few seconds forever if it were up to you.

Back at the desk you were mentally cringing while waiting for the total price of getting your car’s engine fixed dumped on you like a bucket of cold water. Except when John told you the price it was nowhere near as much as you expected.

“Wait, are you sure?” 

“One hundred percent,” John replied, even handing you the printed bill listing the cost of everything. “Briar students get a discount.” You scanned the bill over and over again, making sure that he had charged you for everything. Obviously you didn’t want to pay what you had expected, but you also didn’t want to accidentally scam the guy after he had gone above and beyond for you. After having read the bill at least three times over you decided that it was real and you wouldn’t be as broke as you expected.

“Alright, I guess ring me up.” You handed the bill back over to John who took it with a smile and began to ring up the price. When he turned the machine over to you, you made sure to leave a sizable tip.

“If anything ever happens to it again, you have my number,” John said, ripping your receipt from the machine. “And even if you ever need anything just give me a call.”

“I definitely will. And thank you so much again. For everything, honestly, you’ve been great. You should get a raise.”

“Would you mind telling my brother that actually? He might listen to you instead of me.” Your heart squeezed at this last joke between the two of you, the last laugh you two might share. This past week had been one of your best since coming to Briar and even though it was now the weekend, you didn’t want it to end.

“Bye, Johnny.” You turned your back on him to walk back to your car, secretly hoping that he would run up to you and ask you out, not wanting this to be your last interaction either. You looked back at him once more as you reached the driver’s side door, surprised to find his eyes were still on you. You gave him a smile and a wave, both of which he returned, before climbing in the car. As the air conditioning kicked in you caught a hint of his cologne, flipping your stomach in the best way possible. You snuck a glance at your rearview mirror as you pulled up to the stop sign at the exit to the lot, seeing that John had been joined by Jules behind the desk.

“You know Briar students don’t get a discount, right?” Jules asked their brother as they watched him watch your car begin to leave the lot. He looked at them with a quizzical look on his face, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Friends and family discount, remember?”

“Didn’t you just meet her this week?” 

“You can become friends with someone in a week, Jules,” John said, exasperated, escaping into the staff room behind them.

“Yeah…you have her number! Don’t let it go to waste!”

Your phone had chirped on the drive from the garage to your house, but being a responsible driver you didn’t check it until you pulled into your normal parking spot on the street in front of the house and had shifted into park. You had to read the message three times to make sure that this wasn’t your delusional mind playing tricks on you and that the text from John was in fact real.

Hockey snob🫩: did you maybe want to go get coffee together some time soon whenever we’re both free?

Obviously you said yes.

~~~

“Your whimsy!”

“Doll, I don’t—”

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have ONE trinket? This is unacceptable.”

It’s the first time you’d seen Bucky’s room—having come to lend him a book when you noticed there was not a single sign that the room was occupied, aside from the slightly crumpled sheets and the wrappers from his protein bars in the bin beside him. You stand in the doorway with your hands on your hips, entirely exasperated at the sight before you.

In the year he'd known you, Bucky had become used to your dramatics—exclaiming like someone had taken the thing you love most when your favourite cereal was finished or groaning loudly like your whole day was ruined at the training time being moved by thirty minutes.

“Bucky, you don’t even have a lamp— what do you—?” You sigh, moving further into the room. His bed is pushed into one corner of the room and your eyes catch on the single blanket laid out on the floor. The walls are completely bare, the shelves sit empty and the overhead light casts a harsh glow over the room, making it look less like a bedroom and more like a lab.

Bucky tenses—a tiny shift that no-one else would have noticed but you’d spent every day with Bucky since he arrived at the tower. You’d taken the time to learn him. To understand him in a way no-one else did.

You knew the distant look he’d get when he was stuck in a memory. You knew when he needed space and when he needed you to push back. You knew the permanent crease he held between his brows, and you especially knew the way it’d soften and turn into smile lines when you’d make him laugh.

Your voice softens then.

“You don’t have anything to make the place yours?”

“M’used to it doll.”

Your heart tugs painfully at that. The thought of him alone and cold in a room—a cell more like, with nothing but his memories for company.

You look at him then, eyes focused on his—the soft, uncertain look peeking out between his usual stares. You move closer to him, taking his hand in yours and he pulls away slightly. You know the hesitation doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it—crave it really. Just that his body is still learning touch. Still learning what’s safe. Still learning you.

“Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean you have to be.”

Bucky inhales sharply, looking anywhere but you, getting uncomfortable in that way he usually does when you read him too easily, when you say things others are too afraid to.

You don’t let it throw you—instead tugging on his hand gently, bringing his focus back to you.

“Let’s go shopping. There’s a few thrift stores close to here I like to go to that I think you might like.”

“Doll, I really don’t want to…” His voice trails off as he notices the look on your face—soft and half-pleading, and he sighs, running a hand down his face before brushing his hair back and standing with a grumble.

“Fine, let’s go, you can take me to ONE thrift store and we’re just goin’ to have a quick—”

Bucky’s still rambling on but you’ve stopped listening, already jumping up and down in excitement, tugging at his hand and squealing.

“—and we’re not stoppin’ for coffee either.”

~ 25 mins later ~

You walk into the thrift store you frequent on your days off, hot coffee in hand, giving Bucky a small smirk as you sip. He shakes his head in disbelief.

God, the effect you have on him.

Bucky takes it all in—the vastness of the store taking him by surprise.

The sides of the store are lined in bookshelves, carrying everything from children’s books, knitting patterns, vintage magazines, novels with the covers worn back, old records, cds, dvds, cassettes and board games.

There’s rows and rows of old tables, scattered with various items—a doll from the 1950s, jewellery stands filled with bangles, necklaces and bracelets, the soft light from the various lamps around the room glinting off the jewels.

Bucky turns to you, brow furrowed.

“M’not buying anything, you know that right?”

“That’s okay, we can just have a look.” You shrug, moving further into the store, trying your best to not scare him off now that he’d agreed to come.

Bucky gives a solemn nod, like it’s decided, already zoning out as he carelessly rustles through the items on the table closest to him. You dawdle along the clothes racks, eyeing out a jacket that looks about your size.

Of course, you’re not in full thrifting mode, still carefully keeping an eye on Bucky as he takes maybe three more steps into the store—arms crossed over his chest, feigning disinterest as something on the shelf clearly catches his eye.

He looks over at you, and you give him a small smile, nodding towards the shelves with encouragement. He softens ever so slightly, arms uncrossing and wandering into the store. You smile into your coffee when you see him pick up an elephant carved from wood and place it back down.

“Doll, come over here.” Bucky’s a few tables down from you, gesturing you over to him.

He’s holding a brooch in his hand—nothing too fancy—a small blue and green floral thing. You raise your eyebrows at him, questioning.

“This brooch— it um—” Bucky looks at you, eyes welling with tears as he tries hard to control his wavering voice.

“—it looks exactly like one my ma used to wear. Same design. Same colors— I—”

He turns it over in his hand, studying every detail. The tiny glass beads, the tarnished gold metal, the pin slightly bent out of shape at the back. You place your hand on his upper arm, smiling up at him.

“Get it.”

Bucky turns to you, startled—almost like he forgot you were there—lost in the memory of his mother’s hands gently working the brooch, pinning it to her dress on Sunday mornings.

He shakes his head as if to shake off the memory, placing the pin back down and wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

“What? No—I don’t— I don’t need it, I was just saying—” He’s already turning away when you squeeze his arm, bringing his attention to you.

“Bucky listen to me. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to find meaning in small things. You’re allowed to want Bucky.”

The words hit him somewhere deeper than just this moment.

He nods slowly before picking the brooch back up, flipping it in his metal hand a few more times, thumb brushing over the top and hands it to you wordlessly.

You smile, placing it gently into your basket, careful not to break it and give him a solemn nod.

He returns it with a smile.

It’s easier after that.

He notices a few old records with names he recognises and tucks them away with a smile. An old record player, a copy of The Hobbit, vintage magazines, knitting patterns that reminded him of his mom.

He calls you over to him again when he finds a lego set of a working helicopter and your heart warms at the excitement in his voice.

You pick up a couple things for him too—fairy lights, a desk lamp, another lego set and a couple more records you think he might like.

Bucky’s flipping through a photo album when you approach him. You can’t help but smile when you see the photo he’s looking at. It’s in black and white — two teenagers eating ice-cream, the boy smiling at the girl and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. It’s dated June 4th 1937.

“Do you think we would have been friends if we met back then?”

Bucky looks at you—really looks at you and you don’t fully understand the look in his eyes. But it’s the same one he gives you when you bring him coffee in the morning. Or the one he gives when you’re on a mission—loud bangs, debris flying and you turn to him before anyone else.

“I think—I think I’d be lucky to find you in any lifetime.”

Your heart skips a beat, face warming at his words and you have to bite down on your lip to stop your eyes from welling with tears.

“Me too Buck, me too.”

“Ready to go?” You swing your basket on your wrist, nodding your head in the direction of the checkout.

Bucky nods and follows, still looking back at the armchairs along the wall and you make a mental note to bring him back another time.

“What’s that book?”

“Oh I don’t know, some rom-com.”

You nod, tilting your head slightly, narrowing your eyes at the title.

The Love Hypothesis

Not something you thought he’d pick but you’re not about to question what he’s buying when he’s finally letting himself buy things.

He sighs before you get a chance to let a word out, opening the front cover of the book and showing you the small hand-written inscription.

Becca’s ♡

“Your sister?”

“I know it’s not hers but I—” He trails off, letting out a shaky breath.

“I know Buck.” You place your hand on his arm, warm and reassuring and he gives you a small smile before avoiding your eyes.

“Alright, let’s go pay for our stuff then.”

“You can just leave the bags there.” Bucky nods towards his desk, placing the record player and the burgers you’d picked up on the way on the table.

“Okay…orrr I could help you set everything up. We could have a movie night. Eat our burgers.” You suggest softly, not expecting the slow nod he gives.

You smile up at him, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him setting up the record player on his desk, moving it side to side until he’s happy with the positioning.

The two of you move around the room in perfect tandem—Bucky setting the books and records on the shelves, you making a small display of the lego sets and placing the brooch carefully in front.

You turn to ask Bucky how he likes it and stop mid-breath, biting your lip and trying not to laugh at the 6 foot super soldier fumbling with fairy lights—swearing under his breath, one end of the wire tangled around his metal arm.

“Here, let me.” You giggle softly, reaching for the wire, untangling it from his arm.

“Something funny?”

“No,” you lie, voice entirely too amused, still holding back a laugh.

You pull on the end, draping it across the back of his bed when Bucky lets out a frustrated huff and this time you can’t help the laugh that escapes.

Bucky turns to you, glaring, but there’s no real bite to it, and soon he’s laughing too, running a hand down his face like the day had worn him out.

He glances over at you—cross-legged on his bed, grinning up at him, the glow from the fairy lights framing your face.

Bucky thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

The air in the room grows thicker and you can almost hear your heartbeat outside of your chest—Bucky’s eyes boring into yours—so bright and blue and beautiful.

“Thank you for today doll, I’m—”

He pauses to look around the room, his heart so full it aches.

You care.

Not just about if he’s eaten or if he’s been keeping up with his medical checks and his therapy, not just about how he was on a mission or if he might be injured. But about him and whether or not he’s happy—if he feels at home.

Bucky hadn’t felt home in over 80 years, but here—with you smiling at him like there’s nowhere you’d rather be—he feels like maybe he could.

“Of course Buck.”

He’s still looking around the room in disbelief. It’s then you realise the reason he never put anything in his room. He didn’t believe he’d be staying here, that this would last, that he could have a home here—because when you’ve spent your life running, and all you’ve known is survival, how do you accept softness and stability without it feeling like a threat?

You stand slowly, taking his hand in yours and press your forehead to his gently. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, taking a shaky breath.

“Doll, I don’t know if I’m—”

“S’okay Buck. Don’t need to be. M’not going anywhere.”

He gives you a soft look like he doesn’t fully believe it, but like he might start to soon.

You pull his arms around your waist, not breaking eye contact. His fingers flex against the small of your back, still unsure—almost like he’s expecting you to pull away. You wrap your arms gently around his shoulders, placing your head onto his shoulder. Softly but not hesitant—never hesitant. You feel his body shudder slightly, a subtle tense of muscles before he leans into it—into you.

And for the first time—in the softness of the fairy lights and the warmth of all the small things—Bucky Barnes lets himself be held.

“But it is a date,” Trinity perks up, a cheshire like grin forming on her face while she spins the chair you're sitting in and charting to face her. “Tell me everything– who is he, how did you meet, what are you going to wear–”

“Okay, slow down!” A small laugh unfortunately manages to escape you, and you don’t know whether to be touched or offended over the fact that she was this invested in your love life. “There’s nothing to tell, I haven’t even met the man yet,”

“Oh, ew,” she immediately says, grimacing in disgust, “You met him on the apps? That’s low, even for you babe,”

You stare at her blankly, momentarily stunned. 

“Desperate times means desperate measures,” you finally say, officially finishing charting and logging out of the computer. Standing up, you start making your way towards the lockers, Trinity's excited voice following behind you.

“I mean, not that desperate. I know one man that would go out with you in a heartbeat,”

Opening your locker, you take out the little duffel bag you had to bring into work today. In order to make it to the date on time, you’d have to get ready at work, and as much as you hated drawing attention to yourself, you wouldn’t have time to make it back home. 

So you’d done your hair the night before, hoping for the best when you tied it up for work, shoved your makeup kit, as well as your dress and heels into a bag and made your way to work. 

This was also the exact reason you had asked to get out before handoffs. And Robby owed you just enough favors to let it slide, but not before giving you a suspicious look. You knew better than to tell your ex-husbands best friend– and by default spy– why you suddenly needed to cash in on those very handy, very hard earned favors.

“Yeah, and me and that man are broken up for a reason,” you snort, promptly shutting down any insinuations and blaming it on her sleep depravity.

Slipping off your scrubs, you falter when you hear Trinity snort at the action.

“Excuse me? What happened to privacy–”

“Alright, alright– sorry!” She amends, throwing her hands up in defeat and turning around.

But the sound of her laughter is already replaying in your mind and you huff at your own insecurity, crossing your arms.

“What is it, Santos?”

Immediately turning back around, Trinity gives you a sheepish smile, before her eyes dart to you, still standing in your underwear.

“Are we, like,  super committed to the granny panties?”

You gasp, throwing your scrub top at her face when she speaks.

“Rude! They’re not granny panties, they’re just, you know…” you defend yourself, digging through your duffel for your dress. “Comfortable. They’re comfortable, Trinity,”

“That’s kind of the problem, babe. You’re going for sexy and alluring– not comfort! Trust me, I’m the last person to tell someone to change for a man, but those–” she points an accusing finger at your matching set, “Are just one big turnoff, my friend,”

You groan, running a hand through your hair.

“You cannot be telling me this right now. I don’t have any spare underwear with me– are you sure you’re not just biased?”

Trinity gives you a sad look, then walks to the door, peeking her head around the corner.

“Mohan! Get in here–”

You gape, quickly tugging your work pants back on and crossing your arms over your chest.

“What the hell? Hello, I’m like naked in here–”

“Oh calm down, we’re doctors,” Trinity waves you off, and before you can say anything else, Samira Mohan walks into the tiny excuse of a locker room.

Her eyes dart between Trinity and you, before going down to your chest, where a very sturdy looking bra is in place.

“For the date tonight?” she says carefully, noting the agitation on your face and the amusement on Trinity’s.

“Does everyone know?” your answer confirms her words, and Samira gives you a gentle smile, officially dismantling the last irritation in you.

Slumping against the lockers, your head hits the metal with a small thump!

“Okay,” she finally says, adopting the same, comforting tone she uses when explaining treatment plans to patients, “I don't think they're bad,”

“You lie, sweet child of mine,” Trinity sighs dramatically, crossing her arms when she looks back at you.“Literally just go commando at this point,”

Shaking your head, you snap out of your haze, going back to your bag and digging your dress out.

It’s not like you’re going to sleep with the man.

You weren’t ready for that just yet, your mind echoes to you, but you quickly stop the spiral you feel forming. 

If you were still with Jack, you wouldn’t have to worry about first dates and underwear–

Okay, no.

“Zip me up please?” is what you say instead, looking between the two women helplessly.

Noticing your sudden quietness, Trinity obliges and does what you ask. The zipper slides up your back smoothly, and for once, she’s quiet.

“Hey, come on,” she says softly, giving your shoulder a squeeze once she's finished. “You look pretty,”

Samira nods, taking a hold of your other shoulder and leading you to the mirror, a small smile on her face as you watch her reflection watch you.

“You look good,” she says simply, in a way she knows does more of an impact on you than an overflow of compliments would. 

Your eyes linger on your reflection, smoothing down any crinkled pieces of fabric as an attempt to self soothe. But there was something deeply humiliating about standing in a hospital locker room, while two coworkers attempted to convince you that you weren't a complete disaster.

Admittedly, you do agree. You looked pretty wearing something other than scrubs and letting your hair down for once– hell, even applying new lipstick makes you feel reborn. 

Taking one final look, you straighten your shoulders before walking back to your bag and taking your heels out, putting them on and shoving your bag back into the locker and dumping your dirty scrubs into Trinity’s arms.

Payback for the panty comments.

“Wish me luck, ladies,” you say, the small purse you’d brought with now swinging on your shoulder.

“Knock him dead, babe!” Trinity grins, and Samira gives you a supportive thumbs up beside her.

Twenty more meters and you're out of here, on your way before anyone can properly see you.

You take a deep breath, trying not to cringe or look at people as your heels click against the linoleum floors. The doors to the ambulance bay hiss when you step through them, a small sigh of relief escaping you once the evening breeze washes over your face.

 Rounding the corner towards the parking lot, a yelp escapes you when you crash into someone.

“Shit!”

Strong hands grab your arms before you can stumble backwards and crack your skull open on the pavement and die in your granny panties.

“Christ, slow down,” a familiar voice mutters and your stomach instantly drops.

Fuck. 

The last person you wanted to see, the reason you were leaving work thirty minutes early and watching your back like a criminal, instead of a grown woman simply going on a date.

Jack Abbot, in all his fine glory, dressed in one of those tight, white shirts he loves and his usual cargos.

His hands are still wrapped around your arms, your own are still gripping his forearms, far too close for your already scrambled mind to be able to handle right now.

Pulling away, you quickly smooth down your dress once again, clearing your throat.

“Hi! Uh– nice catching up, I should probably–” you laugh awkwardly, motioning vaguely with your hands towards your car.

Jack doesn’t say anything, his eyes unabashedly travelling across your body. First your styled hair, then to your painted lips, then to the dress, gaze lingering on your exposed legs.

“You’re awfully dressed up for work,” He mutters dryly, head tilting once his eyes lock with yours once again. “But I suppose this wasn’t how you came in at seven am,”

“Wow, nothing gets past you, huh?” you can’t help but quip, ignoring the warm feeling in your belly at the sight of him fighting a smile at your words.

The evening breeze catches a loose strand of your hair and blows it across your face. Before you can move it away, you notice Jack's hand twitch, but ultimately stay rooted by his side.

"Clearly not. Are you going to answer or keep being a smartass?”

Against your will, a small smile forms on your face, and you shake your head and cross your arms.

“I should be on my way to a date,” You finally concede, gauging his reaction. 

Yeah, to see if he even cares anymore.

Unfortunately, as Jack glances toward the parking lot before looking back at you, he asks:

“Is he not picking you up?”

For some reason, his words send a wave of embarrassment through you. Like you have to prove to him that you’re not going out with a piece of shit, like you’re not downgrading, or settling, or desperately trying to get over Jack by going on shitty dates.

“It’s the first date, I’m not having him know where I work,” you mutter petulantly, shifting on your feet, the pain growing more intense the longer you stand there. “That’s just common sense,”

Jack hums thoughtfully, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance, then. I haven’t been on a proper date in a while,”

Asshole.

You know he’s talking about your relationship, that petty bastard.

“And who’s fault is that?” the words come out sharper than intended, but you’re too deep into this to notice, or even care about it.

“You know, normal people would just let it go,” Jack muses, eyes narrowed in amusement as he takes a step closer to you.

“Normal people also don’t interrogate their ex in the parking lot,” you retort, chin raising defiantly as your irritation spikes at his indifference towards seeing you moving on.

You’d once heard a rumor of another attending on the surgical floor reportedly laying it on pretty thick at some gala.

It had you eating ice cream for dinner for a week, just the thought of him moving on from you that easily.

Your phone buzzing in your purse fills the silence, and you’re suddenly made aware of the entire reason you're standing here in a dress and heels instead of driving home to watch terrible reality television.

“I should go,” you say quieter than intended, clearing your throat afterwards.

The amusement fades from his face, replaced by something harder to read, and for a moment, Jack doesn't say anything, his eyes flickering to your purse and where your phone is buzzing.

A cruel reminder to him of the fact that you indeed are moving on, probably with some guy your age that wouldn’t have to worry about how you’d look walking down the street with him.

“Yeah, don’t let me keep you,” Jack mumbles, shifting on his feet as he follows you with his head when you walk past him slowly.

Your heels sound against the pavement, the loud clicks taunting in his ears, like a clock reminding him of the time he's running out of, both in life and with you.

“Fuck,” He mutters under his breath, scratching the scruff on his face harshly, before walking after you. “Hey, wait–”

“I really have to go, Jack,” you don’t stop walking, in fact speeding up a bit.

You couldn’t trust yourself around him.

“You don’t even know this guy!” Jack throws out in a desperate attempt to get you to stay, to make you argue with him, anything to make you stay– to choose him again, even if it only were for a moment.

You stop so abruptly your heel almost catches on a crack in the pavement, before you’re whirling back to glare at him.

“Are you serious right now?

Despite your anger, Jack can’t help but notice how pretty you look while glaring at him, and even though he'd be six feet under if looks could kill.

“I’m just looking out for you,” He has the nerve to say, shrugging slightly while he walks up to where you’ve come to a stop.

“I don’t want you to look out for me! You wouldn’t need to if you hadn’t–” you stop yourself from lashing out, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. “...Why are you doing this?”

“I’m worried about you, I mean– leaving work early, dressing up, then running straight into me because you aren’t paying attention–” Jack lists, the lies falling from his lips unconvincingly.

You scoff, turning around and walking back towards your car.

“Goodbye, Jack,”

Panic fills his veins, and his hand shoots out and grabs your arm, pulling you towards him.

“Fuck, okay! Alright, just–” Jack sighs, running his free hand through his silver curls, “Just wait, okay? Don’t just…go,”

“Then tell me why you’re being like this,” you press him again, impatiently.

Jack takes it as a small victory when you don’t rip your arm out of his grip.

“I don’t want you to go out with him,”

“You don’t even know him–” you roll your eyes at his shitty explanation.

“I don’t want you to go out with anyone,” Jack interrupts, jaw clenching as he forces the words out. “I don’t want to see you laugh with anyone, or leave work early because you’re seeing someone, or see you get dolled up for another man,”

The words echo in the empty parking lot and land bitterly in your ears.

Your mind couldn’t help but betray you at this moment.

Why wait until now? Is it to make sure his words are devastating enough? To make you lose the progress you thought you had made after he broke your heart?

Was it really all his fault if you could let yourself be this affected by his words?

“You’re such an asshole,” you say shakily, eyes welling up with unshed tears.

Jack nods, a bitter smile forming on his face.

“Yeah, I know,”

He doesn’t argue with you, because he agrees.

He is an asshole. A selfish, greedy asshole who wants nothing more than to get on his knee and grovel at your feet, because the biggest mistake he’s made is thinking that letting you go is an act of love.

Over the fear of what others might think.

Over the fear that there will come a day where instead of him taking care of you, you’ll be taking care of him, while he takes advantage of your youth, all while knowing you’d be too sweet to leave him.

Jack stares at you, your teary eyes and trembling lips, he stands there and he stares at the woman he still loves.

“I’m fucked up, I know. But every morning I wake up and you're still the first thing I think about,” he begins, swallowing thickly when he feels a lump form in his throat. “I look for your car in the parking lot before I walk in. I mean fuck, even at handoffs, I look for the charts that have your signature,” 

The tears are definitely ruining your makeup now. You were late beyond belief for the date, and the buzzing in your purse had ceased ten minutes ago.

And yet you have no urge to go anywhere anymore.

“That’s kind of sad,” you sniffle, muttering weakly. 

Jack chuckles weakly, fingers tightening around your arm before he reluctantly lets go.

“It’s really fucking sad,” he agrees easily, resisting the urge to wipe the tear tracks off your face.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” you meet his gaze at last, and Jack sees the confusion and fear in your eyes that comes with the possibility of forgiving him, or letting him make it up to you.

“I don’t know, I just…” he begins,“I couldn’t let you leave thinking I didn’t care. That I don’t care,”

“Do you think your age is secret or something?”

Jack blinks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“What? No–”

“Do you think I didn’t see the grey hair, and wrinkles, and the glaring at screens before we got together?” You continue, stepping closer to him, gaze landing on the evident smile lines, and signs of his life actually being lived.

“You’re making me sound worse than I am,” he grumbles quietly.

“And what really sucked is that you thought I hadn’t already thought of all that when we started this, that there would come a time when you needed me more than I needed you. You keep acting like you lured me into a relationship with you, and acting like I didn’t consider any of it,”

Your voice is steady when you speak, finally wiping the tears away as your feelings spill, the weight on your chest lightening up with each word you speak.

“I saw it. I saw it and I still chose to be with you, so I really don’t understand what favor you thought you did me when you ended things,”

Jack is silent, for once. No sarcastic quip, no flirty deflection– he just stands there and lets the words sink in, feeling incredibly stupid.

He knew you were bright, incredibly empathetic and intuitive. Of course you hadn’t just thrown yourself into this blindly. You’d chosen him on purpose, and Jack was too blinded by his own fears to let you love him the way you wanted to. In turn, he’d hurt himself, but most importantly, he’d hurt you.

“I may have overestimated my own charm,” he says, sounding almost embarrassed.

Despite the earlier tension, his words make you laugh softly, and Jack perks up like he’s been rewarded with something.

“For what it's worth, breaking up with you was the stupidest thing I've ever done,” Jack adds, lips stretching into a tight lipped smile, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes, still stubbornly resisting the urge to just give in to him.

“You’re still not fully forgiven,”

“I know,” He nods solemnly.“I’d love it if you did, but I know you can’t, and that’s okay,”

“And you have a lot to make up for,” you continue, not letting up. You had, after all, been tortured for months.

“I do,” Jack says instantly, the answer coming so quickly it almost throws you off. 

After everything the two of you had been through, it felt like a step in the right direction. A moment of tense silence ensues, and you know it’s because Jack doesn’t want to immediately jump back into things and make it seem like he's brushing things under the rug.

You decide to throw him a bone.

“...You’re way too old to be playing with people's feelings,” You finally joke, and Jack bites his lip until he’s unable to hold the grin back any longer. 

“Hey, that’s still a sensitive topic,” He tuts, a faux hurt expression forming on his face. “And if I’m so old, I guess I won’t be able to drive us to that restaurant you like so much?”

Your eyebrows raise in suspicion.

“That’s real cute, but don't you have work?”

“Robby owes me one,” He shrugs, hand landing on your waist, “Besides, we can’t have this dress go to waste, right?”

You let him lead you towards his car, the smile on your face growing wider at his ridiculousness. 

“I suppose not,”

And for the first time in months, Jack didn’t feel that sharp, stinging in his chest whenever he took a breath.

He sits on the worn leather sofa in the fraternity common room, a lukewarm coffee in hand, watching a pair of freshmen argue over a video game. Last year, this room was a minefield of budget crises, noise complaints from the dean, and brotherhood disputes that required the diplomacy of a UN peacekeeper.

Now? His biggest administrative headache is convincing a nineteen-year-old sophomore that failing Intro to Macroeconomics will directly result in a ban on the upcoming Halloween celebrations.

It’s a glorious, low-stakes existence, and Jack intends to ride this wave of absolute mediocrity straight through to May.

His only other role in the frat this year is party-planning, and Jack has no problem dedicating time to that.

Tonight's festivities - their annual Hippies vs. Cowboys party. A legendary night that requires him to dust off his old presidential authority to keep the drinks flowing and spirits high.

Planning it is always an exercise in absurdity. Jack spends the week leading up to the party negotiating borders in the backyard, dividing the lawn into a "Saloon" and a "Commune." He has to veto the freshmen's increasingly dangerous ideas for a homemade mechanical bull, while simultaneously confiscating suspicious bundles of sage that the "hippies" want to burn inside a house with centuries-old wooden beams.

Everything is set up. Now, his only concern is trying to salvage the guestlist when Robby decides he’s not coming out of the blue.

"Come on, man, it’s Hippies and Cowboys," Jack argues, propping his phone against the mirror. "You can literally just wear some denim. I have an extra hat. It takes zero effort."

On the screen, Robby looks thoroughly exhausted, surrounded by thick textbooks and empty coffee cups. "I'm in med school, Jack. My brain is leaking out of my ears. You’ll understand next year."

As one of the only academically-inclined members of the team, he and Robby had become fast-friends in Jack’s first year, when Robby was a senior. Now an MS3, he’s been a life-saver when it comes to applying to med school.

"Which is exactly why you need to get drunk in a basement. Savour this before you’re pulling fourteen hour shifts every day.”

"I am not traveling all the way up from the medical campus just to watch a bunch of freshmen pass out on a mechanical bull," Robby groans, rubbing his temples. "The commute alone will kill me, and I start my Psych rotation at dawn. Go have a beer for me.”

“Loser,” Jack hollers.

“Whatever. Try not to torment the female population of Cornell tonight, and I’ll see you at the first game.”

*****

The bass from the speakers downstairs is already vibrating through the floorboards when the front door officially opens. Within an hour, the house is packed to capacity, a sweaty, high-energy blur of denim, suede, flower crowns, and flannel.

Jack takes his role as host seriously. He moves through the crowded living room with easy, senior-year confidence, high-fiving guys from the lacrosse team, directing people toward the kegs, and making sure the hired DJ actually keeps the crowd moving. He plays the part perfectly, laughing at jokes, keeping the peace, and flirting where necessary.

He may also be looking for someone to hook up with.

He argues that it’s only natural. First week of the semester, you’ve got to start how you intend to go on. And Jack intends to have fun. Unattached, zero strings fun.

When Chloe walks in, it feels a little like a sign.

A Communications major, they’ve been hooking up on-and-off since sophomore year. She catches his eye, gives him a slow, familiar smile, and begins to make her way through the crowds.

Normally, Jack would meet her halfway. Tonight, though, he just isn't feeling it.

The thought of going through the usual routine - the standard small talk, the familiar rhythm - suddenly feels entirely unappealing. He gives her a friendly, casual wave instead of a come-hither look, deliberately stepping into a conversation with a group of hockey freshmen to break her line of sight. He needs something different tonight. He just doesn't know what it is yet.

He’s lamenting his lack of options, when one literally falls into his lap. There’s a slight commotion that he’s not paying attention to, before you’re pushed, stumbling slightly before hitting the side of his legs and losing your balance entirely.

If Jack is expecting some kind of slowing of time, prolonged eye contact and shy smiles, he doesn’t get any of it. Instead, you toss him a brief apology, before you’re back on your feet to yell at the guy who pushed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Normally, Jack makes it a rule to not get involved with fraternity drama. One of the more sober brothers can deal with it. But something about you has him getting to his feet, arms crossed as he situates himself between you and your assailant. He glances at the guy, vaguely recognises him as someone who’s caused trouble before.

Doesn’t tend to understand the word no.

“Is there a problem here?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested, and he fucking shoved me!”

That’s all Jack needs to hear. For all the issues that Sigma Chi may have, they certainly don’t allow creeps on their premises. All it takes is one rumour of the frat not shutting it down properly, and they can kiss their squeaky-clean reputation goodbye. “Right, you’re done,” He starts, a hand on the guy’s chest as he waves for security by the front door.

“What?” When the guy speaks, his voice is slurred, his cheeks flushed. He’s totally wasted, to the point where it’s a miracle he’s even standing upright. “S-She came on t’me.”

“I’m positive that’s not true,” Jack replies, taking one look at him. Unkempt hair, noticeable body odour, and a shitty attitude. You could definitely do better. “What’s your name?”

“Why d’ya w-want t’know?”

“We’re offering you an award,” Jack replies dryly. “Because I’m banning you from the house, dumbass.”

The guy goes to reply, tries to make a half-hearted swing at Jack, when security take an arm each, and begin to haul him out backwards.

“Check his ID, and give me his name at the end of the night!” Jack calls after him, before turning his attention back to you.

You don’t look scared, or distressed, or even annoyed. Instead, you look almost amused by the entire situation.

“Jack,” He offers you his hand, and you tell him your own name. He tries it out, likes the way it sounds on his tongue. “You want a drink?”

You’re nodding, and he’s leading you through to the kitchen to grab a beer. Your nose scrunches a little as you take it. “What - you don’t like beer?”

Which is how, for the first time in his college career, Jack finds himself mixing up a margarita in the middle of a frat party. You’d insisted you’d be fine with some vodka and coke, but he finds himself wanting to impress you.

“So… was your inspiration Manson-Family-Chic?” He asks, raising an eyebrow while you snort, into your cup. He doesn’t know why he’s ragging on you, given you’re one of the only people here who looks like they could’ve fallen out of the sixties. The neckline of your dress is high, leaving everything to the imagination, but the hem falls high on your thighs, to the point where one wrong move would have everything on display.

Most other guests took the hippie theme to mean lingerie with some over-sized glasses and a peace-sign necklace.

He likes that you took it seriously.

The way he checks you out is far from subtle, hazel eyes trailing down your form, all the way down to your white go-go boots.

“Do you know what the Manson Family were wearing on a day-to-day basis? Because it certainly wasn’t vintage Biba.”

Somebody bumps into you from behind, and Jack takes the opportunity to hook an arm around your waist and pull you into him for the second time that night. Now chest-to-chest, you’re looking up at him through darkly-lined eyes, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Does the white knight thing normally work for you?”

He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. “It’s never hurt.”

Over the next few minutes, Jack learns more about you than he knows about some of his own teammates. You’re on the pre-law track, but because you were such an ‘annoying overachiever’ in high school, your plan is to chill for the rest of college. You also play bass and sing back-up in a band, but were supremely embarrassed by any kind of suggestion that you might sing for him sometime.

“So… you’re what - some kind of rockstar?” He asks, obviously out to charm, and you snort.

“Definitely not as sexy as that. Bassists don’t normally get that much love.”

“I don’t know, sounds pretty sexy to me,” His head is dipped, his nose almost touching yours. “Hot girl, guitar… pretty sure I had wet dreams exactly like that in high school.”

You laugh before you can help it, the sound getting swallowed by the music and the noise of the party around you.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Too much?”

You glance up at him, trying to decide your answer, when the music shifts, and the opening chords of Layla waft through the frat house. He watches your face visibly light up, and bites back a smile.

“Clapton fan?” he asks.

“Let me guess - you’re in charge of the music tonight.”

“Unfortunately, the rest of the team think that the nineties counts as retro. Do you dance?”

“You asking?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You any good?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Perfect.”

Before he can react, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the centre of the room.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He uses your grip on his wrist to pull you flush against him, completely eliminating the space between you. His large, calloused palm settles firmly against the small of your back, guiding you into a breathless rhythm.

You look up, completely caught in his orbit as he spins you out and pulls you right back against his chest. At this distance, the rest of the frat house completely blurs out. Jack dips his head, lips brushing your neck in the briefest kiss.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.

The lyrics echo in his head, and for the first time in his life, they don't feel like hyperbole. If Clapton hadn't written it fifty years ago, Jack is pretty sure someone would have to write it about you tonight.

Begging darling please, Layla

He catches Chloe’s eye as his hands drop to your waist, and he immediately glances away.

They're not dating. They have zero obligations to one another.

So why does she look so pissed?

Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?

The guitar solo is screaming through the speakers, matching the frantic, heavy rhythm in Jack's chest. He looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and realises he is completely text-book losing his mind. A freshman bumps hard into his shoulder, but he barely registers it. He is entirely done with this crowded room, done sharing the way you move and the sweet smell of your perfume with a hundred drunk strangers.

Pulling you into him, he lowers his head until his lips brush the warm skin just below your ear. “Come upstairs with me,” he murmurs, his voice tight with an impatience he doesn't even bother trying to hide.

He doesn't offer a lame excuse. He just pulls back to look down at you, waiting.

Instead of answering, you slide your hand up his neck, tilt your chin, and press your lips directly to his.

Jack lets out a quiet, defeated breath against you, his hands instantly sliding up your back to anchor you against him. The kiss is intoxicating, tasting like the drink on your breath and the heat of the room, completely shattering his usual composure.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathing a little harder, you finally slide your hand down into his open palm and squeeze it gently. “Lead the way, hockey boy.”

*****

You catch the back of his neck and pull him into you, allowing him to walk you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed.

Jack's been known to rip some clothing in his time, but he takes surprising care with your dress. As soon as it’s draped over the back of his chair, the rest of your clothes go in a frenzied rush. The dancing was the foreplay, and neither of you can stand a single second more of not being as close as possible.

There's a layer of sweat covering Jack's skin, glittering under the light from the lamp on his bedside, and you allow yourself a second to admire his abs.

He catches you looking, and a familiar, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He follows you down onto the mattress, his weight a warm, welcome pressure that drives every remaining thought of the noisy fraternity house right out of your head. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair while his mouth finds yours again.

“You up for this?” He breathes, and you find yourself oddly charmed. He checked on you twice on the way up here - and while, sure, it’s the bare minimum, it’s not something you’re hugely used to.

“I wouldn’t have let you bring me up here if I wasn’t,” You mumble back, between kisses, anticipation in your chest tripling as he reaches for a condom.

You're not usually one to be bossed around, but there's something intoxicating about the way Jack manhandles you. A few small giggles escape as he flips you onto your front, pulling your ass back to meet his hips.

“Something funny?”

“I guess that depends on your performance.”

“You’re a tough critic. Noted.”

With that, he’s sinking in, and your fingers grip helplessly at his sheets as you try and ground yourself. “Shit.”

You’d rather die than tell him, but he’s big. Thicker and longer than your ex.

“Doing okay down there?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and realise he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Just fine.”

He starts to move, movements slow at first as his hands settle at your hips, gripping tightly. The stretch soon gives way to pleasure, and you’re more than a little embarrassed when you whimper.

You don’t whimper.

Not at all.

Except tonight, it seems.

Must be the alcohol.

“J-Jack, oh my god-”

An arm loops around your front, pulling you upwards until your back is pressed to his chest. With it, the angle changes, and you can feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Good girl,” is groaned right into your ear, and you think you might be seeing stars.

Maybe hockey players do know what they're doing.

You're suddenly very glad for the blaring music downstairs drowning out the sound of skin slapping, and the way Jack is moaning behind you. If you weren't close before, his hand dropping between your legs to circle at your clit throws you over the edge.

You tilt your head upwards, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss as he works you through the orgasm.

Normally, this would be it. A brief kiss pressed to your shoulder, before your ex curled up in bed and left you hanging.

Jack, however, appears to have exactly the stamina you'd expect from a varsity jock, and you’re on your back before you can even orient yourself. His face is buried in the crook of your neck as his thrusts resume.

Nails digging in to the meat of his back, your mind is totally cleared of anything that isn’t Jack’s name. You don’t even know his surname.

You wouldn't have pegged him for an eye contact guy, but as his movements become more erratic, he’s pulling back to hold your jaw, keeping your gaze fixed on him.

“F-Fuck, I think I’m gonna-” With a final groan, he climaxes, dropping his head to rest against yours while his hips start to slow. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” You breathe. “Holy shit.”

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, lip between your teeth. The last thing you want to do is give him an even bigger head than he already has, but it slips out before you can stop it. “I’ve never cum that quickly before.”

“What can I say? I’m a pro,” He replies, a lazy grin on his face as he presses one last kiss to your temple before he pulls out, and gets to his feet to reach for the trash can.

Condom discarded, he pads back over to the bed, his shoulders so broad that he takes up half the space.

“Are you one of those guys that can't have girls stay over?” You ask, chest still heaving a little as you try and regain your senses.

“M'not gonna kick you out at-” He checks his phone. “3am. What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

“Well, you are on the hockey team,” You start, trailing off in a fit of giggles when Jack digs his fingers into your side, tickling mercilessly. “Hey!”

“I've got practice in the morning, though. So I'll be out at like six.”

You understand what he's getting at. Jack is not in the relationship business.

You don't have a problem with that. You wanted some variety in your life, and you got it. “S'okay. It was good sex. No point in trying to make it something it isn't.”

“You're my kind of girl, princess. You ever thought about coming to the hockey games?”

You snort, shooting him a glance. “Are you trying to recruit me to the Puck Bunny leagues? Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one, thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack groans, throwing a heavy arm over his eyes, though a smug little smirk still tugs at his lips. “It’s peak entertainment.”

“And you’ll have CTE by the time you’re twenty-five.”

“Technically, I’m more likely to lose teeth. If we’re talking statistics.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Gross.”

“Besides,” He continues. “This is my last year playing. I’m going to med school next year.”

“Really?” You gape, turning onto your side to get a better look at him. He’d told you earlier he was a biology major, but you hadn’t given it much thought. You’d figured he was probably just trying to avoid as many essays as possible.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” He grumbles.

“I’m just keeping your feet on the ground, hockey boy. Someone’s gotta do it. Good for you, though - I thought hockey players lost all their braincells from the fights.”

“Going to sleep now,” Jack singsongs, shoving lightly at your shoulder, and you laugh again.

You slide down into the mattress, turning your back to him and pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders. You expect him to stay on his side, but after a minute, the mattress shifts. Jack moves closer, his chest pressing against your back, his large frame bracketing yours to block out the chill of the room. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. His arm slides carefully around your waist, holding you still, and despite the biting comments, you let yourself sink backward into his warmth as you both drift off.

It was an early morning. They had a long drive ahead of them to their first extended family function of Y/n’s. Jack buttoned up his polo shirt and did that little head tilt he did when he wanted clarification on something. His upper lip curled. 

“Whose baby shower are we going to again? 

She chuckled as she pulled up the straps on her little blue spring dress. Ornate flowers ran up and down the fabric. She had researched what to wear to a baby shower and figured this was nice enough without overshadowing the mother-to-be.

“My cousin Sandra, remember?”

His brows furrowed, “Are we… close to this cousin?”

She blushed at that. ‘We’. ‘We’ as in her family was his, and his was hers. Granted, he didn’t have much family left these days. But she appreciated him including himself. They had been dating for a little over a year now, and while he had met her parents, he hadn’t met any of her extended family. 

“Not really, but I still wanna support her. Can you zip up my dress, dear?” 

He chuckled a little to himself as he strutted over. His fingers hung on the zipper for a moment.

“I much prefer to zip it down.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, smart ass. We don’t have the time for that.”

“You’re underestimating how quick I can be.” He murmured but obediently zipped her up. He patted her hips, looking up at their reflection in the mirror that hung on her closet. “You look beautiful.”

Her face fully reddened, and she shook her head gently, “You’re crazy.” 

His face contorted as if she had just said something so incredibly offensive. His hands glided from her hips to across her stomach, so she was more in a bear hug as he leaned his head against her shoulder.

“I’m not at all. I’m saying the truth.”

She gave him a pity chuckle and looked down at the floor. He turned to look at her now, not in the reflection. And his real-life gaze was much more intense. 

“Hey… what’s got my pretty girl all like this?”

With a little scoff, she waved it off, trying to seem nonchalant.

“I’m fine. It’s just my cousins will all be there, and they’re… literally models. I mean it. Like one of them is as a profession. And they always bring their boyfriends, so this is the first year that I’m…”

“Bringing someone.” He slowly nodded. “Is there anything I should know, baby?”

She shook her head, “Just that they may be a bit judgy because of the… you know…” she put her face in her hands, worried to admit this.

“The age gap.” He chuckled, “Baby, I already expected this. And when it comes to your cousins being models, who cares? You’re so beautiful. Comparing apples to oranges.”

He planted a kiss on the crook of her neck and squeezed her hips reassuringly. 

Walking up to the little blue house, Jack held the big gift bag, which carried a quilted play mat, and he held her shaky hand with his free one. The door was wide open, so they peeked their heads inside. The sound of chattering and laughter drifted from the backyard. Inside was covered in lacy, frilly decor. It looked as though the baby section of the department store had exploded. With blue bears everywhere, it was safe to say that it was going to be a boy.

At the sound of Jack shutting the door, Sandra walked through the kitchen holding her swollen stomach. Her eyes lit up. 

“Y/N! My goodness, it’s been ages. You look fantastic!”

“I can say the same to you! Congratulations.”

Jack held up the present, “Where can I put this?”

Sandra’s attention drifted, and her mouth stayed ajar as she processed for a moment. She suddenly seemed to remember that it was rude to stare at the handsome older man in front of her. 

“Oh- just on the dining table.” She made up for it with a smile. 

Jack nodded with an awkward no-teeth smile and shifted through the entryway to place the gift on the table overflowing with tissue-papered presents. Sandra watched him, then looked over to her with wide eyes. She mouthed a quick ‘wow’ before going,

“Is this your…?” 

She smiled proudly as Jack started making his way back over. “Boyfriend. Yes. This is my boyfriend, Dr. Jack Abbot.”

He chuckled and scratched his neck as he reunited with her side. 

“Quick braggin, sweetheart.” He put his hand out to Sandra, “Hi. Congratulations.”

Her cousin shook it and looked between the two.

“A doctor! Wow, Jesus. Grandma’s gonna love him, huh?”

And in that moment, she realized that this wasn’t going to be bad at all. This was actually going to be so completely and utterly perfect. For the first time in her entire life, she was going to prove that she was just as beautiful and capable of having a perfect boyfriend as her cousins and relatives. 

After some awkward introductions, Jack felt stiffer than usual. He tried his usual charisma, and it worked for the most part. Her grandma certainly was all over him. But there were a few weirded-out glares and stiff conversations from her older cousins and relatives. They all certainly fit her description. They had a ‘better than you’ air around them that would suffocate Y/n’s welcome until he showed up behind her like a guard dog. Then it would completely dissipate when he’d introduce himself and tell them he was a doctor. They were then left with an overall feeling of suspicious approval. 

As he sipped a beer, he sat with some of her uncles who were closer in his age range, though still older than him. He managed to win them over a little more by discussing his military service. Though he refused to reveal his leg. It wasn’t that he felt embarrassed by it. But the attention was already heavily on him, and he’d rather not take any more of it. Though as they sat in the heat, he was starting to regret the choice of khaki pants. 

The other men talked about the football season starting up in September, and Jack didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation. So instead of trying to pretend he cared, he let his eyes drift over to his girl sitting on a patio chair. She had been dragged by her youngest cousins to go play with them across the yard. He watched as she held a one-year-old girl in her lap while talking to a little boy who couldn’t be more than nine. She was a clear favorite, considering the kids didn’t seem to bother any of her other cousins, who were much too busy with their own boyfriends. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled and laughed at the boy describing a scribbled drawing to her, the construction paper crinkled. It was as if she was genuinely interested in whatever nonsense he was probably spouting. 

His heart clenched. It had to be the baby shower theme. It had to be the decorations and the ultrasound pictures and the constant talk from the women in her family. But seeing her with the kids was making him feel something dangerous. He knew he couldn’t have kids. Not at 50. But Jesus, did the sight of her brushing that little girl's hair through her fingers make him want to change his mind. 

Suddenly, she pointed at him, clearly distinguishing him to the kids in front of her. They were talking about him. He broke out of his thoughts and pointed to himself with raised brows. She laughed and waved him over to the other side. Part of him felt guilty for not excusing himself, but he wasn’t about to ignore this for some stupid talk about ESPN hosts. 

He walked over and crossed his arms with a playful arch of his brow. 

“My ears were burning. Now who’s talking about me?”

The little boy grinned and pointed to Y/n. “She was!”

She gasped, “Jax! You asked who he was. You can’t throw me under the bus.”

“Well, who am I then, Jaxon?” Jack asked lightly

He shrugged and knelt down by the patio table. He put his paper down and returned to a set of sprawled-out crayons.  

“An old guy.” He said innocently

Ouch. 

She lightly smacked Jaxon’s shoulder, “Hey. Be nice.”

The kid smirked, and the little girl on her lap gurgled a laugh. Suddenly, another little girl appeared. She had been slowly making her way over, wringing her hands in her dress. It was clear she wanted to be with her cousin, but was also hesitant about the older man there. Y/n waved her over. 

“Hi, Janie.” She said in a much softer voice. A much different voice than she had with Jaxon.

“Hi.” 

“Let me do introductions.” She said, looking between everyone, “This is Jaxon, Janie, and their little sister Judy.” 

Jack smiled, “A lot of J names around her.” 

Janie nodded and looked down at the floor. Jack decided the best course of action was to squat down and sit by the patio table as well. Though his good knee let out a slight crack as he did so. Janie looked at him, suspicious, but didn’t run away.

“Well… It’s nice to meet you guys. I’m Jack.”

Jaxon looked up from his paper with wide eyes, “YOU HAVE A J NAME TOO.”

“That’s right.” He nodded and snuck a look at the Transformer that the boy was drawing, “Look, I’m new here. So how about we make a J name pact?”

Jaxon’s face contorted, “What’s a pact?”

Y/n chuckled as she grabbed a small bowl of Cheerios to let Janie snack on in her lap. 

“A pact is like a promise.” 

Jack nodded, “Like a promise. That us J names have each other’s backs, alright? I need some protection. People watching my six.” He pointed to Janie, “You included. I need all the help I can get.”

Janie giggled at the idea of her protecting him. “I can’t help. I’m too little.”

“Sure, you can. You’re the toughest person here.” 

The kids giggled, and Y/n smiled at the interaction. She didn’t know Jack was so good with kids. She knew he dealt with them at work time to time, but she had never witnessed him in action. And he was somehow charming her little cousins, who usually didn’t trust too easily. 

Judy cooed and reached her hands out, and Jack gave her a little side eye. 

“She’s a close second.”

Soon, the kids were all over him. He hadn’t realized that his girlfriend was basically the glorified babysitter at these events until now. Jaxon was clinging to his good leg (thankfully). And Janie was bossing them around on how to play this game, which Jack was having a hard time telling what the exact rules were. 

Y/n sat busied with doting on little Judy. She watched Jack with a heart so full, knowing Jack was probably being drained a bit by the kids. Though he was doing the exact same to them, and their mothers would be thankful once they were napping on the car ride home. 

Her aunt called the kids to eat some real food, and they begrudgingly started to calm down. Jack ruffled Jax’s head.

“Go eat. You need protein to beat the lava monster.” 

With that totally sound logic, the kids practically booked it to grab a plate from their mom. And Jack limped back to his girl and sat next to her, Judy still in her lap. He winced and rubbed at the back of his prosthetic knee where skin met silicone. 

She reached over and rubbed his shoulder, “Your leg bothering you?”

He shook his head in a ‘so-so’ manner, not wanting to worry her. 

“It’s just sweaty, and when it sweats, it starts to chafe.” He grimaced a bit. “Just need to sit down for a bit.”

She laughed at that, “I’m sorry. My cousins are like that once they’re comfortable with someone… Or once they find a target that’ll play with them.”

Jack shook his head and looked down at Judy, who was biting her fist. He gently reached over and pinched the little rolls of her doughy arms. 

“Don’t apologize. They’re great.” He looked down and made an overly excited face at Judy, making the baby squeal with laughter. Oh, that sound was like the bells of heaven ringing. “You’re great, huh?”

She bounced the baby on her knee, making her laugh more. “You wanna hold her?”

He didn’t drop his face, keeping it happy looking to entertain Judy, “Only if she wants to.” 

Well, in convenient timing, the baby reached out and made grabby hands at Jack. 

“I think she wants to.” She smiled and handed Jack the baby.

He made a little groan as he wrapped his hands around her tummy and quickly positioned the almost toddler onto his lap. Judy clapped her hands and looked around for approval. Y/n quickly started clapping and letting out a little ‘Yay!’

The baby let out a huff, and Jack looked down at her. 

“Yeah. Long day, huh?” 

That made the both of them laugh. Jack casually squeezed her little doughy arms and reached over to grab the small bowl of puff snacks on the table. He handed it to her, and Judy shrieked excitedly. Jack smiled, proud of himself for making his girlfriend’s little cousins happy. 

“This is so so dangerous, sweetheart.” He murmured.

She smirked a little knowingly, “How so?”

“We’re too good at this.” He shook his head with a nervous smile, “Makes me think of things.”

Her eyes widened despite having put two and two together. The idea of kids was something they didn’t talk about much, but the general idea was that he was too old, and she liked her independence. She had always been that way. She liked being able to put herself first, and if she became a mother…she could never be selfish ever again. But the idea of kids with HIM? With Jack Abbot? For some reason, that was a lot more attractive. And more than attractive… it felt doable. 

She shook off the thought and smiled with a blushing face. 

“Yeah… Me too.” She admitted, watching Judy shove little star puffs into her mouth. “How about we revisit this when we’re…” She looked around at all the baby shower decorations. The little clothes and footie pajamas hanging around. The ultrasound pictures. The cutesy stuffed animals. “... more immune to propaganda.”

Jack chuckled, looking around himself. “I completely agree.”

A little later into the evening, it was getting close to leaving time, and all the adults sat at a long picnic table outside. The heat at least seemed to be settling down as the high noon sun set a little more. She and Jack had played a few of the baby shower games. Watched Sandra open presents with her beau. And did their best to get some time away from the little cousins. 

One of her cousins squeezed her boyfriend’s hand, directing her half-lidded eyes to Y/n. “So… how did you meet Jack?” 

She smiled, unfazed, “Our mutual friend, Dana, set us up.”

Jack scratched the back of his neck, “Yeah. Basically, a blind date, and I nearly passed out because Dana had failed to mention how freaking gorgeous you are.”

“Oh shut up.” She rolled her eyes with a smile, taking a sip of her drink.

“It’s true!” 

Her aunt piped up and pointed between the two of them, “And you two aren’t bothered by the… well, by the age gap? I feel like I’d have nothing in common with someone like that.”

It was a bit of a sting, but the two of them were used to it. 

She shrugged. 

“We’re not really bothered. And it’s not like I’ve ever been overly trendy or anything. Honestly, I haven’t seen a big difference other than he’s more mature than any man my age.” At that, her older cousins looked at each other. It wasn’t meant to be a dig, but if the shoe fits. 

Her aunt let out a little, “Huh,” and leaned back in her chair. 

Suddenly, her grandma tapped the table, “Well, that just means you gotta get started on the grandbabies right away!”

Both her and Jack choked on their drinks.

“GRANDMA!” She laughed in shock as the rest of the table died in laughter, “Look, we’re not even married yet. Let that wait for just a bit more, okay?”

Under the table, she felt Jack reach down and squeeze her thigh. His grip a mix of fabric and skin. She flushed and bit her lip through her smile, trying to seem totally cool. Jack had been getting on her about getting married for the past month, so she knew she was in for the best kind of trouble when she got home. 

Sandra rubbed her stomach, “Well, I wish you guys luck with everything. I’m sure whatever you decide will be best. Clearly, you’ve brought home a big catch.”

The table laughed again, and Jack raised his hands, waving them off.

“No, no… If anything, I’m the lucky one. Every day I wake up, and I can’t believe that a woman like your Y/n is with a guy like me.” 

At that, all the girls swooned. The cousins. The aunts. They were all definitely won over by the handsome Dr. Jack Abbot. And she felt so completely satisfied. 

“Thank you. You’re crazy, baby.” She chuckled and leaned over to give him a quick peck. 

The kids watching from the end of the table let out a ‘EWWWWW’ and she shook her head with a laugh. Jack pointed to them.

“Hey, the J Name Pact. Remember?”

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 didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.

For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.

They hadn’t.

Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.

Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.

You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.

Not erase memory.

Just evidence.

“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.

The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.

And Jack Abbot might have seen it.

Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.

Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.

Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.

Jack, who was your attending.

You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.

You:

oh my god that was not meant for you please ignore that i deleted it i’m so sorry please delete it if it still shows up i’m actually going to resign and move states

You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.

Jack gave you nothing.

No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.

It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.

A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”

Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.

You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”

“You sure? You sound weird.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”

For one second, your entire body went cold.

Then hot.

Then somehow both.

“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.

You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.

Probably.

The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.

Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.

He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.

No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.

That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.

Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.

“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.

Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”

You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”

There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.

Your stomach folded in on itself.

“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.

Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”

You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.

Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.

Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.

He let you suffer.

Worse, he made you work.

For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.

He asked you questions in front of Robby.

He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.

He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.

He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.

And Jack still didn’t reply.

At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”

“I’m busy.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”

Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”

“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”

“I’m not being hunted.”

“Mm.”

“Santos.”

“What? I’m observant.”

“You’re nosy.”

“That too.”

Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.

You looked away first.

Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly.”

She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.

The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.

You still wanted to disappear.

You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.

That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.

You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.

You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.

“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”

The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.

Yours did.

You stood carefully. “Okay.”

Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.

His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.

Jack closed the door.

He left it unlocked.

That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.

Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.

He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.”

You stopped.

Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”

You blinked. “I just did.”

“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”

Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

“What thing?”

“Jack.”

His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”

The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.

“A nude,” you said.

The word changed the room.

Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.

“I saw it,” he said.

You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”

For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.

“I didn’t keep it,” he said.

Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”

“No.”

The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.

But Jack was still looking at you.

And his voice, when it came, was lower.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”

Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.

He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”

“No one.”

“No one.”

“I took it for myself.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”

There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”

The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake—a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.

For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.

“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.

“I thought I was being honest.”

“That’s the problem.”

The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.

You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.

“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”

Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”

“Don’t.”

“You brought me in here.”

“To handle it.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”

“Trying to handle me?”

That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.

“Trying not to,” he said.

There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.

Jack saw that too.

Of course he did.

He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.

You didn’t.

“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”

“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”

“You knew.”

“I hoped you hadn’t.”

“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”

You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.

“That’s not fair,” you said.

“I didn’t say it was.”

He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.

“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “Did I?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”

The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.

If he’d wanted to.

Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.

Then he stepped back half a pace.

The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.

“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”

“You just said you couldn’t.”

“I’ll act like I can.”

That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.

You should’ve taken it.

Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”

The room went quiet in a new way.

Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless—like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.

“Be clear,” he said.

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”

His hand moved to the door.

The lock clicked.

Small sound. Huge consequence.

Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.

You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.

He turned.

His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant—fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.

“Stand up.”

You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath—just him, just warm skin and a long shift.

His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.

“You sent me a picture,” he said.

His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.

“I know.”

“You tried to take it back.”

“Yes.”

“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”

Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”

You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.

“Describe it,” he said.

“What?”

“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”

Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it—his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”

You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was—I was on my bed.”

“Go on.”

“On my stomach. The camera was—it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”

“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”

The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”

“And your legs were spread.”

Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.

“Yes.”

“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”

“Everything.”

He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen—just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”

“I panicked. I deleted it—”

“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”

Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.

“Jack—”

“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”

Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."

"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.

"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."

You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."

You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.

His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I know."

"Good."

He kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.

His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.

"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."

You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.

"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."

"Maybe I want that."

His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.

When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."

Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.

"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."

"Please what."

"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."

His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."

"Yes."

"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."

The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.

"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."

"I didn't. It was only—"

"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."

You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.

"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."

"I know."

"Say it."

"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"

"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.

He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.

"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."

You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.

His hand dropped between your bodies.

First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.

"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."

"For you."

"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."

He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.

Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.

"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."

"I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."

He curled his finger.

Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.