shay

If your paths cross again organically, then that would be another thing entirely.

You reach for your dress, and take a second to look around his room as you try and gather your bearings. It’s a lot cleaner than some of the frat rooms you’ve spent time in.

There are textbooks stacked on the desk instead of empty beer cans. A chemistry textbook sits open beneath a notebook full of cramped handwriting and highlighted diagrams. Another book - something biology-related - has so many sticky notes poking out of the pages it looks like it's growing feathers.

You hadn’t thought Jack was lying last night when he told you he was pre-med, but you certainly hadn’t thought he was serious about it. You figured he was probably some trust-fund kid who was going to get daddy to buy his way into medical school.

Jack apparently doesn’t fit into Cornell’s usual stereotypes.

He’s not a selfish prick the way most of the hockey team is. He’s also not a moron either - not by a long-shot. You know his music taste is pretty refined - on one date, after telling a guy that The Doors were your favourite band, he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

Needless to say, there hadn’t been a second date.

And he’s funny. You’d laughed more last night than the entirety of summer. You think potentially more than your entire relationship with Seth.

God, you need to get a grip. You look around the room, almost praying to find something that’ll ruin the spark for you. Maybe a list of all the girls he’s slept with, or some Playboys under the bed. Some mouldy food perhaps?

Anything to get him off your mind.

You pull your dress over your head and glance around again.

The walls are covered in hockey.

Photos pinned to a corkboard. Team pictures from what looks like every stage of his life. A tiny kid missing his front teeth. A gangly teenager holding a trophy. A more recent photo where he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of teammates, grinning like an idiot.

There's a shelf lined with medals and a couple of plaques.

Your gaze lingers on a more recent picture - a slightly younger Jack’s first year on the Cornell hockey team. It looks familiar, and suddenly you realise why, heart sinking. Your step-brother Michael stands right by his side, smiles wide as the team poses for the camera.

Fuck.

You’d thought that the hockey team would be safe from Michael’s claws given that he’s been at medical school for the past three years. The last thing you want is to have slept with one of his friends.

While technically a step-brother, your mom met his dad while she was still pregnant with you. With your biological father out of the picture, the Robinavitch family very quickly became your own. Michael’s father is the only father you’ve ever known.

In all ways but blood, he’s your brother.

He’s the entire reason you’d ended up at Cornell. You’ve always wanted to grow up to be like Michael. Even if he’s grown a stupid beard, and goes by Robby these days.

His single piece of advice to you when you’d started college was to run a mile from anybody on the college’s sports teams.

Basketball? Bad.

Football? The worst, if Robby is to be believed.

Hockey? Good guys, but not boyfriend material. Steer clear at all costs.

Maybe they were just teammates. You have lots of group photos with people you don’t even like, much less consider a friend.

Jack seems like the kind of guy who would be friendly to just about everyone. But it could have just felt that way because he was trying to get into your pants. He could have a playbook of flattery, and you’re simply the most recent sucker to fall for it.

You realise with a snort that you don’t know much about Jack at all.

Which, to be fair, was intentional.

The whole point had been not getting to know each other. He could be

No strings. No personal questions. No expectations.

For all you know, he's seeing someone back home. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who never stays single for long. Maybe there are half a dozen girls on campus who'd roll their eyes if they heard you were thinking this much about him.

You wouldn't know.

All you know is that his name is Jack.

He plays hockey.

He's pre-med.

He’s a fan of classic rock - particularly Led Zeppelin and the Eagles, but he’s also partial to some eighties punk.

You don't know if he has siblings, or if he's close with his parents.

You move toward the desk, spotting a framed picture tucked beside a lamp.

Jack stands with a woman who shares the exact same smile. Must be a mother, though she looks pretty young. Upon further inspection, his mom is in a lot of the photos. For someone who spent half of last night pretending he didn't care about anything except having a good time, Jack seems surprisingly sentimental.

Maybe because you'd spent all of last night mentally filing Jack under Fun-Mistake. Good-Lay-Who’s-Definitely-A-Bit-Of-A-Whore.

Not Son-Who-Keeps-Pictures-Of-His-Mom-On-His-Desk.

You force yourself to look away.

This is ridiculous. You have to get out of here. At the desk, a notepad sits beside a cup full of pens, and your eyes catch on it just for a second.

You could leave your number.

Not for a date. Just to say ‘hey, that was good sex and we should do it again sometime. I’m not clingy, nor am I looking for a boyfriend, but you’re hot and I have a pushy ex.’

As soon as your brain catches up with your thoughts, you realise how pathetic you sound.

You’ve spent your entire college career avoiding becoming a stereotype. You’re not a stuck-up teacher’s pet because you get good grades, you’re not a stoner because you’re in a rock band, and you’re certainly not a Puck Bunny because you want to fuck a hockey player.

You grab your boots, and try to get the hell out of there. The frat house is mostly empty this early. For that, you’re grateful. A couple of people linger in the kitchen, nursing coffees and hangovers, but thankfully, nobody pays much attention as you head for the front door.

You slip outside.

The morning air is cool against your skin. A welcome change from the heat of Jack’s bedroom.

You don’t have a class until lunchtime, but band practice starts in forty-five minutes, and you’d like the shower before braving the heat of the Cornell Music Building.

The campus is dead at this hour, just empty brick paths and ivy before the mid-morning rush. Your boots click on the concrete, locking into the tempo of the bassline you keep looping in your head. It’s a new composition, one that you’re pretty sure goes with Jesse’s latest favourite drum-fill.

You hadn’t really meant to join a band, but when Jesse Van Horn is your next-door neighbour in freshman year, it’s hard to avoid the music.

Half the floor hated him, because he had an acoustic drum-kit set up in his room, and had no qualms about practicing at seven in the morning before his classes.

You didn’t ever mind.

Alarm clocks didn’t do the trick for you, but Immigrant Song sure did. Eventually, Jesse’s roommate had packed it in, found somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, you and he were becoming closer every day. You’d pass records back and forth, and roll your eyes over student housing politics.

When your roommate started allowing her boyfriend to practically live with you both, it had been a natural decision. One box at a time, over a week, you moved into Jesse’s spare room.

Despite the rumours, it’s never been sexual - you’re both walking proof that men and women can, in fact, just be friends.

You started jamming together, before he’d finally proposed that a band could earn you some extra cash. Outside of tutoring, you didn’t have any other income, so money got tight fast.

The only issue was that you absolutely refused to sing in front of a crowd. It’s not that you couldn’t - you’ve always had quite a nice voice, especially for folk, but the idea of singing solo in front of crowds made you want to cry.

Besides, you’d argued, you needed a guitarist anyway. You’d just find someone who could sing and play.

Jesse had placed a couple of ads across campus, and you got a lot more interest than you were expecting. Your answer came in the form of Nick Bradley - a biology major who could shred like Slash.

He agreed to sing too, as long as you’d do harmonies and take lead occasionally.

Like Fleetwood Mac, except none of you were sleeping together.

Now, a year on, you’re pretty successful. Good enough to get booked for a lot of the parties around campus, and a Saturday night slot at the local bar.

You’re still living with Jesse this year, in an apartment just off-campus, while Nick lives two streets over with his girlfriend Princess.

Were it not for Seth, you’d be having the time of your life.

Your first college relationship, you’d met Seth at a party in your first month of being at Cornell. He was a freshman too, but a business major, and loved the sound of his own voice.

Of course, at the time, he was hot, and paying you considerable amounts of attention. You were hooked.

Your entire relationship was cyclical - you’d date for a few months, and then have a huge blowout fight, and break up. You’d both sleep with other people out of pettiness, before he’d come crawling back a month later.

Much to all your friends’ chagrin, you always took him back.

This is the longest you’ve ever been separated since you first met.

It had happened over summer - an incident in New York City which had resulted in you sobbing down the phone, and Robby driving three hours in the middle of the night to come to your rescue.

You’re determined the break is sticking this time.

The cold walk back to your apartment finally wakes you up. You drop your keys on the counter, shed yesterday's clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water cuts through the smell of Jack's cedarwood cologne and the leftover stuffiness of his bedroom.

Ten minutes later, you're out and dressed in fresh black jeans and a beat-up band tee. Cream. You tell yourself it’s a total coincidence, and not because it’s a Clapton band. Your hair is still wet, but with five minutes until your practice starts, Jesse is ushering you into his car without pause.

*****

You think about Jack at random intervals throughout the day over the next few weeks.

When you're walking to class.

When you see someone wearing a hockey sweatshirt.

When a cowboy hat appears in the background of a TikTok, embarrassingly.

But thinking isn't the same thing as doing. And you've managed not to do anything.

No Instagram searches. No asking around. No stalking fraternity pages. No investigating.

Which means you're doing great.

Objectively.

You haven’t seen him around campus, but you figure that’s to be expected, given he’s pre-med and on the hockey team. You wouldn’t wish either on your worst enemy, much less both. Thankfully, Seth has been a complete non-entity too.

Maybe you’ll be able to live your entire Junior year in peace.

You're walking back from class with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear while Robby complains about med school.

Again.

Apparently today's crisis is pathology.

Yesterday's crisis was anatomy.

Tomorrow's will probably be something equally horrifying - he’s no longer allowed to tell you any stories that involve burns, toe-nails, or eye stuff, but you're sure he'll find something else that makes you feel sick just hearing about it.

"I haven't slept in two days."

You snort. "That's healthy."

"I hate you."

You hadn’t realised that Robby going to med school would somehow be your problem too. When your parents are sick of him whinging, they send his calls your way.

"Do you know how many pathways there are for clotting?" He asks.

"No. Why would I know that? I’m pre-law."

"There are too many."

"Okay."

He groans. "I'm serious."

"Congratulations? I don't know what you want me to say to that, to be honest."

There’s a pause, and you can just imagine him rubbing his neck, regretting calling you entirely. "You don't care."

"I care deeply about many things. Clotting factors? Unfortunately not one of them. Why aren’t you moaning to Noelle?"

"She’s sick of it," He replies, sounding so miserable that you almost want to laugh.

“Just think about all the money you’ll be making.”

“Yeah, in like fifteen years.” Without taking a breath, Robby launches into another story about one of his professors, and you half-listen as you weave through campus.

Then he mentions hockey. "Honestly, sometimes I miss the team."

Your stomach does an immediate, traitorous flip. It’s been approximately two hours since you last thought about Jack, and the reminder is not a welcome one. It’s a battle to keep your voice neutral. "Yeah?"

"Not the practices,” He clarifies immediately.

"Obviously."

"Or the conditioning."

"Also obviously."

"But the guys."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t care about Jack. You shouldn’t ask anything else. Change the subject, and…. "Do you still talk to any of them?"

You immediately regret it, but it’s too late.

Fortunately, Robby doesn't seem to notice the odd cadence in your tone.

"Some of them."

You hum. "Who?"

He pauses. “Most of us are scattered now, but I talk to some of the guys on the current team. You know, one of them's applying to med school right now.”

"So?"

Robby laughs. "So?"

"Yeah."

You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, wondering if you should just fake bad service and hang up.

"Lots of people apply to med school."

"Not while playing a college sport."

"Oh."

"He asked me to look over his application."

Your grip tightens on your phone. "That's nice."

"I know. I’m a nice guy." Robby sounds genuinely pleased. Which is odd. He's usually much stingier with compliments. "Actually, his application's pretty solid."

You stare straight ahead.

Heart beating a little faster. “Must be smart, then.”

“Everything okay?”

Curse Robby and his insane perception skills. “Uh, yeah - just thought I saw Seth.”

Immediately, Robby’s in dad mode. “Don’t go near him.”

“I’m not! Jesus, Mikey - what do you take me for?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

You want to be offended, but you’re mostly just glad the conversation isn’t on Jack anymore. “Screw you.”

“Love you too!”

*****

The bathroom tile is freezing against your forehead.You trace the grout lines with your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the rhythmic, violent heaving in your stomach. It’s 4:00 AM, six weeks since term started, and you’re currently paying the price for the sketchy food truck tacos you ate after last night's gig.

Your throat burns, tasting like stomach acid and cheap tequila.

This cannot be the rockstar life everybody is so desperate for.

You groan, pulling yourself up onto your knees to lean over the toilet bowl again. Your body shakes, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck and back. Every muscle in your core is tightly knotted, exhausted from the last two hours of purging.

You reach up and flush, the loud roar of the water echoing painfully in the quiet apartment. Jesse’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met - there’s no way he’s waking up from a couple of retches.

You wake up on Friday morning convinced you're finally over the worst of it. The constant, violent nausea has faded into a dull, low-grade ache, and you manage to keep down half a bagel and some black coffee. Robby informs you that sometimes food poisoning takes it’s sweet time clearing up.

By Sunday, you can't lie to yourself anymore.

You’re still exhausted. The smell of the deli on the corner makes your stomach violently drop, and you spent twenty minutes this morning dizzy on the bathroom floor just from standing up too fast. It’s not a stomach bug.

You decide eventually that you can manage a trip to the grocery store for some crackers and ginger ale, in the hopes of filling your stomach a little.

Standing in the chip aisle, you glance over at the bakery counter. A woman is standing there, waiting for a loaf of bread. She’s wearing a soft knit sweater, and one of her hands rests naturally over a very obvious, rounded baby bump.

Your heart stops.

You can’t be.

You’re on the pill, and Jack used a condom. Statistically, there’s got to be no chance of that happening.

Panic floods your chest, hot and sharp.

You drop the crackers and sprint two aisles over to the pharmacy section. Your eyes scan the shelves frantically until you spot the boxes. You grab a digital two-pack, not even looking at the price, and tuck it flat against your stomach beneath your denim jacket.

You keep your head down, eyes darting left and right. The campus grocery store is a minefield; the last thing you need is a classmate, or Seth, or even Jack himself seeing you.

Running the three blocks back, the plastic bag crinkles loudly against your thigh. Your hands shake so badly that you drop your keys on the concrete before finally forcing the lock.

Jesse is on the couch, a laptop open on his knees and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He blinks up at you, surprised. "Hey, did you get the-"

"Bathroom," you choke out, barging straight past the couch. You don’t look at him, keeping the plastic bag bunched tight against your side.

"Whoa, okay. All yours," he mutters, turning back to his screen.

You throw yourself into the bathroom, slam the door, and click the lock. In the sudden quiet, your breathing sounds deafening. You rip the box open, tearing the cardboard with your fingernails until the two plastic sticks tumble onto the counter.

You’re on the pill. Jack used a condom.

You repeat it in your head like a mantra, trying to block out the terror pressing down on your chest. You read the instructions on the crumpled paper, the tiny text blurring. Wash hands. Remove cap. Hold the tip in the stream for five seconds.

You go through the motions on pure autopilot, your fingers icy cold.

When it's done, you lay the stick flat on the edge of the sink, turning the digital screen face-down against the white porcelain. You step back, gripping the edges of the counter until your knuckles turn white. On the side of the plastic casing, the tiny hourglass icon starts blinking, counting down the three longest minutes of your life.

You can’t be pregnant. You still have two more years of college, and then law school. How the hell would you do that with a baby?

Especially when the father is someone you don’t even know?

When you finally build the courage to turn the test over, you think you might cry.

“Shit,” You curse. “Shit, shit, shit!”

No amount of staring makes the line disappear, and you can feel tears start to prick at your periphery when a knock sounds at the door. “Everything okay? You’ve been gone forever.”

You swallow heavily. “Fine, Jess.” Looking back at the very positive test, and the words that flash on the screen.

Six Weeks Pregnant.

You make a show of dropping your purse on the kitchen counter, making your way to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water instead. Phoebe still doesn’t move, not even an inch. It’s from across the lounge that Jack has to stifle a laugh by pursing his lips, angling his head so he’s not staring at the back of Phoebe’s outfit. 

He doesn’t interfere, finds it quite amusing to watch the way Phoebe stubbornly tries to take control of your parenting. It’s like she’s waiting you out, like she knows it’s a matter of time before you cave and just let her go out in what she’s chosen. 

In any other instance, maybe you would. Pick your battles and all that. But not when it's roasting hot outside and she won’t be able to breathe. Phoebe isn’t the only stubborn one in this apartment. She got it from someone, and that someone is you. 

Jack watches in amusement as you sit at the kitchen island and take a sip from your water bottle, the silence so loud he’s worried that if he even breathes out a laugh, this frustration and stubbornness on both of your sides will then be directed at him. 

But five minutes pass. Then ten. And neither you nor Phoebe have moved. 

“Jack, if you’d like to go and get ice cream without us, go ahead.” You speak in a feigned, professional tone. The sound of it quirks Jack’s brow, but it still doesn’t make Phoebe move.

He cranes a neck to look around her, to meet your gaze. You nod your head to Phoebe, eyes wide and brows raised, a silent command for him to try instead. It causes a ruckus of movement in his stomach at the suggestion, at the approval from you to do so. 

But Jack doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of experience with disciplining stubborn kids, so he swallows thickly when he approaches the table to stand in front of Pheebs instead of behind her. 

“Diva,” he regards her softly, though there's a kink in his tone that she’s never heard from him before. One that holds something like authority.

Her head twitches, but ultimately, she ignores him like she’s ignored you. 

With a sigh, Jack leans down with his legs spread, his eyes level with hers, palms resting on his lower thighs. “Spider-Girl…”

Phoebe, the little shit, turns her head to look at him fully at that. Jack can just about make out the blinking of her eyes beneath the mesh mask as she shifts in her Spider-Man costume. 

“I know you wanna save the city, kid. But, it's too hot today for you to wear this outside.” 

You watch the interaction with squinted eyes and a racing heart. Jack is soft when he speaks with her, gentle yet firm enough that she knows not to argue with him the way she will with you. 

“Peter Parker doesn’t wear his Spidey stuff every day and he still manages to save people without it, right?” 

Her head dips until her chin is pressed to her chest. “I guess so.” Her words are muffled through the fabric of the mask. 

Jack hums, like he understands her upset and inner turmoil. “So, why don’t we change into something else? Maybe a pretty dress like Mommy? Or some shorts like me? Plus, you don’t wanna spill ice cream down your Spidey outfit.” 

It’s with a heavy sigh that Phoebe pinches the mask at the top of her head and pulls it off. Her cheeks are flushed red, hair an unruly mess despite you fixing it just an hour ago. Jack grins at her, stands back at his full height and tenderly smoothes down her wanton strands like he’s slicking them. 

You watch the exchange, heart lodged in your throat at how easy it is between them—how natural he is with her, how quickly they understand each other. Phoebe jumps down from the coffee table and trudges back into her bedroom to change and you watch Jack watch her go. 

Quietly, you stand and approach him and Jack meets your gaze with hesitancy. 

“Was that okay?” He asks lowly. 

Your bottom lip is sucked into your mouth as you nod your head, wrapping your arms around his broad waist when you reach him. “Uhuh,” you hum, pressing your lips to his slowly. 

Jack kisses you gently, slowly, lets his tongue swipe against yours only once before he pulls away with a crooked grin. 

“Yeah?” His tone is suggestive, amused, and you both love and hate how easily he can read you. 

That he knows you liked watching him step just slightly into the threshold of parenthood, that it rattled you a little to watch him be so respectful and kind but authoritative at the same time. That you liked how natural it was for him, how easily Phoebe listened. 

You roll your eyes at him but the act is nothing but fond and affectionate. 

You’ve felt much braver, secure, since your talk at the beginning of the week. Since Jack told you he was happy that Phoebe had been calling him your boyfriend. Since you became his girlfriend.

He’s been touchier since. Given, you’ve only been able to see him yesterday and now, but there’s a noticeable change between you both; in your actions and in the air. The hesitancy when reaching for one another is gone, no more reservations or timid uncertainty. 

And you love it. 

You love even more when Phoebe runs down the hall in a summer dress and twirls around, when Jack offers her a dramatic applause and then bows at the waist like a Jester would to his Queen. 

“You are an absolute fashionista, Pheebs.” He compliments, your daughter's grin stretching wider across her face. 

The sight of her unbridled joy does something sinister to Jack’s chest. He knows the sensation of self-sabbotage far too well, knows he’s beginning to get stuck in his head with guilt and shame for playing happy families.

He feels a sense of betrayal to his wife. Even though he knows she would want him to move on and find happiness again, even though he visited her just yesterday morning after shift and sat with her for hours. 

Talking, reminiscing, apologizing for beginning to fall for someone who wasn’t her. Explaining that he isn’t sorry for meeting someone new, he isn’t sorry for how deeply he feels for both you and Phoebe, but that he’s wholly and irrevocably distraught because he knows he’s truly moving forward from her. 

He sat and cried when he admitted to her gravestone that he no longer wears his ring on his finger, but that he keeps it on a chain close to his heart instead. And when a gentle breeze caressed his face right after, he let himself believe that Mary was there with him; soothing him, silently accepting his words and praising him for finding happiness. 

Despite how much lighter he’s been feeling today… there’s still that stab of guilt that lodges in his throat. Only briefly, not long enough for you to notice a change, but it’s there. Jack knows it’s there. 

He blinks it back when you smother suncream across every inch of Phoebe’s exposed skin, cracks a smile when she grimaces and whines when you smear it across her entire face and accidentally forces her to taste some of it. 

And when you’re out on the streets, with Pheebs walking between you; a hand in yours and a hand in Jack’s, he feels that gentle breeze caressing his face again. Tender and warm, most likely just the sun, but his shoulders ease at the feeling of it. 

At the thought of Mary supporting him. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

After ice cream and a quick trip to the park, you all make your way back to the apartment —Phoebe on Jack’s back and you following close behind, sneakily snapping photos of them together. 

It’s sly when Jack winks at you when you’re in the elevator and Pheebs is too busy blowing kisses to herself in the mirror that encases the back wall. You stifle a laugh at the sight, stepping into Jack’s side and he instinctively wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you close. 

“Hey, Diva?” Jack calls her softly. 

She perks up at the name, turns to him with raised brows and an expectant expression. Jack rolls his lips between his teeth in amusement before speaking. “You wanna meet someone?” 

You frown to yourself as you look at him, unsure who he’s referring to and why he wouldn’t run something like this by you first. But he squeezes your shoulder in a silent form of reassurance as the doors open on your floor. 

“Are they nice?” She questions with a frown and Jack barks out a laugh.

Instead of turning left to your apartment, Jack turns you both right with Phoebe skipping ahead, like she already knows 

“Yeah, she’s friendly.”

You blink as a smile curls its way into the corners of your mouth, piecing together just who exactly Jack is talking about. Phoebe stops outside Jack’s door, the fact that she’s remembered which one is his after only stopping by once to drop off cakes is a little insane. 

Jack opens the door slowly and Pheebs wanders inside like she owns the place. Jack ushers you in after her with a palm ghosting your lower back and you take in the difference of his apartment compared to yours. 

You’ve not been inside properly before—most dates start with him coming over if Phoebe is in bed or him picking you up and dropping you back after. 

Jack’s place is a mirror layout to yours with a small entrance hall that breaks directly into the lounge and open kitchen space. But unlike your mismatched fabrics and colors, Jack’s is much more cohesive in an organised way. 

Rustic dark wood coffee table and matching TV console, twin brown leather couches and black lamps in the corners of the room. A solid, dark oak bookcase and leather arm chair in the place where you cram a small dining table. 

His refrigerator isn’t littered with magnets like yours, but it does have a few that pin up several of Phoebe’s drawings that she’s made over the past few months. It’s a bit overwhelming to be in his home, with Phoebe. To be fully surrounded by his scent. 

It’s a reminder of the very different lives you live. Jack has no mess, everything has a place. There are no buckets of toys tucked away, no wanton blocks of Lego stuffed beneath the couch. Perhaps it's cruel to think, but his apartment does not feel like a home. 

You wonder briefly if he feels the same way. If that’s why he’s never really brought you into his space before.

“You have a kitty!” Phoebe’s shrill excitement breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and you’re quick to shush and scold her.

“Baby, inside voices. You don’t want to scare Sally.” 

“Sally!?” She coos, dropping on her knees and slowly crawling toward the fat cat that stares at the new guests. 

Jack watches in amusement, wraps his arms around you from behind and nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck. You melt into him, arms wrapping around his as you watch Phoebe introduce herself to Sally and giggle uncontrollably when she nuzzles into the kids' touch. 

“We should’ve done this sooner. They’re little besties.” You giggle.

Jack hums, lets himself bask in the feel of you in his arms—uses it to reassure himself that this is okay. To have you and Phoebe in his space, to share what little he has considering you’ve shared so much already. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve only been here for a few minutes. The apartment already feels less quiet as Phoebe’s infectious laughter worms its way into the crevices of every room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack can’t take his eyes off you. 

And not like in the way he’s used to struggling, where every five minutes he has to look at you and just admire for a moment. No. Right now, he physically cannot take his eyes off you as you saunter down the hall from your bedroom and toward where he lounges on the couch.

Chocolate brown midi dress with a subtle draping through the waist, sheer dark brown tights that disappear into a pair of simple heels. You’ve painted your face in a way he’s only ever known you to; subtle enough for it to not be dramatic, yet precise enough to see the effort. 

There’s a familiar heat that’s curling in his lower tummy; a tightness that’s beginning to strangle and suffocate his muscles. Your delicate heels click elegantly across your hardwood floors, arms bent as you reach up to slip an earring in. 

Your eyes are focussed on your feet as you move, brows pinched just slightly in concentration as you attempt to clip the jewellery in place. 

Jack leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and he takes your moment of distraction to drink you in greedily

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You look incredible.”

Your eyes snap up to his at the sound of Jack’s raw voice. You don’t miss the hunger in his tone, the darkness that pools in his eyes. He’d let himself in five minutes ago like you’d told him to, had gotten himself comfortable on your couch while he waited.

And he looked nothing short of delicious. A simple white button up shirt beneath a black blazer, his thighs almost bursting at the seams in his tailored trousers. It’s a conscious effort not to bite down on your freshly glossed lip. 

The compliment sends a jolt of excitement through you. 

Clearly the two fancy dates he’s taken you on isn’t enough for him to get used to you being dressed up this way. You think it’s fair, though. You haven’t got used to him dressing like this either. 

“And you look delicious.” You drawl playfully, but it’s flirtatious enough for him to know that you mean it. 

He grins, crookedly, and rises from the couch to move closer to you. His eyes hover over your waist before replacing the tender gaze with a delicate touch. Your heels keep you face to face, your hands reaching to rest on his shoulders.

“Do we have to go to this?” You pout at him; the sight causes his grin to grow in adoration and he squeezes your hips reassuringly. 

“It’s for the best. It’s for Pheebs, not us or them.” He offers in a gentle tone, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his and your breath catches in your throat. 

It’s not lost on either of you the path tonight will likely take. How the double date will no doubt end with you at his place or him at yours. That it will end in an intimacy you’re yet to explore with one another. 

And despite the underlying assumption of it, there’s no pressure of expectation. Neither of you feel like it’s owed to each other because it’s been three months of nothing but kissing and dry humping. But tonight—perhaps it’s something in the air, or the fact that this double date makes things even more real between you—it feels like the right time. 

You’re fretting on the walk down to Jack’s car, picking at your freshly polished nails as he pulls out of his allocated parking spot and follows the route to Preston’s. 

You feel sick with nerves and annoyance. Angry at the fact that this is happening under Tom’s terms, anxious at the things he may try to say; Jack’s opinions on you that he might try to change. But more than that, there’s something fierce that’s bubbling beneath your skin. 

Hot, fiery, protective. After the years of being in a relationship with Tom and now trying to co-parent (if it can even be considered that, given how little he shows up for Phoebe), you’ve grown more than accustomed to his spiteful tongue and manipulative tendencies. 

You’re not prepared for Jack to be subjected to it—to bear witness to his passive cruelty. 

And Jack, being ever observant, takes note of your unusual quietness, your fidgety demeanor. It makes his heart sink, has him assuming the worst that this double date has sobered your rose-tinted view of him and the relationship. That you’re making a grave mistake with him. 

Still, he reaches a hand across the console to intertwine his fingers with yours, breaking your anxious habit. 

“Talk to me.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gripping Jack’s hand much harder than you ever have before. But the feel of his skin on yours brings at least a little bit of comfort. He’d be disgusted to know you’re considering that Tom will have any sway on Jack’s view of you. 

You loose a breath, let your head roll back against the headrest, turning slightly to admire the side of his face as he keeps his focus on the road again. You let your fingers on your spare hand trace patterns across his knuckles.

“Just anxious. I don’t like being around him. I don’t like knowing you’re going to be around him.” You explain quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as you take a moment to try to compose your breathing.

You feel Jack squeeze your hand tenderly. “Honey, however tonight plays out…it won’t change a thing between us. His behavior is not going to change how I feel about you.” 

You nod at his words, forcing yourself to sit up straighter and heave a heavy breath again. 

“I know. I just—he can be an ass. And he’s self-absorbed, and he… he twists things so well…”

“Baby,” Jack cuts you off with a soft chuckle, chucks an admiring gaze at you before looking back at the road ahead. “From what little you’ve told me about him, he seems like some douchey finance bro that probably thinks he’s too big for this world because he had one successful trade in Crypto. Someone like that is not going to scare me away.”

A laugh tumbles from you before you can even stop it. “Douchy finance bro? I haven’t even told you what he does for work.” 

Jack shrugs, a smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t care what he does for work. Just the vibe I get.”

It’s enough to quell that crippling anxiety, enough to force it to pry its claws out of your skin. You release another breath, let your gaze fall to the window as the streets blur into soft strokes of color as you pass. 

“Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?” His voice causes heat to curl up your neck and all you can do is laugh breathlessly.

“Yes.” You turn to look at him but his eyes are back on the road again.

Jack nods. “Good. Because you do. Ridiculously so.”

Your lips curl to hide your bashful grin, but Jack can feel your skin warming, thinks he can actually hear your heartrate picking up in the silence of the car. 

But the moment Jack pulls up, your momentary relaxation is short-lived. You’re gnawing on your glossy bottom lip, effectively smearing it away as you look at the passenger window and directly at the entrance of Preston’s.

“What do you say about a quick tequila shot when we get in there?”

Your eyes close as you huff out a laugh, actually quite thankful for how easy he is to calm you down. And you’re also not at all opposed to a bit of hard liquor to take the edge off. 

You turn to him with a nervous smile, still worrying your bottom lip and Jack reaches a hand to caress your jaw, to pull your lip from between your teeth. 

“If it gets too much, or you just want to leave, say Poughkeepsie.”

You raise a brow at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement. 

“Poughkeepsie?” You deadpan. “As in a safe word?”

Jack pulls a face of consideration. “Maybe more of a distress signal.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—one that’s unrestrained and entirely unapologetic. Jack thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, thinks you look nothing short of angelic when your nose crinkles and your shoulders shake. 

You don’t tell him that you don’t need a distress signal. That you have absolutely zero problem with telling Tom exactly what you think of him and leaving without looking back. But the light that shines in Jack’s eyes when you laugh at his suggestion, when you lean in to kiss him with everything that you feel for him, you can’t bring yourself to tell him so. 

“Okay,” you agree with a giggle against his lips. “Poughkeepsie, it is.” 

He kisses you again, but it’s all teeth; both of you grinning too wide to really press your lips in the ways you want to.

Jack doesn’t let you open your door yourself. He rounds the car to open it for you, to press a hand on your lower back as he guides you into Preston’s. 

You hate that Tom suggested the double date to be here. It’s one of your favorite restaurants and bars in the city. Classy enough to require an effort, common enough for there not to be a three month wait list for a table. 

It’s very moody, the interior. Industrial loft style with expensive furniture and dim, golden lighting. Nothing harsh, nothing performative. It’s a place to eat and drink and enjoy yourself and your company. It’s just a shame your company tonight is about as interesting as a spam email. 

True to his word about some liquid courage, Jack keeps his hand on your lower back as you move past the hostess stand and straight for the bar. But it’s only three steps in that you clock a familiar face amongst the tables and stop dead in your tracks with a huff.

“So much for that tequila shot.” You mutter and Jack frowns slightly, trying to follow your line of sight. 

He sees it then. Them. A brunet and a blonde sat at a table, eyes sharp and looking between you and Jack. It takes him a moment to register that this brown-haired pretty boy is Tom. That the doe-eyed blonde sitting beside him is Kirsty. 

He feels your spine stiffen beneath his touch and he snakes his arms around your waist, to keep you close, to keep you grounded. 

You sigh, swallowing. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Your nerves are rolling off you violently, despite Jack’s comforting touch. He can feel how tense you are, like you’re already in fight or flight by just seeing Phoebe’s dad. It makes Jack’s skin crawl, makes him angry and frustrated and helpless.

It’s only now, that Jack is moving closer to the table and getting a clearer look at your ex, that Jack realizes just how much Phoebe looks like you. Your hair, your eyes, your smile. Diva holds little to no physical resemblance to Tom, and it makes a sick part of Jack happy. 

You stop at the table as Tom watches with the eyes of a shark. He doesn’t move, not even when Kirsty stands with a nervous smile and soothes out the non-existent creases in her dress. 

You glance at her, force your features to soften, to appear friendly. Jack doesn’t exactly offer the same courtesy. He stays neutral. No smile, no frown. 

“Hi, I’m Kirsty. It’s so nice to meet you!” 

Her voice is soft, kind, gentle. It makes you pause, a little stunned. She’s beautiful. Glass-like skin with a slim and slender build. She extends a hand across the table to you and you don’t have enough animosity to reject it. 

As quickly as you shake her hand, she offers it to Jack. “And you must be Jack! Nice to meet you.” 

Unfortunately, Jack does crack a soft smile at that. Does let his hand shake hers politely. You were both expecting Kirsty to be a complete and utter bitch. And yet… she’s kind, soft, just as nervous as you are. 

The little bubble of mutual caution is popped, though, when you look down at Tom who remains in his seat. Expressionless, yet relaxed. Lounging back in his chair with an arm thrown over the back of Kirsty’s empty one. 

“Tom.” You greet him bluntly.

“Y/N.” He returns it, just as dry.

He stares at you, though. Something like disbelief and disgust battling for first place in his expression. You don’t need to ask to know why. 

Because while you’re not sure what exactly Phoebe has told him about Jack, you know for a fact she hadn’t mentioned his age. If Tom’s shock is anything to go by. 

Jack watches Tom as Tom watches you. It sets his blood on fire in something both protective and disgusted. And when Tom’s eyes leave you to look at him with someone less than pleased in his expression, it takes every ounce of Jack’s patience to not hurl you over his shoulder and walk out the door. 

“Tom Scavo.” His voice drips off his tongue like silk when he introduces himself to Jack. 

It’s a voice that feigns confidence and security. It’s hard not to laugh in his face at how unironically wrong it is. 

“Jack Abbot.” He replies, and his voice is much deeper, raw and husky and something that promises comfort and stability. 

Not that it matters, Jack isn’t about to get into a pissing contest with your ex—with Phoebe’s dad—who holds all the arrogance and entitlement in the world on his face. 

You’re staring down at the table, trying to regulate yourself and not spiral on how fucking awkward and uncomfortable this entire situation is. Kirsty isn’t faring much better, but she’s not as good at hiding it. Wide eyes flickering between Jack and Tom like ones about to shoot and the other is about to pounce. 

It’s Jack who moves first, unwinding his arm around your waist to pull your chair out for you, sitting close beside you and resting a heavy palm on your upper thigh beneath the table. 

You could really do with that tequila shot right about now. 

Jack can sense as much when you subtly turn to side-eye one another; one of his brows slightly raised in amusement while your lips struggle not to curl in response. 

The private glance helps, though. Reminds you that you’re not in this alone. And you know that despite how shitty this evening might grow, one look at him and you can find the light in the darkness. 

You’re saved by the waiter, who introduces himself as Martin. He takes note of Tom’s red wine and Kirsty’s fruity cocktail and asks what he can get for you and Jack. 

“I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.” 

“Make that two. Thank you.” Jack smiles briefly at Martin as he saunters away toward the bar. 

Jack doubling your order has you looking at him, amused. “What about the car?” It’s a quiet tease, one only meant for his ears. 

He grins down at you, fights back the urge to kiss your full lips. Because Jack only plans on having one glass of wine, and he knows you know he’s not a lightweight to get even tipsy off one drink. 

“Well, I was only intending to have one, but if you’re planning on taking advantage of me later, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”

It’s entirely instinctive when your hand comes up to swat his chest at the playful but suggestive remark. It’s also entirely involuntary when your cheeks burn and flush with heat at the thought. 

You have to hide your face behind the menu for a moment, feigning consideration of your meal. The act causes you to miss the disgusted glare Tom throws at you and the soft longing in Kirsty’s eyes as she watches yours and Jack’s private exchange. 

“Jack, I hear you’re a doctor?” Kirsty asks softly, and a pang of guilt sears through you at the fact that she is the one to have to try and make conversation. 

Jack nods, keeps his tone and expression polite and kind toward her. “Yeah, I’m an attending physician over at PTMC.” 

Her eyes dazzle slightly in wonder as you lower the menu to force yourself to engage in the conversation. She’s about to open her mouth to say something else when Tom beats her to it. 

“That’s a senior position, I’m assuming.”

You narrow your eyes at his smug tone but keep your mouth closed when Jack offers a reassuring squeeze to your thigh. 

“What about you, Y/N?” Kirsty asks the question so quickly it’s like she can sense the route Tom is trying to go down and she’s desperate for that not to happen. 

Your stomach curls in bitterness toward yourself, for thinking so negative of her before even meeting her. 

“Oh, I work in pub—“

“She’s an aspiring author.” Tom cuts you off with a dig and a really fucking low blow. 

Because he’s always known you’ve kept your job under wraps. That you use a pseudonym for a reason, because you don’t want to be known publicly. 

Martin arrives and places two chilled glasses of white wine before you and Jack, about to ask if you’re ready to order food before sensing the tension off the table and thinking better of it, walking away. 

Jack reels back slightly. 

“You’re an author?” Kirsty asks with wide eyed excitement. 

“Aspiring.” Tom mutters under his breath but it’s loud enough for the table to hear—clear enough for Jack’s jaw to twitch. 

You blubber for a moment, torn between glaring at Tom and smiling kindly at his girlfriend that he is undeserving of. 

“Uh, yeah— I go under a pseudonym, though. I don't really like the idea of my name being out there like that.” You laugh, nervous and completely out of your element. 

Jack knows that’s not the only reason. That your primary concern has and always will be Phoebe, and the asshole kids as she grows up. That you don’t want to subject her teenage years to bullying because her mom writes erotic romances. 

He looks at Tom, keeps his expression friendly when he corrects him. “A New York Times Bestseller says a lot more than aspiring, don’t you think?” 

You dip your head to hide the flush on your cheeks and the curve of your mouth at Jack’s boyish defence of you. You already knew tonight would be a struggle of both of your patience, but you should’ve known that Jack will defend you. 

Even if he has to do it passive aggressively. 

He refuses to sit back and allow anybody to disrespect you. 

“Wow, that’s incredible.” Kirsty gushes, beaming wide and you meet her gaze with something guilty. 

You can’t help but wonder how the fuck she’s ended up with someone as awful as Tom. He hasn’t got much else but his face going for him. You know the sex is boring and his personality is drier than a desert. 

“What about you?” You ask Kirsty. 

Her smile shifts into a look of shy apprehension and she tucks locks of blonde hair behind a pierced ear. “Oh, I’m twenty, so I’m still in college. Lots of time to figure it out, though, right?” She laughs nervously. 

You blink at the information, feel Jack still slightly beside you. Christ. Kirsty looks young but…twenty? Tom’s freshly thirty-three.

“Yeah, loads of time!”

A smile forces its way on your lips as you drag your gaze to briefly meet Tom’s. But he’s already looking at you with barely contained disdain. Like he’s daring you to say something when your age gap with Jack is three years bigger than theirs. 

Both you and Jack reach for your drinks at the same time, suffocating your unfair judgement with wine. But is it entirely unfair when you’re a fully grown woman and Kirsty is barely legal?

“And obviously, you already know Tom works in Crypto exchange.” 

Jack chokes on his wine with a fit of splitting coughs when the words fall from Kirsty’s mouth. He places his glass down a bit too unceremoniously, dabbing his mouth and chin with a napkin as he struggles to breath through the coughing. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes and it takes everything in you to hold back your laughter. 

Jack reaches for his water instead to try and soothe the burn the alcohol has left in his throat. His hand remains in your thigh throughout the exchange and squeezes with a playful warning. 

Maybe you should’ve warned him in the car that his perception of Tom was a little too accurate. Even down to his job. 

But every movement the two of you make is observed and noted by Tom. He doesn’t say anything at first about it, remains polite when Martin returns to take your food order, to refill your drinks. 

It’s mostly Jack and Kirsty keeping the conversation afloat throughout dinner, weaving around Tom’s animosity. 

In all honesty, you’ve enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and watching. Maybe it’s the wine that’s relaxed you, or maybe it’s the fact that Jack goes out of his way to politely disagree with everything that Tom says. 

“Crypto is the way for the future of money.” 

“Nah, can’t go wrong with cash.”

“Don’t you think cash is a little outdated? Old fashioned?”

“I think it’s good to be prepared for an emergency.”

“Cash is pointless. A bit like romance novels.”

“You’re not a romantic, Tom?”

“I just think they’re unrealistic. All a bit of make believe, really.”

“Ah, I have to argue otherwise. Maybe I can lend you my copy of Y/N’s book. You might learn a thing or two.”

“Oh, I would actually love that, if the offer extends to me?” Kirsty asks around a mouthful of food, palm covering her lips as she speaks—like she’s too excited by the idea to wait to finish her food. 

You laugh under your breath and find yourself nodding, completely unaffected by Tom’s attempt at belittling you and your career. It’s a bit hard for him to hit how he wants when the other two people at the table disagree with him. 

“Sure. Just—beware, they're a bit…spicy.” 

Her eyes light up at the warning as she swallows her food, lowering her hand to offer a conspiratorial smile. 

“I say the spicier the better.” 

Tom grimaces at the interaction, something that sends a jolt of smugness through Jack. Good. Let him fester in his girlfriend praising you, in her clear excitement toward your career that Tom does everything he can to belittle. 

Let that jealousy explode in his eyes at the thought of you and Jack together like that. He doesn’t plan on correcting him that nothing has happened yet. 

“Where’s Phoebe tonight?” Kirsty asks as she takes a sip of her third cocktail. 

“She’s with my parents for the night. Her favorite kind of sleepover.” 

She beams at that. “She’s such a great kid. I don’t think she likes me very much, though. I didn’t mean to upset her last weekend…I only asked if she wanted to listen to music and make some breakfast together.” Kirsty admits sheepishly, upset evident in her tone. 

Your heart cracks at that. Because Kirsty was only being kind and friendly to Phoebe. Offering to do something that you and Pheebs do every Sunday. And Phoebe… had she thought that her dads new girlfriend was trying to replace you? 

Jack seems to come to the same conclusion, you can practically smell the pity rolling off him. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize for anything. It takes her time to open up to people sometimes.” You offer. 

“She seemed to take to Jack pretty quickly.” Tom comments in a bitter tone and you hate the way that Kirsty seems to shrink into herself at that. 

The same way that you used to. 

“There were no labels or expectations when she met Jack.” You’re quick to defend, the hand in your lap reaching beneath that table to rest on Jack’s thigh. 

You don’t tell him that the first time Phoebe met Jack was accidental, that it was also your first time meeting him, too. You don’t have to explain yourself. You refuse to. 

“He’s all she seems to talk about. Jack’s a doctor. Jack’s fun. Jack makes Mommy laugh. Jack’s a silver fox.” Tom continues and you still at that, eyes hardening as Tom glares at you, his anger and disbelief leaking out of his pores. 

“Really? That’s the type of shit you’re saying in front of our daughter?” His tone takes a spiteful turn. One that, despite your years apart, you still feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up at. 

Jack’s struggling to keep his cool, to not step in. Because he can handle Tom’s futile attempts of making Jack insecure, of focusing on his age and comments that come with it. But Jack cannot handle the blatant disrespect and nasty tone Tom’s directing at you. 

“No. She overheard me on the phone.” You explain through gritted teeth.

Tom cocks a brow. “And that makes it better? She’s fucking four and you’re teaching her this shit?” 

You frown. He’s good at this, manipulating things into something that they’re not. Like you’re going out of your way to educate your child on something inappropriate. 

“I’m not teaching her that, Tom. She overheard a conversation.” You’re speaking through gritted teeth, your anger beginning to boil over. 

He scoffs, opening his mouth to say something else but you stand abruptly before he can. “I’m going to the restroom.”

Something aches in you when Kirsty stands, too, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ll come, too many cocktails.” She tries to diffuse your well-placed anger with a light joke but she knows it’s not really any use. 

You turn to look at Jack, swallowing down the lump in your throat when you notice the conflict of anger and devastation in his eyes. You bend at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek, a silent apology of leaving him alone with Tom, before you and Kirsty make for the ladies room. 

Jack doesn’t watch you go, but Tom does. Metaphorical daggers stabbing into your back with every step and Jack’s knee begins to bounce beneath the table. 

“You talk to her like that in front of Phoebe?” Jack asks, his mouth set in a firm line of barely restrained anger. 

“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m Phoebe’s dad. Not you.” Tom’s tone isn’t angry or rash. But it is accusing. 

Yes, maybe he has the right to make such a statement. Yes, he may be Phoebe’s father but he does not exactly qualify for the title of Dad. 

In another circumstance, maybe Jack would find the statement amusing. But not in this one. In this one, it makes Jack angry. All Tom is doing is portraying his bitterness of you finding someone else as a proud father setting boundaries. 

It’s anything but. 

A dry, humorless chuckle escapes Jack.

“Oh, I understand perfectly that I have no right or opinion when it comes to Phoebe. But as for her mother, I have every right to tell you to watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking with her.”

The sheer venom in his words sets Tom slightly on edge. Because Jack’s threat lingers in his calm demeanor. His relaxed position in his seat, his warm and raw tone that turns grave at the end of his sentence. 

The soft clicking of your heels on the marble floor drifts closer until your presence is warm against the back of Jack’s chair. You sense the tension immediately, the hard set in Tom’s jaw as he stares at Jack. 

“What did we miss?” You ask carefully, dragging your eyes to assess Jack for any hint of emotion. 

He cranes his neck to look up at you. “Nothing, baby. Was just telling Tom about my trip to Poughkeepsie last year.”

You stare down at him, heart thumping at the ridiculous distress signal Jack came up with in the car. In all honesty, you assumed he was only teasing when he suggested it, or that if it needed to be used, it would be by you. 

But he sits there, looking up at you with a smile that does not reach his darkening eyes and you realize that he’s serious. He’s ready to leave before he does something to make matters so much fucking worse.

His hand reaches for yours that rests on the back of his chair, a touch so tender and reassuring. Because he doesn’t want you to worry, doesn’t want you to think that this abysmal night changes anything between you. 

You’re both too caught up in one another to notice the yearning look that Kirsty watches with. The realization that occurs to her when she sees what love and care and adoration is supposed to look like. 

You turn to her with an apologetic smile, not deigning to give Tom a glance. “We’re gonna head out. Pheebs is back early tomorrow.”

She nods, eyes crinkling when she moves across the table to wrap you in a friendly embrace. And you let her, allow yourself to relax against her because Kirsty is nothing but good. Her reassurance and apology on Tom’s behavior in the bathroom was unnecessary but appreciated all the same. 

It’s not her fault he’s a fucking cunt. 

“It was so lovely to meet you.” You both offer the sentiment at the same time, a laugh tumbling right after and she pulls away to respectfully shake Jack’s hand when he stands. 

Much like when you arrived, Tom remains seated. He doesn’t even feign niceties of a goodbye and instead relaxes into his seat with the smugness of a Persian Prince. 

Like he’s won this round. 

And Jack, ever the gentleman and bigger person, extends a hand across the table to Tom. 

Tom regards it as a test, of sorts. One that he surveys with scrutiny, like he’s just been dealt the losing hand. Whether he accepts or not, Jack wins. 

Only it’s not offered as a test. It’s out of Jack’s respect for you and his love for Phoebe that he puts his anger and hatred aside to offer his hand. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when Tom ultimately focuses his attention on his empty plate instead. 

But there’s that sinking feeling of anger and upset when he does. 

When he leaves your Jack standing with his hand still extended.

It’s not a bruise to Jack’s pride or ego, though. He has to hide his amusement at Tom’s childishness and retrieves his hand to dig into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his wallet, plucks a hundred and a fifty and sets the bills softly onto the table. 

“That should cover ours and a tip.”

Tom doesn’t look up, just burns holes into the cash he’s left when Jack turns to you and helps ease your purse over your shoulder. You offer a tight-lipped smile to Kirsty as you curl your palm around Jack’s elbow before you’re both weaving through tables for the exit. 

The moment the cool evening air hits you and your feet meet the sidewalk, neither of you stop. Jack unlocks the car with the press of a button on his keys, and opens and closes your door for you. You’re still holding your breath when Jack gets in the drivers side, still trying to process the night you’ve just had. 

He doesn’t start the engine straight away, just stairs ahead at the people that pass, the cars that drift. It’s eating at him, what he’s done. How he lost his cool just enough for him to have cross words with Tom. If he had it his way, Jack would’ve done a lot more than a verbal scolding. But the guilt of that alone is eating at him. 

“I threatened Tom.” He finds himself blurting quietly. 

Your head whirls around to look at him, eyes wide and heart stammering at the weight of what he’s just said. Of what he’s done. 

“You did what!?”

“Not—not physically, not properly. I—” He’s stammering, anxious that he’s overstepped and despite his reasoning for it, he knows it’s not good enough. 

Your eyes somehow grow wider at his attempted retraction. “You either threatened Phoebe’s dad or you didn’t. Which one is it, Jack?”

He turns to you with a frown, with agony in his eyes. “I didn’t threaten Phoebe’s dad. I threatened your ex.” He’s trying to paint it clearer for you, to understand the difference between the figures. 

And you do. Your shock and frustration shifts, your lips part and your eyes begin to hood. Because you’re picking up what he’s putting down; reading between the lines that Jack had clearly had enough of Tom’s belittling. 

“I spoke to him as a man who will not tolerate anybody disrespecting his girlfriend. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I not have every right to do that? As your partner?” 

You blink at him, brows softly pinching together as your shoulders drop and you realize exactly where he’s coming from. That he bit his tongue when it came to all the times Tom has and continues to let Phoebe down. Because it’s not his place. Because in the face of Phoebe’s father, he has no right. 

Your eyes close as you release a heavy sigh and you find yourself nodding softly. “Yeah, baby. You do. Of course, you do.”

He watches you carefully when you open your eyes and lean your head against the headrest, when you turn just slightly to look at him with exhaustion and apprehension. 

“I won’t apologize for it.” He tells you, bluntly. 

You huff a laugh through your nose at that, reach a hand lazily across the console to intertwine your fingers. “I’m not asking you to.”

Jack squeezes your hand with a nod, brings your knuckles to his lips where he kisses them tenderly. 

“He’s a fucking asshole.” Jack says, his eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite understand what you ever saw in him. Like he’s distraught that that piece of shit is Phoebe’s father. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Kirsty seems nice, though.” 

“Mmh,” Jack hums. “Poor girl.”

You don’t say anything, just watch him for a moment. Trying to let your body relax now that you’re out of Tom’s presence. Trying to read Jack’s emotions that he struggles to keep off his face. 

He only did have one glass of wine, so you know whatever is running through his head is completely valid and justified. 

“Thank you, for coming and sitting through that. And I’m sorry that you had to.” You say softly, untangling your fingers to caress his stubbled jaw. 

Jack leans into the touch, lets his hand wrap around your wrist to keep you there. Christ, he’s so fucking handsome. 

“Honey, you don’t need to thank me. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault Tom’s an asshole and has the personality of a piece of drywall.”

A giggle tumbles out of you and you stroke your thumb across the soft skin of his cheekbone. 

He intertwines your fingers again as he begins to drive back to the apartment complex. The radio plays in the background and he listens to the sound of your voice as you single along softly. 

He finds peace in it, in the rolling of your tongue as the lyrics almost sigh out of you. Focusing on that helps to take his mind off his simmering anger. The frustration and hatred that’s still brewing toward Tom. 

He doesn’t mention how devastating it was to watch you curl into yourself in Tom’s presence. How infuriating and disgusting it was to hear the way he speaks to you, how uncaringly he belittles you. 

Instead, Jack drives silently, singing along every now and then with you to take his mind off it. To calm himself down and remind himself that that treatment will remain in the past. That you will never, ever experience a lover like that again so long as he is by your side. 

He opens the car door for you, closes it. Intertwines your fingers again as you walk into the complex together. You catch sight of a few of your neighbors. Deborah from downstairs who grins to herself at the sight of you both, Chirpy from apartment twelve that gives you both a less than pleased look, while the newly wed Mr and Mr Hammond wiggle their brows at you as you join them in the elevator. 

The ride to yours and Jack’s floor is silent but not uncomfortable. You let the pair of husbands leave first, both of you left lingering in the hall as the elevator goes back down empty. 

Jack turns left toward your apartment when you stop walking and squeeze his hand. He turns to you with a furrow. 

“Can we go back to yours tonight instead?” 

He blinks, then softens. This afternoon was the first time you really came into his space, any other time he’s always come to you. 

“Yeah, baby. Let’s go.” His heart swells when you both begin to walk to his front door, when he opens it and you immediately crouch down to pet a waiting Sally. 

She purrs beneath your touch as you scratch behind her ears, laughing when you stand to take off your heels and she nuzzles at your ankles. 

Jack shuts the door with a quiet click, keeps his own shoes on and tosses his keys in the bowl at the small entrance table. You place your bag beside the bowl, pad through the apartment to follow him into the kitchen and make yourself comfortable on one of the stools. 

There’s a stiffness in Jack’s posture. It’s evident he’s never really had a woman in his space like this since his wife. It makes you wonder if you’ve pushed too hard. That maybe you should’ve just agreed to go back to yours instead. 

But the gentle clinking of a wine glass being set atop marble before you catches your attention. Jack takes a heavy gulp of his own before shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over a stool. 

He rests a palm on either side of the island, leaning his weight into it and the motion is far more sinful than he intends for it to be. 

You’re left with nothing to do but reach for your wine and guzzle down half of it. Jack cocks a brow in amusement, in silent question and you place it back with a laugh. 

“We are never doing that again.” 

He grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He moves swiftly, despite the slight ache in his leg from being on it all day. You turn in the stool to face him as he cups your cheeks in his palms and leans down to press his lips against yours. 

You both sigh into the kiss, tasting each other and hints of elderflower. He pulls away to rest his forehead against yours, heaving in a breath. 

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you looked tonight? How hard it was to not kiss you the entire time?” 

You beam at him, eyes fluttering closed and relief is finally beginning to settle within you. The date already forgotten about, Tom’s spiteful words and childish behavior shoved to the very back of your mind. 

You lean closer to kiss him again. It’s needy and hungry and sensual, and Jack returns it with even more vigor. 

“Jack,” you whimper against his mouth, hands reaching for his chest, fingers fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt. 

He makes a sound from the back of his throat, lets his hands wander from your face and down your neck, reaching to the back of your dress as his fingers trace the zipper down your spine. 

You pop a button and then another. Grow frustrated with how long it takes and sneak your hands beneath the fabric to feel his warm, hard chest. 

Jack whimpers at the sensation, pinches at the zip and slowly tugs it down the track. 

“Jack,” you breathe again, fingers curling until your nails scratch gently at the skin of his chest. “Jack, take me to bed.” 

You don’t know what comes over him, what you’ve said or done that makes him snake his arms around your waist and lift you. Your legs wrap around his hips, your fingers tangle into his hair and he does not break the kiss as he somehow manages to carry you from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the dim lighting of his bedroom. 

You’re offered no time to look as Jack gently eases you back on your feet, returning his attention to the zipper at your back. He tugs it all the way down when his lips begin to travel from your mouth to your neck; licking and nipping hungrily. 

Your head rolls back as he pulls the shoulders of your outfit down your arms, as the dress pools at your ankles and leaves you in nothing but a bra, panties, and brown tights. 

He pulls away to look at you with blown eyes and swollen lips. He drinks you in like a man starved, hands covering over your hips like he doesn’t know if he wants to touch you there or somewhere else. 

Your skin burns under his attentive gaze, arousal almost gushing between your thighs. Your heart stammers sporadically as your hands find their way back to the buttons of his shirt again, desperately fumbling to pop them open. 

“Look at you.” Jack’s voice is wrecked; the words are so broken it makes you pause. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.” 

Your lungs are on fire, can’t quite seem to catch a deep enough breath at how he’s looking at you. It makes you frustrated and you find yourself gripping either side of his partly open shirt and ripping it open. 

Buttons pop and clatter on hard wood in every direction. Freckled skin meets your line of vision; his torso toned and hard and hot beneath your touch. And when you peek up at Jack, he’s already smirking down at you. 

“Sorry,” you laugh breathlessly. 

He says nothing as he tugs the sleeves down his arms, throws the fabric haphazardly across the room. Jack catches your lips in a kiss again, tongues swirling in something erotic and entirely uncoordinated. 

“Lay down on the bed for me, Angel.” He commands softly against your mouth. 

The new pet name has your head spinning. You don’t argue, far too excited to even consider not giving him everything he wants from you. 

You keep your eyes on him when you move backward until the foot of the bed hits the backs of your knees. You sit down, shuffling backward until your head is resting on his pillows and you’re enveloped in the comforting scent of him. 

Jack moves slowly, admiring the sight of you sprawled out on his bed. His chest heaves with every breath and your eyes track his hands when they reach for the belt wrapped around his waist. 

An involuntary whine slips past you as he unbuckles it. “Take your tights off, baby.”

There’s something so incredibly sexy at how naturally he’s taken control. At how earnestly he speaks to you, at how devotedly he stares down at you. 

You move quickly, hooking your fingers in the thin waistband of your sheer tights and tugging them off as gracefully as you can. You’re left almost bare. In just a little black thong and a matching balcony bra. 

Jack swallows at the sight of you and abandons his belt, wrapping his hands around your ankles and gently tugging you down the bed until your ass is flush with the edge. 

“Now, spread your legs.” 

He eases himself to his knees as smoothly as he can at the same time as you parting your thighs. His hands soothe up the soft skin of your calves, tracing the flesh of your inner thighs. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him with hooded eyes. And Jack thinks he’s about to pass out. 

There’s a prominent wet patch on the dark fabric of your panties, goosebumps pebbling on your skin as he hooks fingers into the underwear and slowly eases them down your legs. 

When he throws them to the ground and you drop your legs open again, Jack groans. 

He’s seen you before. But this is different. This time you’re willing and excited and desperate. This time you’re in his fucking bed, not behind a hospital curtain. 

And above all, this time, Jack allows himself to really look. To admire you. To touch. 

You moan when he parts your lips with his index and middle finger, when you feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your clit. 

“Prettiest fucking cunt.” He praises roughly, salivates when he watches how you pulse because of it. 

“You’re soaked, baby.” 

His lips tease with open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, causing them to quake. His stubble grazes deliciously against the tender skin, but it only fuels the fire. 

You whine again, hips bucking toward his face. Desperate for something, anything. 

Jack relents, eager to taste you. His cock is throbbing against the confinements of his pants and boxers, eager to be buried to the hilt. 

His thumb swipes at the wetness at your puckering entrance, all the way up to your clit. He keeps it there for a moment when you gasp, rubs lazy circles around the little nub until you’re whimpering and begging for more. 

He’s a generous man. Not one to deny a woman of anything. Especially not you. 

It’s without another thought that Jack moves closer to swipe his tongue in the same way he did with his thumb. Laps at your cunt, eyes rolling back at the taste of you and all restraint is lost. 

His hands grip at your waist to keep you still, gripping with enough force to mark but not to bruise. Your back arches at the feel of his mouth on you—skilled and messy, worshiping every inch. 

“Jack, oh, fuck!” 

His guttural moan sends vibrations through your nerves as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. His tongue flicks against it at the same time, burying his face between your thighs. 

His short stubble scratches deliciously at your sensitive skin, a welcome burn grazing at your entrance and inner thighs. It only makes you needier. 

He’s completely drunk on you. So much so that he doesn’t even notice the ache forming below his knee, the discomfort that’s usually enough to cripple him. 

Your back drops onto the bed, head digging into the sheets as your hands fly to his hair, gripping and pulling until your nails are scratching at his scalp. 

He pulls off to heave a breath, to release one hip and circle your entrance with a finger. 

“You taste so fucking good.” He slowly pushes between your walls, curling against the tightness. 

A sharp cry sounds from the back of your throat when he returns his mouth to its rightful place, when he curls his finger faster and rubs the flat of his tongue against your clit when he sucks between his lips. 

The thickness of his fingers is unfamiliar but most welcomed. And the praise of how you taste goes straight to your head. 

Has your toes curling and eyes rolling. That familiar burn at the bottom of your spine creeps up on you like a freight train. You have no time to warn Jack when you clamp down on his finger, when you shudder and spasm beneath his hold. 

You have no time to warn him because the breath is stolen from your lungs and you’re gushing as release paralyzes you. 

And Jack…he drinks you like a starving man. Abandons your clit and removes his finger to lap at your pulsing hole; swirling his tongue and slurping like he can’t fucking get enough. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath when he’s struggling to stand again, your vision is nothing but a kaleidoscope gaze. All you can think is to scold yourself for waiting as long as you fucking have for that to happen. 

And when you blink through the distortion, you catch your orgasm coating Jack’s chin and mouth. The sexiness of it is short lived when you realize how his mouth is slightly curved into a grimace and he’s favoring his weight on his good leg. 

But he tries to soldier through it. To drop his trousers to his ankles, to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. 

It’s more effort than you care to admit to sit up. Your body spent but still aching for more. You rest your palms on the outsides of his muscular thighs, let your nose brush against his navel, pressing open mouthed kisses to the burning skin. 

“Take it off.” Your words are drunken and muffled but Jack hears them. Understands them. 

“I’m fine.” His voice is raw when he speaks, dripping with lust so much it almost masks his discomfort. 

“You’re not. Take it off, baby. I don’t care.” You insist, still peppering hot kisses across his waist, dragging your tongue across the path. 

Jack sighs shakily, relenting. And when he bends down with one hand on the bed and the other reaching to unclasp his prosthetic, you crawl backward on the bed until your head is resting on his pillows again. 

You spread your legs for him, let your hand snake down between your thighs to touch yourself while you wait. You’re dripping onto his sheets, unapologetic and when Jack looks up with his prosthetic off, he whimpers at that sight. 

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He’s almost drooling at the sight, still using one hand to balance and the other hooks into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down. 

Your eyes bulge. He’s fucking big. Long and fat and veiny. Slapping against his navel when it’s free, red and neglected. You feel your chest tighten, feel yourself drip between your thighs. 

“Holy shit.” You pant. 

He crawls into the bed and between your thighs with a bashful smirk; his cheeks dusted pink and eyes twinkling with something like excitement and nerves. 

It’s then that he really notices the small scar just above your pubic bone. The evidence of the life you carried and birthed. It only intensifies his feelings toward how. Reminds him of how much you trust him. 

You swallow, unable to take your eyes off his cock. But you’re not dumb on it yet, still able to consider him in these final few moments. 

“Do you want me to—“

“No. Fuck no.” He knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Does he want you to do the work, does he want to lie down so it’s easier on his leg. 

The answer is a resounding not a fucking chance in hell. 

“Baby, I am more than happy for you to ride me whenever you want. But not—fuck—not tonight.” He’s panting out his words, like he’s already on the verge of release and he’s not even inside you yet. 

His hands block you in on either side of your head, thighs slotting between yours and when he lowers his hips, his cock brushes against your soaked folds. 

There’s a sobering moment that hits him the second he feels you. He doesn’t have any condoms and he doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject of asking if you do without breaking the moment. 

But it’s like you read his mind, or maybe you can just read the hesitancy on his face. “It’s okay. I’m clean. I haven’t—I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”

Jack looses a breath at your admittance. Lets his head drop so his forehead rests against yours. Your words send a strike to his cock, the reminder of your IUD, the thought of feeling you bare. “Me too.” 

You swallow, breaths mingling and your hand leaves your pussy to wrap around his cock, pumping slowly and Jack shudders. 

“So, we take it slow. No expectations, right?” 

Jack practically melts at your tone and your words, at how easy everything is with you. How right it all feels. 

“Yeah, baby. No expectations.” 

You nod again, as much as you can, and guide the tip of his swollen cock to your fluttering entrance. A shudder runs through you both, anticipation crawling at your spines. 

Jack’s hips move slowly, easing into you in a way that makes you relax enough to take him. Inch by inch, whimper by whimper, until his hips are flush against yours and you’re both panting. 

“Give me— fuck, give me a second. Jesus fucking Christ—baby, you’re…you’re so fucking tight.”

“Big,” you gasp through a heavy breath, nails scratching down the wide expanse of Jack’s muscled back. You can’t form a coherent word, far too overwhelmed. 

“I know.” He coos, holding his weight above you on one hand by your head when the other reaches between your chests to slowly fold your bra down, exposing your breasts. 

The whimper that slips out of him is almost enough to make you cum. Your supple breasts spill out, nipples perk and he flicks a thumb over one, pinches gently when you whine for more. 

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. So good.” 

You mewl at the praise again, something you’ve never once experienced in bed. But now that you have, you know you could never go without it again. 

Jack moves his hips gingerly, pulling out a few inches before slowly sheathing himself back in. You’re far too tight around him to remain composed; cunt soaked and sucking him in like it’s where he belongs. 

“Keep going, feels so good. So big.” You whine. 

“Yeah?” Jack asks breathlessly, rolling his hips with a tedious rhythm, like he’s experimenting what works best for you. 

You’re too caught up in the pressure and stretch of him to realize just how much strength it takes for him to hold his weight on one hand, fuck you like he loves you, and pinch your nipples like you’re nothing but his good girl. 

All with one leg. All with barely contained restraint. 

Your hips begin to roll against his, bucking up to meet his thrusts and he gets the hint that you need more. 

But you’re tight, pulsing, sucking him deeper with every thrust. Until you’re both panting and Jack’s bed is creaking. Until moans are slipping from your lips instead of breaths. Until Jack’s whimpering and moaning and whining into the crook of your neck. 

He abandons his assault on your nipple, rises to his hands at either side of your head to watch your face, to flicker his gaze between your thighs to watch you stretch around his thick girth. 

His cock is slick with your arousal, a creamy ring of white at the base of him. 

“Fuck, baby.” His voice is slightly higher pitched now. Whining in a way that has you bucking up against his in urgency. 

That burning returns in the base of your spine, tingles zapping up and down your navel as your orgasms balloons. 

“Jack! Oh fuck, baby—I’m…I’m gonna cum… oh fuck…”

“Yeah? You gonna come on my cock? Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

It doesn’t crash into you this time, doesn’t sneak up on you and paralyze you like the last one. No, this time it sets your body alight; bursts from you from within. 

You shudder and spasm, sob and moan and whine and claw at Jack’s back. He feels you tighten impossibly, feels your cunt attempt to gush around him. 

It drags his own release from him, and he hates how quickly and harshly he pulls out of you so he doesn’t spill inside. His cock drops heavily on your cunt, ribbons of creamy release spurting across your lower stomach as you shudder through the remnants of your orgasm. 

Despite how fucked out you are, you still hear the whimper of a moan that falls from Jack’s, the praise that follows when he cums across your abdomen. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath, blinking away the white spots that mask your vision. But you feel the bed dip as Jack collapses beside you on his back, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he pants breathlessly. 

You turn your head to him in a lazy motion, an arm thrown over his eyes while the other reaches out for his hand to hold your thigh. His cock lays heavy on his leg; still glistening in your excitement and still incredibly big as he softens. 

“Remind me again why we waited so long to do that.” You laugh through a heavy breath, and it makes Jack chuckle heartily. 

With as much energy as you can muster, you try to sit up to clean yourself but Jack moves faster. Grips your thigh harder and turns to you beneath the arm over his eyes. 

“Don’t you dare move.” His voice is gravelly, slightly broken. “I’ll clean you up, just give me a second.”

But you don’t listen. Jack watches with disdain as you sit up and round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom just beside his bedroom door. 

It’s pure inadequacy that he feels. Like he’s unable to do something as simple as clean you up and take care of you after sex. A bare minimum act that you don’t let him complete. 

He spirals in the two short minutes you’re gone, and when you come back clean and naked with a wash cloth in your hands, it only intensifies the feeling tenfold. 

“I could’ve done that, sweetheart.” He tells you when you had him the cloth and sit on your heels on the bed beside him. 

“I know.” 

You don’t elaborate on the fact that he’s always taking care of you. Coming over to fix the sink or the dryer, helping you build a new bookcase or unclogging the toilet after Phoebe stuffed a whole roll of toilet paper down it. 

You don’t want to make a thing out of it. 

“Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?” You ask instead. 

Jack blinks when he takes the wash cloth from you, pointing silently to the second drawer of the dresser in the corner of the room. 

You make quick work on shaky legs of standing and pinching a gray t-shirt from the draw. It swallows you whole, the hem reaching just below your ass and the arms almost reaching your elbows. 

Jack’s chest seizes when you turn to him, an uncontrollable wave of adoration and slight possessiveness strokes through him. The latter is something he’s not exactly proud of. 

But you’re in his apartment, in his room, wearing his shirt, blissed out from his cock…

It takes him a moment or two to regulate his emotions. The internal battle of pinning you beneath him again to coax another orgasm out of your body and just coddling you close to his chest all night. 

So he’s a little thrown off when you remain standing at the foot of the bed and ask, “Where do you keep your lotion?” 

“My lotion?” He blinks. 

“For your leg.” 

His eyes betray him as they flicker toward the bathroom and you’re sauntering off before he can even stop you. 

When you return with the bottle in hand and sit on your heels again beside him on the bed, he doesn’t stop you when you squeeze a dollop into your palms. Doesn’t comment when you warm it between your hands before gently massaging it across his tender skin. 

He watches, reverently. In complete adoration and disbelief that you could ever be real. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

But it is real. 

And when you curl up into his side beneath the covers like you’ve only ever belonged there, in this moment, Jack finds himself battling with three words that threaten to spill from his lips. 

Too caught up in the moment and intensity of the night as you and Jack drift off to sleep, both of you miss the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings around your neck. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

OKAY IM SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG BUT I DID WARN YOU IN THE LAST CHAPTER!! lots to unpack in this one; tom's behavior, kirsty being a poor little sweetheart, jack being hot as fuck and of course, the smut!!!! from here on out, things take a big change and there is lots to happen and get through, so chapters will likely be this length or longer!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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Morning comes fast.

By E.R. standards, it had been a relatively slow night. The most exciting case was a drunk college girl who'd managed to snap her leg spectacularly after stumbling off a curb in six-inch heels. Beyond that, it had been the usual parade of forgotten medications, minor lacerations, kitchen burns, coughs, fevers, and people convinced that symptoms they'd ignored for weeks suddenly constituted an emergency at three in the morning.

Now day shift trickles in, filling the department with the scent of fresh coffee and half-awake greetings.

Jack's at the hub finishing the final comments on his last chart when a shadow falls across the counter. He looks up to find Robby, who jerks his head toward the elevator and leaves without saying anything else.

"Better get it over with," you say, logging off your computer.

He chuckles and follows your lead. "I guess. You'll wait in the car?"

You straighten and nudge his shoulder. "Mm. I'll probably call Olivia."

"Good idea," he says, standing. He catches your hand before you can walk away. "Good luck." He wishes he could lean in and kiss you, but you agreed on no PDA. Past him was a fool.

You squeeze his hand. "You too."

Jack waits until you've disappeared around the corner to the lockers before heading for the elevators. Five minutes later, the rooftop door swings shut behind him.

Robby's leaning against the railing, staring out across the waking city. He turns once he hears Jack's familiar stride, and a grin spreads across his face.

Jack groans as he steps beside him. "Just get it over with."

"What?" Robby asks. "The fact that I was right from the beginning? Or the fact that you should've listened to me ages ago? Or maybe"—he tilts his head—"the fact that this conference was exactly what you needed?"

Jack looks over at him. "You finished?"

Robby hums thoughtfully. "I could keep going—"

"Please don't."

"—but I do have a shift I need to get back to, so yes."

"Good."

Robby laughs and turns back to look out again. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

"I'm happy for you," Robby says.

Jack lets out a lighter breath than he would've managed a few weeks ago.

"She's good for you," Robby continues.

A smile tugs at the corner of Jack's mouth, his fingers curling loosely around the railing. "She is."

"You're good for her, too." Jack opens his mouth, but Robby continues before he can say anything. "Believe it or not, everyone else can see it."

Jack rolls his eyes.

"And if we've learned anything from this whole disaster, it's that you should trust my judgement."

Jack huffs a laugh but doesn't disagree. "It's weird."

"What is?"

He shrugs. "Getting something you'd already convinced yourself wasn't going to happen."

The teasing fades from Robby's expression, and he bumps his shoulder against Jack's. They stand there for another moment before Robby claps his shoulder. "I'd better get downstairs before they manage to burn down the place. I expect an invitation to dinner one of these days."

"Yeah, yeah." Jack waves him away.

Robby is halfway to the door when he calls after him. "Hey."

Robby turns.

"Thanks."

For a moment, Robby just looks at him. Then he dips his chin once before disappearing through the door.

Jack stays there for another five minutes, just breathing and watching the city. The hospital hums beneath him. Traffic slowly fills the street below.

For the first time in a long while, he lets himself enjoy the view before heading back inside.

With both your bag and Jack's grabbed, you head toward the parking lot, moving slower than usual as you try to summon the courage to call Olivia before you get there.

You've been avoiding her—to some extent—and you already know she isn't going to be happy about it.

So, you take small steps, unlock the car, and place the bags in the back before shuffling into the passenger seat.

It rings twice before she answers. She's at her kitchen table, staring at you with narrowed eyes. "Nice of you to finally talk to me."

You wince. "I know."

"You know?" she repeats. "That's all I get?"

You offer her a tentative smile.

She takes a bite of her bread, chewing while continuing to glare at you. Then her mouth twitches. "So?"

A large smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

She lets out a triumphant squeal. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!"

You laugh at her enthusiasm.

"This is the best news ever!"

You roll your eyes. "Okay, calm down. It's not that big a deal."

"Oh, it is."

"No, it isn't."

"It absolutely is," she says. "I've spent months watching you idiots ruin things for yourselves. It's finally over!"

You shake your head, but her glee is infectious.

"Tell me everything," she demands.

You tell her about the awkward car ride, meeting Jeremy and Warren, the fight, and making up. By the time you're done, Olivia's been grinning so hard her breakfast has gone cold.

"And then we..." you shrug, biting back a grin.

Her eyes widen. "No way! How was it?"

"So good."

Her jaw drops. "Yeah?"

You nod.

She leans back in her chair, looking thoroughly pleased. "Good. You deserve nothing less."

"Hey, I'm sorry for being such a mess these past months. You've been there through everything, and I'm so lucky to have you in my life. Thank you."

She waves you off. "No need to be sappy. You'd do the same."

"How's it looking on your end?"

She groans.

"What about Robby?"

"That wasn't really anything—just a kiss." She shrugs. "And I mean, I'm here, and he's in Pittsburgh, so..."

You suck your teeth in disappointment.

Her face sours. "Damn it."

"What?"

"I just remembered that I owe him twenty bucks. I thought Jack was going to confess first," she groans. "Should've trusted that my meddling skills were better than Robby's."

You laugh. "With betting like that, you're practically part of the Pitt crew already. Maybe you should consider moving? It solves two problems."

"Two?"

"Robby, of course," you grin, "and I don't have to miss you."

"Hm," she huffs. "Not sure about the first one..."

Movement catches your eyes before you can argue further. Jack's making his way across the parking lot, and without thinking, you sit up a little straighter.

"Oh, gross."

"Hey, be nice!" you chuckle. "Jack's coming."

"I gathered," she says. "Have fun. I'm expecting to be the godmother." She winks exaggeratedly.

"Love you." You roll your eyes and hit the end button.

Weeks slip by in that sweet, honeymoon-like bliss.

Surprisingly little has changed since you started properly dating. Jack still brings you breakfast, watches your terrible shows without complaints, and washes your scrubs. The only thing that's really changed is that he's finally shown you just how affectionate he is.

You wake up wrapped in his arms most mornings. He always seems to need a hand on you somewhere: your waist while you're cooking, your fingers while you're out walking, your ankle draped across his lap while you read on the couch.

Right now, though, his hands are firmly around your thighs, keeping them spread apart.

"Jack," you plead softly.

"What?" he hums, his voice warm with amusement as he deliberately lingers just out of reach. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You let out a frustrated whine, wriggling your hips. His hold tightens, keeping you firmly in place.

He chuckles. "What do you want, sweet girl?" He brushes another kiss along the inside of your thigh, just a little higher than the one before. Then another, until his nose brushes the soaked pink fabric. "This?"

You shake your head.

"No?" He kisses the edge of your underwear, close enough that it sends a shiver up your spine. "Maybe this?"

You squirm again. "Jack, please."

He clicks his tongue, his dark gaze finding yours. "I know you can do better than that, sweetheart."

Heat creeps into your cheeks, your chest rising fast. His thumb brushes the corner of your underwear, staring at the wet material with a scorched gaze.

You gasp when he presses his thumb directly against your clit. "Please touch me."

"I already am," he says, amusement flickering across his face. His thumb leaves you again, stroking lazily across your hip instead.

You huff in annoyance, finally relenting. "Please touch my pussy."

"Oh, why didn't you just say that?" He grins. "With my fingers or my mouth?"

Head hazy with lust and impatience, all you say is: "Please."

Thankfully, Jack takes pity on you. He pulls the fabric aside, then descends on you. He licks broad stripes, groaning in appreciation when he gets your sweet taste on his tongue.

"Fuck. I'll never get sick of doing this."

You moan loudly, your fingers gripping his hair.

"You taste so good," he murmurs. "Doing so good for me."

He alternates between soft kisses, slow licks, and gentle sucks until the sensation becomes almost unbearable. All you can do is try to hold on, fingers gripping his hair, shoulders, arms—whatever you can get hold of.

It takes an embarrassingly short time for you to crash over the edge.

When you finally manage to climb back to yourself, Jack is looking up at you, his chin glistening and a thoroughly smug smile on his face.

"Better?"

You roll your eyes and swat his shoulder. His hand finds your chin as he crowds over you, pressing you into the mattress.

"I asked you a question."

You suck in a breath, staring into his eyes. "Yes."

"Good." He lets go of your chin and smirks when you push at his chest. He follows, letting you shove him down onto the bed. You swing a leg over him, and his hands find your waist automatically, helping situate you on top of him.

"Fuck," he swears as you sink down on him. Your mouth crashes into his as you slowly begin moving. Jack lets you set the pace for a moment before his hips snap up, setting a faster pace.

"Jack," you moan into his ear. His fingers grip your waist as he captures your mouth again. He comes with a drawn-out sound that reverberates in your chest. You let yourself sink against him, forehead resting against his shoulder.

His hands remain on your waist long after the moment has passed, thumbs absentmindedly stroking slow circles against your skin as the two of you catch your breath.

Neither of you says anything for a while. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath you. Eventually, one of his hands slips up your back, his fingers combing gently through your hair. "Hey."

You smile into his shoulder. "Hey."

"Better?" he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod against him before lifting your head just enough to meet his eyes. "Much."

He grins, satisfied.

You trace lazy circles across the side of his arm. "You were incredibly annoying, though."

A laugh rumbles through his chest. "You complaining?"

You pinch his skin lightly. He catches your wrist, turning your hand over to press a kiss into your palm.

"You'll survive."

"I don't know," you sigh dramatically. "I may never recover."

He bites your hand lightly. "I'll take excellent care of you."

"Hm," you huff.

"I was planning on starting with water."

That earns him a genuine laugh. You lean down to kiss him again, slow and unhurried. He hums softly into the kiss. When you finally pull away, neither of you moves very far.

"I love you," he says softly.

You smile, brushing your nose against his. "I love you, too."

His arms tighten around your waist just a fraction before he sighs. "Now..." His eyebrows lift. "Go pee. I'll get you some water. Then we can cuddle again."

"Doctor's orders?"

"Absolutely."

You roll your eyes fondly as you climb off him, stealing one last quick kiss before you do. "I suppose I'd better listen to the professional."

He watches you climb off the bed with an unmistakably pleased expression. "You usually don't."

You glance back over your shoulder. "I make exceptions if my doctor's handsome."

"I think I'm gonna throw up." Parker slumps against the counter, staring blankly into the distance.

Shen spins around in his chair. "Maggots guy?"

"God, no." Parker's seen her fair share of disgusting things. Maggots don't even register anymore. "Abbot and Trouble in the supply room."

Lena snorts from her right. "Weren't you the one begging them to make up?"

"I was." Parker sighs. "But there are some things I never needed to witness."

Shen's eyebrows shoot up. "Hold on. They weren't...?"

"No!" Parker cuts him off before he can finish. She might need to bleach her eyes, but she's not letting that rumour start. "They were just making out."

"Oh." Lena pushes her glasses onto her head. "Then what's the problem?"

Parker just stares at her. "…His hand was on her ass."

There's a beat of silence before Lily, who's been quietly working at her computer, looks up. "I think you've been single for too long."

"I'm not that single."

"Not by choice," Shen says between obnoxiously loud slurps of his iced coffee.

Parker glares at him. "And I suppose you're drowning in admirers?"

He grins. "I don't kiss and tell."

"You don't kiss, period."

"Ouch." He clutches a hand to his chest, then grins as he takes another sip.

"The point," Parker continues, rubbing her temples, "is that I have to work with them. I don't want every room I walk into to be a potential traumatic experience."

"You're so dramatic," Lily says with a grin. She stands and gives Parker's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Hit me up if you want to come on a double date sometime. My boyfriend has some cute friends."

Parker groans.

"Just be grateful," Lena says. "At least they're happy."

"They can be happy," Parker mutters. "Just... preferably behind a locked door."

"Good luck telling Abbot that," Shen says.

Parker drops her forehead onto the counter with a muffled groan.

"What are you doing?" Jack pauses in the doorway to the guest bedroom, still in his scrubs.

You peek out from the closet, sending him a smile. "Thought I'd clear out this room. Get rid of some old stuff and move the rest into our closet."

He looks around. Half the shelves are empty, and there are piles of clothes on the bed. Textbooks cover most of the desk alongside notebooks, loose papers, and other things you'd shoved in the drawers weeks ago.

"I keep forgetting I have things in here," you say. "And it isn't my room anymore, so I'm making space for your stuff, too."

"You don't have to," he says, pressing a kiss to your head. You shrug, grabbing another piece of clothing.

Jack wanders over to the desk, picking up one of the medical textbooks. "Are you keeping these or giving them away?"

"I'll give them away after my oral boards." You throw a dress onto the bed. "I figured some of the residents could use them. Med school's expensive enough."

"That's kind."

You shrug and toss another item onto the bed.

Jack continues sorting through the clutter, smiling at old photographs and forgotten receipts before unfolding a document. "What's this?"

He knows exactly what it is. The divorce papers that had haunted him for weeks with your signature sitting dry at the bottom of the page.

You look over. "Oh."

For a moment, Jack says nothing. "I can put them back if—"

You walk over, take the papers from his hand, and tear them cleanly down the middle. Then again. You drop the pieces into the nearby trash bin.

Jack blinks. "You sure?"

You glance at the bin, then back at him. "I thought I'd gotten rid of it already." A small smile tugs at your lips. "I don't need it anymore."

You lean up to kiss his cheek before returning to the closet. "So," you say over your shoulder, "should I donate this sweater or keep it?"

Jack doesn't answer immediately. His eyes drift to the trash bin.

"Jack?"

He looks up. You stand in the middle of the room that had once been yours with things that will find their place elsewhere in your shared bedroom.

He lets out a slow breath. "Keep."

During the next few weeks, Jack can't stop thinking about the divorce papers or how easily you had ripped them apart. It takes a situation at work for him to realise why.

Cyclist vs. vehicle. A pelvic fracture and a head wound that needed immediate attention. You had both snapped into action, dividing the work between you and taking control of the trauma room.

"Dr. Abbot, here—" a new nurse had called out, and Jack's head had snapped up. But it wasn't him she was talking to—it was you. He'd seen the nurse's face flush, but you'd answered before he'd even finished turning toward you. There'd been no indication that it had bothered you at all.

You had just responded like it was your name.

It hit him a couple of hours later. You had shown him just how much you wanted him. He had to make it clear to you that he wanted the same.

Things hadn't been done right the first time. A glitch. Rings bought out of necessity. And that was that. No romance at all.

You deserve a proper proposal—a real wedding. Something you can actually tell the others about in detail instead of repeating the same brief lie you'd been telling for months: that it had been a simple affair, that he'd proposed at home.

Jack wants to make the story real.

He buys a ring. A simple but flashy one. Then he spends days waiting for the right moment.

The opportunity comes when he's sitting on the couch waiting to pick you up from work. The entire drive is spent in a nervous haze, the box pressing insistently against his thigh.

He makes coffee as you head for the shower, so his hands have something to do. As it brews, he straightens the sugar bowl, then the coffee tin, then realises he's already done it twice.

You pad down the hallway, dripping water onto the floor from your still-wet hair. "What are you doing?" You watch him with narrowed eyes as you turn to the cabinet.

"Nothing?"

You huff, but decide to let it go, standing on your tiptoes to grab a mug. "Do you wanna go sit outside and eat—" your sentence cuts off when you spin back around.

Jack's on his knee, keeping it steady despite his prosthetic. He holds out the box.

Your mug slips from your fingers onto the counter with a soft click. "Jack?"

A shaky breath leaves him which almost turns into a laugh.

"What are you doing?"

"I think you know."

A watery laugh escapes you. "Is this—? Are you—?"

"Yeah," he chuckles breathily. "So do I get to say my speech," he teases gently, "or are you going to interrupt me the whole time?"

You press a hand over your mouth and nod.

His fingers tremble slightly against the box. "I've been thinking about us. About how we started."

Your hand tightens over your mouth.

"I wouldn't change it. Not really. If that stupid glitch hadn't happened... if Robby hadn't been stuck at work that day..." He shakes his head. "I would've never been lucky enough to have you to come home to every night."

You blink rapidly.

"The best thing that ever happened to me started as an accident." His voice grows quieter. "But I don't want our story to be that we got married by accident. I want it to be that somewhere along the way, after lots of dumb decisions—"

You laugh softly.

"Somewhere along the way, we fell in love. I want you to know that I choose to be with you. I choose you. Every day. And I want you to know that."

A tear trails down your cheek.

"So... Sweetheart. Trouble." He laughs softly, shaking the box lightly. "Will you marry me?"

You drop to your knees in front of him, laughing and crying all at once as you throw your arms around his neck. "Yes!" The word comes out broken by tears. "Yes, of course, I'll marry you. Again."

Jack buries his face against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with relieved laughter.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your cheeks damp with tears and your smile somehow brighter than anything he's ever seen.

"The ring," you remind him softly.

He lets out another breathless laugh. "Right."

The velvet box is still in his hand. You hold out your left hand without him asking. It trembles. A laugh escapes you when you notice his hand isn't any steadier.

"I've had a stressful morning," he murmurs. Carefully, he takes your hand. His thumb brushes once across your knuckles before he slides the ring free from its box. This time, there isn't a clerk handing it to him.

Just the two of you.

He guides the ring onto your finger slowly. It slides into place perfectly.

You stare down at your hand, tilting it to catch the light. He stares, too.

It sits just above the first ring that made you husband and wife. This one doesn't replace it—it gives it the beginning it always deserved.

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against your knuckles before looking back up at you. "I love you," he says.

"I love you, too."

He chooses you. You choose him.

The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn. 

Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off. 

It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect. 

Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either. 

The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.” 

You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it. 

“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it. 

He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood. 

He took the rag off your hands. 

And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition. 

It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds. 

Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it. 

The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count. 

Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it. 

He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully. 

He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them. 

“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”

You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”

So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up. 

“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?

You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.

Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue. 

“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.” 

Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you. 

Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him. 

“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.” 

He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear. 

That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’

“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.

“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”

He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it. 

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.” 

You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did. 

He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you. 

His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off. 

“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.” 

Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb. 

You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off. 

“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.” 

Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?” 

“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”

Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?” 

It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him. 

You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.” 

Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened. 

It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself. 

“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly. 

“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.” 

You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.

For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest. 

His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there. 

There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb. 

The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.

You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long. 

The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.

“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”

“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”

“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy. 

“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting. 

“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”

“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.” 

“What if I—”

“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.” 

You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.

There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.

You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.

He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be. 

He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.

He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back. 

He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful. 

He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.

The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know. 

“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped. 

Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”

Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.” 

In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.

He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you. 

You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”

“Don’t try to help me.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“It’s written all over your face.” 

You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.

That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all. 

“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed. 

“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”

“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.” 

“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct. 

“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.” 

“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.” 

“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done. 

One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that. 

“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you. 

“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again. 

You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.

“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.” 

He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.

“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”

“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.

“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.

He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.

“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”

The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.

“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.

“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged. 

Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?” 

“This week, yeah,” you said. 

“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.” 

You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.” 

“Leo pays you enough?”

You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”

Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”

You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.

“This week?”

You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.  

Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.” 

“For the kid.”

“Andrew.” 

“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.” 

“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.” 

“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”

He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.” 

He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”

You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.

“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.” 

He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.” 

He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago. 

He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry. 

It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that. 

You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice. 

He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.

He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.

You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing. 

Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.

Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.

Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate. 

“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?” 

He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it. 

“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.

“The one that does the cash, man.”

“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”

“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”

Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.” 

“Don’t.”

“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.” 

“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.

“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?” 

“Why’s she there?” 

Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”

“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”

“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”

“How much?” Pope asked immediately.

Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”

“Just say it.”

“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.” 

Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”

He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face. 

Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”

“It’s her brother.”

“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.” 

Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.” 

Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.” 

“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—” 

Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that. 

If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.” 

Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”

He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did. 

It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect. 

This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.

Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.

You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.” 

“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through. 

You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.

“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.” 

He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten. 

You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance. 

Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”

Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”

“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince. 

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to. 

He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve. 

He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from. 

Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.

The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.

He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.

Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.

You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional. 

He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest. 

Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended. 

He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”

“Andrew—”

“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”

He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.” 

That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.” 

You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?” 

“No.”

“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.” 

He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. 

“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”

When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.” 

He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?” 

Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.” 

The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.

He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.

You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.

He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck. 

He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it. 

You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it. 

His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.

Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.

His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it. 

It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.

You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you. 

You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.

Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his. 

“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.” 

Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once. 

“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”

Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?” 

“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.

He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip. 

You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.

“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast. 

“We don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.” 

Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.

One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current. 

It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.

“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.

He fluttered his eyes open halfway. 

“Better than this place,” you clarified.

Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly. 

The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried. 

“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”

You blinked. “Where?” 

He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”

You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.” 

“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.

“C’mon.” 

He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.

Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed. 

So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close. 

The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours. 

Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt. 

When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home. 

He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing. 

Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house. 

He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.

“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper. 

You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it. 

“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.

“No.”

“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came. 

He kissed you slow.

He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.

“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. 

Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.

He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.

“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone. 

“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him. 

Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.

Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.” 

He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you. 

You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.

His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. 

You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still. 

“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him. 

“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating. 

“Andrew.” 

“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.

“Can I—” he started.

“Yes.”

He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.

His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.

He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely. 

You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.

His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.

You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.

“Are you—”

“Mhm.” 

You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly. 

You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.

“C’mon, hey—”

You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.

Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation. 

His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.

You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.

“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.

You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.

You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp. 

“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”

He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up. 

You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.

“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”

You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?” 

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.” 

“So ask.” 

He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?” 

You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”

The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.

You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.

You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.

He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.

He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing. 

“You okay?” you asked, quiet.

“One second.”

You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.

He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.

“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.

“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless. 

He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.

His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.

“Andrew—”

“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.” 

Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.

“That good?” he murmured.

“It’s—” you started, breath catching. 

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?” 

“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”

He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.” 

Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.

You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.

His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.

“You with me?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.” 

It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.

You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.

He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.

Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up. 

He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog. 

“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”

“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”

“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.” 

Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.

“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”

Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it. 

Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.” 

Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.” 

“People talk—” you started to say.

“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”

Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”

The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead. 

The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.

“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?” 

“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”

He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”

Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.” 

Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.” 

Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”

Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”

Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.

Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?” 

“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.” 

“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.” 

Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.

“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you. 

You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.

Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today. 

He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.

“Get in the car,” he said to you. 

You stayed still.

Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”

You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled. 

You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.

“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out. 

You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.” 

You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.” 

Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.” 

“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.” 

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.” 

You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.

“That’s not how—”

“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”

“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”

A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.

So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized. 

It rang twice. 

“Hello?” 

The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home. 

“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?” 

He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.” 

“Jesus—why?”

“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere. 

“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?” 

“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”

“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.

“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything. 

“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”

“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear. 

“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?” 

Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.

He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.

You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped. 

“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”

It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.

“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.” 

“Andrew—”

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift. 

“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”

He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.” 

“I don’t want your brother to—”

He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time. 

Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you. 

“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”

He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.” 

He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.

“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”

And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line. 

Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison. 

He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.

“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”

Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.” 

“Please, just—”

“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.” 

The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.

The line went dead under his palm.

You made him his meals- breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with snacks included, based on the diet that his trainer provided for you both. The week leading up to a fight night was the worst for his diet and mental health- because that’s when his cut would start. His usual meals were cut in half or replaced by a protein shake altogether. Andrew even measured how much water he drank because by Friday he had to lose 10 pounds to make weight. The first day of his cut would be fine- he’d wake up before the sun even peeked through your windows and go to the bathroom to weigh himself before texting the weight to his coach. He stretched- did nothing to promote strength anymore so much as to promote sweating and get his movements down to a science before his fight.

You would find him shadow boxing outside in the heat- eyes closed so he can get the motions right in his head while you made breakfast. Andrew went from almost 4,000 calories down to maybe 1,500 just to maintain his energy- his breakfast was now egg whites and fruit with black coffee 6 oz., you watched him pour it into the measuring cup beforehand. After breakfast it was back to training while you made sure hotel and flight was booked properly- that cars were rented and interviews were scheduled while you watched him jump rope for nearly 15 minutes straight before practicing his footwork. His coach said he was using too much force- too much tension so Andrew was making sure he stayed on the balls of his feet to preserve his energy and strength if the fight went too long.

It was maybe two days of that routine until his cut started. Anger and sleep deprivation started to set in. Andrew was mentally drained- he was hungry, dehydrated, and deprived. Because another thing his coach believed in?

Abstinence.

No big distractions the week of a fight. You would field all his calls and appointments, you would handle the business and make sure nothing stressed him that wasn’t dire until the actual fight night. You wouldn’t even kiss him. Not even a peck before bed because you knew if Andrew had a taste then he’d breakdown and inhale you for as long as he could. You almost had to sleep in the guest bedroom a few times because you’d feel him at your back in the middle of the night and somewhere between grinding in his sleep or you moving around in yours- he got hard. Painfully so and sometimes he was so pent up that you’d feel his hips press into your ass for some relief and you would have to pull away. Force yourself from him because you were just as needy and desperate.

Cold showers for both of you would help. Andrew’s was spent letting the icy water rain down on his sore muscles- achy body desperate for some relief but his coach would tell him to not even jerk off before a fight. That was just as bad as sex. The pent up testosterone and anger would be fuel for Andrew- it would become the driving force and power that would help him win. Cumming would help him relax and the last thing he needed was his star athlete relaxing before a fight. But you didn’t have the same rules- you would spend your freezing showers biting your fist and using your fingers to rub your clit and help dull the ache in your pussy. But it never helped. You would cum- panting and shaking but all you would want was Andrew to be the one who made you cum.

What’s worse was that Andrew could tell- maybe it was to torture himself more on his end but Andrew knew the look you had. When you’d watch him come back from his jog dripping with sweat- the way you would bite your lip and how your eyes would hungrily stare at him while you watched the beads of sweat drip down his chest and melt into the waistband of his shorts. When you’d sit by the pool and listen to the way he would grunt while holding a plank until failure- heavy breathing through his nostrils and soft grunts that sound similar to the way he did when he was on top of you. Sliding between your pussy and forcing your leg a little higher up his torso to get the angle that makes you see stars just right. Andrew knew the look you had- so he followed you after you said you were going to shower. Stood outside of the door and listened to the little whimpers you bit back while you attempted to quell the need you had for him.

God it was fucking torture. But Andrew couldn’t touch you. Right? You knew better than to ruin his fight over being a horny bitch for your boyfriend- but Andrew didn’t want you to suffer along with him. He wasn’t fucking selfish, if anything- Andrew was a fucking giver and maybe that was the worst part about denying yourself the pleasure of his touch during fight week. He left you more than satisfied. And it was torture to Andrew- that he couldn’t fuck you but- he could still bring you pleasure even if he couldn’t stuff you full of his cock and feel the way you clench and spasm around him when you cum. It was fucking torture for the both of you and Andrew wasn’t going to let you suffer any longer when the fight was still days away and he knew he’d be sore and bruised and bloody after that you’d be too scared to touch him- but he saw the way you bit your lip and how your leg shook with anxiety and pent up sexual frustration while you both sat and watched his opponent’s last few fights on opposite ends of the couch.

God you wanted to slap him- how fucking dare he walk around in nothing but his boxer briefs that hugged his thighs so well. That showed you the swell of his ass that you wanted to bite and gave you an uninhibited view of his soft dick that was still fucking huge and made you clench around nothing when he passed by to sit and watch along with you. From the corner of your eyes you saw how wide he sat- how this thick fucking thighs took up the entire end of the couch and the ripple of his abs moving like waves every fucking time he took a breath. The stress ball in his fist was clenched within an inch of its life from how hard Andrew worked to keep himself concentrated on the tv but dammit he could feel you watching him. The way you bit your lip and finally you stood with a pathetic excuse of- “I’m gonna take a shower,” so you could rub your pussy and cum but his heavy hand grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“C’mere,” he grunts- tugging you into his lap with no effort at all while you’re left dazed. Gasping his name and struggling to get out of his hold because you know what he’s doing- you know what he wants. Pathetic little whimpers of his name followed along with ‘we can’t’ or ‘baby wait’ while he ignores your halfhearted attempts to pull away from him- because the second you were in his lap? The second you felt his cock stiffen underneath you from the way you wriggled and moved about? You melted. Moaned pathetically into the hot air while Andrew nipped and licked at your neck- heavy hands that were sore and bruised pawed at your body. “You need this,” it was simple. Andrew knew you needed to cum. Andrew didn’t care if he couldn’t cum. Andrew wanted you to cum. “Been so good for me sweetheart,” doing everything you can to keep him healthy and keep him on track- maintaining his schedule and sanity while neglecting yourself. Taking care of him- reminding him to take his vitamins and even measuring out water for him and making his meals and not eating in front of him because you knew how hard it was for him to eat plainly while you got to eat what you wanted.

“Let me take care of you,” he keeps cutting you off- silencing your protests with his slightly chapped lips and swallowing your whimpers with his tongue against yours. God it felt so fucking good- his rough hands dragging your shirt up so he can lick and suck at your chest with needy until you start to grind in his lap. Your clothed pussy catches his hard-on just right- rubbing against him to relieve yourself of the ache and you could feel how thick and stuff he got with only a few minutes of kissing and touching you. Twin groans breaking the kiss- tongues no longer tangled together but you continue panting in each other’s mouths before you try to pull away. You can’t- you’ll make him cum like this- you know how stressed he is and when you try and tell Andrew that you’re fine and you can wait another week or two he’s already manhandling you onto one of his deliciously thick thighs.

“Ride,” it’s a command- Andrew isn’t asking you anymore. He’s not waiting for you to ask permission or waiting for you to leave the bed late at night for you to stuff your fingers into your pussy and give yourself a pathetic orgasm that won’t stop the burn between your thighs. Andrew wants you to take it from him- to grind your covered pussy over the thick quad muscles of this thighs and give yourself whatever pleasure you want since he can’t fuck you the way you deserve.

“Andrew- b-baby no I-” you’re sputtering- shaking your head because you need to deny yourself the pleasure and he shuts you up with two strong hands grabbing your hips to drag you up the meat of his thigh. “Fuck!” You probably scream it in his ear but the way your panties rub against your needy pussy lips felt too fucking good and Andrew was moaning- panting right alongside you. Your pleasure was his pleasure- he unfortunately got off on you getting off and- god this was bad. This could go bad so fast but you were weak- useless to stop him from manhandling you up and down his leg. Your warm pussy was intoxicating to him- he swears he could already feel your wetness seeping from your panties and onto his skin but even more perfect was the way you whined his name. Little broken and choked off gasps of “ah~ Andrew!” into the tiny space between you both.

“Please baby- I need you to cum,” it was like he was living vicariously through your orgasm- mumbling against your chest before his lips wrapped around your nipple to suck and scrape his teeth against. He should’ve taken your panties off first- should have rid you of all your clothes before forcing you to grind on his thigh like this so he could feel your wet folds catch the soft waves of his muscles. Both of your arms grab onto Andrew- one hand threading through his soft curls to pull and grab onto while the other claws at his back. The wide expanse of his shoulders getting attacked by your nails and there’s no way he’d be able to tell his coach that you didn’t do it- no way to deny that he wasn’t between your perfect thighs when the evidence was on his body but god he couldn’t give less of a fuck that he does now.

“Like that- just like that pretty girl,” he can feel the way your thighs clench- how you’re already so fucking close with the way your breathing gets shorter and the way you can barely finish saying his name without cutting yourself off to moan. “Please baby- little more okay?” Muffled- mumbled into your skin before he resumes licking your other nipple into his warm mouth. Every drag of your cunt across his thigh sends electricity straight through your body- your clit catching the fabric of your underwear perfectly and you’re so fucking close. You just- god you felt so fucking empty. Pussy clenching around your own wetness and nothing else while your body moves itself back and forth- Andrew tensing his thigh to give you a little more to use for your own selfish gain. Every roll of your hips and scrape of his teeth give you just that much more and you’re about to beg him to fuck you until you finally feel his hand at your hip slide down to grab the meat of your ass before going lower. The tips of his thick fingers just barely brushing at your entrance-

One more grind- maybe you even try go a little too far but you desperately need to sink back onto Andrew’s fingers that tease at your wetness. He wants you to use him- wiggling his digits a little with every glide of your pussy until finally you go back just a little more and you whimper when he’s finally inside you. “That’s it,” like it’s what he wanted all along- like it makes him feel better to feel how wet and fucking needy you were for him. Such a good girl- neglecting yourself for him? “Better?” Almost sounding condescending- taken to fucking you with his fingers now because the feeling has you already riding a high that you can’t even keep rolling your hips anymore. You feel it- blinding heat and pleasure bubbling up with every drag of his thick fingers through your leaking pussy.

“Keep going,” his lips dragging along your jaw- biting your skin because he knows you’re close and he wants to feel you cum. Your sweet pussy juices drip down his hands- loud wetness making the room sound fucking nasty and all it does is encourage Andrew to use his thumb to circle around the right hole of your ass. His other hand continues forcing your hips to roll over his thigh- your clit dragging back and forth and when you tighten around his fingers you all but cry out when you finally cum after he runs again that perfect spot inside you.

“Yes! Andrew- fuck!” Finally- you’re cumming- your body gives into the pleasure he’s forcing onto you. But he doesn’t stop- if anything- Andrew is drunk off your body. He’s high off the way you sound and feel- how your skin tastes and he needs more. “W-wait! Andrew-” standing with you in his arms- tongue back in your mouth to silence your pleas. He needs to taste your pussy- he needs to bury his tongue inside you and hopefully he can go back to concentrating on his fight this week.

➻ taglist (UPDATED! click to join!):

Dana had just arrived, coffee in one hand, bag sliding off her shoulder, looking barely awake but somehow still observant enough to clock whatever expression Jack had on his face the moment she walked in.

"Dana."

She looked up. "Yep?"

Jack aimed for casual and landed somewhere near suspicious. "Could you check if Dr. Y/N is here yet?"

Dana paused. Slowly lowered her coffee. Looked at him. "You don't have her number?"

"Me and her," he said carefully, "are not exactly on those terms."

She stared at him for exactly one second too long. "Even the blind could see whatever that is between you two."

Jack huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. "Appreciate the diagnosis."

"You know what I mean."

"Probably," he said. "I won't discuss it after a twelve hour shift."

Before Dana could respond, Garcia appeared at the nurses station already in OR scrubs, a patient chart in one hand and a can of Coca Cola in the other, reading with the focused calm of someone who had made peace with early mornings a long time ago.

Jack looked at the can. "You're early."

Garcia sighed without looking up. "My boss gets here before sunrise. She's set the bar somewhere I can't see from the ground."

"No coffee?"

She lifted the can. "Higher caffeine." Then, after another sip, "Also free. From her fridge. She told the whole department we could take one whenever we want."

Jack went quiet for a second. A fridge full of Coca Cola. He didn't know why that was so completely consistent with you but it was.

"Huh," he said, mostly to himself.

Nearby, Robby had absolutely not been eavesdropping, which was why he immediately joined the conversation. "You know you could just go upstairs," he said, leaning against the counter with entirely too much amusement. "The OR is not a restricted area."

Jack looked at him. "I know where the OR is."

"Clearly not," Dana said.

Garcia snorted into her drink.

"It's not like she's going to bite you," she added.

Jack gave all three of them a flat look. "You all seem very invested in this."

"Oh, we are," Dana said immediately.

"Extremely," Robby confirmed.

Garcia pointed her Coke at him. "Honestly we just want entertainment."

"If she does bite you," Robby added, shrugging one shoulder, "we'll stitch you back together. We're very equipped for that."

Dana nodded. "Occupational hazard."

Jack looked between the three of them and decided he genuinely disliked everyone before eight in the morning. He pushed off the counter, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the elevator with the energy of a man dragging himself somewhere against his better judgment.

The doors closed behind him.

Dana turned to the others. "He likes her," she said. "Bad."

"Terrible," Robby agreed. "Did you see his face?"

Garcia took a long sip of her Coke. "They definitely have history. You don't look at someone like that unless there's unresolved emotional damage involved."

"Or unresolved something else," Robby said.

Dana pointed at him immediately. "That too."

Garcia glanced toward the elevator, thoughtful. "You know what's interesting though? She scares everyone in that OR. Nobody makes a sound when she's working." She paused. "But somehow he's the only person in this building who actually looks like he enjoys arguing with her."

Robby considered that for a moment. "That's either chemistry," he said, "or a psychological condition."

Dana snorted into her coffee.

"With those two," she said, "probably both."

*******

Jack knocked once before opening the door.

You weren't there. Which, technically, should have been enough reason to leave. Instead he walked in anyway.

Your office was colder than the rest of the floor. Cleaner too. Minimal, organized to the point of intimidation. Papers stacked with purpose. Surgical journals lined up in a way that suggested anyone who misplaced one would hear about it.

Then his attention landed on the fridge.

He walked closer. Coke. Coke Zero. Electrolyte drinks. Sports gels shoved into the side compartment like emergency field supplies. Full. Completely, absurdly full.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. "Still terrible at breakfast," he muttered.

He remembered your first week in the field. Pale from stress, running on nothing, trying very hard not to look like you were about to pass out after your first brutal shift. He had handed you a soda without comment.

'Sugar. Sit down before you fall down, kid.'

You had looked personally offended. 'I'm not falling down.' Then immediately sat down.

His mouth tilted at the memory.

He looked around the rest of the office. Framed photos on the desk. One from the deployment, Clark in the middle, dust everywhere, half the team sunburned, and you standing next to Jack with your arms crossed while he looked entirely too pleased with himself. Another photo, a graduation. Another, a marathon finish line. Another, a triathlon. Then an Ironman medal hanging from the corner of the frame.

Jack stared at it. "You hated cardio," he said quietly to himself.

"Still do."

He turned around. You were standing in the doorway holding a chart against your chest, one eyebrow raised, expression unreadable in that particular way that made him feel like he was already losing an argument he hadn't started yet.

"You really like Coke," he said.

"It's efficient."

"That sounds suspiciously close to addiction."

You walked past him to your desk and set the chart down. "Endurance sports," you said simply. "Sugar keeps me alive."

He glanced back at the marathon photo. "You run now."

"As long as nobody is screaming at me to crawl through mud at five in the morning."

Jack let out a quiet laugh. "Military workouts built character."

"They built resentment." You pulled your chair out and sat down. "But sure."

"Yet somehow," he said, crossing his arms, "look at you now." His eyes moved across the photos, steady and unhurried. "You got stronger."

Your stomach did something profoundly irritating. You ignored it completely. "So," you said, gesturing toward the door, "what can I help you with?"

"No kicking me out first?"

"You willingly walked into my office." You tilted your head. "You must be desperate."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "There's a patient from my shift. Insurance is trying to deny the surgery."

Your expression shifted. "What happened?"

"Construction accident. Multiple fractures, internal complications. Trauma stabilized him but he needs reconstructive work." He paused. "Insurance is calling it non-urgent unless there's stronger documentation pushing back."

You stared at him. "And you came all the way upstairs because."

"Because," he said patiently, "you're terrifying."

"That's not an answer."

"It's part of one." His mouth twitched. "The surgical recommendation needs OR approval. Someone with enough authority to make administration stop pretending that recovery is optional."

"You want me to scare insurance into behaving."

"I want you," he corrected, "to professionally and legally explain why they're being idiots."

You crossed your arms. "And if I say no?"

"You won't."

That confidence. Still obnoxious. Still somehow effective. You looked away first, which you immediately resented. "You sound very sure of yourself, Abbot."

"I know how your brain works," he said. "You hate unfair systems."

Damn him. That landed harder than it should have, partly because it was true and partly because he said it like it was something he had known about you for a long time and never forgotten. You exhaled and held your hand out. "Give me the chart."

His eyebrows lifted. "That easy?"

"Don't make me regret it."

You took the file and skimmed through it. A beat. Then another. Your mouth flattened. "Oh, this is ridiculous."

"I know."

"You're right," you said. "This should absolutely be covered." You looked up. "I'll fix it."

Just like that. No ego, no bargaining. Jack studied you for a second. "Thanks," he said, quieter than usual.

You shrugged like it cost nothing. "You always overextend yourself for patients. Someone has to stop the system from making it worse."

His mouth curved slightly. "You do that too, you know. The impossible standards thing." A pause. "I'm starting to think you learned it from me."

You pointed at the door immediately. "Leave."

"There she is." He laughed softly but didn't move. Then, after a beat, his tone shifted. Less teasing, something underneath it that sat differently. "I sent you a letter. After we got back."

The room went quiet.

Your hand stopped halfway to the chart.

"Took me a while to get my head straight," he continued, shrugging once in that way people did when they were being casual about something they very much weren't casual about. "But I heard you were back in the States. So I wrote."

Your chest tightened in the most inconvenient way possible. Because you had waited. Checked your inbox more than you wanted to admit. Wondered, in the quiet hours, more than once.

"I think I gave everyone my dorm address," you said finally, looking down. "Which explains a lot."

"You never got it?"

You shook your head. "And nobody writes letters anymore."

"Well," he said dryly, "we didn't exactly exchange emails in a war zone."

"I'm not really a Facebook person."

"Yeah." You leaned against the edge of the desk. "I could see that. I deleted mine anyway."

He blinked. "You had Facebook?"

"My friend tagged me in an incredibly humiliating photo."

"Oh?"

"Beer. Karaoke. Terrible judgment."

"I suddenly need to see this." The corner of his mouth was doing that thing, and somehow after all this time he still knew exactly how to make you forget yourself for a second.

"Absolutely not."

"You brought it up."

"Mistake." You tried not to smiled but still he noticed. Of course he noticed.

"That look," he said quietly.

"What look?"

"Like you're about to insult me."

"I was."

"Missed that." And the way he said it was so genuine that something shifted in your chest before you could stop it.

You crossed your arms. "You're still insufferable."

"Yeah," he said easily. "But you missed me." He took two slow steps toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. "For the record? From our last conversation." His eyes found yours. "I liked hearing you admit it."

Then he left. And the office felt immediately different without him in it, which was information you had absolutely no use for and were going to ignore entirely.

You didn't notice him come back.

You were on the phone, half-turned toward the window, chart open on the desk in front of you. Jack had come back for something, some reason he had already half-forgotten by the time he reached your door, because you were speaking in a voice he hadn't heard before. Warm. Easy. The kind of relaxed that didn't show up at work.

"I'll see you in the afternoon," you said, and then softer, almost under your breath, "Miss you already."

Jack went completely still in the hallway.

He had heard every version of your voice over the years. Tired, sharp, half-asleep after a thirty hour shift, angry enough to threaten filing a formal complaint. But that? That was something else entirely. That was the voice of someone talking to a person who had earned something from you that most people didn't get close to.

He stepped back from the door before you could turn around.

Back down the hallway. Elevator. Hands in his pockets, jaw set, trying very hard to convince himself he didn't care who was on the other end of that call.

By the time he stepped back into the Pitt the thought had followed him downstairs twice. Maybe three times.

He was deeply annoyed by that.

********

The next night Jack walked into the Pitt with a cloud over his head that was visible from the nurses station.

Robby, who was twenty minutes from the end of his shift and had known Jack long enough to read the signs, fell into step beside him. "You good, man?"

Jack didn't break stride. "Hmm? Yeah."

"Why doesn't that sound convincing?"

"Because you're determined to find a problem." Jack dropped his bag behind the desk. "I'm fine."

Robby crossed his arms. "You used to follow me around before my sabbatical asking questions about everything. You're allowed to return the favor."

"Your case was different."

"How?"

"It just was." Jack pulled up the first chart. "I'm fine, Robby."

Robby looked at him for a moment longer than necessary, then held both hands up. "Suit yourself."

The shift moved the way night shifts did, steady and relentless. Jack worked through it with his head down, which was fine, normal, completely unremarkable except for the fact that he was quieter than usual and Robby had noticed and Ellis had noticed and presumably the entire ER had noticed but nobody was going to be the one to say it.

Shen walked in late, coffee in hand, and immediately sensed the atmosphere.

"You're late," Jack said without looking up.

Shen raised both hands, coffee included. "I told you this morning I'd be late."

Jack said nothing. Just walked away to the next bay.

Ellis appeared at Shen's shoulder. "He's been like that since he walked in," he said quietly. "I think it's related to Dr. Y/N."

Shen looked at Jack across the ER, taking in the set of his jaw and the absence of his usual ease, the way he was moving through the shift like something was sitting on him.

"Follow me," Shen said.

They walked past Jack at a perfectly normal pace. Shen angled slightly toward Ellis and pitched his voice at a volume that was technically still a conversation but definitely also something else. "I saw Dr. Y/N outside running at night" he said. "Second time this week." A brief glance toward Jack. "She really likes to run."

Jack kept his eyes on the chart.

Why should he care. It was good. Staying fit was good. Healthy habit. Completely fine.

He stepped outside twenty minutes later for air, which he genuinely needed and had nothing to do with anything else. The side lot was quiet. The path that ran along the building was mostly empty.

Mostly.

You were at the far end of it, mid-stride, earphones in, moving with the focused rhythm of someone who did this seriously. Jack stopped walking. He should go back inside. He had a full board and a night shift that wasn't going to run itself.

He didn't go back inside.

You slowed as you looped back around and then stopped entirely when you registered him standing there. You pulled one earphone out. "Shouldn't you be in the ER?"

"Shouldn't you be home?"

"I run at night sometimes." You caught your breath evenly. "It's faster without traffic."

"You used to hate working out."

"Because the drill sergeants yelling at me while doing it," you said. "Turns out I just hated that part."

Jack opened his mouth to respond and then stopped. Because you were holding a leash. And at the end of the leash was a German Shepherd sitting with patient, upright attention, ears forward, looking at Jack with the particular focus of a dog deciding what to make of someone.

Something tugged at the back of his memory.

"Don't tell me," he said slowly. "Riot?"

The dog's tail swept the ground once, twice, and then he was on his feet with his front paws reaching for Jack's chest, the full enthusiastic weight of a very large animal who had apparently not forgotten him at all.

Jack grabbed him by the paws and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." He scrubbed both hands behind the dog's ears and Riot leaned into it shamelessly. Jack looked up at you. "He's with you?"

"Clark gave him to me when I got back." You watched the reunion with your arms crossed, something soft in your expression that you weren't doing anything to hide. "He's enormous and emotionally fragile. Separation anxiety. I have to call the daycare every single morning just to get him to settle."

Jack looked back down at Riot, who was now leaning his full body weight against Jack's leg with complete contentment.

Every morning.

The phone call. The warm voice. Miss you already.

He felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn't realized had been sitting there for two days.

It was the dog. You had been talking to the dog's daycare. Not someone else. Just Riot, the scraggly half-starved shepherd they had found wandering the perimeter wire in the middle of a warzone and somehow both decided was their responsibility.

Jack looked up at you. You were watching him with an expression that said you knew exactly what he'd just figured out and were going to be gracious enough not to say it out loud.

He looked back down at Riot.

"Good boy," he said quietly.

Riot wagged his tail.

****

FLASHBACK

Before the fear became familiar, before the adrenaline somehow stopped feeling terrifying, you had been scared. Very scared.

Clark had called you into the medic tent one afternoon while reviewing supplies. "You have to prepare to go into the field," he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his clipboard.

You blinked, pointing a finger at your own chest. "Me?"

"In case we’re short on personnel." He flipped a page on his clipboard, barely offering you a glance.

You stared at him, your stomach tightening. "Ready for what exactly?"

Before Clark could answer, a smooth, confident voice cut through the heavy tent air. "I got it."

You turned to see Jack walking in like he owned the place. He had dust on his boots, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that annoyingly calm expression on his face—as if the world wasn’t actively falling apart around you both.

Clark simply nodded toward him. "He’ll get you ready."

"What do you mean?" your voice went a little higher than you intended.

Jack crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against a support beam. A slow, infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. You looked between the two men, horror sinking in, before locking your gaze back onto Jack.

"Oh no," you whispered.

"I hate you."

"You don’t."

"Yes, I do," you muttered between ragged breaths.

The heat was unbearable, baking the dirt beneath you. Your muscles burned with a fierce, localized agony. You had already run farther than any reasonable human should be expected to run in military gear, and now, somehow, Jack had decided the torture needed a sequel.

You were flat on the ground doing sit-ups, struggling through the upward motion of each repetition. Jack sat right near your feet, using the weight of one hand on your ankles to keep you anchored like this was just a casual afternoon activity.

"Come on," he coaxed, his tone light. "You’ve got six more."

"You’re evil."

"Five."

"I’m reporting you."

"Four."

You threw a lethal glare at him as you pulled yourself up again. "I’ll never forgive you."

Jack leaned back on his hands, completely unfazed. "No, you won’t," he said easily, watching your struggle with a lazy tilt of his head. "But you’ll survive."

With a dramatic groan, you dropped straight back onto the dirt, letting your arms flop to the sides. "Shouldn’t I be learning self-defense or something?" you complained to the sky, your chest heaving. "Why am I doing sit-ups and push-ups?"

Jack shrugged, shifting his weight. "Because the battlefield doesn’t look like the movies."

You frowned, cutting your eyes toward him.

"Most people are running," he explained, his demeanor softening just a fraction. "Running to patients. Running from danger. Carrying people. Crawling. Hiding. If your body gives out, you just become another patient."

You hated his logic, mostly because it was completely unassailable. Rolling your head to the side, you gave him a defeated look. "But why me?"

Jack looked almost offended, his eyebrows drawing together. "You wrote 'running' as your hobby on your intake form."

You immediately pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your jaw dropping. "Because of that?!"

"Yes, because of that."

"That’s not what I meant!" you protested, tossing your hands up. "I run like three kilometers in the morning!"

Jack raised an eyebrow, silently prompting you to continue.

"And then," you added, your voice dropping into an incredibly serious, unblinking tone, "I sit at a café and drink coffee."

Jack stared at you for a beat. Then, a low chuckle escaped him, breaking into a genuine, bright laugh. "That," he said, shaking his head as he looked down at the dirt, "sounds like the dream."

You stared at him, suddenly finding it very hard to breathe for a completely different reason. You hated how unfairly attractive he looked when he laughed. Maybe it was the golden afternoon sunlight filtering through the dust, maybe it was your sheer exhaustion, or maybe it was just the fact that he looked so incredibly grounded in the middle of a war zone. Whatever it was, a strange, uncomfortable flutter bloomed low in your stomach.

You shoved the feeling down immediately.

"Are you scared?" he asked after a quiet moment, his eyes searching yours.

You didn’t even try to pretend. "Terrified."

Jack tilted his head, studying your face. "Hm."

"What?"

"Knowing you?" An enigmatic smile played on his lips. "I think you’ll get addicted to it."

You scoffed, wrinkling your nose. "To getting shot?"

His easy laugh returned. "No," he said gently. "The adrenaline."

"I’m not like you," you insisted, crossing your arms.

"Yeah," he murmured, his gaze dropping for a split second. "That’s what I told myself too." Then, his voice softened into something much quieter. "Don’t worry."

He stood up, brushing the dust from his trousers, and extended a calloused hand down to you. "I’ll be your shield out there."

You gripped his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. You told yourself later that it was just a platonic line, something soldiers said to keep the greenhorns from panicking. Nothing serious. Nothing worth thinking about.

So, naturally, you thought about it constantly.

Then the day came: the first deployment forward, the first time stepping outside the relative safety of the base medical station.

Nothing could have prepared you for it. Not the deafening noise, not the blinding confusion, and certainly not the way your pulse climbed straight into your throat every time an explosion rattled the earth too close for comfort.

You quickly lost count of how many times Jack’s hand yanked the strap of your tactical vest, hauling you behind a concrete barrier just in the nick of time. How many times he physically stepped in front of you, putting his broad shoulders between you and the chaos. How many times he glanced over his shoulder, his sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe just to ensure you were still intact.

"You good?" he’d bark over the din. Before you could even open your mouth to answer, he'd already be turning back to the street. "Stay close."

Always. Stay close.

It was utterly terrifying. And yet, somehow, as the hours bled into days, you realized you kind of liked it. Not the danger—never the danger—but him. You liked the way he instantly noticed the exact moment you froze, the way he never let you fall behind, and the casual, instinctual way his hand would find your shoulder to guide you through a crowd.

And Jack noticed the shift in you, too.

After one particularly chaotic afternoon, while the two of you were sorting through medical crates back at a temporary staging point, he glanced up at you with a knowing smirk. "Careful," he said casually, tossing a roll of gauze into a bin. "You might get addicted to this."

You scoffed, wiping a smudge of dirt from your forehead. "Me? No chance."

Jack just chuckled, shaking his head. "I said the same thing."

Later that evening, after the gunfire had finally ceased and a heavy silence settled over the camp, you heard it.

A tiny sound. Soft, weak, and distinctly miserable.

You froze in your tracks, tilting your head. "Did you hear that?"

Jack paused, a crate balanced on his knee as he looked over at you. "Hear what?"

Instead of answering, you were already moving, following the sound toward the skeletal remains of a damaged building nearby.

"Hey," he called out, his tone sharpening into alert military precision as he dropped the crate. "Where are you going?"

"I hear something under the debris."

"Careful," Jack commanded, his boots crunching quickly over the gravel as he caught up to walk side-by-side with you. His hand hovered near his holster. "Could be a trap."

You desperately hoped it wasn't. Slowly, carefully, you crouched near a collapsed pile of broken wood and shattered concrete. The sound came again—small, fragile, and desperate. Your heart squeezed tightly in your chest.

"Oh my god," you breathed.

Shifting a heavy piece of timber out of the way, you peered into the small hollow beneath. There, curled into a tight ball, was a tiny, filthy German Shepherd puppy. He was barely bigger than your hands, possessing ridiculously oversized ears and paws he hadn't yet grown into. His fur was completely grayed by dust.

The puppy blinked sleepy, frightened eyes up at you—and then immediately leaned forward to lick your cheek.

You gasped, a breathless laugh escaping you. "Oh, you are ridiculously cute."

Jack crouched down beside you, his defensive posture melting away into amusement. He propped his elbows on his knees. "Well," he said dryly, "guess we’re rescuing civilians now."

You shot him an offended look. "He’s a baby."

"That thing?" Jack pointed a finger at the puppy, who was currently trying to chew on your sleeve. "Looks like he pays taxes."

The puppy let out a tiny, high-pitched whine, as if understanding the insult.

Jack sighed dramatically, though the tough-guy facade was entirely gone. He reached out a hand, gently scratching the pup behind his massive ears. "Yeah, alright," he muttered, his voice softening. "You’re ugly-cute."

You smiled despite yourself, watching the puppy lean into Jack's touch. "What should we name him?"

Jack shrugged, not looking up from the dog. "You found him."

You looked down at the tiny creature now curling contentedly against your forearm. He was so small, yet he had survived all of this destruction. "Riot," you said softly.

Jack blinked, looking up at you. "What?"

"Riot," you repeated, your thumb sweeping over the pup's dusty head. "He’s tiny, but he survived a literal riot of a battlefield." You suddenly looked up at Jack, your expression shifting into an eager, pleading stare. "Wait. Can we keep him?"

Jack went quiet. He looked from you to the puppy, then back to you, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make anxiety creep into your chest.

Then, his features relaxed. "Of course."

You blinked, surprised by how easy it was. "Seriously?"

"The guys love animals," he said, standing up and offering you that familiar hand to help you up. "Nobody’s saying no to that face."

The radiant smile that broke across your face caught him completely off guard. You had dust streaked across your cheeks, sweat dampening your hair, and utter exhaustion written in the lines of your shoulders—but that smile brightened the entire miserable day.

Jack looked away first, clearing his throat and shifting his weight awkwardly. "C’mon," he muttered, turning back toward the camp. "Let’s get Riot home."

By the time you walked back into the main camp, cradling the puppy securely against your chest, Riot had already become everyone’s dog. Just as Jack predicted, no one stood a single chance against that face.

*****

PRESENT TIME

"Well," he said, casually crossing his arms as he took in your athletic gear, "look what military strength training did to you."

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Please. I survived those military workouts out of pure, unadulterated spite."

That wasn’t entirely true, of course. You had kept showing up day after day. You had kept running until your lungs burned like fire, nearly collapsing under the brutal sun while Jack stood there yelling at you to finish just one more lap. And maybe—just maybe—the frequent sight of him working out shirtless had contributed slightly to your sudden dedication. Very slightly. But you would rather walk into live gunfire than admit that to his face.

"The adrenaline," Jack said casually, shifting his weight and burying his hands deep into his pockets. "You missed it."

You scoffed, stretching your arms behind your back to look busy. "Hm. What about you? You joined SWAT as a medic."

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh?" A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. "You know about that?"

Shit. You cursed yourself internally, your muscles locking up. It was Garcia. Of course it was Garcia. She had mentioned it while gossiping over coffee one morning, dropping details about Jack being a certified adrenaline junkie who apparently still ran toward danger in his civilian life.

"I heard parts of it," you said quickly, tossing your head back to pretend the information meant absolutely nothing to you. "It's not like I care." Then, your voice dropped into something quieter, your gaze slipping down to his boots. "But try not to get shot."

Realizing how that sounded, you immediately snapped your head away, staring hard at a distant streetlamp. "And I really don't care."

Jack studied you for a second, his smirk softening into something genuinely amused. He huffed a short laugh through his nose. "Ah," he said, shaking his head. "Denial again."

You rolled your eyes a second time. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he pointed out, taking a half-step closer, "you keep talking to me."

Unfortunately, his proximity made your stomach do a deeply irritating little flip. You quickly glanced down at your sports watch, tapping the screen aggressively. "Great," you muttered. "I already ruined my running pace. I can’t ruin my record, too."

Jack tilted his head, watching your frantic tapping. "Oh no," he said dryly, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "God forbid your marathon time suffers because an old man stopped you for five minutes."

You narrowed your eyes, looking up from your watch. "You’re not old."

His grin widened immediately, catching the light. "Well, that sounded weirdly affectionate."

"I take it back."

"Too late."

Before you could fire back a retort, Riot suddenly stepped closer to Jack. His tail began to thump heavily against your leg, and the massive German Shepherd looked one second away from trying to climb straight up Jack's chest.

Jack blinked, his expression softening as he reached down to let the dog sniff his knuckles. "He still remembers me."

"Of course he does," you said, watching the dog lean into the touch. "We both found him. Took care of him." You paused, the words tumbling out of your mouth before your brain could stop them. "Basically, we were..."

Oh no. No. Abort mission.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted immediately, a dangerous spark of amusement in his eyes. "His mom and dad?"

Your entire body went rigid. A fierce, sudden heat climbed straight into your face. Thankfully, it was dark out—hopefully dark enough to hide the flush creeping up your neck.

You crossed your arms tight over your chest, trying to salvage your dignity. "We adopted him together," you said, rushing the words. "Of course we are."

Smooth. Very smooth.

Jack chuckled softly, a low sound that vibrated in the quiet night air. Somehow, that was worse. He looked way too entertained, entirely too pleased with himself. Seeing you flustered after years of sharp, military-grade comebacks was clearly the highlight of his week.

"Wow," he said, shaking his head once. "I didn’t know we were co-parenting."

"We are not."

"You literally just said..."

"Goodbye, Abbott."

He laughed again, stepping back to give you room as you pointed your body down the path. "Tell our son I will play fetch later!"

"Oh my god," you muttered under your breath.

You turned on your heel and immediately started running again. You pushed yourself into a sprint this time, faster than your training schedule required, mostly because your heart was beating way too hard against your ribs. And it was definitely, absolutely definitely, not because Jack Abbott was still standing under the streetlamp behind you, smiling like he had just won a prize.

*****

The hospital charity gala felt strangely unnatural. It was too polished, too expensive, and crowded with far too many people pretending they weren't entirely exhausted. To your eyes, doctors in formal attire always looked vaguely cursed. It brought to mind that bizarre childhood sensation of seeing your schoolteachers at the grocery store. It was wrong. It was completely wrong.

Which was exactly why seeing Jack Abbott in a suit should not have affected you this much. And yet, unfortunately, it did.

The man who usually looked permanently sleep-deprived and mildly irritated had cleaned up offensively well. He wore a tailored dark suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, and his salt-and-pepper curls were slightly messy in that annoyingly effortless way. It looked as though he had spent a grand total of five minutes getting ready and still managed to look unfairly attractive.

Damn it.

You snapped your head away immediately. No. Absolutely not. You were not doing this. Not today, and certainly not after a grueling twelve-hour rotation in surgery.

"You look concerned."

You looked up at the sound of the voice. Jack. Of course. He stood a few feet away, swirling a whiskey in his hand as if he had materialized out of thin air.

"Shouldn’t you be resting?" he asked, tilting his head as his sharp eyes scanned your tired face. "Twelve-hour shift is no joke."

You glanced at him, leaning back slightly against a nearby cocktail table. "Doctors tell patients to sleep eight hours," you said dryly, crossing your arms. "For us, even a nap feels like a luxury."

A quiet laugh escaped him, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "Fair."

He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. When he looked back up, his expression shifted. It was a subtle change, but you caught it. It was the look of a man seeing you properly for the first time tonight.

And that was dangerous.

Because you had cleaned up, too. You had traded your scrubs for a sleek dress and high heels, your hair styled and your makeup done to perfection. There was a sharp elegance to your look, a striking contrast to your usual professional attire. You looked dangerous in a way he hadn't anticipated. Back during your deployment, you had always been the epitome of practicality: exhausted, covered in dust, with your hair hastily tied back. This version of you looked like trouble. The exact kind of trouble a smart man would actively avoid.

Unfortunately for him, Jack had never been particularly smart about things he found interesting.

A server stopped nearby, balancing a silver platter. "Whiskey, ma'am?" he offered, lifting the tray toward you.

Before you could even open your mouth to answer, Jack stepped in. "She can't drink," he said immediately, waving the server away with a brief motion of his hand.

You blinked, caught off guard. You looked up at him, your arms dropping to your sides. "You remembered?"

Jack gave you a knowing look, a slow grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Of course I remembered. Your drunk phase traumatized half the camp."

A breathless laugh escaped you despite your best efforts to remain poised. "Was it really that dramatic?"

"You almost gave Diaz a heart attack," Jack chuckled, taking a step closer into your space.

*****

FLASHBACK

It had happened after one of the absolute worst weeks of the entire deployment. The hours had been brutal, sleep was a forgotten concept, and every single soul in the camp was walking around like a ghost. To boost morale, someone had passed around a few warm beers near the supply tents.

Diaz had slid one into your hand, giving you a tired pat on the shoulder. "Drink up. You earned it."

You had hesitated, looking down at the condensation on the can, before popping the tab. You drank exactly one. One single beer. It should have been completely harmless. Anyone would think a single drink would barely register.

Instead, twenty minutes later, you stopped talking. Completely.

Jack noticed first, which was alarming in itself because under normal circumstances, the two of you traded sharp barbs at least twice an hour. When the silence stretched too long, he looked over and found you sitting unusually still on a wooden crate. You were quiet. Way too quiet.

He walked over, blocking the dim light of the lanterns. "You good?"

You blinked slowly up at him, your head tilting at a strange, heavy angle. "...Mm."

It was the least convincing sound he had ever heard. Jack immediately crouched down in front of you, his medical instincts kicking in. He reached out, wrapping his fingers around your wrist to check your pulse, then used his thumb to gently lift your chin, inspecting your pupils.

"Diaz," Jack called out, his voice flat and dangerous. "What the hell did you give her?"

Diaz looked up from across the circle, his face turning pale with horror. "...A beer?"

Jack stared at him, his brow furrowing. "One?"

"Yes, just one!" Diaz protested, holding up a single finger defensively.

Jack looked back down at you, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. Blackout drunk from one standard beer. It was statistically unbelievable.

And then, somehow, it got worse. Because within thirty seconds, you became clingy. Dangerously clingy.

Jack started to stand up, intending to get you some water, but he immediately felt a heavy resistance. You had lunged forward, wrapping both of your arms tightly around his bicep. Before he could react, you leaned your head heavily against his shoulder, sighing contentedly as if it were the most natural pillow in the world.

"You’re comfortable," you mumbled into his chest.

Jack went entirely rigid, his arms freezing at his sides. "...What?"

"Warm," you added, tightening your grip and burying your face a little deeper.

Diaz nearly choked on his own breath, quickly covering his mouth to stifle a massive laugh. "Oh my god," he wheezed.

Jack snapped his head around, pointing a threatening finger at him immediately. "Not a single word, Diaz."

Unbothered by the tension, you squeezed his arm even closer to your chest. "I like this one," you said sleepily, your eyes closed.

Jack looked down at the top of your head, looking deeply, profoundly tired. "Fantastic," he muttered to himself.

After that historic evening, you were unofficially, but very strictly, banned from alcohol by the entire medical unit. Forever.

*****

PRESENT TIME

You sighed, remembering the old times with a sudden pang of nostalgia, before quietly slipping some cash across the bar to the server. "Ginger ale," you murmured, keeping your voice low. "In a whiskey glass."

The server glanced down at the generous tip, his lips curving into an immediate smile. "Coming right up."

Jack watched the entire exchange, leaning his hip against the bar. A familiar, mocking smirk pulled at his mouth. "Still pretending you can drink, I see."

You crossed your arms, lifting your chin defensively. "I can’t exactly look weak in front of the new hospital staff."

Something about your stubborn pride made Jack’s sarcastic expression soften, the sharp lines of his face relaxing. "You were never weak," he said quietly.

The weight of his words landed surprisingly hard, sending an annoying little jolt straight through your chest. But before you could even process it, he offered that familiar, stupid smile, turned on his heel, and walked away. You stood entirely still, watching his broad back disappear into the swirling crowd of the gala. It was deeply inconvenient how much an abrupt exit like that still had an effect on you, even after all these years.

You were still staring blankly into the crowd when Dana appeared at your side. Unfairly, she looked absolutely incredible tonight, carrying herself with the effortless grace of someone who actually belonged in a room filled with expensive champagne and high society. She glanced in the direction Jack had vanished, then slowly turned her head to look at you, her eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. "Hm."

You already knew exactly what that sound meant. "No," you said immediately.

"I didn’t even say anything."

"You were about to."

Dana plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing server's tray, taking a delicate sip. "I’m just wondering," she said casually, "whether you actually hate him or secretly like him."

You caught your breath, nearly choking on absolutely nothing. "What?"

"Because," she continued, waving her glass vaguely toward the crowd, "from an outside perspective, the chemistry between you two is exceptionally loud."

You snapped your gaze away, staring hard at the floor. "There’s no chemistry."

Dana gave you a flat, deadpan look. "Sure."

You let out a long, defeated sigh, your shoulders dropping. "It’s complicated."

"Oh, good," Dana said, her eyes lighting up. "My absolute favorite kind of answer."

Your fingers tightened around your whiskey glass of ginger ale. "It’s just... back in the army, he used to tease me constantly."

Dana raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. "Like, maliciously?"

"No." You shook your head once, trying to find the right words. Trying to explain the military version of Jack Abbott to someone who only knew him as a civilian doctor felt entirely impossible. "More like... he liked reminding me that I was younger. The senior staff always teased me." You paused, your voice dropping into a softer, quieter register. "Though nobody else really ordered me around."

"Why not?"

You looked down into your drink, swirling the amber liquid. "Because Jack usually got there first."

That admission made Dana’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh."

You instantly hated that tone, the one that signaled sudden, unwanted realization.

"Do you like him?" Dana asked, her voice turning much gentler this time.

You went entirely quiet. It was the heavy kind of silence that usually answered a question far better than words ever could. Finally, you swallowed the lump in your throat. "I liked him," you admitted softly.

Dana blinked, picking up on the tense. "Past tense?"

Before she could press further, you let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh through your nose. "The truly annoying part? I liked him before he even noticed me. It just made me more irritated."

Dana stared at you for a long beat, her expression softening into pure sympathy. "Oh, you are in so much trouble."

You frowned at her. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Dana said simply, "you never actually got over him."

She paused, clearly waiting for you to fire back with a fierce denial. Instead, you slowly set your glass down on a high-top table, your fingers lingering on the crystal. "I never said I was."

"If you liked him so much," she asked carefully, stepping closer, "why didn't you two ever...?"

The words trailed off, and the ambient music of the gala suddenly felt too loud, yet miles away. Your chest tightened. "Something happened," you said eventually, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the room.

Dana waited, keeping her gaze steady on you.

You looked down at your hands. "The explosion," you whispered, the memory hitting you with a cold wave of familiarity. "It took a part of us with it."

Jack losing his leg. The soldier you hadn't been able to save. The crushing weight of the guilt, the agonizing silence that followed, and the permanent distance that grew between you. Everything had changed in a single afternoon.

Dana studied your face for a second, seeing the ghosts in your eyes, and nodded once. She didn't ask any more questions. She knew where the line was.

You really should have gone home. That would have been the smart, professional thing to do. Instead, your eyes helplessly wandered across the crowded ballroom until they landed on Jack.

He was standing near the bar, deep in conversation with Dr. Al-Hashimi. They weren't standing too close, not inappropriately so, but there was an undeniable comfort to their posture. They looked easy together, like two people who shared a history and truly understood one another. For some deeply unreasonable reason, the sight made a sharp spike of irritation flare in your chest.

Dr. Al-Hashimi laughed at something he said, throwing her head back. Jack leaned a fraction closer, tilting his ear toward her to catch her words over the booming music.

You snapped your head away immediately. You did not care. You absolutely did not care.

Dana noticed anyway. "Oh," she said carefully.

"What?" you snapped, hating the pity in her voice.

"Jack and Dr. Al-Hashimi sometimes grab drinks after shifts," Dana said, keeping her tone light and casual. "She used to volunteer with Doctors Without Borders, too."

You blinked once, the words stinging more than they should have. "Oh. I see." Your voice sounded remarkably normal, which was a minor miracle given the unpleasant knot twisting tightly in your chest.

Doctors Without Borders. Field medicine. War zones. A shared history. It was funny, really, because you had all of that with him, too. You had worked directly beside him, followed him into active danger, stitched him up when he was bleeding, and trusted him with your literal life. So why had he never asked you to go to a bar?

The real whiskey had been sitting on the table for ten minutes, untouched and deeply tempting. You stared down at the amber glass. It was a bad idea, a truly terrible idea, but your emotions were entirely scrambled. Surely, now that you were older, a single drink wouldn't completely destroy you. You reached out and picked up the glass.

Across the room, Jack stood in the middle of a conversation he had entirely stopped listening to. Someone from hospital administration was drone-delivery a speech, Dr. Shen had just made a sarcastic remark, and a few people laughed. Jack nodded automatically, his mind completely elsewhere.

He frowned, a sudden prickle of unease washing over him. His eyes began to drift across the room, scanning the faces without even thinking about it. Where were you? The last time he checked, you were standing near the pillars with Dana. He scanned the crowd a second time, but came up empty. There were no sharp comments cutting through the air, no crossed arms, and no familiar looks of judgment aimed in his direction.

It felt entirely wrong. Without fully meaning to, he excused himself from the group and started walking. He pushed past the bar, navigated around the silent auction tables, and then he finally spotted you.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Everyone else at your table was standing, laughing, and socializing. Meanwhile, you were slumped in a chair. One of your elbows rested heavily on the white tablecloth, your head leaning lazily against your palm. Your other hand was slowly dragging a silver fork back and forth against the fabric, your eyes completely glazed over and distant.

It was a look Jack recognized instantly. It was far too familiar.

Jack let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Oh no. No. Absolutely not.

He stormed over to the table immediately. Dana looked up first, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh, hey, Jack."

Jack didn't even look at Dana; his sharp gaze was locked entirely on you. "Did she drink alcohol?"

Dana blinked, caught off guard. "Just a little bit."

Jack closed his eyes briefly, inhaling sharply, before letting out the long, exhausted sigh of a man who knew his night had just been hijacked. "She can't drink," he said flatly.

Dana frowned, crossing her arms. "What, is she allergic or something?"

"Worse," Jack muttered, stepping closer to your chair. "Alcohol is basically a neurotoxin to her brain chemistry."

Before Dana could ask for a medical explanation, you moved. Your movements were slow and fluid. You dragged yourself up from the chair, swayed slightly, and then leaned your entire weight directly against Jack's side. Your hands reached out, wrapping securely around his bicep, holding his arm tight against your chest as if it were a security blanket. It was pure muscle memory.

Jack went entirely rigid, his breath hitching. Dana froze, her jaw dropping slightly. Even Garcia, who had appeared out of nowhere holding a soda, stopped mid-sip and nearly choked.

You looked up at him, your eyes completely stripped of their usual sharp defenses. They were soft, heavily lidded, and quiet. "Jack," you murmured.

The entire table fell into a stunned silence. Jack looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. For one ridiculous, terrifying second, his heart did something deeply inconvenient against his ribs. It had been years since you had said his name like that.

No "Abbott."

No biting sarcasm. No professional coldness.

Just Jack. Soft, familiar, and sounding exactly the way you used to when the chaos of the field got too loud.

Dana pressed her lips tightly together, desperately trying to stifle a massive grin. "Ow," she muttered under her breath, covering her mouth with her hand as she watched the display.

Jack snapped his head up, glaring at her. He did not appreciate whatever romantic narrative she was constructing in her head.

"Well, she obviously can't drive," Dana said, her voice shaking with suppressed laughter. "Take her home, doctor."

Jack looked back down at the top of your head, your face still buried contentedly in his suit jacket. "I could," he admitted slowly, "if I actually knew where she lived now."

Garcia raised her soda can, pointing toward the chair. "Check her bag."

Jack shifted slightly, trying not to dislodge you. "What's in the bag?"

"She keeps an emergency ID card in the side pocket," Garcia explained, her tone turning practical. "Emergency contacts, current address, medical info. She told us after a rough shift that if anything ever happens to her, it makes things easier for the paramedics."

Jack blinked, a quiet appreciation washing over him. That was incredibly smart. It was entirely, uniquely you.

Dana crouched down, unzipping your clutch and rummaging through it for a moment before pulling out a neatly laminated card. She handed it over to Jack.

Jack took the card, scanning the crisp text, and huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. Your apartment was barely a few blocks away from the hospital. No wonder you always managed to show up to emergency pages faster than anyone else. Strangely, holding the small, laminated piece of plastic reminded him vividly of military dog tags. It was simple, practical, and entirely prepared for the absolute worst. Very military. Very you.

He glanced back down at his arm. You were still clinging to him, completely unbothered by the conversation happening above your head, acting as if leaning against his chest in a crowded ballroom was the most natural thing in the world.

Jack slipped your ID card into his pocket and wrapped a steady arm around your waist to keep you upright. Yeah, this was definitely his problem now.

******

By the time Jack got you up the stairs to your apartment, you were barely conscious. You were half-asleep, leaning almost entirely into his side, and occasionally mumbling incoherent things that made absolutely no sense.

"You still alive there?" he muttered, shifting his weight to adjust his grip on your waist.

You let out a soft, garbled sound that could have meant yes, or perhaps no. It was entirely hard to tell.

Jack used his free hand to punch your emergency access code into the keypad, reading the numbers straight off the laminated ID card he had taken from your bag. The very second the door clicked open, a massive blur of fur came barreling down the hallway at full speed.

Riot.

The giant German Shepherd nearly crashed directly into Jack's shins, his tail wagging so violently that his entire hindquarters swayed with it.

"Well," Jack huffed, bracing himself against the doorframe to keep his balance. "Guess somebody remembers me."

Riot whined excitedly, pushing his wet nose right against Jack's knuckles. Jack crouched as low as his prosthetic leg comfortably allowed, using his fingers to scratch behind the dog’s oversized ears.

"How are you, buddy?" Jack murmured, a genuine warmth filtering into his tone.

Riot pushed even closer, leaning his heavy chest against Jack's knee. Still dramatic. Still clingy. Still the exact same Riot. Jack glanced up at your drooping form, still propped against his shoulder.

"I'm bringing your mom home safe, alright?"

Riot let out a short huff, sitting back on his haunches as if he thoroughly approved of the mission. Or perhaps he was judging the state you were in. It was hard to tell.

Getting you into the bedroom proved to be a much larger logistical challenge than Jack anticipated, mostly because your drunk self had completely abandoned all concepts of human coordination.

"You are completely impossible," Jack muttered, carefully guiding you downward until you sat heavily on the edge of the mattress.

You only blinked slowly up at him, your head tilting back. You were sleepy and quiet, looking nothing like the sharp, formidable surgeon who usually held court in the hospital hallways. Jack crouched down to slide the high heels off your feet, setting them neatly side-by-side beside the bed.

"There," he said quietly, straightening up. "You survived the gala. Barely."

He reached down and pulled the heavy blanket up to your shoulders. As he began to step back, your hand moved weakly across the mattress. Your fingers brushed blindly against the sheets, searching for something, a familiar restlessness taking over.

Jack frowned, pausing in the dark room. "What are you doing?"

Then, the realization hit him.

Back then. The military. You used to do this exact same thing. After the terrible nights, after the high-casualty shifts when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry, you would quietly steal his arm and use his bicep as a pillow, falling asleep right beside him while sitting on the dirt floor of the tent.

The memory hit him unexpectedly, soft and dangerously disarming. Before he could pull away, your fingers brushed the fabric of his sleeve, lightly tugging at the cuff of his suit jacket.

"I'm sorry, Jack," you murmured, your voice cracking with sleep.

His expression changed instantly, his jaw tightening.

You shifted your head slightly against your pillow, your eyebrows knitting together in distress. "I couldn't save you."

An absolute silence fell over the bedroom. The walls suddenly felt smaller, suffocatingly close. He knew exactly what you meant, even after all this time. The explosion. His leg. The blood on your hands. The chaotic aftermath and the crushing weight of a survivor's guilt that you never, ever talked about in the light of day.

Jack swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tighter than he expected. Even after all these years, you were still carrying the blame for something you had no power to stop. Something in his chest twisted painfully.

Slowly, he reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. You looked younger when you were asleep, stripped of your armor, less guarded, and less angry at the world.

"I never blamed you," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper in the quiet room. His hand lingered against your hair for one brief, bittersweet second. "It was never your fault."

The words came easy, but they were entirely too late. Your breathing had already shifted into a deep, rhythmic pattern. You were fast asleep.

Jack stood there for a long moment, simply looking down at you and thinking. Maybe one day, when the ghosts finally stopped chasing you and you were truly ready, the two of you could finally talk about it properly.

Eventually, he turned and slipped toward the door, careful not to let his boots make a sound on the hardwood. "Alright," he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "Time for me to get a cab."

A sudden, sharp tug at his trousers stopped him in his tracks. Jack looked down.

Riot had the cuff of Jack's suit pants clamped firmly between his teeth.

"Buddy," Jack warned, looking down at the dog.

Riot gave a low, muffled woof around the fabric.

"I have to go."

Riot only pulled harder, digging his paws into the floor.

Jack let out a long, defeated sigh. "You are unbelievably stubborn, you know that?"

The dog did not care in the slightest. In fact, he gave another firm tug, stronger this time. Jack nearly laughed out loud. Between the dog and his owner, it seemed stubbornness was a highly contagious disease in this apartment. Still, a quiet part of him had deeply missed this, the weird comfort of Riot's antics, a living reminder of a time before everything went wrong.

Eventually, he threw his hands up in surrender. "Alright. Fine. You win."

Riot released the fabric immediately, a clear look of victory in his dark eyes. Jack pointed a finger toward the living room. "I’m sleeping on the couch."

Riot offered a single, affirmative bark. A second later, the dog disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later while dragging a spare throw blanket tightly in his jaws.

Jack blinked, completely stunned. "You're kidding me."

The dog dropped the blanket directly at Jack's feet. Jack looked genuinely touched, a soft smile breaking through his exhaustion. "You are way more considerate than your mother."

Riot gave a soft huff, as if agreeing, then turned on his heel and walked straight back into your bedroom. He leaped effortlessly onto the mattress, curling his large body into a protective circle right beside you.

Jack stared through the open doorway. "Traitor."

Riot cut his eyes back to him once, letting out a faint whine.

Jack narrowed his eyes at the dog. "I thought we were having guy time."

Another soft bark echoed from the bed. The translation was abundantly clear: Absolutely not. My shift is with mom.

Jack shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. "Fine."

He settled his frame onto the small living room couch, his prosthetic leg aching slightly from the long night. His expensive suit was entirely wrinkled, and his neck was going to be furious with him tomorrow morning, but as he pulled the dog-hair-covered blanket up to his chest, he realized he didn't really mind at all.

*****

Morning arrived with a painful, blinding vengeance. Your head throbbed to the rhythm of a steady pulse, and you groaned loudly, burying your face flat into the pillows to block out the sunlight. Why did your skull feel like an active construction zone?

Then, the memories began to patch themselves together. Your eyes snapped open.

Apartment. Bedroom. Riot.

Right. The charity gala. The single, solitary drink.

Oh no.

How exactly had you gotten home? Had Dana called an Uber? Had the hospital administration arranged transport for an incapacitated surgeon?

You sat up slowly, immediately regretting the sudden movement as a wave of nausea washed over you. Riot jumped off the bed, shaking his fur out, and followed closely at your heels like a furry, loyal bodyguard as you stumbled out of the bedroom.

You walked into the dining area and froze completely.

Sitting on the table was a fresh cup of coffee and a neatly closed takeout box from the bakery down the street.

"What?" you whispered to the empty room.

You stepped closer, your eyes catching a bright yellow sticky note slapped right onto the plastic lid. You picked it up, squinting at the sharp, masculine handwriting.

Since your fridge contains absolutely nothing useful, I bought breakfast. P.S. I put my number in your phone. — Jack

You stared at the paper, then stared harder, your brain struggling to process the signature. Jack? Jack Abbott had brought you home?

You grabbed your phone off the counter immediately, holding it up so Face ID could unlock the screen. "Oh my god," you muttered, realizing how he must have gotten into your device last night by holding it up to your sleeping face.

You tapped into your contacts, scrolling furiously down to the 'A' section. You paused, and then a helpless, breathless laugh burst from your chest.

Somehow, Jack had saved his own contact details under a very specific name:

🚑 Captain Chaos

You covered your burning face with both hands, shaking your head against your palms. "Oh, he thinks he's hilarious."

But unfortunately for your dignity, you were smiling.

Meanwhile, outside the main entrance of your apartment building, two nurses from the emergency pit slowed their steps on the sidewalk. They stopped entirely, their jaws dropping in unison.

Because walking out the front doors was none other than Dr. Jack Abbott.

He was wearing the exact same dark suit from the charity gala the night before, only now it was heavily wrinkled. His salt-and-pepper hair was significantly messier than usual, a paper coffee cup was clutched in his hand, and he looked suspiciously comfortable for a man walking out of a residential building at seven in the morning.

The two nurses exchanged a wide-eyed, terrified look of pure excitement.

"Oh my god."

"Absolutely not."

"Do you know who lives in this building?"

"Dr. L/N," the other whispered.

A heavy, thrilled silence hung between them for a fraction of a second.

"Oh, this is premium gossip."

And just like that, the rumor mill began to spin.

Taglist:

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For the past three weeks, you’ve hardly had time to see them. Motivation for your final installment finally hit about two weeks ago. And between that, Phoebe, and seeing Jack at any off-chance you can, your schedule hasn’t lined up with your friends until now. 

That’s not to say you haven’t been in contact. The group chat seems to blow up every time you let them know you have plans with Jack, which, in all honesty, has been quite often. 

Over the past three weeks, you don’t think you can actually count how many little dates he’s taken you on. Dinner, lunch, early morning coffees after you drop Phoebe to school and he finishes a night shift. 

Any free moment you both get that coincides with the other, you make the most of it. Whether it’s for twenty minutes to grab some breakfast after shift and drop off, or two hours in the afternoon or evening when Pheeb’s is asleep for dinner and a very sneaky but hot make-out session. 

And of course, Bella is the one that insists on photos of said dates. Sometimes you just send a photo of your food and drinks, Jack’s hand around the mug or his chest at the back of the frame. More recently, however, like the last few dates, you’ve sent them selfies. 

Goofy ones, where Jack is feeding you a forkful of pasta in your kitchen. Candid ones, where he’s walking ahead slightly but his arm is stretched behind him, his fingers intertwined with yours. And sometimes, photos together; both grinning or pulling a face into the camera—cheeks pressed against one another and eyes sparkling with someone you don’t want to acknowledge just yet. 

You’ll never admit just how often you find yourself looking through your camera roll for them, how long you spend admiring them, how warm your cheeks grow and how wide your grin stretches. 

But your friends, they know. Of course, they know. Bunch of fucking busybodies. 

“When are you gonna bring Jack to brunch, then?” Chloe asks over the rim of her water. “He could’ve tagged along today.”

You scoff a laugh out at that, shaking your head and pinching up a piece of lettuce that slipped from your sandwich. 

“You want me to bring the guy I’m dating to girls brunch?” You ask. “When have any of us either done that? It’s a silent rule that men are forbidden from our brunches.” 

Bella shrugs with a smirk, leaning over to steal a french fry from your plate. “A one-off wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

You roll your eyes with fondness. You know what she’s doing. That she wants to see you and Jack in each other's space for herself. Wants to watch the way he interacts with you, wants to know exactly what he does to make you the way you are. 

Happy. Relaxed. 

“He’s busy today.”

“Overtime?” Leone speaks around a mouthful of food. 

You heave a breath, gently placing your chicken sandwich back on the plate. The girls know that movement. It’s a tell you have when you’re about to drop a piece of information that may either excite them or anger them.

“He has a SWAT shift.” 

You expected the silence, the wide eyes, the blinking. You knew they would smirk, shrill, smack you for keeping something so interesting to yourself. 

But you didn’t expect all of them to start fucking swooning. Chloe and Leone are fucking lesbians, for fucks sake. 

Karis leans closer with wide eyes. This is probably the most interest she’s shown in your involvement with Jack that isn’t just a soft smile or engaging eye contact. “SWAT? As in…”

“He’s a medic. Goes in with the team in case any one gets hurt.” 

Bella blinks at you, slight hurt in her eyes that you didn’t tell her but the shock and excitement is much more prominent. Her expression morphs into something feline and a smirk curls at the corners of her mouth. 

“He must be dicking you down so good.” She laughs, eyes flickering around the group. “You just know he talks her through it.” 

You can’t hide the heat that rises to the apples of your cheeks. She whirls to look at you again. 

“A man in two uniforms… you lucky bitch.” 

Karis splutters into her water, Chloe quickly reaches an arm around her to pat her back but Leone is staring at you and your warm face with squinted eyes. 

“No…” she says slowly, like she can sense what you’re not admitting just by the look on your face. 

You turn to her, subtly shaking your head with a hard look in your eyes to shut the fuck up. But Bella catches it, lets her eyes dart between you both as the smirk turns to confusion. 

“What?” she asks, voice a bit shrill. 

Leone keeps her accusing gaze on you when she speaks again. “You haven’t slept with him yet?” 

The table stills, so does Karis’ coughing fit. All eyes turn to you. Not just shock or bewilderment this time, but… disgust? Pinching brows and grimacing lips. They look at you like you’ve got three fucking heads. 

Your hands drag down your face as you sink back into your chair. You didn't want to have this conversation with them. Not out of embarrassment or hesitation, but because they’re nosy and know how out of character it is for you to be seeing someone for a month and not have some form of sex with them.

Karis leans closer to the table, napkin clutched in her dainty fingers. 

“Is it… is it because he can't?” She’s polite enough to almost whisper the question, to look sheepish and afraid of offending. 

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is completely involuntary. Because you’re hit with an onslaught of mini-memories. Remembering all the dry-humping and the fact that you’ve definitely felt just how hard he does get. 

“He’s forty-four. Believe me, he can get it up.” 

Chloe shakes her head at you, like your answer isn’t good enough. “Then, why…”

You shrug. “We’re just… taking our time. We really like each other and I—I have Phoebe to consider, you know? We get along great without the sex, and I just…”

You can’t explain it to them. Not really. It’s odd, wanting to keep it a secret, the fact that both you and Jack agreed you didn’t want to rush this. That you both wanted to take your time. It doesn’t help that you don’t know what the fuck you are, but not having sex yet… It feels like the right call to make. 

You don’t think they’ll understand that, and that’s okay. 

Karis is tied down and expecting. Chloe and Leone have been together since high-school and sometimes they invite a third. And Bella… Well sex is very important to Bella. 

You don’t want teasing, don’t want judgement. You like whatever the fuck is going on with Jack. You love your friends, but you don’t want their opinions on the matter. Don’t want them interfering with what you have. 

You find yourself overcompensating for it and speaking again. 

“We’re keeping it platonic around Phoebe. She loves him, it’s not a secret, but I’m kinda trying to limit how often they see each other. I don’t want her getting confused.”

The truth of it seems to soften their judgement and confusion. Bella moreso. Because she does the same. No man she dates ever meets Florence unless she’s absolutely certain they will be a stable figure in their lives. It doesn’t affect her from dating shamelessly and fucking anything she find a attractive, but she doesn’t allow that to touch her daughters life. 

The realization of just how much you like Jack is quite clarifying for her. 

“But, isn’t he okay about Phoebe? He was great with her at the birthday party.” She probes softly and you find yourself mirroring her expression, warmth filling you.

“He’s so natural with her. They’ve got such an intense bond, it’s odd. They just get each other, I don’t know. And he always asks about her. If we go on a date or he comes over when she’s sleeping, he’ll always bring something for her. A toy, or a treat.” 

And it’s true. 

Jack understands that you’re a mother before anything else. That Phoebe comes before anything else. He respects it, understands it. Adopts it, even. If you’ve had to cancel a date, he’s more than happy to rearrange. He lets you choose what will work best for you and her. Shows interest in her little life and the things she likes. 

And it’s fucking terrifying.

Because you’ve never dated someone that cares enough about you to care about her, too. Never met a man who isn’t bothered by you having a child, who accepts it and embraces it, who understands and considers it with everything he does that regards you. 

It makes you realize just how phenomenal Jack is. And how desperately you want whatever you have with him to keep growing. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

If there’s one thing you hate about dates, it’s the fancy dinners in expensive restaurants and the overwhelming expectations that comes with them. 

In the past three months of dating Jack, you’ve only been on two of those said dates. The first one was fine, wonderful, even. The food was gorgeous, even if the portions were slightly too-small and the cost was incredibly over-priced. The atmosphere was gentle and intimate and it felt good to dress up more than you usually did. 

But you felt out of place. Your personality felt squished into a suffocating bubble. Too aware of how loud your laugh was. You felt like you were performing, something you’ve never done before and it left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

The second one, though, was awful. The moment you sat down, next to a group of women that were Jack’s age, you felt an uncomfortable gaze on the side of your face. At first, you assumed it was judgement. That you were younger than him by a fair few years. 

But when a woman approached and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder like she was familiar with him, you quickly understood. She introduced herself as an old friend of Jack’s from fucking highschool, though the slightly familair sparkle in her eye suggested it was a little more than that. 

Demi, her name was. Out for drinks with her friends. Devastatingly beautiful, long legs peeking through a black cocktail dress and silky hair that curled around her shoulders. She was the complete opposite of you in every sense imaginable. A successful lawyer, naturally stunning beyond belief. She was graceful in how she spoke and held herself; glowing skin and perfect posture. 

Angelic, if you were being honest. And not to mention, Jack’s age. There was that familiar tilt of an aching pain when you watched her talk with him, when you observed just how perfect they actually looked together. 

But despite her silky voice and perfectly manicured fingers, her captivating face and entrancing eyes, Jack did not encourage it, did not allow the encounter to move past pleasantries. Because Demi hadn’t paid no mind to you; had been rude enough to ignore your presence, to impose on what was very clearly a date. 

Jack was respectful when he cut her off, when he introduced you. When he said it was nice to see her again before angling his chair closer to you and refusing to offer her even another glance. Demi, to her credit, got the hint and left. 

But it had put a sour on your mood and Jack could sense it. You’d tried to continue through the date, to not allow doubt to wedge its way into your mind. But like last time, you felt out of place. The feeling had grown tenfold and it was Jack’s decision to throw cash on the table and guide you out of the restaurant with his fingers curled around yours. 

“That place was a drag.” He’d grinned at you, and twenty minutes later, you both found yourselves singing karaoke in a dive bar. 

It was a silent understanding then, that the both of you preferred dates that had a bit of personality to them. 

After that night, unless it was an impromptu coffee catch-up or takeout at your apartment, dates consisted of watching weird movies at the theater, bowling, arcades, crazy golf, karaoke or, like two days ago, a fucking panic room.

Tonight is supposed to be no different. Burgers and drinks and a comedy show. Somewhere along the past three months, these get-togethers have been feeling less like dates and more like hanging out with your best friend. 

And not in an awkward shift of feelings type of way. No. It’s in a way that makes you feel like you’ve known Jack for years, that he’s always been a figure in your life. His presence is now familiar, like he’s slotted perfectly into your life like a missing piece. 

Despite minimizing how often he and Phoebe see one another, he asks about her constantly. Before every date—if he comes to yours or picks you up—Jack will bring a little bouquet of flowers for her. Or a bracelet making kit, or an action figure she’s fixated on, or a CD for her little stereo in her room. 

Phoebe draws him pictures a lot, asks far too often when she’ll get to see him next. And on the very odd occasion when you invite Jack to the park with you both, or he stops in for a coffee or to help fix something broken, they’re like two best friends finally reunited. 

It both warms and breaks your heart at the same time. You’ve done everything you can to not allow them to form too deep of a connection, and yet it’s happened anyway. 

And Jack, he understands. He’s respected your decision since day one, when you made it clear that Phoebe comes first. He’s agreed, never once grown frustrated when you’ve had to cancel a date because she’s unwell or just wants you. 

You can’t help but feel guilty when you do cancel. Can’t help but feel like Jack deserves someone who does have the time for him that’s undisturbed. That he should pursue someone that doesn’t have the added responsibility of a child like you do. 

Maybe that’s why your stomach feels like it’s in knots when Tom calls to tell you that he’s bringing Phoebe home now, at 4 p.m. instead of tomorrow morning. You feel like nothing short of a let down as you type yet another apology text to Jack for the sixth time this month alone. 

You: are those tickets for the show tonight refundable? 

Jack: No, but they were only twenty dollars each. Do we need to cancel?

You: pheebs is coming home now

Jack: Is she okay?

You: yeah, he said she’s upset and wants to come home… think she just wants to be with me. I’m sorry jack 

Jack: Don’t ever be sorry, honey. Diva comes first always

Your heart feels heavy when you read over his final text again and again. You don’t get any time to write a reply because there’s a knocking on your front door the moment your fingers hover over the keyboard, about to tell him that maybe he should go with someone else instead. 

Phoebe all but barrels into the apartment when you open the front door. You watch the blur of her form race down the short hall and into her bedroom, slamming the door with more force that a four-year-old should have. 

You turn slowly back to Tom who stands at the threshold, your brows raised as you blink. 

“What’s the deal with her?”

There's a bitter look on Tom’s face—his screwed together and lips curling in a grimace. You know this look far too intimately. He’s angry. He doesn’t even pass you Phoebe’s weekend bag, just swings it into the corner of your entrance hall.

“We need to have a little conversation.” His tone is cruel, belittling. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and you instinctively reach for the front door, almost preparing yourself to slam it in his face if necessary. 

“I’d prefer to know why Phoebe is upset first.” 

Tom scoffs at that, at your strict yet unbothered tone. “And that’s why we need to have a talk. She’s been nothing but rude to Kirsty all weekend. Refused to talk to her since she woke up this morning and now has a problem with me, because I scolded her for it.”

Your own face screws up at his word, almost mirroring his own expression. 

“I’m sorry, who the fuck is Kirsty?” 

“My girlfriend.”

Your eyes are blinking far too quickly, lips parting and your head begins to shake as you try to remember him ever mentioning the fact that he was seeing someone or that he was considering allowing them to meet your fucking daughter.

“Girlfriend?” It almost comes out as a shriek. “Since when? And why the hell is she around Phoebe before I’ve even met her?”

You don’t think it’s an unfair thing to get upset over. Tom is known for his lengthy track record in flings and short-lived relationships. When he decided to be more involved in Phoebe’s life, you had made it clear that he wasn't to subject Phoebe to any of his flings or so called relationships unless he spoke about it with you first. Unless you met them first or that he had at least been with them for longer than a fucking month. 

You never wanted that around Phoebe, for her father to parade a new woman every three weeks and it confuse her, for her to think it’s fucking normal. 

But the look of Tom’s face turns from disgust to outright anger. 

“Who’s Jack?” 

That causes you to pause. To blink. To consider how the fuck he knows who Jack is. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Who’s Jack, Y/N?” His voice is growing louder, his tone turning darker. “Because I’ve had the pleasure of hearing that name for the past three weeks. Non-stop.”

Now it’s your turn to get a bit angry. A scoff escapes you before you can stop it, your hip cocking to one side as you rest a hand on it. “Okay first of all this is the third time you’ve seen Phoebe in the past three weeks. And second, Jack is my neighbour.”

Tom’s arms cross over his chest, fury burning in his gaze. “Phoebe said he’s your boyfriend.” 

You’re left stunned, yet again. 

Jesus Christ, Pheebs.

You’ve tried so hard to remain platonic in front of her, not wanting to confuse your little girl when neither you or Jack really know what is going on between you. You’ve been mindful of him not being around her too much, of not blurring any lines in front of her. 

“We’ve been on a couple of dates. It’s completely platonic in front of Phoebe. Not that I have to explain myself to you.” Your own tone is growing bitter, annoyance bleeding through every word. 

Tom takes a step closer, imposing in your personal space. “You want to meet Kirsty? That’s fine. But I want to meet Jack.” 

You scoff, about to burst into argument when Tom cuts you off. 

“You don’t get to be in control all the time. You might be her mother but I am her father.” 

The rage begins to bubble over and you step toward him, closing the distance with nothing but resentment in your eyes. The thought of breaking his fucking nose is all you can think right now. 

“Actually, Tom, I do. Because I am her mother always. Day and night, rain or shine, I show up for her. You pick and choose when you want to be her fucking dad.”

His jaw ticks, you can see how he clenches his teeth. Those nostrils flare the same way they used to when he’s trying to control his anger. Just as quickly as you think he’ll snap, he steps away. 

“I’m not budging on this. Get your mom to have Phoebe on Friday night. Preston’s at 8. You bring Jack and I will bring Kirsty.” 

Your instant reaction is to shut him down. To tell him to fuck off and slam the door on his face. But Phoebe is your main concern above all. The last thing you want is for him to take this out on her, to stop seeing her just to spite you. 

So you stare at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of you giving in. But your duty as a mother is much stronger than your pride. 

“Fine.” 

You don’t wait for another word to leave him. You keep your eyes on him as you shut the door on his face and then you’re leaning against it, loosing a frustrated breath before your ears perk up at the sound of One Direction blaring from Phoebe’s room. 

You knock on her bedroom door as you open it, halting at the doorway. She lays on her tummy on her bedroom floor, feet kicked up in the air as she colors in a page of her Spider-Man book. Her little stereo still sits on her dresser and you slowly approach to turn it down a few buttons. 

You join her on the floor, mirroring her position and picking up a blue crayon to color in a car stuck in Spider-Man’s web. 

“So, you’re back early.” You comment casually.

She doesn’t answer. 

“I was thinking we could have a pizza night?” You try again. 

“Sure.” The words are small when they come out of her and you frown. 

“Do you want to talk about what’s upsetting you?” 

It’s a very subtle movement when she shakes her head and your heart feels heavy. You’ve decided you already fucking hate this Kirsty for whatever she’s done to upset your daughter. But you won’t push her to talk. 

The whole situation is a bit sobering, if you’re being honest. Like it’s an insight to how Phoebe will be when she’s a teenager riddled with confusing feelings and hormones. You won’t force her, won’t push her. 

“Okay, well… if you want to talk, you know Mommy will always listen, right?” 

You spend the next twenty minutes with her, coloring in silence. You sing along softly under your breath to the songs that play on her stereo, and after a little while, when you purposely start to sing the words wrong, you get a laugh out of her. 

Another ten minutes, and she agrees to leave her room. She lets you turn off the music and sits at the kitchen island while you unpack her box of Play-Doh and tip out all of her cutters. 

You’re about to reach for your phone to order in some pizza when there’s a knock at your front door and your entire body stills. The last thing you need right now is Tom showing back up to throw another fit and for Phoebe to be a witness to it. 

So it’s quite carefully that you approach the door, only now in this moment hating the fact that you don’t have a little peephole. But the anxiety is quickly diminished the second you wrap a hand around the handle and a familiar voice calls from the hall. 

“Pizza and ice cream delivery for two beautiful girls in apartment seventeen.” 

You swing the door open with a grin, eyes drinking over his attire; khaki trousers, a black t-shirt…simple and yet you think he looks better and better every time you see him. 

He grins a bit boyishly when you beam at him, his previous worry of you scolding him for showing up when Phoebe is with you unannounced quickly fading. 

She hears him before you can speak, jumps off the stool at the kitchen counter to race for him, his name screeching out of her as she barrels into his good knee. 

Jack somehow manages to balance the two boxes of pizza and tub of ice cream on one hand while the other reaches down to cradle the back of Phoebe’s head. He smiles softly down at her, lets his fingers scratch soothingly at her scalp before looking back up to meet your eyes. 

The hesitancy in them is clear to you, it's the same thing that shines on your face. The desire to reach across for a kiss, a hug. But he stretches out the hand holding the food toward you instead. 

“Just dropping these off.” He explains, voice rugged and it comforts the tense corners of your body and mind. 

Your gaze softens as Phoebe unwraps herself from Jack’s leg and reaches for his spare hand to drag him into the apartment. “Mom just set up my Play-Doh!”

You stop her with the gentle call of her name and she frowns at you for the interruption. “Go wash your hands, Diva. Pizza then Play-Doh.”

She huffs but releases Jack’s hand and drags her feet down the hall to the bathroom. Jack stifles a laugh as he watches, walks toward the counter to place the boxes down and quickly scoops you into his arms when he hears the water running. 

Your arms snake around his waist, nuzzling your face into his cotton shirt and savoring the scent of him and his cologne. Jack kisses the top of your head, a soothing hand stroking up and down your back. 

“I’m sorry for just showing up without asking first. Just wanted to do something for you both.” 

You shake your head against him, against his apology. Craning your neck up enough to look at his face, your lips pucker in a silent request for a kiss. Jack obliges with a lopsided grin, gently pressing his mouth to yours and humming at the familiar taste of you. 

It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do. The water turns off and you gently untangle yourself from Jack’s hold, feeling the tenseness of Tom’s visit return the moment that you do. 

“No, she needed it. I needed it. You’ll stay?” 

Jack’s shoulders drop in something that looks like relief. He nods, fights off a grin that’s forming, but you catch it anyway. Don’t mean for the look to set your stomach ablaze and into a fit of stompeding elephants, but you’ve quickly come to terms with the fact that you have little control over how your body and mind reacts when it comes to Jack. 

Phoebe doesn’t leave Jack alone when you eat together. She sits with her stool pressed closely against his, clinks her bottle of water against his glass every time he or she takes a sip. 

She catches him up about the things she’s been doing since she saw him last two weeks ago. And Jack listens, pretends you haven’t already told him. 

After dinner, she forces him to sit on the living room rug with her, superhero figures scattered across the ground and Lego blocks thrown everywhere from Hulk smashing buildings apart. 

It’s terrifying how natural and domestic it all feels. You and Jack are on the floor with her, playing and laughing. He fits in too easily. Like he was supposed to have been here a long time ago. You know he can sense how tense you are, that there’s more to it than having to pretend you’re just friends for Phoebe’s sake. 

After an hour playing on the ground, you take note of the small grimace Jack tries to conceal, the awkward way he stretches out his leg. You disappear with the excuse of grabbing a drink but you return with a pair of crutches in your hand. 

Jack blubbers out a laugh at the sight and frowns when you give them to him. 

“Take it off, know it’s bothering you. She won’t care.” 

He blinks at you, back at the crutches while Phoebe talks in a deep voice with the dolls. 

“What the f—” he catches himself before the curse can slip out. “Where did you get these? Why do you have these?” 

You shrug, returning to the floor with your legs folded beneath you. “They were left in the laundry room when we moved in. Kept them in case they were needed one day.”

Phoebe watches Jack’s movements closely from the corner of her eye as he stands with a grunt and sits on the couch. She keeps her dolls moving but her focus is entirely on him, when he rolls his pant leg up to reveal metal, when the click sounds through the room and a sigh slips from his mouth. 

She hides her shock well for a four-year-old when Jack removes the metal completely. Like she’s now only just realizing that the prosthetic means he only actually has one real leg. It causes a pinch to form between her brows, her gaze to flicker over to her dolls that have two legs. Plastic, yes, but two legs that are the same. 

She turns back to look at him fully this time, her dolls long forgotten. “Jack?”

He peeks up at her, still leaning over himself slightly to massage the tender part below his knee. “What’s up, kid?” 

Pheebs ponders for a moment, chewing on her inner cheek. “What happened to your leg?” 

It’s a loaded question, one you both knew she would ask eventually. But you still catch the way Jack stiffens slightly; your own body locking up a bit at the sight. You don’t intervene, even if a suitable answer is on the tip of your tongue. 

It’s Jack’s story, not yours. And if he needs an out, he’ll look to you for it.

But he doesn’t. He keeps his tender gaze on Phoebe and leans forward to rest his elbows on his lap. “It got hurt a long time ago. So, the doctors had to give me a new leg.” 

She frowns harder. “But you’re a doctor.” 

Jack smiles at that, at how her mind is trying to understand. “Yeah. But, you know…some things can’t be fixed no matter how hard you try.” 

You watch Pheebs as she tries to absorb the truth of Jack’s words. Can see her brain filtering every syllable, like she’s storing the information away for later use. You don’t chime in, don’t try to overwhelm her with an explanation or an example. 

Eventually, she shrugs. “I don’t care if you have an old leg or a new one. Or even just no leg.” She giggles at that last part. 

Jack’s eyes soften impossibly at her bluntness, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he regards the kid with more tenderness than you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” 

She nods. “I still wanna be like you when I’m big.”

It’s such a simple statement to her, but one that cleaves your heart in two and almost shatters Jack completely. The only man to have ever made such a positive impact on Phoebe’s life is your father. 

Tom has never had the connection that Jack has bloomed with her. She has never trusted anyone so easily and so lovingly as she does Jack. 

Perhaps it’s his kind and calming nature, his softness and security that bleeds from him whenever he’s in your presence. Or perhaps, Phoebe just senses things. Perhaps she knows Tom will never truly be something stable in her life, but Jack…she looks at him like he’s such a wonder to this world.

Like he’s something so incredibly stabilizing to her. 

It reinforces that anxiety; of being a single mom and finding love again. Of trusting someone enough to let them in, to believe they won’t walk away when the going gets tough. Your mind feels like a broken record. The doubts of you and Phoebe being too much, both of your needs and requirements being more than someone initially signed up for. 

But Jack stares at your daughter like she’s a gift he’s always wanted but never allowed himself to have. Like she’s breathed a new lease of life into him. Like he’ll love and protect and guard her with his life until his final breath. 

He looks at her like a father should look at a daughter. And that scares the living shit out of you. 

Because it’s been three months. Three months of dates and kisses and falling for a man so much older than you. Three months of trying to keep him and Phoebe separated so as to not confuse her. Three months of trying to juggle parenthood and a career and a love life and not allow yourself to get too swept up or lost in the moments. 

Three months and everything you’ve tried to prevent is happening anyway. 

You’ve been foolish to keep them apart, maybe. To put a wedge between their bond. But you couldn’t have either of them growing attached to the other only for it to go to shit in two months time. You’d handle the fall out like you have done with everything else in the past. 

But not them. You could never put either of them through that. 

Anxiety lodges deep within you at the realization of it. Fear cripples you from the inside out; wrapping around your bones before seeping into your organs. It’s like you’re struggling to breathe, the beginnings of a panic attack right on the precipice of dragging you under. 

You force yourself to break their gentle moment, to shatter the internal peace and acceptance that Jack has found with how easily Phoebe saw past his disability.

You feel sick to your stomach for doing it. 

“Okay, Diva. Bath time.” 

When you look over to Jack, he’s already gazing at you. There’s a longing look in his eyes and a deep rooted wave of peace and fear and conflict passes over him. He offers a tearful, thin-lipped smile and your shoulders sag as Phoebe rushes off to her bedroom in search of pyjamas. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice is soft when you ask him, gentle. 

Jack holds out a hand to reach for you and you slowly move closer to him, standing between his parted knees. His hands settle on the outsides of your thighs, his touch tender and careful. Your fingers find his peppered curls, nails gently scratching at his scalp in soothing movements. 

He leans his head against your lower tummy, thumbs tracing patterns over your jeans. 

“I don’t have words to describe how beautiful that kid’s soul is.”

Tears well in your eyes at his broken words, the sound of his voice so vulnerable and so proud. You can’t help the sniffle that escapes you, the pride that swells within you and the adoration that your heart bursts with. 

Not just for Phoebe, but for him. 

“You are an incredible mother, baby.” 

You laugh through a soft cry because you’ve lost count of how many times he’s told you this; how wonderful you are with Phoebe, what a fantastic parent you are. You’ve always known you’ve tried your best, always believed yourself to be a good Mom.

But Jack, he makes you know it. 

You slowly sink down to your knees in front of him, hands moving to cup his face as his reaches up to hold gently at your elbows. His eyes are wet when he looks at you, face pink like he’s trying to keep in his tears. 

It only makes yours fall more. 

Your thumbs brush soothingly over his high cheekbones, a smile pulling on the corners of your mouth before you lean in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

He lets you walk away, watches your every step through distorted vision until he hears the melodic laugh of yours and Phoebe’s in the bathroom when the water begins to run. 

Jack doesn’t move at first. He lets himself bask in the sound of your happiness, lets it fester in that crevice of his heart—no, not fester—grow. It spreads gently, warm and certain, nestles so deep into him that he can physically feel weight lift off his mind and soul. 

For a moment, Jack lets himself believe. 

He lets himself ignore those worrying thoughts; not good enough, too old, not whole. He allows himself to accept Phoebe’s words, the weight of them, the truth in them. Lets himself believe your eyes when you look at him, the relief in your body when he’s close, the lightness in your presence in his company. 

He’s noticed how he seems to take your worry away a lot of the time, just from being near you. How your stress fizzles into something you allow yourself to think about later. Like he’s more important than it. 

More than that, he notices your hesitancy when it comes to Phoebe. It’s something he understands, undoubtedly. Something he respects and refuses to ever push or question you on. Because there’s no label on what you are, nothing to reassure you he won’t just stop texting or calling or showing up one day. 

It puts a bitter taste in his mouth, makes shame swell along with that dangerous feeling he gets around you or when he thinks about you. 

Makes him realize that Jack really is a mess of mixed emotions. Full of desire and want and adoration, and yet too careful because he doesn’t want to push; reserving himself and his actions because he doesn’t want to be too much, to overstep. 

The only thing he can do to stop himself from spiraling, is clean. 

He tidies away Phoebe’s toys, refluffs the cushions on the couch and turns on the lamps in the living area. He clears the kitchen; loading the dishwasher and breaking down pizza boxes to fit in your little recycling bin under the sink. 

It’s when he’s wiping down the sides that he hears your footsteps and Phoebe’s quicker ones following. Hears your gentle voice telling Phoebe to say goodnight. 

He turns with a smile, still leaning against the sink with the crutches propped up by the fridge. An act that he usually wouldn’t be so open to commit in front of someone new. To be vulnerable enough to hobble on crutches with his leg off. “Look at this Diva, all fresh and in the pyjamas I got you!”

She beams at him, offering a twirl. “Jack, can you take me to bed?” 

His eyes snap to yours, brows raised at her proposal. You stifle a laugh, relieved to see him a bit more himself and despite your previous need to keep them separated, you find yourself shrugging. 

Jack looks back down to Phoebe with a grin. “Sure, kid. Say night to Mommy.” 

You try to ignore the way that makes you feel when it rolls off his tongue. How natural for him to say Mommy and not your Mommy like Tom does. Try to ignore how easily and quickly Pheebs listens to him. 

You crouch down to give her a squeeze, peppering playful and exaggerated kisses across her cheeks and under her chin. Her laughter bubbles out of her little body; loud and unapologetic. 

“I love you, Diva. See you in the morning.” 

“Love you, bestie.” She gives you one last squeeze before pulling away and leading Jack down to her bedroom. 

He offers you a wink as he passes, heat curling at your insides. And you watch as Phoebe races into her bedroom, and don’t hide the fact that you’re ogling Jack’s ass when he follows on his crutches. 

In the ten minutes it takes for Jack to settle her to bed, you manage to finish the rest of the kitchen and brew two mugs of steaming hot tea and get settled onto the couch, flicking through Netflix to find something for you both to watch. 

When you’re scrolling through the comedy section, Jack returns with a gleam in his eyes that you’ve never once seen before. 

You squint at him. “Did she settle okay?”

He hums, rests the crutches against the wall and settles beside you on the couch. His arm is immediately thrown over the back of it and you’re instinctively reaching to hand him his tea before curling into his side. 

“Yeah, out like a light. Read her that Peter Pan book, sang to her.”

Your head whips up to look at him with wide eyes and a grin tearing your face in half. Jack looks down at you with lopsided amusement. “You sang to her? Can’t believe I missed that.”

His once amused expression morphs into something almost predatory, a taunting glint in his eye and a sinful curve to his mouth. It turns your insides molten. 

“You want me to sing to you, sweetheart?” His voice drops an octave, something you’ve noticed is unintentional and only seems to come out when he flirts intimately. 

You can’t help the giddy smile that worms its way onto your face. His eye contact is still something you’ve not yet grown completely accustomed to. Intense in the way that it feels like he’s looking directly into your soul. 

It makes you forget momentarily about everything around you.

All you can do is close the distance to press your lips against his, grinning against his mouth so wide that he feels it, mirrors it. When he pulls away, Jack brushes the hair from your face and you have to busy yourself with reaching for your tea before you get sucked under his spell. 

“Did she tell you why she was upset?” He asks softly. 

You lean back into him with a sigh, blowing softly at the steam rising from your mug. “No, but it seems like Tom’s had another woman around her and she doesn’t like it.” 

Jack’s brows raise involuntarily and he’s thankful you’ve got your gaze locked on the TV, back to flicking through Netflix. He hums, instead. Keeps his mouth shut tight on what he thinks about that. 

It’s not his place.

“She’s been mentioning you to Tom.” Your voice is quieter when you speak again, but the words ring loud in Jack’s head. 

He’s already staring down at you when you move your head to sneak a glance up at him before returning your attention to the screen across the room.

“Phoebe called you my boyfriend.” 

Jack blinks, momentarily stunned by the information. A mixed array of emotions swirls through him. Relief, uncertainty, hope, excitement. But more than that, understanding. You’ve been tense all evening, unsure in your movements, a little unlike yourself. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat as dread and doubt begins to bubble. Has it made things too real for you? Made you realize that you’re not ready for that? That perhaps entertaining him has been a mistake? 

He clears his throat, still looking down at you despite your attention not being on him. “Is that why you’ve been on edge this evening?” 

You chew on the inside of your lip, considering. “No—yes, no—I don’t—”

Your chest is heaving slightly, words contradicting the other, your thoughts. But Jack lets you do it, lets you try to sort through your jumbled mind and heart. He doesn’t push, he never has. He waits, patiently. Even if his mind is tearing him apart in the process. 

It's that idea that forces you to turn beside him; knees folded and pressing against his hip, his arm still thrown over the back of the couch and his fingers reach to brush tenderly across your shoulder. 

There’s a calmness in his eyes that isn’t in yours, a silent reassurance that whatever you’re feeling—thinking—is okay. That whatever you decide is okay. He’ll respect it. Respect you and Phoebe. 

“What is this, Jack? Us?” Your voice is quiet, tone breaking just slightly when you speak. “Because I can’t—I don’t do casual. Phoebe comes first in everything that I do and this can’t be any different. We’ve been nothing but friendly in front of her and she’s going around telling people that you’re my boyfriend and I—”

“Hey, woah. Okay, breathe.” Jack coos as you begin to spiral, shifting slightly to reach for your hand and chase your frantic gaze. 

“Listen. Us—whatever this is—it’s whatever you want or need it to be. But no one said anything about casual. Nothing about you or Phoebe or us is casual to me.” 

Jack’s tone is resolute, punctuating every word he speaks like he needs you to understand what he’s saying. That every syllable is true and genuine. It’s enough to make you finally meet his gaze.

“So, what is this, then? What are we?” You hate the desperation in your voice; the sheer vulnerability that bleeds from your heart and drips off your tongue. 

Jack’s expression softens impossibly further and he rests his tea on the arm of the couch before reaching to cradle your jaw. He watches you for a moment, admires. His thumb reaches to smooth the elevens creasing between your brows, to trace the slope of your nose.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but…I kind of like the title that Phoebe has given me.” 

The string of anxiety snaps clean, shoulder dropping noticeably in relief. Your lashes flutter at him, heart thumping like the wings of a wild bird. “Yeah?”

Jack hums, a tick of a smile daring to pinch his cheeks. “Yeah.” 

Your tongue licks across your dry bottom lip, pulls it back between your teeth as you regard him. The gentleness he possesses for you, the tenderness in which he holds you. 

“It’s not too soon?” You whisper. 

He frowns at that, rolls his own bottom lip between two rows of teeth. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene, but I don’t think you know just how much you both mean to me.” 

Even with your bottom lip sucked into your mouth, it doesn’t stop the slight trembling of your chin, or the silver that begins to line your eyes. Jack’s head cocks slightly to the side at the sight. 

“Baby, I know you want to protect Phoebe in everything you do. I respect that. I admire it. But, I want to make it clear to you that I understand that you two are a package deal. And my interest and care for you doesn’t end with you. It includes Pheebs.”

It makes you pause, forces tears to spill down your warm cheeks. His care for you. For Phoebe. It’s the most he’s ever verbally clarified about this relationship, about how he feels about you. It doesn’t extend to Phoebe, doesn’t stretch to her. It includes her. Wholly. 

And Jack notices the way you fixate on his words, on his admittance. That it’s not lost on you how vulnerable and open he’s being. But he gives you the time to consider what he’s said. To let you interpret them in whatever way you need to. 

Because he’s not ready to truly admit just how far he’s falling. Not just yet. Jack doesn’t want to scare or overwhelm you. He meant what he said when he told you it’s whatever you want it to be. That you have and always will have control.

With a shaky breath, you nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you back into his side, cradling your body close to his. 

“Don’t ever get lost in that pretty head of yours. Just talk to me, baby.” He kisses the top of your head, reaches a hand to smooth down your flyaways.

The tender touch soothes what’s left of your anxiety and you finally feel yourself begin to relax fully. His scent envelops you in the most gentle of ways; something that has grown to be familiar and comforting. 

Your neck twists so you can look back up at him, lips puckering slightly but it’s enough for Jack to understand what you’re asking for. He gives it to you with a breathy chuckle, capturing your lips in a tender kiss—soft and gentle and intimate and…sure. 

But when you pull away with hesitancy in your eyes, that certainty curdles into worry. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks carefully. 

You smile, but it’s nervous. “You’re not working Friday night, right?”

Jack’s brows raise slightly, comically. Were you nervous about asking him out on a date? He squints at you, pecking your lips again. “No, baby. Night off. You wanna do something?” 

You grin but it's emotionless, fingers tracing the buttons on the TV remote.

“Actually, we have a double date Friday night with Tom and his girlfriend.” 

You peck his lips once more before shifting to look at the screen and press play on the movie. Jack blinks at the side of your face, slightly in confusion, more so in disbelief. He barely watches any of the film, too caught up in his head. 

Too busy figuring out how he’ll sit through dinner with Phoebe’s father without ending the night in a fucking jail cell. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

this chapter is a belated happy birthday to my very loyal reader @cafereads and a belated graduation present to one of my lovely anons!! <3

OKAY, AGAIN I AM SO SORRY FOR IT BEING SUCH A LATE UPDATE BUT I PROMISE WE ARE SOOOO BACK!!! Next chapter is going to EAT i promise you, it's my most anticipated chapter to get to in this series. Also, a lil updated, I have decided that chapter 10 of this series will be the FINAL PART!! i will definitely come back and revisit them for check-ins but as it stands, pt.10 will be the finale of this series and while i will be so sad to see it end, i am also super excited to be able to move onto other fics i have plans for and drafts that are taunting me lol

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