professional yearner

The photo of you stumbling out of a pink limousine is plastered all over the tabloids sold in kiosks along Hollywood Blvd. Your stomach drops as you catch the headliner, your pristine reputation torn within minutes.

It isn't like you're a prude; your songs of shitty ex-boyfriends and unsatisfactory situationships have spoken enough to the world that you aren't some naive virgin. But your reputation is clean for the most part, adored by the general public for your class.

Being caught stumbling out of a limo at 3 AM after riding Jack Abbot, famed rockstar of the late 90s and early 2000s, did not match the public's general expectation from you. Except they didn't know it was Jack, at least. The world finding out that you've been regularly fucking a man that may be old enough to be your dad would just add fuel to the fire of your tattered image.

The news had broken the night before but the brunt of the damage didn't hit 'til this morning as you sit in one of the many conference rooms in the company building. Your schedule had only consisted of recording a few tracks, maybe a brainstorming session with some of your writers. A last-minute meeting with your agent, publicist, and a representative of the recording company you're signed under at eight in the morning hadn't been expected.

But neither has been bumping into Jack at a friend's birthday party at a bar in Silver Lake last night. With the private venue and the strict 'no phones' policy enforced, the both of you had thrown all caution to the wind when the older musician had pinned you against the exposed brick walls of the bar. His hands had wandered in the places you needed him most, artfully drawing out sweet moans in time with the bass drops of the DJ hyping up the small crowd. While the two of you might've garnered some interesting looks and playful whistles, there's no question that most things that go on in parties like these stay hush-hush.

And yet Jack had taken your hand, his graying curls flashing purple under the colorful lights, as he dragged you out of the side door and into the empty street where the garishly pink limo that your friend had arrived in a couple hours ago is sitting, abandoned. The two of you exchanged a single look before he's hustling you inside the backseat, snorting laughter when the zebra-print walls greeted you upon entering. But even with the tacky decor, it didn't take away the building lust the two of you held as Jack had all but ripped your panties aside, shoved his cock in you as your knees bracketed his hips.

It had been filthy and quick, sloppy drunk kisses exchanged in the dim lighting while your hand had slammed up against the roof of the limo for some balance while Jack fucked up into you. He finished fast and quick right after he made sure you did first, pressed a careless kiss to your lips while you returned the favor with a bright red lipstick stain on his collar. He exited one side, you went the other. Your hair askew, your dress rumpled and crooked to reveal more leg as you're half out of the limousine. Hickeys littered your neck.

Just in the perfect view of a paparazzi pack (hiding in the literal bushes across the street) awaiting for the perfect shot.

The shot is staring up at you as your publicist slides it across the glass table. You feel juvenile in your comfy hoodie and yoga pants, sitting across your team who's dressed in business casual. Your sleeves fall over your fidgeting hands.

"I didn't think anyone was out there," you mumble as you push the glossy camera shots of you back to your publicist, Dana. The older woman sighs. She's all hard edges, a no-nonsense attitude crammed in her petite 5'3" frame, but she's soft towards you.

"It's alright, hon. You're not a kid anymore, the company knows that," she says, her Pittsburgh accent still as strong as it has been since she relocated to Los Angeles decades ago, with a gentle pat to your hand. "So what— a grown woman like you had some fun at a party, no big deal. Our job here is to lessen the public outcry but we won't know that 'til we see how the internet's feelin' about all of this."

Her face is unreadable as she pulls out her iPad from her bag, flicks it open with a few sharp taps, and hands that over to you and your manager, Cassie.

@mariasont : god forbid a WOMAN wants to get fucked!!! in a pink limo, no less!!! user1: where's her class? it's demeaning @pearlessance: she's not a child anymore!!! people forget she's literally in her 20s jfc

The comments are plenty and while the negative ones are what steal your attention first, there's a flicker of hope that lights within you when you catch more people defending your actions rather than reverting to full-on slutshaming. You release a shaky breath as you return the iPad.

"See?" Dana hums. "Not so bad. Just gotta redirect the narrative, sweetheart, all there is to it. You just gotta help us out a bit, give us somethin' to gnaw on. Think you can give us the name of your Romeo?"

Your cheeks burn as you avert your gaze elsewhere.

—

ROLLING STONES PRESENTS: NIGHTCRAWLER, THE PRODIGAL BAND RETURNS.

NIGHTCRAWLER HAD BEEN THE 'BOY' BAND OF THE EARLY 2000S, REIGNING SUPREME ON THE RADIO DESPITE THEIR UNCONVENTIONAL IDENTITY OF OSCILLATING BETWEEN HEARTTHROBS FOR TEENAGERS OR SERIOUS MUSICIANS FOR THE OLDER DEMOGRAPHICS. DESPITE THEIR REFUSAL TO LABEL THEMSELVES, IT DIDN'T TURN AWAY THE GENERAL PUBLIC FROM DIALING THE VOLUME UP WHENEVER THEIR ADDICTIVE GUITAR RIFFS COME ON THE RADIO.

WHILE THEIR IDENTITY HAD BEEN IMPOSSIBLE TO PIN DOWN, IT WAS UNDENIABLE THAT NIGHTCRAWLER HAD STAR POWER. MICHAEL 'ROBBY' ROBINAVITCH, FRONTMAN AND RHYTHM GUITARIST, WASN'T AFRAID TO SHARE THE SPOTLIGHT WITH FELLOW BAND MEMBER, JACK ABBOT, WHO PLAYED LEAD GUITAR. ALTHOUGH THE POSITION OF DRUMMER AND BASSIST WAS ALWAYS FULFILLED BY A NEW FACE ALMOST EVERY OTHER ALBUM, THEY WERE NEVER FORGOTTEN BY THE FANS.

(PICTURED: ABBOT, ROBINAVITCH — CIRCA 2006, GRAMMY AWARDS AFTERPARTY.)

NIGHTCRAWLER DIDN'T BLOW UP OVERNIGHT— ROBBY AND JACK HAD BEEN CHILDHOOD FRIENDS, MOMENTARILY SEPARATED WHEN ROBBY HAD PURSUED A MASTER'S DEGREE AND JACK HAD ENLISTED AFTER THEIR COLLEGE GRADUATION— BUT AN EXPLOSION OF TALENT IN THE MAKING. WHEN THE SIMPLE LIFE HAD PROVEN NOT TO BE ENOUGH, ROBBY AND JACK REUNITED UPON HIS HONORABLE DISCHARGE FROM THE MILITARY TO FORM NIGHTCRAWLER.

AFTER ONE RELEASED ALBUM (YOUNGBLOOD), THEY RECEIVED THEIR FIRST GRAMMY NOMINATION IN 2006 BUT WON THE YEAR AFTER FOR CALM IN 2007. FROM THAT POINT ON, NIGHTCRAWLER WAS A HOUSEHOLD NAME. A FEW DAYS AGO, I SAT WITH ROBBY AND JACK AFTER THEY HAD ANNOUNCED A SUDDEN REUNION ALBUM AND TOUR AFTER NEARLY FIVE YEARS OF SILENCE WHEN THEY HAD RELEASED THE SINGLE GHOST OF YOU IN COMMEMMORATING IRIS— JACK'S LATE WIFE AND BELOVED ACTRESS— AND THE FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF HER PASSING.

Q: IT'S BEEN SOME TIME SINCE GHOST OF YOU, HOW HAVE YOU TWO BEEN? J: WE'RE DOING ALRIGHT. TOOK SOME TIME OFF FOR OURSELVES. R: COASTING ON THOSE ROYALTIES KEPT US AFLOAT. Q: THAT'S WONDERFUL TO HEAR, DID YOU TWO PICK UP ANY NEW HOBBIES? R: GOLF, BUT— (LAUGHTER.) J: I HATED GOLF. I ENDED UP WRITING LYRICS IN THE GOLF CART WHILE THIS ASSHOLE PUTTED AWAY.

THE TWO MEN CONVERSED LIKE NO TIME HAS PASSED AND ALTHOUGH THEY'VE STARVED THE WORLD WITH THEIR FRIENDSHIP AND MUSIC, IT WAS LOVELY TO SEE THAT THERE HAD BEEN NO LOVE LOST. AFTER SOME SMALL TALK AND HAVING BROKE THE ICE, WE DOVE RIGHT INTO THE MOST AWAITED TOPICS.

Q: SO. A NEW ALBUM AND A TOUR. HOW THE HELL DID THIS COME AROUND? J: (SOFT CHUCKLES.) IT'S ALWAYS BEEN SOMETHING WE TALKED ABOUT AFTER THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF IRIS PASSING, WE NEVER DID STOP WRITING MUSIC. R: THAT'S RIGHT, WE JUST FINALLY HAVE ENOUGH TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS SINCE WE DID SOMETHING LIKE THIS AND WITH HOW THE MUSIC INDUSTRY'S CHANGED SO MUCH, WE DIDN'T WANT TO DEAL WITH THE BULLSHIT OF PROMOTIONS AND TEASING SPOILERS OR HOWEVER THE FUCK ARTISTS DO IT NOW— J: WE THOUGHT TO KEEP IT SIMPLE. ANNOUNCE OUR NEW SELF-TITLED ALBUM AND OUR PLANS FOR A TOUR, SIMPLE AS THAT. WE'RE A COUPLE OF OLD MEN NOW, WE CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THESE YOUNGSTERS. Q: SPEAKING OF NEW ARTISTS, HOW DOES IT FEEL KNOWING YOU'VE INFLUENCED A WHOLE GENERATION OF SINGERS? MANY OF THEM HAVE NAME-DROPPED YOU BEFORE, ONE NOTABLE AS 'STAR' WHOSE PREVIOUS ALBUM HAD ELEMENTS OF PUNK WITH HER USUAL POP GENRE. SOME MIGHT EVEN SAY IT HAD A HAND IN HER FIRST GRAMMY WIN IN 2022, AN UPSET WIN WHEN SHE HAD BEEN NOMINATED AMONGST THE EXPECTED WINNERS. R: AHEM, YEAH. IT'S INSPIRING FOR US, TOO, YOU KNOW. NOT TO STROKE OUR OWN EGOS BUT IT'S NICE THAT WE CAN LIVE ON IN OTHER WORKS RATHER THAN JUST OUR OWN MUSIC. STAR'S A GREAT SINGER, SHE'S ONE OF OUR FAVORITES. J: … DEFINITELY, SHE'S BEEN LIVING IN MY PLAYLIST FOR AWHILE NOW. Q: COULD WE BE EXPECTING A COLLAB ANYTIME SOON? R: NO PROMISES.

BEFORE THE TOPICS GOT AWAY FROM US, THE CONVERSATION WAS REDIRECTED BACK TO IRIS TAYLOR-ABBOT, JACK'S LATE WIFE. SHE HAD BEEN A PHENOMENAL CHILD STAR, GROWING UP IN THE PUBLIC EYE AS SHE GREW INTO HER OWN SHOES OF ONE OF THE BIGGEST NAMES IN CINEMA. HER LOVE STORY WITH JACK HAD BEEN ONE FOR THE AGES, ONE THAT PEOPLE TODAY STILL TALK ABOUT WITH REVERENCE. IT WAS A WHIRLWIND ROMANCE, HOW SHE TAMED THE INFAMOUS ROCKSTAR WITH A SIMPLE WINK WHEN SHE HAD WON HER FIRST OSCAR AND HE WAS IN THE CROWD FOR NIGHTCRAWLER'S SCORE FOR HER FILM.

THEY HAD BEEN THE NATION'S IT COUPLE OF THE EARLY 2000S.

J: I LOVE HER, THAT'S NOT GOING TO CHANGE, AND TIME DOESN'T HEAL ALL WOUNDS BUT IT SURE MAKES THE PAIN LESS. I CAN THINK OF HER WITHOUT WANTING TO LIVE IN THE BOTTOM OF THE BOTTLE. Q: THAT'S WONDERFUL, JACK. WE CAN SEE THAT SHE STILL LIVES THROUGH YOU, AT LEAST, IN THE MULTITUDES OF LOVE SONGS THAT YOU'VE RELEASED. R: SHE'S ALWAYS GOING TO BE A PART OF US.

HER UNTIMELY DEATH IN 2016 HAD BEEN A BLOW TO THE ENTIRE WORLD, ULTIMATELY LEADING TO NIGHTCRAWLER'S HIATUS. ON THE FIFTH ANNIVERSARY, GHOST OF YOU WAS RELEASED WITH LITTLE FANFARE BUT IT CHARTED ON TOP FOR MONTHS. PEOPLE HAD SPECULATED THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL BAND BUT CAME TO NO FRUITION.

UNTIL NOW, NEARLY TEN YEARS AFTER THEIR DISAPPEARANCE FROM THE PUBLIC EYE.

—

The ceiling spins above Jack's head as he reclines in his office chair, drumsticks loosely grasped in his hand while Robby messes with the soundboard. There's staff inside the recording booth, readjusting mics and filters.

"Did you see that TMZ article?"

Jack snorts. "Since when did you pay attention to gossip, brother?"

"Since your girl's plastered all over the front pages."

The chair releases a loud creak before Jack tumbles onto the floor, unceremoniously lifting himself off his feet with as much grace his prosthetic leg allows. "What the hell did you say—?"

Robby chortles as he hands his phone over, the obtrusively red logo of TMZ splashed across the top of his screen. Jack settles onto the leather couch pushed against the far wall of the room with his bandmate's phone in hand, shoving his readers on before he scrolls.

Sure enough, it's a photo of you exiting the pink limo from the night before. His concern for you (along with the feral instinct to protect you from wandering eyes) is momentarily silenced when pride grows at the sight of you wearing his marks. It isn't until his eyes snag onto the blunt and crude headline meant to clickbait, ultimately tearing down your character to the public.

His grip tightens before he hands the phone back. He leans back against the couch, head tilted backwards with his eyes shut.

"Can't do much. TMZ didn't name anyone and talking about it would just prove me guilty."

Robby releases a hum, half-distracted now as he turns his attention to the soundboard and the files he had just opened. The album's half complete now with just mixing and final changes needed before they hand the whole thing over to the company's in-house producers.

Although the album was supposed to be done half a year ago, you had entered Jack's life, kickstarting nearly five new songs from the first evening he spent with you. Robby doesn't mind, he likes you well enough. You're younger, maybe a little too young to be messing with old men like them, but you've got a love for music that reminds them both of their own start all those years ago.

"Did Star text you?"

Jack shakes his head as his gaze returns to the back of Robby's head where it's slightly bowed as he fiddles with a few chord progressions. "No. Also, she's got a name. You don't have to keep calling her by her stage-name."

"Habit," Robby shrugs while he hits the save button. A half-lie, he knows your name but Jack is possessive, moreso with you than anyone else. It almost feels like an intrusion, a false sense of familiarity that hasn't earned, to use your given name. He turns in his chair, grabs the acoustic guitar to absentmindedly strum a few riffs. "You heading over to her place?"

"I don't know, maybe. It's her first scandal, not sure if I'm what she needs right now."

"She'll always need you." The simple remark has Jack looking up in mild surprise, searching for any kind of jab there from his bandmate (maybe something about your age again), but nothing but sincerity lives upon Robby's features. "It's been six months, brother. Your past flings never lasted this long."

Something uneasy settles into his stomach then, his mind nearly splintering to try and skip over the almost-revelation there to stitch something half-true about your importance in his life. He shifts in his seat instead, grabs the other guitar by its neck as he keeps his hands busy by tuning it. "I'll call her later. Make sure she's okay."

Robby nods in slight approval. "Maybe lay low a little. I know you two like hitting up your usual bar but with the article out…"

Jack hits a sour chord. He didn't realize Robby had been keeping tabs of their 'usual' places. "Yeah— yeah, good idea. Or maybe I can stop by, pick up her favorite before heading over." He readjusts the tuning peg, misses the way his best friend shoots him an incredulous look at the blatant domesticity. Jack looks up then. "What?"

"Nothing. Just don't forget her fried pickles."

"… Right."

—

The bar in question is Barney's on Santa Monica Blvd, nestled deep in West Hollywood. To both of your closest confidants (Robby for Jack and Trinity for you), Barney's had been the 'usual' hangout— a perfect meeting point between your house and Jack's home. It's out of convenience, you told Trinity. Traffic's a bitch in Los Angeles and the shorter the commute, the better. Nothing more, nothing less.

No one knows that it's the first time Jack had met you in person, where he had roguishly hit on you about two old fashioneds in. No one knows that you had also been a tad bit tipsy, spinning wildly off of a strong margarita that you pounded down when your writers' block had become too much to handle. And no one definitely knows that you had giggled your way through Jack's cheesy one-liners, nearly tearing up and toppling off your barstool and into his lap when he asked you if you had a map because he kept getting lost in your eyes.

—

… SIX MONTHS AGO.

You're gnawing at the end of your pen, brows furrowed and nose scrunched up each time you scratch a line through a lyric. The bar is sticky beneath your notebook but you can't find it in you to give a fuck as your heels shift and resettle against the footrest under your stool. The bartender, Queenie, gives you a tender look before refilling your glass of water and placing a fresh margarita beside it. Despite the raucous cheers from the other patrons watching a football game, you're focused enough to follow the melody that's been knocking around your head all day.

But not enough to write a single cohesive lyric that wasn't actual dogshit.

So you reach out for the sweating glass near you, ice clinking as you lift it up to chug the rest of your margarita down. The room spins a little but you power through. There's movement on your left, silver gray curls catching your peripheral view.

"I have to say," a gruff voice sounds beside you. "You caught my attention the moment I walked in."

The cheesy one-liner coaxes an incredulous laugh as your spine straightens and you turn to face him. At least he's hot in that DILF-way, you muse to yourself. You didn't realize you had said it aloud until he's chuckling, takes a swig of his glass.

"Thanks, sweetheart. Glad to see I haven't let myself go."

Recognition would've kicked in earlier if aren't two margaritas in but it comes anyways and a flush creeps up your neck as your eyes widen when you take him in. Jack Abbot, lead guitarist of NIGHTCRAWLER. Widowed to Iris Taylor— a favorite actress of yours, if you recalled your younger days. Even though you've established yourself as a musician, considering some other artists that you've admired as a peer and colleague now after you've won your own Grammy, you still get a bit tongue-tied when you're faced with literal legends.

"You're Jack Abbot."

"And you're Star..?"

You chuckle at the stage name you picked out so long ago and offer your actual name instead. When Jack tries it on, you fight the urge to shiver at how sweet your name rolls of his tongue. The thought has you turning back to your notebook, scrawling the line in as a potential lyric.

"So, I had to come by and let you know you owe me a drink." Your brows fly up, absolutely shocked as you turn to face Jack again who swirls his drink. "Because when I saw you, I dropped mine."

A very ugly snort escapes you at the absolute shit-show of a pickup line, devolving into giggles. "That can't be your best line."

He chuckles and hides his bashful smile against the rim of his glass. "Alright, alright. Hold on, I have more." He pauses and you wait patiently. "Look, I'm just trying to drink here. You're very distracting."

The line isn't as funny as it should be but you're at that point of tipsy where everything is hilarious and you're nearly pitching forward, cheek brushing against Jack's chest as his warm hand settles on your waist to settle you. "Careful, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Here—"

In the midst of your giggles, Jack's arm carefully reaches out between your knees to grasp onto the underside edge of your stool and drags you closer to him. The easy strength of it silences you momentarily and you find yourself gripping his bicep for stability. "Oh, that's unfair."

Jack laughs, raspy and low as he retracts his hand and takes another swig of his glass. "What's unfair?"

Your hand wavers slightly as you gesture to his entire face and chest. "You— your whole… gentleman shtick. And I'm not dumb, y'know. I know the rumors about you and your manwhore ways. You and Robby—!" You might've been concerned with being a touch too crass, possibly offending Jack, but his easy and amused grin never falters as you babble adorably in his space. You haven't noticed yet but your bare knee is loosely slotted between Jack's and he's starting to crave the momentary brush of your skin against his denim jeans every time you shift.

"My manwhore ways…?" He repeats with a half-grin, hoping to coax you on to spill more.

"Yes, don't act coy, Mr. Abbot. I've seen the tabloid pages, the blind items." You sigh softly and regard him in a way that Jack feels almost exposed. Vulnerable. "If I didn't know any better, I thought I might've found my husband here in this bar in Silver Lake."

"It's concerning to think you're in Silver Lake, sweetheart. We're in West Hollywood."

"Irrelevant," you dismiss with a wave of your hand. "As long as my uber driver knows where I am, I can do anything I want."

"Alright, superstar. Maybe with how your words are slurring, it's time for that uber driver to know where you're at?" When he gently guides you off the stool, helps you with your jacket and purse, you go easily. He tips his head at the bartender who knows you by name, gives your manager a heads up while Jack leads you to the curb. He pays for your uber with just the regret of not giving you his number.

The regret goes away when he sees you at the same bar a few days later, this time stone cold sober.

—

The doorbell ringing draws you from your thoughts as you stare at the rerun of the TMZ soundbite where they have you splashed out on the screen, a half-step out of the pink limousine as an abrasive male voiceover eagerly dives in on your exaggerated exploits. Slamming the mute button, you look over your shoulder towards the door while tugging your stolen hoodie lower down your thighs.. You tug the hood over your head, harshly pulling at the strings until just a glimpse of your eyes and nose are revealed, while you drag yourself to your front door.

When you peek through the peephole, you relax and open it to see Jack with a baseball cap on, a greasy paper bag that smells faintly of your guilty pleasure snack in hand. A relieved smile curls upon your lips as you pull him in. "I didn't know you were coming," you say in greeting, shutting the door firmly before you're dragging him down by the nape of his neck for a kiss.

He smiles against your lips, reaching behind you to lock the door. "Wanted to check on you. You were trending again. Robby said so."

You groan dramatically and take the paper bag with Barney's logo on the front, turning to pad barefoot to your kitchen while Jack follows. You hear his keys jingle, settle into the bowl beside your keys, and his hat landing quietly onto the coat hanger you have by the door. "If your chronically off-line best friend knows about it, then it's definitely viral."

"Robby's getting better with the internet," Jack defends with a short laugh, leans against the threshold of your kitchen where you tear into the bag and lay out his treasure along your island counter.

"Mm, for a fifty year old."

"Sweetheart, we're forty-five." Your dramatic wince has him barking out a playful chuckle, crossing the distance that has you squealing and rushing around the island. He circles it, long legs striding with ease to catch and lift you to place you on the counter. "Glad to see the gossip circuit hasn't snuffed out your spark, superstar."

Your bare legs hook around his waist, feeding him a fried pickle. "It's not so bad. It could've been a leaked sex tape."

Jack frowns as he chews. "We don't have a sex tape."

"Not with you." When he gives you a shocked look, your face cracks and you burst into an amused cackle. "God, you should've seen your face, babe. And no— before you start to spiral, I don't have a sex tape with any body. I just—I need to joke about this otherwise I'll overthink."

His lips snag onto the corner of your lips, cradling your jaw on the opposite side. "You'll be fine, sweetheart. The general public loves you, your fans would go to literal war for you. The world will adjust." When he sees the slight wrinkle that always settles between your brows finally smooth out, he knows he got you. "Mm, there's my girl."

A flutter grows in your stomach but you stifle it. Jack's too good with his words, means it just as much as a throw-away comment, and you're too clever to let yourself get lost in it. It's been six months of bliss and if you get to have that a little longer without the security that comes with a label, then you'll gladly coast this situationship until it crashes and burns. `

"Well, your girl is exhausted and it's been too long since I was given even an inch of attention—"

"You don't have to convince me, I'll stay the night," he says as he shuts you up sweetly with a kiss. "You have anything for me to wear?"

You give him a sweet hum, sharp eyes sparkling with mischief which he responds with a roll of his eyes.

"If you want me naked, sweetheart—" He picks you off the counter, his low rumbling chuckle harmonizing well with your playful giggles, and brings you to your bedroom. He tosses you onto the mattress, unbuckling his jeans as you prop yourself up by your elbows.

"Your leg, Jack," you interrupt before you sit up smoothly, padding over to the attached closet to pull out a pair of crutches. He falls silent, looking gobsmacked with a look you miss as you set them down by the ottoman at the foot of your bed. "Jack…?"

"Right. Sorry—" He snaps out of his throughts and leans down to steal a kiss. The action of removing his prosthesis in front of you no longer carries the odd sensation of shame or embarrassment but rather frustration out of a chore that's interrupting what he wants. With his leg set aside, he's back to joining you in bed just as you tug the stolen hoodie off to leave you in just an old t-shirt and cotton shorts. It gives him pause. "Baby, was that mine?"

You bite back a smile. "You left your hoodie in my dressing room a week ago. I told Cassie that I thrifted it. Did you want it back?"

He shakes his head, takes the shirt he must've left behind at your place too because it's folded nicely and smelling like you and pulls that on next. In just his boxers and a fresh sleep shirt, he joins you into bed while you reach over to your bedside table to flick the TV on. "No TMZ," you promise while you put on a streaming app instead. "I just want to turn my brain off a little."

"I can help with that," he murmurs, lips grazing along your bare shoulder while he spoons you from behind. He drinks up you soft laughter, basks in how it shifts into something breathier when you feel his bulge prod against your underwear.

"Jack," you murmur but you part your thighs, pulling your knee up just enough to give him room to grind his clothed cock against your core. The TV continues to blare but you're only giving it part of your attention when you feel Jack's hand slide between you two to tug your underwear aside. A broken whimper falls from your lips as he presses kisses into the nape of your neck.

"Shh, it's alright, pretty girl. Just missed you." His hands are soothing as they coast along the planes and curves of your body, reverent and nearly worshipful, while his cock starts to press against your folds. It isn't filthy the way it usually is, fast and dirty while he presses your face against the mattress, but it's nearly gentle and domestic. You banish the thought before it can take root and force yourself to focus on the rerun of a show you put on, allowing tiny gasps and whimpers as Jack sheathes himself completely inside you. When he doesn't move, you glance over your shoulder with a little pout.

"Why aren't you moving?"

He chuckles, heartbreakingly fond when he leans over to kiss your pout. "I'm not trying to tire you out tonight, superstar. I just want you to rest. Unless, this isn't—"

"No, no, it's fine," you interrupt with a shy grin of your own. "Didn't think you were into cockwarming."

Jack gives you a deadpan look. "You think me sticking my cock in your pussy throughout the night isn't gonna turn me on?"

"… good point." You turn back around to the show, sighs as you sink deeper into Jack's arms while he presses more lazy kisses into the nape of your neck. "S'kinda nice. Feels good… feeling comfy and full."

He hums, chest rumbling as his grip tightens around you. "Good. Get some rest, sweetheart. You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow, right?"

You nod, half-asleep now as you trace little shapes along Jack's forearms. "I have a brainstorming session with the writers, recording… mm, but that's all after my brunch with the girls."

"That's right," he muses as he gives a little, shallow thrust. "I'll try to get out of your hair early, let you get ready."

Your eyes fly open (when did you even close them?) and release a quiet huff of protest. "No, you can stay— I like it when you make me breakfast." His laughter is warm against your shoulder, warm and sweet.

"I thought you were going to brunch, sweetheart."

"Let's be real, Jack, it'll mainly just be Trinity and I pounding back mimosas."

He sighs. "Your best friend's an awful influence. Make sure you drink water in between, baby."

Your tone is wry but thick with sleep, already nodding off but not without slipping in one last bratty little remark. "Yes, daddy."

His cock throbs inside you but neither bother to mention it.

—

Morning comes with stubbly kisses to your cheek, a kind beginning to buffer the sun's cruel rays that are most definitely not being shielded by your usual curtains. You groan, shove your face into your pillow before peeking above to see your blinds and curtains open.

"Jack—" You whine pitifully but he merely chuckles, circles the bed with his leg already on to settle on your side of the bed. His large hand smoothes back your hair, his calloused fingertips tracing along your jaw. You nuzzle into his touch like a cat. "Are you leaving already?"

He nods and lowers herself down to kiss your forehead. "Robby called. Our producer flew in early and they're calling for a recording sesh."

You sigh dramatically and lift your head up, lips pursed. "Tell Robby he owes me for stealing you away."

"You got it, sweetheart," Jack smiles against your lips, pinching your chin before he releases it to rise to his feet. "I'll call you later, yeah?"

Mumbling into the pillows to catch on some more sleep before one of your girlfriends call you up, you wave Jack goodbye. His footsteps fade into nothing and it isn't until your little security camera at your front door beeps with activity, letting you know that Jack has left your property. You sigh and roll over, shamelessly shoving your face into his side of the bed to inhale his shampoo and aftershave. It's an addicting musk, something clean but woodsy, something that reads 'older man' rather than some male manipulator's basic odor of Dior Sauvage.

In the privacy of your bedroom, you release a swooning sigh and allow yourself to daydream about Jack. It's dangerous territory, you know this, and yet you let yourself think up scenarios of simple domesticity. No one can blame you; your tumultuous relationship with Jack had gone from one night stands and stolen quickies in dressing rooms to picking up your shampoo on the way home or sharing pizzas on hotel rooftops.

Before you can sink even deeper in your fairytale thoughts, you drag yourself out of bed and stumble into the shower for a fresh start. You play your colleague's music rather than the demos you've been hoarding, all of them meant for your latest album that you've been working on. Nearly all of them about Jack.

As you sit at your massive vanity, Trinity facetime calls you without warning. You prop your phone up, accept the call with a soft sigh.

"Bitch, tell me you're ready."

You set the powder brush down and bring your setting spray within view of your camera in answer. Trinity rewards you with a bright grin as she shoves her sunglasses up her forehead to settle in her sleek updo. Despite the group chat claiming it to be a 'chill' brunch to catch up (now that all of you are finally in the same timezone), everyone is far too media-trained to ever be caught dead without looking effortlessly put together.

"We're on our way to you, get your ass to the front door!" Trinity crows as she turns the phone around, panning to the other girls in the car. Samira's glowing beside Trinity, the wonderful benefits of having wrapped up filming in Malta, and Victoria looks clean cut yet practical as if she's trying to demand the whole world to take her seriously as a filmmaker (even if she's one of the most famous nepo babies in Hollywood). The phone's passed down to Dove Tala, another singer-turned-actress that's been added into the fold of your friend group after sleeping with Trinity.

(As of now, you still have no idea what relationship they even have for each other.)

With a final swipe of lip gloss, you slip into a pair of kitten heels that match your sundress. Even now, your professional life bleeds into your personal as you slowly adopt a more girly style, something your team and creative partners had insisted on as you begin to build your next album release. They want more immersion, they said, especially with a fanbase like yours that follow your every move.

Already, some of your fans have begun to wonder if you're seeing anyone (aside from the pink limousine fiasco) due to the way you seem to be 'glowing' (a class effort from Tatcha's Luminous Dewy Skin Mist Finishing spray).

When Trinity's driver pulls up to the front of your house, the door swings open and you climb in where you're immediately greeted by a chorus of sweet 'hello's and gasps from your outfit.

"Okay, you're giving girlfriend material," Samira grins as she scoots down to make room for you. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Your eyes roll. "Jesus, I haven't even buckled in—! Can we please save the interrogation until after the mimosas?"

Dove's eyes glimmer with mischief. "I'm holding you to that, babe."

—

The car takes your group to Beverly Hills, rolling to a stop in front of a podium where a gloved valet opens the door. With your glasses firmly placed on your nose, everyone schools their expression into one of neutrality before you're inside and the host guides you to your table near an open window for some natural light. While it leaves all of you exposed to any possible photos taken, none of you have any concern for it.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the host says serenely as you all scoot into your booth, purses set aside and sunglasses carefully placed upon the tops of all your styled hair. While your friend group aren't the only celebrities frequenting the infamous brunch spot, you still garner a fair amount of looks. Mostly awe but many are of sick curiosity.

Your cheeks burn and you recall the nasty exposé that TMZ had dropped the night before. Trinity takes your hand beneath the table and you immediately understand the silent question in her eyes.

"I'm fine," you murmur and squeeze her hand gently in affirmation. She holds your eyes a beat longer before she nods. The girls around you immediately notice the small interaction. You wave away their concerned looks. "Honestly. It's my first trashy tabloid photo, I'm just being a baby about it."

Dove tsks. "Still doesn't excuse them to blow it all out of proportion, especially with just one photo! Fuckin' deuxmoi's making it sound like you dropped a sex tape."

"Wait, what?"

Victoria elbows Dove and while a silent conversation passes, you turn to Trinity with a question on your tongue. However, the other girls interrupt. "It's fine, it's nothing—!" Victoria cuts in, snatching your phone off the table with a slightly frazzled grin. "It's the same bullshit, these blind items are never accurate."

Panic brews but Trinity squeezes your hand before you can completely spiral. "No one is insinuating that you had a sex tape. It was a theory that your fans shut down immediately. However— the most common thread here is who the fuck you were with in that limo."

Four pairs of eyes land on you and while you've performed in front of tens of thousands of people, you feel an irrational sense of stage fright in front of your closest friends. But your server comes with a polite smile and you can sink into the plush velvet seats in relief.

"What can I get you ladies?"

"Let's start with a pitcher of Tommy margs," Dove smiles and her charm is blinding, eliciting a shy laugh from the poor server who nods. The rest of you rattle off your orders (the usuals, really— the five of you frequent this place so often that it's an open secret with your fans that it's the best way to catch a glimpse of you) before relaxing back in your seats when your server leaves with the promise of returning quickly with margaritas.

Samira slides her phone towards you, screen displaying the TMZ article that's been haunting you alongside the photo that's shown you at possibly your worst: your black cocktail dressed ruched up one thigh in the stolen moment, one strap sliding off one shoulder where a myriad of lovebites are painted across your collarbone and neck, lipstick smeared and your hair mussed.

It's almost theatrical if you stare at it long enough. Maybe even purposeful if it had been taken with your consent.

"You look good," Dove murmurs with a light shrug. Your eyes cast up and her easy admission soothes the panic that's been simmering in your gut. She's kind but not always the most gentle with her words. Compliments are rare but it makes the ones that spill from her tongue even more precious. When she compliments, she states it like fact.

"Of course she does," Samira cuts in. "It's just awful that it was taken with the sole intent to defame her."

Victoria's nails tap away at her screen. "Some of these blind items say so. But lots are disagreeing." She hands her phone over to you.

Popstar princess snuck away from a party. Not so innocent now.

— she's a grown adult, let her have fun.

Popstar princess caught filming a sex tape in a limo. Call it a wild ride.

— if it was a real sex tape and we're thinking of the same singer, it would've been leaked by now. this is false.

And there were more, multitudes of comments defending you or demanding proper proof before any kind of accusations can be flung onto your name. It softens your racing heart as you give Victoria her phone back. "Thanks, guys."

Your friends all send you a smile, reaching over to rub your shoulder or hand or refilling your glass. "Of course," Samira coos.

Dove nods and takes a sip of her drink. "Now that we've got that out of the way, it's time to spill. Who's the guy, babe?"

As if on cue, your phone buzzes with a text, the table vibrating slightly.

J ♡ : Robby's driving me insane. Rooftop pizza later tonight?

The girls gasp and dive for it, eyes snagging onto the blatant red heart that's tagged right after Jack's initial. Before you can scramble for your phone back, Victoria's unlocking the text and blanching at the contact photo.

"You're dating Jack Abbot," she whisper-yells, remembering they're still in public settings and making sure to mouth his name at the end. The girls struggle to take the phone from Victoria who has a terrifyingly large grin. When you do not deign to confirm or deny, Dove deems this your silence as answer enough before her sharp gaze lands on Trinity.

"You aren't reacting." Her eyes narrow. "You knew, didn't you?"

Trinity's grin is wild. "Of course I did. Best friend privileges."

Victoria's expression is a touch hurt when she asks, "why didn't you tell us?"

"It felt so surreal, I wasn't sure if he was just gonna leave me high and dry after that first night," you share with a bashful smile. "We didn't even sleep together for the first couple of times we ran into each other at Barney's."

The food arrives, artfully decorated, and plates land quietly on your table. Your group give the server a distracted word of thanks before their attention is fixed on you once more. You drag out the moment as you grab your phone to text Jack back.

To J ♡ : Serves you right for picking him over me. To J ♡ : But yes to pizza ♡

When you hit send and lock your phone, you glance up to see them staring at you with patient expression. (Almost patient, Victoria looks like she's about to dive out of her seat.)

"So he joined me at the bar that first night—you know how I like to write at Barney's—and he tried the most stupidest pick-up lines on me." You recall the evening with a smile, telling a shortened version before you continue on to tell the next time you'd seen him. "I didn't give him my number then and I was fully regretting it until I saw him again a week later at Barney's."

—

… SIX MONTHS AGO.

The loud music and wild cheers is a comfort that doesn't deter your concentration as you try yet again to continue writing lyrics. While you manage to tune out the surroundings of Barney's, you can't quite tune out your own thoughts. You're better than this, you think to yourself as you set the pen down with a little groan in favor of sipping at your glass of cherry coke.

Jack Abbot has been living at the forefront of your mind since he had helped you get home a week ago. You scoured the internet for any trace of him at two in the morning, stalking his non-existent socials only to come up with just their last release of Ghost Of You about five years ago.

The song itself is heartwrenchingly beautiful, the ache interlaced within the chords and harmonies, it had driven you to your piano and write a short melody you can't quite put a name to. It's the same melody filtering through your mind, one you've been trying to write lyrics to.

"You'll end up scratching a hole into the page if you write so hard."

You nearly fall off your stool when Jack settles into the seat beside you. Effortlessly handsome, his silver curls are messed roughly atop his head, crows feet deepening in amusement.

"Are you stalking me?" You blurt out but he chuckles and shakes his head.

"No, I just wanted a beer. But seeing you's a nice surprise." He takes the open bottle with a nod, takes a swig without losing eye contact with you. When you don't speak, a silent challenge, he gives in with a slightly bashful grin. "Alright, I might've… been coming every night to see you again."

The immediate confession floors you, flattery blooming in your chest. "Seriously?"

He laughs and it's such a boyish sound that he nearly looks ten years younger. "Seriously," he confirms. "Didn't feel right though since you weren't sober the last time I saw you."

A smile rises up your lips, unbidden. "I'm sober now. Still want that number?"

"Yes, but I was hoping for more now."

Your brows raise in playful surprise. "And what did you have in mind?"

His eyes flick up and down but rather than feeling like a piece of meat, he makes you feel like art being appraised. It sends a shiver down your spine. "One evening with you."

Maybe if it were anyone else, you would've made him work for it. Beg a little. Drag the moment until they're drooling for just a touch. But Jack's good at making you chase for it and make it feel like it's your idea.

"Take me home, rockstar."

No one bats an eye when you walk out of the establishment with Jack's arm around your waist, the other patrons turning a blind eye. His cologne is addicting when he tugs you into his side, effectively shielding you from a few stragglers taking a smoke break by the curb. When the car rolls up, Jack's got a hand at the top of the entrance as you slide in to avoid any accidental head bumps.

The drive is quiet but filled with a tension neither of you knew how to name. His hand is warm on your thigh and when you two make it to his place deep in the 'burbs of Holmby Hills. It takes your breath away when Jack helps you out of your sweater in the receiving foyer of his home.

It's massive and beautiful without seeming pretentious.

"So, be honest," you say as you follow him to what seems to be the main lounge, a plush brown leather sectional with a private bar hugging the far wall. "Do you use that line often to get women home?"

He circles around the bar, picks out a few glasses with a knowing laugh. "What—? No, I don't just hang around bars to pick up women. That's more of Robby's prerogative. Haven't you seen our tabloids? He's the manwhore between the two of us."

You laugh and lean against the opposite side of the bar, nearly bending over to flash Jack a hint of your cleavage. "That doesn't help your case! Those same tabloids that talked about Robby also talked about you, you know. You two are one in the same."

He shakes his head with another amused chuckle before he gives in, narrating his tried and true methods. "… I start off with making mocktails. Makes it look less sleazy than me using actual alcohol." He does a few tricks with the cocktail shakers, indubitably impressing you despite your attempts to remain indifferent. When he finishes, he pours the mocktail espresso martini into two glasses, adds a coffee bean in the center.

"I hate to say it, rockstar, but I'm a little impressed," you say after taking a careful sip, noting the way Jack's eyes track your tongue catching the foam left behind on the corner of your lip.

"Thank god, I don't think I'd live with myself if I ended up disappointed you," he teases as he circles the bar to join you on the same side, leaning one elbow upon the dark wooden counter as he appraises you yet again. No hesitation in checking you out and you let yourself be put on display. He watches you look around, never taking his eyes off you as he absentmindedly reaches up to brush back your hair over your shoulder to trace your collarbone.

"You have a lot of decor…"

The touch is light and undemanding, the backs of his knuckles feather-light as they brush along the remnants of glitter from your previous photoshoot. "I traveled a lot. And with the royalties, I have too much money I know what to do with— yeah, I know," he laughs at your blatant eye roll but he continues on when you sink deeper into his space. "I bought a lot of stupid shit with it. I even got talked into buying a gold massage chair."

You gasp dramatically. "No fuckin' way. Those are literal scams."

"I was out $10k, of course I knew it was a scam," he laughs as he shakes his head. The hand that had traced your jaw and collarbone travels down to your waist, skimming a thumb along your hip bone. The space between you two is nearly nonexistent but before you follow the natural progression to kissing, he tips his head to the side. "Follow me."

His hand nearly swallows yours as he guides you to the leather couch, sits you down before he wanders to the corner of the room where a gorgeous turntable sits. The room's filled with slow crooning and instrumentals, maybe something from the forties if you had to date it yourself, when he drops the needle. The plush seats dips beside you as Jack's arm stretches out across the back of the couch, effectively curling you into his embrace. You aren't complaining as your shoulder brushes his chest, lifting to move your legs onto his lap while you sip at your mocktail.

"Your age is showing," you tease. "I didn't think you listened to Frank Sinatra. Were you two classmates?"

"Har har," Jack laughs dryly, pinching your side lightly while you lean over to set your empty glass down onto the coffee table. "You're real cute, sweetheart." In your effort to escape and wriggle from his ticklish touch, he uses your movement to his advantage to pull you even closer for a kiss that steals your breath away.

You kiss back immediately, a low whimper spilling between your lips that Jack swallows immediately. He kisses you like he's starving. His touch is warm and demanding as he coasts along the expanse of your ass and hips, drawing you closer. At one point, your hips rise, grinding slightly while you hover above him and his head tips back with the force of your kiss. It's hungry and messy now, your hair cascading down that he uses the back of his hand to sweep back your tresses before tucking it behind your ear.

The gentle touch brings forth a broken giggle before you full on start laughing against his neck.

"Sweetheart. This is kinda killing my ego," he says as his large hand splays out along your spine while you bow over to stifle your laughter in his shirt.

"I'm sorry," you manage to say, your giggle dying down as you lift your head while you smooth out the creases upon his collar and chest. "I just— it was tickling me and then I just remembered— you have a massage chair? Like for real?"

He gives you an incredulous look but nods. "Yeah."

"Can I see it?"

"Not right now."

...

You sit in the massage chair with a blanket wrapped around your frame while Jack stands above you, fiddling with the remote control. The chair kickstarts and your eyes roll back with a quiet moan. Jack's eyes darken before you look up with a half-grin.

"This is great but this was definitely not worth ten thousand dollars, rockstar."

—

You're pulled back into the present when your phone buzzes in your hand. A red heart from Jack in reply to your text.

"You tried out his massage chair before you tried him out?" Dove interrupts with a bright giggle. "Did you guys fuck that night?"

When you shake your head, the girls gasp. "No, we spent the whole night talking. He took me back to bed and we made out some more but we kept laughing. At one point, we just fell asleep together."

You didn't realize you had been staring out the window with the dopiest smile until you snap out of it, glancing back to your friends who are watching you with varying looks of fondness and slight concern.

"You look smitten, babe," Samira murmurs gently. You startle and before you can deny it, Dove cuts in with a firmer squeeze to your hand.

"Just remember, honest love can be a cage that'll trick you into feeling like you're free."

Victoria smacks her shoulder. "Jesus, you're a bigger cynic than Trinity."

You shake your head and trace shapes into the condensation of your glass. "I never said it was love, guys. It's… We aren't labeling anything. And I'm not about to scare him off by asking the stupid 'what-are-we' question, I'm being cool. Chill. Relaxed and indifferent."

"Indifferent suddenly means your not-boyfriend coming around for pizza?" Trinity remarks with a sharp brow. "Be honest with yourself, he's doing boyfriend things, you're doing girlfriend things. I think six months is a little too long for a situationship—"

Victoria snorts into her glass. "Look who's talking."

Dove and Trinity share a look and an awkward silence falls on the table. Despite feeling sorry for your best friend and her own messy love life, you're grateful that the attention is finally off you.

The conversation shifts onward to different topics, Samira bemoaning the strict thematic approaches the higher-ups are placing on her next EP, Dove gushing about the last episode of Euphoria, Trinity rambling eagerly of a break after wrapping up filming for her latest movie, and Victoria complaining yet again of her extraordinarily famous director of a mother.

You sit in the midst of the beautiful chaos with a soft smile, nibbling absentmindedly at your friends before your phone buzzes again. Trinity glances over—you wonder if it's her innate overprotective best friend role—until you wave her away. It's just your manager, Cassie.

"I've gotta go," you sigh regretfully as you show the screen of Cassie calling you. The girls boo dramatically but you give your customary cheek kisses before you stumble out of the booth, answering the call and tucking your phone in between your ear and shoulder. "Hey, Cass."

Your heels carry you to the front, sunglasses back on your face. The valet approaches you but you politely wave them away just as your own driver pulls up to the curb.

"… yeah, Antoine just got here," you tell Cassie on the phone as he steps out to open the door for you. "… yup, absolutely." When you hang up the phone, you let your driver know to take you straight to the recording studio.

As you sink into the backseat, you let out a quiet huff as you brace yourself for the packed schedule that'll take up the rest of your day. In the midst of LA traffic, you mindlessly scroll through emails and correspondence to shift your brain into work mode.

Even so, your attention falls to the leather cord that's wrapped loosely around your wrist. A guitar pick dangles at the end, matte black with a red 'J' scrawled in the center.

Your smile never fades even as you enter the building upon arriving.

—

The outside world falls away when you envelop yourself into the bubble with the other writers and producers. Before you even step into the booth, you settle onto the couch as you're surrounded by a few of the other staff. Cassie had brought you your notebooks from your house for you, along with a few changes of clothes in anticipation of having no time to go home and change.

"I do have potential lyrics for one of the b-sides."

You flip through your notebook and the raw vulnerability that greets you nearly has you slamming the pages shut. But you keep it open and hand it over to Brendon, one of your harsher critics and fellow co-writers. It always feels like peeling your skin and exposing the muscles beneath when Brendon looks over your work; he may not know it's about Jack but he'll see the yearning that's been burrowing deeper and deeper in your bones.

"Not bad." Brendon nods and turns where he sits on a piano bench, testing out the chords you had scrawled above the lyrics. "Slower tempo, though. Might keep this as an opener if you want to build the storytelling to something bigger…"

The afternoon continues on like this, testing out melodies and harmonies while locking in the lyrics. Something comes to mind from the brunch and you lean over Brendon to scribble an extra line in the first verse.

He reads it over, sings it in the melody. "Honest love is a cage that makes you feel free…" the final chord echoes in the room. "That's cynical for a love song."

You shrug. "That's why it's titled 'stupid song'."

Another producer behind you chuckles at your smart wit. The progress is slow and steady but you've got a demo recorded at least and soon Cassie's hustling you out for your next schedule to the dance studio a few blocks down.

Fortunately, there's only a few dancers already there and the choreographer and performance director is close behind; you hate making people wait, fully negating the diva persona the internet tries pushing on you.

The choreo is something you're already familiar with and rehearsal goes by swiftly, blocking out your entrances as you follow the marked tapes that's meant to mimic the stage for the festival you're headlining next month.

"We'll end here today. Thanks, everybody." Everyone disperses for water, stretching out while you head over to your phone where it's been ringing.

You thank everyone as you cross the room to your bag, rummaging to bring out your phone. When you answer, a smile immediately blooms upon your lips.

"Hey, baby."

Jack's chuckle is slightly overtaken by the roar of winds and you figure he's driving with the windows down. "Hi, sweetheart. Did I interrupt something, you sound breathless."

"Oh, absolutely. I was just riding Robby," you retort with a snappy giggle.

"My best friend? That's cruel," he whines dramatically before he breaks off into a laugh. "Our recording sesh finished early, thought I could swing by and wait for you at your place."

"Actually…" Your conversation with the girls begin to weigh heavily on your mind, missing the way some of the dancers start to glance your way. "Rehearsals just finished. Do you wanna pick me up instead?"

"Depends. Where's the dance studio?"

"Are you near West Hollywood? On Melrose?"

Jack chuckles. "I am. I'll be there in ten, alright? Don't come out 'til I pull up."

You hum, not bothering to stamp down your bright smile. "I know. I'll see you soon."

"See you, darling."

Jack's G-Wagon is excessive yet blends right in with the rest of the vehicles that roll along Melrose Ave. He's shamelessly double-parked in front of the studio, hazard lights flashing, as you walk briskly to hop into the front seat. You don't relax until the door's shut behind you, safe behind tinted windows, to lean in and kiss Jack across the console. Despite the obvious traffic he's causing, his hand grasps your jaw to deepen the kiss that has your thighs clenching together.

"Mm, Jack… the cars—"

He nips against your lower lip. "Can't help it. Missed you today."

You giggle, traffic be damned, and lean in for another. "You saw me this morning."

"Not enough time," he says simply before he drops a kiss to your nose and shuts off his hazard lights. "Buckle up."

You obey immediately before a tantalizing smell steals your attention. Like a bloodhound, you sniff the air and look over your shoulder to see the familiar box in the backseat.

"You got me Vito's?"

Jack chuckles at the sharp squeal that follows, landing his warm palm onto your thigh to settle you when you attempt to turn and crawl into the back for an early slice. "It's your favorite, sweetheart, of course I did. Now quit moving and behave for me."

You retaliate with a sharp nip to his earlobe instead, dragging his hand higher up your thigh which he squeezes. "I'm giving you the sloppiest head later."

"Just for pizza?" He barks out a laugh as he turns onto your street.

"For Vito's," you correct. He rolls into your driveway, the gate shutting behind him. Once the security system is locked in place, you squeal as Jack's hand shifts higher to rub your clothed clit. His mouth finds yours, swallowing up your moans as he rubs you through the soaked fabric until you're cumming in your seat.

You're panting against his mouth when he reluctantly breaks the kiss, retracting his hand to lick his fingers clean while you watch with a burning gaze. "Always taste so sweet for me, sweetheart," he remarks casually before he steps out, circles the car and helps you out next.

The indifference he has is a ruse, you know that much, but it turns you on even more, whining playfully as he grabs the pizza and heads inside without another word. "Jack—!"

His resounding cackle only has you huffing, playfully stomping your feet as you follow him inside. "Go shower, pretty girl, I'll meet you on the rooftop."

—

(INSTAGRAM — @STARSARCHIVAL. (fan account for STAR!) 2 min ago. — [caption: THROWBACK TO WHEN STAR DID LIVESTREAMS.]

VIDEO: A screen recording of an old livestream of you that aired a few months ago. It's late morning or early noon, birds chirping. You're sitting in your backyard patio at the table, an acoustic guitar on your lap and dressed in a matching pajama set. A bowl of unfinished greek yogurt and parfait is sitting on the table beside you. "This is a demo, not really sure if this'll ever be released but I finally figured out the chorus. Hope you like it." A sweet melody rings out, mingling with the occasional songbird that flits in and out of frame behind you. It's likened to a lullaby. "And it's too hard to describe thisIn a way that feels honest, but even when I'm quietI adore you, baby, I promiseAnd I hope I never see what your face looks like goin'A face, I swear, that I could spend my whole life knowin'Here's to hopin'."

—

By the time you're showered, the sun has begun to set, painting the skies a strawberry pink tinged with orange. One of Jack's old NIGHTCRAWLER shirts hang off your frame, the black dye faded into a crackled gray, and conceal the cotton shorts beneath as you climb up the stairs that lead to your house's roof.

It had been the sole reason of purchasing this home, the gorgeous view that overlooks the neighborhood with an artifical ivy wall to create a semblance of privacy. With some renovation, you had another wall put up to project movies off of with a mountain of beanbag chairs and plush couches to sit on at the other side of the roof. A low coffee table sits nearby as well, occasionally pushed aside or dragged closer for whatever the evening requires.

But tonight, Jack has the lanterns turned on, casting the roof in a warm glow that'll replace the sunset's natural light. The coffee table is tugged close to the couch that Jack's already occupying, the pizza box open and a couple of cherry cokes already set out for the both of you.

"That mine?" He chuckles in greeting as he opens his arm for you to slide into.

"It's mine now," you grin and tuck your legs beneath you, fitting perfectly in his arms while he hands you a plate. Music is playing faintly; you may not own an exorbitantly expensive record player like Jack but you have a handy JBL speaker that's currently playing an old R&B track you might've introduce him to.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence as you assume your usual position: legs tossed across Jack's lap, his hand stroking along your thigh, and your head resting on his shoulder as you chew. While he'd been technically on hiatus with Robby for the past several years, he understands the chaos and demands of a life lived in the public eye.

Sometimes, just existing with Jack is enough to find your anchor.

"Day's been okay?" He asks quietly, plates set aside as he presses a kiss to your forehead. When you nod, a voice that sounds eerily like Trinity whispers in your ear: boyfriend activities. You bat it away.

"Just busy," you answer as you set your cherry coke down to tip your head up to meet his eyes. Your fingertips scratch along his scruffy beard, traveling up to play with his silver curls. "This is nice, though. I love our rooftop pizza nights."

Jack hums in agreement, head tipping to chase your touch. "Best way to end the day. Made any progress with the album?"

"A bit. We got the verse down but we're still playing around with the chorus," you murmur. His hand smooths up your thigh without expectations, basking in the domesticity of the evening while you ramble on about your day. He listens with a few nods and hums slipped in. "But how about you? I saw the Rolling Stones article about you and Robby. Are you excited to be back in the limelight?"

"I think so— I know Robby is," he chuckles. "Most of the album is recorded but it's shorter than we planned it to be. Either we just drop it as is or we would drag out the release by dropping singles."

"That's what my company wants me to do. Don't tell anyone but I have something slated to release for my music festival next month. Oh— that reminds me! Will you be coming?"

Jack already has trouble denying you anything but when you pair a question (that you ask oh so sweetly) with a bat of your big doe eyes, he's saying yes before he could even consult his schedule. He's rewarded with an eager squeal from you, nearly knocking him backwards as you hug him tight. "Careful, sweetheart," he laughs as he braces you against him with a hand on your back, effectively holding you like a clingy koala with how your legs hook around his waist.

"I'll have my team send over badges so you can get through security," you state while reluctantly releasing Jack so you can draft up an email to Cassie while perched comfortably on his lap. "Should I get Robby one too?"

Jack pauses before he nods. "Sure, why not."

"Good, I already requested for two." The email's sent and when you toss your phone aside, you catch your lover's questioning look as you settle back down in his arms.

"Don't give me that face— you and Robby are like a set, I know better than to separate you two."

—

Hot off the press, a stack of US WEEKLY magazines are dropped off by the kioks on the Walk of Fame a few days later. Your face amongst a few other male celebrities are splashed across the cover, garnering more attention by passing pedestrians.

US WEEKLY: STAR-CROSSED LOVERS?

NATION'S POPSTAR PRINCESS 'STAR' WAS FOUND EXITING DANCE STUDIO ON MELROSE AND GETTING PICKED UP BY A MYSTERY MAN.

MANY HAVE BEEN SPECULATING EXACTLY WHO WAS IN THE LIMO WITH STAR THE NIGHT BEFORE BUT SOURCES CLAIM TO KNOW WHO PICKED HER UP IN THAT G-WAGON. SOME SAY IT'S DENNIS WHITAKER, UP AND COMING COUNTRY SINGER OR MATEO DIAZ, CURRENT HEARTTHROB OF THE BIG SCREEN.

BUT MANY CLAIM IT'S JACK ABBOT OR ROBBY FROM NIGHTCRAWLER.

—

thank you so much for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are heavily appreciated and welcomed!

Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.

This, you were prepared for.

Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.

Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.

It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.

He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."

There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.

The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.

At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.

"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.

"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."

And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.

*****

Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.

Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.

Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.

"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.

"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."

"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?

"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."

Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.

Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.

"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."

This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"

"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."

Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."

"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.

You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.

Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.

You still have some sense.

Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.

The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.

Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.

Your shopping list for next week.

Not how warm he feels against you.

The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.

Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.

You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.

The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.

*****

"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.

"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."

"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.

"Yeah? How?"

"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.

He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.

"Need a hand?"

He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."

Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.

Truly.

The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.

Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.

Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.

"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."

Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.

He's gotta find a way to change that.

Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.

After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.

That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.

A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.

Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.

By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.

At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.

All things you can do in your sleep.

But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.

He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”

You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.

Uh oh.

This is bad.

Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.

You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”

“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”

“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.

You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.

He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”

There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”

“Always, sweetheart.”

You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.

Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.

“And don't call me sweetheart.”

You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”

“We're not holding hands.”

Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.

A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.

“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”

The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”

“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”

Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.

Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.

“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”

“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”

“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.

He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”

"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.

"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."

You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."

"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"

It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."

The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.

"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.

"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."

"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.

He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."

Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.

Apparently, you and Robby text now.

You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.

Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.

He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).

Currently?

He's fixing your busted boiler.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.

Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.

He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.

All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.

That means he's furious.

Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.

When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."

You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"

You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"

"What? No!"

"Why not? Thought we were being honest."

It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.

His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.

You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.

In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.

The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.

The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.

The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.

Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.

After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.

While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.

It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."

He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."

That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.

He's practically inescapable.

He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."

"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.

But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.

There are many words that would end this right now.

Stop. No. Don't.

And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.

Then an O.

Two B's.

And a Y.

He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.

Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.

The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.

You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.

You look up from the sink. "Hey."

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.

"Long day?"

"Mhm."

You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.

"You want me to plate up dinner?"

"If you want."

It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."

"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.

"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"Stop!"

Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.

"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"

Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”

Robby's face falls.

“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”

He folds his hands together.

"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."

"You stopped talking to me."

"I know."

"You stopped letting me in."

"I know."

Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"

"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.

But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."

"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."

Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.

Robby. 22:01. Just got back to town What are you up to?

You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.

Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.

He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.

Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-

No. You can't let yourself think like that.

You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.

He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.

Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.

Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.

To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.

You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.

It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.

But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.

So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?

"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.

"Hm?"

"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."

Shit.

Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.

You. 22:04. I'm on a date, actually

"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.

If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.

Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.

Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.

Robby. 22:05. When will you be done? I'll come and pick you up. Miss my girl.

A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.

You never have been.

Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.

Robby would double that, at least.

You. 22:21. ...Not your girl But you can pick me up around 11.

You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.

The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."

"A... dermatology emergency?"

"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."

Another lie.

You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.

“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.

"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"

"If he knew you were my ex, probably."

Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.

"You ready?"

You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.

*****

Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.

There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.

You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.

Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.

“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”

He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.

Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.

Not that you can't have seen other people.

You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.

Like nothing ever went wrong.

Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.

You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"

"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."

"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."

Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.

“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."

Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."

"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."

You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.

This version of Robby still has bad days.

Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.

The difference is that he always comes back.

And he lets you help.

Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.

But Robby had been right.

There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.

Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."

"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.

"Marry me. Again."

"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"

He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."

A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."

His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"

You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."

Work is gruesome, as it usually is. Jack’s outside of your apartment when you get home, t-shirt pulling taut around his shoulders as he leans down to grab the numerous packages sitting on your doorstep. His face lights up when he sees you, sitting up straight so that he can loop his index finger into your beltloop and bring you closer for a welcome home kiss. “Hey, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your mouth. “How was your day?”

You reach to grab one of the packages, trying to help him from having to hold them all, but he skillfully manuvers away from your reaching hands and opens the front door for you instead. When you stop to give him a stern look, he just nudges the back of your ankle with his foot, gesturing with his head for you to step inside.

Surrendering on this fact, you sigh, stepping into the apartment. You’re quick to shed your bag and hang it up, kicking off your shoes and abandoning them next to the door. Seeing Jack eye them out of the corner of your eye, you lean down to grab them, setting them down on the shoe rack. “Exhausting,” you admit.

He places the packages on the kitchen counter, stacking them neatly. A palm flattens against the granite as he turns to look at you, the muscle of his bicep just begging to be let out the confines of his shirt. “Want me to run you a bath?” He asks.

You laugh at the pure incredulousity of the moment. Months ago, you had been dating guys your age, worshipping the small things like opening doors or paying for your drinks. You had been fighting about feeling insignificant, about having to pull them away from video games long enough to have an at-home dinner with you, about feeling ignored when you hung out with their friends.

And now there’s Jack Abbot. Older than you, sure, but he was everything you had been asking for on every birthday wish. He spoke about you when you weren’t there, had you plastered upon everything that everyone would see (his home and lockscreen, your initials engraved on the inside of his watch) and chose to hang out with you over everyone else. His phone was abandoned on the kitchen counter from when you got home until the both of you went to bed, the ringer on so he didn’t have to check it just in case anything from the hospital came in.

Everyone who had been with you throughout the trials and tribulations that was dating in the modern age had told you the same thing – the perfect one will come by when you least expect it. Of course, you didn't believe them. It was hard to have hope in the later days when every person you became slightly interested in treated you so horribly, like you were just another person rather than you.

But then Jack came about. A charming smile, a calmness about him, an empathetic soul that you thought only existed in books and movies written by women. He had courted you kindly, although carefully, not wanting to come off as some older creep who wanted you just for your youth. Your first date had been filled with flowers and butterfly feelings, showing off everything Jack Abbot was rather than a facade of everything you wanted him to be.

You smile as you step closer, leaning up to kiss him again. A “thank you” to something he did without knowing he did it. “It’s alright, baby. I’ll probably just quickly shower before dinner.” And then you kiss him once more, just because you want to.

“Alright,” he concedes. He places a final kiss on your forehead, hand playfully swatting your ass as he steps away. “I’ll get dinner started so you don’t have to cook while you’re hungry.

Shaking your head, you laugh as you step into your shared bedroom. You don’t close the door when you strip off your work clothes, a girlish giggle leaving your lips when Jack playfully whistles from the kitchen. After fixing him with a matching glare, you finally disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind you to keep the steam from seeping out.

Once you’re in the shower, you look down at the shower drain, remembering your list from this morning. A task for tomorrow morning, you decide, a good way to spend your day off when Jack is at work. For now, you’d have to deal with a little bit of water pooling around your feet while you washed off the grime of the day.

Except the water never catches. Instead, it flows down the drain easily, never staying in the tub for longer than a moment. Shock flows down your body the same way the shower spray does, your jaw dropping. 

You finish up quickly before hopping out, drying off and wrapping yourself in the fluffy robe Jack had bought you the moment you had complained about not wanting to get dressed as soon as you got out of the shower. After ensuring you won’t drip water all over the apartment, you bombard your way into the kitchen, where your boyfriend is happily cooking while humming some old rock tune to himself.

“Did you unclog the shower drain?” You ask, letting your tone be as accusatory as it wanted to be.

Jack glances over his shoulder at you, the wrinkles around his eyes softening at the look of you all bundled up. He remembers your question and looks up at your face, shrugging. “Yeah. I noticed it wasn’t draining as well, only took about two minutes to do.” His horrible habit of brushing off everything he did comes roaring to a head, his focus turning back to the stove.

“Jack,” you whine. You sidle up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist from behind and placing your cheek between his shoulder blades. His hand grabs yours, lifting them up slightly so you weren’t accidentally burned. “You didn’t have to do that. It’s my hair.”

He laughs softly, the sound rumbling beneath your cheek. “I’m insulted that you think my luscious locks wouldn’t help clog the shower drain,” he deflects. “Oh, I also put away those books in the bedroom. I’m not sure if it’s exactly how you organized them, so let me know if you need me to move them.”

That just pulls another groan out of you, turning your head to press your face fully into his skin. “You’re so annoying. I was going to do both of those things tomorrow.” Your voice turns whiny as you trail off, fingertips pressing into his abdomen.

“But I did them today so now you don’t have to. You can enjoy your day off the way you’re supposed to.” Jack steps away from the stove, grabbing your hands so that he can turn around and pull you into his chest. He places a gentle kiss on your hairline, smiling into your hair. “Sittin’ pretty and spending my money.”

Your brow knits as you look up at him, hands sliding down to his waist. “You’re mean.”

“I love you,” he responds easily. Still grinning like a child on Christmas morning, he tucks a strand of your wet hair away from your face before tilting your chin up, placing a lingering kiss on your lips. “Can’t be mad at me for lovin’ you, sweetheart.”

As he intended, you relax into his touch, chasing his lips when he pulls away. Then, you pout, huffing your indignation. “Fine. But only because I love you, too.”