Chènelle

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for your pulse to pick up again, for your awareness to sharpen.

Then, without looking at you, Emily's mouth curves slightly. “You’re welcome.”

But there’s something in it, something that lingers. Something that settles low in your stomach, heavy and just a little unsettling. For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the storm and the steady hum of the engine, the soft creak of leather when you shift ever so slightly in your seat.

Then the radio crackles. “…reports of multiple obstructions on Route…fallen trees… drivers are advised to–”

Emily exhales quietly through her nose, one hand adjusting the volume just enough to make the words clearer before lowering it again. “Looks like we’re not the only ones having a difficult evening,” she murmurs.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the road ahead, followed almost immediately by the low, rolling growl of thunder that seems to vibrate through the frame of the car itself. You glance out the window, watching the storm lash against the glass, and for the first time since you left the building, the reality of it settles in.

“Okay,” you admit quietly. “Maybe it’s not just a little bit of rain.”

That earns you a soft, amused sound. “Mhm, I told you”, she hums, finally glancing at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Heat creeps up your neck. “I didn’t think it would get this bad.”

“Most people don’t,” she says lightly, turning the wheel with smooth precision as she slows near an intersection, headlights catching on something ahead. “Storms like this have a habit of escalating.”

You follow her gaze. A cluster of hazard lights flickers in the distance, cars backed up along the road. As you get closer, you can make out the shape of it, a large tree has fallen across the lane, branches stretching wide enough to block most of the path.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” she mutters, already signaling as she begins to turn. “We’re not going that way.”

The car shifts smoothly onto a side street, tires hissing softly against the wet asphalt. The route is unfamiliar, narrower, the streetlights fewer and farther between, casting long shadows that stretch and disappear in the storm.

“This is going to take longer, isn’t it?” you ask.

“A little,” she admits.

The word settles into the quiet between you, stretching out along with the road ahead as she guides the car deeper into unfamiliar streets, the storm pressing in from all sides. Water snakes along the edges of the asphalt, reflecting the dim streetlights in broken, wavering lines. The steady rhythm of the wipers becomes almost hypnotic.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Never quite keeping up but never stopping either.

You shift slightly in your seat, rolling one shoulder back as a faint ache makes itself known, the kind that comes from sitting too long, from a day that started too early and never really slowed down. You hadn’t noticed it before, not during the lecture, not while walking through campus but now in the quiet warmth of the car, it begins to settle in.

Your body feels… heavy. Not unpleasantly so, just tired.

You sink a little further into the seat without meaning to, your grip on your own posture loosening as the tension you’ve been carrying all day slowly unwinds. The warmth inside the car doesn’t help, it wraps around you - a stark contrast to the storm outside. Your hands rest more loosely in your lap now, fingers no longer curled tight, your shoulders dropping just a fraction.

You glance out the window, watching the rain streak across the glass, your focus drifting slightly as the world outside blurs into shifting shapes and lights. Your eyelids feel a little heavier than they did before, your thoughts not quite as sharp, slipping more easily between one thing and the next.

You blink slowly, then straighten just a touch, as if catching yourself. “Sorry,” you murmur under your breath, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re apologizing for.

Emily glances at you briefly, one brow lifting. “For what?”

You shake your head, exhaling softly. “Nothing. Just… long day.”

“Mhm,” she hums, like she understands that without needing anything more.

The car turns again, tires gliding over the slick road as she adjusts the route without hesitation, her movements still precise, still controlled. Outside, another flash of lightning cuts through the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder that seems to echo a little longer this time.

You shift again, settling back despite yourself, your head resting a little more fully against the seat now.

Your body feels the weight of the day. The lectures, the storm and the constnt awareness you’ve been carrying since you stepped into this car, it all starts to blur together at the edges, fading just slightly as the steady rhythm around you takes over.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

The wipers. The quiet hum of the engine. The rain. Emily.

You blink again, slower this time.

Emily drives in silence for a while, her focus steady on the road as she navigates another turn, adjusting smoothly to the unfamiliar route. There’s something grounding in the way she drives, controlled like nothing could truly throw her off balance, not even this.

You find yourself watching her for a moment. The way her hands move, one guiding the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping lightly in that same quiet rhythm. The soft shadows shifting across her face as streetlights pass overhead. The faint crease between her brows when the rain comes down harder, her attention narrowing just slightly.

Safe. The thought slips in unexpectedly.

You feel safe.

It’s a strange contrast to everything else you’ve been feeling: nervous, aware, tired and unsettled in a way you can’t quite define. And yet, beneath all of that, there’s this quiet certainty that settles deeper than the rest.

You let out a slow breath, your head tipping back slightly against the seat. Outside, the storm continues. Inside, the warmth wraps around you, soft and steady, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers becoming almost hypnotic.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Your eyelids grow heavier before you even realize it. You blink once. Twice. Try to refocus on the road ahead, on the shifting lights and shadows beyond the glass. But it’s harder now. The sounds blur together. Your thoughts drift, untethered, slipping between fragments of the lecture, the storm, the memory of her voice, the warmth of the car.

You don’t notice when your breathing evens out. Don’t notice the exact moment your body gives in. It’s gradual, subtle even. Your head tilts, just slightly at first, your posture loosening as the tension you’ve been holding onto all evening quietly dissolves. Your fingers slacken in your lap, your shoulders sinking further into the seat.

And then it happens without you noticing it at all. One moment you’re watching the rain smear itself across the glass, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and unfocused, and the next… there’s nothing holding you up anymore. The quiet, the warmth, the steady rhythm of the drive, it all folds in around you, gentle and insistent, until your body simply gives in.

Your head tilts, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, before it settles against the side of the seat.

Still. Your breathing evens out. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders, in the careful way you held yourself around her – it slips away completely, leaving something softer behind.

Emily notices immediately. At first, it’s just a quick instinctive glance, the kind that comes with habit. But then it lingers. Her eyes move over you more slowly this time, taking in the shift in your posture, the way your body has relaxed into the seat, the faint parting of your lips as your breathing deepens.

You look… different. Smaller, somehow. The sharpness that had been there before – the awareness, the nervous energy – it’s gone. What’s left is something quieter. Softer. Vulnerable.

Her grip on the wheel loosens just slightly. For a moment, she says nothing, does nothing… just watches, the storm outside momentarily fading into the background of her attention.

Then the light ahead turns red. The car slows, rolling to a smooth stop, the engine humming steadily beneath the sound of rain hammering against the roof.

And now she has time. Her gaze shifts fully to you, unhurried and unobstructed.

She takes you in properly. The way your head has fallen to the side, resting against the seat. The line of your neck, relaxed now. The faint rise and fall of your chest. The way your hands rest loosely in your lap, fingers no longer curled in that tight, nervous hold she’d noticed earlier.

There’s something about it. Something that makes her expresssion soften slightly. Without thinking too much about it, she reaches back with one hand, her movements quiet, careful as she leans just enough to grab her jacket from the back seat. The fabric shifts softly under her fingers before she pulls it forward again, her attention flicking briefly to the road, then back to you.

She hesitates for half a second. It’s barely anything, just a pause in movement, but it’s there. Then she drapes the jacket over your lap. The motion is simple. Practical. Something anyone would do, something she should do. A small act of care, nothing more.

And yet…her fingers brush against your bare thigh in the process. The contact sends something sharp and immediate through her, a quiet jolt that has nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with awareness. She stills before she can stop herself, her hand lingering there for just a fraction too long, long enough to feel it. Your warm skin.

Her breath shifts, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze drops without permission, drawn to the point of contact, to the way the fabric of your skirt rests just above where her fingers had been, to the smooth line of your leg beneath it. There’s nothing provocative about it, not intentionally, but in this moment, in this quiet, it feels like too much.

Too close. Too easy.

Something tightens in her chest, because you don’t react. You can’t. You’re asleep. Your head tipped to the side, your body relaxed in a way she hasn’t seen before, unguarded and completely at ease in a space that is, whether you realize it or not, entirely under her control.

And that does something to her.

Because she’s seen the other side of you. The way you hold yourself in her presence; just a little too aware, a little too careful. The nervous energy, the way your words sometimes come out a second too fast, like you’re trying to keep up, to match her, to not fall behind. The way you watch her, like you’re trying to read something you don’t fully understand yet.

And still, you fell asleep here. In her car, next to her.

That realization settles differently, heavier. Because beneath all that nervousness, all that awareness… there’s trust. You feel safe enough to let go.

And for a moment, that pulls at her in a way she didn’t expect, something softer threading through the tension, something that sits alongside it instead of replacing it.

It makes the space between you feel even more fragile.

More dangerous.

Because now it’s not just about what she wants.

It’s about what you’re giving her without even realizing it.

Emily’s eyes drop back to where her hand still rests against your thigh. A thought slips in, quiet and uninvited. You feel so soft.

Her fingers twitch slightly against your skin, like they want to move, to trace, to test the shape of something she has no business touching. The urge is sudden and unwelcome, not crude, not careless, but something deeper. A pull. A curiosity sharpened by proximity and restraint.

She imagines, just for a second what it would feel like to let her hand stay there, to let it slide, just slightly higher.

To feel…

Her jaw tightens. The thought cuts off as quickly as it came, her hand withdraws. Control. Always control. She leans back into her seat, her posture resetting, her fingers curling briefly against her palm before settling back onto the steering wheel. The red light ahead shifts to green, the world outside demanding her attention again, giving her something else to focus on.

Something safer.

She exhales slowly, steadying herself in a way no one else would notice. Because on the outside nothing has changed. Her expression is composed. Her movements precise. Her focus exactly where it should be.

But inside… something lingers. A quiet tension beneath the surface, a line she is very aware of. And how easily, just now, she almost stepped over it.

The car moves forward again, headlights cutting through the storm, the rain relentless against the glass.

Outside, the world is chaos.

Inside…

You sleep. And she drives.

You don’t wake up all at once. It happens slowly, like being pulled up through water, awareness returning in fragments before it fully settles into something coherent. First, there’s warmth. Not the steady, contained warmth of the car, but something softer, more still. Then quiet… too quiet. No rhythmic sweep of wipers, no muted roar of rain against glass.

Your brow furrows faintly as consciousness catches up. Something feels… off.

You shift slightly, the movement small and sluggish, your body still heavy with sleep. The seat beneath you is different; angled back just a little more than before and something soft rests over your lap.

A jacket.

Something shifts near you. A presence. And then you feel it, a gentle and careful touch. Fingers brushing lightly against your temple, sweeping a loose strand of hair away from your face with a softness that feels almost deliberate in how restrained it is.

“Wake up, sweetheart.” Her voice is close, closer than before.

Your eyes open, heavy with sleep, vision blurred at first as you try to make sense of where you are. Shapes come into focus slowly; the dim overhead light, the shadowed interior of the car, the faint outline of concrete walls beyond…

A garage.

The passenger door is open. And she’s standing there. Emily leans slightly toward you, one hand resting against the frame of the car, the other just pulling back from your face like she hadn’t meant to linger there quite as long as she did. Her expression is calm, composed, but her attention is entirely on you.

Watching. Waiting.

You blink at her, disoriented, your thoughts still catching up. “I…” Your voice comes out rough, softer than intended. You clear your throat, trying again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Fall asleep?” she finishes lightly.

You nod, a little too quickly, pushing yourself more upright, the movement still slow with lingering drowsiness. “Yeah. I just…today was–”

“Long,” she supplies, a faint curve at the corner of her mouth.

You exhale, relieved at the ease in her tone, at how normal she makes it sound. “Yeah.”

Your gaze drifts past her then, drawn by instinct, taking in the space beyond the open door more fully this time, the concrete floor and walls, the dim lighting, the unmistakable structure of a private garage.

Your stomach dips.

“This isn’t…” you start, your voice quieter now as you look back at her. “Where are we?”

There’s the smallest pause, so brief it almost doesn’t exist.

But then: “My place,” she says. It’s delivered simply, almost casually, like it doesn’t carry the weight it immediately drops into your chest. Her tone is measured, controlled like she’s stating a fact, not something that changes the entire situation in an instant.

But it does.

Your breath catches before you can stop it, the reaction small but undeniable. “Oh.”

It’s not enough, that word. It doesn’t cover the sudden awareness settling over you, the way your thoughts seem to sharpen all at once, cutting through the last remnants of sleep. You shift slightly in your seat, the jacket slipping just a little across your lap as your body readjusts, no longer soft and half-asleep but alert now, present and uncertain in a way you can’t quite name.

“I thought–” you start, then hesitate, your brow pulling together as you try to make sense of it. “I thought we were…”

“Heading to your apartment,” she finishes for you again, her voice still calm, still even, like she’s already anticipated the question.

You nod slowly.

She straightens a fraction, just enough to shift her weight, one hand slipping into the pocket of her slacks in a movement that feels practiced, like she’s entirely at ease in this space, in this moment… in a way you’re not.

“The roads closer to your place are flooded,” she explains, her tone steady, logical. “A couple of them are completely blocked. I tried two different routes.”

Your mind catches onto that immediately, clinging to the reasoning, the structure of it. It makes sense. It’s practical. It gives you something to hold onto.

“That bad?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

“Mhm.” The confirmation is soft, but certain. “I could have woken you,” she adds, like it’s an afterthought, like it didn’t matter enough to interrupt what had already been decided. “But you looked like you needed the rest.”

Her gaze lingers on you then. Just for a second longer than necessary. It’s not inappropriate. Not overt. There’s nothing you could point to and say that’s wrong and yet, you feel it anyway. The attention, the way it doesn’t quite feel neutral.

Something tightens faintly in your chest. You glance down, your fingers brushing over the fabric of the jacket still draped across your lap, grounding yourself in something physical, something real. “You didn’t have to bring me all the way here,” you say, your voice soft, almost careful.

“I know.” The answer comes easily, too easily. There’s no hesitation in it. No defensiveness. Just quiet certainty. And somehow, that makes it feel heavier.

Your eyes lift back to hers, searching, though you’re not entirely sure for what. Because everything she’s saying makes sense.

The storm. The flooded roads. You falling asleep. Her not wanting to wake you. It all fits together in a way that’s completely reasonable.

And yet… you’re here. In her garage. In her space. And she’s standing there, watching you wake up like this was always where the night was going to end.

The thought slips in before you can stop it, and once it’s there, it lingers, impossible to fully ignore.

You swallow, your throat suddenly a little dry. “Are the roads still bad?” you ask, softer now, like you’re testing something you can’t quite articulate.

She tilts her head slightly, considering the question in a way that feels just a touch too measured. “They haven’t cleared yet,” she says. “And it’s still not safe to drive through some of those streets.”

Again… reasonable.

Another pause follows, subtle but present, stretching just enough for you to feel it. You nod slowly, because there’s nothing to argue with. Nothing to push back against.

Everything she’s saying makes sense. It does.

And yet, there’s something in the way she says it, in the calm control of her voice, in the way she stands there like she’s entirely comfortable with the outcome, that leaves a quiet question forming at the edges of your thoughts.

Did she really had no choice… or did she choose this?

You don’t voice it. She doesn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, she steps back just slightly, creating space where there wasn’t any before, one hand lifting in a small, effortless gesture toward the open car door.

“Come on,” she says, her tone softer now, but no less certain. “You shouldn’t stay out here.”

Out here. The words land oddly, considering where here actually is, but you don’t comment on that either.

You hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for the weight of the moment to settle properly.

Then you move. Because everything she’s said is reasonable.

And everything you feel… isn’t entirely convinced.

But you follow her anyway.

The transition from the garage into her house is almost seamless, and yet it feels like crossing an invisible line you can’t quite step back over once you’ve passed it.

Emily moves ahead of you, one hand pushing open the internal door with quiet familiarity, the other gesturing lightly for you to follow. You hesitate for the briefest second on the threshold. Then you step inside.

Warmth meets you immediately. A soft contrast to the damp chill that clings faintly to your skin from the storm, wrapping around you in a way that feels almost intentional. The lighting is low but steady, casting a golden glow across clean lines and carefully chosen details. It’s not extravagant in the way you might expect. There’s no loud display of wealth, no unnecessary excess.

But it’s there. In the quality of the furniture. In the way the space feels lived in, but never cluttered. Controlled. Like her.

You take a few steps further in, your eyes moving almost involuntarily, trying to take it all in without making it obvious that you are. The living room opens up ahead, spacious but not cold, a large couch facing a fireplace that sits dark for now, waiting.

Emily doesn’t pause. She shrugs off her shoes as she walks, her movements efficient, practiced. Then she turns slightly toward you, gesturing toward the couch.

“Sit,” she says, her tone gentle, but not uncertain.

You obey before you’ve fully decided to. It’s instinctive.

You lower yourself onto the couch, careful, aware of yourself again in a way you hadn’t been while asleep. Your hands settle in your lap, fingers threading together briefly before you force them to relax.

You feel out of place.

Emily crosses the room toward the fireplace, already reaching for what she needs without hesitation. There’s no fumbling, no second-guessing. It shows in the ease of her movements, in the quiet confidence of someone entirely in control of her environment.

You watch her without meaning to. The way she crouches slightly, adjusting something at the base of the fireplace. The soft shift of fabric as she moves. The way a few strands of her silver hair fall forward before she brushes them back absently.

Then the fireplace comes to life with a spark. A soft crackle follows. The fire catches slowly at first, then steadies, light blooming into the room, shadows shifting along the walls in a way that feels warmer, softer... more intimate.

She glances back at you over her shoulder, just briefly. “Have you eaten?” she asks.

The question catches you off guard, not because it’s strange, but because it feels… too casual.

You blink, pulling yourself back into the moment. “Uh… earlier. Not really dinner, though.”

She hums softly, straightening as the fire settles into a steady burn. “Figures.” There’s no judgment in it, just observation.

She moves toward the kitchen area, not far from where you’re sitting, her presence still filling the space even as she puts a bit of distance between you.

“I’m not sure if delivery is an option tonight,” she continues, glancing toward the window where rain still taps against the glass. “Storm like this tends to shut things down.”

You nod, even though she’s not looking at you directly in that moment.

“I can cook something,” she adds, casual again, like it’s no trouble at all. “Pasta, if that works for you.”

Your throat feels a little tight. “Uh… yeah,” you say, a little too quietly. “That’s… yeah, that’s fine.”

She glances back at you then for a second and there’s something faintly amused in her expression. “Okay,” she says simply.

Silence settles again, but it’s not empty. It’s full of small things: The crackle of the fire. The soft clink of something in the kitchen as she moves.

You sit there, hands still in your lap, trying to figure out what to do with yourself.

Because this isn’t a lecture hall, there are no rows of seats, no other students, no distance to hide behind.

This is her space…private. And she moves through it like she owns every inch of it, because she does. And somehow, that extends to the moment itself, to the way the conversation unfolds.

And it extends to you.

You shift slightly on the couch, your gaze drifting toward the fire, then back to her without meaning to. She’s closer again now, moving between spaces with that same quiet control, like nothing about this is unusual.

Like having you here was always a possibility.

The thought sends a small, sharp feeling through your chest. You try to ignore it, but it lingers. Because the truth is, you’re nervous. More than you were in the car. More than you were in the lecture hall.

And it shows in the way you sit a little too still. In the way your eyes keep flickering toward her and then away again, like you’re afraid of being caught looking too long.

She notices… of course she does. Emily Prentiss notices everything.

But she doesn’t call it out. Instead, she lets the moment stretch just enough, lets you settle into it in your own way, while still, somehow, holding the reins.

Exactly where she wants them.

Exactly where you let her keep them.

Time slips forward without you really noticing when it happens.

At some point, you’re no longer sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, unsure of where to look or how to hold yourself. At some point, a plate of pasta appears in your hands, warm and simple and grounding in a way you didn’t expect. Conversation comes in small, manageable pieces, nothing too personal, nothing that crosses any obvious lines. Just enough to fill the space. Just enough to make it easier to breathe.

And slowly, the room changes.

The fire burns steadily now, casting a soft, flickering glow that settles into the corners of the living room, chasing away the last of the cold that clung to you from outside. The rain has softened too, no longer violent, no longer pressing insistently against the windows… just a steady, quiet fall that blends into the background.

It’s… comfortable. Dangerously so.

By the time your plate is empty, you’ve sunk further into the couch than you meant to, your posture no longer rigid, your shoulders less tense. Emily sits at the other end, one arm resting along the back, her body angled just slightly toward you.

Your gaze drifts toward the window, following the faint trails of rain against the glass, and something clicks into place a second later.

Your bag. You straighten slightly, your brows pulling together. “I…” You glance toward the direction of the garage, realization settling in. “I think I left my bag in your car.”

Along with your phone.

You shift, sitting up a little more now, your mind already moving ahead of you. “I should probably –”

You glance back toward the window. The storm is gone or mostly. The rain is lighter now, the kind that looks manageable, almost harmless compared to what it was before. The streets aren’t visible from here, but you can imagine them, wet, maybe still messy, but not impossible.

You could go. The thought settles quickly, practical, logical.You could grab your bag., call a cab and get home.

You should call a cab.

You inhale slightly, preparing to say it…

“It’s late.” Emily’s voice cuts in gently, but with a certainty that makes you pause before the words even leave your mouth.

You look at her.

Emily hasn’t moved much, but her attention is fully on you now, her gaze steady, reading you in that quiet way she has, like she already knows where your thoughts were going before you even put them into words.

“The streets are probably still flooded in some areas,” she continues, her tone calm, measured. “And I doubt they’ve cleared all the fallen trees yet.”

You hesitate, because that makes sense… of course it does. You glance back toward the window, as if you could somehow confirm it from here, as if the softer rain might contradict her. But it doesn’t. It just keeps falling, steady and quiet, giving you nothing to argue with.

“I could still–” you start, weaker this time.

“Call a cab?” she finishes.

Your lips press together. She watches you for a moment, not pushing, not interrupting, just letting the thought settle.

“Response times will be slow,” she adds, softer now. “If they’re even running properly in this weather.”

Another pause. And again, you have nothing to counter it with, because it’s reasonable. Everything she’s saying is reasonable.

“Yeah…,” you murmur. It makes sense.

Silence settles again, but it feels different now. Not just quiet, something more aware, something that lingers in the space between you.

You turn your head back toward her. And she’s already looking at you. There’s no hesitation in it. No awkwardness. Her gaze meets yours easily, steadily, like she never looked away.

You sit on one end of the couch. She sits on the other. There’s distance between you, but it doesn’t feel as wide as it did before.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your posture again, of the way you’re sitting, of your hands resting in your lap like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. Without thinking too much about it, you smooth them over your skirt, a small, grounding motion, more for yourself than anything else.

But it draws Emily’s attention, you feel it before you even look up. The way her gaze dips, follows the movement.

And when your eyes lift again she’s already looking back at your face.

Composed and unreadable like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just track the movement of your hands over your own body with that same quiet focus she gives everything.

The shift is subtle, but you feel it. It crawls over your skin before you can name it, a quiet, electric awareness that starts somewhere deep in your chest and spreads outward, settling in your shoulders, your arms, the back of your neck. Your fingers still where they rest against your skirt, unmoving now, not because you chose to stop, but because something in you did.

Because of her.

Emily’s gaze is still on you, heavier now. Not just observant, not just quietly attentive like before, but focused in a way that feels different. Sharper. There’s a weight to it that presses in, that makes your breath catch just slightly without you meaning it to.

When you finally look up It hits you all at once.

Her eyes are darker. Not literally, but something in them has shifted, deepened, like the careful distance she’s been maintaining has thinned just enough to let something else through. Something more intent.

It makes your pulse spike. There’s a stillness to her, but not the relaxed kind from before. This one feels coiled. Controlled. Like she’s holding something back with effort so practiced it almost looks effortless.

Like a predator that hasn’t moved yet.

Your chest tightens. for a second you don’t feel like you’re sitting across from your professr. You feel seen… and not in the safe, academic way you’ve grown used to.

In a way that makes your skin prickle. In a way that makes it very clear you’ve stepped into something you don’t fully understand.

Your breath stutters. And suddenly you need to move.

“I– I should probably go,” you say, too quickly, the words tripping over each other before you can steady them. You push yourself up from the couch, the motion abrupt, almost clumsy compared to the stillness that had settled before. “I have classes tomorrow, and I should, uh… prepare, and my phone is in the car, so I can just–” You don’t even finish the sentence.

You turn, already half-stepping away, your thoughts scrambling for something solid, something normal to cling to, anything to break whatever just passed between you.

But you don’t get far, because she moves. Fast. Not rushed, but immediate in a way that makes your breath hitch as she’s suddenly there, coming around the couch with a kind of quiet certainty that leaves no space for hesitation.

Before you can process it, Emily is in front of you. Close…. too close.

Her hands come up firm enough to stop you, settling against your upper arms, just above your elbows. The contact is grounding and not at the same time, her grip steady, controlled, like she knows exactly how much pressure to use and no more.

You freeze. Your breath catches, your body going still under her hands, your thoughts scattering completely as your focus narrows down to one thing…

Emily.

Her thumbs move slowly. Tracing small, absent circles into the fabric of your shirt, just enough to be felt, just enough to keep you there without needing to say anything yet.

You have to look up, there’s no way not to. And when you do, you realize just how close you actually are. Close enough to see the subtle shift in her expression, the control still there but thinner now, stretched just enough to reveal what sits beneath it. Close enough to notice the way her gaze drops for a fraction of a second… to your lips, maybe… or maybe you imagine that.

Your pulse is loud in your ears. You don’t move, you don’t know if you can.

Because even now, she’s not forcing you. She’s just… holding you there. And you’re letting her.

Her thumbs slow slightly, then still. Her grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t loosen either.

And then, quietly:

“Stay.”

It’s not a command, but it lands like one anyway. Soft and low. And oh, so certain. something in your chest tightens in response, your breath catching again as the weight of it settles between you.

Because Emily is still holding the reins. Still composed. Still in control.

But there’s something unmistakable in the way she’s looking at you now, like if she let go of that control, even for a second…

She wouldn’t stop.

Your breath catches around the word ‘Stay’. It settles somewhere deep, heavier than it should be, threading through the nerves already buzzing under your skin. For a second, neither of you moves. Her hands are still on your arms, warm through the fabric, steady in a way that feels grounding. You could step back, you realize that. You could. But you don’t.

“I… should go,” you try again, softer this time, the words lacking the urgency they had a moment ago. They sound almost uncertain now, like you’re testing them rather than meaning them.

Emily’s thumbs resume their slow movement, brushing small, absent circles that aren’t absent at all.

“You could,” she agrees quietly. The words don’t match the touch. Don’t match the way she’s standing in front of you, close enough that you’re aware of her height and the faint scent of her that you hadn’t noticed before but suddenly can’t ignore.

Your pulse stutters.

“But you’re not,” Emily adds. It’s not a question.

Your lips part slightly, like you’re about to argue, about to insist, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right, and the realization of that lands all at once, leaving you standing there, caught between instinct and something else entirely.

“I don’t…” you start, your voice quieter now, less certain. “This is… I mean, you’re my professor.”

There it is. The line. For a moment, something flickers in her expression recognition. She’s been waiting for you to say it.

“I am,” Emily says. No denial. No attempt to soften it. And yet, she doesn’t step back, doesn’t let go. If anything, her grip shifts just slightly, her hands sliding just enough to anchor more firmly, her thumbs stilling as her focus sharpens completely on you. “And you’re still here,” she continues, her voice lower now, quieter in a way that feels more intimate than before.

The silence stretches, thick with everything neither of you is saying, and then something changes. It’s subtle at first. A shift in the air. In her posture. Like the careful restraint she’s been holding onto slips not completely, but enough. Enough that you feel it.

Her hands guide you gently. There’s no force in it, no sudden movement that would make you stumble or lose your balance. Just a steady pressure, a quiet insistence as she steps forward and you step back, because you let her.

Because it feels natural to let her.

One step. Then another.

Your heartbeat is loud now, your awareness narrowing down to the space between you, to the way she moves, to the fact that she’s watching you the entire time, checking, always checking, making sure you’re still with her, still choosing this.

You don’t resist. You don’t stop her. Your back meets the wall softly, the contact grounding and startling all at once, a quiet reminder of where you are, of how close she’s brought you without you even realizing it.

Emily stops there, closer than before, but still careful… always careful. Her hands shift slightly again, sliding just enough to keep you there without pinning you, her touch firm but never overwhelming, like she’s holding a line even now, like she’s making sure you have the space to pull away if you want to. You don’t.

Your breathing is uneven, your chest rising and falling just a little too quickly, your hands hovering uncertainly at your sides like you don’t know where they’re supposed to go anymore.

Emily’s gaze drops briefly, jjust enough to take you in at this distance, to trace the shape of the moment before returning to your face. There’s something different in her expression now. Less restrained. Stil controlled, but only just.

“You’re nervous,” Emily murmurs. It’s not a question.

You swallow. “I… yeah.” Honesty comes easier than it should.

Her thumb brushes once more against your arm, slower this time, more deliberate. “Good,” she says softly.

The word sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it, because it doesn’t feel like reassurance. It feels like acknowledgment, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. And exactly how much you’re letting her.

Emily leans in slightly, not enough to close the distance completely, not enough to take that last step without you… but enough that you feel it, the shift in space, the way the air between you tightens.

Her voice, when she speaks again, is quieter. Lower. “Tell me to stop... and I will.” The words hang there, heavy with meaning.

An out, a line she’s giving you the chance to draw.

Your heart pounds. You know you should…but you don’t.

And the moment Emily realizes that something in her finally gives in. Her hand lifts, fingers sliding up along your jaw, firm but careful as she tilts your head just slightly, enough to angle you where she wants you. There’s no hesitation in it anymore, no question. Just quiet certainty.

And then Emily kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s controlled, like everything else about her, but there’s heat behind it now, something that had been building, pressing against the edges of her restraint, finally finding an outlet. Her lips are warm, claiming space without overwhelming you, testing the shape of the moment like she’s committing it to memory.

Your breath catches against the older woman, your hands instinctively finding something to hold onto, her shoulders, her arms, anything solid… because she’s everywhere now. Close, grounding, in control in a way that makes it easier to let go of your own.

Emily’s other hand slides to your waist, steady and sure, fingers curling just enough to pull you closer, until there’s no space left between you, until you can feel the line of her body against yours, solid and real and there.

You don’t pull back, you don’t even think about it. You lean into it and she notices. The kiss deepens with a slow, measured escalation that feels almost worse than anything rushed could have been. Her hand at your waist shifts slightly, fingers pressing just a little firmer, anchoring you there against the wall, holding you in place like she knows you’re not going anywhere, like she knows you’re choosing to stay.

Your breath is unsteady when Emily finally pulls back. Not far, just enough to create space where there hadn’t been any, just enough for you to feel the loss of her lips against yours. It’s controlled the way she does it, she’s forcing herself to stop there instead of going further.

Her hand is still at your waist holding you in place, but there’s restraint in it now which is more obvious than before, like she’s tightened her grip not on you, but on herself. Her gaze lingers on your face, searching something you can’t quite name.

Emily exhales slowly, her thumb brushing once against your side, more grounding than exploratory now.

“I should…” she starts, then stops herself, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she recalibrates. “I’m trying to hold back.” Her voice is lower than before, roughened just enough to betray the effort behind it. “Not because I don’t want to…,” she adds quietly. “But because I don’t want to scare you off.”

The words settle between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.

For a moment, you just look at her. At the control she’s holding onto so tightly. At the way she’s giving you space, even now, even like this. At the fact that she stopped, chose to stop when she didn’t have to.

You swallow, your voice softer when you speak. “I’m not scared of you.”

Her expression flickers subtly.

You hold her gaze. “I’m not,” you repeat, a little more certain this time. “I… I know I should probably be, but I’m not.” A small breath leaves you, your hands finally finding somewhere to rest, lightly against her arms, not pushing, not pulling…just there.

“I feel safe,” you admit, quieter now, but no less honest. “With you.” The words come easier than they should, truer than you expected. “Because I know you are,” you add after a beat, your voice almost thoughtful now. “Safe.”

Her eyes don’t leave yours, not for a second.

You hesitate, then continue, softer still, like you’re piecing it together as you say it. “That’s why I got into your car the first time,” you murmur. “Why I didn’t even really think about it.” A small, almost self-conscious exhale. “And why I fell asleep in it.”

That lands. You can see it in the way Emily’s expression shifts, in the way something deeper settles behind her eyes.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Suddenly something in her restraint bends. Her hand at your waist tightens just slightly. Her other hand lifts again, fingers finding your jaw, your neck, guiding you just a fraction closer. This time, when she kisses you, there’s more heat in it, more intent. Still controlled, still careful, but the restraint is thinner now, stretched to its limit, and you can feel it in the way her lips move against yours, in the way she closes that space between you completely.

Your breath catches, but you don’t hesitate this time. You kiss her back. Fully.

Your hands tighten slightly where they rest against her, grounding yourself in her the same way she’s grounding you.

And Emily feels it.  Her grip at your waist steadies, firmer now, more certain as she leans into you just enough to meet you there, to match the way you kiss her without completely overtaking it. There’s a balance to it; one she’s controlling, one she’s adjusting in real time; but you can feel the heat building underneath it.

Her hand shifts slow at first. She’s giving you time to register it, to react if you want to, if you need to. You don’t. Your breath stutters instead.

Her fingers slide from your waist, tracing along your side, down over the curve of your hip, until they reach the hem of your skirt. There’s a pause there just for a second, just enough that it feels intentional.

A question without words. You don’t stop her and that’s all she needs.

Her hand slips beneath, warm against your skin as it moves to your thigh, her touch firm but careful, like she’s feeling rather than taking. Your body reacts instantly, a sharp inhale against her lips as your fingers tighten where they hold onto her.

Emily exhales softly against you, she expected that… she likes that. Her grip adjusts, stronger now as her hand hooks just beneath your thigh and lifts, steadying you as she brings your leg up against her side. The shift pulls you closer, changes the angle, eliminates what little space was left between you.

You feel it immediately, the press of Emily’s body against yours, solid and grounding and intentional. Her other hand keeps you anchored, holding you there against the wall.

Reminding you zhat she has you and that you’re letting her.

The kiss deepens. There’s heat in it, unmistakable, threaded through with restraint that feels thinner by the second. Your breath breaks against hers, uneven, your hands shifting instinctively, one sliding up, fingers brushing into her hair without thinking, the other gripping more firmly at her arm, like you need something to steady yourself against the way the moment is tilting.

Emily responds immediately. A quiet and low sound, almost involuntary, against your lips as her hold on you tightens just slightly, to keep you right where she wants you.

Her forehead brushes yours for half a second when she pulls back just enough to breathe, her eyes searching yours again, but there’s less distance in them now, less restraint and more want.

“Still not scared?” she murmurs, voice low, rougher than before.

You shake your head, breathless, your voice barely more than a whisper. “No.”

And this time, when Emily kisses you again, she doesn’t hold back quite as much.

The kiss turns deeper, heavier. It’s in the way she leans into you, in the way her hand on your thigh tightens with more certainty, like she’s finally letting herself have this moment.

Your response is immediate, instinctive. You cling a little closer, your body giving in to the pull of her, to the way she holds you, guides you, keeps you exactly where she wants you and where, by now, you want to be just as much.

Emily adjusts her hold under your thigh, and then without breaking the kiss for more than a breath, she urges your other leg up. It’s smooth, controlled. She gives you just enough time to react, to follow the motion and you do. Your other leg lifts, your body responding without hesitation as she settles you against her fully, your legs now around her waist.

The shift pulls you flush against her, there’s no space left now. And suddenly, the wall behind you feels less like support and more like a point of contact, because she’s the one holding you up.

The realization hits you somewhere between breaths, between kisses… she’s holding you completely. As if it costs her nothing, like she’s done this a thousand times, like she knows exactly how to carry you without faltering for even a second.

Your hands move instinctively, gripping onto her shoulders now, anchoring yourself as the world narrows down to her: the way she keeps you right where she wants you without ever making it feel like you don’t have a choice.

Emily adjusts her grip slightly, one arm steady beneath you, the other firm at your side, and then she moves. But not far, just a few steps.

Enough to shift the angle of the room, to bring the warmth of the fire fully into reach again, the glow brighter here, softer, wrapping around both of you in flickering gold. The carpet beneath is thick, plush, you barely register it before she lowers you down onto it, making sure you land gently.

You sink into it slightly, breath catching as the world tilts and then steadies again, your back meeting the softness of the floor, the firelight dancing above you.

Emily doesn’t pull away, she leans over you instead, one hand still braced near your side, the other briefly leaving you, just long enough to reach back toward the couch. You hear the soft rustle of fabric before she returns, sliding a pillow beneath your head with surprising care, adjusting it until you’re properly supported.

The gesture is… gentle, almost disarming. And then a throw blanket follows, dragged closer, not quite placed over you yet, just there, within reach. Prepared.

Like she’s already thinking ahead, like she always is.

Then her attention is fully back on you. She hovers above you, close but not pressing, her weight supported just enough that you don’t feel trapped, just held in place by the space she occupies, by the way she frames you beneath her.

The fire flickers behind her, catching in her hair, turning the strands of grey into something softer, something warmer than you’ve ever seen before. The light traces the line of her face, the sharpness of her nose, the curve of her heart-shaped lips.

You shouldn’t be noticing things like that. But you are, because you can’t look away and neither can Emily. Her gaze moves over your face slowly, taking you in like she’s memorizing something, as if she’s allowing herself to really see you without the distance of a classroom, without the structure that used to define everything between you.

Your breath is uneven, your hands unsure for a moment before they settle, one against the carpet, the other hovering near her arm, not pushing, not pulling. Just… there, waiting.

You feel it… that shift again. How it settles around you like a warm blanket. But this time it’s not sharp or overwhelming, it’s grounding. Because now you understand it…

You’re under her hands.

You are not trapped or forced, but held there softly. It feels intentional, as if you are chosen by her and somehow that makes it more real. The warmth of it settles deep into your chest. Not trapped.

Emily’s fingers brush lightly along your jaw again, slower this time. She’s allowing herself to explore without rushing past it. Her thumb lingers briefly near your cheek, tracing the edge of something she hasn’t fully named out loud.

Her voice, when it comes, is quieter. “Still with me?”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

And she watches you for a second longer. She needs to be sure. She wants to be sure before she crosses a line she and you can never come back from.

Emily leans in again, drawn back to you like stopping was never really an option to begin with. One hand braces beside your head, steady against the carpet, while the other settles at your waist. When she lowers herself over you, it’s careful. She’s acutely aware of every inch of contact, making sure you feel her without being overwhelmed by it.

Her lips find yours again, softer this time at first, almost testing. Her lips hoover over yours for a beat, her eyes flicking over your face before they brush against yours gently. The kiss lingers, her mouth moving against yours with a kind of quiet certainty that makes your breath catch despite yourself. Her tongue brushes against your bottom lip, asking for entry.

You feel it before you fully register it, the shift of her hand at your waist, the slow slide upward beneath the fabric of your shirt, fingertips brushing against your bare skin for the first time. Her hands are warm, grounding. The contact pulls a soft gasp from you before you can stop it.

Emily reacts instantly the moment your lips part in a gasp. She deepens the kiss, closing the space you opened, her hand steady at your side as if anchoring you there while everything else tilts just slightly out of control. Her tongue brushes against yours, coaxing you. There’s a confidence in the way she moves, in the way she adjusts to you, like she’s reading every reaction, every breath.

Her long silver hair falls around you like a curtain. The firelight flickers around you, casting shifting shadows across her face as she pulls back just enough to look at you again, really look at you. She stays above you, one arm still braced beside your head, the other resting lightly at your waist where your shirt has shifted just enough to reveal the warmth of your skin beneath her fingers.

Her hand moves again as her fingers trace along the bare skin of your stomach, following the natural line there before drifting lower, until they settle at the waistband of your skirt. She doesn’t push further. Doesn’t cross that line.

She just lingers there, waiting. Her gaze lifts to meet yours, searching, steady, giving you time to understand exactly what she’s asking without rushing you into it.

“Can I…?” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, roughened slightly by everything that’s already passed between you. “Can I see more of you?”

The question hangs there, soft but unmistakable.

Your breath catches from the way she’s asking instead of taking. From the way she’s still holding the reins, but placing them, just for a moment, within your reach.

Your hands shift slightly against the carpet, your pulse loud in your ears as you look up at her, at the woman hovering above you, who only hours ago stood at the front of a lecture hall like she was untouchable.

“Professor Prentiss…” you start, your voice quieter than you intend, a little unsteady, the title slipping out of habit more than thought.

It earns you a flicker of amusement. Her lips curve just slightly, the expression softer than anything you’ve seen on her before, touched with something warmer, something almost fond. And then she leans down again. Not to kiss you, but to bring her mouth near your ear, her breath warm against your skin in a way that sends a quiet shiver down your spine.

“Not right now,” she murmurs, her voice low, intimate in a way that feels entirely different from anything she’s ever said to you before. There’s the faintest brush of her lips near your ear, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one.

“Just Emily.”

You turn your head slightly toward her, just enough that your cheek almost brushes hers, your voice quiet, but steadier than you expect. “Okay… Emily.” Her name feels different on your tongue, personal.

Her hand is still at your waist, still resting at that line where fabric meets skin, still waiting, never pushing past it without you. And you feel the chpice she’s giving you. Your fingers tighten slightly against the carpet before one of your hands lifts, hesitant for only a second before it finds her wrist.

“You can,” you say softly. The words are simple, but they carry.

Emily’s breath shifts. Her gaze searches yours again, like she’s making sure you mean it, when she finds no hesitation there, no pullback, something in her expression softens even as the tension underneath sharpens.

“Alright,” she murmurs. Her fingers slide along the waistband of your skirt, not rushing, not fumbling… just a smooth, practiced motion as she eases it down, her touch careful, controlled, like she’s paying attention to every reaction, every breath, every small shift in you. The fabric gives way under her hands, guided rather than pulled, until it’s no longer between you in the same way.

Then her hand moves upward this time, fingers brushing lightly along your side as they find the hem of your shirt, pausing there for just a moment, another check, another silent question.

You don’t stop her. So she lifts it. The fabric slides upward, her knuckles grazing your skin as it goes, until it’s pulled away, leaving you more exposed beneath her gaze.

Her attention doesn’t leave you for even a second. Her gaze roams over your body hungrily, taking you in in just your underwear in front of her. How you are laying on her carpet, in her living room, like a present half unpacked.

Emily exhales softly, almost imperceptibly. “You are…” she begins, her voice quieter now, lower. “…striking,” she finishes, her gaze lifting back to yours. “and so utterly beautiful… and all mine.”

There’s something in the way she says it. She means every word and refuses to dilute it into something simpler.

Heat creeps up your chest, your neck, but you don’t look away. Your hand lifts hesitantly at first, but drawn forward anyway, fingers brushing lightly against her arm, then higher. “Can I…?” you start softly, your voice a little unsteady now, your hand hovering near the fabric of her blouse. “Can I see you too?”

It’s quieter than her question had been, but it carries the same meaning, the same need.

For a second, she lets your hand linger close enough to touch, to feel the warmth of her through the fabric. Then she stops you gently. Her hand closes around your wrist as she guides your hand away from her, lowering it back down with a calm that doesn’t feel like rejection so much as… redirection.

Her gaze softens just slightly. “Lie back,” she murmurs. “Let me,” she adds, quieter still, her thumb brushing once over your wrist before she releases you. “Enjoy the show.”

You hesitate for half a second before you do as she says. Your head settles back against the pillow, your body sinking into the softness beneath you, your eyes never leaving her.

Emily straightens slowly. She reaches for the buttons of her blouse, her movements unhurried, but entirely aware of your gaze on her. One button, then another. The fabric parts gradually, revealing glimpses of fare skin beneath, the line of her collarbone catching the firelight, shadows shifting with every small movement. Her eyes find yours again as she slips the blouse from her shoulders, letting it fall aside without ceremony.

Your breath catches as you take her in properly for the first time. It’s not just the fact that she’s standing there in her bra, it’s how she is. The quiet confidence in the way she holds herself, the ease in her posture, like this is simply another extension of her control, another space she fully inhabits without hesitation.

Your eyes travel over the swell of her ample breasts, the softness of her fare skin. The dark fabric of her bra she still wears stands in sharp contrast against it, drawing your eyes without effort, emphasizing rather than concealing. Her hands move next to her waistband just as certain, slowly pushing it past her hips, revealing smooth and long legs in the process.

Your pulse stutters, your body still beneath her gaze even from this distance, caught in the same quiet gravity that’s been pulling you toward her since the beginning… and now there’s nothing left to soften the gravity.

“I…” your voice falters, breath still uneven as your eyes trace over her again, unable to stop yourself now, not even trying. You swallow, a soft, almost disbelieving huff leaving you. “You’re… unreal.” It sounds insufficient the second it leaves your lips, but it’s honest.

Your gaze drifts again, lingering, drawn to her in a way that feels almost magnetic. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like you,” you admit quietly, like saying it any louder might break something.

Emily’s eyes darken at that. Her head tilts slightly, just enough to study you for a moment longer, to take in the way you’re looking at her without reservation, without pretense.

“…yeah?” She murmurs, voice low and velvety.

And then she moves, closing the distance again with quiet certainty, lowering herself back over you, her presence immediate, grounding, consuming in the softest way possible.

Her hand finds your waist again, steady, familiar now. And her lips find yours. She’s done holding herself quite so far back. Emily kisses you without abandon, her tongue finding its way into your mouth again as she devours you. Slow, languid strokes against your tongue, her body settling more firmly on top of you. You can feel every point of where her soft skin meets yours, the only barrier between you now your underwear. But you can already feel Emily’s fingertips brushing against the hem of your panties.

A soft whimper leaves your lips and Emily swallows it with a hum of her own. She’s pleased by your reaction, feels how you press your hips into her touch, desperate for more, desperate for her.

“Tell me what you need, baby”, Emily murmurs against your lips with a pleased smirk.

Your breath hitches, cheeks warming up under her attention. “Y…you, I need you”, is all you manage to breath out.

The words land differently than everything else she’s said tonight. Her expression shifts, something softer flickering through the intensity, something almost fond again.

“Good,” she murmurs. Her hand slides up your side, slower this time, giving you time to feel how her fingers trace over your soft skin, from your waist, over your soft curves until she reaches the fabric of your bra. With an easy flick of her wrist, she unclasps your bra and brushes it from your shoulders, revealing your delicate breasts to her dark gaze.

“So pretty… all for me”, Emily hums pleased. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as her both her hands come up to cup your breasts.

You arch into her hands almost involuntarily. Your breath hitching as her hands grope at our breasts, thumbs skimming over your nipples gently before circling them. Your reaction is immediate, your nubs slowly hardening under her attention.

“…and so responsive.”

Your breath hitches as she slowly maps your body with her fingertips, still in control, still holding the reins and you let her, laying there under her hands as if this was always where you belonged.

Your hands move on instinct, drawn to her, fingers brushing over her sides before sliding upward, searching and finding the edge of her bra, the small, delicate clasp at her back.

But before you can reach it, Emily catches your wrists effortlessly. A quiet tch leaves her lips, her head tilting just slightly as she looks down at you, something amused flickering through the heat in her gaze. “Didn’t I tell you,” she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with that same controlled authority, “to enjoy the show, baby?”

The sound you make in response is soft, almost involuntary, caught somewhere between frustration and need, your grip tightening slightly against her hands. “Please…” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it, your voice softer now, more vulnerable than before. “Emily… I want to see you.”

That does something. You see it in the way her expression shifts, in the way the amusement softens into something heavier. The smirk doesn’t disappear, it just changes, becomes less teasing, more… knowing.

For a moment, she just looks at you. She’s taking in the way you said her name. The way you asked instead of demanded. The way you’re still there, still open, still hers in this space you’ve both created.

“Careful,” she murmurs, quieter now, her thumb brushing once over your wrist where she still holds you. “I might get used to you asking like that…”

But there’s no refusal in her tone. And you feel the shift, the way her control bends again, just slightly, just for you. Her hands release your wrists slowly, and then, without breaking eye contact, she moves. Her fingers slide to the strap at her shoulder first, pushing it down with unhurried precision. Then the other. The fabric gives way gradually, the motion smooth.

She lets you watch how her bra slowly falls away, revealing her ample breasts, her dusty nipples already standing up from arousal.

“There,” Emily says softly, her voice lower now, roughened just enough to give away how much this is affecting her too. “Happy?” But it’s not really a question, because she can see the answer all over your face.

And the way she looks at you after that it’s pure want.

Then her hands are on you again, her fingertips grazing along your sides, sliding down to the waistband of your panties. Her fingers hook into it, knuckles grazing your hips as she eases them down your legs, baring you completely now.

You lift your hips slightly to help her remove the last barrier from your body, leaving you in nothing but your soft flushed skin on her white carpet. The light from the fireplace dances over every soft curve of your body, highlighting every dip and curve.

You mirror her then, carefully at first, waiting for her to grab your wrist again, but she doesn’t, not this time. Your fingers slide beneath the waistband and her warm skin, pushing them down with careful hands. Emily let out a quiet breath, shifting to help you. The way she looked at you as the last of the barriers fell away made your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly.

And suddenly she’s back on top of you, pressing her bare body into yours, feeling the weight of her breasts pressed against your chest, her legs caging you in as she straddles your lap with ease. These kisses are rough, almost desperate, as she moves from your lips to your neck, sucking a love bite right above your pulse.

Her hips grind against your stomach in need. You can feel the heat between her legs, pressing against your lower abdomen.

“I want you so much”, Emily breathes out against your neck, placing messy kisses there, before skimming lower. Her lips move over your collarbones, down your breasts. She lingers there, letting her tongue glide over the swell of your breasts, breathing you in, tasting you. Then lower still, until she settles above your legs.

“Open your legs,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. “Let me see what’s mine.”

Emily feels your surrender, the way your body relaxes into the carpet, and it sends a wave of heat through her. She moves even closer, her hand trailing a teasing path up and down your legs until you part them for her.   

“Mm, good girl”, the older woman hums, taking you in. Her fingers twitch against your legs, ghosting along your inner thighs before tugging you lower, closer to her. “Let me show you what it means to be my good girl.”

Emily shifts on top of you, parting your legs more firmly as she sets herself between them. Her eyes are darker now, heavier, as she looks down at you, laying there, so open and vulnerable. Then she lowers herself onto you, her aching clit pressing right into yours. The warmth and wetness of her clit meeting yours in a gentle kiss.

She’s pulling you into her more firmly, adjusting your position and hers. The first movement of her hips is shaky, skin catching on skin. It sends a sharp tingle through you nonetheless. Your eyes heavy, lips parted in a silent gasp as you look up at the older woman. Your eyes glued to the way she looks on top of you. The firelight catching in her silver hair and dark eyes, her heavy breasts sway with every movement of her hips as she grinds herself onto you. She looks like a goddess.

Every new roll of her hips sends waves of pleasure through you and her, and surely you meet her rhythm, pushing yourself into her with every glide of her hips. You swallowed thickly, watching the way Emily’s lips parted, her breath catching as your slick bodies find each other again and again, slowly finding the perfect angle and motion to give both of you the pleasure you are looking for.

"God, you feel so good, baby," she murmurs, her voice low and reverent.

You move again, slowly spreading both of your arousal over your skin, the friction between you growing warmer, slicker, more intoxicating. Emily lets out a soft gasp, her warm hands on your hips gently guiding your movements, encouraging you to press yourself harder against her.

Everything around you is pure bliss, starting with the view of Emily on top of you, rubbing her wet pussy over yours, her hands holding onto your thighs as if she needs it to keep herself upright.

“Fuck…baby”, Emily moans. Her moans are so ethereal. The way her lips part in pleasure, eyes heavy as she looks down at you, taking in the sight of your face contorted in pleasure, your breasts bouncing with every roll of her hips against you. On of her hands leaves your leg. Instead she lets her hand grope over your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples to bring you even more pleasure.

Soft whimpers leave your lips, your hands searching for something you can hold onto as the pleasure inside you builds. Your fingers clench into the fabric of the carpet underneath you, then into Emily’s legs, trying to ground you in her.

The strokes become smoother, more fluid, each crossing of your clits sending waves of pleasure through both of you. Her hands guide you as much as yours guided her, your movements perfectly in sync. The friction deepens, filling the silence with soft moans, whimpers, and gasps.

The wet, sinful sound of skin gliding over skin fills the livning room, the air thick with heat and longing. Each drag of your clits against each other sends another jolt of pleasure up your spine, making you gasp, making Emily shudder on top of you.

Slowly, both of your movements become faster, more desperate, feeling the sensation of her wetness painting your body, your swollen clits gliding over each other with so much lust. Emily wants to own you, wants to show you that you are hers now, that you give yourself to her and her control.

“Come for me, baby.”

And you do.  You moan her name like a prayer, the sound breaking between soft whimpers and the frantic roll of Emily’s hips against yours. The older woman doesn’t slow down her movements as you shake underneath her with pleasure, your walls clenching around nothing as you come undone.

“I’ve got you," Emily whispers breathlessly, her fingers pressing into your skin, coaxing you to keep going, to hold on just a little longer. Your movements are jerky as you try to move with her again, helping her to chase her high.

And then Emily falls apart on top of you. Your eyes glued to her as her head falls back with a strangled moan, her body shuddering, her thighs clenching around yours. You can feel her release coating you. Slowly, Emily collapses on top of you, skin warm with a thin sheen of sweat as she holds onto you, her body still twitching against yours as she rides out the aftershocks.

You both are breathless now, bodies trembling faintly against each other. Emily’s arms wrap around you, cradling you close as if you were something precious.

“You did so good for me… so good,” she whispers against your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple, then to the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips. She lingers there. Not with urgency anymore, not with that consuming heat from before, but with something softer. She’s easing you down from it, guiding you back just as carefully as she brought you there.

Her fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along your side, absentminded almost, but not really. Even now, she’s aware of you, of every breath you take, every small shift beneath her.

Eventually, she exhales quietly and shifts her weight. Emily lifts herself from above you slowly enough that you can follow the movement, feel the change without losing her completely. The warmth of her lingers even as she reaches for the blanket nearby, pulling it over both of you with an ease that feels practiced, like she’s done this before, taken care of someone like this before.

Or maybe just… knows how to.

The fabric settles around you, soft and warm, the fire still crackling nearby, filling the room with that steady, comforting sound. The storm feels far away now, irrelevant.

She doesn’t put distance between you, instead, she draws you in. One arm wraps around you, firm but gentle as she pulls you against her side, your head settling naturally against her shoulder, her hand coming to rest along your arm, your back, wherever you need it.

Holding you. Keeping you there.

You feel that quiet sense of being guided, of being kept within something steady and controlled  in a way that… allows you to let go, to not think, to just be...

Under Her Hands.

Your breathing begins to slow, matching the rhythm she sets without you even realizing it. Her fingers continue their slow, absent patterns against your skin, grounding, reassuring, like she’s making sure you don’t drift too far too fast.

For a while, neither of you speaks, there’s no need for it. The fire fills the silence, warm light flickering across the room, across her skin, across yours where the blanket doesn’t fully cover.

Eventually, her hand stills just slightly, her thumb brushing once along your arm. “You alright?” she murmurs, her voice softer now, stripped of that earlier edge but not of its certainty.

You nod against her, your voice quiet. “Yeah.” A pause, then more honestly, “Yeah… I am.”

You feel the faintest shift in her chest, something like satisfaction, something quieter than that but deeper too. “Good,” Emily says softly.

And the way she holds you after that… steady, composed, entirely in control even in something this gentle makes it clear she’s not letting go just yet.

And you don’t want her to.

NSFW VERSION!

It had sounded almost abstract when you first signed up for it, a curiosity more than anything. You’d told yourself it would be useful, that understanding criminal behavior could only make you a better agent. But if you’re being honest, there was something else that drew you in.

The why. Why people break. Why they cross lines others don’t. Why someone becomes the thing everyone else fears.

And there was only one person teaching it this year. Even just hearing her name had been enough to make your stomach twist a little.

Emily Prentiss.

You’d heard the stories long before you even decided to study Criminal Justice. Everyone here had. Unit Chief of the BAU. International cases. Undercover work. The kind of reputation that didn’t need embellishment because it already sounded like something out of a film.

And now she was teaching.

“Come on,” your friend nudges, pulling you out of your thoughts. “If we don’t get seats, we’re going to be stuck at the back.” You push through the crowd with them, slipping inside just as a wave of students funnels into the lecture hall.

It’s bigger than you expected, tiered seating rising in a wide semicircle, rows of long desks with built–in microphones and worn wooden edges. The overhead lights are dimmer than usual, casting everything in a soft, muted glow. At the front, a large screen dominates the wall, currently blank, with a podium off to one side and a whiteboard stretching nearly the full width of the room.

It already feels… different. Most lecture halls at the University are bright, clinical. Designed for clarity, efficiency. This one feels almost deliberate in its atmosphere, the lowered lighting, the quiet hum of the projector warming up, the faint echo of voices bouncing off the high ceiling. Like you’re stepping into something more than just a class.

You and your friends manage to find seats about halfway up, sliding into the row just as it begins to fill behind you. Backpacks drop to the floor. Notebooks are pulled out. Someone two rows down is already flipping through a textbook, while another taps nervously against their pen.

You sit, but you don’t fully relax. Your gaze drifts to the front of the room, to the empty space near the podium.

“She’s not here yet,” Jack whispers.

“Give it a minute,” Amber murmurs back. “They said this class always starts exactly on time.” That only makes the anticipation worse.

The noise in the room swells and dips in waves, but there’s an undercurrent running through it, something tighter, sharper. People aren’t just here to pass a requirement. They’re here because they want to be. Because they’ve heard what this course is.

Or who it’s taught by.

You catch fragments of conversation drifting from nearby seats.

“…heard she was in Interpol…”

“…no, seriously, she led that case in…”

“…you think she’s actually going to teach us interrogation techniques?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

Interrogation.

Profiling.

Understanding.

You glance back down at your notebook, the blank page waiting, and for a moment, the weight of it all settles in. This isn’t just theory. Not really. This is the beginning of something that will follow you into the field, into rooms where the stakes are real, where the people across from you won’t just be case studies on a slide.

A sudden shift in the room pulls your attention up again. It’s subtle at first, the way conversations falter, voices lowering without anyone explicitly telling them to.

The door at the front of the lecture hall opens with a quiet, almost unremarkable click. And yet, it changes everything.

At first, it’s just a shift, subtle, like a current passing through the room. Conversations don’t stop all at once; they taper, falter, sentences trailing off mid–word. Someone near the back lets out a laugh that dies too quickly, like they realize a second too late that they shouldn’t have made it.

You feel it before you fully see her. That pull. That sudden awareness that something, or someone, has entered the space and claimed it without asking.

Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pulling back as your attention snaps forward. Around you, the same thing happens in waves. People who were slouched moments ago sit up. Heads turn. Pens still. Even the restless tapping you’d been hearing since you walked in seems to fade into nothing.

And then you see her. She steps inside like she belongs there, like the room was waiting for her, not the other way around.

The door closes behind her with a soft thud, cutting off the last sliver of light from the hallway, and for a brief second, the late afternoon sun catches in her hair. It’s longer than you expected, streaked with grey that doesn’t age her so much as sharpen her, make her stand out in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental.

She doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Her heels strike the floor in a steady, measured rhythm as she walks toward the front, sharp, clean clicks that echo just enough in the high-ceilinged room to make every step feel intentional. There’s no rush in her movement, no sign that she’s even remotely affected by the sheer number of eyes locked onto her.

And there are a lot of eyes. The lecture hall is packed. Every seat taken, people lining the walls at the back. All of them watching her.

You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around your pen. If it were you, you’d feel it. The weight of it. You’d trip, stumble, do something, anything, to break the tension. The thought of walking into a room like this, knowing every single person was looking at you, judging you, measuring you… You’d probably faceplant before you even reached the podium.

But not her. Emily Prentiss walks like she’s done this a thousand times. Like this is nothing. Like this is hers.

Her outfit is simple, almost deceptively so. A crisp white blouse, sleeves fitted just enough to look sharp without being restrictive. A black vest over it, tailored cleanly to her frame, paired with black pants that fall perfectly to the line of her heels. It’s professional, understated… and yet, on her, it feels like something else entirely.

She doesn’t look around the room. Not really. Not in the way you expect. There’s no nervous glance, no acknowledgment of the crowd in the way most people would. If anything, it feels like she’s already aware of everything, of everyone, without needing to visibly check. Like she doesn’t need to look to know she has your attention. Because she already does.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring until a voice cuts softly into your focus.

“She’s so sexy…” Amber. Her whisper is barely more than a breath against your ear, but it hits you like a jolt, snapping something into place.

You blink, your gaze flicking sideways toward her for half a second, and the grin she’s giving you is immediate; wide, knowing, absolutely shameless.

Yeah. That. That’s exactly what it is.

Because it’s not just that she’s attractive. It’s not just the way she looks, though that would be enough on its own. It’s the way she moves. The way she carries herself. The quiet, unspoken confidence that wraps around her like a second skin. It’s the kind of presence you feel before you understand it. And you definitely feel it.

Amber raises an eyebrow at you, her grin widening when you don’t immediately look away from the front again.

You’re staring. You know you are. And apparently, so does she.

“Wow,” she murmurs, nudging your arm lightly. “You’re not even trying to hide it.”

You huff out a quiet breath, tearing your gaze away for all of two seconds before it drifts back again, helplessly drawn in.

“I hate you,” you whisper back, though there’s no real heat behind it.

“Sure you do.”

Jack leans slightly forward from the other side, glancing between the two of you with a faint, amused shake of his head. “We haven’t even started yet,” he mutters. “At least pretend to be professional.”

You try. You really do. You look down at your notebook, at the blank page waiting, your pen hovering just above it. But the sound of her heels stopping at the front of the room pulls your attention right back up again.

Emily Prentiss sets her things down at the podium with the kind of ease that makes it look like she’s done this exact motion a hundred times before and maybe she has.

The bag alone catches your attention. It’s big. Not bulky, not messy, just… full. The kind of bag that somehow carries everything: files, notebooks, probably three pens that don’t work and one that does, maybe a spare charger, maybe something completely unrelated to work. It’s practical in a way that feels almost out of place against the sharpness of everything else about her.

A mom-bag, your brain supplies unhelpfully. And yet, even that looks deliberate on her.

She sets it down without looking, fingers already moving as she opens it, like she knows exactly where everything is. No hesitation. No rummaging. Just one smooth motion as she pulls out her laptop, places it on the podium, and flips it open.

Her gaze lifts briefly then, not to check, not to assess, but to take in the room. Packed. Every seat filled. People lining the walls. Attention locked on her. She doesn’t look surprised. Not even a flicker of it. If anything, there’s a faint sense of expectation in the way her eyes move over the room, like this is exactly what she anticipated. Like of course the lecture hall would be full. Of course people would show up.

Because why wouldn’t they?

She looks back down, connecting the cable to her laptop. The screen behind her flickers to life a second later, casting a cool glow across the front of the room. There’s no pause, no moment of turning the connector the wrong way, no subtle frustration.

It just… works. Of course it does. You can’t help it, the thought flashes through your mind immediately.

There’s no way she got that in on the first try.

You know how those things go. USB sticks, HDMI adapters… it doesn’t matter which one it is. You always get it wrong the first time. Flip it. Still wrong. Flip it again, somehow that fixes it, even though it should’ve been the same as the first time.

And yet she didn’t even look. Didn’t check. Didn’t adjust. Everything about her feels like that. Like the world just aligns itself properly around her without effort.

It’s ridiculous. And a little unfair.

The laptop finishes connecting, and the screen behind her settles on the first slide; simple, clean. No clutter. Just a title.

Behavioral Analysis.

No flashy graphics. No attempt to impress.

She doesn’t immediately start speaking. Instead, she closes the bag with a quiet, precise motion and rests one hand lightly against the edge of the podium. The other slips into her pocket, her posture relaxed, but not careless. Controlled. Always controlled.

Her gaze lifts again, scanning the room slowly. And this time, she lets the silence sit. It stretches, not awkward, but deliberate. Long enough that people start to shift slightly in their seats, long enough that the last whispers completely die out. Long enough that you become acutely aware of every small sound: The hum of the projector, the faint rustle of fabric as someone adjusts, your own breathing.

And then she speaks: “Most of you are here because you think you want to understand criminals.” Her voice is calm. Even. Not raised, but it carries effortlessly, filling the entire room without strain. A few people shift. She tilts her head slightly, eyes moving across the rows, sharp and observant.

“Why they do what they do. What makes them different. How to catch them faster.” A pause. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze hardens, almost imperceptibly. “And some of you,” she continues, quieter now, but somehow more focused, “are here because you think if you can understand them… you can control them.”

You feel something in your chest tighten. The room has gone completely still. She lets that settle for a beat, then straightens slightly, her hand leaving her pocket as she steps away from the podium.

“But if that’s what you’re expecting,” she says, her tone sharpening just enough to cut through whatever assumptions anyone walked in with, “you’re in the wrong room.” Another step. The sound of her heels against the floor echoes again, measured, precise. “Behavioral analysis isn’t about control.” Her gaze sweeps across the room again, slower this time. Intentional. “It’s about understanding.” A beat. “And understanding means getting uncomfortable.”

Her lips press together briefly, not quite a smile, but something close to it. Something knowing. “Because if you’re doing this right,” she adds, voice lowering just slightly, “you’re not just studying them.” Her eyes hold on the room, on everyone.

“You’re learning how close you are to them.”

Silence. Heavy. Intentional.

And then, just like that:

“Welcome to profiling.”

Your pen finally touches the page.

By the time the lecture ends, it feels like the room has shifted into a different world entirely. You don’t even notice it at first, the way the lights seem brighter now, harsher after sitting in that dim, focused atmosphere for hours. Your neck aches slightly when you tilt your head, your fingers cramped from gripping your pen for far too long without a break.

Three hours. It hadn’t felt like three hours. And yet, somehow, it had.

The scrape of chairs pulls you back as people start to stand, conversations rising again in low, energized waves. It’s louder now than it was before the lecture, but different, less nervous, more charged. Like everyone just walked out of something they didn’t fully expect.

You stare down at your notebook for a second longer and see all these filled pages. Not just bullet points or half-hearted notes, but lines upon lines, observations, phrases, questions she posed that you didn’t want to forget. You’d underlined things. Circled words. Written in the margins when you ran out of space.

You can still hear her voice in your head. Your pen taps lightly against the paper. A quiet breath leaves you before you close the notebook, fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment.

“Jesus.” Amber’s voice cuts in, and you look up just in time to see her lean over, trying to peek at your notes. “You wrote a whole novel,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Were you even in the same class as us?”

Jack snorts from your other side, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Pretty sure she was in a different dimension entirely.”

You huff, standing and gathering your things. “Some of us actually pay attention.”

“I was paying attention,” Jack protests immediately.

Amber gives him a flat look. “You nearly fell asleep.”

“I did not.”

“You literally nodded off at least twice.”

“That was strategic blinking.”

You can’t help it but you laugh, the sound slipping out easier now that the tension of the lecture has finally released. “Strategic blinking?” you echo.

Jack points at you like that proves his point. “See? She gets it.”

“No, I don’t,” you say, shaking your head as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is a thing,” he insists, falling into step beside you as the three of you shuffle out of the row with the rest of the crowd. “It’s called conserving energy.”

Amber scoffs. “It’s called being boring.”

“Wow.”

“Also,” she adds, nudging your side lightly as you reach the aisle, “don’t think I didn’t notice you.”

Your stomach dips slightly. “Notice what?”

She gives you that look again. The one that’s entirely too knowing for your liking. “The staring.”

You almost trip on the step. “I was not staring,” you say quickly, a little too quickly.

Jack glances between the two of you, immediately interested. “Oh, she was staring?”

“She was absolutely staring.”

“I was taking notes,” you defend, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.

Amber laughs. “Yeah, I saw all that note-taking you were doing when she was walking around.”

Jack lets out a low whistle. “Wow. First class and you’re already gone.”

“I am not–” You cut yourself off with a groan, pushing the door open as you step out into the hallway. “You’re both insufferable.”

“And yet,” Amber says brightly, “we’re right.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because you can’t.

The hallway is crowded, people spilling out of the lecture hall in clusters, voices overlapping as everyone tries to process what they just sat through. You stick close to Amber and Jack as you make your way toward the exit, the cooler evening air hitting your face the moment you step outside.

It’s darker now. The sun has dipped low enough that the sky is painted in deep blues and fading gold, campus lights flickering on one by one along the paths. The day feels like it’s finally winding down and you feel it now, the weight of it settling into your shoulders.

You’re tired. Not just from the lecture, but from everything. The classes before it, the constant focus, the pressure that never really leaves. And yet there’s something else underneath it. A kind of quiet energy that hasn’t faded.

“That was…” Amber exhales beside you, shaking her head slightly. “Okay, that was actually amazing.”

You nod immediately. “Right?”

Jack shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It was… better than I expected.”

Amber nudges him. “You mean you expected it to be boring.”

“I expected a three-hour lecture at the end of the day to be torture, yes.”

“And?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “And it wasn’t.”

You grin slightly, hugging your notebook a little closer to your chest. “It was more than that.”

Amber glances at you, amused. “Yeah, we noticed. You were eating it up.”

“I just…” You stop, searching for the right words, your steps slowing slightly as you near the point where the paths split. “It’s different, you know? It’s not just theory. The way she talks about it, it’s like… it matters.”

“Of course it matters,” Jack says.

“No, I mean–” You shake your head, trying again. “She makes you think about it differently. Not just what they do, but why. And how close it is. How easy it is to–” You trail off, realizing you’re rambling.

Amber is watching you with a soft, knowing expression now. “You like it,” she says simply.

You hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I really do.”

Jack bumps your shoulder lightly. “Well, congratulations. You’ve found your calling.”

Amber snorts. “Or your professor.”

“Amber...”

“What?” she grins, completely unapologetic. “I’m just saying, if I looked at anyone the way you looked at her, I’d be concerned.”

“I did not–”

“You were practically drooling.”

“I was not drooling!”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “There might have been a little drool.”

You stare at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of truth.”

“You’re both terrible.”

Amber just laughs, looping her arm through yours for a second before letting go as you reach the fork in the path. “This is us,” she says, gesturing toward the dorm buildings further into campus. “Don’t stay up all night rewriting your notes.” Amber steps backward, pointing at you. “Next class, I expect a full transcript.”

“Go away,” you say, but you’re smiling.

She grins back. “Night, genius.”

“Night.”

They turn, heading down their path together, their voices fading as they continue bickering with each other. And then it’s just you. The quieter path leading away from campus stretches ahead, lit by scattered streetlights. Your apartment isn’t far, ten minutes, maybe less, but the distance feels welcome. A moment to breathe. To think.

Your grip tightens slightly on your notebook again. Three hours. And somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough. You glance back once, just once, toward the building you just left. And for a brief moment, you can almost hear her voice again.

“You’re learning how close you are to them.”

A small smile tugs at your lips as you turn away, continuing down the path.

Yeah. You’re definitely taking that class again next week.

The campus noise fades quicker than you expect. One moment there are voices, laughter, footsteps echoing off buildings and the next, it’s just the quiet rhythm of your own steps on the sidewalk, the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the trees, and the soft rustle of wind moving through the branches overhead.

It’s darker out here. The kind of darkness that settles in gently, softened by streetlights casting warm pools of light onto the pavement. Your breath comes out a little slower now, your shoulders loosening as you put more distance between yourself and the academy.

Three hours of intense focus will do that. Your head is still full. Fragments of the lecture loop back through your mind, pieces of what she said clicking together in ways that feel almost… unfinished. Like there’s more to understand, more to unpack, more–

A car engine slows beside you. At first, you don’t think much of it. Cars pass here all the time, staff, faculty, the occasional late student. But this one doesn’t pass. It lingers.

Your steps falter slightly, your gaze flicking sideways as the low rumble of the engine stays right next to you. The vehicle is dark, black, sleek in that understated way that immediately feels official. Clean. Government-issued clean. The subtle emblem on the plate catches the streetlight.

FBI.

Your heart skips, then stutters. The passenger window rolls down smoothly. And there she is.

Emily Prentiss sits behind the wheel, one hand resting casually at the top, the other near the window frame. The streetlight casts soft shadows across her features, and without the podium in front of her, without the screen glowing behind her, she somehow looks… different. Less untouchable. Still commanding. But closer.

She says your name. Not quite certain, more like a question, testing if she remembers it right. It takes you half a second to process that she knows it at all.

You stop walking. Your heart picks up, thrumming harder against your ribs in a way that feels entirely disproportionate to the situation.

“It’s… yeah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “That’s me.”

Her mouth curves slightly, subtle satisfaction at getting it right. “Good. I was hoping I didn’t just confidently misidentify one of my students on the side of the road.”

You huff a soft, nervous breath. “No, you didn’t.”

She glances down the street, then back at you. “Do you live far?”

“Not really,” you say quickly. “Just about ten minutes that way.” You gesture vaguely ahead.

She studies you for a brief second. “Get in,” she says lightly. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Your brain short-circuits a little. “Oh, no, that’s really not necessary,” you rush to say. “It’s close. I don’t mind walking.”

“It’s no trouble,” she replies easily. “It’s my direction anyway.”

You hesitate. She tilts her head just slightly, something almost amused flickering in her eyes. “It’s late. It’s dark. And someone like you shouldn’t be walking alone if they don’t have to.”

Someone like you. Your stomach flips. Someone like you? What does that mean? You open your mouth to question it, but the words don’t come. Because she’s still looking at you like that. Calm. Kind. Not commanding, just offering.

And you realize you’re not going to say no. Not really.

“Okay,” you murmur, stepping closer to the vehicle. “Thank you.”

You move to the passenger side, pulse thudding in your ears as you open the door and slide inside. It smells faintly of leather and something warmer, coffee, maybe. The interior is tidy but lived-in. A pair of sunglasses in the center console. A travel mug in the cupholder. A file folder on the back seat. Human things.

“Seatbelt,” she says automatically, already pulling back onto the road.

You click it into place, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your breathing.

“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. Almost shy.

She glances at you briefly, smiling. “It’s really no trouble. I promise I’m not secretly grading you for accepting a ride.”

You let out a small laugh before you can stop yourself.

“And I meant what I said,” she adds, eyes back on the road. “It’s dark. You shouldn’t have to walk alone if you don’t have to.” There’s no hidden meaning in her tone. No weird undertone. Just genuine concern.

You shift slightly in your seat, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with nerves this time. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but you’re aware of it. A little too aware. You smooth your hands over your jeans, searching for something intelligent to say.

She beats you to it. “So,” she says casually, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. “First lecture. Survived?”

You blink. “More than survived.”

“Oh?” A hint of curiosity there.

“It was… really good,” you say, and then immediately feel like that’s too simple. Too small. “I mean… really good. It was everything I hoped it would be.”

Her lips curve slightly. “That’s a relief.”

“You thought it wouldn’t be?”

She huffs softly. “It was my first one.”

You stare at her. “First… ever?” you ask.

“As the primary lecturer? Yeah.” She shrugs lightly. “I’ve briefed teams. Spoken at conferences. But this?” She gestures vaguely with one hand. “Three hours of structured academia? Different battlefield.”

You can’t quite hide your disbelief. “You were nervous?”

She glances at you, one eyebrow lifting. “Of course I was nervous.”

That does something strange to you. Because in your head, Emily Prentiss doesn’t get nervous. She walks into rooms and owns them. She doesn’t hesitate with HDMI cables. She doesn’t stumble over words.

“I couldn’t tell,” you admit.

“Good,” she says dryly. “That means I faked it well.”

You laugh again, the tension in your shoulders easing a little. “It didn’t feel fake,” you add quickly. “It felt… intentional.”

She looks at you more fully this time, studying you in a way that feels less like profiling and more like interest. “Intentional’s good.”

You nod and then you start rambling. “I wrote down almost everything,” you confess, gesturing vaguely to your bag. “Probably too much. My friends were making fun of me for it, but the way you explained behavioral proximity and the discomfort aspect and the ethical lines–” You stop to breathe. “It just makes sense. It makes it real.”

She laughs softly. Not mocking,, but warm. “I noticed,” she says.

Your brain stalls. “Noticed?”

“The notes,” she clarifies. “You were very committed.”

Heat floods your face.

“It’s a compliment,” she assures you quickly, amused. “It’s rare to see someone that engaged at the end of a long day.”

You look down at your hands. “I just… really liked it.” There’s a brief pause.

“I’m glad,” she says quietly.

And there’s something about the way she says it; less professor, more person; that makes your chest tighten. You glance at her again, really look at her this time. Without the lecture hall. Without the title hanging in the air like a shield.

Her sleeves are rolled slightly at the wrists now. There’s a faint crease near her shoulder where the vest must’ve shifted. A small line at the corner of her mouth that deepens when she smiles. She’s not just Unit Chief Prentiss. She’s not just Professor Prentiss. She’s a woman driving an SUV at night, giving one of her students a ride home because she didn’t want her walking alone.

“You know,” she says lightly, breaking into your thoughts, “for someone who insisted it was only a ten-minute walk, you look very relieved to be sitting down.”

You let out an embarrassed breath. “It’s been a long day.”

“I remember those,” she says. “Criminology will do that to you.”

“You studied it too?”

“Among other things,” she replies vaguely, but there’s humor in it.

You smile. The awkwardness is fading now, replaced with something easier. Natural. She’s funny. A little dorky, even. And kind. Disarmingly kind. The tension that had been sitting high in your shoulders finally easing into something softer. Something… warmer.

For a moment, it’s easy. Just conversation. Just the quiet hum of the engine, the low glow of the dashboard lights casting soft shadows across the interior. The world outside moves past in streaks of amber streetlights and darkened windows, the occasional passing car briefly illuminating the space between you before disappearing again.

You shift slightly in your seat, angling toward her without really thinking about it. And that’s when it happens. It’s subtle. So subtle you almost miss it.

Her gaze flicks toward you, not unusual, she’s been doing that while talking, but this time it lingers a fraction longer. Not just your face. Lower. Then back up again.

Quick. Controlled. And then gone.

Your breath catches just slightly. You look down instinctively, like you might see whatever she just saw. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should draw attention.

You tell yourself you imagined it. You must have. She’s your professor. Unit Chief. Someone who walked into a room full of trained, perceptive students and held all of their attention without even trying. Someone who reads people for a living.

Of course her eyes move like that. She’s observant. That’s all.

Still… You swallow, your gaze drifting back to her despite yourself. Nothing has changed, that’s the first thing you notice. Her posture is the same: straight, composed, effortless. One hand rests at the top of the steering wheel, fingers loose but controlled, guiding the car with minimal movement. Her eyes stay on the road, focused, steady. The soft glow from passing streetlights slides over her face in brief, shifting patterns, catching on the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw.

There’s no sign of anything unusual. No hesitation. No awareness of the way your thoughts just spiraled somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t have. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just feel something tilt, just slightly, in the space between you.

Your fingers tighten faintly against your jeans.

You’re overthinking it.

You have to be.

She’s trained to observe. To notice details other people miss. A glance doesn’t mean anything. A second longer doesn’t mean anything. That’s her job.

Your gaze drops. Her other hand rests near the gearshift, relaxed, fingers loosely curved over it. For a moment, it’s just that. Just a hand. Still. Controlled. And then her fingers move. A quiet, almost absent rhythm, tapping lightly against the side of the gearshift. Not impatient. Not nervous. Just… something to do. A small, unconscious motion. You watch it without meaning to.

Tap.

Pause.

Tap.

The movement is subtle, but it draws your attention in a way that feels disproportionate. Your focus narrows, catching on the details you hadn’t noticed before.

Her nails. Neat. Clean. Not overly done, painted in a nude color, practical. Most of them are a little longer, evenly shaped, kept just past the fingertip. Except…

Your breath catches.

Her middle and her ring finger are shorter. Not uneven or broken, but deliberately shorter. Your mind stutters, trying to make sense of it.

Oh.

Oh.

The realization lands slowly. Then all at once. Heat floods your face before you can stop it, your gaze snapping back up to the windshield like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

You stare straight ahead, suddenly very aware of yourself. Of her. Of the small space inside the car.

You’re definitely overthinking it.

People trim their nails differently all the time. There are a hundred normal explanations. Practical ones. Innocent ones. It doesn’t mean anything.

Your heart is beating too fast. You risk another glance at her, slower this time, more careful. She hasn’t changed. Still composed. Still focused on the road. The faintest hint of a smile still resting at the corner of her mouth, like she’s carrying some private thought you’re not part of.

Her fingers tap once more against the gearshift. Unbothered. Unaffected. And for a split second, you wonder… Not if she knows what you noticed. But if she noticed you noticing. Your throat goes dry.

You’re overthinking it. You repeat it to yourself, like if you say it enough, it’ll settle the strange, restless feeling curling low in your stomach.

Because the alternative… The alternative is something you’re not even sure how to begin to process. She’s your professor.

And yet your grip tightens slightly in your lap. It doesn’t quite feel that simple anymore.

Your gaze drifts to the window again, watching the city slide by, trying to settle your thoughts. But it’s harder now. There’s a quiet awareness sitting under your skin, making everything feel just a little sharper.

The hum of the engine fills the silence, low and constant, and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks. It gives your thoughts too much space, room to spiral, to replay that moment, to overanalyze every small detail until it loses all meaning and somehow gains too much at the same time.

You press your lips together, trying to ground yourself.

“So,” she says, easy, conversational, like nothing has shifted at all. “Next week’s lecture.”

Your attention snaps back to her, grateful for the interruption, for something normal to hold onto.

“I’m focusing on victimology,” she continues, her tone thoughtful. “Background patterns. Risk factors. The things people overlook when they’re too focused on the offender.” She glances at you briefly. “Think you’ll come back for that one?” There’s a hint of something in her voice, light, almost teasing. But it’s subtle enough that you could be imagining it. Again.

You straighten slightly in your seat, nodding without hesitation. “Yeah. Definitely.” You almost add of course, but you catch yourself.

She smiles. Not big. Not showy. Just enough. “I’m glad,” she says.

The car slows as she turns, the movement gentle, controlled, and you recognize your street immediately. Your stomach dips, a quiet disappointment threading through the realization.

You’re here already. You barely noticed the rest of the drive. “Just up ahead,” you say softly, gesturing.

“I see it,” she replies.

The SUV glides forward, the familiar buildings coming into view, your apartment just a few seconds away now. The street is quieter here, softer. Dim lights in windows. A distant dog barking somewhere further down.

You shift slightly, already preparing to say thank you again, to gather your things, to step back into your own space.

And then her hand moves. It’s quick, casual, like it means nothing. The same hand that had been resting near the gearshift lifts, crossing the small space between you, and for a brief, almost fleeting moment, her fingers brush against your thigh. Then settle. Your breath catches.

It’s not a grip. Not anything that would draw attention if someone else were looking. Just a touch. A grounding motion. Like she’s steadying you or herself. Or maybe neither. Maybe it’s nothing.

“Don’t overthink it,” she says lightly, eyes still on the road, voice calm.

Your heart stutters. Because for a second, you’re not sure what she’s referring to. The lecture? Your earlier rambling? Or something else entirely?

Your thoughts spiral, but before you can catch up to them, her hand is already gone. Back on the wheel. Like it never happened. Like you imagined that too.

She pulls to a smooth stop in front of your building, shifting the car into park with the same effortless precision she does everything else. Silence settles again. But it’s different now. Charged.

Your pulse is loud in your ears, your body suddenly hyper-aware of the space you’re sitting in, the place her hand had been just seconds ago, the warmth that lingers even though it shouldn’t.

You stare ahead for a moment longer, trying to gather yourself. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite fit into anything you understand. Then you turn to her. She looks back at you.. Calm. Composed. That same faint, knowing softness at the corner of her mouth. Like she’s exactly where she wants to be. Like nothing is out of place.

And somehow that makes it all the more confusing.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “Really.”

She gives you that small, steady smile. “Anytime.”

Anytime. Your heart does that ridiculous thing again.You reach for the door handle, then pause.“And, uh,” you add, gathering a little courage, “for what it’s worth? You don’t have to be nervous about the lectures...”

She tilts her head slightly. “No?”

“No,” you say firmly. “You were… perfect.”

Something flickers in her expression at that. Brief. Almost shy. “Careful,” she says lightly. “Flattery won’t get you extra credit.”

You grin sweetly despite yourself. “Worth a shot.”

She laughs. And as you step out into the cool night air, closing the door gently behind you, you realize something important.

You weren’t imagining everything.

The rainy week passes faster than you expect. Classes blur into each other, notes pile up, days stretch long and exhausting, but somehow, through all of it, one thing stays sharp in your mind.

Thursday. Late afternoon. Behavioral Analysis. You try not to think too much about the car ride. About the way her hand had rested on your thigh, brief and light and impossible to fully explain. About the way she had said don’t overthink it and how you’ve been doing exactly that ever since.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tell yourself it was nothing. You tell yourself a lot of things. None of them stick.

And then Thursday comes. The familiar building stands ahead of you again, the sky painted in that same fading light, the air cool and crisp in a way that makes everything feel just a little more alive. You walk beside Amber and Jack, their voices filling the space easily, the rhythm of your steps syncing as you approach the lecture hall.

“You’re excited,” Amber says, not even bothering to hide the grin in her voice.

“I’m not,” you reply automatically.

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“She’s been weird all day,” Jack adds, adjusting his bag. “Distracted.”

“I have other classes,” you protest.

Amber hums. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain professor.”

You shoot her a look, but it lacks any real bite. Because arguing would mean acknowledging something you’re still not entirely ready to put into words.

The hallway is busy, but not like last week. There are still a lot of people, clusters of students lingering outside, voices overlapping, the low buzz of anticipation hanging in the air, but it’s different. Thinner. More contained.

The overwhelming flood of curiosity from the first lecture has settled into something more selective. More intentional. You remember what people always say about these kinds of classes. They start full and then, week by week, people drop off. Lose interest. Decide it’s not what they thought it would be.

Until eventually only the ones who really want to be there remain. The thought settles somewhere in your chest as you push open the door and step inside.

The lecture hall looks the same. Dimmer lighting. The soft hum of the equipment. The large screen at the front already lit, the title slide for today’s lecture displayed in clean, simple text.

But this time she’s already there. Professor Prentiss stands at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the podium, the other holding a remote. She’s not moving much yet, not pacing like she had during parts of the last lecture. Just… waiting. Observing. There’s a quiet confidence in it. A sense that she doesn’t need to fill the space for it to belong to her.

You feel it the moment you step in. That same pull. That same awareness that makes everything else fade just slightly at the edges. And then she looks up. It’s immediate. Too immediate. Like she didn’t just happen to glance toward the door, but knew, somehow, that you were there.

Your breath catches, just for a second, as her eyes meet yours across the room. There are too many people between you for it to make sense. Too much distance. But it feels direct, like she picked you out of the crowd without trying.

You stop for half a heartbeat, your brain scrambling to catch up with your body, with the sudden rush of heat that spreads across your chest. And before you can think better of it… you lift your hand.

A small, awkward wave.

The kind you immediately regret the second you do it. Oh my god. What are you doing? Your hand drops almost instantly, your fingers curling back in as if you can erase the movement, your cheeks heating so quickly it almost feels like a physical burn.

You look away for a split second, mortified. That was so embarrassing. You’re in a lecture hall. She’s your professor. You don’t wave at her like that…

You look back, because you can’t not and she’s still looking at you. But now she’s smiling. Not broadly. Not something that would draw attention from anyone else. Just enough. And suddenly she winks at you, quick and subtle, gone in a second.

But it hits you like a shockwave. Your breath stutters, your entire body going still for a fraction of a second as your brain struggles to process what just happened.

Did she…

Did she just…

“Oh my god,” Amber breathes beside you, low enough that no one else would hear.

You don’t dare look at her. You feel her looking at you, though. Feel the weight of her gaze, the way she’s absolutely thriving off of whatever expression is currently on your face.

If you weren’t standing… If you weren’t very aware of the fact that you are in a crowded lecture hall, surrounded by people… you’re almost certain your knees would have given out. Because that, that was not normal. That was not something a professor does.

Your heart is racing, pulse loud in your ears as you force your feet to move again, heading toward your usual seats with Amber and Jack.

Jack, for once, is quiet.

Amber is not. “You are in so much trouble,” she whispers, barely containing her grin.

“I didn’t do anything,” you hiss back, dropping into your seat a little too quickly.

“You waved at her.”

“I panicked.”

“She winked at you.”

“I…” You stop, your voice catching slightly. “I know.”

Amber lets out a silent laugh, shaking her head as she sits down beside you. “Wow.”

Jack leans forward slightly, glancing between the two of you. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly.

“Everything,” Amber corrects at the same time.

You bury your face in your hands for half a second before dragging them down slowly, trying to compose yourself, trying to act normal, trying to ignore the way your heart is still beating too fast.

At the front of the room, Emily moves again, her attention shifting to the rest of the class as more students filter in, as if nothing just happened.

But when you risk another glance at her, you catch it again, that same faint, knowing curve at the corner of her mouth. And something in your chest tightens, because whatever this is… it’s not just in your head anymore.

The lecture, somehow, passes both slower and faster than it should. You notice it in fragments, the way time stretches in certain moments, when she pauses mid-sentence and lets silence settle, when she looks at someone just a second longer than necessary until they shift under it, when she asks a question and waits, not filling the gap, not rescuing anyone from it. And then there are the parts that slip by too quickly, where you’re so focused on writing, on listening, on trying to follow the thread of her thoughts, that you barely register the passing minutes at all.

It’s different this time. You’re not just observing, you’re participating. At some point, your hand lifts before you’ve fully decided to do it, your voice cutting into the space of the lecture with a question that feels both too simple and too exposed. For a brief moment, every head in the room seems to turn, the weight of attention settling on you in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

But she doesn’t let it linger. She answers you seriously, thoughtfully, building on what you said instead of correcting it, guiding it instead of dismissing it. And when you nod, when you follow, when you add something else, she smiles. Approving.

And somehow, that feels worse than being called out.

Better.

Much, much worse.

It happens again later, when she asks something of the room and the silence stretches just a little too long, and you hear your own voice answering before you can second-guess it. This time, you don’t even look around to see who’s watching. You look at her.

And again, that look. That brief flicker of something in her expression that feels like recognition, like she expected it.

By the time the lecture winds down, your hand aches slightly, your notebook filled with dense, careful lines, annotations in the margins, arrows connecting ideas that seemed important enough not to lose.

At the front of the room, Emily glances at the clock, then back at the class, shifting her weight slightly as she sets the remote down on the podium. “For those of you who want to get ahead for next week,” she says, her voice steady, carrying easily across the room, “take a look at chapter six in Mindhunter. We’ll be building on those concepts, but from a slightly different angle.”

A few people scribble it down immediately, you already have. Her gaze moves across the room once more, slower this time, like she’s taking something in, measuring, observing.

“Otherwise,” she adds, a faint hint of something almost amused touching her tone, “get some rest. You’ll need it.” A pause. “That’s all for today.”

The room exhales. Chairs scrape against the floor as people begin to stand, conversations picking up almost immediately, the tension of focus dissolving into movement and noise. You sit there for a moment longer, your pen still resting against the page, as if your brain hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that it’s over. Again. Too quickly.

“Okay,” Amber says beside you, already packing her things, “that was actually terrifying.”

You glance at her. “You say that every time.”

“Because it is every time,” she shoots back, shoving her notebook into her bag. “The way she looks at people? I feel like she can see my entire search history.”

Jack huffs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “That would require you to have shame.”

“Wow. Rude.”

You smile faintly, closing your own notebook carefully, your fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment before you slide it into your bag.

“You were on fire today,” Amber adds, nudging you lightly. “Asking questions, answering questions… who are you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off, even as warmth creeps up your neck again. “I was just… paying attention.”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Very intensely.”

Amber leans in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to keep it between the three of you. “She was looking at you a lot.”

Your heart stutters. “She looks at everyone,” you say quickly.

“Mhm.”

You don’t respond, because you don’t trust yourself to. You finish packing your bag, pulling the strap over your shoulder as you stand, falling into step with them as the three of you move toward the aisle, joining the slow stream of students heading for the exit.

You’re almost at the door when…

“Hey.” Her voice. It cuts through everything else.

You stop. So do Amber and Jack. You turn, your heart picking up in a way that feels entirely too familiar by now.

Professor Prentiss stands at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly against the podium, her gaze directed, not at the class as a whole, at you.

“Could you stay for a moment?” she asks. It’s casual, professional. There’s nothing in her tone that anyone else could question.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Of course.”

Amber’s head turns toward you so fast it’s almost comical. Oh no. You don’t even have to look at her to know what kind of expression she’s wearing.

Jack, for once, looks mildly impressed. “Well,” he mutters, adjusting his bag. “Look at you.”

“It’s probably about class,” you say quickly, even as your pulse climbs.

“Obviously,” Amber agrees, entirely unhelpful. “Definitely just about class.”

You shoot her a look, she grins. Then, leaning closer for just a second, she murmurs, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You stare at her. “That is the worst advice you could possibly give me.”

“I know,” she says, pleased. “Good luck.”

Jack gives you a small, amused shake of his head. “Try not to get expelled.”

“I’m not going to get expelled.”

“Famous last words.”

You huff, but there’s no real irritation behind it, just nerves buzzing under your skin as you watch them turn and head out of the lecture hall, their voices fading into the hallway beyond.

It’s quieter now. A few students still linger, gathering their things, finishing conversations, but the room is already beginning to settle into that post-lecture stillness. You take a breath, adjusting your bag on your shoulder before stepping down the rows, your footsteps soft against the floor as you make your way toward the front.

Each step feels… louder than it should. You’re aware of her, of where she stands, of the way her gaze follows you and because she’s watching, you become acutely aware of yourself, too.

Of everything. Of the rhythm of your steps, just a fraction too deliberate now, as if you’ve forgotten how to walk naturally under the weight of being seen. Of the way your shoulders hold, a little straighter than usual, your breath measured without you meaning it to be. Of your hands, suddenly unsure of what to do with themselves, tightening briefly around the strap of your bag before loosening again.

And of your skirt. The soft brush of fabric against your legs becomes impossible to ignore, the subtle sway with each step exaggerated in your own perception, like your body has been turned up a notch too high. You can feel it with every movement, small, ordinary sensations that suddenly feel… not so ordinary, not when you know she’s watching. Not when every step carries you closer.

You don’t dare look up at her immediately. Your gaze lingers somewhere just short of meeting hers, tracing the edges of the podium instead, the line of her hand resting against it, the careful stillness in the way she holds herself.

But you feel the attention, the way it doesn’t waver.

And by the time you finally reach the front, stopping just a few feet away, that awareness hasn’t faded, it’s settled somewhere deeper, quieter, threading itself through the way you stand, the way you breathe, the way your pulse seems just a little too present in your own ears.

Like you’ve stepped into something you don’t fully understand.

And can’t quite step back out of.

The last of the students have filtered out now, the door at the back closing with a soft, final click. And just like that it’s only the two of you.

The space feels different now. The air heavier in a way that has nothing to do with the room itself. You stop a few feet from the podium, shifting your weight slightly, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.

You clear your throat, the sound a little too loud in the empty room, your fingers tightening around your bag again. “You… uh- wanted to see me, Professor Prentiss?”

There it is. The title. A small thing, but it settles something back into place, if only for a moment, draws a line, reminds you of where you stand. Student. Professor. Structure. Distance.

Her mouth curves slightly at it, not quite amused, not quite something else. “I did,” she says, her voice easy, but softer than it ever is during a lecture. “You’ve been asking good questions. Engaging with the material.”

You feel heat rise again, quick and inevitable. “I just…find it interesting.”

“I can tell.” There’s a brief pause. Not awkward, not quite. Just… held. Then, almost lightly, as if it’s an afterthought. “Do you need a ride home?”

You blink. The shift is so sudden it takes you a second to catch up. “Oh- no, it’s okay. I’m fine. It’s just…ten minutes.”

Her eyebrow lifts, slowly and she turns her head, glancing toward the tall windows at the side of the lecture hall.

You follow her gaze. The world outside is a blur of rain, heavy sheets of it slanting against the glass, the sky darkened far earlier than it should be, punctuated by a distant roll of thunder that you hadn’t really registered until now.

Oh. You hesitate.

“It’s just rain,” you try, weaker this time.

“Mm,” she hums, turning back to you, that same look settling in her eyes again, the one that feels like she’s already decided something. “It’s a storm.” Another beat. “It’s still on my way,” she adds, casual, almost dismissive, as if that alone settles it.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because the thing is, she’s not pushing. Not really. She isn’t insisting, not in any obvious way. Her tone stays light, her posture relaxed, one hand resting against the podium, the other slipping into the pocket of her slacks.

You get the distinct impression that saying no isn’t actually an option she expects you to take. Or maybe just… not one she’ll accept.

You let out a small breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re good at this, you know.”

Her lips curve, just a little. “At what?”

“Making it sound like I still have a choice.”

That earns you a proper smile. “Do you?”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself, a soft huff of amusement slipping out despite the way your pulse has picked up again. “Apparently not.”

“Good,” she says simply, already reaching for her things. “Let’s go.”

The underground garage is quieter than the rest of the building, the sound of the storm above reduced to a distant, muffled roar, broken only by the echo of your footsteps against concrete. You walk beside her. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, either, there’s still space between you, still that invisible line, but it feels… different. Easier, maybe. Or maybe just more dangerous, now that you’re aware of it.

Her keys jingle softly in her hand, and a moment later, the black SUV unlocks with a muted click, lights flashing briefly in the dim space. That strange, heavy feeling settles again in your stomach as you reach it, not unpleasant, not at all, but present in a way you can’t ignore. Anticipation, maybe. Or something you’re not quite ready to name.

You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing your skirt automatically as you settle, the fabric clinging slightly from the damp air, your skin still warm from the walk.

The door shuts. For a moment, you’re alone. Then the driver’s side opens. You don’t mean to look, you really don’t. But you do anyways. And you catch it, just for a second. Her eyes dropping, briefly, taking in the line of your legs, the way your skirt rests against your thighs where you sit, before lifting again, meeting your gaze as if nothing happened at all, as if it was nothing.

Your breath stutters, barely there. You don’t say anything, you can’t. And she doesn’t either. She just settles into her seat, calm, composed, entirely in control as she starts the engine, the soft rumble filling the car, grounding, steady…like everything about her.

Like nothing has shifted.

Like you didn’t just feel the air change again.

Outside, the rain pounds harder against the windshield, the world beyond blurring into streaks of light and shadow.

Inside it feels smaller, quieter and very, very aware. You swallow, fingers tightening briefly in your lap before you force them to relax, your voice coming out softer than you intend.

“Thank you… for the ride, Professor Prentiss.”

There’s a brief pause. And then, without looking at you this time, her mouth curves slightly.

“You’re welcome.”

But there’s something in it. Something that lingers.

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You hadn’t made up an excuse, or had a fake emergency phone call at any point that got you out of dinner. But Ryland knew he’d fucked it up tonight. He was genuinely surprised that you stayed till the end. It was a simple date, nothing too fancy. And yet he believed he had ruined your night by yapping your ears off. He talked about everything and nothing all at once. His kids at school, his classes, his new research, all of it and more. 

He was a little embarrassed now upon realising that he’d been talking so much the whole night, rarely ever stopping. And he was so certain you’d never want to talk or even text him again. But then you asked him if he wanted to walk you home. 

Ryland agreed a little too quickly. Then he felt embarrassed again. But you just laughed at his awkward little mumbles as he tried to play it cool. 

The whole walk he promised himself he’d finally ask you questions and let you do the talking. But he ended up going off on yet another random tangent about why physical laws even exist at all. In his defense, your follow-up questions were so engaging that he felt like he could keep this conversation going forever. 

Before Ryland knew it, you were both standing on the steps leading to your front porch. With the soft golden light like a halo all around you, Ryland knew in that moment that you were the most stunning woman he had ever and will ever meet. And he felt even worse about the evening. 

He couldn’t keep it in anymore. So he rambled on. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, followed quickly by, “I know I’ve been a– a mess. I am a mess.” He repeated and carried on talking. “I really wanted tonight to go well and I ruined everything by talking so much. About school, about my research, about my students and work and– and I didn’t even ask you anything about yourself, or where you are from. I barely even let you speak. Or tell me anything about yourself. On top of that I’m wearing this stupid shirt. That’s not even the worst part. I didn’t let you speak. Can you believe that? I went on a date with the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met and I didn’t even ask her where she was born. All I know is that you moved here, but I mean–,” 

You cut him off by gently grabbing him by the collars of his blazer and pulling him in for a kiss. He wasn’t expecting it so Ryland was stunned for a second or two. Then he finally kissed you back, his arms instinctively finding themselves around your waist, pulling you into his warm chest. 

Fuck, he thought to himself, it felt nice to have his arms around you. 

When you pulled away, Ryland was still a little stunned. All he did was blink at you with his clear blue ocean eyes. He quickly reached up and adjusted his glasses which slid down his nose. But he said nothing. He just stared down at you. 

You kept your hands around his shoulders, looking down quickly and noticed that some type of nerdy t-shirt peeked through the blazer. It only made him even more attractive. What a nerd, you thought, sighing with adoration. 

“Listen here, Dr. Grace.” You teased him playfully, “I wouldn’t have agreed to go on a date with you if I didn’t like a passionate, awkward, kind of nerdy, incredibly handsome, and talkative man. Okay?” You smiled up at him. 

“Okay?” He sounded just a little confused. Poor thing. 

You leaned in and gave him yet another sweet kiss on the cheek. His rough stubble tickling your mouth as you did. Ryland spoke then, yet again apologising, “I’m sorry. I know that was a terrible first date. But I would really like a second one. Please, I’ll be better. I promise.” He said, giving you those sad puppy eyes. The depths of which one could write endless poems about. 

“You wanna come in for a bit?” You suggested. “And maybe we can talk about that second date?” You spoke, your hands deliberately trailing down his body. From his shoulders to his chest. He was nice and tall, the right amount of lean and muscular. Lots and lots of terrain to explore. 

Ryland was quiet, apparently captivated by the way your hands delicately roamed down his chest. His breathing deepened. His brain was short circuiting. All he could do was silently follow your hands and fingers as they drew random shapes all over his chest. He was certain you’d be able to feel his heart thundering inside his chest by now. 

“Ryland?” 

“Yeah. Yes? I’m listening.” He said, then cleared his throat. He hadn’t been listening. 

Fuck he was so adorable when nervous. 

“Do you plan on lingering out on my front porch, or will you please come inside so I can kiss you like I’ve been dying to all night?” 

— 

Stumbling into bed with Ryland crashing into you as you fell made you feel like you were floating. Like you were on a cloud and everything was perfect. Ryland was almost as giddy as you were. His touch was gentle, and a little hesitant. He waited for a greenlight from you each time his touch and kisses got more and more heated. He’d do that thing where he’d reach for you, but then look at you over his glasses to see if it was okay, then he’d proceed enthusiastically. 

It made you all warm and fuzzy inside each time he did that. 

Contrary to what Ryland thought, you would say you had a great night. Nice food with a gorgeous, intelligent man who was gentle and kind and cared about his job and the environment. Who also happened to be a passionate speaker, and who spent the whole night entertaining you with his silly stories and elaborate scientific theories and more. What bliss! 

“We can slow down,” Ryland said, in between steamy kisses, “If you want.” Another quick kiss. “We can watch a movie, or–,” He cut himself off by kissing you harder, pulling you closer. “We don’t have to, I mean I want to, but it’s not like I’m expecting you to–,” 

“Ryland. Shut up and kiss me.” 

“Okay.” 

When you finally got him out of his blazer, you had to take a moment and giggle over his dorky t-shirt. One with a giant cat sitting on the Golden Gate Bridge. He looked down and let out a dramatic sigh. 

“Please tell me you have another one of these.” You said, already working to get him out of the t-shirt. 

“I… I do.” He sounded defeated as he tossed his shirt over his head, messing up his glasses. 

“Good,” You fixed his glasses for him before you climbed onto his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed. Looking glorious, even more so than before now that he was shirtless, just in his jeans. “Because you’re leaving this one right here. For me.” You laughed when he tried to hide his face into the crook of your neck. 

“You can keep it.” His voice sounded all muffled as he spoke into your neck. Then he pulled away and looked up, his rough cheek tickling your skin in the process again. “As long as I get to take you out on another date.” 

When you smiled and nodded at him, before leaning in and kissing him deeply, Ryland felt like the world around him had gotten a little brighter. 

And he kissed you back with equal excitement, flipping you around and laying you down in bed as he hovered above you. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“It is a ‘yes’, Dr. Grace.” You confirmed, reaching to touch his face. 

Ryland smiled and said, “Well then I better make up for tonight’s disaster.” He leaned down and kissed your neck. “I’m sorry again, I keep rambling anytime I have the chance.” He kissed further down your neck as he spoke. “Shut me up next time. Tell me to shut up. Please.” 

You giggled as he kissed and carefully bit your skin along your collarbones, making you arch your back, pressing your body further into him. “I will.” You spoke, then gasped in pleasure and surprise when you felt Ryland’s warm hands on your inner thighs. 

He pulled away from your neck and looked down at you, “Are you okay, baby? Is this okay?” He asked in a hushed tone, keeping his hands right where they were on your skin. 

“Yes.” You whispered, then gasped again when he dove back in to kiss your neck while his hands caressed your thighs, massaging them gently. Almost lovingly. His touch was so slow in fact that you were getting more and more desperate the longer he took to touch you where you craved him the most. “Ryland?” You couldn’t take it anymore. He hadn’t even gotten you out of your dress yet. Meanwhile he was shirtless, all that body on display and torturing you. 

“Hmm?” He looked up at you. Mouth mere inches off your skin. 

You almost groaned at how he genuinely seemed to have no idea how badly you wanted him. “Please stop teasing me.” You began lowering the shoulder straps of your dress all by yourself. You needed him. Now. 

But Ryland stopped you by carefully seizing your wrists and pinning them above your head. He did it so smoothly too. “Now, when did I say you could do that?” He whispered against your open mouth. “Hmm? Did I ask you to do that?” 

You shook your head, looking up into his gorgeous eyes and wondering where that dominant tone came from. You weren’t complaining. Quite the contrary. “No. You didn’t.” 

He nodded slowly. “That’s right. I said I was gonna make it up to you, didn’t I? Well, I am. So let me take my time. Okay, baby? I know you want it. I can feel it. You think I can’t tell how wet you are by the way you’re drenching my hand.” For emphasis, he pressed his fingers in between your legs, pressing against your very wet, very thin underwear. “Hmm? You think I can’t tell?” 

“Ryland, please…” You whimpered when you realised he was purposely messing with you. And who knows for how long he intended to do that. 

“Oh poor you.” He teased, leaning closer until your warm breaths mingled. “I’m gonna take care of you, don’t you worry. Just let me take my time. I’ve got you. I know what you want, and I’m gonna give it to you. Just… let me. Can you do that for me, baby?” He kissed the corner of your mouth, making you whimper again, “Can you let me take my time with you?” 

“Fuck…” You mumbled. “Yes. Yes, please. Just… I need you to touch me, Ryland. Please.” You begged. 

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” 

He took his time in sliding the straps of your dress down your shoulders, dragging the soft fabric down your body, leaving you more and more naked and exposed under him. 

“So beautiful.” He mumbled to himself as his kisses followed the fabric of the dress lowering down your torso. 

You shivered once he left your dress bunched around your waist carelessly, not fully undressing you. It wasn’t just because of the slightly cold air that you shivered. It was because of how intensely Ryland was staring at you. His glasses had slid down that perfect nose yet again, he didn’t adjust it this time. And somehow it made him look even hotter. 

Fuck. Being so attracted to a man’s glasses’ placement has to be a more worrying issue. But you didn’t care. All you cared about was needing his hands on you. 

By the time Ryland finally got to actually touching you, you were a whimpering, panting, needy mess. Just writhing under him. Your brain all foggy. Your body aching with desire. 

But he was such a fucking tease it was driving you insane. 

He kissed down your exposed torso, your hips, your thighs, whispering, “Look at you, huh? So needy.” He kissed right above your clit, his warm breath making your body come alive. “Is this what you want? You want me to make you feel good? Huh, baby? Talk to me, come on. Use your words.” 

You weren’t sure if you’d sound coherent if you spoke but you tried your best. “Yes, please. Ryland… make it feel good.” 

“I will.” He whispered, as his hands spread your legs and you felt his mouth right on top of you. Hungry. Seeking. Wanting. His warm tongue licked along your slit, his hands spreading your thighs even further apart to give him better access. 

It was rare to find a man who knew what he was doing down there. Especially with his mouth. But Ryland surprised you yet again with that skilled tongue of his. Your hand moved lazily, fingers sliding easily into his luscious, silky soft hair, messing it up even more than it already was. 

You felt like your body was melting under his touch. His hands rubbing your thighs adoringly while his mouth drove you insane. He was good at making you cry out in pleasure. His tongue, skilled and soft against your wet folds. His lips with the right amount of suction on your clit. 

You held yourself up for a moment, your elbows digging into your mattress as you looked down at him. All that golden skin, that faint layer of sweat all over him… he looked divine. 

Then there were those eyes… 

Even through his glasses you could see the spark in them. You saw how they lit up each time you let out a higher pitch moan, or each time your fingers tugged on his hair, scratching his scalp so good he even let out a moan himself while he ate you out. 

“Fuck. Ryland.” You cried out, writhing under him as he pushed his tongue deeper into you. Teasing you with the softest, deliberate licks. You couldn’t look away then. His stare was intense, giving you chills despite the heat inside you rising like never before. 

He smirked then. The sound of his name leaving your mouth so desperately gave him such a rush. It drove him crazy. “Oh, you like that, huh?” He whispered, his rough stubble brushing against your skin, rough against your inner thighs. He slowly brought a finger up to your clit, sliding it agonisingly slowly down your slit, parting your wet folds. “What about this? You like this? You sound like you do.” He paused for a second, slid a finger inside you, stroking your walls gently while he placed his mouth back on your clit for a taste and said, “You sure taste like you do.” His tongue slowly circled your throbbing clit, then down, parting your wet folds with ease.  

Ryland had you coming undone all over his tongue in no time. His deep blue eyes watched you in awe and how you lost control under his touch, legs shaking as he teased your clit and finger-fucked your ever so gently.  

With his arms keeping you pinned to the mattress and unable to escape, he was so quick to figure out what worked and what didn’t. What made you squeeze his head in between your thighs and what made your back arch. What made you tug on his hair harder because he loved that and what made you breathless. 

“Come for me.” He whispered, before latching his mouth onto your pussy. Devouring you. His tongue moved in a way that made you lose control. 

You were gasping for air, moaning his name, wanting more, and more, and more… You came hard, all over his tongue, your walls clenching violently around his finger, your moans and gasps of pleasure filled the room. 

Ryland finally let go of your shaky legs and kissed his way up your body, hovering above you again. He stared deep into your eyes. You couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried, look away from his pink, glistening lips. His hair was definitely messier now that you’d been so rough with it. You slid your hands back into his hair, massaging his scalp a little. 

Ryland closed his eyes for a moment, savouring your touch. Then opened his eyes again and asked, “Are you okay?” 

You nodded, looking up at him. “I liked that.” You murmured, giddy with pleasure. 

Ryland smiled down at you. “I know you did. Pretty sure I have scratches all over my neck. Gonna have to wear some turtlenecks to work for a day or two.” 

You both laughed. 

Then you asked, “Can I touch you now?” Your hands were already reaching down for his belt. He nodded, but you were already undoing his buckle as you pushed Ryland down on the bed next to you and got on top of him, straddling his lap. The rough denim brushing against your bare thighs. 

Ryland reached out to touch your face, caressing your cheek tenderly. “You can do whatever you want.” 

So you did. In no time you were in between his legs, ass up in the air, with his cock in your mouth. 

Ryland had that pleading look on his face, groaning as you took him into your mouth as much as you could. “Fuck, look at you.” He whispered, still caressing your face lovingly as your tongue teased him in the best ways. “Keep your eyes on me, baby. I like how you look at me.” 

He held your head gently, in that same adoring manner you were starting to get used to, and watched you intently with parted pink lips, gasping in pleasure, as you took him. “There we go.” He said, “You’re so good at this, aren’t you?” His voice was so gentle. “You’ve been wanting to do that for a while, huh?” 

You held his stare and nodded. 

Ryland was so gentle with you. Even as his gasps and moans got louder and louder. 

“Fuck.” He swore. “You want more, baby?” He lifted his hips up slowly, he held your head gently and pushed himself deeper into your mouth. “Yeah? Is that what you wanted?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing through your nose, taking him in until he hit the back of your throat. You felt all of him, his smooth skin, his raw taste, and you couldn’t get enough. Your fingers clawed at his thighs through his jeans as he groaned and grunted, filling your mouth. 

“Oh fuck.” He swore again. “God damn it, baby, slow down.” His voice cracked as he grunted while also moving his hips, shoving his cock deeper into your mouth and helping you swallow more and more of him. His head tilted back, his lips parted as he gasped for air while you moved your mouth up and down his cock. And he looked glorious while he lost control. Those damn glasses almost falling off his face. 

You teased him as much as you could, but he soon began begging for you to stop. 

“Come on,” He pleaded. “I can’t come yet, baby please.” 

Followed by more pleas. 

“Please, I really wanna fuck you.” 

“Oh my god, please slow down.” 

“Please don’t make me come yet.” 

“Slow down, baby.” 

All said in a desperate hiss. 

You weren’t ready for the whimpers that followed his pleas. And you almost gave in and made him come because his moans and whimpers were so damn hot, but then you slowed to a stop. Pulling away and straddling him again. 

Ryland did his best to catch his breath before flipping you two around, pinning you into the mattress again. Yet he was still panting as he looked down at you, his warm breath mingling with yours. “Had your fun?” He asked, using that playful, stern tone from earlier again. 

He sounded so different from the man who was whimpering just a minute earlier. 

You nodded, giggling, and clearly still riding that high from earlier. “You’re so hot when you beg.” 

Ryland let out a little laugh as he leaned in to kiss your nose. Then the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw, and down your neck. “Can I make you feel good again now? Hmm? Can I please fuck you, baby?” 

You whined before answering, your back arching already. “Yes, Ryland.” 

“Well spread your legs then,” He made you laugh again with his sudden, straightforward demand. 

But you obeyed quickly. Ryland cradled your head in his hands, holding you so tenderly as if he thought you were fragile. 

“I’ve got you.” He said, as he held your stare, slowly sliding inside of you, both of you moaning softly as he went. 

“Ryland…” You hissed in pleasure, unable to look away from his gorgeous blue eyes. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He whispered, nothing but desire and love in his eyes. He leaned in again, whispering against the corner of your open mouth, “Where have you been all my life, huh?” 

You felt his cock stretching you, filling you up. Every thick inch of him sliding into your tight cunt. “Oh fuck, Ryland…” You gasped. 

“I know, baby. I know.” He said, pressing his forehead to yours. He held you close as he moved his hips.

“You… you feel so good.” You could feel your eyes tearing up at how snug he felt inside you. 

“I know.” He almost whimpered again. 

He pulled away to watch you. Ryland held your stare as he reached down to grab your legs and wrapped them around his waist. He looked down to where your bodies connected, he watched his cock slowly moving in and out of you then leaned down to give you a messy kiss, swallowing your desperate moans in the process. 

“That’s it, baby. Let me in.” He whispered. 

You couldn’t help your loud moans as he moved his hips expertly. You thanked whoever or whatever taught him how to do that. You could feel your walls clenching around him as he sped up and pounded into you. 

You felt all of him stretching you, filling you up, moving rapidly in and out of you until he was all you could focus on. His eyes remained fixed on yours. Ocean blue, now familiar. 

“You feel so good…” He whispered, pounding into you relentlessly, his hand instinctively wrapping around your throat as he bent down to bite your lower lip and tug on it. “So perfect for me. My pretty girl.” 

His voice was driving you insane. You moaned at how perfect his lean body felt against yours, his weight pressing down on you. His slight stubble tickled your skin as he moved. And you slid your fingers into his hair, tugging on it even more now that you knew he liked it. He probably liked it a little too much since he wouldn’t stop letting out discreet whimpers each time you gave his hair a slightly hard pull. 

Your legs trembled as you wrapped them tighter around his waist. His thrusts, relentless and unbearably good. The pressure around your lower body, tight and hot.

Ryland looked down at you as you tightened around his cock. “Hey,” He spoke softly, his thumb toying with your lower lip. “Look at me.” When you did, he whispered, “Just hold on, okay? Don’t come yet. Just a little longer, baby.” 

You nodded, eyes half closed, but unsure if you could. He felt so fucking good and you were right on the edge… right on that fucking edge…

He must have noticed your eyes rolling back because he spoke again. 

“Come on, baby.” He pleaded again, pressing his warm forehead against yours. “I know, I know.” He reassured you. “But just hold it for me, okay? Just a minute longer, baby. I know you can do it.” He murmured. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

The tenderness and care in his voice only made you clench around him again. 

“Oh look at you. You can’t even hold it a little longer.” He gave you a lazy, cocky smile, “Are you gonna come for me now?” His hand squeezed your throat just a little, making you moan even louder. He gave you a messy kiss. “Come all over my cock then, come on.” 

You whimpered, unable to say anything because of how good he felt sliding in and out of you. The familiar pressure formed at your core and you whined again when his hand let go of your throat and his eager fingers found your clit, toying with it while he pounded into you mercilessly.

“That’s it.” He cooed when your moans got louder. “You’re doing so well for me, look at you. Now come, come all over me,” He whispered and that was all you needed to hear before you came undone all around him. Whimpering and back arching off the bed as you came hard around his cock, tightening around him. 

Ryland kept pounding into you as your orgasm washed over you, your walls squeezing him violently. Your body trembling under his intense gaze. You felt his thrust becoming irregular, and felt his cock throb against your walls violently. “Fuck.” He hissed again, then groaned as he quickly pulled out just in time and came all over your thighs.  

You whined and whimpered as you felt his cum drip down your thighs. 

“Fuck…” You whined as you caught your breath. 

“Come here,” He whispered as pulled out and he laid down beside you, pulling you into his damp, but warm chest for a cuddle. You curled up against him in no time. 

He panted, still catching his breath. “I think you deserve the t-shirt.”