Marvel Masterlist House M.D. One Chicago Shoresy Masterlist

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The safe house smells like stale coffee, a scent you've come to associate with Waller. You're leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching as the woman herself pulls up a display that shows a ballroom.

"This gala," Waller announces, " is a high security event. Arms dealers, corrupt politicians, and at least three people on our watch list. You two are going in as a married couple."

You nearly choke on air. "Absolutely not."

"You heard me." Waller's eyes cut to you, then to Rick standing across the room with his arms folded, jaw clenched.

"You want me to play house with Captain America over here?" You gesture at Rick with a dismissive wave. "The man whose idea of being spontaneous is changing the mission parameters without filing paperwork first?""

Rick's jaw tightens, "better than working with someone who treats every mission like it's amateur hour."

"Amateur?" You push off the wall, taking a step toward him. "I've saved your ass at least four times in the last six months."

"Three times, and I wouldn't have needed saving if you'd followed the plan instead of going rogue every five minutes."

"Your plans are boring."

"My plans keep people alive."

Waller's hand slams down on the table. "Enough, I don't care if you two want to kill each other, though the sexual tension is getting exhausting to watch."

You both whip around to stare at her. "What sexual tension?" you demand at the same time Rick says,

Waller ignores you as she pulls up the files. "Meet the Henderson. You'll infiltrate the gala, plant surveillance devices in the VIP lounge, and extract intel on the weapons shipment." Amanda explains your identities to you

"This is a terrible idea," you mutter, but you're already studying the files because you're professional, damn it, even if Rick Flag makes you want to commit violence.

Rick moves closer to examine the display, and you catch a whiff of his cologne, something clean and masculine that you absolutely do not notice. "We can handle it," he says, all confidence. Waller rolls her eyes before walking away to allow you two to get situated with your new identities.

You turn to him with your sweetest smile. "Can you, though? Because playing my husband requires a personality, and I'm not sure you have one of those underneath all that brooding."

His eyes lock on yours, and for a second, something hot and dangerous flashes there. "Trust me, I can be very convincing when I need to be." The way he says it makes your stomach flip, which is infuriating.

"Prove it," you challenge, lifting your chin.

Rick steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "Careful what you ask for, sweetheart." The endearment sounds like a threat and a promise. Both of you breathing slightly harder than necessary, neither willing to back down first.

"This is going to be a disaster," you say.

Rick's mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Yeah, it is."

You emerge first, smoothing down the silk gown that hugs every curve before flowing to the floor. It's elegant, expensive, and completely unlike anything you'd normally wear on a mission. The slit up the side is high enough to hide a thigh holster, at least.

Rick steps out a moment later, and you have to physically stop yourself from reacting. He's in a tailored black suit that fits him like it was made for his body.

"You clean up nice, Colonel," you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near breathless.

His eyes travel down your body, slowly, deliberately, not even pretending to be professional about it. "You too." His gaze lingers on the slit in your dress before meeting your eyes again, as he says your cover name.

You wrinkle your nose. "God, that name is awful."

"Better get used to it, sweetheart. We need to sell this." He crosses to you, holding out his hand. "Let's practice."

"Practice what? Pretending I can tolerate you for more than five minutes?"

"Being married." He says it in a way that you almost laugh. But then his hand settles on your waist, warm and possessive, and the laugh dies in your throat. "We've been married for five years. Met at a charity auction. You bid on me for a date."

"How much did I pay?" You place your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the expensive fabric. It's not as steady as you expected. "Because I'm thinking I overpaid."

His thumb brushes the small of your back, and you feel it everywhere. "You were very persistent. I was charmed."

"Charmed. Right." You lean in closer, your voice dropping to something dangerous. "What really charmed you? My sparkling personality or my trust fund?"

"Both." His hand slides lower, fingers splaying across your hip. "We honeymooned in Italy. You got food poisoning before wwe could even set foot on the plane."

"Romantic."

"I held your hair back while you were sick. You said-" His voice drops, rough and low, "you said it was the moment you knew I really loved you."

The way he says it makes your breath catch. He's too good at this. Too convincing. "You've really thought this through, haven't you?"

"I'm thorough." His eyes drop to your mouth. "You know that."

"Oh, I know exactly how thorough you are, Flag." Your fingers curl into his lapel. "I've watched you plan missions with the same intensity most people reserve for their wedding vows. It's almost obsessive."

"Says the woman who memorizes my coffee order."

Your heart is hammering now. "I-" You don't have a comeback for that. "You're supposed to be annoying. Stop being observant."

The air between you is electric. His hand is still on your hip. Yours is still fisted in his jacket. You're close enough to kiss, and for one breathless moment, you think he might actually do it.

Then Rick clears his throat and steps back, and you want to scream.

"We should go over the floor plan again," he says, his voice rougher than before.

"Right. The floor plan." You turn away, trying to ignore how your entire body is still humming from his touch. "Wouldn't want to be unprepared."

"That's my line."

"I'm full of surprises, husband."

"I've noticed." There's something dark and promising in his voice. "And for the record? You're a very convincing wife."

The Gala is exactly as pretentious as you expected. Crystal chandelier swing from high above and women are in designer gowns. It's the kind of place where everyone is either rich, dangerous, or both. Rick's hand finds the small of your back as you enter, and you have to remind yourself it's just for show. Except it doesn't feel like just for show.

"Mr. and Mrs. Henderson," the host greets you with a practiced smile. "So wonderful you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Rick says smoothly, his voice taking on a warmer tone you've never heard before. "My wife has been looking forward to this all week."

You lean into him, playing your part. "He spoils me."

"As I should." He presses a kiss to your temple, and your breath catches. It's brief, perfectly appropriate for the setting. But the warmth of his lips against your skin sends electricity down your spine. This is just the cover, you remind yourself. He's playing a role. But as the night continues, you start to wonder.

Rick is too good at this. His hand never leaves you, sometimes at your waist, sometimes at the small of your back, once sliding up to rest between your shoulder blades as he guides you through the crowd. Each touch lingers just a fraction too long to be purely professional.

"You're really committed to this whole 'devoted husband' thing," you murmur as he steers you toward a group of targets. "Should I be concerned you've had practice?"

"Jealous?" His breath is warm against your ear, and you feel him smile. "That's cute."

"I'm not jealous. I'm observing." You plaster on a smile as you approach a weapons dealer. "You're just... surprisingly competent at playing house."

"I'm competent at a lot of things." His thumb traces a deliberate circle against your spine. "You're only just noticing?"

Before you can respond, he's introducing you. "Darling, this is Mr. Kozlov. Mr. Kozlov, my wife, the brilliant strategist I was telling you about."

You blink. "You were talking about me?"

"Always." Rick's smile is devastating, and completely unfair. "She has a mind that puts most men to shame. It's one of the many reasons I married her."

Kozlov chuckles, but you're too busy trying to process the way Rick is looking at you, like you're actually precious to him.

"You're laying it on thick," you say once Kozlov moves away. "Even for cover."

"Am I?" His hand slides from your back to your hip, possessive and warm. "Or maybe I'm just telling the truth. You are brilliant, drives me crazy most days."

"Most days I drive you crazy because I ignore your orders."

"That too." His eyes are dark, intense. "But I've learned to appreciate your... creative insubordination."

"Appreciate, right." You spot the next target across the room. "That's a generous word for what you usually call it."

"What can I say?" He guides you through the crowd, his hand never leaving your hip. "Marriage has mellowed me."

"We've been 'married' for three hours, Flag."

"Best three hours of my life." He says it lightly, but there's an edge to his voice that makes you look at him sharply. He's already turning away, leading you toward the dance floor. "Come on, Mrs. Henderson. We should dance. People are watching."

"Of course they are. You've been touching me all night."

"That's kind of the point of being married." He pulls you into his arms with confident ease, one hand at your waist, the other capturing yours. "Relax. You're supposed to like when I touch you."

"I'm relaxed."

"You're tense as hell." He leads you into the first steps, and damn him, he's a good dancer. Smooth, confident, like he's done this a thousand times. "What's wrong? Afraid you might actually enjoy this?"

"I'm afraid you're enjoying this too much."

"Maybe I am." His hand flexes against your waist, pulling you incrementally closer. "Problem?"

"Yes, actually." You plant the fourth surveillance device as you pass a column, your movements hidden by the dance. "You're supposed to be the by the book soldier who hates improvisation. This..." You gesture vaguely between you. "...is a lot of improvisation."

"I'm adaptable when properly motivated."

"And what's motivating you right now?"

His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second before meeting yours again. "The mission. What else?"

Liar. But you can't call him on it here, not with a dozen targets watching. So instead you say, "You know, for someone who lectures me about professionalism, you're being awfully unprofessional with your hands."

"Am I?" His thumb traces another circle, this time at your waist, and you suppress a shiver. "I hadn't noticed. Maybe you should file a complaint with HR."

"Maybe I will."

"Please do. I'd love to hear you explain exactly what I'm doing that's so... distracting." The way he says 'distracting' makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"You're an asshole."

"And you're beautiful when you're annoyed." He spins you, and when you come back to him, you're closer than before. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You're really committed to this bit."

"It's not a bit." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You think I haven't noticed how you look in that dress? How you've been looking at me all night like you can't decide if you want to kill me or..."

"Finish that sentence and I'll break your nose."

"See? Beautiful when you're annoyed." But there's heat in his eyes now, something dangerous and real. "You planted the device?"

"Obviously."

"Good girl."

The praise shouldn't affect you. It absolutely shouldn't make your breath catch or your pulse spike. But it does, and from the slight smirk on Rick's face, he knows it.

"Stop that," you hiss.

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

"I really don't." He's lying, he absolutely knows. "You'll have to be more specific."

"The touching, the compliments. The way you're looking at me like-" You cut yourself off, frustrated.

"Like what?" He leans in, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Like I want you? Like I've been thinking about getting you alone all night? Like this cover story is the best assignment Waller's ever given me?"

Your heart is hammering. "Rick-"

"One more device to plant," he says, pulling back to a professional distance so smoothly you almost think you imagined the last thirty seconds. Almost. "Then we can get out of here. Unless you're having too much fun playing house?"

"I'm not the one who's having too much fun."

"No?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back as the song ends, guiding you off the dance floor. "Could've fooled me. You've been pressed against me for the last five minutes."

"That's called dancing, Flag."

"That's called something else entirely, and we both know it." He steers you toward the final target, but his voice stays low. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body's been telling me a different story all night."

"You're delusional."

"And you're flustered." He sounds far too satisfied about it. "When's the last time I got you this flustered?"

"Never."

"Liar." His fingers press against your spine, and you feel the touch everywhere. "I make you nervous."

"You make me want to punch you."

"Same thing, with us." He's right, and you hate it. "One more device, sweetheart. Then you can go back to pretending you hate me."

"I do hate you."

"Sure you do." He introduces you to the final target, his hand never leaving your back, his voice warm and affectionate as he talks about his "wife," and the worst part is how natural it sounds.

You plant the final device, mission accomplished.

"I need some air," you say abruptly, pulling away from him.

His brow furrows. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Just... too many people." You head for the balcony before he can respond, needing space to think, to breathe. Because right now, with your skin still burning from his touch and his words echoing in your head, you can't remember a single reason why you shouldn't just give in to whatever this is between you. And that terrifies you more than any mission ever has.

The balcony overlooks the city, all glittering lights and distant sirens. You grip the railing, trying to steady yourself. You hear him before you see him. His footsteps are quiet, but you've learned to recognize his presence.

"Don't," you say without turning around. "Just... don't."

"Don't what?" Rick's voice is closer than you expected. He's right behind you now, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. "Don't check on my partner? Don't make sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You ran out here like-"

"I didn't run." You spin to face him, and immediately regret it because he's too close, and his tie is loosened. "I walked, calmly, like a professional."

"Right, a professional." His jaw ticks. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you can't handle it." He takes a step closer, and you refuse to back up. "You can't handle being close to me. Can't handle that I'm not just some random soldier you can manipulate with your charm and your smile and that thing you do where you..."

"Manipulate?" You laugh, sharp and bitter. "That's rich coming from you. Mr. By The Book. Mr. Everything Has To Be My Way Or The Highway."

"That's not-"

"Your plans, your rules, your orders." You jab a finger into his chest. "You treat me like I'm some reckless child who needs to be controlled instead of a soldier who's been doing this just as long as you have."

His hand comes up to catch your wrist, holding it against his chest. "Because you are reckless. You take unnecessary risks, you go off-script, you-"

"I adapt! I improvise! Something you'd know how to do if you weren't so goddamn rigid all the time!" You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn't let go. "Remember Bogotá? When your precious plan fell apart and I had to-"

"Had to nearly get yourself killed?" His voice rises. "Had to jump off a fucking building because you couldn't wait five seconds for backup?"

"I saved the mission!"

"You could have died!" He's shouting now, and so are you, and you're both breathing hard. "You could have died, and I would have had to watch it happen, and you act like that's nothing-"

"It's the job, Flag! We all could die on any mission! That's what we signed up for!"

"Not like that." His grip on your wrist tightens. "Not you. Not-" He stops, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump.

"Not what?" You step closer, challenging. "Say it. Not me? Why? Because I'm special? Because you care?"

"Yes!" The word explodes out of him. "Yes, because I care, and I hate it, and you make it impossible for me to do my job because all I can think about is keeping you alive!"

The admission hangs between you, raw and real.

"That's not my problem," you say, but your voice has lost some of its edge.

"The hell it isn't." He's still holding your wrist, and now his other hand comes up to grip your hip. "You've been doing this on purpose. All night. Every touch, every look, every time you leaned into me like you couldn't help it-"

"You're the one who couldn't keep his hands off me!"

"Because you love it!" His eyes are blazing. "You love pushing my buttons. You love making me lose control. You've been doing it for years, and tonight you just-" He stops, breathing hard. "You made it worse. You made it impossible to pretend."

"Pretend what?"

"That I don't want you." His voice drops, rough and dangerous. "That I haven't wanted you since the first time you told me to go to hell. That every time we argue, all I can think about is shutting you up with my mouth."

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. "Rick-"

"You want to know why I'm so rigid? Why I'm so by the book?" He pulls you closer, and you let him. "Because if I'm not, if I let myself feel what I feel when I'm around you, I'll lose focus and I'll make mistakes. I'll get people killed because I'm too busy making sure you're safe."

"I don't need you to keep me safe."

"I know." His forehead drops to yours, and his voice cracks. "I know you don't, but I can't stop. Every time you do something reckless, every time you throw yourself into danger, I think about losing you and I can't-I can't breathe."

You should push him away. You should maintain professional distance. You should do a lot of things that aren't grabbing his shirt and pulling him even closer.

"You want to know why I hate working with you?" Your voice is shaking. "Why I push every button I can find? Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because you make me feel things I have no business feeling. Because every time you give me an order in that voice, I want to either punch you or..."

"Or what?" His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, pressing you flush against him.

"Or this." You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back a step. "I hate that you make me want this. I hate that I can't focus on missions because I'm too busy watching you. I hate that when you took that bullet in Berlin, I forgot the entire plan because all I could think about was getting to you."

"You-" He stares at you. "That's why you went off-script."

"Yes!" You shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists. "Yes, because you got shot, and I stopped thinking like a soldier and started thinking like-like..."

"Like what?" He's backing you up now, step by step, until your back hits the railing.

"Like someone who cares too much." The words are barely a whisper. "Like someone who's terrified of losing you. Like someone who's been lying to herself for years about what this is."

His grip on your wrists loosens, becomes something gentler. "What is this?"

"I don't know." You look up at him, and you're done pretending. Done lying. "But I'm tired of fighting it. I'm tired of fighting you."

"Me too." His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I'm so tired of pretending I don't-" He stops, swallows hard. "That I don't feel everything I feel for you."

"Rick..."

"I'm in love with you." The words are quiet and devastating. "I've been in love with you, and it's killing me, and I can't-I can't keep pretending."

You don't let him finish. You grab his tie and yank him down, crashing your lips against his with all the frustration and the desperate need you've been suppressing for years.

He makes a sound of surprise or relief and then he's kissing you back like he's been starving for it. His hands are everywhere your face, your hair, your waist. Like he can't decide where to touch you first, like he wants to touch all of you at once.

You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair, tugging your head back so he can kiss you deeper, harder. It's not gentle, it's not tender. It's years of anger and want and need finally exploding between you.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth when you break apart for air. "Fuck, I..."

"Shut up." You pull him back down, kissing him with everything you have. "Stop talking and just-"

He lifts you onto the railing, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, and you arch into him.

"We shouldn't..." he starts, but you cut him off with another kiss.

"We absolutely shouldn't," you agree against his lips. "Terrible idea."

"The worst." His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress. "We're going to regret this."

"Absolutely." You push his jacket off his shoulders, and he lets it fall to the ground without a second thought.

His hands slide beneath the loosened fabric of your dress, palms hot against your skin. "Last chance to back out."

You look up at him, at the want written plainly across his face, and make your decision. "There's a service entrance. Leads to a private room."

"Show me."

You grab his hand and pull him back inside, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease. No one pays attention to a couple slipping away from the party, it happens all the time at these events.

The service hallway is dimly lit and empty. You've barely made it three steps before Rick spins you around, pressing you against the wall and capturing your lips again. This kiss is even more intense than the last.

Your hands work at the buttons of his shirt while his fingers dig into your hips. When you finally get the shirt open, you run your palms across his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin.

"Here," you gasp out, nodding toward a door marked 'Private.' It's a small office, barely furnished, but it has a desk and that's all you need.

Rick lifts you onto it in one smooth motion, stepping between your legs. The slit in your dress falls open, and his hand immediately finds your thigh, sliding up slowly.

"We're supposed to be on a mission," you manage to say, even as you're unbuckling his belt.

"Mission can wait." His lips find that spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "This can't."

You pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Someone could come looking for us."

"Let them." His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear, and you gasp. "I'm done pretending I don't want this. Don't want you."

"Rick," His name comes out as a moan when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding you already wet.

"Fuck, you're..." He groans against your neck. "How long have you been like this?"

"Since you put your hand on my back at the entrance," you admit breathlessly. "Maybe before."

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach down to palm him through his pants, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily. "You're not exactly unaffected either."

"Never am, not around you." He captures your lips again as his fingers work you. He knows exactly what he's doing, reading every gasp and moan, adjusting his rhythm until you're trembling.

"Inside," you demand, fumbling with his zipper. "Now."

He doesn't need to be told twice. "Look at me," he commands, and you do. Your eyes lock as he pushes inside, slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is perfect and you dig your nails into his shoulders.

"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

"More than okay." You roll your hips experimentally, and he groans. "Move, Flag."

He does, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in. The angle is perfect, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on as he sets a rhythm that's both controlled and desperate.

"This what you wanted?" he growls against your ear. "This what you've been thinking about when we argue?"

"Yes," you gasp out. "God, yes."

His hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you again. It's messy and desperate, all teeth and tongue and barely contained need. Your bodies move together like they've done this a thousand times before, like all those years of learning each other's patterns in combat have translated into this.

The desk creaks beneath you with each thrust. You should care about the noise, about the possibility of getting caught, but you can't bring yourself to. Not when Rick is looking at you like you're the only thing that matters, not when every movement sends pleasure through your body.

"Close," you warn him, feeling the tension building.

"Thank fuck." His thumb finds your clit, circling with just the right pressure. "Come for me. Want to feel it."

The combination of his words, his touch, the intensity of his gaze, it's too much. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry. He follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep and groans your name.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, trying to process what just happened.

"So," you finally say, your voice hoarse. "That was..."

"Yeah." He pulls back slightly, and you can see the conflict already starting in his eyes. "We should..."

"Don't." You press a finger to his lips. "Don't overthink it. Not yet."

He nods slowly, then carefully pulls out and helps you down from the desk. You both straighten your clothes in silence, the weight of what you've done settling over you.

Your dress is wrinkled, his shirt is half-unbuttoned, and there's no way you're going back to that gala looking like a respectable married couple.

"We need to extract," Rick says, slipping back into mission mode. "We got enough intel."

"Right. The mission." You smooth down your hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. "That's what's important."

He catches your wrist, stopping you. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. "I meant we should finish the job and then... talk about this, about us."

"Us." You test the word, and it doesn't sound as foreign as it should. "Is there an us?"

"I don't know, but I think we need to figure it out."

The safe room is small, which means you're once again acutely aware of Rick's presence. You've both changed into tactical gear, the fancy clothes abandoned. The mission was a success, you extracted the intel, planted all the devices, and got out clean.

Rick is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. You're leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him.

"So," you finally say. "That happened."

"Yeah." He looks up at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that you've never seen before. "Regret it?"

You consider lying, it would be easier. You could laugh it off, call it a one-time thing, go back to your comfortable arguing every time you two are in the same room as one another.

"No," you admit. "Do you?"

"No." He stands, crossing to you. "But I don't know what to do with it either. We're not exactly... compatible."

"We're compatible enough." You gesture vaguely in the direction of the gala. "Evidence suggests otherwise."

A smile tugs at his lips. "Physically, sure. But everything else..."

"We fight. We argue. We drive each other crazy." You push off the wall, closing the distance between you. "But maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe that's just... us."

"Us," he repeats, like he's testing how it sounds. "You really want there to be an us?"

"I don't know." You reach up, straightening his collar even though it doesn't need it. "But I think I want to find out, If you do."

He catches your hand, holding it against his chest. "This is a bad idea."

"Probably."

"Waller will have opinions."

"Oh most definitely." You roll your eyes, and can almost hear the sarcastic, mean spirited reaction she would give.

"We'll still fight."

"Constantly." You smile up at him. "But maybe we can find other ways to work out the tension too."

He laughs, actually laughs and the sound does something warm to your heart. "You're trouble."

"You're just figuring that out now?"

"No." He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. "I've known it from the start, that's the problem."

"So what do we do?"

"I guess..." He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "We figure it out, together. One mission at a time."

"One mission at a time," you agree. "But Flag?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time we go undercover as a married couple, I'm picking the names."

He grins. "Deal. As long as I get to pick where we honeymoon."

"We didn't even get a chance to honeymoon the first time."

"Exactly. We have a lot to make up for, Mrs. Henderson."

You punch his arm, but you're smiling. "Don't push it, Colonel."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He kisses you again, softer this time, like a promise. "But for the record? I was never acting. Not about the important parts."

"Yeah." You kiss him back. "Me neither."

The Alabama sun sits high and heavy over the river lot by the time you finish setting up the last folding table. Sweat beads at your temples, and you swipe at it with the back of your wrist, looking at the property with a bit of satisfaction. The old boathouse leans slightly to one side like it has for the past thirty years, the dock stretches out over water.

This place has been in your family longer than you've been alive. Every summer of your childhood happened here: scraped knees on the dock, the taste of river water, your mother's laughter carrying across the lawn. Now it's yours to maintain, yours to share, and on a Saturday in the thick of summer, that means opening it up to everyone you know and love.

Your phone buzzes. Lavon's texted that he's five minutes out. You're pulling sweet tea from the cooler when you hear tires on gravel.

The first vehicle that rolls up isn't Lavon's. It's a classic Chevelle-beat-up enough to be charming, polished enough to show he cares about it, and your stomach does something stupid and fluttery that you absolutely refuse to examine. Wade gets out from the driver's seat, all lazy confidence and sun-bronzed skin, wearing a faded t-shirt that's seen better days and a smile that hasn't.

"Well, hey there," he calls out, grabbing a case of beer from his Chevelle's trunk. "Figured I'd get here early, make myself useful for once."

"Wade Kinsella, useful?" You raise an eyebrow. "Should I be worried? Is this a sign of the apocalypse?"

"Darlin', I'm plenty useful." He sets the beer down near your cooler, and something about the way he says darlin' in such a casual way, like he's said it a thousand times, but it still makes your heart skip. "You just never ask for the right kind of help. You and Wade always seemed to have such a flirty friendship.

You're saved from having to figure out what Wade means by the arrival of Lavon's Lincoln followed immediately by George's vehicle. Within twenty minutes, the property transforms.

Annabeth arrives with homemade potato salad. Lemon steps carefully across the grass, in shoes entirely too nice for a river lot, with George trailing behind carrying enough supplies for a week-long camping trip.

"Lemon, you know we have plates here, right?" you ask, watching George unload what appears to be a complete dining set.

"I've seen your paper plates," Lemon says with a sniff. "They're flimsy. What if someone wants seconds of potato salad? The structural integrity would be completely compromised."

"God forbid," Wade mutters next to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Brick and Tom show up next, both of them immediately gravitating toward the horseshoe pit.

Someone starts the grill, and soon the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid mingles with sunscreen and cut grass. Kids from down the river show up, like they always do when they see trucks at your lot, and within an hour there are bodies launching themselves off the dock, their shrieks of laughter bouncing across the water.

You're barefoot in the grass, having kicked off your sandals sometime around noon, and the grass is warm and slightly damp beneath your feet. An old country station plays from someone's truck radio.

"You want a drink?"

You turn to find Wade standing there, holding out a bottle of beer. You hadn't asked for one. Hadn't even thought about it yet.

"How'd you know I wanted one?" you ask, taking it from him.

Wade shrugs, that easy smile playing at his lips. "Just seemed like the right time." You twist off the cap and take a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat in your throat. Wade watches you for a moment, just a moment before Brick calls him over to help with the grill, and he ambles away.

You tell yourself the flutter in your chest is just the cold beer hitting your system.

The afternoon drifts. You find yourself at the picnic table where Annabeth and Wanda are setting out food, and you're reaching for a chip when you realize you're not grabbing from the communal bowl. You're stealing a handful from the plate Wade left sitting there, the one he'd piled high with his particular combination of chips, pickles, and what looks like half a burger.

"That's Wade's plate," Annabeth points out, amused.

You freeze with a chip halfway to your mouth. "He won't miss a few."

"Uh-huh." Annabeth's smile is knowing in a way that makes you want to throw a pickle at her. But you eat the chips anyway. And when Wade comes back and sees his half empty plate, he just laughs, low and warm and says, "Help yourself, sugar," before sliding the whole plate toward you.

Sugar.

You clear your throat. "I was just-"

"I know what you were doing." Wade's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You've been stealing food off my plate since we were in high school."

Have you? You try to remember, but the memories blur together bonfires and football games and late nights at the Rammer Jammer. Maybe you have, this is just what you do with Wade, this casual intimacy that you've never bothered to name.

"Horseshoes!" Brick calls out. "We need teams!"

Wade looks at you, "partners?" he asks.

"Only if you promise not to throw like you did last Fourth of July," you say. "I'm still traumatized."

"That was one bad throw, okay, I think I can handle it."

"It ended up in the river, Wade."

You're laughing as you follow him to the horseshoe pit, and somehow your shoulder bumps against his arm, and neither of you moves away. The game is less about horseshoes and more about the four of you talking trash and laughing so hard you can barely throw straight. Wade stands behind you at one point to 'show you the proper form,' his hand warm on your elbow, his voice low near your ear.

"You gotta follow through, darlin'. Like this."

He guides your arm through the motion, and you're aware of every point of contact: his chest near your back and his breath on your neck. You manage to throw the horseshoe, and it actually rings the stake.

"See?" Wade's voice is full of pride, like he's personally responsible for your win. "Natural."

You turn your head to respond and find his face closer than you expected. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to count the freckles the sun's brought out across his nose.

"Lucky shot," you manage.

"Luck's got nothing to do with it." He steps back, grinning. "That's all skill, baby."

Baby. Oh, hell. You win the game barely and Wade celebrates by lifting you clean off your feet in a hug that lasts two seconds too long to be purely friendly. When he sets you down, his hands linger on your waist, and you're suddenly aware of how much you don't want him to let go.

"Boat ride!" Lavon announces. "Who's coming?"

A group forms quickly: Lavon, George, Annabeth, you, and Wade. The boat has been in your family almost as long as the lot itself, and it putters out onto the river. The sun is starting its descent, turning the sky shades of orange and pink. You end up sitting next to Wade on the back bench, thighs pressed together. The boat rocks gently, and every small movement pushes you closer to Wade's side.

His arm stretches out along the back of the bench. Not around you, exactly, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of it behind your shoulders.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Wade says quietly, and you realize he's not looking at the sunset. He's looking at you looking at the sunset.

"Yeah," you say, not turning your head. "Really pretty."

His fingers brush your shoulder. Once, twice. Like he's testing something, or maybe like he can't help himself, but you don't move away. The boat ride last about another twenty minutes before Lavon is heading back to the dock.

Back on shore, the sun is properly setting now, and someone's started the fire. The group gravitates toward it naturally, pulling chairs and blankets into a loose circle around the ring.

You can't take your eyes off him.

The firelight catches in his hair, on his face, making shadows dance across his features. Every time Wade glances up and catches your eye across the fire. Every time he smiles at something someone says, that easy, genuine smile that makes your chest ache.

You realize, suddenly and completely, that you don't want this day to end. More specifically, you don't want this... whatever this is with Wade to end. The thought should scare you. Instead, it settles into your chest like it's been waiting there all along.

"I should head out," Lavon says eventually, checking his phone. "Got an early meeting with the county commissioner tomorrow."

Lemon stands a few mintues after Lavon, brushing invisible dirt from her dress. "Finally. The mosquitoes here are absolutely vicious."

"You've been sitting by the fire for two hours, Lemon," George points out. "The smoke keeps them away."

Lemon makes some kind of irritated noise before George gets the message and starts gathering their things. George gives you an apologetic look as Lemon pulls him toward their car. "Great party. Really. We'll have to do it again soon."

Eventually everyone packs up their stuff in their vehicles and heads off the bumpy road that leads to the main one. Before you know it, it's just you and Wade and the dying fire. The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Wade pokes at the embers with a stick. "Hell of a day."

"Yeah," you agree. "It was."

You should probably start cleaning up. Should gather the plates and cups, should make sure the grill is properly off, should do all the responsible host things you're supposed to do.

Instead, you stand up and walk toward the dock. The wood is warm under your feet, still holding the heat. You walk to the very end and sit down, letting your legs dangle over the edge. The sky is deep purple now, scattered with stars.

You're thinking about Wade. About his hands on your waist after the horseshoe game. About the way he said darlin' and sugar like the words were made for you. About how many times today you found yourself next to him without planning it, without trying.

The dock creaks softly, and you don't have to turn around to know it's him. Wade settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn't say anything at first, just sits there with his own feet dangling, looking out at the water.

"Pretty night," Wade says finally.

"Yeah."

"Pretty day, too."

Another silence. His shoulder presses more firmly against yours, and you realize he's shifted closer.

"Can I tell you something?" Wade's voice is quieter now, more serious than you're used to hearing it.

Your heart kicks up. "Okay."

"I didn't come early to be helpful." He's still looking at the water, not at you. "I came early because I wanted to see you. Before everyone else got here. Just... you."

Oh. Oh.

"Wade-"

"And all day," he continues, like now that he's started he can't stop, "all day I kept finding reasons to be near you. Kept looking for you in the crowd. Kept thinking about how your laugh sounds, and how you steal food off my plate, and how you fit perfectly under my arm during that hug, and..." He stops. Takes a breath. "And I think I've been doing this for a while. Longer than just today. I just didn't let myself see it."

You turn to look at him, and he finally turns to look at you.

"Darlin'," Wade says, and this time when he says it, you feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, okay."

He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind, time to pull away, but you don't. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and the touch is so gentle it makes your throat tight.

When his lips meet yours, it's soft. You make a small sound, and Wade takes it as permission to deepen the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, pulling you closer, and you reach up to fist your hand in his shirt. The kiss breaks for just a moment, both of you breathing hard, and Wade rests his forehead against yours.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"Yeah."

"Can I-"

"Yes."

You don't even know what he's asking, but the answer is yes. Yes to all of it. This time when he kisses you, it's deeper and hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, tasting beer and smoke and something that's just Wade. Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, fingers threading through it, and he groans low in his throat.

The sound does something to you. Unravels something. You shift closer, practically climbing into his lap there on the dock, and Wade's hands tighten on your waist, holding you steady, holding you close.

"Sugar," he murmurs against your mouth, and the word sends heat spiraling through you.

You've never been kissed like this. Like he's been waiting for this and now that he has it, he never wants to stop. You don't want to stop either. Wade's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot below your ear, and you gasp, tilting your head to give him better access. His teeth graze your skin and you actually whimper.

"You like that, darlin'?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and you've never heard anything sexier in your life.

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."

He comes back to your mouth, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. Deep and thorough, like he's trying to learn every inch of you. Your hands roam over his shoulders, his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, and you think distantly that you should probably slow down, should probably think about what this means.

You're not sure how long you stay like that minutes or hours, time has lost all meaning, but eventually you have to break apart to breathe. You're both panting, foreheads pressed together, hands still clutching at each other like you're afraid to let go.

"Holy hell," Wade says.

You laugh, breathless and giddy. "Yeah."

"I don't..." He stops, swallows hard. "I don't want this to end."

"Me neither."

"So let's not let it." He pulls back to look at you properly, and his expression is so open, so honest, it makes your chest ache. "Stay. Stay here with me. We can sit on this dock all night if you want. I don't care. I just, I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise, and you mean it. You mean it more than you've meant anything in a long time.

Wade's smile is so bright you can't help but mirror it. He shifts so you're tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, still racing, matching your own.

"This is crazy," you say quietly. "We've known each other for years."

"I know."

"Why now? Why today?"

Wade is quiet for a moment, his hand tracing absent patterns on your arm. "Maybe it's always been now. Maybe we just finally stopped pretending it wasn't."

You think about that. About all the times over the years when you found yourself looking for Wade in a crowd. About how his laugh always made you smile. About the way you felt comfortable with him in a way you weren't with anyone else.

Maybe he's right. "I'm glad we stopped pretending," you say.

"Me too, darlin'. Me too."

The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the night. You're on your third beer, or is it your fourth? and the world has that pleasant, soft-edged quality. The string lights overhead cast everything in warm light, turning Hitch's backyard into something out of a movie.

"You're full of shit," you say, laughing so hard your sides hurt. "There's no way Shoresy actually said that to the ref."

Hitch grins, that easy, devastating smile that's been getting him out of trouble since you were kids. He's sprawled in the chair beside yours, flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos catching the firelight. "I swear on my mother's life."

"Jesus Christ."

"Got sent to the box, but it was worth it." He takes a sip from his beer, and you catch yourself watching the way his throat moves when he swallows. You look away quickly and focus on the fire instead.

The ocean air drifts in from the harbor, salt and summer and home. An old speaker sits on the weathered table between you, playing something low and easy. The kind of playlist you've both been adding to for years.

"Remember when we used to have bonfires down at the beach?" you ask, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands even though it's not cold. Just something to do with them. "Before you got all fancy with your first-round pick money and bought an actual house with a yard?"

"Fancy?" Hitch scoffs, but his eyes are soft when he looks at you. "This is Mt. Pearl, not Toronto. And if I recall correctly, you're the one who said, and I quote, 'If I have to sit on one more damp log, I'm going to lose my mind.'"

"I was young and dramatic."

"You're still dramatic."

You reach over and shove his shoulder, and he catches your hand before you can pull it back. Just for a second, just long enough for your breath to catch and your heart to do something stupid in your chest. Then he lets go, casual as anything, like he didn't just make your entire nervous system light up.

"Fair point," you manage, and your voice sounds almost normal.

This is the thing about you and Hitch: it's easy, always has been. You've known him since high school, watched him get drafted, celebrated with him when he made the show, sympathized with him when injuries sent him bouncing back. You've seen him at his best and his worst, and he's seen you the same way.

But lately you're not sure exactly when it started but, there's been something else. Something in the way his gaze lingers a little too long. Something in the way you're always hyperaware of how close he's sitting.

"You want another beer?" Hitch asks, already standing.

"I'm good."

He heads inside anyway, and you watch him go, admiring the way his jeans fit, the easy confidence in his walk. You're definitely buzzed. That's the only reason you're being this obvious about staring.

When he comes back, he's got two bottles anyway. "Just in case you change your mind." He settles back into his chair, closer than before. Close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with woodsmoke and beer. "Big difference."

The song changes, something with a slower tempo, and you both fall quiet. The fire paints everything in shades of gold Above you, the string lights sway gently in the breeze, and you can hear the distant sound of someone's dog barking and a car passing on the street.

"This is nice," you say softly. "Just... this."

Hitch turns to look at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip. "Yeah," he says, voice lower than usual. "It is."

You hold his gaze longer than you should. Long enough to see the way the firelight reflects in his eyes, turning them warm and dark. Long enough to wonder what would happen if you just leaned over and-

"Remember grade eleven?" he asks suddenly, breaking the moment. "When you dated that one guy?"

You groan. "Oh my god, why would you bring up Ryan?"

"Because he was a fuckin' idiot, and I hated him."

"You hated everyone I dated."

"That's not true." He pauses. "I just have high standards for you."

"High standards," you repeat, amused despite yourself. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you call it?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with meaning. You could deflect. Make a joke. Keep things safe in the friend zone where they've lived for years. But the beer and the firelight and the way he's looking at you make you brave.

"I don't know, Hitch. What would you call it?"

He opens his mouth before closing it. Runs a hand through his hair in that way he does when he's actually nervous. "I'd call it..."

The song changes again, and you both freeze. It's one of your songs. Not that you have songs, officially, but this one,, this one you've listened to together a hundred times. Road trips to St. John's. Late nights after games. That time you drove him to the airport at four in the morning when he got called up, and you both cried in the parking garage and pretended you didn't.

"Oh," you breathe.

Hitch stands up, and for a second you think he's going to run inside, going to break this moment before it can become something you can't take back. But instead, he holds out his hand.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"You heard me." His smile is soft, almost shy, and you've never seen Hitch look shy in your entire life. "Dance with me."

Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. "We're in your backyard."

"So?"

"There's no dance floor."

"There's grass. Come on." He wiggles his fingers. "Don't leave me hanging here. I'm being vulnerable."

You laugh, and it comes out shaky, but you take his hand. Let him pull you up and out of your chair. The grass is cool and slightly damp under your feet as you both kick off your shoes, and the whole thing is ridiculous and perfect and terrifying.

Hitch's hands settle on your waist, careful and deliberate, like he's thought about exactly where they should go. Like he's been thinking about it for a while. You rest yours on his shoulders, and suddenly you're swaying together in the firelight, barefoot in the grass, while the music plays and the ocean breathes in the distance.

"This is insane," you whisper.

"Yeah." His voice is rough. "Is it good insane or bad insane?"

"I don't know yet."

He pulls you a little closer, and you let him. Your bodies fit together like they were designed for this, and you wonder how you never noticed before or maybe you did notice.

"I'm gonna tell you something," Hitch says, and you can feel the words rumble in his chest. "And you can't chirp me for it."

"That's a big ask."

"I'm serious." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his expression is so open, so genuine, that it steals your breath. "I've wanted to do this for a long time. Dance with you. Hold you like this. I've wanted-" He stops, swallows hard. "Fuck, I've wanted a lot of things."

Your hands slide from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. "Hitch..."

"Let me finish." His thumbs trace small circles on your waist, and you're not sure he even realizes he's doing it. "Every time you dated someone, I told myself I was being a good friend. Being supportive. But really, I was just being a coward. Because I should've told you years ago that I- that you're-" He laughs, frustrated. "I'm fucking this up."

"No," you say quickly. "You're not."

"I'm trying to tell you that you're my favorite person," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "That every good thing that happens, you're the first person I want to tell. That when I'm on the road, I count down the days until I'm back here with you. That I think about you all the goddamn time, and it's driving me crazy, and I can't keep pretending I don't."

The world narrows down to just this: his hands on your waist, your hands in his hair, the space between your bodies that's getting smaller with every breath.

"You're my favorite person too," you whisper. "You have been for a long time."

His forehead drops to yours, and you both stop moving, stop swaying, stop pretending this is just a dance. His breath is warm against your lips, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself back.

"Tell me I'm not reading this wrong," he murmurs. "Tell me you feel it too."

"I feel it." Your voice is barely audible. His hands tighten on your waist, and he makes a sound low in his throat that does absolutely nothing to help your composure. You're close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the exact moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

"We're really doing this?" he asks.

"I think we are."

"If we do this, everything changes."

"Maybe everything's been changing for a while," you say. "Maybe we're just finally catching up."

He smiles, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "You always were smarter than me."

"Damn right."

The song swells around you, and the fire crackles. Hitch's thumb brushes along your jaw, tilting your face up, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he says, giving you every chance to pull away. "If that's okay."

"It's more than okay."

But he doesn't, not yet. He just holds you there, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air, letting the moment stretch and build until you're both trembling with it. Years of friendship, of almost-moments and missed chances, of loving each other in secret, it all comes down to this.

"Hitch," you breathe, and it sounds like a prayer.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Kiss me."

He laughs, soft and warm, finally he closes the last inch between you. The kiss is gentle at first. His lips are soft and taste like beer and summer, and when you sigh against his mouth, he pulls you closer, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your head. It's everything. It's perfect.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, and Hitch is looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars and those string lights overhead.

"Holy shit," he says.

You laugh, giddy and breathless. "Yeah."

"That was-"

"I know."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you lose yourself in it-in him. In the way his hands map your body like he's memorizing it, in the soft sounds he makes when you tug his hair, in the way he smiles against your mouth like he can't help himself. The fire burns low, and the music plays on.

"Stay tonight," Hitch murmurs against your lips. "Not like-I mean, just stay. I don't want this to end."

"Okay," you say, because it's the easiest answer in the world. "Okay." He takes your hand and leads you back toward the house.