Somewhere But Not No-where

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.

“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.

“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.

Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”

"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.

“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.

Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner. 

“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”

“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”

You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.

“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face. 

Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”

“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.

“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”

“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”

Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated. 

“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.  

“G, not cool, man.”

Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”

“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder. 

Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”

“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear. 

“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”

Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair. 

“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused. 

“Great, G!”

“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.

Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.

You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk. 

“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.

Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”

“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out. 

Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”

You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”

“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him. 

“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.

Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.” 

“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.

Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.

The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.

The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.

Thunk.

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.

“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.

The expression on his face caught you off guard.

He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime. 

You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad. 

Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large. 

Then back at him.

“Yes, totally.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“I just hit you with my water bottle.”

You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”

He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He frowned. 

You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again. 

“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be. 

“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped. 

“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.

“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.

“Officially?”

He paused, confused, “What?”

“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”

His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”

“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.

“You’re very observant.”

“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.

He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”

“That sounds right.”

“So let me make it up to you.”

“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Coffee,” he offered. 

You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.

“Coffee?” you repeated in question.

“I owe you.” 

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”

You smiled, “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you answered again.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.

He followed right behind you.

The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.

Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed. 

The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he.

The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”

Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”

The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”

“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”

You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.

You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, beautiful.”

You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett. 

Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it. 

Cute. You thought to yourself.

Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”

You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”

Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”

Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”

“He basically has,” you snorted.

“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”

“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.

Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.

You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”

“What?” he tried to play it off.

“You have that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” you insisted.

Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”

That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.

Dean nearly choked. 

“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.

“Don’t what?” he responded.

“That.”

“What?”

“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing. 

Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing. 

Garrett just shrugged. 

You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.

“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.

“Coffee,” he agreed.

Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.

By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.

At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.

Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.

Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.

No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.

To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,

Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester. 

You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.

Bingo. 

You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her. 

The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in. 

The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.

The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.

“There she is!”

You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”

“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”

“She still answers it.”

You hated that he was right.

The grin he gave you says he knows it too. 

A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan. 

The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.

“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room. 

“Excuse me?”

“I expected worse,” he shrugged.

You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”

Each of the boys quipped a response.

“A lot.” 

“Enough.”

“Some would say too much.”

“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.

“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.

By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.

You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.

At some point, you realized something. 

You didn’t feel like a guest.

It was almost like you’d always been there. 

And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.

It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume. 

When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”

“I won't forget perfume.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“Baby, it’s there just in case.”

He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room. 

You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.

Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself. 

As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family. 

Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head. 

You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.

It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds. 

Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand. 

“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”

You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there. 

Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.

He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester. 

“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes. 

You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.

You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”

“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge. 

“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.  

Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.

“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”

“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back. 

“Whatcha got, Logan?”

“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes. 

“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile. 

He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy. 

“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.

You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted. 

“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted. 

“Up in his room.”

“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.

“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.

The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.

“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter. 

Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table. 

“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.

“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.

You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move. 

The meal was perfect.

You took one bite.

Then another.

Followed by another.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.

Tucker laughed, “What?”

“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.

“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.

“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”

You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”

“Obviously,” Garrett stated.

“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.

“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.

You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.

The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness. 

The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.

If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.

Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible. 

It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving. 

You felt like you always belonged there.

The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.

“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular. 

Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”

“A little.”

“A little means yes.”

You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”

“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.

“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it. 

“It does,” Garrett nodded.

“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.

“I’m supporting you.”

“More like interrupting,” you kid.

Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”

You blinked at him, “What?”

Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”

Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”

“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.

“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.

The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”

“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence. 

“You have an idea.” 

The other three just watched the banter between you two.

“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.

“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.

You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.

It felt natural.

“Okay.”

“Done.”

By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed. 

Every Sunday.

One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.

Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.

Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three. 

The dinners became routine. Then tradition. 

Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.

Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.

Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.

By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends. 

Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.

Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.

Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.

You saved him a portion when he was running late.

The pair of you always sat beside one another.

Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.

But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing. 

That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other. 

“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.

Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.

“A shot,” Dean answered. 

“Very informative.”

You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”

Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.

“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath. 

Dean wiggled his shot. 

You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking. 

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.

“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.

“Probably.”

“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.

“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots. 

“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.

“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished. 

There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.

Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other. 

The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot. 

The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.

“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.

“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.

“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett. 

“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.

Logan nearly doubled over laughing.

Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.

Dean looked personally offended.

And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met. 

The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.

Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out. 

Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.

Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.

You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.

You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside. 

You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs. 

The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall. 

There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore. 

Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom. 

He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours. 

Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other. 

Neither of you said much for a while. 

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.

Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.

Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses. 

“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.

You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away. 

Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too. 

Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”

The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore. 

His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.

Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”

Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”

“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”

You blinked, “We are fine.”

“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”

You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second. 

Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”

“Wow.”

“What?” he quirked his brow at you.

“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief. 

“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.

“It definitely did.”

“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”

Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.

Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you. 

Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.

Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship. 

Every time he remembered something small.

Every time he made space for you in crowded places.

Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal. 

Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day. 

You already knew, but hearing it made it real.

“What?”

You smiled, “I know.”

His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”

“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.” 

“In my defense–” you cut him off.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.

“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”

The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”

You snickered. “Seriously?”

“I just want confirmation.”

“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.

“So?”

“So what?” 

You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”

“Missy.”

“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”

Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” you repeated. 

Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time. 

When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”

You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”

“They’re going to be unbearable.”

“Especially Dean.”

“He’ll claim responsibility.”

“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”

He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”

“Agreed.” 

The agreement lasted less than eight hours.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. 

Logan was standing at the stove.

Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands. 

Dean was eating cereal directly from the box. 

Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual. 

Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual. 

Nobody paid attention.

Logan continued cooking his bacon. 

Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.

Dean kept munching on the cereal.

Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.

He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.

“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.

“Morning,” You replied.

You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.

And not normal. 

The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. 

Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”

You immediately dropped your head. “No.”

“YES.”

“It has been like six hours.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Garrett groaned. 

Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”

“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked. 

“I brought you together.”

“You really didn’t,” you laughed.

Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”

Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.

Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled. 

“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.

“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off. 

“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett. 

Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”

The room erupted.

Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”

Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”

Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”

Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two. 

And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back. 

You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family. 

Garrett was still your favorite person.

Hannah leaned back in her chair, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Why, thank you."

Now, as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, half your closet scattered across the room, you were beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that Logan would simply smile and nod. The man was impossible to prank—partly because he was so observant, partly because he was so annoyingly nice.

You lifted your favourite dress to your chest, studying it with a critical eye, just as the bedroom door creaked open.

Speak of the devil.

Logan stepped inside, hair still damp around the ends from his shower after practice. He was dressed in a Bruins t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Your eyes met his brown ones, the corner of his mouth tipped upward into that gorgeous smile.

You watched his face as gaze shifted from your face to the mess covering the bed and half of the floor space of the room, then landed right back to you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His smile widened at the sight of you with that dress. "What happened in here, babe?"

Game time, you thought to yourself, turning to him. "Oh good, you're here."

"Yeah?" confusion flickered across his face as you held up the dress, raising your eyebrows at him in question.

"What do you think of this?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.

Logan dropped his duffel back beside the bedside table, kicking off his shoes. He walked over to you, placing a hand on your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You know I love you in everything, babe. But yeah, that dress always looks incredible on you."

You smiled, turning back to the mirror. In the reflection, you could see the mattress dip beneath his weight as Logan perched on the edge of the bed, still studying you with that smile on his face.

You met his stare in the mirror, your mind playing the opening notes of your master plan. "God, I'm so excited for tomorrow."

Logan blinked. "What's tomorrow?"

You almost laughed—almost. But you were determined not to break character, so instead, you forced your face into a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, what's tomorrow? Its the date you planned for us."

A long pause stretched out between the two of you. Then, Logan's brow creased into a tiny frown. "The... date. Right."

The words coming out of his mouth were perfectly calm, which immediately threw you off, because other than the little crease on his brow, there was no evidence of panic, or confusion—not even concern. You narrowed your eyes.

Interesting.

Logan reached for the TV remote, casually crossing his legs as he leaned back. Your suspicion deepened, because there was no way he was this calm, this collected. There was no date. No reservation, no plans, nothing.

You would've known. He would've told you... unless. A horrible possibility entered your mind, because John Logan was the kindest, most thoughtful man ever, and more importantly, he knew how much you loved surprises. So maybe, just maybe... he'd actually planned something, and you'd accidentally stumbled right into it?

The thought almost made your confidence waver, until you caught the look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but you knew the expression in his eyes. You'd seen it before—during games, while the two of you studied for finals, before presentations. John Logan was thinking.

You bit back your smile, trying not to completely ruin your own prank, especially as Logan, in the most faux-casual voice you'd ever heard, asked: "So, babe, what're you most excited about?"

Oh, he was fishing—you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out exactly what you were talking about. The realization nearly made you giddy, even as you fought to keep a straight face, shrugging. "Oh, you know what I'm most excited about."

"No, I don't know." The innocence in his voice was almost convincing—almost.

"No?" you asked, fighting to keep a straight face. The two of you stared at each other for a minute, and then—then, Logan's face split into a smile. A beautiful, Logan smile.

Suddenly, your faith in the plan working out wavered, because somehow, against all logic, it suddenly felt like he wasn't the one being set up—you were.

The second the bedroom door snapped shut behind him, Logan knew he was fucked.

Not because there was definitely a date, but because there might be. Which was, somehow, infinitely worse.

"You're pacing, man."

Logan looked up from where he'd been wearing a path into the carpet of his friend's bedroom. Garrett was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head as he watched Logan with growing amusement.

Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Garret raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Logan's feet.

Right. He was, in fact, pacing.

Garrett sat up. "Come on, man. What's wrong."

Logan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, contemplating whether or not he should keep the thoughts plaguing his mind to himself... then immediately abandoned that plan—because Garrett was his best friend, and he was rapidly losing his mind. "She says she's really excited for our date tomorrow."

Garrett blinked. "Is there a reason she should not be?"

"I don't even know if there's a date tomorrow," Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What the fuck?" Garrett ran a hand over his face. "How could you not know?"

Logan shrugged. "There's a possibility she might be messing with me."

Garrett nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Or," Logan sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the foot of Garrett's bed. "I forgot."

"You forgot a date?" Garrett burst out laughing, and for a moment, Logan genuinely looked around the room for something to throw at his head.

"This isn't funny."

Garrett only laughed harder. "Sorry, man. It kinda is, though."

Logan burrowed his face into the mattress, groaning. "She's picking out dresses and shit, dude."

"Huh."

Logan lifted his head. "What?"

"No idea," Garrett shrugged. "But... if she's trying to prank you, that's hilarious."

Logan narrowed his eyes at Garrett, but his grin only widened. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Okay, worst-case scenario: you forgot a date with your girlfriend."

Logan winced. "Jesus."

Garrett leaned forward. "No, listen. This is simple. You just need to take her on the greatest date of all time."

Logan blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, man. It's the only way. You gotta plan the date to end all dates."

"Come on, man. This is serious."

"I'm being serious." Garret sat up, his brow furrowing, deep in thought. "Think about it."

Logan usually hated when Garrett said that—because it meant that his friend was about to make an annoyingly good point. And it stood true this time too. Because either way, regardless of whether he was being pranked, or if he'd actually fucked up and forgotten, his girl deserved a date. Heck, his girl deserved everything. "Fuck."

Garrett leaned, back against the headboard, smug smile on his face. "Exactly."

If there really was a date he'd somehow forgotten, this fixed the problem. And if there wasn't—well, he still got to spend a day with you. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Garrett smirked. "There's that face again."

"What face?"

"The one you make whenever she's involved."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Garrett ignored him, grabbing Logan's phone. "Okay, let's plan the greatest date ever."

An hour later, what had somehow started as a joke had somehow turned into a full-scale operation.

Logan's notebook was open between the two of them, Garrett's laptop balanced on the edge of the bed.

"What's her favorite restaurant?" Garrett asked, frowning at the listings on the screen.

"The sushi place downtown."

The keys on Garrett's keyboard clacked as he wrote it down. "Favorite dessert?"

"Cheesecake from the bakery near campus."

"Favorite flowers?"

Logan didn't even take a moment. "Pink lillies."

Garrett paused, slowly turning his head to look at Logan. "Dude, you answered that way too quickly."

Logan frowned. "I know my girlfriend."

"You know your girlfriend's favorite flower. I don't even know my favorite flower."

Logan couldn't help but let out a laugh at the genuinely offended look on Garrett's face, because it made sense. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, and he wasn't about to let anything—anything—get in the way of making you happy, not even himself.

He could already feel the tension he'd been carrying since leaving the bedroom easing slightly, because now, he had a plan.

Actually, he had several plans—dinner, dessert, a walk afterward, maybe the bookstore you'd been talking about for months. Things that might not look like grand, extravagant gestures on the outside, but things he knew you'd love anyway. Things he knew would make you smile.

He could feel Garrett's watchful eyes on him and the realization settled warmly in his chest. "You know she's probably fucking with you, right?"

Logan could feel his face splitting into a slow, soft smile, "I know."

Garrett froze, the room enveloped in silence for a moment. Then: "What do you mean, you know? You spent an hour freaking out."

"I wasn't freaking out."

"You absolutely were."

Logan ignored him—because the truth was, he'd known almost immediately. The second you said it, the second he'd seen that look in your eyes—the one you got whenever you were trying not to laugh, he knew.

But that wasn't the point, it was never going to be. Because whether there had been a date or not, now there was. If his girlfriend wanted to spend a entire day together, Logan wasn't going to complain.

Garrett groaned. "Oh, my God."

"What?

"You're so disgustingly in love with her."

Logan considered arguing but instead, he just smiled. "Yeah, man. I am."

For once, Garrett didn't make fun of him for it.

By the time Logan picked you up the next evening, you were beginning to regret everything.

Not because the prank wasn't funny—it was downright hilarious. Or at least, it had been, right until a gorgeous bouquet of pink lillies had appeared on your bedside table with a note in Logan's handwriting.

Fuck, you loved them. They were your favorite flower.

The note read, Pick you up at 8. Wear the blue dress.

Now, standing in front of your mirror, smoothing down the skirt of the blue dress you loved so much, you were beginning to suspect that somewhere along the way, things had gotten out of hand.

A knock sounded from the other side of the door, making your stomach flutter. It was ridiculous—you'd been dating Logan for three years, and yet, as you opened the door, you immediately forgot every coherent thought you'd ever had.

Logan stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans, navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, his brown eyes softening the second they found you— like they always did. Every. Single. Time.

No matter how many years passed, they always softened. "Hi, babe."

A smile spread across your face automatically. "Hi."

For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Logan's gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on your bedside table. "You got the flowers I sent you?"

Your heart squeezed. "They're beautiful, Logan."

"I know."

You blinked, and Logan immediately cringed. "Oh, fuck. That sounded terrible.""

A laugh escaped you. "It really did."

He groaned. "I meant you're beautiful."

Your laugh grew louder, and Logan pressed his forehead against the doorframe, hiding his face and the shy, pink flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "I somehow made it worse."

"You absolutely did."

His answering grin was sheepish, beautiful. You slipped your hand into his, softly closing the door behind you. "Ready?"

Logan squeezed your fingers. "Always."

The date was perfect.

Not because of where he took you— though the restaurant was lovely. The bookstore afterward was also lovely. And the bakery where he insisted on buying three different desserts "for research purposes" was lovely.

Not because of any of it. The date was perfect because every stop felt intentional, like Logan had built the entire evening out of tiny pieces of you.

At dinner, he'd ordered an appetizer while you ducked into the restroom right after the two of you arrived, because he knew you always got hungry while looking at menus. At the bookstore, he somehow remembered the title of a novel you'd mentioned wanting to read six months ago. At the bakery, he'd walked directly to your favorite cheesecake without even glancing at the display.

By the time the two of you found yourselves walking along the Charles River, the city lights glittering across the water, you were fairly certain you'd accidentally created the best date of your life.

The realization was mildly infuriating.

Logan glanced at you. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?" you frowned.

"You've got your thinking face on."

You rolled your eyes. "I do not."

Logan laughed, the sound settling warmly in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, your hand fit perfectly in his. The city hummed around you—comfortable, easy.

Eventually Logan guided you toward a quiet bench overlooking the water. You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You could smell his cologne, could feel your heart beginning to stutter like it always did around him.

"You know," you said, carefully. "I had a really good time tonight."

Logan smiled. "I'm glad, babe. I did too."

You sighed, because you could feel the guilt winning. "I have to tell you something."

Immediately, Logan looked concerned. Your stomach twisted at the look on his face. God, he was too nice. "I kinda feel bad."

His eyebrows lifted. "About?"

You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the water. "The date thing."

"What about it?"

"Okay," you sucked in a deep breath. "I made it up. There wasn't actually a date."

The silence stretched out between the two of you—unbearable, suffocating, until you couldn't take it anymore. A groan escaped your lips. "Oh, my God, please stop looking at me like that."

Logan laughed. You froze, because it wasn't a surprised laugh, or even a confused one. No, he sounded... amused?

Slowly, you turned toward him, meeting his eyes. He was smiling.

Your eyes narrowed. "John Logan."

His grin widened. "Yeah, babe?"

"Oh, fuck off." The pieces clicked together all at once—the confidence, the calmness, the complete lack of panic. Your jaw slacked. "You knew."

Logan laughed. "I knew."

You stared at him, horrified, offended and impressed. Mostly offended. "When did you know?"

"The moment you said it."

Your mouth fully fell open this time. "You fucking liar."

Logan's shoulders shook with laughter. "You were picking out dresses, way too excited."

"I was acting," you gasped.

"Babe, come on." The words carried approximately zero belief.

You slapped his arm, and Logan caught your wrist immediately, still laughing. "You are unbelievable. You let me think I was winning!"

His grin softened. "You looked so excited." The words came out quietly, simply, like they explained everything.

And maybe, they did.

Logan continued, like it was obvious, like anyone else would've done the same thing. "You were excited, and I like taking you on dates."

You chest tightened. "So you planned all of this?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

The answer left his lips immediately, without hesitation, without uncertainty. "Because I love you."

The words settled softly between the two of you, warm and certain.

You groaned. "Fuck off, Logan. You can't be cute when I'm being mean and trying to prank you."

Logan chuckled, leaning forward, his forehead brushing yours. "You're not mean. You're perfect. And, you're so, so impressed by the fact that I pulled this off."

"I'm not," you scoffed, but you both knew you were lying.

His grin widened knowingly. You hated it—and you hated it even more when he kissed you, slow and sweet, smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair.

When he finally pulled away, your heart was somewhere around your ankles. "You know what?"

"What?"

You jammed a finger in his chest. "This still counts as me pranking you."

Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench—and somehow, that felt like victory enough.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.

He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.

He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”

“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”

You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.

Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.

Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.

“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.

“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”

“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.

“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”

“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”

“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”

“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”

“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”

“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”

“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”

“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”

“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.

“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”

“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”

“I do now,” Dean says simply.

“People do not change that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.

But Dean is faster.

He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.

“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”

“The conversation isn’t over.”

Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.

You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.

He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”

“I am not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.

“Honest,” he corrects.

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.

You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.

“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”

“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.

He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.

“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”

“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”

Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.

“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”

He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.

“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”

Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.

“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”

“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”

“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.

“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”

“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”

Your breath hitches.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.

When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.

“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.

He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.

Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.

You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”

“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”

“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”

“That’s right.”

Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.

Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”

“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.

Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”

He starts to move.

The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.

You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.

You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.

The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.

“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.

“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.

“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.

“Yes!” You cry out.

“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”

The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.

Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.

“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.

“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.

He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.

“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”

You shatter.

Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.

Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.

For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.

You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.

But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.

Let the game begin.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.

You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.

“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”

“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”

“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”

You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”

You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”

“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”

“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”

Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.

The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.

“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.

Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.

You turn your head slowly.

Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.

Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.

“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”

“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”

“I am watching a hockey game.”

“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”

It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.

“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”

“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”

“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”

You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”

“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”

Your breath hitches slightly.

Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.

“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”

“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”

“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”

Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.

“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”

As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.

The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.

Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”

You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.

For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.

When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”

“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”

“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”

Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”

“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”

You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.

Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.

The game is officially up.

“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”

***

The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.

You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.

“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.

“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.

The heavy double doors swing open.

The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.

Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.

He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.

“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”

Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.

Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.

“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”

“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”

“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”

“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”

Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.

And then, the doors swing open one last time.

Dean steps out into the hallway.

His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.

He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.

A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”

Dean stops.

He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.

Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.

The silence in the hallway is absolute.

Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.

You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.

“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”

Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”

Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.

He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.

Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.

Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.

“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”

“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”

“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”

“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.

“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”

Garrett actually whimpers.

You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.

Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.

“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”

The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.

And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.

“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”

The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.

Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”

“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”

“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”

“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”

“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”

“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”

“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”

As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.

You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.

Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.

They have the exact same posture.

They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.

They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.

You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.

“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”

“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”

“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.

But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.

They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.

And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.

“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”

“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”

“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.

They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.

You stand in the hallway, watching them go.

“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”

Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”

“Yes, Garrett?”

“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”

You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”

“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”

“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.

As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.

When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.

Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.

For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.

But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.

Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.

“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”

Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.

One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.

You really are going to need more deadbolts.

***

The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.

“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”

“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”

“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.

The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.

“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”

“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”

You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.

Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.

“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.

“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”

“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”

“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.

A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.

“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”

“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.

Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.

“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”

You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.

Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.

“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”

A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”

“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.

“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.

“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”

Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.

“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.

You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.

Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.

“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.

You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”

“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”

“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”

“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.

“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”

“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”

“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”

The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.

Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”

The transformation is instantaneous.

Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.

“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.

Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”

“Dean,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.

Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.

“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”

You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.

Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”

“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.

You look across the island.

LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.

LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.

“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”

“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”

You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.

***

Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.

Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.

It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.

By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.

You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.

Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.

You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.

“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.

“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”

Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.

“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”

Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”

“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”

“Which is?” Shane asks gently.

“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”

You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.

“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”

“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”

“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.

“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”

“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.

Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.

“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.

The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.

Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.

“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”

Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.

Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”

“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.

Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.

“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.

You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.

You bite your lip and roll your eyes, looking down at your phone.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 💕

The second it delivers, his gaze drops to the screen, the light glowing against his face. His mouth curves, that cute little dimple popping in his cheek.

He runs a hand through his hair before typing something, thinking better of it, then typing again when he just can’t let it go.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍? 😂

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

The lights flicker and dim, and the next act begins. You look up through the curtains again and catch him leaning forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees.

The rest of the hockey boys are laughing about something beside him, but Dean doesn’t even glance over. His eyes stay fixed on the stage for another second before he finally looks down at his phone.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚢?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

The after party rages around you and every time someone leans too close—every time a drunk college boy makes a comment to him about how good you look, he winds up a little tighter until his hand catches your wrist.

“Let’s go. Now.”

Dean wastes no time pushing you into the backstage room, shutting the door with a slam, pressing your back against it. His fingers tilt your chin up, his grip a little rough as his eyes burn into yours.

“You kidding me with this?” He murmurs.

“You don’t like it—”

“I love it,” he stops you before you can even start. His hand skims down your body, over the fabric stretched across your waist and ass, gathering the material in his big hands. “Me and every other guy here.”

“You seem jealous.”

“I am jealous,” he corrects you before his mouth crashes against yours, starved and desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair; gasping when he grinds his hard cock against you.

Dean squeezes your ass, dragging his rough hands up your hips before smacking the satin stretched across your skin, letting that satisfying crack fill the room.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he presses his fingers against your clit, cursing under his breath. Sure, you’re in panties, but those little shorts and fishnets are still in his way. That little gasp and a moan don’t tumble from your lips like they usually do. Easy fix.

You break for air, chuckling breathily against his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whisper.

“Can’t get to you,” he pushes out a sharp breath, tugging your shorts off your hips, yanking down your panties between rough kisses, looping his fingers around the fishnets between your thighs just enough to yank a hole.

“Dean!” You gasp and he chuckles.

“Beautiful.” A rough breath leaves him and he rolls his neck once, jaw flexing as his eyes drop to the torn fishnets stretched across your thighs. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “That was even better than I thought it was gonna be.”

His hands slide to your hips as he kisses you, your heart leaping when he flips you, your hands slapping quickly against the wall.

His lips brush along the side of your neck, chuckling deeply against your skin, pressing wet kisses as his fingers work open the bow of the corset.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans when he feels your ass press back into him, his fingers working at the ribbon faster and faster when it refuses to cooperate. “M’getting—Holy shit,” he mutters. “How do I get you out of this?” His words come out clipped with frustration.

You hear him rummaging through the clutter beside you long enough to snag a pair of scissors. He grabs your hip, huffing out a laugh when you giggle, arching your back to get a better view before—snip!

“Dean!”

“Spare me,” he rasps.

The sound of the blades snapping together makes you gasp as he cuts the ribbon crisscrossed up your back.

He tugs the top ribbon away with a satisfying slip, baring hot skin to the cool air when the corset pulls away. The scissors fall to the dressing room floor with a clatter—the zipper of his pants already down by the time he turns you, lifting you up into his arms, your bare back pressed to the cool brick wall.

Dean pushes his dick into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing a fistful of his hair while your other hand clamps over your mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Pussy’s so damn good.”

Your head falls back against the wall as he stretches you wide, his big hand tightening on your ass. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.

“Lucky I’m not teasin’ you. Needed you too bad,” Dean sighs, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room. “These fuckin’ tights, huh? Buying you another pair so I can do this shit again.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as his eyes stay locked on yours. Your eyes soften as he slows down, letting gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with his arms locked around you.

“You have any idea how good this feels?” He whispers, burying himself in your neck, thrusting up into you. Your fingers twist into his shirt as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches into him, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.

He grits his teeth, not stopping until he feels your body melt in his arms, his heavy head falling to your shoulder as he breathes out a sigh of satisfaction and relief.

“I was so well behaved, you know that? I could have been so, so much worse,” he says softly, his voice breaking with pleasure as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “Put on my sweatshirt. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.

“The after party’s not over,” you tease through a breathless giggle as his nose nuzzles against yours.

He sighs, his big body pressing you up against the wall again, his head falling back with a smirk on his lips when your nails slide through his hair.

“It is for us.”

“Look at you baby,” you coo as your lips leave a wet trail up his bare stomach and chest, his muscles flexing under your touch. Dean tilted his head back, his eyes shut as heavy breaths passed through his lips, trying to calm down from the orgasm you just gave him. 

A sense of pride warms your chest at the whimper that escapes your boyfriend's pretty lips when he feels you teasingly swirl your tongue around his sensitive nipple. You crooned with a smile, “Always so responsive.”  

“Princess, please,” Dean begged, his tone so whiny that it made you smirk. You placed your hands on his bare thighs, feeling them twitch under your touch as you used them to help you sit up on your knees between his spread legs. You look down at your boyfriend, who was leaning back on his hands, his face contorted as he still felt the tingling aftershocks of his orgasm. 

You bring one of your hands up to grab his chin with your pointer finger and thumb; your grip isn’t rough, but it also wasn’t gentle. You smirked, “What is it, baby? Come on, look at me.” 

“Please, I need more.” Dean pleads after he flutters his eyes open to look up at you. The sight of you nearly took his breath away. You were so enchanting. The way you looked down at him made him even more desperate for more of your touch, for your lips. His eyes wander down your body, and he feels his mouth water at the sight of you in his favorite-colored lace lingerie that’s been driving him wild since he saw it. 

“So needy, was what I have given you already not enough?” you dramatically pout, your tone condescending and teasing. Your hand that was gripping his chin moves to his shoulder while your other hand that was resting on his thigh slowly moves up his chest to rest on his other shoulder, using his shoulders as leverage to straddle his lap. 

A small hiss left your boyfriend's lips at the feeling of his throbbing tip brushing against your lace panties when you lean down to whisper in his ear, tauntingly to ask again, “It wasn't good enough?” 

“No, no, it was so good…please.” Dean stutters over his words, finding it hard to form words at the feeling of you placing soft kisses on his shoulder and collarbone. You so desperately wanted to give him what he wanted, the wet spot on your panties was almost dripping with your desire…but you couldn't give in so quickly.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” You whispered seductively between the kisses you littered across his neck, his skin burning under the soft but relentless touch of your lips. Dean nearly whimpers at your words, squeezing the sheets in his hands to stop himself from grabbing your hips, his mind running with thoughts of what he wanted

“I wanna feel you wrapped around me,” Dean whined, cutting himself off with a gasp at the feeling of you sucking under his jaw, hissing when you teasingly blow onto it after and nip at his skin. Dean knows that he is going to have to beg if you are really going to give him what he wants. “Please, please, I've been so good.” 

“Hmm, you have,” You hummed as you moved your face from his neck to get a look at your boyfriend's pretty face; his eyes were already on you. You can see the pleading look in his eyes; your poor boy was so desperate. You move some of his hair from his forehead and give him a small smile. You couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you like that. “I’ll give you what you want, baby.”  

A breath of relief leaves Dean’s lips, and you let out a small giggle at the look that appears on his face. You lean back on his thighs, and you keep your eyes on his as you move your hand behind your back, unclipping your bra in one quick movement and dropping it somewhere on the bed. A small smirk appears on your lips at the sight of your boyfriend's eyes immediately dropping to your naked chest; he always did have a weakness for your boobs. Dean licks his lips and has to stop himself from cupping your boobs into his hands. 

You lean back down, a big smile on your lips at the way he looks up at you with his pretty eyes. You would never get over the way he looked at you; you loved him so much. You place your hand on his cheek before closing your eyes and pulling him into a kiss, Dean moaning as your tongues meet. You kissed him until you felt him pull away to catch his breath. He was quick to lean forward to continue the kiss, but you pulled away and shook your head no. 

You smirked when he whined at your rejection. You whisper sweetly, but with an underlying sternness in your tone, “Lay back.” 

Your boyfriend was quick to listen to you, lying back and resting his head on the soft pillow. He was pretty sure he would do anything you said just so he could feel you wrapped around him; he couldn't handle any more of your teasing tonight. It all started when you went out with some of his teammates and their girlfriends to celebrate the game. You had dressed up in his favorite dress, and the way you danced against him at the party, and the way you rested your hand on his thigh when you sat, got him all worked up. That was 2 hours ago. 

You reached down between the two of you and took him into your hands, a soft moan leaving his lips immediately at your touch. You could feel him throbbing in your hands, and for a second, you felt a little bad for teasing him for so long, but that quickly disappeared as you slowly started to stroke him. The spit and leftover cum from the head you gave him made it easy to move your hand up and down. Dean turns his head to the side, his eyes shutting as moans pass through his parted lips. 

You rub your thumb over his tip, watching his reaction as his breath hitches and a sweet whine leaves his lips along with a desperate ‘please’. You decide that that's enough teasing, so you move your hand from his dick and move it between your thighs. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feeling of your fingers brushing against your clit as you move your panties to the side. God, you were sopping.  

You hold your panties to the side while your other hand grips onto the base of his dick, teasingly rubbing his tip up and down against your slit, coating his cock in your slick. A whine leaving your boyfriend's lips at the feeling. Once you were content with how wet his cock was, you lined his tip up with your entrance. You look down at your boyfriend and see that he's already looking up at you, and before you can open your mouth to ask, he’s nodding his head yes and whispering “please.” 

You guide his cock into you and slowly sink down, the thick head of his cock stretching your velvety walls, your eyes fluttering close at the stretch. Dean’s thighs clench, and a groan leaves his lips at how prettily your walls stretch around his cock. Sweet and loud moans escape your lips as your cunt struggles to take him in, your walls so tight around his thick cock that you can feel every inch and vein. Both of you moaning in unison at the feeling of him being buried to the hilt in your sweet, warm pussy. 

You open your eyes and rest your hands on his abdomen, feeling his chest rise and fall with his heavy breaths, still trying to get used to how tight you feel around him. You smile and lean down, one of your hands coming up to cup his cheek. Dean’s eyes flutter open at the feeling of your naked tits against his chest, and before he could let out a moan at the feeling of your fluttering around his dick, you lock his lips in a slow and sensual kiss. 

“You feel so good, Dean,” you whisper against his lips after you pull away from the kiss. You watch through your eyelashes as a cocky smile appears on your boyfriend's lips. You caress his cheek with your thumb for a few seconds before you sit up, adjusting your knees at his side. You place both your hands back on his chest, watching his face as you slowly start to move up and down. 

“God Dean!” you whined in pleasure as you continued your motions. Bouncing up and down at a slow pace, the stretch was big but felt so good. Dean’s moans become louder as your rhythm starts to pick up. The feeling of your warm, wet walls squeezing him was too much; he didn't know how long he would last. 

“You can touch my baby, it's okay,” You coo seductively, you could feel the way he was throbbing in you and the way he was squeezing the sheets, whimpers and pretty moans leaving his parted lips. As soon as those words left your mouth, he quickly stopped squeezing the linen and eagerly moved his hands to your chest, softly groping your tits. 

You would have teased him because of his eagerness, but instead, a loud moan came out. Your nipples were always so sensitive, and Dean loved using that to his advantage. 

Dean smirked cheekily at the sound, but you were quick to shut down his own teasing when you purposely clenched around him. He drops his hands from your nipples and down to squeeze onto your waist, closing his eyes as a loud groan leaves his lips and his hips jerk up. You rock your hips faster against his, your nails digging into the skin of his chest as you tilt your head back in pleasure. 

“Princess, I don't know how much longer I’ll last,” Dean moans out, his thighs were clenching, he was so close. The way your pussy gripped him, and the way he could feel your arousal start to make a mess on his thighs and drip down his balls, was too much. 

Don't get him started on the hypnotic sight of your tits bouncing in unison with your fast pace. And he knew you so well that he could tell you were close too. Your movements became more frantic, and the way you fluttered around him proved him right. 

“Me to baby—feels so good,” you whimpered, you felt that tight rope in your stomach, and you knew your peak was close. It was almost overwhelming how good it felt; his pelvic bone was hitting your clit every time you came down, and his pretty moans were too much for you. 

Dean looks away from your chest and up to your face, and he swore that he could have cummed just at the sight of you. Your mouth was agape, your face twisted in pleasure, your skin glistening beautifully in sweat. 

Dean lifts his legs, his feet planted on the bed, and his grip on your hips tightens. Both of you are moaning in unison at the new position. You keep one of your hands on his chest while the other moves behind you to squeeze his knee in pleasure, the new position causing him to go inside you deeper. Dean moves one of his hands from your hips and moves it to his chest, softly squeezing your hand. 

Your eyes flutter open, and your movements still, you look down at your boyfriend and see the blissed out look on his face. He was looking up at you with hooded eyes, and his mouth parted as heavy breaths passed through his lips. You could see it in his eyes and the way his hands were clinging to you; he was so close. You smirk and lean down so your chests are almost touching, moving your hand that was now interlocked with his, by the side of his head. 

“What? gonna cum already?” you whispered tauntingly in his ear, tangling your hand that was on his chest, in his hair that was at his nape. You continued to rock your hips against his, your ass slapping against his thighs, creating a lewd sound. A loud and embarrassing whine escaped his red and puffy lips, the coil in his stomach only tightening, and so did his grip on your hand and hip. 

You knew the more you talked to him like that, the faster he would come undone. 

“Gonna fill me up?—Hmm? Make a mess?” You continued to taunt him, your movements becoming more frantic, chasing his and your release. Dean was too fucked out to properly respond; the only sounds leaving his mouth were moans and a pitiful ‘yes’. You move your hand from his nape and softly pat his bottom lip with your pointer and middle finger. Dean knows what it means, and he eagerly opens his mouth for you. 

You smile big and bite on your bottom lip, sliding your two fingers into his mouth, his mouth closing around your fingers. 

“So good for me,” you coo between your own moans, your eyes not leaving your boyfriend's pretty face. Dean twirled his tongue around your fingers to get them wet, his eyes closed as he couldn't help but moan around them. You pull your wet fingers out of his mouth, smirking at the small whine that leaves his now parted lips. You move your hand between the two of you, your wet fingers making contact with your even wetter clit. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you start rubbing it. 

“I’m so close—please can I cum?” Dean begged as he let out a choked-out moan, tilting his head back in pleasure, blinking away the tears that were stored in his waterline. You can feel him pant against your mouth, the tip of his nose bumping into yours. The pleasure he was feeling was something he's never felt before, the coil in his stomach becoming too much. Your eyes went down to his, and the way he looked nearly brought you over the edge. 

“Please, baby, I wanna feel you.” You almost begged, you were so close. The way your thighs clenched and ached at the fast rhythm you had as you rocked against his cock, and your fingers were sopping and ached at how fast you moved them against your clit; but you cherish the ache. 

You move to sit up, but a surprised moan leaves your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist, holding you down to his chest. An even louder moan leaves your lips at the feeling of him thrusting up into you. 

“Fuuuck.” You whine loudly, your eyes squeezing shut and your fingers moving from your clit to squeeze onto the white linen. The sound of skin slapping was so lewd and echoed across his room, you were thankful that the bed didn't start hitting against the wall from Dean’s movements. 

The angle wrenches a sling of moans leaving yours and his lips, his pace becoming delirious, and his grip on you tightens as he cries out, “fuck, ‘m gonna cum.” 

“Oh my god, Dean!” you cried out in pleasure as he held you down on his cock. The feeling of his thick head of his cock hitting deep against the sensitive spot of your slick cunt and the feeling of warmth as he spills himself deep inside you with a desperate, choked-out moan of your name, brings you to your own peak. The tight rope rips, and you feel yourself fall into your desire, feeling your walls throb around his cock as you come undone. 

A pleasure that left you lightheaded. 

It was silent for a long while as you simply held each other, finding comfort in each other's soft touch and the feeling of their beating heartbeat against one another's chests. You moved your hand away from squeezing the linen, a small sting in your fingers from how hard you squeezed, and you moved it up to his cheek. You tilted your head up towards him and watched as his eyes fluttered open at your touch, a tired smile forming on your lips at the beautiful sight of his eyes. 

You caress his cheek softly with your thumb before whispering, “You did so good.” 

“Tonight, and at the game, I'm so proud” You continue to whisper. You were insanely proud of your boyfriend. The love and trust that you had for each other made tonight even more special for the two of you. Dean felt a little emotional at your words; no matter what, he always knew that you were by his side. 

You were the only one who ever made him feel like this; he never knew love could feel like this. 

“I love you,” you finally heard his voice; it was quiet and scratchy from all the loud moans that he let out tonight. Your smile gets bigger, and you lean your face closer to his, placing a gentle and slow kiss on his lips. Dean eagerly kissed you back, his hands slowly moving up and down your sides. 

You pull away to whisper against his lips, “I love you more.” 

“Tucker’s leftovers?” Dean asked in a hopeful tone as he broke the few moments of silence the two of you had shared as you stared into each other's eyes. The two of you didn't have to say anything else; your eyes told each other everything already. You laugh loudly at his words, of course he was thinking about food. 

Dean smiles big at the sound of your laugh, bringing one of his hands up to softly play with your hair. 

You place a soft kiss on the corner of his lips before you fully sit up, your eyes going down where the two of you meet. You raise your hips and watch as his now soft cock slips out of you, a groan leaving both of your lips at the feeling. A sigh escapes your lips at the feeling of your mixed cum dripping down your thighs. You look up at your boyfriend to see his eyes trained down at your messy cunt, softly biting his lip. 

You scoff playfully and nudge him with your knee, his eyes shooting up to yours with a cocky smirk, not shy at all that he got caught. You rolled your eyes in faux annoyance as you playfully corrected him, trying to sound stern, but your big smile betrayed your words. 

“Bath and then leftovers.” 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Ი𐑼 sub dean ! save meeee …. guys I’m actually so down bad for him and this fucking showww I’ve rewatched it so many times 😭 please tell me your thoughts and opinions , feedback means everything mwah 💖 comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote it with someone new !

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You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

just posted a new John Logan fic <3

“Holy mother of mary you look like shit.”

You dragged your head up, which was starting to feel like a bowling ball, to find Amy leaning in your doorway.

“Hello to you too.”

“No seriously.” She pushed off the frame and walked in, heels clicking with purpose. “You like, look really unwell. Are you ok?”

“Never better.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s just a cold.” You added, glancing back at your screen.

“I’ve seen you with a cold.” Amy shook her head. “This is not a cold.”

She studied you for a moment longer.

“Have you told hot doctor?”

You shot her a look. “No, I have not told Frank.”

“Why not? Isn’t that why he exists? To aid people… medically.”

You managed to huff out a laugh, although it sounded more like a cat being strangled.

"Because I don’t want him to worry, especially when it’s nothing serious.”

“Ok.” Amy placed her hands on her hips. “You need to do two things.”

She pointed one perfectly manicured finger up in the air. “Firstly, you need to go home.”

A second finger joined.

“Secondly, call your hot doctor boyfriend and get him to give you some serious pain meds.”

You blinked at her. “Or... I do none of those things and finish this advice which is due tomorrow.”

Amy folded her arms in front of her chest. “You literally insisted on dragging me to the ER when I fell and sprained my ankle.”

You stared at her blankly.

“So, this is me returning the favour.”

“Ames I can’t-“

“- you can.” She insisted. “Or I'll rat you out to Keith.”

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

Her expression turned smug. “Oh, I would.”

Keith was one of the most senior partners in the firm, and a notorious germaphobe.

He’d infamously once fired an intern in the middle of a firm wide meeting for sneezing without covering their mouth.

Amy, unfortunately for you, had him in her back pocket, dubbed by him as the most proficient (and clean) paralegal in the whole firm.

You held her gaze for a moment longer. You blinked as your vision started to blur.

“Fine.” You relented.

Amy hovered the whole time you packed up your things, like you might decide to sit down and keep typing if she didn’t.

“Call hot doctor boyfriend!” She called out to you as you stalked down the hallway, earning curious looks from half the floor.

You just waved her off without looking back.

-

By the time you got home, your symptoms had worsened.

Breathing felt tighter - each inhale catching slightly, each exhale ending in a faint wheeze. You could feel your body start to ache and shiver with a chill.

You collapsed onto your bed without changing, reluctantly pulling out your laptop.

You swore you had just closed your eyes to blink, and then you were waking up.

A damp patch of drool soaked into your pillow, your neck stiff from the angle.

“Fuck.” You cursed when you glanced at the time to see it was nearly 5pm.

You grabbed your phone from beside you to see endless emails and calls from work.

Frank’s missed call and text stood out like a sore thumb.

No need to call back, just had a break so wanted to see how your day was going.

Your chest tightened slightly - though whether from guilt or illness, you weren’t sure.

You typed back quickly.

Sorry I missed your call, I fell asleep :(

You were still typing out your next text when his contact photo lit up your screen.

You hesitated. He was going to clock that you were sick instantly, but not answering would be even more suspicious.

You pushed yourself upright, swallowing against the thickness in your throat, hoping that it might make a difference.

“Hey.”

“Hey you.” You could hear his smile as he spoke. “Did I misread your text or are you seriously telling me you fell asleep at your desk?”

“No, I left early.” You said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

There was a pause.

“You left work… early?”

“Yeah, I'm not feeling great." You admitted. "But it’s not a big deal." You added quickly.

“What are your symptoms?” You could hear the switch in his tone, going from boyfriend to doctor in a matter of seconds.

“Uh.. headache, cough, fatigue, I think maybe a fever?”

“And when did they start?”

“This morning but it’s gotten a bit worse.”

Silence met you.

“I’m fine really I-“

The sentence dissolved into a coughing fit you couldn’t suppress. It tore out of your chest, sharp and ugly, leaving your lungs burning.

“Baby.” Frank said gently after a moment, concern laced through his tone. “That sounds terrible.”

“I sound worse than I feel.”

Lie. And Frank knew it too.

“Look." He said after a moment, gentler now but firm underneath. "I know you won’t want to, but I think you should stop by so I can check on you.”

Panic coiled in your chest. Your relatively new boyfriend seeing you pale, sweaty and wheezing wasn't exactly on the top of your list of priorities.

“No no no-" You began. “I can’t take up a bed in the ER Frank, this isn’t an emergency.”

“I’ll have you in and out in under an hour.” He assured you. “I’ll just run a few tests and give you a physical.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

“I’ll be able to prescribe you something stronger than your over the counter meds, which will have you back to work much quicker.”

That idea put you on the fence.

As if he sensed your hesitation, he went in for the kill.

“And-“ he said softly. “It will put my mind at ease. Please."

You sighed. Why did he have to know you so well?

“You sure I won’t be in the way?”

“That's literally impossible.”

You relented. “Fine. I’ll have a shower and head over.”

“Thank you." Relief slipped into his voice. "Come in through the ambulance bay entrance."

He paused. "I think you’re familiar with it.”

Despite how shit you felt, you smiled. “I am.”

-

By the time you got a taxi to the ER, your whole body felt like lead.

Your chest had gotten heavier, your breathing tacky. A chill had settled deep into your bones, making your hands tremble despite the warmth of the evening.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked through the doors from the ambulance bay - spitting you into the department that never slept.

Dana was the first to notice you, doing a double take when she saw you shuffling over in a loose t-shirt and sweats.

“Hey sweetheart.” She called, already moving toward you. “Langdon said we’d be seeing you today.”

“Hey Dana.”

“He’s just with a patient.” She frowned as she watched you shiver. “Come with me, why don’t we get you to a bed so you can lie down in?”

“Oh no that’s really-“

Before you could finish your sentence she had your shoulders in a surprisingly strong grip as she firmly guided you down the hall.

“Lay down.” She said gently once you reached the bed.

You found your body complying with surprising ease, like it was desperate to conserve energy.

“I’ll get someone to bring you some water, Langdon won’t be long.”

“Ok, thanks.” You shot her a weak smile.

A few minutes later, Robby walked past your room, slowing mid-stride as he looked in through the glass.

“I thought room 4 was free.” He thumbed over his shoulder towards your room.

“It is.” Perlah answered.

“Then why is someone lying in there?”

“Langdon’s girlfriend is in there.” Dana answered, not looking up from her chart.

Robby and Perlah blinked in unison.

Javadi’s head shot up.

“The lawyer?”

“Yes, the lawyer.” Dana finally looked at Robby over her glasses. “She looks in rough shape. Langdon said he convinced her to come in to get checked out.”

Robby scoffed. “This is an emergency department, not a GP.”

Dana’s expression hardened. “Why don’t you go look at her yourself before you make assumptions? The poor thing could barely keep herself upright.”

Robby muttered something under his breath, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Langdon!” Dana called out across the pitt just as Frank emerged from another room.

She inclined her head. “Your girlfriend’s here. Room 4.”

“Oh, thanks.” He was already moving.

“Woah woah woah.” Robby stepped into his path. “Where are you going?”

“Just to go check-“

“You’re her boyfriend, you can’t be objective if you treat her.”

“I know that.” Frank said tightly, already trying to look past him.

“Dr King's assessing her.”

Robby studied him for a moment, like he was trying to find a reason to scold him.

“Can I at least go and say hello?”

“After Dr King’s done her initial assessment. Prevents her from being influenced by any observations you might be inclined to make.”

Frank held his gaze for a moment, jaw tightening like he was debating whether to push it.

“Fine.”

Mel, who had been hovering nearby, stepped in quickly.

“I’ll go check on her now.” She reassured Frank, shooting him a small smile.

Frank exhaled, “ok, thanks.”

-

You glanced up as the door opened.

“Frank honey, you look different.” You teased, your voice croaky.

Mel let out an awkward laugh as she stepped inside. “I’m Dr King.”

Your eyes brightened. “I’ve heard a lot about you Dr King.”

Mel watched as you feebly tried to sit up.

“And I've heard a lot about you.” She smiled kindly. "And I mean a lot.. Langdon never stops-" She cut herself off. "I probably shouldn't be telling you that. Sorry."

"No, no keep going." You said. "Good for the ego."

That earned a genuine laugh as she adjusted her glasses, before she slipped right back into professional mode.

“I’m going to be examining you today because Frank can't treat you given he has a personal relationship with you. Is that alright?”

You smiled faintly. “If Frank trusts you, I trust you.”

She nodded curtly, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks at your praise.

Mel listened attentively as you listed your symptoms. Then, she gently examined your throat, feeling around your glands, before pressing her stethoscope to your back.

“Take some deep breaths for me.”

Her brow furrowed as you inhaled and exhaled deeply.

Mel glanced toward the window just in time to catch Frank watching. His expression had shifted - tight, alert, already reading her face.

“Ok.” She moved to stand in front of you, blocking your sight of the window. “By the sound of your breathing, it looks like maybe a viral infection or the flu but I’m going to get your bloods taken and a chest x-ray just to be sure.”

Your brow furrowed. “A chest x-ray? Should I be worried?”

“No no.” She assured you. “I just want to be thorough, Dr Langdon will want to make sure we check every possibility.”

That seemed to settle you.

“Ok.”

She moved to leave before pausing at the door. “Are you ok with me sharing your medical information with Dr Lang- Frank?”

You huffed faintly. “Ah yes, confidentiality.”

“Something I'm sure you’re familiar with.”

“Very.” You coughed, wincing as your chest tightened.

You would usually have made a witty remark, but you just found yourself nodding. “That’s fine.”

“Ok, one of the nurses will be in shortly. They'll give you some fluids and take your bloods."

The door clicked shut behind Mel, and for a moment, the room was quiet again - save for the soft, ugly rattle in your chest every time you breathed.

You sank back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way each inhale felt… wrong. Too tight. Too shallow.

Maybe this wasn’t just a cold.

The thought barely had time to settle before the door opened again.

This time, it was Frank.

You didn’t even realise how tense your body had been until you saw him - until something in your chest loosened that had nothing to do with your congested lungs.

"Hey." You rasped.

He was at your side in seconds, eyes scanning you like he was cataloguing every symptom all at once.

"Hey." He echoed softly, but the smile you were expecting didn’t quite land.

His hand came up to your forehead, then your cheek, then gently under your chin, tilting your face toward the light.

"You look worse than you sounded." He murmured.

"Wow, romantic."

That earned you the smallest huff of amusement - but it didn’t reach his eyes.

A knock interrupted you both.

“Hi, I’m Donnie. Dr King sent me in to do your bloods.”

You mustered up a smile as you introduced yourself.

“Oh I know who you are.” He grinned like the concept of you having to explain who you were was a novelty.

“I’m a big fan.”

“Fan?”

“Anyone who can make ER Ken here this whipped has my total and utter admiration.”

Frank went to shoot him a glare but stopped when he saw the smile on your face.

“I like you already Donnie.” You answered before breaking out into a coughing fit.

Frank reached for your hand, squeezing tightly as your lungs settled and Donnie set to work.

Another nurse, who introduced herself as Princess came in not long after to take you to get your x-ray.

“McKay's looking for you.” She added to Frank.

Frank glanced down at you, his grip on your hand tightening.

“I’ve got her Langdon.” She reassured him, her usual humour gone from her face when she saw the panic in his eyes.

“Go.” You urged him, squeezing his hand back. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

“Ok baby.”

And then, like he forgot where he was - who was watching - he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.

Princess watched as he left the room, shaking her head slightly.

-

By the time you were back in the room after your x-ray, the chills had worsened. Your teeth were chattering, your vision blurring at the edges.

Frank was leaning against the counter when you came back in, arms crossed, but the second he saw you - he straightened immediately.

"Oh sweetheart." He murured, stepping closer as he helped you back into bed.

You barely had the energy to respond.

"Cold?" He asked, already reaching for another blanket.

You nodded, too tired to argue when he tucked it around you himself.

Frank adjusted it.

Then adjusted it again.

Then frowned like it personally offended him.

"It’s uneven."

"It’s a blanket." You mumbled.

He ignored that, tucking the corner in with unnecessary, surgical precision.

Only when he was satisfied that you were adequately comfortable, did he finally glance back at you, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

"I've got to go check in on my other patients."

"Ok." You murmured, your eyes drooping.

"I'll be back." He placed a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Man." Princess said after a moment, watching him go. "That boy loves you.”

You smiled sleepily “I know.”

-

By the time Mel came back, you had started drifting in and out of sleep, so you had no real sense of how much time had passed.

Frank was not far behind her.

“How are you feeling?”

You forced yourself to open your eyes, although they quivered like they were threatening to drop at any moment.

“Peachy.”

Frank leant forward, brushing a hand over your forehead, his touch cool against your burning skin.

“She’s burning up.”

Mel glanced at you first, then at Frank.

"I've had a look at the x-ray of your chest. There are white spots showing up on your lungs. Which indicates the presence of an infection - where pus and fluids have replaced air."

Your brain lagged.

“Meaning?”

Frank’s hand found yours before Mel answered.

“You’ve got pneumonia.”

You blinked slowly.

“…like,” you swallowed, throat dry. “Pneumonia pneumonia?”

Mel gave a small, sympathetic nod as she wringed her hands together.

“I thought that was something people got from like... standing in the rain too long. Or...back in the bubonic plague times.”

They both offered you a laugh at your attempt at humour.

“It’s more common than you think.” She reassured you. “Have you had a cold recently?”

You offered a weak shrug. “I’ve always got something on board.”

“Right. Well, pneumonia is often triggered by a cold or flu. You’re more vulnerable if you’ve got a weakened immune system which of course can be exacerbated by stress, lack of sleep, improper nutrition…”

“Gee." Frank murmured, glancing down at you. "I wonder who that reminds me of?” There was no bite to it, only concern.

“We caught it early, which is good. But you’re going to need antibiotics, fluids and lots of rest.”

Your head lolled back against the pillow.

“How long do the antibiotics take to kick in?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Uh- it can depend. We usually recommend coming back after 5 days if your symptoms haven’t improved.”

“So I’ll be ok to go to work tomorrow?”

Frank closed his eyes briefly.

“Baby-“

“What? I’m just asking.”

“You’re not going to work tomorrow.”

“I have a deadline.”

“You have pneumonia.”

“I’ll take the antibiotics-“

“You can barely sit upright.”

“I’m sitting right now.”

“You’re horizontal.”

You gestured weakly. “…semantics.”

Mel pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to smile.

“I’ll give you two a minute.” She said, slipping out.

The second the door shut, Frank turned back to you fully.

“Did you drive here?”

You shook your head.

“Ok.” He nodded. “You’re staying at mine tonight.”

This time there was no room for negotiation in his tone.

“You don’t need to do that.” You shot back weakly. “I just need meds and I’ll be fine.”

“You are not fine.”

“I’ve worked through worse.”

“That’s not something to be proud of.”

“It’s reality.”

“And this." He gestured to you, to the oxygen monitor now clipped to your finger, to the way your chest rose unevenly, “is also reality.”

You hesitated.

Just for a second, but he caught it.

His expression shifted, something softer breaking through the control.

“Hey." He said quietly. "Look at me.”

You did.

And there it was - that shift again. Not doctor. Not entirely.

Just… Frank. Your Frank.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep if I don’t know you're ok.”

Your throat tightened, and not from the infection.

“You just want to make sure I’m not working.” You muttered.

“Absolutely." He said without missing a beat. "I’ll be hiding your work phone the second we get home.”

You huffed weakly.

"…I wasn’t going to-"

"-Liar."

"...maybe a little."

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“Let me look after my girl.” He murmured. “Please.”

You held his gaze for a long moment.

Then sighed.

"...ok."

Relief flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to see.

“Thank you.”

You broke out into a coughing fit before you could say anything else. Frank's grip on your hand tighter instinctively, waiting patiently as your body worked through it.

“Sexy, huh?”

His mouth curved faintly, brushing a thumb across your cheekbone.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only person on the planet who can make pneumonia look sexy.”

“You flatter me.”

“Just stating facts."

He pressed a kiss to your brow, almost reverently.

“Rest. I’ll be finished soon.”

-

Like most gossip in the pitt, word that you were here had spread like wildfire.

Staff suddenly found themselves with urgent, completely necessary reasons to pass by your room - each one conveniently slowing just enough to peer through the glass at the woman who had reduced Frank Langdon to a love sick puppy.

Dana was walking and writing at the same time when she happened to glance up.

"Hey!" She roused.

A cluster of nurses froze mid-creep outside your door.

They turned slowly.

“Leave her alone for Christ's sake. This isn’t a zoo!”

They exchanged glances before sheepishly dispersing.

“Unbelievable.” Dana muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she kept walking.

Whitaker and Santos both looked up as Dana passed.

“So what’s the matter with lawyer barbie?” Santos remarked after a few moments.

Mel didn't even look up from her screen. “Pneumonia.”

McKay paused behind her, leaning slightly to get a better look toward your room.

“She had pneumonia and still looks like that?” She let out a scoff. “Why do I even fucking bother.”

“They are so cute.” Javadi added dreamily, still staring at your door.

“Princess said that he called her baby.”

Santos’ nose wrinkled. “Gross.”

“And-“ Princess chimed in, stepping closer. “You guys should have seen the way he tucked her in. Honestly it was like he was nesting.”

Perlah and Javadi let out matching awws.

“That is quite sweet.” Whitaker murmured, causing Santos to shoot him a glare.

“Traitor.” She grumbled.

But even she couldn’t completely hide the way her expression softened.

“Should we start a betting pool on how many times he’s going to go check in on her between now and the end of his shift?” Donnie grinned.

“Guys." Mohan interjected. "We should show him some grace. He’s really worried about her.”

Robby, who had of course been eavesdropping, shifted slightly at his desk.

Guilt pawed at his chest as he thought about his interaction with Langdon earlier, the clear distress that had been evident on his features.

“Mohan's right.” He said without looking up.

Everyone turned to him.

“Be nice to Langdon.”

In turn, they all blinked, then exchanged glances to confirm if they had all collectively misheard.

“What the fuck?” Santos whispered under her breath.

Whitaker just shrugged. "I'm not even going to ask."

—

When you came to, you were completely disorientated.

For a split second, panic surged through you as you tried to sit up too quickly, disoriented by the unfamiliar room.

Then, your brain caught up. The hospital, Frank, pneumonia.

You stilled.

Frank had pulled a chair up beside your bed, one arm resting near yours, like he needed the proximity just as much as you did.

He’d changed out of his scrubs, the soft glow of his phone illuminating the shirt you’d helped him pick out a few weeks ago.

You shifted slightly, wincing.

His head snapped up the second he registered your movement, his phone discarded in his lap.

“Hey sleepyhead.”

You let out a soft groan as you rubbed your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“It’s about 9 pm.”

Two hours since his shift finished.

Your gaze lingered on him. “You should have woken me up.”

It came out half-scolding - but the warmth in your voice gave you away.

“I wanted you to get as much sleep as possible.”

“What if I hadn’t woken up until tomorrow?”

“Then I’d have stayed right here all night.” He said it immediately, simply, like there was no other option that existed.

You felt an insurmountable amount of love threaten to burst out of your chest.

You just looked at him for a moment, something quiet and overwhelming settling between you.

“Come on." He said gently as he stood. "Let's get you home."

The teasing you’d expected as Frank all but carried you out of your room towards his car was non-existent.

Instead, the night shift and day shift stragglers offered you their ‘hope you feel betters’ and goodbyes as you passed.

Voices continued to follow you down the corridor, softer than usual, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like fondness.

“Rest up lawyer barbie.” A doctor you hadn't met before said as he passed, iced coffee in hand.

Your brow knitted. “What did he just call me?”

Frank huffed under his breath, adjusting his grip on you.

“I think it’s better I explain that when you’re feeling better.”

-

By the time you got to Frank’s apartment, you were exhausted.

Not just tired - bone-deep, heavy, the kind of exhaustion that settled into your body and refused to let go.

With no fight left in you, you gave in to Frank’s wishes without complaint - finally finding yourself letting him fuss over you.

He guided you through a quick shower, steadying you when you swayed, before helping you into one of his shirts and a pair of track pants that hung loose on your frame.

You had no appetite, but he hovered just enough that you managed a few reluctant spoonfuls of leftovers from his fridge.

Then, he got you into bed.

A warm compress rested against your forehead, and by the time you blinked your eyes open again, your bedside table had been transformed - water, tea, pain meds, everything lined up within easy reach.

You shifted slightly.

Frank was there instantly, adjusting your pillows with quiet precision, movements gentle, practiced.

You watched him for a moment in the dim light.

“You’re good at this.”

He glanced at you, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Occupational hazard.”

As your eyes started to droop, you patted the bed next to you.

“Will you lie with me?”

You didn’t have to ask twice. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even pretend to. Frank didn’t think he was capable of denying you anything, ever.

You turned just enough to face him.

“Thank you for all of this. Taking care of me.” You murmured.

Frank smiled softly. “Thank you for letting me.”

You could see it - the lecture sitting right there on the tip of his tongue, ready to go. About rest, about burnout, about how you ran yourself into the ground like it was something to be proud of.

But he swallowed it.

A conversation for a later date. You let your eyes flutter shut.

“I think I’ve found your one flaw you know.” He said after a few moments.

You peaked an eye open. “Just one?”

He studied you, something warm and tired in his eyes.

“You’re a terrible patient.”

You let out a weak laugh at that.

“Pretty fatal flaw for someone dating a doctor.”

Frank shook his head. “Somehow you make it endearing.”

Your lips curved faintly, your eyes drifting shut again.

“I love you.”

The words slipped out easily. Soft. Unguarded. Like they’d been there for a while. Like you hadn’t just shifted the course of his life.

Frank froze beside you momentarily.

You didn’t see it - the way it landed. The way his eyes turned glassy. The way his breath caught. The way something in his chest shifted all at once.

He’d been holding onto those words for weeks. Turning them over, waiting for the right moment - worried he’d say them too soon, that he’d scare you off.

And you just… said them.

Like it was simple, obvious, something that was inevitable between the two of you.

Frank supposed it was.

“I love you.” He whispered back. “So much.”

You hummed softly, already half asleep.

“Get some rest baby.”

Your fingers curled loosely around his.

And for once, you listened.

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“Get on your hands and knees for me.” You’re quick to follow Robby’s instruction. You move onto the bed so your head is towards Frank and your ass is raised for the man behind you. You feel Robby’s large hands grope your cheeks. He smooths one rough palm over your skin to the small of your back, using a steady pressure to urge you into a deeper arch. Dennis watches on, his eyes trained on your exposed body with rapt attention.

You gasp when you suddenly feel the head of Robby’s cock rub through your folds once before he positions himself at your entrance. When he starts to slowly sink into you, you suck in a sharp breath. It feels so good. That familiar stretch. Until it’s not so familiar anymore, because Robby’s still going, groaning as his length pushes deeper than anything you’ve felt before. You’re choking on air by the time he reaches the hilt, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving.

Frank sits on the bed in front you. He’s holding you against his body, one hand cupping the side of your neck while the other roams up and down your side. A smirk forms on his face as he watches the events unfold.

“That feel good, baby?” He patronizes. “Dr. Robby’s big dick makin’ your pussy feel brand new?”

You can’t help the moan you let out in response to the filth. Beside you, Whitaker chokes on his surprise.

“Jesus Christ, man,” he mutters. He sounds dismayed, but his lust-blown pupils and the bulge in his pants give away his own arousal. Frank only chuckles. Then Robby shifts inside you, and Frank’s hand moves from your neck to pet over your hair while pathetic whimpers slip past your lips.

“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart.” Robby breathes out. “Taking me so fuckin’ good.” He starts to retract, pulling his hips back in a languid stroke only to sink back in just as slowly. The pace ensures that he hits deep every time, sending your body lurching backwards into Frank’s and forcing sweet little “-uh”s past your lips with every thrust. The sounds go right to the three men’s cocks.

You see Dennis’s form grow closer in your periphery, then a new pair of hands are on you. One explores your back while the other slides down to gently knead your breast. You let out a pleased hum at all the attention, giving him the confidence to roll your nipple between two fingers. The pleasure shoots right to your core and makes you tighten around Robby like a vice.

“Fuck-” he chokes out, his fingers tightening around your hips.

“Do that again, Whitaker.” Frank orders, grinning loftily. “She liked that.” His head dips down to your level so he can catch your gaze with wide blue eyes. “Didn’t you, pretty girl?”

You nod desperately. Dennis’s hands stay on your chest, rolling your nipples with gentle fingers and sending shocks of pleasure up your spine to match the ones from Robby’s cock. You rock your hips back in time with his thrusts, forcing each one deeper.

“That’s right, honey.” Robby praises from behind you. “Push back on that cock. Just like that.”

“Fuckin’ desperate for it.” Frank taunts. He reaches down to envelope your left tit in a big hand. The rough groping is a stark contrast to Dennis’s soft attention on the other.

“Now what do you say when someone makes you feel so good?” Frank leans closer, delivering the hushed words to your ear. “Hm?”

You’re forced forward from your hands and onto your forearms with a particularly hard thrust. Your head drops, neck limp. “Thank you, Dr. Robby!” You cry out.

“That’s a good girl,” Robby growls. He amps up to a brutalizing pace, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every snap of his hips. The dull throbs of pain mingle deliciously with the white-hot pleasure.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp “holy shit.”

“See? He likes a girl with manners.” Frank gives your cheeks a couple of condescending pats. His chuckle and self-congratulatory grin tell you just how much he’s enjoying orchestrating things.

As Robby continues to thrust into you, a slew of curses and “thank yous” spill past your lips between whimpers and moans. You’re nearly incoherent.

“Is she gonna cum?” Dennis asks beside you. “Is she coming?”

Frank lets out a short laugh at that. “Not quite. Why don’t you help her out?”

Dennis’s dominant hand disappears from your breast. Not a second later you’re nearly screaming as deft fingers make contact with your clit. Dennis rubs with firm, rhythmic circles while Robby fucks into you.

“Oh my god, fuck, pleasepleaseplease” You’re near delirious with bliss.

“Theeere it is,” Frank drawls. “Go on, baby. Cum on that nice big dick.”

You couldn’t disobey if you tried. Your orgasm hits you like a truck on Robby’s next thrust, knocking the air from your lungs. You choke on a moan. Behind you, his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass. He stays buried deep, rocking slightly to work you through your release. Just as you start to catch your breath, he lets out a low moan and snaps his hips forward a final time, spilling into his condom.

Robby pants behind you, recovering from his intense orgasm. Frank glances up at a slack-mouthed Dennis.

“You’re up, champ.”

“Me?” Dennis looks at the man incredulously.

“Oh, yeah.” Frank leans down and plants a kiss to your temple before rising up off the bed. He claps the young man on the shoulder. “I’ll take last. She’s fun like that, all fucked-out and messy.”

Dennis swallows thickly. Behind you, Robby huffs as he slowly eases his length out of you, leaving you feeling staggeringly empty.

“Fuckin’ sadist.” The man grumbles. Your pussy clenches around nothing, mourning the loss of him. He rubs comforting circles on your back as you whimper.

1. Robby

Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger. 

Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.

“You’re married!”

“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)

“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her. 

“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again. 

“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.

Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils. 

“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”

“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch. 

You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess. 

“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.

“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”

“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”

“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2. Dana

“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.

“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”

Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.

“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”

“Aren’t you married?”

Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker. 

It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.

The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.

By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas. 

“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.

“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”

“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”

You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want to help you out.”

“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.

3. Trinity

Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.

“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.” 

“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart. 

“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.” 

She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?

(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.

“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.

“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”

“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.

“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs. 

“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.

You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this. 

“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”

“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade. 

“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.

4. Mel

It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” 

Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”

The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest. 

“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”

“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”

And it’s that easy. 

The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands. 

“I think you should meet my coworkers.” 

He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)

“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”

“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”

“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots. 

+ 1

Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest. 

“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths. 

“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing. 

“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”

You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”

“Of course.”

Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus. 

The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it. 

“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.

“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.” 

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”

Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.

“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.

“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”

Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.

“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high. 

“Huckleberry?”

“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?

“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be. 

“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.

“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”

Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two. 

You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”

“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”

The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”

“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”

Dennis groans yet again. 

The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little. 

You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created. 

“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.

“Sure thing, Trin.”

Extra

“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”

Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”

Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm. 

“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”

The emergency department was buzzing with patients flowing through the doors. From simple coughs to multiple trauma victims rolling in, the ED was in full swing.

You jumped on the case in room four with Robby, a young boy with flu symptoms, but overall, it seems to be a simple cold.

The child on the gurney looked stable, vitals steady, and for the first time that morning, you allowed yourself to take a slow breath. Pediatric patients held a soft spot in your heart; hell, for most of your life, you thought you would be a pediatrician. But something about emergency medicine had called to you instead.

Robby adjusted the young boy's oxygen mask while you checked the monitors, your hands confident and practiced.

“His vitals look good,” you say, glancing at him. 

He nods, a small tug at the corner of his lips. “Nice and calm. Nothing we can’t handle.”

You share a quiet laugh, a rare moment of lightness amid the usual chaos of the ED. The boy is responding well to treatment so far; his colour is improving, and he is breathing steadily through the mask. The case feels routine. For a second, you allowed yourself to believe that this would all go smoothly.

“Let’s step out for a moment. Give him some rest. Check on other cases. He should be fine for a few minutes,” Robby said, giving you a reassuring look. You stepped back, letting him handle the boy while you moved towards the doorway.

And then it happened.

The monitor beside the gurneys erupts with alarm, shrieking and urgently. 

Your stomach dropped as you whirled around. Your heart hammers as the steady beeps turn into frantic, jagged rhythms. The boy’s tiny chest barely rises.

“No… no, no.” The words escape before your mind can process them.

You were at Robby's side in an instant. His eyes were wide, voice sharp. “BP dropping fast! He’s coding!”

Nurses rushed in from the hall, the crash cart rattling in behind them. They moved quickly, but you and Robby were already on the child. Your hands move before you can think, adrenaline taking over as you start compressions.

“Epinephrine! Bag him! Crash cart, now!” You barked orders, voice tight, desperate.

Robby is working alongside you, his hands on the oxygen bag, adjusting lines, keeping the IV running. But the monitor refuses to stabilize.  Around you, the team moves quickly, drawing up medication and preparing equipment.

Each second stretches is impossibly long. 

You feel your hands tremble, your shoulders and chest starting to ache from the force of compressions. Sweat runs down your forehead into your eyes, but you don’t stop.

You can’t. You won’t.

“Stay with me, please… Come on,” you whisper over and over, voice cracking, hoping that the child might hear you and fight his way back.

Minutes drag by in a blur of motion and noise.

More medication. Another shock. Adjust the oxygen. Reposition. Check pulse. Compress again. You try every protocol you know, every step drilled into you through years of training. 

Still, nothing works.

The alarm doesn't stop. It screams at you, sharp and merciless, each beep a reminder that you're losing him. 

Your vision blurs. Your body feels like it's on fire from the effort. Your lungs burn with every breath. 

And still the monitor refuses to respond.

Then the flatline comes. 

The alarms continued screaming, but the boy is gone.

You freeze, hands hovering over the child’s small body, chest heaving. Robby’s hand lands on your shoulder as an anchor, but even that couldn't fill the hollow ache that was starting to spread through your chest. 

Robby can’t make the monitor change. Nothing can.

Hot tears burn behind your eyes.

It was like something inside you snapped. 

Not heartbreak. Not just grief. 

Something deeper, tearing at your very core. 

This was the first child you couldn't save. The first young life that slipped through your fingers despite everything you tried.

You had handled emergencies before. You have saved lives. 

But never a child who couldn’t fight their way back.

Around you, Robby and the team speak quietly, tidying lines, shutting off equipment and checking the monitors. But you could barely notice their voices, all blur together, distant and muffled.

You barely hear any of it.

The room around you feels completely unused. 

You can’t breathe.

You can't think.

And through the haze, only one thought breaks through. 

Jack.

You need him. 

Before you even realize you’re moving, your feet are taking you away from the gurney. The room feels smaller now, suffocating almost, and the lights are suddenly too harsh.

Robby says your name. You don’t even register it.

“Hey–” he starts, stepping toward with concern in his tone.

But you’re already out the door. The hallway feels louder than before, monitors beeping, phoneringing, stretchers being pushed across the floor. The noise hits you all at once, overwhelming your senses.

“Hey! Wait–” Robby calls after you, but his voice is fading behind you.

You keep walking.

Your legs move faster and faster until you’re basically stumbling through the corridor. Nurses brush past you, doctors call out orders, but their voices all blur into one.

Your chest feels tight as if someone has wrapped you up in restraints.

You lost him.

You lost a child.

That thought hits like a punch in your gut.

Your hands are shaking, and you can feel the pressure of the compressions on your palms. The fragile rise and fall of the child’s chest beneath them, except there is nothing. 

No heartbeat. No breath.

You can feel the lump in your throat as your vision blurs.

The corridors seem impossibly long, stretching further with every step. Every corner you turn, every room you pass, he’s not there.

You pass the nurses' station,  earning a few looks.

He is not there.

You glance towards triage.

Not there either.

Your breathing grows heavier, shallow and sharp. Panic starts to creep into your mind around the edges of your grief.

Where is he?

You turn another corner too quickly and nearly collide with a resident rushing past with a chart. They mutter an apology, but you don't hear.

You can’t stop.

The world feels like it's collapsing around you.

You’ve lost patients before. You’ve seen death countless times in the emergency department.

This is different. 

This was a child.

And you couldn't save him.

You turn another corner, walking faster now, almost running. Your breath comes in short bursts, chest tight, vision still blurred with unshed tears.

The hospital feels endless tonight.

Too many hallways. Too many rooms. Too many people moving past you like nothing just happened.

You wipe roughly at your face with the back of your sleeve, but it doesn’t help. Your hands are still shaking. Your chest still feels like it’s caving in.

Where is he?

You round the corner toward the staff lockers, and then you see him.

Jack.

He’s standing by the row of mental lockers, one of them open as he hangs his jacket inside. His movements are calm and routine, just another moment in the middle of a shift.

The sounds of your footsteps echo down the hallway.

Jack glances over his shoulder at the noise.

And then he sees you.

Your hair is a mess, your chest rising and falling too fast, tears streaking down your face. Your hands are still shaking, and you look like you could faint at any second.

The control you’d been clinging to shatters. Your knees buckle, and you stumble forward, unable to hold yourself up any longer.

Jack is there instantly. 

His arms out to catch you, steady you before you can fall. He doesn't say a word, just wraps you against him, holding you close and giving you one of his famous Abbot hugs. He guides you into the nearest staff room off the hallway, closing the door behind you. 

You collapse against his chest, body shaking, tears soaking into his scrubs. Your face buries into his shoulder, and the words you’d been holding back finally spill out:

“He was just a child, Jack… a small little boy…”

The confession hit the quiet room like a blow. You all lost patients, but there was something about losing a child that just cut deep.

Jack stiffens slightly at first, then immediately tightens his hold around you. One hand cradles the back of your head, threading through your hair, while the other wraps firmly across your shoulder, keeping you upright, safe and anchored.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice low and thick with emotion as he could feel your pain. “I can’t take away the pain, but I’m right here. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever.”

You gripped him, sobs wracking through your body, tears making his scrubs darker. He gently rocks you, slow and steady, pressing soft kisses to your temple, the top of your head and your cheeks. Each touch is deliberate, full of love, care and promise he had for you.

“I did… everything,” you managed to choke out, voice cracking. “Compression, medications…I–he just didn’t..”

Jack lifts your head so your eyes meet his. “I know,” he repeats softly. “I know you're tired. You have everything you had. That’s all anyone could ask for, and it's more than enough.”

You shake your head, clinging to him, letting yourself be vulnerable as you lie in his arms. “It’s not enough… he was so small… so fragile…”

Jack hums softly, pulling you closer, rocking you slightly as you tremble. “I know… “ he whispers. “But you’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”

His fingers stroke your back, fingertips brushing your hair. He murmurs over and over, soft words of love and care, grounding you as the storm of grief crashes through your body.

“I love you,” he whispers finally. “I love you so much. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. ”

You cling to him, forehead pressed to his chest, letting yourself fall apart completely, letting him carry your grief with you. Outside, the hospital hums on, footsteps, alarms, the distant chaos of the emergency department, but in this quiet room, it feels far away.

And for the first time since the alarm went off, since the little boy’s flatline, the crushing weight of the world eases, if only for a moment.

You are safe. You are loved. You are not alone.

1.

“Jack, baby, sit down”, Your soft voice lilted through the apartment.

Jack had just gotten home from a 24 hour shift, and you could tell just by his gait alone from the second he walked through the front door; that his leg was bothering him. The way he shifted his weight—he always does that, more so for balance—but now it was more intentional. More focused on getting all the weight he could off his prosthetic.

He was already limping towards the kitchen—wobble in his step—when you called out to him.

You hear him sigh loudly; “I’m fine”, but his white knuckles gripping tightly against the kitchen counter say otherwise.

He stands there for longer than he should, taking a step towards the fridge when his step falters—almost like he’s going to fall—before leaning forward and grabbing the kitchen island with just as much force.

You’re on your feet before he can finish mumbling under his breath, soft and steady hands gently settling on his waist, one rubbing soothingly across his shoulders.

“Don’t”, He says it quietly, not looking at you, like something might break if he’s too loud—like it would make everything real.

You use your hands to turn him towards you, watching his tired face fall even further.

“Baby, you just worked for 24 hours. You’re sore, I know your leg hurts-“ you stop when he looks up at you, letting your hands cup his cheeks; “Let me help you.”

His eyes flit across your face, heavy purple bags underneath them—before he sighs again—giving you a small nod.

“Ok.”

You smile softly, following his gaze; “Yeah?”

He nods again, face still tired, but his shoulders relax just a bit. You stand on your tiptoes, pressing a small kiss to both corners of his mouth—slightly teasing—and then one softly against them in full, chuckling when he chases your lips after the second one.

You guide him to the couch by lacing your fingers together, helping him lower himself to the couch when he winces. You rub his knee soothingly, only standing when you’re sure he’s settled in.

You pour him a mug of tea from where it’s been brewing on the stove, hearing him sigh as the warm liquid hits his lips. You feel his hand on your waist again, playing with the hem of your shirt.

“Thank you.”

You only smile back, running your fingers through his messy curls.

“Stay here and relax. I’ll be back in a few minutes”, You tell him, disappearing down the hallway before he can ask more questions.

You found yourself in the bathroom, turning the bath tap on and turning up the temperature. Letting the steam fill the room with warmth you add a little bit of bubbles, some bath salts. You light some candles, pull out your bottle of lotion and dim the lights. You grab Jack’s crutches as you make your way back to the living room.

Sitting down next to Jack, you pat your knee, signaling for him to extend his leg. He hesitates for a moment, eyes wide like he’s asking if you’re sure.

“Cmon, give me your leg.”

Eventually, he does, setting the end of his prosthetic over your legs.

“What are you doing?” He asks as you start undoing the straps.

“Taking care of you.”

You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. For a moment, he falters.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to.”

That makes his mouth fall shut.

He watches as you slip the prosthetic off, then the slip and the sleeve, movements easy like you’d done a million times. You grab one of his wipes, running it gently over his stump after you’ve pulled everything off. He hisses when the cool air hits his sore skin.

The second the wipe touches his skin, you feel him tense.

“You ok?”

He nods; “Yeah”, then chuckles, “Just cold.”

The smile doesn’t leave your lips as you finish cleaning up his leg, before standing and holding his crutches out to him. He stands without question, following you back to the bedroom, only protesting with a soft grumble when you force him to sit on the edge of the bed.

You dig through the dresser drawers, pulling out a different pair of underwear in each hand, presenting them to him like he’s choosing between coffee or water.

“Boxers or briefs?”

He almost laughs, huffing with a hand running down his face before he answers.

“Boxers”, He finally says.

You put the briefs back before offering him your hand again, helping him to his feet and leading him to the bathroom. He stops when he enters, his eyes flicking around the room.

“What’s all this?”, His voice is soft and breathy as he leans up against the counter.

You shrug, pulling out a fluffy towel to set out for him.

“For you to relax”, You say it like it’s nothing again, shrugging; “Cmon, clothes off, Abbot.”

Something in his chest twists. He forces whatever emotion is in his throat back. Just wanting to be present with you.

“Baby…”, His eyes are soft.

You shake your head; “I’m taking care of you tonight, Jack.”

He smirks at you, pausing for a second before he pulls his shirt over his head, broad freckled shoulders on display. You help him slip out of his scrub pants and underwear, throwing them all along with his socks in the hamper. Then you’re helping him step into the tub—he hisses when the water covers his stump—letting the water encompass him fully.

He lets his head fall back, arms on either side of the tub as his eyes fall clothes, air leaving his nose in a soft breath.

“Feel nice?”, You asks softly, already crouching down to sit on the floor next to him.

He nods.

“Like heaven…thank you, baby.”

You intertwine your fingers with his; “You deserve to be taken care of too.”

He doesn’t answer this time, just looks at you, really looks at you—like he’s studying you—and maybe he is. His face has softened, he looks a little more awake now. He slowly brings your hand up to his lips, and presses a long kiss there; his eyes closed, like he’s savoring it.

“Do you need anything?”, You asks softly him softly.

“No”, He shakes his head; “Just you being here.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the warmth steam settled between you before he speaks up again.

“Actually…can you come in with me?”

He asks with wide eyes, hazel dark in the dim bathroom, looking almost unfairly like a baby dear.

“Of course.”

Then you’re removing your own clothes, settling down into the warm water, letting Jack pull your back up against his strong chest. You hear him sigh the second your skin makes contact with his.

“This is just what I needed”, He says softly, lips ghosting your hair before letting his head fall back again.

You sit there until the water starts getting cold, helping him out and into his boxers. You slide on an old t-shirt of his. When he’s lying ontop of the blankets in bed you rub lotion onto his stump, massaging the tense muscles and nerves that were no doubt on fire. You climb into bed afterwards, letting him rest his head on your stomach. Your fingers find his curls immediately—almost on instinct—and whatever tension was left in his shoulders disappears.

He doesn’t verbally say thank you for big gestures like this, it’s hard for him. He’ll show you in a million different ways how much tonight meant to him each time he gets the chance.

He pressed a soft kiss to your skin, situating his head better, stubble tickling your skin. His hand pulls you closer by the hips, eyes fluttering close as you massage his scalp and gently play with his salt and pepper curls. Just before he’s fully drifted off, in the quiet of the bedroom—just between you two—he speaks.

“I love you.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

2.

Jack’s in the ED, in one of the trauma rooms during a shift you both have. It’s been busy, a steady stream of patients. He’s half hovered over a patient on a gurney, half looking around the room before crossing it in a few strides to grab some gloves.

You’re outside at the hub, charting and going over patients with Dana; trying your best to free up beds when it happens.

At first it’s quiet, then a loud bang echoes through the ED, followed by a very loud and very grumpy; “Damnit Ogilvie!”

Your eyes widen. You know that voice. Everyone does. It rarely ever gets raised. You’re following Dana towards the trauma room, bracing yourself for the worst when you turn the corner.

Jack’s standing in the corner with nurses around him, hand placed over his forehead above his left eyebrow, pointing his finger at James Ogilvie like he personally insulted him. Which, he might have.

“I told you to move that light up higher. Maybe if you weren’t too busy assessing our patients like medical books and insulting them you would’ve done what I asked.”

Jack’s voice is gruff, you can see his chest heave as he talks, neck red with anger that he rarely lets out.

“Jack”

His eyes flicking towards you, then back to Ogilvie—who looks like he’s been kicked—and then back to you.

Jack sighs; “Just, help Robby finish up sutures. Try to listen to what he tells you this time.”

Then Jack’s moving past him, past you and Dana, straight through the doors of the trauma room.

Dana shoots you a look of worry, with anger undertone of ‘oh shit, he’s pissed.’

You almost laugh.

Instead you follow Jack out, grabbing a suture kit from the nurses station and pulling him into a room by his elbow before he can protest.

He still has his hand on his forehead, but you can see small tinges of red starting to peek through.

“Sit”, You tell him.

“Sweetheart, I’m fine. Just need to wash it out.”

You shake your head; “Jack, you hit your head. You’re bleeding, you need to be checked for a concussion now please-“, you take a deep breath; “Sit down.”

He falters for a minute, pausing before lowering himself down on the exam bed, watching as you pull a pair of gloves on. You can see the frustration slowly leaving his body as his shoulders relax.

“Don’t laugh”, He says, eyeing the look on your face.

“Why would I laugh?”

“I hit my head on a light-“

You try to hold back a laugh

“It’s not funny!”

You fail the second time; “…It’s a little funny.”

You can see how hard he’s trying to stay mad, but the quirk in his lips gives him away.

Shaking your head, your hands reach for the one pressed against his forehead.

“I’m gonna take your hand off now, ok?”, You say it softly, like he doesn’t know the routine.

He finds himself nodding anyways, thankful for telling him what you’re doing, it calms his nerves in a weird way.

You carefully pull his hand back, a soft gasp escaping your lips at the sight as you scramble to press gauze to the wound, putting Jacks hand back in place to keep pressure on it. All the humor drains out of you instantly.

“Jesus, Jack!”

He chuckles, “That bad huh?”

“It’s like three inches! Any deeper and i’d be able to see your skull. What is your head made of??”

He just shrugs; “Apparently not anything invincible.”

You can’t help but quirk your lip up at the corner.

You sigh, closing your eyes to ground yourself and the slight panic in your chest.

“Sorry, I’m just—I’m worried, Jack. That’s not just a superficial laceration.”

He doesn’t say anything as you start cleaning him up, careful to wait until the bleeding slows enough to stitch it up.

“You know you’re gonna have to fix things with Ogilvie”, You speak after a few minutes of silence.

He sighs; “I know. He’s just a kid, but shit he gets on my nerves sometimes. I don’t know how Robby doesn’t absolutely lose it on him.”

You laugh; “He’d probably say the same about you.”

Jack fakes a shocked face before wincing.

“Kinda hard to stitch when you keep moving.”

You smirk at him, watching him pout in the fake way only Jack could pout. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t still pull at your heart strings.

When you finish stitching you make sure the wound is clean before putting the bandage on.

“It’s probably gonna leave a little scar, but I did my best.”

Jack’s kissing your now gloveless hand, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles.

“M’That’s ok, baby.”

You settle back on the stool in front of him, checking over his face; “Anything else hurt? Your head? You feel dizzy or anything?”

He shakes his head; “I’m all good, doctor.”

You shake your head at him; “God you’re ridiculous sometimes.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately I do.”

He’s leaning forward to kiss you softly then, not usually one for PDA in the workplace, but given it’s just the two of you nestled in an exam room he doesn’t mind. He lingers for a moment, letting your breathing mix together.

“If your CT comes back ok you can get back to work in a half an hour, cowboy”, You tell him.

“Ok”, He answers softly, looking at you with a glossy love-filled gaze.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head harder?”, You tease, biting your bottom lip.

“Positive. Just love you, that’s all.”

Then he’s kissing you again, pulling you into his lap without a second thought, laughing when you squeal.

“Keep squealing like that someone’s gonna come checking on us, sweetheart”, He warns, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Let them.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss by the curls at his nape, smiling into it when he groans in content. When you finally pull back, you hop off his lap, squeezing his shoulder and heading for the door.

“I’ll be back to check on you soon”, you tell him, pausing with a smirk before you continue; “and Jack?”

“Hm?”

“Try not to run into any more lights today.”

You squeal when he throws a roll of gauze at you, letting it bounce off the door as you barely close it in time.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

3.

You’re sitting outback at Robby’s house, grill sizzling distantly, a drink in your hand. The warmth of summer finally starting to seep in. Not a cloud in the sky, sun shining bright. You sigh, thinking how used to the weather you could get.

Most of the pitt-crew is scattered around the yard; Santos, Whitaker, and Mel all sitting around Robby’s bar. Mckay and Dana next to the fire pit telling stories about who knows what. Langdon’s sitting with Robby and Jack, finally on the mend and enjoying each other’s company again. Robby at the grill as they talk. You’re relaxing in a lounge chair, sunglasses on and one of Jack’s old baseball caps. Some of Robby’s neighbors are over, a few kids scattered around, playing with Robby’s dog.

Somehow, Jack ends up with one of the babies in his lap, cooing away at everything around him as he sucks on his fist. One hand pulling at the fabric of Jack’s shirt. He’s maybe between 9 months to a year old, chubby and still a little small, wisps of his blonde hair sticking up in every direction.

Your heart clenches. You try not to look. Not here, your biological clock would start ticking. Unfortunately for you, Dana notices too.

“He looks good with a baby in his lap, doesn’t he?”, Dana quips, scooting up beside you.

You don’t even look at her.

“Don’t start, Dana.”

She laughs; “What? You can’t tell me seeing him like that doesn’t make you want one.”

“It does”, You say, pausing a second; “That’s why i’m not looking.”

Mckay is laughing next to you; “You’re stronger than i’d ever be.”

You finally give, pushing your sunglasses up on your hat as you look over at your husband—who to your surprise, is already looking at you.

You feel your heart flutter in your chest as he smiles his lazy, lopsided smile at you, before returning his attention to Robby and the baby in his lap. He’s cooing something you can’t hear, eyes wide as he bounces the little boy on his knee. Big hand supporting the baby’s back.

You don’t let your eyes linger on the way his biceps flex with each movement, or how relaxed he looks. Like he could do this forever.

“Well, shit”, You mutter.

Dana scoffs behind you, shaking her head; “Don’t come to me next month when your period’s late.”

You resist the urge to smack her. “Fine, I’ll go to Dennis.”

“Please don’t, you’ll give that boy a heart attack.”

A half an hour later, you’re sitting next to Jack, already rising to your feet to grab him a plate as Robby serves them up. His free hand goes to your wrist.

“I can get it, baby.”

“You’ve got him, I got it”, You point towards the tot in his arms, half asleep and on the cusp of drooling down Jack’s shirt.

Jack doesn’t argue, just lets your wrist go and watches you fondly.

Standing in front of Robby you already know the ribbing is coming, just by the look on his face.

“So should we be expecting a baby Abbot in the next ten months?”, He smirks.

You roll your eyes; “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Robby laughs; “Maybe because you keep watching Jack like you’re gonna eat him and then force yourself to try and not look at him.”

You cross your arms.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Robinavitch.”

“Oh wow, my full last name? Must’ve struck a nerve.”

You banter a few minutes longer before he finally sets a burger on each of your plates. You’re handing Jack his plate a few moments later, fishing him a new beer out of the cooler and a lemonade for yourself. He doesn’t even have to ask, you just know what he needs. When you plop back down into the chair next to him, holding the beer out to him, he’s looking at you with nothing but fondness in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do all that, baby”, He says softly, leaning over to kiss your cheek.

“I know but, you’re always taking care of me. Just wanted you to be able to relax today.”

He squeezes your hand softly before turning back to his food, balancing his plate on the arm of the chair while the baby in his lap snores softly against him. At least he wasn’t trying to steal his food again.

You take Jack’s plate when he’s done, grab him a bottle of water to make sure he’s hydrated. You get his medication when you notice him checking his watch, help him pull off his prosthetic when you can tell it’s bothering him. All without him saying a word.

On the way home, when it’s just the two of you in his truck, he squeezes your knee softly.

“Thank you”, He says, out of the blue.

You tilt your head.

“For taking care of me today. Didn’t even have to ask, you just know what I need”, He says, smiling softly at you; “Don’t deserve you.”

You put your hand ontop of his; “Yes you do.”

He lets you have the last word, for now, leaning over to kiss you.

A moment later he’s smirking;

“So, should we get started on that baby?”

The smack to his arm echoes through the truck along with his laughter.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

4.

Shifts like this one are the worst. They never should’ve happened in the first place. Three MVC’s—one after another—two different hospice patients that coded within an hour of arriving, a patient you long had grown attached to suddenly going into cardiac arrest. You couldn’t save her. Jack couldn’t save her. TOD was being called before you could catch your breath. Then there was the little girl with leukemia, mother and father dirt poor and barely able to afford healthcare. She didn’t make it through the night.

The ED felt too cold after that. Too strained, like a live wire could break or go off at any second. Nobody hardly joked, no banter at the hub or in the ambulance bay. Shen sipped on his third iced coffee of the night quietly. Ellis didn’t poke at Jack for being old school. Even Lena’s smile seemed wary now.

As the end of the shift neared you realized you hadn’t heard from Jack in a while. Last time you saw him he was gripping his stethoscope way too hard and his jaw was clenched too tight.

You fished out your phone and Door-dashed your regular without thinking about it. Robby was carrying it in ten minutes later.

“This all for me?”, He asks.

“You wish, Robinavitch.”

His smile falters a little at your tone.

You sigh; “Sorry, just, long night.”

He nods; “I heard.”

You don’t say anything when he places the bag down on the hub counter. Silently finishing a chart.

“Go find him. I’ve got it down here”, Robby finally speaks, eyebrows raised to show he meant it.

“Thank you”, You say, stepping out from behind the hub to head towards the staff room before calling out to him; “Your favorite’s in the little brown bag!”

He salutes two fingers back at you with a smile, already pulling his bag out before handing you yours again as you race by.

You climb the stairs to the roof quickly, heavy bag in hand as you push the even heavier metal door to the roof open. When you spot Jack, your breath catches. You swallow the lump in your throat.

He looks so small from this distance, standing by the railing with his back to you, hands in his pockets like that would fix everything. You walk up slowly behind him, setting the bag down and looping your arm through his, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

He doesn’t move.

“I’m here”, Is all you say.

You don’t ask if he’s ok, or if he wants to talk about it. You know he isn’t, and you know he’ll talk when he’s ready. So you just offer yourself.

You feel him sigh more than you hear it, his head turning towards you to rest his own cheek ontop of your hair. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just listens to the city noise and watches the sun rising above you.

“I really didn’t expect tonight to be so shitty”, He finally says.

A few years ago, before you arrived, he would’ve said the opposite. He expected it then, barely hoped for the good. Toyed with the line between the railing and the edge of the roof way too close some days. But now? Now he had you.

“I know”, You say softly, “It was fucked up.”

He scoffs a breath through his nose; “Yeah, you could say that.”

You let the silence linger for a beat, and then;

“It’s not your fault, Jack. None of it was.”

He turns to you fully now, cupping your cheeks and pulling you forward, pressing a long kiss to your forehead. Then he sighs, like it helped. It didn’t fix everything, but the weight hanging over him was lighter now.

You lean down and grab the bag of food next to you; “I got us food.”

He cracks a smile at that; “Milkshake too?”

You nod; “Milkshake too.”

He’s kissing you again before happily taking his cup, finding a spot for you both to settle down and eat. You share fries in silence as you watch the sun come up, decompressing from the shift behind you. You rub his back, play with the curls at his nape, wipe sauce off the corner of his mouth. Press kisses to a few of the freckles sticking out from underneath his scrub sleeves.

When he looks at you, he silently says a thank you to whatever out there in the universe sent you to him. Cause god, here you are taking care of him again, and he’s lucky to have you.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

5.

Your bag hit the floor with a soft thud, entering the quiet apartment with your key. It was mostly dark, sun shining through slits in the blackout curtains. You slipped your shoes off, padding your way deeper into the apartment and back the hallway. You stopped at the bedroom door, it was open just a crack, letting you lay your eyes on your husband.

He was fast asleep on his stomach, one arm hanging slightly off the bed, the other sprawled out on the other side of him. His legs were the same, one foot almost hanging off the corner of the bed, his prosthetic was thankfully off. He was lying at an angle, like he’d flopped down and just stayed there. The blankets were tangled around him, soft snores escaping his lips as his chest rose and fell. A few curls hanging against his forehead.

You smiled. He looked so content and domestic like this.

He’d had a rough shift before hand, and with you being on days lately, you barely saw him. Just a quick peck in the staff room before he was rushing to meet up with Robby for handoffs. You wondered the last time he properly ate. It was going on 8:30 now, and as much as you longed to climb in bed with him, you found yourself in the kitchen instead.

You put the coffee pot on, a kettle of tea in case he wanted that instead. Bacon sizzled in one pan, pancakes in another. The smell of butter melting and syrup filled the air. The coffee machine finished, and you filled his mug. One with coffee—the other with tea—both how he liked it. You plated some pancakes and bacon, before moving everything onto the wooden tray you had gotten out.

You walked quietly back into your shared bedroom, Jack was in the same spot, still snoring away. You flicked the lamp on the bedside table on, watching Jack stir at the invasion to his darkness.

He hummed softly as he woke, voice gruff and deep with sleep; “Mm..baby?”

“I’m here, you hungry?”

He peeled his eyes open, gazing sleepily up at you with a soft smile; “M’starvin.”

“I made pancakes.”

He’s sitting up at that, almost giddy like a child. Still smiling sleepily with messy bed head. His grey curls tousled and cheeks rosy from where he’d been lying against the pillow.

You set the tray down on his lap, adjusting the cups to make sure they don’t spill.

“All this for me?”, He asks, already devouring the food with his eyes.

You nod; “I know you haven’t eaten a proper meal all week being here by yourself…just wanted to give you something besides takeout and protein bars.”

He smiles up at you, mouth full of pancakes; “Well thank you, baby.”

He’s leaning forward for a kiss when he swallows, making you giggle when you pull back.

“What?”, He raises an eyebrow.

“You taste like syrup.”

He scoffs a laugh, already cutting another piece of pancake off; “Cmon, come share this with me. You need to eat too.”

You don’t argue, crawling in the other side of the bed and leaning into his warmth, letting him spoon a forkful of pancake into your mouth.

“Damn i’m a good cook”, You mutter.

“And so modest too.”

He’s laughing as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You thirsty? I didn’t know if you’d want coffee or tea so I made both”, You say, grabbing your own cup of tea and letting the warmth soak into your hands.

“You’re spoiling me, baby”, He says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before opting to go with coffee and bringing the mug to his lips.

“You deserve it. Need to take care of my baby too.”

He snuggles into you, chewing on a piece of bacon; “Ok, but next time it’s my turn to spoil you.”

“Whatever you say, Abbot.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

+1.

Jack was quiet when he got home, too quiet. His prosthetic already off, scrubs discarded and already showered. He hadn’t talked much during dinner, and as soon as he walked through the front door he’d clung to you like a koala. You didn’t pry, just let him talk as much as he wanted, but when he turned his to look at you after dinner, almost wincing as he did so, eyes looking sadder than you’d ever seen them, you started to worry.

He hesitated for a moment, before walking over and lying down next to you, legs and arms wrapped around you and his head on your stomach.

“Jack, what’s wrong?”

You went to turn on the table lamp when he stopped you.

“Don’t”, He said quietly, “It’s too bright.”

Oh.

“Baby does your head hurt?”

He shook his head slowly, eyebrows drawn together, a pout almost on his lips.

“My back’s killin me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t wanna bother you.”

You sigh.

“Jack, you’re my husband, you’re not bothering me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, letting you gently run your fingers through his curls before he speaks;

“Can you make it go away?”

You falter, knowing it was bad if he was asking for help himself.

You gently push him up. He groans in protest as you push yourself off the couch, but he doesn’t see where you go, just closes his eyes as he listens to you rustle around the apartment.

A few minutes later you return, pulling him towards his feet and to the bedroom, curtains pulled shut and the fan running. You ease him down into bed before putting a heat pack on the back of his neck—setting his crutches by the bed—and rub stuff on his back. He sighs immediately at the coolness of it.

You hold your hand out to him, and a glass of water in the other; “Here, these’ll help.”

He takes the medicine without complaint, pulling you down by the wrist to lay with him. He tucks his head into your shirt, resting on your stomach again, legs tangled with yours.

Your free hand rubs the tops of his shoulders and base of his neck, kneading at the knots a little more thoroughly when you find them.

He lets out a deep sigh.

“Better?”

He nods softly; “A little…just need to lay with you.”

You nod, even if he doesn’t see it. Letting your fingers rake through his curls softly, smiling when he groans in content.

“This ok?”, You ask quietly.

He hums in response; “Mhm.”

Then it’s quiet, darkness and the cool from the ceiling fan surrounding you. Jack relaxing under your fingers in his hair, body warmth radiating off of him.

“Thank you for taking care of me”, He mumbles softly, it’s quiet, almost childlike.

“Of course baby”, You tell him, kissing his head, “I’m always gonna be here to take care of you.”

Then he’s falling asleep—soft snores mixing with the noise of the ceiling fan—and yeah, maybe Jack Abbot had problems accepting or asking for help. But maybe, just maybe, he was getting batter at it.

taglist:

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

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

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

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

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

So you developed a plan.

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

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

But it worked.

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

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

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

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

Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze dropped to your hand once again.

Still no ring.

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

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

John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

“Rough one,” he said finally.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah.”

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

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

Jack tilted his head slightly. “The bar?”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It helps.”

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

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

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

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

You blinked up at him. “At home?”

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

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

Jack’s brow lifted.

“What?”

You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.

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

“…Your ring is fake?”

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Right?”

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

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.”

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

“Jack,” he said.

You blinked.

“Jack?”

He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.

“Sounds reasonable.”

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

“Wow,” you said. “That’s bold.”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.

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

You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.

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

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

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

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

The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before. 

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

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

“Nice to see your husband’s back.”

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

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

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

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.

“What?” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And to top it all off, the hospital computers had gone down in the middle of the rush.

Poor Whitaker had tried his best to take a photo of the board before it died completely, but his lackluster camera skills had left half the names blurry , so the whole department had been forced to rely on Joy—new, terrifyingly competent, photographic-memory Joy—for every name, room number, and ailment in the goddamn ER. Every few minutes somebody would shout, “Joy, who’s in Seven?” and she’d answer without looking up, as if reciting patient lists from memory was a totally normal skill to have.

Dana had taken one look at the frozen screens and said, “You have got to be kidding me,” with the spiritual exhaustion of a woman who had already given too much of herself to this building. Ten minutes later she was digging out clipboards and paper charts like she had personally prepared for the inevitable downfall of modern technology and had simply been waiting for the right time to shine.

“What is that?” you asked, cocking a brow at the massive clunky machine Jessie had pulled from some forgotten corner of the nurses’ station like an artifact from a medical museum.

“That,” Jack said, pointing at it with all the confidence of a man introducing a beloved childhood pet, “is a fax machine.”

You looked back at your boyfriend, who was leaning against the counter in combat trousers and a black T-shirt, left hand shoved in his pocket, the other loosely gesturing toward the glorified hunk of plastic in front of you. You narrowed your eyes at him, mostly because he had no business still being here. He should have been back at your apartment hours ago, asleep in your bed, not standing in the Pitt after a brutal night shift like his body ran on caffeine and spite alone.

Unfortunately, that just wasn’t Jack.

“That’s how we rolled when I was a resident,” he said, not really to you so much as to the room at large, as if he had been waiting years for a valid excuse to say it.

Joy paused in the middle of rattling off patient names and lifted her head. “Was that in the 1900s?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop a laugh, but it was already too late.

Jack looked at her, entirely unimpressed. “Yeah,” he said. “Back when charts were written by candlelight.”

That did it. A snort escaped before you could stop it.

Jack turned his head and looked at you then, amusement tucked into his gaze as he watched you fail spectacularly to hide how entertained you were.

You were absolutely in for it later.

The thing was, you probably deserved it.

You had spent most of the morning being unbearably cheerful, which according to Trinity was "borderline offensive in a disaster scenario". You were three years into residency now, experienced enough that nobody hovereed, junior enough that everyone still barked at you when someone needed to take the blame. And somehow, along the way, you had developed a reputation for smiling through absolute carnage. You were kinda excellent in the er. Fast hands, good instincts, calm voice. You'd discovered early on that people tended to panic less when you looked like you genuinely believe that things could be salvaged. Most of the time, you genuinely did.

So yes, you smiled when you told a six-year-old that his popsicle-blue tongue made him look like a supervillain. You smiled when you promised a drunk college student that no, he wasn't dying, he was just very stupid. And you smiled now, in the middle of a cyber attack and a holiday shitshow, because if you didn't, you might just start screaming and never stop.

"Room Four needs reassessment," Dana called, slapping a chart into your hands as she breezed past. "Room eight's blood pressure has dropped, and if anyone asks me where the paper lab forms are one more time, I'm committing a felony."

"Copy that, boss," you said.

Dana paused just long enough to squint at you. "Y/N, why are you smiling?"

"Morale."

"You're using that voice again, babe."

You glanced over your shoulder at Dana as you started to move towards your next task.

"What voice?"

"The Disney Princess voice," Trinity said flatly.

Joy, without looking up from the board that Al-Hashimi was busy scribbling onto, said, "You do have one."

You gasped. "Et tu, Joy?"

Joy shrugged. "It is effective."

Jack, who had decided that fawning over the fax machine was getting boring, drifted close enough to hear your conversation. He took a pen from his pocket, handing it over to you.

"You forgot this," he said, "for your charts."

You looked down at your hand. It was your favourite pen. The good one with the ink that dried just quick enough. The one you complained about losing every single shift.

Your eyes narrowed. "You stole my pen?"

"You left it in, my um, my truck."

"Oh, shit. Yeah, I did."

Trinity, standing three feet away with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, went very still. She turned slowly to Dennis then, knocking him in the side with her shoulder.

"Huckleberry, write that one down, now."

Room Four held a sunburned dad who'd passed out at a barbecue and cracked his head open on a cooler. You cleaned and re-stitched the wound while explaining every step in your usual warm tone, and by the time you came back out, the nurse's station had only gotten louder. The fax machine had whirred to life and Jessie was in a heated conversation with Dana about toner. Joy was still where you left her, acting as the PTMC's human database.

And Dr Jack Abbot was still there. Stupidly tight black tshirt and all.

He caught your eye from across the station and, because he was incapable of not noticing things about you, lifted a cup from the counter.

A Dunkin iced coffee you had often heard him shitting on Shen for consuming one too many of during the night shift.

You made your way over to him through the chaos, accepting it with a look. "You're extremely attentive for a man who's meant to be unconscious by now."

"You skipped breakfast."

"Okay, Jack, that's not an answer"

"It's the only one you're getting."

You took a sip from the fluorescent orange straw. "Didn't take you for a romantic, Abbot."

Jack's mouth twitched, an almost smile. "Drink it before you get mean."

You blinked up at him. "I do not get mean!"

From two feet away, Santos whispered, “He knows her blood sugar patterns.”

Whitaker made a tiny distressed noise. “Oh my god.”

You turned. “What are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” Santos said far too quickly.

That was the exact wrong answer. You narrowed your eyes and held out your hand. “Santos.”

She folded her arms. “No.”

“Santos.”

“It’s literally not a big deal.”

“Then show me.”

Whitaker physically recoiled. Javadi looked almost interested. Princess and Perlah had gone suspiciously quiet at the nurses’ station, which in itself felt like evidence of a crime. Finally, with the theatrical suffering of a woman forced to betray her own art, Santos unfolded a sheet of paper from behind a clipboard and handed it over.

It was, unmistakably, a betting pool.

Your name was on it. So was Jack’s.

Beside a list of times, 2 p.m., 4 p.m., end of shift, by the parking lot, “during major trauma” in Javadi’s handwriting, were dollar amounts and initials.

You stared at it for a long second. Then looked up.

“You people are betting on us?”

Santos lifted one shoulder. “In our defense, you’ve been weirdly public all day.”

“We have not.”

Jack, traitor that he was, took a sip of coffee and said, “We have.”

You slowly turned to look at him. “You knew about this?”

“Yes.”

“You knew.”

“They’ve been doing it for weeks.”

Your jaw dropped. “Weeks?”

“Six,” Princess said helpfully from the desk.

Perlah smiled sweetly and added something in Tagalog that made Princess snort. You only caught one word, obvious.

You looked back down at the sheet, then at Santos. “There is a category for accidental hand placement.”

Santos nodded. “That one’s popular.”

Whitaker raised a nervous finger. “For legal reasons I only bet on the after-shift options.”

Javadi adjusted her clipboard. “I weighted mine against environmental stressors. Cyber attacks accelerate impulsive disclosures.”

“That sentence made me hate you a little,” you said.

“Understandable.”

Dana appeared in the middle of all this, took one look at the paper in your hand, and sighed the sigh of a woman who had somehow expected better despite having no reason to.

“Has she found out?”

“Yes,” Santos said proudly.

Dana held out her hand. “Pay me.”

“What?” you said.

“I told them they were all idiots for thinking you two were subtle. By technicality, I’m owed.”

Money appeared from multiple directions. Perlah slapped a ten into Dana’s palm. Princess handed over a five while muttering, “Sabi ko na nga ba.” Whitaker looked betrayed by the universe.

You turned to Jack in outrage. “You were just going to let this happen?”

Jack looked thoroughly unbothered. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t bother you that the entire ER has us in a spreadsheet?”

“It’s not a spreadsheet,” Joy said from across the room. “It’s handwritten.”

“Thank you, Joy,” Santos said. “Very helpful.”

It should have embarrassed you more than it did. It should have made you want to crawl into a supply closet and never come out. Instead, irritatingly, all you could really focus on was the fact that Jack was standing there in the middle of all of it, clipboard under one arm, coffee in hand (did he figure out how to uber eats Dunkin?), the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, and acting like none of this was remotely a problem.

Because, to him, apparently, it wasn’t.

Before you could say anything else, Dana barked your name from the trauma side. “Bay Two. Pediatric burn. Move.”

You dropped the betting sheet onto the counter and went.

The room sharpened the moment you stepped into it. A little boy, maybe seven, sat on the gurney with tears drying on his cheeks and a nasty burn wrapping up one forearm. His father hovered helplessly at his shoulder, pale and frantic. You softened without even thinking about it.

“Hey,” you said, crouching until you were eye level. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N. What’s your name?”

The boy sniffed. “Eli.”

“Hi, Eli. I heard you had a very dramatic run-in with a sparkler.”

A tiny, suspicious smile flickered at the edges of his mouth.

“That arm looks pretty brave to me,” you went on, gloving up. “Mind if I help it out?”

By the time you were halfway through cleaning the burn, Eli was more interested in telling you about his dog than in crying. You talked him through every step, let him pick the colour of his wrap, and told him the whole thing made him look “extremely tough, in a comic-book sort of way.”

Behind you, Jack passed you supplies before you could ask for them. You glanced up once, and the look on his face made something warm settle low in your chest. Not amusement this time. It was a soft look shared between two people who found solitude in little victories like this.

When you were done and Eli had stopped trembling, his father said, voice thick with relief, “Thank you.”

You smiled. “He did all the hard work.”

Out in the hallway again, Jack fell into step beside you.

“You’re good at that,” he said.

You shrugged, a little embarrassed by direct praise. “Kids are honest. If you talk to them like they’re real people, they usually let you help.”

Jack looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. “Still.”

That was all.

Still.

Somehow, coming from him, it said more than a paragraph from anyone else.

By five, the cyber attack had turned the Pitt into a weird little time capsule. Pages were being run by hand. Orders were shouted across halls. The fax machine had stopped working, started back up again, and stopped once more. Somebody had unearthed an ancient label maker. Everyone’s handwriting was deteriorating in real time.

At some point, in the middle of trying to squeeze past a gurney and an IV pole in Trauma Three, Jack put both hands on your hips and moved you six inches to the left so he could get through.

It was practical. It was fast. There was a time where it would've gone completely unnoticed.

It was, apparently, now, worth fifteen dollars.

From the station, Santos sucked in a loud breath. “Physical contact.”

Whitaker slapped money down immediately. “That counts. That absolutely counts.”

“For what?” Robby asked, walking past.

“Nothing,” six people said at once.

Robby slowed, took in Dana counting bills behind the desk, Princess trying and failing not to laugh, and your face somewhere between horrified and resigned.

Then he looked at Jack. Then at you.

Then he sighed like a man realizing he had somehow become the only adult in a room full of teenagers.

“I’m not asking,” he said, and kept walking.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead. “I’m transferring.”

“No, you’re not,” Dana said.

“Can I at least fake my death?”

“Not on my shift.”

Late in the evening, once the worst of the holiday surge had started to taper and the sky outside had begun to darken into a hazy blue, you found a second alone by the ambulance bay doors. It wasn’t exactly quiet, nothing around the Pitt ever really was, but it was quieter than inside. There were fireworks in the distance, all colour and sound and terrible decision-making, and somewhere behind you, somebody was laughing in the break room.

Jack came out a minute later, as if he’d known exactly where you’d gone. He leaned against the railing beside you with all the enthusiasm of a man filing taxes.

“You pouting out here?” he asked.

You looked at him. “I am processing workplace humiliation.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You let them build categories, Jack.”

“I didn’t build anything.”

“You encouraged them by existing.”

He huffed softly through his nose, which with him was basically a laugh. For a moment you just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching bursts of red and gold flare over the city skyline. The air smelled like smoke and humidity and summer.

Then you said, because you had to ask it at least once, “You really don’t care that they all know?”

Jack looked at you like the question itself was mildly ridiculous.

“No.”

“Why not?”

His gaze settled on your face. “Because it's you”

There it was again. That impossible, annoying simplicity of his. Like the answer had been sitting there the whole time and you were the only one making it harder than it needed to be.

You looked down at your shoes, smiling despite yourself. “That’s disgustingly sincere.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m just saying, for a man who acts like human emotion is a contagious disease—”

He turned toward you then, one hand still shoved into his pocket while the other came up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was brief, casual, but it was enough to quiet you.

“I don’t hide you,” he said.

Your chest tightened in that warm, uncomfortable, lovely way it always did when he said things too plainly.

“I know,” you said quietly.

“And if they want to waste money on something they already figured out, that’s on them.”

You laughed. “You are impossible.”

“Accurate.”

The ambulance bay door banged open behind you.

Santos’s voice floated out before the door even fully shut again. “If either of you kiss out there, I’m collecting double!”

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to actually kill her.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Maybe a little.”

“You like her.”

You sighed. “I know.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, but when he looked back at you there was something more deliberate in it now. More focused. Like he’d made a decision.

“Come on,” he said.

You frowned. “Where?”

“Somewhere quieter.”

Before you could ask what that meant, he had already pushed off the railing and jerked his head toward the side corridor that led to supply and staff storage. Not romantic. Not scenic. Very on brand. You followed him anyway. The hallway was blessedly empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the muffled chaos of the ER dulled by a heavy swinging door. Jack stopped just past the turn where the corridor bent out of sight from the main floor and looked back at you.

“Well?” you asked.

“Well what?”

“You dragged me into a creepy side hallway.”

“I walked,” Jack corrected. “You followed.”

“You are so aggravating.”

“Yeah.”

He said it like he knew exactly how aggravating he was and had no intention of changing.

You folded your arms. “What are we doing back here?”

Jack took a slow step closer. “Avoiding Santos.”

“That’s valid.”

“And,” he added, eyeing you with faint amusement, “you were whining.”

“I was not whining.”

“You were.”

“I was expressing righteous indignation.”

“You were pouting.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the smirk on his face made it impossible to do with any real conviction.

“That’s very rich coming from a man who came in on his day off because the hospital computers hurt his feelings.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “You done.”

“No.”

“Shocking.”

He was close enough now that you could smell coffee on his breath, antiseptic clinging to his shirt, the faint smoke from outside caught in the fabric. One of his hands came up and rested lightly at your waist, thumb hooking just enough into the side seam of your scrubs to pull you half a step nearer.

“That,” you said, very quietly, “is exactly why they have categories.”

“I know.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

That did something unfair to your stomach.

He looked tired now that you were seeing him up close. The kind of tired that sat under the eyes and in the set of the shoulders. But he was still looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to focus on.

“Still embarrassed?” he asked.

“A little.”

He nodded once, almost like he respected that.

Then, because he was apparently feeling especially insufferable, he said, “You’ll live.”

You stared at him. “That’s your comforting response?”

“What do you want, a speech?”

“A tiny bit of tenderness wouldn’t kill you.”

Jack’s fingers tightened just slightly at your waist.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice drier now, “I came looking for you, didn’t I?”

That shut you up.

Because yes. He had.

He always did.

Your face must have given something away, because his expression softened at the edges even as his tone stayed gruff.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you remember I’m right.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” you muttered.

His other hand came up then, slower this time, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. Not showy. Not performative. Just him.

“You done being mad at me for not caring?” he asked.

You exhaled softly. “I wasn’t mad that you didn’t care.”

“No?”

“No.” You glanced down, then back up. “I think I was just… surprised you were so okay with everybody knowing.”

Jack looked at you for a second like he was trying to figure out how best to answer that without sounding like himself too much.

Then he said, “I’m not ashamed of you.”

Your breath caught a little.

The teasing fell out of the moment all at once.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

Jack, who hated fuss, hated spectacle, hated giving people more of himself than they’d earned.

Jack, standing in a half-lit side corridor during a cyber attack after a nightmare holiday shift, telling you as plainly as he knew how that being with you wasn’t something he needed hidden.

“That’s…” You swallowed. “That’s very unfairly nice.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You make everything weird.”

“I make nothing weird. You overthink.”

You gave a soft laugh, because of course that was his answer.

Then he leaned in, just enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours.

“You done talking?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Good.”

The kiss, when it came, was private in the truest sense of it. Not secret. Just not for anybody else. A private thing made real by the fluttering in your stomach.

Warm, slow, and a little tired around the edges in a way that made it better.

Your hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers catching at the short curls there, while his hand stayed steady at your waist and his thumb traced one absent line against your side through the fabric of your scrubs.

It felt like the whole shift exhaling out of both of you at once.

When he pulled back, just enough to look at you, there was a tiny smugness back in his expression that made you want to bite him.

“What?” you whispered.

He brushed his thumb once more along your jaw. “That’s for me. Not for the floor.”

Your eyebrows went up. “Oh, so now you’re territorial?”

Jack snorted softly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You literally dragged me into a hallway.”

“You were whining.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Unfortunately.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, quicker this time, like punctuation.

From the other side of the swinging door came a muffled shout.

“Are they in there?”

Whitaker.

Then Santos, louder: “I swear to God if they’re making me lose the parking lot category—”

You dropped your forehead to Jack’s shoulder and laughed.

He looked profoundly unimpressed with the entire institution.

“Told you,” he muttered.

“You are so smug right now.”

“I’m always smug.”

“That is not true.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “Sweetheart.”

You laughed harder at that, and he let you, hand still warm at your waist, mouth twitching at the corner.

Outside the side corridor, the Pitt kept moving, fireworks injuries, paper charts, Dana probably extorting more money from your coworkers.

But in here, for one stolen minute, it was just the two of you.

No betting pool. No categories. No audience.

Just Jack, a little grumpy, a little tired, and entirely too pleased with himself.

Which, unfortunately, looked very good on him.

Wet curls gather at your fingertips, as Andrew’s head burrows deeper into your chest. Your hand passes through his hair, absentmindedly following the pattern of his curls, as he concentrates on the sequence of your steady breath underneath his cheek. 

“Long night?” A soft whisper leaves your lips as you continue threading your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

He doesn’t respond, just subtly nudges further into your touch. 

You let a blanket of silence fall over the room. 

He’d been gone most of the day, out on a job. When he finally got home he walked straight past your frame laying in bed, heading directly for the bathroom, barely acknowledging you before turning on the shower and filling the room with steam. 

You gave him space, letting the water wash the remnants of his remorse down the drain. 

Solitude played a pivotal role in Pope’s ability to process his actions after a particularly long day. You’d learned to give him time alone when he came home from a job, knowing he’d seek out your comfort when he was ready— when he felt worthy of your silent forgiveness. 

He’ll always remember the first time his feet carried him up the stairs of your front porch in search of your nurturing exoneration. Him and his brothers had just pulled off an incredibly intricate heist, one that he should’ve been proud of— relieved by the success of their endeavors. Instead, he strayed from his family’s celebration, finding himself on the doorstep of the girl he’d been seeing for the past few weeks. A girl he had no business keeping in his life. In fact, every moment he spent with you up until that point had been laced with worry and hesitation, scared that he’d taint you with his unruly lifestyle. But you were unlike anyone he’d ever known, never running out of compassion and holding yourself steady with a soft disposition, it drew him to you. The magnetic field of your aura calling to him, as his heavy hand knocked on your door, still shaky from the adrenaline and regret coursing through his veins.  

You didn’t ask any questions, just helped him get cleaned up and pulled him into bed next to you. His body fit perfectly beside yours under the thick fluffy linen of your duvet. All he could think about the entire night was that white comforter, and how it was far too pure to envelop someone like him.

Neither of you said a word, he just laid with his head on your chest while you ran your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Limbs intertwined in the same way they would be every single night after that. 

Now your house was just as much his. His clothes in your drawers, his toothbrush next to yours by the bathroom sink, his shoes by the front door; it was his home too now- you were his home. 

Pope never knew anything other than the life handed to him by smurf. His perception of the world was dark, hopeless, primitive. He’d been raised that way. Never thinking he could be anything other than a bomb on a detonator just waiting to self-destruct. He was destined for a life full of pain and deception— destined to be Pope Cody. 

But then he became your Andrew. 

Despite everything you learned about him— you stuck around. Never using the nickname assigned to him as a kid, instead exclusively calling him by the name given to him at birth, the name graced upon him when he was still undiluted, clean of the mess waiting ahead of him. 

He’d never loved someone the way he loved you. He never even thought it was possible. But when he came home to you at the end of a long night, with his head on your chest, listening to the smooth beating of your heart as you graced him with your gentle touch, he found redemption. There was vindication in your forgiveness— an unspoken, yet absolute commitment to him.  

“Maybe it’s finally time for us to get out of here.” Your voice was still quiet and your hands continued their movement at Andrew’s scalp as he laid on your chest.

“We could go up north, get a house somewhere…” You begin devising a plan as he relaxes further into your touch, his face hidden from your view, making it impossible to see his reaction to your words. 

“maybe the mountains…” Your voice is mild, matching the soft rhythm of your strokes through his hair.

“Nothing extravagant, just two or three bedrooms. We could start over, on our own.”

The words trail out of your mouth, thoughts spewing as you look down at the man laying on your lap. You knew he thought about it— leaving. The two of you had talked about it before, yet here you were.

“We could be free from all of this. You deserve a normal life Andrew.”

He doesn’t.

That’s all he can think as you continue petting his hair, your touch keeping him in a trance, acting as a mirage of warmth and protection washing over him. Showing him a vision of a man deserving of love. 

“I don’t know about the mountains.” His tone was gruff, words fighting against his throat as they slipped into the air. 

“You don’t do well with the cold.” You couldn’t see his face but you knew there was a slight smirk on his lips by the sound of his voice. 

“When should we go?”

His question was simply spoken— genuine.

For the first time that night, your fingers paused, intertwined in the deep auburn of his curls as you sat in silence.

The lull in your movements was rectified by his own fingers toying with the hem of your panties. It wasn't inherently sexual, but rather tender, as his fingertips traced the skin at your waist, dipping under the material just enough to coax a shallow breath from your chest. 

“Andrew…” You whispered his name, spoken like a quiet warning underneath the gasp at feeling his touch trailing lower inside your underwear. 

“Tomorrow? Next week?” The questions mumble from his lips as he keeps his face smushed into the material of your shirt.

With a hand inside your underwear, his middle finger comes to a resting position on your clit. You instinctively curl your fingers into his scalp at the feeling of him rubbing small, delicate circles in between your thighs.  

“I’m ovulating.” Another warning from your lips as you sigh from the relief of his touch on your body. 

You tracked your cycle religiously. It had become your primary form of birth control, definitely not the most foolproof, but it hadn’t failed you yet. 

He didn’t stop at your warning, just kept pressing soft circles into your clit.

“We should stop.” You tug on his hair a little as the words leave your mouth, trying to confirm the seriousness of the situation.

“Yeah?”

He rustles in his spot until his face is peering up at you, wearing an expression of pride. 

“So, just you and me in that two bedroom house then?” 

His big soft eyes bore into yours with your hands still holding onto his hair, frozen at the implication on his lips. 

The feeling stirring in his chest was foreign. 

A sudden longing for something he’d never had.

A family. A baby. Your baby. His baby. Not given to him, not found, but born. A piece of him brought into the world in the most pure form, built from a place of unconditional love. A promise of what could be. It was so daunting- the idea of it, but he couldn’t shake the anticipation coursing through his veins as he stared intently, watching your eyes widen upon hearing his words. 

“Are you serious?” Your lips curl into a smile at the implication— him wanting to get you pregnant. He’d never once mentioned having kids. Never once came in you with the intent of knocking you up, so the topic catches you off guard.

He takes your wonder-struck grin of infatuation as disbelief— possible amusement that he’d ever think you’d want to have a baby with him.

His eyes lose their hopeful glimmer, gaze suddenly growing rigid and darting away from you at the potential doubt lacing your words. Of course you didn’t want to have a baby with him. He was a mess— his life was a mess. 

“Andrew…” You draw out his name in a soft, sweet breath as you attempt to get him to look at you, but he’s already lost, wandering the maze of remorse and self-doubt paved in his mind. 

His hand slips from your panties, and his body pulls into a seated position against the headboard. He refuses to look at you. The disgust on his face is evident, and you know he’s angry— not at you, not at the situation, but at himself.

Throwing the comforter off your body, you sit up, crawling onto his lap, straddling his hips and sitting back on his thighs. 

“Andrew?” The one word question lingers in the air as you cock your head to the side, your hands wandering up his bare chest, until they’re at his jaw pulling his gaze up to meet yours.

His stare is cautious as he peers up, leaning in to your thumbs rubbing back and forth at his cheeks. 

“Do you want to have a baby?” You stare deeply into his eyes, your tone low and serious.

You search his expression, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind. His eyes hold a picture of bewildered hope before he’s crashing his lips onto yours. Kissing you like he’s starving. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard as his lips interlock with yours. 

He’s nodding pathetically with his mouth against yours. Not capable of forming words through the adrenaline fueling his actions, he just kisses you harder, shaking his head to communicate the answer to your question. Yes, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wanted to give you a baby.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, pushing the material up until one of his hands splays out over your stomach, caressing the skin of your lower abdomen. His pupils are shot as he pulls back from the kiss to look between your eyes, and his hand resting on your skin. 

“Is that what you want?” His stare is focused on his hand caressing your belly.

You nod.

“Say it.” 

His demand is stern as his stare moves to your face- intense and rough.

“I want you to fuck me full Andrew…” 

A soft groan leaves his lips. 

“Want you to put a baby in me.”

His hands immediately find the waistband of your panties, fighting the urge to rip the thin material straight from your body. 

He yanks at them until you’re hovering over his lap, aiding him in getting them down your legs. He pulls his own underwear off, and you're back on his lap. The only piece of clothing left between you is the shirt on your back, which he immediately peels off your torso.

Both of you are completely bare, and he pulls you back to him with his hands threaded through your hair, kissing you with the same hunger as before. Fueled by the thought of finishing in you, filling you with every last drop, and fucking you until it seeps back out around his cock through every thrust. 

His hand comes down between your bodies, two thick fingers at your entrance, circling, but not daring to push in. He lets out a weak grunt, as he plays in the pool of slick threatening to drip down your legs. Amazed by how wet you are, his mind buzzes at the idea of you already being such a mess from the mere mention of him getting you pregnant. He has half a mind to push his dick into you right then and there— to thrust into you to the hilt and pull your hips down onto him over and over again until he’s cumming once, twice, maybe even three times, until you're full and leaking, practically crying from how good it feels, but he wont, not yet. 

Andrew always makes you cum first. Always ensuring that you're shaking on his fingers, or seeping onto his tongue before he gets his dick wet between your folds. Not because it’s the chivalrous thing to do, but because he’s obsessed with it; watching how your body reacts to him, knowing exactly what angle of his fingers makes you twitch. The exact speed to circle your clit with his tongue to have you clenching your legs around his head. It’s the routine of it, the satisfaction in hearing you cry out his name, and knowing he can do it again and again. Treating your pleasure like a game he’ll always win. 

But tonight, you grip his wrist, stopping him before you can feel the ease of his fingers sinking into you. 

“Not tonight.” You move his hand from between your legs, bringing it up to your mouth and placing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Just wanna feel you.” You mumble into the palm of his hand before guiding it to rest on your cheek. He’s holding your face carefully as you shift your weight until you feel his length nudging at your entrance. 

Sinking down, your cheek pushes further into his palm, and he holds you steady, his chest heaving as he fills you inch by inch. 

You wait for a second before you move, focusing on how deep he feels as you sit there with him pushed completely into you. 

He always fucked you with reverance. Fucked you like he meant it— long deep strokes in purposeful positions where he could see your face, watching your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. But, in this moment, he was frozen. His hands holding your face, eyes locked on yours, mind echoing with your voice asking him to give you a baby. He lets you take your time, grinding down onto him with little whimpers escaping your throat as you rock your hips. 

Your hands find his chest, bracing against his body as you move over him, keeping a steady pace. In a complete daze, you angle your hips a little differently to bury his dick even further into you, and he watches your face as it contorts in pleasure. Your hips have a mind of their own as they move in a perfectly calculated rhythm. Your eyes are on him, but glazed over with a distant fog while you mindlessly chase your release, riding him with a desperation he’d never seen before. 

He knows you're close. He can see it in the familiar twitch of your jaw, and the focused furrow of your brows. 

He brings a hand down between your bodies, flat at the base of his cock until your clit is gliding across his knuckles. Using the position of his hand to double your pleasure, he watches as you feverishly rub against him, using him for your own pleasure. 

Your fingertips at his chest mount harder, and your head falls back, strangled moans slipping past your lips as your hips move faster. Snapping back and forth until they’re stuttering. 

Andrew’s hands are still on your face, adjusting your head to make your eyes level with his. Making sure he gets to watch you cum. 

Your mouth falls open, eyes zoned in on his as you cum around his cock. Your pulsing and shuttering, the only thing keeping your body from slumping forward into his are his hands still holding your head steady. 

A current of pleasure washes through you, lingering in the spasms of your thighs, as Andrew watches. Giving you a moment to breathe, he lets his hands move from your face, pushing through your hair and trailing down to your waist. 

With his dick still buried deep into you, he maneuvers your body until your back is on the mattress. He brings your legs up until your knees are practically against your chest, trapped under his weight as he hovers over you. 

“What was that you said earlier?” His soft growl is just inches from your ear as he presses further into you. 

“About fucking you full?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Not with the way his dick is buried so far into you, grinding deliberately against the plush of your walls, tip threatening to kiss your cervix. 

Something must’ve snapped in him while he watched you finish, because Andrew isn’t normally this vocal in bed. He’ll groan and whine, speak a brief praise, or quick command, but he’s not one for extensive dirty talk. Hearing him speak like this, looking you in the eyes while he pulls out slowly just to plunge back into you, is unlike him. 

He’s completely entranced by your body under his control. Unable to think about anything other than giving you all of him. The need takes over his entire body, and he can’t help but vocalize it.  

“Want me to fill you up?”

His head comes down to rest against yours, foreheads meeting as he bucks his hips into you hard.

“Want me to give you a baby?”

You nod with your head pressed against his, a pitiful, whining mess at his words. 

Then he drives into you. Serving you deep, deliberate strokes as he keeps your legs folded against your body. Thrusting with a melody of raspy, breathless groans at his lips, his hot breath fans over your face as he fucks you. He loses all control, taken over by a primal need to fill you with his release— to see you carrying his child. 

He’s relentless. Letting the way your nails drag down his back, spur on the sinful slapping of skin on skin that fills the room. It’s not fast, but intentional— purposeful. Each thrust a promise of your future as he keeps his eyes on you, Telling you he loves you in the intimacy of his body colliding with yours. 

“Please Andrew.” The two words are whispered from your lips, begging to feel him soak into you, asking for him to give you everything. And It’s all you have to say for him to completely come undone.

He cums with a string of strangled moans, the weight of his body completely crumbling into you, his forehead still resting against yours.

His body is heaving, dick still buried inside of you- nearly quivering. You bring your hands to his hair, playing with his curls as he comes down from his high.

He pulls back after a few seconds, sliding out of you, and sitting up, freeing you from the weight of his torso on yours. You raise up onto your elbows, watching as he kneels between your legs.

He puts a hand on one of your thighs, prying your legs further apart while he watches your pussy, messy and swollen underneath him. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up at you, just stares down between your legs, parted for him. Waiting. Standing by in anticipation to see himself dripping from your core. 

You feel it, thick and warm as it seeps at your opening. 

Before it can pool on the sheets beneath you, Andrew brings his thumb to your entrance, thick and sturdy, and pushing into you. His finger sinks in to the knuckle, a low moan leaving your mouth as you both watch between your legs as he fucks his spend back into you. Stroking a few times before making his way back up your body, hovering over you until you feel his dick, still hard and throbbing, gliding through your folds.

“Andrew…” You feel light headed as you pant out his name, and it almost sounds like a cry. 

“Thought you wanted me to keep going till I knocked you up?” His voice approaches a playful tone as he raises his brows along with his words. 

Carol Hathaway, another nurse, looked up from her charting when you approached the desk after taking a short bathroom break. One glance at your face and her expression softened.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

You hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering your voice. “Carol… can I talk to you? Somewhere private?”

She didn’t ask questions. She just nodded and gestured toward an empty exam room.

Once the door shut behind you, the words spilled out before you could overthink them. “I think I might be pregnant.”

Carol blinked, then exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“I’ve been sick in the mornings. I can’t stand certain smells. And I’m late—three weeks late.” You crossed your arms, suddenly feeling foolish despite everything you knew. “I just—I need to know.”

She studied you for a moment, then gave a small, reassuring nod. “We can do a test. Urine and blood if you want to be sure.”

You swallowed. “Please.”

“I’ll grab a cup and get your vitals while we’re at it. Might as well do this properly.”

You instinctively held out your arm as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it, the familiarity of the motion grounding you. Carol slipped her stethoscope into her ears.

“Does Carter know you’re working today?” she asked gently.

Your stomach sank. “No. And I’d really like to keep it that way.”

She gave you a sympathetic look. “HIPAA still applies, even on shift. But if he sees your name on the assignment board…”

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I checked earlier. Jerry said he wasn’t scheduled.”

“Jerry was wrong,” Carol said quietly.

Of course he was.

The cuff tightened around your arm. You stayed silent while bitting your lip, letting her listen. After a moment, she released it and wrote the numbers down.

“122 over 78. Perfect.”

She clipped the pulse ox to your finger. “Heart rate’s a little high—ninety-eight. Oxygen’s ninety-nine. Temp’s normal. Nothing concerning.”

You nodded. “Figures.”

“Here's a specimen cup,” she said, handing you a plastic bag. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. When you’re done, bring it back to me. I’ll draw blood after.”

“Thank you,” you said, meaning more than just the test.

She smiled softly before stepping out.

You took a moment alone in the room, resting your hands on the edge of the stretcher. You closed your eyes, breathing through the familiar hum of the department beyond the door.

John had been calling you every day for the past two weeks. Leaving messages you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. Asking you to call him back. To talk. He always ended the same way—I love you—his voice breaking just before the click.

And the worst part was, you still loved him too.

It wasn’t just sex. Not with John. He knew you, he remembered small details about you. He knew your body and how to not only please you but make you feel seen, heard, and loved. So, what was the problem? That was a really good question. But you were scared. Scared of falling deeper in love with John. Scared of being hurt. Not to mention, he was born into a very wealthy family.

You just didn’t know what this test was about to change.

By a miracle, you were able to sail past the busy ER and to the women’s bathroom without being detected or stopped. 

Closing your eyes, you positioned the cup beneath you before finally letting go. Even this—something you’d coached patients through countless times—felt surreal when it was your turn. Everything about this was overwhelming.

Did you even belong in the Carter family?

Your upbringing couldn’t have been more different. Your parents had struggled just to keep the lights on, working themselves ragged to support you and your younger brother. When you moved to Chicago, there had been no safety net—just long shifts, shared apartments, and barely scraping by. You’d met John while waitressing at a downtown bar, long before med school schedules and hospital badges defined either of you.

You never needed him to save you. Never wanted to be rescued or elevated from rags to riches. In fact, he’d been hesitant to tell you about his family’s wealth at all. You’d found out accidentally, not from him, and it had nearly torn you apart. Trust had been hard-won after that—but you’d survived it. Together.

Finished, you capped the cup and took a steadying breath before opening the bathroom door.

Carol stood there.

You jumped, your heart leaping into your throat before you realized it was just her. Closing your eyes, you let out a shaky breath.

“Sorry,” Carol said softly. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to grab the sample so I can send it up to the lab.”

You nodded and handed it over, grateful to see the gloves already on her hands.

“Go wash up and meet me back in the exam room,” she said gently. “I’ll draw your labs there. I know this is a lot—but I’ve got you.”

You nodded again, clinging to her words as she stepped away and closed the door behind her.

Carol moved easily back toward the nurses’ station, weaving between patients, stretchers, and staff like she’d done a thousand times before. John was sitting there, phone pressed to his ear, frustration clear in his posture and clipped tone. She slid into her chair at a nearby computer without drawing attention, paging the lab for pickup and keeping her movements deliberately casual.

She watched you slip quickly from the bathroom back into the exam room, head down, avoiding John’s line of sight.

Good.

Once the results were back—urine and blood—a physician would have to see you. Carol was already planning how to make sure that physician wasn’t John.

“Carol.”

Her name cut through the noise of the department. She stiffened, then turned to find John standing now, phone gone, eyes on her.

“Any patients that need to be seen?” he asked.

“Not right now,” she replied smoothly, a lie delivered with professional ease.

He looked surprised. “Really?”

“Mmhmm.”

His gaze drifted past her, landing on the specimen bag. “Whose urine is that?” he asked, already stepping closer. “What room?”

It had been weeks since you’d seen John in person. Long enough for the beard—neatly kept, unfairly attractive—to change his face. He looked more tired. More grown up.

“Exam room ten,” Carol said evenly.

He frowned, skepticism creeping in as he picked up the lab slip. “Ten? I don’t remember ordering a urine on them—especially not…” His voice trailed off as his eyes locked on the test name. “HCG.”

Carol bit her lip gently, pulse steady despite the knot forming in her chest.

Carol bit her lip gently, pulse steady despite the knot forming in her chest.

“Routine,” she said, reaching for the chart before he could. “Staff member. Came to me privately.”

John didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the lab slip, thumb brushing over the printed letters like he was trying to convince himself he’d read it wrong.

“HCG,” he repeated quietly.

Something shifted in his expression—subtle, but unmistakable. The practiced calm he wore in trauma bays cracked just enough to let something personal through. His jaw tightened.

“Carol,” he said carefully, lowering his voice, “who is it?”

She met his gaze, unwavering. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I’m not asking for chart access,” he pressed. “I’m asking as—” He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “As someone who might need to not walk into a room blind.”

Carol studied him for a long moment. She’d known John long enough to recognize the fear he was trying very hard to bury under professionalism.

“You’re not assigned to that room,” she said firmly. “And you won’t be.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

Because if I tell you, it will destroy you. Because if you walk in there, it will destroy her.

Instead, Carol said, “Because it’s a conflict of interest.”

That did it.

John’s eyes flicked toward the hallway—toward exam room ten—before he could stop himself. His breath hitched, just slightly. Too slightly for anyone else to notice.

Except Carol.

“How long ago was the order placed?” he asked.

“A few minutes.”

“And it was urine and blood?”

“Yes.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction, the weight of the answer settling in. Morning nausea. Blood confirmation. Privacy. A staff nurse asking quietly instead of checking in like a patient.

Pieces clicked together with brutal efficiency.

“No,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Carol stood, placing a hand on his forearm before he could take another step. “John. Stop.”

He looked down at her hand, then back up, eyes glassy but focused. “It’s her,” he said.

She didn’t confirm it.

She didn’t have to.

“I haven’t seen her in weeks,” he continued, voice low. “She won’t return my calls. She’s late—she told me she was late before we broke up.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “She’s a nurse. She’d know before anyone else.”

Carol’s grip tightened. “You don’t know.”

He let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I do.”

Down the hall, a door clicked softly shut.

Exam room ten.

John’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“She didn’t want me to know,” he said. Not angry. Hurt. Raw. “She came to you instead.”

Carol nodded once. “Because she trusts me. And because she’s terrified.”

He closed his eyes briefly, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he opened them again, they were wet.

“I love her,” he said hoarsely. “I never stopped.”

“I know,” Carol replied gently. “But loving her right now means giving her space. If you walk in there, it won’t be as her doctor. It’ll be as her ex.”

His gaze drifted back to the hallway again, aching with restraint.

“Who’s seeing her?” he asked.

“I’ll make sure it’s someone else,” Carol said. “Someone neutral.”

He nodded slowly, forcing himself to stay where he was. “When the results come back,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “if she wants me to know…”

Carol met his eyes. “Then she’ll tell you herself.”

Silence settled between them, thick and fragile.

Down the hall, in exam room ten, you sat on the edge of the stretcher with your hands folded in your lap, staring at the wall and waiting for a result that would change everything.

And for the first time, John Carter knew—before the lab ever could—that his life was already different.

Time stretched thin in exam room ten.

You stared at the faint scuff marks on the linoleum, but your thoughts refused to stay still. They kept drifting backward—to the start of the shift. To John’s voice, clipped and professional and far too sharp when it had been directed at you.

You’d been slow. Not dangerously so, but enough that he’d noticed. Enough that he’d called you out in front of the trauma bay doors.

“Focus,” he’d said, irritation plain in his tone. “We don’t have time for mistakes today.”