Quennie 👑

"What happened then, go on."

"So, I got past security like it was nothing..."

"Sure."

A lie Healy does not believe. Holland hadn't convined the burly men on the door to let him through when he inisisted he was on the guest list for the exclusive club, so he had to climb through an open window at the back. If anyone sees it he'll pretend the bruise on his hip came from you, and not because he's getting kinda too old to be climbing up drainpipes any more.

"I picked the lock to get into the office."

Closer to the truth, but still not quite. It was unlocked, which is kind of the same thing.

"And then..."

And then.

And then he was rifling through papers in drawers, cursing the fact that he hadn't written down the specific file he was looking for, and suddenly there was a gun pressed into the small of his back and he was semi-hard (something he will have to examine about himself in depth in the future). Lips at his ear, a whispered grin as you spoke.

"Holland March? Your illustration doesn't do you justice."

Your voice sent an electric current down his spine. He could practically feel the shape of your cupid's bow at his helix.

He said your name with a whispered reluctance, and you confirmed his guess with a laugh. He was able to crane his neck just enough to get a glimpse at you and saw that the ad you'd taken out in the paper did do you justice: all mysterious eyes and paisley scarf tied around your neck.

"Any chance you wanna work together on this? You seem like a reasonable person, a professional," he tried, but there was that laugh again, and your gun dug deeper, and his cock got stiffer.

"Nice try, cowboy. Hand 'em over."

He passed the files back to you with a groan, and you tucked them away someplace he didn't get to notice.

He thought that would be it. But then the barrel of your gun started, well, for want of a better term, caressing him, and he knew in that moment he'd do whatever you wanted him to.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me..."

"Not yet I'm not, handsome."

And then, well, then he'd fucked you over the desk.

He knows his eyes go glassy in front of Healy as he recalls the warmth of you, the way he slipped so easily inside as he covered your body with his. You'd bent over the very desk you were both casing, allowing his chest to press against your back so you could feel the muscles in his stomach work as he rutted against you... but you'd held his tie in a vice-grip, like it was a fucking leash, controlling his every movement...

When you told him to bark like a dog when he came he had, much to both his shame and absolute ecstasy.

"So you lost the files and jizzed all over the scene," Healy sighs.

"That's about the size of it."

Healy grabs his coat.

"Where are we going?" asks Holland, because it is, it's always we, never just Jackson or Holland nowadays.

"We're going to your fuck buddy's office to take them back."

Which leads to the present moment; he's on his knees at the foot of the bed, tugging your flared pants down slowly as some record of yours plays softly in the background. He'd turned it down so you couldn't pretend to ignore him.

He likes these pants on you; they're orange, hints of sunshine yellow woven through the cheerful circular patterns. 

He likes them better on the bedroom floor, though. 

Kissing his way along your inner thighs, he looks up at you, watches the way you look at him, shake your head in vague amusement. 

"Holl, you can't just make it all better with your mou-" 

You're cut off by him pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss to your core, before he pulls away slightly. 

"Do you want me to stop? I just wanna make you feel good, baby." 

His blue eyes are wide, pleading. You've always loved his eyes, and the way he begs you. 

"Please, baby, let me make it up to you? Need to taste you-" 

You really can't resist when he's like this. Begging to make it up to you. So desperate, not chasing his own pleasure, but to give you what you need. 

"Don't stop," you breathe, and that's all the permission he needs before he's burying his face back between your thighs with a needy little moan.

You could never say he doesn't know what he's doing; he licks along your core, slowly, up and down, letting your slick pool on his tongue. 

One arm wraps loosely around you, just resting on your abdomen as he draws little circles and figure eights around your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

Just when you think he might actually just keep doing this all day, might torment you forever, he slowly stops, only to start sucking on the little bud of nerves instead. 

"Ohhh, fuck~" you whimper as he drags a single fingertip through your folds, coating it in your slick before he adds a second, pressing them knuckle deep inside you slowly. 

You moan so prettily for him, he can't help but groan back, the sound obscene as he starts to fuck you with his fingers. 

Within barely any time at all, the bedroom is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the wet sound of his fingers inside you and his mouth on you, his low moans as you drool slick all over him. 

He's not in any rush, but he doesn't get lazy either; he alternates between sucking on your clit, flicking his tongue against it, lapping at your folds, gently sucking on those, too, as he curls his fingers inside you. 

The muscles in his forearm and bicep flex as he works his fingers deeper, finds your g-spot and massages it slowly, building up to it. 

Holland knows he's doing a damn good job by the way your moans change pitch, become more breathy, higher as you knit one hand into his hair, tugging at the roots. 

That alone gets a lovely reaction out of him; a drawn out moan audible even over the filthy sound of his fingers inside your wet cunt. 

"Mmmffff~" 

He moans into you as you writhe beneath him, tugging sharply on his hair. 

There's not much he can say with utmost confidence that he's good at, not really. He's pretty sure he makes more mistakes than not, but not where this is concerned. 

He devours your cunt like you're the most delicious thing he's ever tasted as you start to roll your hips against his knuckles, your breaths coming in shallow whines as you get closer and closer. 

The sound of his tongue lapping at you, the obscene slurping as he drinks down your slick, fucks you with his fingers, his appreciative moans, it's all too much. 

Feeling you tightening around his fingers, he pulls them out of you, slowly. 

"Nooo, nonono~" you whimper, the hand that isn't in his hair shifting, trying to reach his wrist and keep his fingers inside you. 

He's faster, catches your hand and holds it steady against your thigh as he makes out with your clit, fucks you with his tongue, every single tiny motion full of intent. 

For once, intent and impact align, and the arm that's wrapped around you holds you in place as you moan and mewl for him, hips jerking entirely of their own accord as your climax ripples through your entire body. 

He eats you through it, groans appreciatively as your slick and a little trickle of your cum drip onto his tongue. His facial hair is sticky with you, but he couldn't give less of a fuck. 

Only when you're through it, down the other side, your thighs no longer shaking on his shoulders, does he let up, pressing one last kiss to your sensitive folds before he hums, rests his cheek on your inner thigh. 

You can't help but giggle, breathless. 

"Oh my god," you shake your head in disbelief, "oh my god, it is so unfair how good at that you are." 

Laughing softly, he plants a little kiss on your warm, soft skin. 

"Yeah? 's that mean you forgive me?" 

Honestly, you don't even remember what you were mad about. Something about him staying out too late... Worrying you... Or something. 

"Only if you get up here and hold me," you reply, try not to giggle again when you hear him scramble to his feet, feel the mattress dip before you're pulled into his arms. 

Holland knows he fucked up, knows he's a work in progress. But that doesn't mean he won't keep trying. 

She sighed dramatically. “The school’s doing a Mother’s Day event the day after tomorrow. Everyone’s bringing their mom or aunt or somebody from their family and I was kinda wondering…” She looked up at him with those big hopeful eyes. “Do you think I could invite her?”

“Oh.”

That caught him off guard a little. But in a good way.

Holland had known for a long time that you had slipped into their little family with alarming ease. Your clothes had somehow claimed permanent space in his closet, one of your hair clips lived beside the kitchen sink, and Holly’s half-finished school project still sat under the living room window where the two of you had abandoned it the night before.

Leaning back against the counter, he studied his daughter carefully. “You want her there?” he asked softly.

Holly shrugged, pretending to play it cool. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. Just some school thing. But…it’d be nice.”

“Mhmm.” Holland nodded slowly.

He knew his daughter too well. Whenever Holly said it wasn’t a big deal, it usually meant it mattered a lot.

“I think,” he said, “you should ask her yourself. During dinner. Use the food as bribery.”

Holly perked up immediately. “You think bribery’ll work?”

“It always works on me.”

“That explains a lot.”

A moment later your footsteps echoed down the hallway and you appeared in the kitchen wearing one of Holland’s oversized t-shirts,  something he pretended not to notice while secretly loving the sight of far too much.

“Something smells good,” you said, peeking over Holly’s shoulder.

“As the only man in this household,” Holland announced proudly, “I have returned with food for my girls. Sit down before I pass out.”

You settled beside Holly, already reaching for your fork when you noticed how stiffly she was sitting. Your eyes flicked toward Holland suspiciously, but he only smiled innocently.

“Were you two talking about something while I was gone?” you asked.

Holly glanced at her father, then back at you. “There’s a thing,” she began.

And then the words came tumbling out in one long nervous rush -  that it really wasn’t a huge deal, and you absolutely didn’t have to go if you didn’t want to, but there’d be games and activities and food and everybody else would be there and you had that really pretty dress you could wear and…

Eventually she stopped, lips pressed together tightly as though she were waiting for a verdict. Across the takeout boxes, you exchanged a glance with Holland.

“Well, Holly,” you said gently, “I think that sounds wonderful, and I’d love to go with you. If you really want me there. And you’re right, that dress does sound perfect for the occasion.”

Holly’s head snapped up so fast it nearly gave Holland whiplash. “Really?”

“Of course. It sounds really good.”

Holland nodded solemnly. “The dress is gonna be a real crowd-pleaser.”

“It definitely will!” Holly nearly clapped. “Mr. Phillips is gonna lose his mind when he sees her in it.”

“Mr…” Holland blinked.

“Mr. Phillips. The gym teacher, Dad.” Holly rolled her eyes dramatically, though you were almost certain she’d brought him up specifically to irritate her father. “He flirts with all the pretty moms.”

You laughed softly. Holland’s blue eyes immediately shifted toward you as he pointed his fork in your direction.

“Remember,” he warned, “you already have a charming single father at home.”

“I think I can handle one PE teacher,” you teased.

“Oh yeah? That’s how every tragic love story starts. One PTA event later and suddenly I’m alone, drinking whiskey in a motel…”

“Dad, you’re being dramatic!”

“I’m being emotionally attacked at my own dinner table. I didn’t realize a school event could destroy my relationship.”

And for the next fifteen minutes Holland continued spiraling theatrically while Holly took immense joy in making it worse.

The event’s day, when you and Holly were getting ready to leave, Holland had to be talked into staying home.

The dress was “too pretty,” you were “too attractive,” and the gym teacher, whom he had never seen in his life, was apparently “a criminal who specializes in ruining healthy relationships.”

Only after you promised that you would, in fact, come back home afterward, and not run away to Las Vegas to marry an athletic PE teacher, did he finally allow you to leave.

When you returned, the afternoon sun filled the house with a warm, golden glow. Holly was the first into the living room and immediately spotted her father sprawled on the couch. His sleeves were rolled up, several buttons on his shirt were undone, and his tie had long since been abandoned.

“Look what we got!” Holly announced proudly, holding up the two gold medals hanging around her neck. “She was incredible! Three-legged race and archery. Seriously. Wow.”

“Oh, stop,” you groaned, unable to hide your smile as you stepped inside behind her and shut the door. “The competition wasn’t exactly fierce.”

“Jessica’s mom turned bright red,” Holly whispered conspiratorially. “I don’t even like her. She deserved it.”

“Holly!”

You kicked off your heels and collapsed beside Holland on the couch. He looked at you with open fondness and something softer underneath it.

“You volunteered for the competitions?” he asked. Without thinking, his large hands reached for your legs, lifting them effortlessly into his lap. His thumbs immediately began rubbing slow circles against your calves.

“You didn’t see Jessica’s mom,” you said, struggling not to laugh. “She was so competitive. She wanted every medal.”

“I’m proud of you,” Holland said. “Both of you.”

Holly wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge in search of snacks. “Mr. Phillips thought she was amazing too,” she tossed over her shoulder casually.

You felt Holland freeze. His eyes widened slightly, fingers tightening just a little around your calf.

“Oh really?” he asked suspiciously calmly.

“Mhm.” Holly pulled out leftover pasta. “He was very impressed by her athletic ability.”

“Oh.”

You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from laughing. Holland’s eyes never left you.

“And he offered to help her stretch afterward,” Holly continued sweetly. “You know. Since she looked so good in that dress.”

“Holly?” Holland smiled and pointed down the hall. “Could you check if you’re in your room now?”

“Dad!”

“Now. Please.”

The moment Holly’s bedroom door shut, Holland let out a long suffering sigh. You had absolutely no chance of escaping while he still had your legs trapped across his lap.

“So,” he drawled, “how’s Mr. Phillips doing these days? You must’ve made quite the impression on him, sweetheart.”

You swallowed carefully. “He was very nice,” you admitted.

“Nice.”

“And athletic. I mean, he teaches PE. He also coaches basketball.”

“Athletic.”

Holland’s jaw tightened slightly.

“And…” You tried very hard to stay serious. “He has a really cute bald spot.”

Holland stared at you. “He’s bald?”

You nodded.

“Thank God.”

You burst out laughing as his head dropped dramatically against the couch cushion, relief washing across his face.

“I was so close to going over there and burying him under the football field,” he muttered. “But if he’s bald…”

“So now you’re not threatened anymore?”

“I’m still threatened! My self-esteem is fragile and nobody in this house is helping.”

You tried to slide your legs away, but Holland only held on tighter.

“No. Stay. This is nice.”

You tucked a pillow beneath your head and stretched out more comfortably against the couch. The long emotional day was finally catching up with you. All you wanted now was a hot shower and comfortable clothes.

“Holly really enjoyed it today,” Holland said quietly after a moment. His voice softened completely. “You made her really happy.”

You smiled. “I’m glad I could do that for her. And honestly… I had fun too.”

A lazy grin spread across his face. “Another March hopelessly in love with you. Must be difficult.”

“I can handle it.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss just above your knee. Your fingers slid into his soft hair where it had fallen over his forehead. Evening sunlight spilled through the room in warm red-gold waves. You were about to say something when Holland suddenly lifted his head, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

“You know,” he mused, “I’m not surprised Mr. Phillips was impressed by your athletic ability.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“With all the cardio training we do together…”

“Holland!” You shot a glance toward Holly’s closed bedroom door.

“What?” he said innocently. “I care about your fitness.” He shrugged, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away completely. “Maybe we should do a little training tonight too.” He winked. “Think my performance would improve if I stretched first?”

You buried your face in your hands, trying desperately not to laugh. Holland’s hand slid higher beneath your dress, squeezing your thigh gently while his lips brushed your skin again.

“I’m really glad you didn’t leave me for some athletic coach.”

“How could I?” you murmured. “Emotionally unstable detectives are much more my type.”

“My lucky day.”

You can't believe yourself.

The small rectangle of metal sits heavy in your pocket, mocking you and your eagerness. You keep wanting to reach for it as you wait on the curb for Holland to come pick you up from work, your fingers fidgeting, but you hold yourself back. Still, as you stand there, waiting the customary 10 minutes past the agreed upon pickup time, your inner monologue continues to sneer.

Desperate. Are you? It's a question you're not sure you want to know the answer to. If someone else told you that they bought a lighter even though they don't smoke, because they wanted to be able to light a specific someone else's cigarette, you'd probably roll your eyes at the gesture. But here you are, waiting for your chronically-late... specific someone (a better term yet to be verbalized aloud between the two of you), and you're trying to talk yourself down from being anxious about something you decided to do.

Why does it make you so nervous? It's not like he's gonna turn it down if you offer to light up his smoke, most likely. Maybe because it's out of character for you, since you don't smoke?

Really though, and you acknowledge this to yourself as you stand there, waiting, it's more so that you know how Holland March feels about sincerity. He startles like a deer in the woods if someone is too earnest, tries to joke his way out of potentially lethal situations, flirts with anyone with a pulse.

You wait for the other shoe to drop, for him to abandon whatever this is between the two of you before it gets too real, and so even to purchase just a lighter, it feels so damning.

You're so entrenched in your musings that you belatedly notice Holland pulling up to the curb. He calls your name, jostling you out of your internal battle, and a flash of guilt flits through you at the furrow in his brows.

"Sorry, just thinking," you apologize softly, sliding into the passenger seat. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. His face immediately melts, the tension draining, before he pouts, pointing to his jutting lower lip.

"You missed. Might need to get your eyes checked, sweetheart." With a fond roll of said eyes, you lean in again, pressing your lips to his. When you pull away, he's smiling, and some of your anxiety abates, at least a bit. "There we go. That's better."

He does most of the talking (when does he not) on the drive to his place. Healy is already there, stationed at the kitchen table with Holly, who is animatedly explaining her theory on the latest case. You've entered scenes like this enough to know that her homework is already done if she's allowed to be a part of the conversation on a school night. She gives you a bright smile when she spots you.

"We think it's the mother-in-law's secret boyfriend."

"Do we?" Holland asks, genuinely curious, as he guides you to your unofficially-official seat with his hand on your back. Holly launches into her evidence for the theory, and based on Healy's expression, she's been workshopping it with him in her father's temporary absence.

After a dinner of pizza and an emotionally-charged game of B.S. (you'd quietly won a hand solely because Holland and Healy were too distracted by yelling at each other about the statute of limitations on calling someone out), Holland drives you home.

"You okay?" The question takes you by surprise. He must see it on your face, because Holland asks, his mouth downturned in a pretty frown, "You were quiet tonight."

"I'm good. Promise." Before you forget, you add, "Thanks for driving, I know it's annoying to be a taxi for me just because my car broke down."

"It's not." Before the sentiment can linger, his grin turns mischievous. "Now I got you all to myself." He salaciously wiggles his eyebrows, or tries to, and you laugh, sharp and bright in the L.A. night.

At a red light, he fishes his trusty box of cigarettes out from his jacket pocket, but before he can also light it, the stoplight turns green. He sticks the cigarette in the corner of his mouth for temporary safekeeping.

"I got it," you murmur, only somewhat shakily getting the lighter out of your pocket. Your thumb scrolls on the spark wheel, bringing the flame to life, and you cup it tenderly before bringing it to the end of Holland's cigarette. He leans slightly towards you, his eyes still on the road, and you connect the flame, waiting until the cigarette's end becomes an ember before pulling away. Holland takes a drag, smoke billowing softly out of his nose, the wisps gently floating away.

He's almost done with the cigarette when suddenly he stiffens and turns his torso completely in your direction. While concerning on its own, it's even more worrying because he's still driving.

"Holland!" You point to the road that the car is actively still traveling down. He snaps out of it and looks ahead again, the steering wheel jerking slightly as he initially overcorrects. When it feels safe again, you slump against your seat. "Fuck!"

He pulls over onto the side of the road, barely throwing on the emergency break when he's staring at you again. "Why do you have a lighter?" he asks, voice quiet.

"I fucking got it for you, you fucking maniac!" You might still be a bit on edge from the whole "could have been driven off the road" thing.

He doesn't blink, still apparently trying to deduce your reasoning. "To give to me?"

You splutter, face growing hot. "No, I..." You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands. "I thought it could... it could be for you, but I... I could... I could carry it." The words are hardly more than a whisper by the end. You keep your stare trained pointedly on the car stereo, wishing a hole would open up in the ground and swallow you, save you from this mortification.

His car door opens and shuts. You blink, barely having time to register that Holland isn't sitting in the driver's seat anymore when he appears at your side, opening the passenger door and pulling on the lever that pushes your seat back. A yelp dies in your throat when he climbs in, cramming all 6' of him into the space, on his knees on the floor well to look up at you, his warm hands bracing himself on your thighs.

There's a shimmer to his blue eyes.

Finally, he speaks, a shake to his voice. "Jesus Christ, I need to kiss you right now, alright?" Dazed, you nod, and then he's surging up, his mouth claiming yours. He tastes like the cigarette you lit for him.

When the two of you finally part, you rasp out, "So... you like it?"

He nods, then nods again, then nods a third time. "You have to light all my cigarettes from now on, got it? Every single one. It won't be the same if it's not you."

You pretend to mull it over. "As much as I don't want them to be what kills you..."

"Baby, you're gonna be the death of me." Before you can make fun of him, his mouth is on yours again, and you lose the motivation to do anything but this.

You worked at a high school in a neighbourhood bordering the porn district of Detroit. Your job went as most people would expect it. Your students being exposed to such materials on an everyday basis making them want to act more mature than their age, their hormones already through the roof at this age, to put it lightly. Most of the girls dating men who are way older than them regardless of how well you’ve warned them about it. The boys discussing and sometimes even bringing their favorite magazines filled with lewd images.

Of course, there were exceptions, one of them being Holly March. She was such a bright student, way too mature for her age but smart and quick-witted. You’ve heard about what’s happened to her family and understood that children often have to grow up too fast in these situations. What you didn’t understand was how her father seemingly never did. The man was a wreck on fire to say the least. Barely showing up to parent-teacher meetings, and when he did he was late and most definitely drunk, or so you’ve heard from your co-workers. At first, you couldn’t help the judgment and resent him.

You made sure to pay special attention to the girl whenever you could, offering to help in any way you could, and she slowly grew to trust you. Once she offhandedly mentioned the reason behind the fire that took their house and you finally understood the reason behind Holland's actions. Your negative feelings for him lessened as she told you a little more about him every day, starting to learn just a bit more about the detective day by day. One timeHolly asked you to drive her home in the pouring rain as she couldn’t get her dad or his mysterious partner on the phone and didn’t have any other options. Your heart broke for her, so you did so without hesitation.

She invited you inside for a bit, offering to make you something in return, at first you politely declined but she mentioned her father was probably home judging by the lights already burning inside. You hesitantly accepted, only because you had a few words to say to the man about his neglectful behavior. And that’s how it all started. Maybe it was the whine in his voice as he apologised for not picking the phone up, or how he stumbled over his own two feet as he came up to the door to greet you both, making what you assumed to be excuses and placing the blame on someone named Healy. Either way, once the two of you locked eyes, yours filled with a frustrated determination, his with a sense of awe you couldn’t quite place, an awkward silence took over the atmosphere, only broken by Holly clearing her throat.

You quickly averted your eyes, he didn’t seem to notice it, a smirk appearing on his face as he leaned against a wall. You guessed the desired effect was to look cooler in front of you, but in all honesty, it made him look even sillier. The teen besides you just rolled her eyes before leaving for the kitchen, probably to fulfill her previous promise to you. You felt a little dumbfounded as all your anger vanished from you. It resulted in the two of you chatting and you soon discovered a charming personality under all the clumsiness and unawareness. A few similar instances later, which you were beginning to suspect were planned by his daughter, the two of you became something akin to friends.

And to your surprise, it actually turned out well. Dinner was already made and somehow not burnt by the time you arrived. He somehow managed all of it without a single injury, and his elegant attire remaining spotless was nothing short of a miracle.

He would actually listen to you, if he wasn’t so drunk or exhausted that he fell asleep, complaining about your job and everything that came with it whenever you felt hopeless about the situation. You, of course, returned the favor and helped Holly point out things in connection with his cases, which were often so blaringly obvious you wondered how he got dressed in the morning by himself. Then one day, he asked you out on a date. You accepted, you couldn’t deny that somehow he managed to worm his way into your heart with his unintentional charm and, despite what you originally thought about him, his unconditional love for his child.

And so, there you were, standing outside their door in your outfit carefully picked out for the date after an hour of contemplating whether it was too much for the occasion or not. However, all your worries dissipated as soon as he opened the door. He stood frozen for a moment, eyes gliding up and down your figure as he took you in. “Hey! You look… gorgeous.” He stumbled over his words, genuine awe and adoration lacing his words. To your surprise, it actually turned out well. Dinner was already made and somehow not burnt. He somehow even managed all of it without a single injury, his elegant attire remaining spotless being nothing short of a miracle. You just enjoyed each other's company by candlelight. You knew how hard it must have been to put himself out there even years after the accident, his guilt a frequent topic when he gets too drunk even by his standards, so you truly appreciated all the effort he put into this.

This being the two of you, your blossoming relationship, the courage it must have taken to ask you to be his girlfriend, “... and Jesus I haven’t said that in a while.” how he chose to trust you with his daughter even outside of your job. Similarly, he was eternally grateful you hadn’t given up on him the first time the two of you met, how you cared for him as a certain anniversary came around and he drank and drank and drank until you had to come over and take care of him while hungover and barely functioning while Healy took Holly to one of her friends' houses. The other man also became a great friend of yours, the two of you taking care of the dumpster fire Holland was. You were always honest about your view on his habits, and after a few instances where it actually caused Holly and even you to be in harm's way, he started taking it more seriously.

On your one-year anniversary, he’s more often sober than not and is capable of driving for short distances without needing a babysitter. You can see that he’s trying, and you couldn’t ask for more. Holly is less at edge school, not having to constantly think about a case or driving her father around constantly giving her the free time she deserves after putting up with him for so long. Ever since you came into their lives, you made it your goal to give them the happiness they deserved, and slowly, you've become an important part of it as well.

∘₊✧ Lars Lindstrom

Lars is big, but he doesn’t know since he has little to no frame of reference, plus no one’s ever seen him naked. He’s seen some racy clips from the porn that Kurt shows him, but the guys in those movies tend to be on the bigger side so Lars just thinks that’s the standard. 

He’s long and thick, uncircumcized, with a light trail of dark golden hair leading down over his lower belly to a natural little bush around the base where you’ll find his neatly tucked balls. He’s pretty too; pale and smooth – and flushes pink at the tip when he gets a little excited.

Lars finds blow jobs a little overwhelming sensory-wise, so more often prefers touching, either over clothes and dry humping, or soft, slow handjobs… until he gets needy and whiny and you move a little faster. It can take Lars some time to recover after an orgasm, the intense sensations staying in his body for a while after, so no matter how much he enjoyed himself with you, he can feel a little touched out – but he will eagerly go for another round of pleasuring you when he’s caught his breath. He has been known to cum untouched while eating you out.

∘₊✧ Driver

Driver is a grower. There is a subtle bulge in his jeans, but when he gets hard it’s frankly unavoidable.

He’s a decently neat size, with a very light amount of blonde hair around the base and well proportioned balls. When he gets hard, he’s a good six inches and girthy, but not intimidatingly so – he’d stretch you just right.

He doesn’t usually wear underwear, finding the sensory aspect of wearing under-layers too restricting when he’s driving and the friction of his jeans can sometimes feel really fucking good. Especially when you kiss him, or even just smile in his direction and he feels himself twitch inside the denim. It doesn’t take much to make him come undone, because he’s deliciously sensitive. He doesn’t mind how you pleasure him and he does have a short refractory period, so it doesn’t take long to go again if he spills too early, and when he does go again, he’s so needy and whiny and intense. He just falls apart with you.

∘₊✧ Colt Seavers

Colt is a monster and has been jokingly compared to a roll of three Coke cans. With the biggest dick of all the geese, he sometimes gets a little lightheaded when he gets a boner.

He’s handsomely thick, has pretty veins that are so sensitive to a gentle touch, and thick dirty-blonde hair at the base following on from a tempting trail.

For a blow job you’ll need both hands along with your mouth to take him completely. He has to take his time when he fucks you because the stretch can be… a lot. But once you’re prepared by his fingers and tongue, and he’s buried deep, he breathes out a low growl of, ‘Fuck you’re so tight baby-’ circling his hips painfully slowly to get you comfortable before he pounds into you.

∘₊✧ Ken

Ken is fascinated with his dick. Having recently gained one when permanently returning to the Real World as an ex-doll, he feels very proud of it.

It’s plastic-perfect, like a dildo that was made to look like a realistic cock. His new dick did come with a small amount of bleach-blonde hair, as neat as the rest of him. He’s perfectly proportioned, big enough to fill you, but not to hurt.

Ken has a great time learning how to jerk off. He also learns that his cum is pink and glittery (affectionately known as Glizz)! With you, he is eager to try anything and everything and has so many questions, and wants to learn everything there is to know about pleasure – yours and his. Ken is frankly insatiable, and will hump you at any time you’re left alone together.

∘₊✧ Henry Letham

Henry doesn’t think too much about sex, unless he’s with the right person who ignites that little flame of desire inside him just the right way. Then, he will get super invested, and jerking off will become a regular routine until you kiss him one day and take his breath away.

He is on the slightly smaller side, and that’s NOT a bad thing. He’s perfectly in proportion, fills you just right, and is pretty – in a sad way, just like him. He has never trimmed or shaved a day in his life, but he would if he thought you’d like it.

He is intense, and fucks you deep and thorough, never satisfied until you’ve come undone at least once – only then will he let himself really feel the pleasure you give him. Henry can take a while to get hard. Unless there’s a very specific kink at play that really gets him just right, he needs the emotional context behind the act to feel right. But he is an eager lover once he gets going, and will shed a tear or two when the resulting orgasm subsides.

∘₊✧ Holland March

Holland has a love-hate relationship with his schwanz. Sometimes it’s hard when he really could do without it, and other times it won’t cooperate.

He’s an impressive length. with an impressive bush of dark brown-blonde hair, and he knows how to use it. His balls are on the larger side and feel so heavy when he hasn’t cum for a while (he likes you to include them when you’re having fun down there).

Holland prefers handjobs to blow jobs because they feel more personal, and therefore more intense, and he is one for romance. He likes to watch you pleasure him, kiss you while you’re touching, feel the caress of your touch while you feel the throb of his desire. With his narrow hips, he’s incredibly skilled at getting the angle just right for you during sex, and making you feel full. You won’t only be full of his dick, though; Holland has hyperspermia, so when he cums, it goes on and on - it’s messy and sexy – copious amounts of his seed pump from his tip, prolonging his orgasm while you try to take it all. But you can’t ever quite manage to, and it will dribble out down your legs or over your chin. Handjob? Be prepared to both get covered in his release.

∘₊✧ Sierra Six

Six is as large as the rest of his body. He knows he’s big, and he’s quite proud of it, but he doesn’t try to impress you with that fact because he really thinks his dick can speak for itself when he’s hard.

He’s handsome, thick, curves up really beautifully when he’s hard, and when he’s had time he will groom his hair just a little bit, although that will get neglected when he’s busy.

Six likes you to take care of him so he can give up control, so he’s happy with whatever you want to do with him as long as you’re having a good time and taking away the prospect of any decision making. He can only do this, though, if he trusts implicitly, so you’re one of very few to ever see this vulnerable side of him and get free reign of how to pleasure him.

∘₊✧ Ryland Grace

Ryland is another Goose who is bigger than he knows, and he’s very modest about it – and about his abilities. He’s relatively inexperienced, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t an enthusiastic lover.

His dick is thick, veiny in a very pretty way, natural hair at the base, and balls that hang just slightly lower than the other Geese.

Ryland moans LOUD. He’s kind of embarrassed about it, but when you touch him, he just melts into pure pleasure and can’t stop himself. He loves to guide you on his cock, sitting back against the headboard or in a chair while you ride him, with his big hands holding your hips in place as he fucks up into you. It’s a very safe way for him to feel a sense of control without taking it away from you completely. And he’s kind of easy to excite – a naughty text here and there will fluster him so much that you can’t send them while he’s at work. He’s hard and leaking from the lightest touch, and he will cum from a handjob in under a minute. But when he’s buried in you, he likes to draw out the pleasure, keeping you still as he essentially edges himself in your pussy.

∘₊✧ Luke Glanton

Luke takes a lot of pride in his body, and his cock is no exception. He wants to be the whole package for you, and his actual package is just delicious.

He is of average size, pale, and has pretty balls. He keeps his hair closely trimmed and there are tattoos down there that you get to discover when you undress him, like unwrapping a birthday present; your favorites are the little loveheart and the lipstick stain left by amorous lips, calling you to kiss him in that exact spot (you discover he moans when you do. He got the tattoo in that spot for a reason).

"Why me? Why not ask someone else?" you ask, tiredly.

"I did, nobody's biting," Dana defends, looking around. "Plus, you were the first to treat her," she points out, eyes coming back to you.

"Um," you mumble, eyes traveling in the direction of the pedes, blocked by the exam rooms. "Sure, okay," you cave, heart aching.

"You sure?" she asks, brow slightly rising at your casual acceptance.

"Yeah, I can't stand the fact she's in a constant limbo between here and upstairs, she deserves a night in a home," you say, eyes coming back to Dana. "Also, I've babysat my friend's kid before, so babies are nothing new," you say, finally defending your previous casualness.

"Well, alright, I'll have CYF come down and talk to you, in the meantime, you can go over these," She explains, placing the packet of papers down on the desk.

"Thanks, Dana," you say, glancing at the packet.

"Thank you, it's good knowing she'll have a night in a good home," she says, softly smiling, walking away with a gentle pat to your shoulder.

Looking down at the papers as her steps fade away, grabbing the pamphlet sitting atop the pile. Reading the title, "Kinship Caregiver Navigator Program," opening it to look over the basic needs in a home.

Knowing you had a crib, though lowered for your friend's toddler, picking up her son from the babysitter's place when she gets caught up with work. Most late nights sat in the living room watching her son sleep until she knocked, paying you the next day, making it so that your husband didn't mind.

"Shit," you whisper under your breath. Hand flying to your pocket, unlocking it, opening your messages, pressing your husband's name.

Hey thoughts on babysitting tonight?

Sending the message quickly, top teeth biting onto your bottom lip, mind racing, finding a way to get your husband to agree to the fostering. Reading your text a minute after, the typing bubble popping up, twisting your gut, already knowing what he'd say.

Fine. Ask for money this time. I'm sick of payment pizza.

Smiling at his agony, always making him eat the leftover slices days after.

Well it wouldn't be her son tonight.

What are you talking about?

Lips pressing together as you type out what would be an incoherent ramble if this were happening in person. Reading over your text over and over before sending it.

We have a baby Jane Doe who had been abandoned in our bathroom earlier, she's in our pedes with rhinovirus. Pediatrics won't take her because she's too old and CYF can't find a foster home quickly enough. Then Dana came to me asking if I'd kinship the baby, and I said yes. Now a CYF worker is coming down to talk about paperwork.

Watching as the bubble of him typing pops up, only to disappear, receiving no text in return. Knowing your husband is rushing to get his things, then taking the first elevator down. Stuffing your phone back into the pocket of your scrubs, taking a big breath, turning to the computer, continuing your charting.

Finally finishing, you hear heavy footsteps stopping just outside your field of vision. Glancing up to find the man you'd married three years ago, nearly busting his lip on your teeth when kissing you at the altar, the honeymoon being no different.

"Hey, Bren," you greet, a small smile pulling at your lips, even as he gives you a hard stare.

"Dr. Park," a voice calls out, causing both of your heads to snap towards the CYF worker who's taken aback.

"Which one of you is Dr. Park?" she says, looking between the two of you.

"Both of us we're married," you answer, seeing as she perks up.

"Two doctors for a kinship must be my lucky day," she says, pulling a short rolling chair from the desk a few feet over. "Let's start so baby Jane Doe can go with you before midnight," she says, sitting down, placing the clip border on the surface of your small desk.

Completing all the paperwork under two hours, eyes peeling off the sheets of paper that are littered with both you and Brendon's signatures, reading 11:34 PM in the corner of the screen. Glancing back up, meeting your husband's eyes as the CYF worker stands up.

"Okay, you two are good to take her home," she sighs, grabbing the clipboard. "I'll let nurse Dana know," she explains, before walking off.

Taking Brendon in fully since you started, relieved as his much softer state, hair gel losing its usefulness on the sides, signaling the number of surgeries he's scrubbed in for that day. Staring at the floor, his eye bags screaming to be home, to be curled up next to you with a full belly of takeout.

Not having vocalized his disagreement with the decision to the worker, only looking at you before sighing another line. Reaching out to his knee, resting your hand atop it, softly caressing it.

"Do you want to see her?" you ask, hand stopping, gaining his attention, breathing a big sigh as his eyes come to you.

"Yeah," he sighs.

"Okay, let me get my things first," you say, standing up before he does, both of you groaning, stretching your backs before leading the way to the lockers.

Moving around the night shift, stopping in front of the blue lockers, pressing your four-digit code, hearing it clink, allowing you to open it. Taking the things from your shirt pocket, throwing them into your bag before grabbing it and your jacket out, hooking them onto your arm.

"Why'd you say yes?" he says, quietly through his teeth.

"Dana kinda jumped me with it, but I'd been the first doctor to treat her, so it was an easy yes," you explain, shutting the locker.

"So? I put someone's leg back on today, doesn't mean I feel like I should take them home," he argues, deep and hushed.

"Brendon, stop." You say, holding out a flat hand in front of him. "I have experience with babies, and we have the resources for the one night," you point out, causing his shoulders to fall with a sigh, lips closing, eyes dropping to your arm before taking your things, holding them as a silent apology.

Patting his shoulder, pushing your husband to start moving toward Pediatrics. Turning the corner, eyes landing on the windowed room, smile blooming on your lips at the sight of the cartoon painted walls.

Stopping at the door, pushing it open, hearing the light beeping of the few monitors around her crib. Quietly stepping over to her bedside, heart melting at her all bundled up, sleeping face peacefully squishing to the side. Stopping the coo that attempts to escape your lips, looking up to Brendon, seeing his face share the same thought.

Reaching with both arms, sliding your hand under her body, hearing a small, waking coo sound from her. Holding her up in your arms, lightly rocking her, stepping closer to your husband.

"Isn't she adorable?" you whisper, gazing down at her little face, seeing his hand reach out, caressing her cheek with his finger.

"Hey you two!" Dana's voice comes from behind Brendon, passing him. "I got you guys some goodies for you to take home with her," she explains, holding up the half full bag, before digging through the drawers, filling it up further.

"Is she a quiet baby?" Brendon asks, looking to Dana.

"Is that a joke?" Dana says, turning toward him, brow raised, quickly realizing he wasn't by his stone face. "She's a baby, they cry when they need to be fed and changed, but the rhinovirus makes her a bit more fussy," she explains, closing the final drawer.

Lifting the big bag with both hands, going over to Brendon, groaning at the weight when taking it from her hands, biceps flexing. Fighting to hold back a laugh, his stare causes you to swallow it as Dana pats his back.

"She just had a bottle 3 hours ago, so she might need another bottle when you get home. She's also just had a dose of Tylenol, so you three are good to go," she says, smiling, lightly fixing her little beanie.

"Thank you, Dana," you say, hearing your husband follow with a small "Thank you".

"Of course, I'll see you in the morning," she smiles, opening the door. Following her out into the hall, bright lights causing baby Jane Doe to fuss, hands fighting the tight swaddle she's in.

"Shh," you hush, rocking her as you follow Brendon out.

"Wow, baby already," a voice says as you walk by, glancing up, seeing Princess smirking.

"We're fostering baby Jane Doe, princess," you explain, smiling yourself.

"You're better than me. If he were my husband, I would've been on the fourth," she comments, playfully lifting up her brows. Laughing it off, passing by the hub, saying goodnight to Ahmad, gliding through the ambulance doors.

Breathing in the cool night air, keeping baby Jane close to your chest, traveling around the building to the parking lot. Following Brendon closely as he spots the car before you, going down half the length of the parking lot before slowing to a stop at the car. Popping the trunk first, watching Brendon from the side, placing all the bags that hung onto his body, then shutting the lid softly, not to startle the baby in your arms.

Moving with him to the left side of the car, standing some distance behind as he opens the back door with the adjustable car seat, always keeping it on board for when babysitting after work. Leaning in the car to adjust it as your hands are full, quickly hearing him groan, tugging at the plastic of the car seat, leaning out of the car looking defeated.

"It's stuck," he announces, chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

"Let me try," you offer, stepping closer.

"I don't think it'll move," he breathes, shaking his head.

"Brendon, just let me try," you say, carefully lifting the baby from your chest, beginning to hand her to him. Taking her awkwardly, hand resting only on her back, legs dangling, causing her to fuss. "That's not how you hold a baby," you say, one hand holding up her head while the other works to guide his hands.

"Then how? I've never held one," he admits, trying to follow your hands. Eyes flickering to his face, checking if your husband was serious, but his blue orbs don't meet you, focusing on the chaos below.

"Here, like this", you guide, taking your husband's hands one by one, making sure his arm holds most of her body while the other wraps around supporting her head and shoulder. "There, you got it, now move," you say, gently leading his body to the side with a nudge.

Leaning into the car, faintly remembering how to adjust the car seat used mostly by a toddler you see three nights of the week. Finding the button that allows you to push the seat in on itself, hearing a click, you lean back out.

"Okay, let me see her," you sigh, holding out your hands, interrupting the small moment of Brendon's eyes stuck on her adorable face.

Gaze snapping up, finding you smiling at him, both not saying a word as he carefully passes her off to you, shoulders pressing forward as he does, not allowing a gap to form between you. Awkwardly removing the swaddle she's in with some protest from her, dressed in the simple hospital button onesie. Supporting baby Jane's head, leaning into the car again, placing her into the car seat.

Hearing the driver's door open as you buckle the cute baby in, giving a tug to the straps, making sure they're just right. Feeling the air conditioning start as you back out, shutting the door as softly as you could manage. Traveling around the car, Brendon walks around the front, meeting you there, opening the door for you. Hand holding it, standing at the side of it, collecting a kiss from you.

"How was your shift?" he asks, as the kiss breaks, bringing a welcomed sense of deja vu. Kissing his lips once more before answering, smiling against his lips.

"Fine, how was yours? I heard you worked on an amputation today," you say, causing his smile to drop a little, reminding Brendon of his hissing words back at the lockers.

"Yeah," He breathes, memory stinging him. "I'm sorry," he says, quiet enough the wind could blow it away, but still you take it, getting in the car with it.

Closing the door when you're in, looking to the backseat while putting on your seatbelt, not watching as he walks around the car, opening the driver's side. Seeing baby Jane's eyes open, looking around sleepily. Hearing Brendon groan, getting in, looking back as he shuts the door, buckling in, then getting the three of you out of the parking lot and towards home.

Hand resting atop your thigh, palm warm against your clothed skin, sending a flutter up your spine. Flying through green lights, allowing the peaceful silence to wash over both of you, no more beeping monitors, shuffling of feet, or ramblings of patients. Entangling your fingers with his, sighing, no longer breathing in the strong smell of sterilization, only its faint imprint on all of your clothing.

"Are you going to the gym in the morning?" you ask as his hand lifts off your thigh, helping to turn the wheel at a big intersection.

"No, I'm not leaving you home alone with a baby," he answers, quickly putting his hand back onto your thigh, squeezing its surface. Smile blooming on your face, already picturing your morning, snuggled up in each other's arms, a rarity only granted on his days off.

Pulling into your driveway with a final turn, crawling up to a stop, still feeling the new home glow. Buying it together as a wedding present for yourselves, being on your honeymoon when the paperwork went through, putting down signatures the day you came back.

Taking the keys out, unbuckling himself quickly while popping open the door, not wanting to leave you sitting in the off car for long. Looking to the back seat as your husband walks around the front of the car, seeing baby Jane passed out, cheek smushed against the carseat's cushion. Hearing your door open, turning back around, stepping from the car.

"I'll get the baby, you get the bags," you say, as he closes the door, receiving a nod from him, kissing his lips before acting out your roles.

Strolling around the car, losing Brendon at the trunk, cautiously opening the back door. Unbuckling her, moving the straps around her arms, getting furrowed brows from her,

"I know, I'm sorry I keep waking you," you say, rocking her, closing the door.

Approaching the front door just as Brendon shuts the truck, waiting at the side, watching as he hauls all three of your bags. Keys shuffling in his barely free hand, stuffing it into the lock. Opening the door, leaving you to shut the door behind him, nudging it close, tilting her close to your chest, allowing a free hand to detach, locking the door.

Kicking your work shoes off, sighing at the cooling relief of your sweaty socks out in the open, stepping further into the home, seeing Brendon having already hung up your bags on the wall. Hearing the water running from the end of the hall, already taking his after-work shower, leaving you with a fussy baby.

Rocking her into the living room, setting her on the couch, allowing you to adjust the crib's flooring up to an infant setting. Digging out the toys in it, along with a thin blanket and its sheets, throwing them onto the floor, meaning to wash them minutes after changing them with the new sheets, socked under the changing table.

Finishing with the final corner, stretching your back while turning toward the couch, picking up the blanket she was once swaddled in, laying it down next to her on the couch. Lifting to lay her in the center, wrapping her up, before picking her up, placing baby Jane inside the crib.

"There, now you can sleep," you whisper, fixing her little hat.

Grabbing the sheets and toys from the floor, making your way to the laundry room, quickly tossing them into the washing machine. Peeling off your scrubs, throwing them in as well, sighing, walking toward your shared bedroom, the sound of running water becoming louder, approaching the bathroom. Steam slapping you in the face, fighting not to peek at your husband through the steamed shower glass.

Stealing Brendon's clothes from the floor, slipping out before he notices you in your underwear, crouched with his clothes in your arms. Closing the bathroom door, walking back to the laundry room, tossing his before starting the washing cycle.

Turning to the sink, turning on the water before scrubbing your hands up to your elbows, trying not to get sick. Drying off with a hand towel folded on a shelf above the sink. Shuffling over to the dyer, opening the heavy door, plucking random pieces from the mix of both of your clothing you'd been meaning to fold for the past few days. Putting them on, then heading to the kitchen, opening the cabinet underneath the sink, taking the can of disinfectant.

Stepping into the living room, spraying the spot where Baby Jane lay down, placing the can down onto the coffee table, traveling a few more steps to your bag. Fishing out your phone, finally able to crash down on the couch.

Dialing the number to the restaurant that knew both of you too well, thankful they were open until 3 AM, or you'd burn your house down sleepily trying to cook something. Hearing the line ring, just as your husband walks out into the living room, the simple confirmation of a "yes" to your usual order nearly fails to leave your lips at the sight of him. Hair, wet, and loose, a few stains falling in front of his forehead, clothed more comfortably, biceps more prominent with his shirt's short sleeve.

Inhaling the thick scent of his soap and skin care, moisture lathered on his face and chest, conditioning your mind for bed, aching to be lulled into sleep with his close warmth. Scooting closer toward your husband, happily trapped in the scent of him, tossing your phone atop the couch, arms wrapping around his.

"They'll be here in ten minutes," you say, getting an acknowledged hum from him. Releasing his arm as he leans, grabbing the remote to turn on the TV. "Turn the volume down," you say, tapping his forearm, receiving a hard browed look.

"Why?" he asks, letting the TV play at a loud volume.

"Because she's sleeping, Bren," you say, causing his eyes to look a few feet from the couch, hearing her start to wake. Finally turning down the TV, though not without a grumbled sigh from your husband. "Oh, hush," you say, getting up from the couch.

"Where are you going?" He asks, voice light with exhausted irritation.

"I'm going to make her a bottle, so she can pass out," you say, walking the short distance to the kitchen.

Opening the cabinet above the coffee station, having a can of powdered formula for the night, when your friend would be a bit late picking up her son, being the one to give him his last bottle for the night. Dumping the first scoop into the bottle, hearing her cries grow louder.

"Brendon, can you get here?" you ask, over her cries.

"How?" He says, hearing the cluelessness in his voice, causing your eyes to slightly roll.

"Just pick her up, and rock her," you instruct, trying not to sound too harsh, knowing he wasn't any good when your friend's kid was her age, though then you mostly spent the night at her home, Brendon being there only to pick you up.

Finishing fixing the bottle, popping the cap on, continuously shaking it on the way back. Welcomed by the domestic sight of your husband, holding, rocking her cartoonishly side-to-side, causing your lips to thin, squishing a smile.

"Rock her softer," you correct, catching his eyes that flicker up then down, fixing his motion.

Witnessing baby Jane relax, still whining from hunger, satisfying it once leading the bottle into her mouth. Holding the bottle as she drinks, cooing softly, slowing Brendon's rocking to a full stop. Adoring the quiet bundle in your husband's arms, the chime of a doorbell breaks the moment.

"Here, hold it," you prompt, letting go once his hand holds the bottle, allowing you to race over to Brendon's bag. Digging for his wallet, pulling out a cash tip before opening the front door, trading bag for money.

Smiling at the engulfing scent of food, closing the door, tapping it in your home. Prancing back into the living room, Brendon being where you left him. Setting down the plastic bag onto the coffee table, crashing down upon the couch, ripping open the takeout. Laying out your boxes, glancing up at Brendon's lack of movement, too focused on feeding baby Jane.

"Come sit," you say, patting the cushion next to you.

"She's eating," He responds, looking up at you, body still refusing to move.

"Bren, you can move while they eat," you inform, watching as he goes quiet, eyes flickering to the baby before cautiously moving toward the couch.

Utilizing all the hours he spends training his core and legs to steadily crane himself down onto the couch cushion, back stiffening straight, eyes stuck on the sight of her. Hands stopping their work on the food, soaking in the sweet domestic sight of your husband, lips parted, aiding the concentration on her face.

Heart melting at her hand reaching up, touching the bottle and Brendon's hand, her completely relaxed state contrasting his anxiety fixed stature. A small smile lines your lips, knowing both would pass out as soon as their body hit something soft, one from a belly full of milk, the other from habit.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI.

Only a select few at the hospital know the true Brendon Park. Of course Walsh and Garcia, who have spent many an emergency trauma surgery with him when he needed to do an ORIF or an ex-fix, know the true Park. They cut through his bullshit and didn’t let his intimidating shark-like stare scare them off- they can take his smart remarks and the roll of his eyes and give it all right back at him.

They know that Brendon Park’s other nickname is daddy and not in the way that you’re thinking- but because he’s called that by three little people at home who have his eyes and your smile.

They know that when you got pregnant with your first child- something changed in Brendon. A switch flipped because suddenly the man who had expensive taste and seemed to live his lavish lifestyle turned into a family man. He started to- well he started to nest. His sleek sports car was traded in for an SUV that he spent hours comparing crash tests and ratings because you and his daughter would be riding inside. He studied and obsessed over which car seat was the safest- scared the poor sales boy who couldn’t answer his questions fast enough. The diaper bag he picked has near tactical level organization that rivaled Abbot’s backpack and was already ready to go whenever you needed.

They know that during your second pregnancy- your daughter was a toddler and learned to walk on cold penthouse tiles and that he complained about her room bringing in little light for her. They saw Brendon immediately spring into action- knew how he spent days looking at neighborhoods with good schools nearby and he settled on the perfect house for you to raise your kids in. Two stories, 6 bedrooms, giant backyard with space for a swing set and a garden. He spent one of his rare weekends off painting the rooms for his kids, setting up the crib for his son that you’re due to have soon and- building that swing set that your kids will play on and grow up with.

They were called aunt Yoli and aunt Emy by your kids- they knew Brendon cried on your daughters first day of school because she let go of his hand and ran into her classroom with excitement and awe. That you had to console him and spent the entire day telling him to not pick her up early- and then spent the rest of the day sitting outside the school way too early to pick her up because he was antsy. They knew that Park made waffles on Sunday mornings for you and his kids. He would wake up early- kiss your cheek before leaving you in bed to go check on his babies down the hall. Your daughter at the age where she can attend one of those good school that Brendon pays for- your son still in preschool but it makes his heart feel sad that in another year he’ll join your daughter.

And with your third pregnancy? They knew that Brendon now realized what was the most important factor in raising a family- time. God there wasn’t enough and not even all the money in his accounts could give him more time- because he remembers the panic when your oldest was born and now she has her first ballet recital and he made sure to block out the day to not be on call. Birthdays are a special event and he takes the day off to make sure he can join you in blowing up balloons and making pancakes with sprinkles and candles for breakfast. Brendon’s life was changed because he’s present for every event- soccer games even if he son is the most uncoordinated child ever, piano and ballets recitals, softball games, and school plays. They know that Park refuses to let time slip from his hands when it comes to you and his kids because the second they become known he’s there for every appointment, anatomy scan, blood draw, and ultrasound.

But everyone knows how frustrated Brendon Park “the Shark” gets when he’s gets called in the middle of the night for an ortho trauma-

“Mmph, Brendon~” huffing out his name with a shaky breath when a heavy hand slides up your nightgown to cup at your chest- his lips busy with the skin of your neck to nip and bite at before using his tongue to soothe the pain. You were both woken up by your middle child- monsters and scary men in his dreams that required his big mean daddy to take care of for him but after slaying the demons, your husband had some other plans for the night. “H-happy Father’s D-day,” muffled by his needy lips and desperate touches- little grinds of himself between your thighs to quell the ache that was growing between you both.

“Give me another one,” groaning- drunk off your taste and the pretty way you sound underneath him while he struggles and paws at the neckline of your nightgown so he can get better access for his mouth to occupy your chest. “One more baby, honey- you give me such pretty babies,” he was lost in it now- mouthing dark marks on your skin while nearly slurring his words against your body. “We have one more room to fill- just one more baby- please,” it was hard to deny him now- sounding so needy and desperate and pulling at his boxers before the sound of his phone interrupted you both. You’d think he got fired with the way he whimpered and whined a loud ‘no!’ against your lips- but duty calls and he was the one who had to answer for this shift. Which left him annoyed. Grumpy. Pouting against your lips for a final kiss before tucking you back into bed and mumbling “this isn’t over,” before finding his way to PTMC for a trauma. He’s not sure what makes him more irritated- the denial of soft, half-asleep 3 am sex with his wife or the fact that he’ll miss breakfast with his family on Father’s Day.

“Dr. Park,” his favorite scrub nurse old woman, has been in the practice for years and also doesn’t take shit from Brendon called out over the music- “it’s yours.” He almost didn’t hear her- today felt like a good day for Knocked Loose. But he nods- telling them to turn the volume down when she answered his phone. She also knew of his family- because she was the only one who could see that his background lock screen was a trio of babies who had a familiar blues and sweet smiles that let them get away with anything. Ice cream for breakfast, cookies in bed, a treat just because-

“This is Park,” answering almost on autopilot- stiff voice while he finished the last touches of the ex-fix before asking for a 4-0 Dacron.

“Daddy?” The entire OR paused- a soft, tiny voice broke through the speaker and immediately the tension from Park’s body melted- his eyes softened and they could see the way he smiled from behind the mask. Immediately after Brendon answered his oldest child, another other tiny voice- that of your oldest son spoke up and he could hear the distinct babble of your youngest son trying to keep up with his two siblings. The Shark personality was gone- there was no biting off heads or the voice he saves for chewing out interns. The OR listens while a trio of voices wish him a happy Father’s Day- his oldest giving him her best rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star while his son started yelling his ABC’s to show Park he’s been practicing. And in the background? A very loud chanting of ‘dadadadadadadada’ from your youngest who needs to make it known that his favorite person was also his first word.

Park is engaged- intently listening to your kids while you try to calm them and listen for him in case he needs you to step in if his surgery gets dicey and he has to hang up. You know your husband can multitask- focusing on the delicate tendon reattachment while the kids go on in detail about the breakfast they had. He doesn’t use fillers or just nod along while they speak- no he’s engaged and asking questions and- “did you have any fruit or just syrup?” Because your son would eat it with a spoon if you let him.

“Daddy what are you doing?” Your oldest has become interested in his job lately- tells everyone she meets that her daddy fixes bones. She’ll stay up and crawl into his lap while he reads case studies softly to her until she falls asleep- safe and warm in his arms until he decides to carry her back to her room and tuck her in.

“I’m fixing someone’s leg,” some poor bastard who ended up on the wrong side of a car accident. No casualties but the years of physical therapy will be hell for this kid. Your daughter knows that bone! Excitedly exclaiming that clearly that’s the femur- ‘that’s in your thigh’ she’ll do an aside to you as if her and her dad that’s their own little language now that she can understand. After another few minutes of your kids asking if Brendon will kiss their owie like he does their own- you finally manage to get a second to speak before leaving him to work. Giving the entire OR a view into your life- a view of the Brendon that’s yours. That he’s loved- has a family and a wife and does ingest more that protein he actually has a major sweet tooth believe it or not- having found him and your kids in the kitchen late at night sneaking spoonfuls of ice cream and loud shhhh’s because ‘mommy is sleeping!’

“I love you Brendon, happy Father’s Day,” you know he hurts- how he can’t always be there for you and your kids but it’s not like he’s willfully abandoning you. He always comes back. They know he leaves but what’s even more important is that he comes back to them- tired and drained but he never lets them know. Body exhausted and mind busy but the second he comes home and hears their excitement of ‘daddy’s home!’ You remind him that you and the kids will be waiting- you’ll always wait up for him. And that he has a few gifts to open when he comes home. A nice new scrub cap that you had made of your kid’s drawings of sharks for him- ‘dada!’ your youngest shrieked- already having made a connection between sharks and his dad.

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Holland March was many things: a functional alcoholic, a terrible Private Investigator, and an even worse secret-keeper; but he was so stupidly in love with you that none of that seemed to matter. One example of his devotion came in the form of keeping three very explicit Polaroids of you tucked into the back slot of his wallet, right behind his emergency twenty-dollar bill and his PI license.

It was a terrible idea, but you hadn't considered the half of it when you caught him sliding one of the photos in there after a particularly enthusiastic afternoon in his bedroom. It was hot that day, and Holly was away at summer camp. You were sticky, covered in a sheen of sweat, still lying wrapped in his white sheets; he'd pulled on some boxers and a white vest, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Holland,” you’d said, half-laughing, half-gasping, “are you sure those aren't gonna slip out? I don't need naked photos of me scattered around LA.” He'd grinned his crooked, boyish smile and shrugged, speaking through his cigarette. “Baby, I like having you close," he said, circling round to your side of the bed to kiss your cheek. "What if I'm on an extra long, extra boring stake-out and need some entertainment?" You'd laughed, smacked his arm, and pulled him back into bed.

Two weeks later, Holland and Healy were on their way back from an investigation that had mostly involved eating gas station snacks and arguing about whose turn it was to pay for coffee. Very little detective work was actually done, and they'd spent the majority of the time on the road in Holland's Buick. “I’m starving,” Healy grumbled, fishing around in his jacket for cash. “Pull into the drive-thru. I'll pay ya back.” Holland sighed, reaching into his back pocket, and tossed his wallet over to Healy without thinking. "Fine. Back compartment, there's a twenty in there." Healy obliged, flipping the wallet open to grab the crumpled twenty, when one of the photos slipped out and landed in the footwell; Healy huffed, bending over to pick it up. Curious, he turned the picture face up; Healy froze: it was a particularly compromising shot of you on your back, legs spread, wearing nothing but white socks and one of Holland’s shirts (unbuttoned).

The car remained silent except for the low hum of the engine and Holland's fingers rapping against the car door, holding the cigarette out the window, as he turned into the drive-thru queue. Healy hadn't moved an inch or spoken a word. "You find it yet?" Holland turned impatiently to Healy, confused by his silence. Suddenly, he spotted the polaroid in his lap. He stared for a moment, cigarette falling from between his fingers into the road. Then, Holland made a noise like a dying animal and lunged across the gear shit, trying to snatch the photo out of his hands. “Give me that! Don’t look at it! I am forbidding you from looking at it!” Healy held the photo up out of March's reach, squinting. “Is that…?” “Yes, it’s her—give it to me!” Holland practically climbed over Healy's legs to grab it. It was a good thing the car was already stationary. “You keep nudes of your girlfriend in your wallet? Next to your cash? That’s… bold, March. And stupid, too.”

Grasping desperately, Holland finally snatched the photo from between his fingers and recoiled from Healy's side of the car, shoving it into his jacket pocket defensively. His face was bright red as he returned to his seat. “It’s sentimental, dick! I like having her with me!” A silence settled between them as Healy smirked. Holland used this time to find another cigarette to calm his nerves, refusing to look at Healy. "...does she have to be naked for it to be sentimental?" Healy provoked. "She's not naked in all of them." Healy lost it: he started cackling, leaning forward to peer at March. “Wait, there’s more than one? Jesus, you carry them around like baseball cards?” “Shut up,” Holland muttered, defeated. “Just shut up.” Healy wheezed with laughter, slapping the dashboard. “You absolute degenerate. What if you tried to pay for something and handed a cashier one of these? ‘Here you go, keep the change and enjoy the view!’” He smacked his knees, practically rolling with laughter. Holland groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel for a second. "She's gonna kill me."

Brendon returned your container the next evening.

You heard him before you saw him.

Not his footsteps exactly. Those were too controlled to give much away. But Biscuit heard something beyond your apartment door and lifted his head from the rug like he had been personally summoned. His bell jingled once.

You looked down from the recipe notes spread across your small table. “No.”

Biscuit stood.

You pointed at him. “Absolutely not.”

A soft knock sounded against your door. One quick rap. Then came the quiet click of something being set down in the hall.

Biscuit bolted.

You got there first, scooping him up before he got to the door.

“Sir,” you told him, securing him against your chest, “you are under house arrest for a reason.”

Biscuit meowed like he had legal objections.

You checked that you had him firmly tucked against you, then opened the door.

Brendon stood across the hall in front of 6C, one hand holding his keys, dark scrubs, his work bag hanging from one shoulder, and he looked tired in the precise, controlled way he seemed to do everything, as if exhaustion were something he had acknowledged and then filed away.

At your feet sat your glass container.

Washed so thoroughly it looked almost new, the lid snapped into place, with a folded note tucked beneath it. Your attention dropped to it. Then back to him.

“You returned it,” you said.

Brendon looked at the container. “You said it was one of your good ones.”

“I did say that,” you said, shifting Biscuit higher when he tried to wriggle toward the hall. “I didn’t expect such a fast turnaround.”

Brendon slid his key into his lock. “It held food.”

You blinked. “Is that a reason?”

“It’s a reason to wash it,” Brendon said.

You looked down at the container again. “Did you sterilize it?”

Brendon glanced back at you. “No.”

You looked at the spotless glass. “Are you sure?”

His mouth almost moved. “Reasonably.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled as he stretched one paw toward the hallway.

You looked down at him. “Do not.”

Biscuit stretched harder.

Brendon’s gaze dropped to the kitten. “He’s persistent.”

“He’s nosy,” you said.

Biscuit meowed.

You looked at him. “And rude.”

Brendon bent to pick up his work bag, then paused when Biscuit made one more determined attempt to escape your hold. The kitten twisted toward 6C with remarkable commitment.

You sighed. “Biscuit, stop trying to network after eight.”

Brendon looked at you. “Network?”

You nodded toward Biscuit. “He has decided your apartment is an extension of his territory.”

Brendon looked down at the kitten. “It isn’t.”

Biscuit meowed again.

You lifted him a little higher against your chest. “He disagrees.”

Brendon looked at Biscuit. Then at you. Then back at Biscuit.

“He lacks authority,” Brendon said.

You stared at him for one second. Then a laugh slipped out of you, warm and surprised. Brendon’s hand tightened briefly around the strap of his work bag. You crouched carefully, still holding Biscuit securely with one arm, and picked up the container with your free hand. The note shifted under the lid.

You looked at the folded paper. “Is this a review?”

Brendon’s gaze moved to the note. “You said you appreciated the feedback.”

“I did,” you said, freeing the note from beneath the lid. “I just didn’t know there would be written documentation.”

Brendon opened his door. “Efficient.”

You unfolded the note.

Needed salt. Still ate three.

That was it. Four words and a period. You stared at it. Then you read it again.

Needed salt. Still ate three.

Biscuit stretched toward the paper and tried to bite the corner.

“No,” you said, pulling the note out of reach. “That is correspondence.”

Biscuit looked offended. You held the note higher. “Important correspondence.”

Brendon watched you from his doorway. You glanced up and caught him looking. Your face warmed.

“You ate three,” you said.

Brendon held your gaze. “I did.”

The answer was simple. Direct. Barely anything. It still managed to land somewhere warm.

You cleared your throat and folded the note carefully. “That’s very high praise from you, isn’t it?”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. “I said they needed salt.”

“You ate three,” you said.

Brendon looked down at Biscuit, who had stretched one paw toward his threshold again. “Both can be true.”

You tucked the note against the container and adjusted Biscuit before he could make a final bid for freedom. “You know, he has toys. He has food. He has a very expensive flea comb, which he hates with his whole soul. And still, this is where he wants to be.”

Brendon looked at Biscuit. “Questionable judgment.”

Your voice softened before you could stop it. “I don’t know. He might have good instincts.”

The hallway went quiet. Brendon looked back at you. You looked down at the note too quickly. Biscuit’s bell jingled once.

You seized on the distraction. “See? This is what I mean. Zero subtlety.”

Brendon stepped into 6C, but he did not close the door right away. You stood across from him, holding Biscuit against your chest, the clean container balanced in your other arm, the note pressed beneath your thumb.

“Thank you for washing this,” you said.

Brendon nodded. “Thank you for the food.”

“It wasn’t a transaction,” you said.

Brendon looked at the note in your hand. “No?”

You looked down at the paper, then back at him. “Okay. It was transaction-adjacent.”

Brendon’s mouth almost curved. Almost. You hugged the container closer and felt suddenly, stupidly pleased.

“Goodnight, Dr. Park,” you said.

Brendon’s gaze held yours for a beat. “Goodnight.”

You hesitated. The softness of his first name sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it back this time. You stepped back into 6B before Biscuit could launch himself across the hall.

Brendon closed his door.

Biscuit stared at 6C like a betrayed man.

You looked down at him. “Subtlety. We’ve talked about this.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled. You looked at the folded note again.

Needed salt. Still ate three.

You smiled and shut your door.

The next morning, Biscuit made it exactly three seconds into freedom before planting himself in front of Brendon’s door. You had opened 6B with your bag over one shoulder, keys in one hand, and a wrapped muffin tucked carefully against your chest. You were watching the hallway. You were prepared.

Biscuit was faster.

His bell jingled once, twice, three times as he slipped through the gap at your feet and trotted directly across the hall.

Then he sat on Brendon’s doormat. Neatly. Politely. Like he had been invited.

You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

Biscuit looked at 6C. You stepped into the hallway and pulled your door mostly closed behind you. “You do not live there.”

Biscuit’s tail flicked. You lowered your voice. “He is a busy man with cheekbones and responsibilities.”

The lock on 6C clicked. You froze. Biscuit looked deeply pleased with himself.

Brendon opened his door. He stood there in dark blue scrubs, travel mug in one hand, work bag already hooked over one shoulder. His gaze dropped immediately to the kitten sitting on his mat.

Biscuit looked up at him. Brendon looked down at Biscuit. Neither of them moved.

You held your muffin tighter. “Good morning, Dr. Park.”

Brendon’s gaze stayed on Biscuit. “Morning.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled. 

Brendon said, “No.”

Biscuit meowed.

Brendon looked unimpressed. “Still no.”

You pressed your lips together. “He appears to disagree.”

Brendon glanced up at you. “He often does.”

You stepped forward and reached for Biscuit. “Sorry. He’s started treating your door like his vacation home.”

Brendon looked back down at the kitten. “He lacks a rental agreement.”

Biscuit meowed again.

You scooped him up before he could make a break for the inside of 6C. “Do not argue tenant law with Dr. Park.”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. Almost.

You tucked Biscuit securely against you. “We’re working on boundaries.”

Brendon closed his door behind him. “He has objections.”

You looked down at Biscuit, who was still staring at 6C like a denied applicant. “He has many objections.”

Biscuit meowed.

Brendon looked at him. “Overruled.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “Wow. Harsh.”

Brendon’s gaze flicked to you. “Necessary.”

The elevator dinged at the end of the hall, saving you from having to decide why that single word made your stomach do something inconvenient.

You turned back to 6B and opened your door. “Okay, sir. Back inside. Some of us have school.”

Biscuit stretched one paw toward Brendon over your shoulder.

You looked at him. “No visitation before class.”

Brendon said, “Good policy.”

You glanced back. “Thank you. I drafted it under pressure.”

Biscuit meowed.

You stepped into your apartment just far enough to set him safely inside, then used your foot to block his immediate attempt to follow you back out.

“No,” you told him, voice firm. “Do not make me look irresponsible in front of the orthopedic surgeon.” 

Brendon was quiet behind you. Too quiet.

You looked over your shoulder.

His expression had not changed much, but there was something almost amused in his eyes.

Your face warmed. “That was for him.”

Brendon said, “Obviously.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You are very dry before seven.”

“I’m dry after seven,” Brendon said.

“I believe that,” you said.

Biscuit made one final offended sound from inside 6B. You pointed through the gap. “Think about your choices.”

Then you pulled your door closed, locked it, and turned back toward the hall.

Brendon was still waiting. Not impatiently. Not obviously, at least. But he had not gone ahead to the elevator. That did something small and warm in your chest.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Sorry.”

Brendon said, “For what?”

You glanced at your door. “The daily hostage negotiation.”

Brendon looked at 6B. “He’s improving.”

You stared at him. “He just attempted a hallway jailbreak.”

“He stopped at my door,” Brendon said.

“That is not improvement,” you said.

“It’s predictable,” Brendon said.

You looked at him for a second. Then you laughed softly. “That is such a surgeon's answer.”

Brendon’s mouth almost curved. “It’s an accurate answer.”

You started walking toward the elevator with him. “You know, most people would call him clingy.”

Brendon walked beside you, his stride measured enough that you did not have to hurry. “Most people aren’t responsible for his clinical assessment.”

You looked over. “Oh, you’re responsible now?”

Brendon pressed the elevator button. “Apparently.”

The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside first. Brendon followed, then reached past you to press the lobby button. He did not crowd you. He did not touch you. Still, the space felt smaller once he was in it. 

Brendon’s coffee drifted warm and rich through the elevator. You glanced at the travel mug in his hand before you could stop yourself. Brendon noticed.

His gaze dropped briefly to the muffin tucked against your chest. “You remembered breakfast.”

You lifted it slightly. “I know. Very adult. Very mature of me.”

Brendon looked at the muffin. “That’s a muffin.”

“A breakfast muffin,” you said.

“Marketing,” Brendon said.

You smiled at the elevator doors. “Effective marketing.”

The elevator began its slow descent.

You inhaled without meaning to. “Your coffee smells really good.”

Brendon looked down at the mug. “It should.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “That sounds expensive.”

“The beans are good,” Brendon said.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Where do you get them?”

Brendon hesitated for half a second. It was not long. It was still there. Then he gave you the name of a local roaster.

You repeated it softly, committing it to memory. “I’ll have to try that.”

Brendon looked at you.

You looked down at your muffin before the eye contact could get too heavy. “Survival coffee has been getting me through class, but I’m open to upgrading.”

Brendon said, “You should.”

The elevator reached the lobby, doors opening with a soft chime. Brendon stepped out first, then held the door with one hand while you adjusted your bag.

You looked up. “Thanks.”

Brendon nodded once. You shifted the muffin against your chest and started toward the front entrance. Brendon moved toward the parking garage. You made it three steps before his voice stopped you.

“Eat that,” Brendon said.

You turned back. “The breakfast muffin?”

Brendon looked at you. “Effective marketing only works if the product is consumed.”

Your smile came before you could stop it. “Yes, Dr. Park,” you said.

Brendon held your gaze for a quiet beat. Then he nodded and walked toward the garage. You stood there for one extra second with the smell of his coffee still lingering in the air. Then you looked down at your muffin and sighed.

“The jawline was not helping,” you muttered to yourself and headed for class.

The next morning, Brendon opened his door with two travel mugs in his hands.

One was his. One was also his. 

That was the part you noticed first. Not the work bag over his shoulder. Not his usual focused expression. Not even the fact that Biscuit, apparently sensing weakness through drywall, immediately launched himself toward the hallway the second you opened your own door.

The second mug.

You froze with one hand on your door, and one foot angled firmly in front of Biscuit’s tiny body.

Biscuit’s bell jingled with outrage. You looked down at him. “No.”

Biscuit tried to go around your foot. You shifted with him. “Absolutely not.”

Across the hall, Brendon looked down at the kitten. Biscuit meowed at him, as if requesting intervention.

Brendon said, “Denied.”

You looked up. “You’re encouraging authoritarianism.”

Brendon’s gaze moved from Biscuit to you. “I’m encouraging hallway order.”

“Strong words from his co-conspirator,” you said.

Brendon’s eyebrow shifted. “Co-conspirator?”

“You opened your door,” you said.

“I live here,” He replied. 

“Convenient defense,” you said.

Biscuit made another attempt at freedom. You bent, scooped him up, and stepped back into 6B just far enough to set him safely inside.

“No visitation before class,” you told him.

Biscuit meowed.

You pointed down at him. “Do not look at me like that. Dr. Park has bones to fix, and you have a stuffed mouse to emotionally terrorize.”

From the hall, Brendon said, “Accurate division of labor.”

You glanced back at him. “Thank you.”

Brendon nodded once. You used your foot to block Biscuit’s final attempt to follow you, then pulled the door closed and checked the lock. When you turned back around, Brendon was still standing across the hall with two travel mugs. Your attention dropped to the second one again.

Brendon held it out. “Coffee,” he said.

You blinked. “For me?”

“You said you wanted to try it,” Brendon said.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I meant eventually.”

“This is eventually,” Brendon said.

You stared at him for a second. Then you took the mug carefully. It was warm against your palm. Metal. Clean. Definitely not a disposable cup he had grabbed on the way out. His. Something about that made the gesture feel heavier than coffee had any right to feel before seven in the morning.

“Dr. Park,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

Brendon looked at the mug. “It’s coffee.”

“It’s your mug,” you said.

“I know,” Brendon said.

You looked at him. He looked back. Biscuit jingled angrily behind your door.

You cleared your throat. “Thank you.”

Brendon nodded. “I didn’t know how you take it.”

“Oh,” you said, looking down at the coffee. “Right. I can fix it before I leave.”

Brendon glanced toward the elevator. “You have time?”

“Barely,” you said.

Then you looked back at your apartment door. The responsible thing would have been to take the coffee downstairs, doctor it at school, and not invite the tired orthopedic surgeon into your apartment because he had done one thoughtful thing before sunrise. 

The responsible thing sounded terrible.

Then you unlocked 6B and pushed the door open wider with your hip. “You can step in. I’ll be thirty seconds.”

Biscuit immediately appeared in the narrow opening.

You looked down at him. “And he will be supervised.”

Brendon looked into your apartment. For a moment, you thought he might say no.

Then Brendon stepped across the hall. “Thirty seconds.”

You backed into 6B, using one foot to gently nudge Biscuit away from the threshold. “One second. Very efficient. We love efficiency here.”

Brendon entered your apartment and closed the door behind him. Not fully. Just enough to keep Biscuit from bolting.

Your apartment seemed smaller with him in it. It was already small, technically, but Brendon made it feel like every surface had moved closer. He stood near the entry, work bag still on his shoulder, travel mug in one hand, eyes moving once over the half-unpacked box by the wall, the culinary textbooks stacked on your small table, the dish towel draped over the back of a chair, and the tiny orange kitten currently sniffing his shoe.

You looked down at Biscuit. “No crimes.”

Biscuit put one paw on Brendon’s shoe. Brendon looked down. “Don’t.”

Biscuit looked up at him. Brendon held his gaze. “You heard me.”

You paused with your hand on the sugar jar. Then you turned slowly. “Are you talking to my cat?”

Brendon looked at you. “No.”

Biscuit put his other paw on Brendon’s shoe. You looked down at him, then back at Brendon. “He seems unconvinced.”

Brendon’s gaze dropped to Biscuit. “He often is.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Brendon looked away first. You turned back to the counter and unscrewed the lid of the travel mug. Steam curled up, warm and rich. The coffee smelled even better without the lid in the way, deep and smooth and entirely unfair to every cup you had ever bought in desperation before class.

“Oh,” you said.

Brendon looked over. “What?”

You lifted the mug slightly. “This smells amazing.”

“The beans are good,” Brendon said.

“You said that like it’s not a brag.” You replied. 

“It’s an explanation,” Brendon said.

You smiled and reached for the sugar. Brendon watched you add one spoonful. Then a second. Then a third.

His eyebrow moved.

You paused with the spoon halfway back to the jar. “Don’t.”

Brendon said, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your eyebrow did. It’s got a judgmental tone,” you said.

Brendon looked at the sugar jar. “It had concerns.” 

You added a fourth spoonful while holding his gaze. “I like joy in my coffee.”

Brendon glanced at the mug. “Apparently.”

You reached for the milk and added a splash. Brendon watched that too. You stirred, lifted the mug, and took a careful sip. Then you stopped. The coffee was good. Not just good.

Annoyingly good.

Smooth, rich, not bitter. The sugar rounded it out. The milk softened it. The whole thing tasted like something made by a person who had standards and the equipment to enforce them.

You lowered the mug slowly.

Brendon’s attention was on your face.

You felt the weight of it immediately. “What?” you asked.

Brendon said, “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That wasn’t nothing.”

Brendon looked at the mug. “You liked it.”

You held it closer to your chest. “That is a very mild description of what just happened.”

His mouth almost curved. “Good?”

You nodded, taking another indulgent sip.

Biscuit’s bell jingled near Brendon’s shoe. Brendon looked down. “Still no.”

You smiled into the mug before taking another sip. Brendon looked back at you, and this time his gaze caught on the way your hand wrapped around the travel mug. His mug.

Your coffee now.

He seemed to realize he was looking and glanced toward the door. “You’ll be late.”

You checked the time and let out a small sound of alarm. “Oh, my god. Yes. Okay.”

You set the sugar spoon down, grabbed your bag, and nearly forgot the coffee before Brendon picked it up from the counter and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed his around the mug. The contact was brief. Barely anything.

Still, your eyes flicked up to his. Brendon noticed.

“Hot,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the mug. “The coffee.”

“Oh,” you said quickly. “Right. Yes. Hot.”

Biscuit meowed from the floor.

You looked down at him, grateful and betrayed by the interruption. “Do not start.”

Brendon opened the door, then waited while you maneuvered around Biscuit without giving him an opening. You stepped into the hall first, coffee in hand, bag on your shoulder. Brendon followed and shut your door once Biscuit was safely inside.

You looked at him. “Thank you.”

Brendon’s hand dropped from the door. “For closing it?”

“For the coffee,” you said. “And closing it.”

Brendon nodded once. You started toward the elevator together.

At the elevator, you lifted the mug for another sip. Brendon watched the floor numbers above the door. “Four sugars,” he said.

You looked at him. “What?”

Brendon’s gaze stayed forward. “Splash of milk.”

You stared at his profile. “Are you memorizing my coffee order?”

“You made it in front of me,” Brendon said.

“That is not a denial,” you said.

The elevator doors opened. Brendon stepped inside first, then held the door with one hand while you followed. His eyes flicked briefly to the mug in your hand. Then back to the numbers above the door.

“No,” Brendon said.

You smiled down into the coffee. He was lying. Not well.

You returned Brendon’s travel mug that evening. Clean. Dry. No coffee smell lingering inside, because you had washed it twice and then stood in your kitchen wondering if twice was strange. Biscuit watched you from the back of the couch with open judgment.

You looked at him. “It’s his mug.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled when he shifted.

You held up the clean travel mug. “It had to be clean.”

Biscuit yawned.

“Fine,” you said. “It had to be extremely clean.”

The note came last. You tried three versions before you settled on one that did not make you sound completely ridiculous. The first one had said, "Thank you for the coffee; it was amazing." Which felt too simple for something that had stayed warm throughout your entire first lecture and made your morning feel as if it had been handled with care.

The second one had said, “Best coffee I have ever had.” Which was true, but also sounded dramatic.

The third one stayed.

Best. Coffee. Ever. Seriously. 

Thank you.

You folded the note once, tucked it beneath the mug, and opened your door just enough to check the hallway. Empty. “Okay,” you whispered to Biscuit. “Fast and casual.”

Biscuit blinked.

You stepped out, set the mug in front of 6C, and got exactly one step back toward your apartment before the elevator dinged.

You froze. The doors opened. Brendon stepped out.

Of course. Of course, he did.

He came down the hall in his scrubs, bag on his shoulder, gaze already fixed on you like he had noticed you before the elevator doors had finished opening.

You straightened too quickly. “Hi,” you said.

Brendon’s gaze dropped to the travel mug on the floor between you. Then to the note. Then back to you.

You pointed at it. “Returned.”

Brendon walked closer. “I see that.”

“I washed it,” you said.

His mouth almost moved. “I assumed.”

“Twice,” you added.

Brendon looked at you. You closed your eyes for half a second. “I did not need to say that.”

“No,” Brendon said.

You opened your eyes. He bent and picked up the mug, sliding the folded note free with two fingers.

You watched him read it, which was a mistake. You knew it immediately. Brendon’s face did not change much when he read. His expression stayed controlled, almost clinical, but his attention went quiet in a way that made the hallway feel too small.

He read the note once. Then again.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your sleeve.

“It was good coffee,” you said.

Brendon looked up. “Best ever.”

You felt your face warm. “I was being sincere.”

“I know,” Brendon said.

That was worse. Somehow, that was much worse.

Biscuit’s bell jingled behind your apartment door.

You looked back at 6B, grateful for the interruption. “He knows you’re in the hallway.”

Brendon glanced toward your door. “Persistent.”

“He believes in shared custody,” you said.

Brendon looked at you. “Denied.”

You pressed your lips together. “You’re not even considering his case.”

“He has no case,” Brendon said.

“He has emotional evidence.” You replied. 

“He has trespassing charges,” Brendon said.

You pointed at him. “Harsh.”

“Consistent,” Brendon said.

You smiled before you could stop it. Brendon held the mug in one hand and the note in the other. He looked down at the note again, briefly, like he was deciding what to do with it. Then he folded it once and tucked it into his pocket.

Your breath caught in the smallest, stupidest way.

Brendon looked back at you. “Thank you.”

You nodded toward the mug. “It wasn’t a transaction.”

Brendon’s gaze stayed on yours. “No?”

“No,” you said. “It was a return.”

“With commentary,” Brendon said.

You lifted one shoulder. “Efficient.”

His mouth almost curved. Almost.

Biscuit meowed behind your door, louder this time.

You sighed. “I should go reassure him that I haven’t abandoned him for the orthopedic surgeon across the hall.”

Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours for one extra beat. “Would that help?”

“Not really,” you said. “He’s dramatic.”

Brendon nodded once. “I’ve noticed.”

You stepped back toward 6B. “Goodnight, Dr. Park.”

Brendon shifted the mug in his hand. “Goodnight.”

You paused with your hand on your doorknob. Then you looked back at him. “Brendon.”

His gaze lifted.

You smiled, softer this time. “Goodnight, Brendon.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Biscuit screeched from inside your apartment.

You looked toward the door. “Oh my god, I’m coming.”

Brendon’s mouth almost curved again.

You stepped into 6B and closed the door behind you. 

Across the hall, Brendon stood alone with the travel mug in one hand and your note in his pocket.

For a long moment, he did not unlock his door. Then he took the note back out.

Best. Coffee. Ever. Seriously.

Thank you.

He read it once more.

Then he folded it carefully and went inside.

The next morning, Brendon had two travel mugs again.

You opened your door with your bag over your shoulder and one hand already braced low, prepared to block Biscuit from making another dramatic run for 6C. Biscuit tried anyway. He hit your foot, looked offended, and meowed.

“No,” you told him. “You are predictable now.”

Across the hall, Brendon glanced down at the kitten. “Improvement.”

You looked up. “Do not encourage him.”

“I encouraged predictability,” Brendon said.

“That is somehow worse,” you said.

Brendon held out the second travel mug. You stilled. The gesture should not have surprised you. It did anyway.

“Oh,” you said.

Brendon’s expression stayed neutral. “Coffee.”

You took it carefully. “This is becoming a habit.”

Brendon looked at you. “Is that a problem?”

Your fingers tightened around the warm metal. “No,” you said. “Not a problem.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled against your ankle. You looked down at him quickly, because Brendon’s eye contact before seven in the morning was becoming a health hazard.

“Back inside,” you told Biscuit.

Biscuit meowed. You nudged him gently through the doorway with your foot. “No arguing. Some of us have been gifted beverages and need to act normal about it.”

Brendon was quiet. Too quiet.

You looked over your shoulder. His gaze was on you.

Your face warmed. “That was also for him.”

Brendon said, “Obviously.”

You pulled your door shut and locked it. Only then did you lift the travel mug. Through the small hole in the lid, you could see the coffee was already pale with milk. You stared at it. Then at him.

Brendon adjusted the strap of his bag. “Four sugars. Splash of milk.”

Something soft and dangerous moved through your chest.

“You remembered,” you said.

Brendon looked toward the elevator. “You showed me.”

“That is a very Brendon answer,” you said.

His gaze cut back to you. You realized what you had called him a second after you said it. Not Dr. Park. Brendon. His first name sat there in the hallway between you, warmer than the coffee in your hand. Brendon did not correct you. He did not tease you.

He just looked at you for one quiet second and said, “It’s an accurate answer.”

You swallowed a smile and started toward the elevator. “Of course it is.”

Brendon walked beside you. You took a sip before the elevator arrived. Then you stopped.

 He noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“Wrong?” Brendon asked.

You lowered the mug. “No.”

His attention stayed on you. You looked down at the coffee, then back at him. “Perfect, actually.”

Brendon’s expression did not change much. But his shoulders eased by a fraction. The elevator dinged.

You stepped inside first. Brendon followed. The doors closed, and for several seconds, neither of you said anything. 

You took another sip.

 Brendon watched the floor numbers.

 You watched his reflection in the elevator doors. And you thought, with a terrifying little flutter in your stomach, that this was how people got used to things.

One coffee at a time.

By the end of the week, Brendon had consistently made your coffee perfectly. Four sugars. Splash of milk.

 He also knew that Biscuit attempted escape between 6:41 and 6:47 every morning with the grim determination of a tiny criminal who had studied hallway patterns. 

He knew you had class on Tuesdays that made you quieter in the elevator afterward. 

He knew you made notes in the margins of your culinary textbooks, sometimes in pen, sometimes in pencil, depending on how confident you felt.

He knew you used the television for noise more often than you watched it.

He knew all of that without meaning to.

That was the problem.

Brendon was good at noticing things. At work, it made him efficient. Useful. Sharp. At home, it made him aware that 6B had started to sound familiar through the wall. 

A laugh at nine-thirty.

 A cabinet closing at ten.

Biscuit’s bell jingling in a frantic burst that usually meant he had committed a crime and was fleeing the scene.

Brendon told himself he noticed because you were neighbors.

The walls were not thin, exactly, but they were not built for orthopedic surgeons trying to mind their own business across from culinary students with orange kittens and too much sugar in their coffee.

It was structural. Not personal.

At 8:06 on Thursday night, someone knocked on his door.

Not frantic. Not accidental. One soft knock. Then another.

Brendon looked up from the journal article he had read twice without absorbing the last paragraph.

He already knew it was you. He did not move for one second. Then he set the tablet facedown on the couch and stood.

When he opened the door, you were standing in the hall outside 6C.

 No container in your hands.

No runaway Biscuit.

Just you.

Your hair was a little mussed from the day. Your sleeves were pushed up, and there was a faint dusting of flour near your wrist that you had either missed or forgotten about. Behind you, 6B was cracked open just enough for warm light to spill into the hall.

Something smelled like tomatoes, basil, garlic, and bread.

Brendon’s attention dropped briefly to your hands. Empty.

Then back to your face.

You took a breath. “I made dinner,” you said.

Brendon did not answer right away.

You kept going anyway, but you did not rush.

“I made dinner,” you said. “And I’d like you to come eat with me if you haven’t eaten.”

Brendon looked at you. The directness was new. Not forced. Not rehearsed.

Just there.

Clear and careful.

His hand stayed on the edge of his door. “Direct.”

Your mouth curved a little. “I’m adapting.”

“To me?” Brendon asked.

“A little,” you said.

Something shifted in his chest. Small. Inconvenient. 

Before he could decide what to do with it, Biscuit’s bell jingled from inside 6B.

You glanced over your shoulder. “And to him. But mostly because he’s impossible.”

Biscuit appeared in the narrow opening of your door, one paw pressed against the gap like he was testing the legal limits of containment.

Brendon looked at him. “No.”

Biscuit meowed.

You turned back to Brendon with a helpless little expression. “He heard dinner and assumed it came with visitation rights.”

“He assumes a lot,” Brendon said.

“He’s confident,” you said.

“He’s wrong,” Brendon said.

You looked down for a second, fighting a smile. Then you looked back up at him. The hallway quieted again.

Brendon became aware of several things at once. The smell of garlic. The flour on your wrist. The fact that you were waiting for an answer and trying very hard not to take his silence as rejection. The fact that he had not eaten since noon. The fact that he wanted to say yes.

“I haven’t eaten,” Brendon said.

Your expression softened.

He held your gaze. “And yes. I’d like to.”

For one second, your relief was visible. Then you tucked it away under a smile, like you were trying not to let him see how much the answer mattered.

“Okay,” you said. “Good.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled again.

You turned and pointed at the kitten. “You. Back up.”

Biscuit did not back up. Brendon stepped into the hall and closed his door behind him.

Biscuit immediately sat taller, as if his plan had succeeded.

You looked at him. “Do not look smug. This is not because of you.”

Brendon glanced down at Biscuit. “Mostly not.”

You looked back at him. “Do not encourage him.”

Brendon’s gaze moved to you. “I encouraged accuracy.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then shook your head and stepped back toward 6B. “Come on before I change my mind and make you eat in the hallway.”

Brendon followed you across the hall.

It was not the first time he had been in your apartment. But this time was different. He was not standing near the door with his work bag still on his shoulder and one eye on the clock. He was stepping inside because you had asked him to. Because you had made dinner. Because he had said yes.

Your apartment was warm in the way his never was. Not messy. Lived in. There was a stack of culinary books on the small table, two dish towels draped over the oven handle, and a row of spice jars lined up along the counter like you had rearranged them twice and still weren’t satisfied. Biscuit’s toys had migrated into the center of the living room. A half-unpacked box sat near the window, its flaps folded open around a pile of books.

The television was paused on a cooking competition with subtitles on and the volume low. Background noise, Brendon thought. Not watching. Just noise.

He did not say that.

You shut the door behind him quickly, blocking Biscuit’s attempt to slip out. “Nice try.”

Biscuit meowed.

You looked down. “No one respects you less than me.”

Brendon glanced at you.

You caught the look. “That was a lie. I respect him a medium amount.”

Brendon looked at Biscuit. “Generous.”

Biscuit trotted toward Brendon’s shoe and sniffed it like an old friend.

You moved toward the kitchen. “Ignore him. He’s going through a phase.”

Brendon looked down as Biscuit pressed one paw onto his shoe. “This phase has lasted several days.”

You pulled open a drawer. “He’s committed to the bit.”

Brendon said, “Clearly.”

Brendon watched you stir the pasta.

Tomato basil, from the smell of it. Fresh garlic. Olive oil. Something bright underneath. Lemon, maybe, or vinegar. A loaf of focaccia sat on a cutting board beside the stove, golden at the edges and studded with herbs.

“You made this tonight?” he asked.

You glanced back. “Most of it.”

“Most?” he asked. 

“The pasta dough was from class,” you said, plating a portion with careful concentration. “I brought it home. The sauce is mine. The focaccia is mine. The emotional damage is also mine.”

Brendon’s gaze moved to the bread. “Emotional damage?”

“It stuck to the pan,” you said.

Brendon looked at you. “It’s out of the pan.”

“After betrayal,” you said.

Brendon looked at the focaccia again. “Looks intact.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Do not be practical about my bread trauma.”

His mouth almost curved. “Noted.”

You handed him the plate. His fingers brushed yours around the edge. Barely. Accidental.

You noticed.

So did he.

You nodded toward the small table before your face could betray you any further. “Sit wherever. There are only two options, and one of them has Biscuit’s emotional support mouse under it.”

Brendon looked toward the table. There were two places set. Not elaborate. Not staged.

Two plates. Two forks. Two glasses of water.

One napkin folded neatly beside his place. One napkin slightly crooked beside yours.

He noticed that.  You noticed him noticing.

Your hand moved toward the crooked napkin, but you stopped yourself before fixing it.

Brendon sat in the chair without the mouse.

Biscuit immediately attempted to climb onto the other one's leg.

You pointed at him with the serving spoon. “No.”

Biscuit ignored you.

Brendon looked down. “Bad idea.”

Biscuit paused.

You looked from Brendon to the kitten. “Did you just warn my cat?”

Brendon’s gaze stayed on Biscuit. “He was considering an error.”

“He’s always considering an error,” you said.

Brendon looked back at you. “Then he needs frequent correction.”

You laughed as you sat across from him. “He’s going to love you even more if you keep talking to him like he’s your resident.”

Brendon picked up his fork. “Residents usually listen.”

You raised an eyebrow. Brendon paused.

“Some residents listen,” he amended.

You smiled into your water glass.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were forks against plates, Biscuit’s bell under the table, and the low hum of the paused television.

Brendon took one bite. Then another. 

You waited for exactly three seconds before impatience got the better of you. “Well?”

Brendon looked at you.

You sat straighter. “That is not a helpful face.”

“I haven’t said anything,” he said.

“Exactly,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

Brendon took another bite.

You watched him like the answer mattered.

It did, he realized.

Not in the way praise usually mattered to people.

You did not want him to flatter you. You wanted the truth because you planned to use it.

“Good,” Brendon said.

Your eyes narrowed. “Just good?”

“Needs pepper,” he said.

Your expression changed instantly. Not disappointment. Interest.

“In the sauce or on top?” you asked.

“In the sauce,” Brendon said. “Earlier.”

You reached for the notebook beside the salt and grabbed a pen. “Okay. Earlier.”

Brendon watched you write it down.

Then you looked back at him. “Anything else?”

He glanced at the bread. “Focaccia is good.”

You pointed the pen at him. “Suspiciously simple.”

“It’s good,” Brendon said.

“The note said the turnovers needed salt.” You replied. 

“They did,” Brendon said.

You raised a brow, “And this?”

“Needs pepper,” he said.

You tapped the pen once against the notebook. “That’s very restrained of you.”

Brendon took another bite. “The bread doesn’t need correction.”

You went still for half a second.

Then you looked down at your plate, but he saw the smile before you could hide it.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Good.”

Biscuit chose that moment to leap onto the table beside Brendon.

You pointed at him. “Absolutely not.”

Biscuit looked at the focaccia. Brendon looked at Biscuit.

“Bad idea,” Brendon said.

Biscuit froze.

Brendon’s voice stayed low. “She worked hard on that.”

You stopped moving. The apartment went quiet around the small sentence.

Brendon looked up and found you watching him.

Your expression had softened in a way that made something in him tighten.

“Did you just defend my focaccia?” you asked.

Brendon looked back at Biscuit. “From a threat.”

You smiled, slower this time. “Thank you.”

Brendon picked up his fork again. “It needed defending.”

You looked down at your plate. For a little while after that, neither of you rushed to speak. And somehow, the silence was easy. Not empty. Not awkward.

Easy.

That was the strangest part. 

Brendon was used to quiet. He lived in quiet. Worked toward it. Chose it when the hospital let him leave with enough of himself intact to choose anything.

But this was different.

Your apartment had sound in it. The low hum of the refrigerator. The faint traffic outside. Biscuit’s bell. Your fork tapping once against the edge of your plate. The breath you let out when you finally relaxed enough to eat instead of waiting for his reaction.

He noticed all of it.

He noticed that you had made enough for leftovers.

He noticed that you had set out two glasses of water but only one coaster, and that you gave him the coaster. He noticed that the box by the window contained books, but there were no pictures on the wall yet. New, he thought. Still new here.

You looked up and caught him looking toward the box. “Still unpacking,” you said.

Brendon looked back at you. “I didn’t ask.”

“No,” you said. “But you noticed.”

He did not deny it.

You twisted your fork through the pasta. “It’s taking longer than I thought.”

“Moving?” he asked.

You nodded. “Moving. School. Learning where everything is. Trying not to cry in grocery stores because I can’t find the right brand of crushed tomatoes.”

Brendon’s gaze stayed on you.

You waved a hand like you could brush the honesty away. “Not that I’ve done that.”

Brendon said, “Of course not.”

You pointed your fork at him. “That was very kind of you.”

“It was very neutral,” he said.

Your smile came back. Smaller. More real.

“Everyone at school is nice,” you said. “It’s just… a lot.”

Brendon set his fork down. You looked at him quickly. “Sorry. That sounded sadder than I meant it to.”

“Nice isn’t always the same thing as easy,” Brendon said.

Your fingers stilled around your fork. For a second, you just looked at him. Then your expression softened again.

“No,” you said quietly. “It isn’t.”

Brendon held your gaze. He did not know what to do with the fact that he wanted to say more. He did not know what more would even be. So he reached for the bread instead. You watched him take a second piece.

Your smile turned pleased. “You’re having more.”

Brendon looked at the focaccia. “I said it was good.”

“You did,” you said. “But you’re proving it.”

Brendon glanced up. “Apparently that matters.”

“It does,” you said.

He heard the sincerity beneath the lightness. He did not comment on it.

After dinner, he carried both plates to the sink. You stood immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I ate,” Brendon said.

“You were invited,” you said.

“I still used a plate,” Brendon said.

You came up beside him, close enough to take one of the forks from his hand. The kitchen was too small for both of you to stand there comfortably. Neither of you moved away quickly.

“I can wash,” you said.

Brendon turned on the water. “You cooked.”

You looked at the side of his face. “You’re very hard to take care of.”

His hands stilled beneath the running water. Just for a second. Then he reached for the sponge.

“I’m out of practice,” Brendon said.

The words landed quietly. Too quiet for their size.

You did not answer right away. Brendon did not look at you. The water ran between you. Then you took the clean plate from his hand and dried it with the dish towel.

“Well,” you said, your voice gentle but steady, “practice is good for skill retention.”

Brendon looked over at you. You looked down at the plate and carefully dried the edge. He should have said something practical. Something dismissive. Something that put the moment back where it belonged.

Instead, Brendon said, “That’s true.”

You smiled down at the plate. The dishes did not take long. He stayed anyway. Not much longer. Not enough to make it obvious. But long enough for the television to go from paused to asking if you were still watching.

You reached for the remote, embarrassed. “It judges me.”

Brendon looked at the screen. “It asked a question.”

“With tone,” you said.

Brendon looked at you. “You assign tone to many things.”

You pointed the remote at him. “Your eyebrow started this.”

His mouth almost curved. “It had concerns.”

You laughed, and Brendon felt the sound settle somewhere it had no business being.

Eventually, he stood near the door because if he did not leave then, he suspected he would keep finding reasons not to. You walked him the three steps to the entry.

Biscuit immediately appeared from under the table, bell jingling with purpose.

“No,” you said.

Biscuit continued toward Brendon.

You bent and scooped him up before he could cross the threshold. “You live here.”

Biscuit stretched one paw toward Brendon.

Brendon looked at him. “Tomorrow.”

You paused. The word sat there. Tomorrow.

Your gaze lifted to his. “Tomorrow?” you asked.

Brendon’s expression stayed controlled, but you saw the realization move through him.

Then he looked at Biscuit. “If he’s still persistent.”

You smiled slowly. “He will be.”

Brendon looked back at you. For a second, he did not answer.

Then he said, “Then tomorrow.”

You held Biscuit against your chest, and the kitten’s bell chimed softly between you.

“Goodnight, Dr. Park,” you said.

Brendon’s gaze stayed on yours. “Goodnight.”

You hesitated. Then, softer, you said, “Goodnight, Brendon.”

Something in his face shifted. Barely. Enough.

“Goodnight,” Brendon said.

He stepped into the hallway. You closed your door before Biscuit could make a final heroic attempt at escape. 

Across the hall, Brendon unlocked 6C and stepped inside. His apartment waited for him exactly as he had left it. Clean. Quiet. Dim with city light. The journal article lay face down on the couch. His mug was in the sink. His phone had three hospital texts and no messages that required anything softer from him than a yes, no, or I’ll review it tomorrow.

Everything was where it belonged.

For once, Brendon was in no hurry to go back to it.

He stood near the door for a moment, listening.

From across the hall, Biscuit’s bell jingled.

Then your voice came through, muffled but clear enough.

“Biscuit, we cannot be obsessed with him. We’ve known him for a week.”

Brendon looked down. A laugh almost escaped him. Almost.

Then he set his keys in the bowl by the door and, for the first time in a long time, left the apartment lights on.

There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.

Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.

You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.

“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”

Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.

“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

But Robby doesn’t look away from you.

You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.

“…Right,” he says, slower now.

Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”

“Shame,” Robby says flatly.

You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.

Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”

“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.

“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.

You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.

“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.

Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”

You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”

There’s a long beat.

Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.

“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”

“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.

“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say, dry.

His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”

Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”

Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.

“…You’re serious,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.

“Jesus Christ.”

You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.

“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.

“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.

Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”

Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.

“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.

Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.

“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.

You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.

Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.

You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”

You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”

You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.

“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.

He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.

You don’t linger. You head out.

The door swings shut behind you.

Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.

Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.

“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”

Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”

Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”

Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”

“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.

“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”

“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”

“Hard pass.”

Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”

“And you landed on me,” Robby says.

“Yeah.”

Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”

“Both of us.”

That lands differently.

Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.

“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”

Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”

A beat.

“And I trust you,” he adds.

it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”

“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.

Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.

“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.

“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”

Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”

Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.

Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”

Robby nods once, slow. Then—

“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.

“That’s not a fair question.”

Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.

Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

Then he looks back at Jack.

“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.

Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.

“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”

Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”

Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”

Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable. 

“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”

“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”

“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance. 

That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.

“Fair,” he says.

Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”

Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”

Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.

Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.

“What about me?”

Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”

Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.

A pause.

Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.

“…You first,” he mutters.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.

“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”

Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”

“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”

Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”

“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.

Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.

“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”

Jack just nods, like that was fair.

“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”

Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”

Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”

“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”

Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.

“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”

“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.

Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”

Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.

Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.

Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.

Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.

“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”

Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.

Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”

“Shut up.”

“Flirting now, are we?”

“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.

★★★

2 WEEKS EARLIER

threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm

1: a group of three persons or things : trio

2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately

3: a sexual encounter involving three people

“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.

You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.

“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”

“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”

You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”

Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”

“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”

“I did not sound like that.”

“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”

“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”

“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”

Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”

“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”

He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.

“…Needs longer,” he admits.

“How do you know that?”

“I just did what you said, I—”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”

That slows him down.

Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.

“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”

You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”

You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—

“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”

Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”

Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.

“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.

You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.

“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.

Jack blinks.

Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. 

★★★

The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.

It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.

Robby had never been separate from Jack. 

Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them. 

Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either. 

They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.

They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.

And Robby had always lived in that tension.

He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.

There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding. 

It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.

Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it. 

You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.

And God—there was something about you.

Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.

The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.

And worse—

The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.

He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.

You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.

That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.

But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.

And Jack…

Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.

That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.

And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.

That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.

Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.

Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.

Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.

In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there. 

The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.

Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest. 

“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.

They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.

It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.

Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”

Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”

“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”

Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nope.”

“Bull.”

Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”

Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.

“Four,” he repeated.

“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.

Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”

“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.

There was a beat.

Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.

“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.

He didn’t say anything.

“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”

Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.

“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.

Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”

“Semantics.”

Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.

A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—

“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.

Robby’s jaw shifted.

“She’s… fine,” he said.

Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”

Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself

“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”

Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.

“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.

Jack didn’t move. “For what?”

“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Then—

“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.

Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.

“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.

Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”

Robby laughed at that—short, real.

“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.

Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”

Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second. 

The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.

They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.

“Aw, you two are so cute.”

Jack sat up immediately.

You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there. 

For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”

You just nodded, already moving toward him.

You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.

“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.

“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.

Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.

You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking. 

Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.

You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.

“Mhm.”

You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.

Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.

“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”

“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”

“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.

Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”

“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”

There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.

You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.

Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.

You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.

“…You been talking about me?” you asked.

Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”

“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.

You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”

Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”

His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”

You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.

“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.

Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.

You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.

“Jack.”

He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.

“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”

“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”

“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.

Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.

“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.

Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”

You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.

It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.

Robby looked away. Not fast enough.

You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.

“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.

“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.

A beat.

“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.

You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.

“No promises.”

You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.

“You good?” you asked, softer now.

He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

You nodded like you believed him.

“Night, Michael.”

There was a flicker at that—something small but real.

“Night,” he said.

Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.

“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.

“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.

“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.

You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.

Robby watched you both go.

Didn’t move.

The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.

So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.

It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.

Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?

And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?

It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.

About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.

And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.

★★★

Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.

The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.

“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”

Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”

You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”

Santos lets out a breath.

You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”

“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.

A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.

Robby.

He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.

“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.

“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”

He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.

“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.

“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.

He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”

“No,” you agree. “We never do.”

Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”

You pause slightly.

“A Parisian party?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”

Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.

Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”

“No,” you say.

Robby: “Nope.”

Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”

There’s a beat.

“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”

“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”

“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.

The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.

He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.

“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.

“What?” he says innocently.

You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”

“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.

“Liar.”

That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.

“You think you’ll go?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”

“Right,” he nods.

A beat.

“You?” you ask.

“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”

“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.

Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”

“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”

A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”

He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.

“Have you?” he asks softly.

“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.

He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.

You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.

“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.

“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”

You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”

That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”

You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.

“Was it a yes?”

“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”

That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”

Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”

There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”

You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”

That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.

You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.

“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”

And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.

A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.

Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“What’s with that?” she asks.

“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.

“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”

He doesn’t look at her when he answers.

“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”

Dana hums, unconvinced. “Talkin’ real close.”

Robby exhales, already shifting focus. “New patient?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”

“Alright,” he says.

And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.

★★★

“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.

“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.

“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”

You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit.  “This better be good.”

He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”

A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.

“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.

Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”

He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”

His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”

You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”

“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”

“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.

“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.

He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.

“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.

“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.

“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.

Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”

“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”

“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.

You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.

“Right here,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.

“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.

And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”

★★​​★

It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.

“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”

“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.

“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”

“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”

Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”

A beat.

“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.

You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.

Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.

Then—business as usual.

“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”

You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”

He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”

You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”

“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”

You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.

On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.

“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”

“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”

“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”

You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”

A pause.

“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”

Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.

“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.

Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”

“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.

You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.

“Hey, Michael.”

There’s a beat.

Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.

“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”

“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”

Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.

Robby hears the shift anyway.

“This a setup?” he asks.

You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”

A quiet scoff from him.

“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”

A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.

Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”

“Guess you can,” you say easily.

Silence again—but it’s different now.

You glance at Jack.

He nods once.

“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”

You hand the phone back.

Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”

A pause.

“…Alright,” Robby says.

The line clicks dead.

Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.

“What?” You raise a brow.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.

“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.

He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”

★★★

You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.

Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.

The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.

Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.

“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”

You don’t answer.

You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.

“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.

“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.

Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.

“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”

“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”

“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.

You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.

You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”

There’s a beat.

Robby’s mouth twitches.

Jack blinks. “...Right.”

“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”

Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”

Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.

“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”

Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”

You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”

“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.

Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”

“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”

Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”

Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.

After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.

Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.

“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.

You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”

Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.

“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”

He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

He looks down at you.

There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.

You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.

His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land. 

Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.

“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”

Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—

Even though.

You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.

“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.

Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.

Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.

He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.

You end up on the couch.

It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.

Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.

You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.

Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.

Jack keeps talking.

You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.

Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.

Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.

Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.

He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.

And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.

Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.

Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.

Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.

Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.

When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.

Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.

Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.

There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.

“This is fun,” You murmur.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.

Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.

Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.

The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.

You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.

For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.

Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.

Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.

His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.

You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.

When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.

Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”

You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”

You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.

Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”

“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.

They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.

You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.

He stiffens for a second. Just a second.

Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.

“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.

His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.

“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.

That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.

“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties

“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”

“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.” 

Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him. 

“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”

You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.

“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.

“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”

You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.

You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.

“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.

Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.

“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic. 

He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.

He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot. 

“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”

Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.

“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.

Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.

Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively. 

His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.

“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”

You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.

“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”

You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.

“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.

You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.

“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.

You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.

“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.

You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch. 

You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.

Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.

“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.

“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.

Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.

Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm. 

Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.

He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”

Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.

“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”

It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.

Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.

Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.

Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.

“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”

Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.

You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.

“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.

Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure. 

Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.

Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.

Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”

You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.

“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.

You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.

“Oh, baby, you’re touchin’ yourself too?” Robby notices. “God, so desperate.”

“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.

His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”

You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw. 

You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.

“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in. 

He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.

You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.

Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.

Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.

“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.

Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.

“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”

You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.

“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”

You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.

“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”

You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”

Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.

You glance at Jack, pleading.

“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”

Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.

Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist. 

You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.

“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight. 

He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.

“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.

You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.

You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”

Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.

“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.

“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.

“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.

“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.

“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.

You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.

In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.

Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.

Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.

Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.

“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.

You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”

“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.

“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”

“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”

“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”

Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh. 

Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show. 

"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck," 

Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.

Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise. 

Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.

“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.

“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.

“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.

Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.

“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips. 

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.

You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.

“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”

“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.

Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.

He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.

“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.

You bite your lip, refusing to answer.

He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.

“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”

You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.

“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise. 

He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.

“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.

You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.

“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss. 

“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.

You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.

You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest. 

Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.

He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.

“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.

You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.

"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.

Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.

Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.

“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”

His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”

You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him. 

“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.

“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says. 

“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.

Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.

You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet. 

“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him. 

You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.

“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. 

“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.

Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."

The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."

You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.

"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you. 

Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.

"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder. 

Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"

His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke. 

"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. 

You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.

"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."

“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”

You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you. 

“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant. 

Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.

“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.

But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.

Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.

You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.

Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.

Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.

You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.

You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes open, sweetheart.”

Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.

“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."

His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.

“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans. 

Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.

Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”

As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.

Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.

Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.

“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.

Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.

“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.

You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.

“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”

That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.

Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway. 

Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.

“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.

“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.

Robby doesn’t move right away.

He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.

You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.

Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.

Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.

When you pull back, you stay close.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

“Hey,” he echoes.

Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.

Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic. 

You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.

You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.

“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”

That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.

He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”

You glance over at him, managing a small smile.

He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“…You good?” You ask.

He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”

You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.

“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “

Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.

Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”

That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.

“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”

He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.

Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.

You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”

Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”

“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.

Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”

“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”

“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”

You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.

“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”

Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”

You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”

“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.

“You’re an ass,” you sigh.

That earns you a small smile.

The door opens.

Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.

“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”

You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”

“Because everything’s fine.”

Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”

Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”

Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”

Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.

His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”

Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”

Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.

“With you, idiot,” you correct.

Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”

You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.

It lasts all of two seconds.

Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.

“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.

Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.

Robby stays the night.

Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.

He’s not intrusive. Never has been.

But he doesn’t leave, either.

if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D

a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.

Peace. That's what this getaway was about, taking you somewhere the two of you could live as a young couple, un-disturbed. It was about the only thing that had gotten Robby through the last tough weeks of work. All the blood and death and bathroom breaks of locking himself in stools to silently cry was all so he could come home to you and his family in one piece.

Now, he could shred every responsibility that didn't include being your husband and that wasn't a responsibility. More an honour.

Robby looked down at you with a smile, expecting to see one back. Instead, you were looking down at your phone. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“I'm just checking in with the kids.”

He groaned and grabbed your phone, throwing it ahead into the cabin. It landed somewhere soft on the rug. “They'll be fine, they're what? Twenty something?”

You laughed and stepped closer into his circle of heat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and drawing yourself closer. “Look at you, pretending not to know your kids ages.”

Robby dropped the bags, snapping his arms around your waist and holding you up. “What can I say? I'm loving... attentive...”

His beard scratched up and down your neck as he littered slow kisses there.

“Should I carry you through the doorway? Like when we were married?” Robby wasn't exactly encouraged by the idea with your laughter shaking in your chest.

“I don't think your back can handle that, old man.”

His brows rose up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and you bit back a smirk. He couldn't help but think how sexy you looked, even after kids and marriage you never failed to stop looking beautiful.

And Robby had never found being called old sexier.

“Well,” he grunted, lifting you further till your toes were scraping the floor. “How about you go up to that bedroom and I show you just what this old man can do?”

“Dad's gonna kill me... Dad's gonna kill me.”

Noah watched his brother, John, pace the small hospital room. For such a tiny pace he was making good job at trekking miles. “Relax, at least we're in a hospital,” he said. “That way they can shock you back to life.”

“So he can kill me all over again!” John hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smack bouncing around the walls.

Their sister, Casey, laughed on the bed.

She was taking all this surprisingly well considering it was her arm broken and limply lying in her lap.

The brothers looked to her as if remembering she was there. Like she wasn't the reason they were there. Well- technically it was John's fault. Because he was older and he was supposed to be looking after Casey. He should have been the one watching her on the trampoline. Should have seen how she fell on her arm and a sickening crack followed.

To her credit, Casey didn't cry.

Instead she let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor shudder.

Noah didn't know which is dad would hate more: the cast she'll inevitably be put in or the words she'd some how picked up.

“How're you feeling?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hungry,” she said, pulling out the puppy dog eyes and pout that only a six year old could do effectively.

“Can't eat I'm afraid, not till we've got that arm looked at.”

“Will I need stitches?”

Noah let out one loud, ha! “Worse!”

Casey shrieked.

“Noah!” John lectured.

“What? I'm being honest! Honestly is the best policy.”

“Not when it scares her!”

“I'm not scared,” said Casey, momentarily misplacing her broken arm as she tried to flail them around only to end up teary eyed at the pain.

John shuffled closer to her side in panic, throwing an arm around her shoulder and comforting her. “It's okay, oh, it's okay.”

“I want daddy!”

John and Noah looked at each other, gulping.

It had been a total of four hours. Four hours they'd been gone and already things had gone wrong! The drive up to their cabin alone was five so they'd maybe only had three hours of relaxation. That was enough, right?

For months their dad had drilled it into them he was taking their mother away for an anniversary he had to work three months ago. This was the only time off together your schedules could work out. After all, PCMT didn't run steady without the attending and nurse.

We'll be gone three days, their dad told them, sitting the two brothers a year apart down. Carter will be busy at Presby so I need you two to look after Casey, alright? John you're eighteen, you're in charge.

Noah had never been happier to be younger.

It was all amusing to him really, besides the fact his sister was hurt- obviously.

“I want daddy too,” Noah laughed.

John paled.

Suddenly the door flew open and just when Noah thought it might have been a doctor they'd never seen, or Abbot or Dana, it only got worse.

Carter rushed in, white lab coat billowing a second behind him. Their dad thought it was tacky and dumb (med students haven't worn them since the 90s, he'd said) but their mom thought Carter looked handsome so- the doting mommy's boy he was- Carter always wore it.

Noah rolled his eyes.

“Hey, hey, what's going on here?” he rushed over to Casey, pressing a kiss to her forehead and petting down her hair. “You okay? She okay?”

“She's fine,” said John, standing from the bed.

“My arm hurts,” whined Casey.

“I'll give you ten bucks to say nothing,” said John.

Casey made a dramatic move in holding in her words.

John should have done it for five.

Carter looked around the room like he was wholly confused even if he was in his second year of med school in Presby and was accustom to the look of a hospital room. “Where's her chart? Has she been looked at? Has Dana been in?”

“No, I got us in on the down low,” said Noah, standing from his chair.

Carter hovered over the computer, trying to find a way to log in that didn't mean hacking into the system. “The down low?”

John reached his other side. “I bribed Donnie to get us a room.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So they don't call mom and dad!”

“They're not here?” Carter asked, a furrow between his brows.

“No, they're up at the cabin,” said John.

“Their romantic getaway, you remember that?” asked Noah.

Carter's expression dropped. “That was today?”

“Yeah that was today, where have you been living?” said Noah, knowing his brother lived in the second biggest room of the house and had been pretty much vacant from it with his studies. Noah had took to invading the room at any chance.

John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We called you cause... you know, you're a doctor.”

“Well, no, I'm a med student,” said Carter, though briefly the word 'doctor' had gone to his head. And ego.

“But you're so good at it,” encouraged Noah, thumping their eldest brother on the chest and fixing his crooked stethoscope. “What better time will you have to put your skills to good use then to help our sister?”

The three looked back to Casey who was watching them, blinking.

“How's your pain on a scale of one to ten, Casey? One being no pain at all, ten being horrible, terrible, worst pain of your life?” asked Carter, keeping his voice as light and brotherly as possible.

Casey looked to John.

He sighed. “You can talk, Casey.”

She thought about it for a second. “A seven?”

Carter cursed under his breath.

John and Noah shared a look, knowing who to blame Casey's exclamations on. “You can order labs,” said John.

“Yeah, get her a scan or something,” added Noah.

Carter laughed them off. “I can't, I don't work here!”

John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course you can, you're a Robinavitch.”

“Hey,” said Santos, approaching the nurses station as if in a daze. “I'm like totally not crazy and I totally don't miss the guy or anything but I swear I just saw a younger version of Robby walk in here.”

“What?” Javadi laughed.

Whitaker nodded along, as if he'd expected it. “You must really miss the guy, huh?”

Santos rolled her eyes. “No, Jesus that's not it. I just mean Robby's literal doppelganger just walked in, white lab coat and all.”

Dana didn't make it a habit to listen into gossip... sometimes she couldn't help it. She lingered at the nurses counter, listening with one ear to everything else around her in case there was an actual emergency.

“Really, where?” Javadi asked.

“Hey! You three!” Dana called, snapping her fingers as she approached the three, peering at them over her glasses. “We got beds to empty, people to see, let's move it!”

The three were resigned to do their job, as so many usually were, but Dana watched them go, ensuring they were all going to three separate locations but not before she caught Trinity leaning into Javadi, whispering in her ear an exam room where this mysterious young Robby was hid in.

Dana wondered but not for long as she found the room with not one, not two but four Robinavitch children inside.

A grin formed. It was always good to see them, especially since she'd been seeing them since they were babies, having held each one of them in her arms and held each of their hands as they started to walk. Sometimes they still needed the hand.

Carter, John and Noah's backs were to the door, the three standing over the bed in clear thought if their folded arms and tense backs were anything to go by, so like their father they were.

Casey Robinavitch, the youngest of the set, was first to spot her, smiling wide. “D! D!”

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” she celebrated.

Casey did what she could to move but Dana was there at her side, embracing her and helping her back down onto the bed.

The boys were less enthusaticaly.

“Hey, Dana,” John said quietly.

Carter was by far his father's son in looks. The same sloped nose and brown eyes. Dressed up as a doctor he looked even more the part. It freaked Dana sometimes, like having the ghost of young and cocky Michael Robinavitch hovering around the place.

John and Carter- still alike their father- had a bit more of you in them. In their smile and eyes. Casey too.

“What the hell's going on here, you miss me that much you invaded the place, huh?” she asked though she could tell by all three of the boys looking worried and Casey sitting still that there was some reason to have been here.

“It looks like Casey broke her arm,” said Carter, brushing back his hair. “A simple Distal Radius fracture.”

“You got all that without a scan? Presby must be teaching you something,” she teased.

Carter blushed.

Dana cast her gaze to the quiet John and Noah. “Which one of you supposed to be looking after my girl here anyway?”

They both pointed at each other.

Dana shook her head and rolled her eyes before focusing ahead to Casey. “Okay, honey, you hungry? I keep a stash of candy in my draw, you want a piece?”

She nodded enthusaticaly.

“But she'll need surgery for her arm, she can't eat,” said Carter.

“Even I knew that,” added John.

“Yeah well the OR's a little backed up,” said Dana with a pat to Casey's knee. She stood up and drew the curtain around them, closing them in. “We had an accident and there's a long que.”

She didn't want to get in the specifics of crash that involved all the OR's time but Carter approached her.

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

Dana smiled. She had to say, it was good to see the kids that were made from her favourite attending and nurse. “No, kid. You stay here with your family, I'll handle everything.”

“What's with the curtain?” asked Noah.

“Are we grounded?”

“You're all a bit of a celebrity around here, the new residents and med students don't know you guys exist, heck they only realised your parents were married after Huckleberry caught them in the lounge.”

“Ew,” said John.

“Caught them what?” asked Casey, full of child like innocence.

The boys looked to Dana in amusement.

“Doing things adults shouldn't do at work,” she said.

Casey wasn't satisfied. “Like what?”

“You can ask them when they get here.”

“You're not gonna call them, are you?” asked John, adam's apple moving in his swallow.

“Have to kid, sorry! I'll get Princess to take you to X-ray, sound good?” she asked Casey, knowing Princess was her favourite (other than herself of course) because she was better at braiding than both her parents.

John fell into his seat, hunched over. In comfort, Carter clamped a hand on his shoulder.

Dana left the family, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile. She'd pushed you and Robby to go away, trusting that the three boys you held in such high esteem would handle looking over one small girl who really wasn't that much trouble.

She hated to be proved wrong.

Hated even more she had to interrupt the two of you after she'd had to watch the sultry looks passed between the two of you and stop the two of you from disappearing together into rare empty beds and store rooms.

Dana called you first, shaking her head while she did.

“Robby!”

He groaned into your neck, his arms caging in your head as he moved in and out of you with a rapid pace. Sweat covered both your bodies from the long-awaited sex he planned to drag out. “My god,” he groaned.

Your nails scratched down his back leaving angry welts in your place. He licked lazily at your neck, moaning and groaning at the taste.

The both of you were as loud as you liked, without kids barging in to say they couldn't find the remote or wanting to know what was for dinner. The cabin stood alone with only trees as its companion so you could be as loud as you liked.

He'd had you coming on his mouth and fingers- then once more for luck- before he finally found himself home in you and that was how it felt, coming home.

Your back arched into him as his hips met yours. “Michael... Michael...”

You could feel him grin into your neck. “Gonna come again? Come on my cock, jus how I like.”

Robby found your lips and kissed you openly, all teeth and tongue. His breathing was laboured, his lips a hungry mess. His hips drove in more and more, his groaning louder, face scrunched in concentration to last.

“Please, Michael, please,” you whined against his lips.

Robby licked at your lips, nodding-

Suddenly there was a loud ringing and vibration against the wood off the bedside table where you'd left your phone.

Robby groaned but not in pleasure. As his lips pulled away from yours you turned to look at your phone. “Ignore it, ignore it,” he begged, cupping your cheek to move you to look at him again.

You let him kiss you, let him distract you with his tongue as he drove his cock in and out quicker, desperate to chase your high.

“Oh god, hurgh, fuck!”

Your phone still rung and his grip hardened on your face.

“Could be... could be the kids...” you uttered.

“They're fine, they're fine-”

But you couldn't help but stretch, under the feign of pleasure you arched up and grabbed your phone, turning it face up.

“Jesus-” Robby grunted but stilled inside of you, impossibly close.

Hospital. Work. Calling.

“Jesus-” he chuckled dryly. “Hasn't even been a day.”

Before you could even think about answering it Robby snatched it from your hand and threw it half way across the room.

“Robby!” you laughed.

Your arms wrapped back around him and drew him in, legs going around his waist as his cock continued his work.

“Jack, thank god!” Dana gasped when she spotted the night attending making his way in. He greeted her with a bag already over his shoulder, giving her a brief hug.

“Hey, got your message, what's going on?” he asked, brows knitted together in worry.

It was a last ditch attempt. Dana had called you a handful of times from the hospital phone and her own. She'd tried Robby and been sent straight to voice mail. Nothing. She couldn't exactly blame the two of you, it was supposed to be a holiday.

None of the kids were willing to be the one to make the call and other than tackle them to get a phone Jack was the last result.

“Got a family situation, the parents won't pick up,” she explained.

“What kind of family-”

Dana led him into the exam room.

Casey was sitting in the bed, her arm up in a sling with a pizza box in her lap. Next to her Noah was cosied on the bed while John and Carter were on each side of the bed, chairs pulled him and pizza slices in hands.

“Uncle Jack!” Casey cheered.

The boys at least looked happier to see him than they had Dana. They knew if Jack was here it meant they couldn't get in contact with either you or their dead.

“What's this? A pizza party and I wasn't invited?” he said, setting down his bag and heading for Casey, checking in on her first.

“What's this? Where's the pizza come from?” asked Dana.

“They were hungry, I ordered,” said Carter.

“And surgery for her arm?”

Carter chocked down the last of his pizza. His doctors coat was still sat on his shoulders but his tie was lose around his neck and several pens were missing from his pocket. “The OR's backed up, you said that, you gave her a lollipop!”

Dana tried her best efforts to be mad on behalf of Robby but it didn't work. Robby could maybe be mad at the boys if he had the right too but Casey he could never seem find to be angry with. A daddy's girl through and through.

“Hey, Carter, how's Presby?” asked Jack, all the while testing the pain with Casey.

“Good, it's er, it's good,” he said. “I told them there was a family emergency.”

There was only one reason Carter had gone to Presby and that was to keep work and home away from each other. He couldn't be a student under his dad and mom.

“So you er-” Noah started. “Couldn't get through to mom or dad, huh?”

There was an un-denying gleam of joy at that.

“No, we couldn't,” said Dana. “But we're gonna keep trying.”

Carter crossed his arms over his chest as if he were the concerned doctor and not the worried older brother. “We need their permission for the surgery, what happens to her arm if it's not put right soon?”

“Well good news is I can pull weight in the OR, though we'll have to wait for the pizza to go down,” said Jack, taking a bite from the slice Casey held in hand. She laughed. “What colour we thinking? Pink? Red? Black?”

“Can I have three colours?” she asked.

Jack shrugged. “I'll put the request in.”

“Why aren't they answering? Maybe they're asleep?” said John.

Noah smirked. “Or maybe they're enjoying their free time.”

Jack shot him an unamused look.

“I meant playing games!” he defended.

“Like twister?” asked Casey.

Carter looked away, scratching the back of his head as Dana hid her smirk along with him.

“Yeah, twister.”

You'd managed to escape the clutch's of Robby, managing to throw his shirt on and get to the kitchen for a glass of water. Your legs had been shaky in the sort of delicious way you'd missed.

It was dark out, the small orange glow of the lights around the cabin lighting your way as you downed half your drink.

The wooden floor creaked behind you. The curve of Robby's belly met your back.

His hands wound under his shirt on your body, fondling your hips. “I thought the point of a get away was no clothes allowed.”

You bit your lip, gently setting down your glass of water. “And if I turn around are you going to be following that rule?”

Robby chuckled into your skin. His lips found your neck again, kissing over the bruises he'd left from before. It started slow, the sort that reminded you of your first time before his teeth met your skin and nipped. His hands got further up your skin, running over the curves of your body. “Why don't you look and find out?”

The idea of Robby in all his beauty had you salivating at the mouth and lower parts when a vibration alerted the two of you.

Robby groaned again, the both of you finding his phone left in his pants pocket crumpled on the floor.

It seemed you'd been in a hurry to get them off.

“The thing keeps going!”

Robby was naked, and it distracted you all through the walk to get his pants, fishing for his phone. Not that he cared, he only finished your glass of water.

Your hormones were going crazy, begging you to climb your husband like a tree but you still managed to answer the phone. “Michael's phone.”

“Jesus what's it take to get you to pick up a phone!” Dana said in a way of greeting.

“Oh, hi Dana, how are you? Sorry, we were... busy.”

“Yeah busy my ass, listen you guys need to come back.”

“Why, what's happening?”

Robby heard the worry in your voice and turned to look over his shoulder.

“Your kids are here, Casey's hurt.”

“So let me get this straight: You're letting Jack sign your cast first, then Carter, then John, then me!” gasped Noah.

The family had made themselves at home at in the small room, Casey in the bed like the queen of the castle though even queens needed sleep.

Carter was watching his sister come in and out of sleep while John stayed close to her side, stroking back her hair. They'd put her in the list for the OR, it was backed up enough that by the time she got in her eating wouldn't have been a problem. In three more hours he'd have to get back to Presby and carry on a shift. He should've used the time for napping but found the hospital chairs not so comfy.

Casey nodded, as if proud.

“It's John's fault and he gets to sign it before me!”

“He didn't steal my favourite crayons!” she said.

Jack raised his brows at Noah. “Crayons?”

Noah stuttered with all the eyes on him. “I was taking notes.”

“In crayons?” asked Jack.

“Colour helps you retain information! Look it up!”

There was a gang of laughter before the doors burst open.

Robby was first into the scene and you were close behind.

“Dad!” said Casey.

“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted, by-passing everyone else in the room to press a kiss to her forehead, keeping a hand on her fine arm. “What the hell happened?” he asked to the room.

John and Noah fell into your side, trying to be safe there away from the wrath of their father. “She- she was on the trampoline and she fell, broke her wrist.”

“Distal fracture,” corrected Carter.

“Why weren't you looking out for her?” Robby asked as he took Jack's stethoscope from around his neck, pressing it to her chest as if there could be something wrong and as if they hadn't already checked.

“I-I turned my back for a second,” said John.

“It's okay,” you said, stroking back John's air just a little.

You walked past the boys, greeting Carter quickly before you set on the edge of Casey's bed. Your daughter had your eyes. “Hey honey, how are you feeling?”

Robby gave her another kiss on the forehead before stepping away and letting Jack- the closest thing the kids had to an uncle- take his place. There was a small wave of his hand and the boys- even Carter- fell into step. “So tell me why not even five hours into the trip with your mother we're called back in because you let your sister get hurt?”

“He didn't let her get hurt, dad,” Noah defended. “It could've happened whether or not John was watching her.”

Robby's hands ran up and over his face, pulling at the lines of age and worry. Deep down he knew that was true and the boys knew he knew that. It didn't change that Casey had been hurt and ended up in the hospital. If it had been one of them- Carter, John or Noah- Robby and you would have drove with the same speed.

“Okay, okay,” Robby nodded. “And who let her have pizza when she's in line for the OR?”

John and Noah turned to Carter.

Robby frowned. “Are they teaching you anything at Presby?”

“Dana said the OR was backed up!”

“Don't drag me into this kid!” called Dana from the open door and over the crowd that had formed.

On second look Robby spotted Whitaker, Javadi, King and Santos at the door with Samira- all of who knew you and Robby well, knew you had a flirty thing going on yet had no idea the life you'd shared and continued to create behind the scene.

Next to them stood Langdon, the one holding the door open for them all to see. The one that did know and had even played a hand in Casey's birth.

“Holy shit,” said Whitaker.

“You have kids?” asked Javadi. “Like actual, real-life off springs?”

Carter frowned, looking from the crowd to you. “Why do they seem so surprised at that?”

You smiled, leaning your head on Casey's as she babbled about the accident and everyone she wanted to sign her cast (including barbie herself). “Well, we didn't really mention the whole kids part.”

“So nobody knew we existed?” asked Noah, offended. “What happened to pride and joy?”

“What happened to pain in my ass?” said Robby, lovingly. At least, Carter thought it came off that way. “Okay- yes, yes,” he said addressing the crowd. “We have kids, we didn't say anything because well frankly it was none of your buisness-”

“I knew I saw a younger Robby!” said Santos. Her phone was in hand and clicking with the sound of a picture of the room- specifically Carter-before anyone could stop her.

“It's not like I don't have my hands full with you lot already,” Robby mumbled, rubbing at his temples. “But yes, we have four beautiful children, anything else?”

There was a clear of a throat. Surprisingly not from the crowd of doctors but from behind him. From you.

“What?” asked Robby.

You gave him a pointed look.

He'd said four kids. Had he got it wrong? Somewhere along the lines it did get hard to keep track of them all. Who had exams when, who was in line to follow in their footsteps in practising medicine, who wanted a dog for christmas, etc.

Just in case, Robby did a head count, counting his kids off on his fingers: Casey, Noah, John, Carter. Casey, Noah-

It wasn't till he looked at you and saw your hand lingering over your stomach that he realised.

He thought back to the wine you'd declined at dinner last week, to the morning sickness you'd tried to hide from him, to the way you said there were things to talk about when you had a chance alone. After four, Robby should have been good at spotting the signs.

Five children it would appear.

“Congratulations, brother,” Jack was first to say, smiling in amusement that you'd caught your husband so off guard. Again.

John and Noah were next in clapping him on the back before attending to you in the same celebrations.

Robby took it all red in the cheeks as Santos started to clap behind him, Whitaker following un-sure a beat behind her.

“Jesus, dad, can you keep it in your pants for once,” joked Carter, standing at his full height next to him.

Robby shrugged, arms folding over his chest. “Takes two.”

Noah frowned. “Ew.”

Casey, the poor girl with the broken wrist, wasn't sure what was going on. “Takes two to what?”

The room fell silent. You pursed your lips, looking to Robby for some explanation.

Carter patted his dad on the back, slipping out of the room.

John smirked. “Yeah, dad, takes two to what?”

Holland eventually meanders your way, sunburnt and sweating. He collapses beside you beneath the shade of a parasol; you lift your brows in question. 

“Working hard or hardly working?” You ask dryly, bumping shoulders with him. 

Holland glances up at you, a grin stretching across his mustachioed face. “Working hard, of course.” The detective shrugs, watching as his daughter splashes through the water. Holly eventually notices you and her dad; she waves you both over, and Holland’s smile brightens enough to rival the sun. He stands whilst you refuse to budge, shaking your head. Holly tries again to wave you over, but you bristle, bringing your knees up to your chest and mouthing a firm No. You watch as Holly deflates, going back to kicking around in the water all by her lonesome. 

Squinting, Holland turns his gaze to you. “What’s wrong? Let’s join her,” he insists.

The thought of hopping into the water makes you nauseous. You chuckle awkwardly. “Uh, no. She’s alright without me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holland snorts, kneeling beside you. “She obviously wants you to hang out with her. How often does that happen with a teenager?”

While it’s true that you’ve grown fond of Holly, and she of you, it doesn’t make the overwhelming feeling of dread disappear from behind your ribcage. You poke Holland in the chest, and he winces when you touch a particularly sensitive, sunburned patch of skin. 

“I know, but… I’m really not feeling up to—”

Holland lifts you up before you can finish your sentence. 

You shriek the second you’re in the air, clinging to his shoulders and kicking your legs. “Wait, wait! Holland! Hold on—!”

“Come on, have a little fun!” He cheers, swinging you around in his arms. You yelp when he tosses you up a bit, adjusting his grip on you. As he approaches the water, you claw at his shoulders much like a cat to a tub of water. Your breathing picks up and you hide your face against his neck, frantically shaking your head. 

“No no no! This isn’t fun! Put me down!”

The genuine terror in your voice gives Holland pause. He furrows his brows, standing at the very edge of the water. “...Are you afraid of water?” He asks slowly. 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. An aggrieved sigh puffs out of you. “Yes. Don’t say it like that.”

A slow, fond smile stretches across Holland’s face, carrying his mustache with it. “Oh, sweetheart. You should have told me.”

You keep your face tucked into his neck, refusing to open your eyes. “...So you’ll put me down?”

Holland laughs in your ear, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Right now? No. You’ll get all wet.”

With a start, you whip your head back only to discover that Holland already walked into the ocean. He’s holding you steady, making sure that you’re just above water whilst the water laps at his shins. Your eyes go wide as saucers, and your nails damn near break skin from how tight you cling to him.

“Holland. I swear, if you drop me, I’ll—”

“I won’t,” he assures you. His grin is playful, but the sincerity in his tone stops you from spiraling further. He starts to lower himself down, and you whack the back of his shoulder. He yelps, but continues anyway. “Easy. I’ll keep you right here in the shallows. We can go deeper whenever you’re ready.”

Your mouth twists into a pout, but you nod, reassured. At least Holland’s lap is a comfortable place to sit; only your feet and your thighs touch the water. Ahead of you, Holly splashes around making her own fun without you or her father. 

Minutes later, Jackson finishes his work, it seems, because he strolls up to the pair of you in the water. He glances at you and Holland, sitting in the wet sand. 

“Not a big swimmer, huh?” The slight glare on your face makes Jack back off. He puts his hands up, moving on. “Alright. I’ll be with the kid.”

Jackson heads off to keep Holly occupied, and Holland leans his head against yours to watch the sunset. He’ll wait as long as you need to, even if you never dare to step into the water without his arms around you.

fancy some more?

> YES. > NO.