Isn't Everything Loverly

You’ve known Titus Danforth your whole life - you’ve loved him, you’ve loathed him, you’ve done everything in between. As one of the lesser Families, you weren’t subjected to quite the same rituals as him. Your family worked to serve the others. Do the grunt work, and be spared from the hunts and challenges.

Protection and networking with the most powerful people in the world.

Your parents hadn’t planned on you falling in love with the Danforth heir.

As teenagers, the Danforth twins sought you out, as one of the only other people their age at each boring dinner party. Ursula became a confidant, Titus a lover.

He was your first everything.

If it had been up to you, he would have been your only everything.

But the third daughter of a second-tier family was never going to cut it. Not when Titus stands to inherit everything once his father passes.

By your twenties, he’s actively seeing other people. In private, he insists that it’s all for show, to appease his father, but you’re not so sure. You’ve seen the paparazzi pictures - full of the most gorgeous women in the world hanging off of his arm each night.

It eats you alive.

Of course, you still come when he calls.

When he turns up on your door, bloodied and bruised from a tough hunt, you tend to his wounds and kiss it better. When he invites himself into your bed, you let him do it each and every time.

When he tries to teach you self-defence, you laugh in his face.

I don’t do hunts.

You might someday.

Your only shot of that happening would be if Titus marries you. An event which looks less and less likely with each passing day. Sure, Titus has never married - unusual for a Family member well into his thirties - but he’s also made no attempt to solidify whatever it is that he has with you.

Instead, he has rules.

If you won’t learn how to throw a punch, you have to know how to keep yourself safe in a world like this. Even knowing Titus puts you at more risk than most people.

And he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.

*****

You think you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Ankles crossed, you glance over at Tony, and try to tell yourself that you know him.

You’ve already been out on three dates, you’ve been in his apartment before, and you’ve seen his Instagram account.

He’s not a catfish.

And yet.

After meeting on Hinge and chatting for a few weeks, he’d taken you out for dinner, and things had looked hopeful. You were out to get over Titus once and for all, while he was ready to get back into dating after his divorce a few years back.

When Titus had asked who you were meeting that night, you’d told him it was a friend from college.

The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, but it’s a necessary evil. Titus always gets strange whenever another man is in your life. You didn’t see him for a whole year while you were dating your college boyfriend. Of course, he was on your doorstep the very night that you broke up.

Quite how he knew, you’ll never know.

You’re never going to build something new if he’s hovering over you at all times. Date two with Tony had been at some upscale bar - exactly the kind of place Titus would usually take you. You hate that it makes you like him more.

Date three felt more domestic: a quiet Italian spot downtown where he split his tiramisu with you and told you the truth about his marriage ending. They were on good terms, but after five years together, there was just no spark anymore.

No red flags.

No psychotic exes.

Just a lonely man, looking for companionship. The exact way you are.

"So," Tony had said, setting his wine glass down on the table. "For next time, I’m thinking hike. More of an activity - to see how we gel outside of the wining and dining.”

You’re a little surprised. Tony doesn’t seem like the hiking type. Maybe he’s just trying to appeal to your interests. “Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on which one?”

“Ah, let me surprise you, okay? I know a great one quite nearby. Incredible sunsets.”

An instant alarm goes off in your head, ringing with Titus’s voice. Never let a guy you barely know take you to a second location, let alone isolated woods, without a pin dropped. Unfortunately, your most recent experience with Titus involved watching him stick his tongue down some model’s throat ‘for the sake of appearances’.

You haven’t spoken to him since, despite the many texts and voicemails left.

Titus doesn't get to dictate your safety metrics anymore - not when he’s the one who left you stranded in this emotional limbo.

Patience wearing ever thinner, you consider Tony’s words. “Not even a hint?”

“Wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?”

Over the next week, you tried in vain to get some more information out of him, to no avail. He wouldn’t even tell you what type of terrain it was likely to be.

Sneakers are fine, don’t overthink it.

He’s picking you up at 4:00 AM, so that by the time you drive out to the trail, the sun will be beginning to rise, and you can catch the views from the top.

In theory? Super romantic.

Titus only hikes if there’s the promise of murder at the end of it.

Tony has a normal-person job, and you’d be able to leave all the LeBail business behind you with him. Which is how you end up in his car when it’s still dark, trying to discern where he’s taking you. You’re pretty familiar with all the trails in the city’s vicinity, and this highway doesn’t lead towards any of them.

You’re trying to ignore the anxious buzzing in your stomach, making polite conversation until Tony asks, “So, did you tell anyone what you were doing today?”

An answer slips out before you can consider your words. “No.”

Shit. Why did you say that?

“Well, I mean-” You stall a little, unsure of what to say, but suddenly desperate to get out of the car. “Think we could stop for coffee on the way? My treat.”

“Nah,” He shrugs. “I’d rather just get there, if that’s okay - we still have a decent drive, and I don’t want to miss the sunrise.”

Your mind races through the geography of the area, desperate to find a logical explanation for this route. None exists. The highway is empty, swallowed by the thick fog of the pre-dawn hours, and his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard looks sharper and colder than it did over tiramisu.

"So," Tony says, his voice abruptly slicing through the quiet. The sudden shift in tone makes you jump. "You never finished telling me about that project at work. The one with the crazy deadlines?”

"Oh. Right," you lie, your throat dry. You force out a brief anecdote of your awful boss, leaving out how you’d rather be having your worst day at work than be here with him right now.

Five minutes tick by. The road narrows. The highway lines fade from bright white to a weathered, neglected yellow. Every instinct is screaming at you to do something. Anything - before it’s too late.

"Hey, Tony?" you say, keeping your voice light, aiming for casual but landing on brittle. "Actually, could we pull over at the next gas station? Or even just a rest stop? I really need to pee. Especially before we start a hike.”

Tony doesn't look at you. His grip on the steering wheel doesn't shift, his knuckles white against the dark leather.

"Nah, we're making great time right now," he says, a small, dismissive shrug of his shoulder accompanying the words. "There’s nothing out here for miles anyway. You can just do it when we get there. It won't be long.”

The dismissal hits you like a physical blow. You can do it when we get there.

You have to let someone know where you are. But who?

You’re not sure that any of your friends are even awake right now. Except…

Titus.

It always comes back to him. You weigh up your options - the smugness when he realises that he has to come and rescue you again. That he can mingle with movie stars and socialites, while the only men that are interested in you turn out to be losers and psychopaths.

When the alternative is death, the decision seems easy.

You slip your phone out of your pocket, and click on Titus’ number. You don’t even tell Tony you’re making a call.

Come on, you think. Please pick up. Please still be awake.

Please please please please please please-

“Hello?”

His voice is groggy and tinged with sleep, and the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

“Mom!” You say immediately, barely sparing a glance at Tony. You’ve already decided that if Tony is as dangerous as you worry he might be, then phoning another man is not a good idea. “I’m so sorry to call so early, but I saw that you’d called last night.”

“What? It’s Titus, kid. Is everything okay?”

Your heart is thumping against your chest as you will him to catch on. “I know! It’s been too long - but I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. Just thought I should tell you that Dad’s gift is ready to be picked up. I was thinking maybe you could get it, since I’m hiking today.”

There’s a moment of dead air on the line, and for one agonising second you worry that he’s hung up, or you’ve lost signal. You stare straight out the windshield, watching the headlights cut through the pitch-black void, praying that the sharp, calculating mind that makes Titus so formidable in the LeBail circle is firing through his sleep-deprived haze.

"Hiking," Titus repeats. The grogginess vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. His tone drops an octave, all business now. "Where exactly are you?"

"Exactly! The weather is supposed to be beautiful," you say, your voice bright, breezy, and entirely unhinged from the terror clawing at your throat. You slide your thumb down the side of the phone, blindly feeling for the volume buttons, desperately trying to click them down so Tony can't catch the low rumble of a man's voice.

"Give me a location," Titus commands. His voice is low, but you can hear the rustle of sheets, the sudden shift of weight as he swings his legs out of bed. "Drop a pin right now if you can. What road are you on?”

“The cell service isn’t great out here, Mom,” You reply, continuing to smile even though your cheeks ache from the effort. “But I’ll try and send some photos! We’re headed east, so I think the views are going to be really great.”

"I can't track your signal," Titus says, his voice cutting through with an urgency that scares you. "The connection is degrading. It's dropping to a single bar. I need landmarks, or you need to get out of-”

“Is everything okay?” Tony interrupts, and you flinch slightly.

“Fine,” You chirp. “Sorry - it’s my dad’s retirement party tonight, and I just needed to tell my mom to go grab his gift.” Turning your attention back to the phone, you swallow. “Gotta go, mom - I’ll call you later? Bye, love you!”

Titus’ voice comes immediately. “Don’t hang up the phone-”

You don’t. Instead, you drop it to your lap, with the screen turned inwards so that Tony can’t see. “Sorry about that.”

Tony’s foot hits the brake, and the sudden deceleration jerks you forward. The car swerves right, leaving the asphalt of the highway behind, replaced by an uneven dirt trail.

"Wow, it’s really dense out here," you say, forcing your voice to stay loud and clear for Titus. "It looks so dark under all these massive oak trees. And that dried-up creek bed back there - is that part of the state park border, or are we on private property now?”

“I own this land with a couple of buddies - that’s why it was such a surprise. Nobody else gets to use these trails, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

Great. Your heart sinks a little further.

The car crawls forward another hundred yards before the headlights illuminate a heavy, rusted iron gate blocking the road. A thick chain and a massive padlock hold it shut.

Tony cuts the engine. “Just gotta unlock it.”

He pops the door open, and you consider your chances of making it if you start running now. Probably not great. Through the windshield, you watch his silhouette move into the beam of the headlights, his hands working at the heavy chain.

You whip the phone out of your pocket, bringing up the screen to check the call status, ready to scream a real landmark to Titus.

No signal.

Call failed.

You think you might cry.

All you can do is pray that Titus has enough information to find you. Nails digging into your palms, you force another smile at Tony, as he drives you further into the woods.

After what feels like a lifetime, he pulls into an opening, and you immediately start cataloguing all the information you can.

There’s another truck down at the end - hopefully a vehicle they leave here. Because if it’s not, you potentially have another assailant to deal with. The ground is a pale, hard-packed dirt ringed by towering, skeletal trees that completely shut out the sky. Dead leaves carpet the edges, and directly in the centre of the clearing sits a massive, looming stack of logs. They’re piled easily ten feet high - thick, weathered trunks of pine and oak, rough bark peeling away.

“You bring all the girls up here?” You joke feebly.

“Only the really pretty ones.” He offers a small, boyish grin that, just yesterday, you would have found endearing.

Getting out of the car, you note the direction of the highway. It’s past about fifty metres of woodland, but you hope you could make it in a sprint. Maybe if you catch Tony off-guard. “How long do you think the hike will take?”

“Maybe an hour? Hard to say - but we shouldn’t rush.”

Terrifyingly, the cold Tony of the car ride is gone, and he’s back to date one Anthony. Maybe the LeBail paranoia has finally eroded your sanity, twisting a sweet, outdoor surprise into a psychological thriller. Maybe he really is just a corporate guy who wants to show you a sunrise. Maybe you’ve been mis-reading it all, and actually-

Out of the corner of your eye, peaking out from under the logs, sits a shoe. A New Balance trainer, pale pink, and far too small to be a man’s.

The illusion of Date-One Anthony shatters into a thousand jagged, lethal pieces. The normal job, the Hinge profile, the vulnerable story about his divorce - it was all bait.

"Hey," Tony says, the heavy thud of his car trunk snapping shut behind you. You hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel, moving steadily closer to your back. "I grabbed the backpack. You ready to head down the trail?”

If you were to run now, he would undoubtedly catch you. He’s taller, stronger, and far more familiar with this place than you are. Your only option now is to bide your time. “Shall we take a pre-hike selfie? Compare it to the top?”

Your camera is open already, and you snap a few blurry shots of him. If you don’t make it out of this, at least your evidence might stop it happening to other girls.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” He laughs. “We can just do one at the top Ladies first.”

He gestures down the trail, and you have to fight back a wave of nausea. This is it. You’re going to die, all because you wanted to get back at Titus for seeing other women.

What a silly thing to lose your life over.

You’re hyper-aware of each and every footstep, checking for service at every possible second. Still nothing. “I’m actually kind of tired,” You try, one last time. “Didn’t sleep too well-”

“We’re here now.” Tony’s tone invites no conversation.

You turn to keep an eye on the trail behind you, pretending to adjust the collar of your jacket, and the air leaves your lungs completely.

A shadow is moving through the trees. It isn't an animal. It’s a man, wearing a dark canvas jacket, stepping silently off the main dirt track and into the brush, mirroring your pace. The driver of the mud-caked truck.

You have to get out of here. Now.

Biding your time is no longer an option. If you walk any deeper into these woods, you will be sandwiched between them, entirely cut off from the fifty meters of woodland that separates you from the highway.

You don't say another word. You don't make an excuse. You think you might die if you do.

Instead, you pivot on your heel and break into a blind, desperate sprint toward the direction of the highway.

"Whoa, hey! Where are you going?" he calls out, his tone mimicking normal, polite confusion for a split second. But as the distance between you grows, the fake concern twists into a venomous, roaring rage. "Hey! Stop! Get back here!”

You don't look back.

"Marcus!" Tony screams, his heavy footsteps crashing through the brush behind you, terrifyingly fast. "Marcus, she's running! Cut her off! Grab the bitch! I fucking told you she knew something!”

Your lungs burn like hot ash as you charge through the final thicket of briars. The trees begin to thin, and through the tangled branches, you finally see it: the steep, gravel embankment leading up to the highway. You know you only have one shot to get up. Tony is hot on your heels, and any mistakes will mean that you’re not making it out of these woods.

You throw your weight forward, scrambling on all fours, your fingers clawing at the gravel to pull yourself up.

"Get back here!" Tony’s voice is a guttural roar directly behind you.

Just as your hands find the flat edge of the highway shoulder, a hand wraps around your ankle, tugging harshly. His nails dig sharply into your skin, pinning you to the dirt. The sheer terror infuses your muscles with a sudden, feral strength. You twist your body, kicking backward with your free right heel as hard as you can. Your shoe connects squarely with something solid - maybe his nose, maybe his jaw, you don't care.

He grunts, his grip slipping just enough. You wrench your ankle free, scrambling the last two feet over the lip of the embankment and onto the cold, hard pavement of the highway.

You stumble to your feet, spinning around. Tony is already rising over the crest of the hill, his eyes wild, sweat slicking his hair, Marcus just a few paces behind him in the shadows of the treeline. You are trapped on an empty road with nowhere left to run.

And then, a light.

From around the corner, a car appears. It blinds you, but you know that if you can’t get this person to stop, there is no doubt in your mind that Tony and his friend are going to drag you back into the foliage and kill you.

You don’t realise that it’s a Danforth sedan until it screeches to a halt a few feet away, door swinging open immediately.

The moment Titus leaps out of the car, the adrenaline that was keeping your legs moving completely evaporates. Your knees buckle, and you burst into heavy, violent tears, the raw sobbing racking your entire body as the pure terror of the last hour finally crashes down on you.

"Titus, oh my god-"

He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his powerful arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He holds you with a crushing, protective grip, one hand cupping the back of your head, pressing you into his shoulder.

"I've got you," He mutters, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your ear, thick with what might be worry? You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Titus worried before, even after twenty-five years of friendship. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe."

Safe.

You blink through your tears, looking over his shoulder toward the edge of the embankment where Tony had been standing just a second ago.

The shoulder is empty.

They're gone.

It should fill you with relief, but all you can feel is a complete and utter dread. They're still out there.

mhmmmmm part two perhaps with some smut and titus dealing with tony and marcus?

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

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

“That's... really cool,” she said.

You smiled, small. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond Javadi you looked past her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack rose a brow. “It is?”

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

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

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

“Is it somewhere PG-13?” He asked.

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

“I plan to.”

The two of you shared a smirk.

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

It was Whitaker who discovered it next.

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

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

Somewhere else you were stitching up his young daughter.

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

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

“Is my- is my daughter okay?”

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

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

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

“Okay… shooting!”

Everyone without a vest backed away.

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

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

He just hadn’t realised they were that close.

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

A couple broken ribs, a severely bruised chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whitaker watched the young girls eyes light up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“A moon? Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to you?” Samira asked.

“He got shot,” you said.

“You were shot?”

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

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

“You my doctor now?” asked Jack.

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

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

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

“Oh. Ouch.”

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

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

“You have a chart?” asked Mohan.

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

Samira nodded, lips quirking. We?

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

“Big plans?” asked Mohan.

Jack hummed in affirmation.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Doc.”

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't even hers.

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

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

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

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

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

“OB was busy, apparently.”

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

“Someone in OB has it out me.”

“Evil ex?”

“Yeah, one of yours,” you teased.

“Ouch.”

“I'm cranky.”

“I can tell.”

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

“Don't ask,” you grumbled.

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were all looking at her, expectantly.

“No, nothing, it was nothing.”

“Okay, then.”

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

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

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

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

And anyhow, it made things far more exciting.

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

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

Your eyes rolled. “They're Robby's-”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah?”

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

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

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

“I would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smacked his shoulder.

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

You laughed, tilting your head down.

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

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

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

Robby surrendered and headed off, making himself busy.

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

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

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

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

“Jack!”

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

He grinned into the kiss, licking into your mouth.

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

“Take this off.”

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

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

This wasn't very secret.

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

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

Your lips pursed and nodded.

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

“Yeah,” you whined.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Room three's open why's nobody-”

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

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

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

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

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

Dana smirked. “I'll say.”

“Sorry, we'll just-” you apologised.

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

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

“Each others inititals, right?”

“How longs this been going on for?”

Rumours of gangs, the mafia and more swirled, all while quiet renovations were made to the lot. When it finally opened it’s doors in 1967, controversy was rife amongst the community. Sure, Los Angeles was all about the hippie counterculture, and sexual liberation, but none of the local Angelinos were thrilled about a porno production company opening up just a few streets over from their schools.

Gone were the tiled floors, and lines of identical desks - replaced instead with plush velvet furniture and shaggy carpets. They even created their own backlot, filled to the brim with whatever sets the common porn film may need. Fake schools, houses, offices - Smurf thought of it all.

Including her stars.

The girls were largely nameless at first - pretty things who needed to make some quick cash. Very rarely would someone hang around for more than one or two. Julia Cody tried it very briefly, before getting into a fight with her mother and storming off set, never to be seen again. The only reason they know that she’s still alive are from the postcards she occasionally sends Pope. Last he heard, she was living up in a commune in San Francisco.

The boys, however?

Almost entirely Cody.

Deran’s an easy sell. As Los Angeles becomes more comfortable with homosexuality, there’s considerable market for men. Helps that Deran enjoys the work, too. He’s never once complained.

Baz had been the first best-seller. His initial videos did so well that Oceanside starting hosting their own premieres for each picture they produce - it’s a decidedly seedy affair, full of people you wouldn’t want to run into past midnight on Hollywood Boulevard. Despite being the only non-Cody, Baz is on such an upward trajectory that he pulls everybody else up with him. Oceanside Videos goes from being a bunch of nobodies, to challenging the biggest and brightest of the European porn industry.

Craig is Smurf’s dark horse. Where the other boys have hard lines, and lists of things they categorically will not do on film, Craig hasn’t found a kink that didn’t call to him yet. His audience trends nicher, more hardcore, but he has his fans anyway.

And finally, Andrew himself.

Initially dismissed by Baz and his mother, nobody really thought he would have much draw. He’d never been great with girls growing up, and it’s easy to imagine that awkwardness carrying in front of the camera. It’s a slow start. He’s a little stiff at first, doesn’t know quite where to put his hands. Baz jokes that it must be his first time.

But by 1971, the fourth anniversary of Oceanside, Pope has eclipsed them all. Turns out, girls love the brooding thing he’s got going on. His broad shoulders, deep voice, and signature curls combine in the most lethal way, making him the biggest earner of the seventies so far.

Especially now that Baz has stepped back a little. It’s Pope’s world, and everybody else is just living in it.

Except he doesn’t seem to know how to live in it at all.

There’s the Laurel Canyon mansion - bought only to get some distance from his family. With the rest of them shacked up in Beverly Hills, the half-hour drive between him and them is a godsend. When he spends all day with Smurf, the last thing he needs is to be around their ragers that last until the next morning.

He knows she’d rather he lived nearby - ideally on the Cody compound itself, but she’s in no position to make demands. Not when he’s her biggest money-maker these days.

There’s also the Cherry Red 1969 Mustang. Admittedly, that was one thing he’d really wanted. Having spent his childhood admiring the cars that sped by Venice Beach, it was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself to fully enjoy. He couldn’t not enjoy it - not when he’s cruising along Mulholland Drive, blasting the new Doors record at full volume.

Where the others revel in their fame, and abuse it in whatever ways they can - Pope seems to shrink in on himself. He has no real interest in the hard drugs - after a brief stint on cocaine in the mid-sixties, he eventually swore off it entirely in favour of weed.

He’s not a virtuous man. Has never claimed to be.

He just hates feeling out of control.

That tends to surprise people. They hear the stories about Oceanside, about the parties and the arrests and the smashed hotel rooms, and they assume Pope must be the worst of them. The scary one usually is.

While Baz disappears into bedrooms with aspiring actresses and Craig seems determined to ingest anything handed to him, Pope spends most parties lurking at the edges. Nursing the same beer for hours. Watching everyone else unravel, while he plots his exit route.

It almost adds to the charm.

Nobody ever truly knows Andrew, outside of his family. That excites people, and draws them in further. Makes them buy his movies.

Today is no different than any other day in this industry. His pants are down around his ankles, his hair thoroughly mussed while they film the literal climax of the picture. Pope’s barely paying attention, hips snapping against some girl from Wyoming while she whines and whimpers under him. Or was it Missouri? Maybe Kansas, actually.

Either way, it’s somewhere he has absolutely zero interest in visiting.

Her lipstick is stained across his jaw and collarbone, but not his lips. Never his lips. One of Pope’s little quirks, as Smurf would call it, is that he doesn’t kiss on the lips.

He’ll eat a girl out until she cries, and coat his lips in her cum, but will flat-out refuse to go any closer than the neck with actresses. A few girls have tried, claiming either to be lost in the heat of the moment, or just not thinking at all, but he always dodges it. It’s also the surest way to be kicked off an Oceanside set, and have your contract suspended.

He doesn’t need kissing to make a film good. Great, even.

Most people find that difficult to understand. The assumption is that someone who lives their life surrounded by sex must always want more of it, when the reality is almost exactly the opposite.

Pope spends ten hours a day discussing chemistry, attraction, boundaries, consent, comfort levels, camera angles, and performance. Every expression is analysed. Every touch is planned. Every intimate moment is broken apart and rebuilt until it serves the scene.

By the end of the day, there is very little mystery left in it.

None of it translates to personal interest. Unfortunately, every few productions, someone decides that the chemistry they created together on camera must mean something off camera too.

It never does.

Pope’s not sure he’ll ever feel a need for sex outside work again. Often he feels he must be broken in some horribly fundamental way. Craig and Deran would screw anything that moves, and while Baz claims loyalty to Cath and Lena, Pope’s walked in on him with more than one barely-legal model.

Smurf’s always said he was wired a little differently.

He knows what that means.

Wrong. Freak. Weirdo.

When Julia was still here it was manageable. She knew, even if she didn’t quite understand.

But now she’s gone, and all he has left are Smurf and porn.

*****

Somewhere in Huntington Beach, you also feel like you’re wired differently. Growing up in Dallas in the fifties, you were surrounded by conservatism. Every woman in your family aspired to be no more than a housewife, and every man saw more of the local dive bar than he did of his own children.

Ever since you could talk, it hasn’t felt right for you. Dallas was all about keeping up appearances. Your mother spent her days fighting dust, starching shirts, and making sure the kids were seen and not heard. Your father and uncles were ghosts who smelled of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey. The only thing worse than their absence was their presence.

You spent your childhood hiding in the branches of the backyard pecan tree. From up there, the neat rows of suburban houses looked like a grid of tiny boxes. You would stare at the horizon where the flat Texas earth met the sky, wondering how far you would have to run to find some semblance of peace.

Eventually, the answer came to you, in the form of a biker blowing through town the summer of your seventeenth birthday.

Jim De Costa.

Allegedly. Now, you’re not sure that’s his real name. But at seventeen, he could have told you his name was Jimmy Dean, and you would’ve believed him wholeheartedly.

He was the most worldly person you’d ever met - somehow on top of every book, record and movie going, despite living out of motels and inns as he travelled aimlessly. He’d been to Paris, was friendly with an upcoming band called the Eagles who we swore were going to be the next biggest thing, and had seen JFK get assassinated the last time he was passing through Texas.

The beauty of hindsight is the fact that you realise it’s a load of horseshit within a year. Unfortunately for you, by that point you’re across the country, and entirely dependent on him.

The warning signs were there, of course. You just chose not to see them. There were the sudden late-night departures from motels when the manager asked too many questions. There were the gaps in his stories, and the way his mood could turn from warm to freezing if you asked the wrong question. But back then, you were too drunk on the open road to care. You packed your life into a single canvas bag and rode away from Texas without once looking back in the rear-view mirror.

For a while, it felt exactly like the life he'd promised.

You woke up in different states every few weeks. Oklahoma bled into Colorado, Colorado into Arizona.

It quickly became apparent that nobody cared if you were underage. Not if you paid cash, kept quiet, and stayed out of trouble.

Every morning brought a new horizon. Every night brought a new story from Jim. He knew a guy in Nashville who'd written songs for The Mamas and Papas. He'd smuggled liquor across the Canadian border. He'd once spent three days stranded in the desert with nothing but a hunting knife and a canteen.

Some of the stories seemed too random to be made up. Like his tales of some hippie guy up in San Francisco - a Charlie Manson who could hypnotise women, and convince them to do whatever he wanted.

But the details would change every time, and soon even the most mundane stories felt like lies.

Maybe there was a small part of you that recognised the contradictions from the beginning, but admitting they were lies would have meant admitting you'd thrown away everything for a stranger.

The first cracks started to show in Nevada. After eighteen months of floating aimlessly, money grew tighter, while Jim grew meaner.

At first, it was little things.

He started keeping hold of the cash. Said you were careless with money. Said you didn't understand how expensive life on the road could be. Whenever you asked how much you had left, he'd laugh and tell you not to worry your pretty little head about it.

The charming drifter who'd swept you off your feet began disappearing for days at a time, returning with bruised knuckles and pockets full of cash. If you asked where he'd been, his smile would flatten.

If you asked twice, he'd stop speaking altogether, and you learned quickly that silence was worse than shouting. Silence meant days of cold shoulders and locked motel bathroom doors. It meant him sleeping with his back turned to you. It meant wondering what you'd done wrong this time.

Eventually you'd apologise just to make it stop. Even when you had no idea what you were apologising for.

The first time he put his hands on you, it barely registered.

You were arguing in a motel outside Albuquerque. About what, you can't remember now. Most of your arguments blurred together eventually. You only remember reaching for your bag.

His grip had been rough and his voice low, as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging sharply. You remember letting out a cry, dropping whatever you were reaching for.

The bruise had lasted for days.

He said you needed to listen to him more.

As though you had forced him into the assault. He apologised afterwards, naturally. Profusely. He bought you dinner, held your hand across the table, and told you he'd been scared of losing you.

You had believed him, and accepted his excuses, because the alternative was a far more terrifying pill to swallow. That maybe Jim wasn’t your knight in shining armour.

The shift happened so slowly that you didn’t notice the lines being redrawn. It started with a heavy shove during an argument at a party, causing you to stumble into a couple standing behind you. He had caught you by the elbow and laughed it off.

Soon, it turned to throwing things. He didn't aim at you, at least not at first. Instead, a heavy glass ashtray would shatter against the drywall right above your shoulder. A coffee mug would explode against the kitchen cabinets, spraying sharp ceramic shards across your bare feet. The message was clear. You understood exactly what those flying objects meant. He would always have power over you, and was totally unafraid to wield it.

Every incident came with an explanation. He was stressed about money. He was exhausted. He’d had a rough life before he met you, and his nerves were shot. You had just caught him at a bad moment.

The first time he hit you, you left.

He’d spent the entire day drinking, eventually talking you into hitting a few parties, even though you had cramps and could see the whole thing far enough. According to Jim, the bartender was flirting with you, and you were letting him.

On your end, you were just trying to order another round.

Conscious of the fact that everybody was staring at you both, you had dragged him outside, begging and pleading for him to stop with the yelling. That he was scaring you. That you were sorry. When you tried to pull away, he used his free hand to strike you across the face - a heavy, open-handed slap that split your lip against your teeth and sent a coppery taste flooding into your mouth.

You slid down the wall when he let go, your knees hitting the concrete while he stood over you, shouting words that felt like background noise compared to the loud throbbing in your jaw.

You made it a week on your own before he came crawling back. And like the weak, spineless girl you were, you took him back, and things stayed much the same for another two years, before you called it quits for the last time.

Now, you’re standing at a bus-stop in Huntington, with a single bag of belongings, and no idea what you’re going to do next. The reality of your situation is settling in, and you dig into your pocket and pull out your crumpled dollar bills, counting them twice just to be sure. It’s barely enough for a couple of dinners, much less rent or bus tickets.

But you have to get out of here.

If you stay, Jim will find you, and you’ll end up exactly where you started.

Letting out a shaky breath, you make your choice. Stepping away from the bus stop, you look at the shimmering black asphalt of the highway stretching north. To Los Angeles.

You think about your vague, half-baked dreams of Hollywood as a child. Maybe this is where you were meant to be all along. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you raise your right hand, sticking your thumb out toward the oncoming traffic.

*****

The neon sign outside buzzes with a low, wet hum that always gives you a headache by midnight. A far cry from the bright lights of Hollywood, The Velvet Troubadour had been the only place to offer you a job without asking too many questions.

Most places wanted to know about your education (none), work experience (none), and what had brought you to the city (a desire to disappear).

The Velvet Troubadour, not to be confused with the infinitely more successful club in West Hollywood, s a dim, sticky dive on the edge of the city that serves cheap rye to men with heavy eyes, while a rotation of bored girls dances on a small wooden stage under a pink spotlight.

The uniform is an absolute joke. In what can only be described as a cross between a bikini and a maid’s outfit, you’re expected to prance about in five inch heels with a smile plastered to your face for the whole shift. Every time you bend over to pick up an empty glass, you feel the weight of twenty stares anchoring onto your back. You hate the way the cheap fabric smells of stale sweat and cigarette smoke, no matter how many times you scrub it in the sink of your rented room. You hate the mandatory heels that make your arches ache before the dinner rush even starts. Most of all, you hate the way the manager, a sweaty man named Lou, looks you up and down every shift to make sure you haven't gained an ounce.

But the job pays in cash every night, and right now, cash is the only thing keeping you from the sidewalk.

You learn the specific art of laughing at a terrible joke just long enough to secure a dollar tip, while keeping your body just out of arm's reach. Whenever a hand strays too close to your hip, your muscles go rigid. A cold spike of panic shoots through you, giving you flashbacks to Jim. You sidestep the reach with a practiced, icy smile, your knuckles tight with tension until you make it back behind the bar.

Almost all your customers are men. Comes with the territory, given the kind of place you work at. Which is why you notice her as soon as you step out from the dressing rooms. She’s commanded the entire back corner - there are a few men in tow, but it’s clear she’s in charge.

Lou appears at your back, and you flinch. Old habits die hard. “Go take care of her, yeah? Start her with a round on the house.”

“Who is she?”

Her hair isn’t a natural blonde - it’s bleached and fried in a way that can only come from years of heat damage. Maybe decades, based on the leather-look of her skin. But you get the sense that the blonde might be so deeply ingrained in her sense of identity that she wouldn’t know what to do without it.

“Head of Oceanside Videos,” He replies, as if you should already be familiar with what that is. When your expression remains blank, he lets out annoyed huff. “They're the biggest porn production company in Southern California. Name's Smurf. Call her Ms. Cody.”

While you don't know much about porn, you do know about California - particularly the fact that the Valley is infamous for its adult film industry. For this lady to run the top production company in the area, she must know her stuff.

“Got it.” You begin the walk over, suddenly very conscious of the height of your shoes. Men love the stumble, the slight sway as you bend down to place their drinks on the table. Makes them feel powerful, when they can put their hands on your waist, murmuring a quiet, “hey there,” into your ear.

With the way Smurf appears to be sizing all the girls up, you feel a strange urge to please her blooming in your chest.

You flash her your best and brightest smile. “What can I get for you all tonight? First round is on the house tonight.”

Normally when you take orders, you scribble a couple of letters to keep you right, but something about Smurf keeps you from reaching for the notebook in your pocket. In years to come, you’ll wonder how your life would’ve turned out if you’d just written the orders down.

You repeat them like a mantra on your way to the bar, and are filled with relief when she nods at you approvingly as you bring them back. You’re about to ask if they need anything else when she beckons you over with a neon pink nail. On closer inspection, it looks almost like a claw. “You're a cute little thing, huh? How long have you been working here?”

It's said with a layer of condescension that would bother you, were you not entirely accustomed to it by now. From all kinds of patrons. “Just a few months.”

“Figured. I would've remembered you, that's for sure. Come here, sweetcheeks,” She murmurs, patting the empty spot beside her. “You like working here?”

You know what Lou would want you to say.

Oh, yeah. It's real groovy, having men sleaze all over me for minimum wage.

You know that's not going to fly with Smurf. Instead, you go for a half-truth. “It pays the bills.”

“Mhm,” She hums, like she’s not at all surprised. “Why’d you move here, honey? Movies? Music? Modelling?”

This makes you bristle a little. Why does the very nature of Los Angeles entitle people to knowing the personal lives and stories of complete strangers? Especially since one look at Smurf tells you she once had those ambitions too. Now, you figure she must live vicariously through those that she manages.

“Just needed a change,” You reply, tone inviting no further conversation.

“I see,” She replies. “Well - is this how you envisioned your life here?”

“Not exactly,” you say slowly, trying to choose your words carefully. It doesn’t seem to matter. Smurf hasn’t so much as glanced as anybody else since you sat down.

“It never is,” She says, tilting her head so the harsh light catches the heavy gold chains around her neck. Her eyes narrow as she looks you up and down, scanning you the way a pawn shop owner examines a piece of old silver. “You’ve got a look, honey. A real specific kind of look that makes people look twice.” She pauses, letting the noise of the crowded bar fill the silence between you. The clinking of glasses and the low roar of drunk laughter feel miles away.

“A look like that is worth real money,” she continues, her voice dropping into a smooth, confidential purr. “Way more than the pennies you drag off these tables. I run a boutique production company just outside the city. High-end adult features. Very artistic, very private.”

She waves a manicured hand dismissively, as if casting away the entire concept of regular work. Her long, acrylic nails click against the laminated tabletop. “I’m not talking about the cheap, dirty stuff you find in the back alleys,” she says, her tone dripping with a layer of pity that makes your stomach twist. She speaks down to you with the effortless grace of someone who believes they are tossing a lifeline to a drowning swimmer. The worst part is that you think you may be exactly the kind of girl she thinks you are. Totally desperate. “I’m talking about real production value. And I happen to be looking for a fresh face for a new project.”

Smurf reaches into her leather handbag, her rings clicking against the brass zipper. She pulls out a thick, glossy business card with embossed gold lettering and slides it across the wet wood of the table. It stops right against the edge of your tray.

“Think about it,” she murmurs, sliding back into the shadows of the booth. “A girl like you shouldn't waste her best years wiping up spilled beer.”

You look down at the gold lettering on the card, the edges already soaking up a ring of condensation from a stray beer glass. You don’t immediately reach for it, but you don’t push it away either. Instead, you look straight into her eyes, keeping your voice cool and steady.

“What’s the compensation like?” You ask. If you’re going to sell your soul to the devil, you’ve got to make sure it’s worth it.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Smurf’s face, replacing her plastic smirk. She lets out a soft, approving hum and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Straight to the point. I like it.” She taps a long, acrylic nail against the card. “I'll give you a hundred bucks cash just for showing up and doing a basic camera test at the headquarters tomorrow. If we both like how it looks, the real paychecks would allow you to live a very comfortable life.”

A hundred bucks would guarantee a roof over your head for the next two weeks. After spending months bouncing around the couches of acquaintances, you’ve finally run out of people to call, and have been subjected to the worst motels LA has to offer. You stand there and think it over, the heavy tray resting against your hip. You look around the dingy bar, listening to the sticky floors crunch under your shoes and watching Lou yell at a customer near the jukebox, and your decision becomes crystal clear.

This cannot be your life.

But you also aren't stupid. You know exactly what a camera test in Smurf's world means. It isn't just standing under bright lights and posing. It means having sex with a total stranger while a lens records everything. A cold wave of nausea hits your stomach, but the thought of sleeping on the street next week feels a whole lot worse. You swallow down the panic and force yourself to look casual. “I don’t have a car, so I don’t know how I’d get there.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetcheeks,” Smurf says, her voice dropping so low that it’s barely audible. “I'll have a car pick you up right here in front of the club tomorrow morning. 2 PM sharp. Just make sure you're ready.”

You nod, already having the feeling that you might be making the biggest mistake of your life.

*****

You’re standing on the curb outside the Troubador by half-past one. After your shift, you’d barely slept a wink, too busy tossing and turning as you envisioned all the ways that today could go wrong.

You’ve only slept with two people in your whole life. How on earth is that supposed to translate to a career in porn?

The sex with Jim wasn’t even anything to brag about. He rarely made you finish, only taking the extra effort when he wasn’t hammered or in a foul mood.

Expecting a cab, or maybe a modest Volkswagen, your jaw is thoroughly dropped when a limousine pulls up to the curb. The driver’s head emerges from the front window to confirm your name, and soon a glass of champagne is being pushed into your hand as you get comfortable in the back.

The drive doesn’t take long, but you know you would’ve been walking for hours, had you tried to attempt it yourself. God, you miss having access to a car. The limousine pulls up to a stark, sun-bleached stretch of the valley, and the driver kills the engine. Through the tinted window, you get your first real look at Oceanside.

The building is an old, boxy office complex that has seen better days. It looks like it used to house insurance adjusters or dental accountants, but the new tenants have done their best to scrub away the corporate boredom. The exterior is slapped with a fresh coat of blinding, flamingo-pink paint that practically screams under the harsh California sun. A giant, modern logo reading Oceanside Videos is bolted over the front doors, the metallic letters gleaming in the heat.

You step out of the air-conditioned luxury of the car, and the thick afternoon heat hits you like a wall. Walking up the concrete path, you feel a nervous flutter in your stomach. You look down at your outfit, a sudden spike of uncertainty hitting your chest. Having zero idea how one is supposed to dress for such an occasion, you’d finally landed on a floral halter top and a pair of denim shorts, hoping the look comes across as casual and attractive. Standing here now, you start to worry that you look naïve, or worse, totally desperate.

You barely reach the top of the concrete steps before the heavy glass door swings open. Smurf is standing there waiting for you, looking completely in her element against the blinding pink backdrop. She wears a sharp, cream-coloured pantsuit that looks like it cost more than you would make in a year, and she smiles widely as soon as she sees you.

“Oh hun, look at you!” Her voice is a coo, one you imagine she might have used for any children she may have had when she was younger. She doesn’t really strike you as the motherly type, though.

The blast of cool air is an immediate relief, but the nervous flutter in your stomach only gets worse as you follow her. She leads you down a maze of long, winding corridors, where the walls are lined with framed, oversized movie posters from Oceanside’s biggest hits. The carpet under your sandals is thick and dark, muffling the sound of your footsteps as Smurf chatters away about lighting grids and distribution schedules.

She leads you through a pair of double doors into her main office, and the sheer scale of the room makes you stop in your tracks. This singular office is almost the same size as your entire childhood home. High vaulted ceilings, and a shelf packed to the brim with golden awards and trophies. But what catches your eye first is the equipment. Right in the middle of the room, a heavy Super 8 video camera is already set up on a tripod, its blank lens pointed directly toward a large, mustard yellow velvet couch.

Your eyes quickly dart to the corner of the room, where a man is leaning against the wall, shadows falling over his sharp features. He doesn’t look hugely tall, but his shoulders could fill an entire doorway, and you swallow slightly at the way his muscles bulge under his sleeve.

He doesn't smile, and his gaze is heavy as he watches you walk in.

“That’s Pope,” Smurf says, giving a careless wave of her hand as she breezes past him toward her desk. “He’s the man you’ll be filming with today. Don't be nervous, honey, he's my best-seller. He knows exactly what he's doing.”

Pope gives you a slow, single nod, his hazel eyes tracking you from across the room, but he doesn't say a word.

Smurf claps her hands together, drawing your attention straight back to her. “Alright, let’s leave Pope to his brooding. Sit down, honey. We need to talk business before we get you in front of the lens.”

Pope looks entirely unsurprised by this display, and you wonder how many girls have been paraded in and out of here before. Does he have to fuck each and every one of them, or does Smurf pick people out based on instinct?

“I-I have a few questions,” You manage, hating yourself for the waver in your voice.

“Anything, baby.”

“You make porn,” You feel like an idiot for stating the obvious, but the most rational part of your brain is still mildly terrified that you’re about to be chopped up and left on the street like the Black Dahlia. Smurf just nods, and waits for you to continue. “And this is basically an audition to work for you?”

“Correct.”

“And… what are you looking for?”

Smurf’s eyes twinkle a little at the question. “Well, that’s kind of hard to quantify. You’ve got a look I like already, which is a lot of the battle. Rest comes down to chemistry, malleability, and star quality. But you shouldn’t worry too much. My Pope will take real good care of you.”

The way she says malleability leaves a sour taste in your mouth, but you’d be lying if you claimed that sneaking glances at Pope weren’t making you feel a little hot and bothered. His bicep alone is bigger than Jim’s head.

“You mentioned compensation at The Troubadour.”

There’s no point in dancing around it any longer. You bite your lip, while Smurf pushes a contract towards you. “We work in yearly contracts, with a baseline number of films. We’d start you with one every six weeks, and if you sell well, you’ll be signed on for more. With a very generous bonus, of course. Basic salary is five-hundred up-front for each film, with a two-fifty bonus for breaking even, and another two-fifty for profits on top of that.”

You read through it quickly. There’s a lot of legal jargon, but it doesn’t look to be anything immediately insidious. At least, not on the surface.

“You've got such cute little doe eyes, kid. A real Bambi look about you,” Smurf comments, barely glancing up as she rolls a joint. Her movements slow to a stop as she considers her words, head tilting just slightly. “Actually, that could work.”

“Uh, what could work?” You ask, brow furrowed a little as you glance between her and Pope.

“Bambi. Got the innocent vibe that the public like, but it's not too out there. Easy to remember, snappy-”

You're still not quite following. Luckily, Smurf seems entirely caught up in her monologue.

“Pope and Bambi,” She muses. “Cute. Might be an easy sell to audiences. Now, are you ready to give this thing a go?”

Her expression is so expectant that you’re not sure you could say no, even if you were considering it. Luckily, your options in Los Angeles are fast running out, and you’d do anything to keep away from Jim. You nod slightly, and Smurf gestures to the couch.

Pope moves quietly, taking a stiff seat at the edge. You dread to think what a UV light would show here. If you were to shine it on the plush velvet, the shag carpet that seems to decorate every surface.

Ringing your hands nervously, you try to keep your attention on Pope.

The man Smurf wants you to fuck.

He’s handsome - that’s not the issue here. He’s tanned, like he spends most of his time in the sun, a mop of dark curls on his head. Your first thought is that they must get tugged on during sex. His arms are freckled, and you start to imagine one of his hands wrapped around your-

No. Stop.

He’s definitely out of your league.

You haven’t even said hello to him, much less anything else - and yet your future is currently reliant on you impressing Smurf enough to take you on.

You keep reminding yourself that it's better than the alternative. Wandering around Hollywood Boulevard until your next shift, or even worse. Back with Jim.

"Go on, honey," She instructs, sitting comfortably behind her desk after starting the camera rolling. "He doesn't bite. Unless you ask him to, of course. Just remember, no kissing on the lips - it's a personal boundary of his."

You nod, lip between your teeth as you reposition, lowering yourself onto his lap.

You shouldn't be nervous. Smurf told you herself that Pope is a pro. Her most popular actor. It's literally his job to have sex.

It takes every ounce of willpower to maintain eye contact, as you reach tentatively for his hands, currently stuck at his sides. You guide them to the hem of your shirt, and he complies immediately, eyes locked on you the entire time.

Now entirely bare, you're filled with more confidence when his gaze flicks down to your tits, his tongue wetting his lower lip before he meets your eyes again.

You don't even realise that your breathing has stuttered.

God, how are you meant to do this when you can't even relax for one other person?

"It's okay."

Pope's voice startles you a little, low and gravelly. It's the first time you've had anything more than grunts from him.

"Just do whatever you're comfortable with."

He seems genuine, a far kinder cadence than you were expecting, and for just a second you forget that he doesn't do lips. What a shame.

You think you'd like kissing him like that.

Instead, you tilt downwards, and start mouthing wet kisses along his jaw. It's like a switch his flipped in him - one hand cups the back of your head, while the other settles on your waist, grip firm.

You roll your hips once, as a test, then again when he lets out the softest little hiss.

You work your way down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt as you go, until you're able to push it from his shoulders. Pope uses the momentum to take over, sucking a bruise onto your collarbone.

There's a record playing in the background now. Some Gloria Gaynor single. To set the mood, you assume.

You certainly don't need music to get in the mood, not with the way Pope takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers.

The moans tumbling from your lips are borderline pornographic.

Maybe you are cut out for this.

“Show her a good time, Popey,” Smurf calls, breaking the spell for just a second.

Almost like a sleeper agent, he complies immediately, lips trailing down your sternum and towards your navel. He nips at your skin before soothing at it with his tongue, all while reaching for the button on your shorts. You lift your hips up, and allow him to shimmy them off.

The no underwear is a happy accident. You don’t fully subscribe to the hippie lifestyle, but you also hadn’t packed much when you left Jim behind. After weeks of crashing, you’ve taken to leaving your few meagre belongings at the club. People only steal things occasionally, and it’s better than having to trek it around all day while you look for other jobs. Nobody’s rushing to hire a girl who’s carrying her entire life around in a backpack.

“You alright?” He asks, nose brushing your inner thigh as he glances up at you.

Words leaving you, all you manage is a nod. When he licks a stripe through your folds, you’re not sure you’re ever going to have words again. You realise that you’re in over your head when Pope moans against your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. His hands are firm on your hips, keeping you pressed against the velvet of the couch and entirely at his mercy.

There’s a slight scruff on his chin - facial hair that’s been left for a day too long without a shave. The scratch against your clit has you seeing stars, and you find your hand reaching down to his hair, gripping tightly as a guide. The other hand finds purchase against the velvet, gripping feebly as you let out another whimper.

“S-Shit,” Your back arches off the couch, which only serves to deepen the angle Pope has. The sensations are burning hot - you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body. It’s the fastest you’ve ever begin to even feel the onset of an orgasm.

Already, it’s swimming at the edge of your vision, blurring slightly with each dip of Pope’s tongue. Soon, it seems like it’s in reach. Just a little bit more, and….

“Stop.”

The voice is firm, reminding you of exactly who’s in charge here. You’d been so wrapped up in Pope you’d forgotten all about her.

“Ma, she didn't even come-”

The nickname gives you pause. Ma? Like mother?

Surely not.

Must be some kind of term of endearment.

“Anybody can look good while getting head - I want to see what she's like giving now.”

When he meets your gaze, your breath hitches entirely. He seems to hesitate before he moves, leaning back against the back of the couch. He’s hard in his bell bottoms already, blush dusted across his cheekbones. You reach for the buttons, doing your best to look suave and cool, but given the way your head is spinning, you’ll take not looking like an idiot.

There’s a lingering tension now. Unfulfilled chemistry buzzing between you and Pope. His cock is freed - thick, heavy, and shining in pre-cum already. You take him in your hand, pumping softly once or twice as you settle yourself between his legs, knees on plush carpet.

The first contact is your tongue tracing along the vein that runs under his shaft - Pope lets out a low hiss, chin tilting upwards as his eyes close. When you finally wrap your lips around his cock, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to fit this inside of you.

Not only is he longer than Jim - he’s considerably girthier.

Hollowing out your cheeks, you employ every tactic you’ve ever learned to make a man cum.

“How is she, Popey?”

Pope’s reply is barely more than a grunt. “Real good.”

“Star material?”

You bob your head a little, taking him deeper, and Pope shudders. “She’s got the best mouth in LA.”

Smurf hums approvingly. “High praise, Bambi. Pope’s fucked a lot of ladies in this town.” She checks her watch briefly, before sighing. “I’ve got that investor coming in half an hour. Skip to the main event.”

Slightly awed by how blasé they’re both able to be about all this, you hesitate for a second, until Pope’s hand circles around your wrist. “Still with me?”

For the first time, he offers you a small smile, and you feel yourself returning it immediately. “Yeah, I’m peachy.”

And you mean it. Really. This is unquestionably the oddest afternoon of your life, but there’s something about him that intrigues you. He seems gentle, a trait you wouldn’t have thought would be encouraged in pornstars.

He’s reaching for the rubber, and soon you’re sinking down onto him, doing your best to combat the immense pressure building in your belly with each stretch. Your forehead drops until it’s tucked in the crook his neck, while his hands settle on your waist.

“God, baby,” He moans, almost directly into your ear. “You’re so fucking tight - when was the last time somebody fucked you good and proper?”

Five minutes ago, you would have said about three months ago. Now, knowing how Pope feels, and what he tastes like, your answer is rapidly changing. “Never,” You mumble, as he starts to guide your movements.

The rhythm is relaxed, but the coil in your abdomen certainly isn’t. Your nails leave dark moons on his skin as you rock against him, head tumbling back as you whimper and whine. You catch Smurf’s eye as you do, feeling the slightest bit of shame wash over you.

What would your folks think, if they knew their little girl was out here having sex with strangers for money?

It doesn’t take long for Pope’s thrusts to turn erratic, his grip so tight you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark. One of his hands slips between you both, rubbing at your clit, and it’s enough to throw you over the edge.

A cry from you, a low groan from Pope, and it’s all over.

Chest heaving, a quiet falls in the room before Smurf’s voice cuts through the haze. “Well, I think we’ve just found our next dynamic duo.”

You leave the building with a twelve-month contract, and a packet of birth control pills. Pope stays relatively quiet as you finish up with Smurf, offering you a small wave as you make your way out through the corridors.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Normally, as soon as he’s finished filming, he feels satiated until Smurf calls him in next. With you? He thinks he could’ve gone for another hour, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“You like her.”

“What?” His head whips around, gaze zeroed in on Smurf as she smirks at him.

“S’okay, baby - it was bound to happen eventually. Might be nice for you to have a favourite for a bit. The fans’ll love it, too.”

Pope knows better than to argue with his mother. That never ends well for anybody, least of all him. “When are you gonna do her first film?”

“Couple of weeks,” She shrugs. “After we’re sure the birth control’s working.” She shoots him an amused look. “Don’t worry - m’not gonna throw her to Craig on her first ever picture. You can do it.”

Pope’s expression doesn’t shift, but the relief he feels is palpable. He loves his brother, but his track record with running his female co-stars off of sets is an embarrassment to the company. “I should get going,” He grunts. “You’ve got that meeting.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, baby.” As usual, despite his protests, a kiss is placed directly on his lips. He fights the childish urge to wipe at them, and nods goodbye.

While he’s assuming he’ll see you again, he isn’t expecting for you to still be sitting outside at the front door. You must have left half an hour ago - what are you doing? “You're still here?”

You jump a little at the sound of his voice, and Pope clocks it immediately as instinctual. He wonders who made you like that. “I uh, don't have a car. Was hoping to catch a lift from somebody passing by… but there doesn't seem to be much traffic round these parts.”

Smurf calls the tow trucks whenever somebody stops on this street for more than thirty minutes. People just avoid it now.

“Where are you headed? I'll drive you.”

“I actually have a shift - it's The Velvet Troubadour? Down by Venice - not the cool one in Beverly Hills. And not the cool part of Venice either.”

Pope nods. He's familiar, and not entirely surprised that that's where Smurf found you. She's always had a thing for lost and lonely girls - giving them the world and then watching them implode in on themselves when they inevitably can't handle it.

“S'a real shithole,” He comments, arms crossed over his sweater.

You snort. “Tell me about it. But I can't ask you to take me all the way there - maybe just drop me off on Hollywood, and I can try and-”

“It's no trouble. Hardly even out of my way.” A complete lie. Pope's plans for the rest of the day had been to head home and read some shitty Western by the pool. The drive to Venice is not even close to the road to Laurel Canyon, but he doesn't care.

The idea of you having to hitchhike with god knows who up here makes him feel a little ill.

When you smile at him, his conviction only grows. For all her faults, Smurf sure knows how to find the prettiest girls on the West Coast.

He can't think of any stars that look quite like you, but he could imagine you in one of those Golden Age of Hollywood pictures. Swathed in jewels, hair done to perfection, and eyes twinkling.

Instead, your claim to fame is going to be getting fucked in The Valley - both literally and figuratively, if Smurf has her way.

“Come on,” He urges, gesturing across the lot to the Mustang. His hand drops to your waist, at the sliver of skin between your top and shorts, and he tries not to think about what he was doing the last time it was there.

You slide into the passenger’s seat, and Pope hopes that Smurf isn’t watching from her office as he pulls out onto the main road.

Me and Bobby McGee starts blaring from the radio, and you let out a contented sigh, allowing your head to lean back against the leather of the seat.

Pope eyes you carefully as he pulls out onto the main road. “You a Joplin fan?”

“Isn't everybody?” You crack one eye open, watching the way his muscles flex with each turn of the wheel. “Fuckin’ shame what happened to her. Whole lotta potential just wasted like that.”

“Wasted potential’s kind of LA’s thing.”

Pope should know.

You turn your head, so that your cheek is pressed up against the seat as you look at him. “That’s a bleak outlook.”

“You disagree?”

“Just think it’s bad for the soul, to not believe that everything’s gonna work out eventually.”

Pope’s sure his soul is plenty bad by now, but he finds himself nodding in agreement. “I like that. Not sure how true it is, but I like it.”

You laugh, and it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. He eyes you carefully as he navigates the heavy traffic. He keeps one hand loose on the steering wheel, his knuckles slightly white. The road ahead is a shimmering ribbon of heat, packed with cars, but his focus keeps drifting sideways. He watches the way the bright California light catches the edge of your profile. It shows the small, tired lines around your eyes and the soft curve of your mouth.

He keeps one hand resting heavy on the gear shift, close enough that his knuckles almost brush against your knee every time he moves into fourth. The drive down to Venice takes longer than it should, the silence inside the car growing thick and heavy as the salty sea air starts to whip through the open windows. Pope doesn't say much, and neither do you, but it’s comfortable, and he works to ignore the want bubbling in his chest.

When the car finally idles at the curb in front of The Velvet Troubadour, the place looks every bit the shithole he remembers. “Well - guess that’s you.”

The neon sign is cracked, and the afternoon sun only makes the dingy exterior look worse.

Pope shifts into park, his hands staying glued to the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead at the building. His jaw is tight. He hates the idea of leaving you here, even if he barely knows you.

“It’s a glamorous life,” You murmur dryly.

You reach for the handle, but before you slide out into the heat, you pause. Pope looks over at you, his dark eyes intense and unblinking. Lean forward, you press a quick, soft kiss right against his rough cheek.

He freezes completely. He doesn't move a muscle, his breath hitching in his chest as the small gesture catches him totally off guard. The skin where your lips touched burns hot against the cool air of the car.

"Thanks for the ride, Pope," you say with a small smile, already opening the passenger door.

He just nods once, his voice trapped in his throat as he watches you step out onto the pavement and head toward the entrance. He keeps his eyes locked on your back until the heavy door of the bar swings shut behind you, his hand rising slowly to touch the spot on his cheek you just kissed.

*****

Pope tells Smurf that he can't come round for dinner because he's got some errands to run - instead, his car practically drives itself to The Velvet Troubadour.

This is potentially the worst idea he's ever had, but his mind has been plagued with you for the past forty-eight hours. He hasn't been able to eat, or sleep, and he thinks he might be going crazy.

The stench of sweat and grime hits him as soon as he steps through the door, but he's already looking for you. You're leaning over the bar, laughing at something one of your co-workers, but a man steps in front of him before he can make his way across the club.

Pope vaguely recognises him as the owner.

"Mr. Cody! What an honour to have you here tonight - would you like a booth?"

He just nods, eyes still glued to you.

"Fabulous - I'll have Sabrina over to serve you immediately."

Pope shakes his head. "I want her."

Lou follows his gaze, before nodding slowly. In most cases, what a Cody wants, they get.

He lets Lou lead him to one of the shadowed booths tucked along the back wall, where the music is loud enough to drown out conversation and the lights are low enough that nobody can stare too hard. The owner disappears with a knowing smile, and Pope is left gripping the edge of the table, eyes fixed on the bar.

Fixed on you.

You still haven't noticed him.

He's not sure if that's a relief or an insult.

You throw your head back laughing at something, and the sound carries across the room despite the music. It settles somewhere under his ribs.

Jesus Christ.

He's lost his mind.

When Lou taps on your shoulder, turning you towards him, Pope worries for one awful moment that he's made a catastrophic mistake. But then you smile, and start to make your way towards him. You stop beside the booth, and for a second neither of you says anything.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Neither was I," Pope replies, feeling a warmth spread through him when you laugh.

"You scope out all your co-stars like this?"

It's a joke, but Pope replies seriously. "Just wanted to see you." It's the most sincere he's been towards another person in a long time. Maybe since Julia left.

"So you're saying I should feel special?"

God help him.

He's completely fucked.

"You are."

You don't have a quip ready for that one, and just glance away, embarrassed by the attention. "Can't believe you're putting yourself through the horrors of The Troubadour just to spend time with me. Can I get you something?"

Pope nods. "Whatever."

"Very specific."

"I trust your judgement."

You pour him a glass of the finest liquor the bar offers, which is firmly middle-of-the-range for any reputable establishment. When you return, his hand makes its way to your wrist. "Sit for a while."

You glance toward the bar, where Lou's already glaring, and point discreetly. "I should go."

Pope's expression changes instantly, and something flashes across his face. Disappointment.

Then he speaks. "Stay."

Your heart gives an embarrassing little jump. "You want me to stay?"

"Yeah." The answer comes immediately.

"Lou's gonna be mad."

Across the room, Lou is indeed watching. Arms folded and expression thunderous.

Pope doesn't even turn around.

"I'll handle him."

*****

The rest of the evening passes in a blur.

Every now and then you have to leave the booth to actually do your job, but he remains exactly where you left him every single time. Nursing the same drink. Watching the crowd with vague suspicion. Looking profoundly uncomfortable whenever another customer tries to start a conversation with him.

By midnight, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

By one o'clock, you're pretty sure every girl working tonight has noticed.

When Sabrina asks you how you know him, you're vague.

We met at a party.

When it hits three, Pope closes out his tab. "I woulda stayed until the end of your shift, but I have a meeting in Santa Monica in the morning." When he produces a wad of cash that's definitely too much for his bill, your eyes widen immediately.

"Pope." He presses the money into your hand, and you stare down at it. Then back up at him. "This is far too much."

"You took care of me all night."

You snort. "I brought you two drinks."

"You sat with me."

God, you think you might be a little bit in love with him. You tuck it into your skirt, and smile at him. "Thank you, Pope."

"Andrew."

"Huh?"

"My name," He says softly. "It's Andrew."

"Andrew. I like that," You smile. "Suits you."

He pauses for a second, as if considering his actions, before leaning forward to press the briefest kiss to your cheek. "I should go." His voice sounds rougher now.

You nod, because speaking appears beyond your capabilities.

"See you soon, kid."

As soon as he's gone, it's like blood in the water.

Lou abandons whatever he was doing behind the bar and starts making his way toward you with alarming speed. The staff are still cleaning around the room, stacking chairs and wiping tables, but more than one head turns in your direction. Everyone knows that look. Everyone knows Lou has spotted money.

"It was a tip."

"A tip?" Lou repeats. "A tip?"

"Yes."

"That man tipped you half a mortgage payment." You try to step around him, but Lou steps directly into your path. "Oh, that's definitely getting pooled."

The warmth that had been lingering in your chest all evening immediately evaporates, and you freeze. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"He gave it to me."

"He gave it to an employee, while she was working, under my roof."

It's no use. You can argue until you're blue in the face, but all it takes is the threat of unemployment to have you handing it over. You're still not sure how reliable Oceanside is going to turn out to be, and you can't blow your life up over seven-hundred dollars.

Somehow Lou ends up with whatever he wants anyway. There's no point in fighting it.

Within minutes the money has vanished into the envelope where pooled tips are kept before being divided up. You watch the last bill disappear, and try not to cry.

Salvation comes in the form of a heavy leather jacket, left in Pope's booth. You figure he must have left by now, but you announce that you're checking the parking lot anyway, if only for some fresh air.

Much to your surprise, the Mustang is still sitting in the corner, with Pope's gaze held on the front door of The Troubadour.

"You forgot this," You call holding up the jacket. Embarrassment clouds his features, and he gets out to walk over to you. "Thought you had an early meeting?"

"This place has a, uh, pull," is his only response. "Thank you." Then his eyes narrow - almost imperceptibly. "Where's the money?"

Shit. You hadn't thought for a single second that he would notice in such a short interaction, and you wince slightly. "Lou took it. He pooled it."

Pope continues staring, eyes stormy.

"He said everybody has to share tips. I'm really sorry, Andrew - I tried to tell him, but you know what he's like-"

"S'not your fault-"

"I should've hidden it, or something-"

"Wait here."

You immediately shake your head, confusion flooding through you. "What? No."

"Wait here, and I'll be out in a few minutes."

You should probably stop him.

Instead you find yourself standing there watching him storm towards The Velvet Troubadour, jacket slung over one arm, broad shoulders disappearing toward the entrance of the club.

Time seems to slow while he's inside, and you find yourself pacing restlessly outside, with no indication of what's going on. When the door finally opens again, you straighten so quickly you almost pull a muscle.

Pope steps outside, looking completely calm, and then you notice what he's carrying.

Your bag. Your jacket. Your tips.

"What did you do?"

Pope shrugs, entirely unconvincingly.

"I talked to him."

"You talked to him," You repeat, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Why do you have my stuff?" The silence that follows is not encouraging. "Pope."

Another pause.

Then finally...

"You don't work there anymore."

You think you might pass out. "What?"

"You don't work there anymore. He fired you. Or, I guess you quiet before he could."

You stare, unable to believe what you're hearing.

"I quit?" Pope nods, and you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You got me fired."

"He got you fired, because he's the world's shittiest boss."

"You went in there."

"Yeah."

"And now I don't have a job."

"He shouldn't have taken your money." He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"That isn't how employment works, Pope." You press both hands over your face. "Oh my God."

A fresh wave of panic starts rising in your chest.

Rent.

Bills.

Food.

The money from Smurf will only go so far - certainly not far enough until she brings you in for your first picture.

"You've got a job. A better job than that. It'll be fine."

"No, I had a job. Oceanside isn't a job until I see proper cash."

"I'll get you an advance." He seems determined to solve every one of your problems, and you can't decide whether you love or hate it. "And you can stay with me, until you're back on your feet."

You stare at him, eyebrow arched. "How do I know you're not going to kill me in my sleep?"

At this, he snorts a little. "Scout's honour?"

Despite everything, you laugh. "God, I can't believe you."

"And I can't believe you stayed at that place for three whole months."

Standing there in the empty parking lot, clutching a bag of belongings against your chest, you find yourself thinking that Pope Cody might actually be completely insane.

The problem is that you're starting to find that incredibly difficult not to like that.

*****

It's a battle to stay awake as Pope drives you through the winding Canyon roads, before he finally pulls up a driveway.

It's exactly the kind of place you'd imagine Jim Morrison or Joni Mitchell living, all hidden and wooded. Pope grabs the backpack before you can, and opens the car door for you.

"I thought you had a meeting in the morning?"

"Fuck 'em," He replies, unlocking the front door. Pre-Manson, he wouldn't have dreamed of locking up in a neighbourhood like Laurel Canyon. Post-Manson, he's careful. Far more careful than the rest of his family. "They'll get over it."

Somehow, the inside of the house is even more impressive. The walls are covered in records, some you're familiar with, and others you've never heard of, while the fire crackles softly in the corner. It's warm, and lived in, and far nicer than any place you've ever spent time in before.

"Holy shit," You murmur.

"You like it?" Pope asks, and when you glance back at him, you get the sense that he's genuinely hoping you do.

"Andrew, this is insane." You want to say more, but tiredness overcomes you, and you yawn. "God, I'm such an asshole, I'm sorry-"

"Don't worry about it. It's late. I can uh, I can show you to one of the bedrooms."

He hasn't even closed the door to the guest room before you're out, exhaustion finally catching up to you, now that you're in the first proper bed you've slept in in months.

*****

It's easy to forget that there are cameras around. That this isn't simply you and Pope, in the comfort of his Laurel Canyon mansion.

You've spent the last four hours filming - firstly, the preamble. You, the girl whose car broke down in the middle of the night. Pope, the man who's happy to fix it, in exchange for a few favours.

The dialogue in the script is ropey at best, leaving you both largely to improvise. With a few exaggerated sighs, and jutting your ass out towards the camera, you've gotten by just fine.

Next had come an hour of you blowing Pope. It wouldn't have taken so long, were he not insistent on being far gentler with you than the director wants. It isn't until Smurf calls from across the room, "come on, baby. Tug her hair like you mean it," that he finally complies, mumbling an apology to you between takes.

You're endlessly impressed by his stamina. Where you'd assumed most adult film stars would rely heavily on viagra, Pope seems to bounce back just fine.

He's chattier than you expect. Each time the crew huddle round to set up a shot, leaving you perched in his lap for an uncomfortable few minutes, he's asking you questions.

Real questions.

Nothing about porn, or sex. But about you.

What you like about LA (everything). If you've driven up to Griffith for a sunset (not yet). If you'd like to go with him sometime (you would). The last part is said in a considerably quieter voice. Glancing around, you wonder if he doesn't want Smurf to hear. You get the sense she controls almost his entire life.

Finally, it's time for the main event. Spread out on a fake kitchen table, Pope stands at the end, hand on your waist and waiting for his cue. He's hard again already, leaking pre-cum against your thigh.

Were he not a consummate professional, you'd wonder if you had something to do with it.

"Doing okay?" He checks in, briefly. "Need water or anything?"

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. "I think after all this build-up, I kind of just want to get fucked."

The laugh he lets out is small, barely audible. "I think I can manage that."

A voice cuts across the set, and everything dims. "Lights, camera, action!"

*****

There’s a bead of sweat trickling down the valley of your breasts, and Pope has to fight the urge to lick it. Instead, he lines himself up against you, allowing his cock to brush through your folds once, catching your clit before he sinks in.

Your ankles lock behind his back, breath hitching as your fingers try desperately to grasp at something. Finally, they find purchase at the edge of the table, as Pope bottoms out.

It’s no secret that he’s big.

One of the biggest in the industry, if Smurf is to be believed.

Not that he’d know. He doesn’t make watching porn a habit. Why would he, when he lives it every day?

Were it not for the literal hours of foreplay today, he’d have been worried about you being able to take it. You’d struggled a little during the camera test, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you.

You’re a sweet little thing. Experienced enough to know what she’s doing, but enough of a blank canvas for Smurf to mould however she wants. Provided she wants to sign you.

You're a good ingenue. Girl-next-door

He figures you must be running from something. A husband, boyfriend, your family - he isn’t sure yet.

You’re panting directly into his ear, various pleas tumbling from your lips as he snaps his hips against you. The table is rocking now, barely withstanding the force, and Pope finds his hands snaking under your thighs, just in case it gives way.

“G-God, Andy-”

For a single millisecond, Pope freezes. Did you just say his name? Or was it baby?

The cameras are still rolling, which makes him think it must have been baby.

It's just wishful thinking. He wants it to be Andy. In fact, he never wants to hear you say the name Pope again.

For the first time in an almost five-year career, Pope dips his head, and kisses on camera. His movements are exaggerated, hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you against him. Making sure that nobody can claim that you initiated it.

He knows that Smurf would use it against you in an instant if she felt like it.

Your lips are as soft as he imagined, and you make the prettiest sigh against him, as his tongue traces the seam of your mouth. If he were to look around right now, he’d see a jaw-dropped Smurf, along with a crew who isn’t quite sure what just happened.

It could be minutes or hours, but he's still kissing you when he comes, cock pulsing inside you as he cradles your face. You look a little dazed, lipstick smeared across your cheeks, and presumably also his lips.

"And... cut!"

The world comes screaming back, and the both of you are surrounded by your respective makeup artists, dropping robes over your shoulders.

He raises his gaze to look at Smurf, but she's entirely focused on you, smirk wide in a way that makes his skin crawl. "Oh Bambi, honey - you're going to be a fuckin' star."

Your apartment, to be fair, isn't an option. You live with Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker. So, explaining why your boss is spending stolen moments in your shared kitchen is not something you plan on doing. As for Jack's home...well, you don't ask. At the start, it's because most of your heated encounters are stolen moments at work. You share a knowing look across the ED, and suddenly you're making out in the on-call room. Or you're sneaking up to the abandoned ward where you let him fuck your brains out.

Then it progressed to planning to meet in hotels around Pittsburgh. Never close to the hospital. Never where you would be found out.

You understand this. While there's no rule against dating Attendings...it isn't something that is encouraged. You also don't want to listen to the sharp comments from people who think you fucked your way to your place in the PTMC. Not like you worked your ass off for years before getting your place in the Emergency Department.

It wouldn't do well for Jack Abbot if people found out he was sleeping with an intern. He's well respected in PTMC. He's a brilliant doctor, a great teacher. He doesn't have favourites. And he intends to keep up appearances.

Even Dr Robby thinks it's an unrequited crush. He has no idea that Jack is buried in your tight cunt multiple times a week.

You gasp his name as you cum from riding his thigh in a supply closet.

"You should go back out there, sweetheart," Abbot praises, kissing you as you come down from your high.

You nod stupidly after a minute. You pull your scrub pants back on and head back out to finish your shift. Jack dips out after making sure the other member of his SWAT team's injury isn't too severe.

Dana is explaining the upcoming Emergency Department day out. It's a grill...or a picnic... Anyway, everyone is supposed to come together and raise money for the department. Langdon is promising his wife, Abby, will make some brownies or other tray bakes that are clearly a hit with the rest of the team.

It's a family event, you gather, as Langdon shares that Tanner has been talking about it for months.

"Is your husband coming?" you ask Dana, who smiles and nods.

"Oh yea, he wouldn't miss it. My kids will probably drop in. My daughter just had her second kid. So that's gonna be three generations of Evans," she tells you with the biggest smile.

"I can't wait!" you enthuse as your favourite charge nurse shows you pictures of her youngest grandchild.

"So does everyone's families come?" you ask then, trying to play it casual.

You aren't stupid. You've noticed Abbot's wedding ring. He's never mentioned a wife...or a family. But as the weeks turned to months and he never once offered his home as an option for your hookups you begin to worry that you're the other woman. And that's not something you're comfortable with.

"Everyone who has family around Pittsburgh, yep," she responds, looking at you over her glasses.

"So we'll meet the elusive Mrs Abbot," your respond, trying and failing to keep your voice light.

At your question Dana's head snaps up. She examines your face which has probably drained of blood at this point. You're nervous. You shouldn't have asked that. You have put a mark on your back. It's so obvious why you're asking.

But Dana gives a small, sad smile and shakes her head.

"Dr Abbot's wife passed away a few years ago. Complications in child birth," she offers. "He never talks about it. Always wears the ring though. I haven't seen him get close to anyone since then..."

You freeze. Feeling guilty. Sick to your stomach. Jack lost his wife and you had presumed that you were a mistress. You knew he wasn't that type of man. You would never be attracted to that type of person.

"Oh. Shit. I'm sorry," you breathe.

"Not your fault, kid," she responds with a sad smile. "You didn't know. He doesn't talk about it. How were you supposed to know? I hope he's not still riding you."

Your eyes go wide at her choice of words.

"I know you were having a pretty tough time a while ago. I overheard Robby mentioning you were finishing up your night shift rotation early."

You give a small shrug and take a sip of your water bottle.

"Yea, I don't know what's up Dr Abbot's ass. But he didn't feel like I was a necessary addition to the nightcrawlers," you tease, crossing your eyes. "Worry not, though, cos when any of his favourite crawlies call out I'm always drafted in!"

Dana's lips curl into a smile and she nods, just as the man in question walks into the Pitt. He looks so fucking handsome, your mouth goes dry. God, you need to get yourself together! This was so fucking embarrassing.

Well, it would be, if you weren't going to some fancy hotel this weekend with him. You finish your shift quickly before you can get distracted by the older man. You climb into Trinity's car with Dennis sliding into the back.

"I'm gonna be away this weekend," you say casually.

"Again?" Trinity says cocking her eyebrow as she drives towards your shared apartment.

"Well, there's only so much I can take of you and Yolanda Garcia fuckin'," you tease her.

This comment causes her cheeks to tinge pink. You don't love how Garcia seems to pick and choose when she needs Trin. But how is it any different than what you and Jack are doing? At least they're not hiding it. Well, not really. They're not advertising it, but they're still... You don't know... Trinity deserves better than a situationship.

You climb into Trinity's bed that night. Sometimes the three of you had what you affectionately called roommate slumberparties. And it seems like the topic at hand is situationships.

"So who are you screwing?" she immediately asks you, which makes Dennis scrunch up his face.

"Don't say it like that," he groans.

You sigh, "I can't tell you...cos it's someone from the hospital."

"Robby?" Trinity immediately asks.

You make a disgusted noise, "Absolutely not! But the person is not married. It's just...It would be messy if it got out."

Trinity and Dennis look at each other. You know they will be discussing this when you're not here. But you just need to get it all off your chest.

"But I don't want to be a dirty little secret anymore. And I don't need to, like, announce it at work or like even hold hands. But I mean, I would like to go on a date! I haven't even been to his house...or apartment. I don't even know where he lives! We go away for these like fuck sessions on the other side of the city in nice hotels. And at the start it was fun and sexy. But it's been five months," you ramble.

"I wanna go for after-work drinks and sit beside him in the fuckin' booth! Is that too much to ask for?"

You don't realise you're crying until Trinity and Dennis are both hugging you. What a fucking disaster! You're a fucking disaster! How did this happen? How are you crying over Jack Abbot!

Dennis clears his throat, "I think you need to tell him this. You need to make it clear that you don't wanna be just a fuck buddy to him."

He cringes at the term but continues on, "That you want more than hooking up."

"And if he doesn't want that?" you whisper, your voice breaking.

"Well fuck him!" Trinity says and hugs you again.

You pull up at the fancy hotel where you'll spend the weekend with Jack with one goal in mind.

Tell him how you feel.

You don't want to be a secret anymore. You don't want stolen moments. You want him. You want it all. Hell, you haven't even seen him naked before! When you are lucky enough to spend the night in one of the hotels he picks, you usually fall asleep before him and wake up after him. You don't know how he does it. It's like he's afraid of you seeing any vulnerability in him.

Jack has no idea about any of this. How could a beautiful, young thing want more than this with him? He had thought it was a one-time thing, up in the abandoned floor. But then it happened again. Then he saw you at a bar and he couldn't help but kiss you. Away from prying eyes of course. Soon, it became a given; he just had to have you.

About a month into this whole situation, he suggested going to a hotel. You were so happy and eager. He ordered room service. It was the first time you'd eaten together. It was a whole other type of intimate. Then he fucked you so hard you saw stars. You had reached out to him afterwards, to cuddle, to sleep in the same bed. He faked an emergency at work and fled.

He doesn't know why he is hiding his leg from you. He hasn't done this before. He's not ashamed of his amputation. But you're so young and vivacious and full of life. He's firmly middle-aged with a tonne of baggage. And he's disabled. He couldn't burden you with an asshole like him.

For the first time, he's booked a hotel for two nights. So maybe he wants to get more close to you. Maybe he'll allow that. And when he gets up to the room that you've already checked into, all his nerve disappears. He sees you standing there, looking out the window, the moonlight illuminating your beautiful body. You're not dressed fancy, just in a simple t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, but you're still a vision to him.

He crosses the room and kisses you. His hands cupping your face, holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world. And you kiss him back with the same desperation. You grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer.

He's moving you to the bed before you realise what's happening.

"Wait, Jack," you manage to gasp out. "Can we talk?"

His blood runs cold. He's been waiting for this. Waiting for you to come to your senses and tell him you can't do this anymore. You've found a more age-appropriate partner. This was a fun fling, but you can't do it anymore.

What comes out is somehow worse.

"I want more," you breathe as you sit on the edge of the bed. "I really like you, Jack. But I can't keep pretending that ten-minute fucks between shifts is enough. I haven't even been to your house. Hell, we haven't even been on a date. I want more than this."

Jack opens his mouth and closes it.

"Isn't this a date?" he tries.

You look at him as if he is genuinely insane.

"Jack! I'm an hour away from where I live, just so we can hole up in this room. Hell! We'll have sex and maybe you won't even be here in the morning. I've started to feel more like a call girl than a..."

You stop because what can you compare yourself to? A girlfriend? Well, you're definitely not that.

"I don't want a situationship," you state.

"A what?" he asks, genuine confusion on his face.

"I don't wanna be a booty call. A fuck buddy. I don't want you to keep messing with my mind."

Jack softens now. He understands what you're talking about.

"I haven't...I haven't dated in a very, very long time, kid," he says gently. "Not since before my wife. I, um, I was married. For a really long time, actually. She died...when she was giving birth to our daughter. Our first child, actually. We were so excited. I was so fuckin' scared. What was I gonna do with a baby? I can't even take care of myself.

"But then we were on a trip and she started bleeding. I couldn't help her. The doctors at the hospital couldn't help her. And...I was alone. For the first time in a very long time. And I didn't know what to do.

"I let myself mourn. Then I went back to work. I was...I was awful back then. Robby'll tell ya. So then I started going to therapy and I got, well not better, but I adjusted. But I can't do that again."

You look at him. Your eyes narrowing now, unsure of what he's saying.

"Can't do what?" you whisper, your voice coming out weaker than you expect.

"I can't open myself up like that again. I don't want to do that again."

He can't love you, is what he's saying. He can't be a partner, a husband or a dad. He doesn't want to.

"So what have we been doing then?" you ask.

He just looks at you, pain clear in his eyes. He had shut himself off so long ago. He hadn't intended to let you pry open the door like you had. And he needed to put an end to it. This all had gotten out of hand. He never intended for it to get this messy. To get this far!

"I don't know," he gruffs out. "Making a very long mistake."

His words knock the wind out of you. You can feel the tears prick your eyes, but you can't, you just can't cry in front of him. Not now, not after he called this a mistake.

Instead, you swallow thickly and stand up.

"Okay, well, it's good to know that's how you view me, Dr Abbot," you breathe as you gather your bags. "I'll see you on Monday."

You push out of the hotel room and pack yourself into your car. You only allow yourself to cry when you're hidden from view in your shitty car. You only allow that breakdown to come when you know he can't see you.

Jack instead is pacing around the hotel room still. What has he just done? Why would he say that? A mistake? This has probably been the only right decision he has made in over a decade. You are the best thing that has happened to him in so fucking long. But he can't enjoy you, can't enjoy this. He had to blow it up.

A mistake.

The word rings in your head. As you drive home.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

You're his mistake. One you'll make sure he doesn't make again.

a/n: thanks for reading! part three is coming I promise!

You’ve been to plenty of events like this. You’re practiced enough to expect the rhythm, to abide by the unspoken rules: smile at the right time, keep your posture relaxed but not careless, hold eye contact long enough to seem engaged, and smile and nod. It's a performance, in its own way, and one you've learned how to give without thinking too hard.

Tonight, though, something doesn’t feel right.

It settles into you the second the doors close behind you, slipping quietly beneath the hum of the room. The discomfort is subtle but insistent, pressing somewhere deep beneath your ribs. Your hand tightens slightly around your purse before you consciously relax your grip, smoothing your fingers delicately over the fabric of your dress instead—an automatic gesture meant to ground you in familiarity.

It’s just another gala, you tell yourself. You’ve been to plenty of these.

You step forward, heels quiet against the floor, weaving into the edges of the crowd with the ease of habit. Faces blur past you, some familiar but most not. Idle conversations brush against you and slip away just as quickly. Someone nods in your direction; you return it automatically, a polite smile already in place.

I could do this in my sleep.

Until a laugh breaks through the noise.

It doesn’t belong in the room at all—or maybe it does. Your body reacts to it before your mind can catch up, before you’re able to reason it away. It’s low, a little rough around the edges, threaded with an easiness, unguarded. It cuts clean through the layered noise of everything else, at least to you.

You’re in the middle of a conversation, one that maybe you won’t remember tomorrow, but your breath catches mid-sentence.

You can’t turn immediately, no, you have to be polite and finish your story. You fix your gaze somewhere ahead of you, not quite engaging with the polite crowd surrounding you. Suddenly, you can hear your pulse just a little too loudly in your ears. It's a ridiculous reaction, you know that. It could be anyone. It’s been years, certainly long enough that the pang of memory shouldn’t cut you so sharply, so immediately.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” you say, the words smooth, practiced, accompanied by a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

You step away before they can respond, before you have to hold the conversation together any longer, your body already moving with quiet urgency.

Something in you already knows. Slowly—too slowly—you scan the room, your gaze moving over unfamiliar faces. Perhaps to find him, perhaps to avoid him.

But there he is. In the flesh.

Across the room, half-angled toward a small cluster of people, a drink held loosely in one hand. He’s in uniform, of course, but it's the way he holds himself that catches you first. He’s relaxed, like he belongs exactly where he is, like he knows it. Like he always has.

Older, your mind supplies distantly.

Broader through the shoulders. The lines of him filled out in a perfect way that speaks to time passed, to years you weren’t there to see. But it’s still him. Unmistakably and undeniably him.

Your Bradley Bradshaw.

Well, not anymore.

The name lands in your chest with a weight that feels almost physical.

For a moment, everything else in the room recedes; conversations around you dull to something distant, like you’re hearing everything from underwater. Movement slows at the edges of your vision. You’re aware, suddenly and acutely, of how still you’ve gone—how your body has locked into place as if it’s waiting for you to catch up.

You didn't think—

No, that's not true. You did think about this. Many times, a long time ago. You just didn't expect it would ever actually happen.

You don’t realize just how completely you've stopped until a stranger brushes past your shoulder, close enough to jolt you back into the moment. You murmur an apology automatically, stepping aside, your gaze flicking back to him before you can stop it.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You could leave.

The thought is sharp and tempting. You could turn around, walk back out those doors, let them close behind you again like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just have the past drop back into your life without warning.

It would be easy, but you know you can't.

You’re not here by accident. Your company is on the sponsor list, printed neatly at the front of the program, tied to a campaign that needs hands shaken and conversations had. You were expected here and have already been seen. Leaving now would raise questions you just don't have the energy to answer.

But worse—it would feel like running.

You’ve done enough running.

So you stay.

Longer than you should, probably, your body caught somewhere between instinct and obligation, your gaze drifting back to him despite yourself. He shifts slightly within the group, saying something that earns a quiet ripple of laughter, his head tipping just enough that the light catches along the edge of his jaw.

It's familiar in a way that feels almost cruel, in a way that makes your heart ache.

You force yourself to look away.

This is ridiculous.

You’re not seventeen anymore—standing in a crowded hallway outside a gymnasium, pretending you’re not watching him across the room, waiting for him to notice you first. You’re not that girl. You’re not someone who freezes at the sight of a man—any man—no matter who he used to be to you.

Used to be.

It settles heavy in your chest, harder to shake than you expect.

You exhale slowly, gathering hold of yourself, and then—finally—you move.

Not toward him. Never toward him.

Instead, you angle toward the bar, slipping between clusters of people with quiet purpose, willing yourself to focus on anything but him. The bartender catches your eye as you approach, offering a polite nod as he reaches for a glass.

“What can I get you?”

You mean to ask for something easy. Something safe. Something that won’t leave a trace.

Instead, you hear yourself order something uncharacteristically strong.

The bartender doesn't question it. He simply turns, measures, pours, and slides the glass toward you with practiced ease.

You take it without a second thought, the cool crystal grounding you as you bring the drink to your lips. The first sip burns just enough to anchor you back to reality, to cut through the strange, disorienting haze that’s settled over your thoughts.

It doesn’t help as much as you’d hoped, because even now—especially now—your attention drifts right back to him.

You don’t mean for it to, and you certainly don’t want it to. But it happens just the same, your gaze pulled right back across the room to where you saw him earlier. You try to convince yourself it's just curiosity, a confirmation you weren’t seeing things. Maybe if you look long enough, the shock will fade into something manageable.

It doesn’t.

He shifts again, turning slightly as someone new joins their conversation, and for a moment, you catch a clearer view of his profile. The slope of his nose, the line of his mouth, the mustache that now shadows his upper lip, and the way his shoulders fill out the uniform in a way that feels... unfair.

Time has been kind to him.

You hate that you notice.

You hate that it still matters.

You take another sip, slower this time, your fingers tightening slightly around the glass as if that might steady something deeper than your hands. Around you, the room continues on as if nothing has changed—like your world hasn’t just tilted off its axis in the span of a single breath.

I could still leave.

The thought lingers, quieter now, less urgent but no less present.

You don’t move.

“Bradshaw—!”

The voice comes from just a few feet to your left—a fellow pilot, you presume.

The voice cuts in from somewhere to your left, close enough to carry and sharp enough to break through the steady hum of the room, and your stomach drops as he turns. The movement is instinctive, immediate—his attention shifting toward the call without hesitation before continuing past it, drawn toward you as if something in him already knew where to look.

Your breath catches, and there’s no time to look away now, no chance to pretend you hadn’t been watching him, that your attention hadn’t been fixed on him like it still meant something.

His eyes find you fully this time, and everything in you stills. The change is subtle, but you see it: the faint tightening at the corner of his eyes, the way his expression stills just enough to give him away, the way his focus sharpens in a way that has nothing to do with anyone else in the room. And then—slower, more deliberate—his gaze moves.

It drags over you, not careless, not casual, but measured. Taking you in pieces by piece, like he’s trying to place you, to reconcile the person standing in front of him with the one he remembers. Your face first, searching, lingering just a second too long, before it dips—your shoulders, the line of your posture, the way you hold yourself now. There’s something almost instinctive in it, like he’s orienting himself, recalibrating, mapping the distance between who you were and who you are.

It’s not just recognition. It’s assessment.

And something else—something quieter, harder to name—threaded through it.

For a moment, everything else falls away—the music, the conversations, the distance—until it’s just him, looking at you like he’s trying to understand how you’re real, how you’re here, standing in front of him after all this time, like he’s not sure if you’re something he imagined.

Your grip tightens around your glass, the cool surface pressing into your palm as you fight the instinct to look away, but you don’t—not this time—and for one suspended, fragile second, neither of you moves.

The hallway was too loud.

Lockers slammed, voices overlapped, sneakers squeaked on linoleum. Everything blended into the kind of chaos that could only exist on your first day at a new school. It was overwhelming in an unfamiliar, exhilarating way. It felt like you had walked into something already in motion, like everyone else knew exactly where they were going and you were just trying to keep up.

You adjusted the straps of your bag higher on your shoulders, weaving through the crowd with careful precision, your gaze fixed ahead and downward, as if that might make you less noticeable.

You were halfway to your locker—still not convinced you were even going the right way—when you turned the corner too fast.

And ran straight into someone.

The impact was solid enough to knock what little breath you were holding from your lungs, your bag slipping down your shoulders as papers shifted.

“Shit—sorry,” you blurted automatically, already bending to grab what you had dropped, but the person you collided with was faster.

A hand caught your arm before you could fully bend down, steadying you without thinking.

“Easy,” he said, voice low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like amusement. “Didn’t mean to take you out on your first day.”

You stilled for a second, then looked up.

He was close, far too close. Close enough that everything else sort of… faded at the edges. You noticed things you shouldn’t: the way his hair curled slightly at his forehead, the way his eyes settled on you like he was trying to figure you out, the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth like he already thought this was funny.

Like you were funny to him.

Your brain stuttered for a moment, taking a second to catch up.

“I wasn’t—” you started, then stopped, your words getting stuck somewhere between your head and your mouth. Your gaze dropped without meaning to, catching on the fact that his hand was still on your arm.

Warm and steady. Like he hadn’t noticed.

Or maybe he had.

The moment stretched on for a few beats too long. Then he followed your gaze and let go immediately.

“Right,” he said quickly, a breath of a laugh in it as he lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “My bad. I’ll try not to commit assault before first period next time.”

You just blinked at him.

You should have been annoyed, but you weren’t.

There was something about him that made it hard to be, like he wasn’t trying to impress you but somehow still was.

You straightened, brushing your hands over your clothes just to do something with them.

“Maybe just watch where you’re going,” you said, but it came out lighter than you meant it to.

His smile widened a little.

“Or,” he said, tilting his head, “you could stop cutting corners like you had somewhere more important to be.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “You had no idea where I was going.”

“Fair,” he shrugged. “But first period on the first day?” He glanced past you, then back. “Not exactly high stakes.”

Then, despite yourself—with all the tension and nerves from being at a new school—

You laughed.

It slipped out before you could stop it, quiet and a little surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.

He noticed immediately. Something shifted in his expression, more focused. Like he was really paying attention to you now.

“Bradshaw,” he said after a second, like it was nothing. “Bradley.”

The name hung there between you, settling into the space like it belonged. You hesitated for just a moment, your fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your bag, then gave him yours. He repeated it back, slower this time, like he was testing the sound of it, like he didn’t want to mess it up. There was a small pause after, just long enough to feel intentional, like he wanted to make sure you heard it, like he wanted you to know he was paying attention.

“Good,” he said, almost under his breath.

You narrowed your eyes a little. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, easy again, but there was something behind it now. “Would’ve been a shame to almost knock someone over and not know their name.”

You shook your head, a stupid smile still plastered on your face, bending to grab the last of your things.

“Try not to make a habit of it.”

“No promises.”

You stood, adjusting your bag again, fingers tugging the strap higher onto your shoulder. The movement gave you something to focus on, something small and controlled, because for a second there was nothing else to do.

You shifted your weight instead, glancing down the hallway like you had suddenly remembered where you were supposed to be, like that was the only thing keeping you from standing there longer than you should have.

“First period,” you mumbled.

“Tragic,” he said.

There was a hint of a smile in it.

You let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, and nodded once like that settled it.

So you stepped around him.

Close enough to feel his presence, the space he took up, the way it didn’t quite feel like anyone else, but not close enough to touch.

The hallway pulled you back in immediately, noise and movement swallowing you whole as you fell into step with everyone else.

You made it a few steps before you stopped yourself from doing something stupid—but then you did it anyway.

You looked back, and he was still there. Turned slightly now, like he had never really left the moment. Like he had been watching you go.

Your eyes met again—quick this time, fleeting, but enough to send something sharp and unfamiliar through your chest.

You looked away first and kept walking.

“Ma’am?”

The word pulls you back before you’re ready for it, grounding you abruptly in the present. The ballroom rushes in all at once—the low swell of conversation, the muted clink of glassware, the weight of your drink still held too tightly in your hand. For a second, everything feels slightly out of sync, like you’ve returned to a place that kept moving without you.

You blink, steadying yourself.

The bartender offers you a polite, patient look, gesturing lightly toward your glass. “Another?”

You hesitate longer than you should, your fingers tightening just slightly before you realize there’s nothing left in the glass. You hadn’t even noticed that you'd finished it. The absence feels strange, like something slipping through your grasp without your permission, and your pulse hasn’t quite settled, still echoing faintly in your ears.

“No,” you say at last, your voice quieter than intended. You clear your throat, straightening almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine.”

He nods and moves on, the interaction already forgotten on his end.

You wish this were that easy for you.

Because across the room, nothing has changed.

He’s still there.

Not the boy from the hallway, not the version of him softened by memory and distance, but something sharper, more defined. And he’s still looking at you.

Not in passing, not by accident—there’s nothing fleeting about it. It’s deliberate, steady, and it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with surprise anymore. This isn’t just seeing him again; it isn’t nostalgia, or curiosity, or even shock. It’s recognition of something unfinished.

The realization settles slowly, pressing in with a quiet weight that’s harder to ignore the longer you stand there. Because nothing about the way he’s looking at you suggests this is easy for him either.

For years, it was easier to believe that whatever this had been only lingered on your side.

That he had moved on cleanly, without looking back.

Your grip shifts against the glass, your thumb brushing along the edge as you try to steady yourself, to find some version of composure that fits this moment better than the one you’re currently holding onto.

You could at least look away.

You could still end this here, reduce it back down to coincidence, to something more manageable.

But you don’t, and that might be the problem.

It didn’t stay in the hallway.

It carried into the next day, and the one after that, slipping easily into something that felt routine before you ever stopped to define it. You started noticing him before you meant to, catching sight of him across crowded hallways, already aware of where he was without needing to look for long. And he stopped pretending he wasn’t doing the same, like somewhere along the way the pretense had stopped mattering.

It was small things at first. Conversations that lingered just a little too long between classes, the way he would fall into step beside you without asking, like it was already expected. Lunch periods that overlapped more often than they should have, shared looks across rooms that didn’t feel accidental anymore.

Then it became something else.

You stopped parting ways at the last bell. Stopped pretending there wasn’t a reason to linger. It turned into walking each other out, into standing a little too long by the edge of the parking lot, into conversations that stretched past the point where either of you had anywhere else to be. At some point, without ever deciding it out loud, you started ending up there together.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The lot was nearly empty, the last of the after-school noise fading into the distance, leaving behind long stretches of pavement and the kind of quiet that made everything feel more defined. The sun hung low, casting everything in a warm, fading light that softened the edges of things, turning the ordinary into something you knew you’d remember later.

You were sitting on the hood of his truck like you had done it a dozen times before, your hands braced behind you, fingers spread against the warmth of the metal, your bag dropped carelessly nearby. Your legs swung idly, your heel tapping lightly against the side of the truck in a quiet rhythm that filled the space between his words.

Bradley stood between your knees, closer than he had been that first day, closer than he probably should have been, but it didn’t feel strange anymore.

He was in the middle of a story, and you followed it at first, catching the details as he talked, the rise and fall of his voice, the way he gestured like the story needed his hands as much as his words. But somewhere in the middle, your attention shifted without you realizing it, drawn away from what he was saying and toward the way he was saying it—toward him.

The way his hands moved when he talked, quick and expressive, like he needed them to keep up with his thoughts. The way his voice carried easily, unguarded in a way that felt different out there than it did inside. The way he looked at you when he spoke, like it mattered that you were listening.

“—and then he just completely missed it,” Bradley was saying, shaking his head with a quiet laugh, “like I’m right there, I’ve got it covered, and he still—”

He stopped mid-sentence, the shift subtle but immediate, because you weren’t following anymore. You were looking at him, not even pretending otherwise, and it took him a second to catch it before his expression changed, his attention narrowing in a way that felt entirely focused on you.

“What?” he asked, quieter now, more curious than anything else.

You blinked like you’d been caught. “Nothing.”

He didn’t believe you. You could tell by the way his mouth tilted, by the way he studied you for a second longer than necessary. “You’ve got that look again.”

You frowned slightly. “What look?”

“That one,” he said, gesturing loosely toward your face, as if that explained anything. “Like you stopped listening to me halfway through.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, your shoulders relaxing just a little. “I was listening.”

“Yeah?” He stepped closer, just enough to close the space between you by an inch that felt like more than it should have. “Then what did I just say?”

You hesitated, and that was all he needed. His smile came slowly and familiar, the kind you had seen enough times now to recognize exactly what it meant. “Thought so.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly where you were sitting, your knee brushing his in a way that felt less accidental this time, more like you hadn’t bothered to stop it. Neither of you moved away.

“You talked a lot,” you said, because it was easier than acknowledging anything else.

“Only when you’re around.”

The answer came easily, like it always did, but this time it landed differently. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he was looking at you when he said them—something steadier there now, something more intentional. You felt it settle somewhere low in your chest, warm and unfamiliar, and for a second, you didn’t know what to do with it.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, quieter than before.

“I know,” he replied, just as easily, and there was no hesitation in it, no second-guessing, just certainty. Then, after a beat that stretched just long enough to feel deliberate, he added, “I wanted to.”

Something shifted, and you felt it in the way your breath caught slightly, in the way your fingers pressed more firmly into the metal behind you, in the way your knees shifted just enough to bring him closer without either of you acknowledging it out loud. He noticed—you could see it in the way his gaze flicked down briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, like he was checking, like he was making sure you were still there with him in that moment.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite a question, not quite a warning—just enough to give you the chance to stop it before it became something else.

You didn’t.

You stayed exactly where you were, your hand lifting from the hood almost without your permission, fingers catching lightly in the front of his shirt. It was a small movement, but it was enough to change something between you, enough to make it clear that you weren’t stepping back from this.

He moved slowly, deliberately, closing the distance between you in a way that felt intentional, like he was giving you time to register every second of it. You could feel his breath then, warm against your skin, could see the way his expression shifted into something more careful, more focused, like this mattered in a way neither of you was saying out loud. He paused just short of you, close enough that the space between you felt almost nonexistent, like it would disappear entirely if either of you moved even a fraction closer.

And then he kissed you.

It started soft, careful in a way that felt almost unexpected from him, like he was still giving you time to pull away even then. His mouth brushed yours lightly at first, hesitant, testing, and for a second everything else dropped away—the parking lot, the fading light, the quiet hum of the world beyond the two of you—until it was just that, just the feeling of it, just him.

You didn’t pull away. Your grip tightened slightly in his shirt instead, steadying yourself as you leaned into it, and the hesitation faded. His hand came to your waist, warm and sure, not pulling you closer so much as holding you there, grounding the moment as it deepened just slightly, still unhurried, still figuring itself out as it went. It wasn’t perfect, not practiced, but it felt real in a way that mattered more than anything else.

When he pulled back, it was slow, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to. He didn’t go far, just enough to look at you, his hand still at your waist, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt, the space between you different now in a way that was impossible to ignore.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice quieter, a little breathless despite yourself.

His mouth curved slightly, something softer than his usual grin. “I think I’d been wanting to do that for a while.”

You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “A while?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter nearly as much as it clearly did. “Since the hallway.”

That made you laugh for real that time, the sound breaking whatever tension was left, and just like that, it felt easy again, like it always had been, like it always would be.

“Excuse me.”

The words are leaving your mouth before you’ve fully processed them, quiet but firm enough to cut into the conversation without drawing too much attention. Your boss turns towards you, mid-sentence, their expression shifting as they take you in.

“Everything alright?”

You nod automatically, already smoothing your expression into something easier, something that doesn’t invite questions.

“Yeah. I just—” You pause, just for a second, like you’re choosing the wording carefully. “I’m going to step outside for a minute.”

There’s a brief hesitation, the kind that suggests they might press, might ask something more, but you don’t give them the space to.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, softer this time, but certain.

That seems to settle it.

“Of course,” they say, easy enough. “Don’t wander too far.”

“I won’t.”

You offer a small, polite smile, the kind that closes the interaction cleanly, and step back before anything else can be said.

Your movement to exit is immediate, purposeful in a way that feels just a little too urgent beneath the surface. You weave through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding where necessary, offering half-smiles you don’t feel, your focus fixed on the doors across the room.

You don’t look at him, but you can feel it anyway—the awareness of him still there, still watching, following you even as you put distance between you.

Your grip tightens slightly around your clutch as you move, your pulse still not fully settled, something restless sitting just beneath your ribs that refuses to quiet.

You just need a minute. Some air. Space to think.

The doors come faster than you expect, or maybe you’re just moving quicker than you realize, and the second you step through them, the shift is immediate.

Cool air meets your skin, sharp enough to make you pause, just for a second, your breath catching slightly as the noise from inside dulls behind you. The door shuts with a soft, final sound.

You take a few more steps out onto the terrace before stopping, your shoulders lowering slowly as the tension begins to ease, just enough for you to notice how tightly you’d been holding yourself together.

Your hands find the railing almost without thinking, fingers curling around the cool metal as you lean into it slightly, grounding yourself in something solid, something steady.

You draw in a slow breath, then another, letting it out gradually, like you’re trying to match the rhythm of something calmer.

Your gaze drops briefly, following the line of your hands.

The ring glints faintly under the terrace lights, catching just enough to draw your attention before you can stop it. You shift your grip, your thumb brushing along the band in a small, absent motion, and then you look away again, like it doesn’t mean anything.

It didn’t feel like a big conversation when it started.

You were sprawled across your bed, half on your stomach, half turned toward him, your chin resting against your forearm as you absently traced the seam of your comforter with your fingers. The room was quiet in that late-afternoon way, sunlight spilling through the window in long, warm streaks that stretched across the floor and climbed partway up the opposite wall. It caught on everything: your desk, the scattered papers, the framed photos you never moved, the edges of things that felt more lived-in than styled.

Bradley was stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, staring up at the ceiling like he’d been doing it long enough to get lost in his own thoughts. His shoes were kicked off somewhere near the door, his presence filling the space in a way that felt natural now, like he’d been there enough times that nothing about it felt new.

“So,” you said, your voice breaking into it gently, your eyes lifting to him, “have you figured out where you were applying yet?”

You didn’t think much of it when you asked.

It was the kind of question everyone had been asking lately, something that had been circling around your lives, whether you wanted it to or not.

He didn’t answer right away.

That was what made you look at him properly.

His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling for a second longer than it should have, his jaw shifting slightly like he was turning the words over before deciding to say them. Then he exhaled slowly and finally looked over at you.

“Yeah,” he said, “I had.”

Something in your chest tightened before you even knew why. You pushed up slightly onto your elbow, giving him more of your attention without meaning to.

“Okay,” you said, softer now. “Where?”

“The Academy.”

You blinked, the word not quite landing at first. “The Naval Academy?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

And just like that, the room felt a little different.

It wasn’t just a school. It was distance. Time. A future that might not line up the way you’d been picturing it.

“Oh.” It slipped out before you could stop it, too honest.

His eyes caught yours immediately, something sharpening there. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, already shaking your head, pushing it down before it could become something real.

You sat up a little more, forcing your voice lighter, easier.

“That was—” You let out a small breath, a smile pulling at your mouth that didn’t quite match the feeling in your chest. “That was really good, babe.”

He stared at you, unconvinced. You could feel it in the way his gaze lingered, like he was waiting for you to say something else, something closer to the truth.

“No, it was,” you added, a little more firmly now, like if you said it enough it would settle into something that felt true. “That was… really good.”

The quiet lingered for a moment, not quite tense, but certainly not as effortless as it had been.

“I mean,” you said, a little faster now, like you were catching the thought as it formed, like it was nothing complicated, “I could come too.”

He frowned slightly. “What?”

You shifted, turning more toward him, tucking one leg underneath you. “Why not? I was sure they had something there I’d want to study. Or somewhere close.”

You shrugged, trying for casual, even though you could feel the way your pulse had picked up just slightly. “It wouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

We’d still be us.

You didn’t say it out loud.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you, something more serious settling in his expression now. “You shouldn’t make that kind of decision because of me.”

“I wasn’t,” you said, a little too quickly, but you didn’t look away. “I was just saying it was an option.”

He studied you for a second, longer this time, like he was trying to figure out if you meant it, if this was something you’d actually thought about or something you were saying just to keep things from changing.

“You’d really do that?” he asked.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

And for a moment, the room held still around you.

“Okay,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. It came out stronger, more certain, like once he decided, he was all in. “Okay, yeah.”

Your breath caught slightly, not expecting how quickly it changed.

“Yeah?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he repeated, and now he was smiling, something bright breaking through the seriousness from a second ago. “We’d figure it out.”

We.

Before you could think too hard about it, he was moving.

He pushed himself up onto his side, then over you slightly, his hands finding your waist like it was instinct, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling except get closer. You let out a surprised laugh as he shifted your weight back into the mattress, the movement easy but deliberate.

“See?” he said, grinning now, a little breathless. “Problem solved.”

“That was your problem?” you teased, your hands coming up to catch at his shoulders, half steadying yourself, half pulling him closer without meaning to.

“Yeah,” he said easily. “Obviously.”

You shook your head, laughing, but it softened when he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, then another, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“Brad—” you started, trying to push him back just enough to look at him, but he didn’t really let you, still smiling, still close, like he suddenly had too much of something and nowhere to put it.

“What?” he said, brushing another kiss just below your ear.

“You were being ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, not even pretending otherwise, his forehead dropping lightly against yours as his laughter faded into something softer. “I know.”

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And for a solemn moment, everything was as it should be.

It didn’t stay that way for long. The first crack didn’t arrive loudly or announce itself as something that would matter later. It slipped in quietly instead, folded into something that should have been good, something you’d both been waiting for without ever quite saying it out loud.

You were sitting on your bedroom floor this time, your back resting against the side of your bed, the carpet warm beneath your legs. Envelopes were spread between you in a loose, uneven line, some already opened, others still sealed, their edges too crisp, too final for something that was supposed to decide so much.

Bradley sat across from you, one knee bent, the other stretched out, his attention fixed on a single envelope in his hands. He turned it over once, then again, like the contents might change depending on how he looked at it. Neither of you had said much since you started opening them. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much, and neither of you seemed ready to be the one to say it first.

“Did you open that one yet?” you asked after a moment, nodding toward the envelope he was still holding.

He shook his head without looking up. “Not yet.”

“You should.”

“You should open yours first.”

You glanced down at the one resting in your lap, your name printed neatly across the front, your own counterpart to the envelope in his hands. For a second, you just sat there, your fingers tracing the edge of it, like delaying it might somehow hold everything in place a little longer. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you tore it open.

The sound felt louder than it should in the quiet room. You pulled the letter free, your eyes moving too quickly over the words at first, catching fragments before they settled into something you could actually understand.

Accepted.

You stopped, blinking once, then again, like that might change it.

“I got in,” you said, the words softer than you expected, almost like you were still catching up to them.

Bradley’s reaction was immediate. He leaned forward slightly, something warm and proud breaking through his expression as he looked at you, like this had never really been in question for him.

“Yeah?” he said, already smiling. “Yeah, you did.”

You nodded, a breath of a laugh slipping out as it started to feel real. For a moment, everything lined up the way it was supposed to. It all felt like it was finally settling into place.

“Open yours,” you said, still holding onto that feeling, like it was something you could carry forward into whatever came next.

He looked down at the envelope in his hands again, and this time something in his expression shifted. It was small, almost imperceptible, but you noticed it anyway. He opened it, slower than you had, more deliberate, like he was already bracing himself for something.

You watched him closely without meaning to, your attention fixed on the smallest details. The way the paper tore, the way he pulled the letter free, the way his eyes moved across the page, quick at first, then slower. Then they stopped.

The change was immediate, even if it was subtle. Something in him stilled, tightened just enough that you felt it before he said anything.

“What?” you asked, quieter now, the word coming out more carefully than you intended.

He exhaled through his nose, lowering the paper slightly, his jaw setting in a way that told you everything you needed to know before the words came.

“I didn’t get in.”

For a second, it didn’t land. And then it did.

He didn’t look at you. His gaze dropped back to the paper in his hands like there might be something he’d missed, something that would make it make sense if he read it again. His grip tightened slightly along the edge, the only outward sign of the shift happening under the surface.

“That didn’t make any sense,” you said, already pushing yourself up onto your knees, the words coming faster now. “Brad, you—”

“I know.”

The interruption was sharper than you expected. The room stilled around it, the weight of it settling into the space between you. You knew deep down it wasn’t directed at you, but it still stung.

He was already moving before you could say anything else, pushing himself up from the floor in one quick motion, his hand dragging through his hair like he needed something to do with the tension building under his skin. He crossed the room without looking at you, reaching for his phone where he had left it on your desk.

“Bradley—”

“Just—hold on.”

There was something tight in his voice now, something controlled but barely. He dialed, and as the phone began to ring, he was already pacing once across the room and back again.

You didn’t mean to listen, but you did.

“Yeah,” he said as soon as the call connected, his voice low but tense. “It’s me.”

A pause followed, long enough that you could hear your own pulse again, steady but too loud in the quiet room.

“I thought you said everything was good,” he continued, the words coming out more controlled than loud, but no less sharp for it.

Another pause stretched, heavier this time, and when he spoke again there was something more beneath it, something that sounded like frustration pushed down too far.

“No, that’s not what you said. You said you’d put in a good word. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Your hands curled slightly in your lap, fingers pressing into your palms as you watched him pace, the movement restless, contained.

“I did everything right,” he said, quieter now, but the edge hadn’t left. “I had the grades, I had the recommendations—so what changed?”

Silence answered him again. He stopped moving, listening, his back half-turned to you, his shoulders tight.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, flatter now. “Right. Okay.”

Another pause followed, longer, and when he spoke again the anger wasn’t gone. It had just been shut down, packed away somewhere you couldn’t quite reach.

“Yeah,” he repeated. “Got it.”

He ended the call without another word.

The quiet that followed felt heavier than the one before it, like something in the room had shifted just enough that you couldn’t put it back where it was. You stayed where you were, not quite sure if moving would make it worse or better.

“Brad…” you started carefully, your voice softer now.

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before finally turning to look at you. His expression had changed again, the tension still there but buried deeper now, harder to read.

“It’s fine,” he said.

It wasn’t.

You both knew it.

It's your phone that brings you back to reality.

The vibration is soft, muffled slightly from where it sits tucked inside your clutch, but it cuts through the quiet of the terrace with startling clarity, dragging you out of the past before you’re ready to leave it.

You blink, grounding yourself, your fingers already moving before you fully register the motion. The clasp of your bag gives way under your touch, and you retrieve your phone with a familiarity that feels almost automatic, as if your body knows what to do even as your mind is still catching up.

The screen lights your face faintly.

A message waits there.

Hope the gala’s going well. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you tonight.

From your fiancé.

You read it once.

Then again, slower this time, as if something about it might change if you give it enough attention.

There’s nothing wrong with it—not careless or distant—no reason to hesitate. It’s exactly how he always is: considerate, measured, steady in a way that makes sense for the life you’ve built, for the person he is.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, caught in that familiar pause between reading and replying, the moment stretching just long enough for the choice to settle in.

You could answer, but you don’t.

The screen dims beneath your touch, the message fading as the phone locks, and you slip it back into your clutch, the decision made without letting yourself linger on it.

Your hand lingers at the edge of your bag for a moment before dropping back to your side, and almost without thinking, your gaze follows the movement, drawn downward to where the ring catches faintly under the terrace lights.

It glints just enough to hold your attention.

You turn your hand slightly, your thumb brushing the band in a slow, absent motion, feeling the smooth edge press against your skin. The movement is small, repetitive, something you don’t quite realize you’re doing until you’ve already done it twice, adjusting it, settling it, like you’re trying to make sure it sits exactly where it’s supposed to.

It does. It always does.

Your hand stills there for a moment, fingers loosely curled, as the weight of it settles back into something harder to ignore. The air moves faintly around you, cool against your skin, but you don’t shift with it. Instead, you close your eyes briefly, just long enough to steady yourself, to gather the edges of something that threatens to surface before it can fully take shape. It presses in anyway, the memory of your childhood bedroom, the warmth of his hands, the certainty you had then, colliding uncomfortably with the present in a way that makes your chest tighten before you can stop it.

You inhale slowly, controlled, letting the breath out just as carefully, forcing the feeling back down before it becomes anything visible. By the time you open your eyes again, your expression has already settled into something smoother, something practiced, the kind of composure that doesn’t invite questions. Your hand drops from the ring without hesitation, as if the movement itself is enough to draw a line under the moment, something decided without being fully acknowledged.

For a second, you just stand there, looking out over the terrace, letting the quiet reassert itself around you. The city stretches beyond in soft, distant lights, unchanged, indifferent to whatever has just shifted inside you. It would be easy to stay here, to let the night flatten everything back into something manageable, something that doesn’t ask anything more of you than this.

But the feeling lingers.

And this time, you don’t push it away.

You noticed it in small ways at first, the kind that were easy to excuse if you weren’t looking too closely. The way he took longer to respond when you texted him, the way his answers felt shorter when he did. The way he didn’t quite look at you the same when you showed up at his door, like something in him was already somewhere else, somewhere you didn’t have access to.

You told yourself it was just the disappointment. That it made sense. That it would pass.

It didn’t.

By the time you ended up at the party that Saturday night, the distance had settled into something harder to ignore. The house was already full when you got there, music spilling out into the yard, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even stepped inside. Someone you vaguely recognized pulled you into a quick hello, the air thick with heat and noise and the kind of energy that was supposed to feel fun, easy, like a release after a long week.

Bradley was already a step ahead of you when you pushed through the front door, already grabbing a drink from someone passing by like he’d been there longer than he had. He didn’t wait for you to catch up, didn’t glance back the way he normally would, just took a long pull like he needed it more than he should have.

“Brad,” you said, reaching for his arm lightly, trying to ground him, to pull his attention back to you. “Hey.”

He looked at you then, but it was brief, something flickering across his expression before it settled into something looser, less focused. “Hey,” he echoed, already turning slightly away as someone called his name from across the room.

It happened again.

And again.

Each time you found him, he had another drink in his hand, his words coming easier, louder, but not warmer. Not the way they usually were with you. There was a looseness to him that felt wrong, like it was covering something instead of revealing it, like he was trying not to sit still long enough for anything real to catch up with him.

You stayed close anyway.

You followed him through the house, through half-finished conversations and too-loud laughter, through rooms that blurred together until it all started to feel the same. You told yourself it was fine, that he just needed this, that letting him burn through whatever this was might be easier than trying to stop it.

But the more he drank, the less he seemed like himself.

And the more you felt it.

By the time you found him again, he was out on the back porch, leaning heavily against the railing, another bottle of beer loose in his hand. The night air was cooler out there, cutting through some of the haze from inside, but it didn’t seem to reach him.

“Bradley,” you said, quieter this time, stepping closer.

He laughed under his breath, not looking at you right away. “There you are.”

It wasn’t relief, but something else.

You reached for him again, your hand settling against his arm, more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”

That got his attention.

His head turned, slow, his gaze landing on you in a way that felt sharper than it had all night, even through the alcohol, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you said, keeping your voice even, even as something tighter curled underneath it. “You’ve barely talked to me all night, and now you’re—”

“What?” he cut in, the word coming out rougher than you expected. “Drinking?”

There was an edge there now.

You hesitated, just for a second, “That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” He let out a short laugh, pushing himself off the railing just enough to face you more fully. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Brad—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but it didn’t sound like it was. His hand dragged back through his hair, restless, agitated, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting you,” you replied, the frustration slipping in despite yourself. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

“About what?” he snapped.

You stared at him for a second, “You know what.”

His expression shifted again, something closing off behind his eyes, something defensive settling in where there had been space before. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think I do.”

There was a beat.

And then it came out.

“You’re still going,” he said, like it had been sitting there all night, waiting. “Just like that. Like nothing changed.”

Your chest tightened. “Bradley—”

“No, seriously,” he continued, talking over you now, the words picking up speed, losing control. “You just… what? Pack up and leave, go off to Annapolis, and that’s it?”

“That’s not what this is,” you said, but it felt thinner now, harder to hold onto.

“Then what is it?” he demanded, stepping closer, not aggressive, but too intense, too charged. “Because it feels like you’re just… fine with it.”

“I’m not fine with it,” you said, sharper now. “I just—what am I supposed to do? Not go?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said.

The word hit like a slap.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Pick somewhere else,” he said, like it was obvious, like it was simple. “Stay here. Go somewhere near me. It’s not like that’s your only option.”

You stared at him, something sinking in slowly, heavily. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he insisted, jaw tightening. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because this matters to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steadier. “You know it does.”

“And this doesn’t?” he shot back, gesturing between you like it should be enough to answer everything.

“I needed a breath too.”

The words reach you long before you’re prepared for them, low and close enough to pull you out of the past all at once.

You turn too quickly.

There’s no control in it, no time to smooth the reaction before it shows. It passes almost immediately, but not before it registers, not before it lands somewhere between you.

Bradley stands a few steps behind you, the terrace door falling softly shut at his back. He looks the same and not at all the same, the years written into the lines of him in ways that feel unfamiliar and deeply known all at once. His hand lingers against the door for a second before dropping, his attention settling on you with a quiet kind of focus that feels heavier than it should.

You recover.

You have to.

You turn back toward the railing, not fully, just enough to put something between you, your gaze drifting outward as if the city beyond the terrace holds your attention more than he does. It’s easier that way, easier to pretend this is something ordinary, something manageable.

“Crowded in there,” you say, your voice light, almost absent, like you haven’t just been pulled out of something you weren’t ready to leave. “Figured I’d get some air.”

You hear him shift behind you, feel the space change in that subtle way that has nothing to do with distance and everything to do with awareness.

“Yeah,” Bradley says after a moment. “Same.”

You nod, just once, as if that’s enough to close the conversation before it can open into something else. Your fingers rest against the railing, still now, deliberate in their stillness, like you’ve decided not to give anything else away.

For a moment, it almost works.

The quiet stretches, and if you don’t look at him, if you don’t move, you can almost pretend this is nothing more than a coincidence.

Your hand shifts.

It’s unconscious, the smallest movement, your fingers adjusting where they rest against the railing, and the light catches before you think to stop it.

You feel the way his attention drops before you see it, the way something in the space between you changes without a single word being spoken.

Your breath catches, almost imperceptibly, your thumb brushing over the band in a reflex you can’t quite control now that you know he’s seen it. The metal feels heavier under your touch, more present, like it’s been pulled into focus in a way it hadn’t been before.

You can't bring yourself to look at him, make eye contact.

The silence that follows is no longer neutral. It tightens, pulls inward, something unspoken settling heavily between you, something that refuses to be ignored now that it’s been noticed.

“...That new?” he asks, quieter this time.

You swallow, the motion small but necessary, and when you answer, your voice comes out steadier than you feel, softened into something that almost passes for easy.

“Yeah,” you say, turning your hand slightly as if it’s nothing, as if the gesture itself might make it smaller. “A few months.”

He can't bring himself to respond right away. You can feel him thinking, the silence stretching just long enough to make you aware of it, just long enough that it starts to press in again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with the night air.

“Is he good to you?”

You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite, your gaze still fixed somewhere out past the railing, like the answer might be easier to give if you don’t look at him while you say it.

“Yeah,” you say after a second, and this time it comes easier. “He is.”

A punctuating pause settles. The distant hum of the nearby city feels louder for it, the rustle of wind against the railing, the soft shift of fabric as he adjusts his stance to lean on the railing beside you.

You keep your gaze forward, fingers tightening just slightly where they rest, nails pressing faintly into your palm. Your shoulders stay squared, but there’s a tension there now, a quiet rigidity that wasn’t there before.

“Boringly so,” you add, a faint, wry edge slipping into your voice before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, leaning a little more of his weight into the railing beside you.

His fingers drift to the cuff of his sleeve, smoothing at it once, then again, a small restless motion that gives away more than his face does.

“That’s good,” he adds, and this time it sounds more deliberate, like he’s choosing the words instead of letting them come naturally.

Your fingers loosen slightly against the railing, then tighten again, the small movement betraying you more than anything you’ve said. You force your hand to be still, pressing your palm flat like that might steady something deeper than just your hands.

“Sounds like you picked right,” he says, with a distinct lack of bitterness.

But there’s something underneath it, something restrained and careful in a way that feels practiced, like he’s already decided what he’s allowed to say and what he isn’t.

You swallow, your throat tightening slightly, and this time when you nod, it feels different.

Heavier.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

“You don’t get to ask me that,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back.

The porch felt smaller then, tighter, like the air had shifted into something harder to breathe.

Bradley stared at you, something incredulous flashing across his face, something hurt buried just beneath it. “I don’t get to ask you that?” he repeated, like he was trying to make sense of it, like the words didn’t quite land the way you meant them to.

“No,” you said, your voice steadier that time, even if your chest wasn’t. “You don’t get to stand here and tell me to change my entire future and then act like that’s—reasonable.”

“Your future?” he cut in, the words coming faster now, something sharper breaking through. He let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “The Academy was supposed to be my future.”

“And what?” you fired back. “I just wasn’t supposed to get in because you wanted it first?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he snapped, but there was frustration threaded through it now, uneven, slipping out of his control. “I’m saying you knew what it meant to me.”

“And you knew what it means to me,” you shot back. “You don’t get to act like I didn’t work my ass off for this, same as you.”

“Yeah,” he said, a humorless laugh slipping out, “and somehow you just—what—slid right into it like it was always yours.”

The words hit harder than he probably intended.

You stared at him, something in your chest tightening. “What? You think I somehow stole this from you?”

“I think everything just… worked out for you,” he said, gesturing loosely, like he couldn’t quite contain it anymore. “And I’m the one left standing here trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.”

“That is not my fault,” you said, sharper then. “I am not the one that fucked you over.”

His jaw tightened.

“It is your fault,” he shot back, stepping closer now, the space between you collapsing too fast. “If you just—leave. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not part of that decision at all.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” you said, but it came out thinner than you wanted it to.

“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” he said, quieter then, but it cut deeper for it. “You just don’t want to call it that.”

You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration spiking. “What do you want me to do? Say no? Turn it down? Pretend this doesn’t matter to me now that I’ve put in all the work?”

“I want you to care,” he said, and the words landed heavier than anything else he’d said. “I want you to act like this isn’t just… easy for you.”

“It’s not easy,” you said, but your voice was already breaking around the edges.

“Then why does it feel like it is?” he pressed, louder now, the frustration spilling over. “Why does it feel like you’ve already made up your mind and I’m just supposed to—what—fall in line?”

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to decide my own future.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said immediately, but there was no real conviction behind it anymore, just momentum carrying him forward.

“Then what is it?” you pushed, your voice rising. “Because right now it sounds like you’re asking me to give something up so you don’t have to deal with being disappointed.”

Something in him snapped.

Not all at once—but enough.

“You know this is my dream,” he said, but it was rough then, dragged out of him instead of chosen.

“I know,” you said, softer, but it didn’t slow him down.

“No, I don’t think you do,” he snapped, the volume breaking through, his voice cutting across the quiet of the porch. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here acting like this is just—fine.”

“I’m not acting like it’s fine,” you shot back, your own voice unsteady then. “I’m trying to figure it out and you’re not even giving me the chance to—”

“To what?” he cut in, louder, stepping closer without realizing it. “To leave and make it sound like it wasn’t a choice?”

“That’s not fair—”

“Nothing about this is fair,” he said, and that time it wasn’t just frustration—it was anger, raw and unfiltered, something you’d never seen from him before. “You get everything you wanted, and I’m just supposed to stand here and be okay with it? Watch you go and pretend it doesn’t matter?”

The words hit hard.

Your vision blurred before you could stop it, your chest tightening painfully as you tried to hold your ground.

“I’m not asking you to pretend it doesn’t matter,” you said, but your voice was already breaking. “I’m asking you to not make me choose between this and you.”

“I’m not making you choose,” he fired back, but it sounded wrong even as he said it. “You already did.”

You stared at him, your breath catching, tears slipping free before you could stop them.

“That’s not true,” you said, but it came out thin, unsteady, like it didn’t stand a chance against what he’d just said.

For a second, it looked like he was about to say something else, something worse. His chest rose, his mouth opening like the words were already there, something sharp and irreversible sitting right on the edge—

Suddenly, he stopped. You could see it happen, the moment he caught himself. His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping briefly like he was forcing something back down, like he was pulling himself away from a line he knew he couldn’t cross.

When he looked back at you, it was different. Still angry. But restrained then, barely held together.

“Just—” he started, then cut himself off, shaking his head.

You waited.

He exhaled sharply.

“Just go.”

You blinked at him, like you hadn’t heard him right, like you were waiting for him to take it back.

He didn’t.

“Go,” he repeated, not louder, not angrier—just final.

Something in your chest gave.

You nodded once, barely, your throat too tight to say anything, and then you turned before he could see anything else, before you could fall apart any more than you already had.

The noise from inside crashed over you as you pushed through the door, the music too loud, the lights too bright, everything too much all at once.

You refused to stop. You needed to get out of there. You didn’t look back, you just went.

He didn’t follow.

You don’t look at him when you speak.

“So,” you say instead, your voice lighter than it has any right to be, like you can smooth this back into something normal if you try hard enough. “I hear you’ve been busy.”

There’s a faint shift beside you.

Not one of surprise, more like recognition.

“Something like that,” he says, and there’s a hint of something dry in it, something that almost passes for humor. “Word gets around, I guess.”

You nod, letting out a small breath, your fingers resting more loosely against the railing now, like you’ve decided to play this part all the way through. “It does. Hard not to, when half the room in there won’t stop talking about you.”

It’s true.

You heard it before you even saw him.

His name, his reputation, the quiet reverence that follows it.

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh at that, the sound low and almost self-conscious. “Yeah, well. They make it sound better than it is.”

“I doubt that,” you say, glancing at him briefly this time, just enough to take him in properly. The uniform. The way he carries himself now is steadier, more certain. “Seems like you did exactly what you set out to do.”

The words settle between you, and for a moment, something gentler passes through the space.

Something that could almost be mistaken for pride.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I did.”

You nod again, like that’s enough, like that closes that door neatly.

It doesn’t.

You feel it in the pause that follows, the way neither of you quite knows where to go next without stepping into something deeper than either of you has acknowledged yet.

So you don’t. You keep it light.

“What about you?” he asks after a moment, his tone shifting slightly, more careful now. “Doesn’t quite look like you're still in.”

You shake your head, a small, almost absent movement, your gaze drifting back out over the terrace. “Not anymore.”

“Yeah?” he says, and there’s something in it now, something quieter, more pointed. “What happened?”

You shrug lightly, like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry the weight it actually does. “Nothing dramatic. Just… figured out it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”

He studies you for a second, and you can feel it without looking, the way his attention settles, the way he doesn’t quite accept the answer at face value.

“Huh,” he says finally, the sound low, almost thoughtful. “All that work.”

There’s a pause.

Then, softer, with just enough edge to catch—

“Kind of a waste of an Academy education, isn’t it?”

It initially reads as lighthearted, almost a joke, but underneath the surface, it carries a weight. It stings slightly.

You let out a small breath, something close to a laugh, even as your fingers tighten again against the railing. “Yeah,” you say, matching the tone, keeping it easy. “Guess so.”

Follow this path for “the lucky ones.” (Coming Soon) Follow this path for a story that looks like a tragedy now. (Coming Soon)

notes: choose your own part 2! <3 (please please please let me know if you see any typos!! i'll go in and fix them)

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller @jssmississippihipie @hotboyhottub-reboot @the-shedevil-writes @khouse712 @stinkygirl009 @jollysashimi @yoonki-bored

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

Day One | Creampie | Jake Seresin x Reader

Day Two | Pet Play | Buddie

Day Three | Sweat | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Day Four | Mask | Buddie x Reader

Day Five | Spanking | Russell Shaw x Reader

Day Six | Thigh Riding | Bobby Nash x Reader

Day Seven | Face Fucking | Buddie

Day Eight | Overstimulation | Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Day Nine | Sensory Deprivation | Natasha "Phoenix" Trace x Reader

Day Ten | Porn | Mark Meachum x Reader

Day Eleven | Skinny Dipping | Colter Shaw x Reader

Day Twelve | Voyeurism | Buddie x Reader

Day Thirteen | Rough Sex | Mark Meachum x Reader

Day Fourteen | Breeding Kink | Evan Buckley x Reader

Day Fifteen | Period Sex | Eddie Diaz x Reader

Day Sixteen | Monsterfucking | Buddie

Day Seventeen | Costume Sex | Bobby Nash x Reader

Day Eighteen | Don't Get Caught | Tim Bradford x Reader

Day Nineteen | Freeuse | Russell Shaw x Reader

Day Twenty | Praise Kink | Eddie Diaz x Reader

Day Twenty One | Face Sitting | Mark Meachum x Reader

Day Twenty Two | Outdoor Sex | Shaw Brothers x Reader (pt. 1)

Day Twenty Three | Shibari | Shaw Brothers x Reader (pt. 2)

Day Twenty Four | Lingerie (+ brat taming) | Buddie x Reader

Day Twenty Five | Drunk Sex | Mark Meachum x Reader

Day Twenty Six | Age Gap | Eddie Diaz x Reader

Day Twenty Seven | Multiple Orgasms | Tyler Owens x Reader

Day Twenty Eight | Undercover | Amber Oliveras x Reader

Day Twenty Nine | Sacrilegious | Eddie Diaz x Reader

Day Thirty | Cuddlefuck | Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader