welcome to the pleasuredome

"What's up?" you ask quietly before taking a bite out of your less than healthy snack. But after the day's whole back-to-the-Stone-Age fiasco, you can use the pick-me-up.

"I'm sorry that I'm asking so last minute, but I wasn't entirely sure about whether I'd be taking off tonight..." Robby shakes his head, then lifts his chin to meet your awaiting gaze. "I'd like for you to housesit for me while I'm away. If it wouldn't be an imposition."

You swallow a chocolatey bite rather thickly and run your thumbs nervously over smooth plastic wrapper. "Oh."

He tilts his head slightly. "Oh?"

"Sorry," you bleat suddenly. "You've just taken me by surprise, I guess. Would you not rather Abbot look after it for you? Or Noelle?"

His jaw feathers. "Abbot's got enough going on; wouldn't wanna put another thing on his plate. I want you to. I'm comfortable with my choice."

Robby doesn't bother acknowledging your Noelle comment. He scarcely managed to retain his focus when she came down earlier to talk to him—his sole concern being the act of catching up to you before the night was through and you headed home for the evening.

He couldn't lose this chance.

It would've been preferable for him to have asked this some weeks ago so you could make timely preparations to fulfill his request, but you suppose looking in on his abode every other day won't really be putting you out. You'll just swing by after work three or four times a week to ensure all is well before heading home. "Yeah, I can do that. It's no problem," you comply, coupled with a reassuring nod.

Robby sighs a breath of relief.

Settling a warm, heavy hand over your knee, he brushes his thumb over the cap of it. "Thank you. You're taking a weight off my shoulders with this."

Placing your half-eaten candy bar atop a loose napkin, you awkwardly pat the back of his hand. "Don't mention it."

Slipping his hand from beneath yours, Robby rests his palm atop the back of it before curling his fingers around the extremity. "You wanna follow me home after?" Overturning your hand, he traces the pad of his thumb along your heart line. "I'll give you a quick tour. Make sure you understand how everything works."

His eyes flit to yours in wait.

You smile. "Sounds good to me."

He isn't acting right... But he hasn't been for some time now. You and Jack have spoken about it, but only minimally since he didn't exactly seem too keen on acknowledging that his best friend is clearly going through a dire mental health crisis right now... Like he doesn't live in denial of his own problems.

He calls taking a bullet through the shoulder coping. You call it dancing with death.

When you saw the two of them speaking, followed by a tender embrace in one of the trauma bays not but a couple of hours ago, you had hoped that whatever Jack said to Robby finally managed to get through to him—that it would serve to halt his self-destructive plans—but with the pair of you now standing just outside his bedroom, with his back turned to the foyer, which leads to a front door he still means to walk out of, you fear that that isn't the case at all.

"When do you think you'll be back?" you ask quietly.

Robby swallows thickly and tightens the fist shoved in his pocket; the only thing left to keep him grounded. Because if he removes it—touches you the way he's always meant to—he'll never make it to the Badlands.

And then you'll be stuck.

Clearing his throat, he shrugs slumped shoulders. "Not sure yet. Awhile."

Rocking forward onto the balls of your feet, you nod halfheartedly. "Are you sure you've got everything? Long trip, just wanna make sure you're prepared for it."

The corner of his lip twitches. Always looking out for him. Always. It's no wonder as to how he fell so completely in love with you.

You've always been so selfless; loving; kind; purehearted.

"Think so. I've got my wallet if not. Buy it on the road if need be." Speaking of— Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a leather billfold and slips a rarely used credit card from it which he extends to you with slightly trembling fingers.

Don't let her see how scared I am to leave her behind.

"Incase anything goes out while I'm away and needs replaced. Just... Never know."

When your fingertips brush against his, he bites back a wince.

Pulling the small plastic card back to you, you study the Mastercard logo printed in the bottom corner before tucking it into your scrub pocket. "Ok, thank you. I'll put in my own wallet for safekeeping until you get back."

Glancing to the darkened bedroom, he blinks back brimming tears. "Use it for anything you need. Doesn't have to just be for an emergency here. I, uh—" he coughs to cover the sob crawling its way up his constricting throat. "I have no problem with—with knowing I'm helping to take care of you. Since you're doing this for me in return."

You don't bother arguing. You'd never dream of using his money, or anyone else's for that matter, on frivolous things like nail polish or iced coffee. It's his savings and should be used strictly on himself, or his belongings and home. "I appreciate that, Robby."

Dropping his chin to his chest, Robby tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoody and sniffles quietly. "Guess that's it then."

Your heart now hammering, you search your mind in a panic for an excuse to keep him here overnight. If he insists on leaving, fine, but why can't it at least wait until morning? During daylight, and after he's gotten a few hours of shuteye.

"Could always wait until tomorrow," you suggest cautiously. "Three months is plenty of time for a road trip. No reason you have to leave right this second. It's not like you're going to miss anything, Buffalo Jump isn't going anywhere."

His brows knit together. You're... You're asking him to stay? Now? After all this time?

Robby lifts his head, leaving his glassy eyes to flit between yours he's so many times over welcomely lost himself within the warm depths of.

Then again, until today, he was managing to hold himself together rather well. Or, he was able to portray himself as being such, anyway: relatively maintained and functional. Even if it was with liquid glue and cheap duct tape.

He swallows down the lump in his throat. "Do you want me to stay?"

Resting a steady palm atop his jacketed forearm, you give the limb a slight squeeze. "I think it'd be better to wait until morning, yeah."

All it takes is a brush of your shoulder against his in the ED, and his old knees nearly buckle beneath him every time contact is made between you. Now here you stand holding him to the Earth. You can't really expect him to tell you no in anything when you've got him like this, can you?

You're the only weakness he's got left.

Everything else he cares about just... Doesn't seem quite so important—pertinent, even—in this moment. Or as of late in general. Shaking his head, he exhales through his nose and a pained smile flashes across his features. "That's not what I'm asking."

You remain quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Do you want me to stay?" he repeats.

You fail to understand why what you do or don't want matters to him insofar as the next choice he makes, but if it stays his hand just for tonight, then... "Yes. I want you to stay."

His world tilts on its axis, and in an instant, Robby sees clearly for the first time in years. Sees... That his missing piece has been right here in front of him the whole time. Had he not been so blind, so selfish, so self-centered, then all this pain and sorrow could've been prevented.

Not even his own, but yours from keeping the two of you apart the way he has. How could he have ever thought it was the better choice when your soul has been screaming for his own every fucking day in need; its other half?

"I'm so sorry, baby," he rasps before advancing on you.

Cradling your face between calloused palms, Robby handles you with utter gentility—like fine China—before pressing his lips to yours.

When your back bumps against the wall, you stare at his closed eyes with open ones of utter shock. He's kissing you. Robby—your superior and attending—is kissing you. Full-on, open-mouthed, passionately-searching-tongue kissing you. Was this some spur of the moment decision, or...? Why did he apologize before? Because he knows it's wrong, or some other reason you'll have to figure out later?

"I've waited for so long," Robby sighs—his warm breath that smells of peppermint fanning across the bridge of your nose, all the way to your cheeks. "No one else could ever compare to you."

Nipping his way down your chin, Robby peppers your neck in hot, wet kisses before trailing the speared tip of his tongue along your clavicle. Gripping the curve of your hips in either of his large hands, he pulls your rigid body flush against his own of sturdiness and languid warmth before continuing. "You set such impossibly high standards for me, sweetheart."

Easing a palm past the hem of your top, he circles around to your back and unclasps your bra in one fluid motion. "God," he groans against the swell of your breast which his coarse beard scratches against, leaving a feel of hot, crackling embers in its wake. "I can't believe this is finally happening between us."

Swiftly taking your hand in his, he guides you along into the bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind the pair of you, you're barely granted a moment to catch your breath—or your mind that's racing away from you, for that matter—before he shrugs off his hoody, followed by tugging off his scrub top and long-sleeve shirt under it, leaving them forgotten on the floor next to his socked feet.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Bare-chested, he's so much more this way.

Nearly stumbling over your own two feet while the thing between your legs takes the driver's seat, you stagger forward and back into his arms. Lifting each of your hands, you settle damp palms atop soft pecs smattered with thick, dark curls of hair. Sliding lower, you swallow down pooling saliva and carefully knead your fingers against the overhang of his gut. "Robby," you sigh, suddenly unsure of yourself—what the two of you are even doing here.

Cupping the base of your scalp, he tilts your head back. "Michael." He brushes a thumb over your bottom lip. "You're the only one I'll let call me that."

You pop open the button at the top of his Carhartts. "Michael," you utter; just to see how the foreign name tastes upon your tongue. Foreign, because you've never used it before. Not for him.

A watery laugh breaks past his lips. "Say that again."

Muttering the name while he carefully traces the bend of your cupid's bow with each of his thumbs, his crow's feet wrinkle when a smile bends his own lips upwards.

When he presses them to yours a second time, you welcome it. Opening your mouth with his own, he continues holding fast to you while his opposite hand works eagerly at his zipper as if he can't get inside of you fast enough.

He's so afraid that this is all just a dream and he'll wake up like he has a hundred times before, full of disappointment and acheful longing.

Clutching at wide shoulders, you card your fingers in unkempt hair and hold fast to the man before you.

Shoving his pants down his thighs until they finally pool around his ankles, Robby kicks them to the side along with the rest of his clothing and palms his developing erection over his briefs before guiding you back toward the bed.

When the backs of your knees knock against the edge of a king-sized mattress, reality bleeds sharply back into focus—slicing through the dark of Robby's disorderly bedroom like a flash of silver lightening.

What the hell are you doing?

Pulling at the tidy bow on the front of your pants with a frustrated grunt, Robby shoves the garment down to your ankles before practically yanking your top off over your head. Sliding your bra down your arms, he leaves it forgotten on the plush rug you stand atop before maneuvering his hand into your panties and circling your swollen clit with the pad of his middle finger.

Cursing quietly, he eases the digit between your fluttering walls. Curling it upward, you gasp quietly and he dips his head to suck a taught nipple into his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, he slips a second finger inside before lapping at your breast and tracing your areola with the pad of his salivating tongue. "So perfect," he mutters. "For me. You always have been."

With a palm flat against the small of your back, Robby guides you slowly onto his bed. Falling back against it with a soft bounce, you watch him from between spread, quivering legs. With bated breath caught within your lungs, he encourages briefs that're now saturated with drops of precum past strong thighs, thus revealing the thick length of his veiny erection, complete with a healthy tuft of hair resting above the swollen shaft.

You've never seen such a masculine specimen in all your young life.

Fisting himself in his hand, his chest heaves with deep breaths of barely contained excitement.

Gripping your left knee, he slides his hand up your thigh and his chin wobbles. "You have no idea how long I've waited for you, sweetheart."

Nodding toward the headboard, Robby grants you instruction with affectionate, unguarded eyes. "Scoot back for me, baby."

Shoving against a mess of dark blue sheets and a wrinkled comforter that smells of his woodsy cologne—musky, with hints of sharp cedar—your head falls back against a pile of fluffy pillows, leaving you wholly at his mercy.

"Jesus Christ." Following the curve of your waist with his free hand, Robby licks his lips before dragging the bottom one between his teeth. "Better than I imagined."

Cupping your cheek, he brushes his thumb over your glistening lips. "I need to know what you taste like. I've wanted to so many times..." he huffs a laugh. "This almost doesn't seem real."

Slightly lifting your hips in response while he tugs off your panties with fingers hooked over the waistband, you remain quiet in response.

Lying down at the foot of the bed, Robby alternates between your right and left inner thighs—planting messy kisses upon each while slowly working his way closer and closer to the pot of honey that lies between. "You don't understand what you mean to me," he whispers. Dragging his index finger between your slick folds, he admires the color of you; the shape; the scent.

His, his, his.

Finally.

Dipping his head, he swipes an enthusiastic tongue through your slit. When your back arches off the bed, he dives deeper. Working at your perfect nub with careful nibbles, he wraps one arm around your thigh to keep you steady while his other goes searching for yours. Once he makes contact with a hand that has sheets tightly twisted within it, he pulls the fabric from your grip before repositioning it in his hair.

When your fingers tremble against his scalp, he moans wantonly against your opening. "S'fuckin' long," he drawls. Swirling his tongue along your labia, he drinks up your plentiful juices as if it's the finest wine.

If he could fucking bottle and drink you, he would.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tangle your fingers in his soft hair and sink your nails into his scalp. When your hips buck before long, he withdraws.

You open your mouth to protest, but words fall away when he settles his weight atop you.

"Rob—"

Swiping his swollen tip against your engorged entrance, Robby lifts your leg over his hip and onto his back before sinking inside with painstaking tenderness.

You didn't get a chance ask him about protection.

He never wanted anything between the two of you. Not here. Not like this. Not ever.

You've never had unprotected sex before. You didn't mean to.

Robby can't believe how easily your bodies work in tandem—how you seem able to match his every move with no effort even needing to be applied. How you both want the exact same things.

Inch by inch, he eases between your thighs, cursing quietly at how well you're taking him. Nevertheless, he pauses once he's bottomed out to grant you a moment to adjust. But it hardly seems necessary—it's like you were made to fit him. Perfectly.

"I didn't believe in soulmates until you," he mumbles into the hollow of your neck.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye. This isn't the Robby you know who's always collected and able. The chief who all others look to for certainty and guidance.

Who... Always has his mind about him.

Rocking his hips against yours, Robby knocks your knee to the side before settling into a steady, pleasant rhythm. His hand moves up your arm that's thrown over a pillow above your head to twine your fingers together. Kissing you again with firm resolve, his tongue slides along the twist of yours, followed by diving deeper until you're both lost in a land of breathless passion.

Resting his forehead against yours, a tear slides down his cheek and dribbles onto yours. "Fifty-five years was more than worth the wait for you, sweetheart."

Puckered lips are pressed to your flushed cheek. "I'm sorry I wasted all those years that we otherwise could've spent together. I was just scared."

You want to ask him to slow down—it's too much at once—all the touching and kissing and confessions, but every time you think you've gathered the courage, he speaks again.

"Thank you for waiting for me so patiently." Circling his hips, your jaw falls open and you moan into his freckled shoulder.

"I love you," utters Robby. "The only woman I ever have. The others were just..."

"R-Robby—"

Caressing your chin, he tilts your head to the side until you're looking into his eyes. "Michael, sweetheart. Please. It's okay, I want you to."

Cupping his cheek that's wet with tears, you swallow down the protestations you meant to speak aloud. "Michael."

His cock squelches from how aroused you've become. With each plunge of his member that's so completely filled you, you find your orgasm growing closer.

"What is it, honey?" he swallows thickly; nervously. He needs to set your assumptions straight. "I want you to know that when I was with them—" he kisses the tip of your nose. "There was only one face I saw."

You shake your head—not wanting to hear this—then tug his lips back down to your own with fingers submerged in his beard. "Close," you whisper into his open mouth.

"Please," Robby begs quietly; his shoulder blades shifting from behind aged, tanned skin as he works at your body. "Tell me the same."

Your lashes flutter as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. "Wha—"

"I love you," he repeats.

But you don't. Not like that. Maybe as a friend, or—

"I love you," he presses. When your walls squeeze around him, he knows you feel the same. Your body can't lie; refuses to. Taking your hand again, he presses it overtop of his thundering heart. "Have since we first met. You're my other half, I know it now."

"I—"

He nods reassuringly, just once. Slowly, gently. "I'm right here, angel."

Just do it. "I love you."

Suddenly, his face crumples and he breaks into a fit of unexpected sobs. Burying himself between your breasts, Robby shudders and his heavy belly heaves as broken sobs wrack through his body.

Unsure of what else to do, you cradle the back of his head and quietly shoosh him.

This is well above your paygrade.

"I-It's okay, R—" you sigh, then start again. "You're safe, Michael. It's alright."

"Fuck." Nuzzling closer, Robby drags the bridge of his nose along your hammering carotid. "She left. I was just a kid."

Your brows bow together in confusion.

"But not you," he continues breathlessly with a suddenly stirring cock. "You're too maternal."

Moving your hand to the middle of his back, you begin considering how the hell you're going to get him off of you.

"Michael—"

"I know. We're both so close." He lifts his head, cups your cheek, and crushes his lips to yours. Snapping his hips, Robby grinds his pelvis against your own. "Come with me, baby."

Each time his pubic hair brushes against your exposed, sensitive clit, you've been curling your toes and tightening your muscles in preparation of an orgasm... Until he talks again.

Slinging your arms over his shoulders, you push his head down to your lips to keep his mouth otherwise occupied.

Racing toward your shared finished with gyrating hips and breathless abandon, only the sound of slapping skin, Robby's occasional cries, and a quietly knocking headboard interrupt an unreal silence you had never thought you would find yourself within.

Tossing your head back, a pretty whimper crawls past your lips before bubbling into existence.

Smoothing a hand across your brow, Robby watches with wide, vulnerable eyes as you come undone in his bed, his arms, his home, against his body while a part of him is buried inside you.

It's too much.

His dream come true.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans from behind clenched teeth. His cock twitches and spurts, releasing hot cum inside of you.

God, let it take hold. Let me have her forever; give us a family. She deserves that.

Robby tremulates and his breath grows ragged. Collapsing atop you in a heap of sweaty limbs once he's emptied himself, he says it over and over again until it's a garbled mess that bleeds together—Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou.

Clenching your jaw to keep from bawling due to a sense of panic, you shut your eyes and wait. For him to stop, or let you leave, or fall asleep, you... You don't know. He shouldn't be alone like this, though.

Curling an arm around your waist, in one smooth movement, Robby has turned you onto your side. When his cock slips out of you, cum dribbles out and over your thigh.

When he sucks a nipple into his mouth, your initial response is to assume that he's trying to make himself ready again... Until he starts to suckle.

Is he... Does he have a—a fetish?

Maybe—

"Can you rub my head, sweetheart?"

When you tilt your chin to study him, you find that his face has gone soft and his eyes droop sleepily.

"Relaxes me," he explains. "I'm fucking exhausted after today." Kissing your breast, he licks your opposite nipple. "Be nice to fall asleep in your arms."

Draping an arm around his shoulders, you slide your dominant hand into his hair and do as requested, and he promptly begins to favor your other nipple.

"Promise you'll stay," he mutters between wet, contented sucks.

You rest your cheek against the top of his head. Even if you wanted to leave, you're far too beat to feel safe behind the wheel. "Promise."

He hums happily.

It isn't even a handful of minutes later before quiet snores rumble through Robby's chest and past his parted lips. Staring at the window across the room clad with blackout curtains, you blink back pooling tears, unaware that the dying smartphone in your bag has an awaiting text from Jack.

Trailing your eyes along the generous swell of his stretch mark-laden belly—which you painted a slick trail along just a couple of hours ago with your fluttering cunt—you lick your lips at the sight and consider the prospect of sacrificing a few extra hours of sleep in exchange for another mind-bending orgasm.

Then again, Robby's been wanting to take things a bit slower the last few times you've been in bed together. A fact which is beginning to make you feel the least bit antsy for the favor of being fucked deep and hard into the mattress like he used to only a month ago.

Maybe it's too much on his back.

"And we agreed nothing long-term," he states.

Lifting your head, his brown eyes flit between yours.

"We did," you respond in agreement. Not that two months is really that to you, but you suppose everyone has their own metric by which they measure time by.

"Maybe tonight we, uh..." he sighs and scrubs a hand down his face; over the coarse brown and silver trimmings of his beard. "We quit while we're ahead."

You deflate. So much for another orgasm...

You're pretty sure you have fresh batteries in the junk drawer at home, though. A vibrator and Twitter porn will have to do just as well for tonight, you suppose.

"Alright!" you chirp with a gentle smile. "See you at work tomorrow, Robby."

Turning back to the door, you press the handle down with a swift click, leaving him standing alone at the threshold.

Watching as you toss your things into the passenger seat of your vehicle before climbing into the driver's side and peeling out of his driveway—some unfamiliar pop tune blaring from your radio as you rumble away—Robby finds himself at a loss for words.

When he pushes the front door closed, an unsatisfied feeling settles deep into his chest at just how well you took things. "Alright!"

That's it? That's all he gets?

No "Oh, are you sure?" Or "Did I do something wrong?" Not even a single tear shimmered in your fiery eyes in disappointment. Nope, just "Alright!"

Quietly grumbling to himself in discontentment, Robby pads back to the bedroom and slams the door shut before wrenching soiled sheets from the bed with a curse.

Where Robby would typically keep you close to his side like you're glued to it, he's instead kept you at arm's-length all day. Including when you were treating a case of anaphylactic shock together somewhere in the afternoon, during which he hardly glanced twice in your direction. It wasn't for a lack of wanting to, though—like a damn itch he needs to scratch—but Robby knows that if he does, it'll only lead to an open wound he won't have the first clue as to how to get closed again.

So as a distraction, he buries himself in work—as per his usual unhealthily avoidant coping mechanism—while the hours flit by and the sun begins to wane outside before finally dipping behind towering buildings, much like the hand of a clock, signaling that it's time to head home.

Your mouth waters at the scent of something meaty and delicious. "C'mon, Abbot," you whine. Hefting your backpack onto your shoulders, you turn to face him. "At least take it into the employee lounge so I'm not subjected to it."

Lips lined with silver stubble curve into a grin. "Maybe psychological torture was the point, kiddo."

Rolling your eyes sarcastically, you press your locker shut and study the logo on the side of the bag he's about to set inside his own. "Really? Applebee's? You know it's one of my favorites."

Swinging his head in your direction, he reaches into the oversized brown paper bag and produces a tempting container of Bavarian-style soft pretzels.

You take a step forward—your eyes now the size of saucers—and half think to reach greedily for it while chanting the mantra of gimme, gimme, gimme, but refrain.

Extending it toward you, Jack presses the to-go box to your chest. "Go on."

You keep your hands at your sides and swallow down pooling saliva. "No, I can't take your—"

"Got 'em for you," he explains. "Those," he grunts before diving deeper. "And this."

When a cheeseburger appears, you smile and squeal excitedly. "You're sure?"

He chuckles. "I am. Got myself a steak and a side of green beans. Figured you'd be starving by the time I got here."

Gently taking both containers, you clutch them to your chest with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Jack. You really didn't need to..." You throw a look over your shoulder—to your backpack which your wallet lies inside a zipped compartment of. "How much do I owe you?"

He blows a raspberry. "You know better than that. Just eat and enjoy."

Bounding onto your tiptoes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek before turning to head out. Sooner you get home, the sooner you can dig in.

Only once you're well out of sight does Robby round the corner of the wall he was previously hiding behind. "Dinner, huh?"

Closing his go bag securely away, Jack turns to Robby. "Just something quick and easy for her. It's only food, Mike."

Tucking his hands away into the soft pockets of his hoody, Robby shrugs. "No, it's fine. We're, uh..." he huffs a humorless laugh. "It's done. As of last night. Called things quits."

Jack raises a brow of surprise. Though, he can't really say he's shocked. He's been counting down the days, and this one came right on time.

He doesn't need to ask whose decision it was.

"She seemed okay to me. Didn't take it too hard, then?" he questions, folding his arms behind him—the paper bag knocking against his calves when he does so.

Robby nods with raised brows. "Yeah. No, she's been good today. Hasn't brought it up at all."

Somewhat to his chagrin...

Jack purses his lips and nods. "Good to hear."

And even better to know.

Slapping a hand over Robby's shoulder, Jack heads in the direction of the employee lounge so he can get to work on downing his own dinner before nightshift starts. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah," is Robby's simple one-word reply.

He frowns at the seemingly renewed pep in Abbot's step that's been missing since Robby took you into his bed.

He knew the vet was displeased when Robby made you his next person of interest—in terms of sexual partners—just two months ago, but he backed off and kept his distance out of respect, which the daytime attending appreciated. Now, however... It's dinner tonight and probably breakfast with a damn Tiffany necklace to accompany tomorrow.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Robby considers venturing upstairs to see if Noelle is still around, but ultimately opts against it—refusing to acknowledge that it's because there's only one woman he wants coming home with him right now so he can get a straightforward physical release.

Whatever.

Time will do its thing like always, and he'll be onto the next one before long with you left far in the rearview.

Not that he's ever been much of a fan of the genre, but as Robby listens to the obnoxious sound of bombastic pop music drifting through your rolled-up car window, he grits his teeth.

Whatever happened to Heart, Pat Benatar, or Bonnie Tyler? Not this modern shit that sounds like a damn car accident. And first thing in the morning? Clearly no consideration for others and the prospect of giving them a damn splitting headache all before 7 o'clock. And of course you're singing along with a radiant smile.

Rolling his eyes toward the bruised purple sky, Robby groans a guttural growl of irritation before turning in the direction of the hospital on a booted heel.

"Morning, honey," Jack greets quietly, with a pleasant smile that causes his crow's feet to wrinkle charmingly around his eyes.

Gripping either end of your stethoscope, you turn to meet him. "Hey there."

When something crinkles behind him, your lips tilt into a smirk. "What might that be?"

He shrugs playfully. "Have no idea what you're talking about."

Leaning all your weight onto one foot, you attempt to glimpse whatever he's hiding by leaning heavily to the side, but your plans are foiled when he turns to shield it from your view.

"Oh, I definitely smell food again," you mumble before jumping in an attempt to round on him, but Jack's reflexes are faster when he presses his back to the lockers.

Throwing your head back in frustration, you moan and he chuckles in response. "You really want it?"

Dropping your chin, you bob your head. "Pleeease," you drawl while batting your lashes.

Jack removes one of his arms from behind his back and taps his cheek with an index finger, indicating the required payment. You sigh, but with a cheeky grin to accompany before you step forward and press a lingering kiss to weathered skin that smells sharply of minty aftershave.

A paper bag is then pressed to your belly which you don't waste a moment in tearing into.

"Breakfast burrito," Jack states as your hand wraps around the warm wrapper it's encased in.

Pulling it free, you get to work on peeling damp paper away from the provided meal. "Thank you," you say with quiet appreciation. "You really don't need to do things like this for me, though. I don't want you going out of your way, okay?"

He raises a shoulder. "I Doordashed something for myself a little bit ago. Thought why not, since I knew you were coming in."

Biting into scrambled egg and cheese, you chew thoughtfully for a moment. "This was sweet of you, Jack."

Reaching forward, he runs a calloused palm down your arm. "Don't mention it, kiddo." Clearing his throat, he slips his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. "So, I heard that you and Ro—"

"Bring anything for your best friend?"

Jack clenches his jaw when Robby starts down the hall the two of you did have all to yourselves only a moment ago. "No. Sorry, brother. Tomorrow?"

Robby slides his arms around your shoulders, then tugs you back against his chest as you stare at Jack with wide eyes of confusion. "Gimme a bite, baby," Robby mutters.

"I got it for her," Jack deadpans displeasingly.

Robby snorts. "It's alright. We've shared way more than saliva."

Were Jack not already leaned against something solid, he'd be stumbling back in shocked response to his friend's distasteful candor. He's garnered quite the reputation around the hospital over the years, but has always remained anything but forthcoming when it comes to discussions of his female companions, even with him. So this is an unexpected change in character, to say the least.

Holding the burrito up above your shoulder while keeping your eyes on Jack with a regretful look painted across their irises, Robby dips his head and takes a hearty bite before leaning back and chewing. "'S good," he grunts before swallowing. "Thank you, sweetheart," he finishes with a peck atop your head. "Once you finish up, come find me. I want your help on this first case."

You nod. "Okay."

Robby's palm lingers against your hip momentarily before he reluctantly steps away, leaving you and Jack in each other's sole company again.

Stepping forward, Abbot crosses his arms defensively. "Did the two of you—"

You fervently shake your head before he can even finish that question. "No. Night before last he ended things. You're as taken aback as I am."

A frown tugs at his lips. "I thought it was just..." he swipes the heel of his palm awkwardly across his cheek. "Sex."

"It was," you confirm with a nod. "Just... Physical, carnal release." Your cheeks heat. "We both understood at the beginning and all the way through that it would never be anything more. I was happy with that arrangement."

"So you don't think he's having second thoughts? That that wasn't plain as day jealousy just now?"

You take another bite of your burrito, wanting to finish it before it gets cold. "I think he can have boundary issues... At times."

Jack bites back a laugh. "Oh, you think?"

You keep the story of him attempting to go through your locked phone one night when you accidentally fell asleep—instead of going straight home after the two of you got done fucking like you usually did—to yourself. Lucky for him, you'd been far too groggy and out of it to chew him out properly like you otherwise would've, had you been wide awake when it happened.

Or the night maybe a week and a half ago when he got all whiney when you demanded he either run out and pick up a box of condoms or have them delivered to the front door, otherwise you were going home.

He really tried his hand at making you out to be the one who was overreacting while you sat on the edge of the bed, repeatedly telling him go get them, go get them, go get them before he finally threw his hands up in a fit of curse words and stomped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where—big surprise!—he just so happened to find a spare one in the medicine cabinet.

Whatever. It's in the past. The time for friends with benefits is over and you're onto other things. Or... Will be, anyway, when you have the time to figure something out.

Tinder is a rather unappetizing idea, but something about beggars and choosing...

You sigh. "I gotta get to work. But thank you for the food again. I really do appreciate it, Jack."

Cupping the back of your head, he presses an affectionate kiss to the bridge of your nose, earning him a bubbly giggle in response. "You're welcome, honey."

One night I was bored in bed

And stalked you on the internet

Stirring a crumbled granola bar into a cup of creamy yogurt, you swing your hips from side-to-side before licking the tip of the spoon clean.

It's feminine intuition

Park is just headed for the elevators when an attractive feminine form catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Turning back around, he plants himself in the threshold of the ED's employee lounge with crossed arms while an amused smirk crawls across thin lips.

'Cause I always had a vision of us standing like this

All pressed up in the bathroom line

Swallowing a bite of your stirred snack, you turn to the sink where a roll of paper towels rest, then promptly stumble back with a hand planted over your pounding heart when you see that you're being watched by a pair of unfamiliar eyes.

Yanking your headphones down to your neck, you set your food on the countertop and exhale a ragged breath. "God, you scared me."

A plucked brow merely twitches in response.

"Were you just... Standing there watching me?"

Leaning a muscular shoulder against the doorframe, Park trails his eyes from your tennis shoes that're adorned with floral blooms sprouting from the stitching to your pretty young face. "You always spend your breaks putting on performances like that?"

You blink dumbly. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

He snorts derisively, followed by extending a hand. "Dr. Brendon Park. Orthopedic surgeon," he states with emphasis.

"Uh huh," is your less than enthusiastic reply. "Y/N. Fourth year resident."

His grip is firm—bordering nearly on squeezing—but the contact is over just as soon as it began after one definitive shake is granted. "Might have to spend more time down here if the answer's yes."

Male chauvinist asshole.

You retrieve your yogurt again. "Nice to meet you."

Taking a step forward, you eye the narrowly allotted gap between him and the other side of the doorway, which isn't nearly enough room for you to squeeze through. When he turns, you eagerly step past—the crown of your shoulder brushing against his chest when you do so—before heading in the direction of the ambulance bay so you can finish eating in peace.

Brendon watches you go with eyes trained squarely on your ass.

If this were a cartoon, steam would be blowing from Robby's ears, but you'd never know it from the calm disposition he portrays when he greets the younger doctor. "Park."

He nods to your retreating form. "She single?"

An intrusive image of Brendon's head being shoved through one of the trauma bay's glass walls flits through Robby's mind unwelcomely. "Not sure," he lies. "Think she might've just gotten out of something, but I couldn't tell you a lot about it."

"Was it serious, do you know?" he inquires casually.

Robby grinds his teeth. "You know how the grapevine works—like playing a game of telephone, so take it with a grain of salt—but, yeah, I guess feelings were exchanged."

Even if they were apparently one-sided.

He hums in interest. "Don't always mind a chase. Seems like she might be worth one." Turning, he grants Robby a nod. "Thanks."

The senior attending keeps his mouth firmly shut, watching as Brendon finishes his walk to the elevators while thinking to himself that he has no idea what the hell he's asking for. A chase. He told himself the same damn thing only a couple months ago and look at the position it's put him in.

Once Park is out of sight, Robby goes after you—absolutely fucking fuming when he does.

"What was that about?" barks Robby, now advancing in your direction.

You only somewhat acknowledge him from the brick half-wall you're seated atop—otherwise occupied with mindlessly scrolling through social media while finishing your snack. "Huh?"

Crossing his arms in a humph, he levels you with a glare. "You could do with looking at me when I'm speaking to you."

Locking your mobile device, you lift your head and smile sweetly. "Sorry, Rob. What was what about?"

Somehow, the oblivious expression painted across your glowing features only serves to further light a fire under his ass. "The exchange between you and Park," he spits.

You shrug. "I was mixing up my yogurt. He was watching me."

He glowers from beneath heavy brows. "Watching you shake your ass for the whole of the ED to see, seemed to me."

Your sunny disposition is quickly overcast by a cover of dark, heavy clouds ready to break into a fit of lightening strikes if he keeps pressing the issue. "I didn't ask for an audience," you snip. "I was simply enjoying my music while taking a quick break."

He shakes his head, causing the chain of his gold necklace to glint against the overhead sun. "Well, going forward here at work you could try practicing a little self-respect. It'd go a long way."

Swinging your legs over the edge of the wall, you dig your nails into solid concrete. "Sounds to me like this is beginning to border on some sort of victim-blaming nonsense."

Robby chuckles incredulously. "Victim?" He leans forward onto the balls of his feet. "I'm sorry. Victim of what, exactly?"

"You, apparently," you scoff. "And whatever this conversation is turning into. Which, from your tone and the look on your face, seems to be an argument."

His hackles raise. "Is this you trying to get back at me because I cut things off?"

You choke back a laugh. "Excuse me?" you stare up at him with an open-mouthed smile, sure he can't be serious.

He sneers at your apparent inability to take the matter fucking serious. "Jack, then Park. Seems to me like you're making the rounds."

"First of all," you snap, causing Robby to take a small step back—he never did care for when you got a temper with him; typically preferring to fuck it out of you until you were a contentedly babbling mess coming around his cock with a smile. "I didn't even know who Park was until like two minutes ago when he introduced himself. And I can tell you with the utmost certainty—from that brief interaction alone—that he couldn't be any further from my type. Not that it's any of your business." Standing, you shove your phone into your pocket. "Secondly, Jack and I have always flirted. It's not exactly a well-kept secret."

He raises a brow. Bending at the knees to meet you at eye-level, Robby squints suspiciously. "You don't think that's the least bit cruel? Leading on a widower like that?"

You tuck your hands into your pockets to keep from slapping the smug look off his face. "We did it before you and I, and are clearly continuing the tradition after. It makes the day go by faster and the workday the least bit more bearable."

Which he should know, given the parade of women he's gone through around here.

Standing at full height again, Robby snorts in disbelief. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that he's my best friend?" he questions doubtfully.

You inhale a deep, calming breath. "As I just said, it's something we've done for years, Robby. Years." You quirk your head curiously to the side. "Is there something you'd like to say to me? Or can I enjoy the rest of my yogurt in peace and quiet—the whole reason I came out here to begin with?"

Hands planted firmly on his hips, Robby chews the inside of his cheek until the the metallic taste of blood pools on his tongue. With a roll of his eyes, he turns and heads back inside without another word.

Plopping back down, you scream quietly in the back of your throat before retrieving your now lukewarm snack. Frowning down at a honeybee who's now crawling across a melted chocolate chip, you shoo the creature away before tossing the cup into the trashcan behind you.

Steering clear of Robby for the remainder of your shift, you silently pray that tomorrow will be a brighter day.

Had you known he would behave this way, you never would've carried on with him in the first place. The last thing you want is for the ED to grow into a toxic workplace. Not that it's from a lack of you trying to keep the peace by being a normal, well-adjusted adult who's returned to treating Robby the way you always have—including when the two of you were screwing—but the fact seems to only be setting him off instead of putting him at-ease, as was your intention: that your work relationship remains unchanged, that is.

Absolutely beat by the end of the day, you manage to dip out early—just missing Abbot by ten minutes when he pulls in and you're already on your way home.

It pleases Robby, however, that the pair of you fail to have a chance to talk again tonight.

He wants a resident that he can dote on? He has plenty of them on nightshift. Hell, he can take any from dayshift that he wants if it'll get him to back the hell off of you once more.

Given how tired Robby is this evening, it's for the best, lest he fly into a fit of rage again when he sees Abbot wink at or give you another to-go container.

Sure, it's only been a couple of days, but lack of the utter relief he found daily between your legs and in your mouth—as well as the loss of being able to curl himself around you afterward while talking your damn ear off as he vented endlessly about work as his head rested between your soft breasts and you played with his hair, or when you would straddle his back in just one of his t-shirts while kneading the knots from it—has put him on-edge.

His hand can do in a pinch, but... It isn't soft and warm like you, nor does it quietly whimper as he comes undone in its arms.

Robby thought he wanted—like he always does—to get himself out sooner rather than later, but for the first time, he's regretting it.

At least with Janey, he didn't have to see her every day after he broke things off and shattered not just her heart, but Jake's as well.

A fact he still feels guilty about.

And Noelle... Well, she works on another floor, so contact between them is rare and fleeting. Maybe a nod in the hall or a quick "How are you?" is all he has to concern himself with every once in a blue moon.

But you? Everything that initially drew him in is now getting under his skin like a damn parasitic infection that he can't seem to rid himself of no matter how many measures he takes to do so.

Your easy-going nature and bubbly personality he found sweet. Perfect facets for a short-term fling. Your libido was a hell of a lot higher than his, but it only served to make him feel all the more desired. Now, however, with the rose-tinted glasses halfway removed, he sees that he wasn't quite as special as he first thought. He clearly could've been anyone, as it now turns out.

You just wanted something warm and hard to fill your... Needs.

He operates the way he does—dealing strictly in casual relationships—because it puts him in control. Of the coming and going, the how and why of when it ends... But this instance has thrown him fully off-kilter.

Because you just don't seem to care. In fact, in the ambulance bay, you were coming off as if it bothered you that he did.

Damn brat.

He has half a mind to pile on the work so high you can't even see the top. But that would surely earn him a one-way ticket to HR. Something he begrudgingly acknowledges he'd deserve for such assholish behavior.

With a sigh, he gathers his things, vowing to get his head screwed on straight before he blows his life to pieces all over a piece of ass.

He cringes on his way out for thinking of you like that.

Filing in alongside the afternoon rush, Noelle makes an appearance at the ED's hub, looking for none other than her past flame. She's well-aware that it's none of her concern, but if what she overheard upstairs a handful of days ago was indeed untrue, she'd like to have as much confirmed by the source before she goes correcting other people's ignorantly made statements.

Spotting the man in question standing tall at a computer cart, she heads in Robby's direction with quietly clicking heels.

"Heard from a little birdy that you've been seeing a resident." Crossing slender arms clad in a perfectly pressed suit jacket, she tilts her head to the side, sending silky black hair cascading over a shoulder. "Robby, please tell me that isn't true."

Keeping his eyes on the monitor in front of him, he snickers while the back of his neck warms. They've not spoken in weeks and this is what she presents him with as conversation material? "Alright, it isn't true."

She shakes her head with a disapproving look. "Really? Robby, I thought you were smarter than that."

Assuming a casual stance with hands tucked away into his pockets, he glances past her to where you sit charting but a handful of feet away. "It's not a big deal." Robby looks at Noelle again and shrugs. "It's over now anyway."

"May I ask whom?" she inquires politely.

He can't stop himself from looking at you again. Finally, you lift your head and he doesn't miss a beat. Sliding a hand down Noelle's arm, Robby barks an overly dramatic laugh. "You may, but I don't find myself obliged to answer."

When you greet him with a toothy smile, accompanied by two thumbs up and nod toward Noelle—as if you're encouraging him to make a fucking move—he drops the hand back down to his side with a feeling of defeat swelling up in his chest.

He'd like to carve it out with a scalpel.

Slowly turning her head out of curiosity, Noelle studies you with drawn brows. "Well, I suppose you don't have to now. She's certainly young enough." Returning her attentions to the chief of the ED, she folds her arms coolly behind her. "Are you aware that it's over?"

Now crossing his arms, Robby rocks back on his heels. "I'm sorry?"

Noelle grants him a knowing look. "You can hardly keep your eyes off of her."

Sarcastically rolling them, Robby locks the computer before heading to a patient room that lies behind where you presently sit. "S'cuse me."

Sighing to herself, Noelle debates momentarily before following behind. Stopping in front of the desk you occupy, she slides her forearms atop it and offers you her hand. "I don't think we've had the pleasure. Noelle Hastings."

Your mind whirring into a state of overdrive, you begin thinking of a way to be a good wingman for Robby, but after his actions from yesterday, you find him the least bit undeserving of such kind efforts. Wrapping your hand around hers, you give Noelle a firm shake. "Y/N," you quip with a happy smile.

Folding her manicured hands together, she leans forward. "I hope this doesn't come off as inappropriate... But out of a sense of morbid curiosity, I was wondering if you'd be opposed to sharing notes?"

"Notes?" you ask ignorantly.

"Well..." Noelle's lips tilt into a nearly imperceptible grin, like she's considering whether to go on with finishing her sentence. "Like his apparent inability to sleep without the TV on," she elaborates with a playfully scrunched nose. "Not that I experienced it but maybe twice since he's always so eager to usher you out the door once you're properly dressed. Heaven forbid he partake in a bit of pillow-talk," she says with a chuckle.

Eyes flitting to the room behind you, Noelle continues. "Sleeping with it on in the background was impossible for me." Her attentions return to you then. "He ever tell you why he does it? I mean, I have my theories, but..."

You slide now sweaty palms over the thighs of your scrub pants. Affable as you may be, gossip tends to make your stomach twist uncomfortably when it's presented. You don't enjoy lying, but she'll be none the wiser as to whether you're returning her honesty with the truth.

"I can't attest to it since I never stayed the night. Never could sleep in a bed that wasn't my own," you commentate with a laugh. "Vacations as a kid were a nightmare since hotels scared me."

The reality of it is, is that apart from the night with the phone incident, any other time you slept over was at Robby's behest. He'd stare up at you with these wide, pleading eyes while quietly whispering "please stay" as he clutched tenderly at your hand. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, you almost always agreed, despite it being against your mutually agreed to set of rules.

Once you were lain back in bed with the covers thrown over you, he'd scoop you into his arms and pull himself against the length of your body before burying his face between your breasts and closing his eyes.

Didn't take long after that for him to fall asleep.

She hums pensively. "Certainly is one for privacy, though, right? Couldn't believe how defensive he got the night I went looking in his medicine cabinet for a single bandage."

Is she positive you're both discussing the same man? From nearly week one Robby assured you that nothing was off-limits in his house. Hell, he actually encouraged you to make yourself at home during the handful of times you stopped by on the weekend for a quickie in-between running errands.

Never did take him up on such an offer, though. His space was his and yours was yours. Not that he ever came over.

Speaking of the medicine cabinet specifically, there had been an evening maybe three weeks ago when he told you to look in it while he was busy relieving himself in the toilet beside where you stood at the sink. When you popped it open, you weren't really sure what you were supposed to be looking for, until he nodded at a still packaged toothbrush. "Just incase," he'd remarked with a wink. "Figured you could put it next to mine in the cup there on the counter."

It didn't see much use in the end, though.

You don't know it, but Robby still hasn't tossed it.

Awkwardly clearing your throat, you swivel your mouse and the computer screen bleeds back to life. "I don't mean any offense, Noelle, because it's been nice talking to and meeting someone new, but I don't like to, um... Kiss and tell, for lack of a better term."

If Robby doesn't have as much respect for you, that's on him. You know your character.

"Oh." She leans back. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

You wave your hands in a panic. "Oh, no, you didn't! I guess like anyone, Robby's a complicated man. I can agree on that account, at least."

She smiles. "That he is. Well," she says, now turning on her heel. "I'll let you get back to work then."

He was hurt initially when Noelle started in on disclosing his private behavior—worried it would lessen your opinion of him from wherever it currently stands at—but when you lied in order to shield him and the affection he tried to shower you with... It warmed his heart.

Robby had thought more of her than that. That she was more mature; seasoned when it came to concealing the details of an ex's private life like any middle-aged individual.

He was wrong.

Peeking at you from behind a patterned curtain, Robby's lips tug into a faint smile, appreciative of your discretion. And he hopes...protectiveness over what you had.

Admiring the swell of your backside and the outline of a pair of floral panties from where you're bent over trying to retrieve the Sharpie you dropped, Jesse stretches a rubber band between both of his index fingers before firing.

"Ow!" Clapping a hand over your ass cheek, you about-face and scowl at your offender. "You're such a pain in my ass, Jesse."

He grins. "Literally this time."

Were his glasses not resting on the bridge of his nose, Robby wouldn't have believed his eyes just now. So now it's not just one, or two, but three men that're vying for your fucking attention? Who's next, then? Shen? Mateo? Might as well just form a damn line at this point!

Crumpling a sheet of paper into a ball, you toss it at his head, but sorely miss when he rounds the end of the nurse's station with his head thrown back in a mocking laugh. You're just considering rifling through his desk drawer to steal a snack or a hard to obtain stationary item when your eyes meet with Robby's steely gaze.

With his lips drawn into a taught line and his nostrils flared, you shrink into yourself, like a child ashamed that she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

He shakes his head in disapproval before returning to the tablet propped up against his bent knee.

Throwing yourself down into a cushioned rolling chair, you switch on a computer to finish up your end of the day charting—far too aware of his nearby presence. Such a party-pooper.

Hopping onto your bed, you position the head of your plastic hairbrush above your mouth and belt the lyrics You're looking like an angel on the walls of Versailles as Olivia Rodrigo blares from the bluetooth speaker in the living room.

The most alive I've ever been, you cry while swinging your hips from one side to other, but kiss me and I might drop dead!

Falling onto the mattress, you bounce, then hang your head off the foot of it while kicking your legs excitedly in the air. Pisces and a Gemini, but I think we might go really nice together!

Robby can't sleep. No matter how much he tosses and turns, nor how many times he fluffs the pillow he's holding close to his chest which still smells of you—he'll do laundry this weekend, dammit; he has too much on his plate already to be worried about fucking sheets—rest refuses to find him.

Rolling onto his back, Robby stares up at a dark, lofty ceiling while stewing in anger aimed at none other than himself.

He wants to blame you—has tried to the last few days—but the fault lies solely with him as to his predicament of perpetual bachelorhood. Can he really blame any of the others for being so taken with you? He has been since you were but a doe-eyed med student, so he obviously understands the crushes they're all harboring, even if he wishes otherwise.

Maybe he's kidding himself by thinking the two of you ever had a chance at anything more, had he not broken things off.

When he presented you with the idea of quick, easy sex, you leapt at the opportunity, and it almost unsettled him how easily you went along with the typical set of rules he always keeps in place, so as to retain a healthy amount of metaphorical distance between himself and whoever his chosen sexual partner for the next month or two is.

Perhaps part of him had been secretly hoping you'd object—would complain about how you wanted to snuggle on the couch, hold hands while walking into work, and go on cute little dates to local diners. Instead, it seems he had finally met his match in the detachment department.

You were actually worse than him about it.

Robby wondered at one time if that was what made him pine for your attention before long: because you were trying to play hard to get, which only spurred him on all the more. But no, it's just your personality, apparently.

Makes for good doctoring, at least.

You're not entirely mercurial and free-flowing, though. Anytime he asked you to stay... You would. That was what made him fall, he thinks: the nights he spent curled around you, safe in your arms while he rested peacefully against your breast.

Before you, every night was an hour long battle—if not longer—in terms of getting to sleep. But with you? The sound of your softly thumping heart always sent him dozing off after only a matter of minutes.

He slept like a damn baby where you were concerned.

And there was the way you'd play with his hair when his head would be resting in your lap after a long day as he read aloud to you, or the stupid trivia gameshows the two of you would watch in bed, debating the answers to ridiculous questions before a buzzer proved you both wrong.

Being in your company was just...easy. It didn't give him anxiety about the future or instill him with fear of the unknown. For once, he was finally able to live in the moment.

And no, he didn't require the TV to be on while he slept next to you because being wrapped in your arms equaled a quiet head. You're quite the contradiction yourself, speaking of. A free spirit with a nurturing side.

Sighing, Robby yanks his phone off the nightstand and dials.

He lets it ring damn near a dozen times before finally ending the call—his head now swimming with visions of Park pounding away inside of you, or Jesse fondling your ass while your own intimate escapades become long forgotten as he's replaced with another younger model.

Blinking wet lashes, Robby sets his jaw and sniffles quietly. He supposes this is what he deserves: a taste of his own medicine for once.

Was only a matter of time before karma came knocking.

With the shower now heating up in the bathroom, you plunk down in the middle of your bed and begin scrolling through unread notifications. When you see a missed called from Robby, your heart lurches.

Uh oh, is something happening at the hospital? He didn't leave a message, so hopefully not.

Best call him back, though, to make sure.

"Hey!" you beam when he promptly answers "Sorry I missed your call earlier, I didn't hear it. What's up?"

Your shirt is eschewed and hanging off of one shoulder, your skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and your chest is rapidly rising and falling in a clear effort to catch your breath.

Not to mention the mess of bedding found just behind you.

Is that a damn shower he hears running in the background?

Robby's ears perk up at the sound of a man's voice coming from a room away which immediately sets his blood to fucking boiling.

Turning to the side with an arched brow, your face screws into an expression of confusion.

What? Your little one-night stand already crying for you from the other room?

"Nothing," Robby hisses while you're still turned away. "It was an accident."

Staring at your mussed reflection on a now dark screen, you sigh then toss the device aside before pushing off the bed and padding into the bathroom to change whatever God-awful dad rock has come onto Spotify.

Whatever was the cause for Robby's attitude isn't your problem right now. Or ever, really. Your apartment is finally nice and clean, as are you about to be before long, and there's leftover Chinese food in the fridge.

For once, everything feels peaceful again.

Removing your sweat-stained t-shirt, you toss it into the laundry hamper before stepping beneath a cascade of steaming water.

"Good morning," you say warmly while greeting Robby with a sunny disposition.

He only hums in response, choosing to keep his eyes trained on the inside of his locker rather than bidding you the same pleasantry.

Wrapping your stethoscope around your neck, you pluck a ballpoint pen from the middle shelf and tuck it into your pocket.

"Looked like you got quite the workout last night," Robby grumbles quietly.

Clicking your locker shut, you chuckle. "Oh, yeah, the best cardio," you reply sardonically—deciding not to mention how you started squealing when a sticky cobweb got stuck to your face. "I'm gonna go check the board. Let me know if you need any help today!"

Watching as you walk away, it's all Robby can do not to flip the bird at the back of your head. How can you be so cocky about it? It isn't normal for someone to be this happy all the time.

Are you on something?

He never got that impression before, but supposes it makes sense.

Perhaps he should take a peek in your chart. Finding out that Langdon was hooked on benzos was bad enough. To discover that you had to get high in order to lie beneath him... He doesn't know whether he could tolerate the knowledge.

Not even lunch from a nearby sandwich shop managed to improve Robby's mood. He can't keep on with this headspace. It's not fair to you, the staff of the ED, or any patients who he could potentially end up taking his frustrations out on when someone inevitably refuses to listen to sage medical advice.

A glass door slides shut behind Robby, casting the exam room you're wrapping things up in in silence. "Can I at least ask who?" he asks gently, not wanting to intrude if he's not welcome to.

He understands that he isn't entitled to anything here, including answers if you choose not to give them. Your affairs are your affairs and they have nothing to do with him.

It's not right him acting otherwise.

It'll only lead to you feeling uneasy around him and that's the last thing he would ever want.

Your education comes first.

Glancing to him, you cup your hand beneath a sanitizer dispenser. "Who what?"

He studies you from beneath long lashes. "Last night. Who you were with when you called me back."

Uh... Why does he think there was someone in your apartment with you?

Wait.

Did he see something on camera? A chill crawls up your back. "I was alone. Why do you think otherwise?" you ask hesitantly.

His brows furrow. "I heard the shower. And another man's voice. C'mon, sweetheart, I might be old, but I'm not stupid. Not to mention the—the state you were in."

Rubbing the sanitizer into both your palms and along the backs of your hands, you take a step forward. "I was warming it up. I'd just gotten done cleaning my apartment right before you called. Well... I cleaned my apartment, then sort of ran around singing pop music and putting on my own personal concert with a hairbrush," you admit sheepishly. "As for the voice, it was some awful rock station Spotify picked out. God knows why."

He takes it back. He's both old and stupid.

"You were alone."

"Just me and Olivia Rodrigo," you confirm with a nod.

He raises a brow, to which you bat a hand in response. "Singer."

"Ah," Robby replies with a nod.

Submerging your hands in your shirt pockets, you cock your head to the side. "Why do you ask?"

Moment of truth.

Robby sighs. "I was jealous. I have been this whole week and I've been making you pay for it." He presses his lips into a thin smile. "I'm sorry."

You give him a once-over with a scrutinizing gaze. "So, are things going to return to normal now?" You lean your hip against the exam table. "Or are you going to pout when Abbot gives me a piece of gum?"

Robby considers for a moment while watching the hustle and bustle of the ED on the other side of the door. "Maybe I made a mistake."

Your brows knit closely together. "What do you mean?"

Studying the laces of his boots, he shrugs with a dismissive shake of his head. "Calling it off. Letting you go. Not asking for more." He lifts his chin. "All the above."

"Are you saying you want to continue hooking up?" You question with a cocked head.

You don't know how keen you are on that idea with how tiresome he's been the last handful of days—it'd be akin to rewarding bad behavior without an ounce of consequences being paid for it—but a warm body is admittedly a considerable improvement over a silicone toy.

Running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, Robby digs his fingertips into freckled skin. "No. I mean..." he sucks his teeth. "I'd want sexual intimacy, yes, but more than that. I want us to be together."

The last sentence was spoken so quickly and quietly that it was barely an octave above a whisper. Nevertheless, you heard him.

"Like a relationship?" you inquire with crossed arms.

He nods.

You've had him in bed—inside of you—but not even then did he looks so soft and small and vulnerable. Almost boyish with the way he's rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. It's kind of cute, really.

So shy.

Coming to stand in front of him, you pull one of his hands toward you and wrap each of your own around it. "Okay."

Robby's head lifts so swiftly that something pops in the back of his neck. "Okay?" he repeats with a lilted tone of surprise.

"I have one rule, though. Or...an understanding, anyway, that needs to be agreed upon."

Cupping the side of your neck with a warm, heavy palm, Robby brushes his thumb along the underside of your jaw. "I'm all ears, sweetheart."

"You get one shot at this," you state point-blank. "And I don't mean we're not allowed to argue or have disagreements or lose our tempers on occasion. That's bound to happen; it's a normal part of any relationship. What I do mean is that if your commitment issues manifest a few weeks or months from now and you start thinking about running, that's it. I won't allow you to treat my life like a revolving door."

As if plenty of others aren't trying to pass through it, he muses. Sliding his palm down to the crown of your shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "So just like that you're mine?"

You nod and your stethoscope nearly slips off of you with the motion. "Yes."

His lips tug into a displeased frown. "So... I ask you to start sleeping with me and you do. I call it quits and you couldn't seem to care less. I come back groveling, and you hardly bat an eye before telling me okay to being together. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's hard to take this seriously when you seem to just go along with wherever the wind blows you."

You can feel the vein in the middle of your forehead swelling up to size. "Did you expect me to get down on my hands and knees while begging you not to leave me? You said it was over and that was that. I'm not pleading with someone to stick around who has no interest in it. I think more of myself than that."

Not to mention that he's way too old to be playing these sorts of head games...

He'll never admit it, but the pride you seem to have in yourself he finds the least bit threatening to his ego. But it's also a turn-on, if he's being completely honest with himself. "Just hard to feel like an exception when it's coming off like I could be anybody. Abbot, Park, Jesse. What makes me different?"

From the way he runs the ED with an iron fist, you'd never think him so insecure.

It makes you wanna pinch his cheeks. Or slap one.

"Like I said about Park, I don't like him. Period. As for Jesse... Yes, we've joked around every now and again, but I honestly think of him more as a brother. Whether he shares that sentiment is his own business."

"And Jack?" Robby presses.

Removing his hand from where it's slid down your arm, you splay his fingers apart and lightly squeeze his fourth one. "He still wears his ring." Lifting your head, you gaze into Robby's eyes. "They didn't... Fall out of love or go through a nasty divorce. She died while he was still in love with her," you explain with the utmost care. "I can't ever hope to compete with that. His ring would serve as a constant reminder of what I have to try and live up to: impossible standards I could never even attempt to meet."

He nearly asks you what if Abbot stopped wearing it, but supposes it's a moot point. For right now, he does. End of story.

Craning his head down to meet you halfway, you tilt your own back and smile when his lips brushes against yours. "My girl," Robby murmurs before closing the breathy gap between you with a kiss.

"You like that?" you ask breathlessly. Lifting your hips, you slide down the considerable length of him and he utters a quiet curse.

Slapping a hand against your ass cheek, Robby watches with appreciation as the plump skin ripples like water before digging his fingers into the meat of your hips again. "Told you it feels better without a condom."

You roll your eyes, but with him seated behind you, he's unable to see it. "Don't really feel much of a difference myself, but—"

"Fuck, feels so much better on my end," Robby moans.

Straightening, you begin bouncing on it with a repeated wet plap, plap, plap while toying with your pebbled nipples.

"Turn around, sweetheart," he mutters; his hands sliding up your stomach and brushing along the underside of your soft breasts. "So I can look at you."

Lifting off his hard cock, Robby fists himself in his hand as you spin around. Guiding his swollen, leaking tip back between your slick, fluttering walls, he moans pleasurably when your cunt swallows his girthy length again until the shaft disappears entirely.

You love the way he stretches you open so deliciously.

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you cup the back of his head in your other palm before pulling his face between your sweaty breasts. "C'mere, baby," you coo affectionately.

His dick stirs and you snicker softly. Leaning his head back, you flick the tip of your tongue across his lips. "You gonna come inside me? Huh?"

Robby blinks wide eyes of pleasant surprise. "You'll let me?"

You grin. "I want you to," you reply with a faux pout. "I'm not getting off it until you do." Crushing your lips to his, your tongues tangle together in a battle for dominance.

Rapidly rocking your hips until a familiar bang, bang, bang of the headboard can be heard, you break away, then reposition your lips next to his ear. "You're such a good boy."

He shudders, so you drag the lobe of his ear gently between your teeth. "Come for me, baby. Come for mama."

Slapping a hand over your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave a bruised print, Robby bends his knees before hammering away between your pulsating walls. "O-oh fuck," he stammers. "I'm s-so fuckin'—"

"That's it," you sigh encouragingly. "Y-you're almost there. A little more."

Biting down on your shoulder, he chokes back a muffled growl. His whole body seizes while his cock twitches and spurts inside of you in-between long, deep, filling thrusts.

"Good boy," you gasp happily. "Oh my God, that's such a good boy."

Pressing your lips to the crown of his head, you ride out your high—flexing your walls around his emptying cock as your own orgasm ascends to its pique, leaving you a mess of babbling, praiseful words as you cling to Robby, tracing your tongue along his naked, salty skin while you do.

Gazing up at Robby from where your chin is resting against the back of a hand you've planted atop his hairy chest, you smile when he does.

He's been doing so for the last almost half an hour while tracing lazy circles along your naked hip. "That good, huh?" you ask with a laugh.

He rolls his head from side to side. "Just happy," he rumbles.

You press a damp kiss to his stubbled cheek before toying with his necklace. "Can I ask you something?"

He smirk morphs into a contended grin. "Anything."

"Not to bring another person into bed with us, but... Noelle and I spoke the other day. I don't know if you were aware."

Bending an arm behind his head, he nods. "I was. Heard most of it."

Eavesdropper...

"Why were you so different with her? Or... With me?"

It's been eating at you, truthfully.

He chews his lip for a moment in thought. "It's not that she did or didn't do something. I mean, I had nothing against her being around. She just... She didn't make me laugh. I felt like when I was with her—and maybe this was just me—that I couldn't step out of my role as chief, even when I was here in my own home. I struggled to let my guard down or relax. There was this need to be in serious "adult mode" 24/7." He tilts his head to the side. "There wasn't any vulnerability."

You lift a brow. "Thought you preferred that?"

He sighs and readjusts the pillow tucked against the crook of his neck. "Thought I did too. 'Til you came along."

You curl your fingers into the coarse hair smattered across his chest. "Is it because you think more highly of her than me? So you felt a need to impress by being—as you say—serious? That because I'm younger, I'm just the fun squeeze toy to keep around?"

Finally he finds a crack in your perfect sunshine façade. He rocks his head from side to side. "No. Was just a difference in personality. We all have various faces we wear. With different people, during different occasions... With her, I was Michael Robinavitch, chief attending of PTMC's ED. With you, I can just be me."

Not that he's wholly sure who that is most days now, but he hopes at your side, he can finally start to figure it out.

Cupping his cheek, you press a kiss to his lips. "I know exactly who you are."

A curious brow curves upwards.

"Sweet boy," you simper.

He huffs a laugh.

Turning onto his side, Robby pulls you flush against his weighty belly. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, sweetheart."

Jack watches you from the living room as you make lunch.

You’ve made the last four years of his life nothing short of amazing.​​ He really couldn’t imagine a day without you so he guaranteed a forever with you.

He can see the engagement ring from where he is. The look on your face when he got on one knee was something he’ll remember for a lifetime.

It felt like a while ago even though it had only been two months.

He sighs as he turns back to the tv.

So, what’s changed for you in that short period of time?

Over the last 3 weeks you’ve been acting weird.

You’re on your phone a lot more and keeping your distance when you do. Almost as if you’re hiding something from him. 

He hates to even think about it but are you seeing someone else? What is it?

The thought makes him sick at the idea of not only you leaving him but that you’d do something like that to him.

Jack decides to not think the worst just yet.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The next day you’re on your laptop sitting on the floor with your back against the couch.

Jack walks in the front door from a grocery run.

“Hey sweetheart.” he greets as he passes you to the kitchen.

“Hey baby,” you lean your head back to try and look at him “Did you find everyhtng on the list?”

He smiles as he empties the bags

“Sure did honey.”

You smile back before looking on your laptop again.

Once he puts everything away Jack walks over and sits on the couch behind you, your back leaning against his legs.

He leans his head on top of yours, hands on your shoulders.

“Whatcha doing down here sweetheart”

You lift the laptop a little so he can see better.

“You said to look at houses so we could hopefully get one before the wedding next year. Well, I finally got the time and I really like this one.”

He looks at the one you’re pointing to.

“It’s got the in-home gym you like, this gorgeous sunroom, the high ceiling design in the living room, fenced in front and back yard..”

He scrunches his eyes as he reads the descriptions.

“Sweetheart, there’s five bedrooms. We don’t need all of that space.”

You grab one of his hands over your shoulder and cuddle back against him.

“Well,” you start “There’s a room for us, one or two for whatever we want, and then I was thinking…one or two for some mini Abbots.”

Jack’s heart feels like it could burst with love and joy.

He leans forward and wraps his arms around you.

“Mini Abbots, huh?”

You can feel his smile as he kisses your cheek.

“Just a few.” you say while playing with his hand.

“I’d love that sweetheart.”

He really meant it too.

Jack would love to have kids with you.

This also gave him relief after the past few weeks.

You wouldn’t be seeing someone else if you were picking a house and talking about kids with him, right?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A few days later is when things come to a head.

You and Jack had come back from a date night and ended up tangled in the sheets to end an amazing night.

You have your head on his chest as you both catch your breath.

“Fuck..” you get out between breaths

He has one arm wrapped around you and the other holding your leg across his hip.

“I’ll take that as high praise sweetheart.” he laughs

You pat his chest teasingly “Yeah, you’ve still got it old man.”

“You little shit,” he grins and tickles your sides “I more than still have it by the way you were scr–”

His words are interrupted by your phone chiming with a notification.

You get up and straddle his waist to lean over him, looking at your phone.

With you on top of him Jack can't see your phone from his position.

“What is it babe?” he tries leaning up to look over.

You lay a hand on his chest as you quickly type something.

“I uh, nothing J. Just an email from work.”

His heart races. He has a feeling it isn’t work and now the relief he had felt a couple days ago is gone.

Now he’s afraid it's true.

You’re seeing someone else.

He’s losing you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Jack didn’t confront you right away.

He sat on the idea and his feelings for a few days. The longer he sat on it, the quicker it turned from feeling only upset to adding in anger.

It’s Saturday, Jack’s day off, when he decides he's going to say something.

You left the house early to run some errands but he's convinced that ‘errands’ is the one you’re seeing behind his back.

It’s around 11 a.m. when you come back with a smile on your face.

“Hey babe!” echoes in the kitchen as you set some bags down.

Jack can’t even bring himself to greet you back.

Grabbing a small box from your bag, you listen for him.

You're confused at the silence and find him standing in the living room with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

“J, is everything okay?” you ask hesitantly

He shakes his head as he huffs “How long?”

What?

“How long what, Jack?”

He lets out a small laugh that lacks any humor.

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me.”

The words feel like a physical blow, making you step back slightly.

What the hell is wrong with him?

“I-I’m a little lost here Jack. I’m not playing anything.”

“Okay, I'll humor you. Who the fuck have you been cheating on me with huh?”

Your eyes widen at the accusation.

“Jack, I would never do that to you or anyone. Where is this co–”

“You’re still playing dumb!”

You can see the anger roll through him as he grips his hair tight and then run his hands over his face.

Tears start to fill your eyes

You’re lost for words.

You said yes to marrying him. You guys are buying a house soon. You said you wanted kids with him.

So why would you ever look in anyone else’s direction?

“You could just admit it instead of acting oblivious. You’ve been on your phone nonstop the last month, hiding it from me, lying to me. We were literally having sex one minute and then after you’re answering the phone, to whom I assume is that jackass.”

Your chest is so full of emotion and hurt at his words.

“Jack, I” you take a breath as the tears start falling “I’m not ch–”

He interrupts you “Why not just let me go and then fuck around?! Why d–”

“Jack” you try to butt in but he keeps rambling on.

“I asked you to marry me for god's sake!”

“Jack!” you try a little louder

“I wanted forever with y–”

“JACK!”

He turns to face you “WHAT?”

He sees you holding a small box about the size of a softball.

You silently hold it out to him.

He eyes it as if it’s a ridiculous offer “What’s this?”

“Just open it…” you say in a whisper, tears still falling.

Jack takes it hesitantly and lifts the lid off. His eyes widen as all the air leaves his lungs.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You and Jack had gone to a festival event in Philadelphia for a week several months ago.

Somehow during the activities and chaos down there, his dog tags had gone missing. He couldn’t remember where he had sat them or if the chain broke and they fell, or what could’ve happened.

You both eventually had to go home without the tags, having searched all over for them.

“𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘑, 𝘸𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.”

On the drive back to Pittsburgh you posted a picture of Jack’s tags from a selfie you took with him weeks ago on all the social media you had. You asked that if anyone found them to contact your number or social media.

Sadly several months had passed and no one had responded to your posts.

Jack was upset with the outcome but tried to not let it show how much.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

He takes a deep breath as guilt floods his chest.

“My…my dog tags. Wh-Where did you find them?”

How could he have said all these things and accused you of cheating when you did this for him?

You sniffle as you wring your fingers.

“Some guy had posted them in a facebook group to sell and I recognized them. So I sent him a message and told him what happened and he said he’d meet me to return them. He, uh, had been out of the state so we had been messaging to set a meetup to get the tags. I wanted to surprise you…”

Jack’s heart fills with so much more love for you but sinks at the same time with how he handled things.

“Sweetheart, I-I can’t begin to say how sor-”

You wave a hand gently to stop him.

“It’s okay J. I’m realizing how it all must have looked and how that made you feel. So, I’m sorry for that but do you realize how much I love you? Do you understand that?”

He nods because he does know. He’s never doubted your love before because you gave more than anyone ever did.

How could he do this to you and you’re still so understanding of him and his feelings?

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, I know you love me, more than I deserve. I’m so fucking sorry…” a few tears slip down his cheek and you’re quick to move in front of him and wipe them away.

“Hey, J, it’s okay. We’re okay. Yeah your words hurt but I get it. And I love you. I forgive you baby.” you kiss him briefly.

His body trembles on the verge of sobs.

“I-I don’t d-deserve you.” he gets out between breaths.

You chuckle a little as you rub his back.

“Baby, you deserve everything. And I already agreed to marry you so you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” You hear him laugh a little through his tears.

“You promise?”

Pulling back slightly with a lovesick grin.

“Oh I promise, J.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It was not joy alone that heavied your chest at the sound of his name. It was much closer to dread, which burned as it rose into your throat like bile — alongside something that should’ve felt like love but had since grown into something far more complicated in your last few moons as prisoner. You turned from him at once and shoved the tent flap aside just in time to exorcise your sickness onto the dewy grass below.

The dread did not leave with it, and neither did the guilt.

Now you sit at the long table of another manse’s dining hall, far humbler than that of the Red Keep but still a palace compared to the war tents, and watch the last of the orange sunrise die over the hills through the arched windows. Somewhere down that road, your husband rides towards you — alone and hunted and entirely unaware of what awaits him in these walls. 

“You’ve hardly touched your supper,” Ormund says beneath the soft scrape of his knife as he cuts himself a slice of honeyed boar. Despite not having properly dined since the war began, he eats with a methodical sort of restraint. He takes small bites, chews each of them thoroughly, and doesn’t talk again until he swallows. “I’m not going to have to feed you myself again, am I?”

You miss the amusement dancing on the edge of his melodic voice with your attention fixed on the window, where the dark edge of the hill meets the violet sky. “I’m not hungry,” you answer distantly.

“Yes. You said as much yesterday as well,” Ormund sighs with all the exasperation of a man grown tired of losing his battles with you. “I’d have thought you might be glad to have a proper kitchen. With proper cooks. With proper food.”

His apathy cuts you like a blade, which has grown sharper and more frequent since the letter arrived at camp. It seemed to sever whatever spell had briefly held the two of you together before now; or otherwise shut something in Ormund that has not opened since he learned of his cousin’s imminent arrival.

“Well, forgive me, my lord,” you say with a voice as thin as Valyrian steel. “If my husband’s sudden return from the dead has rather spoiled my appetite.”

Ormund’s eyes snap up from his plate at once. They’re pale and unreadable and utterly void of the warmth you’d grown so accustomed to. When the blue of his eyes are warm, they’re like swimming in the languid blue of a summer sea. They carry none of that silken familiarity tonight.

“He is not dead yet," Ormund reminds you with his brows raised to his hairline. “So far as either of us knows, anyway.”

Yet. The word alone makes you flinch, though you cannot yet tell if he means it as cruelly as it feels. You find more and more these days that you can no longer tell the difference with him now.

“What am I to say to him?” you wonder suddenly aloud, as if the question had been building in your throat since you learned of Gwayne’s arrival. Your anxious hands twist in the charcoal-silver skirts borrowed from Lady Footly’s closet; a gift, Ormund called it, despite it not belonging to either of you. “When Gwayne arrives— what do I tell him? How am I meant to look at him?”

“You are his wife,” Ormund responds plainly, with one careless roll of his broad shoulders. “I suppose you’ll look at him as you always have.”

Your face screws with a choked-back anger. “That’s not an answer—”

“No. But it’s the only one I have.” He sets his fork and knife on the plate with a heavy clink and leans back in his chair. He tilts his chin upward to stare at you over the top of the glittering candles between you, ringed fingers fidgeting over the pale white cloth.

“I have an army to feed, men to protect, and walls to build before Rhaenyra’s dragonfire can swallow the castle whole,” he continues in a monotone. “Unfortunately, I no longer possess the luxury, or the patience, of coddling your guilt.”

His words burn red-hot through your chest, searing you like a brand. You flinch away from them as if he’d struck you physically, though it might’ve hurt less if he had. Your eyes sting as your throat tightens around all the words you want to fling back at him — perhaps that he had not seemed so burdened by you a week past, when his mouth was on you and his fingers were in you; that he had not been so burdened by your guilt all the weeks before that, when he swore your safety mattered to him above his cousin’s own claim to you.

But you swallow down the accusations now and throw your napkin onto your untouched plate instead. Your chair scrapes hard against the cobbles as you rise from the table in a rush of black and silver silk.

“Where are you going now?” Ormund huffs.

“For a walk,” you answer without looking back at him.

“You haven’t even touched your food,” he calls to your retreating figure, motioning to your uneaten plate with a ringed hand. His even voice begins to fray at the edges, “Sit down and eat—”

“Feed it to the hounds—”

“Sit!” His voice cracks through the room like thunder when your hand curls around the cold brass door handle. The sheer volume of his voice, the raw bite underneath it, roots you in place. Your head turns slowly to find the man glaring at you from his spot at the table, though the scowl on his chiseled features disappears just as quickly as it came on.

His eyes flutter shut as his broad chest inflates behind his emerald coat, with a slow breath in through his nose. You watch the man walk himself down from some invisible ledge — tense shoulders dropping, clenched fists easing, rough breaths coming easier again.

“I’m sorry…” Ormund says when he opens his eyes again. The light in the pale blue of his gaze has returned to him, you find, and so has the softness in his smile when he rises from his chair to meet you. “I am sorry, my love— I forget myself— This war has driven me half-mad, if you could not already tell.”

He exhales a faint laugh that you do not join him in. He crosses the distance between you in a few short strides, wide hands settling along the outsides of your elbows — warm, even through the thin sleeves of your gown. You peer up at him through your lashes, uncertain whether the tenderness he extends to you now is real or simply the version he’s allowing himself to show you.

“If ever I am… cross with you. Or short with you in any way— It is never because of you, understand?” Ormund confesses lowly, eyes darting back and forth between your weary ones. “It takes me a moment to remember myself, is all… You understand that, don’t you?”

You swallow hard and nod wordlessly in response, though what you most desperately want to tell him in that moment is that Gwayne had never been so cross with you. That not once in your moons of marriage had he so much as raised his voice at you or frightened you the way Ormund has in such short time. You want to say it if only to see it hurt him the way his words have hurt you. Instead, you say nothing. 

“He does not have to know,” Ormund murmurs to you, thumbs brushing your arm in an absent, reassuring gesture. “Nothing occurred between us that was not asked of me. I gave you only what you wanted— Surely a man cannot be faulted for answering his summons.”

Your brows lower over your narrowed eyes. “Are you saying that… that what we did is my fault alone?”

“Of course not!” Ormund laughs, broad hands rising to cup your burning cheeks between them. His palms are warm and calloused; they feel like velvet as they brush your skin. “I’m saying neither of us is at fault— You said it yourself, did you not? The war broke your vows. Not us.”

Some traitorous part of you, so desperate for absolution, nearly softens into his touch at that. You did not ask to be taken from the Red Keep; you did not ask for Ormund's protection; you did not ask for a husband to ride off at dawn and leave you to wonder all these months whether he was living or dead.

You are desperate and half-convinced in your own madness, but you think that perhaps Gwayne will understand that. That surely a woman who believed herself abandoned and already widowed cannot be faulted for the comfort she found in the meantime. It is a thing far too fragile to build a conscience on, but you cling to the comfort of it anyway.

“My cousin rides to Tumbleton alone— without his own army and with Daemon’s surely hunting him,” Ormund coos gently to you, sweeping his thumb across your skin. “It is entirely possible that he will not survive the journey here at all. And then there would be nothing for you to confess… And you would’ve spent all these days worrying for naught.”

The words settle over you like ice in your veins. Your eyes dart back and forth between his own as you search for something human within him — some acknowledgment of what he’s just comforted you with — and find nothing in return.

“You speak of his death like it would be a mercy to me,” you whisper, voice thick with unshed tears. 

“I speak of it only as a possibility," Ormund corrects softly. “I only mean to spare you the fear of it, my love. Is that not a kindness?”

You do not answer him. You could not even if you wanted to; not with the invisible hand curling its way around your throat, as you listen to the man who’s protected you from certain death frame your husband's demise as a kindness done on your behalf.

But when Ormund ducks softly down to press a sickly sweet kiss to your mouth, tasting of the sweet wine and honeyed figs from supper, you cannot seem to pull away from him. Gods forgive you, but you lean into it instead; you ball the collar of his coat into fists and chase the comfort in his mouth the way you’ve chased the safety of his hands since you were brought to his side.

You think of the man who fed you bread from his own fingers when you would not eat; who cut down a hedgeknight before he could harm you; who wrapped you in his blankets and warmed your fingers in his hands on particularly freezing nights. 

That man is still in there, somewhere, hidden beneath the throes of war. 

You fear what might become of him before it’s done.

vii. MUD & MERCY

You stand before the tallest window of the Tumbleton manse, overlooking the winding ivied streets below. They lead straight to the western gate, where the scouts had seemingly spotted a rider without banners in the distance — a messenger from another camp, they said, or maybe Gwayne. The dying sunlight paints the sky in milky orange hues while you pick at the ragged skin of your thumbnail in an absentminded worry. The delicate nailbed splits and blooms red.

You do not notice until a silken handkerchief is motioned suddenly in the corner of your eye.

Your head whips to find Daeron standing at your elbow, green eyes glimmering and pink mouth fixed into a firm line of boyish solemnity. He stands taller than you now, which hadn’t been the case when you first arrived at camp — now you have to look up to properly meet the young boy’s gaze.

“Oh,” you say within a surprised breath. “Thank you.”

You take the cloth from him with a trembling hand. The pale linen blooms pink when you press it to the raging skin of your bleeding thumb. Daeron grimaces sympathetically in return, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. 

“Are you nervous?” he wonders aloud, hands crossed firmly behind his back.

“A bit…” you confess in a sigh, dabbing at the wound and knowing that there is no string of words you could possibly put together to express just how nervous you are.

“Aye,” he nods. “I suppose I am, too… I’ve not seen him since I was a child.”

Your head turns slowly to flash the boy a knowing look. “You are still a child, my prince,” you remind him with a smile.

“A younger child, then,” Daeron mutters sheepishly back, freckled cheeks flaring as he turns back toward the window. His long, auburn tendrils sway softly at his shoulders when he shakes his head. “Long enough that I can no longer recall the last conversation I had with him… Though I’m sure it was about you, no doubt, with his betrothal to you and all…”

“Well, he spoke of you often,” you tell him, and watch the boy’s pale eyes flicker with a newfound life when he turns to you again. “He made it clear he was quite proud of you… And if it’s any consolation, I did not intend to steal him from Oldtown.”

“I’m glad for it,” Daeron blurts, then shakes his head at himself when the words don’t come out right. “Not that he left, of course, but that it was you he was given. There are far worse fates, to be true…” 

He trails off and watches your face twist with confusion. His anxious gaze drops to the blood-spotted handkerchief as the tips of his ears glow pink. The words seem to escape him without a single thought in his floundering attempts to explain himself. 

“I only mean that— that he is good. My Uncle Gwayne. The best of us, really, and Ormund is…” Daeron forgets why he brings up the older man the second his name spills from his lips, though he cannot seem to stop talking. “Ormund is good, too, I’m sure. Somewhere deep down. But he— He does not lose well, my lady. And I’ve learned that… that it's a dangerous thing, to— to be the prize he’s decided he’s won.”

The words come out of him in a rush; sentences half-formed and stumbling. He glances at you only once in a quick and searching look, before looking away again like he can’t stomach a second more of the contact. Your stomach twists in a sick feeling at each word from his mouth. Your throat runs dry as you choke on whatever response you might have given him — some careful deflection, maybe, or a warm laugh to soothe the boy — but a horn sounds from the tower before you can find any response at all. 

Three short, sharp blasts send the keep into motion immediately.

“He’s here!” someone yells, far off in the distance. “Open the gates— it’s Ser Gwayne!”

Your feet seem to move on their own accord. Despite the dread sitting heavy in your belly, your legs carry you instantly towards Gwayne. You hold your dress skirts in your fists as you rush down the winding stone stairs, through the crowded hall, and out the heavy oak doors of the entrance. The humid, evening summer air takes the breath from your lungs as it strikes you across the face; it becomes near-impossible to take another one in, with your heart climbing so suddenly in your throat.

The thundering of hooves against cobblestone finds you before you’ve made it down the steep stone steps of the ancient castle. You’re blinded, briefly, by the setting sun until you hold a hand over your squinted eyes. Armored knights and groomed horses come into view — straddled loosely behind Bold Jon’s mare is Gwayne, though his face and hair are so caked with dirt and blood you scarcely recognize him.

Gwayne tries and fails to dismount on his own. His legs betray him after days of nonstop walking, and the exhaustion makes them buckle almost instantly. “Gwayne!” he hears you shout, right before he feels your hands reach for him before he can fall. 

Your arms curl beneath his own to keep him upright. He leans the bulk of his weight against you without ever really meaning to, clinging to your warmth and the scent of floral bathing oils he isn’t quite used to. And, though he smells like dirt and death, you hold him back just the same. 

“You’re alive,” you pant, breaths fanning in his muddied hair.  “Gods, you’re alive—”

“Well…” He huffs a not-quite laugh that you can feel in his shoulder, pulling just far enough away to meet your wet eyes with a pair of duller, paler ones. “I told you I meant my vows, didn’t I?” 

His words come out in rasps, voice dry from days of thirst and weeks of shouting. His chest sears with a foreign feeling at the way you’re looking at him now — like he’s half stranger, half god. “Apologies for my appearance, dear wife,” he pants and swallows down the sudden urge to cry. “But I have had a… rough go of things as of late…”

Your features crumble under the weight of your own tears. You shake your head at the man, and at his sorry attempt at a joke. “Gods, I’ve missed you...”

Gwayne exhales slowly through his nose as his cracked lips curve into a crooked smile, visibly exhausted but his even still. “Not nearly as much as—”

“Ser Gwayne.” The voice cuts through the bustling courtyard at once.

You feel every muscle in your body seize on instinct as your head whips back towards the stone steps, where Ormund stands at the top of them. His eyes scan the scene below — of you and Gwayne and your bodies only just now easing apart as the red-haired man attempts to stand on his own. 

The silver chain of Ormund’s pomander clinks faintly in the newfound quiet as he brings the perfumed incense up to his nose, inhaling deeply to rid the scent of sweat and blood and death from his nostrils.

“I see you’ve made it,” is all he says.

Gwayne exhales an exhausted huff, a mixture of a laugh and a scoff. He sways softly on his muddied boots and clutches onto your shoulder with his free hand. “It’s good to see you too, cousin…” he responds in a monotone.

Ormund turns to Daeron, who’s hovering just beside him with his pale hands clenched into fists — it takes every bit of strength in the young boy’s body not to run down to his uncle alongside you, worried about how Ormund might react. 

“See that a room is made ready for your uncle. And a hot meal is sent with haste— whatever the kitchens can manage quickly,” Ormund says to the boy, then pauses as his eyes drift back to Gwayne’s. “And perhaps a bath.”

Gwayne’s cracked lips curl into a slow smile. He breathes a laugh through his nose as he watches his cousin spin on his heel to walk away. “You always did have delicate sensibilities…” he attempts to call to the man, though he fails to muster the strength in his voice to be heard. 

It is you who insists on escorting Gwayne to the bath. You wave off hovering knights and Tumbleton servants with a firmness that surprises even you — no longer a prisoner of war, but a high lord’s wife. 

Gwayne, it seems, is much too spent from the journey to do anything more than lean into your shoulder the whole way up the winding castle. He braces himself on your firm weight as you peel the ruined layers of clothing from his body and coax him gently into the steaming tub. 

Your own borrowed gown joins his tattered things in a forgotten heap on the cobbled floor as you sink into the water alongside him. The warmth laps gently at your waist as you shift yourself over his lap, resting the bulk of your weight on his thighs.

The bathwater turns the color of weak tea by the time you’ve worked the worst of the grime from Gwayne’s pale skin. Dark streams of dirt and old blood swirl away beneath the cloth in your hand, brushing a tad too gently over his shoulders and chest and back, as if anything too hard might break him entirely.

Gwayne sits slumped against the tub, eyes half-closed and head lolled back. The war had certainly taken its due upon his pretty features — the new hollows beneath his cheekbones, the fresh scar above his brow, the deep grey exhaustion under his once bright eyes. There’s a leanness to him now that suggests missed meals and weeks of marching; and a sort of heaviness in his gaze that suggests longer weeks of grief.

But still he softens for you, minute by minute, as you drag the cloth over the angle of his dirtied jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose and leans instinctively into your touch.

“You needn’t do this to yourself, you know?” the man murmurs, but makes no further move to stop you. “There are servants more than capable of tending to my bath.” 

“I want to do it,” you tell him simply, dabbing at a speck of blood on his cheek. “I’ve missed you too much— I’d rather not share you with a servant just yet.”

He gives you a tired, crooked smile in response. “I missed you, too,” he says with a sigh, fingers clutching you harder by the waist beneath the water’s surface, like he’s still trying to make sure you’re still real. “Gods, you cannot imagine how badly…” 

You rinse the cloth in the cooling water and press it gently to his hairline, dabbing at the remnants of dirt clinging stubbornly to him there. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows through a tightening throat — being touched this gently threatens to undo him entirely, after weeks away and days of nonstop bloodshed. 

His tense shoulders finally sink beneath the water as he admits, “I thought only of you… The entire way here… I fear it’s the only way I managed it— knowing that I could not die without seeing you first.”

Your throat tightens as guilt strangles you all over again; the bitter reminder of what you’d done, and all the nights you forgot to miss him back. Your fingers move anxiously to set the cloth on the rim of the tub and dip into the ceramic dish lying there. You scoop a handful of lavender soap onto your fingertips, and work it between your palms until it starts to foam.

“I thought of you, too,” you tell him with an averted gaze, which is true enough even though it feels like a lie when it escapes your mouth. “Every day.”

“And what of Ormund?” Gwayne wonders aloud, cracking one pale eye open to study your face as you rake the suds through his long auburn hair. The dull, muddy strands slowly return to their proper flaming color with each gentle pass of your fingers, as the last of the war’s blood and grim streams down his pale shoulders in dark rivulets. “I trust my cousin treated you well in my absence. He can be insufferable, I know, but he is not unkind… Not truly.”

You falter at the mention of him. Your hands still briefly in his damp tendrils as a sick feeling curls in the pit of your stomach. You swallow hard through the cold hands of guilt strangling your throat and force your fingers to keep moving, praying he does not notice how they tremble faintly against his scalp. 

“He was… accommodating,” you answer carefully, eyes trained on his hair rather than on his attentive gaze, lest he read the whole truth of it plainly upon your face. “He kept me fed. Housed. Safe… For the most part— Tilt your head back; let me rinse your hair.”

You lift yourself slightly off the man’s lap to reach for the pitcher resting on the table beside the tub. Glittering rivulets of bath water cascade down your arms, glimmering in thin ribbons over the curves of your breasts in the dancing candlelight. Gwayne tips his head back to oblige you when you settle astride his scruffy thighs once more. His long, pale fingers smooth absently over your hips beneath the water, tracing idle circles along your soft skin.

“You’ve gone rather short with your answers, dear wife…” he observes lowly, peering at you from the bridge of his nose. “That’s not like you…”

“I’m just tired, is all…” you deflect, cupping one hand over his brow to shield his eyes while your other pours the clean water steadily over his hairline. The suds run clear down his temples and trickle back into the bath below. “It’s been a long day… A long several months, if I’m honest…”

“Yes… For us all, I’m sure,” Gwayne sighs and lifts his head once more when you shift to place the pitcher back onto its table. He arches an auburn brow and musters a quiet smile; the simple ease of being with you returns to him by the minute now, as his fingers settle over your ribcage again. “Though I do hope my letters kept you some company… Small comfort as they must have been.”

You go suddenly very still above him, muscle locking despite yourself. The guilt that had been simmering in your chest surges up your throat all at once now, in a red-hot flame that makes you feel halfway sick. For a long moment, you fail to make sense of the words — his letters — after so many months of waiting to hear from your husband, and after so many months of hearing Ormund tell you each day that there had been not a single word from him.

“…Your letters?” you repeat on bated breath.

“Yes,” Gwayne nods, brows pinching at your confusion. “I wrote every time I could manage it— At every stronghold we arrived… Did you not receive them?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the words to respond — words that would placate your own confusion without disclosing what you had been doing in the days awaiting his letters. “Perhaps… Perhaps they got lost. Along the road…”

Gwayne scoffs a humorless laugh at the thought. “Well, I pity the poor hand who got my letters instead of you…” he croons lowly.

“Why?” you press with a wavering grin. “What did they say?”

“Nothing of substance,” he shrugs his bare shoulders. “Just… foolish things.”

“Like…?” you trail off, soothing your palms down the pale canvas of his chest.

A faint uncertain smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your hands dip below the waterline. “I wrote of… what fields I passed. What foolish things Ser Criston said that day. What I’d seen— What I missed of home, what I missed of you…” 

He trails off when your fingers find his cock, lying limp along his left thigh. He feels like velvet in your fist as you massage him slowly hard. “Keep going…” you coo to him.

His hips twitch beneath you when you tighten your grip on his stiffening length. “I— I wrote of your hands,” he manages, and swallows hard when your thumb swipes across the sensitive tip of his cock. His eyes grow heavy with desire as he watches you work at him through the haze of cloudy water. “How I missed the— the feel of them on me… Gods…” 

“Go on…” you murmur, smearing your lips along his jaw.

“I wrote that… that I missed your smell,” he confesses, fraying with each slow pass of your hand. “Your hair after a bath… The wine on your breath after supper… The sweat between your thighs after a long day— Seven fucking hells.” 

His jaw clenches tight when your free hand dips down to cradle his balls, squeezing the sensitive sack between your fingers until his cock jerks in your fist. His heavy head lolls into your kiss; he feels you smiling against his cheek. 

“You’re already close, aren’t you?” 

He swallows hard. “You have no idea how long it’s been…” he confesses in a blissful sigh.

“I’m sure there were plenty of whores on the road,” you singsong in his ears.

He shakes his head instantly in protest. “None as beautiful as you…” 

His denial does little to comfort you. Instead, you feel a white-hot rage searing in your chest. Some distant, ugly part of you wishes he had taken a thousand whores while he was away, if only to take the weight of your own betrayal off your shoulders. At least then you could share it, this guilt, instead of living alone in your sin. You hate yourself most of all for even wishing it, and you feel very suddenly disgusted in your own skin — eager to be free of him and this moment altogether.

“Then cum,” you command against his pulse, jerking his cock faster in your fist. Gwayne’s fingers clutch at the plush skin of your hips hard enough to etch bruises there, and you revel in the hurt as his grumbled moan fills the bathing chambers. “Come on. Cum for me—”

He makes a broken sort of sound in the base of his throat as he seizes just beneath you, tense and trembling as his high hits him full force. The cooling water threatens to slosh off the rim as he twitches through his orgasm, which spurts into the cloudy water in short ropes of pearly-white, until he relaxes finally with a sigh.

“Give me a moment…” he pleads through ragged breaths. “I’ll make you feel good, I just— I need a moment…”

“I’m alright,” you assure him with a shake of your head, and with a sad smile that he doesn’t catch with his eyes still closed. “You rest tonight… I’ll see you in the morning.”

viii. CAGE & CONFESSION

You do not go to find Ormund until long after Gwayne’s breathing has steadied. 

He takes up the whole of the bed in his inhuman exhaustion; one leg straight and the other bent beneath the quilts, one pale arm slung over his bare stomach and the other left reaching out for your empty side of the bed as you slip from beneath the silk. You storm for Ormund’s solar in the dimly lit halls in nothing but your thin ivory nightgown; the fabric catching at your ankles with every furious stride in the man’s direction.

You find the room lit by a sea of glittering candles when you throw open the door without ceremony. It strikes the wall a harsh bang, far too loud for the late night; the wind of the blow makes the flames gutter wildly in their sconces. 

Ormund’s head snaps up from his dispatches at the sudden intrusion. His quill pauses on the parchment — because the work of war is never truly done, not even at the dead of night. His eyes are cold for a flicker with a soldier’s instinct, then warm again all at once when he finds no threat — only you. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow, knowing smile accordingly.

“Come to warm my bed already, have you?” the man lilts in his usual melodic voice, setting his quill aside as he slouches back into his cushioned seat. “I confess, I hardly expected to see you tonight, what with your husband so newly returned. Bold of you, really—”

“Don’t,” you snap. 

The word slices through the solar like a blade, and wipes away the smug curve of his smile in an instant. Your nightgown billows around your ankles with every furious step inside; the shadows of the fabric catch in the candlelight and turn you into something half-spectral as you loom over the desk across from him.

“He wrote to me. For months, he wrote to me,” you agonize. “And when he asked whether I’d received them, I sat there like a fool, knowing I hadn’t gotten a single one.”

Ormund draws a long, even breath through his nose. His ringed fingers settle flat over the desk as he keeps a measured composure about him, even though yours unravels by the minute.

“Ah…” he hums under his breath.

A shocked laugh escapes your mouth. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“What would you have me say?” he asks, pale eyes locked with yours as he braces himself on the arms of his chair to rise. The wood scrapes harshly along the cobbles when he stands to full height. “That I kept them from you? That I— read them for myself and burned each one in the hearth when I’d finished? Very well… I did.” 

The plain admission threatens to knock the breath from your lungs. You had braced yourself for denial, to be true, to spend these late hours coaxing the truth from his lips. You were not prepared for confession; not so soon, and not so easily. 

“Why?” you demand, half-breathless with tears. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I did not wish to hurt you,” Ormund says, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “You wept for that man every night for the better part of a moon’s turn. I thought it might ease you, if you’d believed he didn’t care enough to write to you at all. I thought I was sparing you the grief of it.”

“That was not yours to decide!” you shout, voice shaking beneath the weight of your girlish fury. “Those were my letters, Ormund! My husband's words! You had no right—”

“No right?!” he thunders through an emotionless laugh, ocean eyes flickering with madness in an instant. “You are my prisoner! Or have you so quickly forgotten, given how generously I’ve treated you?”

You flinch back as he rounds the desk, though you cannot seem to leave the spot ahead of him as he inches towards you like a predator to prey.

“You’re lucky you’re standing here at all. Any other Targaryen beast would be in chains, but you…” he continues, prowling another step closer. “I let you share my tent, my table, my bed. And I did it gladly because I came to love you despite the— taint in your blood.”

You peer up at him through teary eyes when he towers finally in front of you — brows raised, eyes hardened, jaw clenched tight.

“But… you are still my prisoner,” he reminds you evenly. “You have been since the day you arrived at my camp. So I have every right to decide which letters enter your hands and which ones do not.” 

Each word strikes you like a physical blow — worse, somehow, than the searing one the hedgeknight had dealt you, which has caused an unnatural cracking of your jaw ever since. Maybe because these cruel, cruel words come from the same mouth that has kissed you, pleasured you.

“Prisoner?” you repeat tearily, features screwed in disbelief. “You say you love me and yet you call me beast in the very same breath. Wh… What am I meant to make of that?”

Ormund’s face falters finally at the sight of your tears, clinging to your lower lashes and glimmering gold in the candlelight. A soft crack splits down the unforgiving marble of him as he shakes his head down at you. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says and turns away.

“Like what?” you spit at the back of him.

“Like I've wounded you,” he snaps, long coat fanning slightly at his waist when he turns to face you again, now several paces away. “Where was your Gwayne when you hadn’t eaten in five days, and I fed you bread from mine own hand? Tell me that.” 

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

“Where was your dutiful husband when that hedgeknight had you pinned in the dirt with your skirts torn to your thighs?” Ormund continues, palms splayed at his sides for effect. “Because I did not see him riding to your rescue as I had. I did not see him holding you through the nights you woke screaming. That was me— Only me— And yet you still stand here and weep over a handful of mindless letters, as if that erases the whole of what I've done for you.” 

Your chin jerks back as you flinch hard at his words, at the weight of them, which you can feel heavying your chest until every new breath feels impossible. Ormunds goes silent for a moment; the shadow of his clenched jaw comes and goes as he grits his teeth. His fists open and close at his sides until they finally relax, when the anger within drains into mourning.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters suddenly, boots padding along the cobbles as he closes the distance between you once more. “Forgive me. You’re right, I— I should not have kept them from you. I only meant to spare you, you understand that, right?”

His wide, gently calloused hands reach for your cheeks with a tenderness that feels maddeningly sincere compared to the vitriol he’d thrown at you moments ago. He lifts your chin and ducks his head into your eyeline when you do not meet his gaze. His blue eyes go round and wet with a boyish grief as hurt sears through his chest.

“I only want to keep you safe,” he whispers. “Whatever else I’ve done wrong— that much has always been true… You know this, don’t you?”

He peers down at you and waits on bated breath for a response. You say nothing just yet. Your trembling hands reach from the gold buttons of his coat. At first, he thinks you mean to push him away — you want nothing more, in fact, than to push him away and wrench yourself from his hands and return to your place in bed next to Gwayne.

You do not.

You just close your eyes, exhausted past the point of arguing any further. The threads of guilt and love and fury and anguish tangle together somewhere deep in your chest, until one is utterly indistinguishable from the others. The only thing you know now for certain is that the whole of your life can be categorized into two groups: those who have stayed and those who have gone. 

Your own family had sailed across the Narrow Sea and left you behind without so much as a backwards glance; and Gwayne, gentle as he is, still rode off to serve a cause that mattered more to him than you. 

Ormund is, perhaps, the only person in your life who has never once abandoned you. Whatever else he has done to you before now — however cruel or calculating or maddening he has since become — he has never once walked away from you. Not when you intended to starve yourself, not when you were pinned in the mud by your skirts, not when you woke up screaming on particularly brutal nights.

You hate how much it all matters to you, however fickle it may seem. You hate it, and you hate that cannot make yourself stop needing it all the same.

“I don’t know what to do…” you confess in a broken voice, clutching him hard by the collar of his coat. His softened face is bleary behind the tears burning in your eyes. “I feel so guilty, Ormund— I do not know for how long I can bear it. It sets heavy on my chest, all the time, and I cannot set it down—”

“Then let me carry it,” he tells you. His grip goes more solid when you attempt to turn away, thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks. “I can bear it well enough for the two of us, I swear it—”

The breath of his words fans across your chin when he ducks down to kiss you, hard and sudden and searing. He tastes of wine and mint leaves when the velvety pad of his tongue licks into your mouth without warning. 

You sigh hard through your nose at the feeling of him and cling to the front of his coat as he walks you backward a few paces towards the desk. The edge of the wood catches hard against the backs of your thighs. Ormund’s hands dip from your face to your hips, balling the fabric of your gown until it rises up your legs.

“Did you take him into your bed tonight?” he pants rough against your mouth, with the tip of his broad nose nudging yours. “Your husband? Did you fuck him? Tell me.”

“No,” you shake your head on an exhaled breath. Your fingers curl into his dark curls as his wet mouth drags along your neck, down to your exposed collarbone. “I only pleasured him with my hand. Nothing more.” 

Ormund nods swiftly, as though pleased by the admission. He peers up at you through his lashes as he kisses down your clothed chest. “Always a giver, aren’t you?” he hums lowly, mouth quirking softly at the edges. “Allow me to return the favor, then…” 

He sinks to his knees, with your ivory skirt now pushed up to your thighs. You keep one hand splayed along the back of his knuckles and the other tangled in his curls as he kisses your cunt like he would your mouth. He moans when his tongue slots between your sticky folds, a muffled growl you can feel in the very pit of your stomach.

Ormund is not quite as measured with his mouth as Gwayne had been the evening before he left you. He’s fast and sloppy and loud — you can hear his tongue as it flicks against you, his lips as they suckle your clit, his moans as your honey pools on his tongue.

You swallow down a moan before it can swell through the quiet room. It turns into a whimper in your throat instead. “Ormund—” you gasp quietly, tugging him hard by the hair as his tongue laps at your swollen clit.

His bleary eyes open to peer up the length of your body — your heavy head tilted to your chest, your gaze lidded and glassy with pleasure, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “Let me have it,” he slurs against your pussy, and smiles to himself at the pretty sound you make for him in response. “That’s it— Let me have it…” 

Your mouth presses into a tight line to choke back a moan when his mouth returns to your cunt, suckling the sensitive button between his lips and flicking his tongue against it simultaneously. You shudder against his mouth when you cum for him, whimpering when he buries his moans and muffled murmurs of praise against your drooling pussy.

You do as you’re told — you give it all to him, you let him bear it — while Gwayne sleeps off the remnants of war across the hall.

ix. GARDENS & GHOSTS

The gardens of Tumbleton are modest things compared to the grandeur of the Red Keep, though you struggle to remember it so vividly now. Here there are only a few neat rows of late-summer roses gone wild for want of a gardener, an overgrown path winding between shaggy hedges, and a slowly weeping fountain gone quiet and still. You spend Gwayne’s second evening at the foreign castle walking beneath a canopy of drooping wisteria, with your hands looped loosely through the crook of his arm and your dress skirts whispering against the stone with every languid step.

“I’d nearly forgotten what this was like…” Gwayne hums, studying the wilting roses with distracted interest. “Walking somewhere without waiting for an arrow to find me first…”

“Don’t worry, Ser Gwayne…” you squint with a teasing lilt. “I’ll keep you safe.”

And though Gwayne hasn’t so much as seen you hold a real sword in your hand, he flashes you a tight-lipped smile anyway. “Of that, dear wife, I have no doubt…” 

You fall into an easy quiet thereafter; the ordinary rhythm of marriage, though it still feels a bit foreign to you now. He asks only about small things: if the summer storms had frightened you too badly, if the men at the Hightower camp treated you well, and if you’d truly meant what you said about that farm. You answer each in turn, grateful for the ease of it — or, at least, for the brief illusion that nothing had changed between you at all.

“And the encampment?” Gwayne asks then, flashing you a knowing look from the corner of his eye. “You’d said precious little of it thus far. Surely, it wasn’t so unbearable— Though I’m sure my cousin likely wasn’t making it easy for you.”

“There isn’t much to say,” you shrug with a feigned air of detachment, though the words come out a little quicker than you mean them to. You catch the faint furrow of confusion between his brows, and pretend to be more preoccupied by the wilting wisteria overhead instead. “It was… eventful. I suppose. In its own way.”

“Eventful?” Gwayne repeats with an arched brow. An unsure laugh sputters from his chest a second later. “I can’t tell whether that’s meant as a comfort or a warning…”

“It’s nothing worth troubling over,” you tell him. “Truly.” 

Gwayne’s eyes flit down to where your wrists are curled lazily around his bicep. The dull nails of your right thumb and forefinger pick aimlessly at the already marred skin of your left. He stops instantly in place — he had sensed something amiss since you caught him in the yard, to be true, but he sees it more plainly in your being than he had the night before.

“Did something happen?” he blurts.

Your head whips to him, eyes widening in an innocuous look. “I… I don’t know what you mean?”

He swallows once and rephrases. “Something happened…” he repeats, this time as a firmer statement. “At the camp. Something you’re not telling me.” 

You exhale a slow and shaking breath, though it does little to loosen the tightness in your chest now. You find that, once cornered and with his pleading eyes searching your face, you cannot quite bring yourself to lie to him again.

“There was a… a man," you start unsteadily, eyes fixed on the overgrown hedge behind his shoulder rather than his face. “A hedgeknight. I was out gathering berries, and he— He asked me about a letter. The one you left me. And when I wouldn't— He tried to—”

“He tried to what?" Gwayne presses when you trail off, ducking his auburn head into your eyeline when you avert your gaze. His voice is low and careful, but you can hear the tension straining beneath it already. 

“He grabbed for it… And I struck him, without thinking, and he struck me back…” Your fingers lift absently to your cheek, brushing the ghost of a bruise with your finger, long since healed but not yet forgotten. Your gaze goes glassy and unfocused with the recollection of the memory — the smell of the berries, the taste of the blood, the feeling of the wet earth beneath you. The rest of the words come out in choppy and nonsensical. “And I fell— and my skirts— I think he meant too— I don’t know truly, but I— I could not stop him—”

“Gods…” Gwayne huffs, as if the breath had been punched out of him entirely. His pale, handsome features screw together in horror as his pale eyes glitter with anger at himself. “I should’ve been there… I never should’ve left you.”

“Ormund killed him,” you add quickly and watch a complicated look flicker behind Gwayne’s eyes at the name. “Before he could…”

Gwayne nods when you trail off, signaling that you need not go on any further. “I am glad for that, at least,” he says, though there is a strain in his voice that suggests something other than gladness. His palms reach for your hands then, preventing you from picking at the skin there. “I am glad my cousin was there for you. Truly. I was a fool leaving you behind. I should’ve stayed, I should’ve—” 

You shake your head in protest of his apologies. “No—”

“I should’ve been there—”

“Don’t,” you tell him, though the word spills broken from your mouth when you jerk your hands free from his. The sudden loss of his touch leaves your fingers strangely cold. “Don’t apologize. I do not deserve it.”

“Deserve it?” Gwayne echoes with lowered brows. “What do you mean, deserve it?”

“Your kindness,” you sniffle. “I don’t deserve it.”

Gwayne blinks owlishly at you, and feels a strange searing in his chest when you flinch back from him as he tries to step closer. “Why are you saying this?” 

“I have— I have sinned.” Your breath catches hard on a sob. Your wet eyes try and fail to meet his gaze. “I have betrayed you.”

Gwayne tenses at once. His face goes still and solemn; the warmth he’d had for you moments ago drains slowly from his features now. “What do you mean?” he wonders lowly.

“With— With Ormund— We— I,” you attempt to speak through hitched breaths, though you cannot seem to get any of the words out. “I cannot express to you— how unspeakably lonely I have been—”

“Lonely?” he repeats, spits back at you like venom. “Do you think I was not lonely?”

“You at least had a war to fight!” you argue tearily. “I was taken prisoner, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And do you think I would not have rather been home?” Gwayne shouts. “With you, instead of watching my men die in a field over a war I never wanted any part of?”

“You’re the one who left!” you exclaim when he turns away from you, already retreating down the gravel path before he can lose his composure completely. “If you stayed, we could’ve been together! And none of this would’ve happened! You act like someone was dragging you by your boots to go fight a useless war!”

Gwayne stops at that, a few paces ahead. His shoulders are rigid beneath his borrowed doublet when he turns to you again, though not enough to face you fully. Only his profile is visible to you now, with his auburn hair falling over his brow and his emotionless grin hinting at the corner of his mouth.

“I did not… want this marriage…” he confesses in calculated murmurs. “Not at first, anyway. That much I’ll admit, but… From the moment I wed you, it never once crossed my mind to seek comfort elsewhere.”

“Gwayne, I—”

“I meant my vows,” he tells you and turns, finally, to face you fully. You found no trace of fury in his face now, only a pained sort of look that turns his pale eyes a glassier shade of blue. “I have always meant them.”

“I didn't know if you were alive!” you agonize through a sob. “Don’t you understand that? Months, Gwayne — months without a single word! Not knowing whether you were breathing or rotting in some unmarked grave! And I couldn't even write to you to ask, because Ormund told me it wasn't safe. He said the letters might be intercepted, might lead Rhaenyra's army straight to you, and I could not risk that—”

“Ormund told you that?” Gwayne interjects, voice gone dull and cold. “That your letters weren’t— safe to send?”

“Yes,” you nod. “He said that—”

“And mine?” Gwayne presses with a slow step closer. “I presume he kept mine from you as well. That’s why you never got them, isn’t it? Because of him?”

You go quiet, unsure of how to answer — like there’s some joke here somewhere you have not yet been let in on. But, to Gwayne, your silence is answer enough. He exhales a long, shuddering breath through his nose.

“Ormund and I used to play a game,” he tells you suddenly, with a humorless smile ghosting across his mouth. “Run the tower, we called it— a footrace to the top beacon. And I let him win. Every time. Because he could not bear to lose even the smallest thing.”

Your eyes widen slightly, as you remember Daeron’s warning in the castle window — his anxious, hardly intelligible ramble. “It’s a dangerous thing to be the prize he’s decided he’s won,” the boy had told you. You hadn’t understood what he meant by that until now.

Gwayne’s features screw with a withheld fury, one that Ormund would’ve already unleashed on you tenfold by now if the roles were reversed.

“He was a thin-skinned twat even then. I thought it harmless, at the time. I never imagined…” he trails off, clicking his tongue against his teeth when he turns to you again. He shakes his head as his mouth twitches into a sympathetic sort of smile. “If you think Ormund loves you, dear wife, I assure you, he does not. He simply decided that you were another game worth winning.”

He does not wait for your response. He turns on his heel, and when he walks away this time, he does not stop. 

His feet carry him down the overgrown path, through the winding unfamiliar castle, and straight towards Ormund’s solar — without him ever fully registering any of it; not until he swings open the heavy oak door, at least, and is met instantly with the humidity of an incensed bath. He nearly chokes on the musky oils sitting heavily in the air.

“Leave us,” Gwayne orders Daeron in lieu of a real greeting. The boy’s eyes widen in shock at the sudden intrusion from where he stands obediently off to the side, robe in hand. His gaze flits to Ormund’s on instinct, who gives him a curt nod of approval without looking up, before scurrying out of the room.

The older man sits submerged to the chest in a steaming copper tub. A wooden tray sits balanced across the rim, with his inkpot and parchment laid before him. His quill scratches against the paper in swift strokes until Gwayne unsheathes his long sword with a sharp hiss. The older man tenses when the steel kisses the soft skin of his throat.

“You will explain yourself,” Gwayne says, peering down at the man from the bridge of his nose. “Or, by the gods, I will open your throat right here in this tub.” 

Ormund does not so much as flinch when he sets his quill back into its inkpot. He tilts his chin just slightly to look up at the man and feels the faint pressure of the blade against his adam’s apple. Amusement flickers in his blue eyes.

“She told you, then,” he hums — not quite a question but not entirely a statement either. “I did wonder how long that might take.”

“She told me everything,” Gwayne bites out through clenched teeth. “The letters— mine to hers; hers to me. Months of lies, cousin, you called protection.”

“Yes. I protected her," Ormund nods without reservation. “More than you ever did, seeing as you were hundreds of leagues away and all. I fed her when she attempted to starve herself grieving you. I killed a man who meant to rape her in a berry patch while you were off playing at war like a child—”

Gwayne tenses at the accusation buried in his words. The edge of the blade presses harder to Ormund’s throat, but still, he does not waver.

“I gave her a place to sleep when the storms came, and warmth when the nights grew cold, and company when she felt no one else in the entire realm cared whether she lived or died,” the man lilts evenly. His voice does not rise and his stare does not yield, not even with the cold steel resting steadily against his pulse. “So, please, spare me the outrage, cousin. I only gave her what she asked for— freely, and often, and more enthusiastically than you can imagine.”

Gwayne’s whole body goes rigid. A mixture of fury and humiliation prickles red-hot at his pale skin. His knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword, but the blade does not move an inch.

“Well, go on, then,” Ormund tilts his head, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Finish it, if you mean to. Open my throat here, in my own bath, and we’ll see who she weeps for. You or me.”

Silence fills the empty solar. Gwayne grits his teeth and wills his hand to move; to either strike the man down or turn away entirely. He cannot seem to do either. 

Ormund lifts a lazy hand to swipe the blade away without a word. He rises slowly from the bath a second later. Rivulets of water glisten as they rush down his lean body and trickle audibly when they hit the surface again. He stands before his cousin, unabashedly bare, and reaches for the linen cloth draped over the edge of the tub. 

“For what it’s worth, cousin,” he says, swiping the nettle across his toned, golden skin. “I never intended to make an enemy of you. And I rather think, whatever she may tell you now to spare your pride, that she’d choose to stay exactly where she is, if given the choice.”

Gwayne opens his mouth to argue.

“Daeron!” Ormund calls out before he can. 

The door creaks slowly open a second later. The younger boy reappears with an obvious hesitance, refusing to meet either of their eyes as he rushes to his uncle’s side. He settles the emerald fabric over the older man’s broad shoulders, and Ormund slides his arms through the long sleeves. He ties the sash with slow hands and with an expression that looks almost sympathetic.

“Best wash up soon, cousin,” he grins. “It’s nearly time for supper.”

x. STEEL & SUPPER

Supper that evening is a small and wretched thing; four places set at a round table dragged in from some lesser hall to make the arrangement feel less tribunal. It’s close enough that you can feel the heat of both men suffocating either side of you, along with the cold, watchful silence of Daeron across the way; young enough to shift awkwardly in his seat at the tense silence, but old enough still to understand exactly what such silence truly means.

No one speaks a word of the hard truth of it out loud. Neither of you needs to — the whole of your sin sits at the table like an uninvited guest, souring the wine in every cup and thickening the air until you can scarcely draw a single breath around it.

“So…” Ormund says first to break the silence. He talks beneath the soft scraping of his knife against the porcelain as he cuts into his meat. “Ser Criston fights on, and yet you alone have returned to us… Why is that, I wonder?”

Gwayne turns slowly to glare at the man with dull, blue eyes, already too annoyed for idle blather. “Because fighting on is madness,” he answers distantly.

Ormund scoffs with a wad of food in his cheek. He smiles as he swallows it down, angling his head in the young prince’s direction. “Do you think me mad, boy?”

Daeron’s eyes shoot up from his plate. His spine straightens instinctively at his uncle’s sudden attention. “No, sire,” he answers quickly.

Ormund nods, pleased, and then turns slowly to you. A fondness flickers in his pale gaze behind the challenge in his eyes. “And you, my—” He catches himself half a breath too late; my love, he’d nearly said, though you cannot tell if it was an intentional attempt to rile his already aggrieved cousin. “My lady… Do you think me mad?”

Your brows bounce in response, though your gaze never lifts from your lap as your nails work relentlessly at the already torn skin of your thumb. “I don’t think you want me to answer that—”

You freeze in place when Ormund’s wide hand reaches suddenly to splay his calloused palm over the back of your knuckles. Your head whips in his direction. You struggle to tell if the action is heedless or entirely uncaring, as Gwayne sits close enough to watch the exchange on the other side of you. The man inhales sharply through his nose and straightens his spine as he reaches for his goblet, trying hard to pretend he hadn’t noticed it at all.

“Why do you insist on ruining yourself this way?” Ormund wonders lowly, as his thumb rubs soothingly over your marred one.

“Seems to be a common affliction as of late,” you answer distantly and draw your hands from beneath his touch. “Messing with things we ought to leave well enough alone…”

“You are aware—” Gwayne says gruffly as he swallows down his bitter wine, setting down his chalice with a bit more force than likely necessary. “—That while you’re all in here playing happy families, there’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us? And five more not thirty leagues away?”

“Why do you think we came here, cousin?” Ormund scoffs and waves his concern away with a lazy flick of his knife. “Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, after all. Squeamish, by nature.”

A short laugh spills suddenly from your lips. “Squeamish?” you echo. “Says the man who requires a milk bath twice daily, lest he make it everyone else’s burden to bear?”

The jab earns a proud smile from Gwayne that he tries hopelessly to bite back, and a small grin from Daeron that he conceals behind the rim of his goblet. Ormund swallows hard through the embarrassment strangling his throat, angled jaw clenching as he grits his teeth.

“Well… If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were taking up the usurper’s cause.”

“I’m not taking up anyone’s cause,” you mutter. “I just want to go home.”

“Oh?” Ormund hums with a feigned air of curiosity, though you do not miss the bite in his words as he wonders aloud, “And where is that precisely? King’s Landing? Oldtown?”

“Well, it’s certainly not here—”

“No,” he agrees instantly, warmth freezing over in an instant. “But when the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our own terms, on our own ground— turning King’s Landing against that overweening cunt, little by little, bite by bite… And when we expose her as weak and unsuited to rule, the great houses will flock to our side, and then, my lady, we can all go home.”

“Have any yet come?” Gwayne wonders knowingly. “Great houses, I mean.”

Ormund’s gaze snaps in his direction. “The patient hunter gets the kill, cousin,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’d have thought you’d learned that much by now.”

“Only one of us at this table has actually been hunted, if you’ll recall…”

“Yes, you have endured much,” Ormund huffs and returns to his boar. “Though I’m sure you find some solace along the road… with whores, perhaps, or your… brothers in arms…”

The insinuation sits heavily in the quiet, thicker than smoke and choking the three of you accordingly. Gwayne’s jaw tightens hard enough to make the muscle flex. Whatever retort had been rising in his throat at that moment is killed instantly by the sudden creaking of the heavy door across the room. Bold Jon enters, flanked by a couple of punier squires. 

“My lord,” the older knight announces. “House Baratheon has sent an envoy. They mean to bend the knee to House Hightower.”

Ormund is aglow in an instant. The sourness of the previous moment rolls off of his broad shoulders as a newfound satisfaction kindles behind his blue eyes. “Let the Stormlands lead the way…” he mutters to himself, mouth curling into a grin. “Highgarden will have no choice but to follow…” 

He flashes you a proud and knowing look as he rises from his seat. “Alright. Stand up,” he says and begins to round the small table. When no one follows him quick enough, he snaps, “Stand up! All of you.”

You rise at once, abandoning your plates as you follow him to the front of the dining table. The three of you fall into line beside the high lord, who stands just ahead to greet the incoming knights Ser Jon ushers in. The knights are caked in dirt from the long road; their yellow cloaks are crusted thick with mud, and their boots track dark prints across the fine pale stone beneath them. They smell like earth and sweat, hardly noticeable to you, though you spot Ormund’s shoulders tensing instantly when the stench hits him.

“Lord Ormund Hightower,” Roxton announces formally. “Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown.”

“Well met, Ser Ormund," the head of the envoy greets with a polite nod, arms propped along the pommel of his longsword. “I come on behalf of Lord Borros Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“Mm…” Ormund hums, ringed fingers fidgeting at his sides as he attempts to swallow through the invisible hand strangling him. “You are quite welcome, Ser…?”

“Ser Arrion Baratheon. Cousin to Lord Borros.”

You freeze at once. A newfound fear settles ice-cold in your veins. Your eyes squint as you study the stranger’s bearded face more closely — his curls, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. You find that he looks nothing like the Ser Arrion you had once met, at a tourney some several moons back; the one where you first laid eyes on Ser Gwayne Hightower.

The man himself tenses at your elbow. His jaw clenches tight with knowing as he turns slowly to flash you a single, silent glance. You communicate without words. His folded hands fall casually beside the sheathed sword at his hip; yours cross behind your back, as you reach blindly for the fruit knife idling somewhere beside the plates of supper.

“I most regret presenting ourselves to you in this state,” the stranger continues. 

Your jaw clenches tight in frustration as your fingers miss the handle in several agonizing attempts. You slide it closer with the very tip of your middle finger, slowly so as not to draw attention, before your fingers close finally around the hilt. You grip the blade to your back, palm going clammy around the grip.

“The road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately.”

“We are honored to receive you,” Ormund assures him, entirely unaware. “And what word does Lord Borros send?”

“House Baratheon offers its banners in alliance with House Hightower,” the envoy says. “I have been charged to swear fealty on Lord Borros' behalf.”

“Well,” Ormund grins. “Your lord has made a wise choice—”

“Ser Arrion?” you call at once, stepping forward and drifting instinctively in front of Daeron with your arm still tight around your back. The boy’s eyes widen when he catches sight of the blade behind you. Your smile remains as artificially sweet as ever, despite the way your heart hammers hard against your ribs. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

The man’s heavy brows furrow as confusion flickers across his bearded face. He musters a similarly fake grin. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, my lady—”

The hesitant answer is confirmation enough. Gwayne unsheaths his sword in a blink and slices the imposter across the neck before he can finish his sentence. His throat splits wide open, bright crimson blood gushing out instantly. You feel it splattering across your cheek as the man falls limp to the ground in front of you.

The dining hall erupts into chaos in a blink. The shouting of Baratheon imposters and Hightower knights fills the room at once. One lunges towards you, trying to get to Daeron, you figure, though he’s met with the small blade clutched in your trembling grip before he can. 

You drive the knife into the first soft place you can find — his eye, you think, and then the side of his neck, before he crumples to the floor screaming.

“No!” Ormund’s voice shouts over the ringing of colliding blades, flashing a fiery look at Ser Jon. “Stop them, you fool!”

Daeron steps quickly in front of the older knight. “No!” he says to the man, small as he is, but standing his ground regardless.

“These are assassins!” Gwayne shouts over the clash of steel, kicking one knight down before striking him across the skull. “Sent for Daeron— and probably you!”

A pair of thick hands close hard around your wrist, cold and calloused and unforgiving. It yanks a memory from some buried place in your mind — spilled berries, wet earth, pooled blood in the mouth. You do not know whether or not he intends to strike you, or if he truly does, or if he only means to stop you. You only feel a girlish fury clawing its way from your throat as a buzzing adrenaline prickles at your burning skin. 

The bloody knife in your fist cuts him clean across the face — his throat, his jaw, his cheek, his eye, his temple. He stumbles back against the wall, bloodied and unrecognizable, but still you do not stop. Your blade follows him as he sinks to the ground in a gurgling, limp ball. His blood splashes warm across your face, clinging sticky to your fingers, but you still do not stop.

“Enough, enough…” you hear a voice say from behind you, muffled through the ringing in your ears. You feel a warmth press against your side and a gentle hand curl around your wrist. Gwayne’s voice follows more clearly in your ear, “He’s dead… It’s over now...”

The adrenaline seems to ebb from your veins at once, with a raw sob sputtered from your mouth. The knife slips from your limp fingers, clattering audibly to the bloodied cobbles below. You feel something warm trickling across your forehead and reach to wipe it with the back of your hand; blood smears wet across your brow in its place.

Across the wrecked hall, Ormund hunches over the back of his chair on the other side of the table. His face has gone pale-white; made more ashen, perhaps, behind the drops of vivid crimson splattered across his face. The thick copper stench of it settles in the back of his throat, along with the sweat and mud and death and shit hanging in the air.

“How—” he chokes hoarsely out. “How did you know— These men were false?”

“I was nearly betrothed to Lord Borros’ son once,” you hear yourself answer, though the words sound a bit distant, like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth. “I met his cousin… Lord Arrion…  at a tourney in King’s Landing years ago… I gave him my favor that day—”

“Right before I cut him down,” Gwayne adds through panted breaths, with a distant satisfaction in his voice at the memory. “The real Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut, stands near a foot taller and is, as it happens, far more comely."

Ormund makes a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. “I will cleave the bitch— From crown to cunt—” he manages between heaving breaths “—She will die wishing she never dared to... dared to…” 

His body seizes as he retches — once, then twice — before doubling over the table and vomiting his supper along the plates ahead of him.

Gwayne watches on with a grim sort of amusement. “Best wash up now, cousin,” he hums in jest, as drily as Ormund had to him earlier that day. 

His amused smile fades when he catches you swaying in the corner of his eye.

The room seems to tilt on its axis under your feet. The cobbles sway softly beneath you, as if you were standing on water instead of stone. You reach blindly for the back of the nearest chair to steady yourself; you watch your fingers curl around the embellished wood, though you cannot feel it under your palms. Daeron’s quick hand catches you beneath the elbow in a small attempt to steady you.

“My lady?” he mutters softly, beneath Gwayne’s firmer, “Are you hurt?” 

Your mouth parts, but it takes a moment for the words to come out. They fall from your tongue in strange slurs that sound nothing like your voice. “My back…” You trail off before choking on a whimper. It is not pain you feel, not completely, but rather a cold numbness blossoming wide along the left side of your spine.

Ormund perks instantly, swiping a hand along his chin and fighting off his own dizziness when he watches Gwayne close the distance between you. His long, pale fingers skim carefully along your shoulders as he examines the back of you. They settle finally just above the thin tear in your bodice, where the fabric of your borrowed dress starts to bloom a darker crimson from the blood spreading from underneath it — from where a soldier’s blade must’ve kissed you in the chaos.

“Gods…” you hear Gwayne breathe just behind you. “You’re bleeding— Someone call the maester!” 

Your knees buckle underneath you as the strength spills from your body like sand through your fingers. Two sets of hands keep you upright; one smaller and trembling, the other wider and far more steady. They guide you into the seat before you can collapse. You watch Gwayne kneel into your vision with his palms resting firmly on your knees. The world continues swaying all around you.

“Let me see it,” Ormund says through panted breaths, gripping the table’s edge as he attempts to walk to you despite his own weakening state. He’s still pale and sheening with sweat from the blood clinging to his skin and nostrils.

“You can barely stand yourself,” Gwayne scolds drily. “She is my wife— I am more than capable of tending to her.” 

Ormund attempts to laugh, though the chuckle comes out wearier than he means to. “Are you?” the older man manages to choke out. “Because you surely haven’t cared about tending to her while you were off playing at war—”

“Enough…” The word comes out slurred and hoarse from your mouth. The men fall silent at once. Their heads whip in your direction with matching expressions of concern that would’ve felt almost comical in any other moment.

The pain has started to sharpen now beneath the somewhat pleasant numbness. A hot, insistent throb begins to settle in its wake, searing through you like fire.

Your first instinct is to reach for Gwayne, but the guilt of what you’d done to him weighs on your hands like cement — what right do you have, you think, to reach for him now with bloodied hands, after months of reaching for another? 

And then you think inevitably of Ormund and the particular safety you’ve always found in his hands, after he’s already seen you blood-soaked and broken and ugly from war, and never once flinched away at any of it. And then you think of the burned letters and the lies, and then of Gwayne’s departure with only a sliver of parchment left in his wake. 

You reach, in the end, for neither of them.

“Daeron,” you call instead to the boy hovering beside you. You turn your swimmy gaze to his wide and frightened ones. Your voice is unnaturally thick in your throat as you ask him, “Can— Can you help me up to my chambers, please?”  

The boy blinks and forgets to look to his uncle for approval first as he nods. “O-Of course, my lady,” he stammers and loops your arm carefully over his shoulder. “Lean on me…” 

You do not look back at either man behind you as Daeron eases you from the chair and guides you slowly towards the door; but you do feel both of their eyes following you like twin points of heat searing through your dress, just like the soldier’s blade had. Neither Gwayne nor Ormund says a single word; the hollow sound of your fading footsteps fills the silence as you go. 

The two of them are left standing alone together, amid the bloody wreckage of the unfamiliar hall, staring at the space where you’d once been.

The age gap between the two of you had always been something you both navigated quietly, the twenty years of wear, loss and hard earned medical instincts that gave him those faint silver threads at his temples.

Usually, that difference felt like a safe harbor.

But tonight, right now, it felt like a burden.

"Jack-" you started, your voice trembling as you held the bleeding wound on your forearm.

"Don't," he snapped, his voice was cold, sharp, and vibrating with danger. You had never seen him direct at you that way.

He finally turned to face you, stepping into the center of the room. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle jabbed against his skin.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, pointing a finger directly at you, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "Answer me. What in God's name was going through your head back there?"

"The, the patient had a knife! He was escalating, and security was at the other end of the floor-"

"So you stepped in front of him?!" Jack raised his voice, a sharp laugh bursting from his throat before turning deadly serious again. "You stepped into the reach of an intoxicated patient holding a fucking knife, bare handed? Without gear, without training, without waiting five bloody seconds for back-up?!"

"He was going to hurt a nurse!" you shouted back, the adrenaline still coursing hot through your veins. "I was right there! I reacted!"

"You didn't react, you acted like a reckless child with a savior complex!"

The words hit you. You flinched, the sting of the insult cutting deeper than the actual slice on your arm.

Jack instantly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. But when he opened his eyes again, the fury hadn't faded, it had just shifted into something far darker, laced with terror.

"You could have been killed," he whispered, his voice dropping, trying to calm himself down. "Do you understand that? One inch to the right, one sudden movement, and he would have stab you on the chest. And I would have been dragging your body onto a gurney. I would have been the one running the code on my own girlfriend."

"I made a decision-"

"It was a stupid decision!" Jack slammed his hand down on the metal table. You flinched, with a mix of fear and hurt. "It was completely undeniably reckless! You aren't invincible. You think you're helping, but all you did was put yourself in fatal danger!"

He ran both hands through his hair, pacing the narrow length of the room. The angry on his face was agonizing to look at.

"This isn't a fucking videogame, he stabs you and you're gone," Jack murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he stopped pacing, looking at you with eyes that were red rimmed and filled with agony. "You can't do something so impossibly stupid, so utterly careless with your own life..."

He paused, swallowing hard, his chest heaving.

"I hate it when you're like this" he breathed, the words heavy and devastating. "How easily I could lose you because you don't respect how fast a life can end in this place."

Tears finally welled up in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. "Jack, please..."

"No," he said softly, holding up a hand, refusing to let you touch him even as his own hands shook violently. "I need you to listen to me. I love you, baby. I love you so much it frightens me every damn day. I cannot watch you throw yourself into a fire just to prove you're brave. If you ever, ever, do something like that again, I won't be able to keep doing this."

He stood there for a moment, watching you cry.

Then, he reached into the cabinet, pulled out a strip of sterile bandages and an antiseptic wipe, and walked slowly over to you. "Come here,"

As his hand brushed against your skin, you pulled your arm back sharply, taking a sudden step away from him.

"Don't," you choked out, wiping the tears from your cheek with your shoulder. "I can do it myself."

Jack stopped, his hand hovering in mid air. A deep frustration crossed his features, pulling his brow down tight.

He had reached his absolute limit, the adrenaline and sheer terror of the night twisting his patience thin.

"Don't be immature," Jack said, his voice dropping into a firm tone. "Stop acting hysterical. You're bleeding, sit down and let me fix it."

The words immature and hysterical sliced through you, burning far worse than the cut on your arm.

The built up fear, the humiliation of being berated like a child, and the weight of his anger all exploded at once. You were done with him tonight.

"I said I can do it!" you gasped out, your voice cracking into a choked sob. You shoved at his chest, hard enough to pus him and make the boundaries clear. "Just go away! Leave me alone!"

Jack froze, taking a step back, shocked by the pain in your voice. But before he could say another word, the door opened.

Outside, Shen was by the doorway, listening. When he heard your voice, he step in. He took in the scene instantly: you backed from Jack, chest heaving and sobbing hysterically, and Jack standing over you with bandages in hand, looking stormily defensive.

Shen didn't hesitate for a second.

"Jack," Shen said, his voice was completely non negotiable as he stepped directly between him and you. "Out. Now."

"Shen, this isn't-" Jack started as he looked at him.

"I said out, Abbot," Shen interrupted, pointing firmly toward the open door. "You're done in here. I'll take care of her."

Jack looked from Shen back to you. You wouldn't meet his eyes, your head turned away as quiet sobs tore from your chest.

For a second, the anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by the realization of how he had just hurt you.

With a tight nod, Jack swallowed hard, set the bandage strip down and walked out without another word.

The rest of the night shift passed in a cold fog.

Shen had cleaned and bandaged the cut on your arm, giving you a little speech before sending you back out to work.

For the remaining four hours, you actively avoided Trauma Bays, took the long way around the nurse's station, and kept your head down whenever his figure in scrubs moved through the hallway.

Jack did the same. Whenever you were in the same general area, his presence felt impossibly heavy, but he never approached.

When 7 AM finally rolled around, you clocked out, feeling bruised down to your bones. You walked out to the parking garage, cold morning air biting at your face.

You half expected him to have left without you, but there he was.

Jack was leaning against the passenger side of his car, holding two paper cups of coffee from the cafeteria. He always drove you home after your shift. It was a rhythm you’d built together, a quiet ritual of transitioning from the madness of the ER back to normal life.

Neither of you spoke on the drive. The silence in the car felt suffocating.

When he finally pulled up outside your apartment building, Jack cut the engine. He didn't unbuckle immediately. Instead, he rested his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield before turning to look at you when you opened the car door to leave.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly as you where already walking to the building with wet eyes. "Please."

You turned around, nodding slowly. You didn't want to bring him inside, so you two stayed in the hallway outside your apartment door, key resting heavy in your palm.

Jack stood a step away, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice at you," Jack began, taking a breath and looking at youy. "And I shouldn't have... used those words. I was... terrified. I was out of my mind with fear, watching you put yourself in front of a blade like that. But I handled it wrong."

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "You spoke to me like I was a child, Jack. You called me immature and hysterical."

"Because you were acting on pure emotion!" Jack said, stepping a fraction closer, though his tone was defensive despite his apology. "You're a talented healthcare worker, but you lack the experience to know when a situation is beyond your pay grade. You rushed in without thinking about the consequences. That is impulse. That is a young and reckless reaction, and I can't just ignore it because it hurts your feelings to hear it."

His words settled over you heavily.

He is apologizing for how he said it, but not for what he thought.

Standing there, looking into his eyes, you saw it clearly. He didn't see an equal who had made a high stress judgment call in a chaotic trauma center. He saw a young, naive girl he had to manage and protect from her own foolishness.

The age gap between you wasn't just a number to him right now; it was a wall he was using to put himself above you.

A cold clarity washed over the anger, leaving behind an ache.

"You really see me like that, don't you?" you whispered, the realization pulling a broken breath from you. "Just a young, immature girl who doesn't know any better."

Jack blinked, panic entering his eyes by the calm of your voice. "That's not what I'm saying-"

"It is," you interrupted, shaking your head gently. "You think I'm too young to understand the risks, and you think you're the only one in this relationship who has any wisdom. Profesional and personal talking."

"I'm trying to keep you alive!" Jack snapped softly, reaching out to touch your arm, but dropping his hand when you took a small step back. "I care about you. I love you. But I've been doing this for longer than you've been in medicine. I know how this ends when people get careless."

"I know you love me," you said, tears brimming in your eyes again. "And I love you, too."

Jack let out a breath, his shoulders dropping slightly in relief. "Okay. Good. Then let's just go inside, get some sleep, and-"

"No," you said firmly, lifting your chin. "We need space. I need space."

Jack froze, his forehead furrowing. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not breaking up with you. But I see how you see me during some shifts. I'm going to ask to be switched to day shift for a few days," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the tremble in your hands. "I need to work without you staring over my shoulder waiting for me to to fail and you need time to decide if you actually respect me as an adult, or if you just see me as someone you have to babysit."

Jack stared at you, stunned into silence. For the first time all night, the authority drained out of his posture, replaced by vulnerability.

"Day shift?" he repeated quietly, the reality sinking in. "We won't see each other at work. We won't even have the same sleep schedule."

"I know," you replied feeling your heart break and a tear escaping your eyes. You turned the key in the lock and opened your apartment door. "I don't liked how you talked to me tonight. I understand your point but I think that's what we need right now."

You stepped inside, but paused.

You looked back at him standing alone in the hallway. Despite everything, the sadness and terror in his eyes was still raw.

You leaned forward, rising on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss against his cheek.

Jack’s breath hitched. His hand shot forward, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you against him so suddenly it felt like a silent plea. He squeezed your waist with a desperate warmth, his whole body shaking as if he were trying to convince himself you were still whole and unhurt. For a fleeting second, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his uneven breath felt hot against your skin.

He wanted to hold on. He wanted to pull you back inside the safety of his arms, but the unspoken wall of his condescension still stood cold and immovable between you.

You gently placed your hand over his wrist and slowly pushed back.

His grip loosened with agonizing slowness, his fingers lingering on your waist as if letting go was tearing something out of him. He lifted his head, his eyes glossy, and completely shattered by the realization that his own need to protect you had pushed you away.

"Get some sleep, Jack," you whispered, your voice breaking on his name. "I will... I will text you later. Okay?"

His hand finally slipped off your side.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. He just nodded.

You stepped into the safety of your apartment and pulled the door shut. The click echoed down the hallway, leaving him standing in the cold alone. Regretting all he has said.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

2 Months Ago

“Dad…..not during Dr.Robby’s shift, please” you sighed “Night shift, come on. It’s way better and plus I’m a night owl. I don’t wanna have to wake up at 4 am just to be here by 7, that’s insane.”

“Dr. Robinavitch is one of the most talented and accomplished attendings we have, he’s the best of the best and can do things most can’t. He’s rather tough because he expects perfection, you’re simply going to be helping with taking calls and answering emails. Nothing hard and nothing that will be in his way” “My desk is literally right across from his” you pointed out “Can’t I just-” “Go shopping and max out more credit cards on highly priced designer items ? I think not my love, so go do that I’ve asked of you and ask Dana for help if needed. I’ll meet you for lunch if I’m free if not, help yourself to the cafeteria” You frowned “Cafeteria ?” “Your credit cards have been locked, I will continue to pay your rent and phone bill but everything else you will earn. While this is volunteering and the hospital will not be paying you, I will. You will get paid every 2 weeks but for now this should do till then” he handed you 5 $20 bills” “$100 for 2 weeks ? Are you serious ?” you exclaimed “Dad come on, I know I haven’t exactly been on top of things but-” He shook his head “You graduated from college 2 years ago and you’ve done nothing so far, not to mention you’ve had your mother very upset with  missing Sunday night dinners and weekly brunch with her. This is for your own good, once I see improvement then you shall get access back to your accounts. I’m doing this because I love you” With that you simply sighed and went to give him a side hug, you walked out and headed to your desk and began your usual duties of answering emails and useless phone calls and like clockwork the devil himself made his way sitting just 3 feet away from you “You need to be wearing pants not a dress” Robby said without looking your way “And no heels next time, you’re not working in medical but there are rules here and you need to follow them just like everybody else does, even if your father is head of neuro” “I’ll go back to mine and change then” you stood up “No need for that” he finally looked at you “Go get some scrubs by the lockers, you can wear those for the day and then you can come presentable tomorrow” Making a face you shook your head almost immediately “No way, I am not wearing scrubs. Come on Dr.Robinavitch, can you just be nice for a day ? I promise ” “I am nice, I simply want you to listen. Can you do that for me ?” he crossed his arms “Tomorrow…please ?” you said softly with a grin “I pinky swear tomorrow I’ll come in slacks and the blazer like the others” Robby chuckled and shook his head as he watched you offer him your pinky “Seriously ?” You looked up at him and giggled “I swear I will” “Fine” he murmured shaking his head “Tomorrow”

You grinned satisfied and went back to your desk, avoiding his gaze as you typed away on your computer. Robby was handsome and actually a pretty nice guy once you got to really know him underneath his rough exterior. He had always been kind and respectful and here and there he’d have lunch with your father or coffee with you when you’d stop by. Being only a few feet away from him now meant you got to push limits a bit The next day you came in within dresscode and when you noticed him walking in you unbuttoned the first 3 buttons of your shirt and pulled it down just a bit so some cleavage would show in his direction “Morning Dr.Robby” you smiled “Morning little miss” he greeted as usual “Thanks for listening to the-” Just as you had imagined he stopped right by your desk, his eyes looking down your shirt like some horny teenager who had just been caught with some porn magazine. You said nothing and continued to lazily organize some papers, acting oblivious to how close he was When he bent down to fake tie his shoe next to you, you pushed off a pen and bent down to his eye level, “Did you forget how to tie your shoe Michael ?”

“No” he whispered “Looks like it” you smirked “I’m fine” he assured quickly tying his boot and standing up, putting a hand on his lower back as he grimaced slightly “Maybe not”

“Michael you need to be careful” you rolled your eyes “Robby” he looked at you “You can call me Robby, Michael is way too formal” “We past that ?” you asked “I mean we’re friends aren’t we ?” he grinned “Friends” you smiled at him The rest of the day went by as normal and soon the days after as well, you would shamelessly flirt with Robby and he’d flirt back most of the time but he was also your friend. He showed you how to do the basics in case an emergency happened, how to convince patients to make specialty appointments and where to direct them for financial help along with making it known how well your were doing to your father which meant the most It was your 3rd week when you had seen him off, he hadn’t told you good morning and he had been avoiding you all day. When it was the end of shift you saw him head to the stairs and decided to follow him, staying as quietly as possible as you reached the roof and watched him put his stethoscope on the railing by the edge and simply lean against it That was all you needed, opting to walk over and place a hand on his shoulder “Rough day” “Yeah” he rasped out “Really rough” “I’m sorry” you hugged him much against his own will, you felt his entire body tense up when you wrapped your arms around his waist and for a second you were sure he’d shove you off him but after a bit one sole arm went around your shoulders Robby never knew what to do with touch, he didn’t like it mostly because he never got that affection from women at least not like that, not gentle and reassuring “Thanks” “For ?” you asked

“For being a good friend” he admitted “Friends don’t leave friends alone during rough times” you grinned “Come on, let’s go get dinner. I know just the place” Without putting up a fight he agreed, watching as you picked up his stethoscope and put it in your purse “I eat pretty much anything” he shrugged “Good because we’re on a tight budget” you showed him a $20 bill “I’m treating you and that belly of yours to a big mac and a diet coke” “You calling me fat ?” he laughed “I’ve always liked men with meat on their bones” you shrugged 

It was past 11 when you both had finally finished eating at the local McDonald's that was a street away from the hospital. He had insisted on paying at the register but you had told him it was your treat and now at the end of the night after inhaling 2 big macs, sharing 20 pieces of chicken nugget, a meal he unfortunately had with a side of ketchup of all sauce choices and 2 diet cokes you were now sharing a oreo mcflurry since the machine only had enough for one “I think after his we might need something else quite honestly” you took some ice cream with your spoon “I’m surprised you have any money left” Robby teased “What can I say ? I’m a spender” you chuckled “But seriously I need like wine or something, today beat my ass and I feel embarrassed to even admit that.” “This your first job ?” he asked You embarrassingly nodded “Yeah it is…I know shocking” “You’re doing more than fine, you’re doing well” he assured you “Seriously, I know it’s still hard to get used to but you’re all good. I think your dad just wants-” “He wants me to be an adult” you nodded “One that doesn’t depend on him, one that actually does something with her life. I mean I get it, I’m a failure” “You’re not” he looked at you “You’re everything you need to be and more. You’re capable, you’re smart and kind and very very empathetic. You’re also….you’re a lot of amazing things okay” You rubbed your lips together and looked down at your lap for a bit before lifting your head and meeting his gaze “Do you think….do you think I’m pretty ?” “I think you’re beautiful” he said softly “Thanks” you blushed This was his chance and he finally took it, “I have a bottle of wine at mine if you wanna come over ? Not too far from here actually” “I’d love that” you grinned at him Somewhere along the lines after making it to his house his hands were on your ass with yours around his neck, hungrily kissing him as you stumbled up his stairs and down the hall to his room. He lifted you up with an arm while you wrapped your legs around his waist and moaned as he kissed down your neck and chest laying you down on his bed

He then moved his hand inside your pants, desperate for your touch. Toying with it, he slowly creeped his hand inside and began to gently rub “Tell me to stop and I will…”

“I….I…oh-” you moaned into his mouth, feeling his fingers find your clit “Th-That feels s-so g-good” you stuttered out

“You’re so wet” he sucked in your bottom lip, pressing his forehead against yours “Can I please taste you…please…please let me taste you”

You simply nodded as your lashes fluttered, as far as you knew you were  in a dream. A dream where Michael Robinavitch was begging you to taste you, a dream that you didn’t wanna ever wake up from 

Robby wasted no time removing your pants and thong, he was more than ready as he lowered his face and kissed just above it first making you mewl in response “You’re so perfect, even your pussy is perfect” he whispered as he traced down the slit with his finger slowly then inserted it, causing your thighs to immediately close together at the sensation

 “It’s okay” he murmured kissing one “I’m taking my time with you, you’re so fucking perfect, I wanna taste you and feel you slowly, I wanna enjoy you”

As soon as he felt you open your legs again he once again lowered his face, this time tasting you. He groaned as he lapped up your juices, you tasted so sweet. You were heaven and by your own sounds he know you were enjoying it too

“Oh fuck” you moaned loudly beginning to pant and moving your hands down to his head “Yes…please keep going”

He felt himself get hard at your sounds and began gently sucking on your clit, a move that made you go crazy as you squirmed beneath his hold

“Oh fuck, oh fuck me” you cried loudly, your eyes rolling back when he inserted his fingers “Just like that”

He loved how vocal you were, he loved that you were enjoying it. He lifted his head up as he continued to rapidly finger you and watched your breasts bounce as you moved your body with his hand. Like the rest of you, they were the best tits he had seen.His mouth watered at the thought of being able to touch them

“I-I n-need t-to p-pee” you murmured suddenly, catching your  breath “I don’t wanna stop though, it feels so good”

“You don’t need to pee” he responded continuing his pace and gently pushing down on your stomach “Let go, it’s okay”

You nodded and tried to hold on as long as you could, when you couldn’t take it anymore you came with a high pitched moan, your body ferociously shaking. In response Robby watched in awe, your body convulsing as your pussy continued to squirt, it was the hottest thing he had ever seen

After you caught your breath he scooted up and kissed down your chest, when he got to your tits he swirled his tongue around each nipple and began to suck carefully. When he heard you moan again he knew he was doing something you liked, all that was left was feeling you

“I don’t have a condom” he admitted with a pant “Fuck”

“No” you said quickly as you held his shirt “Just pull out, I’m on the pill”

“You sure ?” he asked

“Robby just fuck me, I’m literally throbbing” you whimpered 

He positioned himself and glided in, groaning as he felt you finally. You were in doggy position, a look of pure ecstasy in your eyes as you gripped the sheets, your moans filling up the room

“I knew you’d be filthy” he smirked as he gave your ass a slap “Fuck you’re tight”

The words couldn’t even escape your mouth as he moved to firmly hold the back of your neck, you knew what he wanted to do and you was more than ready to take things up a notch

“Be rough with me” you panted “No one’s fucked me in so long, I need it. If I want you to stop I’ll say stop but just keep going” you grinded your ass against him as he finally took initiative and shoved your face deep into the mattress, he was fucking you fast and rough and you could barely handle it 

The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room along with his groans and your whines, you could barely function as he continued to pound into you, your knuckles white from how tight you were gripping onto the bed sheets. He was fucking the life out of you and he knew it

“Your pussy feels so fucking good” he panted as he gripped yout hips “Fuck you feel so good”

“Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop” you whined

You could see your reflection in the nearby mirror when he let go of your neck and it turned you on even more, it was the most erotic feeling

“Keep going” You whimpered as your face began to redden “Oh fuck keeping doing that,” you laid your head down “More…. More”

With that he pulled out and flipped you on your back as he repositioned himself, thrusting slow as he made eye contact and lowered his face down to kiss you

“You’re even prettier with my cock inside of you” Robby whispered, beads of sweat building up on both your foreheads “I….I don’t wanna cum yet”

“I don’t want you to stop” you repeated as you wrapped her arms around his back “You fuck me so good” you kissed him deeply “So fucking good” you dug your nails into his back as he picked up his pace again

His hands fondled your breasts as he dug his face deep into the nape of your neck, he could feel your walls tighten around his cock and it made him even harder. He was so desperate for your touch, so needy, it was driving him insane

“I knew you’d be a fucking animal, you’re made for taking my cock” he wrapped his hand around your neck gently, his thumb caressing your lips with smeared lipstick as he inserted it in your mouth. Your lips hungrily sucking on it as if you were giving head “That’s a good girl”

You managed to give a small smirk in response, not being able to say much else. When his fingers moved down to your breasts and began playing with your nipples your chest rose

“You like that” Robby continued “You like your tits being played with, you’re a dirty dirty girl” he sucked around them “Fuck these are the best I’ve ever seen”

“More” you breathed “P-Please”

You were sure you would pass out given what you were feeling, no one had ever gone that far with you before. You couldn’t do anything but shut your eyes from the pleasure you were feeling and bit down on the bed sheets as he took his time devouring you

You squirmed and writhed beneath him as you finished, cumming with a loud moan as your body shook. Your chest rose and fell as she sat up after a few minutes and watched him catch his breath 

“Lay down” you instructed as you climbed over him and took his cock in your hands

“Please…..please” he whispered

“You want me to put it in my mouth…” you murmured, lowering your hand to kiss the tip

“Oh fuck” he whined as he closed his eyes “Please suck me off, please”

“I love when men beg” you whispered, swirling your tongue around it and bobbing your head “Where do you wanna cum ?”

“Your tits” he gasped out

You continued to suck him off until you felt him ready and finished him off with a tit job, panting as he came on you finally “Wow….”

“Holy shit” Robby breathed heavily “I love when friends fuck” you turned towards him, a bedsheet up to your chest “Makes the best friendship”

He coughed and cleared his throat “I don’t know why I-” “Relax” you traced his arm with your finger "Everything's fine, we’re adults here” you looked behind his arm and read the words “Amor Fati…love of one’s fate, what does the other one say ?” “Memento Mori” he said softly “Remember you must die” you whispered sitting up and looked at him “Robby….that’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire life, when the fuck did you get this fuckery ?” He laughed, genuinely laughed and shook his head “It was the 90’s, you weren’t even born. It was very much in” “Well it’s very much out now and they look tacky” you grinned “Luckily for you, I like tacky things” “You think I’m tacky ?” he furrowed his brow “The tackiest actually” you chuckled “We should probably talk about-” You shushed him with a finger and leaned over to kiss him again, this time getting on top and slowly riding him for a second round as his hands gently held your waist, moving you slowly while his mouth sucked on your neck. That would be your routine for the next 7 weeks on and you had no idea of the regrets that would soon come

Saturday- Game day

“I got her” Dennis said quickly as he bent down and picked you up in his arms “You guys still have patients, I’ll take her to the lounge and get an IV in, she’s probably just dehydrated”

“No” Robby shook his head “Take her home….take her to her apartment, she can’t be here anymore. She’s not a doctor and she’s been helping and it’s best she’s out before Gloria finds out. Just…just make sure you stay with her” “But we still have patients” Dennis looked around “Are you sure it’s okay ?” “Just go” Robby repeated

You blinked your eyes open and looked up at the person holding you, when you realized it was Dennis you let out sigh of relief “Put me down, I’m fine” “You passed out” Jack looked at you “You need to take a seat and call it a day, maybe it’s best you go home. If you wanna sit in the lounge and just take the day and wait for me to drive you home you can do that as well.” Robby sighed “I already said-” “I know what you said” Jack said back to him “But now she’s awake and she can make the call let’s allow her to do that” You nodded at Dennis who put you down and kept his around your waist for balance “I’m gonna go in the lounge and take a breather and then Dennis can take me home” With that you walked inside the lounge quickly and took a seat on a chair as the word pregnant repeated itself over and over in your mind to the point where you got sick and puked in a nearby trashcan, furthermore confirming your worst fear

“I’m getting that IV” Dennis shook his head “Wait here okay ?” “I’m gonna give you orders and I need you to follow them without questions please, it’s very important and I’ll explain to you later, can you please do that for me ?” you whispered 

“Got it, whatever you need” he nodded Making sure it was just you two you leaned over and held his hand in yours “I haven’t known you for long but you’ve proven to be one of the better friends I’ve had and I trust you Whitaker, I trust you a lot so I’m gonna need you to keep what I’m about to tell you between you and I….I need you to take my blood to test it for a pregnancy…and I need you to bring me one of the pregnancy tests please…quick” Never in your life had you seen someone get more pale than their usual self but somehow Dennis had exceeded that. His eyes got so wide you thought they were gonna somehow burst out of his head but still he said nothing and went to do exactly as told “Make sure no one knows this is mine” you whispered as he took the blood vial “In the meantime I’m gonna go to the bathroom and take this” you grabbed the pregnancy test “I wanna be 100% sure” The next 3 minutes seemed like an eternity, you waited until you saw the two lines quickly appear on your test confirming your worst fear. You then waited for Dennis who walked in looking just as nauseous as he did a few minutes before along with an ultrasound machine “You’re 7 weeks pregnant" he said softly “A blood pregnancy test is based on hCG levels and while those vary from week to week when pregnant I’m fairly sure about my guess so I brought the machine to make sure, lay back please” For once you did as told without fighting it back, laying on the bed of 3 chairs he pushed together for you, shuddering when the cool gel was put on your stomach. You looked down as he moved the wand in his hand back and forth gently trying your best to stay calm “I was right” Dennis murmured “About 7 weeks, very early. Would you like to know options ?” “Options….” you whispered glancing at him “I’m gonna talk to you like a doctor and not like a friend right now” he cleared his throat “You trust me and right now you’re my patient so I wanna lay it all out for you….you’re very very early on in the first trimester. Right now if you wish to end this pregnancy we would do what we call a medical abortion, you take a pill called Mifepristone and what it does is that it blocks the hormone progesterone which stops the pregnancy from evolving. A day after you take another pill called Misoprostol, that would cause your uterus to get slightly crampy and expel the pregnancy tissue from your body. You’d get cramps and bleed but it’d be like a period for about 3 days. The other option is surgical which is-” “Vaccuum aspiration” you finished for him “I know what that is, a friend of mine had it done in highschool…I paid for it because she didn’t want her parents to know….I….I think I’m gonna do the medical” He nodded “I’ll get you the pills and-” “Dennis I can’t do it here” you whispered “My father will find out in some way or another” “I can help you” he said softly “I can make up a patient or just take it and file it as missing” “I won’t let you lie or steal medication” you shook your head “You can get your license taken away, fired or even worse, jail. I’m gonna figure it out but please don’t do anything, I’m an adult and I can handle this. Now if you’re able to….let’s go back to mine”

Still chaotic and still filled with patients Robby did his best to focus but much like you all he could do was replay the moment over and over in his head. It was almost 10 o’clock when things were finally stable enough for him to have a breather outside by his bike. He sat down and rubbed his forehead, that familiar feeling of suffocation taking over as he rubbed the back of his head repeatedly trying his best to stabilize himself to no avail “Hey” Jack called walking over with a bottle of water “Figured you’d want a drink” “I just want some quiet” Robby shook his head “She’s pregnant and it’s yours isn’t it” Jack stood in front of him He nodded “Yeah” “You guys didn’t-” “I’m not talking about this with you man, please don’t push” Robby shook his head “You know, I know life hasn’t been really easy for you and I hate that because I think you’re a good person with a good heart but at some point you need to accept the fact that you’re fucked up” he admitted “I say that with all the love in my heart for you. I don’t want you on the edge of killing yourself, I don’t wanna look towards your direction and see you blinking away tears or self soothing or snapping at people because you want them to hate you. You’re better than that man, you got a life ahead of you still. I’m your friend-” “Friends don’t go after girls their friends like” Robby interrupted, ignoring everything else Jack had told him “Friends who have love for you don’t go and do that. Assholes do that” “You treated her like shit man” Jack threw his hands up “It’s not my fault I found common ground with her, it’s not my fault we clicked. I won’t apologize for that so you’re gonna have to move on"

“Oh fuck you” Robby responded as he shoved past him and headed back inside Jack let him go, he always let him go. There was no point in trying to get through to Robby when he was stubborn, especially not in a moment like this. Instead he assumed you’d be back at yours and headed there, knocking on your door and clearing his throat when Dennis answered “How is she ?” he asked “In her room” Dennis nodded “She said she doesn’t want anyone over though” “He can come in” you spoke up from your couch giving him the nod to leave you and Jack alone “Hey…sorry I didn’t get to say bye to you” “You’re all good” Jack said softly “How are you feeling ?”

“Like I got hit by a truck” you admitted “Jack,I’m pregnant. I did another blood test, a urine test and a sonogram. I’m about 7 weeks in my first trimester and right now I….I’m leaning towards an abortion” Jack said nothing for a good while as he simply looked ahead, he cleared his throat and let out a deep breath “Are you sure ?” “No” you admitted “I’m not, but right now my mind is telling me it’s the smartest thing for me to do considering the situation I’m in. I’m pregnant by a hookup I had with a man who’s in his 50’s who also happens to be one of my father’s colleagues and who is also severely mentally ill. Not to mention I’m in my late 20’s with no job experience and nothing to show for in life while still relying on my parents to uphold my lifestyle. Why on earth would I bring an innocent baby into that ?” “You aren’t wrong” he admitted “I support whatever you wanna do”

“I feel like this is the biggest shit show ever and somehow I was dumb enough to let it happen” you sighed “These things happen” Jack shrugged “You’re not the first or the last and truth be told, it’s gonna be okay. I know you don’t like that answer but it’s true. This is just something you need to deal with, I unfortunately can only be there for you but ultimately it’s your decision” “If it’s the right thing to do in this situation then why do I feel like I’m a piece of shit ?” you murmured “Why do I feel like I’m too old to be getting an abortion ?” “Throw that toxic bulshit out of your head” he shrugged “You can make whatever choice you want to and no one, no one, should think they can judge you.”

“Do you….do you think he’s gonna be mad at me ?” you looked at him “Be honest” “No” Jack said with one sole shake of his head “He’s not because he also thinks like I do and Robby is a realist and he….he knows that he can’t handle a child. He knows this is your choice and he would never judge you. He’s not like that” “Then why isn’t he here telling me this himself ?” you whispered The question made Jack shift in his seat slightly, it was apparent to him you wanted Robby there with you and not him and for once he didn’t know what to say to that “Um do you want me to call him ?” “No” you shook your head “I just wanted to ask you that, you’ve known him a good while and I feel like you give a good perspective” He chuckled “Yeah I don’t think that’s true” “Did you wanna have kids with Marisol ?” you asked suddenly He grinned at the mention of her name and nodded “Yeah, yeah we did. She always said when life calmed down a bit we’d settle down and adopt or give it a shot at having our own but then she…she was gone and that dream died.” “So you don’t want kids anymore ?” you looked at him Jack swallowed the growing lump building in his throat and shook his head “No I don’t. I uh….I actually got a vasectomy shortly after she passed. I told myself if I couldn’t have kids with her then I didn’t want them with anybody else. That ship sailed and I’ve made peace with it”

“Wow” you whispered taken back by his revelation “That’s a deep cut” “I like you” he turned towards you “I do. I like you a lot and I do want to get to know you more and be able to see if something can happen and I wanna be there for you. I told you about that part of me because I felt like it was important you know my stance. I like kids, I enjoy being around them but that’s not something I want for myself anymore and just like I made that choice for me, you can make whatever choice it is you want. That’s the beauty of life.” “I don’t think I’d be a good mom” you shook your head looking down at the ground “Babies turn into toddlers then little kids then teenagers then adults and I would be in charge of making sure that they stay alive and become decent people….how can I do that when I don’t even know if I’m a good person ?” “You’re a good person” Jack assured you “You are. You’re complicated but we all are, we all have ugly stuff we don’t wanna show others but at some point we need to come face to face with it. I lost Marisol, good friends of mine, my leg” he looked down at his prosthetic “And somehow here I am, still standing, still kind of fucked up but still here and if I’m still here despite all that then I gotta assume I’m somewhat decent” “If I keep it….what if he doesn’t want anything to do with me or the baby ? What if he tells me I’ll have to do it all on my own ?” you murmured That was your biggest fear, doing it by yourself. You knew your dad would stop all the financial help, he’d be beyond angry and embarrassed. Your mother would follow his lead so it’d be just you raising a baby and that alone just cemented everything even more in your head “When it comes down to it, is that what you hate the most ?” Jack asked “Yeah” you whispered “It is” He scooted closer and put his arm around your shoulders, leaning back on your couch and putting his head on top of yours. It was comforting, which was exactly what you needed but you couldn’t help but think about Robby, you wondered where he was, if he was thinking about you, if he was okay after the chaotic day but you also liked Jack’s company. You like him as a friend and as a comfort You knew he still loved his wife very much and you wondered if things grew for you two if he could ever make room for you in his heart. If you could fit and make space somewhere that had already belonged to someone else Somehow you drifted off in your thoughts and fell asleep against his chest, not realizing he too had dozed away. It was hours later in the morning when you woke up still there, his arm still around you as he dreamed of something that was causing him distress “No…no that’s not true, not my leg…please no please”

You pulled back and got on your feet, looking back as your guest bedroom door opened with Dennis walking out still in his sweatpants “He’s…he’s having a nightmare” you whispered as Jack began to breathe heavily “I can’t lose it, I can’t….I need my leg, don’t take it….please don’t take it, please”

You froze not knowing what to do and looked at Dennis “What-What do I do ?” “He’s got PTSD from his time in combat” he said quietly “He was working dayshift once and we had a vet in the ER, I heard them talking and learned that’s how he lost his leg and where he met his wife, she was also a medic there. He said that the attack was a bomb that was dropped on their base at night.” Seeing him talk and shake his head made you scared out of your mind but you knew he was way more terrified than you were, “I’m gonna wake him up” “No” Dennis shook his head “You just stay here, I got it. You can’t just shake him awake” You watched as he approached Jack on the couch and bent down, lightly tapping his arm with his finger trying not to startle him. What you didn’t except was Jack to wake up and shove him against your coffee table with all the force he had “Oh my god Dennis” you widened your eyes making your way to him “Are you okay ?” “I’m fine” he quickly got back on his feet “Not like I haven’t been shoved to the ground before, I have older brothers” Jack rubbed his face and sighed “Shit, I’m sorry Whitaker. You alright ?” “I’m fine” he nodded “I didn’t wanna shake you so I went for the method I learned in a book I read” “Your arm” you looked at it already beginning to bruise from the hit “Here let me get you some ice” Jack looked at the both of you and shook his head “I…I gotta go” “No stay” you looked at him “Please” “I need to go home and shower and get ready for tonight” he nodded “I have a shift” “I thought….I thought we were gonna have dinner ?” you asked confused “Forgot I have a shift, I’ll call you or text you” he said quickly as he grabbed his jacket and left your apartment 

He left before you could say anything else and you looked at Dennis who just gave you a small sympathetic grin, “He’s embarrassed is all” “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, he had a tough time in combat and it still affects him. That’s normal” you nodded “I’d be the same way” “I know but he’s just different I guess” Dennis nodded “I guess we all are” you admitted “We all have our shit to deal with, some of us more than others”

"So...what are you gonna do ?" Dennis asked softly

"I don't know yet....I need to talk to Robby" you nodded, you took out your phone and sent him a text, taken back when he replied just as quickly I'm in your parking lot, just saw Jack drive away upset. I'm gonna go check on him then we can talk. He can't be left alone when he's upset like that. I'm sorry.

"Mhm," you nod to yourself, bottom lip jutted out as you use your folder to scoop it up. "Almost got run over by a stupid cyclist. Didn't even flinch!" Your manicured hand shoots out from where you were crouched, fingers wiggling, a silent command for Clark's help to pull you up. He takes it, unsure, watching you balance the animal.

"Do you know any bird doctors around? God. This poor thing." Clark pointedly looks toward the file and the possibly sleeping bird, covering what seemed to be the logo of The Daily Planet.

"Oh…you're — …" His knuckles gently nudge the critter as it protests with a weak chirp. "The new intern. From MU?"

You tilt your head up. The twisted expression plaguing your face lit right up with a warm, wide smile. Shiny glints of brightly coloured tooth jems sitting on your canines. "Yup! I couldn't get past this…door thingy."

Clark looks behind him, to the gates, nodding slowly, still very thrown from the apparent communications major who seemed more like an arts major. "Easy mistake, takes a while to get used to. Come." He quickly regains his composure, taking a step ahead into the turnstile.

You meet his gaze, hesitant, taking a wide step into the tiny space with him. He's instantly hit with a rather sweet, strawberry jam-esque perfume, "uh…" he stiffens when you tilt your head to his voice, "…you can step after —" the words die in his throat at your eager, wider eyes looking at him, all puzzled. "… never mind."

The distance doesn't seem to bother you, the entire way through the dizzying spin. Clark's palm steadies behind your back to guide you out. He lets go of you in a stiff, jerky motion. Noticing what seemed to be glitter on his palms. "I'm assuming Jenna emailed you the itinerary? It's okay if you didn't print it out, let's get you upstairs and…"

"Oh!" You chirp, holding a finger up to stop Clark. "I printed it. Hold this."

He blinks, steadying the file you thrust into his hands, the critter still asleep soundly on it. You hold the laminated, sparkly-sticker-decorated paper in front of your face, tilting it to the side with a beaming grin. "Aaand here's the printouts of my writing examples," you press the first folder in his free palm, to which he takes, "…plus the proposed draft article sample, "Clark's balancing both the animal and the growing stack of folders in both his hands, "…and my ID, for the access keycard. So that's the first three things crossed off the list?"

A huff leaves him all at once, lips quirked in your oddly impressive show of preparedness. "That's…yeah." He gestures toward the elevators with your writing samples as he walks. "You're prepared. We've had interns from Ivy League schools that aren't this…thorough."

You fall in step beside him, and that turns into a mini-sprint. "Whoa — your legs are really long!"

Clark slows wordlessly, cheeks tinted pink as he immediately slows his gait to one that matches yours.

"I just think it's a good work ethic to be prepared." You continue, not giving him a chance to respond to your out-loud observation. "Back in my sorority house, I kept stuff organised. Planning all the mixers and stuff, the themes can get so messy. But the cute campus IT guys helped turn my whole system into this actual system. Coded and everything. My sister's still use it." You pause, looking genuinely proud of yourself, "pretty impressive stuff."

Clark hums, letting you ramble as he steers you into the closed space. He jabs the button to the thirty-first floor with his elbow. "Sounds like you've got a good head for it. Though… is this what you want to do? It can get pretty chaotic on a publishing floor."

You tip your head thoughtfully, nails drumming your purse straps. "Mmm, yeah, actually. It's kind of perfect for me? Working in noise is kind of…my thing. I grew up with like. Fifteen siblings. Total circus. Even in my sorority."

"F-" he chokes, "fifteen?"

"Mhm! In the orphanage." You drop the line so casually that it takes him a moment to actually process it, "I think I need the noise to focus? Like my brain doesn't know what to do in the silence. Who knows."

Clark stares at you. In the span of five short minutes, he feels like he'd learned more about you than people he's worked alongside for years. "I…can relate. I was adopted, too, I suppose. Grew up on a farm, and I can only ever fall asleep with…" he coughs, embarrassed, "ambient noise of barn animals."

You blink, and then burst out into a light, airy laughter, nudging him with your elbow. "Oh my gosh! That's really adorable. I can only fall asleep with ASMR."

"I don't…follow."

"You know, the ASMR-influencers that do those faux-dentist office roleplays. And tons of other stuff."

"…sure."

You walk ahead of him, assured, the click of your heels louder on the non-carpeted floors of the main lobby. He watches you for a beat before snapping his gaze back to the bustling bullpen.

"Lois!" The taller, vest-clad woman stills at the flagging of your folder, "could you grab our — wandering…intern? Show her around the bathroom and the breakroom. I need to go over her paperwork." Lois follows his line of sight at the ball of sparkle, making her way down the room, beaming 'hi!'s echoing in the space as you greet everyone.

Wearily, Clark turns to the front desk, laying an embroidered handkerchief with his initials. "Jen," he begins, slowly, depositing the bird onto the cotton. "Any chance you could dig up a..copy paper box? And maybe a blanket?

Jenna peers over the thick frames of her glasses, to the bird first, and then up at Clark.

"…Sure?"

He drags his hand down his face, watching you through the glass partition. You're already laughing, like you'd known those people your entire life. Clark was painfully aware of the fact — that he was very much out of his element.

"Also…one more thing."

She looks over, emptying a box as instructed. "Hm?"

"What is…ay-ass-em-ar?"

—

You were a draft.

A rather energetic, strawberry-smelling draft that Perry adored the hell out of. Lois said you were a lot, but in a good way. And Jimmy, Jimmy dropped the comment that you were following him around like a duckling who'd imprinted on him. Honestly? Clark didn't hate that. It was…endearing.

The overall atmosphere of the bullpen had changed drastically.

Succulents were planted on every desk, with their own little handwritten name tags. Steve, Barry, Gerald — all assigned to their own cubicle, colour-coded in accordance with the personalities of their new owner. The breakroom now had a framed menu, crafted drinks you'd make for everyone with the coffee machine and a designated matcha-whisk station. Clark didn't think he'd like a 'sakura infused uji matcha latte with oat milk' until you made it for him, topped with bendy straws. There were snack baskets by the coffee stations that you'd restock with stuff you liked, and a newly added lost-and-found box by the elevator, because you insisted that nothing deserved not to have a home. Which people surprisingly filed in, organised by location and dates of discovery, before unclaimed items were given away.

A new addition made its way into the bullpen — a corkboard, listed with people's work anniversaries and birthdays marked with gold star stickers.

One morning, Clark stands before it. Head tilted, with his lips pursed in thought.

"Did you make this?"

You don't look up from your makeshift little cubicle, focused gaze fixed on your computer. "Mhm! I asked Jenna for the onboarding spreadsheet. And don't worry, no office supplies were harmed. And no privacy breached, I only looked at the birthdays and joined dates.

"That…isn't really part of..." He adds, sighing softly at the mountain of work piled next to your desk, it was clear you were adding to your own workload. He'd seen you every day, clocking out late to make sure your actual tasks were completed.

"Leia in archives has been here for twenty-one years, Clark. Twenty-one! Jimmy told me nobody put up a single streamer in the last couple of years. Cuz apparently 'work anniversaries' aren't celebrated." You look up, face twisted in displeasure, emphasising the term with bunny ears, "that's just…not right."

Clark nods, thoughtfully, looking back at the board. Where Leia's anniversary was circled in pink gel pen, accompanied by three hand-drawn balloons. "No," he agrees, meeting your gaze with a smile. "It isn't."

You mirror his smile with your own.

"I'll ask around the office. Crowd-fund a little lunch to celebrate?"

The offer hangs in the air for a second, and your eyes light up as you nod intently.

"Okay!"

—

In hindsight, Clark should've recognised the pigeon as a warning of what was coming.

His apartment had turned into something of a wildlife sanctuary.

It'd started with the darn bird — more specifically, the recovery set-up. You'd added a heat lamp next to the cardboard box that very first day at work. Appearing the next day with a little dish of an electrolyte mix that you researched about, then texted him at two in the morning with five exclamation points.

That selfless caretaking of yours was quickly stomped on, with the eventual discovery of Jenna and her avian allergy. You didn't blame her, though. Approaching Clark with the box and a sniffle to pair. The sorority house hadn't allowed animals, and you just didn't have the heart to let it back into the wild until you were sure it was okay.

So Clark offered up his apartment, because why wouldn't he?

You'd appeared at his apartment after Birdie's relocation. With a plant you brought for the pigeon. Something about the visual, therapeutic stimulation to aid its recovery. And then came a second plant, since the first one looked lonely. Naturally.

By the second month, his windowsills and patios were lined with citrus plants and varieties of pothos. All of them a result of your sisters' thinking they could nurture plants. The Kent Rehabilitation Centre was now brimming with dedicated shelves with various animal feeds and a rig that held grow-lights for said plants. His coffee table, now stacked with books on animal care-taking, next to his Metropolitan back issues. Gerald — the pigeon you named after your own desk succulent, had promptly recovered and 'flown the nest', the recovery space practically occupied a whole corner of his apartment. He left it that way out of practicality. It was too much of a hassle to move it.

…And maybe. Maybe he missed Gerald just a little. Hoping for an opening for whatever new wounded animal you felt the need to nurture. It was confusing to him, mentally, anyway.

You weren't his girlfriend. You were his intern. An intern who knew his address, who was undeniably kind-hearted and hard-working. He couldn't find it in himself to break the earnest gaze in your eyes, the same one that'd make his heart flutter.

So when you showed up, soaked to the bone with a smaller-than-life critter against your chest, lashes clumped in rain, with your voice so quiet and stripped of your confident lilt —

"He was in the…storm drain..I heard him, and he was…so little, Clark."

— he gently lifts the kit out of your hands, opening the door wider for you with a resigned smile.

"Okay. C'mon."

—

Your damp hair clung to your shoulders as you carefully crossed over the living room. A soft, faded Kansas A&M red jersey sat on your figure.

"Hi," you coo, softly as you crouched down. Making yourself as small as you could to not crowd him. "Hi, little guy."

The kit's nose twitches as soon as Clark's figure joins you in a kneel. "He's warming up quickly."

"Yeah?" You breathe out in relief.

"He'll be okay," Clark assures, sitting back onto the floor. You follow suit, with your knees tucked against your chest. Watching the kit's sides rise and fall as he rests.

"You always know what to do."

Clark smiles, all shy. "Not always. It's just easier with good help."

"It's different. Really. The general air around you. Animals have a feel of this sort of thing." Your chin comes to rest on your knees, turning to him, shifting closer in a subconscious move to seek more heat from him. "You could really find someone if you wanted to."

He glances over to you, "where did that come from?"

"I'm just saying," you gesture vaguely, "you're kind, and you've got this whole thing going on. With you. And you aren’t all that bad look to at…" your hand circles your chest, and then you laugh to yourself, unnerved by his silence.

"I think…someone would be really lucky to have all of this. To have you."

You meet his gaze. In the same way you always had, in a curious and defenceless manner. And this time, Clark hadn't looked away. He was acutely aware of the fact that you were close enough that he could see the streaks of mascara smudged from your shower. Not a damn thought in your eyes but pure, unadulterated trust in him.

He leans in. And you close the distance.

The kiss felt fleeting at first. His warm palm comes up to the side of your face, lips latching over yours tenderly. It was silent, with nothing but a sweet 'pop' from him pulling back to tilt his head, only to kiss You whimper softly into him, carefully resting your palm onto his shoulder, letting out a low, satisfied hum.

You nudge at his shoulders, softly, a dazed look in your eyes, flickering down to his mouth and back to his eyes.

Clark's clarity settles in him right then. Open and intent, it forces him to withdraw entirely.

Confusion settles in your expression, because you thought you shared a moment, and he was looking at you like you crossed a line. "…Clark?"

"I'm sorry," he says, too rushed, running a palm down his face. "I shouldn't have."

"Did I…do something wrong?"

"No," he cuts in, "it's not you. That…was great."

It was an understatement, at best.

"Just…it's getting late. And you need to get some sleep."

"I mean…I can head back whenever I want…" You try, biting the insides of your cheeks.

He stands up, the gesture absolute. "I'll call you a cab."

You look up at him as he retreats to grab his phone. Slowly, your fingers graze your lips. The lingering warmth teases a curl at the corner of your lips.