princess of america

jack’s entire countenance softens. it’s a complete transformation that still makes your heart skip a beat even after all these years of marriage. he shifts his arm to secure your son against his chest, his gaze locking onto the ice where the team is skating out for warm-ups.

there she is. number 14. her dark ponytail is braided tightly tonight, tucked securely beneath her helmet, but her fierce, determined blue eyes—so incredibly like her father's—are visible through the cage of her visor. she spots the three of you in the third row, raises her stick in a quick, proud salute, and then blasts down the ice, spraying a fan of white snow against the boards.

jack’s grip on your thigh tightens, his chest swelling with a quiet, fierce pride. "look at her go," he mutters, almost to himself.

"she’s grown so fast," you laugh, adjusting your son, who’s now moved to your lap, wiggling his legs as he chants his big sisters name. 

the game starts with a frantic, intensity. maya’s team is matched against a notoriously aggressive team from the next county over. the sound of skates slicing into the ice, the heavy thwack of composite sticks striking the puck, and the booming echoes of parents shouting formatting strategies fill the cavernous building.

jack is entirely captivated. his medical mind completely recedes, replaced by the instinctual drive of a father watching his child fight for every inch of ice. every time maya intercepts a pass or cleanly blocks an opposing forward from crossing the blue line, jack is on his feet, clapping his heavy hands together, his voice joining the chorus of the crowd.

"keep your head up, maya! look for the open ice!" he shouts, his authoritative baritone cutting right through the ambient noise of the rink.

beside him, your son is jumping up and down on your lap, waving his mittens wildly. "go, maya, go!"

by the third period, the score is tied 2-2. the tension in the arena is thick enough to cut with a blade. the opposing team is growing frustrated, their checks are becoming heavier, and their play is pushing the boundaries of the referee's whistle. you find yourself gripping the edge of the wooden bleacher, a knot of protective anxiety tight in your stomach as your eyes follow maya’s figure up and down the ice. you glance at jack; his jaw is set, his eyes narrowed as he tracks a particularly aggressive opposing forward who has been shadowing maya all night.

then, before you can blink or yell maya’s name in an attempt to warn her, yours and jack’s world tilts in a fraction of a second.

maya gathers the puck behind her own net, looking up to spark a breakout pass. she doesn't see the opposing winger barreling down the ice from her blind side, moving with terrifying momentum.

crash.

the impact is deafening. the sound of heavy plastic padding slamming against the plexiglas echo through the entire rink. maya is thrown completely off her feet, her body twisting awkwardly as she is pinned against the boards before collapsing hard onto the unforgiving ice. the puck skitters away, forgotten.

the referee’s whistle blows frantically. the entire arena goes deathly silent.

in an instant, the world slows to a crawl. you feel the air leave your lungs, your hand flying to your mouth as you stand up, holding your son tigh to your chest. beside you, jack is already on his feet. the transition is instantaneous; the relaxed hockey dad vanishes and the elite dr abbot takes his place, his internal monologue firing at a million miles an hour.

she’s moving her arms, so no loss of consciousness. thank goodness. she didn’t hit the back of her head directly, but the deceleration was severe. checking for spinal alignment. is she guarding her wrist?

jack’s hand drops onto your shoulder, his grip incredibly firm, anchoring you even as his own face goes pale. "stay with the boy," he commands softly, his voice cutting through your mounting panic with absolute clarity. 

he is already moving toward the stairs, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete steps as he prepares to leap over the barrier if the coaching staff signals for medical assistance. you can see the raw, agonizing conflict in his posture—the desperate urge of a father wanting to sprint across the ice to gather his hurt child, warred against the clinical restraint of a doctor waiting for the official signal.

on the ice, maya is on her hands and knees. time seems to stretch into eternity. she shakes her head once, twice, a spray of ice falling from her helmet. the trainer is jogging toward her, but before he can even cross the blue line, maya places her stick flat on the ice.

with a grimace that you can recognize even from the stands, she pushes herself up. she stands on her skates, stumbles for a brief half-second, and then firmly plants her blades into the ice. she taps her stick against her pads, looks directly over at her bench, and gives her coach a sharp, defiant nod that clearly says i’m staying out here.

the home crowd erupts into a deafening roar of applause and relief.

jack stops at the bottom of the bleacher stairs. he lets out a massive, shuddering breath that clears his lungs of the icy panic, his shoulders dropping three inches. he watches her skate a quick, testing circle, making sure her stride is even and her head is clear as she talks to the referee.

he walks back up the stairs, his eyes meeting yours. the sheer relief in his expression is profound. he slides back into the row, pulling you tightly against his side, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest.

"she's fine," jack whispers, his voice a little rough around the edges as he presses his forehead against yours for a brief, grounding moment. "judging by the look on her face, she’s just incredibly pissed off."

you let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "she gets that damn stubbornness from you, you know."

"good," jack murmurs, his hand sliding down to hold yours, his thumb rubbing comforting circles over your skin. "she's going to need it."

maya doesn't just stay in the game; she plays like a girl possessed. with less than two minutes remaining on the clock, she intercepts a sloppy pass at the blue line, drives into the offensive zone, and unleashes a ferocious, sweeping wrist shot.

the puck flies past the opposing goaltender's glove, hitting the back of the twine with a satisfying, metallic ping.

the buzzer sounds. the game is over. maya’s team wins 3-2.

the celebration in the stands is chaotic and joyful. your son is jumping so high jack has to catch him by the waistband of his pants to keep him from tumbling over the row in front of you. down on the ice, maya is swallowed up in a joyous mob of teammates, her stick raised high in the air.

by the time you all gather in the chilly hallway outside the locker rooms, the adrenaline has finally begun to fade, leaving behind a warm, exhausted contentment. when the heavy wooden door finally swings open, maya walks out, her massive hockey bag slung over one shoulder, her hair damp from the shower and sticking to her forehead. she looks tired, but her smile is radiant.

before she can say a word, her little brother launches himself at her knees. "maya! you smashed it! you made the big goal!"

maya laughs, dropping her bag with a heavy thud to scoop him up into a clumsy, padded hug. "thanks, buddy."

then, she looks up at her parents. jack steps forward and reaches out, pulling both maya and your son into his massive arms, burying his face in her damp hair just like he did in the emergency room weeks ago.

"i am so proud of you, sweetheart," jack says, his voice thick with genuine emotion. "the goal was incredible, but the way you got back up after that hit? that’s what matters. you were incredible."

maya beams, leaning into her dad’s embrace. "i saw you standing at the bottom of the stairs, dad. i knew if i didn't get up in five seconds, you were going to skate out there in your boots and embarrass me in front of the whole league."

jack laughs, a bright, unburdened sound that makes several passing parents look over in surprise. "you're damn right i was."

twenty minutes later the four of you are slid into a deep, plush vinyl booth at your favorite diner; a cozy, retro twenty-four-hour spot just down the road from the arena. the restaurant is bathed in the warm, golden glow of neon signs, the air rich with the aroma of sizzling burgers, hot gravy, and fresh coffee.

maya is sitting on one side of the booth, her medal proudly hanging off her neck, while your son is nestled right next to her, happily coloring on a children's menu with a box of crayons. you and jack sit opposite them, your legs intertwined beneath the table, basking in the uncomplicated joy of the moment.

a massive, towering platter of chili-cheese fries sits in the exact center of the table, a communal prize for a hard-fought victory.

"alright, champion," jack says, leaning forward with a rare, relaxed playful glint in his eyes as he points a fry at his daughter. "walk me through that final shot. from my angle, it looked like you caught the goalie leaning the wrong way entirely."

maya’s eyes light up, and for the next fifteen minutes, she launches into an incredibly detailed, animated play-by-play description of the third period. she uses a salt shaker and a pepper grinder to demonstrate player positioning on the laminate tabletop, her hands gesturing wildly.

you watch jack as she speaks. he isn't checking his phone for hospital updates; his mind isn't drifting back to the trauma bays or the endless paperwork waiting on his desk. he is entirely, beautifully present. he listens to his daughter with a profound, unhurried respect, nodding along to her strategies, offering gentle critiques, and laughing loudly when she describes her defensive partner's mid-game trash-talk.

"and then," maya finishes, taking a massive, triumphant bite of a slider, "i just closed my eyes and shot it as hard as i could."

"an excellent strategy," you joke, reaching across the table to wipe a stray smudge of ketchup from her chin.

"hey, i used that same strategy for my residency exams. and it worked wonderfully," jack points out smoothly, earning a collective laugh from the entire table.

as the evening progresses, the high-energy excitement of the victory slowly transitions into a soft, heavy drowsiness. your son’s babbling slows down until his coloring crayon slips from his fingers. he blinks sleepily, his small head rolling over until it rests heavily against maya’s shoulder. maya, shifts her arm around him, pulling him close against her side while she sips the last of her strawberry milkshake.

the diner quietens down around you, the gentle clink of silverware and the soft hum of the jukebox providing a perfect background track to your family's peace.

jack shifts closer to you in the booth, his long arm sliding over the back of the seat to wrap securely around your shoulders. he pulls you against his side, his fingers gently playing with the ends of your hair. you look up at him, noting the way the warm neon light catches the sharp lines of his jaw, softening the edges of a man who spends his life fighting death.

"you're very quiet tonight," you whisper, resting your hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady, calm thrum of his heartbeat.

jack looks down at you, his blue eyes dark with a depth of affection that catches your breath. he captures your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft, lingering kiss against your knuckles.

"i’m just thinking about how incredibly lucky i am," jack says softly, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register meant only for your ears. he looks across the table at his two children, one fast asleep, the other happily zoning out after a massive victory, and then back to you.

"for a long time, i thought keeping my life organized in separate compartments was the only way to protect you all from the messiness of my work world. but tonight... seeing you all here, seeing how strong our little girl is, how safe i feel with you... i realize this, our little family, isn't just my escape from the chaos. you three are the only reason i survive every shift."

your eyes grow a little glossy at his words. you lean up, pressing a sweet, deep kiss against his lips, tasting the faint trace of black coffee and the profound warmth of his devotion. jack lets out a soft, contented sound against your mouth, breaking the kiss to rest his cheek against the top of your head.

“we aren't going anywhere, jack."

after the bill arrives jack gently gathers your sleeping son into his arms, guiding you and your tired, victorious daughter out into the car under the crisp, starry night. one hand pressed against the small of your back as he softly speaks to maya. you stand there, watching him as he puts the kids inside the car, making sure they’re seatbelts are fastened and reminding both of them they have to brush their teeth when they get home.

when he finally steps back, jack looks at you over his shoulder, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips.

“what are you thinking?”

“oh, nothing. i was admiring the view,” you wave a hand around, making a point of looking at his ass.

jack barks out a loud laugh, and the sound makes something inside you ignite. smiling softly, you walk the few steps that separate you from him dropping a kiss on his shoulder over his jacket.

“and i was thinking that i’m just so incredibly lucky to have you in my life, jack,” you murmur, quoting him from earlier. with one last kiss on his jaw, you finally whisper. “let’s go home.”

“The diner’s fine, thanks,” you smile up at him, “We passed the motel on the way here, it looked like no one had touched it since I was a kid.” Your cousin snorted, and the two of you rounded the sides of his truck and hopped in. “I need to eat before I waste away. I’ll figure everything out later.”

A short truck ride later, you’re sitting at the high-top counter of Loretta’s diner—your childhood.

Birthdays with pancakes stacked high instead of cake, early morning breakfasts before your walk to school. Milkshakes after exams. And most importantly-

“There’s a celebrity in my diner.” A sweet southern voice interrupts your thoughts and appraisal of the diner. You look up across the counter to a tiny southern woman with big, big Texas blond hair, its size rivaling her smile. “Hi stranger!” She exclaims, and places the largest stack of French toast in front of you.

“Loretta!” You choke out, smiling as big as she is. You don’t know why your eyes begin to water a little, or why a lump rises in your throat. “Holy shit, I’ve missed you.” You jump down from the stool as she runs around the counter to meet you and pull you into a suffocating hug.

She’s so tiny, but so strong. And even though this hug hurts a little, you hug her back even tighter, noticing how much thinner she feels with age. Pulling back, you get a good look at her. Green, sharp eyes studying you. She’s wearing her classic pink apron, with straws and pens in the pocket.

“You remember my order?” You smile happily at the hot stack she placed at your seat seconds earlier. Your stomach growls. She howls a laugh.

“Remember? I’ll do you one better, sweet thing.” Loretta turns and snatches a menu out of a patron’s hand sitting in a booth close behind the two of you. She points at a featured menu item written in pink script, different from the rest of the menu items.

It’s your name, written in front of Short Stack of French Toast. The description lists blackberries and strawberries, as well as your favorite: maple whipped mascarpone cream.

“My French toast? That’s so freaking cool are you kidding me, Loretta?” She’s shoving the menu back into the patron’s hand now. And then flutters over to the wall behind you and points to something you didn’t notice in your hunger. On the bulletin that’s been there longer than you can remember are magazine covers ripped off and tacked onto the board. There’s one of you, makeup heavy and stylized, and a few celebrities and models wearing clothes you designed. 

You’re at a loss for words. You stare at the bulletin, then back at Loretta, your cheeks aching from how hard you’re smiling.

“You just made my whole year.” You laugh, climbing back onto the stool as Loretta rounds the counter to face you.

“You made mine, sweet girl. I’m so happy you're back, it’s been too long. Eat, what’re you staring at me for?” You laugh again, and promptly dig in.

You moan. 

“Just like I remembered,” you say to yourself. Growing up, Loretta always served French toast, your favorite food. But after countless mornings spent sitting at this very counter, you started asking for little alterations and additions until you finally landed on the beautiful stack set before you. You swallow. “Everything here is just like I remembered.” You gesture with your fork. “You too Lo, you look incredible. You’ve turned my day around.” You continue stuffing your cheeks.

Loretta leans forward on the counter in front of you, she’s always enjoyed watching people enjoy her food.

“Have I, sweet girl? What’s going on?” You stuff another forkful in your mouth.

“No place to stay…” a food-induced mumble, “Family sucks…”, you finally swallow, “And now I’m here, it’s hot as balls, I’m pulling two large freaking suitcases,” you point dramatically out the window to your luggage sitting haphazardly in the parking lot outside, “and I didn’t even want to come here in the first place. We all knew Grandmama was going to die soon anyway. No one’s sad.” You shove another bite into your mouth. “Now what… came all this freaking way.”

Loretta nods understandingly. Years of knowing you means she has always understood you, whether it’s you excited creative rambles about a collection you dreamed up, or you grumbling with your mouth full of French toast.

Loretta hums and floats towards the red landline at the other end of the diner. 

“What?” You ask.

She doesn’t answer, just dials a number and waits with the phone near her ear.

You take this time to give the diner another look. There’s a few patrons sitting in booths or chairs. They all stared you down when you burst in, but you were ravenous, too focused on the prospect of filling your belly. Sunlight from the many windows glints on the silver picture frames all around the dining room. A picture of Loretta and her late husband under the sign of the new building, a signed photo of Aretha Franklin, a baby photo of her niece.

There are polaroids clipped and hung on a string of regulars, and a photo of you at about 13, sitting at this very counter with the same stack of French toast steaming in front of you. 

As you turn back to your plate, you overhear the tail end of her phone call.

“You owe me, Jack. I got you out of the singles auction three years ago.” A pause, “Of course I’m still hanging on to that favor!” She laughs and pauses again for whoever Jack is to respond. “Just trust me, you won’t regret this” she laughs again, louder, “What makes you think I’m meddling, you big grump?” 

You’re a little thirsty, so you flag down a passing waitress to get you blackberry lemonade. Once you turn back to your plate, Loretta is almost skipping back to you, glee apparent on her face.

“You’re welcome!” She sings. She turns around and faces the kitchen, “I’m taking a break! Be back soon.” She begins taking off her apron.

“Where are you going, Lo?” You hardly register the waitress sliding a lemonade next to you.

“We are going to Honey Creek Ranch.” Honey Creek Ranch. You know of it. You vaguely remember horseback riding lessons there in elementary school, and a field trip to their beautiful, sprawling orchard when you were a little older, picking peaches and plums and blackberries. “Jack, he runs it now, he owes me a favor. He said you can stay there as long as you need.” 

You drop your fork on the almost cleared plate.

“Seriously? Who is this guy?” you take a sip of the lemonade and moan, “Holy-”

“His name is Jack Abbot. He took over the ranch after his parents retired. He lives all by himself in that big house just outside of town, he’s got more room than he needs. He won’t mind.” Loretta rounds the counter to meet you again as you finish gulping down the lemonade. "That was fast,” her green eyes crinkle.

“I feel like a kid again,” you giggle and slide off the stool, almost toe to toe with her, “I’m a great learner, I can shovel poop or brush horses or whatever the hell a rancher would need help with. And I’ve stayed up all hours for my job. Any time he needs something I can do it. I really don’t want to be a burden to this Jack guy.” You have an image of an old, snaggletooth hardass, with KEEP OUT signs on his porch.

Loretta grabs your hand, “I said the same thing about you to him over the phone, sweet thing. Stop worrying it’ll be fine.” She starts to pull you towards the door. “Your meal’s on me, let’s load up your big old bags into my pickup and we’ll head over to your new home.”

The drive to the ranch is only about 20 minutes, and you get to laugh and catch up with Loretta. You’re quiet though once you reach Honey Creek Ranch. It’s incredibly beautiful. Lush pastures painted a green so vivid it takes your breath away. Horses and cattle graze. Tall trees tower over the winding dirt road, and to the far left you spot the orchard, shorter trees in beautiful rows. Somewhere beyond the trees, you can hear the faint rush of water. The ranch is… huge. Bigger than you remember.

Loretta pulls up to a beautiful, old, two-story ranch house. The porch of your dreams wraps around the house, lined with large hydrangea bushes. Two rocking chairs and a porch swing. Dark wooden shutters, tall windows, and climbing plants. There’s a barn and a corral in the near distance. Once she parks you rush out of her pickup and do a slow, appreciative spin on the lush lawn.

In the midst of your gawking you hear the clomp, clomp of a horse. You whirl around and look up.

Sat high on the biggest horse you’ve ever seen is a man. 

Sweaty. 

Muscled.

Beautiful. 

His baseball cap is soaked through with sweat and pulled low, covering his eyes. Your eyes trail from his freckled biceps to his large hands holding the reins. You look lower to thick thighs hugging the sides of the equally muscled horse. The man and the horse slow to a stop a few feet away from you. Your neck is craned up to ogle this beautiful specimen.

Loretta, I love you so bad. Who the fu-

“Jack!” The car door slams closed behind Loretta, and she scampers over to you. “Don’t scare her, come down from there.” Jack huffs a breath out of his nose. His eyes settle on you as he swings a leg over the horse and dismounts. A flash of metal catches beneath the cuff of his worn jeans.

“I didn’t realize I was having company so soon.” Jack’s deep, rough voice drawls. He begins to trek close to you and Loretta, and you notice something about this stranger. Salt and pepper hair curls from under his cap, and you can see some of that stubble on his chin.

“I know you.” You smile brightly. “I saw you earlier.” Jack only looks you up and down. With some difficulty, he tears his eyes away from you.

“I didn’t know you meant right now Lo, I’m busy. There’s a fence down on the south pasture.” He crosses his arms. Your eyes go to his flexing biceps again, and his juicy forearms.

You finally register his words and snap out of it.

“Wait. Loretta said you knew I was coming, that it's not a big deal. I’m so sorry sir, I’m so embarrassed.” Jack looks at you again. Another appraisal.

“Jack’s fine,” is all he says to you in response. You blink.

“Okay, Jack…” you give him your name in introduction. He says it back to you, testing it on his tongue, appreciating it. “I’m not sure what Loretta told you, but I’m an incredible house guest. I’m clean, I’m a great learner. You can put me to work at any time of day. I’m not above any task. And I love animals, and the outdoors. I’m not the greatest cook but I can look up tutorials if you need me to maybe make you dinners? And I won’t get in your way either. I love people but I can also respect if you… don’t.”

Jack just looks at you.

Not harshly, but with something you can’t put your finger on. He hasn’t said a word but you can tell he’s listening. He looks you up and down again, this time his gaze lingers on your fringed boots. This corner his mouth hitches up a millimeter, but you catch it. 

Is this hot as hell Jack checking you out right now?

“Her stuff’s in the truck bed,” Loretta breaks the silence. Jack just nods and begins walking over to it. You look at Loretta, who’s already looking at you with mirth in her green eyes. She’s so excited, you can’t understand why.

The two of you follow him over to the truck where he’s begun lifting your gargantuan bags out.

You rush over to him.

“You don’t need to do that, I promise I’ve got it. You just lead the way!” you smile brightly and move to take the handle of one of the suitcases from him. He doesn’t remove his grip on it so you end up with your hand on his.

Jack shakes his head once. There's that little lift of his lips.

“Nah, I’ve got it.” He lifts the luggage, one handle in each hand, and begins walking towards the big white house. You hurry to catch up to his side.

“Wait, please. They’re entirely too heavy, I went a little crazy on Fifth Avenue before I came here.” You laugh a little. Jack’s gaze flips towards you and circles your features, then he looks back towards the house and continues his trek. You stop. “Oh, okay,” you giggle to yourself.

You turn around to face Loretta, who’s standing by the truck.

“I have to get back to the diner before they burn it down in my absence.” She smiles wide and opens her arms. You run into them and squeeze her.

“I love you. Thank you. You’re the best ever. My favorite.” Loretta laughs and squeezes you tighter before releasing you.

“Come see me soon,” she enters her pickup and starts the engine, “I expect to hear every detail of what goes on around here.”

“You coming?” You whip around to the deep voice. Jack is standing at the porch with your luggage. You smile and hurry up the path to meet him, the sound of Loretta pulling off behind you. Before you reach him, you catch Jack looking you up and down. Again.

“Are you checking me out?” You smile as you reach him on the beautiful porch. He huffs out a breath, an almost laugh.

“Cute boots.” Jack states, deadpan. Ignoring your question. He pushes the door open and holds it there for you, and you’re careful not to brush his chest as you walk through.

“Thanks, they’re vintage.” Your laugh dies down as your eyes dance around the interior of the house.

Jack, again, can’t seem to peel his eyes off of you.

He’s lugged the two suitcases over the threshold. You were right. They weigh a ton. He tries not to think about you and Loretta having to lift them into the truckbed he’d just pulled them from. No matter, he’d carry them upstairs for you.

Jack pulls his eyes away from your frame to check on his horse, Dahlia. She’s a few paces from where he dismounted from her back, grazing on the lawn.

His eyes go back to you. You’re looking at a photo wall his parents put up years ago, hand on your hips, little gem peeking out from your shirt. Jack surveys the room, trying to see it from a newcomer’s eyes.

Warm wood floors stretch through the entryway, worn smooth in places from decades of footsteps. The walls are painted a soft, creamy white, broken up by dark wooden beams and framed photographs. Horses. The ranch. Family. Jack is almost embarrassed at a framed photo of himself at five, deep auburn curls, missing teeth, and sitting proudly on a pony.

It’s quiet right now, but it won’t be long until– 

Jack sees you jump at a sharp, loud bark. The sound of nails running across the wood floors. A large Belgian Malinois rounds the corner, and when he notices a stranger in his home, his barks get louder and faster. The dog stops about two feet from you, barking, but Jack notices you don’t seem scared. You’re still smiling.

“Hi, beautiful boy,” you say quietly. Jack huffs a breath as you give the dog a tiny wave.

Blue, Jack’s loyal Belgian Malinois, is a retired military working dog and a veteran in his own right. He starts to calm. Still barking, albeit a bit quieter, Blue sits. In a normal circumstance, Jack would snap his fingers, and Blue would come to his side and sit quietly and politely. But this is not a normal circumstance. 

You crouch low and reach out your hand. Blue rises, and slowly comes towards you to sniff. 

One sniff.

A few more.

And Blue drops to his haunches right in front of you.

You beam, and it takes everything for Jack’s jaw not to tumble open. You look up at Jack, and his heart stops, then starts again a bit faster at the beauty of your smile.

“May I pet your dog?” It takes him a second to gather himself but he nods. You quickly begin showering Blue in love, petting his head, ears, and neck.

“You are the most beautiful boy, aren’t you, baby?” You’re talking in a silly baby voice, “What’s his name?” Jack clears his voice, gathering himself.

“Blue.” You gasp and continue mumbling praises to Jack’s normally serious dog. After a few moments Jack clears his throat again.

“Let me show you to your room. I’ll give you the grand tour after we drop these bags off.” You hop to your feet. Jack watches his dog rise and glue himself to your side. “Blue. Leave her alone.” Blue burrows closer to you. You laugh and pat the dog’s head.

“He can come with us! I love him.” Jack shakes his head once in disbelief, lifts the luggage, and starts up the stairs. Jack knows you’re following because you don’t stop asking him questions, the click of Blue’s nails echoing behind your voice.

“I’m guessing your family decorated?” You ask first.

“Yeah, I tried to keep it the same.” Jack reaches the top of the stairs and glances back at you, then moseys down the hall.

“How long has this house been here?”

“Around 100 years, give or take.”

“What time do you wake up every morning?” Jack is walking slowly, allowing you to peer in every room you pass. You give appreciative hums and noises. Something about you liking his house pleases him.

“Why?”

“So I can be ready to help,” Jack hears the smile in your voice. He shakes his head.

“No need. We’ve got it covered.” 

“Is it really just you out here?”

“Just me. And my ranch hands and some staff occasionally. My parents retired and now they travel around Europe, they deserve it. And my sister married my best friend, they up and went to Canada, to live on the land and pop out a few kids.”

“Kids? You have nieces and nephews?” Jack can’t help the smile on his face as he approaches the room he’s giving you and the thought of his niece and two nephews.

“Yeah, three. Loud as hell.” You laugh.

He made you laugh. His heart tumbles over itself. Jack enters the bedroom and sets your luggage inside. He looks the room over to try and see what you’d be seeing.

A large bay window sits against one wall, piled with pillows and a soft throw, sunlight bursting through the glass and illuminating the plush rug and sizable bed. A cute wooden vanity sits in the corner, its mirror framed with little bulbs and a few drawers beneath it. A dark wooden dresser rests against the opposite wall, topped with a ceramic lamp and a small vase of dried wildflowers. 

The bed is made with crisp white sheets, a quilt folded neatly across the foot, and more pillows than you’d expect from a ranch house. There’s an old-fashioned bedside table on either side, each with a little lamp and a stack of books. The walls are painted the same creamy white as downstairs, but here they’re dotted with framed botanical prints and faded photographs of the ranch.

Jack watches you peruse the room. You wander to the window, and he tries hard to gauge your expression as you run your fingers along the gauzy curtains. You move your face closer to the glass and watch the outside view of the pasture stretching toward the tree line, horses grazing lazily in the distance. Somewhere beyond them, the faint sounds of the ranch—the lowing of cattle, birds in the trees, the occasional distant whinny.

It was his mother’s old room.

Jack had never thought much about it before. Now, suddenly, he wondered if it was good enough for you.

He holds his breath. For the first time since he’s met you, you’re quiet. You whip towards him, beaming.

“Jack. This is beautiful.” He releases his breath. You look so stunning in this light. The sun is making your dark skin sparkle, your hair shimmer. Everything about you radiates. Jack’s heart keeps doing that weird thing, starting and stopping and turning and twisting.

Out. He needs to get out and back to work. Back to where all he can feel is the Texas heat and the sweat dripping down his back.

He clears his throat.

“I’m happy you like it. I’ll leave you to it, I’m sure you’d like to rest. I can give you the tour another time, I have to get back to work. Feel free to use anything in the house.” Jack snaps his fingers, and Blue, usually so eager to obey his master, whines and slowly slinks away from you to Jack’s side. “You serious, buddy.” Jack scoffs. You laugh loudly.

“Thanks again. And don’t worry about the tour! I’m nosy enough to give myself one.” You wink at him, and Jack feels heat climb up his neck.

Out. Now.

Jack turns around awkwardly and heads out of the room, closing it behind him and Blue.

“What the hell have I agreed to, boy?”

You’ve unpacked. Clothes in the dresser, shoes in the closet, makeup in the vanity. It may only be a few weeks in Honeyswell, but one thing about you is you like to make yourself at home. You sat at the bay window for a while, watching Jack’s beautiful property and just existing, and you had an idea.

You changed into a cute, tiny little bikini, and threw a long linen maxi dress over it. Forgoing shoes, you hopped downstairs.

Tour.

You had to explore the house a bit before you explored the property. So you did. You open the tall kitchen cabinets to find cute mugs of all kinds. Pull open a drawer or two. Open the pantry door. Then you skip along to the mud room. Dirty work boots, some clean clothes folded in a basket on top of the dryer. A jacket hung up on a hook.

You saunter over to an office, clear doors displaying a beautiful oak desk. You push through and scan the bookcases. Some medical journals, accounting books, a few trinkets. You pull out the large, plush, office chair and sit, perusing the desk’s contents. Stacks of payroll papers, invoices, contracts, and other boring-looking legal documents. At the corner of the desk are three picture frames.

The first is of a younger Jack and a man. The man is taller than Jack, with dark hair, and glasses perched on his hooked nose. Jack’s hair in this picture has a bit more pepper than salt. They’re standing in front of an emergency center. Arms around each other’s shoulders. They’re laughing, crow’s feet pronounced, eyes crinkled. Jack looks so happy. Jack and his friend have on scrubs, and stethoscopes around their necks.

The other frame features Jack holding a baby wrapped in pink. He’s smiling down at her, and on either side of him are two toddlers. Their heads rest on his arms, also looking at the baby, and one is pointing at her.

His niece and nephews, you assume. 

The last frame is clearly Jack as a teenager, his freckled face framed by curly red hair and the cutest crooked teeth, posing beside a younger teenage girl. Her red hair is darker, almost brown, but they have the same hazel eyes. Their faces are smooshed together and they’re laughing, faces filling the frame.

“So cute.” You smile and rise from the chair. You leave to explore the last room you spotted at the end of the hall.

This door is different from the others, it’s not closed all the way.

You push inside to reveal a master bedroom and stop.

Jack’s room.

You take a few steps inside, and your nose fills with the scent of cedar, leather, and something distinctly Jack. This room is darker than the rest of the house, the curtains pulled closed save for a sliver that lets in a bit of light onto deep wooden floors. A large four-poster bed sits against the far wall, dressed in dark green bedding and a rumpled quilt. There's a worn leather chair tucked beside the window, a pair of cowboy boots kicked carelessly underneath it.

There’s not much decoration in here, no throw pillows or picture frames on the wall. Just practical necessities. You figure, this is Jack. Straight to the point. 

A heavy wooden dresser. A nightstand with a lamp, a silver watch, and a book lying open facedown. A pair of spurs resting on the top. A pair of jeans folded over the back of the chair.

You smile. Warmth fills your chest unknowingly. You walk further in and pull the closet door open. Jackets and flannels hung neatly. A worn Stetson at the very top shelf next to a nicer, black one. You move to another door and push it open.

His bathroom is the biggest and prettiest bathroom you've ever seen. A clawfoot tub sits beneath a tall window, its white porcelain gleaming against dark tile. The standing shower is enormous, enclosed in glass, with black fixtures and multiple showerheads. A long marble counter stretches beneath two porcelain sinks, each with its own brass faucet. Fresh white towels are folded in neat stacks, and a little wooden stool sits beside the tub with a candle and a few bottles of soap. A bottle of shaving cream sits beside the sink, a toothbrush thrown into a ceramic cup, and a pair of reading glasses rests beside the faucet.

Deciding you’ve intruded enough you make your way out of Jack’s room, and back into the kitchen. The house is incredible. So much history and warmth, and so many pieces of Jack who you’re so intrigued by. Handsome, gruff, cowboy. 

But the property, specifically the creek you can hear from every corner of the house, is calling your name.

You slip out the back door and step barefoot in the grass. Something inside of you settles. It’s been long since you’ve done this. Your toes curl into the soft lawn. You smile up at the sun, its brightness forcing you to close your eyes.

You’ve missed this, you realize.

You begin walking. Past the barn, past the empty corral. Past a beautiful weeping willow, whose spot you make a note of in your brain. The sound of water is much louder now. You smile wider and quicken your steps. You weave through tall oak trees that eventually open, and there it is.

Honey Creek.

Clear water winds between smooth stones and moss-covered banks, sunlight breaking through the canopy above and scattering gold across the surface.

You walk to the bank, mindful to hop over the parts that look particularly wet and gross, and end up right next to a long, thick, branch that dips down to the water, almost like a railing. You throw off your dress and hang it over the branch. Then dip your toe in.

The water is frigid. You jerk your toe back. Perfect. You think. It’s about a million degrees outside today. You bend down and find a sizable rock, then toss it in the creek. You watch it fall, gauging how deep the water is. The answer being very deep. 

Perfect. You think again. You position yourself and execute a perfect dive into the slowly rushing water. 

The icy temperature slices through your veins, and you let gravity take you down a few feet before swimming up to emerge for some air. You breathe in, pushing your braids back from your face, and let out a loud, joyful sound. You flip onto your back and float, not caring how crazy you probably look. You don't remember that people work on this property, or that you may have drawn attention to yourself.

“I’m never leaving.”

previous chapter | next chapter

This was it. Your ultimate dream. At an unusually young age, too. You stayed for years. Long enough to prove you belonged. Long enough that another fashion house came calling. Then another. Eventually, the dream changed. You didn't want to build someone else's legacy anymore. You stepped down from being Creative Director of your third fashion house and became Founder and Creative Director of your own label. 

The work didn’t get easier. More sleepless nights. More sketching, more fittings. Consulting and bookkeeping. Shows, models, and photos. Interviews and magazine covers. But this was everything. Every dream you dared to dream. You took it all in stride—with the biggest, brightest smile on your face.

Eventually, you were able to move to her own apartment in Tribeca after living with your best friend in a small apartment in Manhattan. Now, at 27, you love how it’s a little quieter over here. There’s still that New York buzz, sirens, construction, bright with color, and passion and creativity, but it's just a little bit calmer. 

After waking up in your king-size firm bed with millions of pillows on good nights, and on bad ones, you wake up at your desk with a sketchbook stuck to your cheek. You head to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Your cat always greets you by making it difficult to walk, weaving through your legs, and purring loudly.

“You’re such an attention whore, Paul Atreides,” you tell him every morning. Only bending down to give him as much attention as he so desires, once a hot, fresh cup of tea is in your hand.

With your cup of tea, you take your time getting ready for your day. This is the dream. Your apartment is filled with plants, posters, vinyl records, and photos. Little trinkets and books. Things you love. You open a gauzy, lacy curtain, allowing more sunshine in from the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Paul Atreides climbs onto mismatched furniture you found at antique malls and flea markets, and curls up to rest in the sunlight. Silly mugs you acquired throughout the years litter surfaces. 

You walk into your large walk-in closet. This is akin to therapy. Taking your time to pick your outfit, because you’re the boss. You can come in as early or as late as you like, knowing the studio will run as it should in your absence. Putting on a top, you decide, “maybe the vintage slip dress instead,” and promptly change. Fingers grazing leather and suede, you pick a bag, shoes, accessories, from your collection.

After you get ready, the perfect outfit of vintage and new, colorful and bright, stacks of jewelry on your neck, ears, and fingers, and makeup if you choose, you kiss Paul Atreides goodbye and head to a cafe. Matcha is how you thank God for your life's blessing. Never mind the cup of tea you made at home. You must have a matcha latte of some sort. The latte fuels your 20-minute walk to your studio.

It’s a small team. You’re immensely grateful to call your employees your friends. A close-knit group of 13 that you couldn’t do anything without. Today, there’s not as much buzz and bustle around the studio. You can really take in the beauty of the warehouse turned studio without your employees running around, talking to each other, and on the phone, sketches laid out on the floor being reorganized. You love the gigantic ceilings, large factory windows, especially the old wood floors, which you can’t see much of now because of the ranks upon racks of clothing, dress forms, cutting tables, and shelves of fabric. The walls are littered with moodboards and framed images of magazine covers on which you or your clothes have been featured. April is sewing something long and shiny in the back corner. Mateo is holding up some swatches of fabric next to a few of your sketches on the wall. There’s some music playing softly from the speakers.

You walk through the studio. Bend to give April a loud kiss on the head, laughing when she shoos you away. You dramatically toss the fabric she's working on in the air and watch it slowly float back down to the table. You float over to Mateo and rest your head on his arm. 

“Mateo”

“Hm?”

“It’s not right.” Mateo scoffs.

“It’s from Italy, sunshine.” You smile up at his frown.

“It’s not right.” A pause.

“You’re right.” You laugh loudly and stretch up to smack a kiss on his cheek.

You walk towards a rack of clothes and begin pulling items off and feeling fabrics.

“Good morning sunshine.” A dry voice behind you. You whir around to her studio director, Camille. When your head is in the clouds with dreams and aspirations, she turns your visions into reality and keeps things running. She also keeps you grounded and is really the only one who can tell you “no”.

“You’re always so pleasant in the morning, Cammie.” You laugh and surge forward to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Hell yeah I am,” Camille didn’t smile. “You got a phone call, babe.”

Not uncommon. Camille handles all that boring stuff for you. You trust her enough to handle everything, and she only tells you the important happenings. You and Cammie walk further into the studio to your office, a smaller version of your apartment, really, you decorated it as such. You drop your bag in the plush chair by the entrance and set your matcha at your desk, stretching your arms over your head.

“Yeah? Who was it?” Yawning a little, you ask.

“Your mom,” Camille says directly. You freeze mid-stretch. 

You haven’t talked to your mom in… a bit.

It’s not your mom’s fault. She used to call almost every day when you moved to New York. She’d ask how everything was going. If you made friends, if you were taking enough time to study. But every time the conversation would shift from motherly concern and curiosity to something you couldn’t bear.

“You couldn’t do fashion here? With your family? What did we do to you that you had to go so far away?” or worse, things like: “When will you settle down? You have all this money and success, and no one at home to come to.”

So eventually you stopped calling your mom, stopped picking up. And she, eventually, stopped calling.

You sink into your desk chair. “Are you kidding?”

“Babe, I don’t kid.” Camille pushes her bob-length hair behind her ear. “She left a message, says it’s urgent. I told her I’d let you know as soon as you came in. It’s… weird she called the office, no?” You snort.

“She knew I wouldn’t answer my phone if I saw her calling.” Camille nods slowly.

“You should call her.” You look up at Camille. She’s looking at you intently, the way she always had. Something about her gaze convinces you.

“Okay, yeah. I will, Camille. You didn’t even tell me I looked good before you got into all this serious junk.” You blow out a deep breath and pick up your phone, ready to call your mom.

“You look incredible, sunshine.” Camille says dryly.

“Thank you, Cammie Baby!” You exclaim, grinning, as she closes the door behind her. 

You pause before clicking the call icon next to your mom’s contact. After a deep sigh and a gulp from your matcha, you quickly click the icon, then put it on speaker before dropping the phone on your desk and dragging your hands over your face. It rings once before she answers.

Your mother says your name. She sounds okay, maybe not happy, but not entirely distressed.

“Hey, Mama. What’s going on?” you ask suspiciously.

“Grandmama died. Early this morning. The homegoing is in two weeks. Everyone is coming to her house to be together before it, I’d like you to come.” You pick up the phone, take it off speaker, and bring it to your ear. At least she was to the point.

Grandmama, your great-grandmother was 97, and everyone knew the time was coming soon. The homegoing will be more of a reunion than a funeral, and you know that even though she is “asking”, your attendance is a requirement.

“Of course, Mama. I’ll be there. What do you-” she cuts you off.

“I’ll see you soon, love. Thank you for calling. I don’t want to take too much of your time.” You wince at the unintentional dig and say goodbye, hanging up the phone.

Good grief.

Your heart started racing a little; all the caffeine probably doesn’t help with anxiety. Coming home for the homegoing means seeing everyone. People you haven't talked to in years for the same reason you haven’t talked to your mother. You spin once in your chair. Twice. A third time. And abruptly rise and march out of your office.

The heads of your employees turn to the sound of your door whooshing open.

“Guys, I have to go back to Honeyswell.” You say loudly, hoping that saying it loud and proud will help you come to terms with the fact. Camille has already started typing aggressively as you look around the room at everyone looking at you incredulously.

“What the hell is a Honeyswell?” April asks from the corner, and the hum of the sewing machine stops. Everyone looks at you expectantly.

“Honeyswell is- guys, surely I’ve told you about my hometown in east Texas.” You look around for recognition in their faces and find none.

Marco snorts, “No way that’s what it’s called sunshine. That’s so…”

“Country bumpkin.” April finishes for him. You stick your tongue out at them and decide to disregard their comments.

“I need to go shopping…” another form of therapy that will surely cure this anxiety swelling in your chest, “and get my nails done.” That should help too, “And Cammie, can you help me book an Uber from the airport all the way to Hopeswell? There’s like no transport down there if you don’t book it in advance.” Cammie nods, now typing faster.

Everyone else has gone back to work, the earlier snickers from your hometown name back to the natural sounds of the studio.

“And my braids. Oh my god that Texas heat. I need to get my braids done.”

A day or two later, your Uber drops you off in front of Honeyswell Church. As soon as you exit the car, you feel the unforgiving Texas heat. Sweat starts to bead on your temples. The Uber driver helps you drop your two supersized suitcases stuffed with designer denim, archival cowboy boots, and enough jewelry to sink a small boat. You look down at the luggage wheels sitting next to your newest pair of vintage cowboy boots, these black, with softened fringe and cracked leather. The tiny black denim cutoffs you’re wearing do little to cool you off in the heat of Honeyswell. You adjust your tee, a black cotton shirt that flashes a little bit of the gem in your belly button, that matches the stacks in your ears. Sighing, you pull up the handles of the luggage and start to haul them near the church entrance.

It took great effort, you’re not one to pack light, and the cute black outfit you picked for your flight is only helping the sun to harass you as you grunt and pull them near the door. Everyone’s too nice in Honeyswell, if you remember correctly. It’s not like New York, where leaving things in your car gets your windows bashed in. You leave your luggage at the entrance and slink into the building.

Service has already begun. You love church, but if it were up to you, your first stop would’ve been a bite to eat at Honeyswell's only diner, as you hadn’t eaten since before your flight. Your best friend brought bagels and double matcha lattes, excited to hang out with Paul Atreides for a few weeks while house-sitting for your apartment.

“I freaking love you, you know that?” You’d squeezed your best friend, mouth full of a fresh bagel.

She’d squeezed you back even harder, “I love you more. Paul and I will miss you.”

You find an aisle seat, third row from the back. It’s packed in the church building. Every Sunday, every single resident of Honeyswell attends church. There’s no use in trying to get a bite to eat or a wink of sleep before heading over to your Grandmama’s estate. The town outside is dead silent.

As you look around the church, standing with everyone as worship starts, you realize everyone is staring at you. Looking at your outfit, your belly button piercing. Trying to figure out how they recognize you, whispering to one another. You just smile at everyone you make eye contact with, waving a little. Who cares? If you have to be at church before a full meal, you might as well make the best out of it. You know this one. You close your eyes and quietly sing along.

Jack sits here every Sunday without fail. Back row, aisle, left side of the building. The easiest way in, quickest way out to make the 15-minute drive back to his ranch just out of town. Every Sunday, without fail, he nods curtly, but politely, at the townsfolk who sit in his vicinity. The same folks who’ve lived here for years. He knows them all by name, their occupation, and what they get up to after service.

Everyone but you. He watched you float over to your seat. The only one unoccupied in the building was on the opposite side of his seat, a few rows in front. He couldn’t take his eye off of you. You’re showing so much skin. Dark, sun-warmed, your jewelry glints as it catches the light from the stained glass as you sway to the music. 

That smile. He watched you smile at almost everyone staring you down. Radiant. He felt himself wish you’d turn around and smile at him too, so that warmth and beauty would be directed at him.

He shut that feeling down quickly.

Jack Abbot couldn’t, for the life of him, stop staring at you. Everyone else had long since turned back toward the platform. Singing along to the music, lifting their hands. He still hadn’t. His senses are filled with just you. Your eyes closed, swaying and singing along demurely. 

His heart is doing something funny. Twinging.

You feel a gaze burning into the back of your head, and whip your head around, braids whirling with you. A man in the back row. He’s handsome. Rugged. Wearing a black tee tight around his biceps, and worn in Wranglers around thick thighs. Arms crossed, gaze sharp and piercing, and on you. Your lips turn up as your eyes raise to salt and pepper curls, matching the salt and pepper stubble on his chin.

You met his sharp stare. You smile brightly and give him a happy wave.

Jack blinks. You turn around and go right back to swaying to the music.

Did she just… wave?

His heart starts to thump faster, if even possible. 

“Snap out of it Abbot.”

Jack forces himself to tear his gaze away from you, focusing on the people on the platform in front of him.

Service goes on as usual. Jack is thinking about all the things he needs to get to when he gets back home. There’s a new horse that's been dropped off at Honey Creek Ranch. It’s a young one, with chestnut skin and soft honey eyes. It's a skittish one. Jack knows he’d been abused before he made it to the ranch, but Jack can’t wait to give him some proper love and patience. And a good meal, the horse is practically skin and bones.

Jack looks up from his thoughts, and the service is over. People have already begun leaving the building; less than half of the townsfolk remain inside. He looks over to the third row, aisle seat, opposite side of the building to him, and you’re gone. His heart does that weird twinge thing again at the thought of you.

Blowing a harsh breath out of his nose in chastisement to himself, Jack gets up and makes the walk back to his truck. Stopping to talk to no one gathered outside. That was quite enough social interaction for him. He has to reserve enough social battery for his young and energetic ranch hands back home.

Outside on the church lawn, you weave through groups of people to find a familiar face. Pairs of townsfolk still whisper and nudge each other when you pass, but you don’t mind. 

“Hi! Good afternoon! Hello!” You smile and wave, pushing through.

You finally spot your cousins, huddled in a group near the parking lot. They live all over Texas, some far away from Honeyswell, but none as far as New York. They’re all close. They see each other often, come to each other's weddings and birthdays. They’re more like friends than just cousins. You take a breath and hustle over to them.

“Hi family.” You smile and wave, shy for the first time. It’s easy for you to be confident and outgoing around strangers, but feeling like a stranger to your own family is a feeling you’ve avoided by staying away for so long.

They’re kind. They stop their conversation and turn towards you. But the familiarity and warmth they had vanished. They greet you. Some hug you, saying your name with “How was your flight?”  and other pleasantries. There’s a tightness in their smile. You choose not to think about it too hard.

“Where’s Mama?” You look around for your mom and her siblings. No way they missed service.

“They stayed back. Making preparations. Where’s your stuff? We’ll give you a ride.” your oldest cousin tells you, not unkindly. You point to the large luggage near the entrance, and he stalks over to lift it.

You find yourself squished in the back of his truck, your luggage rumbling in the truckbed, on the way to your Grandmama’s estate on the other end of town. You pass by familiar shops. The large diner on the corner. The Feed and Supply. The little gas station. 

Your chest tightens at the familiar image of lush, green pastures. Instead of sirens and jackhammers, you hear cicadas and birds chirping. Instead of tall buildings, white little houses with porch swings and wind chimes. The truck whizzes past wildflowers and barbed wire fences. Oak and Pine trees tower over the dirt road. 

Your eyes rise to the old water tower, HONEYSWELL painted across it.

The truck stopped at Honeyswell's only stoplight. It blinked red more out of tradition than necessity.

It turns past the big, red, apple cider donut stand on the side of the dirt road, and your stomach growls.

Someone's burning brush somewhere nearby. You hadn't smelled smoke like that since you were sixteen.

And finally, Grandmama’s estate. Big and old. Could use some work, but charming in its own right. Most importantly, familiar. You remember birthday parties here. A wedding or two.

Your cousin helps you unload your luggage as everyone pours out of the truck.

“Thank you.” You smile at him. He nods and begins walking up the short path to the front steps. Your mom is at the door. You start to drag your things up the path, behind your cousins, to greet her. She calls out your name and meets you halfway.

“Welcome, my love. How was the trip? Church?” She squeezes you so hard you don’t get the chance to answer. Your mother smells like she always has. And it makes your eyes a little wet. You let go of the luggage handles and squeeze her back.

“It was all good. I can’t wait to take a nap, get out of these clothes. I forgot how hot it is here.” You laugh as she pulls back. There’s something in her face, though. “What, Mama…” You exhale.

“My love, your auntie was in charge of getting everything together. I don’t know what happened but there’s no more room for you to stay here.”

“he’s coming, honey,” you smile, sliding off the couch to lean against the foot of it, tugging her closer to play between your legs. she lets out a little sound.

then, the lock in the door jingles, and she looks at you again, trying to read your expression. you smile. she smiles, then giggles, then squeals, as the door pushes open.

jack can’t even get a word out before your daughter pushes herself up (a little unsteadily, but she’s got the spirit) onto her two legs and hurriedly waddles over to her father, little arms stretched upward as she calls for him in a series of excited babbles. “papa, papa, papa.”

“hey, buggy,” jack grins. he may’ve just worked a twelve hour shift. he may be tired as hell, in desperate need of a good, long shower and an even better, longer sleep, but his baby’s here. and twelve hours is a much, much bigger fraction of her life than it could ever be his, and so he picks her up with a playful growl, her happy squeals filling the room. “missed your papa, huh? yeah?”

he sends you a look, brows wiggling in that still-present playfulness, as he carries your giggling daughter towards where you now stand. turns his body so that he can give you a proper kiss, freeing up his hand to cup the back of your neck.

“morning, baby,” he murmurs into your temple, allowing himself to sound just a little closer to how tired he actually is when he speaks to you.

“morning,” you smile, as you spot the way your daughter’s started gnawing on jack’s shoulder, presumably trying to get all the way into to his heart. it’s working.

jack chuckles, pulling her away just to hold her up in the air, bouncing her. “she been good?”

“mhm,” you nod. he turns to you.

“you sleep okay?”

again, you nod, pressing another kiss to his cheek. he hums contentedly, seemingly unbothered with the way your daughter tries to climb up his shoulders, only keeping a hand on her back to steady her and hold her in place.

“papa, come. trains, papa.” she babbles, one pudgy hand curled into his scrubs. “off-shoes, papa, play.”

jack chuckles, ever-fondly, as he sets your daughter down at his feet. he looks up at you, musing, “off-shoes, she says,” as he toes his boots off. you simply smile, watching him crouch down onto the floor. she waits, once he’s settled, and climbs into his lap.

coming up to him, you lean over to press a kiss to his cheek. “i have breakfast for you,” you murmur, and he groans in delight.

“that’s perfect,” he murmurs, as your daughter continues to babble in his lap. “i can get it myself, don’t you worry about it.” he smiles, wrapping his free hand around your wrist to pull you down with him. “come sit.”

of course, you do, resting your cheek on his shoulder as the two of you watch your daughter with adoration, at the way she coos and babbles all on her own with the good handful of words she’s learned.

“good day?” you ask, softly, fixing your gaze on his side profile, silver stubble white under sunlight.

“eh. you know how it goes,” he shrugs, with a light sigh. “better than—no, buggy, i know. papa’s got the red train. blue one’s all yours.” he smiles, unable to stop himself from pressing a firm kiss to her head. he returns his focus to you, resting the hand that isn’t securing your daughter to his lap on your thigh, giving it a squeeze. “better than yesterday, for sure,” he finishes his interrupted sentence.

“that’s good,” you smile, rubbing a circle into his back. you press another kiss to his cheek. he returns it with one to yours, but before either of you can do anything else, your darling little toddler seems to have noticed the sharing of affection, and clearly wants in.

she twists around in jack’s lap, almost fussing as she pushes herself onto her feet and clenches her fists into jack’s scrubs. brows furrowed, like they tend to be, as she babbles, “buggy turn. papa kiss. mama—mama kiss,” her head flicking between the two of you.

jack laughs, loud and loving, as he holds your daughter closer to him, pressing a firm kiss to her squishy cheek. she bursts into giggles, leaning back against his arm, her chubby hand flying to her cheek. she turns to you next, and you oblige her, pressing your lips to her other cheek, to which she offers the same reaction.

cupping both hands over her lips, she blows both of you kisses (a fancy new trick she’d learned from you), then plops herself back in jack’s lap. clearly having received sufficient attention for the time being, she returns to playing with her train set — but not without the occasional order given to her father here and there. a future attending, jack jokes. you don’t tell him then, but he might be right.

You are, generally speaking, a very obedient wife. 

Happiest when orbiting Sammy’s daily needs. Coffee made the way he likes it. Shirts folded and stacked in his drawer. Lunch packed with a little note tucked beneath the napkin, be safe, handsome! written in bubbly ink with three hearts and a lipstick print beside it.

And every day when he came home, you abandoned whatever you had been doing and hurried toward him. He expected nothing less. One second you were leaping into his arms; the next, his hands were around your waist and your feet were dangling several inches above the floor as he carried you toward the kitchen. 

“What’d my girl do all day?”

And it's never suspicion. Sammy couldn't sound suspicious if he tried with his face buried against your neck and one palm already migrating beneath your dress to cup your ass.

He just wanted the daily briefing — what you grabbed at the store, who had called, what you streamed while folding laundry, whether you finally watered the basil — best delivered while you perched on the counter and he kneaded your backside, answering each fact with a thoughtful little mhmm. 

Obedience, unfortunately, becomes a far shakier virtue when the forbidden object is parked dead-center in the living room, looking off center. 

You manage a disciplined twenty, maybe twenty-two, minutes before drifting back to it. Pacing a circle, you judge the distance to the wall and scoff. Barely three feet. Not worth bothering Sammy. Plus, you weren’t going to lift it, merely scoot it across the rug. Scooting seems perfectly reasonable.

Sammy said leave it because you might hurt yourself. You’re not going to hurt yourself. Which means, technically, his concern is already handled. 

The key turns in the front door lock at the exact moment you wedge your shoulder beneath one corner of the cabinet.

You don’t hear it. You’re far too busy making a series of tiny, pathetic noises through clenched teeth, one foot braced behind you while the other slips uselessly against the rug. 

“What are you doing?”

You freeze mid-shove, cheeks hot. 

“Nothing,” you answer quickly.

“Looks pretty fuckin’ strenuous for nothing.” His boots stop inches from your bare foot. You peek up from beneath the cabinet, hair sticking to your forehead, dress bunched at your waist. Sammy sets his keys aside with exaggerated calm, then crouches, forearms on his knees, meeting your eyes at floor level. “Gonna try that answer again?”

You ease onto your knees, fingers fussing with the bunched cotton until it skims halfway down your thighs. Sammy’s eyes track the motion, lingering where the dress refuses to fall any lower.

The lift of his brow tells you he’s remembering exactly what color those panties were, and how little they covered when you were half-under the cabinet.

“Sammy, listen, I was being so safe.” You plant both palms on the hardwood, as if proving stability. “I slid it on the rug so the floor wouldn’t scratch, kept my knees bent, no twisting, no overexertion.” You point at the hulking thing. “It’s practically in the same spot, honest. I just wanted it to look… finished.” 

Sammy nudges your forehead with his. “What did I say last night?”

“That you’d handle it.” You chase his mouth with a soft peck. “I know, but you work so hard and I didn’t want you to have to —”

“Baby.”

Your lips skim his cheek again. “I just figured if I moved it now you could relax later and maybe we could order take-out and —” 

“Mrs. Bryant.” His voice dips, a velvet warning. Two fingers tilt your face up so you have to meet the steady, disciplined gleam in his eyes. “One more word and you’ll be explaining it bent over that cabinet instead of under it. Clear?” 

You swallow, gaze dropping to his mouth, and manage the softest little “Mm-hmm,” the sound barely a syllable, insurance against making the mistake of actual speech. 

He accepts the tiny assent with a nod, then folds his fingers around your wrist and pulls you upright. The instant your balance steadies, he gives your backside a sharp, proprietary smack that makes you yelp and bite your smile. 

“Atta girl. Now scoot over to the couch and sit pretty while I do the heavy lifting, yeah?” 

It takes him only ten minutes to shove the cabinet into place. The oak kisses the wall while he wipes his palms off his uniform and crooks a finger. 

“Come ‘ere.”

You pad over, contrite and already trembling. He folds you against his chest, broad hand sifting through your hair in a slow, soothing rake.

“Scared me,” he murmurs against your crown. “Didn’t like picturing my girl pinned under two hundred pounds of wood.”

“‘M sorry,” you whisper, suddenly feeling very guilty as your fingers fists the back of his shirt. 

“I know.” His tone softens, but the command that follows is pure authority. Knuckles brush the hem of your sundress, nudging it higher. “Why don’t you show me just how much.”

MARIA NOTE popping my sammy cherry everybody be nice im nervous

You spent ten years building a life no one back home could understand—your dream. You wake up to the sounds of Tribeca, New York. You’ve always dreamed of living here. Your schooling brought you to FIT, where you learned how to sketch a proper fashion croquis, how to draft a pattern, and how to design fashion flats on Illustrator. Manhattan, where FIT is based, was louder, faster, brighter. It fed your young mind. You were a city virgin—what your classmates so lovingly called you when they learned of your hometown way down in East Texas—and the city fulfilled your every dream and more. You’d done it all, worked your way up, endured every cruel boss, fetched every matcha latte, stayed up all hours. You blinked, and there you were. 

Creative Director.

This was it. Your ultimate dream. At an unusually young age, too. You stayed for years. Long enough to prove you belonged. Long enough that another fashion house came calling. Then another. Eventually, the dream changed. You didn't want to build someone else's legacy anymore. You stepped down from being Creative Director of your third fashion house and became Founder and Creative Director of your own label. 

The work didn’t get easier. More sleepless nights. More sketching, more fittings. Consulting and bookkeeping. Shows, models, and photos. Interviews and magazine covers. But this was everything. Every dream you dared to dream. You took it all in stride— with the biggest, brightest smile on your face.

Eventually, you were able to move to her own apartment in Tribeca after living with your best friend in a small apartment in Manhattan. Now, at 27, you love how it’s a little quieter over here. There’s still that New York buzz, sirens, construction, bright with color, and passion and creativity, but it's just a little bit calmer. 

After waking up in your king-size firm bed with millions of pillows on good nights, and on bad ones, you wake up at your desk with a sketchbook stuck to your cheek. You head to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Your cat always greets you by making it difficult to walk, weaving through her legs, and purring loudly.

“You’re such an attention whore, Paul Atreides,” you tell him every morning. Only bending down to give him as much attention as he so desires, once a hot, fresh cup of tea is in your hand.

With your cup of tea, you take your time getting ready for your day. This is the dream. Your apartment is filled with plants, posters, vinyl records, and photos. Little trinkets and books. Things you love. You open a gauzy, lacy curtain, allowing more sunshine in from the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Paul Atreides climbs onto mismatched furniture you found at antique malls and flea markets, and curls up to rest in the sunlight. Silly mugs you acquired throughout the years litter surfaces. 

You walk into your large walk-in closet. This is akin to therapy. Taking your time to pick your outfit, because you’re the boss. You can come in as early or as late as you like, knowing the studio will run as it should in your absence. Putting on a top, you decide, “maybe the vintage slip dress instead,” and promptly change. Fingers grazing leather and suede, you pick a bag, shoes, accessories, from your collection.

After you get ready, the perfect outfit of vintage and new, colorful and bright, stacks of jewelry on your neck, ears, and fingers, and makeup if you choose, you kiss Paul Atreides goodbye and head to a cafe. Matcha is how you thank God for your life's blessing. Never mind the cup of tea you made at home. You must have a matcha latte of some sort. The latte fuels your 20-minute walk to her studio.

It’s a small team. You’re immensely grateful to call her employees your friends. A close-knit group of 13 that you couldn’t do anything without. Today, there’s not as much buzz and bustle around the studio. You can really take in the beauty of the warehouse turned studio without your employees running around, talking to each other, and on the phone, sketches laid out on the floor being reorganized. You love the gigantic ceilings, large factory windows, especially the old wood floors, which you can’t see much of now because of the ranks upon racks of clothing, dress forms, cutting tables, and shelves of fabric. The walls are littered with moodboards and framed images of magazine covers on which you or your clothes have been featured. April is sewing something long and shiny in the back corner. Mateo is holding up some swatches of fabric next to a few of your sketches on the wall. There’s some music playing softly from the speakers.

You walk through the studio. Bend to give April a loud kiss on the head, laughing when she shoos you away. You dramatically toss the fabric she's working on in the air and watch it slowly float back down to the table. You float over to Mateo and rest your head on his arm. 

“Mateo”

“Hm?”

“It’s not right.” Mateo scoffs.

“It’s from Italy, sunshine.” You smile up at his frown.”

“It’s not right.” A pause.

“You’re right.” You laugh loudly and stretch up to smack a kiss on his cheek.

You walk towards a rack of clothes and begin pulling items off and feeling fabrics.

“Good morning sunshine.” A dry voice behind you. You whir around to her studio director, Camille. When your head is in the clouds with dreams and aspirations, she turns your visions into reality and keeps things running. She also keeps you grounded and is really the only one who can tell you “no”.

“You’re always so pleasant in the morning, Cammie.” You laugh and surge forward to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Hell yeah I am,” Camille hasn’t smiled. “You got a phone call, babe.”

Not uncommon. Camille handles all that boring stuff for you. You trust her enough to handle everything, and she only tells you the important happenings. You and Cammie walk further into the studio to your office, a smaller version of your apartment, really, you decorated it as such. You drop your bag in the plush chair by the entrance and set your matcha at your desk, stretching your arms over your head.

“Yeah? Who was it?” Yawning a little, you ask.

“Your mom,” Camille says directly. You freeze mid-stretch. 

You haven’t talked to your mom in… a bit.

It’s not your mom’s fault. She used to call almost every day when you moved to New York. She’d ask how everything was going. If you made friends, if you were taking enough time to study. But every time the conversation would shift from motherly concern and curiosity to something you couldn’t bear.

“You couldn’t do fashion here? With your family? What did we do to you that you had to go so far away?” or worse, things like: “When will you settle down? You have all this money and success, and no one at home to come to.”

So eventually you stopped calling your mom, stopped picking up. And she, eventually, stopped calling.

You sink into your desk chair. “Are you kidding?”

“Babe, I don’t kid.” Camille pushes her bob-length hair behind her ear. “She left a message, says it’s urgent. I told her I’d let you know as soon as you came in. It’s… weird she called the office, no?” You snort.

“She knew I wouldn’t answer my phone if I saw her calling.” Camille nods slowly.

“You should call her.” You look up at Camille. She’s looking at you intently, the way she always had. Something about her gaze convinces you.

“Okay, yeah. I will, Camille. You didn’t even tell me I looked good before you got into all this serious junk.” You blow out a deep breath and pick up your phone, ready to call your mom.

“You look incredible, sunshine.” Camille says dryly.

“Thank you Cammie Baby!” You exclaim, grinning, as she closes the door behind her. 

You pause before clicking the call icon next to your mom’s contact. After a deep sigh and a gulp from your matcha, you quickly click the icon, then put it on speaker before dropping the phone on your desk and dragging your hands over your face. It rings once before she answers.

Your mother says your name. She sounds okay, maybe not happy, but not entirely distressed.

“Hey, Mama. What’s going on?” you ask suspiciously.

“Grandmama died. Early this morning. The homegoing is in two weeks. Everyone is coming to her house to be together before it, I’d like you to come.” You pick up the phone, take it off speaker, and bring it to your ear. At least she was to the point.

Grandmama, your great-grandmother was 97, and everyone knew the time was coming soon. The homegoing will be more of a reunion than a funeral, and you know that even though she is “asking”, your attendance is a requirement.

“Of course, Mama. I’ll be there. What do you-” she cuts you off.

“I’ll see you soon, love. Thank you for calling. I don’t want to take too much of your time.” You wince at the unintentional dig and say goodbye, hanging up the phone.

Good grief.

Your heart starts racing a little; all the caffeine probably doesn’t help with anxiety. Coming home for the homegoing means seeing everyone. People you haven't talked to in years for the same reason you haven’t talked to your mother. You spin once in your chair. Twice. A third time. And abruptly rise and march out of your office.

The heads of your employees turn to the sound of your door whooshing open.

“Guys, I have to go back to Honeyswell.” You say loudly, hoping that saying it loud and proud will help you come to terms with the fact. Camille has already started typing aggressively as you look around the room at everyone looking at you incredulously.

“What the hell is a Honeyswell?” April asks from the corner, and the hum of the sewing machine stops. Everyone looks at you expectantly.

“Honeyswell is- guys, surely I’ve told you about my hometown in east Texas.” You look around for recognition in their faces and find none.

Marco snorts, “No way that’s what it’s called sunshine. That’s so…”

“Country bumpkin.” April finishes for him. You stick your tongue out at them and decide to disregard their comments.

“I need to go shopping…” another form of therapy that will surely cure this anxiety swelling in your chest, “and get my nails done.” That should help too, “And Cammie, can you help me book an Uber from the airport all the way to Hopeswell? There’s like no transport down there if you don’t book it in advance.” Cammie nods, now typing faster.

Everyone else has gone back to work, the earlier snickers from your hometown name back to the natural sounds of the studio.

“And my braids. Oh my god that Texas heat. I need to get my braids done.”

~

A day or two later, your Uber drops you off in front of Honeyswell Church. As soon as you exit the car, you feel the unforgiving Texas heat. Sweat already starts to bead on your temples. The Uber driver helps you drop your two supersized suitcases stuffed with designer denim, archival cowboy boots, and enough jewelry to sink a small boat. You look down at the luggage wheels sitting next to your newest pair of vintage cowboy boots, these black, with softened fringe and cracked leather. The tiny black denim cutoffs you’re wearing do little to cool you off in the heat of Honeyswell. You adjust your tee, a black cotton shirt that flashes a little bit of the gem in your belly button, that matches the stacks in your ears. Sighing, you pull up the handles of the luggage and start to haul them near the church entrance.

It takes great effort, you’re not one to pack light, and the cute black outfit you picked for your flight is only helping the sun to harass you as you grunt and pull them near the door. Everyone’s too nice in Honeyswell, if you remember correctly. It’s not like New York, where leaving things in your car gets your windows bashed in. You leave your luggage at the entrance and slink into the building.

Service has already begun. You love church, but if it were up to you, your first stop would’ve been a bite to eat at Honeyswell's only diner, as you hadn’t eaten since before your flight. Your best friend brought bagels and double matcha lattes, excited to hang out with Paul Atreides for a few weeks while house-sitting for your apartment.

“I freaking love you, you know that?” You’d squeezed your best friend, mouth full of a fresh bagel.

She’d squeezed you back even harder, “I love you more. Paul and I will miss you.”

You find an aisle seat, third row from the back. It’s packed in the church building. Every Sunday, every single resident of Honeyswell attends church. There’s no use in trying to get a bite to eat or a wink of sleep before heading over to your Grandmama’s estate. The town outside is dead silent.

As you look around the church, standing with everyone as worship starts, you realize everyone is staring at you. Looking at your outfit, your belly button piercing. Trying to figure out how they recognize you, whispering to one another. You just smile at everyone you make eye contact with, waving a little. Who cares? If you have to be at church before a full meal, you might as well make the best out of it. You know this one. You close your eyes and quietly sing along.

~

Jack sits here every Sunday without fail. Back row, aisle, left side of the building. The easiest way in, quickest way out to make the 15-minute drive back to his ranch just out of town. Every Sunday, without fail, he nods curtly, but politely, at the townsfolk who sit in his vicinity. The same folks who’ve lived here for years. He knows them all by name, their occupation, and what they get up to after service.

Everyone but you. He watched you float over to your seat. The only one unoccupied in the building was on the opposite side of his seat, a few rows in front. He couldn’t take his eye off of you. You’re showing so much skin. Dark, sun-warmed, your jewelry glints as it catches the light from the stained glass as you sway to the music. 

That smile. He watched you smile at almost everyone staring you down. Radiant. He felt himself wish you’d turn around and smile at him too, so that warmth and beauty would be directed at him.

He shut that feeling down quickly.

Jack Abbot couldn’t, for the life of him, stop staring at you. Everyone else had long since turned back toward the platform. Singing along to the music, lifting their hands. He still hadn’t. His senses are filled with just you. Your eyes closed, swaying and singing along demurely. 

His heart is doing something funny. Twinging.

You feel a gaze burning into the back of your head, and whip your head around, braids whirling with you. A man in the back row. He’s handsome. Rugged. Wearing a black tee tight around his biceps, and worn in Wranglers around thick thighs. Arms crossed, gaze sharp and piercing, and on you. Your lips turn up as your eyes raise to salt and pepper curls, matching the salt and pepper stubble on his chin.

You met his sharp stare. You smile brightly and give him a happy wave.

Jack blinks. You turn around and go right back to swaying to the music.

Did she just… wave?

His heart starts to thump faster, if even possible. 

“Snap out of it Abbot.”

Jack forces himself to tear his gaze away from you, focusing on the people on the platform in front of him.

Service goes on as usual. Jack is thinking about all the things he needs to get to when he gets back home. There’s a new horse that's been dropped off at Honey Creek Ranch. It’s a young one, with chestnut skin and soft honey eyes. It's a skittish one. Jack knows he’d been abused before he made it to the ranch, but Jack can’t wait to give him some proper love and patience. And a good meal, the horse is practically skin and bones.

Jack looks up from his thoughts, and the service is over. People have already begun leaving the building; less than half of the townsfolk remain inside. He looks over to the third row, aisle seat, opposite side of the building to him, and you’re gone. His heart does that weird twinge thing again at the thought of you.

Blowing a harsh breath out of his nose in chastisement to himself, Jack gets up and makes the walk back to his truck. Stopping to talk to no one gathered outside. That was quite enough social interaction for him. He has to reserve enough social battery for his young and energetic ranch hands back home.

~

Outside on the church lawn, you weave through groups of people to find a familiar face. Pairs of townsfolk still whisper and nudge each other when you pass, but you don’t mind. 

“Hi! Good afternoon! Hello!” You smile and wave, pushing through.

You finally spot your cousins, huddled in a group near the parking lot. They live all over Texas, some far away from Honeyswell, but none as far as New York. They’re all close. They see each other often, come to each other's weddings and birthdays. They’re more like friends than just cousins. You take a breath and hustle over to them.

“Hi family.” You smile and wave, shy for the first time. It’s easy for you to be confident and outgoing around strangers, but feeling like a stranger to your own family is a feeling you’ve avoided by staying away for so long.

They’re kind. They stop their conversation and turn towards you. But the familiarity and warmth they had vanished. They greet you. Some hug you, saying your name with “How was your flight?”  and other pleasantries. There’s a tightness in their smile. You choose not to think about it too hard.

“Where’s Mama?” You look around for your mom and her siblings. No way they missed service.

“They stayed back. Making preparations. Where’s your stuff? We’ll give you a ride.” your oldest cousin tells you, not unkindly. You point to the large luggage near the entrance, and he stalks over to lift it.

You find yourself squished in the back of his truck, your luggage rumbling in the truckbed, on the way to your Grandmama’s estate on the other end of town. You pass by familiar shops. The large diner on the corner. The Feed and Supply. The little gas station. 

Your chest tightens at the familiar image of lush, green pastures. Instead of sirens and jackhammers, you hear cicadas and birds chirping. Instead of tall buildings, white little houses with porch swings and wind chimes. The truck whizzes past wildflowers and barbed wire fences. Oak and Pine trees tower over the dirt road. 

Your eyes rise to the old water tower, HONEYSWELL painted across it.

The truck stopped at Honeyswell's only stoplight. It blinked red more out of tradition than necessity.

It turns past the big, red, apple cider donut stand on the side of the dirt road, and your stomach growls.

Someone's burning brush somewhere nearby. She hadn't smelled smoke like that since she was sixteen.

And finally, Grandmama’s estate. Big and old. Could use some work, but charming in its own right. Most importantly, familiar. You remember birthday parties here. A wedding or two.

Your cousin helps you unload your luggage as everyone pours out of the truck.

“Thank you.” You smile at him. He nods and begins walking up the short path to the front steps. Your mom is at the door. You start to drag your things up the path, behind your cousins, to greet her. She calls out your name and meets you halfway.

“Welcome, my love. How was the trip? Church?” She squeezes you so hard you don’t get the chance to answer. Your mother smells like she always has. And it makes your eyes a little wet. You let go of the luggage handles and squeeze her back.

“It was all good. I can’t wait to take a nap, get out of these clothes. I forgot how hot it is here.” You laugh as she pulls back. There’s something in her face, though. “What Mama…” You exhale.

“whatcha doin’ there?” he’d ask finally, turning the tv off. he was watching jaws on mute (he was pretty sure you’d picked it earlier, back when you still liked him), which was its own kind of torture. it only made your silence louder. jack wondered if he was more interested in self-flagellation than he’d initially thought.

scroll. scroll. scroll. you leaned further into the arm of the couch, further away from him. he never knew what was so damn interesting on your phone – he was pretty sure you could scroll all day, and would if he wasn’t there. it seemed like you were just preparing yourself for your night without him, a first.

“i asked–” he made a sound low in his throat, because this was immensely grating on his nerves. he just hated when you didn’t give him attention.

he hooked two fingers in the waistband of your denim shorts, and reeled you back a few inches with his strength, almost snapping the fabric right off. he just wanted to prove to you he could. “what’re you doin’ there, baby?”

you locked the phone and set it face-down on your chest. “go get ready. you’ll want to look nice for everyone.”

he clicked his tongue and slouched further into the cushions, arm slung along the back of the couch, and looked up at the ceiling in faux-thought. “for all the nice ladies at the bar. it’s jus’ gonna be crawling with them.”

“exactly,” you huffed out, rolling your eyes. “i’m gonna go back to my apartment and hang out with my friends.” when his body stiffened up and he rolled his neck on the couch to look at you, you added, “yeah. the one i pay for. remember it?”

“vaguely,” he murmured. and because he loved the sight of you needy for him too much, he said, “i can drop you off on the way.”

you made a wounded sound, and jack had to bite back the smile at the frown on your face.

“whaat? you go see your friends. i’ll go see mine. we’ll reconvene later and tell each other all about it. it’s healthy.”

“stop.” you smacked his chest with the flat of your hand with zero force. “i don’t wanna go to my apartment.”

“you literally just–”

“i know what i said.” your jaw was clenched, and jack could see the pout forming on your lips that came whenever you’d worked yourself into the corner and hated the fucking view. “it was jus’ a threat.”

“ah.” he nodded slowly. “to make me feel bad.”

“yes.”

“and now you’ve walked it back, so.” he spread his hands, helpless and delighted, shrugging a shoulder. “where does that leave us? seems like i’ve still got a bar to be at.”

you made a sound of pure frustration and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hauling yourself into his lap. he let you. he’d let you do anything. he got a hand on your lip the second you were in range and his tongue instinctively peeked out slightly between his lips, pulling you in the rest of the way. if you were going to do it, you might as well do it properly.

“hey, look you’re back with me,” he murmured, smiling slightly. finally. “decided to take the scenic route.”

you rolled your eyes, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. he used a hand to tug slightly on your hair to look at him, and when you reluctantly pulled away, he caught your mouth to swallow whatever you’d loaded up and kissed you quickly. your hands uncurled from his shirt and flattened against his chest. which was, of course, the second he pulled back.

“okay,” he said easily.

you chased his mouth halfway again before you caught yourself. “okay, what?”

his thumb came up to drag along your bottom lip where he’d just been. “okay, you’ll get me all worked up. i promised everyone i’ll get the first round–”

“i don’t care about everyone.”

“i know you don’t.” he kissed the corner of your scowl, once, there and gone, just to feel you huff against him. “you don’t care about anyone, baby. it’s one of my favorite things about you. now up.” he patted your hip twice. “go change into somethin’ pretty. we’ve gotta get to a bar.”

he could see the sliver of your smile starting, but you didn’t move. he tried again. “i’d really, really love it if you came to a bar with me and my coworkers and sat on my lap the whole time.”

you pretended to consider it, then breathed out a sigh. “fine. if you say so.”

“attagirl.”

for the record, you did always sit on his lap whenever the two of you went out. it annoyed people to no extent, but he’d say it wasn’t so much PDA as as it just was. and a bar without you on him was just noise and other people’s problems. with you there, he had a place to put his hand and anchoring him to the place itself.

sometimes, jack could admit, he liked to test it. you’d be almost halfway to sleep on the couch, clocking in for you cat nap of the day, and he’d say, into your hair, “gotta go get my haircut.”

you’d groan against him, turning your face against his chest for a second, then turn back. you pushed yourself up by your palm to sit up properly, sleep-filled, and said, “fuck. fine. let’s go.”

you were already scrubbing a hand down your face, blinking yourself awake, reaching for the sneakers you’d left by the couch.

“whoa, hey.” he caught your wrist. “you were asleep.”

“up now.” you yawned wide, tugging one shoe toward you by the heel as your gaze briefly flickered onto him. “you need it. s’getting shaggy. i’ll tell him not to take too much off the top. and to keep it looking as gray as it can.”

suddenly, he didn’t want to go. why? because he couldn’t very well keep holding you while a barber took a few inches off his hair. he was just as bad as you.

“actually,” he tried, “it can wait a week–”

“no.” you stood up, and held your hand out for him, and he felt like somehow, this wasn’t even his idea in the first place. “you said haircut. we’re doing haircut.”

other times, he couldn’t think it’d possibly make sense for you to join him somewhere, but he’d still try to get you to come. or push it until he could make it seem like it was your idea all along. he’d run at the most inconvenient times, pencilling them into the schedule on his nights off at absurdly strange times, especially when he wanted to listen to the police scanner for SWAT earlier in the morning.

which was how how ended up, at five in the morning, standing in the kitchen tying his laces. “headin’ out,” he called out from the hallway, testing. “be back in a bit.”

he waited for a second, one shoe half-tied. then, from the dark down the hall, he heard you muffled and outraged say, “where?”

“on a run.”

the sheets rustled, and then you appeared in the doorway, backlit and squinting at him, wearing his shirt with nothing under it. “jack, please don’t annoy me.”

he huffed out a small laugh. “m’not doing anything. i’ll be back and cuddle and then call in for SWAT.”

a few minutes later, he was jogging the empty dark, and there you were crawling beside him in his car, hazards blinking orange, and his hoodie swallowing you whole.

“you’re going slow,” you called.

“pacing myself,” he panted out.

“slow-guy word.” you kept the car at its faithful pace of four miles per hour.

“i’ve got one leg,” he said. “stop heckling me.”

he groaned, and tried to speed up, though. you leaned your head out the window, chin on your folded arm, watching him with sleepy eyes. “come here. you’re getting ahead again.”

jack breathed through his nose and cut over to the window anyway, jogging alongside close enough to reach in. you turned your face up and he dragged his knuckles down your cheek without breaking stride, thumb catching the corner of your mouth.

“you look good all sweaty,” you said.

“oh yeah?” his mouth pulled into a smug smile. “i like it when you catcall me.”

“if you think that’s catcalling, then you’ve got no idea what i’ve got up my sleeve,” you said, giggling. and then you slumped deeper into the seat, steering with two fingers at the bottom of the wheel. jack made a mental note reminding himself to never, ever let you drive anywhere real.

he clocked two miles like that. every so often, you’d lean out and say something to him. somewhere around the second mile, you got tired and just watched him, eyes half-shut.

“alright, hot stuff,” you called out eventually, voice filled with sleep. “wrap it up. you’ve proven whatever this proves.”

“one more mile.”

“jack,” you whined, and when he didn’t slow. “if we go home now i’ll make it worth your while.”

his steps hitched just slightly, but he continued. “you’re just gonna go to bed.”

“well, we can just cancel it.”

he paused, halting his footsteps finally, breathing hard. “no need to be hasty.”

you smiled tiredly, and was on his way to the passenger seat when you honked, causing him to jump slightly in front of the car. “what?”

you peeked your head out of the window. “well, i’m not driving.”

he put his hands on his hips, staring at you incredulously for a second, then watched you crawl over the console to the passenger seat. he sighed, and dropped into the driver’s seat.

you smiled. “you’re so trainable. you’re like a–”

he leaned over and kissed the rest of the sentence out of your mouth, but you made a soft sound and curled your fist into his shirt. when he finally pulled back, you followed him, and he had to huff out a fond laugh as he physically held you back in your seat.

“belt,” he murmured.

you shook his head at him confused, pointing at the belt. he made a perplexed face and reached across to buckle you in.

“you smell all sweaty,” you murmured. “s’awful. don’t shower.”

“that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” he murmured, starting to drive.

two minutes seconds in, he had to catch your wandering hand by the wrist – flat against his stomach – and held it there. he had to clear his throat. “you,” he said, casting you a sideways glance, “are supposed to be sleepy.”

“would you like me to be?” your fingers flexed against his hold, and he placed your hand back on his stomach.

he clicked his tongue. “what’s the clock at right now?”

“fifty eight minutes.”

“drive home’s ten. shower’s fifteen, if you’re in it. which you will be.”

“so bossy,” you murmured.

robby had asked jack to grab a drink on one of their only nights off to rant, vent, talk about anything on god’s green earth without having to filter it through workspace etiquette. jack knew that there was probably some rule in the handbook that said you don’t bring your girlfriend to such things, and he hadn’t. it’d truly stuck this time, too.

you’d been scrolling through some streaming service on the tv, tucked under the covers, lips pulled into a frown, and being strangely normal about jack’s night out. well, that was until he saw you let out the tiniest of a groan before you slipped under the duvet.

he placed his shirt on the couch, tilting his head at the shape of you under the duvet, and walked over. his palm pressed over what he guessed was your elbow as you turned to your side.

“can i get a goodbye kiss, baby?” he murmured.

your lump shifted a woeful roll away from him, deeper into the mattress.

jack’s mouth twitched as he sank down onto the edge of the mattress by your hip. he found the top of the duvet and peeled it back slowly. you were frowning and your eyes were pinched shut. “you hidin’ from me?”

“sick,” you whispered, eyes still closed. “can’t kiss. you’ll catch it.”

“oh, that’s a shame,” he whispered back. he laid the back of his fingers to your forehead – cool and healthy as a horse, obviously – and his thumb swept across your cheek. “big bad fever, huh?”

“maybe i should go to the ed?” you hummed, nuzzling against his hand, causing him to cup your cheek.

“you wanna get admitted for this?”

“yeah.” you nuzzled deeper into his palm, and your lashes fanned against your cheek. “might be something bad. you should feel my glands.”

“alright, then,” he murmured. jack had decided if you were going to malinger, you should probably get the full workup. sliding his hand back to cradle the side of your throat, thumb sweeping the hinge of your jaw. “feel perfect to me, actually.”

“thanks, jack,” you murmured, like he’d complimented your outfit. he barked out a laugh at that.

“it’s a shame,” he said, pushing himself forward to lean down to press his lips to your forehead. “was gonna ask you to come to the bar, but you’re too sick. can’t drag you out feelin’ like this. it won’t be right.”

your eyes came open and your nuzzling stopped dead. “oh–”

he clicked his tongue, pressing a frown over his lips. “i’ll swing by the pharmacy on the way back and grab you somethin’ for the fever. maybe some of that tea you like, too.”

you pursed your lips and jack watched you realize that sick girls don’t rally for bars. he moved his hand away to tuck the duvet more snugly around your shoulder and patted it, the picture of concern.

“um–”

“comfy?” he asked, sweetly, tucking a pillow under your head.

“you don’t have to get me tea,” you tried weakly.

“course i’ll get you tea. anything for my sick girl.” he leaned down and pressed another kiss to your forehead, long, a little sloppy, and warm, and you went rigid. “you rest up. text me if it gets worse.”

he stood and he watched your wide, confused eyes track his movements.

“jack?” you said, voice small.

“yeah?” he tugged his shirt over his head, and when it went on him, he was grinning.

you stared at him, and he could see you weighing your options of whether to cop to the lie, or hold the fever. he loved that little look on your face so much he nearly caved right there.

“you look very handsome,” you murmured.

“you think so?” he said, cocking his head to the side.

“mhm.” you gave him a small smile, your eyes tracking down the length of him and back up. you reached out to catch his hand, and your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “the most handsome. robby’s lucky.”

he sank back to the edge of the mattress and brought your knuckles up to his mouth, kissing them slowly as you gazed at him like a woman sending her love off to sea. “you’re bein’ real brave about this.”

you pressed the back of your free hand to your forehead then let it flop down. “you should have fun. tell robby i said hi. don’t think about me being all alone and unwell.” your fingers tightened around his. “i mean it. have the best time. you work so hard.”

god, you were laying it on thick. he leaned in to kiss your forehead, then your cheek, and the corner of your mouth. “i won’t be long.”

“take your time,” you insisted so nobly.

and then you turned your head quickly, trying to convert his kisses into a real one. he leaned back, tutting.

“can’t, sweetheart. you’re contagious.” jack pushed himself up, and with the sound you made, you did sound a little sick.

it should have been no surprise that around the forty minute mark, as robby was ranting about whether or not he should cut things off with noelle for good, jack caught a flash of movement past the bar’s front window. there you were!

you were shuffling down the sidewalk in his hoodie and plaid pajama shorts, a little white pharmacy bag swinging from one fist, walking so casually. jack’s beer landed on the table as his eyes narrowed.

“–i keep going back and forth, ‘cause a part of me thinks–” robby stopped, following jack’s line of sight. “hey, look. your girlfriend’s stalking you now.”

jack’s brows furrowed. he rested his forearms on the table, tracking you through the glass. then you found him, and to your enormous credit, your face jumped in surprise. you pushed through the door on a rush of cold air, the bell jangling.

“jack?” you rasped. “i had no idea this is where you were.”

“i know, angel.” he caught you by the wrist as you drifted close, drawing you out of the cold gush of air. your hand was freezing. you’d walked here. “you’re like ice. what’re you doin’ out?”

you sighed softly, holding up the bag of medicine. “i was feelin’ worse. couldn’t wait until you came back so thought i’d just get it myself.”

he frowned. he folded both your hands between his and brought them up to his mouth to breathe over. “wanna go home?” he murmured.

“can i–” you cleared your throat, looking away from him sheepishly. “maybe after a cocktail?”

jack’s shoulders dropped and he laughed. he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “for your fever?”

you were fighting a smile. “might warm me up.”

“i can warm you up.” he tugged your wrist and you folded sideways across his thighs, and his arm swept around your back. his hand slid up just slightly under the hoodie to press against your cold skin, drawing a sharp little gasp out of you. “jesus.”

“hi, robby,” you said.

robby picked his drink up with an incredulous look on his face. “you don’t look sick to me.”

“you think i look pretty?”

robby pointed his drink at the two of you. “nothing about this is normal.”

jack shrugged. he didn’t think anything was better for him than a lapful of his little liar.

“hey, maybe she can give you some advice on your love life,” jack said.

“you’re working nights sunday through thursday, right?” you asked one night, thumbing through your phone, tucked into his side.

“yeah.” his hand traced shapes over your hip, eyes on the tv. “why, you plottin’ something?”

“kind of.” you kept typing something away, head tilting at your screen.

“what?” he murmured, leaning over to look at your phone.

“i think i’m gonna stay at my apartment those nights. the girls and i are planning a whole thing – feels like fun. and it’s kinda dumb to keep paying rent i’m never in. figured i’d use it for once.”

jack felt his mouth curve up slightly, and he leaned in to nuzzle his head into the curve of your neck. “you askin’ me to take a night off?”

“no?” you huffed out a small laugh, head tilting so you were resting on his.

“you’re gonna sleep at your own apartment,” he said, smiling slightly. “you’ll last one night, start missing me, and you’ll text me to come get you after my shift.”

you pulled back from him slightly, brows narrowing. hesitantly, you said, “i don’t think i’ll miss you that bad.”

“huh?”

“i think i’ll miss you a normal amount,” you shrugged, lips jutting out slightly at the look on his face. “but it’s four nights, jack. i’ve got roommates that i miss and my record collection i worked really hard on – and spent a ton of money on.” you sighed wistfully. “my friend said the turntable’s got dust on it.”

jack felt his own brows furrow. he was sure he was pouting like a fucking teenager.

at his silence, you hummed, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “you’re working all those nights, anyway,” you said, trying to offer it as some sort of resolution.

something was very wrong about this, jack thought.

“this is the part where you say, go have fun, baby.”

“you live here,” jack said dumbly.

you smiled uncertainly. “no, i live there. i just stay over at my boyfriend’s all the time.”

“no, you live with your boyfriend,” he corrected.

“when did i move in with him?”

jack opened his mouth, determined to name exactly when, and realized he had no idea. because – technically – you hadn’t moved in. that just won’t do. he made a small sound, got a hand behind your knee, and pulled, dragging you over into his lap. both palms slid up to grip your waist and hold you there as he frowned at you.

“why haven’t you moved in?” he asked, grip tightening on your waist.

“didn’t wanna seem crazy and come here with a moving truck–”

“since when do you care about that?”

“i didn’t want to assume,” you mumbled, and jack’s mouth itched to press against your mouth.

he leaned in, mouth grazing your jaw. “since when do you get shy?”

“since you never asked,” you huffed out, fingers tugging slightly at his hair. “figured i’d just keep my place. just in case.”

he nipped at your skin, eyes fluttering. jack didn’t like that idea at all. his hand went up your spine to pull you flush against him. “get out of the lease–”

“i won’t have a home,” you said, grinning.

“move in.” he said, groaning slightly at how this all turned out. “i thought you’ve been living here for months.”

you made a small sound as your hand smacked the side of his head lightly. “do you know how much stuff i could’ve got if i stopped paying that rent?” then you smacked him again. “asshole.”

“okay, okay–” he caught your wrist, grinning as he ducked from your hand. “will it help if i take you shopping?”