A time capsule of my poor decisions.

The moment your lunch break starts, Trinity yanks you into an on-call room, where Mel, Victoria, Samira, and Whitaker have all also been dragged during a rare moment during the day when you can all leave the floor at once. It’s dark inside and it feels suspiciously like a gathering of cult members. Ever since you found out the six of you lived in the same building (which, yes, half the staff lives in because it’s the cheapest spot close to the hospital), you’ve been a group, even now that Samira’s off living with her knight in shining scrubs.

Trinity looks between you seriously, her phone screen illuminating her face from below like a horror movie villain about to give you the rules for a torture game. She announces seriously, “Guys, I have crucial intel.”

“Alright, get on with it,” Samira sighs. “Some of us have work to do and waiting in here has already taken up half my break.”

Trinity draws a deep breath and holds up her phone, showing off the screen in an arc to let everyone get a good look. “Dennis’ and my other roommate sent us these screenshots last night. I guess Robby has his settings so nobody who has his number can see it, but she did.”

You huddle around the phone as she swipes through a series of pictures, each one of your attending (and your best friend), Robby. A Tinder profile. As her thumb swipes across the screen, all of you ask questions over each other: He owns a motorcycle? And a real suit? Oh my god, is he shirtless there? Wait, he plays basketball?

While they gawk and laugh, you’re stuck on the bio that makes you smile: I’m a doctor. Not in a hot way. In an ‘I’m in therapy and you probably should be too if you want to date me’ way. Soft spot for puppies, babies, and good beer. My best friend forced me to make this when he got a girlfriend so that I wouldn’t be a third wheel. Guess I’m looking for my fourth wheel. Someone to stabilize me.

Victoria’s been standing there slack-jawed for the longest. As the baby of the group, she’s always surprised by everything. “I just can’t believe Dr. Robby is on dating apps.”

Trying not to get pathetically jealous at the idea, you reason, “I mean, he’s single. He’s attractive.”

Samira snickers, “Don’t they have an age limit on that app to protect seniors or something?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Dennis points out. “Dr. Abbot isn’t exactly young.”

“He’s a decade younger than Robby,” she replies. “Robby’s so old I didn’t think he could even download an app without help. He asked me to convert something to a PDF for him the other day. I find the idea that he’d meet someone from an app…charming. The way a cat trapped in a tree is cute.”

Mel crosses her arms over her chest and physically turns away from Trinity’s phone. She huffs out, “Guys, this is so inappropriate.”

Trinity glares. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s sort of my whole thing,” she cuts back. Then she nudges you and asks for backup, “C’mon, you know this is wrong.”

But you’re way too intrigued to agree with your roommate. You shrug and say, “It’s a public profile. Someone was bound to find it eventually, right?”

Mel scoffs and shakes her head. “Et tu?”

Trinity groans and makes Mel turn back around with a pointed look. She goes on, “Guys, the intel isn’t that he has a Tinder.” She zooms in on the picture of him with Dr. Abbot on a basketball court, Robby jumping to dunk the ball. You want to lick the sweat from his hairy chest. Trinity shoves her finger at the screen. “Look at this hog he’s packing. Dr. Robby has a giant dick.”

You take a closer look at the outline visible in his slinky athletic shorts. No way. You scoff and shake your head; the idea that a human man could have a dick that big seems outright ridiculous. In years of practicing medicine and being a sexually active adult, you’ve never seen one that would compare. So you shrug your shoulders up and awkwardly rush out, “That could be a water bottle or something.”

Victoria, wide eyes locked to the screen, chimes in, “Or- or just a shadow. The lighting.”

“Yeah, sure, or a massive fucking cock.”

Dennis, the reddest of everyone (he once told you about an absolutely mortifying sex dream he had about topping Robby), hisses, “Trinity, he’s our boss!”

“So?”

You step in, too. “So what are we even supposed to do with this information?”

“Well we all know what you’re going to do with it,” she says to you with a knowing, wicked grin. “You’re going to fantasize about how it would feel to take such a-”

“Trinity!” You slap your hand over her mouth. “If you bring up my crush on him one more time, I’m going to start paging you on every single bowel disimpaction that comes into the ER for the next six months. I’m working on getting over it!”

“Here’s what I’m proposing,” Trinity says seriously. She’s such a ringleader it’s not even funny. This is her circus and the rest of you are definitely her monkeys. “I say we all put in some money and the first person to get definitive proof that Dr. Robby’s packing gets the whole pool.”

“Absolutely not,” Mel says right away. She’s so serious that she shoves out of the on-call room and back to work. She never wants to play in the circus.

The rest of you stay put, though. Dennis mutters, “How much money?”

“This is high stakes,” Samira reasons. “A hundred each.”

“You’re only saying that because you have the best chances,” Victoria cuts in. “Dr. Abbot probably sees his dick every time they go to the gym together.”

“No outside interference,” Trinity adds immediately. “I like the sound of $100 each. That’s a pool of $500. Sounds pretty fair for the task at hand.”

Dennis wrinkles his eyebrows. “What if nobody does it?”

“Then we all lose out on $500.”

To a group of poor twenty-somethings, that’s pretty damn convincing.

“I’m definitely in,” Samira starts. If Trinity is the ringleader, Mohan’s the strongman. “Even if Jack can’t help, I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

Dennis punches her on the arm; he’s the group’s contortionist, always able to bend himself into ridiculous situations somehow. “Me too. I’m the only one with access to the men’s showers.”

You argue, “Then you should put up $150. That’s an unfair home field advantage.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other girls that makes Whitaker balk.

“Okay, yeah, I may also have a penis, but I have the distinct disadvantage of being scared shitless of Robby, unlike Samira and Santos.” Then he shoves an accusatory finger in your direction. “If anything, you have an advantage because Robby already wants to fuck you.”

You shove him in the chest. “He does not!”

“Ow, first of all.” He shakes his head and says, “How about we go no-holds-barred? Samira can use Abbot, I can use my Y chromosome, you can use your powers of seduction. Whatever.”

Victoria pouts. She’s the tightrope walker, always trying to balance the line of appropriate and otherwise. “And what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Psychological warfare,” Trinity suggests. “That’s what I’m planning.”

Samira offers, “Maybe just beg?”

“Jesus, fine,” Victoria sighs. “I’m in, I guess.”

All eyes turn in your direction. “How about you, Mrs. Robinavitch?”

And your role in this circus of idiot doctors? Well, you’re just the clown who’s been nursing a big fat crush on her attending for two years. The idea of seeing Dr. Robby naked is too appealing for you to resist. So you present your hand to the center of the circle and sigh, “I’m in.”

The bet gets out of hand right away, not that this sort of thing could ever be under control. The six of you – Mel’s invited mostly because she’s your roommate and already knows, though she’s made her disapproval patently clear – meet for beers after a long shift the following Friday. Samira clears her throat and breaks the silence, “Do any of you sure-to-be losers have anything to announce to the group?”

Trinity pulls out her phone and dramatically sighs. “Well, I really thought I had it. I made a Tinder profile of a very respectable, almost-age-appropriate lady and matched with him. Paid for the goddamn Super Like and everything.”

Victoria’s jaw detaches from her maxilla. “You catfished him?”

Trinity looks honestly offended. “Only a little!”

Dennis gawks. “Whose pictures did you use?”

“My mom’s.”

“Seriously?!” Even Samira’s in disbelief over that. “Did you at least tell her?”

“It’s not like she’ll ever find out,” Trinity reasons. “Her and my dad have been together since the Dark Ages. They’d never be on Tinder. And I used a fake name. She’s just the prettiest woman over 40 I know.”

“You’re fucked up for that,” Dennis says with an admonishing shake of his head. Then he sips his beer and presses, “So how did it go between Robby and your not mom? No luck?”

“Obvioulsy not,” she explains. “He told me in, like, the third message that he’s looking for something serious and would only have sex with someone he loves. Like, apropos of nothing. Old people are weird; I don’t get him at all.”

You swallow hard. “That’s sweet, though.”

She scrunches her nose. “Is it?”

Victoria giggles, about one cocktail too deep, “Would you rather find out our boss is a total man whore?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trinity laughs. “It’s kind of sad someone his age is still looking to settle down.”

“Hey,” you stop her, “that’s actually mean, Trin. Robby’s a good man and he deserves to be happy.”

“Sorry, forgot it’s rude to insult someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.”

Samira shakes her head and tuts then, feeling merciful on your behalf, “Poor showing, Santos. I expected better from our leader.”

“Give me another week.”

“Not if I beat you to it,” she replies with a grin. Then she nudges you with her elbow and says, “C’mon, Jack wants us to go to dinner with Robby.”

It’s not an unusual invitation – the four of you get dinner a few times a month – but tonight it catches the attention of everyone else. 

Dennis protests, only half joking, “Woah, woah, you can’t bring her if it’s going to turn into an orgy thing where she gets a quick shot at the win.”

As your cheeks turn pink, you argue, “I thought it was a no-holds-barred game, Whitaker. Your idea, remember?”

Samira gives you a conspiratorial look. “What do you say, babe, wanna go ask our boys to drop their pants in the middle of the restaurant?”

Pretending not to be as embarrassed as you are, you giggle, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“This is so unfair,” Dennis pouts.

“Start following him into the shower, then.” Samira smiles and links her arm with yours as you get ready to walk away. “Calm down; she’s always our go-to fourth wheel. No special advantage tonight.”

“Tonight, he did that thing where he touched my lower back when he opened the door for me,” you bemoan to Mel late that night, both sitting on her bed as you stare at your laptops. “Have you ever noticed how big his hands are?”

“Can’t say I have.”

You shut your laptop dramatically. “Seriously, how am I supposed to recover from that?”

Mel shrugs like she always does. “Ask him out.”

“I can’t. He’s my boss.”

“He’s probably waiting for you to do it,” she reasons. “It would be inappropriate for him to ask you, but not necessarily the other way around. Provided you aren’t asking in exchange for any benefits in the workplace.” Then she gives you a little mischievous grin that only you and Langon are ever privy to. “Benefits besides making out in on-call rooms, of course.”

The next series of attempts comes from Samira. She decides to use her one trump card, enlisting Jack’s help. He finds the whole thing hysterical because he’s a feral child just like his girlfriend, so he agrees. Trinity insists on adding a caveat to the rules: The picture has to be on the better’s phone, taken by the better, explicitly ruling out Jack’s involvement beyond being a co-conspirator. Samira agrees and insists it’ll be no problem.

So, for two weeks, every time Robby and Jack hang out, Samira comes up with excuses to tag along and shoot her shots. She goes to the gym with them and ‘accidentally’ walks into the men’s locker room on two separate occasions, both times catching Robby after the shower but with his towel already on.

On a Thursday night all have off, you’re unfortunate enough to witness one of the efforts firsthand. Samira invited you over to watch the Penguins game with her and Robby (since the two of you hate sports and she’ll be bored out of her mind otherwise).

After three beers, Robby excuses himself to the bathroom. Only fifteen seconds later, Samira stands up, gives a salute to you both, and whispers, “Wish me luck.”

Jack grins like the dumbass he is. “Good luck, honey.”

As she walks away, you shake your head and turn to him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend is obsessed with taking a picture of your best friend’s dick?”

“Nope,” he replies confidently. There’s a cool, clear ‘she knows what she has at home’ energy to the reply. Then he puts on a meddling smirk and akss, “Does it bother you that she’s going to see Robby’s dick before you get to when she wins?”

“Jack!” You toss a pillow at him hard, causing him to spill his beer slightly as he laughs. “Y’know, it’s hard enough dealing with the teasing from the other residents. I don’t need it from you.”

“Hey, I have to listen to Robby going on and on about you all the time; it’s not easy for me, either.”

Your eyes widen into planets, but before you can ask the million clarifying questions you need to, Samira’s back, wearing a disappointed grimace. Looking solemn, she glances between you and Jack and shakes her head. “No dice.”

She tucks under Jack’s arm and he kisses her forehead. “You’ll get him next time, slugger.”

Robby emerges from the bathroom two minutes later with his face tomato red, unable to look Samira in the eyes as he takes his spot next to you once more. He mutters, “I miss anything important?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you reply honestly. Pitying his blush, you touch his thigh and ask, “Can I get you another beer?”

“Please.”

Trinity shakes her head in disappointment once Samira recounts her latest attempt in a line of failures. The three of you and Javadi are at the nurse’s station during shift change, making sure charts are in order as the night shift begins to filter in. Trinity sighs, “Maybe I should just pants him. Say it’s a prank or something.”

You snicker, “That would definitely get you sent straight to HR.”

Victoria puts her head in her hands; she hasn’t even come up with a plan yet and it’s getting to her. “This whole thing is going to get us all sent to HR.”

“Not if you never try anything,” Trinity replies.

Victoria glares. “You’re just trying to get me to back down so you get the money.”

Trinity raises her hands and laughs. “Guilty.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Robby’s tugging off his trauma gown with a frown on his lips. He’s splatterned in blood, enough that it’s gone between his mask and gloves and gown. He’ll need a shower. From across the ED, the four of you watch as Dennis rushes through a patient handover and hustles down the hall. Shooting a knowing look over his shoulder at the four of you, Dennis follows Robby into the showers.

You whisper, “Oh, god.”

“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Trinity says seriously, shaking her head, “especially his share of the rent.”

Victoria sighs, “He made the best coffee.”

When you’re all finished and ready to leave, you and the other girls wait for Dennis by the Pitt’s doors, trying to be inconspicuous as you await his status report.

Dennis emerges, walking fast, expecting you all to meet his brisk pace. You have to practically jog to keep up until you’re a block from the hospital, well out of ear shot of anyone else. Finally, he stops abruptly and swings around to scan his periphery. His eyes are trained on his shoes. He hisses, “Rumor confirmed. Huge.”

Your cheeks burn; blush is becoming a constant state for you thanks to this stupid bet. Trinity’s mouth falls open and she shoves his shoulder hard. “Show us!”

“I didn’t get a picture.”

The whole group groans in disappointment (besides Mel, who sounds relieved). Victoria puts her hand on her hips. “Then you didn’t confirm anything. You could be lying.”

“No way I went through that mortification for nothing. I saw it.”

“Doesn’t count, Dennis,” Trinity replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “We’re talking about $500 here. Hard proof you can share with the class or nothing.”

He frowns and offers, “I can tell you that it’s the size of my goddamn forearm and he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his hip; that doesn’t count for anything?”

Samira claps him on the back and suppresses her laugh. “You’ll have to try again, Whitaker.”

You aren’t really planning on participating. No matter how much you get annoyed at the amount of crap you get for it, you really do like Robby. In fact, it’s a lot past ‘like.’ It’s love. He’s the person you go to for advice, for jokes, for reassurance. For silence. He’s the first person you text in the morning and the last at night. You don’t know exactly how or when it happened, but you gradually went from ‘Robby’s favorite resident’ to ‘Robby’s favorite person’ over the last few years. And that relationship, whatever it is, matters a hell of a lot to you. You don’t want to damage it, even over that much money.

And then your bank account goes into the negative.

You’d run the numbers wrong on your budget for the month, a handful of bills come through at once, and suddenly you’re staring back at a deficit of more than a hundred dollars. All of a sudden, the $500 your stupid-ass friends have been dangling like a carrot in front of your nose has some real appeal.

You know that, for you, there’s really only one option. You could never, in a million years, get away with any of the sneakiness the rest of them are trying. And, yeah, sure, maybe you could go for seduction the way that everyone is prodding for you to. But you’re way too ashamed to do that for a whole host of reasons.

All you can possibly do is beg.

So you spend the whole day screwing up your courage to nut up and ask. You can’t even look at Robby while you work, terrified of the possible outcomes that could roll out in front of you. Of course, there’s the obvious: A visit to HR, fired, tarred and feathered, stripped of your medical future. Most likely, he’ll be mortified and your friendship will be ruined. Possibly, he’ll be flustered and embarrassed and never speak to you again.

Then, worst of all, there’s the idea that this might start something between the two of you. Something you’ve been dancing around for a very, very long time. Something hot and true and real.

What the hell would you do then?

Robby notices. Because of course he notices. He leaves you alone at first, hoping you’ll just corner him and ask whatever it is you’re stewing on. Then he starts avoiding you, too, because he’s wracking his brain for what he must’ve done wrong for you to be like this. He’d made a joke about pandas that hadn’t landed yesterday, but that couldn’t be it. Could it? Maybe it was how he corrected you when you set that broken nose first thing this morning. He hadn’t had his coffee yet. No. You never made a thing about work stuff.

Finally, when he sees you slip into the locker room at the end of your shift, he can’t take it anymore. After a deep breath, he closes the space between you, touches your lower back, and leans in close. “Can we talk for a second?”

You jolt back from him and stare up into his eyes. Shit, you always forget how tall he is when he isn’t doing that thing where he shrinks down to make others more comfortable. “Um, yeah. Is- What’s, ah, what’s up, Robinavitch?”

Robby scowls. “‘Robinavitch’? I don’t think you’ve ever called me that before.”

“First time for everything.” You grimace, shifting from foot to foot, and snatch your backpack from your locker. “Can we, ah, go somewhere else?”

There are a ton of emotions flashing through his eyes. Concern, curiosity, nerves. But all he says is, “Yeah, of course.”

Robby leads you across the Pitt to his office, which is totally barren except for a stack of paperwork on the desk that he clearly has no intention of doing. He flips on the light, draws the blinds, and turns to you seriously. “Alright, sweetheart, what the hell is going on? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You stick close to the door and stare up at the ceiling tiles, wringing your hands. “Look. Okay. This is gonna be so horrifying, alright? So just…just don’t make fun of me too much. You can make fun of me a little, but not that much, because if you make too much of a thing of it I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again and-”

“Woah, hey, it’s alright.” Robby reaches out and touches your elbow, stepping closer to you until you look up at him. He cups your face with one of his agonizingly large hands and you’re so embarrassed it’s unbelievable. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

“God, please don’t be sincere,” you whine. “You can’t be sweet, sincere, cow-eyed, gorgeous Robby right now, okay? Because I’ll have to go jump off the roof if you look like you care about me when I’m about to say something as stupid as what I’m about to say.”

Carefully, he replies, “But I do care about you.”

“Okay. Fuck. Here goes.” You duck your head, lower your voice, and absolutely ramble out, “Trinity found your Tinder profile a few weeks ago and in one of the pictures it sort of looks like we can see the outline of your dick and she said it looked really big so then we all made a bet to see who could get a picture of it to prove that you’re, um, well-endowed, and we all put in a hundred dollars as a pool for the winner and I know- I know it’s so stupid and so, so wrong, but I could really use that kind of money but more importantly I definitely can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars right now because my bank account is overdrafted which is also mortifying in and of itself to tell you because you really shouldn’t be concerned with my financial wellbeing but the fact of the matter is that I-”

“Wait, wait,” he cuts you off, “you’re telling me that’s what’s been going on the past few weeks? My subordinates have been conspiring to see my dick?”

Reaching a new shade of effervescent pink as yet undiscovered by man, you squeak out, “Yes.”

And then he starts laughing. As you blush so hard that your entire body is burning, he absolutely cracks up – to the point that he’s hiccuping, tears falling, grabbing his stomach. Doubled over, Robby wheezes, “Christ, I was starting to worry I’d have to give Whitaker a talk about how nobody will judge him if he’s gay because he keeps ending up in the shower the same time as me and then running away when he realizes I’m naked. And I’ve been terrified that Jack and Mohan might be planning to invite me for a threesome the way she’s been loitering around me. Thank god.”

Shaky relief floods your body and you mutter. “That…wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I actually don’t know.”

After wiping an amused tear from his cheek, Robby reaches out his hand and commands, “Alright, slugger, give me your phone.”

Shocked out of your mind, you reach into your pocket and present it wordlessly. When you see that he’s going for his waistband, you turn around and cover your eyes like his dick might bite you.

Robby laughs again, this time at your obvious nerves. Not discomfort, though. Nerves. He chuckles, “You don’t get extra money for seeing it in person?”

Gnawing off your lower lip, you whimper, forgetting about the rules in the heat of the moment, “Nope.”

“I’m decent now.” When you turn back, he hands off the phone, screen still open. “Go get your money. Buy me a drink or something as my share of the spoils.”

Then you look at your phone. The syllable falls out before you can stop it. Shocked, breathless. Undeniably turned on. “Oh.”

You stare down at the picture with wide eyes. Your pupils dilate, your throat goes dry, and you can’t deny that heat and wetness collecting between your legs. Yeah, that’s a big fucking cock. Even soft, it has to be eight inches – but, like, real inches, not fantasy porn inches. And thick. Dennis may not have been far off base with his forearm comparison, given that he’s beanbole skinny. That whole ‘thick as a beer can’ thing you’ve read in tons of smut suddenly seems possible if Robby can get even thicker than that when he’s hard.

Jesus Christ.

Yeah, your dildo definitely doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter how much you’ve fantasized about it while using your toys.

Robby’s amused voice is a little rougher when he asks, “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your head snaps upward hard enough that you hope your neck will break and kill you. “Please don’t tell me I just said that out loud.”

Robby cages you against the door between his forearms. “You definitely did.”

Your eyes fall to his lips. “Robby, I-”

He presses your bodies together. Your chest on his chest. Your thigh slotted between his. The smirk he’s wearing is so hot you start to melt underneath it. You might have a picture of his dick, but he’s holding all the cards. Shit, you can feel his cock through his scrubs against your thigh. He’s not even hard and you can feel how big he is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’re done. You’re through. Stop the timer, pull the plug, call in the guard.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. With you unable to speak, Robby teases, “You what? C’mon, gorgeous, use your words.”

All you can do is whimper.

The sound you make is downright pathetic, but it only encourages Robby. His breath brushes your lips and it feels like he can see your heart beating in your neck. Then he presses his lips to the curve of your ear and murmurs, “God, I’m gonna have so much fun wrecking you.”

It takes you forty five seconds to breathe again. Finally, with Robby pulling back enough to allow you to think, you mutter, “Mel’s outside waiting for me to walk home with her.”

“Of course.” He pulls back the rest of the way, taking a deep breath. When he shakes his head, it’s almost in disbelief – and you realize he wants you. He presses a soft, knowing kiss to your forehead, strokes your cheek with his thumb, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And he unlocks the door behind you with his arm still around you, the sound shaking you from the stupor of his presence.

After practically sprinting to the hospital exit, you find Mel waiting in your usual spot under an overgrown oak. Gripping her arm hard, you whisper, “I’ve got the picture.”

Her eyes pop out of her head. “What?! Seriously?”

“Yes.”

You start walking, harsh and fast, toward your neighborhood, needing to do something to get this crazy energy out of your body.

She hustles to keep up with your pace. “How?!”

“I told him the truth.”

She squeals like a gossipping cheerleader. “And he took his…manhood out for you?”

“I turned around. He took the picture.”

“Wow. He must really be into you.” Then, catching your elbow to slow your walking, she lowers her voice and asks, “Are you going to send it to everyone?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and groan, “He was going to kiss me. After I told him. After he took the picture. He said- he basically said that he thinks about me, y’know, like that. So now sending it to the group chat feels like sending  – god dammit – it feels like sending my boyfriend’s nudes, okay? You were right.”

She gives a self-satisfied smirk. “I usually am.”

“But I really need that money, Mel. Like ‘won’t be able to pay my share of the rent’ need it.”

“Ask Dr. Robby for it.” She needles with a cute grin, “Clearly he’ll do anything for you.” At the entrance to your building, she pauses. “Seriously, though, you shouldn’t.”

“He told me I could.”

“Still.”

“I have to think about it.”

“Okay, I guess.”

The six of you sit side-by-side like kids in the principal’s office, cramped into the small office high up in the hospital’s tower. There’s an HR rep across the desk. Robby and Jack are standing behind her, trying really hard not to laugh at your dejected expressions. You can’t blame Mel for snitching about the bet, not when you’d ended up mortified and crying and confused in her arms after the whatever the hell that was with Robby last night. The moment you’d reached your apartment, it all washed over you and turned into a full breakdown of ‘what the fuck.’

When the rep finishes going through what feels like a prosecutorial rundown of charges, she asks over her shoulder, “Dr. Robinavitch, do you feel safe continuing to work with them?”

He outright laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. To him, this whole thing is a ridiculous inconvenience. “Yes. God knows I’ve participated in my fair share of similar betting pools downstairs.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she groans, already having nightmares about an avalanche of paperwork. She turns back to look at the rest of you. “Doctors, do you understand this was a massive violation of Dr. Robinavitch’s privacy?”

You nod solemnly, tears biting at your eyes. You’ve never been in trouble like this before and you absolutely hate the feeling of it in your gut. “I completely understand. I’m so, so sorry.”

Everyone echoes something similar – except Trinity.

The HR rep picks up on it. She presses, “Dr. Santos?”

It’s not her first time getting a talking to about a bet placed with colleagues. So she scoffs. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like Robby hasn’t done the same kind of shit.”

“Again, pretending we didn’t say that.” The rep pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply for a minute. “Obviously, there will have to be consequences. We can’t send the message that this hospital doesn’t care about sexual harassment.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a harsh laugh. “Sexual harassment?”

She turns around and glares. “How else would you describe coworkers trying to take naked pictures of someone?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but the ED always has this kind of thing happ-”

She cuts him off with a raised hand. “I am begging you all to stop talking before I have to call in Gloria to deal with this mess.”

That shuts everyone up.

For organizing the whole thing, Trinity gets placed on administrative leave without pay for a week, which she grumbles about before realizing she can go on an impromptu vacation. Because of the whole locker room incident, Dennis gets three days without pay. After the gym situation, Samira and Jack earn the same, which doesn’t really seem like a punishment considering they’re shacked up together. Since you at least asked for his consent, you have two days without pay. Because Victoria was too scared to even try, she gets sent home early with a warning. Mel, of course, gets off home free – although she gets put on night shift since they’ll be down Dr. Abbot.

“Are you mad at me?”

After shoving another handful of chocolate into your mouth, you shush Mel and turn up the volume on Bridget Jones Diary. “For the last time, no.”

Not convinced, she reminds you, “The only reason I told HR is because I didn’t want you showing your future boyfriend’s dick off to everyone in the hospital. You’d regret it.”

“I know, Mel,” you reply. It’s been 24 hours and you’ve had sufficient time to fight with her about the whole situation. “Seriously, I’m not mad. I get you, okay? I know you were trying to protect me in your own way. But I will be mad if you talk over the tarts and vicars party. We need to finish this before you leave for your shift.”

Accepting it (you know she’ll ask again soon), Mel reaches into your shared snack bowl and relents, “Okay, okay.”

Right when Colin Firth is about to announce that he likes Renée Zellweger just as she is, there’s a knock on your apartment door. You both ignore it, assuming it’s a package delivery, but a second knock a minute later takes you by surprise. Cutting a look over to Mel, you ask, “Did you get food or something?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “I figured you did.”

“I’ll check it,” you say, unfurling from the blankets and setting the snacks on the coffee table. In your knee-high socks, skimpy pajama shorts, and bralette, you joke, “Hopefully it’s the Mormons again and seeing my exposed skin will send them into a crisis of faith.”

Mel’s laughing until you open the door. Then she mutters something like ‘please Jesus no’ and looks like she’s debating taking the fire escape.

Robby looks really good in casual clothes. The jeans make his thighs look gigantic and, fuck, have his shoulders always been that goddamn broad? The white tee and – Jesus Christ, really? – leather jacket have him looking like a greaser, like one curl should be on his forehead, like you should be dropping to your knees and-

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You try to return your eye contact to an appropriate area and can’t find it in you. You’re obsessed with his arms. The way he’s leaning in your door frame, one hand above his head, elbow against the wood, has his trap bulging into his bicep and then down toward his veiny forearm and- Fuck. And his chest. His chest. Christ alive. His pecs. It’s only when you shut your eyes that you’re able to stammer out, “What are you- I’m, ah- Hi, Robby.”

He touches your cheek to get you to open your eyes. “I’d like it if you started calling me Michael.”

You try out the taste of that on your tongue. “Michael. Alright.”

He smiles at that. You love the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Mind if I come in? Or did you want to keep ogling my tits for a while?”

You startle backwards a few steps and awkwardly gesture to the apartment. “Sorry, ah, yes, of course, come on in.”

When he sees Mel on the couch, he bristles. It’s comforting to see his ridiculous confidence waver for even a second. “You live with Dr. King.”

“I do.”

“Right. I knew that.” He puts on an almost-professional smile and waves, “Hi, Mel.”

She holds the blanket tight around her neck like she’s naked underneath. “Hello, Dr. Robinavitch.”

You give her a wide-eyed, impatient look at her to break her bewilderment and hiss, “Mel, don’t you need to get ready for your shift?”

She scrambles upward, still clinging to the blanket. “Yes, yeah, ah, right, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll leave you two alone. Out here. And then I’ll be leaving. For the night. Yup.”

Mel disappears into her bedroom, careful to cover her body every step of the way as if Robby would be phased by seeing her in sweats and a sports bra. As if his attention isn’t fixed squarely on you.

Robby’s eyes skate over your body and you’re suddenly agonizingly aware of how little you’re wearing. He smirks again. Fuck that smirk. “I’m a big fan of your outfit.”

You cross your arms over your chest and then stretch your arms out to cover your stomach and then realize that makes your cleavage worse and cross your arms again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Robby takes your hands in his to stop you trying to hide from him. He kisses your hand and you’re swooning. You didn’t even know what that felt like until now. “I told you I’d see you, didn’t I?”

“That was before our collective scolding.”

“Well, I’m a man of my word.” His hand goes to your neck, holding the back of your head and pressing his thumb over your pulse at once. His hands are so big. Your brain is cloudy with desire and then he makes it so much worse by saying, “I said I wanted to wreck you. I’m here to make good on that.”

Mel emerges from her bedroom in her scrubs and fleece jacket, eyes trained on the floor and cheeks red. She rushes past Robby, who takes half a step back from you. Snatching her keys from the hall table, she announces in an unnaturally high pitch, “Well, it’s time for my shift. See you both, um, later!”

Then she’s gone – forty five minutes early. And there’s a locked door between you, Robby, and the rest of the world.

You’re frozen and Robby thinks it’s too adorable not to take advantage of. He jumps right in, stepping close to put his hands on the slope of your waist, thumb on ribcage and pinkies on your hips, and asks, “So, what’d all your friends think about my dick pic? Sufficiently impressed?”

You bite your lower lip, not yet able to look at him, and admit in a hushed tone, “I didn’t send it to them.”

Robby tilts your chin up and searches your face. “Why not?”

“You know already.”

He leans in close, breath mixing with yours, foreheads touching, and replies, “I need to hear you say it.”

Your lip twitches up into a smirk. He’s as desperate for you as you are for him. That feels fucking good. Finally, you make eye contact – and he’s shocked by the intensity in your expression. He’s never seen you looking possessive. Blood rushes to his cock. You press a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat drum against your palm, and say, “I didn’t send it because you’re mine, Michael. And I don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine.”

The grin that spreads over Robby’s features is heart-fluttering, slow and certain and reaching the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours, huh?”

A tiny bit tentative, you whisper, “If you want me.”

Robby laughs, “If I want you?”

You’d expected your first kiss with Robby to be hungry. For your mutual, long-suffering want to explode over each other and turn into shedding clothes and falling into something frantic and intense, chasing pleasure and needing like nothing else.

But it’s not.

Robby takes a deep breath first, like he needs to gather up his courage to actually press his lips to yours despite all his bravado. Then he gives his head a little shake, laughs softly, and leans in. Both of you are gentle, even as you step up onto your toes to deepen it, even as his slightly shaking hand presses up into the curve of your spine to pull you up closer, even as you let out a breathy moan. It’s a caress more than a claim, an exploration more than an ecstasy, a feather more than a fire.

“I want you the way I want oxygen,” Robby breathes into the wide quiet space after your lips part. He kisses you so softly again and, like he might cry, whispers, “I love you.”

It’s your turn to smile – slow, disbelieving, adoring. “You love me? Really?”

He scoffs and holds you close, eye contact so sweet, “I love you so much I can’t think straight when you’re not on shift with me. I love you so much it makes me outright stupid. It would embarrass me, how much I love you, but it doesn’t because every once in a while you look at me like you might love me too and those moments make my whole life worth living.”

Knees weak and heart thudding, you whimper, “Michael.”

This time, the kiss is what you’d expected. You’re biting his lip and rucking up his shirt and shoving him toward your bedroom while he’s chuckling into your mouth at your obvious and unashamed desire, keeping you balanced, matching your energy as he opens up the door and lets himself be shoved back onto your bed. You situate yourself in his lap and practically rip his jacket off so you can finally sink your teeth into his ridiculously gorgeous arms.

Robby pulls in a sharp breath when you suck a harsh mark into the sensitive hollow of his collarbone, dragging the bruise up his neck with unrelenting suction. “Planning on getting me sent to HR our first day back as a couple?”

You pull off of him and catch your breath. Carefully, you run your thumb over his hand and reply, “Yeah, actually. I wanna do this right. HR, paperwork, the whole thing.”

Robby, smiling a tiny bit, asks, “You’re not worried about what everyone’s going to think?”

“Who cares?” You shrug and tell him, “All the other residents have been telling me to ask you out since we started. Even Jack wants us to get together. We’ve been working together while eye-fucking for two years; I don’t think much’ll change.”

“Except how close the administration’s gonna be watching you,” he replies. “I don’t want you to regret-”

You cross your arms over your chest and say, “Michael David Robinavitch, if you’re seriously interrupting our first time together to talk about the boring logistical details of our relationship, I’m going to break up with you.”

“Right, priorities,” he agrees, hands travelling up to your bralette. “Let’s focus on getting you naked.”

“That’s more like it, cap.”

“First, though,” he says softly, pleading, “I want you to say it back.”

It’s as easy as a heartbeat. You kiss him again and murmur against his lips, “I love you.” You drag your bralette up and over your body, leaving you bare-chested and blushing. As Michael’s black eyes devour the sight, you repeat, “I love you.” Then you slip off his lap, lay back on the bed, and coax him to come with, caging you between his strong arms. Before he can descend and devour, you tilt your face upward, kiss him gently, and say one more time, “I love you.”

Robby shoves his hand into your pajama shorts with no hesitation or pretense, wanting to feel you so bad he doesn’t even bother taking the clothes off first. As his fingers part your lips, dragging slickness up to your clit, he groans delightedly, “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

With a soft moan, you explain, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You shimmy to push your shorts off, kicking them away. Robby roughly shoves your legs apart right away. He’s reluctant to remove his fingers, but he’s devastatingly hungry for your pussy on his tongue. He moves to the end of your bed and, just to make you shriek out a laugh, grabs you by the ankles and yanks you down, the fabric of your comforter turning into a sled toward his body. Then he smiles wide, shakes his head in disbelief, and praises, “You’re so gorgeous it’s almost offensive.”

You roll your eyes and fail to suppress a sweet, shy smile. “Thank you.”

Then he drops to his knees, muttering something about getting down to business. Reverently, he kisses and licks your inner thighs, going between sucking marks on your skin and soothing them with his tongue. Once he’s got you squirming and silently begging, he inhales your scent deeply, hovers close to your drenched sex, and groans, “I’ve been wondering how you taste for years. Can’t believe I finally get to find out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins and ghosts the breath of his words across your clit, “And I bet you taste like heaven.”

The moment his tongue makes contact, you both moan. His vibrates up your spine, turning yours into more of a breathy gasp. He latches onto your clit, then, refusing to tease when he finally has exactly what he wants. Propped up on your elbows, you watch as he greedily devours you, eyes closed and face relaxed with rapture. You’ve never seen him look so stress-free. Like your pussy’s the one thing in the world that can silence his racing mind.

He might not admit it out loud, but that’s the truth. Your tartness on his tongue has his cock leaking through his boxers. He’s rutting against your mattress like a horny dog, imagining how ridiculously good it’s going to be to finally slip his cock inside of you. That dizzying goal combined with the perfection of your taste has him dialed in, focused on your pleasure more than he focuses on most procedures.

He curls one finger slowly inside of you, thrilled out of his fucking mind when you groan louder and buck your hips against his mouth for more. His hands are huge and they’ve always been an object of your secret lust. When he adds a second finger, there’s a slight sting, but it’s quickly eased by his tongue lapping at your clit, flat and confident and accompanied by rhythmic gentle sucking. The pace he sets is indulgent, the first course in a long meal he wants to savor every morsel of.

When Robby feels your orgasm starting to tighten, he slows down. Teases it out. His fingers turn from curling to massaging, firm and insistent against your G-spot like only a doctor could. He makes sure to spread them wide, scissoring them, letting your muscles clamp and stretch. When your wetness soaks into his beard, he finally pulls off, just lightly kissing your inner thighs and breathing you in.

Orgasm-hazy and needy, you manage to stammer out, “I have an IUD, by the way.”

He looks up from between your legs with a mischievously raised eyebrow. Fuck, hes so handsome with his lips all shiny from spit and wetness. “Are you trying to tell me to fuck you raw?”

After a second, you nod bashfully.

“That’s very good to know, kitten,” he praises warmly. Then he pushes his fingers back inside you and moves his mouth down toward your clit again.

Sounding whinier than you’ve ever heard yourself, you demand, “Michael, please, just fuck me. Need you.”

He kisses your clit tenderly, like he’s greeting an old friend, and tells you, sternly and with no room for debate, “I’ll fuck you when I’ve got you taking three of my fingers. You’ve gotta cum one more time.”

You thrash against his hand and groan, “Christ, I want you so bad. I can take it. I swear I can.”

Still curling his first two fingers back toward himself, he gives you a look so perfectly condescending it makes you clench around him. “Trust me, baby, I love your enthusiasm, and it’s taking a hell of a lot of effort to resist you, but I’ve had this dick long enough to know you need to be good and ready.” He kisses your inner thigh and presses his thumb to your clit, which starts to make your thoughts evaporate again. Then he assures you, “I promise I’m gonna fuck you so hard and so deep that you’re gonna forget anyone else has ever fucked you before. Got it?”

You stretch your arms up behind your head and sigh dreamily, “I guess I shouldn’t complain about having a boyfriend who insists on making me cum twice before he puts his dick in me.”

“Twice when I’m feeling selfish,” he corrects seriously. “This is me rushing to get inside of you. When I’m taking my time, I’ll get four or five out of you first – bring out some toys when my fingers get tired – so you’ll be gushing wet and making the dumbest little noises for me. Turn off that big beautiful brain of yours.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is.”

And then he’s back to eating your pussy. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm that he goes agonizingly gently, just using the tip of his tongue light as a feather to tease you. He holds you tight to his face by the hips so you can’t squirm away, no matter how much the overwhelming pleasure makes you thrash against the mattress. It’s his fingers that keep you grounded to reality, sloppy wet and firm and knowing. It’s like the beginning of your residency when he guided you through everything slow and steady, paying special attention to you and your potential. He holds your pleasure in his hands with expert precision.

Your orgasm slams through you as soon as he adds the third finger, stretching you comfortably open and pushing you forward. He’s holding you up now, your legs on his shoulders as your back arches away from him and your hands try to find anywhere they can get purchase, tugging his hair and beard and scratching his shoulders as your thighs spasm and ache. Your moans are high and stupid, thoughtless as ecstasy spreads out in front of you.

But Robby doesn’t let up, fingers branding into your hips as his other hand keeps working you open through the brutal aftershocks. The brush of his beard against your sensitive flesh has you seeing stars. Tears sting at your waterline and his lips wrap around your clit harder than ever, refusing to give you any relief from the lingering orgasm that’s bordering on painful now. It’s only when your moans turn to gasps and your tears actually crest over onto your cheeks that he detaches.

Robby blows cool air on your pussy and rubs his thumbs tenderly over your outer thigh as he slowly withdraws his fingers. Your whole body shudders from the stimulation and you feel so fucking good it’s like you’re high on the drug of your newly minted boyfriend.

He gradually kisses up your hip, over your stomach, between your breasts, and then finally along your neck to your lips, where he softly sucks your lower lip and praises, “Good job, angel. You ready or can I bring you water or something?”

You kiss him back for a minute, lapping up the taste of yourself on his mouth. He still has his pants on but you can feel that his cock is agonizingly hard and straining against them. So you press your forehead to his, take a deep breath, and nod seriously. “I need you to fuck me.”

Robby grins, pupils dilating and heart slamming. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

“Probably about as many times as I’ve used a dildo and been disappointed it’s not your cock.” At your response, Robby laughs as he steps off the bed, rummaging through his discarded jacket. He pulls a small bottle of lube from one of the pockets and it makes you snicker. “You were that certain I’d fuck you?”

“Yeah, pretty damn sure.” Then he ditches the small talk, moving back to the edge of the bed like a lion and shoving your legs apart again. He uncaps the bottle and trains his gaze between your thighs. “There’s my greedy pussy. So pretty for me clenching around nothing. Fucking begging.” He squirts cold lube on your hot, overstimulated cunt and you hiss in a sharp breath that makes him chuckle darkly with arousal. “So sensitive, too. Fuck, you’re perfect. Need my cock, don’t you?”

You’re such a sniveling mess that you can’t even respond, just chasing your hips toward his cock to silently beg.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, stilling your hip with his hand and spreading your legs as wide as they can possibly go. He lines up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance, taking a second to memorize the image as he murmurs,  “Gonna take care of you, sweet girl. Don’t you worry. Just breathe for me.”

No amount of preparation could prepare you for the size of his cock. It doesn’t hurt because you’re ridiculously wet and he took his damn time, but the stretch is immense. Like sinking deeper into a yoga pose that makes you groan and curl your toes. A release. Your head snaps backwards and sweat beads on your forehead as he slowly, carefully, lovingly thrusts inside.

Robby touches your cheek and makes sure, “Is this okay? Not too much?”

You gaze up at him with eyes so full of love and lust Robby’s half-sheathed cock twitches inside the heat of your body. Unable to come up with anything else, you just whisper, “Perfect.”

Robby smirks and nods. He’d tell you how you fit him like a glove, how your wetness and tightness has him on the edge already, how you’re everything, but if he opened his mouth right now the string of high-pitched moans would be absolutely pathetic. So he leans down to kiss you, pushing your legs further back and up so he can fit himself between your hips. As his lips meet yours, you moan into the kiss, toes curling as his cock finally reaches into you as deep as he can, maybe three quarters of him piercing you.

Robby gradually draws his cock back and pushes forward again. With a trembling breath and a burning kiss, he groans, “God, you feel fucking incredible.”

Breathing hard, you grip his hair and nestle into the crook of his neck and cry, “So good, Michael. Your cock’s amazing. Like you were made for me. Feels incredible.”

His whole body shudders with pleasure and delight. “You can’t say things like that, baby.”

“Why not?”

He scoffs, one hand going down to play with your pebbled nipple. “I’d like to fuck you more than thirty seconds before I cum prematurely.”

That makes you bite your lower lip and eye him carefully. You file away ‘Robby totally has a praise kink’ for another day because you can’t put any coherent thoughts together as he manages to get deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust. You didn’t even know your body could feel like this – loose, warm, brilliantly full. If he pulled out, you’d feel incomplete somehow. He’s christening a new version of you to the point that you’re starting to understand that whole ‘ruining you for other men’ thing. His cock is everything. It’s divine and electric at once, a symphony strumming from your cunt up your abdomen, rooted by his greedy hands on your tits and his mouth worshipping along your neck and collarbones.

Then he drops his thumb down to your clit.

You’re sparking toward another orgasm before you can even process the gesture. He grins into your neck as your back arches and your cunt clamps down. With your walls stretched so taut, each pulse of your pussy is sharp as a rubber band snapping, intense and vibrant. When you cum, you lose any control over your body, becoming something primal and raw and animal. Fingers digging into his flesh. Teeth sharp and violent over his shoulders. Legs locked around his ass. There aren’t any thoughts but the drunkenness of his touch, his body pressing down on yours, his claiming grasp everywhere. 

As you shatter into aftershocks, overstimulating and delicious, you’re being so loud, moans and slapping skin and gushing cunt, that Robby probably should slow his fucking or muffle your mouth, but he’s addicted to the sounds. It’s the litany of music from your body that has his balls tightening and him grunting, “Where do you want it?”

All you can do is tighten your thighs around him and stare up with lust-ridden eyes, whining almost constantly, a silent plea for what you want.

Robby holds your face by the jaw, keeping you trained forward to look right at him despite how glassy and dazed your expression is. “If you want me to cum inside of you, you’re gonna have to ask nicely.”

You nod slowly, trying to come up with words when your thoughts are sex-fueled molasses. It takes another few seconds for you to come up with one idea that rings true enough to break through the fog: “I’m yours, Michael. Please.”

“That’s right,” he growls, hands around your ankles to keep you in the mating press as he shoves deep inside of you, cum bursting forward. You watch, rapt, as his mouth falls open into a precious little O and his eyes pinch tight and his right hand smashes back onto the wall to keep him upright. “Fuck. Fuck.” He falls forward and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance: Desperate and owning. His voice is broken and raspy. “God, I love you. I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

You just whimper into his neck, wrapping your arms around him and easing your legs down as much as they can with his body still between them. Not so subtly kissing and licking his sweat, you murmur sweetly, “Love you, Michael. Will you stay the night?”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “Stay here; let me get you cleaned up and comfortable. Is it alright if I rummage around to get you something to drink too?”

You nod and hum happily, “You’re an angel.”

After pressing a few more kisses to your lips and cheeks and forehead, Robby stands up, stretches out his arms, chuckles to himself, and disappears into your kitchen and then your adjacent bathroom. You drift contentedly in the blissed-out cloud of your brain, eyes gently closed and limbs heavy, until he returns. You barely notice his presence until you feel a cool washcloth wiping the beading sweat from your forehead and chest and then trailing down between your legs. Robby listens to your heavy, even, satisfied breaths as he works, switching to massaging the bruises his rough hands have left over your hips and his greedy mouth left along your thighs.

Finally, he sits next to you on the bed and softly rubs your shoulder. “Drink some of this for me.”

“Mmm.”

You barely open your eyes as you take the chilled blue Gatorade from him, chugging down half of it before offering it back so that he can drink it too. Then he gives you a tangy bright kiss and says, “C’mon, I’m pretty sure it’s bedtime.”

With a big stretch of your arms over your head, you swing your legs off the bed, kiss him hard, and stand. He slips back into the bathroom as you grab a pair of shorts and tank top to put on after you’ve showered or at least cleaned up some.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’ve got me looking like I went ten rounds with a boxer,” he whistles low from the bathroom. “You’re awfully cute for a vampire, you know that?”

“I’m sure the marks aren’t that bad,” you reply with an eye roll, joining him through the doorway. Under the real lights, though, you realize with horror that you’ve not only given him hickeys and bruises but you’ve broken his skin in more than one place – both with your teeth and with your nails. There are mean bites all around his neck and down his shoulders, scratches over his arms and upper back, beads of blood mingling among the marks. Tears spring up into your eyes when you realize you’ve caused him pain that he’s going to be carrying around for a week or more. “Oh my god, Michael, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Sorry?” He turns toward you with an adorably furrowed brow. “What in the ever living fuck are you sorry about?”

You rummage around the bathroom drawers for your first aid kit and sniffle, “I really hurt you.”

“Baby, baby, stop.” Robby snatches you back by the hips and pulls you up. “I’m gonna wear these as a badge of honor. You have any idea how good it feels to fuck a good girl so well she turns feral?”

You pout your lip as you try to suppress your smile. “At least let me look them over. Apply some topical antibiotics and bandaids.”

“I can take care of myself, sweetheart, they gave me a whole degree in topical antibiotics and bandaids,” he chuckles. “And you’re gonna have to get used to it. Now that I know how crazy you get, I fully expect to get these marks touched up more nights than not.”

“Michael,” you protest half-heartedly as he kisses you deeply, “the human mouth is a hotbed for for infections.”

He doesn’t stop smiling, though, tugging you into his body by the waist, his cock debating coming to light against your thigh. “Yeah, baby, I noticed your mouth is fucking filthy.”

“Robby, I’m serious, we need to clean the wound sites or-”

“Ohohoh,” he teases, “if you wanted to shower together, you could’ve just said that.”

You hum as you flip pancakes, pajamas hanging loosely from your body, Robby standing behind you lavishing kisses along the tops of your shoulder. The warmth of his shirtless body has kept you feeling so safe and cozy all night. When the door handle turns nearby, you startle slightly from the intrusion to your peace but don’t move.

Robby doesn’t either. He just shifts his weight so he can look over his shoulder at your roommate coming home. No point in pretending this won’t be a regular occurrence. He offers, trying sound kind and nonthreatening so she won’t get spooked like a rabbit again? “Morning, Dr. King, how was your shift?”

Mel stares at the two of you for about thirty seconds, computing and calibrating, before she just shrugs off her jacket, hangs it on the small coat rack, and replies, “Um, hi, Dr. Robby, it- it was good; finally checked off an emergent birth.”

“Good work,” he tells her earnestly; the first time delivering a baby on the ED floor is nothing short of terrifying. “Congratulations, kid.”

“Looks like I have some congratulating to do, too.” She beams and joins you both in the kitchen. “You two are finally happening? For real?”

“For real,” he confirms with a laugh as he realizes how much you must’ve vented to Mel over the years. “Took us long enough, I’d say.”

With Robby blocking the coffee maker, Mel just presents a mug to him. He fills it with a surprised nod, pleased to see her slightly more comfortable with his presence. She sighs out like she’s getting a massage, “God, this is such a relief for me. You have no clue how annoying she is about you, like, every night. Robby breathed on my neck and I almost passed out. Robby reached for the same suture kit as me. I had that sex dream about Robby again. It’ll be nice to go to bed earlier.”

You glare at Mel over your shoulder as you plate up a stack of pancakes. “You don’t have to make me look bad in front of my brand new boyfriend.”

“Trust me, baby,” he replies, turning to catch you in a quick kiss, “I’m twice as bad. I’m pretty sure Jack was getting ready to file a cease and desist because of how often I complained about not having you. Him and Samira are going to have to come up with a new couple to meddle with; I almost feel bad for them.”

Mel nervously asks, “Dr. Robinavitch, would you grab me the French vanilla creamer?”

“You can call me Michael, if you want.” He opens up the fridge, searches a second, and hands over the half-empty bottle. “Figure I should be on a first-name basis with my future wife’s maid of honor.”

You pour your own mug of coffee and give him a smirk. “Future wife, huh?”

“Mohan shared your ring Pinterest board with me when I left Jack’s to come here last night.” He kisses your cheek, beard scratchy and lovely, and murmurs, “The title being ‘Mrs. Robinavitch’ didn’t leave much to the imagination in terms of your intentions with me.”

Mel, absolutely grinning now as her happiness for her best friend bubbles over, giggles,  “Maybe I’ll start a betting pool for how long it’ll take.”

Robby gives her a conspiratorial wink that makes your heart sing. “Cut me in for half and I’ll help you cheat.”

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.

She tries not to start anything in the apartment, knowing fully well that neither of you will go anywhere if you devolve into heated kisses and panting breaths.

No, play is reserved strictly for outside. It's one of the rules she and her husband established. You've met Benji briefly before, a night at the club where he just so happened to pop in for a drink while he waited for her to finish up so they could go to date night together.

He likes you, you know that much, and he's more than happy that you're able to keep his wife occupied and taken care of while she's at work.

Yeah, Dana loves to play with you while she works. It's a two-for-one as she calls it—giving you a reprieve from thinking and her a much needed distraction while she sits in on boring meetings where she doesn't have to make any decisions, just listen for hours.

Which is where you currently find yourself, on your knees, tucked beneath her desk, head between her legs as Kevin from marketing drones on and on about your Q3 analytics and Q4 projections.

You're supposed to be on this call too but Dana made it a point to note that you had something else to take care of for her and she'd fill you in later.

If anyone knows what's truly going on, you have no clue, but this is a sex club after all so it's not like they're going to buy that excuse outright.

But you're all professionals at the end of the day.

So no one says a damn thing.

Dana's instructions were clear.

You're supposed to edge her, not make her cum. If she does, especially while she's on camera, she will turn your ass so red you won't be able to sit for a few days.

Unfortunately for you, you know she's already cleared it with the rest of your partners, a scene that heavy required by the contract to be approved unanimously for your own well-being.

So you do as your told, closing the door, locking it, stripping every single item of clothing until you're naked before sliding out of your heels and rounding her sleek, glass desk.

Dana rolls her chair back enough for you to settle in between her open legs, all her attention directed at the screen before her as gets herself set up to join the call.

You crouch down without her having to give you a command, legs tucked neatly as you settle down on your heels, hands over your knees. That's when you do wait for her to get comfortable, to roll the chair into position.

It's only when the call starts and you begin to hear the airy and polite greeting from the team that you lean forward, resting your cheek against her inner thigh.

You stare up at her lovingly, nuzzling into her warm flesh as Dana engages in pleasant small talk with the marketing team. Her hand comes down to settle over your other cheek, petting and rewarding, her thumb grazing over your plump lips.

You stop yourself from humming out loud and instead focus on the gentle pleasure of her affection.

When Kevin takes the floor and she mutes herself, her grip shifts towards the back of your head, finally pulling you forward to settle against her heat.

You purr contently, noticing she's not wearing any underwear.

You begin by kissing her mound, just above her clit. She shivers deliciously, a huge boost to your ego every time.

"May I?" you ask, just like she expects you to, like you know she loves.

She nods once, curt, passed off as a reaction to something being said in the meeting, but you know better by now.

You've learned to read all of them well these past few months.

Dana's tells are easy.

A quirked brow to show disapproval, a tensed jaw to relay anger, and most notably, the need for a cigarette for...anything real.

That's when you know things are really bad.

Luckily, she hasn't had to smoke in quite a while, the work not only being fulfilling but also a refreshing change of pace.

You do worry sometimes.

Worry that one day she's going to wake up and realize that she made a horrible mistake. Worry that she'll resent Jack and Robby for keeping their jobs while she sacrificed hers. Worry that you won't be enough to keep her—

You're abruptly snapped out of your thoughts as she shoves your head against her glistening folds.

Fuck, she knows you too well.

Maybe this isn't about her at all. Maybe this is all about you.

And you know for a fact that you will never get tired of this, never get tired of her, of them.

You latch onto her clit, lips sucking, tongue swirling.

It's not intentional, you definitely don't think when she starts to buck her hips slightly, when you feel her stiffen beneath you.

You haven't made her cum this quick in...ever.

It's exhilarating. Thrilling. Terrifying.

You forget all about her command.

No, it's a deep, soulful desperation that makes you leap.

Take more than has been given.

It's why you barely catch her when she unmutes herself.

"Kevin, I need to stop you—I've got an emergency to deal with. Reconvene in thirty, thank you!"

She manages to leave the call, the room settling into a chorus of her pants and your eagerness.

She doesn't even have a second to pull you off, to stop you before she's cumming, your mouth finally detaching itself from her puffy clit only to lick up the spend that spills from her before it ruins the chair beneath.

You watch her through hooded eyes, the way her chest heaves, her legs shake, her composure crumbles effortlessly.

"Oh baby..." she finally speaks, voice slightly broken. "If you wanted mommy to punish you, you could've just said so."

You're so spacy that the mention of punishment only makes you beam even more, your glistening lips the most beautiful sight to her as you smile.

"Get up."

She rolls back, pulling you out from under her desk by your hair, hard enough that it hurts but not so much that you're screaming in pain.

A nice, perfect balance.

You stand before her, your naked body a delicious contrast to her fully clothed one.

"Turn around."

You do.

"Bed over, hands flat on the desk."

Your stomach flutters with anticipation as you hear her roll closer to you again, her heels digging into your shins to keep your legs spread out just how she wants it.

You let out a broken sob after a full minute goes by and she hasn't touched you.

"Oh, poor kid," she mocks. "Do you need something?"

You nod desperately as you feel her breath ghost right above your exposed folds, feel as she smirks before pulling back completely, only for the silence to be replaced with one, explosive smack against your ass.

You jerk away from her touch now, causing her to chuckle darkly.

"No need to count, baby," she states while she continues her assault on your ass. "Just speak up when you can't take any more."

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

The words don't process fully until your ass is throbbing.

You're honestly more concerned about her hand for a second but then she opens up her desk drawer and pulls out the cute paddle she bought you a week prior and you're a goner.

You don't hold back, body jerking and twisting with every hit, softer than her palm but still sharp as all hell given how sensitive you already are.

"'m sorry, I'm so sorry," you slur, goosebumps erupting as you feel the gentle hum of the air conditioner on your hot skin. "I didn't—mommy please—fuck!"

She doesn't stop, relentless and merciless.

"Just say the word baby."

You yelp loudly as the paddle accidentally lands too close to your entrance.

"Fuck—yellow! Yellow, oh my god."

She pulls the paddle back, wet from your arousal. You flinch as she tosses the object next to your head and she instantly pulls you onto her lap.

She shushes you gently, soft hands and gentle kisses over every inch of skin she has access to, careful not to touch your throbbing backside.

Ten minutes before she's supposed to reconvene, you come back to yourself.

"That was crazy," you giggle shyly, absentmindedly playing with her shirt buttons as she cradles you to her chest.

"It was," she smiles down at you. "You okay, baby?"

You nod. "Yeah, just didn't think we'd get there so quickly."

"Yeah no shit, you got greedy!"

You giggle then, light and airy. "It's your fault for being so pretty and attentive."

Dana rolls her eyes, giving you a once over before she shifts you to straddle her lap. The second your exposed folds make contact with the roughness of her skirt, you hiss, reminding the both of you of what's been left unfinished.

Heat rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment flooding through your body.

"'m sorry," you murmur.

Instead of answering, Dana grabs a hold of your love handles, pushing you down against her core, the fabric roughly coming into contact with your clit.

You moan, loudly, hands coming up to steady yourself on her shoulders.

"You have six minutes, baby," she kisses your jaw. "Make yourself cum."

Your mind goes blank, the pulsing pain becoming nothing more than a guide to follow as you roll your hips, desperate to find the release you're searching for.

"Look at you," Dana praises, hot and heavy against your ear. "Such a good girl for me, my perfect little toy."

You whine, movements speeding up as you find the perfect combination to build and build and build—

A spark of pleasure ignites through you, your grip tightening on her shoulders.

"Mommy..." you moan "Please may I—" you cry out in pleasure, core clenching but not daring to release. "May I please cum?"

Dana takes a second to assess you, to take you in fully—this perfect gift that they've been given, all needy and eager to please, a light in the darkness that her days at PTMC had created—

"Cum baby."

And that you do, pleasure washing away any doubt, any confusion, any fear that this is too good to be true.

You're here, right now, with her, seen, understood, loved and protected. And nothing could ever take that away from you.

She holds you close to her body as you tremble, as your breath quivers against her collarbone, as you come undone because of her and for her.

"Good girl," she kisses your shoulder reverently. "Did so good for me."

You hum, slumping on her shamelessly.

"Let me call Jack to pick you up and then I'll join my meeting, okay?"

You nod, absentminded, because you honestly don't care about logistics anymore. You know you're going to be taken care of, and that's what's making you feel just as alive as them.

Pittsburgh was not bad. That almost made it worse.

It was pretty in ways you had not expected. Green hills. Old brick. Rain-dark streets. Houses tucked into slopes like the whole city had been built by someone stubborn enough to make gravity negotiate.

There were good meals. Good walks. Good days, technically. But none of it was Vegas. None of it was home.

Vegas had been heat rising off pavement after midnight. Neon bleeding across sidewalks. Music spilling out of open doors. Tourists laughing too loud. Coworkers yelling over the bar noise. The constant pulse of people moving, spending, leaving, arriving.

Vegas never asked you to be still. Pittsburgh did.

And at first, stillness had felt like relief. Then it started to feel like punishment. You were in your thirties. You had worked too long, carried too much, rebuilt yourself too many times to suddenly become someone who filled her days with errands and walks and waiting for someone else’s work shift to end.

But that was what your life had become.

Groceries.

Laundry.

Reading.

Dinners.

Walks through neighborhoods that were beautiful and quiet and not yours.

You were grateful. That was the part that made you angry. Because Robby had given you safety. A bed. Financial breathing room. Insurance. A house where no one expected you to be anything but okay. And still, some ugly, restless part of you kept pressing against the walls.

Not because you wanted to leave him. Not exactly. Because you missed yourself. You missed your life. You missed working.

Not bartending specifically. Not the sticky floors or the men who thought tipping meant they had purchased your patience. Not the ache in your feet after a long shift or the smell of tequila clinging to your hair no matter how long you stood under the shower.

You missed having somewhere to be.

A reason to leave the house that was not an appointment or a grocery list. A schedule that belonged to you. A body tired from doing something other than waiting.

Some mornings, the thought of going back showed up before you had even finished your coffee.

Not as a plan. Not exactly. More like checking for an exit in a crowded room.

How much money did you have left? How long would the drive take? Could you get your old job back, or had someone already taken your shifts?

You never followed the thought all the way through. You always closed the app, folded another load of laundry, made another grocery list.

But the thought kept coming back anyway. 

You missed the noise.

Real noise. Human noise. The kind that filled the air before you had time to think too hard. Glasses hitting counters. Music too loud. Someone laughing from across the room. Someone yelling your name because they needed another bottle from the back. The low, constant movement of a place that did not care if you were lonely because it was too busy being alive.

Robby’s house was quiet. Not empty. Not anymore. But quiet in a way that made your thoughts louder. You knew the sounds of it too well now.

The dishwasher clicking into its dry cycle. The refrigerator humming. The heat kicking on. The distant rumble of Robby’s motorcycle when he came home late enough for the whole neighborhood to hear it before you did.

You knew which cabinet stuck. Which burner on the stove ran hotter than the others. How long the washing machine took to finish a cycle.

You knew all of it because there had been too much time to learn it.

At first, you told yourself it was useful. Robby worked long shifts. You were here. Cooking made sense. Cleaning made sense. Grocery shopping made sense. It was not like you were doing anything else. That thought started as a joke. Then it stopped being funny.

Some days, you woke up and made a list just to prove the day had shape.

Laundry.

Bank.

Walk.

Dinner.

Prenatal vitamin.

Call pharmacy.

You wrote things down even when you knew you would remember them, because crossing them off gave you a small, pathetic sense of accomplishment.

Other days, you did not make a list at all. Those were worse. Those were the days you stood in the kitchen with your hands braced against the counter, looking around for something that needed doing and feeling a little sick when you realized you had already done it.

The floors were clean.

The fridge was organized.

The dishes were put away.

The laundry was folded.

Dinner was planned.

There was nothing left to fix. Nothing left to manage. Nothing left to be useful for.

So you walked.

At first, walking helped.

You found different streets, different hills, different houses with porch swings and overgrown gardens and old stone steps slick from rain. You learned where the sidewalks cracked and where the trees arched low enough to brush your shoulder if you were not paying attention.

Then the walks started looping back on themselves.

Same streets.

Same houses.

Same quiet.

Same body moving through a place that still did not feel like yours.

And when you came home, Robby’s house waited exactly where you had left it.

Safe.

Warm.

Still.

You started getting quiet.

Not all at once. Not enough that anyone could point to a single moment and say, There. That was when it changed.

But Robby noticed anyway.

He noticed when you stopped leaving the television on in the afternoon. When your answers got shorter. When you started making dinner earlier and earlier, like getting it done sooner might make the evening arrive faster.

He noticed when you stopped telling him about the places you went.

At first, he tried asking.

“How was the museum?”

“Fine.”

“Coffee shop any good?”

“Fine.”

“Did you like the park?”

“It was fine.”

Fine became the word you used when you did not have the energy to explain that nothing was wrong enough to justify how wrong you felt.

Robby never called you on it.

That almost made it worse.

He would just nod once, careful and quiet, and let the answer sit there like he could tell it had teeth.

You wanted him to push. You wanted him to leave it alone. You wanted him to ask the exact right question that would crack you open without making you bleed.

You hated that no version of him could win.

You hated that too.

You hated how patient he was. How steady. How he gave you room without making you feel abandoned. How he came home exhausted and still checked the fridge to see if you had eaten. How he never asked you to explain feelings you had not figured out how to name.

You hated that he was doing everything right and you still felt like this.

Then the snippiness started.

Small things at first.

He asked if you had taken your prenatal vitamin, and you looked up from the sink with soap on your hands and said, “Yes, Michael. I managed to swallow one pill without supervision.”

The second it left your mouth, you wished you could take it back.

Robby only stood there for a beat, hand still on the refrigerator door. You watched the apology rise in your throat and die there.

Then he nodded once. “Okay.”

That was all.

No argument. No wounded look. No lecture about how he was only trying to help.

Just okay.

He grabbed a bottle of water, asked if dinner needed another twenty minutes, and moved around you like you had not just snapped at him hard enough to leave a mark.

Which somehow made the guilt sharper.

Another night, he came home and found you sitting at the kitchen table with a grocery receipt, circling prices you already knew were too high.

“You need me to pick anything up tomorrow?” he asked.

You did not look up. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I said no.”

The room went quiet.

Robby set his keys in the bowl by the door. Softer than usual.

“Okay.”

Something inside you twisted.

“Why do you keep asking me the same thing?” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I said no. I heard you the first time.”

His expression flickered before smoothing out.

“I was just checking.”

“I know what you were doing.”

For a second, he only looked at you.

Then his jaw shifted once.

“You know I’m just trying to help, right?”

The words were not sharp. Not exactly. But they were not as soft as okay either.

That made it worse.

You looked down at the receipt. “I know.”

“You don’t have to bite my head off for it.”

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Your eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he said.

But this time, it sounded tired. Not angry. Just tired enough to make your chest ache.

Because he did know. And he was still standing there.

You did not even know what you meant half the time.

Only that everything inside you felt rubbed raw. Like your life had narrowed down to a house that was not yours, a body that kept changing, and a man who was kind enough to make your anger feel unfair.

Some nights, the pressure had nowhere to go, so you cried in the bathroom with the faucet running and hated yourself for needing even that.

You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried to pinpoint the exact place where gratitude had curdled into resentment, where rest had become stagnation, where being cared for had started to feel indistinguishable from disappearing.

The worst part was waking up each morning and doing it all again.

Coffee.

Laundry.

Walk.

Dinner.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

The worst day was the junk drawer.

It should not have been the junk drawer. That was what made it worse.

Robby came home to the contents of it spread across the kitchen counter.

Batteries. Pens. Loose screws. Tape. Rubber bands. Receipts. Three chargers that belonged to nothing useful. A takeout menu from a restaurant that had closed two years ago. A handful of keys with no labels and no obvious purpose.

You had sorted all of it into separate piles.

The drawer itself sat open and empty while you wiped down the inside with a paper towel, jaw tight, sleeves pushed up, one hand braced against the counter like this was a task with stakes.

Robby stopped in the kitchen doorway. For a second, he did not say anything.

Then, carefully, “What happened?”

You did not look up. “Your junk drawer was disgusting.”

“It’s a junk drawer.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

“No, the point is that things go in it. Not that they rot there until future civilizations find them.”

The room went quiet. You kept wiping. The drawer was already clean. You knew that. Robby probably knew it too. Still, he did not say anything right away. He just stood there with his bag still over one shoulder, watching the counter.

Watching you. Not judgmental. That would have been easier. Careful. That was worse.

He set his bag down near the door.

“Did something happen today?”

“No.”

Too fast.

His eyes moved to your face. You hated that he heard it. The silence stretched. 

You dropped the paper towel into the trash and reached for a stack of pens you had already tested twice.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Do what?”

“Handle me.”

“I’m not handling you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Robby stayed still.

You snapped a rubber band around the working pens a little harder than necessary.

“You do that thing where you get all calm and careful like I’m going to break if you speak normally.”

His expression shifted, small enough that you almost missed it.

“I’m trying not to make it worse.”

“Well,” you said, looking up at him finally, “that’s worse.”

The words landed badly. You knew it immediately.

Robby looked down for half a second, then back at you. His face did not harden. That would have been easier too.

“I’m not mad about the drawer,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you standing there like that?”

“Because I came home and found you sorting rubber bands like your life depended on it.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “It needed to be done.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, gently, “Did it need to be done today?”

Something in you went still.

You looked down at the counter.

The batteries.

The pens.

The small bowl full of screws.

All of it suddenly looked ridiculous.

Your hands curled against the edge of the counter.

“I needed something to do.”

The words came out flat.

Robby did not answer right away. That was worse than anything he could have said.

You swallowed once and kept staring at the mess.

“I already did the laundry. I already went to the store. I already took a walk. Dinner’s already made. The house is clean. The dishes are done.”

Your voice stayed level.

Too level.

“There was nothing else.”

The silence after that felt different.

Not sharp.

Not heavy.

Just bare.

Robby stepped farther into the kitchen, but not too close.

“You don’t have to keep finding things to fix.”

Your mouth tightened. “If I don’t, then I just sit here.”

He absorbed that quietly.

You hated how small your voice sounded when you added, “I’m tired of sitting here.”

Robby’s face softened.

Something in you recoiled from it. Not because it was pity. Because it wasn’t. Because he understood enough to make it dangerous.

“I’m not ungrateful,” you said quickly.

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” You looked up, defensive before he had even accused you of anything. “I know what you’ve done. I know I’m safe here. I know I have a doctor because of you. I know I have insurance and food and a place to sleep, and I know all of that matters.”

“I know.”

“But I hate this.”

The words came out before you could make them kinder.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Robby did too, maybe.

You waited for the flinch. The hurt. The quiet proof that you had finally said too much. It did not come. His eyes stayed on yours.

“The house?” he asked.

“No.”

Immediate.

At least that part was true.

Your fingers tightened against the counter.

“No,” you said, softer. “Not the house.”

You searched for the right words and found nothing clean enough to hold it.

“This.”

You looked around, but there was nothing specific enough to blame.

The counter.

The drawer.

The piles.

Your own body.

Your whole life.

“This,” you repeated. “Whatever this is.”

Robby did not move.

You looked down before he could see too much.

“I feel like I’m waiting all the time.”

The confession scraped on the way out.

“Waiting for appointments. Waiting for test results. Waiting for you to come home. Waiting for the baby to be here. Waiting to know what happens after that. Waiting to feel like any of this is actually mine.”

Robby’s mouth tightened, but he still said nothing.

You hated that you were grateful for it.

“I had a life,” you said.

Your voice nearly broke on the last word. You shook your head once, quick and angry at yourself.

“I had a job. I had people who knew me. I had streets I could walk without looking at my phone. I had places I belonged even when they were terrible places.”

You looked back at the counter. “At least they were mine.”

The kitchen went completely still.

The refrigerator hummed behind you. Late afternoon sunlight pressed faintly against the windows. Somewhere outside, a car passed too slowly down the street.

You picked up one of the loose keys and turned it over in your fingers even though it told you nothing.

“Maybe this was a mistake.”

Robby went very still. You heard it more than saw it. The change in the room. The absence of movement.

Your eyes closed.

“That’s not—”

You stopped. Because you did not know what it was.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice thin. “Maybe you should just sign the papers.”

Silence.

The key bit into your palm.

“Maybe I should go back.”

Robby’s jaw shifted once. “Is that what you want?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because if the answer had been yes, maybe that would have been easier. If the answer had been no, maybe that would have been easier too.

Instead, you stared down at the piles on the counter and felt like every possible version of your life had become too large to look at directly.

“I don’t know.” The words were barely more than breath. “I don’t know what I want.”

Robby stayed quiet.

You hated that too. You hated that he did not rush in and tell you what to feel.

You hated that he did not make himself the villain so leaving would feel cleaner.

You hated that he stood there looking at you like he was trying to understand something that kept changing shape in your hands.

“I just know I can’t keep being this person,” you said.

Your voice cracked on person.

You looked around the kitchen.

At the drawer.

At the folded receipt.

At the house that had kept you safe and somehow made you feel smaller every day.

“I’m in your house. I’m using your insurance. Your money. Your space. And I’m snapping at you because you asked if I took a vitamin.” A short, humorless laugh left you. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here half the time except making both our lives harder.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. “You’re not making my life harder.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not.”

“Michael.” Your fingers curled against the counter. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for me. There was a reason you left Vegas.”

Robby went still.

“Because you didn’t want this life.”

His face changed then. Not anger. Not exactly. But something sharper than the patience he had been giving you all week.

“Don’t do that.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Decide what I want for me.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yes,” he said, quiet but firm. “It is.”

The room held still around the words.

“You keep giving me an exit I didn’t ask for.”

You swallowed. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

“No,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel. Just immediate enough to make you go still.

“You’re trying to make the decision easier.”

Something in your chest pulled tight.

“Because I don’t know how to make any decision anymore,” you snapped, and your voice broke before you could stop it. “I used to know what I was doing. I used to have answers. I used to have a life that made sense, even when it was messy, and now I can’t even tell if staying here is brave or stupid.”

Robby did not answer.

Your eyes stung.

“You don’t know what this feels like.”

That stopped him.

For the first time since he came home, Robby looked like the words had gotten through somewhere he had not expected.

A muscle shifted in his jaw.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”

The admission sat between you.

No argument.

No correction.

No pretending.

He took a slow breath.

“I don’t know what it feels like to leave everything behind. I don’t know what it feels like to be nineteen weeks pregnant and sitting in someone else’s kitchen feeling like your whole life got replaced by appointments and grocery lists.”

You looked away.

“But I know this isn’t just about Vegas,” he said.

Your eyes moved back to him.

He held your gaze.

“And I don’t think going back fixes the part that hurts.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to pick up every neatly sorted pile on the counter and scatter it just to prove none of it could stay organized anyway.

Instead, your mouth trembled once.

“I don’t know who I am here.”

There it was. The whole ugly center of it.

Not Vegas.

Not Pittsburgh.

Not the house.

Not Micheal.

You.

Robby’s expression shifted.

The sharpness did not disappear exactly. It softened into something quieter. Something worried. Something that looked too much like understanding.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then his eyes shifted toward the small table near the door.

Toward his keys.

Toward the spare helmet sitting on the lower shelf beneath his.

When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed.

Not fixed.

Not certain.

Just decided.

“Come with me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“Come with me.”

Your eyes flicked toward the small table by the door. Toward his keys. Toward the spare helmet sitting beneath them. Then back to him.

“For a ride?”

“Yes.”

You let out a short breath.

“Michael.”

He waited.

“You’ve spent the last month pointing out every mildly unsafe thing I’ve done.”

The corner of his mouth almost moved before settling again.

“You climbed onto the counter to reach a mixing bowl.”

“There was a chair right there.”

“You ignored the chair.”

“I was efficient.”

“You tried to move the bookshelf by yourself.”

“It was crooked.”

“It was heavy.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “And now you’re suggesting a motorcycle.”

“Yes.”

There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to argue. Just the answer.

Your gaze drifted toward the window. Late afternoon light. Dry roads. The quiet neighborhood beyond the glass.

“You know this sounds insane.”

“I know.” The admission came easily. “I don’t think sitting in this kitchen is helping either.”

Something tightened painfully in your chest.

You looked back at the counter. At the sorted batteries. The bundled pens.

The keys you had been turning over in your hand like one of them might unlock a version of your life you recognized.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted.

“I don’t either.”

Your head lifted.

Robby held your gaze. “But I know walking isn’t enough anymore.”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just honest.

His eyes moved briefly toward the helmets, then back to you.

“And I think you miss it.”

Your throat tightened.

You did not ask what he meant.

The bike.

The noise.

The movement.

The part of yourself that had surfaced for a few minutes at dinner when he’d mentioned the rattle.

Robby’s voice stayed quiet.

“You sounded more like yourself talking about motorcycles than you have talking about anything else lately.”

That hit harder than you expected. Because he was right. Because you had not realized he had noticed that too.

Your hand drifted unconsciously toward the curve of your stomach.

Fear.

Habit.

Uncertainty.

Robby noticed.

He always noticed.

“If anything feels wrong,” he said, “we turn around.”

You looked at him.

“No questions asked.”

Something in your throat tightened. Not because of the bike. Not because of the offer.

Because after everything you’d just thrown at him, your fear, your resentment, your uncertainty, he wasn’t trying to convince you to stay.

He wasn’t trying to convince you to go. He was just offering you a way to breathe.

“You really think this is going to help?” you asked.

“No,” he said honestly.

Then, after a beat, “But I think sitting here is hurting you.”

The truth of it settled heavily between you.

You looked around the kitchen one more time.

The junk drawer spread across the counter.

The clean house.

The safe house.

The house that had started to feel too small around your skin.

Then you looked back at him.

“…Okay.”

Robby did not smile. He did not look relieved. He just nodded once.

“Okay.”

And for the first time all afternoon, the word did not sound like surrender.

Robby reached for his keys. And for the first time all day, the house did not feel like it was closing in.

You had forgotten.

Not the mechanics of it. Not how to swing your leg over the bike or settle your feet onto the pegs. Not the way the helmet muffled the world into something smaller and clearer all at once.

You had forgotten what it felt like.

The engine vibrated beneath you as Robby pulled away from the curb, steady and smooth beneath your hands.

Fall had settled over Pittsburgh while you weren’t paying attention.

The air held that crisp edge that only came for a few weeks every year. Cool enough to slip beneath the cuffs of your sweatshirt. Warm enough in the afternoon sun that you did not shiver. The sharp scent of drying leaves mixed with exhaust and chimney smoke somewhere in the distance.

For the first few minutes, you were aware of everything. The way your hands wrapped around Robby’s middle. The solid line of his back beneath your palms. The steady rise and fall of him breathing under your arms. The careful way he accelerated. The fact that you were nineteen weeks pregnant on the back of a motorcycle.

You could practically hear the list of reasons this had been a bad idea. Then Robby settled into the road.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

Just steady.

His body shifted before every turn, subtle enough that you felt it before you understood it. A lean to the left. A correction. A pause at a stop sign long enough to make absolutely sure the cross street was clear. He rode the way he did most things when he cared too much to say so outright.

Carefully.

Completely.

Without asking you to notice.

So you stopped fighting the movement.

Your hands loosened against his jacket. Your body remembered the old rhythm. Follow the lean. Trust the balance. Breathe.

The city unfolded around you. 

And you remembered.

You remembered the wind. The way it slipped around your helmet and tugged at loose strands of hair. The vibration beneath your legs where they pressed against warm metal. The strange freedom of having nowhere to be except exactly where you already were.

You remembered riding behind your father while desert nights settled over Nevada, still warm long after the sun disappeared. You remembered the smell of hot asphalt cooling beneath streetlights. You remembered resting your helmet against his back and listening to him laugh with people your grandmother swore were perfectly respectable until they got together.

You remembered loving it.

Not the recklessness people assumed came with motorcycles. Not the danger. You had never cared much about that part. 

You loved the simplicity of it.

Road.

Balance.

Movement.

You couldn’t check your phone. Couldn’t make grocery lists. Couldn’t reorganize drawers. Couldn’t sit in the same quiet house trying to figure out who you had become.

There was only this.

The steady rhythm of the engine beneath you. The city moving around you. The warmth of another person in front of you.

Robby took the back roads exactly like he had promised.

Slow.

Careful.

He stopped completely at yellow lights most people would have pushed through. Checked mirrors with almost annoying consistency. Left more space between himself and every other car than strictly necessary.

You found yourself smiling inside your helmet. Of course he did. The ridiculous part was that it worked. Because every careful turn and measured acceleration loosened something in your chest. Because the steadiness did not feel like control. It felt like permission.

You did not have to brace for the next thing.

You did not have to explain why you had snapped.

You did not have to make your gratitude look prettier.

You only had to hold on.

Trees burned gold and orange above sidewalks you had walked a dozen times.

You rode past the bookstore in Squirrel Hill where you had spent an hour pretending to browse before leaving empty-handed. The coffee shop with the crooked chalkboard sign and pastries that had been worth the hype. The museum where you had wandered through exhibits reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.

The bridge everyone insisted you had to see at least once. The park where you had walked until your feet hurt because you had not known what else to do with the day.

You had been to all of these places.

Taken pictures.

Ordered coffee.

Gone home.

But this felt different.

Not like visiting.

Not like trying.

Pittsburgh passed around you in flashes of old brick and turning leaves and sunlight caught on river water. And for the first time since arriving, you were not wondering whether you could learn to love it.

You were not comparing it to Vegas.

You were not measuring what it lacked.

You were just there.

Present enough to notice the cool air against your cheeks.

Present enough to feel Robby’s breathing beneath your hands.

Present enough to tighten your arms around him once, not because you were scared, but because your body had remembered how to move with someone else’s.

Present enough to realize the constant restless buzzing in your head had gone quiet.

Not fixed.

Not gone forever.

Just…

quiet.

At a stoplight, Robby glanced back at you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice carrying through the helmets.

You looked at him. At the familiar slope of his shoulders. At the concern tucked into the question.

Then you looked past him at the city stretching out beneath a sky washed pale blue. Leaves skittered across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, someone was raking a yard.

You realized you had stopped thinking.

Completely.

You squeezed him once around the middle.

“Yeah,” you said.

And for the first time in weeks, you meant it.

Robby looked at you for one second longer. Not long enough to make it strange. Just long enough that you knew he heard the difference.

Then the light changed.

He faced forward again, and the bike moved smoothly beneath you.

You kept your arms around him.

Looser now.

Not because you were paying less attention, but because your body had remembered what to do. The balance. The lean. The small shifts with the road. The trust required to follow someone else’s movement without fighting it.

He kept riding.

Past streets you recognized now.

Places you had already been.

Places that had felt like assignments when you visited them alone.

Now they blurred past in pieces of color and sound, less like places you were supposed to appreciate and more like proof that the world was still moving around you.

You did not have to decide what any of it meant. You only had to hold on.

At some point, the route changed.

Not enough for you to notice right away. Pittsburgh still felt like a city made of turns you did not know and hills you had not learned by instinct yet.

But you did not ask immediately. The ride had loosened something in you. Or maybe it had quieted something. Enough that not knowing, for once, did not feel like danger.

Then fifteen minutes became twenty. Twenty became longer. The houses thinned slightly. The streets widened. The storefronts changed from coffee shops and restaurants into older brick buildings, repair shops, warehouses with garage doors rolled halfway open.

Your arms tightened slightly around his middle.

“Michael?”

He turned his head just enough for you to see the edge of his helmet.

“Yeah?”

“Where are we going?”

For a second, he did not answer.

Then, “One more stop.”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. Then you settled back against the seat. The wind tugged at your sweatshirt. The engine hummed beneath you.

Whatever came next, you were still moving.

For now, that was enough.

A few minutes later, the bike began to slow. Robby eased off the street and into a small lot beside a low brick building. He pulled into a spot near the open bay and cut the engine.

The sudden silence rushed in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Robby climbed off first. He pulled his helmet off and dragged a hand through flattened hair before turning back toward you.

Without a word, he reached for the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave beneath his fingers. Cool fall air brushed against your face as he lifted the helmet away, taking the muffled quiet of the ride with it.

He hooked it over one arm before holding his hand out to you. You took it. The motion happened easily. Thoughtlessly. His grip steadied as you swung one leg over the bike and slid carefully down onto solid ground.

He let go once both of your feet were beneath you. Then he stepped back, tucking both helmets against his side like none of it was worth mentioning.

You adjusted the sleeves of your sweatshirt and looked up.

Auto & Cycle.

That was it. No name. No explanation. Just two words painted in faded block letters above the open garage bay.

The smell reached you next.

Oil.

Rubber.

Hot metal.

You turned toward him. “Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“Where are we?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Duke’s,” he said.

You looked past him at the low brick building, the open bay, and the dark oil stains baked into the concrete.

Then back at him.

“This is Duke’s?”

“Yeah,” Robby said. “This is Duke’s.”

Then a man appeared in the bay, wiping his hands on a rag. Older. Broad through the shoulders. Grease on his shirt. His face unreadable enough to make most people rethink small talk.

He looked at Robby first.

“Thought you’d be back later,” he said.

Robby shifted the helmets against his side. “Plans changed.”

Duke’s gaze landed on you then. There was no obvious surprise there. Just assessment. The kind that came from years of looking at people and deciding whether they knew what they were doing.

Robby glanced between the two of you and introduced you.

Duke gave a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Duke wiped his hands on the rag again, then nodded toward the open bay.

“Come on in.”

It was casual. Not warm exactly. Just an invitation.

You glanced at Robby.

He did not say anything. Did not nudge you forward or explain why you were there. He only stood beside you with both helmets tucked against his side, letting the choice belong to you.

So you stepped inside.

Duke’s shop was cleaner than your dad’s had been. Not clean. No working shop was ever really clean. But there was a system here. A rough one. Enough order under the mess to tell you Duke knew where things belonged even when they were not there.

Duke nodded toward Robby’s bike.

“Robby says you diagnosed his bike from the couch.”

You glanced over at Robby. He looked mildly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t diagnose anything,” you said. “He told me when it rattled.”

Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly, like that was exactly the point.

“Most people wouldn’t know what to do with that.”

You shrugged. “It’s just process of elimination.”

“Most people’s process of elimination starts and ends with ‘sounds expensive.’”

A corner of your mouth moved.

“They’re not wrong.”

“No,” Duke said. “They usually aren’t.”

He jerked his head toward the motorcycle sitting near one of the lifts.

“You want to take a look at this one?” he asked casually. “Could use a second opinion.”

You blinked.

“Me?”

“Unless there’s another motorcycle whisperer hiding in here.”

Your eyes shifted toward the bike.

It was older. Half-disassembled in a way that suggested someone had already thrown time and money at the obvious answers. The tank rested off to the side. Side covers leaned against the workbench. Parts had been arranged neatly enough to tell you Duke had a system, even if no one else could read it.

You found yourself stepping closer before you’d fully decided to. “What’s it doing?”

Duke leaned against the workbench. “Depends who you ask.”

You looked over at him.

“Owner says it started acting up out of nowhere.”

You made a face. “So the owner’s lying.”

“Almost definitely.”

That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him.

“The actual problem?” you asked.

“Rough idle on cold mornings. Hesitation under throttle. Intermittent misfires once it’s hot.”

You circled slowly around the bike. 

“Compression?”

“Good.”

“Fuel pressure?”

“Within spec.”

“Plugs?”

“Changed.”

“Coils?”

“Swapped.”

“No difference?”

“Nope.”

You hummed softly. “Annoying.”

“Exactly.”

Your gaze moved over the exposed engine. Not touching. Just looking.

“Any codes?”

Duke rattled them off.

You frowned. “Only when it’s hot?”

“Mostly.”

You glanced up at him. “‘Mostly’ is a dangerous word.”

“Yeah,” Duke said. “That’s where I keep getting stuck.”

You bent slightly to get a better angle.

“If compression’s good, fuel pressure’s good, and plugs and coils didn’t change anything…” You trailed off. “I’d start looking at things that change once everything heats up.”

“Like?”

“Vacuum leak. Sensor drift. Wiring issue that only shows itself once everything gets warm enough to expand or shift.”

Duke nodded slowly. “You troubleshoot for a living?”

You kept your eyes on the bike. “I just don’t like guessing.”

“Neither do I.”

For a second, the two of you stood there looking at the motorcycle.

Then Duke pushed away from the bench.

“Alright,” he said. “Show me where you’d start.”

You pointed toward the intake side of the engine. “Did you smoke test it hot?”

Duke paused. “No.”

“But you did cold.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d rule that out before chasing electrical ghosts.”

Duke looked at you for a beat. Then nodded. “Fair.”

The conversation settled after that.

Question.

Answer.

Theory.

Counterpoint.

Duke would ask what you’d check next. You’d answer. He’d throw out another possibility. You’d explain why you agreed or disagreed. Nothing formal. Nothing forced. Just two people working through a problem.

Somewhere behind you, Robby stayed quiet. When you glanced back once, he was leaning against the opposite workbench with both helmets tucked against his side.

Watching. The thoughtful line between his brows had disappeared. He looked relaxed. Like maybe this had been what he’d hoped for when he pulled into the lot without telling you where you were going.

You looked away before you could sit with that too long.

Duke tapped the side of the bike. “Let’s see if you’re right.”

And for the first time in weeks, you realized nearly an hour had passed without thinking about what came next.

By the time Duke stepped away from the bike, the sun had started slipping lower behind the buildings. None of you had noticed the hour slipping by.

The garage doors stayed open, letting cool fall air drift through the shop. Long shadows stretched across the concrete, cutting between toolboxes and crates and the half-disassembled bike still sitting near the lift.

At some point, Duke pulled beers from an old refrigerator near the back. One for himself. One for Robby. Then he looked at you, looked briefly toward your stomach, and handed you a bottle of water without comment.

You took it without making him say anything. That felt easier somehow.

A few minutes later, the three of you had settled near the open bay.

Duke sat on an overturned crate, beer balanced against one knee. Robby leaned back against the workbench with his ankles crossed, nursing his bottle slowly. You sat on another crate, one hand wrapped around your water, the other resting loosely against your thigh.

The shop had gone quiet in the way working places did after the day was mostly done. Not silent. Just lower.

The radio hummed somewhere behind you. Traffic passed outside. Metal ticked softly as the bike cooled near the lift.

Duke took a drink, then stared out through the open bay like the memory was somewhere past the street.

“Once rode through Arizona with no front brake.”

You blinked. “What?”

Robby looked over slowly. “You’ve never told me that.”

“Because you make that face.”

“I’m a doctor. This face is appropriate.”

Duke ignored him. “Line went bad outside Flagstaff. Responsible thing would’ve been to stop.”

You waited.

He took another drink. “I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I was twenty-five and stupid.”

Robby tipped his beer toward him. “Half that sentence is still true.”

Duke gave him a flat look.

You tried not to smile.

“How far did you ride?”

“Too far.”

“That’s not a distance.”

“It is when you’re the one learning from it.”

Robby shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Back brake worked,” Duke said.

“Oh, well,” you said. “Perfectly safe.”

“See? She gets it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“What happened?” you asked.

Duke looked back toward the open bay.

“Came down a mountain road too hot. Had to choose between laying it down or becoming part of the guardrail.”

You went still for half a second. “And?”

“Didn’t become part of the guardrail.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Duke shrugged. “Bike was mostly fine.”

“You were not mostly fine,” Robby said.

“I could walk.”

You stared at him. “That is a very low standard.”

“Worked for me.”

You laughed then, sharp and surprised.

Duke’s mouth twitched like he’d been waiting for it.

“So the lesson was fix your brakes?” you asked.

Duke considered it. “No.”

“No?”

“The lesson was don’t let twenty-five-year-old men vote on important decisions.”

Robby lifted his beer slightly. “Hard to argue with that.”

Duke ignored him again. “They were idiots.”

“You rode with them,” you pointed out.

“I was also an idiot.”

There was no shame in his voice. Just fact. That made you laugh harder.

The conversation moved from there without effort.

Duke told you about a ride to Tennessee where six grown men had gotten lost because none of them wanted to admit they could not read a paper map. Another time, he and two friends ended up sleeping behind a laundromat because someone had confidently declared they could “absolutely make it another hundred miles.”

“Who was someone?” you asked.

Duke took a drink. “Me.”

Robby shook his head faintly.

You told them about Vegas.

Not the painful parts. Not the lonely parts. Just the ones that came easier in a garage with the sun going down.

The bartender stories. The tourist who cried because she thought she had lost her hotel, only to realize she was standing inside it. The man who tried to convince you Canadian money counted as a tip because it was “basically the same.” The bachelorette party that lost a bridesmaid for three hours and found her playing blackjack with three retired firefighters from Ohio.

Duke listened with his beer resting against one knee, expression still mostly flat, but not unreadable anymore. Every so often, his mouth pulled slightly at the corner, or his eyes narrowed in that dry, entertained way that made it clear he was enjoying your stories.

Robby mostly stayed quiet. Every now and then, he added something dry enough to make you glance over. But mostly he watched. Not the way he had been watching at home lately. Not worried. Not measuring whether you were tired or hungry or quietly falling apart.

Just watching you talk. Watching you laugh. Watching you lean into a conversation that had nothing to do with appointments or bills or what came next. 

And for once, you did not mind being seen.

You took another drink of water and listened while Duke described a night ride through West Virginia that had apparently involved a wrong turn, a thunderstorm, and a man named Spider who refused to ride behind anyone because he believed it was “spiritually humiliating.”

“What happened to Spider?” you asked.

Duke looked at his beer.

“Married a librarian. Moved to Arizona.”

“Good for Spider.”

“He sends Christmas cards now.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

You laughed again, softer this time.

The sound felt strange in your chest. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. For weeks, your days had been so quiet that even your own thoughts had started sounding too loud. Now you were sitting in a garage on a crate, listening to an old ex-biker tell stories like regrets were just facts with better lighting.

It was the first time in a long time you had been out of the house without feeling like you were trying to prove you were fine. You were not trying to be fine here. You were just there. And somehow that was easier.

The sun dropped lower. The light at the edge of the bay turned amber, then thin.

Eventually, Duke looked toward you.

“You get bored at the house,” he said, “come by.”

You blinked. “What?”

He took another drink of beer. “I could use company from someone who knows what they’re doing.”

For a second, you did not answer. The offer was so casual you almost missed the weight of it.

Not a job.

Not charity.

Not a favor.

Just an open door.

Your eyes moved automatically to Robby. He was already looking at you. Quiet. Unsurprised. Like maybe he had hoped Duke would say it, but he had not asked him to.

“It’s up to you,” Robby said.

You searched his face. “You’d be okay with that?”

His answer came easily. “You don’t need me to be okay with it.”

You had not realized you were waiting for permission until he refused to give it.

Duke glanced between the two of you.

“You can also say no,” he said. “I’m not adopting you.”

You looked back at him.

The corner of your mouth moved.

“That’s a relief. I’m terrible with curfews.”

“Figured.”

Robby glanced down, hiding a smile behind his beer.

Duke pointed the bottle toward the half-disassembled bike. “But you might be useful.”

The words settled somewhere warmer than they should have.

Useful.

Not fragile.

Not waiting.

Not someone being carefully kept safe inside a house.

Useful.

You looked around the shop again.

The crates.

The tools.

The open bay.

The old stories still lingering in the air.

Then you nodded once.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Maybe I will.”

Duke gave a short nod like that was all he needed. “Good.”

Robby looked down at his beer, but you caught the brief relief in his face before he hid it.

Outside, the last of the sun slipped behind the buildings.

And for the first time since you came to Pittsburgh, the thought of tomorrow did not feel quite so empty.

—

The ride back was quieter.

Not worse.

Just quieter.

The kind of quiet that came after a day had finally loosened its grip and left both of you careful with what remained.

You held onto Robby as he took the long way home, the city slipping past in darkening streets and porch lights and trees thinning into shadow. The air had cooled since earlier, sharper now against your cheeks, but the engine stayed warm beneath you.

This time, you did not count turns or wonder how far from home you were.

When the bike stopped at a light, you rested your forehead briefly between his shoulder blades. Robby did not look back. He only covered one of your hands with his for half a second before the light changed.

The touch was brief. Barely anything. Still, something in your chest ached.

Because earlier, you had stood in his kitchen and tried to hand him an exit. You had said papers. Vegas. Mistake. Words that still sat between your ribs like bruises.

And he was still here. Steady beneath your hands. Taking the long way home.

By the time Robby pulled into the driveway, the sky had gone deep blue at the edges.

He cut the engine.

The silence settled around you slowly.

No radio.

No tools.

No Duke telling stories like nearly dying in Arizona was a normal personality flaw.

Just the quiet street.

The house.

Michael.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Robby got off first, same as before. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under one arm before turning back to you. His fingers found the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave.

Cool evening air touched your face as he lifted the helmet away. Neither of you said anything.

He set both helmets against his side, then held out his hand. You took it without thinking.

His grip was steady as you climbed off the bike. He let go once your feet were beneath you, but only after making sure they were.

Inside, the house felt different.

Not changed.

Just less narrow.

You stood near the entryway while Robby set both helmets down by the door.

The hallway light was off. The kitchen was dim except for the glow over the stove. Somewhere deeper in the house, the refrigerator hummed.

The junk drawer was still spread across the counter.

Pens.

Batteries.

Loose screws.

The mess you had left behind.

For the first time all day, looking at it did not make your chest tighten.

Robby followed your gaze. He did not say anything about it. He only set his keys in the bowl and leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, giving you room to decide what happened next.

You looked at the helmets by the door.

Then at him.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Robby glanced over. “For what?”

You swallowed once. “For not letting me disappear in here.”

His expression changed.

Small.

Quiet.

Enough.

Then you added, because that felt too bare, “And for introducing me to Duke.”

Robby looked down for half a second. 

When he looked back up, his face was softer.

“You liked him.”

You shrugged one shoulder. “He’s fine.”

“High praise.”

“He’s tolerable.”

“That’s basically friendship.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth. It faded, but not completely.

“I mean it,” you said, quieter now. “Thank you.”

Robby rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“I do.”

You tucked your hands beneath your arms. “I know you were trying to help.”

He looked at you for a second.

Then nodded once.

“I was.”

The honesty settled between you. Not awkward. Just there.

You glanced toward the helmets again. “I just don’t want to invade your personal life.”

His brow pulled together. “My personal life?”

“Duke. Your friends. Your places.” You looked back at him. “I know I’m already in your house. I don’t want to start showing up in all the corners of your life, too.”

Robby’s gaze dropped briefly. When it came back to you, there was something steadier in it.

“You’re not invading anything.”

“You say that.”

“I mean that.”

You pressed your lips together.

He pushed away from the wall, but he did not come too close.

“You’re allowed to have people here,” he said.

The words were quiet. Careful, but not fragile.

“You’re allowed to make friends. You’re allowed to have places that aren’t this house or the doctor’s office or whatever grocery store has the least offensive produce.”

A small breath left you.

His thumb worried once at the edge of his sleeve.

“You don’t have to ask permission to take up space.”

The words settled somewhere low in your chest. For a second, all you could hear was the refrigerator. The soft settling of the house around you.

Robby’s voice stayed quiet. “I don’t want you watching the front window and wondering if that’s it.”

You looked down at the floorboards. The sentence hurt. Not because it was cruel. Because it was too close to something you had not said out loud.

You swallowed once before looking up again.

He glanced toward the living room, then back.

“If something isn’t working,” he said carefully, “tell me before you decide to just live with it.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Your throat tightened. “You make that sound easy.”

“I don’t think it is.”

That somehow made it easier to hear.

Robby held your gaze. “But I’d rather know.”

For a second, the house felt too quiet again. But not like before. Not like walls pressing in. More like a room waiting for you to choose where to stand.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Robby nodded. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his mouth twitched faintly.

“And if you ever need actual girl company, I know a few residents who would be thrilled to have someone new to complain about me with.”

A surprised breath left you.

“Residents?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re offering me your residents?”

“I’m offering you potential allies.”

“Against you?”

“Realistically, yes.”

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “They don’t like you?”

“They like me fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth.

“I’ve been called an asshole once or twice.”

You looked at him. “You?”

“Allegedly.”

Your mouth curved. “That tracks.”

“See?” His shoulders loosened at the sight of your smile. “You’ll have plenty in common.”

This time, the smile stayed a little longer. Robby saw it. He didn’t comment. You were grateful for that.

You glanced toward the door, toward the helmets resting side by side.

Then back at him. “I did like getting out.”

“I know.”

You looked at him.

He blinked, like he had answered too quickly.

“I mean…” His hand fell away from where it had half-lifted. “I’m glad.”

A small silence settled. This one felt easier.

You nodded once. “Me too.”

Then you turned toward the hook by the door and hung your jacket there. Not over the back of a chair. Not folded beside your bag like you might need it again at any second.

On the hook.

Beside his.

For the first time in weeks, you did it without looking over your shoulder first.

Robby noticed.

He didn’t say anything. He only reached past you, took the helmets from the floor, and set them side by side on the shelf.

Yours beside his.

The house was still the house.

Quiet.

Safe.

Waiting.

But it did not feel like the edge of your life anymore.

It felt like somewhere you could leave.

And somewhere you could come back to.

You wake to the sensation of soft kisses brushed against your skin—your forehead, your cheek, and your chin. It's the best sleep you've had in months, muscles warm and at ease. The feeling grows with each kiss as you're reminded of the fact that last night was real.

Jack loves you.

It wasn't just a vivid dream; the tender kisses he places on your skin confirm that. You're tempted to pretend to stay asleep just to enjoy more of this, but you instinctively scrunch your nose as his lips land on it, his scruff tickling you gently.

"Morning," he murmurs warmly, his voice husky with sleep, as he breathes against your cheek. You can feel his smile before your eyes fully open as he presses another soft kiss to your face.

Jack rests on one elbow, his hair tousled, with the soft morning light catching the strands that are more white than grey. God, he's handsome.

Yesterday, you might have convinced yourself that this look of adoration he’s giving you is just a figment of your imagination, but today, you know it’s real. He’s actually gazing at you like this, as if nothing else matters—not your messy morning hair nor yesterday’s mascara remnants around your eyes. He simply looks like he’s glad you’re here with him.

"Morning," you grin back, stifling a yawn into your hand.

His smile broadens. "Hi."

You chuckle softly. "Hi."

He keeps staring at you with a smile on his face. His other hand finds your waist, and your cheeks flush in response as he drags you closer. Although his touch isn’t new, the familiarity feels different now—seeing as you now know the intent behind it means what you want it to.

"What?" you ask, a bit self-conscious, rubbing your eyes in hopes of wiping away the stubborn mascara stains.

"Nothing," he shrugs, yet the grin on his face suggests otherwise.

"Jack." You pout at him and watch as his gaze drops down to your lips.

"I just..." he laughs lightly and shakes his head. "I can’t believe this is real."

You know exactly how he feels, and you hope he's able to see it in your eyes. If he doesn't, then you hope he feels it as your hand brushes through his wild strands. His eyes flutter shut under your touch, and when he opens them again, you’re convinced he does.

You both lock eyes for a moment before he leans forward. At the last moment, you turn your head, and his kiss lands on your cheek instead. He makes a comically disgruntled noise.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," you lament, though unable to suppress your laughter at his pouty face.

"I don't care," Jack says, placing a kiss against your jaw.

"Jack," you giggle louder. "I’m serious. My breath stinks."

"I've wanted to do this for months," he says, pressing another kiss to your cheek. "A little morning breath won’t stop me. Honestly, you could have rotten teeth, and I’d still kiss you."

"Ew," you grimace, but he just laughs and plants another kiss at the corner of your mouth.

You debate it for a second, then your cringe morphs into a grin as you lean in, stealing a quick kiss from his lips.

When you pull back, Jack stares at you with wide eyes. You can see when realisation hits him; his eyes darken, and he leans in quickly, giving you no chance to dodge him again. His mouth meets yours, soft yet persistent, each kiss lingering a bit longer than the last. He swallows your giggles with his lips, but he can't help but laugh, too.

Eventually, he presses his forehead against yours, and you stay there for a little while, wrapped up in each other, letting the reality of last night fully settle. The room is quiet except for your breathing, and for the first time since yesterday, the silence feels comfortable.

"I missed waking up next to you," Jack confesses, his voice low in your ear.

You press a kiss to his cheek before resting your head against his shoulder. "Me too."

You breathe in, nose buried deep in the crook of his throat, and his arms tighten around you when he realises what you're doing—breathing in the scent that's purely him. You've never been able to do this freely, and it feels surreal to be able to be this close with no excuses needed.

The moment's broken when your alarm rings softly. Jack shifts to turn it off while still holding you close, and makes no move to let you go or get up.

"We need to get up," you say after a minute, trying to pull back.

"Says who?" he answers cheekily, pulling you in even closer.

"Check-out, for one," you reply, pushing gently against his chest. "And I’d like to shower before we have to sit in an enclosed space for two hours."

"What if I like the way you smell?" he says, and usually, your stomach would be fluttering at a sentence like that, but you know him too well—

"—Fritos are my favourite chips," he continues. His chest bounces a bit as you playfully swat him.

"Rude," you grin, and this time he allows you to slip out of his grasp. "And you’re a liar. I know your favourite isn’t Fritos."

"Says who?" he repeats with a grin as he watches you sit up. You move to the edge of the bed, and he sits up to be able to see you better.

"Says the several bags of Doritos in your cabinets," you counter with a raised eyebrow. You move to slide off the bed, but he catches your arm, pulling you back over to him.

"Ja-ack," you laugh as you land against his chest.

"Those are for Robby," Jack says, and before you can argue, his mouth captures yours again. He keeps you there for another five minutes before your alarm blares again.

"Fine," he concedes when you pull back again. "Just leave me all alone here."

You shuffle forward, but pause at the doorway to the bathroom, meeting his eyes with a mischievous smile. "You could always join me."

Jack freezes, and you can see him process the offer—the way his eyes darken and the slight swallow as his gaze trails over you.

"Or not," you shrug, stifling a grin as you turn away.

He's got his crutches in his hands before your sentence finishes.

The checkout line is ridiculously long, and under normal circumstances, you’d complain about it—after all, how hard can it be to hand over a keycard and walk out? But with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist and soft kisses peppered onto your hairline, you just can’t find the energy to care.

Even as Jack offers to give you his car keys, so you can wait in the car, you shake your head. You want to stay close to him despite the line barely moving. The lobby is crowded, and it really makes no sense for both of you to be standing here. Still, after spending weeks keeping your distance, torturing yourself, the thought of being apart now feels absurd.

Jack doesn’t push the issue; he simply nods and pulls you closer again. You're plastered to his side for the ten minutes it takes before you finally reach the desk.

"Hey," a warm voice greets you just as Jack hands over the keycard. Jeremy stands off to the side, a bag slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

"Hi," you respond with a smile, stepping out of the queue to approach him.

He returns your smile. "I’m glad I caught you—you left before I could tell you how nice it was to see you again yesterday."

"Oh, sorry about that," you start, embarrassment flaring at the reminder of your jealous outburst. "I had—"

"We had some stuff to do," Jack interjects, slipping an arm around your waist again. He gives Jeremy a tight smile.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Jeremy responds. "Warren was asking about you, but honestly, I’m not sure she even remembers anything now." He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I had to extend her hotel room for her—she got pretty wasted after you left. The ushers had to escort her to her room after she threw up in the plants in the hallway."

"What? Really?" Laughter bubbles out of you. "Well, that's very professional."

Jack squeezes your waist admonishingly but still huffs an amused breath.

Jeremy grins. "Anyway, it was great to see you again. You’ve really done well for yourself, Sleepy." He nods at you, then glances at Jack, offering him a nod as well.

"You too," you say, and you mean it. Jeremy was a great guy in med school, even if he wasn't the best at relationships back then, but you're sure he's grown up more. You certainly have.

You're more certain of what you want, more certain of what you deserve, and somehow, that has landed you with Jack.

"Maybe we'll see you around," you finish. Presby isn't that far from PTMC after all.

"Yeah, I hope so," Jeremy replies, pulling his sunglasses down. He smiles at you one last time before he walks off. "Get home safe."

Jack grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'yeah, I hope so' as he steers you towards the exit. He keeps a neutral face until you're outside, where it turns sullen. A laugh escapes you the moment you’re near the car, and away from prying eyes.

Jack narrows his eyes at you as he pops open the trunk. "What’s so funny?"

Another laugh leaves you. "You're just a silly, jealous man."

"I'm not silly," he replies immediately as he places your bags inside the trunk before shutting it again.

"That's the part you focus on?"

"I'm not jealous," he insists, crossing his arms.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not."

"Hey," you say, stepping closer. His arms drop the moment you gently press down on them. You curl your fingers into the front of his t-shirt. "You have nothing to be jealous of."

Jack huffs, staring at your hands.

"Jack."

His eyes lift to yours.

"I love you." The words still feel new in your mouth, but no less right.

His eyes search yours, still checking after everything revealed yesterday that you mean it. The tight line of his mouth softens when he finds a satisfying answer.

You draw him in closer. "Okay?"

"Okay." His hand slides to your cheek and you meet him halfway, your lips pressing together in a tender kiss.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he pulls back. "Let's go home."

Coming home feels strange.

Not in a bad way, but it feels different than it did when you left. The air has shifted inside, the furniture moved without being an inch out of place, and the smell is different, and yet everything is exactly the same.

Jack's sweater still hangs over the back of the dining room chair. Your blanket is still draped across the couch, unfolded in that way Jack always grumbles over, but never does anything about.

Everything feels new and somehow the exact same. The only different thing is you and Jack. There's finally nothing unspoken between you, with all cards on the table. No uncertainty, no wondering, no pretending.

There's still the question of what this means for you, but it doesn't feel pressing. It's just there in the background, waiting until the moment feels right. There's no rush to speak.

You're free to enjoy this moment for what it is. The pleasantness from the drive, where Jack spent the entire trip with his hand firmly planted on your thigh, carries into the house.

The bags get unpacked together, clothes thrown into the washer by four hands rather than two. You follow Jack to the bedroom when he puts the bags away; he follows you into the bathroom when you put your toiletries back. You make lunch together, hips nudging, shoulders brushing—a task that normally takes ten stretches into thirty because neither of you can stop talking and laughing.

He keeps looking at you like he still can't believe it's real. You can keep leaning in close to prove to him that it is.

The day settles eventually as you both curl up on the couch with books. The laundry tumbles quietly in the background as warm sunlight spills in through the living room windows.

You're leaning against his chest, reading, but more focused on the hand that's trailing slowly up and down your arm. Every so often, you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the scruff on his jaw that's slightly longer than usual, the way he scrunches his nose at passages in his book, and how his face is relaxed in a way you haven't seen before.

As if sensing you, he glances over at you. His mouth immediately curves into a smile when he catches you swiftly looking away. He huffs a little cute sound, squeezing your shoulder.

You grin into your book, nudging his leg with your hand. You try to refocus on the pages, but it doesn't take long before you're blinking heavily. Without even really thinking about it, you slide down until your head is resting on his lap instead.

Jack's hand follows soundly, petting your head softly and lulling you to sleep.

By evening, neither of you has spent more than a few minutes apart.

Dinner comes and goes. The dishes get washed. The laundry gets folded. Around you, the house gradually darkens, shadows stretching across familiar rooms. You try to stay awake as long as possible, hoping to drag your sleeping schedule back toward something resembling normal before your next shift. By the seventh yawn in under a minute, Jack gives you a look.

"Okay," he says with an amused huff. "Time for bed."

You grumble half-heartedly but still let him steer you toward the bedroom. Blearily, you grab at clothes in the closet. Jack doesn't comment on the fact that you grab one of his shirts, just glances at it with a pleased smile before he heads into the bathroom.

When he's done, you brush past him in just his shirt and underwear that he can't see, biting back a smile at when he swallows harshly. You don't fight the grin once you're alone in the bathroom, letting the giddy feeling take over.

Your phone vibrates against the counter, just as you've put your toothbrush into your mouth.

>> Hello??? Are you alive?!

It's Olivia. Fuck. She's already texted you three times earlier today, and you'd ignored her, unsure of what to say that won't reveal everything immediately.

<< Yes

>> That's it??

<< Yes, I'm fine <3

You add the heart, toothbrush hanging loosely from your mouth as you try to act normal.

>> Uh huh. How did it go?

You can picture her narrowed eyes when you read it. Your thumbs hover over the screen for a minute, thinking of what to say.

<< It was fine. Nothing worth mentioning.

You can see her typing, deleting, then typing again several times.

>> And what about Jack?

<< He's fine, too.

You pause before adding:

<< We're fine. Things are okay again.

>> What does that mean??

You take too long to answer her, but her following text shows that it doesn't really matter anyway—she knows you too well.

>> oh😏

When you reemerge, you've decided to keep this to yourself until the morning. No need to reveal to Jack that the plan has failed immediately. This can still be just yours tonight.

He sits against the headboard, prosthetic off, and duvet covering his lap. He looks nervous. "Are you gonna—?" He gestures vaguely toward the empty side of the bed before clearing his throat. "I mean..."

The uncertainty in his voice surprises you. You'd just spent the entire day together, and he's unsure if you want to share the bed. It's kinda cute.

"Yeah," you say softly. "If that's okay?"

His answer comes fast. "Of course it's okay." He pauses. "I just didn't know if—" he shrugs, trailing off.

You climb into bed, into the arm that was waiting for you. You both sink down until your head settles against his chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat.

You guess this is as good a moment as any other to finally have the conversation.

"I...uh—" you start. "I have the divorce papers printed on my desk."

Jack goes very still.

"I also still have that apartment viewing on Thursday." You stare at a loose thread on his shirt. "I know we've done this in a weird order. Getting married, moving in together, and then confessing."

You force out a laugh. "If you want to do this properly, we can."

The room goes quiet. Jack's arm tightens around you. "Properly?"

"You know." You shrug. "Dating. Separate places. Normal people stuff."

For a moment, he doesn't say anything; then, he says: "Do you want that?"

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate but answer truthfully. "No."

Jack lets out a breath. Just a small exhale that sounds suspiciously like relief. "Oh."

You lift your head. "Oh?"

Jack's mouth twitches. "I don't either." He rubs the back of his neck. "But I don't want you staying because you think you have to."

Your chest squeezes. "Jack."

"You've spent months trying to make decisions based on what you thought I wanted." His fingers trace idle patterns against your arm. "I'd rather know what you want."

You stare at him for a second. "I want to stay. I want to stay here."

His eyes soften immediately. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "We don't have to rush to figure things out. I like having you here. We can't figure the rest out later."

"Yeah?"

"Mm," he hums, his grip tightening around you. "I slept like shit when you weren't here. I'd prefer not to do that again."

You huff a breath. "Me too."

Even though the apartment had been nicer than the others you'd looked at, you really didn't want to move. You're happy he feels the same as you do. Maybe it doesn't matter if you do this in an order that doesn't make the most sense—as long as it makes sense to you, that's all that matters.

The room quiets again until Jack speaks again. "Can I ask you something?"

Your chest tightens, but you still nod.

"Why Lily?"

You knew he was going to ask eventually, but it doesn't make it any less embarrassing. You sigh into his chest. "That day—" you don't have to specify which, he already knows. "The way you ran inside looking terrified—"

You swallow. "And how you yelled at me after..." The memory of it still stings now, even after his countless apologies. "It was the difference in how you treated me and her."

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"I know."

"No." His voice is quiet. "I need you to understand what happened."

You lift your head enough to look at him.

"I got there seconds after—" His jaw tightens. "I barely managed to pull you away. I was already petrified when I heard the code being called. I could only imagine you—" he stops, breathing heavily. "...I can't explain what that felt like."

He continues, "When I realised it wasn't you, I was relieved. And then I felt guilty for being relieved because someone had still gotten hurt, but all I could think about was how happy I was that it wasn't you."

The confession lands heavily between you.

"I was scared out of my mind. Angry at the patient. Relieved that you weren't hurt. Guilty that I was relieved. All at once. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

You squeeze his hand.

His eyes find yours. "It was never about Lily."

You believe him. Now, you do. But back then? Back then, you'd been drowning in uncertainty.

You shrug helplessly, revealing more of how you felt. "After that, I started noticing every little thing. The way you talked to her. The way she made you laugh."

"You make me laugh," he says firmly.

You roll your eyes at him, a slight smile tugging on your lips. "I think I was trying to make peace with losing you. If I wasn't the one for you, then she could be. She could be better for you. Kinder than me. Easier than me."

Jack's face falls. "Sweetheart..."

Your mouth twitches sadly, looking down at his shirt again.

"You genuinely thought that?"

You nod.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, lifting your gaze back to his. "Do you have any idea how much time I spent wishing you'd look at me the way I looked at you?" His thumb brushes across your skin. "It was always you."

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. You sigh. "We wasted so much time."

"Yeah."

Moments stolen by fear and assumptions and bad timing. You think about every dinner that could have been a date. Every movie night spent pretending not to notice how close he sat. Every almost-confession. Every chance that slipped away.

But now, everything's finally out in the open. The conversation drifts after that. You talk about everything. The first dinner. The first kiss. The kiss cam. The bar. Every misunderstanding. Every moment one of you had walked away convinced the other didn't feel the same.

Sometimes you laugh until your stomach hurts. Sometimes you bury your face in a pillow because neither of you can believe how oblivious you've been. Sometimes there's silence while you mourn all the things that could have been.

By the time the conversation finally slows, pale morning light is spilling through the curtains. Your eyes burn with exhaustion, but your chest feels lighter than it has in months.

You don't know what happens next.

You don't know what being married and newly confessed and hopelessly in love is supposed to look like. But for the first time, that uncertainty doesn't scare you. You'll figure it out together.

Beside you, Jack shifts closer beneath the blankets until there's barely any space left between you.

His lips brush your hair. "I love you."

You smile immediately. The confession still feels unreal. "I love you too."

The smile you feel against your forehead is warm and content. And wrapped in his arms, with the future still unwritten and endless possibilities stretching ahead of you, sleep finally finds you both.

The next evening finds you faster than you'd like.

As you step in through the door to the hospital, side by side, it reminds you of the first time you walked in carrying a secret on your shoulders—only this time, your shoulders are light, and your stomach is fluttering with happy jitters.

Somehow, you manage to make your way to the lockers without meeting anyone. With your bags dropped, you sneak a brief kiss against the door before you reenter the Pitt. Jack's hand brushes yours, your pinky catching his for a second, before you take a step apart.

You try to bite back the smile that threatens to break through. If you want this work, you need to stop acting like a lovestruck teenager. It's incredibly hard, though.

Robby stands at the hub, tablet in hand and a frown on his face.

"Rough day?" Jack says, clapping his back. He leans against the counter as you trail closer.

"Yeah... Good luck." Robby rubs his face, dropping the tablet on the counter. When his eyes open, they narrow in on the space between you and Jack—or rather the lack of it.

You shift to the side, trying to act nonchalant, but Robby's a hound. His eyes follow the movement immediately, nose twitching as he tries to sniff out everything you're trying to keep quiet.

"How was the conference?"

"Fine," Jack replies, glancing up at the board. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the counter.

"It was?" Robby raises an eyebrow, staring at him. Jack nods at him, shifting his gaze away quickly. Robby watches him for a moment, then turns to you.

"Mm," you nod, offering a tight smile. "The usual."

Robby stays silent, shifting his gaze from Jack to you, and then he grins widely. He chuckles, "If you so."

"Yeah," Jack nods with an awkward smile.

"Well, that's good." Robby keeps grinning as he pats the counter twice. "I'll see you later." He salutes you, still smiling, then walks off without any further questions.

You stare at his disappearing figure with a sense of dread. With a hand around Jack's wrist, you pull him into a quiet corner, hissing: "He knows."

Jack frowns. "How could he? We were acting normal."

You stare at him. "Normal? If you call 'you not looking at him at all' normal, then yes. Very normal."

"I did look at him."

"For two seconds. Normally, you don't look away at all," you counter.

Jack crosses his arms. "Well...You gave it away to Olivia."

"I didn't—I told her nothing."

"Exactly!" Jack points out. "That's not normal for you."

You stare at him with pinched eyebrows and then sigh. "...Yeah, okay. Maybe I did."

Jack sighs, too. "I guess I did, too." He shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips as he leans closer. "But to be fair, I think we forgot that they've spent months dealing with our sorry asses. Of course, they know. They knew we were in love before we did."

"—Abbot, there you are! Stop hiding in corners with your missus—trauma incoming," Lena interrupts with a wink. She doesn't even look back as she disappears down the hallway.

Jack squeezes your hand briefly on the way out, sending you a soft smile. "See you on the other side."

You watch him disappear around the corner before you head after him. The familiar knot of anxiety never comes. For weeks, every shift had felt like walking a tightrope. Every glance from Jack had meant something, and every action had been dissected. Now, the uncertainty is gone.

The Pitt is still loud. Still chaotic. The same as it always was. It's you who is different.

Across the department, Jack glances back. Just for a second, but long enough to catch your eye. Long enough to smile, and then he's gone into a trauma room.

You only manage to notice her because she moves into your field of vision, settling down on the lounge chair beside your bed where Jack has angled you towards.

"So this is why you're late."

You let out an embarrassed gasp as Jack's arm tightens around your neck to hold you steady against him and the other simply goes in even further so his palm can settle over your clit to give it the attention it deserves.

Your hand instinctively goes up to his. "Jackie—”

"Don't stop on my account," she tuts, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her attention locked onto your hazy gaze.

Jack responds by thrusting his leaking erection into you, fingers only opening you up for him to slide right in.

You scream, eyes glossed over and mouth hanging open with drool leaking down over his arm.

Dana chuckles in response, pulling out her phone and pointing it at the two of you. You hear the unmistakable sound of the camera recording, shame mixed in with pleasure shoots up your spine instantly. You arch back into Jack, hips slowly rolling to meet his thrusts as he fucks into you.

"That's it sweetheart," Jack groans into your ear. "Put on a show for Dana."

You whine, pleasure overtaking whatever ounce of embarrassment still lingered.

"Mommy—” you mewl. "Fuck please."

"Nu uh," Jack spits meanly. "She can't help you here."

The noise that erupts from you is inhuman, causing Dana to laugh leisurely once more.

"Robby—” you gulp loudly, swallowing all the saliva that has pooled in your mouth. "Send it to him please."

Dana stops recording, engrossed in her phone for a second while, the loud keyboard haptic blending in with your moans and Jack's groans.

Dana Evans: [attached a video]

Dana Evans: No amount of money could ever make me go back to work at that godforsaken hospital.

At that same moment in the ED, Robby's ears flush pink instantly, excusing himself so that he can go to the bathroom.

His hands shake as he shuts the bathroom door behind him, somehow managing to get out his AirPods and put them in his ears without them dropping into the floor from his elated clumsiness.

He watches the video, revels in the knowledge that he can take all the time he needs, that Jack will simply continue to edge you until he gives him the go ahead.

He's semi-hard by the time Dana cuts the camera.

Robby: I'm quitting my job.

Instead of another message, he gets an incoming call from Dana. He picks up instantly, his still flaccid cock twitching painfully at the mere thought of what awaits him on the other end of the line.

"You can't quit!" It's you, your beautiful fucked out voice, high pitched and just the right amount of whiny. You huff and puff, desperately willing your mind to work, to piece together words into sentences. "You love it there."

He smiles, warmth flooding his chest instantly. "Yeah but I like you more."

He hears Jack thrust then, sharp and to the point, and you let out a pained cry.

"Is Daddy being mean?" Robby coos, throwing you a bone.

He can hear you nodding, can practically imagine the pout on your face.

"He is." You sob.

"Fuck, you better send me a picture of her tear stained face when you're done."

"Will do, Cap." It's Dana who responds, oh how far their friendship has come indeed.

"Robby..." you cry out again, Jack's movements speeding up, his hips slapping against your ass deliciously. "May I please cum? I'm so close, please, please, please—”

A sharp scream leaves your lips then.

"No, no, Jackie, stop I can't—I can't hold it if you keep—”

Jack only chuckles darkly in response. "Papa can't save you, little girl."

"But—” you scream again. "Robby please! I need—He's—oh my god."

"Cum honey, do it for me, I'll deal with Jack after—”

He doesn't need to tell you twice because the second he gives you permission you are coming undone like an avalanche, powerful and deathly.

Robby closes his eyes, reveling in the sounds spilling out of you, the whines, the cries, the moans, the incoherent babbling that he oh so adores. He listens closely as Jack sings praises into your ear, his hips slowing down as he buries himself deeply into you, spilling his own release inside of you.

He loves hearing Jack cum, adores just how satisfying it is to know that his friend, his partner is being taken care of in this way.

He stays on the line for a while, way more than his imaginary ten minute break but no one comes looking for him so he doesn't dare panic.

He hears shuffling on the other side, most likely Jack and Dana helping to clean you up.

"Honey, you still there?"

You nod. "Yeah."

You're always so bashful and shy after you cum, all the confidence you have getting safely tucked away for them to revel in your heated cheeks and starry eyes.

"Can you do me a favor? Can you take a picture of yourself? Just wanna see you—”

You do him one better, turning the call into a FaceTime which he accepts instantly.

You smile dopily at him, still curled on your sided, your face taking up the majority of the screen.

"There she is," he beams. "Thank you honey."

"Always Mikey," you purr. "Wish you were here."

"I'll cut you a deal," he blushes. "I'll make you dinner tonight and you can do whatever you want to show me just how much you missed me."

You giggle, nodding fervently.

"Okay, good girl," he hears his name being called, incoming trauma. "Now, if you're not too tired, be a good girl and make Dana cum."

You've been teasing him for the better part of an hour, wondering when he'll finally cave and come join you...or grab you and take you home.

And then you remember the truth—he's waiting for Jack and Robby to come home as well.

As the knowledge settles in your gut, you only get worse, brattier, desperate to push his buttons and wind him up so much that he doesn't let you sleep at all once he finally snaps.

You want him to make you scream so loud the older attendings get a little scared for your well-being, curiosity wining over their need for privacy and sit down to watch you get the attitude pounded out of you.

You clench around nothing, the thrill of what's to come helping to alleviate that misplaced energy and yet...it's also your undoing.

You throw your hands up in the air as the DJ transitions into a new song, the room erupting in cheers and a combined screamed chorus. You turn to the group beside you, a bachelorette party that's just the right amount of drunk. You belt out with them, joyous in a way that you've never gotten to experience in this way before.

And then the music shifts, a little psychedelic and sensual, just like they know you like it. Your hands tease down your body, fingertips trailing over your curves, all for—

A set of hands settle on your hips and a victorious shiver runs through you.

Finally.

You turn easily in the grip, eyes half lidded and cheeks burning. Your mouth opens to tease, to coo, to devour.

But then the air is knocked out of your lungs, your body tenses painfully, the hands that holds you digging into your plush skin, entitled.

"What's wrong, sweet thing?" The man before you stinks of cheap vodka. "Keep putting on a show for me."

His speech is slurred, uncoordinated, unlike his grip, searing and possessive.

"Get off me."

He chuckles, can't believe the way he's being rejected so quickly.

"Oh come on, you were practically begging me for it," he leans in, tries to capture your mouth with his, pressing his crotch against yours as you recoil backwards.

That seems to snap him into anger, no longer willing to play any games. His gaze sharpens, fingertips dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise. He wants to make it hurt, wants to see you in pain.

You don't give in to him, you don't flinch, don't let him see just how much he's hurting you. It's what he wants, what will get him off.

Instead, you simply watch in twisted pleasure as a shadow looms over him, a large hand grabbing a hold of his shoulder, thumb digging into the fleshy spot below his clavicle.

The man twists in instant pain, a sharp inhale followed by a wail as he gets his grubby hands off you.

"The lady said off," Brendon snarls, pressing down until the man falls to his knees before him.

Bren holds out his other hand towards you, keeping as much distance between the man and you but needing to feel your skin on his.

You leap to grab it, tears already streaking down your cheeks as he brings your knuckles up to his mouth, placing a gentle kiss over them.

"Robinavitch!" Brendon yells over his shoulder, loud enough that the dance floor finally notices what's going on.

Panicked footsteps cut through the sea of bodies as Bren hands you over to Robby to take you away before security crowds you.

You go with him without question, melting into his warm and comforting embrace as he takes you towards the VIP section where a concerned Jack is waiting for you.

His arms open instantly and you throw yourself into them, Robby following suit and settling down behind you, shielding you from every direction.

You sob into Jack's shirt, mascara staining the white fabric but none of you care right now. You barely register as the man continues to kick and scream, security pulling him away from the dance floor and out the back, an honestly terrifying Brendon stalking after them.

The bar manager yells for free shots, the DJ starts up the music again, and slowly the party returns to what it was.

Jack holds you to him like his life depends on it, whispering sweet nothings into your ear while Robby trails gentle and soothing touches down your arm.

Your tears dry out after a while, only the numbness staying with you deep in your bones.

"You're okay, sweetheart, everything's okay, we've got you."

You hum in response, shifting back to look up at the two men beside you and mouthing a silent thank you, receiving a smile from Jack and a kiss on your shoulder from Robby in response.

Your gaze sharpens when Brendon walks back in, suit jacket slung over his forearm, hiding his fists underneath the fabric.

He crouches in front of you then, eyes so clouded with rage you're honestly surprised he's not more beat up.

"How're you doing, bunny?"

You blink away the unbelievable lust brewing in your stomach, trembling hands reaching out for him, holding his head before you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips. He doesn't move, doesn't react, only lets you do what you need.

Jack and Robby watch, in awe and a blooming feeling of warmth that simply cannot be described, as you pull back the jacket, tossing it to the side so you can grab a hold of Bren's hands.

You stare at him deeply, questioningly. It's only when he nods that you move his hands towards your mouth, pillowy lips kissing his purpling knuckles reverently.

"Thank you, Bren."

"Of course, my love."

a/n: I love my boyfriends

With the investment of one more person, notorious ortho surgeon and loaded PTMC coworker Brendon Park, their silly, drunken conversation quickly became a reality.

They bought a building.

They gutted it, Robby gladly using it as a hobby for the few months it remained under construction.

Once the layout was designed, all they had to do was fill it up...

And through blushed and flustered mutterings, like the confident and professional business partners they are, they all collectively decided to ask you.

You had found it odd when Dana, out of the blue, announced she'd put in her two weeks notice. You'd only known about it because your boss had asked you to deal with the paperwork, instantly rushing down to the ED when the ticket came through.

She didn't tell you the truth, not right away. They'd all agreed to...ease you into it gently. She laid it out simply, need for a change of scenery, bored of the lack of protection and salary to match her job description.

You’ve always been Dana’s favorite, your devotion to keeping her and the rest of the nurses safe, oftentimes working overtime to figure out how to get them the best vacation times, best resources to allocate for them, best coffee pods for the break room — she adores you.

She’s pleasantly surprised that the news of her departure has you acting the way that it does. You get into the habit of bringing her coffee every morning, the one from the break room cause there was no way you could afford coffee shop coffee every morning. Brought pastries you'd made over the weekend. Actually showed her that you cared, that you were going to miss her.

So when Robby told her they'd finished construction, she invited you out to lunch to show you their new business venture.

The club is underwhelming, the bare walls and empty spaces reverberating your shy footsteps as she pushes you forward, hands over your eyes. You can't help but giggle, especially as the butterflies in your stomach flutter violently every time her front meets your ass with each step forward.

"Now it's not ready yet, that's what I wanted to ask you, kid," her hands make a show of sliding down your cheeks and landing around your neck.

Your gaze shifts through the open space. A large bar to the right, an open dance floor in front of you, surrounded by strategically placed pillars to create the illusion of privacy, an elevator tucked at the far end.

You twist your head to look back and up at her through your lashes.

"How big is it?"

She scoffs playfully at your clear innuendo, the two glasses of whine you'd had with lunch definitely loosening your tongue.

"Alright, snarky," she nips playfully, tightening her grip on your neck and turning you back towards the emptiness. "It's four floors, three for the business, one for..." she tenses behind you. "It doesn't matter yet."

Her breath against your ear makes you flutter down to your core, instinctively tightening around nothing. Dana notices, of course she fucking does.

She steps forward into you, deliberately pressing her front to your back deliciously.

"First floor's just gonna be a regular nightclub, drinking and dancing and maybe some light hand stuff," you shiver against her as she repositions her hands, her left one wrapping around your neck, squeezing the sides gently while the other roams.

You nod desperately, brain so fuzzy you need to give your consent but words were definitely not going to come out of your mouth. Only then does she allow her right hand to wander lower, grazing your heaving chest and settling like a burning fire over your stomach, waiting.

"Second floor's where things get interesting," she whispers into your ear. "A little nudity, some consensual voyeurism, definitely some under the clothes—” her hand slithers under the waistband of your skirt, landing over your lacy underwear, right over your clit. "action. If our patrons like someone and they're willing to play, we move up to—”

Two fingers swiftly drag down your clothed folds until they reach your entrance, pushing the fabric aside and sliding into you without issue.

"So wet already," she presses a kiss to your ear, fleeting and mean. "My good girl."

You moan, the sound bouncing off the walls deliciously.

"The third floor, well, I think you're smart enough to know what will go down up there."

You nod, mouth hanging open as she works you slowly with her fingers, long, dragged out motions that hit that particular spot inside of you with every thrust.

You cling to her for dear life, nails digging into her delicate skin and definitely leaving behind your mark.

"Dana—” you whine.

"Whatdaya need baby?"

Words lose their meaning, sentences disappear, all that remains are carnal, needy noises.

She tuts sternly. "Use your big girl words."

Your entire body clenches, tightening around her deliciously. She chuckles, unrelenting, slowing down.

"No!" you scream, hips moving on their own, seeking out your much needed release.

Her grip on your neck tightens, a warning.

"None of that, baby," she corrects. “What do you need?”

“To cum.” It takes every single working braincell to mutter those two words.

“Good fucking girl.” 

With that, her fingers thrust back inside of you to the hilt, her movements no longer thrusting but rather wiggling inside of you, causing you to erupt into a chorus of moans and whimpers, your peak approaching quicker than before.

“Touch your clit for me, baby.”

You don’t know how you manage to do it, but you do, sliding one of your hands into your underwear and rubbing your throbbing bud in tandem with her movements.

It takes you no time after that for your stomach to clench.

“Fuck, Dana m’close—” you tighten everywhere, not even daring to breathe lest you come undone without her permission.

She lifts your gaze then, directly to face the mirror they’ve already installed behind the bar. The second you make eye contact with her, your disheveled appearance looking back at you, her devilish smirk—

“Cum, baby.”

And you fucking do.

The coil snaps, your body shaking against hers like an earthquake coursing through you. Wetness gushes out of you and drenches Dana’s hand. It drips down your legs sinfully, creating a puddle on the floor below you.

You’d be a little more embarrassed if you weren’t so fucked out, panting through the blurring of your vision, through the unbelievable pleasure making every nerve ending tingle.

It takes you a second to get yourself together, so much so that you don’t immediately feel the second pair of hands on you, stabilizing, allowing for Dana to pull away from you to clean herself up.

You watch through lidded eyes as she brings her right hand up to her mouth, tongue licking up your cum from her pruny fingers.

“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.” 

It’s only then that you notice the new addition to your intimate moment, heat flaring up your entire body as you suddenly remember where you are and what you were doing. 

“Don’t go shy on my account, sweetheart,” Jack flashes you one of his flirty smirks. “You did so fucking good for Dana.”

Your heart does a somersault in your chest, suddenly feeling the coolness of his touch, the stability of it, the possessive fire in his eyes. To hell with shyness.

“Thank you Jackie,” you hum, settling back against him while Dana scoffs playfully, walking to the other side of the bar and bringing out a packet of wet wipes.

“So,” he starts as his friend cleans you up. “Did Dana convince you or do you need a little more…persuasion?”

You giggle, brain finally catching up to your body.

“I mean…I’m no interior designer but I can give it a go.”

They both smirk devilishly at you.

Oh you’ll give it a go alright.

Two weeks later, you’ve quit your job at PTMC, have hired a team of interior designers with the gorgeous business black card that Jack has provided you, unlimited or whatever, and have practically furnished the entire first two floors.

The club is modern, Miami Vice inspired yet classy and sultry. They want to encourage patrons to go up the levels, to let themselves succumb to their desires in a safe and controlled environment, to have fucking fun.

You work on the legality of the service with Dana, making sure that whoever does become a member of the club has to go through a rigorous and thorough process, background check, credit check, liability waivers, all the works. You want everyone to be protected, safe, and this is the way to do it, so much so that you’ve signed on the dotted line first, after Dana made sure to add a whole clause about your…arrangement.

You find yourself on the second floor after the ink dried and she made you get her off with your mouth, profanities and praises blending into one on the private, VIP area you had so perfectly furnished.

The construction company is installing the polls, three separate stages strategically placed across the floor. The noise distracts you from the looming figure approaching you, you only feel it once it collides with your back.

You know who it is instantly. You’ve been privy to the four owners’s schedules for the past month, Brendon, Jack and Robby keeping their day jobs while you and Dana set everything up. You know the Shark is in surgery all day, Robby’s still on the day shift, and Dana’s stuck at a meeting with your lawyers, which can only mean—

“Hi Jackie,” you greet him, melting back into his hard chest.

You’ve only seen Dana and Jack at the club, the other two not having made an appearance yet but your body practically buzzes with excitement at the thought of opening night, of them taking advantage of the clause.

“Hi sweetheart,” he places a quick kiss to your cheek. “How’s it looking?”

You turn around, beaming. “Really good. The boys’ll be done with the floor in about an hour and Bren’s taking me bed shopping for the upstairs tomorrow.”

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He knows what you’re doing, why you’re dropping that particular morsel of information now. It’s a test if anything, a soldier speeding through town, announcing an incoming storm.

“Is that right?” His eyes darken.

You bite your lip, nodding your head, rubbing your thighs to emphasize.

“Your office is ready if you want to—”

He doesn’t let you finish the sentence, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you towards the hidden side of the floor where he knows his and Dana’s offices are.

He groans audibly as he takes in the interior. Dark wood, sturdy furniture, very Harvard professor-esque. There’s a bookshelf wall behind his large desk, a leather office chair to match and two more on the other side. To the left a gorgeous bar built into the wall, to the right, a large, velvet green couch over a soft, dark rug.

“Do you like it?”

His gaze snaps back to you, fiddling with your fingers behind your back, looking delicious in your little pencil skirt and dark maroon blouse.

“C’mere sweetheart,” he coos, holding his hand out to you.

Like a fawn on shaky legs, you cross the room towards him, head already becoming fuzzy as he pulls you into his embrace.

“It’s perfect,” he states, both hands coming to cradle your face. If he’s just talking about the room, you honestly don’t know, but the fire in your stomach becomes alight once more as he dips down to kiss you.

You whine into his mouth, his lips soft and gentle, exploring and teasing while he pushes you back against his empty desk. You gasp when your ass meets the wood, the perfect opportunity for him to shove his tongue into your mouth.

The kiss devolves into a sloppy mess after that, needy and claiming, heeding the warning and taking his chance before anyone else gets to.

You hop onto the desk without being prompted, spreading your legs so that he can comfortably settle in between them. He does like it’s second nature, his front pressing into your thigh wantonly, the outline of his stiff erection causing another moan to slip past your lips and get swallowed by his.

He detaches himself from you then, lips puffy and smeared with your lipstick, a sinful display that only has you gushing even more slick between your thighs.

He smiles knowingly at you, his hands roaming the expanse of your arms to land on your hips, pressing into you to ground.

“I know you already gave your written consent,” he leans down to give you a peck on the lips as a reward and you beam up at him. “But we will always check in for it explicitly, am I clear?”

“Yes daddy.”

He groans again, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Fuck, what did we do to deserve you?”

You giggle then, your own touch exploring the vast expanse of his chest. He’s hard yet soft, age blending the two into the perfect package. He’s wearing a basic black t-shirt and jeans today, casual yet unbelievably sexy. Settling on wrapping yourself around his neck, you play with the weathered skin, massaging it as you bring him down to kiss you again.

He obliges without much fuss, just as eager as you to finally seal the deal.

His lips distract you again as his hands roll up your skirt, exposing your sinful, white cotton panties. The smell of your arousal hits him softly then all at once, forcing him to break apart the kiss as his gaze is drawn downward.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart.” He groans above you.

“Dana had to leave before—”

You don’t get another word in as he dive in, mouth devouring you over your underwear. You fall back against the desk, hands swiftly tangling themselves in his salt and pepper curls as he laps and bites up your swollen pussy lips.

“Jackie!” You whine, over and over and over again.

“You like that, sweetheart?”

“Need more.”

“Oh, does my sweet little girl need something?”

You nod, pulling on his hair, squishing him against you harder.

He chuckles against your clothed entrance.

“Fine, I’ll be kind today.”

You practically sigh with relief before he pulls your underwear to the side and his mouth now lands directly on you. His hot tongue laps up the wetness that overflows, drinking you up like a man parched.

You don’t hold back on the noises that bubble up from your chest, knowing fully well you designed the offices to be as soundproof because you knew they were never meant to be just about business.

“Oh baby, you are delicious.”

“Thank you daddy.” You hum contently as he takes his time, licking long stripes from your clit down to you entrance, rolling his tongue into you leisurely, teasing you until you’re putty in his hands before going back up to suck and nip at your clit.

His eyes watch you intently, catch the heaving, the panting, the way your face contorts into pleasure with each movement he makes.

“Daddy…” you whisper, barely there and definitely not coherent. “Wanna cum, please.”

He stops his movements entirely, causing you to screech in pain. He smacks the inside of your thigh, causing you to stop your whining, before he stands up, his back cracking ridiculously.

You smirk, eyes glossed over with desire to the point where he knows you’re simply not here anymore. His mouth hangs open in mock offense, causing you to laugh playfully now. The sound is music to his ears, a lifeline back to the land of the living after so many years of hiding his sorrows in the darkness.

“The only way you’re gonna cum is around my cock, sweetheart.”

You’re certain that killed you. You can barely register as he unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants and pulling his stiff erection out of his underwear. It lands, hot and heavy against your mound, and you can’t help but stare at it, dumbfounded.

You want to touch it, lick it, shove it into your mouth until you gag, until there’s tears falling down your cheeks—

“Another time, I promise,” he smirks. “But right now I need to be inside of you.”

You nod, breaking free from the spell he’s got you under and swiftly turning your body to reach back and pull open the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a string of silver wrappers.

He laughs, unrestricted and free, delighted by your cheekiness. What? You’ve gotta be prepared, at least until you all get tested.

You tear a square with trembling fingers, pulling at the tab and taking out the sticky condom. You both moan as you grab his cock, teasing fingertips smearing the precum leaking from his tip over the sensitive head before you roll the latex down his length.

“You’re so pretty, daddy,” you compliment, giving him a gentle tug towards you once you’re done.

“Thank you baby,” he kisses your nose appreciatively. “You ready?”

You nod feverishly. “Please.”

He wasted no more time, pulling your wrecked underwear down your legs swiftly.

Between your own wetness and the lube, he slides inside of you in one swift thrust. The stretch is divine, perfectly filling. Your body buzzes with satisfaction, completion, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him further against you greedily.

He obliges, settling down over you as he begins to roll his hips. You grab onto him like your life depends on it, like you need him carnally, because you do, just as much as he needs you.

“More.”

“Manners, sweetheart.”

“More, please daddy.”

That does him in, hips snapping into you sharply, with renewed abandon and lust. Wet, slapping sounds fill the space quickly, the air becoming heavy with your combined moans and grunts. You need to cum, both of you, need to cross over that threshold together, need, need, need.

“I’m close, baby,” Jack grunts into your ear. “Touch your clit for me.”

You nod, one hand letting go of him to snake between your bodies, fingers rolling over your clit as you lift up to meet his thrusts.

“Fuck yes, daddy, so good,” you cry out, feeling how his cheek warms up at the praise. “Need you to cum in me please, I need it so bad.”

“Oh baby, fuck, you can’t say shit like that to me.”

You smile against his ear, taking the lobe into your mouth and rolling your tongue over it.

“Why daddy?” You tease, the vixen you are. “Don’t you wanna fill me up and watch as you leak out of me?”

That does him in, movements become sloppy, the air being smacked out of your lungs.

“Fucking cum, cum with me right now!”

He commands and you follow, clenching tightly around him, forcing him to come undone with you. He grunts and curses into your ear, hot and delirious as he sheathes himself as far as he can inside of you. Your body buzzes with electricity, nerves snapping deliciously as your orgasm crashes through you, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He collapses on top of you soon after, both of you panting as you catch your breath. You run your fingers through his hair, nails softly raking the skin as his own run up and down your sides.

It’s perfect.

“You’re perfect, sweetheart.”

He kisses your mouth again, a soft kiss swiftly becoming needy and all consuming as you’re both determined to show your appreciation of the other through it.

This was definitely the best decision they could’ve ever made.

“D’ya wanna order lunch?”

You smile brightly. “I mean, we’ve already had dessert, it’s only fair.”

He bursts into laughter again, a sound you desperately want to bottle up and keep guarded for the rest of your life.

Brendon picks you up at 10 am sharp the next morning.

You’re already waiting for him outside the club, your light summer dress, which he requested, flowing easily with the wind as his sleek BMW comes to a stop at the curb.

You start to make your way towards the vehicle when the tinted window on the passenger side rolls down.

“Not another step, bunny,” he instructs, swiftly stepping out of the car and walking over to where you’re standing, still like a statue.

He scoops you in his arms instantly, lifting you off the ground as you wrap your arms around his neck and lean into his firm kiss.

Unlike Jack, Brendon is methodical and precise in his approach. He kisses you like he’s trying to figure out what’s the best way to make you crumble, like a puzzle he is determined to solve through information based action.

You don’t let him, your hands sneaking under his navy polo and raking your nails down his back. He growls into your mouth, in genuine warning, but you simply smile dopily, pulling back to settle yourself back on the ground.

“Hi,” you mumble.

He rolls his eyes affectionately, grabbing one of your hands to pull you towards his car while the other opens your door like the gentleman that he is. Once you’re settled, seatbelt fastened, he closes the door and rounds the car again, sliding into the driver’s seat with ease.

“How was your night?” He asks, the car roaring back to life underneath you before his hand slides over your thigh.

You turn to look at him, his sunglasses resting perfectly against his gorgeous nose. His hair is gel-free today, the slight curl to it making it look fuller. He looks delicious, shiny Rolex on his wrist, a silver chain around his neck, the charcoal slacks perfectly snug against his thick thighs, accentuating…certain assets.

You’ve dealt with Brendon your fair share back at the hospital, the majority of HR related disputes that involved him being thrown your way because the frightening man never once shook your confidence. He’d always been respectful, thoughtful and logical when you explained what had been filed against him and how to proceed. It all usually went away by having him apologize, which he mostly did to not keep dragging out conflict between coworkers that you had to mediate.

If you’re being honest, you’d expected him to ask you out at some point but he never did, ever respectful of your professional relationship under the hospital. But now, with every single line blurred beyond recognition, he was not holding back any longer.

“It was good,” you tell him. “I’m a little sore.”

He smiles, grip tightening, inching upward towards your pulsing core.

“I didn’t know Abbot still had it in him,” he teases, turning to look at you as the stop light turns red. “But I shouldn’t be surprised, I too would revert back into a horny twenty-year-old if I had you naked under me.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks in an instant, causing a Cheshire grin to spread over his lips.

You’re about to bite back when the car behind you honks obnoxiously. Brendon tenses, annoyance flooding his senses as he deliberately drags his movements, the car rolling down the street as if the two of you have nowhere better to be.

And the truth is, you don’t.

You’ve already picked out the beds, your assistant’s waiting for the delivery back at the club while you pretend to have a reason for wanting to spend time with Bren. You’re supposed to be driving to a warehouse about forty-five minutes away from the club, the perfect time to get yourself a little action, to push his buttons.

His head nurse at the OR had texted you when his surgery ended the night before to tell you it had been a doozy and that she expects him in two days with nothing but the calmest energy possible.

So you get to work quickly.

He’s concentrated on the drive but he feels you shifting, grabbing a hold of his hand and moving it higher up on your leg, under your dress this time.

A wicked grin blossoms once more and is instantly dropped as his loose demeanor swiftly shifts into piping hot desire the second his fingertips graze your bare folds.

“Oh bunny,” he tuts. “You spoil me.”

You hum contently as he begins to explore freely, pressing further into you and gathering the slick that has already leaked so he can slide his fingers through you easily.

You drop back against the cool leather seat, legs spreading ever so slightly to give him better access which he takes advantage of instantly, perfectly manicured fingers teasing your entrance as his palm settles against your clit.

“Oh fuck—”

His hand lifts off your pussy before you can even register it, smacking over your clit in punishment.

“Pretty girls don’t use bad words,” he chides, the rule instantly making your head fuzzy, your clit pulsing at the harsh stimulation. 

“‘M sorry, sir,” you slur, head falling agains this rock hard arm as he returns to his previous ministrations. He leans down quickly, placing a kiss to the top of your head, never once looking away from the road.

By the time you’re out of the city, you’re certain he’s created a puddle underneath your ass, your slick the only noise filling the car alongside the little noises that escape your lips.

“Sir,” you start.

“Yes bunny?”

“Can I…” you choke as he presses into you, thick fingers leisurely pumping against your walls. “May I touch you too?”

“Of course you may,” he hums. “Just be careful, don’t want to run us out of the road.”

You nod to appease him, but you’re definitely not going to listen to him.

You shift closer to him, the center console an annoyance in your path that you glare angrily at, causing him to huff out an amused laugh. Eager hands shoot out to the evident tent in his pants, aggressively large and demanding attention.

He groans at the contact and you’re certain he’s already leaking in his boxers. You make quick way of the button and zipper of his pants, your hand sliding under all the fabric with abandon as you pull out his dick.

He’s…big to say the least, thick in all the right places. Your mouth hangs open, saliva practically dripping from the corners as you pump him dryly a few times, eliciting deep rumblings from his chest every time.

You finally let the spit drip down on his head, the hiss that he emits sending you over the moon.

“May I suck you off, sir?” You look up at him with the biggest puppy eyes you can muster, your hand never once stopping its movements, now aided by your spit and his hot precum.

“Yes.”

It’s all you need to dive in, lips wrapping around his head like a lollipop and sucking him like you’re desperately trying to get to that bubblegum center. The car slows down slightly and you just know he’s thanking every god in existence for taking out the automatic vehicle, tinting the windows, and taking you up on the very obvious lie you’d fed him to get him out of his apartment.

You make it halfway down his shaft before you choke, hitting the back of your throat at the wrong angle and having to come up for air. You spit out the saliva that has pooled in your mouth instead of swallowing it, your hands catching it and continuing their movements sloppily.

“Fuck, princess,” he hisses through gritted teeth, doing the responsible thing and parking himself on the side of the road.

He pulls you off him long enough to unbuckle the two of you from your seatbelts and pushing his seat all the way back. You yelp loudly as he picks you up, placing you down on the space he’s made between his legs and the pedals.

Lust swiftly takes over as you get back up on your knees and take him back into your mouth, making quick work of breathing through your mouth as you take him further and further down your throat with each dip. Your hands and mouth work in tandem, ravenous for his noises, for the way his stomach clenches every time your tongue swipes over his slit.

His hands tangle into your hair, helping to guide your movements, slowly regaining control over you as his hips begin to buck upwards into your mouth. You gag and choke, all for the show of it, the pleasure coursing through his body palatable from just how much his thighs are shaking.

“I won’t last much longer if you keep going,” he pants, not once pretending to slow you down. Instead, you press further into him, deliberately removing your hands so that he can push you all the way down until your nose brushes his pubic bone.

The second he feels your breath on his skin, he’s a goner, a string of profanities filling the car as he shoots his spend down your throat. Your hands grip his thighs tightly, reveling in the feeling of the muscles trembling beneath you.

You swallow diligently, the feeling of your throat constricting around him only prolonging his orgasm. By the time he’s done and you’re slowly pulling off him, his hair is disheveled, a thin layer of sweat covering down to his neck and chest.

You flop down against his thigh, nuzzling into him as his hands stroke your hair and face gently, singing your praises and lips kissing the back of your hand reverently as his fingers interlace with yours.

“Do we still need to look at beds?” He asks, making sure he’s not about to actually ruin your work task for the day.

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t mind checking yours out though.”

Brendon’s never been less afraid of getting pulled over for speeding as he races back into the city after that.

Three months after Dana quit her job, the club opens its doors.

To say it’s a success would be an understatement.

The first floor is flooded with influencers, regular customers, basically every single person that got in line fast enough to get themselves into the cramped opening. The second floor is filled with colleagues and patrons that have been approved from the extensive waiting list. You’re not inaugurating the system yet, no, you think Javadi would have a heart attack if she knew what was meant to be going on other than the, honestly, classily underdressed dancers on the stages before you.

Laughter and joy explodes out of your little group, the older residents sitting to one side of the room while the first years ogle at the dancers, throw bills and drink to their hearts content.

You’re curled up on the couch, the sheer black dress you’ve chosen for the occasion hugging your curves perfectly, velvet patterns perfectly keeping your more intimate bits hidden tastefully. You watch them enjoy themselves, the stressful high of having worked so hard for this slowly settling into your bones. 

“So,” the couch dips to either side of you. “How’s this work exactly?”

You blink back into the present, finally noticing Shen and Ellis sandwiching you.

You roll your eyes at Shen’s question, knowing exactly what he’s asking.

“When we open…that part of the business,” you explain. “You’ll get to pick if you want to simply observe or…play.”

Ellis takes a sip of her drink, shifting closer to you while Shen looks practically dumbfounded.

“If we want to play,” Ellis starts. “Are you a part of the offerings?”

You turn to face her, a thrilling grin on your features as your arm drapes over her lap.

“That could be arranged.”

Shen’s eyes practically fall out of his sockets as he chokes on his drink, causing the two of you to laugh.

“Who do we have to talk to to…arrange that?”

You open your mouth to reply to him when Dana saunters into the section.

“Baby, could you go check on Robby please?”

You nod eagerly, turning to Ellis before getting up and pointing your head towards Dana to answer her previous question. Ellis grins dopily as you get off the couch, making a show of swaying your hips, stopping in front of Dana for the older woman to give you a quick peck on the side of your lips.

She’d told you early on that while her husband and her had an arrangement, she’d probably never cross that line to kiss you, which you respected dearly. Your relationship with her was different from the ones you had with Jack and Brendon, a mutual understanding of care that went beyond anything you could describe.

And then there was Robby.

You try not to take it personally every single time he purposefully avoids you. It’s no secret that the other three are taking every chance they have to be with you, to touch and tease and claim.

It’s what you all signed for at the end of the day.

Literally.

You make your way across the room, sliding your hand over Jack’s arm and telling him where you’ll be going. He nods, two of his army buddies smirking knowingly as he turns to give you a quick kiss on the lips, comforting and gentle. You catch the snickers and teases, all harmless and filled with love as you make your way over to Bren’s group with Walsh and Garcia.

“Trinity’s looking a little lonely, don’t you think?” You taunt Yoyo, sliding into Bren’s open arms and letting him nibble at your jaw possessively. The surgeon raises her eyebrows in mock offense before downing the rest of her drink and making her way over there.

You grin triumphantly, leaning up to press your lips to Bren’s in a kiss that takes both of your breath away before you’re trying to slide out of his embrace.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He questions against your mouth.

“Upstairs,” you whisper. “Dana sent me to get him.”

Brendon sighs, understanding. “Be gentle.”

“Aren’t I always?”

A laugh bursts from both him and Emery.

You simply roll your eyes, placing a kiss to his arm before leaving them to their bickering.

You nod to the security guards on either side of the elevator and they use their keycards to call up the elevator for you. The doors open almost instantly since guests from the first floor are not allowed up yet and the third floor is still closed up.

You press the button for the fourth floor, however, imputing the pin for the elevator to actually move.

They’d surprised you a week ago, Jack’s hands over your eyes as he led you up to the fourth floor. They’d been weirdly cryptic about it, not wanting you to go up there until it was finished, the final piece of the puzzle to your downtown building.

So imagine your shock when you step off the elevator to a fully renovated penthouse apartment.

The interior is warm and cozy, a large kitchen to your right, big enough for you and Bren to go crazy and cook up a storm. A jacuzzi and sun tanning deck across the vast living room right in the center, and three bedrooms down the hall to the left — the master bed for you and two extra guest bedrooms if any of them needed or wanted to spend the night.

“What do you think?” Jack murmurs into your ear as he pushes you further into the space. You’re so overwhelmed with emotions you literally can’t speak, turning around in his arms to show him the look of absolute gratitude taking over your features.

“I love it,” you manage after a while. “Thank you.”

You kissed him until your lungs burned and your lips were bruised, until the movers cleared their throat before they started to move your boxed up apartment into your new home.

A home. They had built you a home.

It was a few days after that when you got a call from Dana.

Something something pipe broke in Robby’s house, he needed to stay with you for a while.

You practically burst with happiness, the forced proximity making you giddy with excitement. He’d been avoiding you for months and maybe now he’d come to his senses since you had been terrible about putting together the guest bedrooms and he’d definitely be forced to share the master bed with you if he wanted a good night’s rest.

He slept on the couch.

Jack had been too good at picking out furniture and he’d bought the most comfortable pull out couch in existence.

You wanted to kill him.

The apartment is dark when you walk in, the little lamps you’ve purchased casting the perfect amount of ambient lighting, like a trail from the entrance to the bedroom. You take off your heels, following the sound of running water.

At least he’d taken to using the master bath, well, he was forced to since he literally does not fit in the other shower.

You take a second to look around. The bed is unmade meaning he’d definitely taken a nap after he got back from work and at the very least your sheets will smell like him when you go to sleep tonight. His gorgeous light blue suit is laid out over the sheets, still in its dry-cleaning bag. The window to the room is open, the loveseat you’ve strategically placed for…reasons angled towards it, an ashtray with a few cigarette buts and a half drank glass of whiskey beside it.

You take a seat, picking up his half finished cigarette and lighting it up. They’re comforting, taste and smell like him, make you feel warm and fuzzy, a temporary bandaid over the cracks already forming in your dam.

The door to the bathroom opens, steam seeps out into the main room and out he comes, like an adonis, towel wrapped around his waist, chest and belly naked for your salivating gaze.

“Hi handsome.”

He doesn’t flinch anymore, not like he did those first few days.

“Dana sent you?”

You nod, taking another drag and blowing the smoke towards the Pittsburgh streets.

“You’re sulking.”

“I am not.”

“Then you’re hiding, which is way worse.”

“I just—”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go down,” you tell him. “I get it, you work with these people, you’re their boss, this is…”

“Highly unethical?”

You huff out a laugh. “I was gonna say really fucking weird.”

He cracks a smile, tired gaze shifting from your face to the floor every second.

You pat the loveseat, making space for him. “Join me then.”

His eyes snap to yours then, shock raining down on him like a tropical storm. You know you shouldn’t take it personally, but he just keeps chipping away at you every time he denies you.

“I shouldn’t…”

“Robby.”

“Honey.”

You sigh, exhausted yet understanding.

Only, this time you can’t control the tears.

They bubble out of you like a faucet you can’t turn off.

He’s on you in seconds, powerful steps crossing the room in a flash, crouching down in front of you.

He shushes you gently, one hand coming down on your thigh while the other takes the cigarette away from you, putting it out on the ashtray before he cups your cheek.

“Look at me, honey,” he pleads. “It’s not you. It’s never you.”

Your brows scrunch in further confusion, his words digging deeper. As if he’s hearing them clearly for the first time, he curses under his breath, shaking his head disappointingly at himself.

“What I mean is, it’s me. I’m the problem,” he tries to explain himself but you just don’t get it.

“But I want you,” you sob. “Why don’t you want me?”

That breaks Robby’s heart, forcing him to get up and settle next to you on the loveseat, pulling you onto him and holding you tightly against his slightly damp chest. You burrow your face in his neck, taking in the clean and warm smell of his—your—body wash.

“I do, I want you, honey, you don’t even know how much.”

“Then why?” You turn to look up at him, his own haunted expression staring back down at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, like if he were to give himself up to you, you’ll simply disappear.

He opens his mouth to answer. Closes it a second later. He sighs deeply, choosing not to rush into any explanation but rather allowing himself the indulgence of holding you.

You understand, melting into him as he cuddles you further onto his body. Timid hands soon begin to roam the expanse of his exposed chest, running your fingers through the dark patches of hair. He shivers under your touch, jaw clenching as you tangle your grip around his necklace to give yourself the leverage you need to start kissing down his jaw.

Your touch is fleeting, barely there, only a whisper of what could be if he simply allowed it. You don’t leap, don’t take the mile, only accept the smallest offering. You know consent is the most important thing for him, for all of them, so you don’t push your luck. As much as they all care for you, Robby included, this is meant to be about care and intimacy and trust.

“I’m not…” he starts. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You don’t speak, just let him get the weight off his chest as he needs to.

“I don’t want to break your heart when this gets so real I…I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, certain and solid.

He shakes his head. “But I might.”

“Robby—”

“You’ll resent me for it.”

You open your mouth to speak but stop yourself. You’re not gonna hide behind half truths anymore.

“I would get over it,” you tell him. “I’ve got Jack and Bren and Dana, and honestly maybe even Shen and Ellis and who knows who else—”

He pulls back to look at you then, eyebrows raised in shock and a tinge of teasing. You crack a smile, smacking his chest lightly and rolling your eyes.

“The point is,” you put your foot down. “I’ll be okay, it’s what I sighed up for.”

He takes your hand then, pulling it up to press a kiss over the back of it.

“And who knows,” you poke. “Maybe your seven week itch can be cured with a little five on five action.”

It’s his turn to retaliate, biting down on the meat below your thumb strong enough to make it hurt.

You gasp, eyes glossing over instantly as the pain settles into your never ending pool of lust. Robby simply smirks around your flesh, tongue coming out to soothe the sting sloppily.

When he pulls back it’s like whatever animosity lingered between the two of you has been replaced by a carnal need to satisfy you.

“I gotta say, that list of kinks of yours—”

You burst out laughing, his teasing grin only broadening at that.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I am,” he states, plain and clear. “Maybe another day we’ll take ‘em for a spin.”

Your eyes sparkle with need and anticipation.

“Mikey,” you nod, mouth hanging open slightly, face angled upwards. “Please kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, his face coming down to smash his mouth against yours possessively. He doesn’t ask for any more permission, his tongue forcing your mouth open to take him in and you do, moaning desperately as you squirm in his embrace to straddle his lap.

You’re both unapologetic, greedy and needy in your approach. He bunches the fabric of your dress until it pools around your waist, fiddling with the zipper only for a second before he’s pulling it down, grabbing all of the offending fabric and pulling it over your head. It lands somewhere with a thud, causing the two of you to laugh against each other’s lips like two horny teenagers on prom night.

“Results came back,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re clean, I’m clean—”

You don’t even have to think. “Please fuck me Mikey.”

You feel his cock twitch against the towel separating the two of you.

“With fucking pleasure, honey.”

You smile brightly, drunk on his promises already, managing to lift your ass off his lap long enough for him to tug his towel open, pull aside your lacy excuse of underwear to the side and lining himself up with your already dripping entrance.

You don’t even catch a glimpse at him, you just feel him as he sinks inside of you. He’s perfect, the middle ground between Jack and Bren, almost as good as Dana’s strap but don’t tell any of them.

You moan loudly, hands coming up to his shoulders to stabilize yourself, clenching around him involuntary. He hisses into your ear, holding you still as he desperately tires not to cum.

“Honey, I need you to let me go or else this will be over embarrassingly quick.”

You giggle, heat rising to your cheeks as you try to relax your muscles, letting him slide into you until your pelvises meet. He groans, satisfied, as you do. All the while, you’re practically panting, desperation making you impatient as all hell.

“Can I please move?” You whine, tears brimming your eyes once more.

“Oh honey,” he coos condescendingly and your stomach tightens into delicious shame. “Give your old man a second. Gotta make sure you don’t break me.”

You’re so close to bursting, to screaming and kicking and—

His hand lands on your ass with a loud smack. You whimper, falling into him, pliant and submissive before his other hand balances out your other cheek.

You clench around him in retaliation, earning you another two slaps until you settle down again, murmuring apologies onto his skin.

“It’s okay, honey,” he shushes you. “You can move now, ‘m ready.”

You nod against him, sniffing away the tears and sitting back up. His big hands come up to cup your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the wetness before he leans forward to kiss you gently.

“Thank you,” you whisper, getting rewarded with another kiss.

“Move, now.”

You plant your legs firmly on either side of Robby’s thighs, using his chest as leverage against as you slowly start to lift yourself off him, feeling the sting of his cock dragging along your walls, your combined wetness gushing as you do.

You whine, rolling your hips before slamming back down until your ass slaps against his legs. He curses, grabbing ahold of your love handles to help you bounce on him with more fervor. Your boobs jiggle tantalizingly in front of him, his depraved mind entranced by the sight, by the feeling of you around him, by the satisfaction of finally letting him have what he’s been craving for so long.

He leans forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, rolling his tongue, hardening the bud before he bites down and tugs. The noises that erupt from you only make him pull harder, letting you go only when you wince in pain.

“Look at you, baby,” he grunts. “Bouncing on me like a needy little girl, so eager to have my cock inside of you that it’s made you so dumb.”

You moan, nodding feverishly.

“We should’ve known you’d like this, the way you always took such good care of us at the hospital, it was so obvious, so…right.”

Oh he read the list of kinks you provided, alright.

“This is what you were meant to do, isn’t that right? Being used and shared by a bunch of people old enough to be your parents, huh?”

He accentuates each word with a sharp thrust of his hips to meet you in the middle.

“Gonna let us share you? Gift you away to our friends and colleagues,” you clench around him and he beams. “Gonna let us watch?”

“Oh shit fuck—”

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, your entire body exploding in a burst of pleasure that has you shaking, unable to stop yourself from clenching around him like a vice, forcing him to cum with you in a haze of trembling limbs and warmth shooting up deep inside of you.

You fall into him again, hugging him tightly as he returns the action tenfold, as if needing to fuse your bodies together. You knew in the back of your mind that the second Robby let you in, it would be impossible to kick him out, like a street dog that gets shown love for the first time, he’s chosen you just as much as you’ve chosen him.

He peppers kisses all over your face, adoration deep and eager for forgiveness, for what, you simply do not know, but you give it to him, your touch so gentle and kind he truly doesn’t know what he did right in his life to deserve it.

When he’s finally able to think, he pulls the two of you up on shaking legs, managing to set you down on the bed before he’s forced to pull out of you, his flaccid cock no longer able to keep the two of you connected. You both whine at the loss of contact, a noise that quickly devolves into a choir of moans as he gets on his knees before you and dives face first into your sticky heat.

He runs his tongue along your slit, gathering up the mess that the two of you made together, licking and sucking as much of your spend into his mouth as he can before he lifts himself back up.

You open your mouth without him having to say a single word, and if he were thirty years younger, that would’ve gotten him rock hard once more.

He lets the liquid drip from his mouth into yours, the lewdness of it all keeping you in that perfect haze. You hum as it hits your tongue, salty and something else uniquely yours, together.

You swallow. “Thank you, Mikey.”

“Anytime, honey.”

You’re back down an hour later after having to shower twice because the first one did not count for shit. You’re wearing a different dress now, the fabric hiding the bruises that have already started to form on your skin, leaving your back exposed completely to make up for the lack of skin you’re now hiding.

Robby will not let you go, his hands always having to be on you. He looks gorgeous in his suit, the suspenders Dana chose for him instead of a belt to pull up his tummy causing your brain to short circuit every time you catch the sight.

“Behave, honey,” he grumbles into your ear as he catches you staring again. “Let’s go say hi to Duke and then I’ll let you go have fun.”

“But I’m having fun with you.”

He stops abruptly. You actually mean that, and for the first time in his life, he allows himself to believe it.

He smiles brightly, unabashedly leaning down to capture your lips with his.

“Alright then.”

He parades you around the room, introducing you to his mechanic friend and beaming brightly as the two of you engage in light small talk, and for the first time in years, the weight on his shoulders lightens, enough for his two friends to notice.

Dana bumps Jack with her elbow, her gaze traveling across the room and landing on the two of you. 

“Ow, what?” Jack whines as Dana crocks her head, catching Robby’s smile like a damn spotlight, shining so bright it might actually be blinding. “Oh hoho, good for him.”

“Good for us.”

Jack nods. “About damn time, we deserve it.”

“That we do.”

They clink their glasses, delightedly taking in their new life blissfully, only one thing on their minds—

Welcome to the Jackrabbit Club.

a/n: okay my loves, this is my new au. I've been toying with it for a while and honestly...fuck it, happy pride let's just go crazy. requests are open for them all, every other character is fair game too so request away. power dynamics are loosely inspired by @thykingdoncome's his best girl cause I love that series and need to shout it out every chance I get. basically, dana's the main boss, but jack, robby and park get free reign, anyone else needs explicit permission from one of them (and obviously consent from reader but let's be fucking honest). I will keep writing shit on the side, but will prioritize requests and asks <3

“In a van? I’m aware, it's all this town could talk about when you first got here.” Gossip ran rampant in Sowell Bay. Folks loved to act as if a newcomer was a rarity and Cameron Cassmore had given them plenty to talk about. He’s single handedly kept this town entertained for nearly a month now. You had heard things, about someone owing him a lot of money, how he seemed to argue with nearly everyone he met.

At open mic night, his demeanor was different. Less guarded. Probably helped that Tova was there, proving to everyone that this guy wasn't some dangerous drug dealer or whatever the rumor mill came up with this week.

Yeah, he was still awkward and needed a woman old enough to be his grandmother to strike up a conversation. After a beer or two, he had relaxed enough that Tova made an excuse about needing to leave (not before sending you a very obvious wink).

At the very least, Cameron would be a good time. If he could stop tripping over his own words.

“Oh, yeah.” He was clearly uncomfortable with the gossip surrounding him. Granted, it's not like he tried to fly under the radar, "It's not bad or anything. I mean, the heater doesn’t work but I have a ton of blankets. If you're cool with that, that is.”

He doesn't want to take you back there, it's clear as day. So you offer him an alternative.

“We could go back to my place if you want.”

He nods, “Yeah. We could do that.”

Cameron is silent in your car though his body can't seem to stay still. He alternates. First, fidgeting in the passenger seat, shifting his hips like he's trying to get comfortable. Knees bending despite there being plenty of room to accommodate his long legs. Then he’ll run a hand through his hair, once, twice before moving on to fingers. Tracing over his many tattoos, finding something on his nails to pick at.

“Been awhile?” Your tone is light, well meaning. And yet, one would think you had just accused him of murder.

“No. Actually. Uh, before I came here I had a girlfriend. Not that she's still my girlfriend, we broke up before I left. But we did…it pretty regularly. So no, it hasn't been a while. I mean, it's been a while since I hooked up with someone but that's just more of a situational thing. Totally doesn't impact my ability at all, if that's what you're wondering.”

Alright, that was kinda a lie. The last two months of his relationship with Katie, things had cooled off in the bedroom. She was always tired or something. And it had been almost two months since he arrived in Sowell Bay so…four months and some change. But the last thing Cameron needed was for you to think he couldn't deliver. You were cute, you actually approached him at the bar. When was the last time something so serendipitous happened to him? He couldn't remember. So he had to play it cool and he'd like to think he was doing an alright job at it.

“Hooking up with someone you barely know is really different than having sex with your girlfriend. For all you know, I could be a serial killer,” you were joking but the way his eyes widened again, it was clear he was in over his head and your comment did not help.

“I'm not. Besides, too many people have seen us together. You also have a job that requires you to be punctual. So if you go missing, it'll be noticeable immediately.” Oh God, you were scaring the poor kid, “Sorry, I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.”

He laughs and for the first time since he sang on stage, the facade breaks. His shoulders relax, a crooked smile forms on his face. The corners of his blue eyes slightly crease. Its really fucking cute.

It lasts until you pull into your driveway.

“You live here?” Cameron asks, incredulous at the sight of your townhouse.

“I mean, I rent it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It makes Cameron feel slightly better, feel less like a loser who lives in a van. But once his feet hit the gravel, his body tenses up. He’s going into your house. You live in a house and you’re his age. A nice house, all by yourself. And what does he have?

He just needs a little more time. That’s all he ever needed. A little more time, and he’ll meet Simon Briggs, get eighteen years worth of child support, buy an actual car, pay back Aunt Jean, and then rent out a nice place. Maybe he’ll even have enough for a down payment for a house or maybe a condo. Yeah, a condo with a patio. Nothing like the shitty one bedroom apartment he lived in with his mom until she-

“Cameron?” Your voice breaks him out of his racing thoughts. Somehow, he got to your porch, feet just steps away from the door like he’s a fucking vampire waiting to be given permission to enter. You’re in the doorway, not quite inside your home but not outside either.

Anxiety is practically pouring out of him. It was endearing though. So you take a step forward, grasping his large hand into yours.

“It’s been a while for me too,” You confess.

“What? No, I just told you-” You don’t let him finish the blatant lie. No amount of eye rolls would do the trick, so you let your lips shut up his. There’s the distinct remnants of whiskey on his lips. They’re surprisingly soft. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘guy who applies chapstick regularly’. He’s rusty at first, body stiff. His nose smashes into yours, as though he doesn’t know where else it could go. Cameron’s fingers twitch, as though he wants to move them but just doesn't know where.

The last month before the breakup, all they had done was exchange quick, tight lipped kisses. Looking back, it was clear Katie was looking for any excuse to break up with him. It was even clearer that Cameron hadn't passionately kissed someone in a fucking while.

Just when he remembers what to do with his damn hands, you pull away. That was a total shit kiss, like did he even do anything besides stand there? Cameron should just go home before you ask him to-

“Let's go inside,” you give his hand a gentle squeeze before leading him into your living room.

“You have a fireplace in your house?” he stares in amazement and if he hadn't dropped the fact his mom was a drug addict who abandoned him, you would be confused by his reaction.

“It's really common in the houses up here. Gets cold in the winter and there's plenty of trees.” He continues to stare at it, like it’s hypnotized him. Reminding him of all the possibilities he could have had in his past. In the present.

“Why don’t we go to the couch?” That’s when it hits him. Why he’s here.

He doesn’t want it to be a one night stand. Yes, that would be much easier. But talking to you is nice. You don’t treat him like an idiot. You don’t listen to the gossip that swarms this town. You’re cute, but also sincere. There’s a calmness to you that he yearns for. Always had, if he really thought about it.

So he lets you lead him over to the couch and sits down first. It gives him more time to gather his thoughts, more time to plan how he’s going to convince you that he should be more than a one night stand. He doesn’t have the money to take you out to a nice restaurant-do those even exist in Sowell Bay or is it all family style restaurants where everyone knows everyone? And he could, if he dipped into his paycheck. Or maybe he could take you out on a picnic. Tova probably had a picnic basket he could borrow, she seemed like that type. He could get sandwiches from Ethan at a discount and it wouldn’t give you food poisoning as long as you ate it the day of.

“You think really loudly,” you giggle, running a hand through his soft hair. It’s mused from his earlier fussing with it and the ends are beginning to curl, “It’s really cute.”

“It is?” His eyes are wide and bluer than the ocean. It's the fact he's genuinely surprised by the comment that gets you.

Aw.

“Also if you’ve changed your mind, it’s okay, like really. We could just watch a-”

“No! I mean,” he clears his throat, clearly a nervous habit, “I’m fine. I’m not nervous. It’s not like I’m a fucking teenager and it’s my first time.”

You straddle his waist, much to Cameron’s surprise, “It’s just your first time in a while with a stranger, right?”

“I mean, there was one time me and my ex were on a break-”

Nope. You weren’t listening to this. You tugged on his hair, forcing him to look up at you. Before another excuse could fall from his lips, you pressed yours against his. This time, Cameron remembered what to do with his fucking hands. They reached for your shoulders, helping you push off your jacket. It landed on the floor, somewhere. He could pick it up for you later, if he remembered.

His hands skimmed across your back, landing at your hips. He really wanted to grab your breasts, he had been trying not to stare at them all night. But that would be too much too soon.

At least he's a better kisser this time. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and a low sigh escapes your mouth. Cameron wants to hear it again. Like now. He's never felt this need so badly, to know you're enjoying it as much as he is. He wouldn't call himself a selfish lover, it was just never a driving force behind his actions.

He gives your hips a tentative squeeze and you shift in his lap, aligning your core with his crotch. You don't notice it at first, but then his mouth is exploring your neck and it feels really good. But this time when you shift, you can feel his erection pressing against your clothed core and fuck he’s already this hard from kissing?

Cameron is painfully aware how pathetic it looks to be this hard from a make out session. But you keep letting out these soft moans every time his teeth find your pulse point below your jawline and it's the hottest sound he's ever heard. He wants to hear it again, more than he wants to thrust his hips upwards to get some relief.

You grab his hair again, giving the ends a tug so he's forced to look up. He's pretty like this. Hair curly, pink lips slightly swollen. Adam's apple bobbing hard in his throat. Curious, you rolled your hips against his and his head tips back. His teeth are biting down on his bottom lip hard.

You could make a comment about it. But then he'd probably try to make an excuse, try to explain it away. And you don't want that. So instead, your mouth attaches itself to his neck and you continue to grind against his erection, having never been more grateful to be wearing a dress. Even though there's still two layers of fabric separating your bodies, you can feel how hard he is. His cock twitches against your covered core and it makes you want to swallow him whole.

You continue to rock your hips, delighting in the strained, breathy groans that fall from his mouth. Cameron can't help but jerk his hips upwards when your teeth sink into his neck. Fuck, you're marking him. He hasn't been this excited about a hickey since ninth grade. He can hide it with his hoodie, or maybe you want others to see?

Maybe you wouldn't mind if he gave you one? The thought thrills him. He's certain by tomorrow morning the whole town will be talking about how the two of you were seen going home together. But you didn't seem to care about that or the fact he lived in a van. So maybe you wouldn't mind if he marked you?

“Should we um…go to your bedroom?” His voice is strained, broad chest practically heaving. His hands are gripping your ass and unfortunately it's not because he wants to cop a feel. The reality is Cameron needs you to stop grinding against his cock because otherwise he will one hundred percent come in his pants.

You nod, leading him up the stairs. Cameron has to bite his tongue so he doesn't comment on the fact your place has three levels. Of course it does. You have your shit together, for a while now. And it's obvious he doesn't. He was also close to coming in his pants like a damn teenager.

He wants to see you again. But that won't happen if he's gawking over the fact you have an office and coming in his pants. You didn't seem to pay any mind to the gossip surrounding him but you've still heard it. He needs you to see that he's not some loser who lives in a van down by the river. He has potential, always had, the circumstances have just never been right and they're so close to being that.

He just needs a little more time.

Right now, he can't do much over the fact that locating Simon Briggs is harder than finding a needle in a haystack. But he can give you an unforgettable night. He can prove that he's worth keeping around, even if it's just for a tousle in the sheets.

So instead of ogling at your breasts, which look amazing in your lacy bra, he's studying your face as his fingers curve inside of you. He's listening for your breath to hitch, for you to let out one of those sweet moans so he knows what he's doing is actually bringing you pleasure.

Cameron has never thought so hard about this. Usually he considers fingering just part of the ‘warm up’, nothing too special. But what if he's bad and that makes you reconsider? If he can't use his fingers right, how could you expect him to pleasurably use…other parts of him?

His thumb draws a circle on your clit and he notices how your back arches off the mattress. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

“Yeah? You… you like that?” He winces. It sounded sexy in his head. But it comes out unsure and clunky. Usually he's the quiet type. But he's heard that erotic audio has become a big thing lately, so women must like guys who talk during it.

“I think you should get a condom.” Your voice is even and that worries Cameron. Shouldn't you sound a little more out of breath? Oh God, does he suck at this? Was Katie just faking it this whole time?

“You, you sure? I can keep going if you want.”

“I'm ready and it seems like you are too.” You're referring to the fact he's painfully hard in his boxers. At least he remembered to do laundry yesterday, the last thing he needed was for you to see him in a ratty pair of boxers that had more than an acceptable number of holes in it.

“Do you need one?” You run a hand through his curls to get his attention.

“No, I'm good. Absolutely have one. Cause why wouldn't I?” He nearly trips over his shoes to get to his pants and he hopes that maybe, just maybe, he has a condom that hasn't expired in his wallet.

Fuck, he doesn't. Because why would he? Katie was on the pill and despite everyone assuming he's a fuck up, she was the only one he was with for the past year.

“If you need one, second draw from the right.” Cameron looked to find you sitting up, legs to your chest.

“I usually have one. It's just been a while since I needed one. My ex was on the pill and I'm totally clean. I don't just walk around, putting my dick in everyone,” Jesus Christ, why did he say that? “What I'm trying to say is I don't want to get someone pregnant. I’d make a terrible parent.”

“I don't know you well enough to agree or disagree,” you chuckle, “But it's okay. You're fine, I promise.”

Cameron can't help but feel a pang of disappointment run through his body when he finds an opened box of condoms. Obviously you two aren't dating, you were free to fuck whoever you'd like. But that meant….you were free to fuck whoever you'd like.

He could be impressive, leave you wanting more. He'd like to think he’s decent at the whole sex thing.

Just needed to get this stupid condom on.

“I got you,” your voice is soothing. Cameron watches as your fingers roll the condom down his hardened length.

He has to make this good. Hell, unforgettable. You have a real, adult job (what it was exactly, he couldn't say at this current moment), and live in an actual house. Cameron knew he had a lot to offer, probably. But in this moment, he needed to wow you, make you want him back. Then he could prove he can be more than just a one night stand.

“You okay? Breathing kinda heavy.”

He doesn't respond back. If he does, he’ll just make up some excuse and that's the last thing he needs. Cameron surges forward, mouth crashing against yours. You're taken aback by the sheer force of his kiss.

One of his hands cups the nape of your neck, the other lays against the small of your back. He uses his hands to gently press you down against the mattress. You look like an angel among the pillows. A really sexy angel.

Focus.

His nose nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your sweet perfume. You smelled really, really good but he knew admitting that would make him look like a fucking weirdo. He wouldn't mind this, his body on top of yours, face buried in your neck.

Maybe afterwards.

For now, he grabs the base of his cock and guides it to your soaked core. The gasp you let you when his cock drags against your folds is music to Cameron’s ears. He still has it. One bad breakup didn't ruin his game.

You can feel every inch of him like this. The fat head of his cock rubs against your clit and you can't help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Sound really pretty when you do that,” Cameron says against your neck, “Gonna make you do it a lot tonight.”

“Y-yeah?” You try to chuckle but it's really hard when he’s rutting his cock against you. So instead you rake your nails across his inked biceps.

Usually Cameron doesn't talk. He’ll grunt occasionally, particularly when he's close to coming. But you don't need to know that.

“Yeah. Gonna make you feel good.” Every gasp and moan that fell from your lips motivated him.

“If you k-keep doing that, I'm gonna come,” you grit between your teeth.

“Want to come with me inside you?” You nod and Cameron has to fight the urge to raise a fist. He's doing this, things are actually going well.

He stills his hips and guides his cock down to your entrance. He sinks the tip in and holy shit, it feels like you're pulling him in, you're so tight.

“F-fuck. Bigger than I expected.” He should be walking on cloud nine with that compliment. Yeah, he always knew he was above average in that department. It's still nice to hear, puts some pep in your step. But Cameron can't because he's too busy trying not to come immediately. You're just so warm and feel incredible and yeah, it has been a long time.

So he stills his hips again, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. His eyes trail over your body, landing on your bare chest. Fuck, your tits. They somehow looked even better without the lacy bra. He couldn't stop himself, bringing one of your breasts to his mouth.

The action causes his hips to move forward, his cock to sink another inch deeper. Your fingernails have become well acquainted with his back, leaving half crescent marks scattered across his shoulders.

You feel incredible. Actually, incredible was an understatement. It's taking everything in him not to fill you to the brim, to not come immediately.

He slowly pulls out, just a little. Then he thrusts back in and shit. Shit shit shit. This is fucking amazing. You were so tight and warm. His hands find the backs of your thighs and he pushes your legs closer to your chest. He doesn't think he can do that whole “your legs over his shoulders” thing because who the hell is that flexible besides gymnasts? So this seems like a good compromise. Plus it makes him look like he can take charge.

So he does and fuck, this is a terrible idea. The new angle allows him to go even deeper, something he didn't know was possible. With every kiss you press against his lips, Cameron finds his brain becoming more and more cloudy. The only thing he can focus on is this need to fuck you, to make you moan, make you come. He needs it desperately.

“F-feel s’good,” his words are slurred, which is odd considering he only had two beers, “Gonna make you feel better.”

But also you feel so fucking incredible. He can't deny that either. You're warm and tight, so fucking tight. Your walls grip his cock and has he ever had sex this good? He needs to focus, you have to come first, but you feel fucking fantastic and oh God, you just clenched around him and fuck. No, no, this was not happening, this could not be happening.

“F-fuck, wait!” He tries to warn you, tries to pull out. But your legs are wrapped around his waist and it's too late. His hips are jerking forward uncontrollably and he can feel himself coming coming into the condom.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck!

He's pulling out before you can process what just happened. It's not until you see him taking off a now very full condom that it hits you.

Oh.

Honestly? It was hot. You never had that kind of effect on a guy before.

“Sorry, I um,” his face is bright red, “I-I’ll leave.”

“Why?” He paused, boxers barely on, “B-because I just came after two minutes of sex like a fucking teenager?”

You shrug, “I thought it was hot.”

His blue eyes widened, “You did?”

Nodding, you prop yourself up against your pillows, “Yeah. You were really into it, which was honestly refreshing. Most guys try to act like they're above it. I liked that you’re enthusiastic. I like that I made you feel that good."

He's staring at you like you just told him a mind blowing secret. A million thoughts are running through his head.

“Really?” Is all Cameron can get out. He's standing in the middle of your bedroom, clad only in a pair of worn boxers. His chest is rising up and down rapidly, like he just ran a marathon" "You don't think it's like, beyond pathetic?"

“Really,” you assure him, “I’d hate to see you leave so soon. We could still hang out or-”

“You want me to stay?” he sounds incredulous. Is such a concept that foreign to him? You knew there was more behind the sarcastic comments and eye rolls. Just weren't expecting it to be such….lonelieness.

“I would love for you to stay, Cameron.”

He nods his head, like that four letter word didn't just knock him off his feet. Silently, he moves back to your bed, his lips pressing against yours. This kiss is different. More urgent. Fervent almost. As though he thinks you slip through his fingers if he doesn't.

“You didn't come,” he whispers against your neck, lips trailing down your body.

“It's fine-” Cameron's shaking his head before you can even finish your sentence. His mouth skims over your chest, his breath against your nipples creating goosebumps across your body.

“No. Need-wanna make you feel good,” is all he says before settling himself between your thighs.

Before you could respond, he dived into your heat, eagerly. His tongue circled your clit in deliberate strokes, his eyes glued to your face, watching for every little reaction.

Somehow you tasted sweet and tangy and all too addicting. Cameron saw how your back arched when his tongue found your entrance. He shifted, moving your thighs so they hugged the sides of his face. His cock was throbbing (how, he didn't know) but Cameron didn't care. Every brain cell was focusing on you, making you feel good.

It's how he noticed that while his tongue was making you moan, it wasn't the same as when he sank his cock into you. Not as breathy, not as needy. Fingers. He had long fingers. It's how he was able to learn the guitar and actually be quite good at it.

His mouth moved back up to your clit, allowing his index and middle finger to circle your entrance.

“C-Cameron, please.” Good. Yes. He sank his fingers into your wet entrance. Fuck you were tight. Had he actually obtained any will power, he could have felt that tightness with his cock for longer. But he couldn't harp on that.

He crooked his fingers upwards, trying to find that spot. Normally this wasn't a mission, his fingers and Dick were long enough that they usually ended up finding it without any extra effort.

Cameron couldn't just hope now. He already left a less than desirable impression with how he came after maybe five minutes of sex. He had to prove he was good at this, that he wasn't some jackass who lived in a van and didn't care if his partner came or not. He was good at something damn it and you were going to see that.

All while having this internal battle, you were fighting the urge to claw at his shoulders. No guy had ever eaten you out with this much vigor. His broad tongue drags a flat, wet stripe across your clit and oh fuck.

Your back arches off the mattress, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. He's a quick learner, you'll give him that. He repeats the motion and God, he’s looking at you with such intensity, studying every little reaction.

“F-fuck, don't stop,” and he's a much better listener than he appears because he doesn't. He keeps going, keeps moving his fingers in a come hither motion that feels so good it's making your hips roll upwards. Cameron doesn't seem to mind that you're practically humping his face. In fact, he seems to enjoy it given how his own hips are jerking against your mattress.

“Don't stop. M’gonna cum,” you can barely get out more than several words, much less a full sentence. You expect him to pull away, like most guys do.

Instead, his mouth continues. Your body feels light. There's a warmth that's spreading, seeping into your veins. A band is tightening in the pit of your stomach, tightening with every stroke of his tongue.

His fingers brush against that one spot and you feel the band snap. You start to have a vague idea of what's going on, though it's hazy. Like the fact you can now feel his tongue lapping up your essence, nose bumping against your clit. The mattress is moving, ever so slightly, against the headboard with the way his hips are basically jumping your mattress. There's a wet spot quickly spreading from the crotch of his boxers, but Cameron hopes you have a washer dryer (why wouldn't you, you have a fucking fireplace) he can use. Right now, all he can focus on is the taste of you on his tongue, how addictive it is.

He's chasing after it, desperate. You have to pull his mouth off of your cunt for it to register to Cameron what you were saying.

“S-slow down. It's o-okay,” your breathing is uneven, tits nearly spilling out of your bra and all he can think is,

“Can I..go again? Like keep going? If you want…me to.”

Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.

It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.

Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.

She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.

So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.

Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?

But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.

She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.

And Jack—

Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.

Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.

"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.

Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.

Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.

"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."

He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.

"That bad?" he asks.

"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."

Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."

Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?

Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"

"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.

"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.

"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."

Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.

"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."

Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."

Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.

"Did you see her at rounds?"

Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"

Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."

Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."

Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.

You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.

So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.

Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.

After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—

Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.

In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.

His shoulder throbs harder.

"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.

Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.

"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.

"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.

That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"

"I—"

"Since when do you do that?"

Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."

Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.

"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."

Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."

You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."

"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.

The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.

And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.

"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.

He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"

Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.

Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.

"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."

"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.

"You're crying."

"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.

"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."

"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."

You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.

He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."

"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."

He fights the urge to look away.

"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.

"I know."

"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.

He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.

Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."

You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"

"I won't go," he promises.

"Jack—"

"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.

"Really?"

He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."

You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.

You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."

Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"

"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.

"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."

Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.

"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.

"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.

The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.

"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"

You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"

He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."

You close the chart immediately. "Okay."

The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.

You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.

His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.

You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.

"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.

"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.

"I am careful."

You don't answer him.

He sighs. "…Careful-ish."

You almost smile. Almost.

"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.

"No problem."

He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.

After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.

You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.

For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—

You could make it work.

A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.

Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.

Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.

You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.

The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.

One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.

"Breakfast," Jack says.

You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.

His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.

You stare after him, chest twisting.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.

You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"

"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."

"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."

She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—

You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—

"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.

You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."

Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.

"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.

You nod once. "Yeah."

But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.

Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."

You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"

"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."

You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.

Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.

As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.

"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.

"The sedation should still hold," she states.

You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.

And then—

His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.

"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."

The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.

"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.

Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.

"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.

This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.

You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.

Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hola Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.

Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.

You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.

"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.

"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.

"Mm," she mutters.

Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.

"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.

Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."

"I can walk," you say.

"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."

"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.

"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.

He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.

"I'm fine."

He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.

"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.

"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"

You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."

"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.

"No."

"Nausea? Dizziness?"

"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.

He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.

"That bad?"

"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."

He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."

"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."

He doesn't answer you.

You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."

"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.

"Don't call him."

"What?"

"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."

"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."

"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."

Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"

"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."

You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.

You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"

Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."

The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.

You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.

Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.

He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.

"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.

"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."

Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.

His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—

"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"

You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."

His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.

"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.

Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."

You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.

His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."

"Jack—"

He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."

Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.

"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.

"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"

You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."

He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."

"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."

"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.

You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.

"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.

"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.

You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.

"What?"

"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.

"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."

Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.

Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.

He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."

You study him quietly.

"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."

His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."

You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."

You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.

As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.

"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.

Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."

"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.

"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."

Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."

Jack’s jaw clenches.

"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."

"I'm pissed."

"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."

Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.

Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."

"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.

"Then trust her."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.

Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."

Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.

Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."

That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.

Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."

Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.

Jack stays with you through it all.

From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.

When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.

You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.

Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."

You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.

And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.

"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.

Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"

You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."

Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"

"No," Jack interjects immediately.

Trinity blinks at him.

He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."

Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.

"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.

"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.

You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."

"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."

You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."

He huffs. "Still."

Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.

By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.

"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.

"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—

Well. His hand is comforting.

Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.

"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.

He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."

You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."

His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."

You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."

He shrugs in response.

The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.

Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.

He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.

You stop. "What are you doing?"

"You can sleep in my bed."

"What?"

"It’s better for your ribs."

You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."

"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.

You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.

Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."

Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."

You blink.

"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."

"You still have a head injury."

"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.

"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.

You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."

"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."

Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."

Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."

"Jack," you protest.

"What?"

"Your back’s gonna hurt."

He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.

You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.

With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."

Jack looks up.

Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."

His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."

And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.

He steps back first. "I'll be right back."

You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.

"…Jack."

He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.

You stare at him. "What are you doing?"

He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."

"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.

He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.

You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."

He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.

You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."

Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.

Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.

Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.

You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.

"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.

You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.

The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.

By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.

Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.

For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.

You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—

Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.

You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.

You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—

You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.

I should’ve never agreed to this.

The hope curdles again.

Going back to work takes another week.

Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.

You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.

It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.

The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.

One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"

"No," Jack says flatly.

Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.

Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.

You groan immediately.

Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"

"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.

"Seriously?" you sigh.

Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."

You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."

"You’re still recovering," he counters.

"I’m fine."

Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."

Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"

Both of you turn to look at him.

"It’s a two-person thing."

Silence hangs in the air.

"…Oh," you say slowly.

Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."

"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.

You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.

"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.

You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.

He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."

You nod. "Okay."

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.

Jack's been counting down to this day all week—his first day off in a little over a week. It's slightly pathetic just how much he's built it up in his head, but it's the truth.

Every day feels like an exercise in restraint. Every morning, he wakes up after barely sleeping, stares at the drawer where his police scanner is hidden and has to look away before temptation wins.

He made a promise to himself the day you moved in, and he's gonna keep it—he won't touch it while you're still in the house. Even if his entire body is screaming for it. For the radio in that drawer. For the SWAT uniform hanging in his closet. For anything that'll dull the restlessness.

Jack's a man of his word, even as it gets harder with each passing day. Even as the lack of sleep hollows him out enough for people to notice. Even when you notice.

He can still feel the touch of your fingers under his eyes from two nights ago, soft against the dark circles as you frowned up at him. Asking him if it was because of his leg and telling him you bought him more of that cream and that he could use your heating pad. He'd nodded because telling the truth wasn't an option—and besides, his leg had been giving him hell that day.

But it wasn't the reason for him not sleeping, not that he could ever tell you that. He couldn't tell you that it was the thought of you drifting away from him, of you leaving, that kept him awake. That only seeing your face for a handful of minutes each day was driving him insane. That every day brought the end closer, and he could feel the countdown in his bones.

Tonight, however, he finally gets a semblance of relief. No work. No interruptions. Just an entire evening with you. An evening where he'll watch whatever you want to without complaining if it means he gets to sit next to you, listening to your laugh and teasing you.

He just wants your company.

It's around half past seven when the front door cracks open. Jack had offered to come pick you up, but you insisted that it was too nice not to walk, and so he'd relented. He didn't want to start the evening out on the wrong foot.

"Hey," you greet him, sending him a quick smile as you move towards your room. "I'm gonna shower real quick."

He sends you a smile back from his position on the couch and grabs his phone. He has it all planned out: takeaway, a bad movie, and if he's lucky, you'll fall asleep on his shoulder.

He opens the app, finds that place around the corner that you'd mentioned before and scrolls through their menu. He hears the shower turn off, then the sound of you rummaging through the closet and by the time you come into the living room, he's halfway through speaking, "I was thinking we could order in toni—"

And then he looks up.

His smile fades as he sees you standing in the doorway, bag slung over your shoulder and a confused look on your face. It dissolves into an apologetic one as you step further into the room, "Shoot," you say. "I forgot to tell you—I'm going out with Parker and some of the other girls tonight." You bite your lip, adding, "She's been asking me for days..." as if it's some sort of consolation.

For a second, he just stares at you, the air leaving his lungs so fast it almost hurts. Tries to process the fact that this was a night he'd been waiting for all week, and to you it's just another night.

"Oh," he says. "Okay." He stands, forcing his expression into something neutral as he follows you into the hallway. "That sounds fun," he adds, the words stiff in his mouth.

"Yeah," you reply as you shrug on a jacket. "We're going to that club near the park."

Jack folds his arms and leans against the doorway, trying to breathe through the sting in his chest. "Okay," he says. "Be safe. I'll come pick you up when you're done."

You look up from the shoes you're slipping on and shake your head. "You don't need to wait up for me. I'll just call an Uber."

He frowns. "I'm gonna be up anyway," he says. He won't be able to sleep until he knows you're home safe. He adds in a softer tone, "I don't mind. Call me."

For a brief second, your hand loosens on the bag strap as your eyes flicker over his face. Can you see the hurt and disappointment he's trying to contain? Your mouth parts like you're about to say something. Something like: Maybe I can stay. Maybe I can reschedule.

The words hover on the edge of your lips, so close Jack can almost taste them. And for one stupid second, he thinks you might actually say them because he sees how your shoulders soften and your weight shifts, like you're reconsidering leaving.

Then the moment passes. Your fingers tighten around the strap again, and your feet turn to the door. "I'll see you later," you say and disappear out the door faster than he can respond. He stares at the shut door.

He notices you never actually agreed, and before he can second-guess it, he pulls up Ellis’ contact.

>> Text me when you're ready to leave. I'll drop you and the others off, too.

He hesitates for a second. Then adds:

>> Trouble wants to pay for an Uber. But I won't be asleep, so call whenever.

He gets a reply seconds later.

<< Sure thing, boss

He stares at the screen for a second before locking it and sinking back onto the couch. He flicks on a random sports channel, though he knows he won’t take in a second of it. He curses Robby's name one more time in his head, despite having talked it out. Still, he can't help but put some of the blame on him; it lessens the blame he can put on himself.

You sit cross-legged on Parker's bedroom floor, your makeup bag spilt open around you in a mess of brushes, palettes, and lip gloss tubes. The room smells faintly like vanilla body spray and the citrus candle Parker lit twenty minutes ago. Music hums low from the speaker on her dresser, some playlist she made in your first year of residency.

You sweep a glittery brush across your lid, tilting your head for a better angle. Behind you, Parker's bathroom door is open, steam still curling out from her shower. You can see half of her face in the bathroom mirror as she expertly draws a sharp wing. For a while, the only sounds are the music, the rustle of brushes, and Parker humming under her breath.

Then she says, casual as anything, "So, you gonna tell me what's up with you and Abbot?"

Your hand stills mid-swipe. The brush hovers near your eyelid as your shoulders tense, but you force yourself to relax, lowering the brush to the palette in your lap.

"Nothing’s going on," you say, aiming for light and dismissive.

Parker lets out a short laugh from the bathroom. "Sure," she says.

You glance toward the doorway and catch her raised eyebrow in the mirror. "Then why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?"

You stare down at the eyeshadow palette, pretending to inspect the colours even though your mind goes completely blank. "Uh…"

Does she know? Does she see the same things you do? For an overwhelming second, the urge to spill everything to her fills your chest. You suppress it. You can't betray Jack like that.

Parker snorts softly, caps her eyeliner, and steps into the doorway. She leans one shoulder against the frame, mascara wand in hand, watching you with the kind of knowing look that makes lying feel impossible. "You know, if you both sleep that badly without each other," she says, "maybe you should consider coming back to nights."

You blink at her and let out a quiet breath of relief. Her assumption wasn't even close, or well, it was right, but she hadn't figured out the reason for the distance. You're even more glad you kept your thoughts to yourself now.

"It’s only a week until I’m back," you say, dipping your brush into the eyeshadow again. You can deal with another week. Robby had already offered to move things around and get you back on nights early, but you'd refused before he could finish the sentence. You're not ready to see Jack and Lily interacting just yet. Not sure that you would be able to hide your heartbreak well enough.

Parker disappears back into the bathroom, and you hear drawers opening. "I’ll cover half your patients if you come back early," she calls out.

You laugh, shaking your head as you blend the shadow into your crease. "You literally cannot do that."

She reappears with a lipstick tube in hand, shrugging, "Fine. Shen will buy you coffee before every shift."

That makes you laugh harder. "Every shift?"

"Mm. And after!"

You reach for your mascara, twisting the tube open. "You're resorting to bribery now?"

She shrugs. "Whatever works."

You lean closer to the mirror, carefully brushing mascara onto your lashes. "Parker," you say, smiling, "I’m not coming back early. So you can drop it."

She groans dramatically.

"I don’t mind day shift," you continue. "And it’s just temporary." You cap the mascara and toss it back into your bag, then look up at her through the mirror. "So, can we please have one night where we don’t talk about work?"

Parker presses her lips together, considering, then she sighs heavily—the theatrical kind meant to show she's only giving in under protest. "Fine," she says.

You grin. "Good. Because you have to help me figure out what to wear."

"Ooh," she says, dropping onto the edge of her bed. "Okay, show me everything."

By the time you and Parker join the other girls, you’re feeling that pleasant buzz of tipsiness. And after just another half hour with Trinity pushing drinks into your hands, you're drunk.

The place is packed—shoulders brushing past in every direction, voices layered over the pulse of the bass, the air warm with the smell of liquor and perfume and too many people in one room. Coloured lights flash across the dance floor as you move in between the throngs of people. It's nice, letting go of all your worries and just having fun.

It even makes the guilt of leaving Jack alone at home subside. You hadn't anticipated that he would look that sad—you'd actually expected the opposite. It was the whole reason why you agreed to go out tonight, to give him the house to himself.

Limiting the time you spend alone with him is the safest. Working days has been hell, besides the obvious, but having him find you the second he enters the Pitt, the smile he gives you as he kisses your cheek, and the way his shoulder keeps brushing yours during rounds, it's enough to make your resolve wobble.

It's enough to make you doubt if you really do have it right—until you see him talk to Lily, and then the confidence surges again. Not even Olivia’s increasingly exasperated insistence that you're reading it all wrong could shake that certainty.

Since the argument at the lockers, Jack hasn’t pushed back on the shift change. He still checks if you’ve eaten, still keeps a protein bar in his pocket if you haven't, still brings you tea at the start of his shift—but he hasn’t fought for more, and somehow that hurts worse than when he did.

So instead of being curled up beside him on the couch, you’re here—pressed into a cracked vinyl booth with a drink in your hand and Parker half draped across the seat beside you.

"Pleeease," Parker whines, dragging the word out as she collapses dramatically against the backrest. Her margarita sloshes dangerously in her hand. "Come back to nights."

Across the table, Trinity snorts into her drink as Princess mocks her.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Parker, no. You promised no work talk."

Parker presses a hand to her chest like you’ve mortally wounded her. "So that’s it? You’re abandoning us? Leaving us in the clutches of hell when salvation is right there?"

You stare at her flatly. "Wow. Since when did you become so poetic?"

Parker lifts her glass solemnly. "Since Abbot started nitpicking my charting. Trauma changes people."

Lily bursts out laughing beside her, the sound bright enough to cut through the music. The bruising around her throat has faded into mottled yellow and green now, and her voice has almost completely recovered. Her scans had come back clean, no concussion, no lasting damage, and she’d been one of the first people demanding a night out the second she was cleared.

"No, seriously," Parker says. "He told me to fix my chart because I wrote 'patient states pain is better' instead of 'the patient’s pain is improved'."

"That sounds fair," Trinity says, her head tilting as a small smirk plays on her lips.

Parker glares at her. You laugh, louder this time.

Parker swivels toward you. "He was never this bad when you were on nights."

You shrug, "Maybe your charting got worse."

She narrows her eyes at you.

Trinity leans in over the table, "I, for one, hope you won't ever go back." She lifts her glass. "To day shift, where I hope Trouble stays forever."

Parker groans but lifts her glass anyway. "To Trouble, who abandoned us to die." Lily nods emphatically.

You roll your eyes and clink your glass against theirs.

"No, but seriously," Parker says, nudging Lily with her elbow, "Tell her she needs to come back. Abbot is terrifying right now, right?"

Lily shrugs. "He’s just tense."

Parker scoffs. "That's because he likes you. He’s less scary with you."

Lily laughs and shakes her head. "No, he isn’t."

"He is," Parker insists. "You’re the only person he hasn’t snapped at all week."

Lily rolls her eyes. "That’s because I’m still on light duty."

She says it casually, thoughtlessly, but the words hit somewhere tender. Because, of course. Of course, he’s gentler with her. Of course, people notice. You'd noticed.

You stare down into your drink, the ice shifting softly when you tilt the glass. You force a smile. "That’s nice of him."

Lily nods. "I'm back on normal duty Monday, and I cannot wait." She leans in, adding with a little grin, "I might also have a date with a radiologist..."

Parker's eyes widen, "What?"

Your eyes widen. "When did that happen?" you ask. Does Jack know?

"When I went for that scan the other day," Lily grins.

"Damn girl," Parker laughs.

"Hey, at least something good came out of it," Lily says. "I think we're going to that place nearby. Momo's or something—"

You lift your drink and take another swallow, eyes drifting to the dance floor while the conversation moves on around you. If Jack loses his chance with Lily because he was doing this with you, would he forgive you?

A new song blasts through the speakers, bass vibrating through the floor beneath your feet.

"Oooh, I love this song!" you hear from your left as Parker rushes out to the dance floor.

Lily laughs from beside you and reaches for your hand. "Come on."

You hesitate for half a second, but let her pull you up. Because, despite everything, you still like Lily. She’s warm and funny and kind. None of this is her fault. You can’t blame her for the ache that opens in your chest every time you look at her and think about Jack. So you let her lead you into the crowd.

And for the next half hour, the night becomes loud and stupid in the best possible way, and for a little while, you let yourself disappear into it.

You try not to picture Jack at home. Maybe stretched out on the couch. Maybe reading with those stupidly adorable glasses on. Maybe glancing at his phone every now and then, waiting for it to ring because he told you to call.

That thought should make warmth bloom in your chest. Instead, it hurts. Because even now, while you’re pulling away for his sake, he’s still there. Still showing up. Still making space for you. Still offering in a way he never should have to.

So you drink. Shot after shot. Trying to soften the ache. Trying to drown the guilt. Trying not to think about the fact that if it weren’t for you, he could probably be moving on with his life instead of waiting around for your call.

By the time you stumble back toward the booth, your head is pleasantly foggy, your limbs loose and warm.

Parker drops beside you, breathless from dancing. "You good?" she asks.

You nod, then immediately regret the motion when the room tilts. "Yep."

She gives you a sceptical look. "You are not getting any more drinks."

"I’m fine," you insist, reaching for her cocktail on the table.

Parker snatches it first. "Nope."

You glare at her. "Parker."

She folds her arms around the drink protectively. "You're wasted."

"I'm not."

She shoots you a disbelieving look. "I'm gonna call Jack," she says, pulling out her phone.

"No!" you say, grabbing her hand quickly.

She blinks at you, surprised.

You try to soften it, "I'll just get an Uber once I sober up a bit. I don’t want him coming out at one in the morning because I had too much to drink."

Parker studies you for a second, then nods hesitantly. A few minutes later, Trinity drags Parker back onto the dance floor when another song comes on, and you stay in the booth, sipping water, trying to steady the spinning in your head. Lily joins you after a moment, giggling at something on her phone.

You’re staring blankly out into the crowd when something shifts. Even through the music and the blur in your head, you feel it. That strange awareness that has nothing to do with sight. Your body notices him before your mind does, gaze lifting automatically toward the entrance.

And there he is.

Jack stands just inside the bar, arms folded behind his back as he scans the room. The second his eyes land on you, your breath catches. Every ounce of drunken warmth drains out of you. "What the fuck?" you mutter.

You whip around to Parker, who has just returned to the table, suddenly looking guilty.

She winces. "Sorry."

Your stare hardens. "You called him?"

"You were too drunk to get home alone."

"I told you not to."

Trinity appears behind her shoulder, adding with no remorse. "Abbot said he’d drive all of us home."

You stare at them in disbelief. "I see," you say flatly. So much for not disturbing him. But then again, you should've thought about it—Lily's here, of course, he'd come.

Before you can say anything else, Jack reaches the table.

"Hey, girls," he says, warm and easy, that small familiar smile on his face. "Looks like you’re having fun."

"Oh yeah," Parker says brightly, then points at you. "This one had way too many shots."

Jack’s gaze moves to yours, and the smile softens. "I can see that."

You're leaning against the back, staring hazily at him. He steps closer and gently brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face. Your body leans into it before you can stop yourself, then you remember Lily is sitting right there.

You straighten immediately.

"I’m fine," you say. You stand to prove it. The room lurches violently.

Before you can stumble, Jack’s arm is around your waist, steady and immediate. "Mm-hm," he murmurs. "Sure you are."

He's warm, a scorching heat that sends fire through your veins. You hate how natural it feels to lean into him. Hate how easy it is to stay there. You’re too tired—and too drunk—to pretend you don’t want the support. Even if Lily is looking. She'll get to have him forever; you only have a short time—she'll have to forgive you.

Jack glances at the others. "Come on," he says. "Let’s get everyone home."

The girls pile into the car, laughing and arguing over seats as Jack opens the passenger door for you. You slide in without looking at him. He sets a bottle of water in your lap, then reaches over to buckle your seatbelt.

You stare out the window while quiet music plays through the speakers. One by one, he drops everyone off. Parker is last, leaning through the window with a drunken grin.

"Love you," she sings.

You glare at her. She laughs and shuts the door. Then it’s just you and Jack. The silence in the car feels enormous. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his thigh.

"You have fun?" he asks after a minute.

"Yeah," you murmur.

"That’s good."

Silence settles again.

"Day shift treating you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah." You can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of your face, but you don't look at him.

"Good," he nods.

"Mm."

He’s quiet for a second before speaking again, fingers tightening briefly on the wheel. "I miss having you around."

You grip the hem of your shirt and almost turn toward him. Almost say I miss you too. But Lily’s words echo in your head. He’s been checking in a lot.

You stare harder out the window. "I’m coming back soon," you say instead.

"Right." He nods once.

Normally, you’d say something, anything, to fill the silence. But tonight you can’t. You don't know what to say that won't make things awkward.

You lean against the window pane instead, listening to the soft murmur of the radio, and tell yourself you’re just resting your eyes. Just for a second. Sometime between one red light and the next turn, sleep pulls you under.

Jack turns into the driveway slowly, careful not to take the corner too sharply. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, looking at you in the dim glow of the moonlight.

"Hey," he says softly. You don't stir. He leans over and brushes a hand over your shoulder. "Hey, we’re home."

You hum lightly and turn your head onto the headrest, brows pulling together faintly, but your eyes stay shut.

He exhales a quiet laugh. "Alright."

Jack gets out, walks around the car and opens your door. "Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, reaching for your hand. "Can you stand?"

You blink slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused. "M'awake," you mumble.

"Mm," he breathes.

You try to stand up, but the second your feet hit the ground, your knees buckle. Jack catches you instantly.

"Okay," he says gently, one arm steady around your waist. "That answers that." You mumble something incoherent into his shoulder. Then, before you can protest or he can overthink it, he slides one arm under your knees and lifts you.

You let out a sleepy noise of surprise, one hand grabbing weakly at the front of his shirt. "Jack—"

"I’ve got you," he murmurs into your hair as he walks up to the door. Your head drops against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to argue.

He sets you down just long enough to unlock the door, then lifts you again and carries you inside. He nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder and carries you straight to the bathroom.

"Alright," he says softly, setting you carefully on the sink, one hand still holding your waist. He grabs your toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it. "Here."

You stare at him and obediently open your mouth. He lets out a short huff of laughter.

"Honey, no. Here." He places the toothbrush in your hand. "Brush your teeth."

"Oh." You begin brushing with slow, clumsy movements, squinting at yourself in the mirror.

Jack leans against the counter beside you, arms at each side of your legs, making sure you stay upright. When you finish, you spit, rinse, and immediately wobble. His hand catches your elbow.

"Come on. Let’s get you to bed." He helps you down from the counter and guides you toward the bedroom. But instead of heading for your room, you stop in front of his bed and tug weakly at your shirt.

Jack freezes. "Wait—"

You frown at him. "Need t'sleep."

"I know, but—"

You’re already trying to pull your top over your head and failing miserably. Jack turns around so fast it would almost be funny if he weren't so flustered. You let out a tired little huff as you wrestle with your clothes. There’s the sound of fabric hitting the floor. Then silence.

Jack glances back over his shoulder just long enough to see you standing there in only your panties. He catches a glimpse of the curve of your ass before his gaze jerks away immediately.

"Hang on." He pulls one of his T-shirts from the dresser and holds it out without looking directly at you. "Here."

You take it, and stumble into his eye line while pulling it on. He catches your arm without thinking. "Okay?"

"Mm," you hum. He expects you to walk past him, but you don't—you crawl straight into his bed instead. He almost can't remember the last time that happened, but you don't notice how he stares, already curled onto your side with your eyes shut.

He debates whether or not to tell you that you're in the wrong bed, when he wants nothing more than to just slip in beside you and not say anything. But he can't—not when he knows that's the last you want.

So, he says, "This isn't your bed, sweetheart."

You blink sleepily up at him. "Wanna stay here." The words are slurred and soft and so completely unguarded that his chest tightens.

"You sure?"

You make a sleepy little sound and scoot further into the bed, like that settles it.

Jack stands there for a long moment. Every instinct tells him this is a terrible idea. Not because he doesn't want this—god, he wants it too badly—but because you're drunk, and things between you are already fragile. One wrong move could break whatever trust still exists between you.

So he keeps his distance, decides that he'd better sleep on the couch tonight. He pulls the blanket higher over your shoulder, then he reaches to move the hair away from your face. Indulging himself for a moment.

You catch his wrist with barely open eyes. "Stay." The word is so quiet he almost misses it.

He should say no. He knows he should. But the word won’t come. He looks at you for a second, then nods once. "Okay."

He's not that strong.

He walks around to the other side of the bed, takes off his prosthetic and lies down, leaving space between you. For a minute, everything is quiet. Then, half asleep, you roll toward him. Your hand finds the front of his shirt, curling there lightly as your head nestles into the space between his shoulder and neck. You breathe in deeply and sigh contentedly.

Jack closes his eyes.

A few seconds later, your breathing evens out again. Jack stares up at the ceiling in the dark, every nerve painfully aware of how close you are. He wants to wrap an arm around you, but he stays still.

After a long moment, he carefully pulls the blanket over both of you and lies awake beside you, trying to memorise this—your weight against him, the sound of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo. This might be the last time he ever gets this. He'll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of it.

He falls asleep faster than he intends to.

You wake up slowly, dragged out of sleep by the dull ache behind your eyes and the heaviness of a hangover settling into your body. For a moment, you stay still, half buried in warmth, then awareness catches up.

The blankets are softer than yours. The pillow smells like clean laundry and something familiar, and beneath your cheek, it rises softly with each breath.

Your eyes snap open.

Morning light spills pale through the curtains, washing the room in soft gold, and the second you register the shape of the dresser, the angle of the chair in the corner, the familiar navy comforter—

Your stomach drops.

Jack’s room. Jack’s bed.

Heat floods your face instantly. You vaguely remember the night before, fragments flicker back—the bar, the car, him carrying you inside. Flashes of his hands on your waist, the brightness of the bathroom light, stripping in front of him (oh god) and then crawling into his bed. Asking him to stay.

A groan builds in your throat, and you swallow it down. Oh god. Slowly, carefully, you glance beside you.

Jack is asleep on his back, one arm tucked under his neck, the other around your waist, hair rumpled, face slack with sleep. He looks peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who had to deal with your drunk ass the night before.

You stare for a second too long. In sleep, all the tension leaves his face. This is the version of him that always weakens your resolve. It would be so easy to forget the distance you’ve been trying to create, to stay here in his arms.

You force yourself to move. Cautiously, you slide toward the edge of the bed, lifting the blanket inch by inch.

The mattress shifts under your weight. Jack stirs. You freeze. Then his breathing evens again. You exhale silently, then you slip out of bed and stand, clutching the hem of his shirt. Fuck. You won't drink ever again.

You make your way into the bathroom as quietly as you can. The second the door closes, you lean against it. Drag both hands over your face as you whisper: "Fuck."

You turn the shower on and step under it as soon as the steam rises. Water runs down your face, hot enough to sting. You scrub your body harshly, trying to wash away the shame clinging to you. Trying not to think about what it felt like waking up there and how badly a selfish part of you wanted to stay. Trying to dismiss the voices that whisper that maybe this meant something—that Jack deciding to stay wasn't a thoughtless decision.

You shake your head, wrap a towel around yourself and stare at your reflection in the fogged mirror. "Act normal," you mutter to yourself.

Jack's awake when you open the door again, sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still tousled from sleep. His head lifts the second the door opens.

For one second, neither of you says anything. You’re standing there in a towel, droplets dripping down your shoulders, too panicked earlier to remember to bring clothes with you. A decision you regret very much right now.

His gaze flicks over your body before returning to your face. The glance is brief, but your pulse jumps anyway as heat floods your body.

"Hi," you say, managing to sound normal at least.

Jack gives you a small smile. "Hi."

Silence stretches. The air feels heavier than it should.

You tighten your grip on the edge of the towel. "I’m sorry about last night."

Jack’s brows pull together slightly. "For what?"

You stare at him. "For Parker calling you. For being drunk. For… this?" you say, motioning vaguely toward the bed.

Jack glances behind him, then back at you, confused. "You sleeping here?"

You nod.

"You’ve slept here before," he says, like it means nothing.

"I know, but—"

Jack tilts his head, watching you carefully. "But what?"

You shrug. "I don’t know..." It's not like you can tell him how, despite the hangover, this is the best you've felt in days—that you haven't slept more than two hours unbroken ever since moving from his bed to your own.

"I'm gonna—" You point vaguely toward the closet, grab some clothes, and hurry back into the bathroom.

From the other side of the door, Jack says after a moment, "I’m gonna go get breakfast. You want your usual?"

"Yeah, thanks!" you answer, head buried in your hands. Fuck.

Later that day, when the hangover has almost slipped its grasp on you, you begin studying. Hunched over the dining table, surrounded by colour-coded notes, flashcards and three different review books, you answer old exam questions.

After two hours, your neck aches, your eyes burn, and the words begin to blur into meaningless strings of letters.

You stare at a question about differential diagnoses for metabolic acidosis and realise you’ve spent five minutes on it without making any progress. With a groan, you rub both hands over your face and lean back in the chair.

Across the house, the television murmurs quietly in the living room where Jack has been stretched out on the couch for the last hour, giving you space while you study. You hear the soft click of the TV being turned off, and a moment later, he appears next to the table.

"You okay?"

You let out a tired laugh, too tired to even pretend. "No."

Jack glances down at the table, then steps behind your chair, scanning the questions. You can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you have to force yourself to not lean back. You flip your pen between your fingers and stare down at the question in front of you.

"You want help?"

You hesitate, unsure if this crosses any lines. But he’s still your attending, and this—this could just be work, so you agree, "Yeah, thank you."

"No problem," he says and pulls out the chair beside you.

You shift your notes aside to make room. He picks up your review book, skims the page, then glances over at you. "Walk me through what you’re stuck on."

You hesitate, then start explaining the question. At first, your voice feels stiff, your answers clipped. But Jack listens the same way he always does—calmly and patiently. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t correct you immediately. He asks another question instead, nudging you toward the answer.

Within fifteen minutes, the panic in your chest has eased. Within thirty, you’re actually remembering the material.

And somewhere in the middle of him explaining anion gap calculations on the back of a notepad, you forget to be careful. You laugh when he teases you for overcomplicating the answer. You roll your eyes when he smirks at you for getting something right. You blush when he praises you. For a little while, it feels easy and familiar, like nothing between you has changed at all.

Eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale. "Okay, I'm beat," you admit. "But that really helped."

Jack’s mouth lifts at one corner. "You know these things. You just have to trust yourself."

You huff but smile at him. "That's easy enough to say."

He doesn't answer that, just leans back in his chair and looks at you.

You shake your head, smiling faintly, then your gaze drops back to the books spread across the table. Soon you’ll be an attending. The thought should feel exciting. Instead, your stomach tightens. Because once residency ends, so does this. Your smile fades.

Jack notices immediately. "What?"

You tap the edge of the flashcard against the table. "Nothing."

He waits.

You stare at your notes for another second before saying quietly, "I was just thinking... this is the last big hurdle."

"The boards?"

You nod. "I'm gonna be an attending after residency ends," you say quietly.

"That's how it works usually," he teases.

You twist the flashcard in your hands. "And after that, everything changes."

Jack drops his grin and studies you for a second. "Meaning?"

"Meaning once I’m an attending..." You force yourself to keep your tone even. "We won’t need to stay married. We can get a divorce"

The room goes very still. Jack doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you, then he sets the pen down slowly. "I see."

You keep talking because silence feels unbearable. "This whole arrangement was about residency. About making it through—"

He says your name softly, but you push ahead.

"—once I'm done, there's no reason to keep pretending."

You can't bear to look at his face, to see the relief that you'd brought it up, so he didn't have to, so you stare at the table instead.

Jack's hands flex once on the table before stilling. "We can’t," he says.

You blink and look up too quickly, hope flaring so suddenly it almost hurts. "What?"

He folds his arms loosely. "If we separate right after you become an attending, people are going to notice." He continues, voice calm and practical. "They’ll put it together. HR might even call us back in."

You nod slowly. "Oh... Right." He was just worried about appearances. It wasn’t the divorce that bothered him—just the timing.

"There’d need to be some time in between," he says. "Otherwise, it looks suspicious."

You force your expression to stay neutral and nod, "That makes sense."

Jack watches you, waiting.

You nod once more. "Okay."

Then, because you need to say something to prove you’re being reasonable, you add, "I’ll start looking for a new place after boards." You try smiling, but it feels more like a grimace.

His expression shifts. "What?"

You keep your eyes on the flashcard in your hands. "It might take me a bit. So the sooner I start, the sooner I can get out of your hair."

Jack lets out a short breath through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. The silence that follows feels sharp. Slowly, you look up.

His face is unreadable. But something in it has changed. His jaw is tight. His shoulders have gone still. And for just a second, there’s something in his expression that looks almost like hurt. The sight catches you off guard. His mouth parts slightly, then closes like he was about to speak and swallowed it back down instead.

You frown slightly. "I just—you've been very kind in letting me stay, but I don't wanna overstep." You’re not sure why you’re explaining yourself, only that the sudden overwhelming gap between you makes you want to fix it.

Jack looks away for a moment, like he needs a second before answering. "You're not overstepping." Then he adds in a quieter voice, "But fine, if that’s what you want."

Something twists uneasily in your stomach. You try to smooth it over, "I just mean... I don’t want to make things harder for you."

Jack gives a short nod. "Right."

You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. The warmth that had settled between you while studying is gone now.

You glance down at your notes, then back at him. "Jack—"

He stands before you can finish. "You should get back to studying." He gathers the notepad he was using and sets it beside your books. "Let me know if you need help with the rest."

Then he turns and walks back toward the living room. You watch him go, unsettled. The plan has always been temporary. He knows that. You know that. So why did the room feel like it cracked open the second you said it out loud?

What little light made it through the curtains was still more night than morning, faint and gray-blue and barely there. It left the room softer around the edges, which felt unfair. A phone charger trailed off the nightstand, the cord dipping toward the floor. An old empty glass of water sat beside the lamp. On the dresser, a pair of headphones rested in a loose coil, and a laundry basket sat off to the side with clothes folded over the edge like he’d meant to deal with them and hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Little pieces of him everywhere.

Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make it impossible to forget that this was not some empty room you had borrowed for the night.

You lay there for another second, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of that settle over you again.

Then you pushed yourself up slowly.

Your body still ached in all the dull, familiar places. Neck. Shoulders. Lower back. The heaviness in your legs from too much driving and too much stress. But not the way it had yesterday. Sleep had helped.

Which was inconvenient.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, gathering yourself, tugging the hem of your shirt down without thinking about it.

No version of this looked normal in the morning.

Not the room. Not the bed. Not the fact that somewhere in the kitchen was the man who had gotten drunk and married you in Vegas, left you in a hotel room, and was now making coffee before work like any of this belonged in an ordinary life.

You stood and opened the bedroom door.

Robby was in the kitchen in black scrubs, a zip-up hoodie pulled on over them like he hadn’t bothered with anything more than necessary. One hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other resting lightly against the counter. His hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a faint tiredness to him, nothing dramatic, just the kind that settled in around the eyes when sleep never quite lasted long enough. He looked up the second he heard you, like some part of him had already been listening for that.