Celestial Songlines

“How’s that?” you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.

The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.

Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, “perfect,” left his parted lips. 

The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.

He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.

A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive wound–one that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.

The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.

Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades. 

The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.

“Turn around,” you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.

Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.

This part wasn’t for him as much as it was for you.

He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations. 

You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.

The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.

Baelor’s own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.

His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.

“Enjoying yourself?” Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at. 

His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.

You hadn’t noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.

because this is jack abbot.

dr. jack abbot.

smart, capable, annoyingly handsome jack abbot.

and you? you’re just you.

which is why when he starts lingering beside your workstation after conversations should have already ended, you convince yourself it means nothing.

“anything else?” you’d ask after handing him a chart.

he’d glance down at it.

“no.”

but then he’d stay there. for a second.

then another. sometimes asking a completely unnecessary question.

sometimes making an observation about a patient that didn’t need discussing.

sometimes just standing there long enough for your heart to start acting stupid.

you noticed it most during night shifts. the hospital got quieter then. not quiet exactly, but softer.

the chaos dulled around the edges and somehow jack always ended up near you.

“you’re here late.”

you looked up from your computer.

“so are you.”

“i work here.”

you stared. he stared back.

then the corner of his mouth twitched.

“you work here too.”

“glad we’ve established that.”

his laugh came out unexpectedly.

it lingered with you longer than it should have.

later, when he finally walked away, trinity slid into the chair beside you.

“oh.”

you frowned.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“trinity.”

“nothing.”

you narrowed your eyes.

she grinned.

“uh-huh, sure. if you say so.”

you hated when people did that, especially when they were right.

⋆˚꩜｡

the second time is entirely different.

because this time it’s jack who notices. it starts with coffee. not in a romantic way.

not at first.

he’s having a particularly awful morning. three admissions before seven.

one difficult family.

a trauma case that refuses to cooperate with every treatment option available.

he’s exhausted. frustrated.running entirely on caffeine and spite.

then he walks into the break room.

and there it is. a coffee sitting on the counter. his coffee. exactly how he takes it.

he stares at it.

“you gonna drink that or interrogate it?”

he turns. you’re standing in the doorway. holding your own cup. looking amused.

“you got me coffee?”

you shrug.

“you looked like you were about five minutes away from fighting a wall.”

he snorts “yeah, whatever.”

you smile.

and something in his chest does a strange little flip. he tries ignoring it, he’s pushing 50, so why’s he acting like this lovestruck high-school girl?

and of course, he fails.

because after that he starts noticing everything. the way your face lights up when someone makes you laugh. the way you remember details about everyone. the way you always seem to know exactly when he’s had a rough shift. the way you look for him in crowded rooms.

and maybe he shouldn’t notice those things. but he does.

he notices all of them.

he notices you.

all the time.

which becomes a problem.

⋆˚꩜｡

the third time happens because of dennis.

and jack hates that it’s because of whitaker.

he likes dennis. everyone likes dennis. that’s the issue. you do too, apparently.

jack rounds the corner one evening and finds you laughing so hard you’re nearly doubled over.

dennis is beside you. telling some ridiculous story.

your hand lands briefly on his arm.

and that’s it. that’s all it takes.

something ugly twists in jack’s stomach. he immediately hates himself for it.

because you’re allowed to have friends. you’re allowed to laugh. you’re allowed to touch someone’s arm without it meaning anything.

still. he can’t stop looking. can’t stop wondering. can’t stop noticing how close dennis is standing.

later that night, ellis finds him glaring at a chart.

“you’re doing it again.”

jack doesn’t look up.

“doing what?”

“the thing where you pretend you’re reading.”

“i am reading.”

“the chart is upside down.” jack slowly lowers it.

ellis snorts.

“right.”

“don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“okay, yes.”

he sighs. deeply.

“don’t.”

ellis says in that certain tone,

“you know you could just tell her.”

“tell her what?”

“jack.”

“tell her what.”

“that you’re in love with her.”

the silence that comes after is deafening.

then— “i have patients.”

and he walks away. which is not a denial. ellis notices. everyone notices.

everyone except you. or maybe not.

because the next morning, when your eyes meet across the nurses’ station, you immediately look away.

and jack suddenly isn’t sure who’s fooling who anymore.

⋆˚꩜｡

the fourth time happens after one too many drinks, which is impressive considering you almost never drink.

but somehow the night before turned into dinner with dennis, trinity, mel, and javadi.

which turned into drinks.

which turned into everyone deciding they were tired of watching two grown adults pine after each other.

“he likes you.”

“he doesn’t.”

“he literally stares at you.”

“everyone stares at me.”

“not like that.”

you groaned.

trinity pointed her fork at you.

“if you don’t tell him, i might.”

“you wouldn’t.”

“try me.”

you hated that she sounded serious. and maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

all night.

all morning.

all the way through your shift.

because now you’re standing at work with a hangover and enough anxiety to power the entire hospital.

you barely make it three hours before jack corners you near an empty supply room.

“hey.”

your stomach immediately flips.

“hey.”

his expression softens.

“you okay?”

“m’ fine.”

“you’re lying.”

you hum, trying not to let the fucking hospital lights get to you.

“you look exhausted.”

you chuckle softly.

“thanks.”

“you know what i mean.”

and unfortunately you do. you look away. jack waits, that’s what he always does.

he waits patiently. carefully.

like he’s afraid pushing too hard will make you disappear.

“rough night, huh?” he asks quietly.

you nod. “something like that.”

“want to talk about it?”

you should say no, you really should.

instead your eyes suddenly start burning and for some reason that’s worse.

because you’re not sobbing, you’re not breaking down, it’s just tears.

silent ones.

the kind you’ve been holding onto for months.

jack’s entire face changes.

“hey.”

his voice becomes softer immediately.

“hey, what’s wrong?”

you laugh through a shaky breath.

“nothing.”

“that’s definitely not nothing.”

you wipe at your eyes.

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize.”

another tear slips down.

and suddenly all the words you’ve been swallowing come rushing out.

“i’m just tired.”

“okay.”

“and confused.”

he nods.

“okay.”

“and i really wish i could stop liking someone who clearly doesn’t feel the same way.”

the silence that follows is horrifying, absolutely horrifying.

you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

your eyes squeeze shut.

“nevermind, forget i said that.”

nothing.

“please forget i said that.”

still nothing.

“that’s gonna be difficult.”

you blink slowly.

jack is staring at you looking almost as nervous as you feel.

which should be impossible.

“why?” you whisper.

his laugh comes out disbelieving.

“because i’ve been trying not to tell you the exact same thing for months.”

your brain completely stops working. “what?”

“i like you.”

another step closer, “more than i should.”

another, “have for a while.”

the tears are still there but now you’re smiling through them.

and jack smiles too, like he’s finally allowed to.

“you really had no idea?” he asks.

you shake your head. “i thought i was imagining it.”

“you weren’t.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“oh.”

he laughs.

and before either of you can overthink it, his hand gently brushes your cheek. wiping away the last tear. his thumb lingers.

your breath catches.

so does his.

then finally,

he kisses you.

soft.

careful.

like something precious.

like something he’d been wanting to do for a very long time.

The chairs had always felt vaguely cursed to you, even on good days. 

On bad days—days where the waiting room smelled too strongly of antiseptic and drying blood, where somebody’s kid was crying near the vending machines, where a grown man was acting like a child as he yelled about missing insurance—it felt like corporal punishment in its purest form. You’d been down there for nearly two hours already, bouncing between triage and lacerations and flu symptoms and a man who had somehow managed to staple his own thumb at work only fifteen minutes into his shift. 

By the third anti-vax mom, your patience had worn thin. And being exiled to chairs now felt less like staffing necessity and more like karmic retaliation. How were you supposed to know Robby was right behind you, listening in on very important Pitt gossip, and that he believed in the whole “if you had time to talk, you had time to work.” 

Thus, you’d been sent off to chairs until Robby deemed you cleansed of your sins. 

Because, unfortunately, chairs happened to be the closest thing the Pitt had to purgatory: the perfect place for hellfire and fractures and a waiting room from hell. People were packed shoulder to shoulder while irritated family members grumbled and complained about the temperature. The television in the corner played daytime reruns at an offensively loud volume, and every few minutes somebody new approached the desk asking how much longer the wait would be for something as simple (or ridiculous) as a cut hangnail. Their questions made you believe they thought you personally controlled time itself. 

Which, if you did, you would have made your shift go by a lot faster. 

But no. You did not control time. Time and a chief attending named Michael Robinavitch controlled you, and you hated every second of it. 

By the time you pushed back through the waiting room doors with another chart in your hand, a mechanical smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes plastered across your face. Your eyes glued to the tablet in front of you with the name Mrs. Hill stuck between your teeth. 

However, the name died in your throat after you glanced up. 

There, in the corner, near the far wall, sat Jack Abbot, all hunched over in one of the molded plastic chairs with his elbows on his knees, body stiff as a board almost as to not touch the chair at all, and hood pulled over his head despite the warmth of the waiting room. Your brows pinched, confusion plastered all over your face. For a second, Jack sitting there genuinely made no fucking sense. 

He was the night shift attending. He could walk through the ambulance bays whenever he needed. He’d be prioritized because the Pitt didn’t just look over one of their own and ban him to the chairs off all places to sit and wait with the rest of the common people. 

Jack also never sat still enough to like a garden statue. Even through exhaustion, even post-shift, you noticed that he carried this restless energy about him, like if he stopped moving for too long, he might actually wither away. 

You stared at him for another beat before walking over, Mrs. Hill be damned. 

“What the fuck, Dr. Abbot,” you hissed, stopping in front of him. “What happened to you, and why didn’t you walk through the back?” 

Jack slowly lifted his head, and a small something snagged uncomfortably in your chest. The feeling wasn’t alarming, and it wasn’t that guy from TikTok running back and forth across a field with an overly large flag yelling Red Flag! Red Flag! either. The cause of this feeling was the small curls peaking below the hood. 

Jack’s hair had always been salt-and-pepper for as long as you’d known him in the Pitt, causing the very serious nickname of a true “silver fox” to be tossed around when he wasn’t listening. But right now, Jack’s hair was dark, richer, and auburn almost. Near his temples, the deep, reddish-brown curls were flat under the fabric. 

But even with the recent hair dye, his face was Jack’s, your brain filling in the gaps automatically to the point you didn’t notice the way he was missing his sun spots and wrinkles that Jack normally dawned in the sexiest ways. 

“Hit my head,” he finally replied quietly. 

Even his voice sounded the tiniest bit off, however, your concern for him outweighed the missing features your Jack normally had. 

You frowned, couching slightly so you could get a better look at him, Robby’s “words of wisdom” about getting on the patient’s level ringing in your head. 

“Okay, that explains why you look like you got dragged behind an ambulance,” you said before reaching up to gently cup his face. 

This time, you didn’t miss the way he flinched under your palms before settling as you tilted his head to find the injury. 

“Did you pass out? Throw up? How long ago did it happen” You didn’t really wait for his answers before continuing, already slipping deep into assessment mode. “Actually, hold on, no, don’t answer all that because your pupils are clearly telling me you’re very concussed, and if you start slurring your words, you and I won’t get anywhere with delayed responses.” 

Jack’s eyes fluttered shut as you talked to him, and the weird feeling bloomed under your skin again. When his hazel met yours again, you let his face go and stood to full height. 

“C’mon, Dr. Abbot,” you sighed, motioning for him to stand. “You’re not sitting out here looking like a murder suspect all afternoon. Let me get you into a room before Robby sees you and starts berating me as to why you’re still out here.” 

His eyes lifted to yours fully, and the intensity almost stopped you cold. Jack looked at people all the time—quick glances, assessing looks, sharp little observations hidden behind sarcasm—but the way he was looking at you now was different. This Jack, looking at least fifteen years younger, looked directly as you with a heavy kind of focus that should’ve felt unsettling, like he was trying to learn your family’s history with once glance. Unlike your Jack (which you were still convinced was sitting right in front of you), he felt almost dangerous in how still he was and how carefully he watched. 

When he didn’t stand up to follow, you asked, “You gonna pass out if I make you walk? 

“No.” 

“Is your leg bothering you? I can get you a wheelchair if you need.” 

“I can walk.” 

“Great. Love your confidence.” 

He stood slowly, hands never touching the handles, body towering over you once he straightened fully. Again, another disjointed feeling washed over you. Jack was tall, yes, but he was now carrying himself so opposite of how he normally did. Here, he seemed disconnected from the room, like feeling the air was inconveniencing him. Now standing, you caught another glimpse of bruising near the edge of his jaw as you guided him through toward an empty room down the hall.

His silence was starting to get uncomfortable, so you found yourself talking just to fill the unusual quiet between you, even if talking had gotten you banished to chairs in the first place. 

“You know, Dr. Abbot, most people with concussions demand to be sent through immediately even if they aren’t an attending. Please tell me this isn’t you trying to not look weak in front of everyone? I bet they would rather you come through walking and talking than someone giving you a wellness check and finding you dead because you didn’t follow concussion protocol.” 

Behind you, he stayed silent. 

You busied yourself by pulling gloves on, still talking as he sat on the very edge of the exam bed, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on his thighs. 

“Seriously though, Dr. Abbot, you scared me for a second out there. You looked half-dead sitting in that chair, which, honestly, kind of impressive for you because you usually can’t keep still. I guess that’s why you do SWAT and stuff, huh? One of these days you’re going to find out you’re not actually immortal even though people talk like you are. But what would I know, I’m just a nurse while you spend your free time getting shot at.” 

Finally, like broken pottery, the smallest smile cracked through his face. You blinked at him while his eyes refused to move anywhere but your face. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “You are being deeply weird today. Are you okay?” 

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face. “Head hurts.” 

“That would be your concussion talking.” 

You stepped closer, gently tilting his head toward the light to examine the molted bruise near his temple. Unlike in the chairs, he didn’t flinch under your fingers this time. Up close like this, Jack’s differences stood out more. The lighting in the waiting room made everything seem worse under shadows, but the direct light washed away the wrinkles and lines around his eyes. 

And still, he kept staring at you with an unwavering intensity that made your knees go weak and made a warmth creep up your neck. 

“You’re very stare-y today,” you murmured distractedly while checking his pupils. 

“Sorry.” 

Your hands paused for a half a second at his promptness for an apology. 

As far as you knew, Jack never apologized that fast. 

However, the though slipped through your mind before you could stop it, but again, the concussion explained enough that you ignored every strange feeling creeping higher in your chest. Head injuries changed behavior sometimes. Personalities softened, reactions slowed, and people became emotional, subdued, clingy, and disoriented. You’d seen it first-hand countless times. 

Still. 

You moved back slightly to jot something onto the chart. “Any nausea?” 

“A little.” 

“Blurred vision?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Memory issues?” 

His eyes stayed on you. “Maybe?” 

“Can you tell me where you are?” 

“Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital.” 

You snorted softly. “Using the full government name. I see you Dr. Abbot. I’ll give you a gold star for incredible patient participation.” 

He didn’t laugh or smile at that this time. You continued to fill out his chart: name, birthdate, allergies. Thankfully, most of it was already in the system. Your eyes rose back to his when you finished up, chart getting tucked under your arm as you pulled the gloves off. 

“Okay, let me go get Robby since I highly doubt you’d want anyone else in here—” 

“Can you not tell anyone I’m here?” 

You cocked your head. “What?” 

His jaw tightened slightly, gaze flickering briefly toward the closed door before returning to you. “Don’t want people knowing.” 

Concern replaced every single weird feeling. Embarrassment after injuring wasn’t uncommon, especially with doctors, and even so more with attendings who weren’t used to being the ones under care. God knew Jack hated appearing vulnerable in front of his coworkers. 

“You do know they’re not going to make fun of you for getting a concussion. Robby might poke fun, but you are like his best friend.” Your eyes glanced toward the door. “Okay, maybe his only friend,” you added on with a mutter. 

He didn’t answer right away. 

You leaned against the counter, studying him for moment. The intensity was still there in the way he watched you, but his eyes held a sadness you’d never seen before. The hazel hues dripped with a scarcity that made your heart clench.

After a moment, you conceded. “Okay. Fine. Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Abbot.” You pointed at him with your pen. “But only because you’re looking at me like that. Special privileges are frowned upon here.” 

The faintly cracked almost-smile appeared again. 

And God help you, it looked surprisingly pretty on him, making you want more of it. 

_______________________

Purgatory had ended the moment you stepped out of the room and went diving head-first into the incoming trauma after Robby grabbed you by the shoulders and physically steered you into Trauma Room One. The entire department had gone from irritatingly busy to borderline catastrophic after a minor highway pileup flooded intake with a dozen patients and emergencies that clogged up the CT scan because their necks felt “a little weird.” 

Softened and concussed Jack Abbot fleed from your mind as you called out BP’s and administered correct dosages. You’d spent most of the last hour speed-walking between rooms with granola bar shoved into the pocket of your scrub jacket, half-finished notes beneath your arm, and a headache steadily building behind your eyes by the sterile light that never gave up buzzing for even a second. 

At one point, Dana moved you toward the break room and ordered you to eat something before you passed out in front of a patient. 

At another, Whitaker had nearly stepped into a pile of vomit while reading a chart, which honestly might have been the funniest thing you’d seen all week.  

Through it all though, you kept thinking about softened and concussed Jack. Every time you passed through the hallway leading toward his room, your eyes drifted toward the closed door, checking without meaning to whether he was still there. And honestly, you were surprised Robby hadn’t yelled at anyone—you—for taking up a room and not having a resident check in. 

When you finally nudged the exam room door open again with your shoulder, two awful vending machine coffees balanced carefully in your hands, the room was dimmer than before. He must have lowered the lights while you were gone, and you silently cured yourself for not doing that on your way out. 

To your surprise (or horror) he was sitting exactly where you’d left him on the exam bed, shoulders straight, back even straighter, hands still glued to his thighs like he didn’t know he was allowed to touch the bed beneath him. 

His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, hitting you with that look before you could even mentally prepare for it. 

Most people only half paid attention after hours in an ER room. Patients looked tired, distracted, and uncomfortable; doctors were worse. Jack especially had always operated at a hundred miles an hour, his attention split between six different thoughts at once even when he focused on you. Here in the exam room, he looked at you completely like he was tracking every little expression crossing your face the second you walked into the room. 

The familiar warmth climbed embarrassingly fast into your chest and sat there. 

“Oh, good,” you said quickly, mostly because the silence suddenly made you self-conscious. “You’re still alive. I was starting to think you’d turn into a statue or died sitting up in here. That would really make my paperwork worse, so I’m very glad you’re still breathing.” 

His gaze dropped to the coffee cups in your hands before dragging up back to your face. 

“You brought me one.” 

The way he said it almost made it sound like he couldn’t quite believe why the hell you’d go out of your way to get one for him. 

You shrugged, cross the room toward him before holding one out carefully. “I use the word coffee loosely here, because I’m pretty sure the machine actually dispenses motor oil, but you looked miserable earlier, and caffeine fixes at least eighty percent of human suffering.” 

His fingers brushed yours when he took the cup. The contact lasted maybe a heartbeat, but it sent chills ripping up your arms. You turned away before he could possibly notice, pretending on the monitor beside him while taking a sip of your own coffee and instantly regretting it.

“Damn,” you muttered. “That’s genuinely horrific. I change my mind; this only fixes about 30 percent of human suffering and adds to the other percentage.” 

A faint hint of amusement crossed his face, and the sight made you beam. 

“You look handsome when you smile,” you blurted before you could even stop it. Your hands clapped over your mouth to the point it hurt. “I don’t know why I just said that.” 

Jack cocked his head, eyes still burning into your face. “Do I not normally?” 

Your heart clenched as you lowered your hands. “Um, I mean you do? But normally it’s when you’re about to say something so sarcastic it makes me want to pull my hair out.” 

His brows pulled together slightly at that, like he was trying to remember through the lingering fog of his concussion. 

You kept talking before he could say anything, words spilling naturally into the quiet space. “Actually, let me rephrase that. Usually you do smile, and it’s very nice, but it’s not normally after something I say. Also, is your head still hurting? You’re still staring at me like I’m a dessert you just want to eat, and that’s so unfair because I normally look at you like that and—” 

Another hand slap to your mouth. 

“Please ignore everything I’ve said in the past fifteen seconds. Or better, I’ll just stand here and wait for the floor to swallow me up. I’m talking way too much.” 

You found yourself fidgeting under his stare before stepping closer, coffee cup placed gently on the counter. “Is your head any better? Or still hurting?” 

“Hurting a little.” 

“Have you gotten dizzy?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Still feeling nauseated?” 

He nodded once instead of answering, and you wondered if he had hit his word limit for the hour. You sighed sympathetically while typing notes onto the chart. 

“If I had to spend hours in a chair listening to daytime TV and screaming children, I’d probably feel that way too. Your concussion doesn’t help either.” 

Another tiny smile quirked his lip even though he didn’t say anything else. You “allowed” him to stare at you while you finished updating the chart, his silent presence settling under your skin as you worked. The way he looked at you should have made you reach out for Robby the minute Jack started acting this way, but the intimidating way his droopy eyes never left your figure felt strangely calming. 

Which probably said concerning things about your taste in men, but the whole ER was pretty much putty in Jack Abbot’s hand. You were the white sheep in the flock, and you’d follow Shepherd Abbot anywhere. 

You turned away from the chart and leaned against the counter. “You know, Dr. Abbot, you’re allowed to talk in here. I know I tend to carry the entire social interactions, but this is kinda exhausting for me. Usually, I can barely get a sentence in around you.” 

His mouth twitched faintly. “Why’s that?” 

Your cheeks burned. “Well, um, medically that’s not important.” 

His eyes lingered on your face and the small area around your mouth longer than necessary, and once again you felt like melting and dramatically draping yourself across a Victorian fainting couch to blubber about your feelings for the concussed attending. 

To compensate for these feelings and the sterile quiet, you started talking more. 

“So chairs officially became a nightmare while you were hiding her, by the way,” you told him. “Some guy tried convincing triage he needed immediate treatment for a paper cut, which would’ve been annoying enough on its own except he kept trying to squeeze blood out of it like he was in a Victorian tuberculosis ward. Then Dana yelled at me for skipping lunch again, which, in my defense, I fully intended to eat until somebody—probably Ogilvie, that fucker—stole my yogurt from the fridge. Again. At this point I think he’s specifically targeting me.” 

The entire time you rambled, Jack listened without interrupting. He watched you pace while talking, energy buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin from the nonstop pace outside. 

“And then this woman asked if I was old enough to be a nurse, which somehow turned into her husband asking if I were single while she was standing right here! Emergency medicine should qualify as psychological warfare.”

The last tidbit made a quiet laugh escape, and the sound pulled your attention back toward him. 

“At least you think I’m funny,” you said, pointing at him with exaggerated triumph. “Robby never thinks my jokes are funny. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think someone’s swapped him with a robot or AI engine that’s trying to convince everyone he’s a functioning person under all that brooding trauma.” 

His face softened, and for some reason that affected you more than the laugh had. The warm in your chest spread outward before you realized you’d been talking almost nonstop for several minutes. 

“Oh fuck,” you groaned, dropping your head briefly into your hands. “I’m doing it again.” 

Jack sat up a bit straighter if somehow possible. “Doing what?” 

“Talking too much.” You laughed awkwardly. “You’d think after enough years in medicine I’d learn when to stop speaking, but apparently not.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly embarrassed by how much space you’d filled with your own voice. “Sorry. You probably have a splitting headache and want to nap, but I’m over here narrating my entire day.” 

When you finally looked back up, his gaze was still resting on you with steady attentiveness. 

“I don’t mind it,” he admitted, tone close to a whisper. 

You blinked rapidly. 

“Your talking.” 

Something about the way he said it in the sincerest and honest way made your chest tighten. He glanced down at the coffee cup in his hands before looking back into your eyes. 

“Room’s less quiet when you’re here.” 

A bright smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you for listening then.” 

_______________________

The night shift always arrived like a storm rolling through the Pitt. 

While the ER was the ground, and the day shift staff floated around with enough caffeine to possible kill a small animal, the night shift trickled in like the rain, refreshing and very much welcomed to take over the atmosphere. The residents, including you, handed over your charts with sluggish movements, desperate to go home and sleep the day and loss of patients away. 

Normally, somewhere in the middle of all that transition, you and Jack inevitably found each other. Sometimes it was purely by accident; others it absolutely wasn’t. He’d appear beside you while you were finishing your charts just to bother you. You’d steal his coffee when he stopped paying attention. Always, there was some running commentary between the two of you, whether it be playful arguing or just an update on how social life outside the Pitt was going. 

Tonight, though, you barely noticed the shift change happening around you since you’d ended up back in his room again almost without realizing. Through the last few hours, checking on him had stopped feeling entirely professional. You still used plenty of legitimate excuses, of course; his concussion needed monitoring in case his symptoms changed. You were also technically responsible for him until discharge, but if you were being honest with yourself, looking after him had become dangerously easy. 

While the rest of the Pitt felt loud in comparison, his room felt quiet. 

You’d sit perched sideways on the rolling stool near the exam bed, updating charts while absentmindedly talking through how your shift was going. He listened quietly from where he sat on the raised bed, legs swishing back and forth now, his hoodie abandoned sometime during the last hour. 

Still, every now and then, your brain caught onto his staring and stumbled. 

“You know,” you said while typing notes, “Dana threatened to physically drag me into the break room earlier because apparently surviving on caffeine and spite isn’t medically advisable. Which honestly is very hypocritical considering more than half the staff here are one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.” 

You looked up from the chart in time to catch a small smile. 

“I’m glad you still think I’m funny even with brain damage. The cryptic staring can only last for so long.” 

His eyes stayed steady on you. “Maybe.” 

You giggled. “Still terrible at conversations, though. Truly tragic.” 

While you were keeping him company, across the department, Jack Abbot had just walked into the Pitt, dressed in his scrubs and already talking. 

“Tell me somebody restocked trauma two, because if I have to hunt down another chest tube tonight, I’m filing a formal complaint against humanity.” His voice carried easily across the department. 

He shrugged out of his jacket while walking, salt and pepper curls slightly windblown from outside, already grinning at something Dana said near the nurses’ station. 

“Four minutes late, by the way,” Dana informed him when he got closer. 

“Still counts as on time in emergency medicine.” 

“For an attending, you sure are incredibly wrong some of the time.” 

“Key word being some and not all the time.” 

Robby looked up from a chart with visible exhaustion. “I need you both to come down from a level eight to a level zero.” 

Jack chose to ignore him, eyes already scanning around the room. When he didn’t find who he was looking for, he frowned slightly. “Where’s she at?” 

Dana smirked before Robby could respond. “Interesting that you looked for her before your patients.” 

“She’s less mean to me,” he replied without thinking, tossing his bag onto the counter. 

“She’s been in one room half the afternoon,” Dana responded casually. “Concussed male.” 

The minute her words ended, something subtle shifted in Jack’s chest. It probably wasn’t noticeable to people who didn’t know how Jack Abbot ticked, but Dana noticed, and her smirk turned downright evil. 

“Aww,” she drawled. “Somebody jealous?” 

Jack scoffed a tad too quickly to sound convincing. “I’m not jealous; I’m concerned.” 

“Sure you are.” 

Jack rolled his eyes hard enough to qualify as a medical even before pushing away from the counter. “I’m going to make sure she hasn’t adopted another emotionally damaged patient.” 

Even as he said it, irritation had already begun creeping unpleasantly under his ribs. 

One room all afternoon.

He knew how you got with certain patients; you were too soft-hearted for your own good sometimes, despite how hard you tried to pretend otherwise. But something about imagining you tucked away somewhere for hours giving another man the kind of attention you usually guarded carefully made something territorial and irrational bubble under his skin. 

Back inside the room, you were still smiling down at your chart when you finally pushed yourself upright from the stool. 

“All right,” you sighed. “I should probably go check whether the Pitt has fully descended into anarchy without me.” 

His eyes followed you as you moved toward the door. “You’ll come back?” 

You stopped for half a second, turning lightly and fully surprised enough by the quietness of his question that warmth spread through your being. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come back.” 

Your stomach flipped when his expression changed from a tight, worriedness to a soft, placated expression. Needing to escape before you could embarrass yourself further, you swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, holding the chart to your chest while talking over your shoulder toward him. 

“Seriously, though, if you try sneaking out before I get back, I’ll actually—” 

You voice cut off when your eyes landed Jack standing halfway down the hallway staring directly at you. It was almost like your brain hit the power mode and shut down completely, because Jack Abbot—your Jack Abbot was standing right in front of you. 

Alive. 

Healthy. 

Definitely not concussed unlike the Jack—now not-Jack—you had spent hours sitting beside. 

Your pulse dropped so hard it almost hurt. 

Behind him, Robby slowed slightly, noticing the way all color drained from your face. Jack’s teasing grin faded into confusion as he took in the way you stared at him like you’d just seen a ghost. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said slowly, concern beginning to edge beneath the nickname. “You okay?” 

You couldn’t answer as your eyes darted toward the closed room behind you, then back to Jack, then back again, then back to Jack one more time. Him standing there was impossible, so entirely impossible. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat. 

Jack took another small step closer when you failed to answer. “Hey. What’s wrong?” 

You blinked once before bolting back into the room. 

“What the hell—” Jack muttered, following after you without hesitation while Robby moved right behind him. 

He was the first through the doorway and stopped right as he went in. The air dropped almost noticeably. The man sitting on the exam bed had lifted his head slowly at the sound of the door opening, and for one disorienting second, it genuinely looked like Jack was staring at another, younger version of himself. 

The man’s auburn hair caught warmly in the lighting while bruising shadowed one side of his face. He sat completely still on the bed, one hand loose around a cup Jack knew you had brought him at some point, his expression unreadable as he stared back at Jack. 

Jack didn’t move, and you stood frozen near the corner, chest rising too fast while your brain desperately tried to recover from the fact that somehow—somehow—you had spent nearly an entire shift accidentally flirting with a completely stranger wearing Jack Abbot’s face. 

Silence stretched painfully. 

Behind Jack, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not,” he muttered under his breath. “Secret twins are above my pay grade. My sabbatical cannot come sooner enough.” 

And before any of you could stop him, he turned around and walked directly back out of the room, letting the door click shit behind him, leaving only you, Jack, and the stranger sitting on the exam bed staring at one another in stunned silence. 

_______________________

Nobody moved. 

You still stood frozen near the corner clutching the chart so tightly your knuckles were white, while across the room Jack remained rooted just inside the doorway staring at the man like he genuinely could not process what he was seeing. 

The resemblance was worse with both of them in the same room. They weren’t identical, but close enough that your brain kept trying to overlap them anyway with their same eyes, same mouth, same build. The now-stranger looked like someone had taken Jack and stripped ten years off him, softened the gray from his hair, and carved away some of the sharpness age and multiple years as an ER attending had left behind. 

And suddenly you felt violently aware of every single thing you’d said over the last several hours. Heat flooded your face so quickly you thought you might actually die from humiliation right then and there. 

To break the cursed silence, Jack finally spoke first. “What . . . the hell . . . is this?” 

The stranger’s gaze shifted toward him calmly. Unlike you, he didn’t seem particularly unsettled by the situation. If anything, he looked mildly tired. The concussion probably wasn’t helping matters, but even beyond that there was still the same strange unwavering presence about him. You found yourself staring at him helplessly. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you blurted, voice climbing in disbelief as you looked at him. “I spent like almost twelve hours calling you Jack.” 

He looked back at you for a moment before answering. “My name’s Andrew.” 

Jack let out a sharp disbelieving laugh. “Andrew?” 

You shook your head. “Okay, no. You had so many opportunities to correct me, and you’re just now telling me your name?” 

Andrew’s expression shifted slightly into something more apologetic. “Tried to.” 

“You absolutely did not!” 

“A little.” 

“You said maybe four words all day!” 

“You talked fast.” 

You dropped your face into one hand, mortification crashing over you in waves now that the shock had worn off enough for your brain to start replaying the day in horrifying detail. “I told you that you were handsome.” 

Jack’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical. “You what?” 

“Not talking to you Jack,” you shot back. 

He stared at you in open betrayal. “I walk in here and find out you’ve been flirty with my concussed doppelganger all day?” 

“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WASN’T YOU! HE’S LITERALLY WEARING YOUR FACE! WHAT WAS I SUPPOED TO DO?” 

“Um, I don’t know, sweetheart, check first that it was actually me? 

Andrew watched the entire exchange quietly, and to your absolute horror, there was the faintest hint of delight on his face. 

You looked between the two men. “This is actually my worst nightmare.” 

“Mine too,” Jack muttered before his eyes narrowed slightly when he looked back toward Andrew. “Hold on. You seriously never corrected her?” 

Andrew was quiet as he kept looking at you. “I liked listening to her.” 

Something fluttered in your chest. His words weren’t necessarily romantic, but he said it with such earnest that you couldn’t help but melt a bit. Jack clearly felt something too because his mouth pinched in irritation. You recognized it as the look he got whenever another one of the radiologists flirted with you for too long at the nurses’ station. 

Jack Abbot was reeking with actual jealousy. 

He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly before he exhaled through his nose and pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “Sweetheart.” 

You tore your gaze from Andrew to look at him. “What?” 

“Go do your handoffs.” 

Your brows lifted. “Jack—” 

“Go,” he repeated, still watching Andrew instead of you. “Before Dana starts a manhunt.”

You hesitated, sensing the almost openly hostile vibe Jack was giving off. It was certainly heavy enough that you suddenly felt like you were standing in the middle of something private. Andrew sat watching Jack with the same unreadable stillness while Jack looked back at him with visible suspicion. It genuinely felt like watching two wolves silently size each other up. 

You pointed between them uncertainly. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” 

“No promises,” Jack muttered. 

Your eyes rolled back deeply. “You are unbelievably exhausting.” 

Then, after one last glance toward Andrew and a silent wave goodbye, you slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you. 

Jack crossed his arms slowly over his chest, leaning back against the closed door while studying the man in front of him more carefully now that the initial shock had worn off. Up close, the differences stood out more clearly, but enough resemblance lasted to make the situation deeply irksome. 

Andrew continued to stare, though his lips had quirked up well before you had left the room. 

Jack exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You know, most people would correct someone after the fifth time they got called the wrong name.” 

Andrew’s gaze drifted over his shoulder like he could almost see you through the wooden door. “She was nice. Didn’t want to upset her. She looked like she was enjoying the idea of getting to take care of you.” 

An unpleasantly possessive feeling twisted deep in Jack’s gut at the quiet sincerity of his answer. He understood why the man in front of him had gotten such a reaction from you. Andrew didn’t deflect; he said simple truths in a low steady voice that was somehow worse than flirty in his eyes. 

Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Did you flirt back?” 

Andrew considered the question for a moment. “Didn’t have to since she did all the talking.”  

And to his credit, he didn’t smirk afterward or act smug about it. If anything, he almost looked sad as he stood slowly from the exam bed. Even concussed, he carried himself with a height that made Jack very aware of the man when he moved. Jack puffed his chest out without meaning to, an instinctive reaction to the man who had held your attention for an entire day. 

Andrew stepped close enough that now they both could look each other in the eye at the same height, making Jack almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You have a good girl,” Andrew said quietly, never looking away from hazel eyes that mirrored his own. “Don’t let someone else get to her first.” 

The fact that Jack could picture you getting swept off your feet by another man felt like a punch directly to his chest. He’d been hiding behind teasing remarks and heavy sarcasm and blatant flirtation because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you. He couldn’t fathom the idea of someone, much softer and gentler than he might ever be, taking the chance he was too scared to. Andrew was an example of that man, someone who sat still long enough and quiet enough to let you feel seen and heard without interruption. 

Because while he was falling behind, some concussed stranger who happened to share his exact face had managed to make you blush just by listening carefully. 

Jack stared at Andrew for another long moment before muttering, “You know, I really don’t like this.” 

“Do you not like this because I’m making you uncomfortable? Or do you not like this because I’m finally a wakeup call?” Andrew answered before stepping past him toward the door. 

Jack whirled around. “Where are you going?” 

Andrew opened the door with one hand. “To get discharge papers. Even though I enjoyed hearing her talk, I do not want to sleep in a hospital bed.” He paused. “You could probably go talk to her. Never know if another one of us might waltz through that door.” 

The door swung shut behind him a second later, leaving Jack standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. For maybe three seconds, he stayed there staring at the empty doorway before he swore softly under his breath and headed out after you. 

He found you near the nurses’ station halfway through handoff, leaning over a chart while Dana talked beside you. The second you noticed him approaching, your entire expression shifted somewhere between lingering embarrassment and outright panic. He didn’t slow down. 

“Dana,” he interrupted the blond charge nurse mid-sentence. 

She stared at him over her nose. “What?” 

“I need her for a second.” 

Her eyes tracked between him and you for a beat, and disappeared, though not before throwing you a deeply interested look over her shoulder. The moment she was gone, silence settled between you and Jack in a rather awkward way. 

You looked down at your hands. “So.”

“So,” he echoed. 

A soft groan pushed through your lips while your hands covered your face. “I cannot believe I spent an entire afternoon thinking your doppelganger was you with a concussion.” 

“I can’t believe you called him handsome and still thought it was me when he didn’t do anything.” 

“Hey,” you whined, lips jutting in a pout. “I was under emotional distress because I thought you had a severe concussion!” 

“You know he liked you,” Jack teased with a smirk for half a second before his face dropped into a more serious look. “I don’t blame him, though.” 

You swallowed once. “Jack—” 

“I’m serious. And honest? I’m jealous as hell that he got to spend an entire shift with you.” 

Warmth rushed to your face. “You’re jealous of your own face?” 

“I don’t think that was my point, sweetheart.” He stared down at you. “I think I’ve been screwing this up for a while and seeing him just made me very aware of it.” 

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he said slowly, “I keep joking around with you because if I actually said what I’ve been feeling, I’d probably mess it all up.” He ran a hand through his curls, almost frustrated by the lack of words to describe his feelings. “I like you,” he admitted finally. “Like . . . really like you.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath in disbelief. “It took your twin from another universe getting a concussion for you to finally say that?” 

“Apparently, yeah.” 

Your smile widened helplessly, and Jack’s gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

The fact that he asked nearly ruined you on the spot. You nodded once before your brain could catch up enough to overthink it. But apparently that’s all Jack needed because the next moment, his warm hands slid carefully against your waist as he pulled you closer. Unlike all the teasing flirtation that existed between you for months, the kiss itself felt so intensely severe your knees almost buckled. 

There were no games, no smug comments, just Jack kissing you like he’d wanted to for a very long time, his concussed double finally being the last straw to do so. 

By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling a little stupidly. 

And somewhere down the hallway, you were almost certain you heard Dana yell, “FINALLY!” 

Your stomach buzzes as Ellis approaches you, a smug look on her face, tablet tucked beneath her arm. Her eyes flick past you, making sure that Dennis is within earshot, stifling a laugh into her hand. 

“Hey,” She greets. You casually look up from your computer, giving her a smile. 

“Hi,” You say. 

“No makeup kinda’ day, huh?” She says. You let out a wavering exhale, keeping yourself from breaking before responding. 

“Oh, uh, no,” You say. “I’m wearing makeup.”

“Seriously?” She asks, sounding as agog as possible. “Damn, rough night?”

From behind you, Dennis looks towards the interaction, his brows furrowing at the out of character comments coming from Ellis. He frowns when he realizes that she’s talking to you, watching as you lean away from her and defensively cross your arms over your chest. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, trying to act offended. “Does it not look nice?”

“I mean…” She trails off, purposefully looking at Dennis again, just for a split second. “You’ve definitely had better days.”

Dennis waits for your response, knowing that you can take care of yourself, but also having to fight the anger that grows in his chest. Ellis is your friend, is she not? Why the hell is she talking to you like this?

“What the fuck, Ellis?” 

You recognize the voice without needing to turn around, but even if you couldn’t, the look on Ellis’ face would be a dead giveaway. Her eyes widen, and she ducks her head towards you. 

“Say nice things at my funeral,” She mutters. You actually laugh, just in time for Jack to make his way over, aggressively setting a hand down on the counter to stop Ellis from going anywhere. 

“Shouldn’t you be focused on handover?” He asks, the veins in his forearms popping, a probing look on his face. Your eyes go wide, face heating up as you try to hold in another laugh when Ellis turns to you. “Don’t look at her.”

“Jesus, Abbot, it was just-”

“I heard you’re applying for an ultrasound fellowship next year,” He says, lowering his voice, cutting her off. “I’ll be keeping the way you speak to your colleagues in mind when you ask for a recommendation letter.”

“Oh my god,” You say, laughing through the words, your jaw dropping at the end of the sentence. “We were just fucking around, Jack, I wanted to mess with Dennis a little. You weren’t even supposed to hear that.”

His head snaps to look at you, brows still furrowed threateningly, but they slowly relax as he takes in your words. 

“What?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, looking at Dennis. “You hearing this, Whitaker?”

Dennis clears his throat. “Uhm, yeah, yes. I thought it seemed out of character, but-”

“But what?” Jack asks. “You were gonna’ let someone talk to her like that?”

“Jack!” You exclaim, standing up, setting a hand on top of his. “You kinda’ stepped in before he had a chance.”

He squints, looking back at Ellis. “You didn’t mean it?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” She asks. “She’s who I think about whenever I hear ‘Lips of an Angel.’”

You snort. “You’re an idiot.”

Dennis is standing behind you now, his hands on the back of your chair, his shoulders back slightly as though good posture will somehow convince Jack to not be mad at him. You sit back down, and his hands slip onto your shoulders, fingers tapping against you. Jack gives you and Ellis a final glare, then walks off to check on the most recent trauma patient. 

“You almost got me killed,” Ellis says, laughing, jabbing a finger in your direction accusatorily. “The only person I thought would be getting mad at me was your fiancé, and at least I could take him in a fight.”

“Sorry, you think you could take him in a fight?” You ask. “You know I love you, but you’re losing that one, babe.”

“Oh, why, cause he spends his free time carrying hay?” She asks, sarcastically, lifting her arm up and flexing, her bicep bulging against her scrub top. “You’re going down, funky music.”

“Luckily we don’t have to find out,” Dennis says. “But now Abbot thinks I’m a wimp, so, thank you for that.”

You look over your shoulder, smiling innocently. “He’s just protective, he actually really likes you.”

Dennis scoffs, smiling back at you. “Sure seems like it.”

Later that night, long after the dayshift has gone home, Ellis checks her phone between patients, tapping on a notification from you. She can’t figure out what the picture is at first, but then she turns her brightness up, realizing it’s Dennis’ arm, bicep flexed and veins pressing against his skin. 

Around your fucking neck. 

‘Still think you could take him?’

tags:

You should've known something was amiss with all the muttered pet names, sly touches when no one else was looking, and compliments toward your dresses when all he actually seemed able to focus on were your physical assets. It made your hair prickle on occasion, but you had been naïve—of the innocent belief that no one would be able to climb so far if they were corrupt; dirty. In the end, that's exactly why he managed such a feat.

Makes things easier when you have the right people paid off or indebted to you, turns out.

"Thought I was the only one here," Charlie remarks from behind you.

Turning this way and that, you glance over your shoulder and study the sight of the deputy chief casually leaned against the doorway of his office with crossed arms and a devious smile painted across his lips. Pushing off it, he stalks toward you with steady strides; his heavy department-issued boots thumping across polished tiles. "Pulling a late one, huh?"

You turn back to the illuminated desktop in front of you and blink away the blurriness overtaking your tired eyes. "Just trying to finish a few things up," you explain quietly.

Dragging over a chair from the desk across from yours, the wooden legs scrape across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. You grit your teeth until he finally spins it around and straddles the back of it.

"My girl," he purrs while sliding a palm along the curve of your neck. "Working hard for her chief. Knew I made the right choice when I hand-picked you."

You force a wavering smile and continue typing.

Massaging the sides of your neck with his fingertips, he speaks again. "You like working under me?" Charlie inquires with tilted lips and darkling eyes.

You swallow. "I do."

He hums in satisfaction. "Hell of a lot better than the Traffic Division," he rumbles. "Nice desk right by my corner office," he continues while sliding his hand lower, to your shoulder. "Breaks. Hour long lunch."

He stands and you mistakenly hit an incorrect key.

Coming round to stand behind you, he plants each of his calloused palms atop your tensed shoulders. Bearing down and kneading knotted muscles from you being hunched over all day, he keeps talking. "Holiday bonus." He leans down close to the shell of your ear. "Had to pull a few strings to get the last one on your paycheck, so I hope you appreciate my efforts."

"I-I do," you stutter.

With every violent coronary contraction that thumps between your breasts, your breathing grows more shallow. You should've left along with everyone else hours ago. The work constantly flows; it's never-ending. As such, it could've waited until morning.

"Thank you," you tack on quickly.

"Thank you for being polite," he whispers.

"Now, I hope you don't take this as me being greedy," he begins while releasing you to instead flip his previously abandoned chair back around. Seating himself upon it with spread legs, he slaps his palms against his thighs. "But I have been hoping for a little something in return."

Acid roils in your stomach and crawls its way up the back of your throat.

"Sweet young thing that you are, I'd hate to see you fall into the wrong hands," Charlie croons while moving a hand to your thigh. "It can just...be too much to carry sometimes, y'know? All the pressure weighing on me."

With fingers left hovering above the keyboard, you glance down to where he's made contact and watch as he verges closer and closer to your inner thigh.

"I just need a way to relax," he finishes.

"I—I think I should head home now," you whimper while making to grab for your bag.

He clamps down with a pinching squeeze. "Be polite," he growls. "Mind your manners."

Falling back against your chair with stinging tears brimming in your eyes, you consider breaking one of his fingers, or stabbing him in the eye with a sharp, metal letter opener. The first would be no good—he's so much bigger and stronger. You'd never make it to the door.

As for the second... Would anyone believe you if you told them why you had to do it?

He leans in close; close enough for you to inhale the warm, heavy scent of his cologne. "Considering a way out?" Charlie asks quietly.

You remain still.

"Feels rather insulting," he jeers. "Thought you liked me," he finishes with a feigned pout.

You don't justify what he's said with a response. He's like a wolf playing with its food before inevitably chomping down on an artery—every bit of struggle you display only spurs him on all the more.

"I want you to listen to me," he grates while inching closer to the hem of your dress. "You're not going to tell anyone what I'm about to do to you. If you do—look at me!" he suddenly shouts, causing you to shriek in terror.

Jerking your head in his direction, he grips your chin painfully tight to keep you steady. "Eyes on me," Charlie commands while prodding against your panties with his fingertips. "If you think to tell, just remember what kind of power I have. I own this department now. I have other cops, judges, and criminals alike in my back pocket."

He curves a finger and shoves it toward your covered opening. "I'll get you blackballed throughout the entire fucking justice system. And where you've been here for a few years..." he purses his lips and shrugs. "You'll be damned either way. Leave the PD off your resume, and questions'll be asked about such a considerable gap in your work history. Put it on, and they'll be contacting me for a reference."

He tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs your head back. "But don't you think for one second that I'm letting you go anywhere." He cups you over your panties. "This?" Charlie leans in ever closer. "You? Belong to me now."

A quiet sob spills past your lips and he grins. "We have an understanding, sweetheart?"

You nod vigorously.

He releases you and kicks his chair back and sends it skidding across the floor in the direction he took it from. "Good."

Grabbing your upper arm, he wrenches you out of your seat and sends you staggering into his sturdy side before leading you into his office.

"W-What're you—" you try to pull away. "P-Please don't."

"I get what I want," he mutters before dragging you over the threshold and shouldering the door shut behind him.

Shoving you in the direction of his desk, he surveys you with ravenous hunger, teeming in eyes which have bled from brown to black in the lack of lighting. "Why're... Why're you doing this?!" you screech while searching the space for his utility belt.

You need to get his gun!

"I've wanted this for so fucking long," he says huskily before pinning your squirming waist to the edge of the desk. Gripping your chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger, Charlie trails wet, searing kisses up your sensitive neck. "If you fight me, it'll only make things worse for you. So just do as you're told and it'll all be over soon. Got it?"

You begin to sob hysterically. Broken cries interrupted by choking hiccups that get caught in your restricted airway block out the sound of a small fan whirring in the corner and the hum of a computer tower beneath his desk. Your terror is all which remains in this suffocating room.

Grabbing your hips, he situates you atop the desk, then pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

You wail harder.

Shoving your dress up to your stomach, he grabs the waistline of your underwear and slices through the material in one fluid motion on either side. Once he's yanked them free from your bottom, the thin material flutters toward the floor.

"You don't get some cut-and-dry narrative about tonight," he murmurs while planting each of your feet atop the desk to give him plenty of room to work. "One where you call me a monster and claimed I forced myself on you."

Sinking to his knees, Charlie closes his mouth for a moment, then puckers his lips and spits on your exposed cunt. "You're going to come, and then the real fun begins."

Dragging the pad of his thumb through your folds, you buck your hips and wonder what you might accomplish if you went toppling over the desk backwards. If you hit your head, would it be at an end? Would he rush you to the ER? Would you find a shotgun in the space under it and be able to rack a load in time to use it on him?

"Are you clean?"

Interrupted from your deliberations, your brows furrow. "What?"

He circles your clit next. "Are you clean?" he repeats exasperatedly.

Clean? What does he mean clean? You shower every night. What is he—

Oh.

"Yes."

"Thought so," he utters before diving between your legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut when he drags his tongue through your slick folds, and dig your nails into the carved wooden edge of the desk to maintain composure. You refute the warm feeling which blooms between your spread thighs when he sucks on your clit; ignore how your fleshy walls squeeze tightly around his thick fingers when he eases them inside you.

You project from your body and into another room when it begins to respond with rocking hips and moans falling from your lips in an act of betrayal.

Bearing witness to Biblical temptation from afar, you watch through shaded windows as you keep your legs spread like a greedy whore, wanting for more of what he's offering.

If you're so very willing, then maybe this is deserved.

Looping his arms around your thighs, Charlie rests them over his over his shoulders and his face disappears entirely until all you see is a field of silver curls just below your belly. "God," you groan with your head throw back.

Slurping your arousal and smacking his lips against your own second set, your body begins to calm from its earlier erratic state. Circling your sensitive bundle with a speared tongue, Charlie doesn't see fit to stop until your orgasm bursts through you cataclysmically—complete with trembling legs, sweaty skin, and mewling whimpers escaping your mouth as your head spins and your body goes numb from a sense of euphoria.

When he rises, it's with a contained groan and hands planted upon aging joints.

You watch quietly as he pops the shiny tines on his leather belt loose while staring directly between your legs and licking his shimmering lips.

Covering your mouth, you start to cry again. Oh God, what if it makes him angry? "I'm—" you try to muffle yourself. "'M sorry," you whimper while dipping your chin.

"Don't be," he says while swiping away a salty tear with the pad of his thumb. He smiles affectionately. "I want you to."

Planting a hand against your shoulder, Charlie pushes you back. Before you can react, he shoves his cock inside you with a single thrust.

At some point—rather, after you began slapping and kicking him in protest of your own assault—he pulled you off the desk, flipped you around, and began pounding into you from behind. That was after he pinned your wrists above your head and threatened to make your life here a living hell if you didn't behave yourself.

Like it won't be anyway now.

You're also completely naked and have jumped up, onto your tiptoes to make his ministrations easier to take.

Your bunched-up dress lies balled-up in a corner somewhere, mocking you from afar for giving up and in so easily to his wicked whims. With your breasts pressed flat against the desktop, you're also left feeling a bit cold.

Your body trembles.

Charlie's grip around your hips has grown so tight that it's sure to leave bruising come the morn, but perhaps that's part of his design—an unspoken reminder of where he's been; what he's done to you.

Grunting as he snaps his hips against your ass, it sends ripples through the plump skin.

You tried counting the thrusts to make the time pass faster, but he's rather quick about it. You lost track after 20.

You wish he'd hurry the fuck up and be done already.

Like your prayers have finally been answered, his hips stutter and his breaths become ragged. "Oh f—Oh fuck. Mm, I'm gonna come," he groans.

You stare at a dying plant on the widowsill.

You should save the poor thing.

"Fuck—fuck," he utters before clutching a handful of your hair and wrenching you back against his bare chest where he's left his shirt unbuttoned. Wrapping one hand around your throat and the other around your waist to keep your body flush against his, Charlie's cock begins to twitch, and just as thick spurts of cum begin to fill you, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, causing you to scream in frenzied anguish.

You claw at his hand to try and free yourself, but it's no good. He has you right where he wants you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, his mouth retracts, and his hold loosens.

Once it's finally over, the chief pulls out of you—leaving semen to run down both your thighs as you slump lifelessly over his desk. He tosses a box of tissues at you and commands you to clean yourself up while he wipes off his girthy, soiled cock.

You quietly excused yourself to the restroom after. You took your time washing away the evidence of what he did.

You can't tell.

You had considered it, though. If someone came, he'd be caught red-handed. Even if he tried to argue that it was consensual, he would still be disbanded from the force for having sex with a subordinate.

But you forgot your phone at your desk.

Once you've peed, his cum has stopped dribbling out of you, and you've scrubbed the tears from your face, you return to gather your things.

You never look at your broken reflection.

One by one—with stiff limbs—you tuck your personal belongings away. Cellphone, charger, lip balm, hair band.

You briefly forget how to get yourself home when you begin to think on it.

You don't feel like yourself.

It's like he's still buried inside you, stretching you in half until your cunt melds perfectly around his every vein and ventricle.

"I'll walk you out," Charlie states while locking his office up for the night, causing you to jump quietly; you'd forgot he was here. "Not safe out there alone," he jests with a wink while sidling close and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You remain hauntingly silent as the quiet clicking of your shoes echo across an empty building you never wish to return to.

"Just so you know," Charlie begins while leaning against the driver side door of your vehicle to prevent your escape, "I don't plan on sharing my new stress toy. You'll soon come to learn that I'm a jealous man."

You clutch your bag close to your chest and merely nod. You're not even a person now, but instead something to be played with.

You'd been right about the animal analogy after all.

Resting the heels of his palms against the windowsill, he tilts his head while studying your withdrawn, sullen expression. If you mean for it to be a deterrent, it's having the exact opposite effect. The erection stretching across his upper thigh is proof enough of that. "While you were in the restroom, I put an app on your phone to track your location."

Your eyes meet with his.

"Before you try to go searching for it, though, it's fairly well hidden." He shrugs indifferently. "Right electronic shop could locate it, but... Minute I find out you've uninstalled it, or deactivated the device, you can kiss your job here goodbye."

You sniffle and take a small step back. "Could just leave it at home," you sneer.

He grins. "Same goes for your car." Charlie pats the door. "Don't go searching the undercarriage unless you want trouble."

When... When did he—

"Since I can already see the cogs turning: right after making you my secretary." He chuckles. "Told you, I'm possessive."

Taking you suddenly into his arms, Charlie brings you against his chest and brushes a kiss over the crown of your head. "You just do what your new boss tells you and everything'll be fine. I promise, sweetheart."

Turning your face toward the crook of his shoulder, you start to cry.

He clicks his tongue, then softly shooshes you while running a palm down the back of your head. "Aw, my little cuddlebug tired?" he taunts.

You nod while nuzzling against his chest. "Do you get off on humiliating me?" you mumble.

He snorts. "That's so cute: you already starting to figure out how I work."

While you'd like very much to hurt him in truly horrific ways... Your only option right now is to remain plaint and agreeable. Otherwise, he could bring your entire world to a standstill. More than he already has.

After he bent you over his desk, you just wanted to be held. Comforted.

He's the only one who knows what happened, so he's the only one who can provide what you need. Isn't he?

An image of a finely sharpened #2 pencil stabbed through his jugular flits through your mind and you take solace in it.

Winding your arms around his waist, you shuffle your feet to stand closer.

"You be good to me," he whispers. "And I'll be good to you," he finishes with a kiss on the tip of your nose. "Since I have every intention of continuing on like this, I need to ask: are you on anything?"

You slowly blink bloodshot eyes open. "Like what?" you ask numbly.

He cards his fingers in your hair. "To prevent any unwanted consequences."

Oh. That.

"Yes."

Charlie scoffs. "Didn't take you for the type of girl who gets around."

"It helps with my periods," you spit. "Makes the flow not so heavy."

Dumbass.

He hums. "Didn't know that." He runs a hand down your back. "Just make sure to keep on top of it."

Your eyes flit around the empty parking lot. "But... Birth control doesn't always work—"

"Well, I have always wanted a family," he coos. "Could always benefit you if it did happen. Just think: you'd get to stay home barefoot and pregnant, and never have to work again. With my salary, you'd be well taken care of. What sort of young woman wouldn't want that for herself?"

Misogynistic bastard.

Peeling you away from the warmth his body momentarily provided, he pops your door open. "Something to consider," he states while resting his forearms atop the seal and his chin atop them as he studies you with sparkling eyes.

You toss your bag inside.

"See you tomorrow," the wolf says to the lamb.

They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:

"In‑laws."

The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."

The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:

Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.

You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.

You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:

"Murder‑suicide."

You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?

You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'

The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.

He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."

"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?

"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.

A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."

He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.

"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."

Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment maybe. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.

"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"

"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."

He was clearly gauging how much you knew.

"I know enough," you said.

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."

"Then why did she change her mind?"

He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.

"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."

"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"

"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."

"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"

"I would do anything to be with her."

Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."

You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"

"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."

"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"

Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."

You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.

"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.

"It will be a surprise. A good one."

"Ursula hates surprises."

"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."

You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.

"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.

"I'll consider it," you finally said.

Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."

He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.

"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.

"Did they win the seat?"

He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.

Grace MacCaullay.

The Le Domas family.

Massacre.

Murder suicide.

You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.

But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.

MARSEILLE, FRANCE

The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.

Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door.  You had bought it 3 days ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.

What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.

You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:

Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.

You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.

He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.

"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.

"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently

The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.

The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.

"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know

The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.

The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.

"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.

He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (30 euros), and he tipped his hat.

"Merci, madame." 

"Merci."

You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.

As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.

A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.

You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.

And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.

He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.

Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.

Where was Titus?

You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.

"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.

The garden was breathtaking.

The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.

You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.

Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.

The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.

"Please stand for the bride."

Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.

She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.

"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.

But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.

It was the man walking beside her.

Titus.

He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.

Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.

Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.

Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.

The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:

You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.

The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.

You needed a drink.

The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.

Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.

She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.

Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.

"Ursula—"

"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"

"Explain yourself."

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."

She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."

"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."

For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."

Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"

"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."

Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.

"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.

"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”

She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."

"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.

She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"

"Are you afraid?" you whispered.

"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.

"Of what might happen tonight."

She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.

"How can you know that?"

"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.

"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."

"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."

"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.

You grinned. "I appreciate that."

Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.

"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.

"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."

For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.

The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last 10 minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.

You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.

Then she appeared.

She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.

"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."

"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.

Of course her name was Margot.

You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.

"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."

"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."

"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"

"I've noticed," Titus said.

Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.

You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.

"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?

What a cunt.

"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison. 

Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.

"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”

Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.

Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.

"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.

You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."

"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"

He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.

You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.

"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"

He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.

"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."

This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"

"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"

"You're being cruel."

He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."

"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"

"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."

"How did you—" you started.

"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.

"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."

Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.

"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."

He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.

"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."

"That's—you can't mean that."

"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."

Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.

"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.

"Then stop trying to think." 

He stared at you, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.

You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh

"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.

"I don't recall asking what you deserve."

He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.

At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.

You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.

The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.

His room stole your breath.

It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.

Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.

"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.

"Show me," you begged, taking off your panties and heels.

He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"Titus—"

"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves.  He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.

"I missed you," you cried out.

"Me too, Angel."

He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.

"Please—I need—"

"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."

"I want to put my mouth on you."

And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.

"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."

You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud and fucking shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.

The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.

"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."

You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.

Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.

"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.

"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"

"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.

The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.

He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp. Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.

The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Whose pussy is this?"

"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."

He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.

"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."

His control snapped.

He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.

"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”

The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.

"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.

"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."

He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.

You checked your watch and sighed.

"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."

Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."

You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.

"Titus?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"I love you too."

The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.

"Titus?"

"Yes?"

"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."

Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.

"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."

He’d done what?

Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”

Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.

"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.

"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.

"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."

But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for you?

"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."

He didn't say anything.

All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.

You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.

The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.

Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.

"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.

Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.

After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.

Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.

"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.

He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.

"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."

"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.

Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.

It took 37 moves.

Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.

Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.

"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."

You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.

"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."

His exhale was relief incarnate.

FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.

The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.

"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.

"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."

His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.

"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."

Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.

The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.

"Don't," you said flatly.

"I haven't done anything."

"You're about to do something. I can see it on your face."

Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.

"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.

"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."

"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.

He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."

"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."

You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.

Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.

You had chosen him. You were his wife.

His.

And Titus would never forget that.

"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."

"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.

"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."

His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.

"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"

Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.

"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."

"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you teased.

"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.

You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night during a vacation in Mendoza. Your daughter was conceived (accidentally) from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name after a wine-filled dinner.

He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.

"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.

"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."

He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother." From inside, there was another kick against his palm. She loved his voice.

"She says no promises," you translated dryly.

"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."

"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"

Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $1200 per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.

"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.

You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"

"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."

"Titus, you can't just—"

"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."

You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.

So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.

"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."

"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."

"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.

That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"

"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."

You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.

"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part

Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle.

BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.

Pungent, searing onions pierce the atmosphere. Feet kicked up, you wrap your hands around a glass of chilled white wine and settle into Robby's expansive couch.

"You sure you're doing alright in there?" You call out, listening for his rummaging in the kitchen.

"Yeah, 'f course babe. Don't worry your pretty little head," he replies, sweet but distracted.

A frown twists your lips, though you decide to leave him be, stomach rumbling at the garlic he's now added to the dish.

You try to relax, though a lack of Robby is making it difficult. You take in the low light of the living room, the secluded, large windows of Robby's rural cabin.

A 45 minute drive from the city, he'd purchased the home during his sabbatical. You look out the sliding glass door, where you know a calm river greeted him each morning.

The thought fills you with peace, tears glossing your eyes at the thought of who he was before he took a break. He's still not perfect, but he's so much better. You want to see him through it all.

"Smells great, Mikey," you mention, craning your neck to try and sneak a glimpse of him.

"Thhhanks, babe…" he trails off, distraction lacing his tone.

Your brow quirks, and you can't help but pad into the kitchen. It's a bit of a trek from his living room, the square footage of this place nothing to turn your head at.

"You sure you're okay?" You ask softly, and he jumps.

"Shit," he whispers, placing a large palm on his chest. "Scared me, baby," he says, but doesn't make eye contact.

Guilt pools in your stomach for scaring him, your eyes darting to the pan sizzling on the stove.

"Sorry, honey," you smile, softly nudging your way into the space.

You set your wine glass down with a soft clink, and press your hands into his lower back. You pinch the excess skin at his hips, reveling in his little flinch.

"Hey!" He playfully groans, prodding at the searing vegetables in the pan.

"Need any help in here?" You prop your chin on his back, arms wrapping around his sweet tummy.

You silently pray he can't feel the rapid beating of your heart pressing against him, the sheer proximity enough to make you dizzy.

He shakes his head, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is his telltale sign that he's not communicating what he needs. He's working on it, but he was so excited to have you this weekend, to make you this meal.

You understand, but you're not standing for it. Your fingernails dig into the plush of his belly, giving him a menacing pinch. His spatula clatters against the counter, his hands white knuckling the marble counter top.

"Baby…" you mumble against his back, "can I help?" It's quiet, neutral and unassuming.

He shrugs, shaking his head again. You huff, pressing a light kiss on his shoulder.

"Promise, baby," he mutters, giving you a small smile.

He reaches for your wine glass, placing it back in your hands and gently ushering you out of the kitchen.

"Go sit," he encourages with a pat on the ass. "I'm fine, promise."

You look back at him over your shoulder, an unsure smile on your lips as you pad back over to the couch.

You curl into the elaborate furniture, the plush cushions enveloping you. Your lips find the rim of your glass, your eyes straining to see as much of him as you can.

Your heart drops, though, when an unmistakable burning scent fills the air. You're on your feet quickly, rushing into the kitchen to find Robby, once again gripping the counter.

This time, he's hunched over a bit more, deep breaths wracking his chest over the pan of now burnt vegetables. He doesn't seem to register you, and you're frozen for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

You decide on a slow step, the creak in the floorboard alerting him to your presence. He jolts up, his face red and blotchy, eyes glossy. Your heart clutches at the sight, and you reach a hand out.

He tenses up at the action, but you persist. You lay a gentle hand on his forearm, and he rests back onto the counter.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Should've said yes, I'm sorry."

You frown, stroking his arm.

"It's okay, you wanted to do it. I understand," you say, inching closer to him. He allows it. "I appreciate you."

He melts at this, and your belly warms at his small smile. His eyes find the ground beneath him, and you take this as an opportunity to act, before he can notice.

You slink over to the cupboard, grabbing a short glass and filling it up with ice. Twisting open the lid of his favorite scotch, the liquid glugs into the glass. The sound piques his interest, head flitting up to see what you're doing.

You walk toward him as he nears the edge of the kitchen where it meets the living room. He accepts the drink, lifting his brows while taking a sip. He doesn't fully give in so easily, though.

He rests a shoulder on the archway of the kitchen, glaring up at you through the you knew he'd refuse to leave you alone with a running stove and oven.

"Let me help you?" You attempt to meet in the middle.

You watch him rattle the idea around in his brain, shaking his head from side to side as he contemplates. Your heart picks up at the sight of him, warmth swirling in your belly at his sleepy eyes, his angular nose.

"Mkay," he relents, setting his scotch down next to your wine.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you melt back into him. His warmth is all encompassing, and you have to will yourself to stand strong.

He walks with you to the fridge, where you grab a new onion and fresh bulb of garlic. You're quick at work, dicing and slicing the vegetables to sear them anew.

The wretched burning smell is quickly overpowered by the aromatic scent once again. Michael relaxes behind you, pinching your hip slightly before checking the meat that's braising in the oven.

You allow yourself a peek behind your shoulder, the slight bend in his torso allowing you a perfect view of his backside. He always claims it's unimpressive, especially compared to yours, yet you can't help but enjoy every bit of him.

You show him so, turning to swat him on the ass with your kitchen towel. He stands up starkly, hands on his hips as he turns toward you, a smile stretching across his face. It's tight lipped, annoyed, but loving all the same.

Your smile is sparkling, and you revel in the pink tint of his cheeks. He saunters back to you, pulling him back to his chest whilst you move the vegetable pan off the burner.

"Thank you, baby," he croons in your ear, placing sweet, slow, seductive kisses along your neck.

There's a flutter between your legs as you settle into him, your head falling back onto his shoulder at his touch.

"Mikey…" you moan, squeezing your thighs together as his hands run down your waist, your hips.

He kneads your plush skin, greedy fingers squeezing and pulling you closer to him.

"So pretty, baby," he mutters, placing one last kiss on your neck. "Gotta get the pasta ready."

He moves to the cabinet, a burst of cold air rushing through you at his absence. You lean down to grab a large pot, shock reverberating through you when he gets his payback, landing a loud smack on your ass.

"Michael!" You squeal, standing up to reach for your stinging behind.

He just shrugs, though his cheeks have been flushed this whole time.

"Can you blame me? You're so pretty, baby," he shoots you his best puppy dog eyes, his lips in a soft little pout.

"I could say the same for you," you quip back, filling up the pot with water.

You place it on the stove, burner turned on all the way to ensure a quick boiling point. A soft silence settles over you two, then, no longer a need to frantically flit around the shared space.

You find your wine glass, lifting it to your lips and taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his over the rim of the glass. You lean back on the counter, and he does the same, taking a sip of his scotch.

Tension settles between you, thick like rising steam. You take a deep inhale, heart racing at the mere sight of him. You trail your eyes up and down, committing his look tonight to memory.

He's got jeans on, they're snug, yet low on his hips. His white button up strains against his belly, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and a bead of sweat pricks your forehead.

You look down at your own outfit, a navy blue dress that fits around your waist and flows down to your ankles, adorned with white polka dots, matched with white kitten heels.

Your eyes find his, just to see him devouring you the same way you did earlier. Your cheeks burn at the heat of Robby's gaze, worrying if this is too much. Your relationship is still new, still not official, though you've been slowly embedding yourselves into each other's lives.

Like tonight, for example. You fit into this secluded space, your ability to help him tonight proof of that.

"You look so pretty tonight, by the way," he murmurs, arms crossing over his chest.

Your heart shocks itself back to life at his compliment, and your tummy twists.

"Thank you, handsome," you smile sweetly.

He smiles, and it's sweet, genuine with no underlying teasing underneath it. He moves closer to you, your heart pumping rapidly in your chest. He places a hand around your waist as he reaches for the spaghetti noodles, cracking them in half before throwing them into the boiling water.

You flinch at the action, having totally forgotten what you were in here for.

"Oh! I could have gotten that," you mutter sheepishly.

He just shakes his head, turning your back towards his chest and walking you back to the living room.

"No, baby," he says, guiding you back to the couch. "I can take it from here, you relax, okay?" He tries to sit you down, to give you a kiss. You don't let him off so easily.

"Can't relax without you," you mutter, running your hands up his bare forearms.

He shudders as you drag your nails over his skin, and you bask in the goosebumps popping up on his skin. His head hangs back, giving you an elongated view of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing on full display.

You place a soft kiss to the pointy skin, and he shudders once more.

"Fine, baby," he relents, and you knew you'd get your way. He swats your ass once more as you hop back to the kitchen. "C'mon, brat."

- Dinner was outstanding, more than anything you thought Robby could cook for you, even with your help. He'd pick the steaks out, seasoned and braised them, all while tossing together a tomato pasta sauce, cooking noodles, and chopping up ingredients for a salad.

He's now finally joined you on the couch, your legs propped up on his lap, refills of both your drinks in your respective hands. His large, calloused hand strokes up and down your shins, and the motion almost puts you to sleep.

"Feels nice, Mikey," you mumble, resting your head on the back of the couch.

"Yeah?" He asks, his tone light. "Makin' you feel good?"

You nod, the condescending lilt to his words burning deep in your stomach. It mirrors the way he speaks when he's deep inside you, and you can't help but press your thighs together once more.

He knows this, a small smirk playing on his lips as you squirm under his touch.

"This is so pretty," he mumbles, toying with the hemline of your dress. You want nothing more than for him to pull it up, drag you by your legs and have his way with you.

You want it so much that you kick your feet a little, twisting your body to give him as much access to you as possible. It's not the most comfortable position, but you'd rather deal with it than have him stop touching you.

He notices, though, because of course he does, and tosses your legs off him anyways. You scoff, heart sinking at the action. He sees the pout forming on your lips, a sad smile on his lips.

"C'mon, my girl, up," he pats his lap before reaching for you, essentially manhandling you onto his lap.

You allow it, grateful to be able to turn off the decision making part of your brain. You let him maneuver you onto him, knees hitting the couch on either side of his lap.

You straddle him, not sinking your weight down fully just yet. He's surprised by this, head cocking to the side, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What?" You shrug, like nothing's wrong. "You made me dinner just so you could get in my pants? Woooooow. Michael," you tease him, knowing full well you want him just as much as he wants you.

His hands grip your ass, squeezing and kneading, giving a light slap once again. You squeal, hips thrusting of their own volition. You feel a wet spot start to pool in your panties, desperate for friction. You won't let him win that easily, though.

He pulls your hips closer to him, your center pressed against his chest, his face in your tummy, your chest. He looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach.

"Not gonna sit on me, baby? Really?" He asks, soft and sweet.

"Nope!" You chirp, the heat burning in you making it harder to keep up this act.

"You don't want it?" He asks, expecting a predictable answer, expecting you to drop your core onto him and let him take you.

You decide to take his bait, shaking your head no, a proud smile playing on your face. Your heart pounds at the surprise seizing his features.

"Really?" His brows raise.

You've pushed it before with Robby, but due to the early nature of your relationship, it's never gone this far. Never have you denied him yourself, nor denied yourself him, because, as much as you pretend, this is a two way street.

"Really, 'm totally fine," you chirp, and you see his eyes darken. "In fact, is there dessert?" You twist your torso, going to move off of him, but he grips your waist even tighter.

Hook, line, sinker.

"Totally fine?" He grits, hands moving lower. "You mean, if I get my hands on your pretty panties, you won't be drooling for me?"

You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, body on fire at not only your proximity, but lack thereof. The distance between your lap and his feels like miles away, but his hands on you are electrifying.

Still, you shake your head no, defiant despite knowing exactly what he'll find. His hands travel farther and farther up your thighs, circling around to your backside, pushing your dress up over your hips.

Your pink panties give you away instantly, wet spot big and dark. His brows furrow, lips forming into an 'o' as he takes you in.

"Oh, baby," he coos, sliding the fabric to the side. "Fuck, drippin' for me, angel."

You squeal at his words, vulnerability seizing you as his thick fingers press against the damp fabric. You clench against nothing as his fingertips collect your wetness, running through your silky folds.

"Feels so good, Mikey," you whisper, grinding your hips to further the friction.

"Ooohohoho," he chuckles. "Now we want it," he teases, recalling your earlier defiance.

"You know I always did," you whine, giving him your widest eyes, the ones that get him every time.

You're proven right once more as he stands, your legs still wrapped firmly around him. He carries you to the bedroom, a large, cozy bed taking up most of the room.

The windows are floor to ceiling, and the late evening sun sets in pinks and oranges around you two. He tosses you onto the bed, and your heart picks up as you look up at him.

His eyes bore into yours as he settles a knee on the bed, his fingers reaching up to unbutton his shirt. You quickly sit up, folding your legs underneath yourself as you kneel, taking his buttons into your own hands.

You indulge in his half naked frame, trailing a finger down his chest, past his belly all the way to the waistband of his pants. You pause there, grazing your nose against his ever so slightly. His jaw goes slack, panting breaths fanning over your face.

Your heart pounds, tummy twisting with warm desire. You unlatch his belt, finally pressing your lips to his. He melts into you, lips crushing yours as he pushes you back on the bed.

He slides his pants down the rest of the way, boxers coming with it. It's always on brand for him to skip the middle man.

He shakes his head incredulously as he crawls back on the bed. He gestures to your fully clothed form.

"How's this fair?" He poises, and you can't help but giggle.

This gets a smile out of him, inching closer to you on the bed. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you the rest of the way to him until his hips are flush with yours.

You whimper as your sensitive core hits his, his hard cock pressed against you. You wiggle your hips, trying desperately to feel something before he releases you from the restraints of your clothing.

He coos, tutting his tongue and swatting your inner thigh. You squeal, lifting your hips up as his hands pull your underwear down your legs. He tosses them across the room, but not without taking a quick sniff.

"Michael!" You scoff, a small smile creeping on your face. "You perv!"

He smiles at your teasing, tapping his cock onto your clit. You flinch at the contact, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

"Can't help it, baby, pussy's so sweet," he mutters, lifting your dress over your head to get you the rest of the way there.

The warmth from the sunset radiates from the windows, coating you in a golden sheen. You can almost feel the rays through the glass as your naked frame settles into the bed.

Insecurity settles deep in your stomach as he takes a moment to stare. He's slack jawed, eyes trailing from your face all the way down to the apex of your thighs, and back up again.

"You're incredibly beautiful, I don't tell you that enough," he mutters, pressing a finger to your entrance.

You moan, arching your back from the bed at the intrusion.

"So tight, shit," he whispers, and you clench around his digit. "No idea how you take my cock every time."

That last part seems more to himself than anybody else, and you can't help but agree. Taking in his length that sits right in front of you, you swallow. It's considerable, especially knowing the guys you've dated in the past.

His finger is fully inside you now, down to the knuckle. You whine, wiggling your hips to add friction. He coos, shushing you before pulling out and adding in a second finger.

You mewl at the stretch, cheeks heating up at the gush of your wetness around his fingers.

"Y'always get so wet for me, fuck," he whispers, jaw going slack at the squelch of your pussy.

"It's so much," you whine, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "'m sorry."

He stops at this, fingers halting inside of you. He quirks a brow, and you feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

"What was that?" He asks, his voice testy. "You're sorry?"

You nod, heart pounding deep and loud in your chest.

"I'm ruining your sheets," you whimper, and he swats your inner thigh.

You squeal at the sharp contact, squeezing your eyes shut.

"Not ruining anything, sweet girl, y'hear me?" He picks up the pace of his fingers once more, massaging your sweet spot with each thrust. "Could never ruin a thing, I promise."

You nod your head, his words shining bright within you. A white hot sensation burns in your lower belly, your blissful edge nearing with each motion.

"Michaelll," you whine, throwing your arms over your face.

"Shhh, I know sweetie, I know," he whispers, maintaining his agonizing pace. "We're gonna get you nice and stretched out for me, get you nice and ready to take me, yeah?"

You whine, wriggling in his grasp, arching your hips off the bed to be closer to him.

He pushes you back down with a firm hand, and a tut of his tongue.

"Nuh-uh, baby, you're gonna sit still and take it like a good girl, hm?" He raises a brow, and all you can do is nod, the pleasure building up to its peak.

Your orgasm is achingly close, your pussy clenching down on his fingers with all its might. He laughs at this, at the heightened resistance his fingers meet inside of you.

Your orgasm hits, then, a blinding hot wave of pleasure sweeping you out to sea. Robby unravels you, continues his brutal pace until your legs are shaking, your breath small, whiny gasps.

"Good girl, good girl," he repeats as he continues to work you out. It's so genuine, your heart clutches.

Tears prick your eyes, caught in a perfect intersection of his praise and the overstimulation. He nods, kissing your cheek as his fingers slow. He pulls out gently, you still whimper at the loss.

Your pussy pulses through the aftershocks, warmth blooming bright in your stomach. Robby nudges your cheek with the point of his nose, lightly grazing your soft skin.

"You ready for me, baby?" He asks, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.

You nod against his lips, and he lines himself up to your entrance. He slides his head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness before pushing in.

His tip breaches your hole, and you feel instantly hazy. Your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks as he pushes even deeper.

Your jaw falls slack, gripping his hips, relishing the plush skin there as you pull him ever more closer to you, legs spreading even wider to accommodate his large size.

Taking him has always been a challenge, though you're never one to back down. Soon enough, he's buried in you, hips flush together. He sneaks his hands under your legs, pulling them up to his shoulders. Your shins dangle down his back, allowing him to push even deeper.

"Ohhh yes," your breathing is shaky, his tip nudging your sweet spot.

"I know, baby, I know," he mutters, pulling out slightly just to thrust back in.

You whimper as his hips hit your ass, a wet 'plap' echoing through the room. The feeling of him is intoxicating, the smell of him invading your nose and making you dizzy.

Your head falls back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he continues to snap his hips. He finds a steady rhythm, his length pistoning through you like a bullet.

"Feels so good," he grunts, thrusts growing sloppy. "Always so fucking good with you, baby."

He turns his head to press a sweet kiss to your ankle, maneuvering your legs back around his waist.

"Never been this good before," he mutters. "Never."

His words knock the wind out of you. Things are still so new that you never really know what he's thinking. You love when he's like this, sensitive and vulnerable and unable to stop his mouth from running.

The telltale sign of your release creeps up once again. You're more sensitive as your second orgasm approaches, positively gushing around him.

Your juices flow down your ass and onto the bedsheets, the familiar embarrassment returning. Robby catches it before you can spiral, a sharp shake of his head keeping the tears at bay.

"Don't even go there, baby," he grumbles beneath his breath. "Get me as wet as you need to, 's okay."

The tears slip anyway, soft streams rolling down your cheeks. He kisses them away, shushing you as he continues to take you apart.

"You're okay, baby, we're okay. It's all okay," he whispers, kissing all over your face. "It's so okay, so good," he mumbles aimlessly, "so good for me, gonna cum, okay? Gonna cum inside, oh God please can I cum inside?"

You nod breathlessly, tears still spilling, a quiet cry escaping your chest.

"So fucking pretty when you cry, baby, fuck, 's gonna make me cum," he groans, halting his hips against yours as he spills inside you.

You fall apart at the same time, your entire body seizing against his. He brings his mouth to yours, brows furrowed as he parts your lips with his tongue. He kisses you through it, shushing you and stroking your hair.

You shiver and shake as he thrusts through it, gripping at his biceps to anchor you.

"That's it, you got it, you got it," he whispers, bringing your ankle back to his lips for another sweet kiss.

He pulls out slowly, collapsing next to you. Wasting no time, he pulls you into him, wrapping yourself around him so he can bring you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

There's a shift between you two, you can feel it as he lays down next to you. The air is thicker, more intense. You lean into it, hands immediately finding his bicep and sinking your nails in.

He hisses at the contact, furrowing his brows before pulling you in for a sweet kiss. You melt into him, his firm grip allowing sleep to fall over you, content and in his arms.

The start of the week at PTMC is, as always, loud, chaotic, and smelly. Though, the influx of patients is not what's on your mind most, even though it should be.

You're eager to find Robby, missing him already, though you spent the whole weekend together.

You fill your locker and make quick work of rushing onto the scene, finding your guy immediately. You walk with him alongside a gurney from the ambulance bay as he describes the state of the new patient.

A child with bruises littering their skin and a head injury from a fall at the skate park nearby. This is fairly routine, and you go to retrieve the proper paperwork when he gives you a small tug on your elbow.

Your heart picks up in speed at the touch, albeit professional.

"We don't need you here," he mutters, and your heart drops.

After this weekend, the words feel like poison bubbling in your gut. You jerk your head back to look at him, brows furrowed in surprise and hurt.

He clocks it immediately. You watch his eyes shift momentarily before finding his work zone once again. You feel like you're drowning, like he was throwing you out to sea.

It's just your job, you know this. It doesn't stop the ache from nearly splitting your heart in two.

"It doesn't look like an abuse case," he eases your professional worries, and it helps, though it's not enough to quell your personal ones. "I'll call you if it ends up going that route."

You nod slowly, your ears flooded with anxious noise. You feel as if you're traipsing through water, movements fluid and languid, like you're not even here.

The juxtaposition of the Robby from this weekend and the Robby standing in front of you nearly gives you whiplash, and you're unable to take your eyes off of him.

"Go work with Langdon," he nods across the E.R, and you turn your head.

He's in Trauma 1, barking orders and checking a young child's pupils. You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, turning your head back to find his face a hell of a lot closer than it was when you looked away.

"Robby-" you start, trying to knock some sense into him.

"What?" He quips. It's short, punctuated, and thoroughly pissed off.

This sparks something within you, a fiery combativeness that you can't seem to find the off switch to.

"Really? Langdon?" You prop your hand up on your hip, rolling his eyes.

He scoffs at your attitude, and 48 hours ago, you know he'd have you over his knee for this later.

Now? You're not so sure. The uncertainty knocks you off kilter, your legs like jelly beneath you.

You knew this was a possibility when you'd started seeing him, you've worked with him for five years now. The mood swings aren't surprising. What is surprising, is the fact that he's never taken it out on you before.

It's terrifying.

"You'll be of better use there," he clips, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.

"But, Robby-" you try, but he cuts you off.

"Now," he punctuates, and leaves the room.

The kid Langdon was with has been discharged, though a pile of CPS paperwork is going to loom high on your desk for the next few days.

As you scan the busy room for more cases to jump on, you spot Robby, still with the same child.

Your brow quirks, making your way over to the scene. He seems to be in some sort of verbal altercation with the mother, who is getting closer and closer to Robby, unkind words spewing from her mouth.

"I'm going to sue you, and I'm going to sue this entire fucking hospital!" She shouts.

Robby has two defensive hands up at his shoulders, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain his composure.

You slink in between him and this woman, a public service smile plastering your face.

"Hi!" You chirp, giving her your name and a hand to shake. "I'm our pediatric specialist. What seems to be the problem here?"

Your tone and demeanor soften the woman, a skill you've honed over half a decade of working this position. Really, all these parents want is for someone to listen. That's where you come in.

You shoot Robby a look as you guide the ever calming woman away from the scene, allowing them to work. He looks sheepish, eyes not leaving yours even after he moves back to the child on the hospital bed.

A sense of pride floods your veins at his battered expression, a smile reading 'I told you so' spreading your lips.

Around 2:30, you're able to steal ten minutes in the break room for a 'lunch' break. Your teeth sink into a granola bar, your chin in your palm as you allow yourself to zone out for a moment.

Since your earlier interaction, you've quietly eyed Robby's every move, tracking the way he darts from one patient to the other with learned ease. Not once had he looked at you, not even to spare a glance.

It's starting to chip away at you, withering you down to your rawest parts. You decided to give him the rest of the morning to reset- knowing the transition from his cabin back to reality can be tough for him.

His behavior today surpasses that, though. Blatantly ignoring you all morning- not letting you help, assigning you to cases with Langdon, of all people.

You've got nothing against the guy, you'd even consider him a friend. It still doesn't explain why Robby would hand you off to him instead of keeping you to himself.

By the time you've scarfed down a semblance of food, you're angry all over again. You march back out into the Pitt, greeted by all the familiar sounds and smells.

You wrinkle your nose, spotting Robby at the charting station. His glasses sit low on his nose, fingers clacking on the keyboard.

You stop in your fiery tracks as you take him in, heart pattering against your chest like a caged bird. It knocks you off kilter for a moment, the mere sight of him standing there.

His head snaps up instantly, and you roll your eyes, annoyed once again at how deeply he feels you. You stomp over, plopping yourself on the stool at the station opposite him.

You don't even pretend to look at the computer, folding your hands on the counter as you glare at him. His eyes divert from the screen to you, still glancing over his glasses.

His brows are arched, an expression on his face that, at home, usually reads as 'I'm done with your shit.'

But you're not at home. You're at your jobs, and the feeling is mutual.

"What's going on with you?" You ask, clipped and blunt.

He flinches at your brusque tone, still not fully used to your direct way of communicating. You don't let him get away with anything. He needs it, even if he doesn't like it all the time.

He averts his gaze, tapping his fingers against the keyboard once again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, and you're seeing red.

You roll your eyes, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and dragging him through the E.R.

"Are you kidding-" he begins to complain, but you shove him into the ambulance bay.

"Do not whine at me, Robinavitch," you hold up a finger, and he relaxes just slightly. "Don't lie to me, either," you prop a hand on your hips, eyes big and sad. "What's going on?"

He's quiet for a moment, pensive and sad. The air hangs thick between you, flooded with the words you're too scared to say.

"It-" he starts, but you stomp down a foot.

"Do not tell me it's nothing, again, Michael!" You whine.

It's petulant, bratty, even. He's seen this part of you. It's not that you're worried about. What worries you is the pained crease resting between his eyebrows.

"What is it?" You whisper, heart pounding against your chest.

You're officially considering worst case scenarios. You lean into the anxiety, let it consume you whole.

"I don't know if this is working," he whispers. It's broken, his eyes sad. You feel your heart lurch at his words.

"What do you mean?" You ask, voice low.

"I think we may be taking things too fast," he mutters, and the words dart around in your brain like a pinball. They just don't make sense.

"What is going too fast for you?" You ask, the words wobbling from your lips.

He scoffs, shaking his head and avoiding your gaze, his telltale sign that he is not planning on telling you the answer.

"You're really going to let this go, just like that?" You ask, the reality of the situation settling over you like a cold, wet blanket.

"I didn't realize there was much to let go," he mutters.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. Your bold facade does nothing for the pounding of your heart against your rib cage, each throb a chip in your armor.

Logically, you knew you'd be getting this version of Robby eventually. You've worked with him for five years. You'd been there for PittFest, Adamson's death, but also for all the people he'd saved, the children's lives you'd changed together.

Then, two months ago happened. A shared beer on a late night after a long shift leading to a salacious make out against the hood of his truck, leading to dates and cabin trips.

You recount this past weekend, now in more detail. The nights you spent in his arms, in his bed, in his space. The breakfasts you'd shared as the sun crept through the windows. It was glaringly, achingly intimate.

Embarrassment burns low in your belly, acidic and tangy. as you study his face.

"I know you don't mean that," you power through, refusing to take your eyes off him. "Come find me when you're ready to talk about how you're actually feeling."

You slide off the stool, leaving him to stew in his own bad attitude.

The painful adrenaline coursing through you gets you to the end of the day. Shift hand off goes relatively smooth, essentially updating Abbot on all of your ongoing cases

Before you can turn to leave, he stops you with a quiet, 'uhm…'

You turn, immediately receptive to the shift in his tone. It's no longer work related, you can tell by the lost puppy look in his eye.

"Jack…" you start, inching closer.

"How's Robby?" He asks, and your heart stops.

"Not great, actually. Why?" You cross your arms in defense.

"I-I think I may have said something to freak him out," he confesses.

You arch a brow, heart ricocheting off your ribcage. It's all you can manage to not lose your mind.

"I'm sure you're aware of his…uhm, history," he starts, and loose pieces of this puzzle start to form together in your brain.

"The 'seven-week-itch'," you remark, recalling years worth of gossip of Robby's dating habits.

"And, how long have you two been seeing each other?" He supplements, and the final piece clicks into place.

"Two months," you whisper.

Eight weeks, more specifically. You had both let it fly right by you, not even noticing the passage of time.

"And I made a joke about it," Jack says, guilt lacing his tone. "On Sunday, after you guys had gotten home."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't take your anger out on the wrong subject.

Jack is a dear friend, to both you and Robby. You know he'd never intentionally say something hurtful. You also know that Robby's triggers, while on the mend, are still raw and vulnerable.

"Okay," you sigh. "Thank you for telling me, Jack. I appreciate the honesty."

You mean it, because, although it's not the best case scenario, you now know how to tackle it accurately.

"For sure," he nods, guilt spreading across his soft features. "I'm sorry, bud."

You smile softly at the nickname he'd bestowed upon you at your first handoff.

"It's okay, I can handle it," you assure him, before spinning on your heel in the direction of the lockers.

Robby's not there, and you curse softly under your breath. You make quick work of gathering your things and running out to the parking lot.

You catch his broad frame across the parking lot, and you break into a jog, catching up with him swiftly.

"Robby!" You call, slowing your pace as you reach him, and you can feel the iciness radiating off of him.

He stops, takes a deep in hale, and turns to stare daggers at you. You take a step back at the look in his eyes, a dark, distant sadness to them that stuns your nervous system.

"Is this about the seven week itch?" You ask, and now it's his turn to take a step back.

The space between you is deep and vast, an ocean of swirling emotions. His chest begins to heave, and for a brief moment, guilt bubbles low in your belly.

Maybe you took it too far, but you're nearing your point of no return. He can deal with it.

You adjust, rolling your shoulders back- standing taller, unafraid. You stare down the empty barrels of his eyes, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

"The what?" Is all he manages, and you scoff.

"Really, Robinavitch? That's how you want to play this?" You ask, giving him another shot.

He shrugs, and you just fold your arms across your chest.

"We've been dating for eight weeks, dummy. Jack told me about what he said. Is that really what this is about?" You ask, rage boiling from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.

He laughs sardonically, a furious smile painting his lips.

"This isn't about Jack, or the-what the hell did you call it?" His tone is gruff, and he runs a palm down his face.

"Your seven-week-itch, Michael? Ringing a bell?" You poise, brows raised. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I know I'm not the first girl in this department that you've dated, hell, I'm probably not the youngest, either," this part is a little hyperbolic, but you wouldn't be surprised. "People talk, and if Jack's joking about it, that all but confirms the gossip."

He scoffs, hands coming up to the nape of his neck.

"Fuck," he growls, and you flinch.

You watch him falter at that, and it pauses you for a moment. Each beat of your heart is a throb of affection, for him, for your relationship- or what's left of it.

"You heard all of that and still wanted to be with me?" He asks, and it's insecure as much as it's defensive.

"Yes," you breathe, your heart clutching. "Because I got to know you for myself, and I really like the Michael I know. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to him right now."

He scoffs, walls immediately shooting back up.

"I'm not one of your case kids, y'know," he remarks, and you roll your eyes.

"Okay, so stop acting like a child," you quip back, not missing a beat.

An incredulous chuckle wrestles itself from his chest, eyes glossing over. In this agonizing, purgatorial waiting game, you've stopped feeling sorry for speaking your mind.

"I can't," he mutters, eyes focused on the ground.

You see the wet drops fall from his eye and hit the pavement, fighting your resolve down to the bone.

"I'm sorry, it's not fair," he croaks, and rage pounds in your ears. "But I just can't. I think you need to find someone better."

Your heart burns, tears stinging the backs of your eye ducts.

"But I don't want that," you grumble, pouting your lip. "I want you. Do I not get a say in this?"

He shakes his head, and annoyance pricks at your stomach.

"Really? I don't get a say in my own relationship?" He flinches at that word, and it's like a knife to your gut.

"Relationship?" He repeats, and you throw up a disbelieving hand.

"What the hell else are you calling this?" You ask him, voice raising.

"Of course I'm calling it a relationship I just don't think I've ever actually…" he trails off, and you nod, not needing the rest of that sentence.

"Got it," you press your lips together, egging him to say more.

"I don't know if a relationship with me is what you want," he mutters.

"Well, I know for sure that it is," you stand firm, despite his denial. "What do you want?"

The question hangs in the air like a bomb, prompt and deadly.

"I don't know," he says, and it's the final nail.

"I guess that's our answer, then, isn't it?" You croak, not daring to look at him as you walk past him to your own vehicle.

"Congrats on a new record, Robinavitch," you shout across the parking lot, slinking into your car and slamming the door.

The tears are immediate, flowing down your cheeks, smudging your eyeliner. Your hands white knuckle the steering wheel, chest heaving as your sobs rack through you.

You knew seeing Robby wasn't going to be necessarily easy. He's your colleague, an attending at the hospital you work at, not to mention multiple decades your senior. Plus, everything else.

You're sure of your choices, though, and it's agonizing to know that he's not.

Your mind goes back to this past weekend, how sweet and assuring he was, how safe he made you feel. The difference between that Robby and this one is enough to give you whiplash.

A new set of cries strangle you, clutching your stomach and wringing it out like a dirty dish rag.

You lift a shaky finger, pressing the on button of your car. You let the cool air hit you, drying the wet streaks on your cheeks.

Your veins rage with a cocktail of shame, hurt, and embarrassment. You should have listened.

You should have listened to Princess and Perlah when they dropped you subtle hints on his dating life. You should have listened to Trinity when she told you this was crazy. You should have listened to Dana when she told you he'd break your heart.

It's a random Tuesday as Bruce, and you stand in the middle of your grandfather's beloved attic. The wooden floors creak under your weight, dust particles moving in spirals as the early rays of sunshine flit through the glass panes of the dormer window. Your mother had asked for your help in cleaning your grandparents' place, and so you pulled in Bruce - offering him a break from his corporate duties, which he gladly agreed to.

"Wow, I did not realise my grandad hoarded so many things", you say, looking at the vast number of trinkets and boxes stacked along the walls on both sides of the attic. Each was well organised, with a label pasted on the top.

"Your grandad was a man of culture", Bruce chuckles, looking at the various band posters from the 40s and 50s. There were even autographs from some of them, neatly preserved.

Both of you got to work immediately, knowing it would be hours before everything was cleaned out. You had decided to split the work by concentrating on different ends of the triangular room.

Bruce had struck gold by ending up in the corner where your granddad had seemed to store much of the photo albums and cassettes, stacked on top of each other, labeled in detail about what the insides contained. It gave Bruce an insight to your family, a family from looking at the albums that had photos from back since your grandparents got married, having their daughter — your mother, to her getting married, and having you.

He had seen a lot of your photos since the early days of dating, but these were different. Your grandfather was an avid photographer, and Bruce could sense it through the varied angles and poses that he made everyone do.

"Having fun, huh?" you mumble, looking at Bruce as he suppresses a chuckle while looking at the pictures of you — a two-year-old, wearing a princess gown and a wand gripped tightly within your grubby fingers.

"You get stuck with the more fun part, while I have to dust some old documents", you grumble, looking at files and files of documents.

"Do you wanna exchange, sweetheart?"

"Nope," you say, emphasizing the 'p' as you shift to the next box, "Besides, I like hearing you laugh, even if it comes at the cost of my pictures"

An hour passes by.

You had finished four out of the twelve boxes. Heaving a sigh, you decide it's time for a well-deserved break. And what better to do than annoy your beautiful husband?

"Bruce, Brucie Wayne," you turn to look at him at the lack of any response "Bruce?"

Bruce doesn't answer, his broad back turned towards you. There is something different in the air from a few minutes ago, almost tinged with melancholic fragrance. You move towards, hoping to see what made him go so still, only to let out a gasp when you see it.

There you were, maybe five or six years old, wearing a large doctor's coat that reached well beyond your limbs, dragging onto the marble floor and a cute pink stethoscope around your neck. But that was not what made you gasp; it was the couple you were standing with in the photo.

Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Both of them were crouched next to you on either side. Thomas Wayne in his fitting black suit paired with a dark blue silk necktie embellished with motifs, while Martha Wayne wore a simple black silk dress paired with a blue plaid jacket.

There was a tiny piece of description below the photograph, a little shabby, like your grandpa wasn't sure what to write.

' Y/N & famous couple from Gotham (VHS #155)'

Bruce let out a laugh— loud but bittersweet. It made sense for your grandad to not know them, considering the only people he thought to be rich were the Queens.

You looked at Bruce, his eyes a little glazed as you cupped his face, fingers rubbing against the expanse of his cheek. Pressing a small kiss on his forehead, you whisper, "Shall we watch the VHS tape?"

He hums as you both try finding the exact tape among two hundred of them. Once retrieved, you dust the Toshiba VCR at the corner, pulling it slightly towards the center. You and Bruce try to get it to start since it probably hasn't been used in a while.

After a few minutes, the VCR lights up. Inserting the tape, you press play, and both of you stand back, Bruce's arm over your shoulder as you lay your head on his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.

The VCR displays a blue gradient before buzzing to a grainy film of you in a purple and pink frock , smiling widely at the camera. There's a lot of noise around you — people clapping , speeches being read as your grandad records the stage when Thomas Wayne was giving his speech. Bruce shifted a little, hand holding yours a little tighter, from hearing his father's voice after so many years.

The video then shifts to you, standing in front of the couple, wearing a pink stethoscope and a white coat a little too large for your frame. Martha Wayne smiles , a smile so radiant, before crouching down to her knees as she shakes your hand.

"Hi, there. What's your name?"

You say your name before letting out a giggle at her calling you beautiful.

"You want to be a doctor when you grow up?" She asks, hands pointing at the instrument hanging around your neck.

"Yes, ma'am. I want to be a heart doctor," you say, peering at the woman beside you. Thomas Wayne smiles before exchanging pleasantries with your grandfather.

"Oh, that's wonderful! You will be a great doctor one day, my dear."

And with that, the VHS comes to an end.

Bruce sniffles a little , his hands holding your waist, chin placed on top of your head. Silence fills the space along with the sounds of your nieces playing around the house. You don't know how long the both of you stayed like that, but it could have been forever, and you didn't mind at all.

Bruce is beyond happy. While it may not be visible to the naked eye, you could feel the joy emanating from the open crevices of grief and gaps of affection. He was happy that you —his wife, the love of his life — had met his parents. And they had gotten the chance to meet you.

Perhaps both of you really were soulmates.

A/N: Comments and Reblogs appreciated! Writing something for bruce after a long time.

you'd just arrived home from work, finding your crazy hot doctor of a boyfriend doing the dishes in the kitchen. he was sitting in that same plastic chair he always used, posted right in front of the sink. you'd previously questioned why he'd never let you take care of these kinds of chores, but he'd always dismiss your worries. if he had a day off, he'd catch up on whatever the two of you had missed throughout the week.

you notice crutches resting a couple feet away, resting against the countertop. walking over to stand behind him, you slowly slide your hands over his shoulders then down his chest. he lets out a shameless groan in response, clearly already in a teasing mood. he'd never say it out loud, but he got really bored at home all day without his girl. you lean over and press a gentle kiss to his stubbled cheek.

"there's my pretty lady. let me finish up here and then i'll give you a proper greeting, yeah?"

he smirks, bringing one of your hands up and kissing your knuckles. you nod and walk off toward the bedroom to get out of your work clothes. after a few minutes, you walk back into the hallway, spotting jack who was now resting on the couch. his legs were spread wide, as per usual, allowing your gaze to focus on the way his sweatpants hugged his meaty thighs.

"looks like you've been having fun without me, huh?"

you chuckle, plopping right down next to him and immediately snuggling into his side. his arm wraps around you snugly, hand finding its place on the side of your thigh. he gives it a gentle squeeze, looking over at you and admiring your gorgeous features.

"this place is empty without you, sweetheart."

he places a kiss to your forehead before pulling you in for a real one. his free hand gently caresses your cheek as his lips press against yours. he always had that way of making you melt in an instant. so damn domestic that it made you never want to walk out the front door for work again.

"how was work?"

he gently pulls you in closer even though there wasn't any room left between you. he reaches for the tv remote and scrolls through a couple streaming platforms before deciding on a show you two had already binge watched a couple months ago.

"same shit, different day. realizing once again that i don't get paid enough to deal with half of that bullshit."

he smirks against your hair, knowing how trying work could be for you, especially when others were in a bad mood. you were the first person they'd take it out on, but you have to take it so you won't get fired.

"sorry, baby... wish we could get you out of there."

"i just find it funny that only certain people are the problem, yet management still keeps them around. i've found more useful things on the bottom of my fucking shoe."

he was really trying to behave at this moment, but he couldn't deny how sexy it was to see this spitfire side of you. he just continues to rub circles into your thigh until he feels you relax in his hold. you pull out your phone and start scrolling through tiktok. jack would always end up watching them with you over your shoulder. tonight was no different as he adjusts you slightly to get a better view of your phone.

he watches as you slowly start to unwind from your long day, laughing at the stupidest videos he's ever seen. it wasn't until you scrolled onto a video where it was showing images of a golden retreiver and a black cat sat next to each other. the text in the video read us? (black cat x golden retriever in some ridiculously fancy font.

"what does that mean? us... but it's just a dog and a cat?"

he asks you curiously, causing you to giggle. he really was becoming more well-versed with shitty brainrot lingo, but there were just some trends you hadn't been able to introduce him to yet.

"well... it's kind of like this power duo or couple thing that people like."

he raises an eyebrow, still completely lost. you turn your head, taking in his expression and gently pat his thigh before continuing.

"golden retrievers are supposed to be super friendly and charming in a way... so they're meant to represent a person who has a warm personality."

he nods, listening intently because he was waiting for an excuse to make this relate to your relationship.

"black cats are more chill and laid back, they take a lot longer to warm up to people. so they basically represent a person who's a little more introverted."

"okay- i think i'm getting it. so it's like a duo where one is shy while the other is outgoing?"

you nod with a soft smile, almost able to hear the gears turning in your boyfriend's head.

"would we be one of those duos?"

he asks curiously, watching your face to gauge your reaction.

"ehh- i think we're more of a doberman and orange cat duo."

confusion spreads across his face once again, questioning if he even wants to ask what this duo is supposed to represent. one step ahead of him, you alread begin to explain.

"you're the doberman, protective and calm when it counts. i'm the orange cat, bit of a menace with too much energy, but still lovable."

he quickly nods in understanding, seeing how that pairing fits the two of you a bit better. he's now wearing a soft smile as he thinks about those random moments where you get bursts of energy and start talking a mile a minute or dancing to get the jitters out. he wouldn't trade you for the world, in fact, he really did find himself feeling extra protective over you when you had all that energy.

"lucky me, i managed to find a really cute and feisty kitty."

his overtly teasing words didn't register with you for a few seconds, but when they did, you couldn't help the way your face went beet red. jack feels you tense slightly in his arms, trying to examine your expression. he notices the furious blush on your face and the way you frantically swipe at your phone and try to distract yourself.

"... what's this about, huh?"

he smirks, pulling your phone out of your hands. you were already completely embarrassed at the fact that you were getting wet from being called 'kitty' of all things. but of course, jack never lets this last for long. he was going to get you to admit it one way or another.

"come on, sweetheart. just tell me."

he coos, pulling you into his lap. he helps you slot your thighs on either side of him, holding your hips as he gazed up into your eyes. you desperately try to look away, but a hand flies up to immediately grab your jaw. he turns your face back toward him, feeling himself get hard beneath you as he takes in your flustered face. you both knew jack was up for anything with his beautiful girl, but especially when it came to discovering something new that made you feel good.

he could tell just from your body language that you were damp in your panties, so his hand that was originally on your hip starts to move towards your front. you squirm as his hand gets closer to your aching center, which confirms his suspicions.

"tell me what's got you worked up and i'll touch you."

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, letting out a heavy sigh. you were seriously trying to get the words out, but you were flustered beyond belief. everything about the past minute, including the stupidly smug expression on your boyfriend's face causes you to choke on your words. he was trying to work with you, thinking of all the things that might have gotten you in this state. you can visibly recogize when the realization dawns on him.

"i see what's got my kitty so embarrassed now."

he gets an immense feeling of success as he watches you pratically writhe above him at his words. he wasn't really sure what you had to be embarrassed about, since it was just a little nickname that he'd absolutely make use of from now on.

"yeah? are you into that? being my good kitty?"

the sultry tone in his voice has you feeling ready to explode. now you just might as his hand finally slips past the hem of your sweatpants and starts to rub against your covered slit. you moan softly, hips buckling slightly against his hand. you look down at his face, his eyes are completely zeroed in on your expression. he hadn't seen you this worked up since the beginning of your relationship when he'd made you sit on his face for the first time.

"fucking beautiful when you get like this."

he groans, the sensations of you grinding against his hand also rubbing off on the growing tent in his pants. he removes his hand from your pants and helps you slide them off, tossing them to the side somewhere. his hands return to your hips, slowly but firmly grinding them against his own hips.

"you wanna show me? show me how worked up my kitty really is?"

you nod hesitantly before he lets go of your hips and lets you have free reign. you continue to grind against him on your own, hands resting on his shoulders for stability as you quicken the pace. his head tips back against the soft cushion of the couch, soft grunts coming out as he can feel a wet spot forming on his sweatpants.

"atta fucking girl... look at you."

he chuckles, lifting you off of his lap for a moment to get rid of his own pants. an idea comes to his head right before you can straddle him again. he rests a firm hand against your thigh, holding you in place.

"stand up for a second."

you shoot him a confused look, but nod and follow his directions anyway. you stand there, feeling a bit awkward and self-conscious as he... lays on his back on the couch. oh fuck... that only meant one thing. you start to protest as he grabs at your thighs to bring you closer.

"jack- i don't know if i can-

"sure you can. now come sit on my fucking face like a good kitty."

your knees wobble slightly as you reluctantly close the distance between the two of you. as soon as you're within enough reach, he's hoisting one of your legs over the side of his head. he was doing this for you whether you were ready to accept it or not. as soon as your steady, he's pulling you down, not willing to let you even attempt hovering. he plunges his tongue into your slick folds, lapping greedily at your generous amount of slick.

"fuck- you really do like this... you're soaked, baby."

he mumbles against your cunt, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he starts to suck on your clit. you were completely overwhelmed now, head falling back as uncontrolled moans rip from your throat. he starts to glide your hips back and forth, thighs twitching slightly every time your clit would graze the tip of his nose. you were already close, hands moving down to his salt and pepper curls, tugging harshly.

he loved every second of it, you falling apart on his face.

"taste so good... could eat you all night..."

every vibration from his voice got you closer and closer to the edge until you finally succumb to all the pleasure he could bring you with just his mouth. he groans against you as you come all over his face, slick coating him from his nose down to his chin. he doesn't stop licking until you're completely spent and threatening to toppple over.

as soon as his hands move, you scramble off of him. he chuckles as he watches you almost tumble to the floor. if it weren't for his stupidly sexy and big hands grabbing you, you would have eaten shit. he sits up against the couch, pulling you closer. leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your lower stomach, gazing up at you.

"don't have to be so shy about what you want, kitty."

he won't even try to hide the smirk this time as he drags you back into his lap. without a second to waste, he pulls his aching cock from his boxers and lines it up with your entrance. you wince as he lowers your hips just enough to where the tip is inside. for him, it wasn't so much the length as it was the girth that really stretched you out. he knew to take it easy on you when first starting out.

however, you seem to have other things in mind as you manage to wiggle your hips enough that he's completely bottomed out inside you within seconds. you moan loudly, and so does jack, as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your hips.

"so eager for this cock, aren't you?"

he loosens his grip ever so slightly as you start to take control. you're bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it. all he can do is sit there and watch the way pleasure makes your face contort in the most beautiful ways. he loved when you took what you wanted because it showed him that you were comfortable and really feeling good.

"what other dirty secrets is my kitty hiding from me, huh?"

he teases, feeling the way you clench around him at the nickname. if you thought that he was through with the teasing, you were dead wrong. suddenly, he's grabbing your hips and pressing you firmly against him so you couldn't move. you whimper in protest, trying desperately to move your hips in any way.

"don't worry, baby, i'll let you keep going. but i need you to tell me something first."

"please... i'm so close-"

you pant, your brows furrowed as you're forced to sit still. he doesn't miss the way your eyes are starting to glisten, so he knows that he'll get you to crack rather easily.

"i know, shh, i know. all you have to do is say that you're my good kitty and i'll let you ride this cock to your heart's content."

you squirm against him, the familiar flush creeping back up your body once again. you roll your eyes at him, which earns you a swat on the ass.

"i didn't say bad kitty, did i? because if you want to be a bad kitty, you're not coming anywhere near it."

you struggle against his hold for a few more seconds before finally giving in.

"i-i'm your good kitty..."

you mutter under your breath, which clearly wasn't good enough for jack as his grip tightens on your hips.

"say it like you fucking mean it."

"i'm your good kitty."

you say with a bit more volume, your voice breaking slightly as he rams his hips up into you. you moan loudly, gripping onto his arms.

"yeah, you are. such a good fucking kitty. now take what you want."

you don't hesitate, already back to bouncing on him as your eyes roll to the back of your head. your fucked out expression has jack realizing that he's close too. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close against him, lifting his hips to meet your own.

"that's it, baby. come on this fucking cock."

he grunts out, just barely holding back until you come undone around him. no more than two seconds later, he's coming too, shooting his load deep inside you with a ragged moan. he holds you close as you tremble from the aftershocks of your orgasm, panting against his shoulder.

"such a pretty kitty... you know how to take it, don't you?"

he smirks against your cheek, kissing it softly. you pull back, enough to meet his gaze with a slight frown.

"you're insufferable sometimes, babe."

"says the cutie that just fucked herself stupid on my cock."

filthy smug bastard and his even filthier words... fuck, you loved him.

a/n: HOLY FUCK??? i have never written anything quite like this before... in the meantime, i have seriously discovered something new about myself. wowowowowow, i need that old man so bad i might just explode. AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU SM FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <3333

taglist: @nyxmoretti @popecodysgirl @justreadinghere7 if you wanna join my taglist, click here!!

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

“Oh, wow,” she drew out slowly, head tilting as her gaze dragged over him, amused and a little too pleased with herself. “Look at you.”

Dennis didn’t look up. “What.”

She took a slow sip of her coffee,“Nothing, nothing… just you actually made an effort today.”

That made him, slightly confused and smartly wary, glance at her and for her her grin to widened.

“God, you even put cologne on,” she added, like she’d just uncovered something incriminating. “Can smell it from here.”

Dennis frowned faintly, like he hadn’t even realized. “I always use it”

Trinity gave him a look so disbelieving it was almost theatrical.

“No, you wear whatever deodorant survived the week and call it a day. This…” she waved vaguely in his direction. “is effort.”

He looked down at himself like maybe his clothes had betrayed him somehow. “It’s not effort.”

“Right,” she said dryly. “And I’m the patron saint of minding my own business.”

Dennis let out a quiet breathy laugh through his nose and reached for the coffee mug he’d left on the counter, taking a swallow mostly so he wouldn’t say anything stupid.

Unfortunately for him, Trinity Santos loved silence for the reason being, that it gave her room.

She pushed off the counter and went to pour herself more coffee,“So what exactly is broken over there?”

He shrugged and set the mug down. “Her sink, I think, she said the water’s not coming out right.”

“And of course,” she said, voice laced with mock admiration, “you became Katniss Everdeen.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, catching the reference. “Don’t start.”

“‘Don’t start,’” she mocked, “You mean the super hot rad tech who just happened to need help and you just happened to volunteer?”

“It’s just a broken thing.” he waved a hand, already wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“A thing,” Trinity echoed, nodding like that explained everything. “Got it.”

“Yeah, her sink.” He turned away from her, moving to rinse out his mug with a little more focus than necessary.

Her expression softened into something far too sweet, dangerously sweet. “And tell me, Huckleberry, you heading over there to fix her plumbing… or are you planning to service her pipes?”

He grimaced, a faint flush creeping up his neck despite himself, at the thought. “Seriously?”

“What?” Trinity let out a quiet laugh,“You practically set that one up yourself, and don’t act like the thought hasn’t crossed your mind. Because it definitely would’ve crossed mine.”

Dennis didn’t reply, mostly because he couldn’t, there wasn’t much he could say without giving himself away. The truth was, it had crossed his mind, more than once, different scenarios, different angles… more than he’d ever admit out loud, but he shut it down just as quickly every time.

For one, he’d been raised better than that and for another… it wasn’t something that would ever, in this god green earth, actually happen.

You were friends, that was what mattered.

Sure, maybe he had an itty bitty crush on you, small enough that he could almost lie to himself about it, but then again, who didn’t? Half the people in the Pitt would’ve lined up for a chance, and with the amount of options you had, with the way you could pretty much take your pick of anyone there, there was no world where it’d be him.

He just turned away, opening the cupboard to put his mug back while behind him, Santos kept going, because of course she did.

“You know, I’ve gotta say… I’m a little surprised.”

He nudged the cupboard shut, the wood clicking softly. “Yeah? About what?”

“I just figured if you weren’t on shift, you’d be back at that widow’s farm.” She gave a small shrug as she reached for the loaf of bread.

That made him slightly pause.

“I go out there to help Amy,” he said, turning toward her, the explanation coming out smooth, rehearsed from overuse. “You know that.”

“Mm,” Trinity hummed, like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “And now you’re helping Y/N. At her place, on your day off. Bright and early.”

Dennis exhaled quietly through his nose, like he could already see where this was going.

“It’s just a favor.”

“Just nice to see you branching out beyond farmerettes, Huckleberry.” Trinity said easily, not even looking up as she dragged a knifefull of butter across her toast

He shot her a look. “What does that even mean?”

She kept spreading the butter, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her mouth. “Means you’re diversifying your… charitable efforts.”

Dennis huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his jacket, tugging it on like he could physically remove himself from the conversation faster.

“I’ll be there, like, twenty minutes.”

“Right, right…” Trinity nodded, finally glancing up at him. “So should I expect you back before lunch, or are you planning to vanish into some kind of rendezvous bliss?”

“…you’re disgusting. Goodbye.” He grabbed his keys, already backing toward the door.

“Drive safe!” she called after him, completely ignoring that. “And take your time, no need to rush quality work.”

The door shut a second later.

Trinity chuckled and took another bite of her toast, pleased as anything.

“Oh, that boy is so not coming back soon.”

And for once, it wasn’t just her running her mouth for the sake of it.

She knew you well enough to remember the way you’d sit next to her as she wrote up some charts, a few weeks back, arms crossed, trying to sound casual while bringing him up.

“He’s just… nice,” you’d gone on, almost against your own will now at where Whitaker was with a patient, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Bit quiet, doesn’t get in your business, and he’s got that whole… farm boy thing going on and, I mean have you seen his hands? Gawd almighty, Santos, they’re rough, but not in a bad way, like he could fix anything, or...” you cut yourself off, but not before your mouth curved just slightly, “yknow, hold you down without even trying.”

All Trinity could do was stare at you as if you’ve grown a third head and started speaking in tongues “Ew”

“Doesn’t talk too much, but he listens, like he’s actually paying attention to you, doesn’t need to be loud about anything.” You’d tilted your head slightly then, like you were studying something only you could see. “…and there’s something about that whole rural thing.”

You were circling an idea, turning it over, testing it, considering it, a predator deciding if something was worth the chase.

“Right,” Trinity said slowly. “So what I’m hearing is you want to climb him like a tree.”

Boy, did you.

And now he was in your house, which somehow made all of it worse or better, mostly worse but definitely better.

Dennis had shown up not with your coffee order already in hand, your coffee order, exactly right, because months back you’d mentioned it once in passing and apparently he was the sort of man who just… remembered things like that.

He’d stood there at your door looking unfairly good in a plain shirt and jeans, holding the cup tray, all casual like this was no big deal.

As though he hadn’t just arrived armed with caffeine, competence, and that quietly helpful thing he did that made you want to see him shirtless and pantless.

You had insisted, no, flat-out refused to let him touch anything, until he ate something first.

“Sit,” you’d told him, already pushing a plate toward him.

“I’m here to fix your—”

“And you will,” you cut in, already halfway to the counter, “after you eat. I didn’t wake up early and bake for it to just sit there looking pretty.”

He’d tried to protest again, of course, a quiet, half-hearted “I’m fine, really—” that didn’t stand a chance against the look you gave him.

So he sat, and when he took that first bite of the jam spread croissant, and the sound he made, something almost like a groan slipping out before he could stop it, hit you straight to your core.

“Jesus,” he’d muttered, more to himself than to you, glancing down at it like he didn’t quite trust it. “That’s—”

“Good?” you’d offered.

He looked up at you then, with those big, sad, oh so tempting blue eyes.

“Yeah, really good.”

You had to physically turn away under the excuse of grabbing a napkin because otherwise you might’ve jump him right there.

Now, he was on his back under your sink, which in hindsight, that had been the easy part, because now, he was on his back under your sink.

You leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to look like you weren’t actively losing your mind.

He shifted slightly beneath the cabinet, one arm braced, the other working at something you couldn’t see.

“You’ve definitely got a clog in here,” he said, voice a little muffled. “Probably buildup.”

“Makes sense,” you replied automatically but had no idea what he was talking about because your attention was… elsewhere.

His shirt had ridden up to show a strip of skin at his stomach, the light dusting of hair, the way his jeans sat low on his hips as he shifted to reach further in, by the time you noticed the veins, you were shamelessly wet.

Your gaze traced details you absolutely had no business cataloguing, like the flex in his arm, the quiet strength in the way he worked.

Sooner rather than later, much to your disappointment, he was done.

There was a final twist of something under the sink, and then he shifted, sliding out from beneath the cabinet and pushing himself up in one smooth motion.

You had exactly half a second to compose yourself.

He turned the faucet on, letting the water run and watching it drain properly, then he glanced at you, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth as he stepped back and gestured toward it.

“All good. You’re set, my lady.”

You couldn’t help it, you smiled back, a soft little laugh slipping out of you. What a geek.

“Thank you, Dennis…”

He shrugged it off like it was nothing, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, no problem.” after a beat, he added, a little more earnest, “I mean it—if you need anything else, just let me know.”

That was the opening you needed.

You hesitated for half a second, just enough to make it seem natural and said, glancing toward the living room like the idea had just occurred to you. “Well… since you’re already here…”

He followed your gaze, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

“Do you think you could help me set up my TV stand? I’ve been trying, but—” you let out a small breath, gesturing vaguely, “—it’s just not happening.”

Dennis huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little like he’d expected something like this.

“Yeah, I can take a look.”

“Thank you,” you said, already stepping back to give him space, gesturing for him to follow. “It’s in here.”

You led him into the living room, where the box and scattered parts sat waiting.

“Okay, I got… this far.”you said, pointing at the half-assembled stand.

Dennis took one look at it and huffed a quiet laugh under his breath.

“Yeah,” he said, setting his toolbox down, already crouching beside it. “I can see the problem.”

You crossed your arms, mock-offended, though there was a hint of embarrassment tucked into it. “Hey, I followed the instructions.”

“I’m sure you did,” he said, glancing up at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “They just didn’t do you any favors, huh?”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “Not even a little.”

He shook his head, reaching for a piece, turning it over in his hands with that same easy focus he’d had in the kitchen.

“Alright, let’s fix it.” he said easy, looking over at you with a grin.

And God, you had to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.

It should not have been this attractive, the whole capable-man-putting-things-together thing, and yet here you were, standing in your own living room trying not to stare at his hands again.

He worked with this quiet, steady focus, the same one he has at the hospital, like everything else fell away when he was doing something with purpose.

You were faintly aware he was talking, something about which piece went where, or why you thought the instructions were “backwards” but it all blurred into background noise.

“Yeah,” you murmured at one point.

“Mhm,” at another.

Not a single coherent thought behind it because all you could really register was;

I'm going to fuck his brains out.

You gazed as he leaned forward slightly, muscles in his forearms tightening as he adjusted something into place, voice dropping as he muttered under his breath, focused.

There was a faint sheen of sweat starting to gather at his temples, just enough to darken the edges of his hair where it curled slightly at the nape of his nec—

“Alright,” he said, giving the stand a small test push to make sure it was steady. “That should do it.”

You blinked, having been snapped out of your sightseeing.

“Oh—already?” you said, a little too quick.

He glanced at you, faintly amused. “Yeah. Wasn’t too bad.”

Course he made it look easy.

Then he stepped over toward the TV without hesitation, hands settling at either side like he’d done this a hundred times before and with one smooth motion, he lifted it and turned, placing it carefully onto the stand.

Your attention shifted to his back.

The stretch of his shirt across his shoulders, the way the fabric pulled just slightly with the movement, the subtle shift of muscle underneath as he adjusted the TV into place, making sure it sat just right.

You exhaled slowly, trying very hard to act like you were not noticing any of that.

“Good?” he asked, stepping back slightly, eyes flicking toward you.

You blinked again, dragging your gaze up to his face like you hadn’t just been staring.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect,” you said, a small grin slipping through despite yourself as you gestured beside you. “Come take a look yourself.”

Dennis stepped closer, brushing past you just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne again. He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the TV, checking the alignment, one hand coming up to adjust it just a fraction.

He nodded after a second, satisfied. “That should hold just fine.”

“Yeah… looks so good,” you nodded, though your attention wasn’t really on the TV anymore.

Neither of you moved right away, until he stepped back first, putting just enough space between you to make it noticeable. He cleared his throat lightly, like he was shaking something off.

“Well,” he said, glancing around, “sink’s fixed, TV’s up… think that’s everything.”

You frowned a little, tilting your head as you looked up at him, something softer slipping into your expression. “Thank you, Dennis. Really, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

He chuckled under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, the other resting on his hip, just a little awkward now in a way he hadn’t been before.

“You would’ve figured it out,” he said easily, though there was a hint of something warmer in his tone. “Or called someone who charges way too much for it.”

You huffed a small laugh, but kept your eyes on him . “Yeah, well… I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Anytime." He nodded once, almost to himself.

You shifted your weight, turning to face him properly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’ll have to repay you somehow.”

His brows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging just enough to make you wetter than ever. He still looked a little unaware of the full effect he was having on you, which, honestly, only made him more delicious.

“You already fed me,” he said with a grin, like that should settle it.

You shook your head slowly and took a small step toward him.“That doesn’t count.”

Dennis blinked, grin slowly fading, a little thrown now, like he hadn’t expected you to push back. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, holding his gaze now, a bit more seductively than before. “That was just me being a good host.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything and just looked at you.

It was subtle, but you saw the moment he processed what you were trying to do, the shift in his expression, the way his attention sharpened and he straightened, like he was finally catching up to something that had been there for a while now.

“Oh,” he said after a beat, quiet.

You smirked lightly at that and took another step, now in his personal space.

“How about dinner?” you said, voice easy but edged with something a little more deliberate now. “We can start with dessert, if you want.”

Dennis flushed and let out a soft breath through his nose, one hand settling at his hip while the other flexed once at his side, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

“You— er you don’t gotta repay me,” he said, though his voice had gone lower now, less certain than before. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

You stepped in closer, up onto your tiptoes, just enough to close the space between you, your voice dropping to something lustful and meant only for him.

“Maybe not to you.”

He stilled and you shifted just slightly, your hand lifting, a single finger brushing under his chin, guiding his gaze back to yours, lips hovered just a breath away from his.

“So? Do you want dessert?” you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Dennis’s blue eyes dropped to your lips for a second, then back to your eyes. He swallowed, visibly, and when he answered it came out low and a little rougher than before.

“Yeah.”

A small, satisfied grin tugged at your mouth.

“Good,” you whispered, letting your lips barely brush his, enough to feel the warmth of him, enough to make him tremble. “I’d have felt terrible if I couldn’t show you just how appreciative I am.”

Your lips where on his.

A shudder ran through Dennis's entire body, a full-body tremor of pure shock and want. He was holding his breath, you realized, his whole body coiled with a tension that was equal parts nerves and raw arousal.

You took control instantly, your mouth moving against his with practiced ease, tongue tracing the seam of his lips, coaxing him to open up, to relax. He followed your lead blindly, a soft, choked sound escaping his throat as you deepened the kiss, teaching him with your tongue, showing him how to move, how to breathe and boy was he a fast learner, perhaps a bit too fast and eager.

It was like a desperate, clumsy energy took over, making him kiss you back with a force that was more enthusiasm than skill, his mouth moving against yours with an almost frantic need.

It was all tongue and teeth and pressure, a messy, hungry kiss that sent a thrill straight through you.

One hand flew up to cup the back of your head, pressing you to him, and the other hand, after a moment of awkward hovering, landed flat and awkward against your ribs.

You grinned against his lips, a silent, wicked acknowledgment of his fumbling earnestness.

Your own hand, which had been resting at the nape of his neck, slid down to find his, were they were still stiff against your ribs, radiating a nervous heat. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, feeling the frantic pulse beating just beneath his skin.

He let out a sharp, shaky breath against your mouth as you began to move his hand slowly and deliberately, guiding his palm down the curve of your side, over the dip of your waist.

His touch was light, hesitant, but he didn't resist, and you pressed his hand lower, over the swell of your hip, until his fingers were splayed across the flesh of your ass.

A choked sound, half-gasp, half-groan, rumbled in his chest.

His fingers, which had been so uncertain moments before, suddenly dug in, gripping you with a desperate, possessive force that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you.

He pulled you even harder against him, and you could feel the thick, hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a pure, instinctual need to claim.

You broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to see his face.

His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy with lust, his mouth slightly pink and parted as he stared down at you. He looked utterly wrecked, and you'd barely even started.

"Breathe, Dennis," you murmured, a small, satisfied smirk playing on your mouth.

"Right," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Sorry."

"Don't be," you purred, nipping at his lower lip.

Your hand moved with a slow, deliberate confidence, sliding down the firm plane of his stomach and your fingers pressing directly against the hard ridge straining against the denim of his jeans.

Dennis's entire body went rigid, and a sharp, choked gasp was torn from his throat, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open in a silent 'o' of pure shock.

You smirked, your thumb pressing down, rubbing a slow, firm circle right over the head of his cock through the fabric, but this is not what you want to do now.

You gave him a chaste kiss before gently pushing against his chest making him stumbled back a step, eyes widening slightly in surprise before he caught himself, his legs hitting the edge of the couch.

He sat down heavily, his gaze locked on you, looking up with an expression that was a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated hunger.

You stood looking at him like a predator admiring its prey, a slow, deliberate smirk spread across your hands moved as you slipped the dress off your shoulders.

The same dress you had absolutely not chosen with this exact outcome in mind. Not at all.

It fell away easily, pooling at your feet, and for a second you just stood there, letting him look.

His mouth fell slightly agape as he took you in, standing before him in nothing but your pretty lace panties. The flush on his neck and cheeks deepened to a dark red, his gaze roaming over your body like he was trying to memorize every single inch.

He shifted on the couch, his hands gripping his own thighs, knuckles white.

You took a step forward until you were standing directly between his spread knees and looked down at him.

"Comfortable?" you asked, your voice a low purr.

He could only manage a shaky nod, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Good," you murmured, placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning down, bringing your face close to his, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Because the real dessert is about to be served."

In one fluid, graceful motion, you sank to your knees on the floor between his legs, which made his breath catch in his throat. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw, unfiltered lust.

With your eyes on him, your hands moved to his belt, the buckle clinking softly in the charged silence, you made quick work of it, then popped the button of his jeans.

His hips lifted instinctively, a desperate, needy motion, and you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, pulling them both down in one smooth tug.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.

It was a beautiful thing, and the low, guttural groan that escaped Dennis's lips as the cool air hit him was music to your ears.

You looked up at him again, holding his gaze as you wrapped your hand around his hard, leaking cock. His eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat as you began to stroke him slowly, your thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the sensitive head. His hips jerked, a helpless, needy motion, and a low groan rumbled in his chest.

"This okay?" you asked, your voice a low, husky murmur.

He stared down at you with his mouth slightly parted and for a moment he seemed incapable of forming words, his mind completely consumed by the slow, deliberate movements of your hand.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Y-yeah," he finally managed to choke out, the word a strangled, breathless sound. "Fuck, yes, more than okay."

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips, your hand never ceasing its slow, torturous movements as you purred, "I'm just getting started."

You then leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, and his entire body tensed, one of his hands gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white, and the other was in your hair. You held his gaze, your eyes dark and full of promise, as you slowly, deliberately, swirled your tongue around the tip.

A choked sob of pleasure escaped his lips, his head falling back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut. He was completely at your mercy.

"Fuck!" The word was torn from Dennis's throat, his entire body arching off the couch.

You set a punishing rhythm, your head bobbing, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of his shaft. You took him deep, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallowed around him.

The sound he made was pure, unadulterated ecstasy, a choked sob of pleasure that vibrated through his entire body.

He was completely at your mercy, his experience no match for your expertise. You were in control, and you were going to make sure he never forgot this.

You gave him a few pumps with your hand while you suck on the tip, could feel him getting closer, the frantic twitching of his hips, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, his breaths were coming in short, sharp pants, and then he started begging, his voice a ragged, desperate mess.

"Wait— fuck... I need... I need—" he gasped, his hips bucking wildly. "Please..."

You pulled back, just enough to let him breathe, but your hand never stopped its firm, rhythmic stroking. You looked up at him, a wicked smirk on your face, a thin string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock.

"Yeah, baby? What do you need?" you purred, your voice husky.

He groaned, his head thrown back against the couch as he fought for coherence. His eyes, dark and wild, found yours, and he gritted out the one word he could manage. "You."

Your smirk widened because that was the answer you wanted.

You leaned in and gave him one last, hard suck, a final, teasing taste that made his whole body jolt, before you rose gracefully to your feet.

You stood over him like a goddess of sex and satisfaction, and looked down at the disheveled, beautiful man you had just unraveled.

"Pull them down for me," you commanded softly, your gaze dropping to the scrap of lace covering your pussy.

He nodded, his movements clumsy with renewed urgency. He leaned forward, his hands shaking slightly as they hooked into the waistband of your panties, but instead of just pulling them down, he surprised you as he pressed his lips to your stomach, then lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your hipbone, down your thigh, as he slowly, reverently, peeled the lace from your body.

Once they were down around your ankles, you expected to take control again, to push him back and show him what came next, but you didn't get the chance because to your utter shock, Dennis took charge.

A raw, primal instinct seemed to take over.

He grabbed one of your legs, his grip firm and swung it over his shoulder, and before you could even process the sudden shift in power, he dipped his head and buried his face between your thighs.

The first swipe of his tongue was clumsy, but it was electric. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

Dennis was a man possessed, licking and sucking with a desperate, hungry enthusiasm that was both messy and utterly divine. He was plainly inexperienced, yes, but he was an eager participant, his movements becoming more confident, more targeted, as he listened to the sounds you made, as he felt the way your body responded.

Your fingers tangled in the messy strands of his hair to hold him closer, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as a soft, breathless whimper slipped past your lips when he found a spot that made your knees shake. 

His grip on your hips tightened, knuckles white with the effort of keeping you steady as he lost himself in the taste of you, his low moans vibrating against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine made your head fall back. 

Dennis pulled back for a split second, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger and a flicker of uncertainty. 

"Am doing this right… right?" He panted, voice rough with need as he turned his face to kiss your leg.

You nodded quickly, thumb brushing over his flushed cheek. 

"Yes, just keep going, baby," you whispered, voice thick with desire.

That was all he needed to hear. Dennis dove back in, his movements got bolder, he licked a slow stripe up your slit, then pushed his tongue inside you, making you cry out and for your free leg to wobble beneath you.

You could feel the heat coiling in your lower stomach, building faster now. 

Your free leg started to shake again as his fingers dug into the meat of your thigh draped over his shoulder and his other hand splayed across your lower back to yank you closer, holding you firmly in place as he worked you toward the edge.

When you finally tipped over the edge, right after another deep, rumbling moan of his vibrated up through your core, spurred on by your desperate whimpers and the way you fisted his hair to yank him closer, your body seized tight. 

A ragged, broken cry tore from your throat, but he didn’t let up, no, Dennis kept licking and sucking, relentless, until you were weakly pushing at his shoulders, overstimulated to the point of trembling but still aching for more of him.

Only when you finally pleaded his name did he pull back. His lips were slick, his breath hot, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark, and still hungry.

“You taste so good,” Dennis murmured, voice rough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then nipped gently, making you shiver. “Can I do that again?”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh and shifted forward to straddle him, his hard dick was grazing your slick folds as you leaned down to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth while your fingers threaded into his hair.

After a beat, his hands found your ass again, gripping like he couldn’t help himself. 

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze and whispered, “Maybe on round two. Right now, I need you inside me.”

You rose a few inches, guided him to your entrance, and then dropped down on him in one smooth motion. Dennis hands tightening on your hips as the stretch made you both brake at once, his guttural groan mixing with your breathless moan as pleasure lit up your whole body. 

"Fuck, Dennis," you breathed, rolling your hips experimentally, feeling him throb inside you. "You feel so good, so… fucking… big."

His eyes fluttered shut for a second, his grip on your ass tightening almost painfully.

 "God, you're perfect," he groaned, his voice wrecked.

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear as you started to move, slow, deliberate grinds that had him panting beneath you. 

"You like that, baby?" you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. "You like feeling how wet I am for you? How perfectly you fill me up?”

He nodded frantically, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "Yes—fuck, yes," 

You picked up the pace, riding him harder now,

"I've been thinking about this all day," you moaned, head falling back as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Thinking about how good your cock would feel inside me, how you'd stretch me open and make me scream your name."

"Please," he whimpered, and the sound of him begging made you clench around him. "Please don't stop."

"I'm not stopping until you fill me up, Dennis," you purred, grinding down hard. "Not until I feel you come inside me."

Dennis moaned loudly, his head falling back against the couch, and the sight of him, completely undone beneath you, drove you absolutely crazy.

"Look at you," you gasped, rolling your hips harder, chasing that delicious friction. "Bet you’ve never… you’ve never been with a girl like me, huh?”

His fingers dug into your hips, his breathing ragged, and you could feel him twitching inside you, close, but not quite there yet. 

Then, to your surprise, he suddenly shifted. 

His hands gripped your waist and he hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing, making you yelp as he maneuvered you both. In one smooth motion he had you on your back on the couch, your legs falling open as he settled between them.

He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside, and the sight of him, chest heaving, muscles taut, eyes dark with need, made your mouth go dry.

"My turn," he growled, and then he was pushing back inside you, deeper this time, the new angle making you cry out.

"Oh fuck—Dennis!" you moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he started to move. "Yes, just like that! don't stop, please don't stop."

He set a relentless pace, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you as he panted against your neck. "You feel so fuck-ing good, honey… S-so perfect."

You moaned, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper. 

"God, yes, fuck me harder, Dennis, I want to feel you for days." Your back was arching off the couch. 

He groaned at your words, and you felt his rhythm falter for just a second before he found it again, harder this time, more desperate. His grip on your hips tightened like he was holding on for dear life, and the intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

"You're so—fuck," he panted, the words breaking apart as he thrust into you. 

He wasn't smooth about it, but god, the raw need in every movement made it even hotter.

"You feel so good inside me," you whimpered, nails dragging down his back. "So fucking good, Dennis, please don't stop, baby.”

His breath hitched and he buried his face in your neck, his hips snapping forward again and again. You could feel him trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself together.

Your hand slipped between your bodies to touch yourself, and the moment your fingers found your clit, you clenched hard around him.

"Oh—oh fuck," he gasped against your skin, his whole body shuddering. "You're—I can feel—"

"I'm so close, keep going, just like that—" you moaned which only intensified when he bit you. 

It took three more thrusts for you to come, and when you did, it hit you like a tidal wave. 

You went silent but your whole body was seizing up as pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching tight around him.

The second you did, you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make you gasp, as he came with a muffled, desperate groan against your skin. His hips stuttered, grinding deep as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

"Oh shii—oh fuck," he panted against your neck, his grip on you bruising as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.

You were both trembling, breathless, tangled together on the couch. Your legs were still wrapped around him, holding him close as the aftershocks rolled through you both.

"Holy shit," you breathed, your fingers threading through his hair, still trying to catch your breath. 

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face flushed and his eyes still glazed with pleasure. 

"Yeah, that was... fucking incredible," he breathed.

He leaned down to kiss you, soft at first, then deeper, and you returned it eagerly, a breathless laugh escaping against his lips as you pulled him closer, letting his weight settle onto you. 

"Damn right," you murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns down his spine. "How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow and face everyone when I know exactly how you feel inside me?"

His eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the exertion.

Dennis groaned, half-laughing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "Oh, don't—I'm never going to be able to focus during rounds now."

"Wonderful," you teased, nipping at his earlobe. "Every time you see me at work, I want you to think about this. About how good you felt buried inside me."

He shuddered against you, his arms tightening around your waist. "You're going to kill me, I'll be trying to read X-rays, and all I'll be able to think about is—"

"Me riding you on my couch?" you finished with a wicked grin.

"Exactly that," he admitted, lifting his head to meet your eyes. The flush on his cheeks deepened. "I'm so screwed."

You laughed, reaching up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Yeah well, at least you'll be able to walk normally tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be feeling this for the next week."

Dennis's eyes widened slightly, a mix of pride and concern flickering across his face. "Is that—I mean, are you okay? I didn't—"

"I'm okay," you assured him, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

"I.. uh, I might've... left a mark," he mumbled, glancing at your shoulder. 

You turned your head to look, catching a glimpse of the reddened impression of his teeth on your skin and a slow smile spread across your face. 

"I don’t mind," you said, meeting his gaze again. "Now I'll really have something to remember this by."

His breath caught, and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" You laughed softly, tracing your fingers down his back. "Dennis, that was hot as hell. Who would've thought you're a biter?"

He huffed a laugh and buried his face against your neck again, carefully avoiding the bite mark this time. "I can't believe we just did that."

You shrugged, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. "I didn't see today ending any other way. I knew I was going to fuck you since you gave me your last Reese’s pieces."

Dennis lifted his head to stare at you, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Seriously? But that was months ago!"

"Yep," you grinned, running your hands through his hair. "You gave me your last piece of candy without even hesitating. I knew right then I was going to end up in bed with you eventually.

He laughed, shaking his head in amazement. "All this time... over chocolate?"

"Believe it," you said, stretching slightly beneath him and wincing at the pleasant ache. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could really use a shower. Want to join me? Maybe after, I can actually make us some lunch.”

"That sounds perfect actually," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Good," you smiled at him before reluctantly starting to shift. "But fair warning, I might need help standing up."

Extra:

By the time Dennis walked into the apartment, it was pushing 9pm.

He tried to be quiet about it, keys set down gently, door eased shut instead of slammed, but he really should’ve known better.

Trinity was in the living room, curled up on the couch with takeout spread out in front of her, TV flickering lazily in the background. Her eyes slid over to him the second he stepped in.

She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, taking in the slightly rumpled clothes, the faint flush still clinging to his neck, the general vibe of a man who had not, in fact, spent “twenty minutes fixing a sink.”

She hummed, deeply smug. “Must’ve been one hell of a sink.”

“Oh, shut up.”

A/N: