Living vicariously

Jack took a seat on the bench behind your locker, resting his leg.

You turned and faced him with a suspicious look on your face. "How early did you come in today?" You barely hid the concern in your voice, but he saw the way your eyes flitted down to his outstretched leg. Proof that he'd been here too long, long enough for it to start hurting and need a break.

Jack looked up at you. "Early enough to get bored waiting for you."

And you shook your head, closed your locker with a frown. "Very funny," you mumbled as you reached for the hair tie on your wrist, tying your hair into a ponytail.

You barely even looked at Jack as he stared at you. He always did this. Stare at you, wait for you, complain about waiting for you, like he wasn't an attending with responsibilities. He treated you like a kid, or at least that's what you told yourself.

It was better to pretend that he was treating you like a child rather than to think that he might just be actually missing you.

"I missed you."

You stared at him. "Jack, it's too early for this."

His name again.

"Never too early for anything. You should know that by now. You work the night shift." He grinned happily at you, and you only shot him a bored look in response.

It was those five minutes in the morning when no one bothered to find Jack that he loved so much. Everyone knew where he was. Same time, same shift, Jack Abbot was always waiting for you at the lockers. Everyone knew to then look for Shen as the attending and not Jack. People grew accustomed to this strange routine.

Everyone knew Jack liked you. Hell, you even knew it and so did he. He made no secret of it at all.

You fixed your ponytail. "Seriously, what time did you come in?" Your eyebrows were furrowed in concern and the frown wasn't going away anytime soon.

He shot you a look, before his eyes darted away again. "You're stubborn, you know that?" He finally stood up, lightly towering over you as you continued to stare at him.

"Six pm? Five pm? Four?" You scrunched your nose, trying to gauge what time it was, and only at four did his lips twitch lightly.

"Jack!" you shook your head. "What was it this time?"

Jack stared at you, eyebrows lifting, as if you got the nagging out of your system yet? Because i'm not answering.

You sighed. "Great," you mumbled, your voice filled with disappointment, and Jack couldn't help the light pang in his chest at that.

You fixed any remaining loose hair around your face in the small locker mirror as Jack watched you, heart squeezing when he noticed the dark circles under your eyes. Here you were lecturing him about his sleep issues, when you just hid yours better. He knew you'd only deny it if he ever pointed it out.

So he just said something other than what was really lingering on his mind.

"Come on sweetheart. You look as pretty as ever." He placed his hand on your lower back, shutting the locker mirror and promptly ignoring your frown. "Don't want any more patients flirting with you," he muttered under his breath.

He didn't like how that was the thing to plant a smile on your face. 

It wasn't until five hours into your shift that a lull hit. You were eating one of the muesli bars Jack had forced into your hands as he passed you by, with a pinched brow.

You typed with one hand while you stuffed your mouth with food with the other.

Crus dropped on a seat next to you, sighing loudly. You glanced, a smile forming upon seeing him. Quickly breaking off a piece of your muesli bar, careful to avoid the part where you'd taken a bite, you handed it it to the exhausted doctor, but then Jack swiped in.

"Uh, uh." He handed you the piece back. "Eat up."

You glared at him, taking the piece back from his hand, fighting the urge to insult him. You stuffed the piece in your mouth and swallowed. "Happy?"

"Delighted." Jack replied, the disappointment not having vanished from his voice yet.

Crus, meanwhile, was watching the two of you with a bored look. "Trying to stop your girl from being generous?"

Another glare was exuded from you, this time directed at the younger man. "Not his girl," you muttered under your breath, not loud for anyone but Jack to hear who was just close enough, as always.

You missed the way his smile faded for just a second, before he glanced at Crus. "There's a vending machine just around the corner."

"Did she get it from the vending machine?" Crus asked, pointing at you.

"No." Jack shrugged, already walking away from the two of you, spotting Nazely from a far, in need of dire help with a difficult patient.

Crus's stare lingered on you, and you turned your head, meeting his disappointed frown. "It's not my fault," you mumbled, around a bite.

Two hours later you were drenched in blood, trying to fix something you had no idea how to fix.

Shen was trying to help you out, and in your panic, you were completely missing the slightly helpless look in his eyes. Just a tiny shimmer of insecurity as he stared down at your position, how you were keeping the blood from spilling out.

You continued to press down. "Shen?" you squeaked, not bothering to hide the desperation for help anymore like you usually did, always keen on showing your competence.

And so Shen instructed you, if not insecurely, through it, eyes constantly darting up to the nurses to confirm every sentence that came out of his mouth.

In your worry, you didn't take note of Jack, missing the moment he walked in and took over Shen's position. You didn't realize your attending was standing there until he started speaking.

"More to the right," he instructed, and despite the clinical tone, Jack was never good at hiding the soft look in his eyes that he got whenever your eyes met his.

You startled, when you looked up and met hazel eyes instead of dark brown ones. You looked back over to the younger attending, and watched him move to the other side of the bed, helping one of the nurses instead of you.

Your eyes darted back to Jack and you watched Jack's eyebrows pinch together at the lack of urgency. Cautiously he said your name and that's when you shook your head, like you were waking up from a deep sleep.

Jack was unsure if the head shake was directed at yourself or him, but you turned back around and immediately got back to work, letting him guide you through every single step.

The rest went smoothly. Everything was fine. The patient was stable, and Shen gave you "a good job," a dunkin cup already in his hand to celebrate the win, to which you responded with a distracted smile.

You didn't look at Jack or acknowledge him, and he threw you a questioning look as he followed you out of the room.

Looking up at the screen to see which patient you could distract yourself with next, he followed, always one step behind you. Like always.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you replied quietly, without one glance at him, and then you were off. Wandering in some room, which, with a look upwards, Jack realized was a simple nosebleed and a headache.

His brows drew together as he watched you greet the young kid with a smile. He looked away again, deciding not to mull over it too much. It wasn't your first time shutting down. You had a tendency of being quite shaky after a difficult case, even if it went well.

Jack rarely went home early. Too quiet, too lonely, too depressing.

But that had changed ever since he realized you took the bus. Now, he seemed to be incapable of going home late. So, he came in to work early, really early. Earlier than he used to before you moved to Pittsburgh, hoping that if he left early and came in early, that his conscience would leave him alone, let him live without the grating guilt in his chest for just one night.

He wandered to his locker, reaching for his bag and lifted it over his shoulder and waited and waited and waited. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, waiting for you.

It wasn't until Mel wandered in, startled by her attending leaning against the lockers, that he realized that you were taking concerningly long to finish up your work.

"Good morning Dr. Abbot," she smiled, polite as always.

He slowly shifted his gaze from the floor to the bright girl and nodded at her. "Morning," he greeted, fixing his bag at his shoulder, before remaining in his position.

"Uh—" Mel hesitated before Jack realized he was leaning against her locker. He'd never realized it was hers. He always left early enough with you to almost never see the newer day shift residents. "Thank you!" the blonde replied as he moved away, letting her finally start her work day.

Jack now hesitated, realization setting it as he noted that at least 15 minutes had passed of him standing here like some idiot. He turned, clearly intending on walking back into the ER when Mel hesitantly looked at him. She seemed like she was about to say something she knew she wasn't going to receive a good reaction.

And the moment she'd said your name, Mel had his full attention. He quickly turned around, hazel eyes meeting hers of the same color. "She's— she's out by the bus station. I saw her earlier."

And Jack walked out without another word, no goodbye, no nothing.

He should've listened to his gut feeling. He knew there had been something wrong. The look in your eyes — there had just been something different. Even as he had decades on you, he had no idea how to read you sometimes.

It didn't take him long to spot you, earphones in as your head leaned against the wall of the bus station.

Jack ambled over slowly. "Not up for company today?" he said, loud enough for you to hear him through your earphones.

You looked up, as if you'd expected him to be here. You plucked one earphone out, twirling it around your finger. "Yeah, I figured I'd go home early."

You looked back down at your earphones, purposely avoiding his eyes and he took note of it, never missing anything about you.

Jack walked over slowly, taking a seat next to you, not brushing up against you like he usually did. He sensed you weren't in the mood to be touched, especially not by him.

It was a cloudy morning, making it not as bright as a July day usually would be. The dark clouds seemed to form just above you as if they sensed your mood and were trying to replicate it.

You didn't bother setting the earphones back in your ears as if you knew that the attending wasn't leaving anytime soon.

"You okay?" he asked finally, deciding to just get it over with.

You hummed a small "yeah."

Jack leaned back, head hitting the cold wall behind him. He turned his head, his gaze landing on your profile. "Sweetheart."

You finally met his eyes. You had never been able to resist the sweet pet name anyway.

He leaned forward, plucking the second earphone out of your ear, before carefully rolling it the way he watched you do it all the time. He opened your bag, which was still sitting between you like a barrier, and positioned it so that the rest of your things didn't damage them.

He then grabbed your bag, lifting it over his free shoulder, before standing up and stretching out one hand. He wiggled his fingers when you waited for too long, but even that didn't help.

You continued to stare at him with vacant eyes, until you finally spoke.

"You shouldn't have done that earlier," you whispered as the wind blew through your hair, nipping at your nose.

Jack frowned, confusion in his eyes as he set your bag back down on the bench, realizing this was going to take a while.

He took a seat next to you. Again. "Done what?"

"Just—just taken over Shen. Shen's an attending too. He can show me stuff. It doesn't always have to be you." They were harsh words, yet there was nothing of it in your tone. You were speaking in a quiet tone, like you didn't mean the words, like they were a cover-up for something else. Some other sentiment you were clearly trying to hide from him.

Your eyes watched the light patter of the rain that started as soon as you said the first words.

Jack looked at your face, seeing the faraway look and tried to gauge what exactly this was about. He wasn't hurt by your words, more so perplexed. And concerned. You seemed confused, scared even, if he was reading the pursing of your lips right.

"Shen was struggling," he spoke deliberately, as if explaining something to a five-year-old child. "The guy barely knew what he was doing."

You looked up. "That's not true," you replied, almost petulant, sounding exactly like the five-year-old girl he was so mindfully speaking to.

"Yes, it is." He studied your face with careful thinned lips, careful not to convey any emotion but neutrality. "What's this really about?" Your eyes continued to track every movement of his, not being able to look away even as he tilted his face closer. "Come on. You can tell me, honey."

You finally removed your eyes. "No." you shook your head, still speaking in the same quiet voice as if you told yourself not to let any emotion show.

You brushed a hand over your face, trying to fix whatever sadness was about to expose you in the form of liquid from your pretty eyes. 

How were you going to tell him that you couldn't handle it?

Couldn't handle the fact that he was everywhere. All the damn time. He was in your home when you were cooking, and you paused to think about whether Jack liked pasta. He was in your bed, when you were drowning in sorrow and self-doubt, and you'd hear his voice from the earlier shift, how he'd told you that you had done a good job, that you had nothing to worry about. He was there when you didn't know what to watch and looked for the channel he told you about during the one time the two of you left the ER to get coffee together.

Jack Abbot was everywhere and it was killing you.

You weren't capable of handling this. Crushes for you were overwhelming, sickening, and despite the seconds of bliss, it was nothing compared to the terrifying realization that Jack liked you the way you liked him, if not more.

You liked him, and he liked you too, and now what? Grown adults go on dates together, kiss, live together, and then get married.

The mundane cycle of life.

Nothing about it was mundane to you. To you, it was a roller-coaster, nothing rounding and repetitive about it.

It felt like you'd been plunging to a drop since the day Jack had driven you home and helped you fix a shelf in your room after pulling a double shift. You had stood in your apartment door, watching him get into the elevator with a smile, and then you'd stood there and stood and stood and realized that you were in love with Jack Abbot.

You didn't look at him as you spoke. "You should go home."

Jack stared at you, not exactly used to having you shut down this badly. There had been many instances where you'd fall apart, not look at him, not see him, but he always helped let go of it, adjust to it or cope with it. Usually with hands on your lower back that traveled up to the back of your head as soon as the first tear dropped, and you were sobbing into his chest. It had always been like this.

Jack felt his heart wrench. He wasn't sure what to do and he hated feeling this helpless. "Not doing that," he said, and he wasn't telling you what he expected from you, but you knew.

He wanted an explanation, otherwise he wasn't going anywhere.

"Jack please," you whispered, now finally meeting his hazel eyes. "I just—I need a minute."

Your eyes didn't have tears in them, but you knew it was just a question of sooner or later. Even Jack knew it.

"You can have a minute in my car. Up." He finally regained his attending voice, the authorial voice that usually helped you do everything flawlessly in the ER. He grabbed your bag and walked away.

Without another word you followed to his car and watched him open the passenger door, setting your bag in front of your seat. You took a seat on the warm plush, hating how the smell of it, the smell of him comforted you immediately, making the burn behind your eyes a bit easier.

You hated how he made you feel better. You hated there was someone out there who had this much control over what you felt without knowing that there was so much control.

You hated everything.

He got into the car and the rest of the drive was silent. Jack knew he had pressured you plenty and that you were in very well need of a break. He hated being cornered just as much as you did, so allowing you to sit there silence was the very least he could do.

When he arrived at your apartment, you stayed in the car, regret now flowing through your veins. Regret and humiliation. You felt ill as you closed your eyes and sensed his eyes boring into your profile, trying to figure out how he could find out what was wrong with you without grilling you again.

"I think I'm in love with you."

You knew Jack had never, with all of the thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, expected this, expected that to come out of your mouth. He froze, his hazel eyes which had been filled with worry now turning into surprise and then dread, realization hitting him as he realized the very reason you were this sad was because you had realized your love for him.

The rain continued to patter down on the car, as Jack stayed silent.

You had to tell him. This way, he would tell you that this wasn't going to work, that you had just been a distraction at work, someone young, someone pretty to talk to while he worked the worst job in the world. You were merely a tool to him. That's what you were about to hear, what you needed to hear.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly. He worried that if the words I'm in love with you too left his lips that you'd fall apart completely.

You were barely even holding on, fingers gripping your jeans as tight as you could, your nails on the edge of breaking.

"Mhm." you nodded, lips in a thin line, as you continued to stare out front.

"You think or you know, honey?" he asked quietly, this time asking for himself. The desperation, he usually hid so well, floated to the top, exposing how much he wanted to know if what you were saying was really true to you, that you meant it, that he hadn't been imagining it.

It took you a while, thoughtfulness entering your face replacing the deep troubled sadness for just a second before your lower lip trembled. "Know."

Jack let out an exhale, unable to hide the relief in it, pressing his head against the car seat.

Minutes of silence passed. Both of you watching the rain tapping on the car, the window obscuring the view of your apartment, drifting far away almost.

"You want me to say it?"

You shook your head. No, you didn't want him to tell you that he was in love with you too.

"Okay," he pressed his lips together, as if holding the words in. He took a look at you, your shaken state, how your knees were pointing in his direction, not the door, as if your body had decided that despite your mind fighting you, you didn't want to leave, leave him.

"I'm taking you to my place, that okay?" he asked quietly, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel.

You turned your head to your window, lips quivering as you thought about the grave mistake you were making, before letting out a small "Okay."

The drive was just as silent as before, though Jack was sure that the tears were now finally streaming down your face, though you kept your face away from his view until he arrived at his house. Parking the car, he made sure to avoid looking at you until you stopped sniffling.

He quickly got out, rounding the car until he was next to your door, opening it for you like the gentleman he tried so hard to be for you.

You grabbed your bag, still keeping your eyes on the ground, but when you stood up, Jack couldn't grant you the privacy he had earlier, anymore. He needed to show you that he cared and that he was here for you no matter what happened.

Carefully raising his hands, so slowly that you had time to pull back, his thumb gently stroked the wet skin under your eye. Just as gently, he did it on the other side too, and then he let his hand wander to the back of your hair, brushing it softly away from your face, before tilting his head downwards to catch your eyes.

Your red rimmed eyes finally met his, now with the cloudy weather, brown ones. You preferred them more when they were hazel and almost green. Now they just looked as pained as yours.

"We'll figure it out," he whispered as gently as possible, fingertips brushing one more time across your soft cheek.

You didn't nod or speak, or show any signs of agreement, but Jack still decided to take your silence as a yes. He reached for your bag and lifted it upon his free shoulder, before reaching for your hand.

Reaching out just like he had earlier, but the teasing was gone, no wiggling fingers, no smile, no nothing.

It was almost comical how tightly you gripped his hand, as if you needed something to hold on to because everything else was slipping away.

The two of you remained silent as you followed Jack to the entrance of his house, letting him pull you towards the charming residence, trying to ignore how small he made your hand feel in his, and how warm.

The rain didn't even feel like it was touching your skin, all you felt was the scorching heat of Jack's hand engulfing yours and for a moment you wished this would be the only thing you'd ever feel for the rest of your life.

He somehow managed to continue brushing his thumb over your cold knuckles, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, as he opened the door.

Inside it was dark, and Jack was quick to turn on the lights, somewhere in the back of his mind, remembering that you'd once mentioned being scared of the dark when you were a kid.

He hung his bag up, taking yours from your hand without asking, before hanging it up next to his. The two of you silently stared at the bags next to each other just long enough that it was a moment, a thing, an unspoken thing nonetheless.

It came to no surprise to both of you that you were the one to interrupt the moment, quickly taking off your shoes, this time deliberately not glancing down, not wanting to acknowledge how they looked next to his.

He, still silent, walked into the living room, before turning a corner, listening to your socked feet on the floor, quickly following him into the kitchen.

Quick to turn on all the lights, he opened the fridge, and you watched him take out all the things you liked, and you let out an incredulous puff of air, making him turn around immediately.

"What?" he said, unable to resist the smile that formed on his face, upon seeing something other than grief in your face.

"How do you—just— remember everything?" you asked in disbelief.

"Doubting my intelligence right after confessing your love to me oof." He pressed a hand to his chest, grinning from ear to ear. "That hurts sweetheart."

You shot him a look, swatting at his bicep with your palm, but not quite letting go as you took a peek into his fridge.

Jack felt himself get warm by the way your hand was still wrapped around his bicep, not letting go. His eyes wandered from your hands to your profile, observing the way your nose scrunched up as you came to a conclusion you didn't like. His heart squeezed with joy when he took notice of the spark in your still red-rimmed eyes returning, the one that said you were about to insult him in your usual lighthearted way.

"No chocolate, no sweets, nothing unhealthy." You looked up at him, dropping your hand from his bicep with a startle before getting a hold of yourself again. "You have a boring fridge, Jack."

"I'll get you chocolate, don't you worry about that." He shook his head, incredulous over the fact that this was your first proper sentence in the last thirty minutes.

You didn't reply to that, and he realized too late what he had implicated. He took a look at your face and, just as he had feared, you'd shut down again, brutally reminded of what had occurred in the last few minutes.

He turned around, grabbed what he needed to make a sandwich and started cutting. "Sit," he mumbled and decided not to comment on your sorrow, nodding towards the counter next to him. You complied without another word.

You watched his hands cut the bread the way you liked it. Small pieces to make it seem bigger.

A habit from when you were a child and your mom would hand you chocolate. You would always end up tearing all the pieces apart, so you felt like you had twelve pieces instead of one block. A mind trick was what you used to tell your friends.

And, now here you were, grown and an adult watching Jack Abbot do the thing you haven't done in years, for you. Simply because you had mentioned it once. Once, during a shift, you didn't remember.

Your eyes flickered up to his face. His gray hair was as pretty as ever, had always been one of your favorite things about him, curling over his forehead, and you could see the red-brown peeking through. He looked tired, lips lightly curling downward, which usually meant he was tired.

But he never rested. He always needed to be in action doing things. Like right now.

You were probably just another thing on the list. The girl he distracted himself with during lulls in the shift, the girl he talked to in the car, so he wouldn't have to drive home alone with his thoughts, the girl he invited over, so his apartment felt less quiet.

You were a tool to keep his thoughts far away.

Glancing down at your hands, you finally noticed that you had been picking at your nails the entire time. Bad habit that you still couldn't seem to get rid of. The only growing up, the only bad habit you've overcome, was apparently not cutting your sandwich into small pieces anymore.

Feeling a prickle of pain at the top of your head, you reached your hand up, swiftly slipping the hair tie out of your hair, releasing a cascade of softness around your shoulders. You didn't notice the way Jack halted the knife to watch you. He watched you ruffle your hair with a relieved sigh, and his eyes followed every movement until they locked with yours.

You stared back, and your nose scrunched in light embarrassment.

"You're a pretty girl." He gave you a smile, embarrassed for being caught staring. Shaking his head, he looked back down at his knife. "And yet you're here making yourself sad over some old guy."

It wasn't self-pity, even if you knew that. It was a statement, even a complaint, if you thought about it for too long.

To him, you were too young, too pretty, too kind, to destroy yourself over something as simple and boring as him.

You glanced up at him noting the way he was cutting up the bread slower, clearly waiting for your reply. Maybe it wasn't all not self-pity. Maybe some insecurity did linger there.

"I think you're pretty nice for an old guy," you mumbled, swinging your legs until they hit the wood below you, and you suppressed a groan of pain.

He chuckled, not having missed what you had just done, and glanced up at you, mouth curved upwards, before looking away again.

This was domestic. Too domestic even.

It made you feel nauseous, and you gazed down at his hands, tracking the way he was carefully fixing your sandwich with ingredients you liked. You brushed a hand over your eyebrow, fingertips rubbing hard into your eyes until stars were bursting hard, replacing jack temporarily.

You wished they could replace Jack forever.

He paused his knife on the counter, setting it aside, before stepping in between your knees and removed your hands from your face.

"Not that nice after all, huh?" he asked quietly, heart breaking when your eyes met his. It seemed, that tonight, the sadness wasn't going away anytime soon.

You didn't have the strength to muster up a weak smile. Too tired and too sad as you met his hazel eyes, the eyes that knew you too well and that saw too much. You looked down at the way his fingers were still lightly curled around your wrist. His hand fit so well around yours, the perfect temperature, the perfect size to calm you down.

"Crap." you finally whimpered, and you dropped your head forwards, letting yourself fall right into the crook of his neck. Jack, without another word, let his hand lift to the back of your head, fingers curling into your soft hair as he brushed gently through it.

Jack knew you. It was as simple as that.

He knew you were scared. He'd seen your expression when you came to work one day. You had been scared of something and he saw it. He saw the way your fingers would twitch on the counter, desperately wanting to touch him, and when he let his fingers brush up against yours, you'd stay for five seconds before taking it back abruptly, like you had been electrocuted, like it had been a mistake.

Eventually he just knew. You were in love with him and you were scared.

His other hand came up to brush against your back, rubbing your shirt gently, bunching it up, lifting it until he was able to rest his hand on your bare waist, hoping the heat of his fingers would finally warm your freezing skin up.

You pressed your face further into his neck, though your hands remained on your sides. You were craving him, but fear still lingered.

It lingered in every part of your body. In your hands, where it wouldn't let you reach for him the way you wanted to. In your chest, where it wouldn't let you press up against him fully. In your heart, where it wouldn't let him in.

Jack didn't even have the strength to think about how soft you were in his arms, how much he had craved to touch you. You were too cold for it all.

He pressed his palm harder to your naked lower back, hoping that if his entire palm was pressed up against your spine, that maybe, just maybe he wouldn't feel like he was touching ice.

"Let's get you into some warm clothes," he mumbled, not yet removing himself from your hold, waiting for your cue.

You pressed your face further into his neck, turning your head, so your cheek was on his shoulder now, gazing towards the side of his kitchen where his empty fridge was. "Don't think I should stay," you mumbled quietly.

"Too late. You're here now," he replied, now deciding that it was the right moment to pull back before you did, completely.

His hands drifted to your hips, helping you off the counter, and then he grabbed the sandwich and set it on a plate. "Eat."

And then he wandered away to his room, hoping that he'd find something warm enough for you. It seemed like right now there was nothing warm enough. Not even he was warm enough for you. Looking through his closet, he managed to find one of the few long-sleeved shirts he had.

Everything else was clothes for work. He didn't have much interest in buying things for himself. He didn't like to think about why, that he didn't deem it necessary, that he didn't want his home to pile up with things, in case one day he didn't come home.

His hand tightened around the fabric, tearing it off the hanger before he trudged back into the kitchen, heart squeezing at the sight of you pressing what seemed to be the third piece into your mouth as you stared into nothing.

"Here. This will keep you warm." Jack held out the long-sleeved shirt, and you raised an eyebrow, taking another piece of the sandwich.

"That's big," you mumbled around a bite.

He huffed. "Well, yeah sweetheart, it's mine."

You shot him a look, not appreciating the condescending tone, but he just shot you a grin and you shook your head. "Hand's greasy." you mumbled.

You turned your back to him and he quickly got the idea. 

Carefully setting his shirt on the counter, he reached for the fabric of yours. You raised your arms and let him help you out of the soft pink cotton. He didn't dare glance anywhere, keeping his eyes locked on his own black shirt. If you were okay, right now, with being vulnerable, he wasn't going to take advantage of it, even if he had a feeling you wanted to.

He helped you into the shirt, his eyes still not lingering anywhere inappropriate, and let it swallow you whole.

When you turned, he carefully extricated your hair from your collar, letting it drape over your back, while you continued to watch him with lifeless eyes. Or you would have liked to be looking at him with lifeless eyes. In reality, you were torn. You knew you were being weird. Pulling away, but then reaching for him again.

You realized, with a startle, how awful you were being, how mean, how selfish. You looked at your plate, seeing the small bites and then wordlessly turned to the sink, washing your hands off the grease, washing them off of anything that was Jack.

You needed to get out of here.

When you turned, the apology was ready. "I'm sorry." you shook your head, toying with the edge of the sleeve of his shirt. "I—I'm being a lot right now." you said quietly. "And I—"

But Jack was already shaking his head, reaching for your hands and pulling you towards him, right into his chest.

"Hey, none of that." he mumbled, fingers reaching up to brush your hair out of your face, while his other hand remained around your waist, keeping you close to him. "You're not being a lot. And I want you here."

He shot you an almost disappointed look for thinking the opposite and then brushed a thumb under your eye as if making sure you didn't cry while he had been grabbing the shirt. You didn't.

"But—as difficult as this is— we need to talk." He continued on quietly, in the same low voice, and he felt you freeze up under his hand. As if it was a surprise to you, like you hadn't known the moment the words I'm in love with you had stumbled out of your mouth, that the two of you needed to talk.

His palm remained on your cheek as he waited for any sort of compliance or agreement and it took a while. Your eyes bore into his shirt as you stood there silently, before turning your head, eyes glancing back at the plate, sorrow clouding your features again.

"Hey." Jack used a small amount of strength to pull your face back to him, tapping his index finger against your skin. "I'm serious," he added quietly, and for a second he thought about saying it, saying the words plain out loud that he was in love with you more than you'd think, but you were like a deer, and he was terrified that at the smallest sound of affection you'd run away.

"I know you are," you mumbled, and he had to suppress a smile at your petulant sound.

"Okay then," he replied, trying to sound cheery. "I'd like to take you out on a date."

Your face fell completely, the color draining out of it and Jack realized this was going to be much harder than he expected.

Not in the way you feared it to be, no.

He had no problem convincing you of his love for you. The hard part was having to watch you be this much in pain. The only reason, the only doubt lingering in the back of his mind, was that he wasn't sure he could watch you go through so many cycles of sadness because of him. It made him feel selfish, made him think that maybe he was doing this for himself, to not be so lonely.

But with one look at your pretty face, he knew it wasn't true. He wanted you. When he looked at you, he didn't think about the ways his house might sound less empty, and his thoughts less frigthening.

He just wanted you in his house. He just wanted you around. He just wanted you.

"Need a response, pretty girl," he said quietly, tilting your head to catch your eyes, and you graciously let him. Your pretty eyes lifted to meet his.

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, encouraging you for a response and it worked. "Where?" you whispered.

And he smiled softly, knowing in the back of his mind to not take it as encouragement, you were still too hesitant. "A real expensive restaurant, that has all the sorts and types of pasta you like." He smiled softly, tilting your head up just for a fraction, so your eyes met his properly, so that he was your entire view. "Even has tiramisu."

Your lips twitched. "When?"

Going through W-questions, he realized. "Whenever you want," he twirled a hair strand around his finger, now realizing again that he was touching you. Really touching you and you seemed to like it.

He brushed with the pad of his thumb over your hair. Soft. He had expected it to feel like this. His hand on your waist wandered under your shirt, under the pretense that he was checking your temperature, but he knew he was lying to himself. He just wanted to touch you.

You seemed to be warmer than before, not yet warm, but not as cold as before.

You nodded slowly and on you went to the last W-question. "Why?"

Jack squeezed your waist gently. "Because I like you." A frown formed on your face and Jack knew why. Tapping his index finger against your temple, he added in a quiet voice. "Don't think you're ready to hear it yet."

The form turned into the expression of someone who knew they'd been caught. You wanted to hear the same words you'd uttered in the car earlier, but Jack knew you better. The confession would make you feel better temporarily before the fear caught up with you and you would crumble. And despite how the word pushed against the tip of his tongue, how his heart seemed to be bursting at the seams, wanting to just say the words and have you finally acknowledge them, he knew the disaster would be much worse.

You hummed, the only way you'd agree, before shuffling your feet on the floor, and he knew you wanted to get closer without actually making the first step. So he pressed his hand firmer into your waist, pulling you in, until your forehead hit his chest and then your cheek. You tilted your head until your cheek laid against his racing heartbeat. He felt your exhale against his body, and your fingers curling into fists at your sides, desperate not to cling onto him, and he let you have that last piece of resistance.

His chin rested against the top of your head as he brushed a hand over your back.

"What are you scared of honey? Hmm?" he mumbled, letting his lips linger in your hair even as you burrowed closer, trying to hide from both the question and the answer. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, deciding to just lay it out in the open. If you weren't going to talk he would.

"Can't know that." you muffled against his chest.

"Yeah, I can," he replied, pressing you closer as if to prove it.

"No, you can't," you mumbled, trying not to take too much pleasure in the way his fingers were untangling the knots in your hair.

He sighed, lifting his head to stare up at the ceiling as if praying for the universe to finally make you listen to him for once in your life.

You leaned back, eyes lifting to his face. "You're annoyed," you stated, trying your best to disguise the hurt that was trying to creep into your voice.

"Thought you knew me better than that," he mumbled, fingers drifting to the waistband of your pants, letting it snap against your hip, and you let out a small "Ouch Jack!" before he shot you a grin. "Not annoyed," he finally said. "Just unsure how to make you believe me."

"I won't," you stared at him, as if it was silly that he thought that you would in the first place.

"Why?" and finally he got tired, tired of standing for this long. He dropped his hands, reaching out to grip yours instead and lead you to the bedroom.

"Because—there's no guarantee that you won't hurt me. You can't know. It's all empty promises." You hesitated at the bedroom door, but then curiosity took over as you stepped in.

Jack didn't plan on asking you to stay over in his bed, because he knew your response would be no. He pushed the covers away, ushering you into the bed, and you sat there silently, before mumbling something about not wanting to sleep in jeans, trying to ignore the fact that he still hadn't replied yet.

He reached for some boxers in his closet, handing them to you, and you walked into the adjoining bathroom.

"It might seem like empty promises to you," you heard through the door as you carefully folded the jeans. "But they won't be," he added, trying to put as much care into his words as possible.

He knew it was more than important to watch his words now. Everything could be too much or not enough for you right now, and he wanted to be neither.

You came out of the bathroom, standing in front of him like a wet puppy, drowning in his clothes. "Jack—" you whispered, and he smiled sadly, already aware of what you were going to say.

He knew you like the back of his hand, and you wished oh so desperately that he didn't.

You didn't fish the sentence. It doesn't matter what you say, I won't believe you.

"Get into bed," he ordered quietly.

You followed without a word as he guided you onto the soft mattress with a hand on your back, and settled against the headboard.

"Scoot over ,pretty," he added, and you did until you were in the middle of the bed, watching him join you, settling against the headboard, but not without bending down and getting rid of the prosthetic. He settled the metal against the bed, before letting out a sigh of relief, finally resting against the headboard.

"Were you in pain the entire time?" you asked, startled over the fact that his face had taken on a relieved expression.

"No," he lied, and he felt the stiffness in your body at the response.

You knew he was lying.

Maybe you were able to read him better than he thought. At least when your insecurities weren't clouding your judgment.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, clearly not fond of what he had done.

Setting his pain aside to take care of yours.

He always did this, and he wasn't sure how to fix it either. He just worked like that. Fixing other people's pain was easier than fixing his.

His arm stretched out until it was behind your waist, and then he drew you in slowly. He was relieved to hear no protest from you, no push back, no nothing. Just like in the kitchen, you wanted him to touch you, you just didn't want to be the one reaching out. He pulled you in until you were right under his arm, having no choice but to rest your hand on his chest.

"I can't promise you I won't make any mistakes ever," he mumbled against the top of your head. "But I can swear that I'll try not to."

Your fingers bunched his shirt under your fingers, and you lifted your head to look into his eyes, his pretty hazel earnest eyes. You stared and stared and then smiled weakly.

"I know," you whispered and squeezed your eyes shut, and then you decided.

This was as bad as it would get.

You could see in his eyes how desperately he wanted you, and the panic coursed through your veins, making you squirm in his arms for a second. But you knew it would be there nonetheless, whether he would be in the ER far away, or here, promising to always take care of you.

So why not just tell him? It wouldn't get any scarier or easier.

You sat up slowly, and then, before Jack knew it, you were settled in his lap. It startled him, you could see it in the way his eyes widened before keeping his composure, clearly trying not to showcase too much happiness, to not scare you off that he was taking this moment as something.

"I like you—I like you a lot," you said quietly, and Jack's heart squeezed once again upon hearing the words. He could hear them again and again and never get sick of them. "But—this is scary for me," you whispered. "I don't want to get hurt, and you can't promise me you won't. There's always going to be some way for you to accidentally hurt me or do something I wont like. And there are so many easy ways to hurt me, Jack," you whispered. "And I leave. When I get hurt, I leave. And I don't want to leave you."

Ah.

Jack was at a loss of words. He hadn't expected that to be the answer to everything. That you were so scared of being hurt that your real fear was that you would be led to do something irrational, something that would hurt you even more in return than the initial thing.

"I like being with you," you mumbled quietly. "And I know myself. I know that if I ever get scared, that I'll leave, and I won't come back."

One tear managed to escape and Jack brushed it away with his thumb, before letting his hands go back to your hips, his boxers.

"And I'm not easy to deal with," you let out a small laugh. "Obviously," you gestured at the two of you. "I'm an exhausting person to be around and no one wants to be around someone they're constantly worried about hurting." You were now toying with the fabric of his shirt, toying with a loose strand.

Jack watched your fingers, before slowly taking your hand in his. "I want to." he replied in the same quiet voice. "I want to be around you."

Your eyelashes fluttered at that, as if exposing the very thing you were trying to cover up with your words. "But I leave. I'm someone who leaves," You whispered. "And you—you try so hard to not be alone, and I'm going to—I'm going to be the reason you'll be alone." Another tear escaped and Jack was devastated at the sight of it.

You were worried about him?

He would take every ounce of loneliness and heartbreak just at the idea of being able to have you in his arms. Even if it was one night, even if it was just tonight.

"You don't have to worry about me, sweetheart," he mumbled, sitting up straighter, mindful of the way you were in his lap. He wanted to face you properly even if the cost of that was the sight of your glistening eyes.

"Can't help it. You make it hard not to," you replied quietly, biting your lip, suppressing the shakiness of it all.

And you were right. He had made it hard on you. He got shot at in his free time, he went to the roof at least once a month, and he didn't sleep and worked too much. How could you not worry about him?

He felt the guilt flash across his face, and his mouth set in a hard line, realizing the weight you'd been carrying all because of him.

"I didn't mean—I didn't mean to make you feel bad. This isn't—" you pressed a palm over your mouth, trying to gather the words. "Jack, this just—this won't work." You finally managed out under more tears, and both hands were now clinging onto him, gripping his shirt tightly.

"We haven't even tried," he replied breathless, worried he was losing you, worried he was ruining something that he was trying to fix.

"We shouldn't." You shook your head as if to confirm again that you were right about this.

"I want to," he finally said, hoping that maybe if he was selfish you'd let him.

"You shouldn't," you replied, even more sad.

It was getting tiring to watch the heartbreak unfold in your face all because of him. It had always been so important to him to protect you, to protect you from horrible patients, nasty attendings and hurtful comments.

Yet here he was.

"Sorry to disappoint sweetheart," he whispered, brushing a hand over your thigh, his thumb halting on a scar there, brushing over it gently.

Your eyes snapped down to the scar, watching him touch the scar tenderly and your eyes hung on the way his eyebrows furrowed as if he was experiencing the moment when you received the scar. It had just been a small fall of a skateboard when you were ten, trying to be like the cool girls on TV. No big deal, yet Jack touched it like it happened recently.

You watched the way his curls fell over his forehead, how tired he looked, but how the determination just wouldn't leave his face. He wasn't letting this go anytime soon.

"Jack," you whispered. "I'm serious."

He looked up, and he looked prettier than he had ever before, and you almost came to regret the decision you were making until he spoke. "I'm in love with you."

He brushed a hand over your scar, and you shivered, both at the tender touch and the words. You hated how your heart fluttered, how you wanted to just fall into his arms and never leave his lap again. But this was all scary. Terrifying, you felt nauseous as the words bounced around in your head. I'm in love with you.

Jack Abbot was in love with you.

"And I want to try," he said quietly. "And if I hurt you— if you leave— I'll be here. I'll wait for you."

Your eyes flickered across his face, as if it was some joke. The nausea tripled as you stared at him. You weren't sure how he'd found the exact words you'd looked for all your life, the words that managed to balm the wound that was so deep-rooted in your soul, you knew it was never going to be fixed. And you knew that if you got up from his lap, the bubble would burst. The words wouldn't seem as comforting as they did now. But still, you couldn't resist.

"What if I never come back?" you whispered, worried that this would make him take his words back completely, tell you some excuse about how he'll wait for a month or two.

"Then I'll just love you from afar," he replied, his hazel eyes meeting yours. "And I'll keep waiting."

Jack had hope that you'd come back. He knew you'd leave. He knew he wasn't perfect. He knew he'd hurt you. He was someone who hurt by trying to do the exact opposite.

But he knew you'd come back. He just knew.

And maybe you knew too, sensed that your soul would always be tethered to his in some way, that some invisible string would always pull you back to Jack Abbot.

"Okay," you whispered, and you let yourself fall into his arms and into the dark abyss you had always been so scared of.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who after living a life of hell, gets whiplash from time to time from how soft everything about you is.

“breathe jackie...” you'd coo when he'd woke you up from one of his nightmares. your delicate hands running through his curls as he buried his face between your breasts. not a sexual act, more like a desperate need for comfort.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who loves poking you. your cheeks, tummy, thighs, ass. everything! loves how you laugh while trying to swat his hand away. loves how your body recoils slightly, loves how soft your skin feels against his rough fingers.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who just as much as he likes poking you, he also likes groping you! specially your boobs. in public, its your ass. he purposely digs his hand into the backocket of your pants, not caring if it looks in appropriate. he gets better leverage from your ass like that! occasionally squeezing your flesh there. and you dont even bat an eye.

in bed, usually after sex or even during tired, quiet evenings, he's obsessed with your breasts. with his head resting on your shoulder, his thick, rough hand is most likely than not kneading at the swell of your breasts. sometimes he even likes rubbing his face over your breasts like a kitty. and he specially loves how you let him, and how you run your fingers through his hair whole doing so.

JACK ABBOT WHO:

who loves seeing you in dresses. or anything tight. the sight of the fabric clinging to your curves makes him instantly hard, even when you're innocently prancing around the house without doing anything remotely seductive.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who gives you the biggest bear hugs! because as thick as you are, so is he. both of you are so stubby that hugs with him usually (always) get prolonged to soft gentle whispers and jack rocking you side to side. even if it puts more strain on his prosthetic. the position is always the same: his face buried into your neck while your chin rests comfortably against his shoulder. his hands are also always on the back of your head and the swell of your hips.

the embrace is just soo comfortable that you end up falling asleep in his arms once.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who doesnt stop just at bear hugs, he also sleeps in a very particular way. a head lock. your back pressed against chest, (he always has a hard time ignoring how the swell of your ass feel pressed against his clothed cock) cheek squished against the hard muscle of his bicep while his arm loops around your neck from behind.

you dont mind, you like the feeling of being cradled in your sleep. and he absolutely loves it. specially since it keeps you from escaping his grasp without him having to wake up. also, a little bonus, his free hand is free to wander.

he lost count the amount of times he's made you orgasm from playing with your pussy, then kissed you goodnight in that same position.

JACK ABBOT WHO:

who gets a bit shy when you drool over his thickness. he has to put all his strength in not squirming when you rub his bicep. you just cant help it! they're so thick, and god, his thighs. they're like tree logs!

“jackie you're so cute!” you'd say, as if he couldnt squish you to death with his muscles. and when he lets you please him,( which is usually never because he's a giver not a receiver) you take extra time to trace the roundness of his pecks with your tongue.

he also always melts whenever you run your hands up and down his arms, to ultimately settle your soft hands around his cheeks. you make it seem like an innocent little touch. when in reality its an excuse to feel him up. but whatever dirty thought you had is crushed when he looks at you with those puppy eyes! because to him, you treating him like the most precious thing in the world is enough to have him melting in your arms.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who definitely bites into your rolls during rough sex.

Brett Richards

Brett believed all pranks should be funny. That was the whole point of a prank: the laughs, the camera, the pointing fingers yelling Ha-ha, you fell for it. Pranks that weren't funny were just rude jokes, the ones that made you feel hollow instead of feeling joy.

Which was why when you casually mentioned that you had shaved, he at first didn't realize what you were talking about.

"That's nice, sweetheart," he casually muttered back, face too buried in his recent book to notice you looking at him oddly.

"I really thought you would react more," you replied, equal in a lower tone like you were talking more to yourself than him.

Again, Brett really had no clue what you were talking about. You shaved your legs on the regular, your armpits when you planned to wear a tank top that allowed him to oggle more than usual. Hell, you've even mentioned shaving your toes before nail appointments . . . that he payed for. Something, something not wanting them to see any toe hairs while their eyeballs were inches away from the small flower design they were painting.

He settled on a light scoff while turning the page. "Why would I react more? You shave all the time."

It wasn't until the next morning when you walked through the living room with a clear path to the backyard pool that Brett had put in specifically for you, when it all clicked in his mind. His eyes, never innocent ones, had trailed from the glittery sun-tan stuff you put on your collar bones and shoulders, down to the bikini top that left little to his imagination, then further down to the even smaller bikini bottom that perfectly cupped your . . .

The horrified noise that left his mouth had you pausing.

"What?" you yelped, scared that Brett had seen something. "What is it?"

Brett's eyes were wide as he walked toward you before he fell on his knees, hands rising to grip your hips tightly. In fear, you stepped closer and grabbed hold of his shoulders.

"Brett, what the fuck is happening?"

"You-you," he stuttered. "You shaved?"

You took a step back and looked down. "Huh?"

Brett said nothing. His finger slightly trailed up your leg, and his forehead pressed into your lower stomach, right against the waistline of your bikini bottom.

"You shaved," he repeated, voice hollow and tinged with . . . grief? "Why did you shave?"

Your brows pinched together until you realized that he hadn't understood what you meant when you said you shaved the other day. You rolled your eyes and huffed.

"I told you I shaved yesterday, and all you said was That's nice, sweetheart," you imitated in a deep voice that was no where close to his timber.

He tore his eyes away from your center and glared up at you "How could you do this to me? To us?"

"Brett, it'll grow back. I just didn't want it poking out while I swam. It's no biggie."

Well, apparently to him, this wasn't just "no biggie;" this was a colossal "biggie;" a right hook to the gut; he knew a gun shot to the head would be less painful to him than you shaving your bush without consulting him first about it; bikini be damed.

"But-but she was so pretty," he whined, and you found yourself wondering if you were dating a fifty-year-old fire chief for a wining frat boy who looked like his favorite bong was taken away. "And you just murdered her in cold blood." His face dipped back into your stomach, hands still gripping your waist. "Please tell me this is a prank, that I'm dreaming."

His words were muffled, but you got the gist.

"Baby," you said softly. "They don't make bald caps for pussy. And I can assure you that you and I are both awake."

He huffed even louder, the sound making a giggle rise from your chest. You pushed back his curls and forehead until he was looking back up at you with those puppy eyes you adored.

"If I had known you'd be this distraught, I would have just trimmed it," you tried to placate him. "Just didn't think Captain Brett Richards would be having a mental breakdown because I shaved my bush."

"I'm not having a mental breakdown," he argued, lips jutting in a pout. "I'm mourning. There's a difference."

"Yes. Sorry. Mourning." You nodded along. "Can I go swim now? The UVs at its highest, and I want to tan before I swim."

Grant looked upwards and thought for a moment. "Only if you promise you won't shave again all summer."

"How about I'll only trim it down. Compromise?"

He stayed silent before finally spitting out, "Fine. But I will be supervising."

"Sure, babe. Sure."

Jack Abbot

If you had known the consequences of the thing you did in the shower 23 minutes and seventeen seconds ago, you would have double guessed about proceeding with what you planned to do: shave your bush down.

However, what you hadn't planned was for Jack to walk right in, just as you were finishing up, and witness as to what he recalled as "the worst crime Pittsburgh has ever seen." You were sure that he was about three seconds from calling someone, but he did something even worse.

He had reached into the shower, turned off the water (even if you had yelled Hey!), gently pulled you out (because safety around slippery surfaces was a giant priority), and sat you down at the edge of your bed. He took two large steps over to his backpack, pulled out his laptop, and set it up to the projector you'd bought to watch movies on.

But now, Jack had taken over and was now projecting an almost downright powerpoint that had multiple slides about the benefits of keeping hair down there.

"Your body grows hair, my love," Jack stated, standing next to the projection like a speaker on those TedTalk videos. "If you were meant to have it short or have no hair at all, then your body would already be made like that."

"Is this really necessary?" you asked with narrowed eyes at the number of slides he had left.

(He was only on slide 3/184.)

He tutted gently in response. "Yes, it's necessary. You're going behind my back and shaving in places you never need to shave." He clicked to the next slide. "You need to understand that pubic hair does so much for your body. It's a built-in defense system, it helps reduce friction, it's a barrier for harmful bacteria, lowers STI risks, keeps pheromones trapped—"

"Hypocrite," you grumbled, arms crossing over your chest. "You shave your chest hair."

Jack huffed. "We're not talking about me; we're talking about why you thought it was a good idea to take your bush away from me."

"Your bush? When has a part of my body ever been yours?" you shot back. "If I want to shave it, I can ass hat."

At least Jack had the decency to look guilty with his hazel eyes dropping down toward the ground. "That's not what I was meaning."

Your eyebrows rose. "Oh; it wasn't? So now, any time you shave your chest hair, I can say that you're taking that away from me? Because it's the same thing, Jack."

"To me it's not."

"But to me it is," you pressed. "But if you really wanna play this game, maybe I'll just call Robby. He has all that chest hair under his scrubs. Maybe he has a powerpoint about the medical properties of chest hair. Would you listen to your work husband instead?"

"We're not calling Robby, and okay, I see your point." He leaned against the wall. "I guess I just don't understand why you even shaved in the first place."

You suddenly looked down at your bare knees. "Kelly from work said her husband liked it better shaved. Thought you might feel the same."

Jack froze for a nanosecond before he stalked over in his uneven gate. He stopped in front of you and lifted your chin with a pointer finger, hips folding so he could lean in close.

"Listen to me," he said softly. "Kelly's husband is boy. Boys don't know how to appreciate a natural woman's body." His other hand trailed up your center, fingers lightly grazing your skin enough to bring goosebumps to the surface. "Men—real men, like me—don't mind stuff like that. We actually enjoy it, my love."

You shivered, not knowing if it was from the chill on your still-slightly damp skin or the sheer intensity of Jack's gaze. He stepped in closer, bullying your legs apart for him to stand between your thighs. You kept your eyes on his and swallowed thickly while he softly pressed you back into the comforter.

Jack placed a hand right next to your head and bent down even further, his clothed chest barely hovering over yours. Your two hands lifted and came to place on his shoulders.

"Can I show you?" he muttered against your lips. "How a real man enjoys what he's been given."

You nodded. "Yes please."

"But going forward, you better think twice before you take a razor down there."

Grant Reilly

Grant knew something was up the moment you walked into the kitchen.

Some might have called him creepy for noticing, but he'd rather call himself a caring and attentive boyfriend. But what was he supposed to do when he noticed that instead of taking your normal, longer strides, you were practically shifting and almost waddling around. He eyed the way your inner thighs failed to part from each other the entire time you walked over to the fridge before going right back to where you'd been sitting in the living room.

Now, he could have kept this mouth shut, but his concern grew the more you shifted around, looking like you couldn't get comfortable at all. And that was a big no-no for Grant; you were supposed to be as comfortable as possible while staying in his house. If he could fix the smallest thing to bring you more comfort, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"You okay, honey?" he called out, hands keeping a hold of the pan and spatula as he cooked dinner.

"Fine," you responded, but your voice was anything but convincing.

Grant shut the burner off and turned away from the stove. He placed both hands on the granite island and hunched his shoulders as he gave you the highest eyebrow arch he could muster.

"Somehow, I don't believe you."

You looked away from your phone. "It's nothing."

"You've shifted seven times in the last fifteen minutes, and you're walking weird."

"I'm not walking weird?"

"Oh yeah?" He straighten and folded his arms. "Then walk over here . . . normally."

You bit into your bottom lip before pushing off the couch.

Here's the issue. You were on your period, and entirely done with the planet; more importantly, done with the way everything just seemed to make a mess every time you used the bathroom. So, in a desperate attempt to keep things neater, you thought that shaving everything would help. But now, each step caused poking friction in your thighs. And really, you should have known better, but desperate times called for even more desperate measures.

Once you were on both feet, you tried your best to take a normal step. But the poking, almost biting sensation had you pausing. Gingerly, you took another step, but you couldn't even do that normally.

Not being able to watch you in obvious pain, Grant rounded the island and walked over to you, stopping you where you were halfway through taking another painful step.

"What's wrong?" he questioned. "And don't lie to me."

You shuffled on your feet before visibly deflating. "I shaved."

Grant continued to stare at you. "Okay?"

"Down there."

"Oh." Grant inhaled sharply. "Why?"

He wasn't . . . annoyed per se, but he was concerned why you'd do something that obviously caused great discomfort.

Your shoulders rose. "I'm on my period, and it kept getting everywhere. Just didn't really want to deal with it all anymore."

The next thing Grant did was bring you into a hug, his hand running rhythmically over your hair.

"My poor, honey," he cooed, timber far from condescending. "How about for next time, I can get you something that might be more helpful than shaving. Wipes are always a nice option, or if your pads stick, we can online shop for different underwear, okay?"

You nodded against his chest while you wrapped your arms around his waist. "Okay."

"Let's get you situated back on the couch while I continue making dinner. Can't have my girl going hungry. How does steak sound? Chef will make it for you, don't worry."

Andrew "Pope" Cody

a/n: I know this is technically waxing but it fits better in my mind . . .

Honestly, though, what were you thinking when you thought Oh, Andrew wouldn't know. Because if there was one aspect of Andrew Cody that never failed, it was that he knew everything. Whatever you did, Andrew would know about it not even two seconds later. Plus, he was the one who suggested synching Google Calendars in the first place.

So when he scrolled through the day's schedule and saw Waxing Appt. added in bright pink, he first thought you were getting your eyebrows done like you normally did when you were getting your nails done (all paid for with his card mind you).

However, he was far from the truth . . . so very, very, very far from the truth.

You really thought the waxer had done a good job. She hadn't taken off too much, because you already knew Andrew liked a bit of hair, especially when he went down on you. She had assured you that a bikini wax was wha you should go with. You'd gone through the painful process and didn't think twice when you tapped Andrew's card on the reader, always leaving a nice tip as well.

But that had been two days ago, and now, Andrew had you pressed up against the wall with your fingers digging deep into his naked, freckled biceps. Your head was tipped back against the wall while he kissed you within an inch of your life.

"Fuck, angel," he moaned into your mouth, hands holding you at your waist. "Feels so good."

"Andy," you whined as you dug your hips into his. "Need you."

"Yeah?" He pressed kissing along your stretched throat. "You need me?"

"Please! Please! Please!"

"Shh, shh," he hushed, right hand trailing down and across the waistline of your shorts. "I'm right here."

You moaned even louder when his fingers dipped closer to your core. "Please, Andy! Need y-you!"

Andrew continued dragging his hand down, fingers wiggling until he felt where he wanted. However, he froze when the familiar feeling of long hair didn't touch his fingertips. A breath later, he continued on, but the shorter hairs he found poked and pricked enough for him to retract his hand. This time, your whine was more confused than wanting.

"What're you doing?" you asked, chest rising and falling with your pants. "Is something wrong?"

"It's—" he paused, brows furrowing deeply. "It's different." He paused again. "Why's it different?"

You realized almost immediately as to what he was referring to. "Oh, yeah. I got it waxed during my appointment. Though you saw that on the calendar." You tried to meet his eyes, but was unsuccessful as he kept staring at the place between your thighs. "Do you not like it?"

Andrew stayed silent before slowly shaking his head. "It's not soft anymore."

"It'll get soft when it grows out again."

He huffed like he was mad at time for not speeding up. He tried again and shoved his hand down your shorts and underwear, but the feeling was almost overwhelming.

"It's not even either," he muttered, pulling out his hand yet again.

You dropped your hands from his arms and cupped his face gently. "Hey, if you don't like it, I won't do it again. I wanted to try something new, but if it bothers you, I can let it grow out."

"'M sorry."

"Don't be. You're the one who gets to touch down there more than I do anyways."

His head bobbed once like he was as serious about your bush as he would be for a bank heist. "I like it grown out. Feels nicer too."

"Hmmm, I guess it does." Your thighs pressed together, body still trying to come down from the heated moment. "Does this mean we have to wait though?"

Andrew looked you over once before bending slightly to haul you into his arms. You squealed loudly when he maneuvered you into a bridal carry and started walking toward your bedroom.

"We'll figure something out," he muttered, foot kicking the door closed behind him. "But it needs to grow out fast."

Titus Danforth

"Little dove, you better drop that razor right now if you know what's good for you," Titus' voice carried over the sound of your shower.

"If I stop now, it's going to look weird," you shot back, continuing on with what you were currently doing, legs parted just enough to get a clean cut. When the water suddenly shut off, you groaned loudly. "Titus, turn it back on."

When he didn't answer, you finally dropped the razor and turned toward the now open shower door. Your eyes were met with an overwhelming fire in Titus' hazel eyes. You reached to turn the water back on, but your hand was stopped halfway, courtesy of Titus wrapping a hand around your wrist.

"I said to drop the razor," he repeated, voice firm and unwavering. "Are you going to listen to me?"

"But it's patchy now."

"You shouldn't have been touching a razor anywhere near it in the first place."

You rolled your eyes. "I just wanted to shave my bush, Titus. It's not the end of the world."

Titus huffed loudly before yanking you all the way out of the shower. You were powerless against his strength, deciding to follow him without arguing further in hopes you didn't set him off even more than you already seemed to do.

One moment you were upright and the next you were pushed back onto the large bed in the center of the room. However, Titus didn't follow you down. Instead, he left you there and walked over the closet.

"What are you doing?"

He stayed quiet, hands now shuffling around through an interior drawer. You couldn't help the way your eyes raked over the stretch of his large shoulders under his dress shirt. You only looked away when he turned back toward you and started walking back to the bed.

A small glint caught your attention when he got close again, and your eyes widened at the sight of a knife gripped between his fingers. Your throat bobbed under a thick swallow.

"Titus . . ." you said, tone on the side of a warning.

"Quiet, little dove," he ordered, eyes trailing down to the place between your thighs. He sighed rather sadly. "Look what you've done to her."

Your brows pinched. "Her?"

He ignored you and parted your thighs, knife now dangerously close to the uneven patches of hair. "Because you so decided to have a whack at her, I'm going to fix this."

You bit your lip in an attempt to hold back the whimper after his fingers started to poke and prod at your core. Titus heard it anyway and tried to hold back a smirk of his own.

"This is not for your pleasure," he grunted. Carefully, he began to cut away at the left over hairs. "This is a lesson."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, so I can't do anything to my body now?"

Titus looked up at you and glared before reaching up to tap the skin next to your hip. You knew exactly what was beneath his finger: a small T.S. scared into you, something he'd done the moment after you'd won your first games, something to remind you that you belonged to him and him alone.

"Your body, sure," Titus spoke lowly, knife stilling against the delicate skin. "But this? This is all mine. And you should know better than to mutilate what I own."

"Titus," you breathed. "I didn't mutilate anything. Shaving is normal; it's—" A sharp pain caused a hiss to interrupt your sentence.

Your eyes caught the beads of blood now bubbling from a small cut along your hip bone. However, a low moan covered the dull pain when Titus ran his hot tongue along the wound, catching each drop of blood like it was honey.

Once the blood stopped sweating, Titus straightened back up and went back to making the rest of the hair even. You only knew he was done when he patted the inside of your thigh twice, your skin stinging lightly. Yet, he didn't pull back. He leaned forward until his face was not even an inch in front of yours.

"Next time you even think of shaving again, little dove, let this be a reminder that I own you," he breathed into your mouth. "And I don't like it when anyone touches my property without permission."

Charlie Reid

You really could never tell what Charlie liked or didn't like. Being his personal office assistant meant that you needed to know things like this. But each time you did something, he'd respond just the same way.

Once you brought him straight black coffee, and he seemed fine with it. But another time, you tried switching things up and added a dash of vanilla. Like always, though, he took it without telling you if you needed to change it.

The same thing happened with everything else: the way he liked his paperwork, the way you set up his appointments, and even the way you greeted him in the mornings. Yet, you were able to catch the twitch of a smile when you used Chief instead of Mr. Reid. So you kept using that, always wanting to see that at least something you did was to his liking.

You tried to find his tells like that, but they were far and few between. However, one of them came in the most unexpected ways, starting with a spilled cup of coffee all over your front.

The hot pain barely took any time to process in your mind before you whimpered loud enough that Charlie was able to hear across the way. Somehow, you two were the only ones left in the precinct; Charlie had extra paperwork to coverup a murder, and you graciously stayed behind in case he needed anything.

"You okay, kid?" he called out, already rising from behind his desk. It didn't take him long to find you, in obvious pain and discomfort, gripping the counter with white knuckles. "What the hell happened here?"

You turned towards him and tried to flash a wavering smile. "Guess I didn't have a good grip on the pot."

Charlie eyed the way the coffee had dripped down from your blouse and dotted your white pencil skirt. "Do you want to go home? You've stayed longer than needed, kid."

But really, Charlie wanted to keep you near him as long as possible. So when you shook your head, a disgusting light feeling bloomed in his chest.

"Well, do you have any clothes to change into?" he pressed.

Again, you shook your head. "Didn't think I'd need a pair."

Charlie crossed his arms. "I think I got an extra shirt and sweats if you'd like."

Your slanted smile changed into a real one. "That'd be really nice, Chief. Thank you."

So, that's how you found yourself in the small bathroom next to his office, arms covering your bare middle while you waited for him to bring you his clothes. The thought you drowning in his shirt and sweats brought a heat to your face.

You just didn't expect him to barge right in instead of knocking, clothes held tightly to his front. You watched him freeze in the threshold, eyes wide as they trailed down your frame.

When Charlie knew he'd been caught, he cleared his throat and held the change of clothes out to take. "Here. Sorry if they're oversized."

You gingerly took them from him and quietly thank him as well. You also thought he'd leave to give you some privacy, but he stayed put. Not wanting to keep him long, you started to pull the sweats on.

While you were doing so, Charlie let his eyes linger on your naked thighs and cute bow-covered underwear. He swallowed thickly when he noticed that hardly any hair pocked out of the hem.

"You shave?" he suddenly asked, not even embarrassed to be asking you that or looking.

Your face heated tenfold, and you tugged the sweats up quickly. "Yeah," you finally squeaked. "I keep things neat."

Charlie nodded once. "Hmmmm. Think it'd look better grown out, kid. Might be easier to not shave it so often." With that, he slipped out of the bathroom, leaving you a blushing mess.

And if Charlie pulled a similar stunt a few weeks later, purposefully spilling coffee on you late at night in hopes to get you back into his clothes, just to see if you'd headed his advice? Let's just say he was more than grateful to see the small bush spilling from a cherry-covered thong this time around.

Terry McCandless

South Carolina was hot with the kind of lingering heat that made your thighs stick to each other almost instantly if you took one step out into the hot, humid atmosphere.

Sweat pooled in placed you didn't even know sweat could pool. And you hated the way Terry always seemed to push for outdoor fondling that most times ended up with your back pressed against a random surface and Terry pounding into you hard. Which caused more sweat to build . . . again.

By the time Terry had asked you for the third time to fuck outside, you'd learned that having as few layers underneath your clothes helped the breeze to cool you down. You'd also picked up a few things about keeping things short or just foregoing keeping hair down there all together.

Terry didn't seem to mind either. In fact, you think he preferred having you shaved; especially after the one time you'd forgotten your new shaving routine he refused to go down on you. A part of you knew he was being a man child that couldn't get through a bit of hair, but the other part, the one that kept you tethered to Terry even with his red flags, had you wanting to keep him happy.

That feeling kept you keeping everything close to hairless.

And like normal, you found yourself outside, looking down at a text message from Terry that only said "be ready." You barely had any time to be confused, because in the next moment, Terry was climbing out of his undercover car, dress pants and white button up paired with sunglasses, and heading right toward you with a smirk that looked more sinful than what you were about to do.

"Terry," you huffed. "I have shopping to do."

"Don't bother bout that, darling," he muttered, hand jutting out to grab onto your wrist. "You'll get to your shoppin' momentarily."

Oh how his southern twang had your knees weak in two seconds and you following him behind a concrete wall like an obedient dog.

The moment you were out of sight from the main road, Terry pressed up against your front and kissed you fiercely. You moaned almost instantly into his mouth, and your hands dug into his short curls. His thick fingers gripped your hips and pulled them harshly into his before his right hand trailed down to the hem of your dress.

"Fuck, Terry," you whimpered when he parted and licked a hot stripe up your neck.

"Am I gonna like what I find," he questioned, fingers playing with the end of your dress. "Were you a good girl f'r me?"

You nodded earnestly.

Terry chuckled deeply and finally dipped his hand under the hem until he found the fabric of your underwear. Not wanting to waste time, you quickly helped him push the red fabric down your legs. When he put them in his back pocket, you didn't say anything, only spreading your legs wider for him to stand between.

Once you were standing up straight again, Terry pulled your dress up again until his fingers finally found what he was looking for. An almost relieved sigh pushed from his lips when he felt around the smooth skin between your thighs.

"Hmmm, someone was a good girl." He pressed on more kiss into your mouth before kneeling on the ground, black pants be damned. "Looks like I'll have to reward her for listening."

Sammy Bryant

"Sammy! Can you come help me!" Sammy heard you call through the bathroom door.

"Yeah!" he responded. "Gimme a second. I gotta finish one more screw!"

Sammy held the two boards of wood that, if he did the next step correctly, would form the base of the crib meant for yours and Sammy's baby that was due in about two months. He had told you time and time again that he was going to be the one to put the thing together, and when your nesting urges grew and grew, he began researching. What he learned in between then and now was that building a crib was much harder than it looked.

But when the two boards finally settled nicely together, Sammy sat back on his haunches and heavily sighed in relief. He couldn't help but smile as he looked at the beginning stages.

"Sammy!"

Oh, right. Pregnant wife needs something.

"Coming, gorgeous!" he hollered back, pushing up off the ground with a groan.

While you experienced many different side effects of pregnancy, Sammy was the unfortunate one to experience the weight gain aspect. Where his patrol uniforms used to fit perfectly, he found himself pushing harder while running after suspects because his belt wasn't fitting around his waist all too well. Sure, he used to be plushy when he was a detective, but he worked hard for the abs that came after many months of patrol in the hot California sun.

Sammy's brain ran quickly, trying to figure out what exactly you might need. He wondered if you had dropped your loofa or needed your back washed or perhaps you were thirsty or—

"What are you doing?" he all but shouted the moment he walked through the bathroom door.

He didn't even have time to ogle your body (that he thought had gotten 110% hotter when your bump finally popped) before he was stepping closer and grabbing the razor that had been between your legs.

"Sammy, I was using that!" you screeched back. "Give it!"

Sammy held it behind him and high in the air. "Nuh-uh. You don't need to be shaving down there!"

You huffed, hands coming down to hold your bump as you stood in the cascading water. "But I want to. It's getting itchy."

"We can get you a cream or something," he argued before placing the razor down on the counter. "You don't need to be shaving your bush."

"You're not the one who has to deal with it every time you take a step!" you pushed back, voice growing louder. "Samuel Bryant you'll give me that razor or so help me, you will be sleeping on the couch until this baby turns 5!"

Sammy gulped loudly, and his eyes shifted back to the razor. "Gorgeous—"

"Don't Gorgeous me," you hissed. "I'm six-months pregnant, and you're being an asshole!"

"Listen," he said gently, taking a step towards you. "If you want to shave down there, then you can shave. But let me help. The last thing I need is you slipping and hurting yourself and the baby."

You eyed him warily.

Sammy shifted on his weight. "Look. I'll even use my nice electric razor. And any time you want it trimmed, I will do it, okay?"

It took you a moment before you nodded. "Fine. But you better keep your promise, and it's banishment to the couch for you."

"Yes, ma'am," Sammy agreed instantly. "Promise." He held out his hand for you to take, but you simply slapped it away.

"You ruined my shower, Sammy, so now I gotta start all over again." You shut the fogged door shut right in his face. "I will call you when I want to see you again."

Sammy stood frozen in his place and silently cursed himself for interrupting. He should have known better than to try what he just did. Not knowing what else to do but obey, he turned around and left the bathroom, razor still abandoned on the sink.

"Just call me when you're ready, gorgeous."