Going on a reluctant search was never necessary to begin with, though, because there you were all along... From the very beginning, ahead of his filing for legal separation.

Before Sammy made you a happy little housewife, you'd been a waitress at a local diner, which he soon began to frequent after every shift, in an attempt to unwind and decompress before going home to a wife he resented.

You were a balm to his ragged nerves. Always sweet and sociable, and willing to lend an ear to listen to his woes when he actually had the energy to speak.

It gutted him that you were working ten hour shifts—and on sneakers that were being held together with naught more than duct tape, at that (he always felt guilty anytime he left you less than a $30 tip, even if all he ordered that evening was a glass of ice water). Meanwhile, Tammi was at home getting high with a damn teenager who stole something he stretched himself so fucking thin over to provide her with in the first place.

He should've known photography was just going to be another whim just because she was bored.

At that, instead of being thankful, she instead reminded him of how he wasn't enough—or doing enough—when she harped on and on over the phone about wanting to move into a house he could never dream of affording while he was just trying to do his goddamn job.

Pushing it all down, his anger manifested in other ways before long.

It made him seethe watching other men put their hands on you when you came by to refill their coffee, or bring them their ordered meals because they somehow felt entitled to you.

When he started pulling his badge to get them to back the fuck off, or leave altogether, is when he knew that he was absolutely whipped.

Whenever Sammy would try to flirt, though, your eyes would always drift to that bothersome gold band that he desperately wanted to flush down the toilet and forget about entirely.

He was fucking terrified of losing you.

So, he filed and risked half of everything—his savings, pension, personal property, and financial assets—just for a chance at having something better by your side before the day finally came where you either disappeared from the diner's outdated interior in search of more favorable prospects elsewhere, or you slipped through his fingers altogether while another man put a wedding ring on one of yours.

No more does Sammy come through the front door and toe off his black rubber boots before you suddenly appear before him. Pressing yourself affectionately to his chest, you wind your arms tightly around his neck and grant him a soft peck on the lips.

"Welcome home," you whisper. Running your fingers through his soft auburn curls, you rest your forehead gently against his. "How was your day?"

Snaking his arms around your waist, your husband gives you a careful squeeze while a contented smile crawls its way across his lips and feeling of uncontainable warmth fills his heart. "Better now."

Sliding a heavy palm over your swollen belly, the corner of Sammy's lips twitches when your little one kicks excitedly.

"He missed his daddy as much as I did," you murmur.

Falling back a step, you tug Sammy past your two's cozily decorated living room. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. Dinner's just about ready."

He smooths a hand down the back of your head. "Did you—"

"Grocery list is all checked off," you remark with a confident nod. "And the gentleman at the auto store even changed my wiper's for me."

He frowns slightly. "I could've done that, baby."

You pad into the kitchen. "Think it's just something they do," you state with a shrug. "One less thing for you to worry about."

Squeezing your backside, you squeak quietly while Sammy chuckles and heads back to the bathroom to wash up.

It's always the little things that she would've never even dreamed of considering which repeatedly confirms that he made such a great fucking choice in his second spouse. Like a carefully folded pile of clothes waiting on the edge of the bed for him to change into after bathing.

Happy wife, happy life indeed.

While Sammy is all too happy to be chowing down on a heaping plate of steaming hot wings, and sipping from a cold bottle of beer in-between hearty bites, after suffering through a grueling day amongst the crime-riddled streets of LA, he's acutely aware of how quiet you are tonight.

Maybe the grocery shopping should've waited until he could make a trip out this weekend instead. You already do so much. What, with cooking and cleaning and growing his baby in your womb...

Tacking on a trip to Sam's Club was a task that should've been placed on his calendar instead, he thinks.

When it came to Tammi, what he wanted mattered little, if at all. But he fears with you—since you never tell him no—that you somehow feel obligated to meet his every demand because he's the breadwinner in the relationship.

You even went so far as to encourage him to sign a prenup incase he "decided he made a huge mistake" and "wanted to undo it with no financial fallout."

Sammy refused to allow papers to be put between you, though. Not a single one.

No way in hell, because he was sure this time.

He just hopes that you don't feel...trapped.

Are you happy? Do you feel safe, loved, protected, and appreciated? Worshipped?

He nudges your socked foot beneath the round wooden dining table you're both seated at, and smiles when you look at him. "You okay, baby?"

You nod and nibble on a piece of chopped celery that's drenched in ranch. "Just tired."

Sam's well of worry deepens.

"Alright," Sammy groans while dragging you into his lap now that you're both in bed. "You gonna finally tell me what's been on your mind all evening?"

Your eyes flit to his and he immediately takes note of the look of hesitation he finds within.

Curling your fingers against the warm, freckled skin of his bare chest, you worry your lower lip between your teeth.

"Is it...somethin' I did?" he questions warily. "Are you—"

"No," you state softly while cupping his stubbled cheek tenderly in your hand. "It was something that happened at the store. I planned to tell you. I just... Wanted you to be fully settled in for the night before I did."

Gripping either of your hips, he leans back against the fluffed pillow behind him. "I'm all ears, angel."

"So..." you begin while resting a hand over his shoulder. "I was done shopping and went into the baby aisle to browse for a bit before I checked out. And..." you sigh exhaustedly. "Tammi was there."

He sits up the least bit straighter.

"Nothing happened, though," you swiftly reassure. "Apart from a verbal confrontation."

"Tell me," he insists.

"I felt like I was being stared at. Turned out I was right when I looked over my shoulder. There was a moment of recognition, which she commented on: Good, you know who I am," you relay in a snide voice meant to mimic her own. "I told her that I've seen photos. When she saw that I was pregnant, she sort of flew off the handle. Started screaming that I was a whore who stole her husband from her and destroyed her life. That I was a homewrecker, a slut..."

You shake your head while blinking back unbidden tears.

"Thankfully, an employee was nearby. He broke it up and threatened to call security on her if she didn't leave. Her being forced out of the store when she wasn't done shopping only set her off further. She was yelling the whole way out the door."

He squeezes his eyes shut to force down a broiling torrent of pent-up rage. "I'm so sorry, honey." Opening his eyes again, Sammy cups your shoulder—adjusting the strap of your nightgown where it's slipped down your arm. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I had food to get home and put away. If I did, I knew you would've come running." You chew your cheek. "Or you would've made things worse by having it out with her in the parking lot."

"This bitch..." he murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be rid of her."

"I wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought. That you and I never had an affair, but—"

"Not entirely true," he interrupts. "No, we never screwed before my marriage was dissolved, but there was definitely emotions being exchanged."

You rest a hand atop your belly. You've tried to give her grace; understanding in her numerous issues. But you think you've finally reached the end of your rope with it all.

No wonder he was so eager to have you instead after all the bull she put him through. She nearly made a monster out of a good man, but you've done your wifely duty and healed his troubled heart.

"Cunt," you whisper.

Sammy barks a laugh and leans forward. "I'm sorry, did my perfect little do-gooder wife just say what I think she did?" he inquires with an amused, toothy grin.

You study him from beneath hooded lids while smirking salaciously. "She never deserved you," you continue. "I'm the better woman."

Now it all comes out, he thinks with satisfaction.

"Yes you are," he rumbles while cupping your ass cheeks in both his hands and kneading the plump skin. "In every way."

"Mhm," you hum while slowly nodding. "Actually know how to keep house," you add. "I have dinner on the table every night, and I spend your hard-earned money wisely. Except for when you spoil me," you murmur with a shrug while grinding down against his semi-erect cock. "I do whatever you tell me to like a good girl."

"Shit," Sammy rasps while throwing his head back.

"I'm thankful for the home you've provided, and all the nice things you give me," you continue while leaning forward and trailing soft kisses along his chin. "I'm so lucky to have such a good man who gave me his last name. Who's put his baby inside me where it belongs."

His cock stirs against your thinly-clothed pussy.

"Let me help you relax after such a long, hard day," you mutter while tugging off your nightgown.

Lying on your back in the middle of the bed, Sammy is resting back on his haunches while continually sliding his swollen, twitching cock between your shimmering lips.

Gripping the velvety shaft firmly in your fist, you plant a wet kiss atop the oozing mushroom tip before circling it lazily with your drooling tongue.

"Fuck, such a good girl for me," he utters.

You open wide, and Sammy eases his erection into the back of your throat. Cradling the base of your scalp in his palm, he rocks his hips and moans when you eagerly swallow what he gives you, just like always.

"You're right," he whispers while gazing down at you with unabashed adoration. "Better in every fuckin' way."

You blink absently. "I didn't mean to..." You slide a hand over your clavicle and then to your shoulder. "My feet just carried me here. I was on a walk."

At least you're in a safe place if you're on something, he supposes. Brett nods. "Do you need help finding your way back home, miss?"

It's your turn now for your brows to knit together. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

He folds his arms easily behind him. "Brett Richards. I'm the new Battalion Chief."

Your face falls.

"Oh. Vince," you whisper in understanding. "I... I should've gone to his service, but..." you shake your head, then glance toward a sea of redwood trees in the near distance, which stretch toward the pale blue sky above.

"You knew him?" he questions.

You nod.

"May I ask how?" Brett inquires carefully.

"I—" You blink back tears, but know it's a losing battle. They always win, and have consistently every day for the last two years. "My late husband worked here."

His heart sinks. Late husband.

You're so fucking young and already a widow has been made out of you because of this occupation; this life.

How can he hate fire—something which does not think or breathe or act, but merely is—yet be simultaneously thankful for it because without it... Who knows where he'd be?

In its absence of being a problem, he wouldn't have the distinct privilege of serving as its solution.

But at least his wife would still be alive then, same as your husband.

"You have my condolences," Brett mutters with a slight shake of his head. "I've seen the portraits," he states thumbing in the direction of the admin office that lies across the hall from his own. "Of... Those the station's lost. What was his name?"

You swipe a tear from your cheek. "Eric," you whisper.

Brett hasn't been here for an extraordinary length of time, but he's nevertheless heard the name—knows that it carries weight even still; complete admiration. "Handsome man," he says with curved lips. "Dark hair?" he questions to ensure he has the right guy in mind.

Another nod.

You wander toward the garage's opening. "I should've gone. I just... I knew that if I did, I would've done nothing but sob the entire time. I didn't want to make a scene."

Brett comes to stand at your side. It feels like you're talking more so to yourself than him, but he's willing to listen if it makes you feel better.

He gets it.

"I'd say that a funeral is the one place where tears are welcome."

You shake your head and wipe away another. "They wouldn't have been for Vince."

Horrible as that sounds...

He shrugs. "I don't know how close they were, but you're about the same age. Bode is really going through it right now, as I'm sure you can imagine. When you lose someone like that... The more people who reach out, the better."

"That hasn't been my experience," you snap. "For a couple weeks, people might be at your beck and call, but they inevitably disappear when they go back to their own lives and decide that just because your world has stopped spinning, it doesn't mean that theirs has to, too. No one cares. It's easier this way. If you don't let anyone in, then you can't lose them."

"Alienation is no way to live," he gently argues.

You about-face. "I mean no offense when I say this, but you have no idea what it's like to lose a spouse. To feel a part of your soul die when they do. To realize that the life you once thought you would have—had been planning to spend alongside them—has vanished in an instant. You could never understand that sort of grief. And if you're lucky, you never will."

He doesn't fill with anger; doesn't seek to lash out at you for it. Brett is unaware as to when Eric died, but he assumes it wasn't terribly long ago since you still seem to be in the early throws of the five stages.

"Before I reply, I want you to know that I'm not upset. And you don't need to apologize, because I understand," Brett assures with a feigned smile and a nod of reassurance. "But I'm not that lucky, because I do know what that sort of loss feels like."

Your features shift—you wince and glance away in hopes of composure. "I'm s—"

Brett stops you before you can pour forth guilt-laden regrets. "It's okay. You had no way of knowing. And... What're the chances, y'know?"

You wrap your arms around yourself, wishing they were another's instead.

He tilts his head back. "Same way for her. She did this too." He swallows thickly. "Was on a roof. It turned to sponge beneath her feet and—" he jerks his head to the side and clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," you whisper mournfully. "Did... Did you have children?"

"A daughter," he replies with a faint smile. "All grown up and living on her own now."

You resent him for it. For having a piece of his wife still while you have nothing.

"You're fortunate," you state flatly.

The sound of rubber boots approaching sounds from the opposite side of the engine bay then. You each turn to greet whoever has arrived and Brett nods at Bode when he rounds the front of the firetruck parked to your left.

He nearly asks if he needs him for something, but finds his words swallowed up at the charged look exchanged between you.

"Hey," Bode murmurs with a dip of his chin. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he nudges the cement floor with the toe of his shoe. "Didn't know you were comin' by."

Your attention moves to his chest and Bode shifts uncomfortably.

Swiveling on your heel, you bid Brett a quiet farewell and leave in silence, same as you came.

Brett watches you go, and when he turns to question Bode about what the hell just happened, he finds himself standing alone.

"You mind telling me what that was?" Brett asks with crossed arms.

With his head half buried beneath the hood of his GMC, the noisy, stuttering zip of a ratchet fills the empty space Bode is otherwise meant to himself with a reply he doesn't much feel like giving.

"She seemed upset," Brett continues. "Not that you look too happy yourself."

Bode snorts derisively. "Don't I?" he snips sarcastically.

"Listen, I know I'm new to all of you. Means I'm still learning the lay of the land, so to speak. There's clearly history there. Just trying to find out how much of it I should concern myself with."

Bode tosses down the tool with a sharp metal clang, then grabs a socket wrench next. Flitting through his toolbox for the correct attachment, he shakes his head. "None," he deadpans with a venomous glare before stepping up to his truck again.

"Guessing you knew her husband, though," Brett remarks with a shrug.

A rhythmic clicking echoes off the room's sturdy walls.

"You know him well?" Brett presses while advancing forward step-by-step.

Bode shakes his head in irritation, wishing he'd just drop it. Old man is acting like a dog with a bone. "We were partners," he grunts. "I was there when he—" He purses his lips and continues on with engine repairs.

"What happened?"

"Housefire," he retorts. "The hell do you think?"

Bode moves to the left. "Later found out it was electrical. Not like that matters."

Brett simply listens.

"Family of four, but the husband was out of town on work. The mother and the oldest boy were already outside when we got there. Whole fuckin' thing was up in flames. She just—" he grimaces. "She just kept screaming 'my baby boy is upstairs, you have to save him, you have to save him'. So we went in. We're going room to room, they're all empty. I... I could hear the wood splintering; groaning under the weight of what had turned to kindling and ash. Knew the support beams were about to give.

He grits his teeth. "I tried to pull him out, but he just—he wouldn't listen to me. Kept telling me that he wasn't leaving until he had him in his arms. Eventually yelled at me to shut the hell up and keep searching."

Bode retrieves a wrench next.

As if he can fix anything now.

"He was like an older brother to me. I worshipped the ground the guy walked on. I wanted to be just like him. He'd been at it longer than me, so I told myself that he'd leave when it was time to finally go and not a moment sooner. That he could never be that stupid."

Bolts being tightened emit a quiet pop while Bode's arm works in tandem with the tool he holds tightly to. "And then the ceiling caved in. It barely missed me. He—"

Brett remains quiet.

"I ran out of there like a goddamn coward and left my brother behind. Turns out," he says with a bitter chuckle. "The kid was never up there to begin with. Got turned around downstairs, but ultimately made it out. So Eric died for nothing."

"He died trying to do the right thing," Brett mutters. "And it wasn't cowardly of you. It was self-preservation."

Bode's arm falls to his side—that grease-covered tool still held tight in his calloused grip. "Yeah? What right thing was that? Refusing to listen? To remember his training? Trying to save a kid that was never trapped at all because their fuckin' mom couldn't keep an eye on him!" he shouts with vehemence.

"I was the one," he shouts while throwing the tool toward the wall with a resounding ting. "Who had to tell her. Had to look my best friend's wife in the eye and tell her that he was dead, all while knowing that I was the reason. I had to hold her when she collapsed in my arms, screaming for a man who was never coming home again."

He swipes his forearm beneath his nose. "Should've been me." He shrugs. "Maybe I was never meant to make it out of that house, because I've felt like a dead man walking ever since."

Brett shakes his head. "Who would both of you dying in there have helped? Your dad? Your mom? Your crew?"

"It doesn't matter now. Can't change it." He laughs without mirth and looks to Brett with raised brows. "And you wanna know what I did about it after? That very same night?" he offers with arms dramatically outstretched from his sides.

Settling his palms on his hips, he chews his lip in contemplation. "I'm there, and she just keeps crying and crying, and I am too, but no matter how tightly I hold her, no matter what I say, I can't make her pain stop. I destroy her entire fucking life—I kill someone that we both loved—and I can't do this one thing," he spits. "And then she turns to me with these big, teary eyes and my heart stops. Because now she's begging me. Please, Bode. Please, please, please."

He runs a trembling hand through his hair. "So I slept with her in his bed. Something I always wanted to give her, or—or have with her, and I couldn't have let it happen at a worse possible time."

Silence falls and his mind drifts... To messy sheets that smelled both of you, and all-too familiar cologne. To soft, naked skin and spread thighs and you whimpering softly for him to just please make the pain stop. To help you.

He started between your legs with slow kisses and gentle licks before moving over your stomach with kneading hands, suckling at your breasts with parched lips, nipping at your neck with quiet passion before finally sinking inside of you.

He can never admit it—will take it to the grave that he knows he deserves sooner rather than later—that it was the best sex of his entire life.

It'd never been so all-consuming and soul-swallowing before. Not with anyone.

He knows the grief clouded his assessment of the moment and does still, but...

Finally, Bode raises his head while swiping tears from his stubbled cheeks with the heel of his hand. "Next morning I found her sick in the bathroom. I tried to... Tried to help. She smacked me. Then said she was sorry and crawled into my lap. Next, she told me to go. Just go and don't come back, she said. So I did."

He sniffles, then returns to his truck with a Craftsman screwdriver. "But it wasn't that simple. Not with funeral arrangements needing to be made and her having no one else to lean on. No one that was as close to her or knew either of them as well as I did, that is."

He begins loosening a part Brett can't make out from the angle he stands at.

"My mom would come by. She'd cook and clean and try to... To get her to look through catalogues for caskets and goddamn flower arrangements. But she wasn't having any of it, so I stepped up. I took over and got it done."

He can still remember the day when he thought he would be granted forgiveness. Had hoped for it, anyway, because it would make things easier, even nominally.

But he's never been that fortunate.

You had shot up from the couch and padded across the room while sinking your nails into your scalp and screaming No, no, no repeatedly.

"This isn't right! I don't—I don't care about caskets and pillows and— It can't even be opened, anyway!" you'd shouted.

Meanwhile, Bode's pit of despair grew impossibly deeper for having failed you.

"It's not like I can afford any of it! Just stop talking about it! Shut up!"

His mother had stuttered for a reply—grasped heedlessly for a way to calm you down—until he stomped over to her, ripped the damn glossy booklet from her hands and muttered that he would do it instead.

So she rose and busied herself in the kitchen as a distraction while he coaxed you back over to the sofa with quiet, comforting words of encouragement.

"Don't just pick the cheapest or easiest option to get this whole thing over with, or the day will come when you regret it."

He'd rested a heavy palm against the small of your back while turning to face you. "I don't want you to regret it."

You'd sniffled while shaking your head. "I don't want to either."

He had sat up the least bit straighter—had felt a glimmer of hope rising in his chest—until you met his eyes and spoke again. "But it doesn't change anything."

Bode's face had crumpled then while the two of you sat wholly unaware of Sharon clocking the interaction from a room away—knowing that you weren't actually discussing different types of varnishes.

"He built this place out of hard wood, so he would've fucking hated poplar," Bode had stated while tearing out and balling up an entire page.

"I can't afford—"

"I don't want you to worry about price," he'd interrupted. "I'll take care of it."

"But—"

"I said that I'll take care of it," he had insisted with gentle conviction. "Whatever you need," Bode said while squeezing your hand. "I'm here."

When you rested your weary head on his shoulder, Sharon padded into another room to start on a load of laundry to give the two of you some privacy. And he used to moment to grant the crown of your head a swift kiss.

You leaned on him after that.

For a long time.

During the funeral, when you couldn't make it through the first sentence of your husband's eulogy, he rose from his seat, buttoned the front of his suit jacket, and joined your side while pulling you against his own. As you sobbed into his shoulder, he read your heartfelt words despite the tremble in his voice.

He had to be strong for someone else then.

It wasn't about him anymore.

And during the twenty-one gun salute for Eric's time in the Marines, he kept an arm around your shoulders to keep you steady when they fired. When they lowered him into the ground, he kept your fingers laced between his own to keep you the least bit more together.

And when it was all said and done, he took you back home and saw the terrified look on your face due to the prospect of walking into an empty house for the first time. So he offered to let you stay with him instead. For as long as you needed. When you accepted, he ran inside, packed you a bag which included a handful of Eric's things, and took you home with him... Where you quickly fell apart.

Bode eventually spent his days at the station and all his nights at home bathing, feeding, changing, and cleaning you up if you had an accident. Not to mention holding you when you woke screaming from night terrors.

He was there every day and became whatever you needed him to be. Husband, father, friend, caretaker, priest, philosopher... Until the day came when he found you headed for the door.

Something had changed between the two of you by that time. Something...monumental.

He begged you to stay. Had told you "I would never leave you like this."

To which you simply replied "because I'm not yours to leave" before stepping out.

He started drinking then. After all, what was one more addiction to top the rest of 'em off?

"That was two years ago," he tells Brett. "We haven't spoken since. Haven't seen each other, either. Or... She hasn't seen me, rather. I go to the cemetery to talk to him sometimes, despite the fact that I always leave feeling worse than when I came. Because even though he's dead, I can't bring myself to speak the words aloud: I fucked your wife.

"When she's there, I watch her from a distance while she falls apart. Or falls asleep in front of his headstone, curled into the fetal position, begging him to come back to her. And I drive away. Because that's what I do when someone needs me, apparently: I leave. I left him behind, I left her that next morning, and I leave her with him still so that she can continue getting worse while I pretend like I don't spend my days thinking about sticking a pistol in my mouth."

Richards nearly finds himself at a loss for words due to the weight of it all. More than even he would ever know how to carry, he thinks.

"You love her," he supplies quietly. "Nothing you did was done out of malice."

"Love," Bode remarks. "Yeah. And look at all the good that it's done us."

Manny catches Brett on his way back to his office to retrieve his keys so that he can head home. Out of all of it, the one comment Richards refuses to forget is the one about a pistol. The kid was already doing horribly, and his father's death has only served to compound it.

He can't imagine what seeing you again—coupled with your refusal to even speak to him—is doing to his psyche right now. But in terms of conversation, he got as far as he was going to with Bode today.

Probably further than anyone else has in a long while, he assumes.

He hopes it'll provide him some relief to have finally said it all out loud: how he blames himself, what the two of you did that night, and the torch for you that he still carries.

"Headin' home, Chief?"

Brett nods and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. "Yeah, figured it'd be best. Long day and I need to get something figured out for dinner."

He glances back in the direction of the garage where Bode is still hard at work, fixing God knows what. "Keep an eye on the kid for me, will you? Think he's gonna have a rough one tonight."

Manny's brows furrow. "He get into it with you again?"

Brett leans over to study his boots for a moment while shaking his head. Straightening again, he looks at the man in front of him. "No. Just... Eric's widow was here. Stopped by and they, uh... Had an encounter, I guess you'd say."

Manny folds his arms. "Y/N was here? When?"

"Just a bit ago. Couldn't have been half an hour. Why?"

He huffs with a shake of his head. "Just haven't seen her since right after Eric's funeral. Surprised she came around."

Brett's lips tug downward. "You all could try and reach out to her. I didn't know her then, and not that I do now, but she doesn't seem to be doing well. When you get into this line of work, it's with the understanding that you're supposed to be a family. You don't cut someone out just because that binding link dies."

Manny studies him silently for a moment. "We have reached out. Multiple of us, and multiple times. Gone so far as to show up at her house just to check on her. But when the door is locked and the blinds are drawn, there's not much you can do if the other person doesn't wanna be found."

Brett sighs while scrubbing a hand down his weathered face. "She made it sound like efforts stopped on the other end."

Manny's shoulders lift then settle. "I get it: pushing everyone away. Feelin' like maybe we could never understand. That while we lost him, too, it was in a different way. Not as heavy. Bode took it the hardest, o'course. Whether because she blames him, or he blames himself—hell, maybe both—or because something else happened, I don't know. All I do is that... When Eric died, it felt like they both went with him."

Brett cups the back of his neck and massages the taught muscle beneath. "It won't last forever."

Manny brushes past him. "Didn't think it'd last this long."

It's almost three weeks later before Brett sets eyes on you again, and it's in a somewhat unexpected place.

While in search of a creamy white sauce for the halibut he's having tonight for dinner, he catches sight of a familiar frame out of the corner of his eye while passing the baby aisle.

Turning back on his heel, he watches you from a distance as you clutch a tiny pink onesie to your chest with eyes squeezed tightly shut.

His heart breaks on your behalf.

If he has nothing else, he does his daughter, even if she's elsewhere now because she could no longer stand to be in the house where her mother wasn't anymore.

He makes a decision in that moment to seize an opportunity. If he could get Bode to open up with minimal prying involved, perhaps he can you, too.

"We meet again," Brett remarks with a quiet lilt in his voice.

Blinking open bleary eyes, you turn to him with a solemn expression. "Oh."

You wrack your mind for his name. It started with a B, didn't it? Or was it a D? It doesn't matter. You met only the one time, so how can he be offended when you get it wrong?

"Brad," you supply uselessly.

"Brett," he says with a chuckle. "But close enough," he remarks with a one-shouldered shrug. "You here picking something up for dinner?"

You eye the basket hanging from the bend in his arm. "I was." Placing the onesie back on the hook where it belongs, you take a small step back. "But I lost my appetite."

Before you can turn to leave, he speaks again. "I usually make too much, so I'd like it if you could join me."

Manipulative verbiage, he knows, but if he asks whether you'd like to, Brett has a feeling that you'd promptly find a polite way to decline.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you waver. "I'm not much in way of company," you whisper.

"Not asking for conversation," he replies, despite knowing that he'll be gently prodding for as much later, but strictly for your sake. "Just for you to eat."

Silently, you consider while tacky pop music plays overhead and fluorescent lights blind.

Metal forks clink quietly against porcelain plates while you and Brett both dig into the dinner he's cooked tonight. He offered you a glass of white wine, but drinking only makes things worse, so you poured yourself ice water instead.

His place of residence is quite...unconventional. An old firehouse remodeled into a home.

Personally? You hate being inside it and wonder how he himself can stand it. If it were you, you'd find no rest here.

Just nightmares.

Chopping your seasoned fish into tiny pieces, you push them around your plate until they disappear beneath a sea of sauce. You rather make a game of it.

You sometimes wonder if something is wrong with you now that can't be fixed.

"Can I ask about you and Bode?"

Your head snaps up and you focus in on him with narrowed eyes of suspicion. "Excuse me?"

He takes a sip of his beer. "The day you came by, it's like there was this look exchanged. He seemed withdrawn afterward. I know that he and Eric were partners and... That Bode was there when—"

You stab into your fish to pry out the spine. "It's really none of your concern."

"I'm not trying to step into territory where I'm unwelcome to. Just curious, I guess," Brett says gently, like he's toeing a landmine.

"All you need to know is that it was his fault," you bark. "He left Eric behind. He let him stay too long as it was. So you should keep that in mind when you think of sending him into a burning building."

You take a miniscule bite that's comparable to a nibble, and then another.

"Seems to me like Bode blames himself too. The fact that you do—if it were me, that is—would make such an impossibly heavy load that much harder to carry."

You release your utensils with a clatter. "Is that why you invited me here? To lecture me about something you weren't even there for? You have no idea—"

"No," he interrupts with raised palms. "I'm just..." He sighs.

Resting both his elbows atop the table, Brett rubs his hands together. "I was angry too. For a long time. My inability to move on is what finally drove my daughter away. After she left, the day eventually came when I looked up and realized just how alone I was... Because I was so mired in grief, and it was all my own doing. I don't want anyone else to go through that if they don't have to."

You swallow thickly and consider the bottle of wine still on the counter.

You should've made an effort to get drunk enough until you could no longer see straight.

"I don't want to move on," you state with finality. "I don't want to forget. The pain I feel is the only thing I have left. Do you want to know why I was in the baby aisle? I went to get something to eat, but then I thought—like I have a thousand times before—why do I deserve to? To enjoy a good meal? To take care of myself for even a second while he lies rotting in the ground? So I hurt myself. I took myself down that aisle until I felt bad enough to go home hungry instead."

Brett's features draw together in sympathy for the broken girl who sits in front of him. "As a husband who loved his wife more than anything, if you were her... The way you've treated yourself would do the very opposite of bring me peace. I'd rather burn in Hell for all eternity than let her suffer for another moment the way you have."

You grab your fork again. "At least in Hell, we'd be together again." Stabbing a piece of cold fish, you lift it toward your mouth. "It's where I live every day."

Washing dishes is a silent affair. Standing close to Brett's side, your elbows occasionally bump together when he hands you a wet plate to dry, or when he scours a pan with a Brillo pad to remove stuck-on grease and fish scales.

Being near someone so tall and tough and warm, however, makes you feel things you once thought forgotten.

This is why you've endeavored to remain alone: because with masculine company comes temptation.

You note the steady rise and fall of his strong chest with each breath he takes, the way the muscles in his forearms and biceps flex and contract with every movement he makes, and how his cologne reminds you of a summer night right here in fire country.

He's all man, and it makes you ache desperately for one you no longer have.

Once the kitchen is clean, and leftovers have been tidily stored away in the fridge, Brett meets your awaiting gaze with a smile as he wrings his damp hands with a dishtowel. "Even though I clearly failed at conversation, I hope dinner was at least decent."

You nod with a forced smile while taking a step closer. "It was. Thank you." You watch as he tosses the towel back onto the counter. "I appreciated it."

"Anytime," he replies with a nod and crossed arms.

"You..." you swallow nervously while taking another step forward in an effort to bridge the physical gap. "You said that you were lonely."

He shrugs slightly. "I think it's better now with me whipping 42's crew into shape. Gives me something to dedicate myself to, at least for awhile."

You nod, though you're not really listening.

You've little concern for the fire station or those residing within it right now.

"I'm lonely too," you state while resting a palm atop one of his rough hands. Cupping his stubbled cheek, you tug at his tan, freckled arm. You want him to drop it to grant you access to his chest. To him.

No boundaries to hold himself back from you.

"But you understand me," you whisper while rising up, onto tiptoes. The underside of your breasts brush against his forearms, and he finally drops the limbs down to his sides. "Let me help you."

You're not doing this for him at all.

Pressing your lips softly to Brett's, he falls back against the granite countertop behind him, and catches himself against it with his hands.

You slide your arms around his neck then and pour all the passion you've been withholding for your late husband into the intimate gesture. You run your tongue along the seam of his lips until he grants you entry, and you deepen the gesture by cupping the back of his head.

Just as you're about to let your hooded eyes flutter closed, the older man grabs you by the hips and pushes you back a few inches. "Y/N—"

"Please," you plead with a broken voice and gathering tears. "Please." You kiss him again. "Please, Brett."

He tries to remember what it was that you apparently said to Bode the night the two of you fell into bed together. It was something similar, wasn't it? All pleading words and tears he couldn't turn away from, nor a woman he could've resisted if he tried.

Tugging you back against his chest, Brett suddenly understands why, even now, you're still a weakness for him.

You're the first woman he's taken to bed since his late wife.

Sat atop the mattress with you in his lap and one of your pebbled nipples in his mouth while his aching hands roam your soft, naked skin, he's reminded of just how good making love can feel.

Cradling the back of his head, your hips rock against his while you pepper his forehead with tender kisses.

He worries that when he finally nears his finish, he won't be able to pull out in time, if at all. The fleeting thought had crossed his mind to stop you long enough for him to procure protection, but there's none here.

Once his wife began menopause, there was no longer a reason to keep it around. Had he done that, though, the moment would've been gone, and so, too, would you have been by the time he got back from the drug store, as well as his will to follow through once he had time to properly think.

You pant quietly against his shoulder. Tilting your head to the side, you press your damp lips to his and gently flick your tongue against Brett's in a bid to stir it to life.

Everything here in this bedroom tonight is slow—carefully measured. Every touch, every brush of eyelashes against cheek, every sigh and whimper and embrace.

But no matter how good it is, you won't look at him.

You haven't since he carried you in from the kitchen.

He ignores why that might be until it finally happens, right against his ear.

"Eric."

Brett tells himself that if he tries hard enough, maybe he can be that for you. It's the right thing, because he's aware of what this is.

Closure.

He wishes it could be as much for him too, but he's further along in the grieving process than yourself. The time for pretend lovemaking has passed.

He's onto other things.

Brett tilts his head back to watch you—to study the serene expression spread across your previously tortured features. There's your parted lips, your sweat-laden skin which tastes pleasantly of salt, and the way your cheek twitches each time he reaches a specific fleshy spot between your legs with his erect cock.

You're young. Too young, he knows.

But God, you feel so fucking good; like a welcome escape.

"Eric," you whimper again while carding your fingers in his greying curls. It's best you keep your eyes shut, he figures. He's all the wrong color there.

His days of pigmentation are long gone.

Only aging and a map of stress in the form of wrinkles has been left in its wake.

You crush your lips to his and whine against his open mouth. "God," you shudder. "I love you."

His cock twitches.

Brett can scarcely remember the last time someone said that to him. "Again," he rasps in a gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine, for it seems so familiar.

"I love you," you whisper.

Silver-blue moonlight spills across the bed where you both sit intertwined as one.

With one arm around your waist and the other cupping your cheek, he keeps you close until you both come undone.

Once Brett spilled himself inside of you, you each clung to the other for a spell while simply breathing.

And when you reluctantly opened your eyes and surveyed unfamiliar wood paneling and a foreign red-and-black checkered robe hung atop a hook on the wall, your stomach churned.

Not him.

When you pulled back—wanting off his lap and for his limbs to release you—he gazed up at you with eyes clouded over not from lust, but gratefulness.

Meanwhile, you had cringed away—nearly sneered in disgust at what you had done to yourself. What you had done...with him.

And when he saw it, his hold loosened and you fled to the bathroom to wash away your betrayal.

Brett's heart had sank to his knees when you returned because you had been seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When you plucked your shirt from the floor and clutched it to your breasts to cover your modesty, he filled with disappointment.

"I should head home," you had mumbled.

He had known it would've been the smarter option; that you got what you came for and it was over now. But he felt he was owed his half of the unspoken bargain as well.

"I'd prefer it if you stayed," he muttered from the edge of the bed.

So now here the both of you lay. You, turned onto your side away from him—clad only in one of his 49ers t-shirts—and him onto his, but facing your back. He assumes being held after is tradition for you—that you seem the type. Him too, in truth, but being the one doing the holding.

He'd like to, but you seem reluctant to be touched now.

He doesn't have the right hands. Or body, face, or soul.

Brett reaches out anyway and slides a palm along your back—his callouses catching in the thin fabric there. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks quietly.

There's a beat of silence, followed by the sound of you sniffling, and then you speak. "Please," you sob. "Just go to sleep."

He turns onto his back, and then his side to face away from you while thinking of how deeply he misses his wife, and how much he wishes that things were different.

You pad around the bedroom gathering clothing items and tugging them on one-by-one while remaining conscious of Brett's breathing all the while. You suppose that if he wanted to track you down, it wouldn't take much effort on his part to recover paperwork on your husband, so as to find your home address, but he also doesn't seem the type.

Once you've popped on your second sock, you verge toward the door and slip out without a sound.

You're a mess and know his cum is still inside you—one can only do so much with a quick rinse while squatting in an unfamiliar tub—but deign that you'll take care of it once you're back home safe. You'll have a nervous breakdown after scrubbing your soiled skin raw.

Just when you spot your shoes by the door, a floorboard creaks behind you and your spine goes ramrod straight.

"Trying to sneak out, huh?"

Now tense, you slowly turn back to him on your heel.

At least he's dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a matching dark blue t-shirt now. You left his sports one folded on the foot of the bed. "I didn't wanna wake you."

With crossed arms, he shrugs. "Was planning on making you breakfast when we both got up."

You bristle. "You don't need to do that."

He huffs and takes a step forward. "Listen, I know what last night was—"

"A mistake," you interrupt with concrete certainty before he can make this any worse. You need to crush any potential hope he has for something more like a bug beneath a rock.

He stumbles back a step.

You shake your head and glance toward the dining table the two of you occupied last night. "I've just...been so lonely. And you were right there. And so kind to me." Your chin wobbles, and you're thankful for it. Sadness you can do; grief especially. "I missed my husband."

Brett pads forward with a clenched jaw. "Are you even aware—" he shakes his head from a sense of bubbling irritation. "You said his name. Twice. Told me—or, I guess I should say him—that you loved him. It stung, but I kept quiet because I knew it's what you needed: one last chance to be with him. Because hardly ever do we know that the last time is going to be just that. But to wake up alone the next morning too—"

"I'm sorry, Brett, if you thought that this was something it wasn't. It was just sex. Nothing more. It'll never be anything more. We're strangers to one another. It's bad enough that I was unfaithful to my husband, so staying for breakfast and pretending like I wasn't..." you trail off, now at a loss for words.

Done with this conversation, you turn to leave again.

"You can't cheat on a dead man," Brett retorts.

You shoulders draw together tightly while your hands morph into fists at your sides. "Do not ever speak about Eric like that again. A man you never even knew."

"Seems like habit for you," he spits. "Using a man for sex just to be with your husband again, then tossing him aside the next morning when you're left feeling guilty."

You seethe. "Did Bode tell you?" you snap.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "Right after you left that day. He was worked up and just needed someone to finally talk to about it, I think. I should've taken it as a warning, but—"

"So long as you were getting laid it didn't really matter, though, did it?" you sneer.

Silence descends. "Get your things and get the fuck out of my house," Brett orders with icy composure. "Now."

You swipe your shoes from a rubber mat sat in the entryway, flip the lock on the door, then slam it shut behind you after you exit.

Left all alone—same as always—Brett blinks back the tears brimming in his eyes and turns to head back to bed.

It's three weeks later when your world tilts on its axis, despite your efforts to prevent it.

So you take the time to debate with yourself, but ultimately lean in the direction of what you consider to be the "right" choice when you return to Station 42's doorstep.

Bode watches from the shadows as you pick your way across the vacant engine bay, until he finds his voice and steps out. "Something you need?"

When you turn to meet him, he notes how different you appear, even from just a handful of weeks prior.

Your cheeks are fuller and your body more filled out. Color has returned to you, as well as life to your eyes. Even your clothes seem more put together—form-fitting and clearly pressed with an iron. "I'm looking for Brett," you explain. "There's something I need to speak with him about."

Jealousy rears its ugly head, but he keeps the feeling tempered for now. For your sake. "Was in his office last I saw him," he supplies.

You nod with a delicate smile. "Thank you."

A quiet knock sounds from the other side of the frosted glass window positioned in the middle of Brett's office door. "Yeah," he calls from the other side while flipping through a pile of paperwork.

Least favorite part of the job for him.

The door clicks open and swings inward while a quiet scuff of shoes enters the half-cramped space.

Stacks of metal filing cabinets line the wall opposite the desk he sits at, and a towering card catalog is shoved flush against the wall behind him. Piece of outdated furniture, but the crew found new use for it by stuffing it full of hardware and instruction booklets they were reluctant to misplace.

Lifting his head from an incident report—wanting for a welcome reprieve from a responsibility he'd be all too happy to hand off—Brett is left disappointed when his eyes meet with yours.

"I hope it's okay that I'm here," you say softly.

Leaning back in his chair with arms now defensively crossed, he regards you with a displeased expression. "What d'you want?"

"For starters, to apologize for that night," you begin.

Much to his surprise, you don't shy away from the elephant in the room.

"You were kind enough to invite me into your home, make me dinner, feed and host me. You were right that I used you in return. I hope you know I didn't intend to, though."

Leaning back against a cabinet, you continue. "After we cleaned the kitchen, I just... Made a split-second decision. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I can't undo it. I can't change what's happened. All I can attempt is making amends. So I'm sorry. Truly. Especially for the way I spoke to you, and my trying to sneak out the next morning without even a word goodbye. It was cowardly and you deserved better."

Gone is the girl from almost a month ago, he thinks as he studies you. In her place, a complete stranger. But he supposes you were anyway, just as you said.

At least this version isn't quite so hopeless.

He wonders as to what's changed. Maybe you just got what you needed from him.

Brett shrugs indifferently. "Like you said, can't change it."

You dip your chin in acknowledgement. "There's one other thing I came to tell you. And before I do, I want to preface by saying that I expect absolutely nothing of you. I simply felt that you deserved to know. I would want to if I were in your shoes, but I in no way am trying to force your hand one way or the other, nor will I ever ask you for anything because of it."

Shifting in his seat, he clears his throat while his eyes flit toward the door, then back to you. Brett folds his hands in his lap after casually settling an ankle over a knee. "Let's here it then."

A hand flutters toward your belly and comes to gently rest there. "I'm pregnant."

The air in the room evaporates in an instant and the world silences all around him. No birds chirp outside the window, no torque wrench can be heard across the engine bay where it echoes from the garage, and the breath in his lungs has ceased circulation throughout his body.

"And I'm keeping my baby," you add gently. "When Eric died, so did... So many things for me. I felt like I did. But the possibility of children were one of them, as I only ever wanted to bear his. When I thought of any other way to, only three possibilities presented themselves, and none were preferable."

"One," you begin while clasping your hands at your waist. "IVF. But with what it costs..." You shake your head.

"Two, I could meet a stranger at a bar and follow them home. But what if he hurt me? Gave me a disease? Was a horrible person that my baby would have then come from?" You sigh. "Not that that inherently means my child would've been too, but I would've rather known who I was lying down with instead of that. And if they insisted on contraception, then there went my idea. Right out the window," you state while glancing to the one behind him which is cracked slightly open to invite in a warm summer breeze.

"Three: I enter into a relationship I neither wanted nor desired just for the sake of conceiving, which would inevitably end in disaster. But now I'll have peace in knowing that my baby will have come from a good man."

"Did you plan this?" he hisses while planting both feet on the floor and leaning in toward you with a raised brow of contempt.

"No," you insist with a wave of your hand. "No. That night, I wasn't thinking clearly. But I haven't really been since my Eric's death. I... I haven't been touched in two years, Brett. Not a hug, not a kiss on the cheek. Not so much as a handshake. That is how fervent I was about keeping people away, because I was terrified that the moment I let someone in, I would lose them too. Even if I did, I told myself that they could never understand me, so why try at all? Why bother ever caring?"

He leans back again with hesitancy in his eyes.

"I could feel the heat coming off your body while standing next to you. Just your arm brushing against mine made my knees go weak. I... I was that starved for physical touch. So I threw myself at you in an attempt to be with Eric again, just like you said. And it worked. For a bit."

Pressing the pads of his thumbs together, he remains silent while you get whatever is left out into the closing space between you.

"I do want you to know that I took a measure to try and prevent it. I didn't even go home to shower after. Instead, I headed straight for the pharmacy and picked up Plan B. When I got it home I... I sat on the floor of the bathroom for an hour just staring at that stupid box before tearing into it and swallowing a pill I didn't really want to take." You rub your hand nervously against your arm while looking away. "I almost hurt myself after for it, but didn't."

His brows pinch together.

"I always wanted to be a mother, and I believed, at the time, that I had destroyed my last chance for it. Clearly, though," you say while touching your belly again. "It didn't work."

Elbows settled on either wooden arm of the rolling chair he sits in, Brett shakes his head in confusion. "If you've been that close to the edge this whole time... I mean, how've you been providing for yourself?"

Not a ridiculous question, you think.

"Eric's life insurance policy," you say with a nod. "He took out a rather large one. Understandable, given this occupation. And there was his pension from here and the VA. Which... Survivor benefits alone wouldn't have been enough to live off of once everything else ran out. The crew here also gathered together a sizeable sum in the wake of his death. Their helping with funeral costs helped immensely too. I could barely bathe myself, let alone pick out a casket that would never be opened."

You choke back a sob.

Not even could you look at him one last time—touch or kiss his face. It was all taken from you in a blazing instant.

"Bode did so much of it," you relay. "More than I deserved after what happened between us."

If things were different... Maybe it'd be him instead that you were giving this long-running speech to.

You wonder if he'd be more or less receptive to your practiced words.

"And when the money ran out?" he presses.

You meet his gaze with conviction. "I planned to meet my husband."

Growing cold all over, his skin pricks with horripilation. "You intended to end your life, you mean," Brett levels.

You falter for a moment. "I know I haven't been doing well, which is truly an understatement, but I have a therapy appointment for tomorrow. I'm going to be attending regular sessions, because my life is no longer just about me now. I have to do better for my baby."

He chews his cheek. "You seem like you are already." He shrugs. "A bit."

You nod in agreement. "When I saw those little pink lines, two feelings overcame me. Guilt—which doesn't even feel an appropriate word for the weight of it—and relief. Guilt for... Feeling like I had betrayed my husband in the worst way possible, and relief for finally having a reason to keep going; because I finally had something which I had resigned myself to never getting to experience: a life growing inside me; a child to raise."

You curl your fingers protectively against your abdomen.

"So now you know," you finish. "And I understand with your age, and the fact that you're a widower as well—coupled with you already having an adult daughter—that this isn't something you ever anticipated: becoming a father again."

You take a step back toward the door. "It just felt right to me that you should know; be made aware." You settle your palm over the cool brass handle. "Goodbye, Brett."

Shooting out of his chair, he sends it rolling across the floor before it bumps into a back corner. "You never even asked me," he says in a panic.

You release the handle. "What?"

"Whether I wanted this. You just made an assumption and went with it."

Drifting back to him, you look into his wide brown eyes. "You're right."

Granting Brett your full, undivided attention, you turn to face him once more. "I did make an assumption. Because of your age and...circumstances," Such as his late wife and daughter, who you imagine can't be terribly far from you in age. "I figured that you were comfortable with where you were in life. For someone to come along and tell you that you're going to be a father all over again is... Quite the burden to carry."

Brett takes a steady step forward. "I never thought that I would be. Figured my path was set after she passed. But I'll be damned if I let you walk out that door to do this all on your own. Not after all you've been through."

Bathed in a sense of resilience, the chief gazes down at you with utter stoicism—sure of the next step you're each about to take as one. "Because I'm going to be there," he states. "For every doctor appointment, ultrasound, and when we find out its sex. Every holiday, birthday, and field trip. And you best be sure that I'm sticking dollar bills under our kid's pillow for all twenty teeth. No other man gets that privilege."

The sudden stinging of your eyes you blame on the arid summer air.

"Maybe it'd be easier to think of me as some useless sperm donor, but I'm made of sterner stuff, sweetheart. Meaning that I'm old-fashioned."

Fifteen minutes ago, he'd thought he would be unlikely to ever set eyes on you again. But the wheel of fortune had other intentions, clearly. With his entire life changed in an instant, Brett finds himself with one clear choice lain at his feet.

A mantle to uphold.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath which expands and fills his lungs, the silver-haired man slowly exhales, then holds tightly to your delicate hand. "Marry me."

Your eyes widen in complete shock.

"Just hear me out," he insists. "I'm aware that you're not in love with me. And, to be fair, neither am I with you. But now knowing that you're carrying my kid, I feel that I have an obligation. To keep you safe. It is a man's duty to look after the mother of his child. So it's now mine to look after you. At least this way, you'd both have health insurance, financial security, and someone to provide for you; a man to lean on... Whenever I'm needed."

You become very aware of the silver band wrapped round your finger. "And if... If I lost it? It's common in the first trimester. More than people talk about. If that did... There'd be nothing left to bind us together."

You slip your hand from his. "I don't want you to do something you'll later regret."

"We can wait if you want," he states gently. "But once you're well into your second, this is something I'd like to happen. For my own peace of mind."

A handful of weeks ago, you couldn't get out of his house fast enough, nor could he rid himself of your presence. Now... Now he's asking you to take vows until death. Something you already did once. Why don't they specify whose death? One of yours, or both?

"I don't want to make a widower of you twice," you whisper.

He tilts his head while his brows verge together.

"If I... If my baby died inside me..." You sniffle, then shrug, as if to pretend what you're about to say carries no true weight at all. "My plan was still to join my Eric."

"I won't let that happen."

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. With a shake of your head, they open again. "You—"

Pressing his palm to your belly, you quiet. "Nothing else happens to you now. Nothing," Brett states emphatically.

You curl your fingers around his. "I need time to consider."

He nods in understanding. "In the meantime, we should exchange information. Like I said: I'm a part of your life now. And I will be there, starting with your first check-up."

"Hey," Brett calls from behind you.

Spinning on your heel, you look at him. "When's your next OB appointment? I forgot to ask."

The sound of something metallic rings in the quiet space—like a tool has just slipped from someone's grasp. "Let me check my calendar," you reply while retrieving your phone from your pocket. "I think it's in a week."

"You're pregnant?"

Nearly dropping the sleek device from a sense of surprise, you jerk your head to the left and are met with the sight of an irate Bode.

"His?" he snarls while pointing at Brett with an accusatory finger.

"Bode..."

Advancing forward with angry stomps, he shakes his head with complete disapproval. "You sick fuck," he spits. "You come to town, try to take advantage of a grieving widow who's young enough to be your daughter, steal my father's seat here—"

He swings on him.

A closed, meaty fist meets with solid cheekbone, sending Brett stumbling toward the floor.

Clambering on top of him, Bode fists the neck of the other man's t-shirt in his nondominant hand and continues his violent tirade.

You scream for him to stop, but all he hears is the angry ringing in his ears.

Brett clips him in the side, tears at his shirt hard enough to rip the cotton seam in half, then tosses him onto the floor, followed by a fist to the face just to get his actions to cease. "Stop fighting me!" he shouts while attempting to shake some sense into the boy when he takes him by the shoulders.

"Hey!" Manny shouts while running toward them in a panic. "Alright, that's enough now!"

Bode grapples with Brett's clenched hands that're fisted in the material of his ragged t-shirt in a desperate attempt to continue their scuffle, but as soon as Brett stands and goes stumbling back, Manny hoists Bode onto his feet.

It takes two more individuals to subdue and practically carry him away, but once his enraged vulgarity-laden screams disappear down the hall, Brett sweeps you up in his arms and cups the back of your head protectively as if you're the one who's been injured.

Each of Brett's cheeks, as well as his chin, are covered in angry red bruises. There had been talk of his nose being broken, but it was thankfully a false alarm in the end.

Only you fussing over him did he accept, so you were made to play paramedic when you cleaned his cuts and scrapes with sterile gauze and antiseptic from a first aid kit found in the restroom.

Bode, however, is in far worse shape.

Emotionally.

Sat just outside one of the station's open side doors, atop a rolling cooler, Bode dabs at his nose with a wad of tissues that's now saturated with blood. Seems the wound has begun to clot, but he continues to hold the makeshift pressure-dressing anyway.

"Brought you a clean shirt," you say quietly from the doorway.

Padding across fresh green grass and dry gravel, you seat yourself next to him and rest the garment in his lap.

"It one of his?" he mutters.

You shake your head. "Found it on your bunk."

Unfolding, he tugs his ruined one off over his head before tossing it aside to replace it with your offering. "Surprised you remembered where that is."

Trailing your eyes along the smattering of hair found across his bare chest, you glance away when you glance the tattoo near his heart of Eric's name, followed by 'forever my brother' scrawled just beneath it, and his year of death beneath that. "Course I do."

A pause of silence falls between you.

"So you're pregnant," Bode deadpans. "By some geriatric that you don't even know."

You turn slightly and your knee knocks against his. "It wasn't planned," you say softly. "I was at the store one night, and so was he. To be kind he invited me over for dinner. One thing led to another—"

"I don't need to hear this," he grumbles.

"I initiated, if that makes you feel less...hateful toward him. And it wasn't about him. I was just..." You shake your head. "It wasn't about him."

He knows who it was. "If that was something you needed, you could've called me. Not gone to a stranger."

Your eyes flit to his in surprise.

"Better it be me than him." He shakes his own head and drops the tissues between his booted feet. "Doesn't really matter now, though, does it?"

You pick at your nails. "Bode, I—I'm so sorry that I ever hurt you. Everything you did for me after Eric's passing... I can never hope to repay it. And the way that I left was not only cruel, but selfish. I wish—"

You raise your head and choke back a sob. "I wish I hadn't walked out the way I did. You're the only reason I'm even still alive. Believe me, I wanted to be dead, but you—you refused to let that happen."

Leaving you alone during the day had been the worst of it, because he spent every shift terrified that he would come home to a corpse. He locked up his guns and knives as a preventative measure, but had you been determined, you would've found a way. He knew that. And there was only so much time he was allotted off for bereavement. As it was, the station gave him more than company policy even allowed. Others were forced to take on extra shifts because of it so that he could stay home with you.

"Was it because you felt something more?" he asks while turning his head slightly to the side. "I mean, you felt guilty about it, right?"

He sighs. "As if you were the only one. You think I didn't hate myself for falling in love with you too?"

"Bode—"

"Listen, I'm not saying that I'm somehow entitled to you, or a form of repayment for looking after you. But for you to just suddenly be better, when three weeks ago you couldn't even look at me ,while I feel like I'm fucking drowning doesn't feel fair!" He started off calm, but his timbre grew in fervor until it morphed into shouting.

You don't stop or try to calm him, however.

This rage is well-deserved for all the damage you've left in your wake.

"I mean, you couldn't even fucking be there," he sneers. "My dad died and you were nowhere to be seen. I took care of Eric's funeral arrangements. I cleaned you up when you wet yourself from nightmares, and held you until you finally felt safe again when the sun came up. And you couldn't even be bothered to have your ass in a seat for an hour for my sake."

Fleetingly, you clutch at your belly—at the life growing inside it—and wish...it weren't there at all.

If not, you could fix this by giving Bode what he's always wanted.

You.

Cupping a hand over your mouth to quiet your mourning cries for what has been lost between you, you take calming breaths to try and quiet yourself. The time for him to care about your suffering has long since passed, you're sure.

"I tried. I got ready, but the minute I set foot outside the door..." you sniffle. "I felt like it was that day all over again. I wasn't even sure that I could drive myself. And it'd been so long since we last spoke. I didn't know for sure if you'd want me there—"

"That's bullshit," Bode rumbles. "I left you a voicemail begging you to come. Telling you that I needed you."

One which you still have saved, but you don't inform him of it.

It had been short, simple. To the point.

His voice had been thick and laden with grief-stricken tears as he pled with you over his phone's speaker. "He's dead. My dad is dead. His funeral is this Sunday and I need you to come. Please. Whatever's happened between us... I can't do this without you. Please just come."

The only thing he ever asked of you and you couldn't be bothered to give it.

Maybe you don't deserve all you've found.

"I know," you whisper.

"Should've been us," he remarks while kicking a pebble and watching it skitter across the lot. "If there was anyone you were meant to move on with, it was me. Maybe it makes me sound like a piece of shit to say it, but it's what Eric would've wanted too. Someone you can actually grow old with. Who's been there for years and knows you better than that asshole can ever hope to. I was there at your absolute worst. Can you really say with all certainty that Brett would do the same?"

If you tell him about his proposal, neither of them may walk out of here alive. "I guess time will tell."

He snorts, then rises. "I won't be there," Bode says while shoving his hands in his pockets. "When he breaks your heart, I won't be there to fix it this time. So don't even think of asking me to be when the day comes."

You don't follow after him.

True to his word, Brett is ever-present for your every need. For your first ultrasound when you each cried happy tears over a fuzzy image of your little blip, to getting married at City Hall, to deciding on a Godparent, as well as your shared housing arrangements in an effort to make things work as one.

Therapy continues to go well for you, while Brett informing his daughter of her new stepmother and sibling... Not so much. So you keep your distance out of respect, knowing that she has every right to feel cross. You assure her that she's welcome to visit the new house Brett purchased for the two of you in an effort to be closer to her at any time. She's yet to take you up on the offer, but your door remains open and your heart hopeful, but for the sake of her father.

You busy yourself with preparing your home for your little bundle that's soon to arrive, and when you ask a particular someone to meet you at your late husband's grave site for the third anniversary of his death, you're met with no response, but pray anyway that he'll come so you can extend an offer.

The sharp slam of a truck door interrupts your one-sided conversation with Eric. Turning on the heel of your sneaker, you slide a soft hand over your swollen belly and greet Bode with a forced smile.

Forced, because you're unsure how to decipher the look on his face. His lips are pursed and his shoulders taught, but he seems more put together than last you saw him.

His beard is better trimmed this time, at least.

"Thank you for coming," you say to break the silence.

He merely nods in return.

"Made it sound important. Whatever was on your mind, that is."

"It is."

Running a palm over the expertly carved granite of Eric's headstone, Bode's cheek twitches while his face goes flush with grief. "What I'm about to say is probably going to sound cruel," he begins, speaking first. "But I'm done apologizing for something that was never my fault. I tried to get him out, but because I looked up to him like an older brother—deferred to whatever he said—I backed down. He was trying to do the right thing. Trying to save a kid that neither of us had any idea wasn't even up there to begin with."

He returns his hand to his pocket. "I respected Eric. Maybe more than anyone, and so I also respected his final decision. I'm in no way blaming his own death on him, but he made a choice, and nothing I did or said was going to change it. I've played and replayed that moment a thousand times. Maybe more. And it always ends the one way. The way in which it happened, because no one—not you or I—can change the past."

His speech concluded, he turns to face you. To absorb whatever thoughts you have awaiting him.

You cradle your belly and sniffle. "It was easier to blame you because you were still breathing. How could I—" you shake your head ruefully. "Blame him when he was dead? My own husband? What sort of monster would even think to?"

Bode's feature soften, and swaying oak trees of vibrant green reflect in his eyes. "Not a monster. A human being. A grieving wife who felt like she had lost her purpose and a part of herself."

"I'll go to my own grave being sorry for putting that on you, Bode. For ever letting you think for a moment that I held you responsible. For shattering your heart and driving into the ground because of it." You slide your free hand atop your belly. "And for this. For taking away our chance of a future by refusing to just stop and think first."

Taking you into his arms, he pulls you close and runs a soothing hand down the back of your head while shooshing you. "What's done is done. It's over now."

"I pray that one day you can forgive me," you mumble while burying your face in his chest.

"If that's what you need to find peace, then you have it. I don't need you carrying that kind of weight around like I have when nothing good'll ever come from it."

You breathe a long, drawn-out sigh of relief, and something flees from you then. Like a bird taking flight, and with it, a seedling of darkness.

"So, why did you ask me here?" he inquires with a hand against your back.

"Brett and I discussed it, and we both agreed. Maybe he did for my sake, but..." You lean back and plant your palm atop Bode's chest while brushing a thumb over the dark fabric that obscures your husband's ink memorial. "We know who we want for our daughter's Godfather."

His lips slightly part and his eyes search yours to confirm the veracity of what you've just said.

"But more than that, since we've both moved, and Brett has sold his house, only mine is left. I don't... Want it to go to strangers. You and Eric built that house. So if anyone should have it—"

"You don't want it anymore?"

You slowly shake your head. "Being there has been slowly killing me. In every corner and hallway I see him. Or memories of us. If I stay in that house—or go back to it—I'll return to the way I was. I know it. So if you want it, it's yours. Free and clear."

You cup his cheek. "And God forbid something ever happens to the two of us, I want you to take over raising her; being her father." You brush your thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. "She's going to need you there growing up either way."

You slide your hand into his. "I want you there. I promised myself that I'd never ask anything else of you. But I'm asking this for my daughter."

Turning to study his brother's headstone, he knows he has a promise to keep. One to look after you always if anything ever happened to Eric.

He had wondered for so long if your late husband ever knew about his feelings toward you. He wasn't nearly as good at hiding it as he thought, turned out, when a year before his untimely death, Eric sat him down by a bonfire with a couple of beers on a chilly October night and made his wants abundantly clear.

"Anything ever happens to me and I'm no longer around to take care of her, I expect you to be the man who steps up. I know how you feel toward her, and I'm not blaming you, but thanking you. For giving me peace of mind by knowing that she has someone else who loves her just as much as I do, and who'll be there for the good, bad, and anything else inbetween."

He'd turned to him with a stony expression after taking a swig of his beer. "Think you can do that for me, little brother?"

He never told you, because he didn't want you to feel obligated to be with him simply because it was what Eric wanted. Your free will was more important. Nevertheless, he broke his promise by letting you walk out the door that morning, and has continued to every day since.

He won't let another day go by where he doesn't hold true to it now.

Bode presses his lips to your forehead. "Okay."

"There's daddy!" you shout excitedly.

Exiting a glass door at the back of the house, a toothy grin breaks out across Brett's face at the sight of your little girl toddling toward him with wobbly steps and outstretched arms.

Scooping her into his own, he tosses her up just once before cradling her safely against his chest. "Oh, now there is my girl," he coos.

Winding an arm around your shoulders when you come nearer, Brett pulls you close to his side and brushes his lips against yours. "Mm," he hums. "Both my girls."

"Made chili for dinner," you remark while pressing your lips to the warm skin of his neck that smells pleasantly of pine.

Little Erica babbles excitedly while pinching Brett's nose between her tiny fingers.

"Smelled it all the way from outside the house. Smells good, baby."

You should've known something was amiss with all the muttered pet names, sly touches when no one else was looking, and compliments toward your dresses when all he actually seemed able to focus on were your physical assets. It made your hair prickle on occasion, but you had been naïve—of the innocent belief that no one would be able to climb so far if they were corrupt; dirty. In the end, that's exactly why he managed such a feat.

Makes things easier when you have the right people paid off or indebted to you, turns out.

"Thought I was the only one here," Charlie remarks from behind you.

Turning this way and that, you glance over your shoulder and study the sight of the deputy chief casually leaned against the doorway of his office with crossed arms and a devious smile painted across his lips. Pushing off it, he stalks toward you with steady strides; his heavy department-issued boots thumping across polished tiles. "Pulling a late one, huh?"

You turn back to the illuminated desktop in front of you and blink away the blurriness overtaking your tired eyes. "Just trying to finish a few things up," you explain quietly.

Dragging over a chair from the desk across from yours, the wooden legs scrape across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. You grit your teeth until he finally spins it around and straddles the back of it.

"My girl," he purrs while sliding a palm along the curve of your neck. "Working hard for her chief. Knew I made the right choice when I hand-picked you."

You force a wavering smile and continue typing.

Massaging the sides of your neck with his fingertips, he speaks again. "You like working under me?" Charlie inquires with tilted lips and darkling eyes.

You swallow. "I do."

He hums in satisfaction. "Hell of a lot better than the Traffic Division," he rumbles. "Nice desk right by my corner office," he continues while sliding his hand lower, to your shoulder. "Breaks. Hour long lunch."

He stands and you mistakenly hit an incorrect key.

Coming round to stand behind you, he plants each of his calloused palms atop your tensed shoulders. Bearing down and kneading knotted muscles from you being hunched over all day, he keeps talking. "Holiday bonus." He leans down close to the shell of your ear. "Had to pull a few strings to get the last one on your paycheck, so I hope you appreciate my efforts."

"I-I do," you stutter.

With every violent coronary contraction that thumps between your breasts, your breathing grows more shallow. You should've left along with everyone else hours ago. The work constantly flows; it's never-ending. As such, it could've waited until morning.

"Thank you," you tack on quickly.

"Thank you for being polite," he whispers.

"Now, I hope you don't take this as me being greedy," he begins while releasing you to instead flip his previously abandoned chair back around. Seating himself upon it with spread legs, he slaps his palms against his thighs. "But I have been hoping for a little something in return."

Acid roils in your stomach and crawls its way up the back of your throat.

"Sweet young thing that you are, I'd hate to see you fall into the wrong hands," Charlie croons while moving a hand to your thigh. "It can just...be too much to carry sometimes, y'know? All the pressure weighing on me."

With fingers left hovering above the keyboard, you glance down to where he's made contact and watch as he verges closer and closer to your inner thigh.

"I just need a way to relax," he finishes.

"I—I think I should head home now," you whimper while making to grab for your bag.

He clamps down with a pinching squeeze. "Be polite," he growls. "Mind your manners."

Falling back against your chair with stinging tears brimming in your eyes, you consider breaking one of his fingers, or stabbing him in the eye with a sharp, metal letter opener. The first would be no good—he's so much bigger and stronger. You'd never make it to the door.

As for the second... Would anyone believe you if you told them why you had to do it?

He leans in close; close enough for you to inhale the warm, heavy scent of his cologne. "Considering a way out?" Charlie asks quietly.

You remain still.

"Feels rather insulting," he jeers. "Thought you liked me," he finishes with a feigned pout.

You don't justify what he's said with a response. He's like a wolf playing with its food before inevitably chomping down on an artery—every bit of struggle you display only spurs him on all the more.

"I want you to listen to me," he grates while inching closer to the hem of your dress. "You're not going to tell anyone what I'm about to do to you. If you do—look at me!" he suddenly shouts, causing you to shriek in terror.

Jerking your head in his direction, he grips your chin painfully tight to keep you steady. "Eyes on me," Charlie commands while prodding against your panties with his fingertips. "If you think to tell, just remember what kind of power I have. I own this department now. I have other cops, judges, and criminals alike in my back pocket."

He curves a finger and shoves it toward your covered opening. "I'll get you blackballed throughout the entire fucking justice system. And where you've been here for a few years..." he purses his lips and shrugs. "You'll be damned either way. Leave the PD off your resume, and questions'll be asked about such a considerable gap in your work history. Put it on, and they'll be contacting me for a reference."

He tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs your head back. "But don't you think for one second that I'm letting you go anywhere." He cups you over your panties. "This?" Charlie leans in ever closer. "You? Belong to me now."

A quiet sob spills past your lips and he grins. "We have an understanding, sweetheart?"

You nod vigorously.

He releases you and kicks his chair back and sends it skidding across the floor in the direction he took it from. "Good."

Grabbing your upper arm, he wrenches you out of your seat and sends you staggering into his sturdy side before leading you into his office.

"W-What're you—" you try to pull away. "P-Please don't."

"I get what I want," he mutters before dragging you over the threshold and shouldering the door shut behind him.

Shoving you in the direction of his desk, he surveys you with ravenous hunger, teeming in eyes which have bled from brown to black in the lack of lighting. "Why're... Why're you doing this?!" you screech while searching the space for his utility belt.

You need to get his gun!

"I've wanted this for so fucking long," he says huskily before pinning your squirming waist to the edge of the desk. Gripping your chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger, Charlie trails wet, searing kisses up your sensitive neck. "If you fight me, it'll only make things worse for you. So just do as you're told and it'll all be over soon. Got it?"

You begin to sob hysterically. Broken cries interrupted by choking hiccups that get caught in your restricted airway block out the sound of a small fan whirring in the corner and the hum of a computer tower beneath his desk. Your terror is all which remains in this suffocating room.

Grabbing your hips, he situates you atop the desk, then pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

You wail harder.

Shoving your dress up to your stomach, he grabs the waistline of your underwear and slices through the material in one fluid motion on either side. Once he's yanked them free from your bottom, the thin material flutters toward the floor.

"You don't get some cut-and-dry narrative about tonight," he murmurs while planting each of your feet atop the desk to give him plenty of room to work. "One where you call me a monster and claimed I forced myself on you."

Sinking to his knees, Charlie closes his mouth for a moment, then puckers his lips and spits on your exposed cunt. "You're going to come, and then the real fun begins."

Dragging the pad of his thumb through your folds, you buck your hips and wonder what you might accomplish if you went toppling over the desk backwards. If you hit your head, would it be at an end? Would he rush you to the ER? Would you find a shotgun in the space under it and be able to rack a load in time to use it on him?

"Are you clean?"

Interrupted from your deliberations, your brows furrow. "What?"

He circles your clit next. "Are you clean?" he repeats exasperatedly.

Clean? What does he mean clean? You shower every night. What is he—

Oh.

"Yes."

"Thought so," he utters before diving between your legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut when he drags his tongue through your slick folds, and dig your nails into the carved wooden edge of the desk to maintain composure. You refute the warm feeling which blooms between your spread thighs when he sucks on your clit; ignore how your fleshy walls squeeze tightly around his thick fingers when he eases them inside you.

You project from your body and into another room when it begins to respond with rocking hips and moans falling from your lips in an act of betrayal.

Bearing witness to Biblical temptation from afar, you watch through shaded windows as you keep your legs spread like a greedy whore, wanting for more of what he's offering.

If you're so very willing, then maybe this is deserved.

Looping his arms around your thighs, Charlie rests them over his over his shoulders and his face disappears entirely until all you see is a field of silver curls just below your belly. "God," you groan with your head throw back.

Slurping your arousal and smacking his lips against your own second set, your body begins to calm from its earlier erratic state. Circling your sensitive bundle with a speared tongue, Charlie doesn't see fit to stop until your orgasm bursts through you cataclysmically—complete with trembling legs, sweaty skin, and mewling whimpers escaping your mouth as your head spins and your body goes numb from a sense of euphoria.

When he rises, it's with a contained groan and hands planted upon aging joints.

You watch quietly as he pops the shiny tines on his leather belt loose while staring directly between your legs and licking his shimmering lips.

Covering your mouth, you start to cry again. Oh God, what if it makes him angry? "I'm—" you try to muffle yourself. "'M sorry," you whimper while dipping your chin.

"Don't be," he says while swiping away a salty tear with the pad of his thumb. He smiles affectionately. "I want you to."

Planting a hand against your shoulder, Charlie pushes you back. Before you can react, he shoves his cock inside you with a single thrust.

At some point—rather, after you began slapping and kicking him in protest of your own assault—he pulled you off the desk, flipped you around, and began pounding into you from behind. That was after he pinned your wrists above your head and threatened to make your life here a living hell if you didn't behave yourself.

Like it won't be anyway now.

You're also completely naked and have jumped up, onto your tiptoes to make his ministrations easier to take.

Your bunched-up dress lies balled-up in a corner somewhere, mocking you from afar for giving up and in so easily to his wicked whims. With your breasts pressed flat against the desktop, you're also left feeling a bit cold.

Your body trembles.

Charlie's grip around your hips has grown so tight that it's sure to leave bruising come the morn, but perhaps that's part of his design—an unspoken reminder of where he's been; what he's done to you.

Grunting as he snaps his hips against your ass, it sends ripples through the plump skin.

You tried counting the thrusts to make the time pass faster, but he's rather quick about it. You lost track after 20.

You wish he'd hurry the fuck up and be done already.

Like your prayers have finally been answered, his hips stutter and his breaths become ragged. "Oh f—Oh fuck. Mm, I'm gonna come," he groans.

You stare at a dying plant on the widowsill.

You should save the poor thing.

"Fuck—fuck," he utters before clutching a handful of your hair and wrenching you back against his bare chest where he's left his shirt unbuttoned. Wrapping one hand around your throat and the other around your waist to keep your body flush against his, Charlie's cock begins to twitch, and just as thick spurts of cum begin to fill you, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, causing you to scream in frenzied anguish.

You claw at his hand to try and free yourself, but it's no good. He has you right where he wants you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, his mouth retracts, and his hold loosens.

Once it's finally over, the chief pulls out of you—leaving semen to run down both your thighs as you slump lifelessly over his desk. He tosses a box of tissues at you and commands you to clean yourself up while he wipes off his girthy, soiled cock.

You quietly excused yourself to the restroom after. You took your time washing away the evidence of what he did.

You can't tell.

You had considered it, though. If someone came, he'd be caught red-handed. Even if he tried to argue that it was consensual, he would still be disbanded from the force for having sex with a subordinate.

But you forgot your phone at your desk.

Once you've peed, his cum has stopped dribbling out of you, and you've scrubbed the tears from your face, you return to gather your things.

You never look at your broken reflection.

One by one—with stiff limbs—you tuck your personal belongings away. Cellphone, charger, lip balm, hair band.

You briefly forget how to get yourself home when you begin to think on it.

You don't feel like yourself.

It's like he's still buried inside you, stretching you in half until your cunt melds perfectly around his every vein and ventricle.

"I'll walk you out," Charlie states while locking his office up for the night, causing you to jump quietly; you'd forgot he was here. "Not safe out there alone," he jests with a wink while sidling close and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You remain hauntingly silent as the quiet clicking of your shoes echo across an empty building you never wish to return to.

"Just so you know," Charlie begins while leaning against the driver side door of your vehicle to prevent your escape, "I don't plan on sharing my new stress toy. You'll soon come to learn that I'm a jealous man."

You clutch your bag close to your chest and merely nod. You're not even a person now, but instead something to be played with.

You'd been right about the animal analogy after all.

Resting the heels of his palms against the windowsill, he tilts his head while studying your withdrawn, sullen expression. If you mean for it to be a deterrent, it's having the exact opposite effect. The erection stretching across his upper thigh is proof enough of that. "While you were in the restroom, I put an app on your phone to track your location."

Your eyes meet with his.

"Before you try to go searching for it, though, it's fairly well hidden." He shrugs indifferently. "Right electronic shop could locate it, but... Minute I find out you've uninstalled it, or deactivated the device, you can kiss your job here goodbye."

You sniffle and take a small step back. "Could just leave it at home," you sneer.

He grins. "Same goes for your car." Charlie pats the door. "Don't go searching the undercarriage unless you want trouble."

When... When did he—

"Since I can already see the cogs turning: right after making you my secretary." He chuckles. "Told you, I'm possessive."

Taking you suddenly into his arms, Charlie brings you against his chest and brushes a kiss over the crown of your head. "You just do what your new boss tells you and everything'll be fine. I promise, sweetheart."

Turning your face toward the crook of his shoulder, you start to cry.

He clicks his tongue, then softly shooshes you while running a palm down the back of your head. "Aw, my little cuddlebug tired?" he taunts.

You nod while nuzzling against his chest. "Do you get off on humiliating me?" you mumble.

He snorts. "That's so cute: you already starting to figure out how I work."

While you'd like very much to hurt him in truly horrific ways... Your only option right now is to remain plaint and agreeable. Otherwise, he could bring your entire world to a standstill. More than he already has.

After he bent you over his desk, you just wanted to be held. Comforted.

He's the only one who knows what happened, so he's the only one who can provide what you need. Isn't he?

An image of a finely sharpened #2 pencil stabbed through his jugular flits through your mind and you take solace in it.

Winding your arms around his waist, you shuffle your feet to stand closer.

"You be good to me," he whispers. "And I'll be good to you," he finishes with a kiss on the tip of your nose. "Since I have every intention of continuing on like this, I need to ask: are you on anything?"

You slowly blink bloodshot eyes open. "Like what?" you ask numbly.

He cards his fingers in your hair. "To prevent any unwanted consequences."

Oh. That.

"Yes."

Charlie scoffs. "Didn't take you for the type of girl who gets around."

"It helps with my periods," you spit. "Makes the flow not so heavy."

Dumbass.

He hums. "Didn't know that." He runs a hand down your back. "Just make sure to keep on top of it."

Your eyes flit around the empty parking lot. "But... Birth control doesn't always work—"

"Well, I have always wanted a family," he coos. "Could always benefit you if it did happen. Just think: you'd get to stay home barefoot and pregnant, and never have to work again. With my salary, you'd be well taken care of. What sort of young woman wouldn't want that for herself?"

Misogynistic bastard.

Peeling you away from the warmth his body momentarily provided, he pops your door open. "Something to consider," he states while resting his forearms atop the seal and his chin atop them as he studies you with sparkling eyes.

You toss your bag inside.

"See you tomorrow," the wolf says to the lamb.

Doting on you is one thing. A welcome aid in helping you flourish beneath his tutelage. But the growing attraction he's garnering toward you—someone young enough to have come from him—is a problem.

It is the aforementioned distraction.

Instead of studying charts or emptying the board over the nurses station, he chooses to stare at you. Instead of tugging on gloves during a trauma case, he takes an extra millisecond to brush a palm along your arm or back just to make physical contact. And instead of listening to the more solid differential diagnoses of his fellow attendings or senior residents, he asks for your train of thought just to hear your voice.

His own personal spot of sunshine.

You've slowly become his religion.

He'd be a better physician and teacher for it if he finally managed to create a bit of needed distance and reign in his adulation, but that idea goes right out the window the day you call him an unintended name, and your dynamic soon thereafter shifts entirely.

Treating a UTI is something Robby should've delegated to someone below him so that he could otherwise assist on a trauma case next door, but when he saw you wander into South 10 to aid, he couldn't help himself.

Now that the room is empty, save for the pair of you, you're enmeshed in silence while you each put various packaged supplies away before jumping onto the next case.

"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.

With shoulders now drawn tightly together, you blink dewy eyes in silent panic.

Oh God. What did you do?

His head snaps back in your direction and Robby studies you with a look of surprise. "What do you need, sweetheart?" he asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room, he attempts to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away for him to see it.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Wiping away unexpected tears, you shake your head then continue on.

Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."

He's just trying to minimize your mortification, you think. Somehow, though, it just makes you want to call him as much yet again.

"Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.

You shrug.

"Talk to me, honey," he insists.

"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So, I don't mean to make it worse—"

"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."

You can't keep talking about this.

"It won't happen again," you assure while stuffing sterile gauze back into a supply cart.

Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone together."

Your brows knit together and you turn to him. "What?"

Robby's head tilts and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He ghosts the back of his index finger down your soft cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."

He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you at ease when you're here, you can." Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he shuts the drawer you've now finished with. "I'd prefer it."

It's been three days and you haven't done it again. If anything, it seems like you're avoiding him now. Every effort Robby makes to reach out to you is met with resistance when you slip from his grasp to instead work with McKay, Langdon, or even Dana.

He's chomping at the bit to pull you back to his side where you belong.

"How's my girl?" Robby asks with a playful smile while rounding on you.

Glancing up from the glossy iPad you're currently getting a quick bit of charting accomplished on, you blink up at him. "Oh. I'm okay. You?"

Robby bobs his head from side to side. "Be better if I understood why you seem to be avoiding me all of a sudden." He slides the least bit closer while resting a forearm atop the counter in front of you. "This behavior have anything to do with what happened the other day?"

Returning to the tablet, you try to flit through the thoughts in your mind like organized folders, but ultimately come up blank in terms of a reply.

Pressing the wealth of his broad chest against your side, Robby leans in closer. "I told you I was okay with it, sweetheart." Cupping your opposite shoulder in his hand, he brings his lips close to your ear. "I keep hoping you'll say it again." He shrugs. "Just to see how it feels."

"I-I already did," you stammer.

"It'd be intentional this time," he mutters. Robby watches you type for a moment. "Can you try for me? If you feel comfortable with that?"

Your fingers halt atop the digital keyboard. This seems rather important to him, but the potential of calling Dr. Michael Robinavitch a paternal name... The butterflies in your stomach are now fluttering so hard that you fear you may be sick from nerves.

"D—" you pause and swallow thickly.

"Go on, honey," he encourages. "It's just you and me."

"Dad," you whisper.

A smile tugs at his bearded lips. "Thank you," he rumbles with renewed relief blooming in his chest. "Remember, anytime we're alone. Alright?"

You tilt your head to look at him and your nose nearly brushes against Robby's because of how close he's standing. "Okay... Daddy."

You figured you'd try it. Maybe it'd feel less strange and cringe-worthy than the more formal 'dad'.

He cocks his head and squints an eye in silent debate. "Much prefer the other one," he states with a peck on your forehead.

In the last handful of weeks, you've become rather accustomed to your new... Well, you don't know what other word to use for it, other than arrangement. It took a bit more incentive on Robby's end to keep the momentum going at the beginning due to your hesitation, as well as laughing from nerves every time he tried to lay down some fatherly conviction initially, but now it's become a daily custom.

Hourly, really.

He's unaware, but his ordering you lunch a few times and offering to buy whatever it was that he glimpsed in your Amazon cart when he spied over your shoulder to see what you were window-shopping for one afternoon weren't the reasons you kept doing it. It was because of how happy it seemed to make him—how he'd beam each time you gently gripped the sleeve of his hoody with a playfully murmured 'Hi, dada' during slower moments in the ED. Robby doesn't seem to mind that one either, so you fluctuate between it and Dad.

Like this morning, when you were hopping up and down in the staff lounge, trying quite poorly to knock down a coffee cup so that you could have a bit of caffeine before your day officially began. You were just considering dragging a chair over to stand on when Robby swung inside. "Somethin' you need help with, sweetheart?"

Shrinking in embarrassment, you eye a stack of paperboard cups that're mocking you from the top shelf. "They're supposed to be kept on the counter next to the coffee pot," you complain.

He chuckles. "Honey, if you wanted coffee, you could've just called or texted me. I would've picked you up some on the way in."

With ease, he grabs the desired items and sets them down in their rightful place. "Have you ate yet?" he questions with crossed arms.

Tugging a cup free from plastic wrap, you pull out the coffee pot and begin to carefully pour. "Well... No. Not yet."

You nearly wince when he sighs.

Time for a lecture.

"Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving the house on an empty stomach? Every time you do, it's only two hours into your shift before you start shaking from low blood sugar."

You frown, then turn toward the fridge and roll your eyes while searching for creamer.

If Robby saw you do that, there'd be hell to pay for it later. He dislikes when you get bratty, even minimally. You've gathered that he prefers you sweet.

"It's a choice between breakfast, or another half hour of sleep." You unscrew the cap of caramel creamer and begin to pour. "I choose sleep," you mumble.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "God forbid you do what your father asks you to."

Tucking the bottle back away in the shared fridge, you almost burst into laughter.

Sometimes this still feels like a bizarre form of roleplay to you. Maybe if you were closer in age, or he wasn't the chief attending of the ED and so incredibly intimidating to top it all off, then you wouldn't find it hysterical.

"Not trying to make you mad," you say quietly while sipping your steaming drink. "It's not your job to worry about me. Especially when there are people coming in with heart attacks, strokes, and—"

"As my daughter, yes, it is," he states firmly with hands planted on hips.

You sip again, but very slowly to hide your smirk.

You're mostly amused because he's taking this whole thing so very seriously.

"I'll eat a bagel on my next break, ok? Or a candy bar."

He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "This fuckin' kid," he murmurs. Lowering his chin again, he glares daggers at you through narrowed eyes. "Candy bar. So pure sugar."

You sigh, then go to step past him, until Robby grabs you by the forearm. "I will get you something from the lunch cart when they bring it around. And whatever I put in front of you, I expect you to eat. Understand?"

"Yes, dad."

He runs his thumb along the soft skin of your inner arm while silently considering. "Come back to my place with me tonight so I can make you dinner," he says with a much softer tone.

You glance up to him.

Releasing you, he cups your cheek instead. "As my..." he sighs. "I want my little girl to feel just as comfortable at her dad's place as she does at her own. And if the only way I can get you to eat something decent is by making you, then so be it."

You smile up at him while batting your lashes. "Chicken nuggets for dinner?"

His smile instantly fades while a brow is raised instead.

You snort, then take another sip of your coffee. "I'm kidding," you explain. Standing on tiptoes, you kiss his stubbled cheek. "Whatever dada wants, he gets."

On the dot two hours later, a wrapped sandwich is tossed down in front of where you sit at your work station. "Eat up," Robby barks. "Dad's orders."

Walking over to a computer cart with long, steady strides, he retrieves his readers from his scrub pocket and slides them over the wide bridge of his nose before watching you from a distance.

You look at him out of the corner of your eye and note how he only turns to the monitor in front of him once your meal is halfway gone.

Once naught is left but plastic wrap, you swivel in his direction, ball it up, then toss it into a trash can.

He nods while mouthing 'good girl' before heading into an exam room.

Your tummy squeezes excitedly when you watch him go.

Kneeling beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"

You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."

He slides a palm over your knee before giving it a solid pat. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."

Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, dada."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.

"Oh, shoot," you hiss. There's a particular remark you meant to make on your last patient, but neglected to. God forbid you forget it again while finishing up with your current chart.

It never ends.

Swiping a stack of sticky notes from the edge of the desk, you glance around in search of an ink pen. "Could you hand me that, Robby?" you ask while nodding to a ballpoint resting next to his elbow.

He continues studying his cell, so you wait a second. Reading something, perhaps?

"Robby," you exclaim with a raised brow.

Is he ignoring you?

"Hellooo?" you drawl.

You could swear a smirk just ghosted across his lips... And with his legs beneath you, you can't just roll over there.

A figurative lightbulb dings to life then. "Dad?" you bark with growing irritation.

Locking his phone, he grants you his full attention. "Yes, honey?"

You shake your head with a sigh. "Pen."

Plucking it from the desktop, he hands it to you with a smile, accompanied by a mischievous wink.

Now being within the confines of his home, you'd think Robby would feel far more at ease. Instead, watching as you stare up at him waiting for direction, he feels suddenly out of his depth.

He doesn't want to squander this moment.

"Would you like to take a shower while I get started on dinner?" he asks with a thin smile.

"Oh," you say with a start. "Well, besides a change of scrubs in my bag—"

"You can wear something of mine," Robby suggests while pulling you along toward his bedroom.

"It'll be more like a nightgown," he remarks while holding up a dark blue t-shirt. "But at least you'll be comfortable."

You gingerly take the soft cotton garment from him and clutch it happily to your chest. "Thank you, dada."

His eyes shimmer in the low light the moon provides through the bedroom window that stands at his back, and he cups the base of your scalp. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

He dithers for a moment, then with the quiet scuffle of socked feet on hardwood floors, turns you around to lead you toward an awaiting shower.

Dining on a heaping plate of saucy, seasoned spaghetti—he made more than he should've in an effort to impress—and buttery slices of garlic toast, Robby watches from beneath his lashes and in-between bites of his meal as you gradually clean your plate.

He can't help the sense of satisfaction that settles upon him at the sight of you so safe and content in his home; at his table. Washed in his soaps, wearing his clothes, eating food he prepared for you.

He wants to ask if he's a good enough dad to you, but feels strange about it. Is he being ridiculous? Somehow immature? A man his age playing surrogate father to his work subordinate because he's that fucking desperate for a family...

It's not your problem to solve.

What if you've only kept on with this whole ruse because you're afraid of displeasing him?

Pushing the dish away, he finds that he's suddenly lost his appetite.

God, he's fucking sick.

"You okay?" you ask after a swift slurp of spaghetti, followed up by a generous sip of tinkling ice water.

Crossing his arms, you feel the energy of the room shift suddenly into that of tightened tension.

"Just lost my appetite," he rumbles.

You drop your fork and it clatters against the edge of your porcelain plate. "Did I...do something?"

He lowers his chin and shakes his head infinitesimally. "It's not you."

Your chin wobbles. "Do you want me to leave?"

Robby's eyes of darkened brown flit to yours. "No. No," he replies while leaning across the table toward you. "I'm just...getting in my head. I'm sorry, baby."

"About?" you ask warily.

"Are we—" he sighs and scrubs a calloused hand down his tired face. "Are we being foolish here? Playing at daddy-daughter like we have some right, or even valid reason to?" His eyes search yours for an answer. "You're not just going along with it to stroke my ego, right? Because it'd gut me to find out that the only reason you've let it ride like you have is to benefit me."

"Oh, Robby," you sigh dolefully.

Prying his strong arms apart, you lace your fingers between his and hold fast to him. "No. Not at all. I know sometimes it's been for the sake of playfulness. At first, did it feel a bit absurd? Sure. But not now. Now, just like you wanted, it brings me comfort and makes me feel...special. That you see me in such a way in return, I mean; want me to be that for you."

He rolls his head to the side and studies you. "Are you sure?"

Lifting his hand to your lips, you press a tender kiss to the back of it. "Yes, dad, I am."

Now consoled, his lip twitches in contentment. "C'mere," he commands with a slight jerk of his head and wave of his hand while pushing his seat back.

Rising from your own, you settle yourself sideways in his lap and circle his neck with your arms.

Sliding a palm between your legs, he encourages them apart with a careful push. "Spread your legs for me, baby."

Plopping one foot on the floor, you grant him requested access to what lies between your thighs. Pressing two fingers against already slick folds, he prods gently against your fluttering entrance.

Lying your head on his shoulder, your eyes gently close when Robby swipes a lubricated fingertip across your clit, followed by easing a single digit inside you. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs.

You card your fingers in his hair while clutching at the neck of his shirt with your other palm. "Y-yes, dada," you whimper.

"Good girl," Robby utters with a kiss.

Apparently work isn't the only place Robby sees fit to teach you at.

You feel like you're learning new things about your body right now. Like how if someone pushes down on the lower portion of your belly—right above your pubic mound—while fingering you with rapid abandon, it feels even more pleasurable than ordinary masturbation.

Interrupted only by the occasional swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit, you clutch helplessly at smooth sheets of dark grey which smell satisfyingly of Robby. His cologne: hints of pine and fresh rain, and soap: a hint of masculine musk.

His personal aroma is like that of the color evergreen. Homey, verdant, and wild.

Lifting your hips slightly, Robby pushes them back down while hammering his fingers away between your slick, stretchy walls.

"Ooooh my fucking God," you cry while letting your legs fall apart again.

"Hey," Robby pants while staring at you from beneath hooded lids. "Look at me, young lady."

Lifting your head, you force yourself up onto your forearms. "W-What?"

"I don't wanna hear foul language like that ever again. If you do say it again, I'm washing that mouth out with soap," he spits.

You throw your head back down against a fluffy pillow. "S-sorry, dada," you whine.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he coos. "Just know..." he says while swallowing the saliva that's pooling in his mouth. "That you're never too old for me to put you over my knee."

Your eyes roll back in your head. "Ah... Okay."

Pulling his fingers from your cunt, he snaps his hand, then flexes it while you start to whimper from the loss of sexual stimulation.

"Please," you blubber while digging your nails into your scalp.

"Fuckin' hand is cramping," he mutters. Easing his index and middle fingers from his non-dominant hand between your pulsing walls, he gets back to work.

"Y-You just cursed," you complain.

"Dad gets to set the rules," he states before kissing your clit with a loud smack. "Doesn't mean he's obligated to follow them."

Your head lulls to the side. "No fair," you whisper.

He chuckles. "Think you'll forgive me when you finally cum all over dada's fingers."

Cuddled against Robby's soft chest, you snuggle against warm, doughy skin that's smattered with curls of dark hair.

You love it here.

"There's something I've been thinking about," he mutters before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

You hum in interest.

"I worry about you and burnout," he elaborates. "Some days I can tell are better than others, but... The ED is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. After, I come back here—to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."

You slide a leg between his and curl it around his calf.

"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.

You yawn and plant a palm against his pec. "Are you...asking me to—"

"Move in," he interrupts. "At least temporarily to see how it works out." He lovingly kisses your brow. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He tightens his arms around you like vines. "Seems those things found me in the end."

He chuckles darkly. "Two for one, apparently."

You smoosh your face against his chest. "Whatever dada wants," you say while readying yourself for sleep. "Dad gets."

He splays his palm against your naked back. "Thank you, honey."

Either way, you're proud that the local establishment is now held in such high regard; particularly since you know the accomplishment means so much to so many.

You swing back around and continue on to the wooden door that'll lead you to the kitchen where your roommate should currently be.

Grant glances up from the assortment of ingredients he's currently considering for a taste test if he can combine them just so, when the kitchen door unexpectedly swings open and a strange young woman practically welcomes herself inside the private space.

He finds himself taken aback for a moment—someone barging into his kitchen with seemingly no hesitation is a first—before he springs into action. Tossing down the sharpened gourmet knife he holds with a clatter, he advances on you. "Excuse me! What the hell do you think you're doing back here?"

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off short before you can start pleading for a handout.

"The sign out front clearly stated closed. You're trespassing in a private establishment. You're lucky I don't call the police."

Grabbing you roughly by the forearm, he ushers you back out to the dining area.

You sputter all the while in an attempt to try and provide explanation. "I was just—my friend. She works here. My roommate. Andrea wanted me to—"

He turns you back around to him. "Andrea? My commis chef?"

You nod fervently and blink back the tears that're brimming in your eyes from fear. "She asked me to meet her so we could walk home together. I'm so sorry." You stumble back a step. "I'll—I'll go wait outside. Please don't be mad."

Just as you swivel on your heel to flee, Grant takes you firmly by the hand. "No, I am."

You still, then hesitate before finally turning around again.

"Sorry," he continues. "I should've given you a second to explain. It's just..." he shakes his head with a sigh. "Been a long day," he finishes while running long fingers through salt and pepper curls.

"I'm Grant. Reilly. Head Chef," he states with an extended hand, now that he's finally released your own.

You wait a moment then shake it—ignoring how yours still trembles.

It sends a wave of regret through him that he made you fearful in the first place.

"Y/N," you supply quietly. "I can just," you point a thumb over your shoulder, "Go wait on the bench outside."

He shakes his head, then wraps a steady arm around your shoulders and leads you over to a corner booth. "I'd rather you did so here. Safer for you than on the street."

Once you've plopped down in a plush seat, you tuck your bag away and consider a menu off to the side to give yourself something to do. Your phone is an option, but he's standing right there. Perusing their selection of wines will at least make you come off as interested in his flourishing business.

"Are you thirsty?" Grant asks with a far more gentle tone than the one he had a moment ago. "I could bring you a glass of water."

You shake your head, then pull a bottle from your bag and hold it up for inspection. "I've got it covered, but thank you."

Considering for a moment, Grant surveys your glittering eyes and soft lips. "Make yourself comfortable. We're prepping for tomorrow, so it may still be awhile yet."

You wave a hand dismissively, then toss a paperback novel from your shoulder bag onto the table. "I'll keep myself occupied," you remark with a reassuring nod.

He turns and leaves you to your reading material.

Once he's securely hidden away behind a solid stainless steel door, Grant rests calloused hands upon a gleaming metal countertop in an attempt to steady his heart. With his head hung heavily between his shoulders, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

You're here. For the first time, you're here.

And he nearly blew it.

You've never met—don't know one another from Adam, truthfully—but he's seen photos of you before on Andrea's lockscreen during the times she's pulled her cell out to check for notifications during her fleeting breaks. That, and in photos she's uploaded to her Instagram.

It was the only reason he followed her back to begin with: to be able to appreciate the sight of you, even from a distance.

He's not some infatuated stalker, though. No, just an admirer. The first time he ever saw you—ever heard your soft-spoken voice—had been in a short video she uploaded to her... What is the feature called again? Story? Reel?

They're always changing things.

Andrea had hidden behind the camera while she snuck into your room and filmed you hunched over a tiny desk. You'd been wholly oblivious not only to her presence, but the rest of the world it seemed as you typed furiously away on a laptop.

He'd assumed you were a college student, until she announced your name with gusto, followed up by "the next New York Times bestselling author!" You had tried desperately to hide your face from the camera in adorable mortification, but failed miserably when she tugged one of your hands away, revealing your warm smile beneath.

He's watched that video at least a dozen times. Has observed your towering bookshelf that was clearly organized with thoughtful care, and the trinkets you have arranged on small floating shelves above your workspace.

How did he fail to recognize you in person?

So much for first impressions...

Grant felt how your delicate hand trembled in his. As such, he needs to make this right.

"What's your friend's favorite food?" Grant demands with crossed arms while peering at Andrea from over the bridge of his nose.

Removing her attentions from a stack of carrots she's working her way through with a slicer, she blinks up at him. "What? Wait. She's here? Shit," she curses while making to tug her apron off.

He clicks his tongue. "I still need you to finish prepping. I want to make something for her, so give me a dish. Any dish. Now."

Her brows wrinkle together. "From the menu, or—"

"What does she eat a lot of at home?" he inquires.

She snorts quietly. "You're not gonna like the answer."

"Well, unless it's moldy bread—"

"Easy Mac," she retorts. "Rice-a-Roni, Ramen, frozen pizzas..."

He raises an incredulous brow. "She lives with you and that's the kind of..." He shouldn't judge. He's had them all himself. And he'd be lying if he claimed to hate every bite. Depending on the brand and flavor, they're not half bad. "That's what you let her eat?'

She rolls her eyes and returns to slicing carrots into thin strips. "I don't let her do anything. She's a grown woman. And I eat 'em, too. Makes for an easy meal sometimes, y'know?"

He rolls his eyes. "So, she likes macaroni."

"She should take stock in Kraft," she mumbles. "I've told her a hundred times to just get the damn boxes because she'd be buying more for less, but she likes having the little cups so that she doesn't have to wash a pot or bowl afterward."

Like a little kid, he muses with a smirk.

Fine. Dad will just have make you something filling to eat, then.

Turning a burner onto medium-high heat, Grant gets to work on preparing you the best damn macaroni you've ever had in your young life.

He boils a large pot of water first, then gets to work on whipping a bowl of cream cheese into smooth perfection. He follows it up with hand-grating three separate cheese blocks while the water heats. Once bubbles start popping on the surface, he pours a container of elbow pasta in and stirs until the noodles are al dente.

Once Grant has strained them, he pours the cream cheese into a pan, followed by noodles and more cream cheese and a couple cups of shredded cheese, along with a few odd spices for taste. He tops it off with a final thick layer of shredded cheese on top, then slips the dish into the oven with a tin foil cover to bake.

A very basic dish, yes, but one that will still hopefully serve to impress and endear you to him.

As the macaroni sits in the oven, he peers through the glass window at the top of the kitchen door and watches you flip through your novel.

Perhaps he should be embarrassed by his behavior. And not just that which he has and is currently exhibiting tonight, but the fact that he's already mildly infatuated with you.

He doesn't know why, really. He's never been able to place his finger on it.

Love at first sight?

But does that really count when it comes to curated social media?

Maybe he's just lonely in his latter years and has projected onto you. It's not that he has some great expectation in mind of who you are or what you're really like. He's just...enchanted by what little he's already seen.

But it's easy to fall for a mysterious stranger just by their looks.

A timer rings, and he returns to the oven to pull out a dish of golden-brown perfection.

You wrench your book back when a ceramic deep dish full of what appears to be baked macaroni is slid in front of you.

With your book clutched to your chest, you gaze up at Grant. "Oh. Hello again."

The corner of his lip twitches; wanting to verge into a smile on your account. "My way of apologizing," he explains with a nod toward the steaming dinner he's presenting you with. "For being an ass," he mutters as he takes the booth across from where you sit.

"No," you chirp, setting your book back in your bag. "It's okay. Really. I should've never barged in like that. It was inappropriate."

He purses his lips and shakes his head. "You did nothing wrong. My reaction was way out of line. So dinner's on me."

You study the melted golden-brown cheese on top. It's so incredibly kind that he took time out of his already late night to do this. "Well... It's your kitchen. Would be like someone barging into your home. Would you give them time to explain their motives before you jumped into action?"

He glances toward the ceiling in faux contemplation while bobbing his head back and forth, like he's silently debating with himself. "No," he replies while looking at you once more. "I'd probably grab my gun."

Your brows shoot up. "You have a gun?"

He chuckles while handing you a small plate. "I was in the Army some twenty-odd-years ago. So I have a few."

You take it from him and your cheeks warm when your fingertips brush against Grant's. "What did you do when you served?"

He glances to the steaming macaroni, then to you again in answer.

"You were a cook then, too?"

Grant nods. "Was where I got my start, in terms of making it into a career."

"Did you always know it's what you wanted to do?"

Pulling a silver fork out of a cloth napkin, he taps the end of it against the table. "Yes and no. I've always enjoyed cooking and baking. But it took me finally doing it for others—a lot of others—for me to realize that it was my true calling."

He stabs the fork into the mac and cheese, then lifts it toward you. "Blow," he instructs.

You do until steam disappears.

When you open, he eases the tines into your mouth, the sets the fork on your plate. "D'you like it?"

You take your time chewing and tasting before swallowing.

When you lick your lips, he feels a stirring below his belt.

"It's really good," you say with a grand smile that he can't help but return.

He's made you happy. And that fact makes him so very glad.

"Yeah?" he asks with a laugh.

"It's delicious," you say while scooping a heaping portion onto your plate. "What did you put in it?"

"Besides sugar, spice, and everything nice?" he asks sarcastically, which earns him a bubbly giggle. "Cream cheese, three different cheeses which I shredded by hand, and a few dashes of various spices."

He took care when making this for you.

"You did all this to say sorry?" you ask quietly.

He rests his shoe next to yours beneath the table. "I did."

Grant pulls out another fork. "So, am I forgiven?"

How odd for a stranger to care in the least what you think or feel. It's a welcome change, though, even if it's only temporary. Taking his fork from him, you return the gesture from earlier and feed him a bite as well.

Grant barely manages to keep his mouth closed long enough to chew because he's smiling so much.

"You are."

"Hey," Grant says, catching you and Andrea at the door before you head out for home.

He rests an easy palm against your back and you turn to meet his searching eyes.

"Come back and see me again some time," he encourages. Dropping his hand, he instead squeezes your fingers. "Next meal is on the house, just like tonight."

You smile, and nearly kiss him on the cheek for his kindness. "Thank you," you reply with a nod. "Have a good night, Grant."

His breath catches in his throat at you having finally said his name, and he watches you go—only turning back to the interior once you've disappeared.

What started as a hectic, nightmarish day has ended in perfection.

It's been almost two weeks and he's not seen hide or hair of you. Was the meal he prepared for you not as good as you let on? Was it him? Did he do too much, or not enough?

The two of you had only just met, so there's always a chance that he came on too strong; made you uncomfortable.

Living with the not knowing, however—his stomach squeezing painfully each time the restaurant door opens, only for him to fill with disappointment a moment later because it isn't the face he wants to see—is pure fucking torture.

He wants his girl back... Just one more time.

"Any reason she never took me up on my offer?" Grant questions with a low, gravely tone.

Andrea finishes tugging on her jacket before grabbing her purse and turning to look at her superior. "Huh? What?"

"Your roommate," he explains. He feels, for whatever reason, that using your name would make this seem too personal—would give him away too easily. As if pouting over your lack of presence doesn't already. "I offered her a free meal and—"

"Ah," she replies with a nod. "She's been busy. Picking up extra shifts at the library on the weekend."

And downing Easy Mac on the go, he presumes.

You deserve better than a microwavable snack.

He takes a step back while tossing a dishtowel over his strong shoulder. You're being an adult; working more for a bit of extra cash. And here he is, pining after you like a lovesick teen.

He's learned something new about you, at least: your occupation. Makes perfect sense with your passion for reading and apparent storytelling.

Suits you, Grant thinks.

Swiping up a ripe tomato to return to its rightful place across the kitchen, he nods. "Got it."

"Hey, so, you need to go back to the restaurant at some point," Andrea remarks from your apartment's dimly lit entryway.

Leaning back against the couch behind you, you pause your typing on a Bluetooth keyboard. Crappy makeshift computer set up—it, coupled with the small glass screen of your phone, that is—but you don't have much of another option right now with your laptop being away for diagnosis. And given it can be saved, subsequent treatment.

"What?" you ask while turning to face her with crossed legs.

"Grant," she explains while hanging up her jacket, then purse. "He asked about you tonight and why you haven't been by to take him up on his offer for free food or whatever."

Oh.

You'd nearly forgotten about that, you've been so preoccupied with other things.

So he was serious? You'd thought he was, of course, but the question being just how much? Had it just been meant as a passing comment in kind, or was it a genuine invitation he intended on you fulfilling your end of?

"Does he..." you begin hesitantly. "Feed a lot of girls for free?"

She plops down on the couch behind you. "Not that I'm aware of. I spend a lot of time staying late to help clean up and prep and this is the first I've ever seen of such behavior."

You glance back to the cheap LED keyboard.

"Was surprised he made you mac and cheese that night, tell you the truth. He's a great chef and a good boss—even if he can be a hard-ass—but he's never gone out of his way like that before."

She playfully taps your shoulder with her toes. "Must really like you. Probably wants you back there and bent over every surface he can find while you cry yes, Chef! yes, Chef! all the while," she thinks aloud with a snigger.

You quickly turn around to hide your embarrassment. "He's a little old for me."

She snorts while rising and padding toward her bedroom for a change of clothes before she showers. "That's what makes it all the hot-ter," she finishes with a sing-song voice. "Oh, turn up the heat, daddy!" Andrea cries from an open doorway.

You bury your face in your hands.

Once you're within the safe confines of an empty North & Vine again, you stand awkwardly near the door. You don't want to ambush Grant again by waltzing into the kitchen unexpectedly, so you finally opt to seat yourself at the same booth as last time instead.

You're sure he'll emerge eventually and catch sight of you.

Just when Grant pushes past the kitchen's heavy swinging door, he halts in his tracks.

You came back again.

Andrea must've said something.

He hopes you didn't feel pressured to return; to humor his boyish fancy. Letting things go might've been better for everyone, but he can't seem to get you off his mind no matter how hard he tries.

Coming nearer with slow, steady strides, he frowns at the sight of you so unhappy while you stare down at your cellphone. He never did ask if you were single. But if that's the cause for your displeasure tonight—some young asshole who doesn't know how to treat you—then he'll do all he can to set things right until you're content again.

"Everything okay?" Grant asks quietly. "Seem distracted tonight."

Quickly locking your phone, you glance up to him with a forced smile and a nod. "Oh. Yeah. It's not a big deal."

Grant considers for a moment while chewing the inside of his cheek. "Boyfriend problems?"

You snort. "Stopped bothering with those a long time ago."

Which is either very lucky, or very unlucky for him.

Taking the seat across from you like last time, he folds his hands together. "Anything I can help with?"

You shake your head. "No. It's just my laptop. Got a quote back from a repair shop for how much it'd cost to get it working again." Your eyes flit to his. "Might as well just buy a new computer," you grumble.

He wants to ask about your writing project, but then you'll wonder as to how he even knows about it in the first place. "Do you use it for work?"

"Not really," you reply while toying with a sea salt shaker. "Writing, mostly."

"You didn't lose anything—"

"No, thank God. I keep everything backed up on a cloud drive." You sigh and return the condiment to its rightful home at the back of the table. "I've been using a Bluetooth keyboard so I can write using my cell, but I hate having to use a smaller screen. And because the keyboard is, too, I keep making tons of typos."

You grow quiet for a moment.

He wants to offer to run out and get you a new one right now—whichever you'd like—but fears that such a gesture would make him come off way too strong.

He'll figure out another method to help his girl.

"Anyway," you say, now wanting to change the subject from your technical woes. "Andrea said you asked about me?"

He actually fucking flushes. Only because he's made his damn crush that apparent. "Just wanted to see you again," he replies with a casual shrug and a smile. Pulling a menu from a wooden holder, he drops it in front of you. "Choose whatever you like and I'll make it."

You blink a couple times in surprise. You knew it's what you were coming here for, but you still have yet to understand it. His wanting to cater to you must stem from an attraction, but it doesn't make this any less unconventional.

Should you consider this a date? Does he? What precisely are the two of you doing here?

Flipping the laminated menu open, you begin to peruse various hard-to-pronounce dishes. "Why, um... Why did you want me to—"

"Maybe I just like watching you eat," he interrupts with a smirk.

Shyly, you peer at him from over the top of the menu you hold before hiding behind it again.

He chuckles quietly at your adorable antics.

A cheeseburger.

You're a simple girl, he'll give you that much, but he was hoping for something that would require a bit more effort on his part than a seared patty and brioche bun. But as long as you leave here with a full belly and a thankful smile, he's content.

He did invite you back into the kitchen so that you could observe him in his element, though. All rolled-up sleeves, an apron which clings to his muscled chest, and sharp knives which slice through tomatoes as easy as a guillotine are the attractions he provides for your viewing pleasure.

"So," he begins while adjusting the gas burner on the stove with pinched fingertips. "Andrea tells me you work at a library around here."

"I do," you reply simply. "At the Boston Public Library. It's really nice there."

He hums in interest while patting ground beef into a plump, round patty. "But you want to be a writer," he states.

You shift on your feet from where you stand behind him. "If I ever manage to finish the book I'm working on." You shrug while toying with a loose string hanging from the hem of your top. "It gives me something to do in my spare time, at least."

He hates how defeated you sound—like you've resigned yourself to never accomplishing your dream. Is it because you're losing interest in the project, or because you don't think you're good enough and have what it takes?

"I'd love to read it," Grant says while placing the patty in a lightly oiled non-stick pan before stepping over to the sink to wash his hands. "Whenever it's finished."

You shrug. "You don't even know what it's about."

He turns back to you while drying his hands. "Do I need to? It's something you're passionate about. That's enough for me."

Your eyes flit between his until he turns back to the stove.

You watch as his shoulder blades shift beneath his thin white t-shirt as he flips the burger over.

"This is just something for you to keep in mind, but being in the culinary business, I know journalists—people in publishing. So if you're ever looking to get your foot in the door, I can help with that."

You're surprised by how selfless he seems. Thoughtful.

You understand then why Andrea has stuck around so long, despite the stressors of being in hospitality.

He's a good man.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Placing the medium-rare patty on a crispy bun, he lays a slice of cheddar cheese on top to begin melting, a tomato, pickles, and a bit of garnish, followed by the top bun. "Anytime."

He watches with utter satisfaction as you chow down. Had Grant had a bit more time to prepare, he would've made you up a plate of hand-cut seasoned fries as well, but given the size of the burger, he hopes it'll be enough to satiate your appetite.

"Good?" he asks while dragging a finger along the edge of your plate to gather a drop of mustard before popping it in his mouth.

You nod fervently while chewing.

"Have to give me an actual challenge next time. Comfort food is your favorite type of cuisine, though, isn't it?"

Another nod.

Could whip up some fried chicken next time. Not necessarily difficult to make, but rather to perfect. Just the right amount of crisp on the outside with a balance of seasoned sumptuousness on the in can be a difficult combo to achieve.

Honestly? Grants wants to make you everything on the whole damn menu.

Would certainly keep you coming back to him time and again if he did.

It's a tempting thought: feeding you every night when you come home from work. Especially from his own hand. He's replayed you taking a bite of macaroni from the fork he held the first time you met repeatedly.

He briefly considers how he could get you to suck melted chocolate off his fingers.

"What's yours?" you ask while dabbing at your lips with a freshly laundered napkin.

Grant leans back. Resting his tanned forearms atop the table, he thinks. "If you can believe it, I don't have one. When it comes to food, I make an effort to keep my options open. There's always something new to try. To make or taste. Guess I worry that if I develop a 'favorite' I'll start to limit myself by getting too comfortable with one particular food or handful of meals."

Makes sense to you. Hence your appreciation for cheap microwavable or oven-ready boxed food.

"Favorite thing to make, then?"

He grins. "Sort of the same answer. Convoluted dishes give me a challenge, but I still have an appreciation for the simple things in life," he states with a nod toward your slowly emptying plate.

"Seems like you enjoy keeping an open mind."

He leans in close while studying your lips with a smile. "I definitely do."

You're reticent to ask what tonight was. Why Grant seems to so enjoy watching you eat.

It's flattering, at least. A welcome change from past dates from long ago where you always wanted to order a salad, or turn away altogether so you couldn't be watched with a scrutinizing gaze as you ate.

Rocking onto the balls of your feet, you look up at Grant with a smile. "Thank you again."

He runs a rough palm down your arm. "Here to serve," he replies with a lopsided smile.

"Well... Goodnight," you chirp with a quick nod.

Leaning down, he brushes his lips over your soft cheek. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Sooo," Andrea drawls from the doorway of your bedroom. "Have you checked your email today?"

You pause Netflix and turn to her with furrowed brows. "This morning like I always do. Why?"

"Might wanna check it again," she states. "Grant asked me for your email today. Didn't say why, though," your roommate relays.

"Maybe it's just a recipe," you ponder. Grabbing your phone from the middle of the bed, you navigate to your email, find one from not quite two hours ago from the man in question, and when you open it, your jaw drops.

"Oooh, what is it? Dirty pictures involving whip cream and stacked donuts?"

You slam a palm against your forehead. "Oh God. He can't just—"

She pads around the side of your bed and takes the device from you before barking a ridiculous laugh. "A fucking grand?!" she cries.

You take the phone back from her. "It's for a local tech store." Your eyes scan the attached gift message. "For your time & your new computer. Remember that I get to read it first. — Grant"

Andrea folds her arms and frowns. "Does he mean your novel? Promised that privilege to me..." she pouts.

You stare at her. "You—Yes, you still can. But I—I have to send this back." Tossing off a throw blanket, you stand and begin to pace.

"Man, he wants that cookie bad."

You level her with a glare.

"Alright," she relents with raised palms of surrender. "No more food puns."

"Do you think it works like a check? Like, unless I use it the money stays in his account?" you ask while looking at her.

She shrugs. "Maybe. Sure wish he'd give me a damn thousand dollar bonus. What'd you do the last time you went a week ago?"

"I told you!" you shout hysterically. "He made me a cheeseburger. I ate it, then came back here. That's it."

"I eat in front of the old man every day. He's never wanted to reward me for it." She pinches her stomach, then shrugs. "Probably a good thing or you'd be rolling me out of here before long."

"I have to make him take it back or undo it," you say while heading in the direction of your closet so you can get changed. "This is too much."

"So he wants to be your sugar daddy—"

You narrow your eyes and jerk your head back in her direction.

"Not intended to be another pun. That's just the name for it," she mumbles. "As I was saying: I fail to see how it's a bad thing."

"I've been saving up. I don't—" You toss a loose ankle-length dress onto the bed. Something simple. You don't need to dress up. No, you need to get going before he locks up for the night. "That isn't me."

"Grant?" you shout into the empty restaurant. "Are you here?"

A smile curls lips lined by silver stubble and laugh lines bracket his mouth. Hanging his apron on a hook, Grant emerges from behind the kitchen door. Greeted by the sight of you in a simple, soft black dress that almost looks more like a comfortable nightgown, he grins. "Got your attention, huh?"

"You... You have to take it back. Cancel it or something," you plead.

Crossing the room to reach you, he reaches forward and brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek. "No can do," he replies with a shake of his head.

"But—"

"You don't need to feel guilty," Grant tells you. "Guess just feeding you dinner wasn't enough for me." He shrugs. "Wanted to help take care of you another way."

Before this moment, you've only been around each other twice before. Two times. You absolutely refuse to believe that you made enough of an impression to justify him gifting you one thousand dollars!

You open your mouth to continue insisting, until he rests his palms heavily atop your shoulders. "You wanna repay me?"

You waver. "Yes..."

"Then let me teach you."

He begins tugging you along behind him toward the kitchen, and you gulp nervously.

Time for you to set the damn place on fire, apparently.

"Slow, sweetheart, slow," Grant mutters quietly against your ear. "Don't want to get it all over yourself or you'll be soaked."

After leading you back into the kitchen, Grant gathered all the ingredients required to teach you how to make an excellent traditional southern fried chicken recipe, which he said the pair of you could eat together.

At current, you're whisking together milk and lemon juice to prep your own homemade buttermilk.

With Grant pressed against your back, and his hands leading your own while he croons encouragement and instructions in your ear, you fear that this cooking lesson may soon end in disaster if you don't get yourself under control. And soon.

"Good," he coos. "Nice and smooth. Good girl."

You nearly whimper when you feel a fluttering start up between your legs.

"Alright, set that to the side, then grab the chicken next and we'll dip each section until it's dripping and coat them in flour."

You swallow thickly, nod, then slide the bowl across the counter to keep it far from you, lest you knock it over and make a mess. Grabbing a sheet of raw chicken, you pick up piece after piece and dip them in the liquid mixture, followed by dropping them into a thick paper bag and shaking until Grant tells you to stop. You then place each prepped piece of poultry onto a new sheet until you've completed the current step.

"Alright, wash your hands and I'll guide you on what to do next."

Without the heat of his body stationed behind you, you're made very aware of how a thin sheet of sweat has coated the back of your neck. As such, you take your time washing your hands. Enjoying the cold water, you don't stop scrubbing until your palms and fingers are sudsy and clean.

Grant motions for you to rejoin him once you've shut the faucet off.

Assuming your previous position, he stands impossibly closer. "Here," he whispers before pulling an apron on over your head. "Should've done this before we started. Sorry."

You stay silent as his hands trail just beneath your breasts to grab the ties at the front of the acorn-brown apron to circle them around your waist.

"There," Grant says while pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head. "I've got you covered."

"Now," he says while adjusting the burner. "Fill your skillet with vegetable oil. About a third of the way. I'll tell you when to stop."

Grabbing a glass bottle, you start to pour, but slowly. The oil spreads across the cast iron skillet, and after a beat, Grant speak again. "Alright, that's good. Plenty slick enough to cook with."

You draw in a deep breath, then eye the chicken. "How long do we—"

"Awhile," he interrupts while sliding his hands from your shoulders to your upper arms. "It needs to get hot." He turns his head. "Very hot," he rumbles against your ear. "Once the pieces are browned, we'll turn down the heat and let them simmer for awhile. About half an hour," he explains.

"What'll we do while we wait?" you ask breathlessly.

He chuckles. "Anything you like."

"Oh."

"I like this," Grant says while pulling the chicken closer for when the skillet is finally ready to be filled. "Teaching you. You're a good student."

Testing the waters, you lean back against his sturdy chest, and he doesn't move an inch. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm right here."

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. The silence is deafening—interrupted only the sound of his steady breathing, yours which has turned ragged, and quietly popping oil on the stovetop.

"Something I can do to help you while you work, besides leading you?" he asks.

Touch me, you think while rubbing your thighs together from beneath your dress.

"Hm?" he hums with a kiss at your temple.

"I dunno," you whimper.

"Grab your tongs and start arranging the chicken around the edges until the whole skillet is full," he directs.

The sheet of raw chicken is half empty when Grant finally brushes his thumb along the side of your clothed breast.

He notes how you forewent wearing a bra tonight.

"Your apron too tight?" he asks while tugging curiously against the front.

"M-Maybe," you stutter.

Moment of truth.

Cautiously, he slips his hands between your dress and apron and cups both your breasts in his large palms. You gasp sharply and nearly drop the utensil you're holding.

"Keep going," he orders. "You're almost there."

Yes, Chef, you muse.

Circling your nipples with his fingertips, he doesn't stop until they're pebbled. Grant begins to gently tug against their hardened peaks. "Good girl," he purrs. "You did perfect. Now, go ahead and flip the pieces over."

With vigilant determination, you turn the poultry from one side to the other.

After only three pieces, Grant maneuvers a hand past the neckline of your dress and grabs your naked breast with his bare hand.

"Oh God," you whine and your hips buck back against him.

"Just a few more and then we'll cover it and let it cook. Go on, sweetheart. Do what chef tells you to."

Unable to help yourself, you do as Grant says. But you sigh and whimper all the while as his callouses scratch pleasantly against and between your breasts.

Settling a lid atop the pan, you reach for a timer. "H-how long?" you pant.

"Half an hour. Should be enough time for us to finish."

Winding the dial, you point the arrow at 30, then set it down.

"Do you like this?" he rasps while shoving a second hand beneath the neck of your dress. "Does it feel good?"

You nod slowly. "Yes."

"Do you want more?"

"Please," you moan.

You almost sob when his hands retract. Until he gently spins you around to face him.

"How much more?" he asks while cupping your cheek comfortingly.

Your lips slightly part, but the thought of saying it... You don't always know how to be forward about your own desires.

"Because I want to taste you," Grant utters. "I have from the first."

Guiding you by the hips back to a sprawling, empty surface, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you up. "Is this okay?" he questions while trailing a palm from your calf to your knee.

"Yes," you whisper.

He goes higher, only stopping once his fingertips are prodding against the thin, slick material of your panties that're now sticking to your pussy. "Fuck," he curses. "You're so wet for me."

Rolling your dress up past your thighs, Grant hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Kneeling on the floor, he stares up at you with reverence. "Do you want me to stop?"

You shake your head, then wiggle your hips. "More."

Leaning forward, he presses a firm kiss to your damp panties, drags his speared tongue along the soaked material, then tugs them down in one swift motion. Tucking them into his pocket, he encourages your thighs over his shoulders and swipes his tongue through your slick folds.

God, he's in Heaven. Here, with you now, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

You suck in a sharp breath, then tangle your fingers in his silver hair to keep him close.

When you begin to rock your hips, he swirls his tongue over your swollen clit while easing two fingers between your warm, fluttering walls.

You taste better than he could've ever imagined. Are softer, wetter, and more needy than he anticipated you would be.

"You're so perfect," he mutters while kissing your inner thighs before returning to your fluttering cunt. "Better than I thought," he grates.

And he has one hell of a palate.

Planting a sweaty palm atop the cool countertop, you lean back and prop a foot atop it. You're sure the two of you are committing at least a dozen health-code violations right now, but you couldn't care less.

"O-oh my God," you stammer.

"Come for me," he demands while craning his head back. "Come on my tongue. Now."

Shoving his head back between your thighs, you squeal quietly when he returns to teasing your clit. When your walls begin to clench around his thick digits, he refuses to come up for air. You're so close and he needs to be the man to give you this.

Sucking your labia and fingering you with rapid abandon, your pussy squelches and leaves his palm and your ass both covered in arousal. Not even the finest fucking wine could compare to you. If he could bottle and drink you, he would.

Swear to God he would...

You bite your lip, tug against his sweaty curls, then shudder violently as your orgasm wracks through your body. "Oh my God, Grant," you cry while your mind circles and your arousal crashes through you.

He whimpers against your slick, swollen opening while palming himself over his black slacks.

Grant moans while kissing your pussy in thanks for what it's just given him in return.

Once you finally calm, you slide your leg back over the edge of the counter and go loose—your limbs now feeling weakened; like jelly.

Grabbing your face, Grant crushes his lips to yours. He makes wet smacking sounds while he fucks your mouth with his tongue—his saliva and your own slick pooling beneath your tongue. "You should know how good you taste," he pants.

Trailing kisses down your neck, you clutch helplessly at his chest as his coarse stubble scratches your sensitive skin.

"I wanna be inside of you," he rumbles while nudging your thighs further apart. Tilting your chin back, he stares into your eyes with feverish hunger. "Please let me have you."

Your jaw falls open and you grasp for words to explain. "I... I don't just—"

It's as if he can read your mind before you've even completed a thought. "After this, you're mine. I'm too old for playing games with the woman I want and have been waiting so long for."

"We'd be—"

"Together. Unless you ordered me away," Grant explains. "Fuck, Y/N, please. I'm begging you."

Reaching up, you tug the top of your dress down and let it pool around your waist, exposing your breasts to him.

And Grant drinks you in greedily.

Dipping his head, he sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, then laps at the opposite with his warm, wet tongue.

Grasping at his belt, you suddenly still.

Grant lifts his head and cups your cheek cautiously. "Do you wanna stop?"

"I'm not...on anything anymore. And I'm—" you gulp. "I'm ovulating right now."

He chuckles. "I might've guessed."

You raise a brow, questioning whether you should be offended by whatever he's implying.

"How wet you got for me," he continues. "I loved it. It was perfect."

You smile.

"I don't exactly keep condoms here in the kitchen," he says with a knowing look.

"I could... Wind up—"

"I know," he whispers while cupping the back of your head in one hand and wrapping the other securely around your naked waist. "And if that did happen, I'd take care of you. I—I want to anyway. I've been... I've been too married to my work. I don't regret it, but there are things I've missed out on." He kisses you tenderly. "Now here you are. Finally."

He pops a tine on his belt loose. "Do you want us to keep going?"

You nod slowly.

Grant unbuckles his belt, pops the button at the top of his pants, then unzips them. "Do you want me inside of you?" he questions while running a certain hand down your side.

"Yes," you sigh.

"If I do this, I can't pull out. It... It's you. I just can't, Y/N. I need you to understand what I'm telling you."

Wrapping an arm around his neck and another around his side, you cling to him. "I understand."

Shoving his pants and briefs down to his ankles, Grant takes himself in hand and pumps his cock a few times, runs the pad of his thumb over the leaking tip, then eases its girthy length between your slick, accommodating walls.

Once Grants has bottomed out against your perfect cunt, his hips stutter and he whimpers close to your ear while holding you suffocatingly close. "Fuck, sweetheart, I don't know how long I'm gonna last like this," he mutters while slowly rocking his hips.

Burying your face against his neck, your shake your head. "Do what you need to. I want you to finish."

Besides, you already have.

Pumping his thick, veiny cock between your stretchy walls, a whine crawls up Grant's throat, and halts there, until he gasps for air, and the breath his releases sounds more like a quiet cry.

Cradling the backs of each other's heads, his arm circles your waist while your hand claws at his covered back. Grant's naked skin slaps against yours while your legs gyrate on either side of his hips where they dangle over the edge of the counter. "O-Oh fuck," he moans. "I'm already close."

You kiss his neck. "Please, Grant," you whisper.

His cock twitches. "Feel's good?" he asks while thrusting his hips.

"So good," you mewl.

His testicles begin to tighten.

"Almost there," he rasps. "You're doing so well for me. But, baby, I'm—fuck, it's gonna be deep."

You nod. "It's okay. It's okay, you can cum inside me."

He sniffles quietly. "Thank you for finding me," he mutters.

Planting a palm against his naked ass, you encourage him to keep rocking his hips.

Rolling them to get impossibly deeper inside you, his thrusts become hard and fast. So fast that a metallic pounding begins from where his thighs are knocking against the steel countertop. A bowl clatters to the floor, but Grant holds firm when you jolt. "Don't," he barks. "Stay still." He shudders. "Good girl. That's my good little girl. Almost—almost—"

A container of utensils falls over next, but it doesn't even phase him.

Meanwhile, you keep him close. His arms have tightened like coils now. You're surrounded by his muscled limbs.

"Fuck!" he shouts suddenly. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna cum. Fuck, I'm gonna cum so deep inside you, baby girl."

"Please, Grant," you plead. Your clit is so overstiumlated that with only a few more thrusts—

"Oh God," he groans. "Oh God, sweetheart."

Pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, his cock spasms between your walls and his balls twitch as he empties a load of built-up semen inside of you. Scooting closer, he angles his hips upwards toward your cervix while thick, hot ropes of cum spurt and coat your fleshy walls.

You twitch repeatedly in his arms while your cunt contracts tightly around his member. Your orgasm is silent, and less eventful, but feels just as good as it washes over you.

Once it's all over, you continue holding one another. "Did you cum again?" Grant asks quietly, while massaging the base of your scalp with trembling fingers.

"I did," you murmur before yawning.

"Good," he says with quiet relief. "Such a good girl."

He stays inside of you, but leans back just enough to capture you in a slow, passionate kiss. "Tell me you belong to me," Grant demands between brushes of his lips over yours.

"I'm yours," you assure him. "I'm yours, Grant."

He swipes a thumb over your sensitive clit—just above where he still has you stretched open. "Yes, you are."

Dinner is mostly silent. Grant sits close to your side as the two of you steadily snack on a mountainous plate of delicious fried chicken. Between your thighs, you can still feel his cum leaking out of you.

Lying your sleepy head atop his shoulder, Grant kisses the crown of it. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you," he states after taking a sip of ice water. "And heard your voice."

You snuggle against his side. "Really?"

He trembled in your arms when you first arrived.

Frank clutched adamantly at your shoulders, your back, your hands. It was like he was trying to figure out a way to hold every inch of you at once so that you could never leave.

But an agreement has been made; a promise which must be kept.

So here you lie nakedly beneath him with spread legs and an open heart which are both soon to close when the sun rises, signaling that the night has come to an end.

That what you have has.

Sliding his palms down your curvaceous sides, Frank grips your hips and flips you suddenly onto your belly. Pulling you back against him, he sinks between your fluttering walls again without a moment of reprieve before he sets a pleasant, yet punishing pace.

He's always insisted on looking at you—being able to gaze into your eyes while you find your peak together—but with this being your affair's grand finale... You understand that even a modicum of distance will make it easier to bid each other farewell.

Frank traces his fingertips down the curve of your spine and the featherlight touch causes your hips to buck back against him and your walls to squeeze tightly around his cock. "Please," you whimper.

Keeping your hips angled upwards while your face is half shoved into a smooshed pillow, he bends over and lies his chest flat against your back. His hands circle your waist and cup either of your breasts while his hips keep meeting with yours. Damp skin smacks against damp skin with a repeated wet 'plapping' sound interrupting the hum of the AC unit that's mounted in the window, and the skin of your ass ripples with each thrust.

When he pulls out for but a moment, your chin wobbles. But you didn't get to—

Just as quickly, he returns his cock to where it belongs inside of you, and you sigh in relief.

"I love you," Frank whispers against the warm shell of your ear. "Completely. You can't just ask me to let go."

You sniffle, then clasp one of your hands over his which is still tightly gripping your sensitive breast. "We have to," you whine.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck and squeezes his eyes shut while furiously rubbing against your clit so that you both orgasm at the same time.

Chances are more likely that way.

You'll hate him forever—given that it works—but at least you'll also be tied to him for the rest of your life.

He doesn't feel like he has another choice.

Gnashing his teeth together, his bare cock spasms inside of you, and coats your slick, fleshy walls in thick spurts of cum. Frank groans in relief as your cunt clenches tightly around him a moment later, signaling that his efforts have been repaid in full; that his plan succeeded as you cum along with him.

He holds fast to your soft body until his tightened balls loosen from where they were twitching against the swell of your ass as they emptied inside of you, and his cock has stilled and begun to slowly turn flaccid once more.

"D-Did..." you stutter, despite your swimming head, unsure of what you just felt exactly.

Something felt...different. But because you'd been lost in the feeling of his fingers rapidly strumming your sensitive bundle of nerves while you came undone in a flurry of breathless "I love yous", you're not sure.

When Frank pulls out of you, you nearly collapse onto the mattress in exhaustion, but just manage to dip your head enough to watch as a steady stream of semen pours out of your well-used cunt.

"Oh my G—" You twist around and seat yourself, then shove your fingers inside your vagina, which come away covered in cum. You jerk your head up and watch as he stumbles back and falls against the curtained window. "Did the condom break?" Your voice raises pitch in a blind panic "Where is it? Frank, where the hell—"

On the floor, a rubber circle lays atop shag carpet, and your tirade ceases into silence. "What... What did you—"

"I had to," he pleads with upturned palms. "You didn't leave me another choice. It's the only way I could think of to keep us together."

"You—You did this on purpose?!" You cry incredulously.

You can feel a scream clawing its way up your tightening throat.

"You wanted to leave me," he sobs while tangling his slender fingers in glossy hair. "I can't be without you. You have to understand, baby—"

The impact is so sudden—so harsh—that it leaves an angry red handprint-shaped welt upon his cheek.

Your mind is so addled that you can't even remember the term for what he's just done. But you know that it's a form of assault. Or... You can't think of the four letter word. Rather, you absolutely do not want to. Is... Is that truly what he just did to you?

After everything you've done for him? This is how he repays you loving and taking care of him? Standing by him through thick and thin when everyone else fled his side?

Now you get it: they saw something which you clearly didn't.

But he made sure you couldn't see straight due to constantly having his dick buried inside you, all while crying about how his life had fallen apart to gain your unending sympathy and affection.

You swiftly grab your belongings from the floor and race toward the bathroom. You only just manage to lock it when he reaches the other side.

Tugging on your clothes in a blind rage, you put your shirt on backwards at first, but deem you don't care as you pull on a pair of pants next. You need to get out of here and home. Or... Should you go to the hospital?

Jack will know if you do.

He'll tell Robby.

And Robby will kill Frank.

Maybe you want that.

"Please," Frank sobs like a child who's just broken his favorite toy and is pleading for another. "Please don't leave me. I'm so fuckin' sorry," he bawls with fists flush against the door.

You consider the pepper spray in your purse, then grab it.

You swing the door open and hold it in front of you. "Get the fuck away from me!" you scream while keeping your index finger resting firmly over the button that'll send him reeling back in agonizing pain if you only apply just a modicum of pressure.

He staggers back and bumps into the wall behind him, granting you enough room to make your wanted exit.

When his exhausted eyes return to yours, you swiftly lock your phone and tuck it away to grant him your undivided attention.

Is he about to lay into you now as well?

Oh boy...

"I'm all ears," you assure softly. Cautiously.

"While I'm gone, I'd like to have someone housesit for me," he explains. "Just to keep an eye on things. Bring in the mail, make sure nothing stops running in my absence or shorts out. I was hoping maybe that could be you."

At least he isn't ripping into you the way he has so many others tonight. Such as Dana, Abbot, and poor Samira. You caught him glaring at Frank on more than once occasion as well, and on the poor man's first day back, no less.

You still have yet to learn the full story there of what exactly happened ten months ago which sent him on a long vacation from the ED, but maybe it's best you not know; it's none of your concern. He's back to treating patients, and that's what matters.

"Oh," you say in quiet surprise. "Are... Are you sure you wouldn't rather it be Abbot or Noelle?"

His brows furrow and he steps closer. "Noelle?" Robby asks with a slightly quirked head.

"I just thought that the two of you..." Situationship sounds inappropriate, so it's best you not use that adjective, probably. "Seem to have something—"

"Noelle and I are not together," he deadpans. "She's not the one I—" he huffs, shakes his head tiredly while gazing across the empty lot while running a nervous hand down the back of his neck, then returns his attentions to you. "There's nothing there."

You wonder if she knows that.

You'd hoped it would work out for him, in truth—that they'd make a charming couple who'd understand one another's struggles here at work. But wishes hardly ever come true, it seems.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make assumptions," you state with regret.

Robby shakes his head dismissively to intimate that it's alright; no harm done. "It's fine." Contemplating the color of your lips, he continues. "I'd just feel better knowing you're there looking after things for me. It'd help you save on rent for a few months. And if I don't come back, you've got yourself a brand new home."

Your brows knit together. "If you don't come back?" you question with worry.

He purses his lips and shrugs yet again. "Never know. Trying to keep my plans open." Rocking back on his heels, he studies the asphalt beneath his shoes, then steadies while looking at you once again from beneath his lashes. "So, we got a deal?"

He's due to leave very soon. So there's little opportunity for him to make other arrangements if you decline. It's not great that he waited until the literal last minute to begin with, because it indicates—at least to you—that he's not thinking clearly.

You want to ask him to wait until the morning before he takes off—go home, take a shower, make sure you're indeed who he wants to fill this responsibility, and tend to any other loose ends he's yet to tie up before taking such a prolonged sabbatical—but know such pleas would ultimately fall upon deaf ears.

You nod. "We do. It's no problem."

He sighs, and his shoulders loosen when the anxiety of a potential rejection alleviates. "You can follow me over there after our shift ends. I'll give you a tour, list a few rules, and..." his head bobs in an indifferent nod. "We'll talk then."

You rub nervously at your arm. "Alright."

Following along behind Robby's Bonneville, as the miles pass between work and home, a feeling of unexpected dread settles into the pit of your belly.

You know Abbot talked to him shortly before dayshift finally came to a close, and from what you could see from afar, he managed to finally chip past his stony exterior, but it obviously wasn't enough.

You want to make a genuine attempt at getting through to him yourself, but you honestly have no idea what to say to do so. What can you tell him that will convince him to stay his hand, even just a bit longer, which Jack—someone he's known far longer, and is much closer to—hasn't already?

You wouldn't be so worried if he didn't seem like such an utter wreck today. He doesn't even look well. His face is pale, his cheeks appear hollow in just the right light, and his eyes are so...dark and empty.

It scares you.

As you pull up next to Robby's motorcycle, you switch off the engine to your vehicle and watch as he knocks the kickstand of his ride into place before swinging a leg over the side of the stupid deathtrap before waving for you to follow him to the door of his condominium.

You'd assumed that he was a homeowner. Perhaps he still is, though, even if it's a condo that he's residing in. You're not sure how it works, exactly. Not your living situation, though, so you suppose it ultimately doesn't matter.

Popping open the driver's side door, you maneuver yourself out of the vehicle.

You're quiet as Robby leads you from room to room in his spacious abode while he shows you how to work the dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, and even the shower.

You simply nod along because you know that you'll most likely be coming by every other day at best for a handful of minutes to do a quick walkthrough before heading back to yours and Samira's shared apartment. The thought of spending enough time here to require use of a washing machine is unimaginable.

You still fail to understand why you're the chosen person for the job, but nevertheless feel flattered that he hand-picked you for it.

You humor yourself with the thought that it's because you're so very reliable and organized. Robby has always had a bit of a soft-spot for you—favoritism which seemed to increase in fervor as time went on—but you assume it's only because he sees your promising potential as a healthcare provider.

Once he's led you back toward the foyer where the front door lies, he shoves his hands into his pockets and you bristle as he lets his eyes roam freely across you.

"I'll come by at least every other day and bring your mail in for you. And I'll do a walkthrough of the—"

Robby frows and your words drift into silence.

"I want you here," he states softly, but with conviction. "It'll give me peace of mind. So just...live here while I'm away. Since I never set up any of the other rooms for guests, just sleep in my bed," he remarks while nodding behind you, toward the direction where the bedroom lies.

"Wear my clothes if you want, if...if they're more comfortable to for you to lounge around in," Robby mutters with a shrug. "Make yourself at home. Eat what's in the fridge, and contact the building manager if anything needs fixed. As for bills, everything comes out of my checking account automatically. The mortgage, electricity, sewage, trash disposal, water, wi-fi and cable... It's all taken care of."

Samira won't be happy about losing her roommate, but you'll still see each other at work. And you can always come over to visit.

You wonder if he would mind if she did the same here.

Sleeping on the same mattress as him is a surreal thought, but you've never owned a king-size bed before. Might be nice to be able to roll this way and that without fear of falling onto the floor. You'd rather not think of other things he's done in it, though, with... Well, others. Feels wrong to imagine him that way.

So you choose not to.

"Rules?" you ask, since he mentioned such a thing previously.

"No parties, pets, kids... Other men—"

You shake your head. "No worries there, about any of it. It's your home and I fully intend to respect the space you're letting me stay in temporarily."

Robby purses his lips and contemplates for a moment to ensure he's left no stone unturned before he steps out. "Do you have any questions for me?"

You think. "What if something breaks? I can contact the building manager, and I assume they'll have a repairman come, but what if they tell me it needs replaced entirely? Like...the fridge or dryer? Unlikely, I know, but—"

Robby reaches around to his back pocket and unfolds a leather wallet. "Here, take this," he says while holding out a credit card between his index and middle finger. "It's not one I ever use anymore, but if something like that happens, just charge it to it. I'll keep an eye on the account and pay off anything that pops up."

You shuffle forward and slip the thin plastic card from his grasp. "I doubt I'll need it, but I'll put it in my wallet for safekeeping just incase."

"If you need it for gas or groceries, that's fine, too."

You shake your head. "No, Robby, I can—"

"It's the least I can do," he interrupts while glancing to the right, toward a curtained window. "Since you're doing me a favor by keeping an eye on things. It'll give me peace of mind while I'm on the road: knowing you're here, living in my home; sleeping in my bed."

He seems oddly adamant about the last part...

You should analyze that, as well as him telling you to wear his clothes. Perhaps he's just trying to be a good host by ensuring you feel comfortable here, and not like you have to be conscious of so much as moving a dishtowel or salt shaker out of place?

You choose to go with that theory.

"Okay." You'll only use it to restock anything of his that you run out of and need to replenish. Wouldn't feel right to use it for something as simple as a few gallons of gas, which you can afford.

"Make sure to enjoy yourself," Robby murmurs with a forced smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but does make his crow's feet wrinkle.

"You too," you whisper. "Drive safe, wear your helmet, and pull into a motel or hotel if you start to get tired. Get plenty of rest. And eat—I'm sure there's lots of good diners and food trucks along the way," you say with a soft, reassuring grin. "If you need anything, call Abbot. Or...me. I'll do what I can," you finish with a nod.

You're not sure what exactly, but you figure that you'll cross that bridge if and when you come to it.

Robby's eyes flit between your own, and your heart squeezes with the thought that he's maybe changed his mind. Taking time off from the ED is essential right now, but an almost four thousand mile round trip certainly isn't, in your opinion.

Maybe he can—

Robby advances forward while his footsteps sound across hardwood floors, then suddenly cups the back of your head and presses his lips firmly to it while pulling the rest of you flush against himself.

His grip is iron-tight, and you register the soft swell of his belly that melds against your abdomen, his palm that's splayed across your back, his other which twitches against the base of your skull, and his wiry beard that softly scratches against your skin.

You slide your own arms around his middle after a beat, and gradually tighten your hold after a handful of seconds so the embrace isn't quite so one-sided.

In the ED, Robby's touched you an innumerable amount of times—your shoulders, back, hands, even your cheek once or twice—but you've not deigned to think too much on it, because you always assumed it was just his way of bestowing silent reassurance or praise in way of encouragement.

You're sure that's all it ever was, and that this is just...thanks.

You don't see it, but he squeezes his eyes shut to battle away stinging tears before suddenly releasing you and turning on his heel. "Take care of yourself," he mutters before grabbing his bag and swinging the front door open.

"Y-You too," you squeak before he shuts it behind him.

A moment later, his motorcycle revs to life outside and its headlight casts itself across the living room walls before disappearing entirely.

You don't move until the sound of its purring engine has morphed into silence.

You swallow thickly and shift on your feet while sniffling.

You've never thought of Robby as anything more than a mentor, so you find yourself at a loss when you try to explain the hollow feeling in your chest that his absence has left behind.

"I'm sort of glad he's gone," Samira mumbles from where she's sitting cross-legged on your bed. "Is that bad of me?" she asks while glancing up to where you stand plucking various clothing items from your closet.

"No," you reply while folding and tossing them into your bag. "Of course not. I know he'd been riding you for awhile, and there's no excuse for it. But..." you sigh.

"If you can, try not to take it personally. It was just him lashing out, I think. Samira, you're one of the best doctors I know—not to mention people. Calling you slow? What? Because you bother taking your time, actually listen to your patients, and are diligent in your diagnoses and treatment—unlike most, who've otherwise sold themselves for and to corporate greed, whether they're aware of it or not, by double-booking or rushing through patients? Not that you plan to go into it, but if you were a PCP, I'd want you as mine. And I'm not just saying that because we're best friends and live together."

She's practically beaming by the end of your heartfelt speech.

"Don't take the crap he's said to you to heart. Collins believed in you, Al-Hashimi does, too, as well as Abbot it seems, and so do I. Robby needs to sort out his own issues before he starts harping on anyone else's."

She flops back onto your bed. "What did he say to you exactly before taking off?" she inquires while rolling her head in your direction. "Just curious, since you were the last one to see him."

You shrug. "Not much. Showed me around, laid some ground rules, told me what to do if I had any issues..." You chew your lip for a moment. "He... He told me to make myself at home, obviously, and it's not like there's another one there for me to occupy... He told me more than once: sleep in my bed. Even mentioned something about wearing his clothes so I could be comfortable."

She bolts upright. "I'm sorry, what?"

You consider a thin sweater, then shake your head. It's hot as hell out right now, so you don't imagine you'll be needing it anytime soon. "He might've given me a credit card, too. But only for emergencies. Like if the washer breaks and can't be repaired and a new one has to be delivered instead. That sort of thing."

She bobs her head from side to side in understanding. "I guess I can get that. But... Wearing his clothes?" she asks incredulously.

You opt not to mention the part about him telling you to also use it for gas and groceries. The latter is sort of understandable, but the former not so much, at least in your opinion.

He's just not himself right now, right? Makes sense that on top of acting out of sorts, he's also saying some off-the-wall stuff.

You ball up a ratty old t-shirt and stuff it in your luggage bag. "I won't be."

"It's the fact he said that to begin with," she presses while scooting closer. "It's inappropriate."

You snort. "And me staying in his house isn't?" You raise a brow while refolding a pair of jeans. "Still don't understand why he didn't ask Jack or Noelle instead. Because even if she and him aren't in an established relationship, they had something going on between them. You'd think he'd be begging her to take up space in his home and bed and clothes instead."

"Oh my God," Samira whispers, like realization of something shocking has just overcome her.

"What?" you asked with a raised brow.

Her brown eyes flit to yours. "How do you... You don't even see it, do you?"

You blink absentmindedly. "No, but I assume you're about to tell me whatever it is that I'm apparently blind to."

"He's in love with you," she expresses doubtlessly.

Unable to help yourself, you bark a laugh. "You can't be serious right now. I'm a resident. And he's—"

"Telling you to make yourself at home, giving you his credit card, telling you to bathe in his shower, eat his food, lie in his bed, put on his clothes," she counts off across two hands. "I always sort of questioned all the extra attention he gave you at work, but I guess I get it now."

You shift uncertainly on your feet. "He's just...being a good host."

"But he's not really hosting you if he isn't there, is he?"

Turning your back to her to begin emptying your underthings from your dresser, you shake your head. "I'm sure he'll rekindle things with Noelle once he gets back. It's not like that."

She shakes her head. "Never took you for the clueless type."

You sigh while tucking a bra away into a mesh pocket. "We should've all taken bets on what he'll get up to while away. I say that wherever he's headed, it's to see someone that he's perhaps fallen for."

Or to check out a new job opportunity...

You start in on socks next.

After only two weeks on the road, Robby already feels beat. Then again, he did before he ever planted two wheels upon it.

Lying in a strange motel room in a strange town far from home, he's unable to control the tempest of thoughts that rage in his tired head in the unwelcome silence that encapsulates him. All the patients that died beneath his hands, all the people he loved whom he failed, all the students he should've done better by.

It all started with the first who failed him, he thinks. The catalyst for why his life has fallen apart, or never had a proper chance to become what it should've to begin with.

But he can't think on that right now or he'll...

As always, his thoughts instead drift toward another.

One who's currently warming his bed that he's at least a thousand miles from at present. She's all feminine curves, sweet smiles, and warmth in every spoken word.

It's easier to lose himself in delusional daydreams with her instead of facing the harsh, ugly reality that's collapsing all around him.

It's become prevalent, this habit: when he's driving, eating, taking a piss, even when he's supposed to be sleeping, his mind instead chooses to paint a false picture that's becoming increasingly harder to pull himself out of day-by-day, like quicksand.

He's losing hours to it, but it's so much more soothing than addressing his own self-made problems.

He worries that if he ever finds the strength to go home, that he'll struggle with being able to tell the difference between what's real and what he's willingly imagined as he trails across the Badlands.

If he'd done things differently—been braver and spoken up—perhaps he'd be there with her now. Lying beside her, holding her close to keep her safe and warm while she dreams peacefully in his arms and against his chest... But his time has come and gone for such fanciful romances. He's too old, broken down, and hollowed out now.

He'd be no good for someone like her.

It's why he settles for fantasy instead. It's the closest he'll ever come to actually having her the way he means to.

The reveries can vary. He's become quite adept at storytelling, in truth. In some, he's beside her in the ED, coaching her through every move, every incision, every decision, and the patient never dies. Others—his favored ones—she's at home with him. She greets him at the door with an adoring smile and an affectionate kiss before pulling him inside so that they can have dinner while she listens about his day. Sometimes she works in it, others, she's a quaint housewife with a swollen belly who lives for her husband, and he for her.

And then there are the darker ones where he's buried inside of her—right between her legs—and he loses himself to the feeling of her soft, trembling body lying beneath his own, where she clutches at his chest and arms while whimpering wantonly against his lips. He always finishes inside of her, and she promises him a baby in return.

He's projected so many idealized archetypes and scenarios onto her that when the time finally came to reluctantly say goodbye, he'd been a bit taken aback when she didn't beg him to stay while throwing herself at him with reckless abandon.

She was supposed to react differently. Not bring up another woman that he only half considers an ex. Robby made things clear to Noelle at the beginning that whatever they were doing would be casual—no strings attached or grand expectations had.

She would find no commitment on his end, because he knew that he wanted another, and as long as his heart was held in her unwitting hands, he couldn't give anyone else 100% of himself. So, after almost a couple months, when Noelle started dropping hints that she was desiring more, he broke it off entirely.

Live in my home, sleep in my bed. Why couldn't he have just told her what he really meant?

I love you, I love you, I love you and you alone.

Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, he groans in frustration. Did she really have no idea? Why didn't she question further as to why she was his chosen candidate for house sitting? If she had, though, would he have told her?

He's not sure.

He truly is a fool.

Can't have the fairytale—kids and all—if you can't even achieve an erection anymore. Happened once or twice with Noelle, actually.

He preferred to keep his eyes shut during at times because it made imagining easier, but the truth was always right there beneath his hands.

He knows it hurt her feelings; that she blamed herself when he failed to properly perform. Bless her, she even tried to help him, but it somehow made it all the worse instead. Just gave him one more reason to cut it off clean. If you can't please a woman, what's the point?

Rolling onto his side, he tries to sleep.

"Have you heard from him?"

Tucking your stethoscope into your bag, you shake your head and click your locker shut. "I haven't. I'm sorry, Jack. Guessing it's the same for you?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "I check the fuckin' thing about a dozen times a day, always expecting something. Think after over a half a month I'd get the hint that he doesn't want to reach out or be reached out to, but I clearly haven't."

You slide your backpack onto your shoulders. "You're a worried friend. Nothing wrong with that."

He doesn't tell you about how he keeps Googling 'Buffalo Jump Albany deaths'.

He should've done more to keep Robby in Pittsburgh.

Wrapping his arms around you, he pulls you into a tight hug and gives you a firm squeeze. "Let me know if you do."

You nod. "I will."

It takes about two and a half weeks before you even think to snoop around a bit. Between work, errands, taking care of Robby's space by regularly cleaning and tidying up after yourself, and trying to tend to your own health, the thought of rifling through his sock drawer just didn't register.

After fixing yourself a stir-fry dinner with a small glass of red wine, you had sat on the couch for awhile watching Netflix before you finally got bored with some poorly scripted period drama and switched the TV off in favor of exploring.

You begin where many do: the medicine cabinet. Your hand hovers over the small silver knob which will reveal to you some of Robby's medicinal secrets, and frown slightly. You'd dislike if someone did such a thing to you, but... What he doesn't know also won't hurt him. Just might cause you to see him in a bit of a different light is all.

Pulling the small door with a gleaming mirrored front open, you trail your eyes over mostly predictable finds: shaving cream, a razor, as well as clippers, an assorted box of Band-Aids, triple antibiotic, ibuprofen, a glass bottle of half-empty cologne with a gold cap, wet wipes, and a couple prescriptions are amongst the items within.

Plucking the first orange bottle from the middle shelf, you turn it over to study the label. Buspar 10 MG. You slide the pad of your thumb over his printed name, Michael Robinavitch, and your brows knit together in sympathy.

"Oh, Robby," you whisper before returning it to its rightful place. A pretty basic medication for anxiety, yes, but it nevertheless tugs at your heart to see. Especially since it's here, and not with him like it should instead be.

Grabbing the next one, blood immediately rushes to your cheeks and you nearly toss it back inside with a quiet squeal. Viagra.

Slamming the door back closed, you thoroughly wash your hands, then exit the bathroom and head for the bedroom instead.

Flipping through the clothing that hangs in Robby's closet, you find yourself underwhelmed. Scrubs, scrubs, and more scrubs. Along with a couple three-piece suits which you deign he must look rather sharp in. At the back, though, is a collection of t-shirts. Half of which are just basic, solid colors—black, blue, forest green, grey—but there's also surprisingly some graphic tees, too. You grin as you swipe your fingers over a decal of Led Zeppelin's untitled album. The 4th one which included Stairway to Heaven.

Nearly pulling it from the hanger, you bunch the hem up beneath your nose and inhale, but are met only with hints of detergent instead of him.

You click the door back shut and pad over to the chest of drawers that stands across from the foot of the bed—which doubles as an entertainment center, since he has a small flatscreen on top—and you grip a wooden picture frame and slide it toward you.

Inside is a photo that was taken approximately a year ago in the ED around Christmas. No one is dressed up for it, but you remember that afternoon and how a fresh box of cookies from a local bakery was delivered—their tops complete with designs of Santa, Rudolph, Christmas trees, and snowflakes.

You'd rolled your eyes, then looked at Robby and muttered how you were sorry that there wasn't one with a menorah on it. He'd stared at you, and the look was so intense that your mind short-circuited for a moment as you actually doubted whether you remembered his heritage correctly. He was Jewish, right?

And then he kissed your forehead before biting through a Christmas tree and saying sarcastically that he hoped he wasn't being sacrilegious somehow.

You'd not entirely understood the joke, but laughed anyway.

Studying the photo, you examine all the familiar faces included. Dana, McKay, Langdon, Trinity, Mel, Samira, and many more. But only now do you notice that only one wasn't smiling at the camera lens, but instead was gazing at you with a toothy grin.

Robby.

Pulled flush against his side you'd been, and his hand was wrapped around the crown of your shoulder to keep you close.

Was Samira right after all?

Letting go of the frame, you plop down on the bed and begin to think.

You've known him for a long time now, as you've been at PTMC since you were but a med student. You'd initially tried to get yourself on night shift after your first couple weeks there so that you could have your days to accomplish everything else you were overwhelmed with, but Robby was insistent that you stick with him and that he'd 'see you through thick and thin'. So you did, and to be fair, he hasn't steered you wrong.

His teachings have been invaluable, which you're thankful for, but now you wonder when the relationship shifted from mentor and mentee to something more affectionate—at least on his end.

You want to tell yourself that you're reading too much into it, but all you have to do is look around to know that that's a lie.

With a sigh, you slide over to the head of the bed and pull the top drawer of his nightstand open. A Roku remote greets you, as well as an issue of The New England Journal of Medicine, a small flashlight, and an open box of Trojan condoms.

Size?

Large.

You shove it back closed and stare ahead at the open doorway.

Before tonight, you never imagined him that way: naked and sweaty and writhing on top of a woman.

Now, you can't stop.

With a huff, you begin readying yourself for bed.

It's been an hour and rest still has yet to find you. Counting sheep is fruitless, as is mentally singing yourself old childhood lullabies.

It's because you can't stop the racing thoughts now that you've been bombarded by silence. Thoughts...of just how lonely you truly are. Living with Samira, it was easy to ignore. At work, there was no time to think of anything but the medicine, and at home, you had a friend to always talk to and share things with. But here, in a house too big for just one person to occupy, you're left to take stock of how outside of your roommate, you really don't have anyone else.

So you ponder whether Robby's feelings are returned.

An attraction you've always had towards him, sure, but something even bordering on love? He's...him. Doctor Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch. Chief of the ED at PTMC and a whole lot of man, to boot. He's worldly and wise and steady and capable.

Meanwhile, you're more like a wobbly newborn chick fresh out the egg that has no idea how to even walk some days, let alone carry on with a damn rooster.

Ok, so the analogy is getting a little weird.

Point being that he's lived a life, whereas yours has yet to even form its first greatest hit.

Turning onto your side, you slide your hand across a half empty mattress and fantasize about it being occupied, and what such a thing might entail. What has he considered, you wonder? Shared meals, movie nights on the sofa, and sex right where you lay? Bills and correspondences with both your names printed on the envelope? Matching his and hers coffee mugs hanging from Command hooks in the kitchen?

Just when you think to close your eyes again, your phone lights up, so you grab it from atop the nightstand and check what's just come through.

You sigh with relief when you see that it's the very man occupying your current deliberations.

Everything going ok?

"Thank God," you whisper while making a mental note to text Abbot that Robby has reached out.

It is! Been taking care of the house. I've sorted your mail, too, by the way. Junk mail is set aside incase something piques your interest.

You debated whether to toss fliers for cheaper internet and brochures for a new car wash that just opened up down the street, but figured that was his decision to ultimately make. Perhaps you'll use a Pizza Hut coupon one of these nights.

Thanks.

You raise a brow and begin rethinking everything you were only just ruminating over. Like imagined fondness. Short, straight, and to the—

I meant with you.

Talk about whiplash.

I'm doing okay. Thinking about adopting a cactus. Figured you could use the company once you get back.

Not really a lie, since the lack of any other living thing here sort of depressed you to see after first moving in, so to speak. Not having pets you get for numerous reasons, but even just an air plant could be nice.

Had one before. Overwatered and killed it, but thanks.

How the hell do you overwater a cactus? Something that literally thrives in the desert. Too much of a good thing, you suppose.

Air plant, then.

typing...

Work going alright for you with me gone?

No more talk of flora, apparently.

It is. You're still very missed, though.

typing...

Miss you, too.

Your heart somersaults in your chest. What do you say now?

Thanks? Come back soon? Want a selfie of me in your bed so your replies might become a bit more lively?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard, but before you get a chance to attempt a reply, another message comes buzzing through.

Going to sleep. Talk later.

You reply with a simple Goodnight before doing the same.

It's too fucking ridiculous to ever admit, but the sign for him to finally turn back came in the form of a country song playing on an overhead speaker in a small roadside diner. He forgets the name of the artist, but he sang of being on the road more than home, and how leaving the woman he loved all alone was killing him. How only if he returned could he feel, see, touch, and kiss her anytime he wished. Could place hands upon her bare skin as they slept together.

Robby paid his tab and turned his ass back in the other direction without a second thought.

With him being so far gone, it taking an almost thirty-year-old tune to change his mind about whatever the hell he was doing tracked.

So, here he stands, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom sipping on a cold bottle of Budweiser he found in the fridge while watching you sleep.

A small twinge of disappointment had settled in his chest when he trailed his eyes along one of your bare arms that's thrown across a pillow when he caught sight of the thin strap on your shoulder. Certainly not something of his.

You never bothered using the credit card, either, turns out. Not even for a quick snack at work.

He dislikes the fact.

You stir, then promptly calm and return to breathing evenly.

With a sigh, he turns and heads for the bathroom to take a quick shower.

At least you're in his bed.

Small blessings.

You're groggy and initially unsure of what you think you just felt.

When you slide a hand over to the left side of the bed and your palm meets with that of a soft belly smattered with hair, you jerk your head and hand both back and open your mouth to scream, until Robby swiftly cups your cheek in his hand. "It's me. You're safe. It's just me."

You bury your face in a pillow and groan. "You scared the daylights out of me," you mumble sleepily.

He runs a comforting hand along the curve of your spine. "Sorry. I was trying not to wake you."

This feels natural to him: the two of you in bed in the middle of the night with only a simple exchange of words between you. Like it's habit, almost. Being near you has always came as easy as breathing to him, though.

Just something about your nature.

Resting your cheek back atop the pillow, you gaze at him from beneath drooping lids. "You're back early," you whisper.

He considers for a moment, then slips his hand beneath the hem of the thin camisole you wear and he begins massaging your naked skin.

Something a husband would do for a wife.

"I am."

"Everything go okay?" you ask with a yawn. "Did you make it to the site in Albany?"

He shouldn't really be touching you like this, but his callouses gently scratching against your soft skin feels kind of nice. And you're too tired to tell him to stop.

It's sort of soothing.

Robby nods.

"Everything you hoped it would be?"

He shrugs. "Just a cliff."

You're grateful he chose not to drive off of it. Means he found a reason after all.

"I picked you up a few things," he murmurs. "They're in my bag. I'll give them to you in the morning."

You smile lazily—a sight which causes his cock to twitch unexpectedly. Then again, he was already sporting a semi in the shower due to standing there naked while holding a pink bottle of soap that belonged to you in his hand.

"Is it a keychain or magnet?" you ask with a soft giggle.

He shakes his head and his lip barely twitches into a smile in response. "No. I think more of you than cheap, tacky gifts."

You're certainly intrigued now.

Removing his hand from beneath your top, he cups the back of your head and tenderly strokes the side of your scalp with the pad of his thumb. "Did you miss me?"

You nod. "We all did. Just glad you're back in one piece."

His eyes flit to where the comforter has been pushed down to your hips. "But did you?" he presses.

Your brows merge together. "Of course."

His darkened eyes roam upwards again and settle on your face.

Robby leans in toward you while his large, calloused hand ghosts across your waist before gently gripping your hip and tugging you against his chest.

When his lips meet with yours, his eyes flutter closed and yours widen.

It's almost comical that this moment finally confirms for you that he does indeed have feelings. You would think someone with a degree in medicine would be a bit more perceptive, but apparently not.

When he runs the speared tip of his tongue along your bottom lip, you gently pry your lips apart to grant him entry to your mouth. With patience, Robby savors this first kiss he's desired for so long. His tongue greets your own with quiet passion—first sliding along the slick underside before twisting to meld it against your own.

Lifting his right leg, he plants it over your opposite side, then rolls himself atop you.

With Robby's full weight settled across your body, and his forearms bracketed on either side of your head, it leaves you securely covered in him. Raising an uncertain hand, you cup his cheek and curl your fingertips against his unkempt beard while your other toys with the gold chain that hangs around his neck—its charm of the Star of David resting between your breasts.

It almost feels like something this monumental should've been proceeded by a lengthy conversation first—just out of respect for the weight of this moment—but now isn't the time for talking.

Slipping a hand beneath your top, Robby eases the material past your belly and breasts, and ultimately over your head before he balls it up and tosses it across the room to rid himself of any hindrances toward having you entirely.

Dipping his head, he sucks a nipple into his mouth and groans.

Your back arches off the bed, and Robby plants a palm against the curve of it to keep you impossibly close while switching sides. Dragging the pad of his tongue over your pebbled nipple, he laps at the smooth skin which surrounds it before dragging it between his teeth.

"God, Robby," you sigh while carding your fingers in his tousled brown hair.

"Michael," he mutters with a lift of his head. "Call me Michael when we're like this."

Nibbling his way toward your throat, his hand crests its way past the waist of your panties and he swipes a finger through your slick folds, followed by a rasped 'fuck' uttered from his lips. Shoving off of you, he rests back on his haunches and hooks his fingers under their waistband and tugs. "Lift your hips, sweetheart," he instructs.

You do.

Once you're lain wholly bare before him, you watch as his eyes trail over your every feature and asset with lustful abandon.

"I've wanted this for years," he whispers while kneading your breasts in his hands. "You don't know how long I've waited for you."

Caressing your cheek, Robby grips the side of his briefs and pulls the elastic band below his hip. "Do you want me inside of you?"

Your head is absolutely spinning, and as you survey the generous swell of his belly that now hangs over the waistband of his underwear, you swallow thickly and nod.

A gesture he returns before pushing them down to his knees and removing them.

With his cock only semi-erect, he fists it in his hand while pressing the index and middle fingers of his other against your dripping entrance. Easing them both inside, your knees fall apart in quiet welcome.

Robby doesn't want to bother with a little blue pill tonight. No performance enhancers. Not with you.

Slowly easing his digits between your fluttering walls, he swipes his thumb over your clit and you gasp in response.

He eyes his bedside table fleetingly, but decides against it.

Unless you ask him to use protection, he won't offer. Bare is the way he's always wished for it to be between you.

"Did you ever touch yourself?" he asks. "Here?"

Your eyes slowly open and you grip the pillow beneath your head in either of your hands. "I did."

It had felt wrong with it being his place of rest, but you figured there would be no way for him to know in the end, so it was fine.

He lines himself up against your cunt and swipes the weeping tip of his cock against it, leaving it shimmering and wet from your arousal. "Did you think of me?"

Yes and no.

You found it invigorating that it was Robby's bed you were lying upon and playing with yourself in, but you didn't imagine anything particular while doing so. You just enjoyed the sounds of your own breathy moans and whimpers to get you to your finish.

"Yes."

His cheek twitches and he eases inside of you inch by inch. Slow is his descent as he allows you to adjust to his size. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, and he mutters quiet, affectionate praises all the while of how well you're taking him; that he's almost there.

Once he's bottomed out, Robby leans forward and rests his right forearm next to your head while his opposite hand grips your chin, tilts your head to the left, and he plants featherlight kisses along your jawline. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he rumbles while rocking his hips against yours.

You draw in a ragged breath. "Y-yes," you stutter while running your hands up his warm back.

"It's only ever been you," he rasps while running the tip of his nose along your pounding carotid. "You're why I came back."

Turning your face toward him, he grants many slow, open-mouthed kisses which break the silence of night. "Couldn't stand the thought of you here alone," Robby whispers before kissing your cheek.

He draws out his cock until only the tip remains, then eases back in. But gently, for your sake.

You shudder beneath him. "Glad you're home," you whimper.

As is he, because look at what he had waiting.

Perfection.

His forever, if you let yourself be.

He tilts his head back to watch you for awhile as he makes love to your body. Your every mannerism endears him to you even more—something he hadn't thought possible. The way a tiny crease forms between your brows every time his cock fills you, your parted lips which tiny puffs of breath escape from, quiet whines that get caught in your throat, and the way he's so completely surrounded you.

Rolling his hips, you tremulate and sink your nails into his shoulder blades. "Oh, Michael," you mewl against his pec.

His cock quivers inside of you and his breath shudders in his chest.

Robby runs a palm under your thigh and lifts it over his hip. "Tell me," he rustles against your ear. "You're mine."

You're so, so close. Just a little more.

"I am," you sigh.

"Please," he pleads with a wet kiss before twining his fingers between your own and sliding your conjoined hands across smooth white sheets.

You lift your hips and they buck when the coarse patch of hair that rests above his cock brushes against your swollen clit. "I'm yours, Michael," you assure.

His eyes fill with tears, so he buries his face in the curve of your shoulder and groans from behind clenched teeth as his cock spasms between the intimate safety your slick walls provide him with. Spurts of semen coat—he presumes, or, rather, prays—fertile walls, as he empties a part of himself inside of you; all for you to have.

A broken sob breaks on his lips, so he clutches you close to him to try and calm his pattering heart.

Due to his cock spilling against your core, and the feeling of it still continuously twitching, you throw your head back and snap your hips upwards while biting your lower lip in a race toward your own orgasm.

Squeezing your ass cheek in his palm, Robby guides you toward where you want to go and reels back to watch as it happens.

Your lip is drawn between your teeth before you release it entirely in favor of your mouth quirking into a perfect 'O'. Your body gyrates beneath his as your warm walls pulsate around his softening member and you quake beneath his touch. Quiet "Oh, oh, oh My God"s vocalize as soft bursts of light paint themselves across your eyelids.

When you finally calm, Robby doesn't pull out, but instead remains lying on top of you as his cock softens and his cum dribbles out of your pussy and onto what were previously clean sheets.

The two of you stay like that for awhile: him planting kiss after kiss against your damp cheek and you lying still—apart from your right hand running soothingly up and down his left forearm, because the rest of you feels depleted, and like your limbs are now made of wobbly jelly.

When your lids begin to grow heavy and your heart starts to slow is when you blink yourself back awake. "I'm gonna use the bathroom," you whisper while manuevering a leg out from under him.

He grunts quietly in response. "Just come right back to me," Robby murmurs while squeezing your hand.

You nod with a tight-lipped smile before sliding off the bed and padding into the other room.

Once you've peed, squatted in the shower and washed yourself thoroughly between your legs, and panicked for just a moment as to how you could've been stupid enough to have unprotected sex—not to mention allowing him to finish inside of you—you exit the bathroom and watch as Robby throws back the covers for you to rejoin him.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him like this. Naked, his long legs extended toward the foot of the bed, his belly that's covered in dark hair lying against the mattress, and his strong chest which you were nuzzled against only moments ago.

Could he truly be all yours?

You hold up a towel and nod sheepishly toward the mattress. "Should probably put this down. Sheets are kinda...damp."

He scooches to the side and you fan it out across the middle where the two of you will lay, then climb back in beside him again.

Robby doesn't spare a moment before he pulls you flush against his abdomen and throws his limbs back over your own to make sure you don't go anywhere during the night.

Once your mind has calmed again and you're at the pleasant, humming in-between of waking and sleeping, you hear a muttered 'I love you' before drifting off.

When you wake, it's to an empty bed. Something you're actually rather grateful for, since it grants you a bit of time to catch your bearings before you start your day. Splaying your fingers across the mattress, you play and replay every moment from last night in your head.

It all happened so fast, didn't it? One minute, you were asleep, and the next, Robby's cock was buried inside of you without even an ultra-thin condom to keep you safe from any unwanted consequences his semen may bring about.

You should run out and pick up a box of Plan B today.

Last night he'd seemed... Not himself. Somehow worse than when he left. More emotional, maybe? Or detached? Then again, he was utterly exhausted, you're sure. Which is why you're the least bit surprised that he's already up.

You wonder when he'll return to work.

With a sigh, you rise and wince as your muscles strain. Ones you're not exactly used to utilizing were certainly given a bit of a workout not too many hours ago.

Perhaps you'll try and work on doing some squats and lunges today to loosen them up.

When you pad into the kitchen, you're greeted by the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with a steaming mug of coffee sat before him and a newspaper spread open on the table.

He turns and smiles softly at the vision of you clad in an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt of his that falls to your knees. "Mornin'."

"Morning," you reply shyly.

"Looks good on you," he remarks. "You wear a lot of my stuff while I was gone?"

This makes a first, but you fear that he'd be disappointed to hear as much. "I did. I sort of favored this one," you lie while fingering the soft, cotton hem of it.

He nods. "That makes me happy to hear." He tilts his head back toward the counter behind him. "There's coffee."

You walk over to pour yourself a cup. "Thanks."

Once you've a mug in hand that's drowned in cream and sugar, you pull out a chair and sit to Robby's left while taking idle sips of your caffeinated drink.

Folding the paper back up, he rests an arm atop the table and his other in his lap. "How d'you feel?" he inquires with a slightly tilted head.

Crossing your legs at the ankles, you study him from beneath your lashes. "Good. A little sore," you say with a quiet laugh. "Just...muscles I'm not used to working."

"But a good kind of sore," he replies while searching your eyes with his own. "Right? Sort of," he shrugs, "Reminder of me."

You nod silently and take another sip after blowing on it to cool it down.

"So, should we go ahead and address the elephant in the room?" Robby asks warily.

Your eyes flit to him. "We can."

He scoots his chair closer to you—the legs quietly scraping against polished hardwood—and loosely hangs an arm off the table while folding his hands. "I thought it was perfect; everything I hoped it would be."

You wonder if he's thought about it a great deal.

"It felt like..." he purses his lips and glances away, toward the living room. "Something finally falling into place." Looking at you again, he listens earnestly. "Did you feel it, too?"

It'd felt wonderful, of course. Robby had taken his time in being slow and sensual so that he could savor every moment, thrust, and kiss, but you're not sure that you felt some magical awakening when he sank between your thighs.

It takes a handful seconds for Robby's features to gradually shift into that of unease and worry, though, so you swiftly reach forward and pry his hands apart so that you can squeeze his fingertips reassuringly. "I did feel it. I wasn't...sure if you did."

He exhales in relief and you feel a twinge of guilt for giving him false sentiments.

"It seemed right somehow: having you in my bed. Being inside of you." He leans back again and your muscles suddenly loosen. "It's why I returned a month early."

He shakes his head. "Thinking of you here all alone got to me." Shifting in his seat, he sucks on his teeth. "I didn't like it. But now that I'm back..." Robby reaches forward and cups your cheek. "You don't need to worry about leaving. I mean, you're half moved in already. So just stay here for awhile longer. And if things progress the way I hope they will, then it can become a permanent thing."

Your brows furrow and you open your mouth to question him, but your words fizzle into silence when he stands. "I'll go get your gifts."

A couple paper bags are set on the table before you, which you slowly rifle through. Truth is, you want to rip them open like an excited kid on Christmas Day, but are trying to be an adult about it.

Your first find is a plush stuffed buffalo with fluffy brown fur and glass eyes, which causes you to grin and giggle. "He's very handsome," you state before setting him to the side with an affectionate pat on the head.

Robby smiles softly and cups the back of your head which he gently kneads with his fingertips as you go through the rest of it. Next is a snow globe which you turn back to him for explanation over.

"It's the heritage site," Robby clarifies with a nod toward it.

"Oh," you chirp with surprise. You shake the glass bulb and watch as white flakes swirl around. "Now I get to see it in winter."

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

Next is a non-fiction book titled Ancient Alberta.

"Figured we could put it on the bookshelf in the living room," Robby states. "I wasn't sure if you much cared for history."

"I do," you reply in confirmation.

Lastly is a long black box that's not quite the length of your forearm. Prying is carefully open, you gasp at what lies inside: a beautiful necklace comprised of brilliant white and brown beads. "Oh, Robby, this is lovely," you murmur while tracing it with your fingertips.

"So you like all of it?" he inquires warily.

Rising from your chair, you wrap your arms around his neck and stand on tiptoes. "I do," you say with a kiss.

That night as you make dinner, you study Robby from afar. You've done a lot of that today: staring. More so because he somehow seems worse than when he left. His face is more gaunt, but at least he seems to have gotten some sun on the road, and now has a healthy golden tan going for him. His belly has receded just a little, but since he's asked you to continue staying here, you'll have him fattened back up in no time.

After all, when you cooked him breakfast, he cleaned every bite of syrupy pancake from his plate.

That made you happy to see.

He's not as chatty as he once was some time ago—his words are more measured and to the point now—but maybe he's just tired.

Lounged back on the far end of the sectional, Robby is currently thumbing through the book he purchased at the heritage site's gift shop. You admire the glasses perched upon his long nose and smirk. You feel quite domesticated today playing house with him.

You haven't done much digging into the things he said, however. Like about things 'falling into place', and his 'hopes for the future', or how you're fairly sure he uttered those three little words last night as you were just drifting off to sleep.

You care for Robby—deeply—but you don't know that it's love, exactly.

You're afraid that if he says it again, however, you'll return the sentiment because the last thing you want to do is make him unhappy. Not after all he's been through.

It's why you've tried to make the house a peaceful environment for him today. You took the liberty of changing the bed sheets and doing a couple loads of laundry, as well as unpacking his things for him. It kept you busy at least. Folding his underwear and hanging his belts back up in the closet had caused your cheeks to warm, but if you didn't, he probably wouldn't have himself.

It's a dreamlike experience being here while he is. Two months ago, Robby was an attending you conversed with and aided on the daily, but aside from the occasional embrace, things never went further.

Now...

"Dinner's ready," you chime from the table you've just set respective steaming plates of steak upon.

Dog-earing the current page he's reading through, Robby rises with palms planted against old knees to join you.

He's surprisingly cuddly.

You're learning much about him today, turns out.

"Oh, shit," you hiss before snatching your phone from the back of the couch.

"Somethin' wrong?" he questions from where his head currently lies between your breasts.

"I forgot to run out and pick up Plan B today," you explain while bringing up the Postmates app.

He bristles. "Do you need it?"

Your eyes flit to the crown of his head, and he tightens his arms around your waist while staring ahead at the TV. "I mean, I'm on something, but I'd rather be safe than sorry."

His jaw ticks. This isn't how he imagined you would be—that you would want to prevent your womb from quickening. It's unwelcomely breaking the fantasy he's painted in his head.

He shrugs casually. "I always thought you were exceptionally maternal. Not saying you shouldn't order it, just an observation."

You want to tell him to just shoot where he's aiming, but don't think you're entirely keen on opening such a horrific can of worms after a long day such as this one. It'd be better for you if you did, but...

You lock your phone and tuck it back away, deigning that you'll do it tomorrow, either before or after work.

After a moment, Robby raises his head and kisses you softly while yanking at your hips to bring you beneath him.

When he shoves a hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, you also spread your legs, as if on instinct.

You once again don't mention a condom.

Stupid.

Robby plans to remain off work for a few more days, but insisted on driving you today. So much for a pharmacy run. Perhaps you'll venture up to obstetrics today and see if they can give you what you're looking for.

With your hand held tightly in his the whole way there, only the radio playing quietly in the background interrupts the hum of the engine and the wheels beneath you.

When a rather twangy tune enters the truck stereo, Robby smirks and turns the dial up a few notches. "Like fuckin' fate," he drawls. "This is the song that made me decide to head back. Heard it one morning and just," he shrugs a shoulder, "Made a choice."

It's a song you know—Gary Allan.

All this leavin' her alone is killin' me.

Your forehead creases and your nose stings.

I can feel her skin against me when I sleep.

You glance to Robby and admire the soft smile that's now spread across his lips. Where I won't miss her, I can kiss her anytime that I want to.

You cup the back of his head.

'Cause I've finally got all my priorities in line, and I'm right where I need to be.

It's so incredibly silly because it's a little country song that came out at least twenty-something-years-ago, but it's like the singer is providing a voice for the thoughts in Robby's head. His feelings. He drove how many hundreds, if not thousands of miles to race back just to be with you?

"I want to stay," you state then, with certainty. "At home. With you."

Raising your hand toward his lips, he presses a firm kiss to the back of it before resting your entwined arms on the center console.

Your chin wobbles when you see him swipe an unbidden tear from his weathered, freckled cheek.

"I'll be here to pick you up after shift," Robby informs you as you gather your things.

"Alright. Thank you." You lean across the cabin and cup his cheek before planting a soft kiss upon his lips.

Once you've exited the truck and are standing between the driver's side door where Robby sits and the glass doors of the ED, he calls to you.

Turning back to him, you await with a raised brow to hear what he has to say. "Text me if shift runs over."

You nod. "I will."

He rests an arm upon the windowsill and plants the pad of his thumb against his chin while studying you with quiet adoration. "I love you."

Your stomach squeezes uncomfortably and you find yourself at a loss for words.

Why did he have to do this so soon?

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat while hanging a wrist over the wheel and glancing ahead, then back to you.

You allow a smile to bloom upon your lips, as if you're only just registering his romantic admittance. You take a couple small steps toward him. "I love you, too," you reply with a lilted tone of surprise.

Why're you doing this to yourself? Have you always been such a people-pleaser?

He chuckles and hangs his head with a happy grin. "Glad to hear it."

"Is he back?" Jack asks insistently while following you to your locker.

"As of a couple nights ago."

"You never texted me," he retorts with crossed arms.

"I know, I'm sorry." Popping open the small door in front of you, you hang your backpack from a silver hook. "I meant to, but got distracted."

"Well," he begins with a shrug. "How is he? He seem to be doing better?"

Clicking it shut, you wrap your stethoscope around your neck and hold fast to each end of it. Yes? No? "Too soon to tell."

Seems a safe enough answer.

He raises a brow and plants his feet in quiet expectance of elaboration.

"He's done a lot of driving, Jack. I think he just needs a few days to rest up from... Whatever the motorcycle equivalent is of jet lag. He needs to be able to catch his bearings, and Robby will be back here soon enough, I'm sure."

He sighs while scrubbing a hand down his face. "He say anything to you to let on how he's doing after his sabbatical?"

You mean while he was fucking me in his bed, or came inside me again on the couch last night? He's been communicating in other ways, Abbot.

You need to run up to OB before your shift starts to take a much needed pill.

"Well," you drawl while skirting past him. "He still has a month left technically, so it's not over yet."

"Just answer the damn question," he spits while trailing you to the elevator.

You huff in exasperation. "He hasn't really talked much about his state of mind, no."

"I mean, did you just take off back to your and Samira's once he got in, or did you have a chance to sort of—"

"Observe him?" you ask with a raised brow while pressing the button that will take you up.

He stays silent.

"I guess you'll just have to wait and ask him yourself how he's doing." Saved by the bell, stainless steel doors spread apart and a couple people exit before you step inside.

"Where're you headed?" Jack questions while crossing his arms.

"Just something I need to see to."

You watch him shake his head as they close.

Robby's return to the ED is two weeks later. You try to keep an eye on him, as does Jack—since he chooses to hang over for a couple hours so that he can try and get a conversation in with his friend—but he otherwise seems... Okay, you think.

Maybe not great, but functional. Better than he was a few nights ago when you awoke to the sight of him hunched over the side of the bed with his head held in his hands while he quietly wept.

You'd promptly crawled into his lap, wrapped yourself around him, held him incredibly close, and rocked in your arms him like a mother would her baby while showering him in soft kisses and comforting words of reassurance that everything would be okay.

He never did tell you what had him so tore up, but instead fell asleep with your breast in his mouth while you sang him a lullaby. You were just glad he managed to rest for the remainder of the night.

Robby starts off strong with a coding patient straight off an ambulance that he pulls you in for, to which Abbot accompanies, and he runs the entire trauma room operation from start to finish without impediment.

His keeping you close isn't just a one-time occurrence, though. It's every single case, much to the frustration of a few others when he barges into this exam room or that trauma bay to steal you away, saying he needs you more than they do.

You were elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity at one point and trying to keep a level tone while insisting that you cannot just come because he orders you to when he lost his temper and shouted that as your attending, he wasn't asking, but telling.

Jack thankfully barged in and pulled him out for a private conversation, while you returned to your patient.

"What's going on with you, man? First day back and you're acting like unless you have her strapped to your side that you can't function in there."

Back to the fucking ambulance bay again. Robby should've known he was in for another goddamn lecture the second Jack started leading him in this direction.

"Just trying to teach my resident," he replies with a shrug and hands slid into his back pockets.

"Is she..." He crosses his arms and takes a step forward. "Is she still living with you?"

Robby shakes his head dismissively. "Hardly see how that's of concern to anyone but us."

He wonders a bit more seriously now as to what that trip up to OB was all about a couple weeks past, and if it had anything to do with the man standing in front of him now. "So in other words: yes," he retorts.

Robby purses his lips and narrows his eyes while shrugging. "We done here?"

"What do you think, Robby? That keeping her around is going to solve whatever's gone wrong? The road trip clearly wasn't the solution. Brother, I'm—"

Folding his hands behind his head, he arches his back and groans. "Why don't you try minding your own fucking business?" he growls while leveling him with a malicious glare.

Abbot stumbles back a step and hurt flashes across his wounded features.

Robby sighs and runs his hands down his face while opening his mouth then shutting it again. "I'm sorry," he mutters in apology. "I just don't have time for this right now, alright? I need to get back in there."

"I'm concerned," he says, trying again. "The last couple weeks, I thought she seemed different—off somehow. If you lay all your baggage at her feet and expect her to unpack, or—or solve all your problems for you, or be some ultimate God-given solution... How long before she's exactly where you're standing?"

With brows drawn together and creases folded across his forehead, Robby's attention flits back to the ED. "We're fine. She's fine. Y/N is a big girl, and is more than capable of telling me how she feels." He takes a step back. "Listen, after..." he sighs. "Maybe while I was gone you got a little close to her. Thought something was there that wasn't. After losing your wife—"

"This has nothing to do with my wife," he spits while nervously twisting his wedding band.

Robby nods and half turns away. "She's with me now," he states. "So just... Keep that in mind going forward."

Jack watches him walk away.

Just across from the computer station, Robby observes Frank conversing with you.

He's in the middle of tugging off a pair of gloves when he feels his body grow cold all over at the sight of the pair of you looking at one another. It's just casual conversation, he's sure, but how can he be certain of it?

Somehow, the only place that Robby feels whatever bond he's forming with you is safe is when he's with you in bed. When his limbs are lying heavy atop your own and his cock is softening inside of you after finishing into a condom—no, he's not pleased that you insist on using them, but either he does, or you stop making love altogether—and for a fleeting moment, everything else fades away.

He can't be left again. He can't...lose you.

But you promised him, the day he divulged his mother's abandonment to you, that you were here to stay.

You'd pressed his head close to your heart and carded your fingers in his hair while he quietly cried, despite trying to choke it down for your benefit.

He exhales and throws the gloves away before seeing to another patient.

"You doing alright?" Robby asks while sidling up next to where you stand at a computer cart.

You nod while typing. "I am."

He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Are we okay?" he questions hesitantly

You jerk your head to the side and gaze into Robby's troubled, glassy eyes. "Of course. Why would you ask that?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Saw you talking with Langdon earlier and I got worried. Been away from here for awhile, so—"

Your brows furrow. "He's married, Robby. With two little ones. We had a patient a couple hours ago that we worked on together, and since I was already at a computer, he asked if I could check on him in the system. He's upstairs and resting now," you finish with a small smile.

He sighs. "I'm sorry. Just me being—" Insecure in his old age? "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

You sign out of the desktop. "It's okay, sweetie."

You're unsure if you truly mean that.

"Knew you'd come back early," Noelle states with a laugh and slender, folded arms.

"Just two weeks," Robby replies while finishing up some charting at the same cart you made use of earlier in the day.

"Still," she states with a cocked head. "May I ask what brought you back before your sabbatical's end?"

He raises a shoulder. "Just had someone at home which I didn't like the idea of being there alone."

Her manicured brows furrow and he leans back to study him. "Last I checked, you were at least half single before you left. Don't remember you having any housemates."

Robby continues tapping away on the keyboard.

"May I ask whom?"

He considers for a moment.

He's already caught shit from Abbot, and with your shared shift nearly at its end, he just wants to walk out of here in half-decent shape. Not pissed off now that he's finally cooled down after twelve hours.

He glances toward the computer station where you're seated yet again and nods.

Noelle turns and almost snorts when she spots you. Turning back to him, it's with raised brows and wide eyes of incredulity. "Robby, you cannot be serious. She's a kid. Not to mention a resident."

He signs out of the desktop. "She's woman enough, trust me." Stepping past her, he mumbles "And all I need" before coming to join you.

Observing from afar, she watches as he seats himself next you and cups the back of your head while staring at you with unabashed adoration and warmth—like you hung the moon and dotted the sky with stars.

You giggle, say something she can't discern, and he grins while rolling his shoulders.

But she does make out his reply: I love you.

With a roll of her eyes, she makes a beeline for the elevators.

"I can't concentrate on charting if you're staring at me, Michael."

He grins. "Can't help it. Just hard to believe that you're real sometimes." Robby massages the back of your neck. "And finally mine."

He slides a hand between your thighs while mentally making plans for tonight once you're alone together. Perhaps a talk should be had soon about getting you off birth control so the two of you can start trying for the baby he's always wanted.

Maternal as you are with...patients, he knows you'd be an ideal mother.

"Don't know what I'd do without you now." He shrugs. "Don't like to think about it, anyway."

You give his hand a squeeze and shift in your seat. "I'm right here, Robby." You look at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

He kisses your cheek. "I know."

"I can carry that."

You slide the straps of your backpack onto your shoulders and shake your head. "It's okay, I got it. You already have one."

Robby extends his hand then, and you twine your fingers tightly between his and hold firmly to his arm. Navigating your way through Chairs always gives you anxiety, so now having him to shield you from impatiently waiting individuals who're likely to ambush you and demand an ETA on when they'll be seen is a relief.

Just as he opens the door that'll lead you toward the perpetually crowded space, you glance over your shoulder and still at the sight of Abbot watching the two of you leave.

When your eyes meets his, his face crumples at the sight of you so intimately attached to Robby's side, but the exchange is cut short when he pulls you along beside him to take you home.

But he's afraid that if he asks, you'll shy away from ever doing it again. Oddly enough, he's begun to enjoy a soft, feminine hand holding his most intimate part while he's so exposed.

Perhaps it's just a phase.

So long as you don't try to accompany him to the men's room at work again—yes, he had to shoot you down when you tried to discreetly follow him in one day, only for him to shatter your hopes by asking you to please wait outside—he figures he's got little to complain about.

So you like aiming his cock toward the toilet bowl when he's relieving himself. Could have far worse problems to contend with.

Straddling Robby's bare tummy, you gently knead fatty skin that's smattered with dark brown hair while nervously chewing your lip. "There's something I've been wanting to try..." you mutter while studying him shyly from beneath your lashes.

He runs his calloused hands up your bare thighs. "Alright. I'm all ears."

You slide your hands up his chest, then tug gently at his beard. "I'm scared you'll look at me differently after I tell you."

He fails to see how it can be any odder than you insisting on being his constant bathroom buddy. "Sweetheart, we've tried a lot of new things together. Most of which were your idea given how..." He chuckles. "Old-fashioned I can be."

Meaning vanilla missionary so that he can gaze into your eyes and watch your face as you clench around his cock while you finish.

He cups your cheek. "My mind is open and I'm listening."

Your cheeks have grown so hot that you're sure you'll start sweating soon.

"While we're having sex..." Say it, say it, say it. "I want you to go in me."

He snickers. "Well, I technically will be—"

You groan quietly. "No. Go. I want you to go."

Surely you're not actually asking for what he thinks you are. Given the field you both work in, he's honestly surprised such a thought ever crossed your mind. "Honey, I can't begin to tell you all the reasons why that is a horrible idea. Likelihood of infection alone—"

"Please," you plead while scooting further up. "Can't you just try?"

No, baby, I am not using you as my own personal urinal, he thinks to say. But with the way his cock twitches at the thought, he wonders if you haven't been conditioning him for such a reaction this whole time since you started this whole business of holding him while he pisses.

He scrubs his hands down his face. "This is an ED case just waiting to happen," he states.

"Can't you prescribe me something if I end up with a UTI or other?"

This conversation feels incredibly surreal. "You're willing to risk that?" he asks with a raised brow, expecting you to break at any moment and devolve into a fit of giggles.

Instead, you nod.

Clutching helplessly at Robby's forearms, you whimper excitedly while he pounds away between your spread thighs. So vigorous are his thrusts that the mattress is rocking against the headboard, which is quietly knocking against the wall behind it.

At least you both stripped the bed earlier, leaving only the fitted sheet and protective cover on for when he hopefully makes a big mess.

"Are you gonna go soon?" you whine.

He shakes his head, then brackets his forearms on either side of your head, leaving your fingers to sink into his biceps. "Not yet."

"M'kay," you whisper before lifting your head to meet his lips.

"You're sure about this?" Robby huffs while his hips stutter.

You nod eagerly, and with a toothy smile for an extra dose of reassurance.

Forcing himself into an upright position where he's sat back on his haunches—accompanied by a groan when he presses a palm to his lower back when it twinges—Robby takes a moment to catch his bearings, then grabs your hips and yanks you forward. With your hips lifted and his cock bottomed out completely, your walls flutter in anticipation.

Oh, it's going to be deep, deep.

Slipping a hand between your thighs, you rapidly strum your clit while he squeezes his eyes shut in concentration.

"You want all of it, or just a little?" he rasps.

"All. Every drop."

He snorts and shakes his head. "Can't believe I'm actually doing this."

"Hazards of never telling me no," you murmur with a grin.

He straightens his spine. "I spoil you too much."

"Still gonna keep holding it," you remark.

He presses a finger to his lips, so you quiet again.

Rolling his hips to get into position, he leans his head back. "Fuck, honey, here it comes."

Your eyes flit between your thighs and you hold your breath in anticipation.

It begins as a slow, methodical dribble which slides along your fleshy walls like a tear down a cheek, then it suddenly increases when the flow morphs into a rapid stream which shoots directly at your quivering core. Warm liquid soon begins to spill out of your cunt and down your ass and thighs instead while Robby's mouth falls open. He releases a guttural moan of utter relief and you sigh at the sight of him so relaxed while he goes inside you.

A chill runs up his back and Robby shudders in pleasure.

"Fuck me," you pout while carefully bouncing your hips.

Once a constant, languid stream has been established, Robby leans over you and knocks your legs so far apart with his knees that your muscles burn.

Pounding away once again with utter abandon, he pumps his piss impossibly deeper inside of you.

The wet noises are to be expected, but the way it hisses like a hose left to run wide open is what really does you in.

Urine pools beneath your ass and back and you dig your nails into Robby's shoulders while your finish overcomes you.

Given that he's at just the right angle where his bush keeps brushing continually against your swollen, vulnerable clit, you eagerly lift your hips to meet his every thrust, wanting so dearly for a release of your very own.

"Gonna—gonna—" you pant breathlessly.

"Such a filthy li'l thing," he mutters while tracing his lips and coarse, scratchy beard across your neck. "Being turned on by this."

You yank at his facial hair until he gives you his lips, and you squeal against his open mouth as your cunt repeatedly contracts and milks him for every last drop of urine and cum he has to offer.

Giggling at the feel of his member twitching inside you while thick spurts of semen coat your abused walls, you sigh contentedly and throw your arms lazily around his neck. "Who need a urinal when you have me?" you whisper.

Robby grips the backs of your thighs before folding your legs back. Easing his cock out, it falls back against his thigh with a wet 'splat', followed by him spreading your labia apart with his calloused fingers.

"You're a mess, you know that?" he mutters while studying you from beneath dark brows.

You shrug.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," he insists.

"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So I don't mean to make it worse—"

"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."

You can't keep talking about this. "It won't happen again," you assure while gathering sterile gauze.

Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone."

Your brows knit together. "What?"

Robby's head tilts to the side and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He runs the back of his index finger along your cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."

He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you more at ease when you're here, you can."

You huff in irritation before settling on flat feet again. Glancing around for something to knock it down with, you come up empty-handed. Just when you're eyeing a chair, Robby swings inside the employee lounge. "Somethin' you need, sweetheart?"

"One of the plastic cups so I can have some water." You frown. "Someone stuck them on the top shelf."

With ease, he moves them down, and hands you one.

"Thank you, daddy," you supply quietly before wandering over to the sink.

He grants you a swift kiss on the top of your head. "Welcome."

Kneeling down beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"

You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."

He slides a palm over your knee. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."

You look at him. "You don't have to. If you'd rather just head home—"

Robby stands with a grimace, then settles into a computer chair next to yours. "Prefer to walk you out. I don't like you being in the parking garage alone when it's dark."

Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, daddy."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.

"There's something I've been thinking about," Robby states while holding the passenger side door of your car open so you can drop your things inside. "Which I thought worth talking about to see if you'd be interested."

Once you've slid your tumbler into a cupholder, you turn around and grant him your undivided attention. "Yes?"

His hand flops loosely from where his wrist is settled atop the open door. "I worry about you and burnout. Some days I can tell are better than others, but..." He scrubs a hand down his beard. "This is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. I go home to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."

Your eyes flit curiously between his.

"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of there. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.

"Are you...asking me to—"

"Move in, at least temporarily to see how it works out." Robby grins and shrugs while watching a sedan pull out. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He looks at you again. "Seems those things found me." He chuckles. "Two for one, apparently."

"I thought it would bother you eventually. Me...calling you what I have been."

He shakes his head. "It was my idea. I wanted you to."

Robby slips a hand around the back of your head and tilts it back until you're gazing up at him. "Call me it," he mutters while leaning down.

"Daddy," you whisper with a heart fluttering as quickly as a hummingbird's rapid wings.

He clicks his tongue while brushing the pad of his thumb over the soft apple of your cheek. "Other one."

You fist the plush fleece of his zip-up jacket in your hand. "Dad."

He pressing his lips to yours and moans against the spreading of your lips while easing his tongue inside to taste you. "When we're at home," he whispers. "That's the only name I wanna hear."

Rapping quietly at the door that stands before you with your knuckles, you do your usual paranoid sweep of the premises by continually glancing around, as if at any moment one of your fellow residents or coworkers will pop out from behind a corner and ambush you by announcing that they now have knowledge of your dirty little secret and will be announcing it to the entirety of the ED.

And then the door swings open, and light spills out across the darkened sidewalk.

Cupping the back of your head in his palm, Frank sends you stumbling forward when he pulls you in close and crushes his lips to yours.

You know it's highly unlikely, but sometimes you think you can taste the benzos on his tongue.

"You came," he says with relief while ushering you inside.

He always seems surprised each time you loyally show up on your usual room's doorstep.

"God, this feels so fuckin' good," Frank drawls from atop you.

His thrusts have grown sloppy and uneven, but you suppose that's to be expected when one is high. Slowly rocking his hips against yours, only the hum of the AC and squelching from between your thighs breaks what is, for you, an otherwise awkward silence.

Hovering above you, sweat from Frank's brow drips onto your bare breast and tendrils of his hair shields his eyes dilated from yours.

Smoothing a hand over your forehead, he looses a ragged breath. "Are you enjoying this?"

You force a smile and nod. Wrapping an arm around his naked shoulders, you cup his cheek in your other hand and tug his lips down to yours.

No more talking, just fucking.

Frank's sweaty limbs are splayed across your body. Half of his own naked form is lain against yours while his lips are positioned directly next to your ear, allowing you to hear every puff of breath that exits his lungs.

"You wanna take a shower together?" he rumbles.

You don't want to move at all, nor blink or breathe or think.

"Kinda tired," you whisper.

He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. "Could draw us a bath if you'd rather sit down. I can wash you if you want."

You should go home. This isn't somewhere you should be at.

"Okay."

Clutching the edge of the mattress you sit upon, you stare ahead at the open bathroom door and listen to the sound of running water. Clad only in Frank's t-shirt, you curl your toes against the rough-spun carpet beneath them.

When he exits the bathroom, you glance away and wait until he pulls on a pair of boxers before you look at him again.

"Water's running," he remarks with a thumb pointed over his shoulder.

You nod dully.

"You alright?" he asks while crossing his arms.

You blink back the tears that've filled your eyes. "We shouldn't be doing this."

He sighs, then seats himself next to you while mentally preparing for the same argument as always. "You say that every time."

You turn your head away and clench your jaw to prevent your chin from wobbling. "You're having an affair," you whisper.

"We are," he states with a nod, followed by a dismissive shrug. "Yeah."

You sniffle, then swipe a tear from your cheek. "We can't keep carrying on like this."

Predictably, he huffs in irritation and slaps his hands against his thighs. "Sorry, but did you make that decision before, during, or after I had my dick in you?"

You shove the heels of your palms against your damp eyes and groan so deeply that it borders on an angry growl. "I'm barely sleeping," you sob. "I can't keep anything down because I feel sick all the time. I'm terrified that somebody at work is going to look at me one day and somehow just know what we've been doing in here."

You stand and put some needed distance between the two of you while leaning back against the papered wall the TV is mounted to.

Frank purses his lips, then rests his hands on his knees. "If you took something, you'd feel better. I have some—"

"I have no interest in becoming a fucking addict," you spit.

His jaw feathers.

With a roll of your eyes, you pad into the bathroom to check on the tub.

"Have no issue with actually fucking one, though," he mutters.

With your knees drawn up to your chest, you stay quiet while Frank runs a soapy cloth over your bare back. His left leg presses against your hip when he leans over to reach your opposite side.

"Are you staying?" he asks quietly. "We'll finish up in here, maybe order takeout and watch a movie..." His eyes flit to the back of your head. "Could have sex all night, if you want."

You know the latter is what he's secretly hoping for. Why else does anyone come to a budget motel, far from the city proper?

It'd be better for you if you left. But it's also easier not to think of how much of a treacherous whore you are when you're not alone, but instead warming the bed of your accomplice. "Yes."

Leaning forward, he slides a hand around your naked waist—which causes warm water to quietly slosh—and presses a tender kiss to your shoulder. "Thank you."

"Frank...?"

"Yeah, baby?" he replies while running the cloth beneath your breasts.

"How many times do you think we've had sex now?" You pause. "Twenty? Fifty?" You ask with a broken voice.

He snorts quietly. "Yeah, maybe," he replies with a shrug.

Turned toward the window near the door, you watch as heavy, hideously patterned curtains flutter from the cool air the AC unit is blowing into the limited space. The odd dim flash of light from outside coasts across the floor before disappearing again when they recede.

Pressed against your back is Frank's naked chest and both his arms are wrapped around your front. One is slid under your neck while the other is thrown lazily over your breasts.

"I love you," he murmurs while squeezing you gently. "Feels like you're the only thing I've got left. I honestly have no idea what I'd do without you."

Reaching up, you twine your fingers between his and swallow down the lump in your throat before replying. "I'm not going anywhere."

He nuzzles the back of your head. "Maybe we could leave. Just take off together."

You squeeze your eyes shut.

He always has to ruin it.

"You have kids," you hiss.

Frank grows quiet for a moment. "I know that. I just meant..." He sighs. "I didn't mean permanently. Like a vacation; a trip somewhere. Just you and me."

"I have work," you murmur while ghosting fingertips up his forearm.

"Be here when you get back," he replies.

You grow quiet.

"Just promise me that you'll think about it," Frank insists.

Turning around to face his chest, you curl around his naked form. "I promise."

He looks at you with a smile tugging at his lips. "You got somethin' for me?"

You bat your lashes while gazing at him with adoration. "Couple things," you reply while pushing the tablet toward him.

Taking it from you, Robby retrieves his glasses before reading over the lab results displayed on the screen. "You should know how to read these," he drawls with his chin tucked against his chest.

"I know," you quip.

Retaining focus upon the device, Robby feigns that he's still working. "You wet?" he asks quietly while flipping through PDF pages.

Your stomach squeezes from excitement at the way his voice rumbles when he asks such a filthily intimate question. "I am."

"Gonna have to make to make it quick," he states. "Five minutes or less. Think you can do that?" Robby asks while tucking his glasses back away in his shirt pocket.

You nod enthusiastically. "Yes. Or...I'll try to, anyway."

He jerks his head in the direction of an empty exam room. "C'mon."

Abbot stares after the two of you, and watches as Robby pushes open a glass door which you step eagerly through while he follows close behind.

His eyes narrow when he shuts it, then pulls a curtain around that hides the pair of you from sight.

With his body melded against yours, and his lips exploring the thin, sensitive skin of your neck, you can't keep yourself from clutching helplessly at his hoody.

Knowing just how much you enjoy it, he trails his mouth lower and scratches the swell of your breasts with his beard.

"Please," you whine quietly.

He chuckles against your soft skin.

Easing a hand past the waistband of your bottoms and panties both, Robby gently prods against your slick entrance with his middle finger. "Fuck, honey," he quietly curses. "You're soaked."

"Been watching you a lot today," you sigh with your head pressed back against the wall behind you.

Robby presses his lips to yours. "Gonna come home with me tonight?" he murmurs between lustful, passionate kisses.

"Basically live there now," you whimper between rapid pumps of his finger. "I love sleeping next to you; taking care of you."

He repays that love with his tongue in your mouth and his free arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.

You're so lost in the feeling of his long, calloused fingers buried inside of you that you fail to notice when the door swings open and the discordant sounds of the ED sweep into the previously silent room.

But Robby doesn't. Not when Jack bats the curtain aside to see just what the two of you are up to.

And his heart sinks while his stomach roils at the sight of Robby's hand shoved in your pants, as well as your skin that glistens with saliva where Robby's traced his lips and tongue across your neck and cheeks and breasts.

Robby stills when their eyes meet and you whine needily when his ministrations stop. "Robby, please," you whimper while clawing at his shoulders.

Jack shakes his head while glaring at him with a stony expression and a set jaw.

Your eyes slowly flutter open, then bug from your skull when they meet with Jack's.

Just as you've opened your mouth to pour forth apologies, or excuses and faux explanations, he turns on his heel and slams the door closed behind him.

Resting his forehead against your shoulder, Robby withdraws his hand and slams it against the wall in frustration. "Fuck," he growls in irritation.

"Are...Are we going to be in trouble?" you ask worriedly while wrapping your arms protectively around his broad shoulders.

He shakes his head, then pulls back. "Abbot wouldn't do that to either of us." Resituating your clothes, Robby steps back. "Let me go talk to him."

No more does he give you a peck on the lips and he's turned and left you with pent-up sexual frustration which you absolutely intend on making him tend to once you both get home tonight, as well as a mess in your panties.

"Sure hope you washed your hands," Jack sneers while yanking a fresh pair of gloves from a nearby box.

"I need to be worried about you taking this out on me?"

Jack shakes his head. "Man... In the middle of a shift—"

"It's at the end of a shift," he retorts matter-of-factly and with hands planted on his hips. "And—"

"So you couldn't have waited 'til you got home?" Jack spits. "Not that she should be going home with you," he says before turning back to him.

"Because you wouldn't have done the same thing if she were on nightshift," Robby says with crossed arms.

Jack glares at him.

"That's what I thought," he remarks with satisfaction.

"Well, what I thought was that she was a resident. Your subordinate," he states with emphatically raised brows, like Robby needs reminding.

"I've seen how you look at her when she's wrapping things up at the end of a long day. With concern—"

Jack waves a dismissive hand and a scoff before heading down the hall, not wanting to hear any more.

"Because you care about her," Robby says with hands pressed together. "Same as me."

"I just do it a bit more appropriately," Abbot mutters under his breath. "Why the hell are you acting like you're in some episode of Grey's Anatomy or like lovestruck teenagers, anyway? Anybody could've walked in."

Robby smirks, but thankfully Jack doesn't see it, or he might just slug it off his face. "We've learned how to be discreet."

"So it's happened before," he says incredulously. "You know what?" He throws his hands up in exasperation before turning toward South 15. "I think I've heard more than I want to. I'm done with this conversation."

Robby watches as he shuts the door behind him, thus leaving him on the outs.

Jack most assuredly ripped Ogilvie a new one. He's never been so enraged here at work, since he's a man who prides himself on the trained ability to keep his cool under duress. After all, if he could bark orders while bullets rained down on his unit overseas, then an ED would and has been a cakewalk in comparison.

Until you came along, apple of his eye.

You'd been so shy initially—presumedly because you felt intimidated—but intent on seeking you out, Jack refused to let you slip from his grasp. So he tutored you in field medicine (maybe to show his skills off, even a little), gifted you a beautiful hardback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a fancy carrying case for your stethoscope, and this year for your birthday, a $200 prepaid Visa gift card to spend as you pleased. A present you'd been insistent on giving back, until he threatened to up the amount to $300 if you didn't accept it.

The more you bonded, the more the scales tipped from teacher and student to something else that he didn't really have the words for. What is it the kids call it nowadays? He heard it from one of the residents before... Situationship. Obnoxious, but he supposes appropriate.

What else is he meant to call it when he barely even calls you by your name anymore—instead opting for sweetheart, darlin', honey, baby doll, pumpkin; any and all pet names that he can come up with which earn him a sweet, bashful smile in return?

When the two of you are on a case together, he's always at your back or side to supervise your actions and decision making while showering you in quiet praise all the while. And anytime you have a particularly hard day? Jack gathers you in his arms and holds you suffocatingly close while insisting on taking you to a quiet dinner after... Or breakfast. Whatever you wish is his command.

But it's not all heaviness and burnout. It's also joking around by snapping rubber bands at your ass and tickling you until you're begging for a reprieve—lest you wet yourself—because your smile is his favorite sight, and your musical laugh or joyous cackle his favorite sounds.

He's waiting for the day HR comes down on his head like a hammer, but he's also aware that PTMC can't exactly afford to lose his expertise, so he feels pretty comfortable in toeing the line here and there.

So when your body went stumbling back because of Ogilvie acting first and hardly thinking at all, he hit the roof.

A gurney was unnecessary when he cradled you against his chest and carried you into a private room before lying you back on a hospital bed so he could wait at your side for the medication to wear off.

He continually took your vitals every handful of minutes, afraid the substance would wreak havoc on your system. With him being unaware of any possible allergies you may or may not have, sitting idly by while watching the clock simply wasn't an option. He needed to make himself of use somehow.

While running a soothing hand over your forehead is when you finally stir and blink up at Jack from beneath drooping lids.

Loosing a long, ragged breath of relief, the tightness in Jack's chest dissipates. "Hey, sweetheart," he coos quietly. "How you feelin'?"

Your tautly drawn features quickly morph into that of a scrunched nose and a toothy grin. "You're s'handsome," you slur while lifting a wobbly hand toward his cheek.

Practically slapping it against the stubbled skin, you giggle, which is then followed by your eyes suddenly widening to the size of saucers while your lips form a perfect O. "Are you my husband?" you inquire breathlessly.

Are you taking the piss or is the injection still wearing off?

"Honey—"

You toss your head back. "Jus' kidding," you drawl. "Never be that lucky," you mumble with a pout.

Waving your hand floppily that he should lean in closer, he does so with an amused smirk.

"I think 'm in love with you," you murmur while fisting the neck of his shirt and tugging him toward you.

Suddenly pulled out of his seat, Jack stumbles forward and barely manages to catch himself by planting a hand on your hip before you guide his lips down to your own.

Thank God he pulled the curtain around to give you a bit of privacy, because if anybody caught him in such a compromising position?

He jolts when you slip your tongue in his mouth and moan lustfully while exploring the warm, wet lay of it. Not a man to take advantage, though, especially of you, Jack breaks away reluctantly. A gesture which is met with a long, drawn out No from you.

Seating himself again, he tries literally to wipe the smirk from his face by scrubbing a hand from his cheekbones to jawline, but it does him little good.

"You're s'posed to say it baaack," you whine between chattering teeth.

With a sigh, Abbot shakes his head, then reaches over you to grab the remote for the electric blanket he draped over you just incase, until you lift your head and chomp down on his forearm.

Your lips recede into a smile while you nibble on the skin between your teeth.

He barks a laugh, then slips the limb from your mouth while turning the blanket to high heat. "You're somethin' else," he commentates while tucking the edges securely around your shivering form.

"But you love me," you whisper before your eyes flutter closed.

Cupping your cheek in his hand, he smiles softly. "If only you knew how much."

When you come-to, you feel groggy and ran through. Your memory pretty well begins and ends with you passing out just after being injected with something you shouldn't have been.

You've seen the videos—funny little snippets where people divulge hilarious admittances and embarrassing secrets while under the influence—so you of course begin to panic a little when your eyes slowly draw open. What if you said or did something? Maybe you were left alone to recuperate on your own?

When your head lulls to the side, that hope is quickly shot dead at the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with an iPad held at a bit of a distance.

"Got my test results on there?" you ask quietly.

Lowering the device, the daytime attending studies you from over the rim of his glasses. Robby sets the tablet aside, then leans forward and caresses your cheek with a smile. "How you feeling?"

You blink sleepy eyes. "Tired. Which I shouldn't be if I slept long enough for you to get here."

He snorts quietly. "Being under anesthesia is hardly the same as sleeping. You know that."

You roll your eyes. "It's called sarcasm," you groan while sitting up.

"Easy," Robby mutters while settlings his hands over the crowns of your shoulders to keep you steady.

Hanging your head in exhaustion, you sigh. "Was anybody in here when you clocked in?"

"Abbot."

You wince. "Did I...do or say anything?"

His lips twitch into a smile. "If you did, he didn't tell me as much. Just asked me to sit with you so he could get back to it before his shift ended."

You lift your head. "You don't have to waste your time in here—"

He clicks his tongue while giving your chin a gentle, affectionate tap. "I'd never call it that." Robby slides a hand down the back of your head after standing. "Watching you sleep was the most peace I've gotten in..." he shakes his head while turning and pulling the curtain aside. "Too long," he mutters.

"Could have that all the time if I could only get you to come onto the dayshift with me," Robby states while turning around with hands on his hips. "Might do you some good to see a bit of daylight every once in awhile."

You grin while swinging your feet. "Are you trying to poach me from Abbot's team?"

He meets your smile. "Always." Robby walks over and grabs the iPad again. "It'd give me a reason to look forward to coming in here again every day at least."

Robby offers you a hand, which you take. Once you're standing on two feet again, you take a moment to catch your bearings.

Sliding an arm around your shoulders, Robby slowly leads you toward the door. "You're not just Abbot's favorite, you know?"

You glance up to him. "Oh?"

He presses a kiss to your brow before swinging open the door and holding it for you. "Just something for you to consider. Incase the nights ever get too long."

With your shift at an end, you decide to head in the direction of your locker to gather your things before heading home. A long soak in the tub, followed by plenty of rest sounds pretty nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout while you're at it. Or Thai.

"Robby tells me that you seem to be feeling better."

Clicking your locker shut, you turn and smile at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away with an easy grin playing on his lips, matched by hands stuck in his pockets.

"Think so," you reply with a quiet, casual shrug.

"You heading home?" he asks while ambling closer.

"Planning on it."

Slipping your bag from your shoulder, he hefts it onto his instead. "How about," Jack begins while leading you in the direction of the elevators with your hand held in his, "You come up on the roof with me now that you're awake and let me watch you for a bit to make sure there's no residual effects."

You huff dramatically. "Jack, I really do feel fine."

Pressing the button that'll lead the two of you up, he cups the crown of your shoulder in his hand and brings you in close. "That is to still be determined."

The elevator dings and steel doors slide apart, inviting the two of you into an empty chamber.

"By me," he concludes while ushering you inside with an encouraging push.

With one arm wrapped around yourself, you settle the other over your mouth to suppress a laugh of disbelief. "Of course you and Robby have folding chairs up here," you remark with a giggle.

Popping one open, Jack nods to it, indicating it as your designated seat. "Could always look into a tent," he states while settling the other beside it. "If it meant getting you snuggled up next to me in a sleeping bag."

Plopping down in the offered chair, you rest an elbow on the fabric arm and your chin in your palm.

Jack tugs off his prosthetic, then leans back with a sigh. "That feels better."

"Maybe we get an extra big one. Or a blow-up mattress," you quip happily.

Jack clasps his hands over his belly. "Why's that, pumpkin?"

You flash a grin. "Maybe Robby can join us."

Hanging his head back, he shakes it from side to side. "Don't tell me he was making moves on my girl while I was busy saving lives this morning."

You shrug while wiggling your brows playfully.

"So..." You begin while picking nervously at your nails. "Did I say anything?"

"To me or Robby?" Jack asks while massaging his leg.

You roll your eyes. "Apart from me asking Robby to take his shirt off," you remark sarcastically.

Jack snickers and his mouth curves into a lopsided grin. "Without me there to see it?"

You remain silent as you wait for him to fess up.

"You, uh..." he trails off, then barks a laugh.

Oh no...

Jack glances at you. "You might've bit me," he says while cringing mischievously in an attempt to downplay things.

"I what?!" you cry while leaning toward him in shock.

Jack throws himself back against the chair and lies his arms palm face up. "Well, after you got done harping on my good looks, you got cold, so I went to switch on the heated blanket that I put you under and you just chomped down," he explains whole gesturing toward his right forearm with his hand drawn into the shape of a claw. "It was more like a nibble, though." He shrugs and bestows a reassuring smile. "You didn't break skin, so don't worry about it."

Burying your face in your hands, you shake your head. "Oh, this is mortifying." Dropping them into your lap, you stare at the skyline. "I'm so sorry."

Studying him from beneath your lashes, you nervously chew your lip. "Anything else?"

Please say no, please say no.

He smiles warmly—almost bashfully, in fact. "Asked if I was your husband. Then you broke character, and let me know you were just kidding."

It can't get any worse, surely.

Doubling over, you rest your elbows on your knees, then press your forehead against the heels of your palms. "Please tell me that's it."

He should let it go—leave things as they are. But Jack can't help it: wanting to hear that it wasn't just because you were high as a kite.

That feelings are mutual, and always have been.

When the sound of silence descends, you raise your head. "Jack?"

He sighs. "I just want you to know that I know it was strictly because you were out of it." Jack turns fully toward you. "That you didn't mean it."

"The more you talk, the more worried I'm getting," you reply with searching eyes.

Clasping his hands together, Jack leans forward slightly. "You..." he sighs. "You told me that you were in love with me."

His eyes flit to yours—attempting to gauge from expression alone whether it was a true utterance, or mere sarcasm. "And then you kissed me."

Your eyes pop wide open. "I—" You clam up.

Is this it? The defining moment that either makes or breaks your and Jack's...situation?

"You know how they say drunk words are sober thoughts?" you ask quietly and with a pattering heart that leaves you short of breath.

Jack's chin wobbles, but only slightly. "Yeah?"

You nod, and a sob breaks last your watery smile.

"C'mere, honey," he commands with a wave of his hand.

Rising from your seat, Jack guides your hips until you're seated on his generous lap. "Can you say it again?" he asks quietly while smoothing a hand across your brow.

You press your forehead to his and hum from the feeling of the rising sun warming your back. "I love you," you whisper while winding soft, gentle hands around his neck. "Jack."

Cupping his own around the curve of your neck, he guides your lips down to his this time. "'Bout damn time we got that outta the way," he murmurs before kissing you the way he's meant to so many times.

Jack teases your tongue with a wet, pointed tip which he slides along the underside of your own.

"How about," he pants. "I take you home just to be safe." A calloused palm scratches its way along the polyester that covers your inner thigh.

"Y-Yours or mine?" you whimper.

Squeezing your hip temptingly, he nips at your chin. "Better take you to mine to keep an eye on you. Help you in the shower," he drawls with a bored shrug. "I have a chair in there. It'll make things more comfortable when I help. Then I can fix you dinner before we go to bed. Together."

Carefully, he prods at the heat which radiates from between your thighs. "Would you like that, sweetpea?"

"Pretty dizzy all of a sudden," you sigh.

"Let me get my leg back on and I'll take you home, baby."

Lying your head back down, you stare at the TV ahead while your heart thrums in your chest like a rowdy jackrabbit.

"Scoot forward," he commands with hands positioned on his hips.

Wiggling toward the edge of the sofa, you silently do as instructed.

Pope slides a knee atop the cushion where your feet lay before settling in behind you.

You think to remain precisely where you are to grant the two of you a bit of breathing room, until he snakes his right arm over your waist and tugs you flush against his chest. "This is nice," he whispers while running a calloused palm along your hip, all the way to your bare leg.

You should've wore sweatpants instead of a t-shirt style nightgown, but it was sweltering today, so pants seemed rather unappealing to you after getting out of a hot shower just a bit ago.

You hum in response.

You feel him shift halfway onto his back and you loose a small sigh of relief. Maybe he plans to go to sleep then?

Snuggling into your pillow, you click through the channels again before finally settling on Pretty Woman. Hollywood has always seemed so enchanting to you, but you've never been, despite it being only about an hour and a half away.

Narrowing your eyes at Stuckey when he comes on-screen, you glare at the fictional character with vehemence.

Least he eventually gets his ass handed to him before the film's end.

Pope's breathing eventually turns from calm and steady to ragged, with the occasional quiet whimper, interrupted by the odd groan.

You don't want to know what he's doing back there.

Just as Julia Roberts slips into Richard Gere's borrowed ride, Pope rolls onto his side again and your eyes go wide at the unmistakable feel of an erection pressing into the small of your back.

Continuing on with his ministrations—his knuckles occasionally brushing against your nighty while he strokes himself—Pope pants against the back of your head. "You can touch yourself," he quietly encourages.

Ignoring the warmth blooming between your thighs, you remain focused on the movie. "I'm okay."

He huffs in quiet irritation. "Then I will."

Sliding his hand beneath your nightgown, Pope shoves the thin material to the curve of your waist before returning to himself.

More shifting and grunting like he's seemingly trying to get comfortable again, and then a finger ghosts along your ass cheek.

Snapping your head back in his direction, you stare up at the ceiling. "What're you doing?"

"Just trust me," he mutters huskily. "It'll feel good."

Pope then prods between your legs with his index and middle finger and your hips buck in response. Snorting from amusement, he slides a finger underneath and peels the damp material away from your crotch and yanks it to the side. "I'm okay," he mockingly repeats. "My ass. You're fuckin' soaked."

Taking himself back in-hand, Pope swipes his weeping tip against your slick entrance.

"Uncle Andrew," you whine while squirming restlessly.

"Stop moving," he hisses before shoving the tip in.

Biting your lower lip, your eyes roll back in your head as he eases the rest of his cock between your fluttering walls before finally bottoming out with a low curse.

Once his erection is fully submerged inside your slick, pulsating cunt, He clamps his hand down on your hip again while rocking his hips against yours. "Now you can move with me," he murmurs while sliding his palm higher, underneath your nighty and toying with the soft pouch of your belly.

"I love how soft you are," he sighs while moving higher and cupping your breast. "Tell me," he begins while licking his lips. "That you like when I fuck you."

Your head lulls forward while drool slips from the edge of your lips and onto the pillow beneath. "I do," you whimper while squeezing your eyes shut and clenching around his throbbing cock.

A shuddering breath breaks past your lips when he eases his erection out before slowly slipping back in. "That feels good," you whimper. Pushing your hips back, you flex your walls around him.

Shoving his left arm beneath your neck, Pope maneuvers his hand up to your mouth before sinking two fingers inside a pool of warm drool that's gathered under your tongue.

Closing gently around them, you begin to suck.

"Good girl," he whispers.

Ghosting your hand across your sensitive body, you venture past the waistband of your panties and have only just touched your clit when Pope grips your wrist tight enough to hurt and yanks the limb out before shoving it between your back and his chest. "You come on my cock or not at all," he growls possessively. "Got it?"

You pout, but ultimately nod in agreement.

Releasing your arm, you grip the edge of the couch again, ignoring how your clit tingles—desperate to be played with.

Popping his fingers out of your mouth, he instead wraps his palm around your throat and carefully squeezes the sides. Just enough to make your head feel light and airy, and his fucking you all the more pleasant.

Squeezing your breast in his other hand, he pinches your nipple, then cups the soft underside of it. "You gonna come for me?" Pope grates directly in your ear. "You gonna come all over your uncle's cock?"

You nod and swallow gingerly.

Trying to, you think.

Increasing in fervor, Pope begins slamming his hips against your ass, causing his tightened balls to slap against the bottom of your rear.

Practically going cross-eyed with pleasure, you can't fight off the happy smile which crawls across your lips. "'M gonna come," you mumble—your words breathy and hard to hear from the lack of air in your lungs.

"Do it," he spits. "Right here."

Pushing your hand under your nightgown, you lace your fingers between his and hold on for dear life. Your pants develop into uneven, dramatic gasps, black spots fill your vision, and your climax claws its way down your body before culminating between your overstimulated legs.

Just as you open wide to scream his name, Pope releases your neck to clamp his hand over your mouth instead.

At the rush of air that enters your lungs, you squeal into his palm while your dripping walls contract rapidly around his thick member.

Always ready to meet you wherever you are, Pope clenches his teeth and groans your name between filthy curse words while his cum spills inside you.

When his gyrations slow, you half slump over and hang an arm lazily over the side of the couch.

Pulling out of you inch-by-inch, Pope tucks his weeping cock back away into his shorts.

Repositioning your panties over your messy slit, he tugs your nighty back into place over your hips and thighs.

You think to rise and go to the bathroom to clean up, since you can feel cum running over your thigh, which you know will stain the couch, until he wraps both his arms around your weakened body. "Hold it in. Maybe it'll work this time."

Your eyes flutter closed when he presses a kiss to your neck.

Sluggishly, you turn around to face his chest which you nestle against. "Do y'think?" you mutter sleepily.

Pope shrugs and squeezes you hard enough to make you squeak. "Don't plan to stop trying 'til it does."

You slide your arms around him and inhale the scent of woodsmoke and earth. "Think I'll be a good mom?"

To my own cousin...

Pope kisses your forehead, followed by your eyelids and the tip of your nose. "Perfect."