you sigh loudly, dramatically. this is the third time this week that sammy has tried to go down on you at work. you've managed to keep him satiated with just dry humping in an elevator ride up until now in fear of getting caught. but when he clasps his shaky hands to actually plead, you finally give in.

you grab the collar of his button up that’s tight around his pudgy neck, pulling him until your back is pressed against the door. sammy panics slightly, his round, freckled face blotching red as he thinks you're moving to leave. he drops to his knees and whines, "please? i’ll be quick! promise!"

you giggle at his utter desperation to taste you. your thighs clench, your panties dampen at his pathetic tone. you reach down and cup his chubby cheek. he immediately nuzzles into the touch with a breathy sound. his meaty hands snake out to grip your knees that are exposed below your pencil skirt.

"i guess you have been a good boy today sammy…" you drawl, slowly draping one leg over his plushy shoulder. his pupils blow wide and his auburn curls shake with his rapid nods of agreement. "just a little taste and then we have to go back to work... okay?"

“fuck- thank you. thank you baby.” moving before you can blink, sammy hikes your leg higher up on his body and dives in between your parted thighs. you throw your head back in a gasp at the first long lick he takes of your clothed pussy. he groans loudly when he finds how wet you are, your whole body vibrates with the sound. your hips instinctively buck towards him and he repeats the noise.

he grips your panties, tugging them up and to the side to make sure the fabric catches on your clit. his bulky forearm that keeps them held there presses you against the door. you moan at the jolt of pleasure from the friction on your sensitive bud. sammy starts to lap you up. switching between tracing his tongue around your dripping entrance and sticking the warm muscle inside you and swirling it. “you taste so good- mmfhf- needed you all- all day sweetheart.”

you’re bitting your fist to hold back your noises, already squeezing your eyes shut at the white hot feeling sparking in your stomach. he paws at your opposite thigh with his free hand without even faltering his tongue’s movements. you’re then fully lifted of the ground and pinned to the wall, your thighs hugging his ears and your fingers gripping his now sweaty curls. it’s only then that you realize that sammy’s whimpering loudly from his place on his knees.

“s-sammy baby… you have to- ohmygod- have to be quiet.” he shakes his head rapidly. his nose rubs against your clit that’s already sensitive from the lace digging there. you squeal at the dual stimulation the firm stroking adds on top of his tongue slurping inside you. he presses his vein corded forearm harder into your abdomen to add even more pressure. your vision blurs at the edges.

“oh god! sammy im gonna- oh fuck!” your thighs start to shake around him as the tingling in your body grows tangible. bright and hot. you hear him release a whine in repsonse. pathetic and high pitched. you steal a glance down to see sammy bryant on his knees. eyes squeezed shut in pleasure of his own from licking your most intimate area. his meaty hips are humping into air. into nothing.

the sight is so desperate and wanting that you come with a muffled cry into your palm. legs shaking, walls fluttering and toes curling. he makes out with your achey core during your rise, peak and come down. when he's licked up every last drop of your orgasm, you sag against the door. sammy fixes your panties, then gently places you down.

rising to his full height, he gathers you in his strong arms and hugs you sweetly. his pudge you love so much warms you instantly. he kisses your cheeks and nose as you snuggle into him, before moving to place a soft one to your forehead.

“Where’d you go just now?”

The sound of a tablet scraping across the main desk of the Pitt pulled you from whatever mental vacation you’d been taking.

You blinked twice and looked up to find Dr. Ellis standing across from you, peering down slightly as you practically slumped against the desk. Papers were scattered in front of you, charts half-finished, and your collection of glitter pens lay in disarray from when you’d knocked over the holder while chasing a naked patient down the hallway an hour ago.

“Oh, you know.” You waved a hand vaguely. “My happy place.”

The sarcasm was obvious—a reference to the self-care seminar Robby had forced every nurse to attend last month.

You waved yourself off, changing the subject. “What’s the ETA on the GSW?”

“Rerouted to Westbridge. We may actually get a chance to—”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

Shen appeared beside you, leaning onto the desk with an iced coffee in hand.

“You gonna put a coaster under that Pink Drink?” you asked, nodding toward the condensation already racing down the side of the plastic cup. “Or you gonna let it sweat all over someone’s x-rays?” 

Shen scoffed.

“I’ve told you before. It’s only pink because of the limited-edition strawberry syrup.”

He said it like you were somehow the ridiculous one.

“As long as it’s not the Sabrina Carpenter drink anymore, I don’t give two shits what’s in it.”

Ellis shot you a look of agreement. “I cannot listen to the chorus of Espresso one more time for at least six months.”

“But it’s the song of the summer!”

“It was the song of the summer. Two years ago, Shen.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed a coaster and slid it beneath his cup since he seemed entirely uninterested in doing it himself.

Shen muttered something under his breath about being “culturally underappreciated” before taking a giant slurp from his iced coffee.

“See?” Ellis said, watching him intently. “This is why we can’t have nice things.

“No, lack of public funding is why we can’t have nice things.” 

“You seem slightly more aggressive than usual. What’s up?”

“Other than the fact that I slept maybe three hours earlier?” You rubbed your forehead, keeping your eyes trained on the double doors like if you stayed vigilant enough, gurneys and EMTs would simply stop coming through them. “Existential dread. The naked patient practically assaulting me earlier. The parent who claimed I was indoctrinating their child into Buddhism—a religion I do not practice.”

She whistled.

“Been a minute, huh?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Since what?”

“Since you’ve seen him.”

Your face twisted into something that could only be described as a mixture of surprise and disdain.

Shen’s eyes darted between you two, leaning in slightly closer to you in anticipation as his mouth was somehow still wrapped around the orange and pink straw. 

“Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?”

“Oh, come on. Every time you show up here in a foul mood, it’s been at least a week since you and him met up. You’re practically a billboard with ‘needs to get laid’ written across it in bright red font.”

“I am not that readable.”

Shen decided this was a good time to join in, adding, “Earlier, you told Whitaker he should consider putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign for tiny elves to live in his hair.”

You frowned, eyes still fixed on the double doors as your fingers fidgeted with your badge.

“Okay, and was I wrong? He needs a curl routine. I’ve been telling him that for a year now. It’s not a good look for us.”

She offered you an amused smile, the kind she always did. Parker Ellis was probably your favorite doctor in the department—always willing to help despite half of it falling outside her responsibilities, always ready with advice when you needed it. You knew she didn’t hand that out to everyone, which only made you appreciate it more.

And Shen was…well, he was Shen. You got a laugh out of him every so often. 

You didn’t typically make a habit of getting close with the doctors, as they tended to be in and out of a hospital most of the time. The other nurses were more your speed, but something about the doctors of the night shift—

“Hey, we all need ways to relieve stress when we work in a place like this. I take edibles. Shen plays a concerning amount of Minecraft. You choose to indulge in a toxic situationship with a guy who only calls you when he wants to get his rocks off.”

“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”

“Shen’s Minecraft addiction is pathetic.” 

“The fuck?” Shen scrunched his face at the stray comment, but Ellis only continued. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, failing miserably at suppressing your laughter as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead briefly against his shoulder.

She pointed a finger at you. “—You’re a consenting adult. As long as nobody’s getting hurt, who cares if all you and this dude see each other for is sex?”

Your stomach tightened a little at that.

Her question didn’t exactly sit well because—

She added, “Plus, from what you’ve told me, it’s pretty damn good.” 

A throat cleared beside you.

You were a nurse in an emergency department. It didn’t exactly say it in the job posting, but “know the vibes of every doctor who works here and find a way to cohesively fit into the team so you can make their lives easier because that’ll actually make your life easier” might as well have been in the fine print. At least, that’s what Dana told you on your first day.

So you knew how different residents operated. You knew how the interns behaved. And you definitely knew how attendings liked to, well, attend.

And this particular attending usually cleared his throat when he found you chatting at the desk with doctors that weren’t him.

You straightened, your expression tightening—not at all like a kid caught talking in class—as your eyes met his.

Dr. Jack Abbot had a particular habit of appearing whenever you were having a perfectly pleasant conversation with another doctor.

It was one of the more irritating things about him.

You’d noticed it months ago.

The second he caught you leaning against a desk with Shen, laughing at something Ellis said, or discussing anything not directly related to patient care, he’d suddenly remember a task that needed doing. A chart that needed updating. A patient that needed medication. An ortho consult that should’ve been paged five minutes ago.

Always work-related.

And always suspiciously timed.

You knew how attendings operated. You knew which ones were strict, which ones were laid back, which ones expected perfection and which ones expected effort.

Jack wasn’t actually hard on you.

The annoying part was that he seemed to save this particular brand of impatience exclusively for moments when you were talking to somebody else.

Which bothered you more than you’d ever admit out loud because you were good at your job.

Your patient satisfaction scores were always high. You stayed late when people needed help. Even Gloria had thrown the occasional “good work” your way, which was practically a standing ovation.

So every time he acted like you were one conversation away from bringing the entire department to its knees, it got under your skin.

“Are we almost through with the social hour,” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets, “or can we get some morphine to bed three sometime tonight?”

Right on schedule.

You glanced at the clock—you’d been standing there for approximately forty-five seconds.

“No, we’re through,” you offered him a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Good.” He nodded once, now turning to Shen. “You’re needed in Peds.” 

He stepped past Ellis, whose eyes tracked him before flicking back to you. Shen trailed behind, a mischievous look on his face. She let out a small huff of laughter, then glanced after him again.

Until she looked at you, which, your facial expression could only be described as someone who had just had their parade rained on, set on fire, and then clinically assessed by Jack Abbot

“Yeah…maybe call dude up and see if you can find some time,” she said. “Because you’re wound tighter than wire around a coil.”

“I can relieve stress without sacrificing my self-respect, Ellis.”

“Can you?”

You scoffed, clutching a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense.

“I don’t need some man to help me relax—especially not one who’s as emotionally constipated as this guy is.”

You gathered your pens quickly and messily, stress and dishonesty practically radiating off you in waves. Ellis watched with a knowing look as you shoved a blue glitter pen into the pocket of your scrubs. One sleeve of your baby pink undershirt was pushed halfway up your arm, the other hanging past your wrist.

You were a mess.

“You can’t quit him, can you?” she asked bluntly.

Your head jerked up, strands of hair falling across your cheeks.

“I can stop whenever I want.”

The rest of the shift didn’t get any kinder.

It never did.

A patient screamed at you because the wait time “felt like a violation of human rights,” which, according to him, apparently included triage priority and two actively coding traumas that had rolled in back-to-back.

Another tried to leave against medical advice with an IV still in, insisting you were “controlling the narrative of his body autonomy,” which you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t already three coffees deep and running on pure spite.

The coffee was its own horror story.

Burnt, lukewarm, and somehow still sour, like it had given up on being coffee halfway through its existence. You drank it anyway.

By the time the worst of the chaos finally slowed, your scrubs felt like they had absorbed the entire shift—bloodless but heavy, like your exhaustion had physical weight. Your head ached in that dull, persistent way that made every overhead announcement sound like it was being shouted directly inside your eardrums.

You charted on autopilot. Answered pages. Signed off on things you barely remembered reading.

And all the while, there was that steady hum underneath everything.

Not the monitors beeping or the coding alarms.

You.

Something restless in your chest that wouldn’t settle no matter how much you moved, no matter how much you did, no matter how many people you helped.

When you finally clocked out, the morning air hit you like a kind of mercy.

It was quiet. Empty enough to feel almost unreal after the controlled chaos of the ED. You liked how walking out of a shift into a brand new day felt like a fresh start.

You sat in your car for a moment before starting it.

Hands on the wheel. Forehead leaning briefly against it. Eyes closed.

The silence should’ve helped—but it didn’t. Because now there was nothing to distract you from your own thoughts.

From the shift replaying in fragments—flourescent lights, Ellis’s teasing, Jack’s annoyed glance across the desk, the way your body always seemed to register him before your mind caught up.

And worse than that.

The way your mind kept circling back to the same thing, over and over, like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The way his eyes flicked between your chin on Shen’s shoulder, the sharpness in his stare when he’d paused—just for a second too long—before speaking. 

The way it shouldn’t have meant anything. 

And the worst part was how quickly he’d buried it again, like nothing had happened at all. 

You exhaled slowly, started the car, and just drove.

Traffic lights sliding over your windshield in slow, rhythmic pulses. Red. Green. Red again. The city moving around you like it didn’t know or care what kind of night shift you’d had.

Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind didn’t.

It kept drifting back to relief.

To something that would make the tightness in your chest loosen for even a little while.

And the more you tried not to think about it, the more obvious it became what your body was already deciding for you.

You didn’t end up at home.

You didn’t even hesitate when you pulled into his building.

You just sat there for a second in the driver’s seat, engine ticking softly as it cooled, staring up at the familiar windows.

Then you got out.

Second guessed your decision. 

You walked up anyway.

Because you could tell yourself a lot of things.

That it was just stress.

That it was just habit.

But your hand was already lifting before you could talk yourself out of it.

And then you were knocking on Jack Abbot’s door.

Like he was expecting you, he swung the door open with a familiarity that always managed to piss you off.

You hated being expected. It meant you weren’t as convincing as you thought every time you swore it was the last time.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

There were two voices in your head.

The first was logical. The one that listed consequences and self-respect and the long, boring, very healthy path of walking away.

The second was louder.

And a hell of a lot faster.

“Shut up,” you said.

And then your lips were on his.

There was no hesitation from him.

His hand came up to your jaw like it had done this before, like it knew exactly where you’d break and where you wouldn’t. The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely registered it.

Not when he was already pulling you closer.

Not when the shift started dissolving at the edges the way it always did the second he touched you.

You told yourself, distantly, that you’d meant to stop.

That you’d been serious this time.

That you were still someone who made decisions and followed through on them.

But that version of you didn’t stand a chance in his apartment.

“What did I tell you about sitting around and talking on shift?” His voice was low against your mouth. 

Your hands found his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't entirely sure. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your palms, warm from his body, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. Steady. Unhurried.

Like he had all the time in the world.

“I told you,” You glared up at him defiantly. “I’d stop when you admitted why it bothers you so much,” 

He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, and the impact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the collision. His knee slid between your thighs, and you made a sound that would've embarrassed you if you had any dignity left to spare.

You didn't.

Not here. Not with him.

“It doesn’t bother me,” 

His lips moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your breath hitch. 

“You’re such a liar,” You tilted your head without thinking, giving him access, and felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.

Smug bastard.

"Guessing this is the last time?" he murmured, changing the subject like he always did, rough in a way that shouldn't have worked as well as it did.

Your eyes snapped open.

The audacity.

"Keep opening your mouth," you said, breathless but sharp, "and I'll walk out."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was infuriating. Amused. Knowing. Like he could see straight through every lie you'd ever told yourself about this.

About him.

"We both know you won't."

Your jaw tightened.

Because he was right, and you both knew it, and that made it so much worse.

You should've said something cutting. Should've shoved him back and proven him wrong just to wipe that look off his face.

Instead, you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Angrier, maybe. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as some distant part of your brain screamed at you to stop. To leave. To have even a shred of self-respect.

But his hands were on your waist now, thumbs pressing into your hips through the thin fabric of your scrubs, and every coherent thought you'd had dissolved under the weight of it.

This was what you'd come here for.

Not conversation. Not comfort.

Just this—the way he touched you like he'd memorized every place that made you fall apart. The way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The way everything else faded into background noise.

His mouth moved back to your neck, and you felt his teeth graze your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make you gasp.

"You're terrible at this," he said against your skin.

"At what?"

"Pretending you don't want to be here."

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make a point.

"You're terrible at shutting up."

He laughed—low and quiet and far too pleased with himself—and the sound vibrated through you in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.

His hands moved lower, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your scrub top, and the contact of his skin against yours sent a shiver up your spine. Warm. Rough in places. Familiar in a way that made your chest threaten to explode.

You'd told yourself you wouldn't do this again.

You'd meant it, too. 

At least in the moment.

But here you were, pressed against his entryway wall at six in the morning, letting him unravel you piece by piece like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Because it was for him.

That was the problem.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, and there was something in his expression that you couldn't quite read. Something that looked almost like concern, if you didn't know better.

"Long shift?" he asked.

You let out a breathless laugh. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you care."

His jaw tightened, just slightly, and for a second you thought he might actually say something real. Something that wasn't wrapped in sarcasm or deflection.

But then his mouth was on yours again, and the moment passed.

Maybe that was better.

Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in it as you kissed him back with everything you had left. All the frustration and exhaustion and restless energy that had been building under your skin for hours—and since the last time a week ago—poured into it.

He made a sound low in his throat, and his grip on your hips tightened.

You were going to regret this.

You always did.

But right now, with his body pressed against yours and his hands pulling you closer, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Not when this was the only thing that made the tightness in your chest loosen. The only thing that made you feel like you could breathe.

Even if it was temporary.

Even if it was a lie.

His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, and you arched into the touch without thinking. Your back pressed harder against the wall, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that you were still wearing your work shoes.

That you hadn't even made it past the entryway.

That this was exactly how it always went.

But then his mouth found that spot just below your ear, and every rational thought you'd ever had scattered like smoke.

"Bedroom," you managed, though it came out more like a plea than a command.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face was devastating.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."

And then his hand was in yours, and he was leading you deeper into the apartment.

Into the same mistake you'd made a dozen times before.

The one you'd probably make a dozen more times.

You were going insane, to say the least. 

After that last time, you once again swore you could stop, and when Jack Abbot laughed in your face, you swore that spite would carry you through. 

That was three weeks ago. 

Your body was practically screaming at you for release. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried—you had your own methods of relief at home, in various sizes and shapes, but he might as well have put a curse on you. He plagued your mind, your thoughts, and now, even your damn fantasies. You couldn’t even get past closing your eyes with your head on the pillow without hearing his voice in your ear. 

“Are you listening?” 

“No,” You admitted. 

Ellis smirked. “Wow, that was easy.” 

“I gotta stop,” You said, more so to yourself. “I need to get past this guy, this can’t be healthy.” 

“I mean, I could’ve told you that a year ago,” 

“See? Even that is embarrassing—doing this for an entire year.” 

“How did it even start, anyway?”

Her question was one you often asked yourself.

You were literally there, and somehow it was still remarkable that any of this had managed to happen in the first place.

It had started on one of those rare nights when you didn’t have work. Even rarer, you didn’t have a shift the next day either. So you joined a few of your ED friends for their weekly gathering at the pub down the street from the PTMC.

He was there too.

Before you’d ever spoken to Jack Abbot, you’d noticed him.

You noticed everything about him, actually.

The commanding presence that never felt overbearing. The quiet charm. The way people naturally gravitated toward him without him seeming to ask for their attention.

Then you started working together.

And assisting Jack was easy in a way that shouldn’t have mattered. The two of you seemed to fall into a rhythm almost immediately, anticipating what the other needed before it was said aloud. You worked well with plenty of doctors, but with him it felt different. Smoother.

Natural.

The night at the pub passed slowly, conversations drifting from work gossip to stories about patients to the kind of personal details people only share after a drink or two. You got to know some of the day-shift staff in a way you never really could during a chaotic handoff.

Then, little by little, people started peeling off.

Heading home to partners, spouses, kids, pets.

Eventually, it was just you and Jack left at the table—and neither of you had anyone waiting at home.

So the conversation kept going.

And going.

Until the bartender started flashing the lights for last call.

You could admit now that the alcohol wasn’t the only reason you agreed when he suggested moving the party to his place.

That began a bad habit of spending nights off together at his apartment, which turned into you following him home from work twice a week. Until it was happening every day. 

Until—

“I’m calling psych,” Ellis said abruptly. “Dude has you dissociating.”

“Can you cut me some slack?” you groaned. “My sleep score on this stupid Oura ring is averaging like a 42, and no amount of Dunkin from Shen is helping. In fact, it’s probably making it worse.”

“I told you that ring is full of shit.”

“Probably,” you admitted, “but there’s no doubt this whole…situation has tanked my ability to sleep.”

“You know what?” Ellis leaned in slightly, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I’ve got a friend who’s recently single. Maybe I can set you two up.”

You ignored the immediate flicker of alarm in your chest—the automatic warning your brain always set off at the mere suggestion of entertaining any man who wasn’t the night shift attending.

“I don’t know,” you said instead, fingers fidgeting with your badge—the stupid tell he’d pointed out once.

The second Ellis said it, something in you tightened.

A sharp, instinctive recoil you didn’t get a vote in.

Like your body had heard the suggestion and decided, absolutely not.

It made no sense, really. It was just a date. Just an option sitting harmlessly on the desk between you.

“You know,” you added lightly, like it didn’t matter, like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of your own pulse, “I’m… probably just not in a dating place right now.”

Her head tilted in that knowing way. “Not in a dating place.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Night shift keeps me way too busy—”

“Yet you have time to get in that man’s bed?”

The words hit before you could stop them from hitting. Your brain didn’t even get a chance to form a response—

—Because, conveniently, Crus appeared like a lifeline in scrubs, walking up with a chart for Ellis to sign, as if he’d been sent by the universe specifically to rescue you from this conversation.

Your face lit up at the sudden exit.

“I totally forgot Crus put a pot of coffee on earlier. I’m gonna go try it!”

And before anyone could stop you, you were already backing away from the desk.

Fast.

A little too fast.

“No, I didn’t—” He started.

“Thanks, Crusy!”

You were gone before she could finish.

Crus blinked, looking between you and Ellis as you disappeared down the hall. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”

Ellis didn’t even look up from the chart.

“Avoidant attachment.”

Your eyes squeezed shut in relief as you slipped into the break room, the door still in your hand behind your back as you exhaled slowly.

Then the illusion cracked, and you heard a low chuckle cut through the silence.

You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t need to.

“Mid-shift pick-me-up?”

You scowled in the direction of his voice, finally letting your eyes open. Jack was standing between you and the whirring coffee pot, one arm lazily leaning on the back of a chair like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just fucked your entire attempt at emotional escape.

“Is there any more?” you asked, because you could be strong. You could be level-headed around him. 

“I’m makin’ some,” he said. “Someone drank all of it.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down over you in that quiet, habitual way he had. Not obvious—never obvious. Just enough to feel. 

“Someone tired.”

“Hm,” you hummed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that you, in fact, were not getting any sleep.

“Been a while,” he added after a beat.

His gaze lifted again, slower this time, like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to memorize you again after any stretch of absence.

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms as you stepped further into the room. “That was the last time.”

“Sure it was.”

Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the disbelief. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d tried—unsuccessfully—to get yourself over the finish line this morning three separate times before you finally gave up on hearing his voice in your head.

Either way, something in you snapped.

You walked closer, eyes locked on his, mouth set in a thin, controlled line.

“I meant it that night,” you said, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m done.”

“Are you?”

“Yep. I even have a date.”

Something flashed in his eyes—quick, unreadable—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by something sharper. More challenging.

“A date.”

“Ellis’ friend. She’s setting it up.”

“And when is this ‘date’?”

You hated the way he said it.

Like it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t solid yet. Like it didn’t deserve space in the same room as him. 

And sure, okay, it wasn’t. 

But it still made your jaw tighten.

“What do you care?”

“So I can be available,” he said evenly, “for when you inevitably come by after.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Well that’s presumptuous.”

“Is it?” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You almost choked on the speed at which you snapped back.

“That—that was because we had just had that mass casualty that fucked me up and you know that.”

“I also know,” he said, voice calmer now, almost tired in the way he said it, “that you tend to try to date other people.”

A beat.

“And somehow,” he added, eyes still on you, “you still end up here.”

“I can assure you, Dr. Abbot,” you said, smiling softly—mocking, sweet—using his title the way he’d told you to in public. “I can, in fact, date other people.”

He bent down slowly, bringing himself to your level. Close enough that the space between you stopped feeling like space at all.

“I’d love to see you try.”

And that’s how you ended up at a bar.

Sitting across from Ellis’ friend.

Ordering drinks. Making polite conversation. Nodding at the right moments. Smiling at the right times.

You did everything you were supposed to do.

You even laughed once or twice.

Ellis’ friend was nice. Normal. Stable in the way that should’ve felt like relief.

He didn’t have a traumatic past, or carefully measured words that felt like something else was always hiding underneath them. No guarded edges. No unreadable silences that made you feel like you were constantly trying to translate him.

And yet, every time your phone buzzed against the table, your attention flicked to it before you could stop yourself.

Every time the door opened behind him, something in your chest tightened on instinct.

And every time it wasn’t him, you hated yourself a little more for noticing.

This was what you wanted, right?

Distance.

Options.

Proof.

A life that didn’t orbit a man who barely admitted you mattered outside of four walls and a locked door.

But instead, you just kept thinking about how quiet your apartment would be after this. How loud your thoughts would be.

And how unfair it was that even here—on a date you’d insisted you could handle—you still felt like you were waiting for something else.

Ellis’ friend excused himself to use the restroom, giving your brain a brief opening—just enough quiet to pull you back to a night you hadn’t fully unpacked.

A night you almost told Ellis about.

It had been somewhere in the middle of it all—those weeks where “indulging” had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a routine.

You remember stopping at his front door, scrubs wrinkled from where they’d been tossed somewhere on his bedroom floor, hair slightly mussed, still carrying the aftermath of him in the most intoxicating way.

You’d turned to him in the doorway, eyes lifting to his.

That expectant look you wore sometimes. The one that, for some reason, seemed to scare him more than anything else.

“Hey,” you started carefully. “What do we say if people ask, you know…”

“We don’t say anything.”

His voice hadn’t been soft.

It hadn’t been cruel either.

Just certain.

You blinked. “Right, but… like, what is it?”

A shift.

Barely there, but you saw it. The way he opened the door a little wider. His mouth parted, like he was going to explain it. Clarify it. Do something that would either help you or hurt you.

And you couldn’t stand the idea of either.

So you stopped him.

“Sorry,” you laughed quickly, even though something in your chest was already starting to cave in on itself. “Right. Yeah. Obviously this is nothing—you’re the attending. I just meant like, so no one at work mentions it. And you don’t get in trouble. I mean, you’re not technically my superior anyway, so we’re probably fine. And now I’m rambling. I’m gonna go.”

“Hey, I—”

“No, Dr. Abbot, you really don’t need to say anything. We’re good.”

A beat.

“You can… uh. Call me Jack. Here, anyway.”

It should’ve meant something.

And it almost did.

But his usual composure was slightly off, like he was trying to catch up to the moment and not entirely succeeding.

You just nodded. “Sure,” you said softly, already stepping back. “Anyway… see you at work.”

And then you left.

With your pride carefully, quietly, and completely dismantled.

What you didn’t say out loud—what you never said out loud—was that those weeks had started to feel like something you could accidentally get used to.

Sleeping over on nights off. Coffee in the morning. His apartment slowly becoming familiar to you. 

And you were naïve enough, back then, to think that familiarity might mean you were building something.

Not just…falling into it alone.

And of course you were—what did you expect? That sleeping with the night-shift attending would somehow evolve into anything other than an inevitable fizzling out?

You had a habit of falling too hard in places you didn’t belong.

And this was just another version of that.

After that night, you both pulled back. 

Careful, deliberate distance.

At work, you moved around each other like opposing currents in the same hallway—efficient, professional, slightly off in rhythm. Enough acknowledgment to function, not enough to blur anything further. Contact reduced to necessity. Words clipped. 

Waiting, almost.

For something to shift.

For someone to say something that neither of you were willing to be first to say.

Until you broke first.

And after that, the pattern settled in: you’d show up at his place after hard shifts, or on days off when your mind wouldn’t quiet down. You’d get exactly what you knew he was willing to give—nothing more, nothing less.

And then you’d leave.

You’d swear it was the last.

Until it wasn’t.

“Ready to go?” Ellis’ friend asked as he returned to the table.

You nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave before your brain wandered any further down memory lane.

“Yeah. Early shift tomorrow.”

It was a lie.

A small one, but a useful one.

The check was paid and a few minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of his car. You’d Ubered to the bar, assuming you’d just call one home afterward.

Back when you’d thought you’d actually be paying attention to this date. But how could you refuse a free ride home? 

The drive was pleasant. He was pleasant. That seemed to be the problem—nothing was wrong. No red flags. No awkward silences. No glaring incompatibilities.

Just an overwhelming absence of whatever stupid thing—or person—your brain seemed determined to chase.

Streetlights blurred past outside the window.

You stared at them.

Half-listening as he talked about something involving his neighbor and a broken sprinkler system.

“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing at a red light. “Where am I taking you?”

You answered without thinking.

“Fourth and Mercer.”

The words left your mouth automatically.

Like muscle memory.

Like reciting your own address.

Then you froze.

Because Fourth and Mercer wasn’t your address.

It was Jack’s.

The realization hit about half a second too late.

For a moment, you just stared out the windshield.

Then you laughed.

Once.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You rubbed a hand over your face.

The normal response would be to correct yourself.

Give him your actual address. Go home. Take off your makeup. Get some sleep.

Maybe unpack whatever psychological damage had just caused you to instinctively send a date to another man’s apartment.

Instead, you found yourself shaking your head.

“Actually…” You looked back out the window. “Yeah. That’s right.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to launch yourself out of the moving vehicle.

Because what the fuck was wrong with you?

Seriously.

What kind of person goes on a date with one man, accidentally gives another man’s address, realizes what they’ve done, and then decides to commit to it?

Apparently you.

You, who had spent the last month insisting you were done.

You, who had spent the last week avoiding him in the hospital whenever possible.

You, who had sat across from a perfectly attractive, emotionally available man for two hours only to subconsciously recite Jack Abbot’s address like it was your own.

Insane.

Clinically insane.

Potentially diagnosable.

If Ellis found out about this, she’d never let you hear the end of it.

Hell, if you found out someone else had done this, you’d tell them to seek professional help immediately.

And yet, the thought of seeing Jack—

You shoved that one away immediately.

Nope.

You were not about to sit here and unpack whatever deeply concerning emotional implications were hidden inside the fact that his address lived in your head rent-free.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Maybe it was muscle memory.

Maybe your brain had been permanently damaged by night shift.

All plausible explanations.

Far more plausible than the alternative.

True delusion and toxicity drove you out of the car.

You offered your date a small wave through the passenger window, ignoring the increasingly bewildered expression on his face, before shutting the door and turning toward the building.

If he had questions, he was kind enough not to ask them.

Which was good.

Because you didn’t have answers.

Your feet carried you up the familiar steps before your brain could mount any meaningful objection. Through the front entrance. Down the hallway. To a door you could probably locate blindfolded at this point.

The realization should’ve horrified you.

Instead, it barely registered.

You knocked once.

And the door swung open almost immediately.

"Don't."

The word came out sharp. A warning.

To him. Maybe to yourself.

But Jack just stood there in the doorway—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt, hands in his pockets—and that look on his face that said he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Smug didn't even begin to cover it.

You should've turned around.

Should've walked away.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.

Your mouth found his before either of you could say another word, and the kiss was immediate. Desperate. All teeth and urgency and the kind of need that made rational thought impossible.

He didn't hesitate.

His hands were on you instantly—one sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he walked you backward until your spine hit the entryway wall with a dull thud.

This was the pattern.

The same one you'd fallen into a dozen times before.

You never made it all the way inside.

Not at first.

Something about the threshold—the space between leaving and staying—always unraveled you both.

His mouth moved against yours with the kind of confidence that made your knees weak, his body pressing into you until there was no space left between you. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his lips.

"Even had him drop you off, huh?"

The words were low. Amused. Spoken directly against your mouth between kisses.

Your stomach dropped.

Because of course he knew.

Of course he'd been watching from the window. Of course he'd seen you get out of another man's car and walk straight to his door like you had no other choice.

"Jack—"

"Shh." His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth found the corner of yours. Then your cheek. Then just below your ear. "It's okay."

It wasn't okay.

Nothing about this was okay.

You'd just come from a date with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who didn't make you feel like you were constantly drowning.

And yet here you were, pinned against an entryway wall, heart racing, breath coming in short gasps as Jack's hands roamed over you like he owned every inch.

The worst part?

You wanted him to.

God, you hated yourself for it.

Hated how easily you melted under his touch. How your body responded before your brain could catch up. How the shame of it all only seemed to make you want him more.

His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound.

"So eager to see me," he murmured against your neck, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. "Couldn't even wait to get inside."

Your hands fisted in his shirt as he kicked the door shut, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.

"What a good girl, always coming back to me."

The words hit you like a physical thing.

Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face—and lower—and you wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to fuck off, wanted to do anything other than stand there and let him see exactly what those words did to you.

But you couldn't.

Because he knew.

He always knew.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time, more deliberate, and his hand finally slipped beneath the fabric of your dress. Fingers trailing up your thigh with maddening patience.

You made a sound—something between a whimper and a protest—and he smiled against your lips.

"That's it," he said quietly. "Just like that."

You were going to hell.

Or maybe you were already there.

Because the only thing worse than how much you wanted this—wanted him—was how much he knew it.

How easily he could unravel you with a look, a touch, a handful of words that made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Even if it was the last place you should've gone.

His hands moved to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he hiked your dress up in one smooth motion. The fabric bunched around your waist as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around him.

The wall was cold against your back. Unforgiving.

He wasn't.

Or maybe he was—just in a different way. Unforgiving in the way he kept you circling the same drain, always one step short of whatever this was actually becoming. Always dancing right up to the edge of it, like neither of you could decide who was supposed to fall first.

His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his other hand worked between you, pushing aside fabric, finding exactly what he wanted with the kind of precision that made your head spin.

"Jack—"

"Yeah," His voice was low, thick with desire. "Right here, sweetheart."

And then he was inside you.

The stretch, the fullness, the way your body yielded to him so easily—it was too much and not enough all at once. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping your throat as he held you there, pinned between him and the plaster.

He didn't move. Not yet.

Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against your temple, his breath hot against your ear.

"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."

Your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Jack—"

"Say it." His hips shifted slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Tell me you don't need this."

You couldn't.

The words wouldn't come.

Because they'd be a lie, and you both knew it.

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before driving back in with enough force to make you cry out. The sound echoed in the narrow entryway, shameless and desperate.

"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

He set a rhythm then—slow, deliberate, controlled. Each thrust calculated to pull sounds from you that you didn't want to make. Each movement designed to remind you exactly who was in charge here.

"You can't get enough of this, can you?" His hand tightened on your thigh, holding you open for him. "Can't stay away."

"Don't—" The word came out as a whimper.

"Don't what?" He punctuated the question with a particularly deep thrust that had your vision blurring. "Don't tell the truth? Don't make you admit it?"

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that it should've hurt, but he just groaned and moved faster.

"Say it," he demanded, his mouth against your jaw. "Tell me you need this."

"I—" You couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the shame and the pleasure tangled so tightly together you couldn't separate them anymore.

He slowed. Almost stopped.

"Say it, or I stop."

"No—" The protest was immediate, desperate. "Please—"

"Please what?"

You swore you hated him.

Hated how easily he could reduce you to this—begging, pleading, completely at his mercy.

"I need it," you gasped out, the admission burning in your throat. "I need—fuck—I need you."

The smile you felt against your skin was pure victory.

"There she is," he murmured, his pace picking up again. "My good girl. So honest when I'm inside you.

The wall dug into your spine with each thrust. Your leg was starting to shake where it was wrapped around him. Everything was too much—the angle, the intensity, the way he looked at you like he'd won something.

Because he had.

"You came straight here," he continued, his voice rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. "Didn't even go home first. Just needed me that badly."

"Yes—" The word broke on a moan.

"Even after your little date. Even after trying so hard to move on."

"Jack—please—"

"Please what? Make you come? Make you forget about him?" His hand slid between you, finding exactly where you needed him. "Make you remember who you belong to?"

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation. Your body clenched around him, trembling, and you heard yourself crying out his name like a prayer or a curse—you couldn't tell which anymore.

He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.

He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.

Your leg was still wrapped around him. His hand still gripped your thigh. The wall was still cold against your back, but his body was warm—solid—and for just a second, you let yourself stay there.

Before reality could catch up.

Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his hand moved to your face. Thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. Mimicking a softness he once showed you, way back before this all got entangled in the way these things did. 

"Stay."

The word hung between you.

You blinked. "What?"

"Stay over." His voice was quieter now. "Tonight."

Your heart did something complicated.

Because he'd never asked that before—at least, not since that morning. Not since you'd tried to define this thing and shut it down and he let you walk away pretending it didn't matter.

You stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you what this meant.

But his expression was unreadable.

Guarded.

Same as always.

"I—" You started to pull away, to put distance between you, but his hand on your waist kept you there. "I should go."

"How?" he asked simply. "Your date dropped you off, remember?"

The logic of it hit you like cold water.

Right.

You'd given Jack's address. You'd gotten out of the car here. You didn't have your own car. You'd have to call an Uber, and it was late, and—

"I can call a ride," you said, even though the words felt hollow.

"You could."

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Just waited.

And somehow that was worse.

Because you couldn't tell if he actually wanted you to stay or if he was just Jack Abbot, night shift attending, solving a problem. Couldn't tell if this was something or if you were reading into it the way you always did—seeing meaning where there wasn't any.

"Jack—"

"It's late," he said. "You're here. Just stay."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

The question came out smaller than you meant it to.

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then his hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back, giving you space. Letting your leg slide down until you were standing on your own again.

"Because I'm asking you to."

That was it.

No explanation. No declaration. No answer to the question you were really asking.

Just that.

You wanted to leave.

Wanted to walk out the door and prove to yourself—and to him—that you could.

But your feet didn't move.

And he knew it.

He always knew.

"Okay,"

It started small.

It was always small things with him—never enough to point at, never enough to accuse, never enough to justify the way it started messing with your head.

But you noticed everything anyway.

The way he paused—just briefly—before walking away from your station, like he was deciding whether or not to say something that wasn’t strictly necessary.

He never used to hesitate.

That was new.

And it made you hyper-aware of everything else.

He didn’t lean into the sarcasm as much when Shen made some comment that would’ve normally earned a dry remark from him. He didn’t linger in the doorway of trauma bays the way he used to, but he also didn’t leave as quickly either—like he was calibrating your distance instead of defaulting to it.

Even his silence felt different.

Intentional.

And it was fucking with you.

Because if you were being honest—if you were being brutally honest—you had built a system around the predictability of him.

Cold when he needed to be. Detached when he wanted to be. Clear lines, clear roles, clear nothing-you-could-misinterpret.

It had been easier that way.

Safer.

Even if it drove you insane.

But now?

Now there were these almost-imperceptible deviations in the pattern.

Like he was…paying attention in a way that wasn’t strictly required.

And you hated that your brain immediately started translating it into something dangerous.

Hope, maybe.

Or worse—meaning.

You were charting at the nurse’s station when he appeared behind you, not speaking right away. Just there. Close enough that you registered him before you turned.

“Can I see bed six’s labs?” he asked finally.

Normal.

Professional.

Except he didn’t leave immediately after you handed them over.

He looked at them.

Then at you.

Then back at the chart like he was stalling for time that didn’t exist.

“You didn’t get coffee,” he said.

You blinked once. “I did. Earlier.”

A pause.

“I meant since then.”

There it was again.

That thing.

That quiet attention that didn’t match the version of him you had built your rules around.

“I’ve been busy,” you said carefully.

“I know.”

You turned back to your chart like it was suddenly fascinating, because looking at him for too long felt like stepping too close to something you’d been actively trying not to name.

“You’re being weird today,” you muttered.

A beat.

“I’m not.”

You almost laughed at that.

Because if this was him not being weird, then you didn’t know what reality you were in anymore.

He finally took a step back, but not before his eyes flicked over you once more—quick, practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten without permission.

“You should eat something,” he said.

Then he walked off.

And you sat there for a second too long, staring at the space he’d just occupied, wondering when exactly “professional concern” started feeling indistinguishable from something else entirely.

Your mind thought back to that mass casualty that happened six months ago—the day that the PTMC turned dark. 

All hands on deck. Every hallway filled. Every monitor screaming for attention it didn’t have time to get. Voices overlapping until they stopped sounding like words and started sounding like pressure.

You remembered moving on autopilot.

Remembered the way your body kept going even when your brain started lagging behind it.

Remembered the moment you couldn’t take it anymore.

The stairwell had been quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—just empty. Like the building had forgotten how to breathe.

You don’t even remember deciding to go there.

Sinking down on the step with your head in your hands while everything you’d held together for the last hour finally split open without asking your permission.

You weren’t sobbing like in movies. It was worse than that—it was silent. Like your body was trying to process too much at once and failing in real time.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t do any of the things people do when they’re trying to create distance from something they don’t know how to fix.

He just came down the steps and sat beside you.

Close enough that your shoulders touched.

And then closer.

Until there wasn’t really space between you at all.

His hand didn’t hesitate when it found your back. Slow, steady pressure like he was anchoring something that kept trying to drift away.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that.

Minutes. Hours. Something outside of time entirely.

At some point, you stopped shaking.

At some point, your breathing stopped feeling like it belonged to someone else.

And at some point, you became aware of the fact that he hadn’t moved—hadn’t checked his watch. Hadn’t said a single word about needing to go back.

Just stayed.

Like leaving wasn’t an option he was considering.

When you finally pulled back, it was gradual. Reluctant. Like stepping out of water that had been keeping you alive.

You didn’t look at him at first.

Neither did he speak.

You wiped your face, exhaled once, and nodded like that was enough to reset the universe.

“Back to it?” you had said.

A pause.

Then, like nothing had happened at all:

“Yeah.”

And spent the next six months acting like something inside that stairwell hadn’t quietly rearranged itself without either of you acknowledging it.

And now, here he was, rearranging everything again.

Not in any dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and accuse him of meaning something.

Just the damn small things.

Restocking your glitter pens without being asked. Answering patients with a clipped patience when they got too loud with you, stepping in before you even had to react. Sliding a chart back into your station that you hadn’t realized you left open, like he was quietly tidying up the edges of your shift when you weren’t looking.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

That was the rule.

That was always the rule.

But your brain kept betraying you anyway.

Because it felt like that day in the stairwell.

And now, watching him move through the department like that again—steady, controlled, too observant for his own good—you couldn’t help the thought that crept in at the edges.

That maybe this wasn’t nothing to him either.

That maybe it had never been.

And that was the thought you needed to stay away from. 

So you needed to do something drastic. 

You were halfway through your coffee when the break room door opened hard enough to make you look up immediately.

Not in alarm—just recognition.

Jack stood in the doorway for a second too long, not stepping fully in right away. His attention went straight to you, skipping over everything else in the room like it wasn’t relevant.

“Why is Robby asking me about switching you to days?”

You set your cup down slowly.

Not because you were rattled.

Because you were trying to decide how much of this conversation you were willing to have before your shift even started.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably because it has to go through you. Staffing, scheduling, whatever.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

That was the first sign this wasn’t just about paperwork.

“It doesn’t go through me like that,” he said after a beat.

You nodded once, like that detail didn’t matter much. “Okay.”

That seemed to irritate him more than anything else so far. He stepped fully into the room now, letting the door fall shut behind him.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said.

You leaned back slightly against the counter, keeping your posture loose on purpose.

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

A pause.

His jaw tightened briefly before settling again.

“You’re changing your schedule at this hospital,” he said, more controlled now. “And I’m only hearing about it through Robby.”

“It’s not finalized yet,” you said. “It’s just a request.”

“That’s not the point.”

You watched him for a second.

He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t raising his voice. Wasn’t doing anything obvious.

But there was something contained in the way he stood there that you were starting to recognize too well.

Like he was holding himself in place more than he was standing.

“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” you said.

“It’s not a problem,” he answered too quickly.

Then stopped.

Corrected himself, slower this time.

“It’s just…unexpected.”

You hummed slightly, almost thoughtful.

“Since when do you care what shift I work?”

His eyes flicked to yours at that, steady but sharper now.

“I don’t,” he said.

It didn’t land convincingly.

Not even close.

You didn’t push it—instead, you let the silence sit there for a moment, thickening.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“You won’t be around as much.”

It came out like a practical observation, but it didn’t sit like one.

You looked down at your coffee for a second before answering.

“I’ll still be here,” you said. “Just different hours.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He shifted his weight slightly, then stilled again like he’d caught himself mid-movement.

“You don’t work days,” he said.

It wasn’t a correction.

Something closer to resistance.

You glanced up again. “That’s not really a rule.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Another pause.

This one was longer.

He looked like he was considering something he didn’t like the shape of.

Something quieter.

Something he was actively not letting develop into words.

“You’ll be harder to find,” he said finally.

You frowned slightly.

“I’m not disappearing.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

But he didn’t elaborate.

And that was the problem.

Because the things he didn’t say were starting to feel louder than the things he did.

You straightened a little, watching him now instead of your coffee.

“You’re acting like this is a bigger deal than it is,” you said carefully.

A beat.

“I’m not,” he replied.

It was immediate again.

Too immediate.

Then, quieter, like he was correcting something internal more than responding to you, “I just want to understand why now.”

You held his gaze for a moment.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was challenging your decision.

It felt like he was trying not to lose something he wasn’t allowed to call his.

“I’m tired,” you said simply. “That’s it.”

He nodded once, but it wasn’t satisfied.

Just contained.

Like he’d accepted the answer without believing it fully.

The silence stretched again—long enough that it started to feel like a decision neither of you were saying out loud.

Finally, he looked away first.

“Do what you need to do,” he said, quieter than before.

And then he stayed there a moment longer anyway.

Like leaving first would make it real.

Like not saying anything else was the closest he could get to asking you not to go.

You didn't go home after your shift.

You went to his place instead.

The drive was short enough that you didn't have time to second-guess it, which was probably the only reason you actually showed up. By the time you were standing outside his door, your scrubs still on, your bag still slung over one shoulder, the momentum was the only thing keeping you upright.

You knocked once.

Not politely.

Hard enough that it wasn't a question.

The door opened after a few seconds, and Jack stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just gotten home himself. His hair was still damp from a shower.

He didn't look surprised.

That was the first thing that pissed you off.

"We need to talk," you said.

He stepped back without a word, holding the door open.

You walked in, dropped your bag by the entrance, and turned to face him before he'd even closed the door fully.

"Why didn't you fight me on it?"

He shut the door carefully, then looked at you.

"On what?"

"Don't do that," you said. "The schedule change. You stood there earlier like it mattered, and then you just—let it go."

He exhaled slowly, like he was buying time.

"You said you were tired.”

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one you gave me."

You stared at him.

He wasn't deflecting exactly—it was more like he was staying behind something. Some line he'd drawn for himself that you couldn't see but kept running into.

"You do this," you said, quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it matters. And then the second I push, you back off like it was never a thing to begin with."

"I'm not backing off."

"Then what are you doing?"

He didn't answer right away.

You took a step closer.

"You’ve been checking on me during shifts," you said. "You ask when my dates are. You ask when I’ve eaten. You don't do that with anyone else."

"You don't know that."

"I do," you said flatly. "Everyone knows that."

His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.

"So what?" he said, and there was an edge to it now. "You want me to stop?"

"No," you said. "I want you to admit what it is."

Silence.

He shifted his weight slightly, and you saw it—the crack forming.

Small, but there.

"It doesn't have to be anything," he said finally.

You laughed, short and humorless.

"Bullshit."

"It's not—"

"Then why don't you see other people?"

That landed.

You saw it in the way his expression stilled, like you'd just said something he wasn't ready to hear out loud.

"I don't—"

"You don't," you interrupted. "I know you don't. You haven't since this started."

He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see him deciding how much to give.

Not enough.

Never enough.

"That's not your business," he said quietly.

"It is if you're going to act like I'm yours without actually saying it."

His jaw tightened again, sharper this time.

"I never said you were mine."

"You didn't have to."

Another pause.

Longer.

Heavier.

He turned slightly, like he was going to move away, then stopped himself.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now. Rougher.

"The truth," you said. "Just once."

He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second you thought he might actually do it.

Might actually let whatever he'd been holding back finally break through.

But then he shook his head, just barely.

"It's not that simple."

"It is," you said. "You're just making it complicated because you're scared."

"I'm not—"

"You are," you cut in. "You're terrified that if you call this what it is, it'll mean something. And if it means something, you'll have to actually do something about it."

He didn't deny it.

That was answer enough.

You stepped closer again, close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled slightly at his sides like he was holding himself back.

"Why do you think I asked for the schedule change?" you said, quieter now.

He looked at you, and something shifted in his expression.

Something wary.

"I don't know," he said.

"Because I can't keep doing this," you said. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want while you act like I'm the only person in the room."

His throat worked briefly, like he was swallowing something down.

"I'm not asking you to wait."

"You don't have to ask," you said. "I've been doing it anyway."

That hit him.

You saw it in the way his eyes closed briefly, in the way his breath came out just a little too controlled.

When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I don't want you on days," he said.

It came out rough.

Unfiltered.

Like he'd finally let something slip that he'd been holding onto too tightly.

You stared at him.

"Then say the rest of it."

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether letting you in would break him or save him.

"I can't," he said finally.

And it sounded like the most honest thing he'd said all night.

You held his gaze for another moment, then stepped back.

"Then I'm switching to days," you said.

He flinched.

Barely—but you saw it.

"And if you want me to stay," you continued, "you're going to have to give me a reason that isn't just showing up and acting like I'm supposed to know what this is without you ever saying it."

You picked up your bag.

Turned toward the door.

His voice stopped you before you reached it.

"Don't go."

You looked back.

He was still standing in the same spot, but something in him had shifted.

Something raw.

"Not yet," he added, quieter.

You waited.

He didn't say anything else.

But he didn't look away either.

"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."

His voice came out rougher than before, like the words were scraping their way out.

You stayed where you were, hand still on your bag.

"I don't know how to—" Another pause. His jaw worked briefly. "How to be with someone. Not like this. Not in a way that—that means something."

He looked down, then forced himself to look back up.

"I've never—" He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. "I've never had to name it before. Never wanted to. Because if I don't name it, then it's just—it's just there. It exists without me having to—"

He stopped again.

You could see him fighting for the next words.

"Without me having to risk it," he finished quietly.

The silence stretched.

You didn't move.

Didn't help him.

He needed to get through this on his own.

"I'm terrified," he said, and it came out almost angry. Not at you. At himself. "I'm terrified that if I call this what it is, if I say it out loud, then it becomes something I can lose. And I—"

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I can't lose you."

It was barely above a whisper.

"That's why I didn't fight you on the schedule," he continued, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because fighting you would've meant admitting why I wanted you to stay on nights. And I couldn't—I couldn't say that. Couldn't say that I needed you there. That I needed to know where you were, that I could find you, that you were—"

He stopped himself.

Breathed.

"That you were mine," he said finally. "Even though I had no right to think that."

You felt something shift in your chest.

"All of it," he said. "The checking on you, the showing up, keeping you close—it was because I didn't know how else to keep you. I didn't know how to just—to just be with you like a normal person. So I did it like this instead. Like I could have you without actually having to say I wanted you."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"But you matter too much," he said, quieter now. "You matter too much for me to keep doing that. And I don't—I've never had that before. Never had someone matter so much that not having them felt like—"

He didn't finish.

Couldn't finish. 

"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, and this time it sounded like a confession and a plea at the same time. "But I don't want you on days. I don't want you anywhere I can't find you. And I know that's—I know that's not fair, but it's the truth."

He looked at you then, fully.

Unguarded.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever this is. I just—I don't know how to do it without ruining it."

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then shook your head slowly.

"Then why," you said, voice tight but controlled, "did you say it was nothing?"

He blinked.

"What?"

"Months ago," you said. "When we—when this started. You said it was nothing. You agreed it was nothing."

His jaw tightened.

"I didn't say—"

"You did," you cut him off. "You stood there and you let me say it was casual, that it didn't mean anything, and you agreed."

"I didn't get to say what it was," he said, and there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration turned inward. "I didn't—I didn't know how to say what it was."

You felt your chest tighten.

"So you just let me decide for both of us?"

"You already had decided," he shot back, quieter but sharper. "You said it first. You called it nothing before I even had a chance to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call it."

That landed harder than you expected.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

"It was easier," he continued, voice dropping. "It was easier to just—to go along with what you said. Because at least that way I didn't have to try and fail to explain something I didn't have words for."

He looked away briefly, then forced himself to look back.

"You named it," he said. "And I let you. Because I didn't know how to name it differently. And I was terrified that if I tried, I'd say the wrong thing and you'd leave."

The silence between you felt heavier now.

Different.

"So you just—what?" you said quietly. "You just let me carry that? Let me think that's all it was?"

"Yes," he said, and it sounded like an admission of guilt. "I did."

Another pause.

"Because it was easier than risking you," he added, barely audible.

You exhaled slowly, something unraveling in your chest that you hadn't realized was wound so tight.

"That's not fair," you said.

"I know.”

He didn't move. Didn't try to defend himself further.

Just stood there, letting you see exactly how much of a coward he'd been.

"You should've said something."

"I know."

But this time, he moved.

Finally.

He crossed the space between you in three steps, and then his hands were on you—one sliding around your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your head as he pulled you against him.

The contact hit you like a shock.

Solid. Warm. Real.

His arms tightened around you, and you felt something in your chest crack open—something you'd been holding closed for so long you'd forgotten it was even there.

You didn't pull away.

Couldn't.

Your hands came up automatically, fisting in his shirt, and you pressed your face against his shoulder as everything you'd been carrying suddenly became too heavy to hold on your own.

He held you tighter.

Like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough against your hair. "I'm sorry I made you carry that alone."

You felt your throat tighten.

"I've been in love with you," you said, and it came out muffled against his shoulder. Quieter than you meant it to. "For a year."

His breath caught.

You felt it—the way his chest stuttered against yours, the way his grip on you shifted, became more deliberate.

More certain.

"I know," he said softly.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his hand slid from the back of your head to cup your face instead, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.

His eyes were darker now. Softer.

"I know," he repeated, "because I've been in love with you too."

The words landed between you like something fragile and vital all at once.

You stared at him.

"The whole time?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

"The whole time," he confirmed, and his voice cracked slightly on it. "I just—I didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to be someone who could say it."

Your eyes burned.

"You're saying it now."

"I'm saying it now," he agreed quietly.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of a year's worth of unnamed things finally settling into place.

"Don't switch to days," he said, and it wasn't a command. It was a request. Vulnerable. Raw. "Please. Just…stay with me."

You opened your eyes.

He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

Like maybe you always had been.

"I'm not leaving," you said finally.

His exhale was shaky with relief.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

He kissed your forehead, then pulled you back against him, and you let yourself sink into it—into him—for the first time without wondering if you were allowed to.

"I love you," he said quietly, like he was testing the words out. Seeing how they felt.

You felt them settle into your chest, warm and certain.

"I love you too," you said back.

And this time, when he held you, it didn't feel like he was trying to keep you coming.

It felt like he was finally letting you in.

you watched him as he indulged himself with an orange. you observed the way his arm muscles flex and the thick size of his digits peel off the skin of the citrus. you noticed the trail of sweat had made its way down to his navel, meeting the line of hair below it. you want to lick the salty substance starting from there, moving upwards in the space between his pectorals, his neck, until you finally reach his lips.

your breathing had gotten heavy, you're pressing your thighs together— you couldn't take it anymore. . . you have to have him now!

you jumped out of the sun lounger from where you were sitting, you sauntered your way towards pope in your tiny bikini top that barely covers your breasts that it seemed like its use is to only mask your nipples, and underneath the mini denim shorts is a cheeky bikini bottoms to match.

pope could feel you approaching him so he looked up, immediately landing his gaze on the way your tits bounce in your bikini top— threatening to spill out and flash the whole family.

when you reach where he stood, you rise onto your tippy toes until your lips brush the shell of his ear, whispering, "andy, i'm messy again." he almost whined at how needy you sound but he knew better. you know the rules.

"how many times do i have to tell you? not until later tonight when everyone's gone to sleep." he grumbled, still unabashedly looking at your chest.

your whispered plea pitched up higher at the end, "daddy, please!" the volume of your voice increased a bit without intending to. you're being naughty for using the magic word against him.

that made pope's eyes snap up to your face, he clicked his tongue. "shhh shhh! keep it down will ya?" he let out a heavy exhale, as usual losing the battle again. "alright, go wait for me in my room. will meet you there in ten minutes. go."

you quickly jogged towards inside the house, biting back a smile.

pope is a bull of a man when he entered his bedroom, his build and the unimpressed expression he's got would make anyone cower away in terror but not you. you're so fucking turned on.

"turn around i don't wanna see you right now. against the wall." he demanded, you knew not to argue back when he's using that voice. you obeyed but still pouted to yourself because he's being mean.

he yanked your shorts down in an impatient manner, not bothering to let it pool by your ankles. then he quickly untied one of the bows of your bikini bottoms, just enough to expose your pussy to him.

"that little display you did back there was sooo fucking naughty, sugar." he nudged both of your feet with one of his own, indicating you to spread your legs apart.

you thought he would at least finger you a little bit to prep you but he just plunged his dick in you, causing you to shriek. pope slaps a large hand against your mouth to suppress your cries.

"shut the fuck up. thought she was messy and ready for me? you sounded like you want me to fuck you right there by the pool in front of my whole fucking family the way you begged me, huh?" he said with gritted teeth, not missing a beat despite how hard he pounded in and out of you. the pain of the stretch of his fat cock turned into pleasure the longer he's talking. his perverseness caused you to leak out more of your essence— the slick, wet sounds becoming sharper to the ears.

"oh, my little girl would love that. am i right, sugar? you want everyone to know you're a cockslut? you're daddy's little cockslut?"

god. you want to yell, yes! yes! i am daddy's cockslut! you badly want to tell him but he's got his hand covering your mouth that you started to be much louder than you were before.

pope was losing his patience because anyone could walk in and he really couldn't give a shit enough to explain why he has his dick inside the young thing next door. so he undid the last knot of your bottoms using his free hand while the other that had been covering your mouth moved to grip your cheeks, "open your mouth." pressing his fingers harder. "open it." when you did, he stuffed your bikini bottoms inside it, almost but not completely silencing the noises. that did the job, at least.

the depravity of the action pushed you over the edge out of nowhere. it also took pope by surprise when he felt you grip around him so hard he couldn't stop himself from spilling his heavy, thick loads of cum in your womb.

pope always came a lot, and he just kept going. it's too fucking much of him it's starting to overflow despite his dick still plugged in you.

when he finally pulled out, he watched you leak all over the carpeted floor. the mess ticked pope off so he decided that, "next time, i will stuff it in your pussy so she won't be messy again." ♡

The bullpen was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, the kind of lull that settled over the station when everyone was either out chasing leads or buried beneath enough paperwork to make conversation feel like extra work. The overhead lights filled empty spaces while phone calls and distant voices drifting in from another room. You sat at your desk with a half-finished report open and front of you, through your attention had long since wandered elsewhere. 

Namely, to Sammy Bryant. 

He, like your other fellow detectives, sat across the room hunched forward as he stared at a case file. His tie had been loosened hour ago, sleeves rolled up his thick arms, and there was a deep crease between his brows that hadn’t left all day. You weren’t even sure he’d touched the lunch he’d brought that morning. 

It wasn’t necessarily unusual for him to be this way. Lately, nothing about Sammy looked easy, especially when his phone rang and rang and rang and rang and—

The flip phone next to him started buzzing loudly on his desk, and you watched the change happen before he ever reached for it. 

A minute earlier, he’d been laser focused on the report in front of him, distracted enough that he’d nearly missed the call altogether. Then his eyes narrowed, almost like he knew exactly who was calling—he did—and whatever small amount of peace he’d managed to find over the course of his afternoon disappeared completely. Tension returned to his shoulders so quickly you almost winced as it settled like a familiar weight. You noticed that he didn’t look annoyed, because you of all people had seen Sammy annoyed way too many times. An annoyed Sammy usually came with a sarcastic comment, a muttered complaint, and a dramatic roll of his eyes that had always been capable of drawing a laugh from your chest. 

Annoyed Sammy never looked as exhausted as the one across from you did as he answered the phone. He had the kind of expression people wore when they already knew how a conversation was going to end before it had even begun. 

You lowered your gaze back down toward your report, not wanting him to catch you watching, though your ears remained turned toward the other side of the room. Eavesdropping was never intentional; at least that was what you told yourself. 

But you were a detective. 

Being nosey was part of the job description even if it wasn’t explicitly written in the fine print of your contract. It was simply difficult not to pay attention when Sammy spent so much of his day carrying the weight of everyone around him and so little time allowing anyone to carry any of his. 

“Hey, Tammi,” he said after opening his phone, voice gentle like it always was. 

You never understood how he managed to do it. 

The response that crackled through the speaker wasn’t loud enough for you to make out every word, but it was loud enough that you caught the tone: sharp, frustrated, and accusatory. Whatever was going on, it clearly wasn’t any good. 

Sammy listened for nearly thirty seconds before speaking again. “No, I know.” He paused, sighing quietly away from the speaker. “I know.” His eyes squeezed shut tightly, and the fingers of his free hand drummed once against the desk before curling into a fist. “No, that’s not what I said.” 

Around him, the station continued moving as if nothing was happening, as if Sammy arguing with Tammi was a normal part of the schedule (which, in a way, it was). Nate looked unphased as he flipped another page of whatever he was looking through. Behind you, the printer whirred to life and spat out a few pages. The normal rhythm of the day continued uninterrupted while Sammy sat perfectly at his desk, absorbing every word coming through that receiver like a man standing in the rain with no intention of finding shelter. 

You hated that. 

People got upset; Tammi got upset. Relationships, romantic or not, were always known to at least have a few complications down the line. 

What you hated was that their conversations never sounded like two people solving a problem together and always sounding like one person apologize for existing. 

Sammy huffed. “Tammi, I was working a homicide. I let you know that I’d be late hours earlier to make sure that you were aware.” A pause. “No, I can’t just up and leave in the middle of a case just because you made dinner for once! Why would you even make that when you knew—” 

His voice remained calm even if there was a detection of strain beneath it. He had the careful balancing act of a man choosing every word with surgical precision because one wrong phrase would turn an argument into a war. For the next several moments, he didn’t speak at all, simply listening to her go on and on while his expression grew tighter and tighter. When he finally leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face, you found yourself wondering when the last time had been that you’d seen him look genuinely happy. 

The answer disturbed you because you couldn’t remember, and it made things worse when you were sure Sammy probably didn’t remember either. 

His gaze drifted briefly across the room, hazel eyes landing on nothing in particular, and for just a second, you caught a glimpse that washed over into defeat. It made your heart hurt. 

Sammy Bryant was one of the better guys you knew. He was polite, never throwing around crude remarks about women like the rest of the men of the LAPD seemed to do. He was loyal to a wife that seemed to loathe his existence while your boss was running around with another woman behind his wife that actually loved him. And while he might not have been the dictionary definition of hot with his stomach pudge that spilled over his belt and puffy cheeks that grew when he ate, you found him endearingly handsome, someone you wouldn’t mind taking to meet your parents. 

Your lips tugged into a frown at the thought. 

He remained frozen in place; eyes fixated on some invisible point on his desk. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his chair backwards, hand now rubbing the back of his neck in smooth motions, his skin bunching under his thick fingers. A beat later, he pushed himself to his feet and disappeared toward the break room. 

“I don’t know how he deals with her,” Nate muttered after briefly glancing up at you. 

Your pen caught between your teeth. “He loves her.” 

He snorted in response. “I think love flew out the window a long time ago. He deals with her cause she’s familiar. He needs to go find someone for a night.” 

Your eyes rolled far into your head. “Sammy’s not that kind of guy, Nate. He’s loyal unlike the rest of you pigs.” 

Across from you, Russell coughed your name loudly. “Tell us how you really feel.” 

“Oh we’d be here all day if you let me,” you said with a large smirk. 

“Amen, sista,” Lydia called out as she passed. 

Nate finally looked at you for more than a second. “So, you’re saying you’d rather have our Sammy boy here miserable for the rest of his life with that woman?” 

“That’s not what I said,” you shot back, eyes going back down to your report. 

By the time Sammy returned, he was carrying a fresh cup of coffee; you’d lost count if that was his third or fifth. The cup joined his growing collection of bad coping mechanisms as he settled heavily into his chair once more, fingers reaching for a case file despite the fact that he hadn’t even finished the last one. 

“You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ulcer,” you called out, eyes still cast downward.

He blinked up at you. “What?” 

You pointed your pen toward the coffee. “That.” 

“Oh.” A tired laugh bubbled. “Pretty sure I’m already past that point.” 

“How’s the missus?” Nate asked, earning him a glare from you. 

Sammy shrugged indifferently. “Same old, same old. Feels like lately everything I do pisses her off.” He started listing with his fingers. “I’m working too much, but if I’m home, I’m not helping enough.” Another finger. “If I’m helping, I’m doing it wrong.” Another. “If I miss a call because I’m working, it’s because I’m shaking up with woman; or, if I answer the call while I’m working, she gets mad because I should be more focused.” 

You truly wondered if he was going to run out of fingers. 

Nate let out a low whistle. “If you’re shaking up while I’m driving, let me know next time, man.” 

At least his partner was able to paint a small smile on Sammy’s face, his cheeks pushing up to partly hide his eyes. 

“You ever try not trying so hard?” you found yourself asking before you could stop yourself, and even Sammy looked shocked that you had. “Don’t give me that look, Bryant.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not giving you a look.” 

“You’re definitely giving me a look.” You pushed back slightly from your desk. “Look, if trying so hard gets you in trouble, what will not trying look like? Instead of giving your all to a woman who seems to not appreciate it, why not put that energy into yourself?” 

“You always hand out life advice like a shrink, L/n?” Nate asked before you threw him a middle finger. 

Sammy stayed quiet, almost as if were mulling over your advice. He clicked his pen a few times before setting it down. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked, a bit quieter. “What if it all just stays the same.”

You tilted your head. “Then I guess it’s time for a bigger change until something sticks.”

“Did you ever have to change?” 

A loud snort flew from your nose. “How do you think I ended up here in this dump?” 

“Hey!” 

“Shut it, Moretta,” you snapped. “LA is a dump, and you know it.” A sigh pressed from your lungs. “My last job wasn’t doing too much for me, so I tried a bunch of different things until I found something that worked.” 

Sammy looked entirely unimpressed. “Being a homicide detective in Los Angeles was it for you?” 

“It was.” You went back to scribbling something on your report before standing from your chair. You lightly tapped him with the stack of papers as you passed. “You’ll find yours soon enough.” 

You didn’t know, but Sammy’s eyes tracked you until you disappeared around the corner, his chest blooming with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. When he looked over to Nate, the man was already wiggling his eyebrows at him. 

“Think that’s her signal man. She wants youuuuuu,” he teased, eyes alight with humor. 

Sammy scoffed. “She does not. Knock it off.” 

Nate held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever floats your boat. Just saying she won’t be available for much longer. Not when she looks like that.” 

Before Sammy could really think about it, Nate’s phone buzzed. His partner jumped to his feet and nodded his head toward the door. Sammy scrambled to his feet, hands grabbing at his suit coat on the way out. 

But even as they rushed down the freeway, your words were stuck in his head. 

_______________________

The call was nothing special, and by the time you arrived on scene, patrol had already secured the area, the initial statements had been collected, and all that remained was the tedious process of sorting through details. You knew this was going to be the kind of case that filled far more paperwork that excitement, and as you climbed out of your car into the hot California sun with your badge clipped to your waist and a clipboard tucked under one arm, you found yourself mentally calculating how long it would take before you could reasonably justify grabbing lunch from the Mexican stand on the way back to the precinct. 

Sweat trickled down your back and made your blouse stick slightly to your skin as you approached the cluster of officers gathered near the patrol cars. Most of the officers loitering around were unfamiliar faces since enough transfers and promotions had shuffled people around that it felt like every week brought someone new in during the past several months. You barely glanced at them, wanting nothing more to do than get this case translated into paperwork to do at your desk with decent AC. 

But then, your attention snagged on a familiar laugh, and the sound stopped you before your brain caught up. For a second you simply stood there, gaze searching through the gaggle until your eyes landed on the source once before looking away. 

Every muscle in your body went tense because there was absolutely no way that the man laughing was Sammy Bryant. You took another look, and then another before you finally let your eyes roam over him. 

That was definitely Sammy Bryant, with the same brownish-red hair, the same crooked-toothed smile, the same easy way he carried himself when talking to people. That man was the same man you’d spent years knowing and silently pining after. 

Yet, at the same time, somehow, he wasn’t the same man at all either. 

You stared at him all dressed in his uniform. 

The sight wasn’t that jeering; you knew he’d transferred to patrol almost a year ago. But it was the fact that it fit him differently than his suits ever did. Where his button-up shirts always pushed out across his stomach before disappearing into his pants, the blue fabric ran almost loose and straight down below his utility belt, soft plush around his hips completely gone. His face also looked leaner; jaw more defined every time his neck stretched just slightly. His arms bulged in places that hadn’t before, and instead of fat around his biceps, your eyes traced the distinct muscle lines instead. Even his skin held a darker tint from being outside more, a large comparison to the whiter shade he had while the majority of his time had been spent at a desk. 

In simple terms, he looked absolutely delicious. 

However, that wasn’t what kept your attention. 

Plenty of people lost weight; plenty of people changed how they looked; plenty of people seemed to be happier after a big change. 

The thing that nearly knocked the breath out of you was how happy he looked. 

Long gone was the crease that you used to trace when it showed between his brows. His shoulders weren’t hunched. His smile actually reached his eyes. Even standing under the hotter-than-hell sun in a patrol uniform dealing with a tedious call, he somehow looked mentally lighter than you’d ever seen him, like somebody had finally removed a weight he’d been carrying for years. 

“And then, I told him to drop the gun, and you know what he did? He fell to the ground and then dropped it,” Sammy’s voice boomed through the small group, earning a few chuckles from his fellow officers. 

“Hey, Bryant, you gotta bomb ass snack detective staring at you,” one of them said. “Did you get a girlfriend and forget to tell us?” 

Sammy’s brow pinched in confusion, and his head snapped over in your direction. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough to look away in time and continued to stare right at him. For a split second, you wondered if he’d pretend to not notice and go back to joshing with his friend. But then, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

He said your name so loudly and genuine that your heart literally fluttered. “Hey!” 

He excused himself from the group without hesitation and started toward you; the officers sent out a few cat calls and jumbled garbage, but Sammy looked like a man on a mission. The closer he got, the more your cheeks flushed under his sunglasses-covered eyes. 

The patrol uniform should not have been doing whatever it was doing. His sleeves were tight around his biceps. His radio rested against his shoulder and wavered with every step. His hand—left hand you noted was missing a silver band—reached up and tugged the sunglasses off his face and tucked them in a slat between buttons. 

Above all, your brain stopped functioning when Sammy stopped in front of you, arms raising like he wanted to bring you in for a hug before dropping back down to his thighs. 

“I didn’t know you’d been called,” he said, grin still wide as ever. “Thought this’d be handed off to Gil or Ben.” 

When you failed to say anything, still staring up at him with intense eyes that made him want to melt, his smile dropped a bit. “You okay? Did someone say anything to you?” His eyes glanced over toward the group. “Those guys were just joking—” 

“Bryant.” 

He blinked rapidly. “Yes?” 

You raked your eyes over him for good measure. “When did you get so fucking hot?” 

As the world slowed down around you, for one second you seriously considered throwing yourself into traffic during busy hour. An officer who had hear chocked on his coffee. When Sammy seemed stunned before he burst out laughing. His head dropped back, and the noise was loud enough to draw attention from half the squad nearby. 

“That’s one way to say hello,” he snickered. 

You shoved weakly at his shoulder, briefly feeling the tight muscle underneath. “Just wasn’t expecting Sammy Bryant turned Adonis. I’m guessing patrol has been good to you?”

He smiled shyly. “Just doin’ what you told me to. Did a lot of changing before I found something that stuck.” 

“I’m glad,” you breathed through a wide smile. “You look good, Sammy.” 

He tisked and shook his head. “I think I recall you saying hot specifically?” 

“I think you recall incorrectly, officer. Maybe need to get your hearing checked if you want to continue field work.” 

From behind you, someone shouted your name, causing you to turn away from Sammy for a split second. Your partner waved you over with a head tilt toward the body on the ground. You held up your pointer before looking back at Sammy. 

“Duty calls, I guess,” you muttered. “But it was good to see you.” 

You took one step back before Sammy’s hand jutted out and caught your forearm between his large fingers. He had a nervous look on his face, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“We both have work, but uh, would you want to argue over what you called me during dinner?” 

Your head bobbed before you could stop it. “Hope your phone still has my number. Call me when you’re off shift.” 

A blush crept up his neck. “I will.” 

“Then I will see you very soon, Officer Bryant.” 

Sammy couldn’t help but laugh softly as you sauntered away, hips swaying under your dress pants that—in his opinion—hugged your figure in the best ways. When he turned back toward his buddies, the whole lot hooting and hollering at him, he couldn’t wipe away the smile that spanned his face entirely. 

He’d missed you during this season of finding himself, your words always ringing in his ears as he stopped arguing, as he signed the divorce papers, as he chose to leave detective work and join patrol, as he walked over to say hi after not seeing you for close to a year, and finally as you blurted you thought he was hot even if you denied it right after. 

Sammy missed out on a lot of things, but this time, he wasn’t going to miss out on you.

_______________________

“Fuck, Sammy,” you whined as his lips pressed deeply into your neck. 

Dinner had been a wonderful ordeal; almost right out of a dream you’d almost given up on. Sammy had picked you up, brought you flowers, paid for the meal, and offered to walk you back up to your door. 

Which, in hindsight, you should have known it wouldn’t take long for you to invite him inside or even longer for him to crowd you into the nearest wall and have his way with you. 

Your fingers shook as they unbuttoned his shirt one by one before they tentatively grazed across his now-visible abs. The sound you pulled from his lips—a small whimper—made you crave him even more. While you were busy mapping his body under your palms, Sammy was busy attacking your jaw and neck, tongue lapping to taste your perfume you’d sprayed hours earlier. 

“Do you wanna give up and say that you think I’m hot now?” he teased in a hot breath. “Or should I cuff you and get my confession that way? Would you like that? Couldn’t ever do this when I was a detective.” He groaned loudly when your hands squeezed his pecks. “Didn’t imagine I could have you like this.” 

The idea of him placing the cold, metal bracelets around your wrists shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did, but just thinking of Sammy that way had you tightening your legs around his hips. 

Drunk on the feeling of him, you couldn’t help the next sentence that flowed from your loose lips as your head thunked against the wall. 

“Could have,” you panted. “Wanted you even back then, but you were married, and I’m not a homewrecker. Always thought you were handsome, Sammy.” 

He froze against you; his face tucked into your shoulder. You took the moment to lower yourself back down to the floor and place your hands on his face, fingers gently pulling him away so you could look into his confused eyes. 

“What?” he asked. “What do you mean you wanted me back then.” 

You licked your lips. “Sammy, you were happy, and I—” 

“I wasn’t happy,” he interrupted. “Far from it. Only fucking time I was happy was when I got to see you at work, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes fell down to your shoes. “Sammy.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours. “Thought about you all the time,” he whispered. “You were always there. Been kicking myself for letting you slip through my fingers. I really thought that when I could get in shape and get in a better place, I could have you; I could deserve you.” 

That had you looking back up at him with a frown. “No, Sammy, no.” Your hands dragged down his front and settled under the flaps of his shirt against his warm skin. “That’s not—that was never it. I was never going to overstep, but Sammy, please understand it took everything against myself to not jump you in the bullpen.” 

In that moment, a wave of humiliation washed through you, but Sammy looked absolutely delighted at your confession. He dipped back down and pressed his lips back against yours. You quickly reciprocated it and opened your lips to let his tongue dive into your mouth. Air was sadly a necessity, causing you to pull back panting. 

“So,” you gasped. “You said something about handcuffs.” 

Sammy smirked wildly, and in the next moment, you were squealing as he hoisted you over his shoulder, stalking to your bedroom with intent. 

Time for naked twister you reasoned. The plot thickens.