The tourney had transformed the fields beyond King’s Landing into a spectacle, where banners bearing the three-headed dragon snapped in the wind and the air carried the scents of grass, horseflesh, and roasting meat from the encampments beyond the lists. Pavilions in crimson and black lined the eastern rise as hedge knights polished helms beside highborn lords. 

The event had been declared in honor of visiting dignitaries from the Reach, yet no one failed to understand that it served another purpose as well, for a prince who stood so near the line of succession entered the lists so that men might measure him with their own eyes and carry word of what they saw back to their keeps.

Valarr understood that admiration, if it came, must be earned in plain view; for that reason, he approached the practice yard adjoining the main field with the same severity he brought to council chambers, intent upon sharpening his blade before the morrow’s melee and offering no one cause to whisper that dragon’s blood had thinned in him.

He just had not expected you to be there.

The rope that separated competitors from spectators had been laid, and the covered gallery beyond it offered shade for noble ladies who preferred distance from the violent clashing of steel. 

You ignored it entirely.

Instead, you stood at the very edge of the yard with your skirts gathered in one hand, speaking to Ser Donnel as though the ringing of blades were no more disruptive than a lively tune at supper. Morning light caught in your hair and along the pale silk at your shoulders, where a fastening of Targaryen red marked your betrothal. Several knights who ought to have been studying their footwork found their attention straying toward your smile.

Valarr told himself that your presence altered nothing. You stood well beyond the reach of stray strikes, guarded by men who would sooner bleed than allow harm near you.

Even so, when he lowered his helm and faced a Reach knight clad in green-enameled ivy, he felt the unwelcome pull of divided focus.

The first exchange rang clean, steel meeting steel in a manner Valarr had predicted, yet your unmistakable laughter drifted across the yard. 

For a fraction of a second his concentration faltered. 

The Reachman seized it, feinting left before turning sharply upward. The blow glanced off Valarr’s pauldron and scraped along his gorget, leaving a thin line of red.

It was not a serious wound. It was, however, witnessed.

You clapped at the spectacle.

The sound carried farther than it should have.

A few younger knights stiffened. Ser Donnel shifted uneasily. Valarr removed his helm with deliberate calm and handed it to his squire, whose hands betrayed what his prince would not. Then he crossed the churned earth toward you, mud dark against his boots, the faint line of blood vivid at his collar.

“I was not aware,” he said when he reached you, voice smooth but sharpened at the edges, “that today’s training required commentary.”

You tilted your head, as though considering the matter in earnest. “I would never presume to critique, Your Grace. I merely wished to discover whether my betrothed is as formidable as the realm insists.”

“The realm insists upon many things.”

“Yes,” you agreed lightly. “I have been told you are unrivaled with a blade, that no man living could best you unless fortune intervened. One hears it so often that it begins to sound less like admiration and more like a legend.”

His gaze sharpened, though his posture did not change. “A legend.”

“I only mean,” you continued, softening your tone as though sharing a private thought rather than issuing a challenge, “that men are sometimes inclined to polish a story when it concerns a prince who stands so near the throne. It would be awkward, after all, to admit that he is simply very good, rather than untouchable.”

No one nearby pretended deafness.

Valarr had endured flattery and envy since childhood, yet no one had suggested to his face that his reputation might rest upon rank rather than merit. What unsettled him most was the lack of cruelty in your voice. You were unabashedly measuring him.

“You suspect my skill is a courtesy,” he said evenly.

“I suspect I would prefer to see it proven,” you replied. “I would not wish to marry a legend and discover I had been promised a rumor.”

An unfamiliar heat swiftly rose beneath his composure. He had entered the yard intent on satisfying watching lords whose approval would lead into alliances.

Now he found himself wanting to satisfy you. 

He turned back toward the field. “Ser Alester,” he called.

The Reach knight hesitated. “Your Grace, we have already—”

“You will continue.”

The second bout began without flourish. Valarr advanced with measured precision, parrying with economical force, pressing his opponent back step by deliberate step. There was no wasted movement now. The ivy-etched blade wavered. With a clean twist of his wrist, Valarr disarmed him. 

A murmur rose. Valarr did not acknowledge it.

Another knight stepped forward, courage stirred. Valarr met him with the same relentless clarity. The exchange lasted longer, sweat gathering beneath his armour. When it ended, the second opponent knelt, weapon gone, dignity intact but defeat undeniable.

Applause rolled from the edges of the yard. Valarr removed his helm again and sought you immediately.

Mud streaked him. The shallow cut at his collar had deepened slightly. Yet he stood before you composed, gaze intent.

“Well?” he asked.

You stepped closer to the rope, studying him without mockery now. “It seems the realm is not entirely generous in its praise.”

“Not entirely?” One brow lifted.

“I reserve judgment pending further evidence,” you replied, though admiration softened your tone. “It would be careless to conclude after only two demonstrations.”

A faint smile touched his mouth before he could prevent it.

“You wished to see whether I was as skilled as they claim,” he said quietly. “Take care with your tests. I am not accustomed to failing them.”

“And if you do?” you asked, light but watchful.

He straightened, lineage settling over him like armor, yet his gaze remained fixed on yours.

“I do not fail,” he answered. “Not where it concerns what is mine to defend.”

And though his composure remained intact, it no longer belonged solely to him. It had been moved, subtly and irrevocably, by the simple fact that your opinion mattered more than the roar of the crowd.

You are a cruel woman, Valarr decides.

A cruel, beguiling woman sent to torment him.

The feast had been arranged in the great hall of the Red Keep splendor.

Valarr endured such evenings with the same restraint he brought to combat, for he understood that feasts were battlefields of another sort. He had long ago schooled his expression into courteous attentiveness, permitting neither boredom nor irritation to show, because princes who displayed too much feeling invited speculation.

He had not anticipated jealousy.

The lordling in question was scarcely worthy of notice, being a second son from a modest house sworn to a greater Reach lord, and he possessed the unfortunate combination of too much wine and too little discernment.

From across the hall, Valarr observed him lean toward you with an eagerness that would have been comical had it not unsettled something uncomfortably sharp beneath his ribs. You sat among the ladies of the court in a gown of pale blue that caught the firelight at every fold, listening with polite interest as the young man recounted some hunting exploit whose details grew more elaborate with each refill of his cup.

You were not behaving improperly, nor did your laughter carry any note of invitation beyond your natural warmth, yet when your fingers brushed the lordling’s sleeve in an absent gesture of emphasis, Valarr felt an unwelcome tightening in his chest that refused to be reasoned away.

He told himself that nothing in the exchange warranted intervention, that you were entitled to harmless conversation, and that his own reaction was disproportionate to the cause; nevertheless, the sight of the man leaning closer, encouraged by your easy attentiveness, stirred an agitation that bore little resemblance to the disciplined composure he prized.

Harmless, he informed himself.

The word did not settle.

What unsettled him most was not the lordling’s boldness, something that you remained unaware of the effect you produced. You met attention with brightness, and men, mistaking kindness for invitation, interpreted what was freely given as something meant for them alone. The prince was willing to admit he had fallen victim of this.

Valarr watched the way the lordling’s gaze lingered at your throat, the way he angled his body to claim more of your notice, and he discovered, with faint astonishment, that no amount of reason could offer relief against the tide of irritation rising within him.

This woman, he thought with exasperation that bordered upon incredulity, is a trial sent expressly to test my restraint.

He rose.

The scrape of his chair against stone carried farther than he intended, drawing the attention of those seated nearby, yet he did not soften the sound, for something in him had decided that quiet tolerance would only prolong his discomfort. He crossed the length of the hall with unhurried steps, acknowledging greetings with minimal inclination of the head, until he reached the place where you sat.

“My lord,” Valarr drawled, coming to stand behind the young man’s chair, one hand settling upon it with idle deliberation, “you seem to have mistaken your surroundings.”

The lordling blinked up at him, color draining from cheeks already flushed with wine. “Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Valarr said mildly. “You appear to be speaking to my betrothed as though she were a seasonal fair prize.”

The hall’s hum dimmed perceptibly.

You turned toward him, surprise flickering across your features. “Valarr—”

“She is not unclaimed,” he continued, tone smooth but eyes sharp. “Nor is she in want of your admiration. I assure you, she is sufficiently supplied.”

The lordling stammered apologies, nearly upsetting his cup in his haste to rise and retreat, and several nearby ladies exchanged glances that mingled amusement with curiosity. Valarr inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the apology, then remained where he stood until the young man had put a respectable distance between himself and your seat.

When the noise of the hall cautiously resumed, you faced him fully, sunshine incarnate despite the storm cloud looming over you.

“That was unnecessary,” you said in a tone pitched low enough to avoid further spectacle.

“Was it?” he replied, and although his voice retained its courtly moderation, his jaw remained set more firmly than custom demanded. “I thought I had discovered a stray hound circling the table in hopes of scraps.”

Your brows lifted. “A hound?”

“Yes. Eager. Underfed in discernment.” His gaze flicked pointedly toward the retreating figure. “Uncertain where it is permitted to sniff.”

You choked on a laugh. “You cannot possibly be comparing him to a dog.”

“I can,” Valarr said. “And I find the comparison charitable.”

“You are dreadful!"

“Am I wrong?” Valarr asked, lowering his voice as he met your gaze. “He was appraising.”

“And that somehow offends you?”

“It does when he acts like a fool at market deciding whether the mare before him might carry his colors."

“I am not a mare.”

“No,” he agreed, gaze sliding over you in a way that was distinctly not courtly. “You are considerably more trouble.”

Your smile only widened. “You are jealous.”

“I am inconvenienced,” he said at once.

“By what?”

“By the persistence of lesser sons who mistake your brightness as an invitation.”

“I was simply being polite.”

“Yes,” he said darkly. “You are always polite. That is the problem.”

You stepped closer, unfazed by the tension coiled in him. “You dislike that I smiled at him.”

“I dislike that he believed he earned it.”

You tilted your head, sunlight to his shade. “And what should I do? Scowl at every man who speaks to me?”

“It would save me time,” he muttered.

You laughed outright at that.

“You,” he said, leaning slightly closer, voice lowering into something rougher at the edges, “are entirely too pleased with yourself.”

Your expression softened, not surrendering, never that, but warming. “I did wonder how long you would tolerate it.”

He huffed a quiet breath. “You test me.”

“And you glare so beautifully when provoked.”

“That is not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

He looked at you then, properly looked, and some of the sharpness dulled into reluctant affection. “You are insufferably cheerful about this.”

“I find it charming,” you replied sweetly, “that a prince who can face down seasoned knights is undone by a second son with too much wine.”

“I am not undone.”

“You compared him to a stray hound.”

A pause.

“He was sniffing,” Valarr muttered.

Your laughter rang bright enough to turn heads again, and this time he did not step away from it. Instead he moved to your side of his own accord, close enough that no one could mistake his position.

“If another hound approaches,” you whispered conspiratorially, “shall I fetch you at once?”

His jaw flexed, but there was no mistaking the heat beneath it now. “If another approaches,” he said, low and dry, “I shall assume you have taken to scattering crumbs.”

You gasped in mock offense.

He leaned nearer still, voice dropping just for you. “Do not look so delighted. I am serious.”

“I know,” you said, beaming up at him.

This woman, he thought again, not without a trace of reluctant admiration, unsettles me beyond reason.

Throughout the remainder of the evening, he did not stray far, and though he told himself that vigilance was prudent given the eyes upon you, he could not deny that he remained because he wished to, because the agitation you inspired was preferable to the calm he had was used to.

You are far more cunning than anyone gave you credit for.

Valarr had been told by his father that you were well-born and clever, but he had not anticipated a mind that could rival a king’s own.

A flicker of curiosity passed over him as he watched you—how easily you weighed each possibility, measured each risk. There was precision in your movements, a confidence that suggested this was more than a simple pastime. He realized then that the mind behind those calculating eyes was already several steps ahead, shaping the play before it began.

By the time you leaned back in your chair and studied the board with that dangerous gleam, the game had already drawn an audience. Amber light filtered through the latticework windows of the solar and caught along the carved cyvasse pieces.

Valarr’s posture remained composed, his expression unreadable. Yet he had begun to understand that the true threat was not on the board. You had pressed him for hours, each move placed lightly, almost playfully, while his defenses narrowed in ways that felt inevitable.

The maids lingered without shame now, pretending to tidy what had long since been set in order. Two young knights hovered near the doorway while watching their prince lose ground one square at a time.

Just as he adjusted his formation in an attempt to regain control, you rested your chin on your folded hands and suggested, with airy curiosity, that the match might benefit from stakes.

He looked up at once. “Stakes,” he repeated carefully.

“A modest wager,” you said. “If I win, you grant me a gift.”

“And if you lose?” he asked.

You examined the board with exaggerated seriousness. “Then I will declare before all present that Your Highness is indisputably superior in both strategy and intellect.”

A few of the maids failed to conceal their amusement.

He studied you instead of the pieces. Jewels would mean nothing to you. Lands would be redundant. He wondered what you believed he might give.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” he said.

“I am optimistic,” you replied, which told him nothing.

He accepted the wager. Refusal would look like doubt, and he would not give the room that satisfaction.

The game resumed, and Valarr advanced with bold intent, pressing hard. You brightened at the change, as though this was what you had wanted all along.

When the end came, it arrived shockingly. His king stood encircled. There was no honorable path left open.

You did not announce it at once. Instead you traced the line of his entrapment with one finger, guiding his eye through the careful design of his defeat before lifting your gaze to his.

“Shall I demonstrate,” you asked softly, “or does the prince concede?”

The room stilled.

Valarr inclined his head. “I concede.”

The maids exhaled in poorly disguised triumph. One of the knights muttered something in shock. You ignored them all and leaned forward instead, close enough that he caught the faint scent of citrus at your wrist.

“My gift,” you reminded him gently.

He folded his hands on the table to keep them steady. “Name it,” he said, confident that whatever you asked could be granted without lasting consequence.

You tilted your head and regarded him as though he were the puzzle now.

“What does a lady who has everything desire?” you mused.

“I would think she lacks nothing,” he answered.

Your smile shifted, softer but far more certain. “On the contrary. There is one thing I have not yet received.”

The air in the room thinned.

“And what is that?”

You did not hesitate. “A kiss.”

The word landed cleanly. The maids gasped outright.

Valarr went very still. He had negotiated disputes between proud lords without faltering. He had faced seasoned knights in the yard and foreign envoys across council tables. None of it had prepared him for this.

Heat rose unmistakably along his cheekbones. It betrayed him at once.

“You ask boldly,” he said, and the effort required to keep his voice steady surpassed any maneuver he had attempted that afternoon.

“And you agreed freely,” you replied, eyes bright. “Would you deny me what I won?”

He rose. He offered you his hand. When you stood before him, the board forgotten between you, he hesitated only briefly before bending.

The kiss he placed on your cheek was proper and it should have been enough.

You turned your face at the last instant, so that his lips brushed the corner of your mouth instead. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a visible tremor through him. The flush deepened.

You stepped back with perfect composure and a curtsy that concealed nothing in your eyes.

“My prince,” you said sweetly, “you honor your debts.”

He remained standing there a moment too long. The warmth lingered where your skin had met his. He was aware of every gaze in the room, and more aware of the fact that he did not regret it.

The solar dissolved into whispers. He dismissed them with a single look, until the chamber emptied. Still, your laughter echoed in his mind long after the door closed.

He stood beside the abandoned board, fingers resting where yours had been. The wood felt cool beneath his touch. His lips did not.

When he finally stepped into the corridor, he lifted his hand to his mouth without thinking. The heat returned instantly. He exhaled, half exasperated, half astonished.

He had lost a game.

And he had never been more certain that he wished to lose to you again.

Like a seasoned duelist, Valarr knew precisely when to bide his time—and when to strike. He found his moment on one fateful night. Chivalry be damned; his patience had frayed, and he could no longer endure being outmaneuvered. He was, quite simply, a sore loser.

The rain had begun before dusk and had shown no intention of relenting, descending in silver veils that blurred the city below the Red Keep and turned the torchlit courtyards into wavering pools of reflected flame. Within the great hall, however, the storm only heightened the intimacy of the evening’s gathering, for the windows rattled softly against the wind while braziers burned hotter than usual.

Lords who might otherwise have dispersed to private amusements remained clustered beneath vaulted arches, and the ladies of the court displayed their accomplishments with renewed enthusiasm, as though artistry could rival thunder.

You moved easily among them, radiant in a gown the color of summer wheat, pausing to admire a length of Myrish lace or to inquire after a melody newly learned upon the harp. Your presence altered the atmosphere of any circle you joined, and Valarr, who had stationed himself near one of the tall windows overlooking the rain-swept yard, found his gaze returning to you with a frequency that bordered upon mania.

He had grown accustomed to your teasing, to the bright tilt of your head and the deliberate boldness with which you tested his restraint, and though he would not have admitted it aloud, he had begun to anticipate those exchanges with something perilously close to eagerness.

It occurred to him, as lightning flashed faintly beyond the glass, that he had never once unsettled you in return.

The opportunity presented itself when Lady Mertha of the Westerlands, a young woman possessed of remarkable skill with a needle, approached the prince to present a length of embroidery she had recently completed for the sept. The piece depicted the Mother in soft gold thread, her expression rendered with delicate precision, and several courtiers gathered close to admire the workmanship.

“It is exquisite, my lady,” Valarr said, allowing genuine appreciation to color his tone as he traced the air just above the stitched pattern without touching it. “The balance of color suggests both discipline and imagination, which rarely coexist so harmoniously.”

Lady Mertha flushed with pleased surprise, and those nearby murmured agreement.

You had drawn near at some point during his remarks, and although your posture remained perfectly composed, your hand stilled where it rested upon the back of a chair. The faintest tightening appeared at the corner of your mouth, subtle enough that none but someone studying you intently would have marked it, yet Valarr saw it with startling clarity.

He continued, aware of the experiment unfolding even as he conducted it. “The realm is fortunate to foster such talents," he added, inclining his head toward Lady Mertha.

The words were courteous, appropriate, even deserved; nevertheless, he felt the precise moment your composure shifted, as though a current had altered direction beneath calm water. You stepped forward then, offering your own compliment to the lady with gracious warmth, yet there was an undercurrent in your voice that had not been present earlier.

Valarr experienced, to his quiet astonishment, a flicker of satisfaction.

The remainder of the evening unfolded without overt incident, yet he did not fail to notice that you did not once glance toward him.

When at last the gathering began to disperse, he excused himself from a lingering conversation and followed the corridor that led toward the smaller gallery overlooking the inner gardens.

He found you there, standing beneath a covered archway where vines clung to stone darkened by moisture, watching the rain bead upon the leaves below. The torches set in iron brackets cast a warm glow across your profile, illuminating the thoughtful set of your expression.

“You abandoned the hall early,” he observed, coming to stand beside you without intruding upon your space.

“I feared I might distract from Lady Mertha's triumph,” you replied, your tone pleasantly neutral. “Her embroidery appeared to command your full attention.”

He allowed a moment to pass before answering, studying the way you kept your gaze fixed upon the garden rather than on him. “It would seem,” he said at last, “that the lark possesses claws after all.”

You turned then, eyes narrowing slightly as comprehension dawned. “You were provoking me.”

The faint curve of his mouth did not quite soften the deliberateness of his reply. “I was only observing.”

“Observing what?”

“How it feels,” he said, meeting your gaze with unflinching steadiness, “to watch another command what one considers one’s own.”

The honesty of the admission drew a subtle shift in your posture, surprise mingling with reluctant understanding. “You compared embroidery to me?”

“I compared admiration to admiration,” he corrected. “You have long delighted in testing my composure before others. I found myself curious whether yours was equally resilient.”

“And was it?” you asked, lifting your chin in familiar challenge.

He considered you carefully before responding. “Not entirely.”

A silence settled between you. The rain traced soft patterns upon stone beyond the archway, and somewhere distant a servant’s footsteps echoed along the corridor.

“You could have simply asked,” you said after a moment. “I would have told you that I dislike being reminded you have choices.”

“I have always known I have choices,” he replied. “What I wished to know was whether you disliked that knowledge.”

You drew a slow breath, as though steadying yourself. “I do not enjoy imagining that another woman might capture your interest.”

“Oh, there was no capture,” he said, and though his voice remained composed, it carried an undercurrent of intensity. “There was only demonstration that you are not the only one capable of unsettling another.”

The candor of that statement sent a faint warmth across your cheeks, and he felt again that unexpected satisfaction, though it was tempered now with something gentler.

He had not intended cruelty, nor had he wished to wound you; he had only sought to understand the sensation you so frequently inspired in him, that sharp awareness of wanting and guarding and proving.

“You test me, and I endure it because I enjoy the trial. I wondered whether you would endure the same.”

“And if I had not?”

His gaze lingered upon you with deliberate care. “Then I would have ceased.”

The simplicity of that assurance unraveled the last of your defensiveness. You studied him in the torchlight, seeing perhaps for the first time the deliberate choice behind his composure, the way he wielded restraint not as shield but as instrument.

“You wished to know how it feels,” you said quietly.

“Yes.”

“And?”

He allowed himself the smallest concession of vulnerability. “It is inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient,” you repeated, a smile threatening despite your efforts.

“It disrupts thought,” he elaborated. “It renders measured judgment… less reliable.”

“You mean it makes you jealous.”

He inclined his head, neither denying nor embellishing the truth. “It appears so.”

A laugh escaped you then, lighter than before but tinged with something more intimate. “You could have spared Lady Mertha the experiment.”

“She benefited from honest praise,” he replied. “The embroidery was indeed accomplished.”

“And I?” you pressed.

“You,” he said, stepping a fraction closer, though still leaving space for retreat, “remain the only person whose composure I have any desire to disturb.”

You searched his expression as though weighing the sincerity of his intent, then allowed your hand to brush lightly against his sleeve.

“You have learned quickly,” you murmured.

“I have had an attentive instructor,” he returned.

Valarr had discovered that he could unsettle you, that beneath your brightness lay a possessiveness not unlike his own, and rather than diminishing his regard, the knowledge deepened it.

And though he told himself that such experiments should be conducted sparingly, he could not deny that the sight of you momentarily undone by his design lingered in his thoughts with a sweetness he had not expected, nor entirely resisted.

__________________

The step stool gives you an extra boost. There's a large bowl on the very top shelf that you need so you can Lena can bake cookies. You grab it, but lean too far back. Your heart drops as you brace for impact, but a pair of arms catch you instead.

"Holy crap," you murmur, looking at your savior.

Pope tsks and shakes your head, "You need to be more careful." He helps you stand up right as you hand Lena the mixing bowl.

You give him a sheepish smile, "I know, but you're also always there to catch me, right?"

He silently rolls his eyes and watches as you and Lena start gathering the rest of the ingredients to bake.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He says things here and there, answers a question or two when Lena asks.

"Okay, now we need to get a whisk-oh! Thanks, babe!" Pope is already holding out a whisk to you that he grabbed as you were reading the instructions aloud. You kiss his cheek in appreciation and hand the whisk to Lena.

He comes up behind you, hugging you from behind and resting his head against yours as you watch his niece mix the cookie ingredients all together.

_____________________

You'd just dried yourself off after a shower. You're standing at the bathroom sink, drying out your hair when Pope appears in the threshold. He leans against the wall, watching you. You catch his eyes in the reflection and softly smile at him. You go back to getting ready for bed.

After setting the hair dryer down, you go to grab your brush, but you see Pope standing behind you already, brush in hand. You stand there as he brushes through your hair, careful not to hurt you in anyway.

Once he's done, he sets the brush down and kisses your head. He goes back to being a silent observer.

You grab your skincare and start your routine. You feel his eyes completely focused on you the entire time. You don't feel unsettled. You feel seen, appreciated, loved, and protected.

______________________

"Does he do that all the time?" Your friend, Ella, asks, nodding to Pope who's sitting at the bar counter, watching you.

You glance at him over your shoulder and then turn back to Ella, "He's protective of me."

"It's creepy."

You roll your eyes, having explained this to several people beforehand, "It's how he shows he cares. Besides, he's out DD if we get too fucked up."

"That's what Ubers are for."

You scoff, "Why pay for a ride when Andrew can drive us for free?"

"Okay, but he's been staring at you nonstop," her eyes glance back at Pope in a disgusted way, "He's not controlling or anything, is he?" she looks at you seriously, silently asking a question you've gotten before.

You sigh, "I'm fine. I promise. Andrew's not like that. He just shows his love and care differently than others. It took me some time to understand it too, but he treats me so much better than anyone has."

Ella slowly nods, "Alright, but if he hurts you in anyway-"

You chuckle, "I know, girl. I'll let you know."

_____________________

Pope brought you to The Drop so he can discuss some things with his brothers. You're sitting at the counter, drinking a soda, and scrolling through your phone when a man decides to take up residence right next to you.

You sigh and say, "Not interested," without looking up from your phone.

The man scoffs, "Not even gonna let me say 'hi' or nothing?"

"Nope," you don't give the man any satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you continue drinking your soda and scrolling through your phone.

The man fully faces you, "I can treat you real good."

"I'm taken."

"And where's your guy right now, huh?"

"Right here," you hear Pope speak behind you and you smile into your straw. You completely turn to face Pope, "Everything good?"

His eyes soften when he looks at you, "Yeah. Go start the car," he hands his car keys to you.

You close your hands around his, "I'm fine. Let's go." You see him hesitating but immediately nods. You guide him out of the bar and he's following you, but not before sending a deadly glare back to the man who was bothering you.

_______________________

You're sitting in the sand, back pressed against an eroding wall, alone. You just needed some fresh air and sunshine after a rough few days. You listen to the waves crashing against the shore, the sound of children screaming with laughter, seagulls flying above head.

You hear a jingling of keys paired with the sounds of heavy boots approaching. A shadow looms over you, but you know who it is. You look up and see Pope staring down at you. He's giving you a questioning gaze.

"I'm okay. Just needed to think."

He nods and sits on the wall, right behind you. You lean against his legs, his hands resting on your shoulders.

Now when he sleeps, he sleeps. 

Which he deserves, to be honest. Jack had only fallen asleep two hours ago after spending most of the morning negotiating with her to finally (let you) get some rest. He’d taken the first shift without complaint when he saw you dragging your feet after a particularly rough night at the hospital. 

Go to sleep, honey. I got her. 

And of course Jack did. Taking it the way he takes everything in life. Wars. Patients. SWAT duty. Robby. A nameless baby. You. 

No biggie. 

So when she woke up, you had slipped out of bed silently. Now, after feeding her in the kitchen and more desperate bargains, you are tiptoeing back into the bedroom with her asleep in your arms. 

Sunlight tries and fails to get past the heavy blackout curtains that cover almost the whole front wall. The bed is already calling your name, it looks so soft and you can’t wait to lie next to your husband again. The bassinet is on Jack’s side, since he has more space over there, so you carefully reach it to place the sleeping babygirl on it. 

You’re almost there. You can see salvation. You are already on cloud nine. 

You’re also too busy imagining the warmth of Jack’s body next to yours, that you don’t notice when your foot catches on one of his crutches, sending it flying against the bassinet in a loud clatter that wakes everybody and the neighbor up. 

Oh no. Oh no no no. You had almost cried in relief when her little body relaxed and she finally drifted off just a few minutes ago. You might cry for real now. 

The baby beats you to it though. Her eyes open wide for a second before her face twists and she lets out the most piercing cry you’ve ever heard in your entire life. 

“No, no, no, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” you panic, immediately bouncing her against your chest. “I’m sorry–shh, shh, it’s okay.” 

You try to soothe her, walking away from the bed but it’s already too late. 

“What happened?” Jack’s voice comes out low and raspy when he sits on the bed, rubbing his eyes violently before focusing on you. “Did you get hurt?” 

“No!” you say quickly, heading toward the door even if your ankle does sting a little. “I’m fine, I just tripped. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You try to make a quick exit, but she cries harder, squirming in your hold with her little fists going into the air. You bounce her softly, patting her back reassuringly. 

“I know, I know you were asleep baby, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, almost at the door. 

“Wait,” Jack says before you can step out of the room, fully awake now as he reaches for something next to the bed. 

“Jack, no–you don’t have to get up,” you say, swaying in your spot. 

He ignores you as he sits on the edge of the bed. He’s shirtless, silver hair sticking up in messy waves, and already halfway through putting his prosthetic on. 

“Jack,” you try again, a little louder over the baby’s crying. “Please go back to sleep. I got her.”

He stands up after putting the crutch back on its place, and you take a few steps back as if to keep a distance between you. 

“You’re limping,” he points out. “Stop walking.”

“I said I’m fine,” you insist, now in the hallway. “I just tripped over the crutch. I already fed her, it took forever to get her to sleep again, but I swear I can–“

“Honey.”

It’s a simple word. It should not hold this much power over you. Yet it makes you stop right in your tracks as he gives you those impossible, worried hazel eyes. 

“Give her to me,” he says–no, he commands. “Please.”

“No.” You try to be just as firm, but your voice is barely audible over the wails. “You were up with her earlier and you’ve barely slept. You need more hours.”

“So do you,” he shrugs, crossing his arms. “Go back to bed, honey.” 

“Jack–“

“Bed.” 

His voice leaves no room for argument. 

Even when you want to tell him that you should be the one up. That you’re the one who convinced him you could do this, that you could open the door to this baby, to this fragile little life you already care too much for. But with the way the sweet girl is screaming in your ear, you’re too tired to keep pretending you have any real authority here. 

You sigh, carefully transferring the crying baby into his arms. Jack settles her on his bare chest, keeping a hand behind her head and his arm beneath her body. 

“I know. I know, sweetheart,” he coos, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Shhh, you’re okay, I got you.”

Jack begins to sway softly, his palm covers almost her whole back, keeping her little body tucked safely against the warm skin of his neck.

He prompts you to walk inside the bedroom again, and you don’t waste time protesting anymore. Before you know it your body is already sinking onto the absurdly expensive mattress you’re so grateful for right now, as Jack begins pacing the room with the fussy baby. 

She’s got some great lungs, you’ll give her that. 

“I know that was scary, kid,” he coos at her, “big noise in a dark room, mhm mean crutches…it’s alright, come here…”

You peek from your spot to catch her still kicking and letting out little sobs whileJack shifts her lower, his arm holding her whole weight as he puts her little ear to his chest. 

“Listen to my heart, right there, you hear that?” he says, and you can hear the smile on his voice. “Thump, thump, thump…”

His index finger taps lightly on her round belly, matching the rhythm beneath his ribs.

“That’s mine, yeah,” he nods, as if she understands anything he’s saying. “Big, old, grumpy heart. It’s been through a lot, but I like to think it still works pretty good.” 

That gets a little laugh out of you. Jack glances at you for a second, since you’re supposed to be asleep already, but he keeps talking to the baby.

“Yours does the same thing, but faster,” he explains, all serious, lifting one hand and gesturing with his fingers. “Because it’s tiny tiny like this. Brand new, working extra hard.”

There isn’t a single thought behind her eyes, but Jack’s voice seems to soothe her enough for her cries to break into small sobs as she listens intently to him. 

“Little thump thump thump thump,” he taps her belly faster, catching her attention, and her angry fists finally lower, trying to reach for his hand. “There you go, sweetheart.”

He smiles down at her, moving his hand closer. She starts batting it, her little legs no longer kicking in distress but in awe at Jack’s attention as her crying slowly subsides. You watch endeared from your spot, because yes milk might be great, but there’s nothing Jack’s hold can’t fix. 

She’s already so much like you. 

“You just wanted a little cuddle, huh?” Jack whispers playfully, swaying her softly, watching her little eyes start to close. “You can sleep now, kid. You’re safe…you’re home.”

You see him lift his gaze toward you, but you close your eyes pretending to be asleep. 

Jack just smiles, padding softly across the room toward the bassinet. But just as he’s about to place her down, she lets out a discomfort whine and tenses up in his hold. 

“Okay, okay, I won’t let go,” he chuckles, holding her close to him again. “Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?” he shakes his head, trying to keep his voice steady. “ But nobody's leaving you, kid. Nobody’s forgetting you anymore. Not here." 

You bury your face on the pillow, trying to keep your own tears at bay. 

“I know living with us might not be easy,” he continues, rubbing circles on her back. “Two exhausted doctors with blackout curtains in every room. Sounds questionable, yeah…but we’re not bad,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Your mom–your foster mom is better than me,” he glances at you, making sure you’re still asleep before continuing, “she’s softer, and prettier…and she’s my favorite person. She’ll be yours too in no time.” 

Yup. You’re definitely crying now. 

“And for your foster dad…I learn fast, and I don’t scare easily. So if you’re planning on being difficult, you should know we’re still gonna be there for you,” he reassures. “And…maybe one day we’ll take the foster out of it…” he offers casually, like his heart–thump thump thump–is not telling him to just go sign the papers right now. “No pressure, of course…just saying, if you like it here,” he clears his throat, only to smile when he notices the girl has finally fallen asleep in his arms. 

He kisses her forehead. 

“It’s gonna take some time getting used to being a night crawler, but I think you already got this kid,” he adds in barely a whisper. “Hooah…”

That earns a snort from you, that turns into a sniffle after Jack poured his entire heart out thinking you were out. You suddenly feel his hand on your ankle, rubbing circles to the sore spot you hit the crutch with. 

“Sleep, honey.”

“I’m sleeping,” you say, keeping your eyes closed. 

“You were eavesdropping,” he says, but there’s no resentment in his voice. That makes you shift just enough to meet his eyes. 

The sight of him holding a sleeping baby to his bare chest just makes you want to cry more. 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, wiping your cheeks but he just lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at you. “Okay, maybe I did. But it’s just…I think you’re really good at this.”

Jack only nods fondly, because if he speaks he’s gonna break too. 

 “I think we got this, we…we got her,” you add.

This time Jack rounds the bed, keeping a hand on the baby’s head so he can lean down and place a soft kiss on your lips. It’s salty, dry lips dancing together with a small bundle between your bodies. Your baby.

Baby Jane Abbot.

“We got her,” he agrees, lingering for a moment before straightening up to pace around the room again. He’s clearly not letting her go. “Now go to sleep, honey. I don’t want to have to tell you again,” he says in that maddenly authoritative tone.

You bite back a smile, sinking deeper into the covers and reaching for his pillow to cuddle it until he goes back to bed. 

“...Jack?” 

“Mm?”

“You should charge people for that voice,” you whisper, earning a chuckle from him.

“I think the lack of sleep is getting to you,” he says, lowering his voice when the baby shifts. “Close your eyes. Now.”

With a satisfied smile on your face, you close your eyes only for a few seconds before opening one to peek at him. 

“...Can you say that again?”

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated!!

He let his hand drop from your hair, and for the first time all night, got a proper look at your side profile.

You finally lifted your head off your hand and turned to him. "No, I am. I promise." You rubbed your eye softly.

Jack shot you a look, that look, the one that said he didn't believe you but wasn't going to argue.

He turned back to Robby, to whatever conversation they'd been having. But he stayed close. And as he did, his hands found the scarf you'd been wearing all night. He started to work it loose, realizing exactly how overheated you must have been.

You let him.

Because it's Jack. And Jack takes care of you. Always has. Always will.

Even Robby didn't budge, kept talking like nothing was happening, because honestly? This was just how Jack was with you. How he'd always been and Robby had stopped mentioning it months ago.

At some point, Jack finished with the scarf and spoke without looking at you. "You should stop wearing that so much." He folded it carefully. "It's May."

You were slumped against the back of your seat now, warm and loose and not really tracking much. "It's really pretty, though." You sounded like a child. But that was a given. You were drunk off your ass.

"Yeah. It is." Jack glanced at you and shook his head fondly.

While you slouched and let the bar noise wash over you, he reached for your bag and opened it. He carefully tucked the folded scarf inside, then set your purse back down within your reach.

Usually you'd hang out with Trinity at the bar, but she'd gone God knows where with Victoria at some point, leaving you stranded at the table with Jack and Robby and their never ending medical talk. Not that you minded, necessarily. Jack was here.

Plus you were tired. You hadn't slept well, hadn't slept well in days, honestly, though you'd never admit it. So you had no idea why you'd even come in the first place. Maybe it was because this was the first day off you'd had in ages. And sitting at home alone, watching baking competitions while you ate chocolate straight from the wrapper, had sounded kind of sad. So you'd come out.

Maybe it was also your chance to see Jack in outside clothes. Not that you didn't enjoy seeing him in his scrubs, you did, obviously, you weren't blind, but there was something about him in regular clothes that hit different. The way his jeans fit. The shirt he’d worn tonight was dark grey, the sleeves tight against his biceps.

Too bad you were too drunk to really appreciate it tonight.

The bar seemed louder now. You weren't sure if that was your drunkenness perceiving it that way or if the crowd had actually picked up. Either way, the noise was starting to press against your skull in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant.

You noticed a little drip of beer left in your glass, just a swallow, really, and you picked it up and drank it, plopping the glass back down satisfied that the little yellow was fully gone now.

Your not quite existent thoughts were interrupted by Jack’s hand brushing up and down your back. "How are you feeling?" He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.

Ah. The bar had gotten louder. You weren't imagining it.

You turned your head, slightly caught off guard by how close he was, close enough to count his eyelashes, but you didn't pull back.

"Okay." You mumbled it, then turned your head away again, facing forward. Jack stared at you anyway. You could feel it.

"Jack."

"Hm?"

"Stop staring. I'm fine."

He chuckled, a sound you felt more than heard. "You're not fine."

His hand stopped moving, resting flat against the middle of your back. "Come on. I'm taking you home." His thumb started moving again, just brushing back and forth.

You sighed loudly, turning your head back to him. "Will you carry me home?" You were joking. Obviously. Being ridiculous. Drunk and warm and not wanting to move.

"Sure." Jack said it like it was nothing. Like carrying you home was the most natural thing in the world. He was already scooting off his seat.

"Jack!" You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your eyes tiredly again.

He smiled back, softly. And you knew, even drunk, even with your head spinning slightly, that he would have carried you either way. Joking or not.

That was just Jack.

The bar swayed slightly as you scooted out of the booth. Or maybe that was just you. Hard to tell at this point.

Jack was already standing, waiting at the edge of the seat with his hands.

You stared at his hands. Not on purpose.

Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But in your defense, they were right there, in front of you, and you were drunk enough that staring felt justified. His fingers, the way his knuckles looked, the silver band on his ring finger.

You stared anyway. Your drunk brain had apparently decided this was fine. Normal and acceptable behavior.

Luckily for you, Jack was good at reading the room. Or, more accurately, good at pretending he hadn't noticed whatever embarrassing thing you were currently doing. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes. "Come on, sweetheart."

You finally glanced up, shaking whatever expression was on your face into something less obvious, and took his hands. He pulled you gently off the seat, and then the world decided to keep moving even though you'd stopped.

You stood there for a moment. Then another moment. Then a moment too long. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Jack didn't move, instead he stood there, watching you with something soft in his expression that you couldn't see because your eyes were still closed.

After a beat too long, he got worried. "Hey." His voice was quiet. "Don't sleep on me." He let go of one of your hands and touched your cheek. Barely.

Your eyes opened immediately. "'M not asleep." The words came out mushier than you intended. "Just dizzy. Really dizzy." You blinked at him, trying to focus. "Please don't let go."

"I won't." He dropped his hand from your cheek but kept the other one firmly wrapped around yours. "You okay with me just holding your hand, or do you need more support?"

"Waist." You didn't even hesitate. Didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about how quickly that came out.

Jack smiled. "Okay."

He didn't say anything about how that was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Didn't let on that his heart did something dumb when you said it. Just gently grabbed your arm, draped it over his shoulder, and slid his own arm around your waist. "You good?" He turned his head to look at you, close enough that you could see how hazel his eyes were.

"Good." You smiled up at him.

The walk to his car was long. Way too long, honestly. Jack had parked outside and every step felt like three. You stumbled twice. He just tightened his arm around your waist and kept going.

At some point you realized you hadn't said goodbye to Trinity or Victoria. You mumbled something about it, half panicked and Jack just shook his head. "It's okay. Robby will let them know."

Eventually, finally, you reached his car. And then he had to let go of you to get the door open. You groaned loudly. The kind of groan that belonged in a teenager having a tantrum, except you were a grown adult who was simply too drunk and too tired to care about dignity.

Jack started chuckling.

"You find all of this too funny." You leaned heavily against his car, glaring at him with zero actual heat. "I don't like it." He was still chuckling as he opened the door. Soft chuckles that made him shake his head slightly. "Stop making fun of me." You tried to sound stern. It came out sleepy.

"I'm not." He was smiling. "I promise." His hand found your waist again and you felt yourself relax into the touch before you could stop it. "Watch your head."

He guided you down into the seat carefully, one hand on your waist, the other hovering near the top of the door frame like he'd catch you if you forgot to duck. Which, honestly? You might have. The night was fuzzy.

You plopped down into the seat, your head lulling against the headrest like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. The leather was cool against your warm cheek. Nice. You might just stay here forever.

"There you go." He said it quietly.

Jack pushed the door wider, so he could bend down to your level. The interior light spilled over both of you as he leaned in, reaching across you for the seatbelt.

"You smell nice," you mumbled.

He clicked the belt into place. "I smell like a bar."

"You smell nice." You said it again, correcting him.

Jack paused, looking at you properly now. The kind of look that missed nothing. He realized then that you were much drunker than he'd thought.

He smiled anyway, shook his head slightly. He reached up and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear like it was muscle memory now, so you could see him better.

Not that you were looking. Your eyes were closed again.

But then his fingers brushed your skin, and your eyes fluttered open, startled by the closeness. He didn't mention your staring, didn't comment on how your breath caught slightly. Just held your gaze for a moment, before speaking quietly.

"You want to go to your place or mine?"

Your eyes went wide. Wide enough that if you'd been sober, you'd have been mortified. "Is your place an option?" The excitement in your voice was impossible to miss.

Jack's eyebrows lifted slightly and he pulled back a fraction. His hand rested on the side of the door, steadying himself.

"Yeah." His voice was measured. "I'm concerned about you. You've had way too much alcohol. I'd rather not have you out of my sight."

You tilted your head, processing this. "I can take care of myself."

His arm traveled up to the top of the door frame now, leaning in slightly as he looked down at you. The position made him seem bigger somehow. "I know you can." He reached down, catching your hand just as you were about to rub your eyes again. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, stopping you. "But I'd still like to help."

You stared at him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand holding yours. "Okay." It came out small. Nothing like your usual self.

Jack smiled. Then he let go and straightened up, pulling the door closed.

You watched him through the window as he walked around the front of the car, the night dark behind him. He opened his door, slid into the driver's seat, and glanced over at you. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah."

He nodded back, satisfied with that, and started the engine.

The ride was quiet. Your eyes were closed, just letting the movement of the car rock you gently while the warmth from the seat seeped into your tired body.

"I can't wait to see your home." The words came out before you fully realized you'd spoken them.

Jack glanced at you briefly, then back at the road. A red light was coming up, and he slowed the car to a stop. "Why's that?"

You tilted your head against the seat, turning to look at him properly. The streetlight above cast warm orange light through the windshield, catching the lines of his face.

"'Cause I just wanna know more about you." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched the slight shift in his eyes, the way he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.

Then he nodded. "Guess you will in a couple of minutes."

You smiled. "Do you have a cat?"

"No, I don't have a cat." He paused, glancing at you again as the light turned green and he started moving. "You think I'm capable of taking care of a cat?"

You raised your eyebrow at him, still smiling. "You're doing a great job with me right now." He'd been taking care of you all night. All the time, really, if you thought about it. Which you tried not to. Usually.

Jack turned his head toward you for a second, but long enough for you to catch the look on his face. He was surprised, maybe, like he hadn't expected you to say that. "You're comparing yourself to a cat?"

You shrugged. "Cats are nice. I'm nice."

He smiled. "Yeah. You are nice."

You felt your face warm, shy in a way you hadn't been a moment ago. "Yeah?" you asked, voice smaller now.

"Very nice." He said it like he meant it.

You made a happy sound. The kind of sound you couldn't have stopped if you tried, because Jack Abbot just called you very nice, and he was your boss, and also your crush, and also currently driving you to his apartment, and none of that made sense but all of it felt right.

"You're nice too," you said softly.

Jack didn't respond. Just kept driving, eyes on the road, but you caught the barely there smile at that.

You stared out the window for a while, watching streetlights blur past. But your brain was still turning, still willing to say things you'd never say sober. "Ellis said you're nicer to me than to everyone else."

There. You'd said it. Put it out in the world.

Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. Ah. He got it now. Drunk you was honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerable that usually hid behind jokes and deflection and pretending not to care.

"Would that be a problem?" he asked, testing the ground.

You shook your head, still looking out the window. "No." you paused. "I just wonder why."

The car slowed. You heard the engine cut out, felt the sudden stillness settle around you. You glanced outside but you didn't really look. Pretended to, though.

"Seriously?" he asked.

You met his eyes. And suddenly you weren't just drunk anymore, you were aware of how the car felt smaller now.

"You're asking too many questions tonight, Jack." You grumbled it, but it came out nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you ask something you weren't sure you wanted the answer to. "Just answer the question."

He chuckled. Almost nervous, if Jack Abbot even got nervous. And you realized, dimly, that you'd never heard him nervous before.

"I'm not answering this one." Your heart dropped, but he kept going. "Because you know the answer already."

He was staring at you and you stared back, frozen, because yes. Yes, you did know. You'd known for a while, probably. Known in the way he looked at you, the way he found you in a crowded room, the way he let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try. Known in the foot under the table, the scarf folded into your bag, known in the way he was driving you to his place.

But hearing it straight up like this while drunk off your mind was something you hadn't expected.

You looked away first. Your heart was too loud, your face too warm, your brain too fuzzy to process the weight of what just happened.

The silence stretched.

Then, softly Jack spoke again. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

You bit your lip, watching as Jack got out of the car. The door closed with a solid thunk, and then he was walking around the front, headlights catching him briefly before he disappeared into shadow, then reappearing at your door. He opened it softly, the night air rushing in cool against your warm skin, and leaned down to undo your seatbelt.

"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He said quietly. "I'm sorry."

You shook your head immediately. "Not uncomfortable." You reached for his hands without thinking. "Just…" You searched for the word. It floated somewhere in your fuzzy brain, just out of reach. "Shy?" You smiled up at him, hoping that was the right one.

He smiled back. "Shy is good."

You smiled back, warmth spreading through your chest. Then he was helping you out of the car, guiding you up and out until you were standing, leaning against the doorframe for balance. He shut your door and the car beeped twice as it locked.

You stayed leaned against the car for a moment, looking at him. He stood in front of you now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you.

"I know your answer." You said softly, barely meeting his eyes. "You know. Before. I know it."

He uncrossed his arms, let them hang at his sides. "Good."

You smiled at him and he smiled right back. "I hope you say it properly one day."

"I plan to, sweetheart." He promised. "Trust me."

You watched him for a long moment. "Soon?"

The word came out smaller than you meant it to. You reached for his hand, not as dizzy anymore or maybe just not noticing it, and he took it immediately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"Soon." He smiled softly.

You smiled back, heart full to bursting, before finally letting him guide you away from the car. He kept looking at you as you walked, making sure you weren't about to fall. You weren't. You were mostly dizzy on love, if that made any sense at all. It probably didn't. You didn't care.

He helped you up the steps to his building, one hand firm on your waist, the other ready to catch you if you stumbled. You managed just fine, though, even found yourself grinning at the ordinary miracle of walking and of his hand warm through your shirt.

At his door, he fumbled with keys for a second before finding the right one. The lock clicked open.

"You're rich," you mumbled as you stepped inside.

He chuckled behind you. "Well, I'd hope so after twenty years of being a doctor."

You giggled at that and you heard him smile even before you turned to see it. He pushed the door open wider, and you managed to walk in on your own, looking around as the space opened up in front of you.

"Woah." yeah, he was most definitely rich.

Jack locked the door behind you, and then he stepped closer, hands coming up to brush softly at your waist, steadying you as you took it all in.

"You like it?" His breath warm against the back of your neck as he helped you out of your jacket.

"You're not messy!" you said, maybe too loudly. "Everything's organized."

You pulled off your shoes and tried your best to put them away neatly by the door. They ended up slightly crooked but together, which felt like a win.

Jack sighed behind you, worried more than anything. You heard him hang your jacket and bag up.

When you turned around, he was watching you with that look. The one that probably meant that he was calculating your blood alcohol content, probably whether you needed water or food or just to be sat down before you fell over.

"You're worrying," you said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm always worrying."

"About me?"

He held your gaze for a long moment. "Yeah. About you."

You smiled and then you stepped further into the apartment, still taking everything in, when Jack glanced down at your feet. His eyes caught on two different socks and he grinned to himself.

"Jack, you have a really nice house," you mumbled, wandering toward a shelf against the wall. It was covered in random things. A dusty trophy from some old sports thing. A couple of framed photos, faces you didn't recognize. Some diplomas. A stack of books with worn spines.

"Thanks, sweetheart." His voice came from somewhere behind you. "But we should really get you to sober up."

You turned your head toward him. He was standing there watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small smile playing at his mouth.

"Am I sleeping here?" You weren't on your tiptoes anymore, trying to see the top shelf. Instead you turned to him, meeting his eyes.

"Would you like to sleep here?" He asked it gently, giiving you the choice.

"Would you like me to sleep here?"

He didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."

"Okay." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy again. "If I'm not a bother, I'd like to stay."

He crossed the distance between you, hand finding your lower back as he led you down a short hallway. "You're never a bother."

He stopped at a door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. His bathroom was clean, just like the rest of his place. He motioned you inside. "Wait here."

He pulled the toilet seat down and you plopped down gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you actually were.

Jack disappeared. You heard him in the kitchen, water running, a cabinet opening and closing. You let your head rest against the wall behind you and your eyes drifted to his shower.

There was a small collection of bottles lined up along the ledge. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Nothing fancy. Just regular guy stuff. But you found yourself staring anyway, head tilted, squinting slightly as you tried to read the labels. Trying to figure out what kind of shampoo Jack Abbot used.

You were still squinting when he appeared in front of you, holding a glass of water. You startled just slightly.

"Drink up." He held the cup out, waiting. You mumbled a small "thank you" before reaching for it, but your hands were less coordinated than you'd realized, and instead of taking it properly you just covered his hand with yours.

He let you. His other hand came up to brush your hair gently away from your face. You felt his fingers graze your temple, your cheek, tucking strands behind your ear the way he always did.

When you lowered the glass, he caught the corner of your mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray drop of water.

You sighed, content and suddenly so much less thirsty. "Thank you."

Jack took the glass from your hands and set it on the counter, out of the way. Then he crouched down in front of you. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"

You considered the question. Actually considered it, instead of just saying fine like you always did. "Tired," you admitted. "But good. Really good."

He nodded slowly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"

You shook your head. "Just tired. And warm. And happy." The last part slipped out before you could stop it. You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn't take it back.

He smiled. "Happy's good."

He reached up to softly remove the hair clip from your hair. You felt the tension release as your hair fell loose around your shoulders.

"I look like a mess. I'm sorry." You mumbled it, eyes dropping to your lap. "I got all dressed up for you, and now I'm drunk sitting on your toilet, and I'm going to regret this so terribly tomorrow."

Something flickered in Jack's eyes. Something that he didn't let himself say out loud, like how at least you'd wake up in his bed, at least he'd be there when you did. He stopped himself. But he couldn't help latching onto the other part.

"You got dressed up for me?"

His voice was soft as he reached up again, finding another clip, then another. Little ones now scattered on his sink. He sank back to his knees in front of you, winced slightly, because kneeling on a prosthetic leg wasn't comfortable. But he stayed there anyway. His hands found your knees as he brushed back and forth slowly.

"Yeah. I wanted to look pretty for you."

The words landed somewhere in his chest. He smiled gently, thumb tracing a small circle on your knee. "You always look pretty."

You shook your head immediately, already sighing. "No I don't. Not right now."

Jack shook his head right back at you. "Yeah you do."

You opened your mouth to argue and he just shook his head again. You stopped immediately.

"Uh uh. Enough of that." He shook his head again. "I'm your boss. I'm the one who has the last word here."

You stared at him for a second, then you grinned. "Okay."

He smiled back and started to push himself up. You caugh his reaction this time, the slight grimace, the way he braced himself on the sink, the small groan he tried to hide.

"Are you okay?" you asked concerned.

He waved it off. "Fine. Old man stuff." He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, then looked down at you. "You want to sleep in these clothes?"

You considered it, chewing on your lip for a second. Then you shrugged. "Actually, I wanna wear your clothes."

That stopped him cold. He halted mid step, turning to look back at you. You were smiling up at him with that huge grin. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware, on some level, what those words did something to him.

"You're terrible, you know that?" he mumbled, but there was no heat in it. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently up from the toilet seat.

You took his hand, steadying yourself against him, and grinned even wider. "You like me. That means I can't be that terrible."

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. He led you out of the bathroom and down the hall.

His bedroom was nice. A dresser with a few things on top. A lamp on the nightstand. A window with the blinds half drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight

"Nice bed," you mumbled softly, taking in the way he'd properly made it, sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, a blanket folded at the foot.

"It's good enough," he replied, already moving toward his closet.

You stood there watching him, not even trying to hide it. He was choosing something for you and your drunk brain found that unbearably sweet.

He turned around holding sweatpants and a t-shirt and tilted his head slightly. A question. Okay?

You nodded, reaching out to take them from his hands. The fabric was warm and you hugged them without thinking.

"I'll be in the bathroom. Just call for me when you're done."

You nodded again, suddenly more tired now that you were in his room with his lamp casting warm light and his bed right there looking so comfortable. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

In the bathroom, Jack leaned against the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water, splashed some on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. You were here. In his home. Sleepy and honest and practically admitting you liked him. Dressed up for him. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled slowly, aware of his heart beating faster than it had any right to.

He changed quickly. Sweatpants, a clean shirt. Brushed his teeth. Tried to look normal, tried to calm down, tried to remember how to be just Jack instead of Jack who had you in his bedroom wearing his clothes.

Then you called his name.

He opened the door and walked down the hall. And yeah, the sight didn't help his heart at all.

You were standing by his bed, well, standing was generous. More like swaying gently, having clearly tried to fold your clothes and put them on the chair in the corner. The folding hadn't gone well. Your shirt was half draped over the chair back, your jeans in a heap on the floor next to it. But you were wearing his clothes. His shirt swallowed you whole, the hem falling to your thighs. His sweatpants were rolled at the waist and still too big, pooling slightly at your feet.

He smiled to himself, trying to get his heart to calm down as he reached for the bed, pushing back the sheets, getting it ready for you.

The silence behind him lasted just a little too long.

Ah. You wanted a compliment. "You look as pretty as ever." he said over his shoulder, smiling at you.

"I like your clothes," you giggled, happy over receiving the compliment you'd been waiting for. You shuffled closer until you were standing next to him.

He turned to look at you fondly. "Like them on you, too."

His hand gently found your waist and he guided you backward, lowering you onto the bed until you were sitting, then lying down, your head meeting the pillow he'd just fluffed. You went easily. He thought about how different this was from your usual shyness, how you'd normally get flustered and look away if he got too close. But here, now, you were more than happy to jump into his bed.

But, who was he to judge? He loved having you here.

"God, I'm so tired." You mumbled it, hand coming up to rub your eyes again. "And drunk. So drunk."

Jack still stood above you, watching. He loved the way you curled slightly toward the warmth of his pillow and the way you looked so perfect in his bed.

"I know, sweetheart." He said softly "Just rest now." He reached down and pulled the blanket up over you.

He, then, reached for your shoulder and turned you onto your side. "That's better," he mumbled softly, fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand lingered for just a second on the curve of your cheek.

"Sleep well," he whispered. "I'll get you some ibuprofen for your headache and some water tomorrow, yeah?" He gestured vaguely toward the nightstand, even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be right here. On the night table."

You just hummed in response, already slipping under, already gone. You burrowed deeper into his pillow.

He started to pull away, to move toward the door, when your hand shot out. "Don't leave." He looked down at you, at your hand wrapped around his wrist. "What do I get out of being in your bed if you're not here?" you murmured, turning onto your back to look up at him properly.

His heart stopped. He was sure he didn't hear you right.

"Please?" you added, softer now.

"Yeah. Okay." he replied quietly as he rounded the bed slowly, walked to the other side, and laid down at a distance. So much distance you could have fit another person between you. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.

You propped yourself on your forearms behind you, head tilted, staring at him with an open mouth. And then you started giggling.

"Jack Abbot." His name in your mouth was so wonderful, he wanted to close his eyes for a second to cherish it. "Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?" You seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery. Thrilled, even.

He shot you a look. And yeah. Okay. He was laying very far away from you. The kind of distance a teenager would put between themselves and a date on the first night. He was old enough to not be nervous about this.

But here, now, with you in his bed wearing his clothes and looking at him like that? Of course he was nervous.

"Sweetheart." His voice came out quieter than he meant. "You're in my bed. What do you expect?" Honesty. He'd decided on honesty. "Of course I'm nervous."

You tilted your head, and then you were moving closer, until you were leaning on one elbow, looking down at him from above. Your hair fell forward, brushing against his shoulder. You'd brushed your teeth earlier, used his toothpaste, and you smelled like mint and him. It did something to him. "That's cute."

He huffed out a laugh, reacting the only way he knew when feeling this seen. "Sure."

You giggled again, that wonderful sound that seemed to live somewhere in his chest now, and then your hand found its way up to his chest. And that's when his heart stopped.

Not really. Obviously not really. But it felt like it stopped. Felt like everything stopped.

Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, circles, lines, nothing recognizable. Then they drifted lower, tracing random shapes on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.

"I am really drunk," you murmured, "but I still know that I'm going to regret this tomorrow." You were watching your hand. "But being drunk also gives me an excuse to touch you. So I'm using it."

"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He watched you, enjoying the view of seeing your pretty face so close. "I promise you, sweetheart."

You tilted your head, looking at him, processing his words slowly, the way drunk people do.

"I'll take you up on that." You said softly. "A lot."

Jack Abbot had never ever felt more thrilled. "You do that, baby."

His hand found the back of your shoulder, gently guiding you down until your head was resting fully on his chest, right over his heart, letting you feel what you did to him.

His hand came up to the back of your head. His big hand engulfed it completely, fingers spreading through your hair, brushing through it slowly. His thumb moved gently against your scalp.

He felt you startle slightly at first and then relax. Your hand finally stopped moving on his stomach. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the sheets, and pulled them up over you both.

Then he felt your ankle hooking gently over his, just like at the bar. And he smiled to himself in the dark.

He kept brushing through your hair. He remembered watching you once. You'd been stressed about something, pacing the break room, and you'd done this thing where you ran your own fingers through your hair, over and over, until you calmed down.

He hoped this helped.

He could feel it in the way you relaxed further, the way your breathing evened out, the way your body went heavy against his.

You were quiet for a long moment, so long he thought you'd fallen asleep, but then you spoke quietly. "I hope I remember this tomorrow."

No two days in the emergency department were ever the same.

Some nights were quiet, with only a couple of patients coming in with fevers or coughs. Other nights were utterly chaotic, ambulances rolling in back-to-back, alarms blaring, doctors and nurses moving like a storm through the hallways.

But one thing never seemed to change: the patients who thought the emergency department was the perfect place to find a date.

You learned that lesson after just a week of working in the ED.

It didn’t matter if someone had a broken arm or had suffered a heart attack; some men still found the energy to wink, grin, or make comments that made your skin crawl while you were trying to work. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it wasn’t. And there was no running away when you were their doctor.

So you developed a plan.

When you transferred to PTMC and started working the night shift, the solution became routine. You weren’t married. But a simple ring on your finger changed everything.

It wasn’t flashy, just a simple silver brand that lived on your left hand whenever you had to work a shift. Most people assumed it was a wedding ring from a happy marriage, and you let them think that. In reality, it had cost ten dollars from an online store.

But it worked.

Some patients would never see you as their doctor, someone who had spent years in med school at the top of their class. Instead, they only saw a pretty woman standing close enough to flirt with.

However, when was there a ring on your finger? Suddenly, you were someone’s wife.

So the comments stopped. The winks. The “you got a boyfriend?” question. Everything disappeared. Apparently, being someone’s wife made you off-limits in a way that simply saying no never did. Like you were someone else’s property, it made them hesitate. Stupid, but the logic worked, so the ring stayed.

If any of your new co-workers noticed it, they never mentioned it or just assumed the obvious. Except Jack.

Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.

It was a habit from years as an army medic and now attending in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city. Jack didn’t just see charts and symptoms. He saw the small things, the way someone held their shoulder, the slight limp in their step, the tremor in their hand.

And he noticed your ring. Not only because he was staring, but also because it was always there. You had a habit of twisting it when charting. It tapped against the counter when you were thinking. It left a bump under your gloves. It was a small detail, but Jack’s brain catalogued it anyway.

You were still new, and the few details that Jack knew about you had him intrigued: married, new to the hospital and worked well under pressure. And then there was something else he couldn't quite place, the pull he felt towards you.

This night shift had started like any other, chaos in bursts but slowed at times. You were tucked into your usual rhythm, moving between patients, checking vitals and charting. 

It wasn’t until the trauma phone went off that it paused your movements.

“Level two trauma, motor vehicle collision," Lena shouted as she answered the call. “Five minutes out.”

Your adrenaline spiked, and Jack was already moving, tablet in one hand, gloves snapping as he prepped for the incoming patient. You were paired on this trauma together, moving almost instinctively as a team.

The patient arrived bloodied, unconscious, and chest rattling with each forced breath. You slid the IV line into the patient’s arm while Jack called out instructions for the rest of the team. 

Jack’s eyes were everywhere at once, vitals, monitors, and the team's movement, but his gaze happened to flick across your hand. And that's when he noticed. Your ring. It wasn’t there.

A small detail that others would have overlooked, but made him pause for a fraction of a  second. A movement he couldn't afford in a place like this. He didn’t realize until now how much he had noticed it, how automatic it was to look at you during shifts and see that silver band wrapped around your finger. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.

Jack quickly turned his focus back on the patient, but the details lingered in his mind.

Minutes passed in a blur of intubation, transfusion, chest compressions, and desperate interventions. Despite the skill and precision of the team, the injuries were too severe.

The patient coded. The monitor went flat. Time of death was announced.

You stepped back, heart sinking, and Jack’s hand went to your shoulder, not to blame, but to ground you as the weight of loss pressed down on the team. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, it wasn’t enough.

By the end of the shift, the ED was quieter than usual. The hum of machines, the footsteps of staff cleaning up, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. Jack glanced at you while filling the final chart, noticing that your finger remained bare.

“Are you going out too?” He asked. Shen had suggested that everyone go out for a drink to cope, and no one seemed to argue.

“Yeah… I could really use a drink.” Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and something softer, harder to define. “Yeah… me too,” he muttered. The unspoken weight between you decided for you.

There was a bar a few blocks down from the hospital where everyone gathered after shifts. It was louder than usual for a weekday, the low thrum of music and conversation filling up the air. It had discounted drinks and dim lighting, a place where no one asked the doctors or nurses what had just happened when it looked like they had been through hell. 

Jack was sitting in a booth near the back with John, nursing a half-finished beer. His scrubs had been swapped for a dark jacket, but exhaustion still lined his face.

John exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hell of a shift.”

Jack nodded once, staring at the condensation on his bottle. “Yeah.” Silence followed, heavy but not awkward. The burden of the night weighed on him.

His eyes drifted across the bar and landed on you. You were on a stool near the counter, chatting with one of the nurses, a drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual, slower, the kind that came from alcohol loosening the edges of the hard night.

His gaze dropped to your hand once again.

Still no ring.

“Hey,” John said, standing and grabbing his empty bottle. “I’m getting another. Want one?”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly. “I’m good.”

John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Jack leaned back in the booth, letting his eyes wander again. They found you on your way over, movement slightly unsteady, yet deliberate.

“Hey, Doc,” you muttered, sliding into the seat across from him, sighing softly as your forearms rested on the table.

“You okay?” he asked immediately. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to see his coworkers like this after a shift, but he still wondered if this was normal for you.

You huffed out a small laugh that didn’t sound very amused. “Define okay.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, the tired eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the weight of the night still sitting on you.

“Rough one,” he said finally.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar filled the silence.

“I kinda like this part,” you admitted quietly.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “The bar?”

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. “Yeah… not why we’re here, exactly. But the team gets together. Feels… lighter. Less like you’re carrying it alone.”

He softened. He’d seen too many new doctors burn out trying to carry everything. He understood.

“At my last hospital,” you continued, your voice a little looser from the alcohol. “Everyone just… went home. Pretended nothing happened. But here you guys carry the wins and the losses together.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It helps.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly as you took another sip. Even in your tiredness, there was a warmth to you now.

For a second, Jack just studied you again. The way the tension slowly left your posture. The way you still looked tired but lighter now that the shift was behind you.

Then his eyes drifted back down to your hand. Bare,

He hesitated before speaking. “So… everything alright at home?”

You blinked up at him. “At home?”

Jack nodded subtly toward your hand. “You usually wear a ring.”

You stared at him, surprised. Then laughed, soft, tipsy, a little embarrassed. “Oh my god… alright, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

Jack’s brow lifted.

“What?”

You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.

“It’s fake,” You leaned back in the booth a little, clearly amused. 

“…Your ring is fake?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink before explaining. “Patients, some of them get… handys. Especially at night. You say no, you ignore them, but it doesn't always work.”

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. Yeah. He’d seen that.

“So I bought a ring,” you continued, tapping your bare finger. “Ten dollars online. Suddenly, I’m someone’s wife. The flirting stops. It’s like magic. Stupid, but it works.”

Jack studied you quietly for a moment. It wasn’t the confession itself that caught his attention; it was the way you said it so casually, as you’d simply adapted to the world instead of letting it push you out of a job you clearly loved. 

“That’s… actually pretty clever,” he admitted.

You grinned. “Right?”

Jack’s gaze lingered, softer now. “So the husband doesn’t exist.”

“Nope.”

Jack smiled into his drink, a warmth threading through him. Somehow, hearing this made him admire you more.

“Well,” he said casually, taking another sip of his beer, “if you’re going to invent a husband…”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by where this was going.

“…you should at least give the guy a decent name.”

You laughed softly. “Oh yeah?” you asked. “What would you name him then?”

Jack pretended to think about it for a moment, leaning back in the booth.

“Hm.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. His gaze met yours, something teasing sparking there.

“Jack,” he said.

You blinked.

“Jack?”

He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.

“Sounds reasonable.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing, the sound warmer this time.

“Wow,” you said. “That’s bold.”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.

“Just saying,” he replied. “If you’re going to make up a fake husband, you might as well pick a good one.”

You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.

“Careful, Abbot,” you said lightly. “People might start to think you’re volunteering.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.

“Would that be so bad?” he asked quietly.

The question hung between you for a beat before the noise of the bar swallowed it again.

The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before. 

Did you drunkenly flirt with a fellow attending? Yes, but did you regret it? Nope.

The ED hummed with its usual controlled chaos; it almost felt strange that the world kept moving after a shift like that. You were currently charting at the nurses’ station, twisting the silver band on your finger without really thinking about it.

“Nice to see your husband’s back.”

You looked up. Jack was leaning against the counter across from you, tablet tucked under his arm, the corner of his mouth curved in that quiet, knowing smile.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Are you really going to start with that today?”

“Of course,” he said, a small, confident grin tugging at his lips. “I’m hoping to get an audition to play him.”

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.

“What?” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to invent a husband,” he continued, voice low and teasing, “someone has to audition for the role. And I think I’d be perfect.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, maybe,” he admitted, “ but if I'm going to audition for the role properly.. I should probably take my lovely wife out… maybe for dinner or coffee sometime. To make sure I'm playing the part right.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the smoothness of it. “Jack Abbot, are you asking me out on a date?

Jack’s grin widened, confident but teasing. “Call it a test run. Coffee after shift, and I can show you my best husband skills.”

You felt a blush creep up your neck and laughed softly, shaking your head. “I… Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Good, I’ll see you later, wifey.” With that, Jack left the nurses' station, heading into a patient room.

There's also warmth coming from a weight across your waist, heavy and grounding and solid, an arm thrown over you like it fell there sometime the night before and just decided to stay there. Your cheek is smushed up against soft curls that smell like cedarwood, antiseptic and something so distinctly him it's mind-numbing. If Robby found out that Dr Jack Abbot falls asleep with his head tucked into your neck and his leg folded across yours, you'd be screwed. That's why you keep it just your little secret. And maybe giggle about it with Victoria and Trinity when you've had just a little too much during girls' night.

You blink slowly awake, well rested and giddy to see the sunlight cutting in through the blinds after a solid week of heavy rainfall across Pittsburgh. Not that you've seen much of the outside, having been stuck inside of the ER for a grilling 6 days. Remembering where you are, under navy, soft cotton bedsheets, you look down at your sleeping boyfriend and his stupidly-cute, stupidly-open lips as light snores roll past and reverberate off of your neck. You rarely get to see Jack like this - completely vulnerable and soft and boyish - light freckles adorned across his forehead and soft lines beside his eyes remind you that he is fully human. Who is actually drooling all over you, by the way.

You shift slightly, testing the grip around you to see how much you can move, and the hold around your waist tightens automatically, a splayed hand moving across your stomach that's adorned in one of his old college t-shirts that frankly has seen better days, but you insist you wear anyways. You panic for a second, thinking you've woken him so your body goes rigid. You sigh in relief when you look down at him again and see him exactly in the same place as before. He must be exhausted. It's been one of those weeks.

For someone who claims he doesn't cuddle, he's treating you like a pregnancy pillow right now.

Your free arm reaches for your phone on the nightstand beside you, because of course you're thinking about your for you page. You swipe open the screen and see that you've got a snapchat video message from Shen, which you decide you'll leave opening till later, as it's most likely a review of a new coffee place he uber eats'd to the PTMC at 3am last night. Plus, you like to annoy Jack with stories of his residents' favourite syrup of the week.

You open the TikTok app, keeping your volume at the lowest setting, and scroll through a couple of videos. You're keeping an eye on the man that's basically on top of you to make sure he's not waking up. The one thing Jack hates more than iced vanilla lattes is interrupted sleep. Your about to scroll to the next video, when Victoria's face fills the screen immediately - Dr.J, explaining "Five Tips for your First Year Residency", in that bright, cheery voice that you're used to discussing charting struggles and Mateo-isms with.

But the second she says, "Number one-stop calling every mild tachycardia a crisis-"

Jack groans. His eyes are still closed.

"You're kidding," he mutters into your shoulder.

You grin. "You're awake."

"I was sleeping."

"You were snoring."

"I don't snore." You snort.

Victoria continues, "..if your attending looks tired, maybe consider they've been here 12 hours longer than you have-"

"Right on," he says, leaving a lazy kiss on the side of your neck that makes a shiver run up your spine.

Victoria's voice is long forgotten as you move your head to rest against Jack's soft curls on the top of his head, which he more than likely needs a haircut for. You'll remind him of that after you keep him in bed for as long as you can.

You have a few seconds of comfortable silence, afraid to say anything in the hopes of letting this moment go on forever. You're rudely interrupted by the Snapchat notification noise that rings through the room and you wince. As quick as the noise goes off, Jack has rolled onto his back, bringing you with him as a high pitched yelp comes out of your mouth.

"Sweetheart, I swear if another sound comes out of your phone I'm going to lock it in a box for a week."

You blink up at him, still half-laughing from the yelp you let out when he flipped you over.

"Violence?" you gasp dramatically. "Over a little text?"

His arms tighten around you then, pinning you more firmly as he takes your phone and throws it somewhere down the end of the bed. You think this may be an inappropriate time to comment on how his biceps look ridicously biteable right now.

"I was this close,", he says, holding his fingers barely apart, "to going back to sleep"

"You were awake the whole time?"

"I was drifiting"

"You were drooling"

He lifts himself off the bed then, moving to settle over you with those stupidly obnoxious veins in his arms bracketing you inbetween them. His expression is somewhere between grumpy and dangerously focused. You can't help but notice the sunlight cutting across his defined shoulders, or the mess of his hair from having your fingers in it all night.

You swallow.

"Okay, Jacko, I know you have this whole brooding, mysterious energy going on all the time, but this is entirely too intense for 9am"

He laughs through his nose and drops his head down to your shoulder, groaning, "Sweetheart, it is not 9am for me".

His voice vibrates warm against your skin, and you hate (love) how easily that makes your stomach flip.

"For normal people, it is," you counter, fingers instinctively moving to rest at the back of his head.

He lifts his head to look at you properly now. He looks unfairly too good and too put together for someone who just woke up. You try very hard not to stare. You fail, obviously.

His mouth tilts at the corner when he catches you doing it, that faint, almost-smirk he pretends isn't a smirk at all. The sunlight hits the line of his jaw just right, catches on the faint scar near his temple, outlines the shape of him in a way that makes you feel entirely unworthy of him.

"Stop that," he quips.

"Stop what?"

"That look."

"What look?!"

"The one where you're thinking something you shouldn't be"

You grin up at him, and notice how his eyes grow softer. You heart skips like 20 beats.

"I'm thinking extremely respectable thoughts, Dr Abbot"

"Liar"

His voice is rough with sleep and you feel it everywhere. He moves his weight just enough that you're aware of him in a way that takes your breath away and makes you feel like you've been given a double dose of epi all at once.

"You antagonise me first thing in the morning," he says quietly, studying your face. "Then you stare."

"I can't appreciate my boyfriend?"

"You can. Silently, preferably."

You hit him across the shoulder at that and he laughs, a carefree, easy laugh that shakes his shoulders and reminds you that he's still soft around the edges. He takes another exhale through his nose, but this time his hand slides from the mattress to your wait, setting it there. His thumb presses into the soft cotton of the tshirt you've stolen from him. A reminder that you're real, you're here, you're not a hallucination his brain cooked up after too many code blues.

He leans down, slower this time, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that isn't rushed or teasing. It's warm, sleep-heavy, certain. His hand tightens again and you think you might have a bruise there from all the times his hands go back to that same spot.

"You didn't wake up once last night, you know" you whisper when you part, half-lidded eyes looking through long eyelashes right up at him. Jack thinks he might still be asleep. Dreaming.

"It's easier."

"What's easier?"

"To sleep, when you're here."

And there it is. You could cry at the admission. You almost feel your eyes welling up at the thought. Sometimes, it can be hard reading him. Like, when Dana tells you he's gone up to the roof again to take a break, but you know it's because he's beating himself up about something. He protects you from it. That dark side of him that you know listens to police scanners in hope of a distraction and finds comfort in wearing a SWAT medic vest every other week.

But here he is, above you, looking through you like he can see everything and beyond that. Admitting to you that you make it easier. You wish you could tell him that that's all you want to be.

Not a distraction, or a light to balance the dark, or something that fixes him. You just want to be a place he can rest.

"You know, I coud make it a habit. Sleeping here, I mean. Wouldn't want you losing some well needed z's"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean-if, if that's something you'd want. Like, I don't want to overstep or make you feel pressured or like I'm slowly invading you space with my skincare products and emotional support water bottle or-"

He cuts you off by kissing you. Mouth crashing against yours in a desperate, searing kiss that knocks the breath straight out of your lungs. Firm, and certain and all too quick. And when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours again.

"You know, you left your conditioner in my shower three months ago."

You blink.

"That was strategic"

"I know"

"And you didn't say anything."

"Why would I?"

You hestitate. "Because..it's your place?"

He reaches up to hold your cheek in his too big hands, thumb hooking lightly under your eye to rub away a loose eyelash thats gotten stuck there.

"You think this is just my place?" he asks.

You falter a little at that.

"I don't want to assume," you admit, softer now. "You like your space. Your routine. Your...weird old man night-shift cave"

His mouth twitches faintly in an almost smirk.

"I think it stopped being just my space the second you left that damn polka dot scrunchie on the gear stick in my truck."

You let out a small, embarassed laugh. "Okay, that was actually not intentional."

He moves then, rolling just enough so you're both at a more comfortably aligned angle on the mattress, an arm firmly around you.

"If you want to sleep here," he continues, "sleep here"

Your chest tightens, and you can't believe what you're hearing. How normal this all is.

He presses a slow kiss to your temple, then your forehead, then back to your mouth, softer each time. Like a punctuation, telling you that he wants this, wants you, wants all the weird stickers you have on your diary and the little monkey keychain that swings off your bag.

"This is all very emotionally open of you, Dr Abbot."

"Don't ruin it, kid."

You smile and tuck yourself closer against him, your leg sliding comfortably over his like it's muscle memory now. He adjusts automatically, hand settling at you hip, chin resting against the top of your head.

He’s saved from your deadpan, You should be by the waitress who’d served you earlier returning.

“Hi guys, let me just grab those for you there,” she says, taking your empty bowl and placing it on Clark’s plate, your dirty napkins gathered and scrunched. “Alright. Were you interested at all in getting any dessert tonight?” 

“Can we–” You look to Clark, more apprehensive than you’d pictured being when you were reading the menu. “Can I get something?” you ask quietly. 

Clark laughs. Stops. His hand snakes over the table to clasp your arm loosely. “‘Course you can,” he says, ‘can’ taking on this warm, loving tone that loosens your tensed shoulders, “what were you thinking? Did you read through them?”

You nod eagerly. “Yeah, yes, there’s a ten-layer chocolate fudge cake–”

Clark smiles at the waitress. “One for each of us, then, of the chocolate fudge cake, please.”

“Sure. Right back with you guys.”

You offer Clark a grateful smile. He smiles back. (You don’t catch the hesitancy there, a split second where Clark isn’t sure he deserves a smile at all.) 

The dessert comes not long after. You and Clark eat, sigh with pleasure, and wait only long enough to pay the bill before getting your coats and heading back to the car. “Did you wanna catch a movie?” he asks. 

“Come over and we can rent one–”

“I don’t have my things.”

You lick your lips, “Hm, okay. I have laundry at your place?”

“Washed and pressed.”

“Take me home with you?” 

“I could have you over my shoulder–”

You burst out laughing. “No, that’s okay! We can drive, I think that’ll be alright.”

The car is quiet. Clark clutches the wheel in a tight hand. You peer at him from the corner of your eye, perturbed by the sound of creaking leather. 

“Clark?” you ask gently. 

“Mm?”

“Is something wrong?” 

He shoots you a glance. Reaches over to grasp your thigh in his hand, then leaves it there to warm your knee. “You weren’t kidding, when you asked me if you could have dessert. Were you? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I… no. I wasn’t kidding.”

“Do you know that you don’t have to?” Clark flicks his head between you and the windshield, before making a decision. “Two seconds, angel.”

He turns off of the road into a lot bordering the edge of the Metropolis city park. Parks the car, engine running. 

His eyes are narrowed, a wrinkle between his brows. You miss his hand on your knee. 

“Clark, you didn’t have to…”

“No, I wanted to see you,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, but I want you to really look at me.”

“I’m looking at you,” you promise.

“Do you think you have to ask me for permission before you do things?” he asks, the starts of his brows pinching up in a hurt that makes you straighten your back. 

“No.”

“So why did you ask me if you could have something for dessert, angel? What was the thought process there?” Clark offers his hand, palm up. 

“There wasn’t one.” 

You slip your hand into his. Clark closes his fingers around you and squeezes. “No?”

“I didn’t think. Just asked you. I guess I… I did wonder if I could have something before I asked you, but it’s– I wasn’t sitting there wondering if you’d let me, but then the waitress came and I guess I– Sorry. I can’t talk.”

“You can, you’re doing great. You just spell it out for me the best you can. I want to understand.”

You lick your lips. Your mouth is dry like you’ve been holding a cotton ball on your tongue. “You were paying, you always pay for me, so it’s not that I didn’t think you’d say yes or even that you’d think I was greedy for wanting it, I don’t think that of you, but then I… it wasn’t so much about you as me. Like, I shouldn’t be allowed it, maybe? It wasn’t a long– like, a long thought. But I did think it, and I asked, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” You offer an apologetic frown. “Sorry, Clark.” 

“No, it’s okay.” He rubs your knuckles with his thumb. “It’s okay.”

You really believe him. The way he says it, you can’t spy a shred of him that wants an apology. But you don’t know what to say, you need him to talk, so you wait. 

He smiles eventually, half heartbreak. “In the future, for as long as we’re together– so, forever,” he says, giving your hand a tug toward his stomach, where he presses it to his shirt, “you don’t have to ask me if you can have dessert, or anything at dinner. I don’t care if you want a hundred dollar bottle of wine. And I really don’t care if you want– if it’s a calorie thing, if you’re trying to be good about eating, if that’s why you worried you weren’t allowed, then put that out of your head. That’s no good.”

You relax into his touching. “No good,” you repeat softly. 

“If it’s permission you want, then you have it. Blanket permission to have the things you want when you’re with me.” 

A pleased flush overshadows the embarrassing warmth you’d already suffered. “Yeah?” you ask. 

Clark brings your hand to his lips, pressing a slight of a kiss to you. 

“Is it too on the nose if I propose ice cream?” he murmurs, nodding out the car window toward the beautiful white light of a Dairy Queen.

You reach into the box and break the cookie in half, warm and fresh enough to snap softly, its melted toffee oozing along golden crumb. You give Clark the bigger half. 

“At the same time?” he asks. 

You can’t read the look he’s giving you. Clearly, he hasn’t liked being called your ‘friend’, and why should he? The man brings you back twelve cookies that look like they're straight out of the TV and a bag of those beautiful red clementines from the market because he, directly quoted, thought you “deserved a good treat,” without giving a reason why. He kissed you softly and asked about your day. Offered to make dinner and started a load of laundry while you finished watching your show. All little kindnesses. You slept at his place these last four nights, as you do every week —this is not a friendship. 

“One, two–” You take a bite. 

It is perfect. Your pleasure isn’t feigned, smiling at the camera momentarily, then back to Clark to see how he feels. He doesn’t look half as pleased, resting what’s left of his cookie on the counter. You follow his lead, wiping crumbs from your lips as you chew. “Oh, woah,” you say. “That’s so good.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What would you give it?”

His voice is like velvet. 

You swallow the rest of your bite roughly, “Uh, without trying the rest of them, it’s honestly perfect. It’s a ten for sure.”

“I knew you’d love that one.” He turns to the phone, grinning, a mixture of smugness and agitation that has his voice getting louder with each word. “I picked them all out for her, I stood there for fifteen minutes choosing the ones I knew she’d want most to surprise her, because I’m a great friend!” he exclaims, taking your face into a paw of a hand. “You’re such a tease!”

You laugh into his palm, but Clark won’t let you hide, nudging your face back with his thumb as he leans in and kisses you roughly. It makes you laugh worse, feeling the annoyance in his mouth, and the carefulness of his hand turning your cheek so his nose can ride over yours. 

“Should’ve known you were up to something when you started recording,” he mumbles, the taste of toffee on your tongue and his plush bottom lip as you give it a sorry kiss. “My heart fell into my stomach, but then I could hear your heart–”

You wrap your arm around his neck. “Shit, I gave myself away?”

“I wouldn’t have let you call me your friend either way. I’m not that good.”

“Clark, you are so good.”

His thumb rubs up your cheek, forcing a little soft pinch of skin. It makes you feel adored. “Not about being your friend, honey.”

“You’re my best friend,” you say. 

Clark yanks you against his chest in one swift move and directs you to the phone. “Tell the camera you love me,” he says. 

“Clark!”

He ignores your loud laughter. “You tell that camera how much you love being my girlfriend, or I’m taking these cookies and I’m throwing them out the window myself.”

“Baby!” You tip your head back against his chest. “Baby, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, okay? I didn’t realise you felt that way, things must be so serious for you–”

“Tell them you love me!” He laughs. “Tell them, or you’re going home.”

“Noooo…” You turn in his arms and hug his waist. “Come on, you’re so–”

“I’m not your friend,” he says. 

You shake your head into his chest. “Never. We are so much more than friends, Clark. You’re the best boyfriend ever, okay? Thank you for the cookies, and the clementines, and for letting me make fun of you.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he grumbles, but he presses his mouth to your temple and you can feel his smile, hear his huff of laughter as he reaches over your shoulder. Cookie crumbs rain down from his hand. “This was even better than it looked,” he adds. 

“You have great taste.”

"Jack..?" if you weren’t so out of it you would’ve realized how delirious you sounded because next thing you knew his voice had sobered up.

"It’s me, are you alright ?"

"Hi, Um so- I know you’re tired and- sorry I probably woke you, I know you work nights and I wouldn’t call you if it wasnt- God I’m sorry I really shouldn’t have."

"Hey, take a deep breath. What’s going on ? Did something hap-"

"There’s blood." you blurted out suddenly. "A lot. Sorry, I just- I think I fell and I passed out, and now there’s blood and I don’t know what happened and-" a sob broke out of you and if he didn’t know any better Jack would’ve thought the clenching he felt was his heartstrings getting ripped out.

"Sorry, I just woke up and I panicked I think- well I still am, panicking I mean but-" you drew in a shaky breath, preventing yourself to apologize for the umpteenth time and in the absence of answers you checked your phone thinking Jack had hung up. Maybe it had been too much, he had thought you were playing a prank on him and went back to bed.

No. He wouldn’t do that.

Just a few weeks ago, you were sharing an elevator ride, and he had noticed a burn mark on your arm that you had just put under cold water and brushed off. He had insisted on giving you burn cream and showing you how to properly bandage it. He was incredibly selfless the most caring man you knew.

"Um- Jack ?" you tried in a small voice, threatening to break again.

But all you could hear was a sort of fussing of materials and keys.

As you tried calling out for him again, a thud of footsteps echoed.. in your corridor ? Or was it the pulsing in your head echoing louder than was healthy.

Suddenly, a voice called out your name.

"It’s Jack, where are you ?" his voice echoed around your apartment sounding winded and almost…panicked ?

"Ja-" you voice broke, forcing you to clearing it out before calling out again. "I’m in the bathroom." you blurted out at his sudden presence, forgetting that he didn’t know the layout. But your voice seem to lead him and a moment later his knuckles rasped against the door.

"Are you decent ? Is it okay if I come in ?"

You looked down at the old oversized tee you wore to sleep and your flannel pants -now covered in blood.

"Uh yeah- yes." you replied after a moment, during which Jack’s heart had lurched in his chest at the idea that you had lost consciousness again. His heart rate hadn’t slow down since he heard you panic about the blood that you were apparently covered in.

He appeared as the door opened slowly, like he wanted to make sure he didn’t hit you with it. He suppressed a gasp with a deep inhale and a twitch of his jaw as his eyes took in the scenery before falling on you.

You could imagine what it looked like, blood on the sink and floor, products spilled open, laying around after you, from what you could guess, had tried to catch yourself on a shelf. And you, propped against your shower, looking a mess with blood running down your neck, temple and everywhere really.

He dropped to his knees, scanning you all over, his hands usually so sure, shaking a bit as he lifted them over to your face.

"Hey, you’re alright, you’re alright. I’m here." he muttered as much to himself as to you. "Tell me what happened." he seemed to shift back into his doctor self, as he began carefully checking you over.

Somehow you couldn’t come up with an answer as you looked into his eyes and lifted a hand to loosely tug at his sleeve.

"I thought you had hung up. That you thought I was lying." you admitted suddenly, in a voice so small he almost missed it over the thundering of his heart in his chest.

"What ? No. I was coming to you." he interrupted briefly his check up to brush his thumb over your cheekbone. "Now, I need you to focus and answer questions for me. Can you do that ?" he locked eyes with you as he asked, making sure yours weren’t drifting anywhere. Making sure you were here with him.

"Y-yeah, sure."

"Good." Another brush of his thumb. "You told me you passed out."

"I- Yes I did."

"Okay, what were you doing before ?"

"I was feeling weird. My head was hurting so I wanted- I thought I should take some painkillers."

"And did you take any ?" he asked in a soft voice as his hand pressed various places on your legs, tickling you a bit.

"No, I tried to- but then I couldn’t see anything- I fell." you stared off, like trying to recount the events in your mind, and your eyes seemed to lock on your bloodied hands. "And I don’t remember anything after. I woke up and there was blood running down my head- and everywhere. Why is there so much- Wh-" you hands rubbed at each other frantically while your breath quickened coming out in quick huffs.

"Hey. Take a deep breath. You’re doing perfect, sweetheart. I promise." Jack capture your hands in his, gently prying them away from each other and took a minute to help you regain your breathing.

His voice rumbled near your ear in a soothing cadence as he leaned in to lightly press different spot of your face and skull, so painfully gentle in his movements, careful not to hurt you. "You hit your head against the sink when you fainted, which I think is from dehydration. And head injuries tend to bleed a lot and look worse than they really are, leading to some panic. But you did so good. You called for help and now I’m here and I’ll make sure you get better in no time."

He leaned back being seemingly done with his quick exam and he lifted his hand back to your face, whipping the stray tears that must have spilled earlier. He let his other hand holding yours inch toward your pulse point and exhaled a small, relieved breath, he seemed to have been holding.

"Now. I’m going to apply a bandage to your head to stop the bleeding, then I will drive you to the ER and from there we’ll do a CT scan and all the procedures necessary to make sure you’re alright. Is that okay ?"

You opened and closed your mouth a few times before taking a deep breath.

"No, I- you should go back to sleep. I can call someone to drive me." you struggled to find your words and your head was still pounding with a headache, as a treacherous voice whispered about how badly wanted him to stay. "You have a shift tonight." you forced the words out anyway.

He fought back a laugh as he looked at you rattling your brain worrying about him when you so clearly needed help.

"If you rather have someone else stay with you I’ll call them and explain them everything you need but if it’s only because you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Please, let me stay with you."

His plead hung between you for a second as you looked at him.

"Are you sure ?" you pressed in a small voice, looking into his eyes for an ounce of disingenuity.

"Certain." A moment passed as you continued to gaze at each other. "I won’t be able to sleep without knowing you’re alright." he confessed finally, his face closer than you remembered.

You stared at him for a few more seconds, lost in his words, before nodding warily, your lips still slightly downturned.

"Plus, if I’m the one bringing you in, I’ll make sure you receive extra special treatment from everyone." he added with a playful wink.

"Right.." you sighed, a chuckle escaping you.

Relief washed over him as he quickly stood up to rummage through your pharmacy cabinet, which he found alarmingly under supplied.

And as he carefully wrapped your head in soft cotton, you looked up to him through your lashes, grasping his shirt.

"Thank you. For answering."

"I’ll always answer to you. Make me your emergency contact." he mumbled, with a little too much seriousness underlying what was meant to be one of his usual light joke.

You giggled, "I might just take you up on that."

And in a surge of affection he pressed a kiss to your forehead, wishing to be the one you called everytime.

The cupboard door slammed enough to make Clark wince in the kitchen doorway. He opened one eye to see you furiously filling a glass up of cold water, only to tip it out three times before taking one singular sip, and then proceeding to slam the glass down with enough force to remind Clark he was in the doghouse.

With minimal eye contact to your husband loitering like a bad smell, you ripped open the bread bin and jammed two pieces of bagel into the toaster that was on its last legs.

Hand on your hip, foot tapping against the kitchen tiles, there was a build up of complete unfiltered rage in your chest. It made you feel kind of nauseous, heart beating a little louder, ears burning hot with rage. You shook your head a little in an attempt to try push the feeling down, only to feel more angered when your bagel popped up burnt.

“God, fucking dammit.” You juggled the hot food onto a plate and began to aggressively butter the two pieces.

Clark took a step forward, “Honey—”

“Don’t.” You pointed the butter knife to him, “Don’t say a word.”

Clark fell back in line. Hands clasped at his front.

It was a rare occasion that you were truly angry with your husband. A mythical instance that cropped up a handful of times through the year and put Clark Kent through the trenches of guilt to try make up for the actions that had you swarmed in rage.

Unfortunately, Clark had acted upon instinct when in a fight that was highly broadcasted throughout the Metropolis News Stations, and you had watched him put his life on the line through a couple of pixels from some shoddy camera work.

It was fear masked in anger. Anger being the pretty little bow on top of the gift of fear.

When you bit into the charcoaled carb, you made a face of disdain and, well, Clark sometimes didn’t know when to pick his battles.

“You’re mad.” You narrowed your eyes and turned your head eerily slow to look at him. Clark put his hands out as if to tame a beast. “Honey, I know. I know what I did was a little risky. But—Oh OK.”

His speech cut short as you stormed past him to find reprieve in the living room. Without hesitancy, Clark ducked under the doorway of the kitchen, hot on your heels as you made a beeline for the sofa with your sad excuse for breakfast.

You plopped down with a huff, plate balanced on your knee as you reached for the remote to turn the TV on.

Clark stood in front of you. You bent your body to look past him at the TV.

“Baby.” Clark almost pleaded. His eyes closed for a brief moment when you turned the volume up. He breathed through his nose, “Can you just listen to me, please?”

You sneered and shook your head.

Clark hated to bring this side out of you. The small pocket within your bones that had you silently seething at him. Clark loved you, and could never get tired of loving you; but, he’d admit that this version of you was a little hard to wrangle.

He cleared his throat, “Alright.” Fingertips tugged at the fabric of his trousers, Clark knelt in front of you. His large palms on your knees, his blue eyes locked in on your pretty facial features. “I’m sorry for scaring you like that. You have a right to be scared, and angry at me. But—I couldn’t let those people die. Even if it meant sacrificing myself.”

Your fingers picked at the skin around your nail.

“I’ll be more careful. More thoughtful, if that type of issue arises again.” Clark’s voice was low, even softer than usual. He dipped his head to meet your gaze, “Hey. I promise. Just—Just don’t give me anymore silent treatment. I miss your voice.”

“It’s been thirty minutes.”

Clark grinned, “Gotcha.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” You attempted to conceal the small quirk of your lips. “Don’t do it again.”

By the time you reached the marble edge and clambered onto the stones, your arms ached and your patience thinned, though your excitement never faltered. The box was deposited with an unceremonious thud.

Erik was waiting at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed over his chest like some forbidding statue. His shadow stretched behind him in the candlelight.

“What,” he said at once, voice sharp and suspicious, “is that.”

You dusted your hands and smiled, already delighted by his tone. “A miracle,” you replied simply.

The porcelain mask tilted. His eyes, visible only when the light struck them just so, glinted with a wary gleam. He descended a step, then stopped, as though proximity alone might reveal the object’s secrets.

“You’ve stolen something.”

“Borrowed,” you corrected him, hands on your hips. “And no, before you accuse me of grand larceny in broad daylight, I asked permission. I wanted to show you.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “You risk life and limb on my cursed waters to drag down a crate like an overeager child with a toy, and you expect me to be charmed?”

“Yes.” You pushed your sleeves back and began tugging the box open, ignoring his pointed sarcasm. “Because you will be. You only don’t know it yet.”

The lid creaked free. You crouched, pulling back straw padding until at last you revealed it. A tall gleaming brass horn rising proudly from its wooden base, a hand-crank on the side to set the cylinder in motion, the wax surface lined with tiny grooves to hold every vibration, and a fine needle rested delicately against it: a phonograph.

Erik froze on the steps. You looked up at him, beaming. “Do you know what this is?”

His silence was damning enough, though perhaps not unexpected of a man who kept to the shadows, letting the world above chase its marvels while he clung to his own.

“It plays sound,” you explained eagerly, almost bouncing. “Well, recordings of sound, voices, music, even speeches! You wind it, place a cylinder, and it… It gives them back to you.”

For a moment he said nothing. His hands had lowered to his sides. His eyes, when you caught them, were unreadable.

Then: “A box.” The disgust in his tone was palpable. “You brought me a box that wheezes and scratches like an asthmatic dog.”

You burst into laughter. “You haven’t even heard it yet!”

He spun away, his midnight cape flaring dramatically. “I do not need to. I can already hear it. Some vulgar distortion, a parody of music—”

“It’s marvelous,” you interrupted, winding the handle with deliberate care. “And you’re sulking because you think it might rival you.”

That earned you a sharp turn of his head. His mask gleamed as he glared at you, affronted. “Rival me? Do not be absurd. I am rivalled by no machine.”

Yet his posture betrayed him. Stiff, shoulders set, every inch the spurned genius.

You stifled another laugh and set the needle. The phonograph crackled, hissed, and then, wonder of wonders, music wavered to life. Tinny, imperfect, but unmistakably human. A soprano’s voice rose, faint yet bright, carrying a popular aria across the cavern.

Erik’s whole body went still as you turned toward him, eyes alight. “See?”

He did not answer. Only folded his arms again, tighter this time. “So. A soulless echo. A cheap trick. You haul it into my home, as though I might bow down and worship.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” you teased, kneeling beside the box to adjust the needle. “It isn’t worship. I just thought you’d find it fascinating.”

“Fascinating,” he echoed bitterly, “that people now prefer the croak of an automaton to the human voice.”

You stood, brushing your fabric. “I don’t prefer it.”

His head jerked toward you, as though testing for sincerity.

“I don’t,” you repeated, softer now. “No machine could rival you, Erik. You are music itself.”

His breath caught audibly, though he tried to disguise it with a scoff.

“And besides,” you added, a little wickedly, “do you really think I’d trade you for a wooden box?”

He says nothing, but the silence tells you everything. A flicker passes through his eyes, doubt battling against the fragile hope you’ve offered, pride bristling against the tenderness in your tone. You can almost hear the argument assembling on his tongue, sharp and defensive, before he swallows it back down and lets the shadows speak for him instead.

The phonograph warbled on, filling the subterranean lair with its thin, uncanny soprano. You let it play for a few more notes before you reached down and stilled the needle. The music died with a sigh, leaving only the whisper of water against stone.

Erik looked faintly triumphant at the silence, as though he had personally defeated it by sheer disdain.

You smoothed the fabric of your clothing, then stepped toward him. “You know,” you began lightly, “you pout worse than any child I’ve ever met.”

“I do not pout.” His voice was sharp, indignant, but his eyes flicked away like someone caught.

You smiled. It was always startling, almost tender, to glimpse this side of your Erik; the man behind the mask, all his dreadful legends and fearful reputation dissolving into something so much smaller, so achingly human. How easily he could be childish, even endearing, when jealousy tugged at his composure. For all the terror he had woven around himself, there were moments when he seemed nothing more than a boy still learning how to be loved.

“You do,” you murmured, warmth threading through your voice. “Right now. Arms crossed, lips pressed, shoulders drawn. One might think I'd dragged home a rival suitor instead of a phonograph.”

He stiffened. “If it sings for you, then perhaps it is.”

The absurdity of the statement almost made you laugh again, but you caught yourself. His voice had cracked ever so slightly, revealing that beneath the theatrical scorn there was a raw, real fear.

Your heart softened. You reached out, uncrossing his arms with gentle persistence until his hands hung awkwardly at his sides. “Listen to me,” you said quietly. “Nothing, no box, no invention, no genius of Edison or anyone else, could take your place. Not in music, and not in my life.”

His breath stilled. Beneath the mask, his mouth parted soundlessly, like a man unmoored.

“And besides,” you added, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve, “the only reason I wanted this at all is so I could record you.”

Like an offering, the words lingered between them.

Erik blinked. His entire body seemed to flinch as though struck, though it was not pain that crossed his face but something dangerously close to awe. “Record… me?”

You nodded. “Your music. Your voice. Your compositions. Imagine, your work captured and saved, able to be heard again and again, even when you’re not here to play it yourself.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Then Erik’s gloved hand came up, gripping the stair rail beside him as if to steady the earth itself. Behind the mask, his eyes burned with sudden, ferocious light.

“You would wish that?” His voice was hoarse, trembling on the edge of disbelief. “To keep my music? To— To play it, even in my absence?”

“Of course.” You smiled, tender and sure. “I’d like the world to know what I already do, that you are incomparable.”

It was almost comical, the transformation. All at once the rigid posture slackened, the bitter armor dissolved. His entire being seemed to lift, radiance breaking through his gloom. For once he did not try to disguise the sheer, boyish delight that surged across him.

He straightened, mask tilting upward, and for the first time that evening his voice rang with unrestrained brightness. “Then yes,” he said, almost breathless. “Yes— You must record me. Every note, every bar, every masterpiece. Let them try to rival that.”

You laughed, heart swelling at his sudden glow. “See? I knew you’d love it.”

He stepped closer, his hand catching yours with a surprising urgency, and though his mask still concealed the greater half of his expression, the pride blazing in his visible eye was unmistakable.

“And you,” he declared, voice reverent, “are the only audience I shall ever need.”

.

.

.

.

.

It took Erik all of five minutes to declare that the phonograph was “a ridiculous contraption designed by men who never truly loved music.”

“It cannot even hold pitch without shuddering!” he snapped, swooping down on the machine like a hawk upon a hare. “Listen! Hear that? That dreadful scraping under the tone? Abominable! Barbaric!”

You, perched nearby on a velvet-draped chair, tried not to laugh outright. You bit your lip as you watched him circle the phonograph, every inch the indignant maestro before an incompetent orchestra.

“You cannot expect it to breathe,” you teased gently. “It’s only meant to… remember.”

Erik froze at that word. His gloved hands, poised over the brass horn as though he might throttle it, stilled. Slowly, he turned to look at you.

“To remember...” He tasted the word, as though it were a language newly discovered. His shoulders dropped just slightly, the fight leaving him for a breath.

But then the needle skipped again, and he bristled once more. “No! No, no— Unacceptable. If my voice is to be preserved, it must be flawless.”

“Your voice is flawless already,” you reminded him warmly.

He shot you a glare so sharp it could have slit marble. “Do not mock me.”

“I would never,” you said, solemn, though your eyes shone with mirth.

Thus began what you would later think of as The Battle of the Phonograph. Erik insisted on retaking every piece, every aria, every single phrase he sang, demanding you reset the cylinder again and again. He paced the lair like a caged lion each time the playback hissed faintly or flattened a note.

“It makes me sound like a corpse singing through water!” he declared at one point, tearing the needle off with such vehemence you feared for the poor machine’s life.

“Erik!” you cried, rushing to save the phonograph from his wrath. “You’ll break it before it ever breaks you.”

“I should hope it would break first,” he growled. But his hands, though trembling, released it carefully under your pleading gaze. And yet, when you coaxed him back to the chair, when you placed your hand over his and said softly, “For me, please, just one more song,” he relented every time.

He sang, and you recorded, and when the wax cylinder spun back his voice in its thin, imperfect echo, you closed your eyes and listened with a smile so luminous that even Erik, for all his fury, could not mistake it.

“You see?” you whispered when the recording ended. “Even with its flaws, I still hear you. And that is enough.”

Something in him cracked then, something brittle and fiercely guarded. He pressed a hand to his mask as though to contain the rush of emotion threatening to undo him.

“And if it were the only trace of me left in the world,” he asked, his voice breaking low, “you would keep it?”

Your answer was immediate, steady, unwavering. “I would treasure it. Every note, yours.”

For a long moment he did not move, as if the weight of your devotion rooted him to the spot. Then, slowly, he reached out, cradling your hand against his chest, against the wild pounding beneath.

“Then perhaps,” he murmured at last, softer than the ripple of the underground lake, “this invention is not so terrible after all.”

You laughed, leaning close, the sound warming the cavern. “Admit it, you like the thought of being captured for posterity.”

He gave you a sly, almost boyish glance. “Posterity is welcome to try. But you… You are the only one I would let keep me.”

Later that night, when you left the lair, the phonograph under your arm felt heavier than before. Yet your heart was lighter, thrumming with the certainty that though the wax cylinders might scratch and fade, what you carried from him could never be diminished.

It was bright and early In the morning, the sun was especially hot and the birds were incredibly loud. Your very heavy and very large compound bow was slung around your shoulders, you were currently making your way towards the forest.

“Hey…” but a voice stopped you. You turned around, Daryl was standing right in front of you with his lips pursed like he was gonna say something. His crossbow was dangling from his left hand, his eyes squinted because of the sun, his face was just as dirty as yesterday. “Hey.” You spoke back, licking over your lips. “I found this” he tosses something at you and you grab it midair. “Marlboro reds?” You giggle, shaking the sealed pack of cigarettes. You stare at them, taking off the seal and opening it up. You didn’t smoke before the apocalypse…you don’t got much to lose nowadays. By the time you looked up, Daryl was standing closer and…the tips of his ears were red.

“I’d…I’d…have you…” he mumbled out slowly, and you just blinked, “I’m sorry?” You giggled, but Daryl didn’t respond, just stood there with this constipated look on his face. “I-I have to go, D, I wanna hunt a big deer or something….for Hershel…” you turned around after that, clumsily walking down hill to get past the fence and to the forest.

You didn’t get much luck with deer, but you snagged a few rabbits and a couple of squirrels. You secured them tight on a rope and tied it around your waist, trying to ignore their innocent faces now stripped of life. When you heard a twig snap behind you, you flinched and turned around. “D? Oh my lord, you’ve scared the devil out of me,” you chuckled, facing him, “how’d you find- never mind.” You shut up when you seen your very clear and obvious foot prints in the mud.

“I’ll have sex with you.” He finally speaks and you just….”do what?” You felt your heart get lodged in your throat, your palms went sweaty and you couldn’t seem to stare at his face anymore. Daryl? He was the same. He couldn’t believe what he just told you, his heart was thrashing around in his chest, trying to escape and his brain was telling him to put a bolt in his temple for harassing you like this.

You gulped, but the feeling didn’t go away. “…a week ago…Lori asked ya who’d ya sleep with and…ya said me- ah wasn’t stalkin’ or nothin’…just happen ta hear…das all…” you couldn’t imagine how possibly thick this man’s accent could get, but it was as thick as honey. Having a thick accent didn’t stop the slight tremble of his words and lips though.

“I-…” you stopped, eyes flicking around the forest for a threat, “I…I was just…” you gulped again, your eyes on your bow that was laying on a tree. “Never mind- just forget I said nothing-“ Daryl turned around quick, his face turning red from anger or…embarrassment? He heard what SHE said, he was in HIS tent and he heard HER. So why does he feel like shit?

“WAIT D!” You called, quickly grabbing his bare, toned arms and pulling him back. “I’m sorry- I panicked! I ain’t good with sex and- and…I just panicked…I’m sorry…” you bit at your lip, your fingers trying to secretly grope his arm a bit. What? You’re already here.

It’s not like you were a virgin or something, you just only had sex with past partners, not just random hookups. You had to be comfortable and loved to give your body away…but this time…it just felt different. You wanted to give Daryl your body and you wanted to consume his…you just felt nervous.

Daryl licked over his lips, “ya…ya…I ain’t good as well…m’sorry…” he muttered, subconsciously flexing his arm a bit. “Okay…” you muttered “okay…” he spoke back and you pulled your hand away when you were sure he wouldn’t leave. “Can I…can I kiss you?”

He nodded his head slowly, his cheeks sporting a small blush. You leaned in, not caring about his dirty face or muddy arms and kissed him. It was sweet and gentle, his lips barely moved and when you pulled away? It just felt different.

“Can we go back?…” you whispered and he nodded.

“You ain’t catch no deer, though.”

“Come on” Lori giggled, her face illuminated by the fire In front of you guys, “from everyone here and from the past- excluding Rick- which one would you pick to sleep with?” Lori’s question immediately made all the women giggle around you, your eyes locked on your plate of roasted veggies. Lori, Andrea, Maggie, Beth and carol were sitting around a campfire roasting corn and veggies with you. You stabbed a piece of carrot, bringing it to your lips and chewing. “Daryl” you spoke, then swallowed.

The group of women went silent, and when you looked up? All of them were just staring at you wide eyed. “Are you fucking insane?” Andrea whispered, her face cocked towards you and her mouth agape, “he’s like…super dirty…super red neck and super angry.” She shook her head in disgust and you only rolled your eyes. “I mean…it’s not a bad option….” Carol softly whispered, still sad over the loss of her daughter, but everyone was trying to help her feel better.

You rolled your eyes once again, placing your plate down on the ground “he’s loyal…” you started “extremely loyal, anytime somebody needs something, he’s always the first to volunteer to get it, he hunts for us, he’s not afraid of walkers or even humans, he- he got so angry at Dr Jenner on behalf of us, when all you guys could do is cry…” you swallowed your spit, “he’s gentle….his brother just makes him….mean, he doesn’t cry or complain or bitch…he just survives…” you finished, picking back up your fork, before dropping it again. “And, he has saved all of our lives- for god sake he almost died looking for soph-…” you stopped, turning your head back to the fire, “is that not a man….who makes you feel so feminine from how masculine he is?…”

Maggie pursed her lips, “she’s got a point….i mean he ain’t my type or nothing….but he’s done a lot for us…for daddy and for this farm…” the fire crackles, embers floating towards the night sky and Andrea suddenly laughs, “never realized how useless most of the men around me my entire life have been….”