I put the Homo in Homo Sapien✌️

You hold your full glass of champagne in one hand, as Mac twirls you into him and then away again, toward the target. You release a rather convincing tipsy laugh right as you slam into Gavin Whittaker, your drink, still full to the brim, going everywhere. Just as you hoped it would.

A list of profanities leaves Gavin as he gathers himself and in an instant you’re on him, hands patting down his chest as you spew apologies with a few slurred words to sell the act. "I didn't even see you, I am so sorry." You gather up the lengths of your dress, using it to pat dry the ends of his suit jacket and flashing a little bit of leg in the process to bring his guard down. It works a charm. Gavin Whittaker looks from your legs to your hands, and then to your face. You bat your eyelashes, as sorrowful as you can make them as he takes you in. Pretty girl, pretty dress, all over him along with some champagne.

"Got it," Riley alerts through your earpiece, almost at the same time as you feel a pair of warm hands on your shoulders.

"We should have been paying more attention," Mac says, gently pulling you back and a little closer to him, not quite laying his claim but something like it. "but when she asks me to dance with her, I just can't say no." Mac pulls you back further, tucking you into his side as Gavin Whittaker comes to terms with the fact that the woman that had been climbing over him seconds beforehand is spoken for. Or at least is according to the falsified documents Matty provided before you left the phoenix.

She requested that you and Mac play a newlywed couple at the gala. Lovebirds that can't get enough of each other, spending all their wedding gift money. You had argued that you could work the case under entirely different circumstances, but Matty insisted this was the only way. Just like she had with the last case, and the one before that.

Mac was your best friend, your companionship dating back to childhood, lasting through military days where Mac spent his time as an EOD and you as a Medic. And now you were here, forced almost once a month to play his lover, or girlfriend or wife. You didn't hate it by any means. You were used to being close to him. It was easy playing with his hair while you spied on targets, or letting him trace patterns on your skin while you planted a bug underneath a table.

But your problem arose with just how good you both were at it. At just how easy it was for you to slip into that format, for you to love him and be loved by him in that way. Even if it was an act, at times it didn't feel like it.

The way he held you now, protectively against him as Gavin and his security eyed you closely wasn't an act. At least you knew that much.

"Who am I to stand in the way of a woman and her champagne?" The target says at last, a very false smile crawling onto his lips. You manage a bashful smile back, ducking your head into Mac's chest to feign innocence.

Mac shrugs, "I was thinking the same thing. Is there anything we can do to help with the cleanup?" he gestures to the mans damp suit, most of the liquid soaked up by the ends of your dress. Gavin shakes his head, clearly irritated and wishing for this interaction to be over. "Don't worry about it." He says, before he turns his back on both you and Mac, security enveloping him before anything more can be done.

"Great job guys." It's Matty, ever observant in your earpieces. A breath you didn't know you were holding in blows out of you, and even though Gavin has been ushered away by his guards, Mac presses a kiss to your hair, ever the doting husband. Or maybe that's just him, doting on you.

You become acutely aware of his arm around you, still holding you close even as the coast is clear. "I had no idea you were such a shitty dancer." You say to him, hand coming to rest atop his on your hip to let him know you're aware of his touch.

"Hey," he pinches you gently, never able to hurt you even as a joke. "that shitty dancing got you close enough to feel up Whittaker didn't it?" There's a hint of distain there, as if the thought of you having to do so makes him a little sick. You can read it in his expression, in those eyes.

"I saw that." you give him a gentle slap on chest. "Quit worrying about me, Angus."

His expression instantly changes to one of annoyance. "Please don't call me that."

"Angus." you say again for good measure, reveling in the roll of his eyes.

-

When you're back at the hotel room upstairs from the gala, Mac finally releases his hold on you as you slip into the room. Inside Jack, Riley and Bozer crowd around Riley's computer as they watch the feed she's hacked into.

"Bout time you two lovebirds got out of there." Jack's voice is teasing, as if he knows something you don't. Mac scowls at him as you slip further into the room, kicking off your heels by the couch and collapsing onto it.

"How much longer till they realize they're locked out of their own safe?" you ask, Riley turning her gaze to you.

She and Bozer used the codes you and Mac managed to get to change the password on the safe. And to take out the weapons that were inside. It's bought you a little more time to let the criminals gather, but you won't be able to apprehend them all on your own.

"I'd say they've already realized." Riley nods toward the screen, and sure enough, the security are scattering as Whittaker pulls out his phone from his pocket. He dials a number with frustration on his face.

"How far away is the swat team?" you ask, hiking up the end of your dress a little, so you can fold your legs up underneath you.

"Ten minutes out."

You sigh, and look up away from the screen. You're job is done here then, for the most part. You can feel Mac's eyes on you, warm and familiar. You wonder why he's staring, if he even knows he's doing it. You often catch him lost in thought, his gaze locked onto you quietly. You don't bother to call him out on it.

The group of you wait for the call from Matty to say the S.W.A.T team is in the building, and then you begin packing your things. This case was an easy one, all things considered. Or at least easy for your little crew. You've done much scarier things, and so despite the long hours of surveillance, the flights, interrogations and small fights, you don't feel all that tired.

The flight home isn't any more interesting. You sit at the back of the plane with Riley, while the boys whisper up the front. You don't bother trying to listen in, they're always talking about some nonsense that makes no sense to you. Riley nudges you with her shoulder, and you turn your attention to the woman beside you.

"So, you and Mac seemed pretty close today." of course. You should have seen this coming.

"Were we convincing?" you avoid what she's really implying, trying to keep the focus on the case itself.

"You convinced me. Though you two don't have to try very hard to be believable." she chuckles.

You frown, shuffling up in your seat. "We're just friends." You want your voice to come out stern and final. But it doesn't exactly work that way.

"Does he know that?" Riley glances over your shoulder at the men and when her eyes come back to you there's something accusatory there. "And are you sure you know that?"

You try not to let her words settle, pushing the thought of your feelings for Mac out of your mind. You've known him forever, too long to ruin it with romance. "We're friends. He knows that. I know that."

Riley nods, looking down at the phone in her hand. "Okay." You can tell she doesn't believe you for a second, and you watch her fingers type something out on her screen until you hear a ding from the other end of the plane. You turn to see Jack checking his phone and whip your head back around to Riley.

"Are you and Jack gossiping about this?"

Riley doesn't respond, barely flinches at your accusation. But you know it's true by the way her own phone dings a second later, and you look over your shoulder again to see Jack putting his away.

-

On the other side of the plane Jack is just as much on Mac's case as Riley is on yours.

"Brother, I'm not trying to get in your business, but don't you think it's about time you told her?"

Mac stiffens. He's been watching Jack text Riley for half the flight, knowing something like this was coming sooner or later. "Told her what?" he doesn't have to ask who Jack is talking about. There's no one else it could be.

"Told her you like her, that you wanna kiss that pretty face."

Mac's already shaking his head before Jack has even finished his sentence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do." Jack nudges Mac's foot with his own. He looks toward Bozer for back up and it's now two against one.

"Not gonna lie man, I thought you two were already a thing." Bozer states, an awkward smile hanging from his lips. "I thought you were a thing when we were ten years old, then when we were thirteen, then when we started high school I thought for sure—"

Mac cuts him off, "We were never a thing."

"Well, maybe you should tell her that." Jack mumbles, his gaze flitting between the seats at the back of the plane where you sit, and where Mac resides in front of him.

"She knows we're friends, she's made it clear that's what she wants."

"Ah, so you don't want to be just friends, you're just following orders." Bozer latches onto Mac's almost confession as fast as it comes, Jack grinning ear to ear as Mac fumbles to clear things up.

"That's not what I meant, I just meant that she knows we're friends, I know we're friends. We are just friends."

But he's already put his foot in it now, and there's no way he's getting out.

-

The next case you end up on has you and Mac paired together again. You wander through the halls of a museum with him, pretending to be a couple of lovey-dovey sightseers. You need to find your way to the back office of the museum, and get access to the files under the desk. There should be a USB drive there, if you can make it.

You hold Mac close, one hand wrapped around his arm and the other hand locked with his. He can feel the warmth of your fingers through the fabric of his button up shirt, and wishes there was no barrier between your touch and his skin.

"The office should be just around this corner." you say, nudging him a little to the left to make sure he takes the turn. He just squeezes your hand in his in response, unable to let go.

Just as predicted the door is right there when you turn the corner. There's a large sign on it that reads 'staff only' in bold red lettering. a sign you ignore as soon as you see it.

Once you know the coast is clear you pull away from Mac and open the door, moving inside quickly as to not be detected. Mac enters after you, closing the door gently. Once you hear it click you move right toward the desk at the far side of the room. It's dark brown, wooden, and smells like vanilla incense.

You rummage through the drawers as quick as you can, Mac searching the drawers at the other end of the desk. "Can you see it?" you ask as you close the first drawer and move onto the one below it. Mac grunts, shaking his head. "Nothing yet."

Your time is running out, just like your luck, because in the next second Riley's voice cracks over your earpiece. "There's someone coming you two."

"How close are they?" Mac closes the drawer he was rummaging through, his eyes now on the door. "Close enough that you don't have time to leave. Is there a place inside where you guys can hide?" She sounds stressed, and you know she's trying to find a way to divert the attention of the approaching person as she speaks.

You don't respond, lurching forward to grab Mac's hand and pull him toward a closet near the door.

"You got six seconds guys." Riley's voice is frantic, and you open the closet door and shove Mac inside before you can even think about whether you'll both fit. He pulls you in after him, tugging you tight to his body as he shuts the door to the closet. Just in time. You hear the door to the office open, footsteps soft as they enter the room.

You try to steady your breathing as Mac holds you up, your feet uneven in the small space. You would have fallen right out of the closet by now if it weren't for Mac holding you in place. You try not to breathe, not to make any sound at all.

You're staring at Mac in the darkness of the closet, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your fists. His eyes are soft, melting into yours and you grip him a little tighter as your heart races. You push yourself up as much as you can with such little space to move, and place your lips next to Mac's ear. "Is now a bad time to tell you I'm claustrophobic?" your whisper is so quiet, barely there as footsteps move outside the closet.

Mac's arms wrap around you tighter, and he's so unbelievably warm up close. "I know you are. I've known since you punched Steve Lineman in the face in fifth grade for locking you in the P.E shed."

You don't say anything in response, too afraid of getting caught by whoever's outside. The footsteps begin to move further from the closet and the desk, heading toward the door. You try not to sigh in relief just yet.

One of Mac's hands moves further up your back, splaying out across your shoulder blades and your breath hitches. You want to kiss him you realize. This close, with his hands on you and his eyes looking right in yours. You want to kiss your best friend.

"You guys are in the clear." Riley's voice interrupts your thoughts, and it makes you jump, startled in his arms by the sudden sound of her voice.

Mac doesn't react for a moment, staring at you in the minimal light of the closet. Staring at you in the way he always does when he thinks you aren't looking, except this time you're face to face.

"We should get out of here." your voice is a whisper, despite the fact you don't need to anymore. Mac nods, his hold on you loosening.

"Yeah," he reaches behind you for the closet door and pushes it open, allowing you to step backward out into the light of the room.

You move back toward the desk to continue your search but Mac reaches out, his hand grazing yours. "I got it."

You turn as his hand slides into the pocket of his jeans, and he pulls out the USB drive you had been looking for. He must have just and only found it before you had to hide.

Unable to form words, your thoughts from the closet still running rampant in your head, you nod and move toward the door.

"Are we clear, Riles?" you hear Mac mutter behind you. She confirms the hall is empty a second later, and you dash out of the room before the heat that is building between you and Mac can worsen.

-

That night you awake with a start. You sit up straight in your bed, breathing heavy as you try to get control of yourself. You were dreaming about Mac. And not platonically.

This has happened a few times before, once or twice after a night on the town, or a long mission that ended in an embrace that lasted more than a few seconds.

But the dreams have been coming more frequently lately, reminding you just how much you're avoiding. You check the time on the alarm clock beside your bed, the blue numbers informing you of the early morning. You would try and go back to sleep, but you don't think there's any point. Your heart is racing and there's no way you're just going to fall into a dreamless sleep no matter how hard you try and wrangle your mind.

You slink out of bed, your feet padding on the carpeted floor as you move toward the kitchen for a glass of water. When you get there you come face to face with the picture of Mac that you have stuck to your fridge. He smiles back at you, all crinkled eyes and white teeth, making your stomach twist.

You almost reach out to touch the photo, but you stop yourself before you can go through with it. What is wrong with you? Your fingers itch with the need to call him and tell him to come over. You know if he was here he would brush your hair back from your face and make a stupid joke. You know he would make you feel better, he always does, no matter what's got you down.

You shake you head, trying to will the thoughts from your mind. You count the steps it takes to get a glass from the cupboard, to fill it with water and take it back to your room. The counting doesn't distract you as well as you hoped it would, but it was worth a shot. Is ruining your friendship with Mac worth it too?

You don't go back to sleep after that, instead opting to watch tv in the darkness until the sun decides to make her entrance. It's new years eve today, and this isn't exactly how you pictured your day starting. But nevertheless you move sluggishly toward the shower trying to avoid looking at your phone. You know sooner or later you'll receive a text from Mac, inviting you over tonight for Bozer's New Year Party.

Just the thought of him has your heart racing. But this has happened before. You'll get over it, you just need a minute. Or an hour. An eternity, maybe.

-

Mac has been oddly quiet Jack realizes, as he helps Bozer hang up happy new year banners around the house. Mac has been anything but helpful all day, getting in the way more than anything, which isn't like him.

"Earth to Mac." Jack calls, waving his hands in front of the blonde as he waits for a response. Mac snaps to attention, blinking rapidly.

"Sorry, what?"

Jack places a hand on Mac's shoulder, "We lost you there for a second bud. Honestly, you've been off in your own little world all day."

"Mac's always in his own little world." Bozer chimes in, climbing down from a step ladder. But Jack shakes his head.

"Not like this he ain't. What's up man?"

Mac doesn't want to say it, knows that if he does he'll never live it down. So he tells a half truth. "Y/N isn't answering my texts, I think I pissed her off the other day." He knows you're not mad at him, at least he thinks he does. But it's the closet he can get to saying, 'I'm going crazy thinking about someone who isn't interested in me the way I am in them.'

"Don't worry about it man, she's never been mad at you a day in her life." Jack squeezes Mac's shoulder, pulling out a chair to sit next to him. But Bozer pipes up with some not so helpful information.

"Not exactly true, you remember the time you blew up her favourite stuffed bear? She wanted you dead Mac, she told me as much. And in high school when you tried to leave her a valentine and it covered her whole locker in red glitter? And last year when you—"

"Not helping Boze." Mac cuts in, allowing his head to fall into his hands.

Jack chuckles, twisting a ring on his finger "You left her a valentine in high school?"

"I left her a valentine as friends." Mac clarifies, trying not to let Jack run with the idea. But Bozer has other plans, and has clearly been waiting to share all that he knows.

"He left her a valentine every year up until they left for the army together."

Mac wants to deny it but he can't. What Bozer doesn't know is that he still found ways to make you little valentine gifts even during deployment. He would write notes in the dirt, make you little heart out of pieces of scrap metal and paper. He never stopped making you valentines until he joined the phoenix with you. Until you became coworkers and it began to cross a line. Not that he wasn't already toeing the line between being your friend and flirting with you.

"Can we get back to the real conversation here? I texted her asking if she's coming tonight and she hasn't responded." With the line of work you're in Mac can't help but worry. What if somethings wrong? But also, with the way you looked at him the other night while trapped in that closet....he's worried it might be something he's done. Not that he did anything. But he wanted to, and you've always been able to read him like a book.

"She'll be here man, she always shows up for us." Jack clears his throat. "For you."

Mac lets the truth of those words set in, allowing a deep breath to fill his chest. You'll be here tonight, you'll show. You always do.

-

When you walk out onto the patio of Mac and Bozer's shared place, Mac almost knocks over his drink. He jolts to sit up straighter, elbow knocking the table as his beer rocks unstably in response. He ignores it in favor of looking at you.

You've dressed up for the night, in a dress that Mac has never seen before. It's getting hard for him to breathe. Is this what people mean when they say something has taken their breath away?

Jack gets up to greet you in an instant, calling a "Look what the cat dragged in." as he moves to pull you into a side hug, walking with you to the fire pit on the deck. Mac stays still, unable to think for the first time in his life.

-

"This is amazing Boze," you say, looking around at all the decorations laid out. The banners on the walls, the streamers and the fairy lights. It's gorgeous and perfect to end the year.

Bozer gets bashful at your words, "It's nothing, I mean, I only planned it for a couple of months."

You want to laugh, but you can tell he is entirely sincere with his claim. You choose to smile instead, trying to stop your gaze from wandering to Mac. But it's a lost cause. You can feel him looking right at you, and that alone draws your own attention to him.

His blonde hair is more of a mess than usual, as if he spent half the day running his hands through it. You wonder if he had trouble sleeping last night too, or if maybe those feelings are still unrequited.

"Did you help at all? With the decorations?" you ask him. You overthink the question instantly, what a stupid thing to say.

"Mac just sat around moping." Bozer cuts in before Mac can so much as open his mouth to respond. Your gaze cuts to him, and then back to Mac in confusion.

"What, why? Are you okay?" instantly your juvenile embarrassment is gone, in favor of worrying about him.

"Yeah, Boze is just—"

This time Jack cuts him off. "He needs to talk to you."

Your eyes widen in an instant, and you want to be sick at the thought of whatever it is he has to say. "Oh, um, okay."

Mac seems just as startled as you, putting down the beer he was holding and glaring at Jack. "He's being dramatic, nothing's wrong."

"Then why did you need to talk to me?" you manage to keep the shake from your voice, but you bet everyone can see it in your eyes anyway.

"I don't." Mac snaps, and then instantly checks himself for his tone. "I wasn't moping about anything."

You don't believe him, and you know he can tell. But you let it slide, and you turn your attention to Riley who out of sympathy has started up a new conversation.

You glance at Mac across the circle, and catch him watching you right back.

-

It's almost midnight. There's ten minutes left until a new year begins and you all start spitting resolutions you know you won't keep. You have a resolution you won't dare share. That you won't let your feelings for your best friend get in the way of work, or your friendship. You don't know if you'll be able to keep it though.

Mac has been pacing for the better part of an hour, having the occasional conversation with Jack and Bozer, but never once staying still. You wonder what he's thinking about, if he really does have something important to say to you.

You have a brief conversation with Matty about Jack's antics on the last mission, about the prank you might want to pull on him to get him back next time, and then Bozer is calling out.

"Five minutes everyone!"

Your eyes move to Mac in an instant. The thought enters your head for a moment. The image of kissing him at midnight searing itself into your mind before you push it away.

Mac meets your gaze, his pacing halts.

You've spoken about it before on past New Years. "What if we kissed at midnight just for the hell of it?" "There's no harm in it right?" But you'd never once gone through with it.

Mac puts down his drink. Runs a hand through his hair, and moves toward you.

-

Mac doesn't know what ghost is controlling him right now, but surely he's posessed. He moves toward you with purpose, covering the ground swiftly until he's close enough to touch you.

"I'm sorry about earlier." He starts. "And for the other day, in the closet."

"There's nothing to be sorry for." You manage, clutching your glass of Bozer's homemade punch a little tighter.

"You look..." Mac searches for a word and comes up empty.

"Thank you." you smile, and he does the same, as Bozer shouts to the group.

"two minutes!" he sounds so excited, so happy to be here with all of you.

Mac is trying to talk himself out of it. It won't work out the way he hopes it will. He shouldn't. He can't. But you're looking up at him, fingers wrapped around your drink, and Mac knows you well enough to read the expression on your face. You're thinking the same thing he is. It's the face you made when you had a crush on Thomas from 5th grade, the face you made when he teased you about it. The face you made when you saw Thomas go with someone else to the school dance, despite the fact you thought he was going to ask you. And the face you made when Mac asked you instead. Has it really been in front of him this whole time?

Bozer's voice is a distant buzzing in the background, counting down. Mac's hands clench at his sides, his body's last ditch effort at convincing his brain that this isn't a good idea.

"I'm not sorry, about what happened...almost happened in that closet." The words find their way out before he can stop them, not that he tried very hard to.

You place your drink on the ledge beside you, "I know."

You look beautiful tonight, the string lights Bozer hung bringing a sparkle to your eye. Your dress looks soft to the touch, and the more his thoughts spin, the harder it becomes to try and stop them.

He can hear Bozer's final countdown, ten seconds till midnight. You smile, all knowing at last. And Mac knows then that this will work out. Because you're taking a step toward him, reading his mind.

6, 5, 4...

Mac's head tilts to the side, one last examination of your expression. "Fuck it."

3, 2, 1.

Mac kisses you, hands coming up to the sides of your face. You let him kiss you, let him take his time. Mac doesn't know what he expected. He realizes now that kissing you has been on his mind for a decade, but it's not how he thought it would be. There's fireworks, real ones, exploding nearby in new years celebration, but the feeling Mac gets is a lot simpler. It's not world altering, or life changing. Kissing you feels normal, like this was always how it was meant to be. He fits with you, always has.

He pulls away, and suddenly all logical thought rushes back. He's just kissed his best friend, and everyone is watching. The countdown and cheering from all your friends has died down in favor of stunned silence. They all stand around with mouths agape, and you stand before him, hands on his chest, with a similar expression.

"Sorry." it's all he can think of to say, the silence deafening.

You stand very still before him, eyes locked onto him and nothing else. He opens his mouth to apologize again, when you grip his shirt tight in your fingers and pull him down to you. "Just be quiet." you mumble.

The kiss you press to his lips is softer than the one before, as if you're communicating with him through it.

Slow claps echo around the patio, gaining speed as you both break apart. Jack is grinning ear to ear, his claps getting louder and more obnoxious by the second.

"Alright, alright, shows over." Mac says, raising one hand in defense. But his other hand has a tight grip on your waist, not able to let go of the moment just yet.

"No way," you say, and Mac follows your gaze to Matty and Riley, passing money around. "You gambling rats."

Mac smiles, because despite the words you don't sound mad at all. You sound content, and so is he. He looks down at you, at your hand over his on your hip.

"We're gonna talk about this later." you mumble, because you do have a lot to discuss. How this is going to work, how you turn a friendship into something more.

Mac thinks that can wait. For now, he wants another drink.

"Happy new year." he leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin. He has no idea how this will work, but he doesn't regret that it happened. It's been a long time coming after all.

There was a period of time when you were terrified you’d never be whole again. Desperate to act strong and not put extra weight on your dad’s shoulders. He didn’t need more on top of his job, the grief, PTSD, and now being a single parent. It felt like he was watching you for when you’d finally break down. 

And, of course, he had been thinking the same as you, trying to hold it together for his kid after they lost their mom and were left alone with their mess of a father. 

You moved out of your childhood home, unable to keep looking for ghosts. You attended therapy, separately, and then together. You ended up losing nearly all your friends. You opened up, finally, sobbing in some mixture of grief and shame, after trying so hard to keep it together. You also gained a relationship with your father that would make any other teen so embarrassed they’d skip town. You started to make new friends, people who saw you as more than just the kid with the dead mom. 

The grief didn’t shrink, but you started to grow around it. Let the new mix with the old and make something worth saving. 

When you came home one day and mention an invite to Pitt Fest with your friends, you expect uncertainty. Jack Abbot is a good dad. He’s your favourite person in the world, even if you never plan to say that to his face. He is also undeniably protective, and Pitt Fest would be large, crowded, and packed with poor decision-making. 

Instead, he encouraged you. Said he was proud you're going out and connecting with others and having fun, in a roundabout way. And that was that. 

With the promise you’d call him on your way home before he started his shift, you went to the festival a few weeks later. 

And everything, as it tends to do when you look away for too long, went wrong. 

—

He’d called three times. You didn’t pick up. 

It was stupid, but as he shoved the car keys into the ignition, he contemplated driving towards the festival. To go and find you. 

But it wasn’t feasible. It was across town. Even if he managed to somehow get close, it would be chaos, all those faces a blur in the crowd. And there’s no way they’d let him on a scene that's not secured. 

Everyone who wasn’t injured would be held on site and questioned by police before being released. Injuries to be sent to the PTMC. The deceased was… something he couldn’t think about, right now. 

“...then I can’t pick up right now, so text me like a normal person! Or leave a message, and I’ll text you. Bye!”

A beep. He sucked in an abnormally shaky breath. 

“Hey. I need you to call me back asap. Let me know you’re okay. If you can, come to the Pitt, okay? I love you. I love you, and-” His voice breaks off. What else could he say? “Call me. See you soon.” 

Jack didn’t make it to the nurse's desk before Robby was on him, and it's true he’d bitch at Robby all day long, but there are very few people he’d like to see more, right now. Just one, really.

A hug he could barely remember. A speech. Dana pulled him to the side. 

“The kid. They’re at Pitt Fest?”

Leave it to Dana not to beat around the bush. Not that there was time to, now. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I… Haven't heard from them yet.” Watching the way Dana’s face fell made it too real. 

Suddenly, he wanted to go find Robby again. Robby and Jack were good at ignoring things, or better said, talking around them. Leaving space. Robby understood that Jack needed to be strong right now and keep his shit together. He couldn’t talk about how his kid, his fucking kid, might be dead or hurt, and he can’t do a damn thing about it-

And Dana must’ve seen that on his face because she pulled him in for a brief hug, promised to try and call you when she tried Jake, and moved along to help prep carts. 

He has a good kid. A smart one. And so strong, even when they shouldn't have to be. The best child someone could ask for, even if all parents say that. He’d gotten damn lucky. 

Jack Abbot hasn't believed in a god for a long time, or at least not a kind one who shows mercy. And yet…

He uttered a prayer under his breath, barely a whisper. Please. Please. 

Then he finished setting up his kit, steadied his breathing, and did his job. 

—

You had your first aid certification. 

It was something you’d wanted, though you're sure your dad would have asked you to get it eventually. 

You took the highest level courses they’d let you take at 16. You read books on a variety of medicine. Harassed your dad about resources and volunteered at the cancer clinic during the summers. 

At first, it was an expression of grief. A way feel in control after mom. To feel like you could stop death if you faced it again. Then, with time, it had become a new way to talk to your dad, to complain about how weirdly the human body worked and ask about recent studies. 

But nothing could ever have prepared you for this. 

The gunshots came quickly. The screaming came faster, somehow. 

You were off by yourself, attempting to find a stall with water cheaper than $6 (fucking festival prices, and they won't even let you take more than one bottle in with you). Suddenly, you were slammed into the side of a tent, almost falling through the tarp as people rushed past. 

Everything started moving very fast. 

Not fireworks. Not fireworks. Gunshots. Someone was shooting at the festival. 

You were going to die. 

Closer to the stage entrance, someone went down, hard. Her leg folded underneath her unnaturally as she was shoved into the dirt. A young woman, maybe a few years older than you. She was going to get trampled if someone didn’t help her. If she didn’t get shot first. 

She was going to die. 

Your brain felt blank, suddenly. 

Adrenaline, a distant voice in your head whispered. It’s hell of a drug. Makes people do all kinds of crazy things. 

She was going to die if no one helped her. 

The plastic tent cover brushed your leg. Somehow, you were standing halfway in it, foot through where the bottom had come untucked. When had you done that?

She was going to die if you didn’t help her. 

You were moving before you realized the decision had been made. 

She was pale and unconscious when you got to her. The crowd started to disperse further away from the stage. You shouldn't move her if there were a risk of spinal trauma, but the scene was far from secure. 

Hoisting your arms under her armpits and clasping your hands together in front of her chest, you pulled, dragging her back into the tent you’d fallen onto earlier. It was abandoned, of course. Anyone with a lick of sense is running away right now. 

There’s my brave kid. The sting of disinfectant on your knee. A dinosaur bandied. A kiss on the head. 

ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. 

You tilted her head back. She had eyeshadow that was shaped like a butterfly. Her lips were painted the same colour as the wings. Lift the chin. Her airway was clear, breath steady against your cheek. 

At least someone was relaxed. 

Her leg was twisted all wrong, but you couldn’t fix that now. You patted down her body. Multiple open wounds, but they seemed minor enough. The blood had begun to cover your hands and arms, soaking into the knees of your pants. She had hit her head, surely, but a concussion was the least of anyone's worries right now. The stomach and chest didn’t feel hard or distended, so hopefully no internal bleeding. 

God. Oh shit, you needed to get out of here. You needed to get both of you out of here. 

Deep breaths, honey. A soccer game. Most of the team was older than you. New, bright green shin pads. You got this. 

You needed help to get her out of here. 

Before you were fully standing, your left leg gave out beneath you suddenly, pitching you into the dirt. 

There was no pain. It felt as if your leg just… gave out. For a blissful moment, you wondered if maybe your leg had fallen asleep from kneeling so long. 

When you pushed yourself up on your elbows and started to pull your knees beneath you, it was a genuine surprise to look down and see the bullet hole. 

It was small. Smaller than you’d thought a bullet hole would be. You’d thought it would bleed less, too, somehow. Your ears rang. 

Outside the tent, noise filtered in. A popping noise, random and sporadic. It was getting impossibly closer.

Hide and seek again? Alright, alright, fine! A deep laugh. The air smelled like blueberry pancakes. I’m seeking this time. Can’t try to fit myself behind the couch with my knees, honey. 

You forced your body to go limp and held your breath. 

There were footsteps outside. Help or another bullet? You couldn’t tell how visible you were from the doorway. If someone could tell you were still alive.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…

At 80, you had to breathe. You couldn’t just lie here and wait to bleed out. 

Ready or not, here I come!

You slowly exhaled. Shifted an arm. A leg. That should hurt, right? A bullet wound should definitely hurt. 

Fight or flight, fight or flight. You couldn’t do either, like this. 

The woman was still non-responsive. A distant part of you screamed in envy. 

This wasn’t fair. You wanted someone to help you. 

You wanted your dad to make it better. 

Your belt was slick with blood when you took it off your waist. 

Stop the bleeding. You had to stop the bleeding.

They told you how much force a tourniquet takes. The answer is “more than you think it should.” How it could be so painful for the casualty, they sometimes would try to fight back, even knowing they’d die without it. None of this knowledge helped in that moment as you failed to stop the scream that slipped out. 

Your hands shook. 

Pull harder. You jerked the belt suddenly, forcing the prong through the fake leather, far higher than any of the other holes. 

Cheap garbage. Thank god for modern fashion. 

It hurt. The shock must’ve been starting to wear off. The belt wasn’t tight enough, either. But you couldn’t force yourself to take it off and try again. 

Get help. One of the most important steps in emergency response. Contact help. 

Distantly, you spare a thought for your friends. They’d been near the washrooms when you’d split up. You hope they’re nowhere near here. 

The shots had stopped. The gunman must have moved further away again. Or was out of bullets. Or was hiding. 

Staggering to your feet and limping towards the entrance of the tent, you distantly wondered about family resemblance and wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. 

Dad got hurt at work, and now I only have one leg. A pause. Yeah, but I still get around okay. Gotta be able to get up so I can go eat all the cake by myself, right? Hey, come back here-

There was an older man near the entrance of the tent, on the ground, moaning in pain. He had a gunshot wound in his right shoulder and a festival staff ID pinned to the other. 

You want to keep walking. You needed help. So did the lady in the tent. 

But she was currently stable. And you both looked to be in far better shape than he was. 

He looked up at you, forehead sweaty, eyes glazed. 

It hurt when you knelt next to him. 

“I’m first aid trained. I… I’m here to help.”

—

It was Shen who received the ambulance you arrived in. 

One of the last ones, the paramedic promised. 

They were probably right, though. The shooter was gone, dead. Took the easy way out. Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t sure he had much room for feeling anything at the moment.

There had been no word from you. And the last of the injured were here. The rest of the festival-goers were either unharmed or dead. 

Later, he’d ask Shen and the paramedics for the full story. It wasn’t a long one. 

They had found a kid way in the merchandise stalls. It was how it took so long to find them and get them out. They had been doing first aid on a man and pointed EMS to a tent with an unconscious woman. The kid had refused to be treated until they took the other casualties first, and had practically collapsed into the back of the ambulance. 

It was Jack Abbot’s kid, which was what they didn’t say. They couldn’t have known, of course. But Shen had. He bought you the damn band shirt you were wearing for your last birthday. It wasn’t red, then. 

“Oh fuck.”

You blinked up at him from the gurney. 

“Oh. Nice to see you, too.”

It was his name, called by Shen in a way that is too stressed to come from Shen of all people, that caused his head to jerk up so fast the room shook. Dehydration. Blood loss, maybe. Definitely stress.

“We got the kid.” Jack was across the floor and at your side so fast he didn’t remember moving, only that Langdon took over for him and finished some sutures.  

You were in a gurney, drenched in blood, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe, but he had to, because you looked up at him and there was blood streaked across your damn face, his baby, oh god-

“Dad.” 

It wasn’t a question. An observation, maybe. It sounded more like a plea to Jack. 

He needed to stay calm. Instead, what slipped out is “oh god.”

Shen injected an IV in your arm. Mohan pushed him closer to your head. He went to reach for a blood bag, and Robby was beside him. Bless him, Robby was taking over primary patient care without any questions, which was for the best. 

Jack was good at acting under pressure, had saved lives while bombs blew behind him- but this was his kid. And he needed help. 

“Most of it isn’t mine,” You whispered, and it took him a moment to realize what you were talking about. The blood. Most of it wasn’t yours. 

No head injury. No spinal. Not internal bleeding. Impaired by blood loss and, now, the pain meds. The main source of blood loss is from a gunshot wound. In your leg. 

Someone shot his kid. 

“Dad?” 

And the world rushed back. 

“It's okay, honey. We got you. We’re gonna patch you up,” he soothed, attempting to focus on what he should be doing. To ignore how none of this should be happening in the first place. “You're okay. You're okay, I'm right here.”

Shen started a heavier painkiller on the IV. You shouldn't be awake for this. 

Still, watching you fight to stay awake made him want to start screaming. 

“Okay…” It was barely a whisper. 

He shouldn't have been able to hear it over all the commotion. He did, of course. Jack was always listening for you. 

“I love you.”

This was all so fucked up. 

“I love you too. It’s okay. You can sleep.”

Your eyes slipped shut. He got to work. 

—

When you woke up, it was a slow process. The world felt thick, like molasses. You opened your eyes, the ceiling familiar. 

Your throat was so dry it hurt. 

A machine beside you beeped steadily. An IV drip sat beside it. Your dad sat beside both, charting silently. His whole body jerked when you attempted to clear your throat. 

You stared at each other for a long moment. 

Slowly, he reached beside your bed and grabbed a cup of water with a straw, holding it up to your mouth. You sip lightly. 

Water had never tasted better. 

He set the cup back beside him, then grabbed your hand. 

“Hi, baby.”

It should have felt wrong to smile after everything. And yet, you do. “Hi, Dad.”

He had been crying. You could tell. You hoped someone was around, but you know he wouldn’t allow himself to break down within view. Unless it was Robby, maybe. Robby was here earlier, right? You’d seen him. He’d spoken to you. 

“My therapist is gonna have her hands full next session, huh.”

And now he was smiling, too, though it was the saddest smile you’d ever seen. You didn’t have to look at it for long, though, because he hugged you. It was awkward, with the wires and the hospital bed. His hands were shaking. It was amazingly perfect. 

“I love you. I love you so much, okay? Fuck…” He sounded choked up above you, and you would cry yourself if you could. It all seemed so distant right now. The tears would come with time, you knew. He'd be there when they do. 

“Paramedics told me some of what happened,” He pulled back, stroking a hand through your hair as he sat down. “I’m so proud of you. You were so brave. And I love you so, so much.’

Oh. At the festival. The woman and her bent leg and her butterfly makeup. The man who worked at the festival and wouldn't stop bleeding. 

Leaning into his hand, you croaked out, “You helped me do it.” 

And that didn’t make sense, really. You wanted to explain further. How you had remembered to use your belt. First Aid training. Hide and seek. But the world was still moving slowly, all wrong. And you were tired. And you had time to explain later. You had time. 

“Sleep?” He was still staring at you, so soft, as he adjusted the blankets on you. There were at least three, piled on the bed, and one of Robby’s sweaters on top. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Go to sleep. I'll be here.”

As your eyes slid closed, his palm ran soothingly up and down your arm. Distantly, you remembered you didn’t say I love you back. 

The hand ghosted over your IV site, checking for tension or shifting.

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The drive feels strangely peaceful for late November. Pale blue sky, bare trees, the last stubborn leaves tumbling across the road in little spirals. Houses get more and more Christmas-ready the closer you get to your parents’ neighborhood wreaths on doors, half-finished light displays, inflatable snowmen that are somehow already deflated.

Dennis keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting warm on your thigh, thumb stroking tiny circles over your leggings. He does it unconsciously, like his body knows you need grounding before your mind will admit it.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice soft. “You hanging in there, Birdie?”

Your heart twists, but in a good way. The way it always does when he calls you that.

You swallow. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

You don’t have to explain. He’s seen you all week,rechecking the desserts you’re bringing, re-ironing your nice sweater, repacking your overnight bag like if you prepare hard enough, you might finally earn what you’ve spent your whole life chasing: your father’s approval.

“You don’t have to be,” Dennis says, giving your knee a gentle squeeze. “They’re going to love having you home.”

A beat.

“And I’m right here.”

He means it. Every word.

He doesn’t push. He just laces his fingers with yours and lets you squeeze his hand until your knuckles ache.

The moment you pull into the driveway, your mom is already on the porch, practically vibrating with excitement.

A real smile, not the tight one you use at work, not the strained one you save for your dad,pulls across your face.

Dennis notices instantly. Your smile is his favorite thing in the world.

Your mom meets you halfway, arms wide open.

“There’s my girl!” she gushes, wrapping you into a hug that smells like cinnamon and clean laundry.

“Hi, Mom,” you laugh against her shoulder.

“And Dennis!” she beams, turning with open arms. “Get over here, honey.”

Dennis blushes all the way to his ears and hugs her. “Thank you for having us, Miss Linda.”

“Oh, hush. You’re family.”

Your heart softens.

Then the storm door creaks open.

Your father steps out, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable.

Typical.

“Traffic bad?” he asks. No smile. No warmth. Not even a proper hello.

“No, sir,” Dennis answers politely. “It was a really nice drive.”

Your dad gives a single grunt.

You’ve known that grunt your whole life.

It translates to: Hmm.

Your shoulders tighten automatically.

Dennis’s thumb rubs your hand once, quietly grounding you.

Inside, Dennis becomes the most helpful man alive.

He carries both overnight bags upstairs. Brings in the cooler with pies. Unloads the wine. Helps your mom rearrange the fridge. Compliments the new holiday décor. Fixes a crooked wreath.

Your mom is glowing.

Your dad… watches.

Dennis returns to the kitchen, lifting the bag of wines. “Where should these go?”

“The counter is perfect, sweetheart,” your mom says, beaming.

You catch Dennis’s eye.

He gives you a small smile, his eyes soften and that tiny dimple appears.

Your dad finally steps into the kitchen.

“So,” he says, folding his arms. “You’re a doctor.”

Dennis shakes his head quickly. “Actually, I’m still just a resident, but I’ll be there soon enough.”

Your dad hums again. Two syllables, packed with quiet judgment.

That old sting crawls up your ribs.

Dennis doesn’t catch the subtext. He’s too busy rolling up his sleeves to help your mom peel potatoes. As he reaches for the peeler, he leans slightly toward you and whispers, just for you:

“Doing okay, Birdie?”

Your heart warms.

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m okay.”

For a moment, everything feels warm. The kitchen smells like spices. Your mom is humming. Dennis is beside you, choosing you again and again in every small action.

It almost feels like belonging.

Almost.

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Your mom has the entire living room looking like a holiday explosion by the time you start decorating: bins open, lights half-untangled, Christmas playlist humming softly in the background. Dennis is already in full helper mode, carrying heavy ornament boxes, smiling shyly every time your mom gushes over him.

You’re sorting ornament hooks on the couch when your mom turns with a bright grin.

“Okay! Time for the star!”

You grab it automatically,it’s been your job every year. You step toward the little step stool, only for a pair of hands to gently catch your waist.

“Birdie,” Dennis says, voice firm but warm. “No climbing.”

You turn. “I’ve done this every year.”

“I know,” he says, eyes softening. “Still don’t want you falling.”

“And how exactly do you expect me to reach the top?” you tease.

He just grins.

Then crouches down slightly.

“Up you go.”

You blink. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.” He pats his shoulder. “Come on, Birdie.”

Your mom lights up like a Christmas bulb.

Your dad raises an eyebrow.

With a laugh and heat in your cheeks, you climb onto Dennis’s back. His hands settle under your thighs, steady and sure. He rises slowly, making sure you’re balanced.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Got you. Put it on.”

Your fingers brush the highest branch as you place the star, adjusting it until the tip sits straight. Your mom claps. Dennis turns in a slow circle so she can see.

“You good?” he asks, tilting his head so you can hear him.

You lean down, pressing your cheek to his temple. “So good.”

He lowers you carefully, hands lingering at your waist as your feet touch the ground.

Your mom fan-gasps. “Oh my goodness, the two of you! That is just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You smile at your boy, soft, lovesick, stupidly happy.

Your dad clears his throat. “All that for a Christmas tree. Alright.”

Not impressed. Not upset. Just… neutral. Evaluating.

The decorating continues with cocoa and soft music. You hang ornaments side by side and Dennis keeps giving your waist little squeezes, whispering things like:

“Want me to do the blue ones, Birdie?”

and

“Looks perfect, baby. You’ve got good eyes.”

Your mom looks like she wants to adopt him.

Your dad looks like he’s studying him under a microscope.

Eventually, your mom asks the classic question:

“So how did you two meet, again? It was at the hospital, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, we—”

“She rescued me,” Dennis interrupts bashfully. “I was new. She kept me from getting lost every five minutes.”

You elbow him lightly. “He’s exaggerating.”

“And she had this badge reel,” he says, cheeks pink. “A goose in a nurse’s hat.”

Your mom snorts. “A goose?”

“It honked,” Dennis explains solemnly. “Every time she tapped it.”

Your face goes hot. “Honey—”

He shrugs, eyes softening as they settle on you.

“She reminded me of it,” he says. “Not the honking. Just… stubborn, silly, determined. Sweet. So I started calling her Birdie.”

Your mom melts.

Your dad… blinks.

“Birdie,” he repeats slowly. “Right.”

Not praise. Not disapproval. Just that weighing, measuring tone you know too well.

Dennis doesn’t notice the tension at first. He’s still talking to your mom about holiday shifts, smiling shyly, wiping tinsel off his sleeves. He’s trying so hard. You can feel it.

Then comes the first real dig.

“So she’s the nurse,” your dad says, reaching for another ornament, “and you’re the doctor.”

Dennis freezes for half a second.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh—uh,” Dennis laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually, she’s the best nurse on the unit. Really. I’m just a resident.”

You open your mouth to add something, but your dad interrupts:

“Mmm. Good for you, kid. Must be nice working under someone who keeps you on track.”

Said casually. Like a joke.

It lands sharp.

You force a smile, throat tight.

Your mom changes the subject with an almost frantic little laugh.

Dennis hangs another ornament and his hand brushes yours—a quiet I’m here.

But something in the air has shifted.

He starts watching you more closely.

Your dad starts making smaller, sharper comments.

And you feel yourself folding back into shapes you thought you’d outgrown.

The star twinkles at the top of the tree. The cocoa smells sweet.

But under all the twinkle and warmth, something is starting to crack.

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Dinner is calm enough at first. Warm lighting, plates passed around, your mom fussing over whether everyone has enough gravy, Dennis politely insisting he’s full even though she keeps piling more onto his plate.

You’re halfway through your meal when your dad leans back in his chair and looks at Dennis like he’s about to run an experiment.

“So,” he says, tone deceptively light, “you seem like a nice guy. Good manners. Hard worker.”

Dennis perks up a little, smiling. “Thank you, sir.”

Your dad nods once. “But tell me—do you know about your Birdie’s past?”

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.

Cold washes over you.

Dennis blinks, confusion flashing across his face. “Her… past?”

He glances at you, puzzled.

“Dad—” you start.

He waves you off. “Oh, sweetheart, relax. Just talking.”

He turns back to Dennis.

“She had a real wild streak back in the day,” he says, chuckling. “Parties, boys, trouble. You wouldn’t believe half the things we heard.”

Dennis blinks. “Oh,” he says softly. “Um… I—I didn’t know much about that.”

Your heart cracks a little,not at him, never at him, but at how innocent he sounds.

Your dad laughs like this is all very funny. “Yeah, she kept us on our toes. We always said if she didn’t calm down she’d crash and burn.”

You stare at your plate, cheeks burning, old shame curling up your spine.

Dennis tries to follow along, still trying to be polite. “Everyone has phases, right?” he offers. “College is… stressful.”

He thinks he’s smoothing it over.

He doesn’t hear the barbs under the words yet.

“Sure,” your dad says. “Some people have phases. Some people are just… chaos.” He tips his chin toward you. “We’re just glad she found someone who can keep her on track.”

Dennis smiles uncertainly. “Oh, she keeps me on track, actually. She’s… really put together.”

Your dad hums like he doesn’t believe him.

“Has she told you everything?” he asks. “Or is she still sugarcoating?”

You go cold all over.

Dennis’s brow knits. “I… I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

You want to scream.

Your mom sighs softly, staring at her plate.

“We’re just talking,” your dad adds. “No need to get all sensitive.”

But the damage is done.

“Dad, that’s enough,” you whisper.

Dennis looks at you for a long, soft moment.

He still doesn’t fully understand.

Not yet.

But he’s seen enough to know you’re hurting.

And once Dennis Whitaker understands?

Nobody in this house is ready.

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The guest room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the little ceramic Christmas village on the dresser. You sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself like you can squeeze the tension out of your bones.

Dennis closes the door softly behind you.

“Birdie?” His voice is gentle. “You… got really quiet at dinner.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

“Are you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Too fast. Too sharp.

He stops a foot away, like he’s afraid of crowding you. He’s always careful with you.

“Okay,” he says. But he’s watching you with those big, worried eyes, and you know he doesn’t buy it.

You force a smile. “It’s fine. He just… talks a lot.”

He hesitates, then sits beside you slowly, giving you space even as he inches closer.

“He mentioned a lot of stuff,” Dennis says quietly. “About your past. Things you never told me.”

You exhale. “Because it wasn’t relevant.”

“But…” His brow knits. “It felt relevant. To you.”

You stare at your hands.

“Baby, I don’t want to be disrespectful,” he says, voice soft, “but… I don’t understand why it upset you so much.”

There it is. The innocence.

It’s not that he doesn’t care. He just hasn’t lived it.

“It’s embarrassing,” you whisper.

“No,” Dennis says immediately. “No, hey—nothing about you is embarrassing.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me get it,” he says quietly. “Please. I want to understand.”

Your throat burns.

“I wasn’t… wild,” you start, voice small. “Not the way he makes it sound. I just—”

You swallow.

“I wanted something,” you say. “Love. Attention. Someone to tell me I mattered. I was trying to fill this… hole.”

Your voice cracks.

“And I didn’t know how else to get it.”

Dennis’s hand tightens around yours.

“I went to parties because everyone else did,” you whisper. “I dated people who treated me like shit. I said yes to everything, because I thought saying no meant I wasn’t worth keeping.”

A tear spills down your cheek.

“And it’s like my dad never forgave me,” you say. “For not being the daughter he wanted. So he still sees me as that girl. The one who wasn’t enough.”

“Birdie…” Dennis’s voice is rough.

“I’ve changed,” you say fiercely. “I’ve worked so hard. I grew up. I stopped running around. I found things that mattered. I found you.”

Your voice wobbles.

“I’m not that girl anymore,” you whisper. “But he never lets me forget her.”

Dennis’s jaw trembles.

He shifts, turning to face you fully, both knees touching yours.

“Birdie,” he whispers, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You look away.

“You were looking for love,” he says. “And no one gave it to you. Not the right kind. Not the kind you deserved.”

Another tear slips free.

“That doesn’t make you wild,” he says. “It makes you human.”

Your breath stutters.

“And if he can’t see who you are now,” Dennis adds, voice steadying, “that’s not your failure. It’s his.”

Your chest cracks wide open at the conviction in his voice.

He pulls you gently into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a shield.

You melt into him.

For a while, he just holds you, one hand running slowly up and down your back, your cheek pressed to his shirt, the two of you breathing in sync.

No more questions. No more prying.

Just safe.

For the first time that day, you feel like you can breathe.

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You wake to the smell of bacon and cinnamon rolls, and the faint crackle of the fireplace downstairs. Dennis is still beside you, one arm under your pillow, the other draped over your waist like his body spent all night guarding yours.

He looks soft like this.

Soft hair. Soft breathing. Soft lips parted slightly.

For a moment, you just watch him.

He blinks awake slowly. “...Baby?”

You smile. “Morning.”

His hand on your waist tightens. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You’re not. Not really.

But he’s looking at you like he’d burn the world down if you said no.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Let’s go downstairs.”

He doesn’t push. He just kisses your forehead, throws on a hoodie, and follows you to the kitchen.

Your mom lights up when she sees you. “Oh! Good morning, you two. Sit down, sit down—I made too much.”

Dennis is back in helper mode immediately, setting plates, reaching for the hot pan before you can.

“Got it, Birdie,” he murmurs. “Don’t burn yourself.”

Your mom watches you with a soft look.

Your dad wanders in last, coffee in hand, scanning the table like he’s checking inventory.

He nods at Dennis. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, sir,” Dennis says.

You sit beside him. He nudges your knee under the table—I’m here.

For a moment, breakfast feels almost normal.

Then your dad opens his mouth.

“So, Dennis,” he says, casual as he spreads butter on toast, “did your Birdie ever tell you what she was like on Saturday mornings before she moved out?”

You freeze.

Dennis, still trying so hard to be polite, smiles. “No, sir. She didn’t really talk much about—”

“Oh, you’d have loved it,” your dad says with a humorless chuckle. “She’d stumble downstairs after noon, sunglasses on, smelling like tequila and whatever cologne the boy of the week wore.”

Your stomach drops.

Your mom inhales quietly.

Dennis’s smile falters. “Oh… um…”

“But hey,” your dad adds with a shrug, “some girls grow out of it. Eventually.”

You stare at your plate.

“Well… everyone has phases, right?” Dennis offers gently.

Your dad gives him a patronizing smile. “Sure they do. But Birdie’s were… special.”

Your chest tightens.

“We honestly didn’t think she’d settle down at all,” he continues. “Didn’t think she’d get serious. She couldn’t even keep a college major. Switched three times.”

“Dad…” you whisper.

“You must have your hands full,” your dad adds. “She’s scatterbrained. Sensitive. Emotional. Always has been.”

Dennis straightens slightly.

“I… she’s actually very organized,” he says softly. “Really reliable. Incredibly hardworking.”

Your dad smirks.

“Of course she looks that way now. Girls learn to hide things better as they get older.”

Dennis turns fully toward you, seeing it now—the way your shoulders curl in, how carefully you’re breathing.

“Birdie?” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you say.

You are not fine.

Your dad just reaches for another cinnamon roll like he didn’t drop a grenade on the table.

But Dennis?

That’s the moment the sweetness starts to fracture.

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Outside, the air is sharp and cold. Dennis holds the ladder steady, cheeks pink, breath fogging in little clouds. Your dad is clipping lights to the gutter, talking like this is the most normal father–son bonding in the world.

“You said you’ve got brothers, right?” he asks.

Dennis brightens. “Yes, sir. Two older brothers.”

“Bet that was rough.”

“No, it was fun,” Dennis says. “Loud. Messy.”

He smiles a little.

“My mom was desperate for a girl,” he admits. “She had a closet of baby bows and dresses ready and… well. She got me.”

Your dad snorts. “Disappointment of a lifetime, huh?”

Dennis laughs weakly, because he still thinks it’s a joke. “No, sir. She loves us. But when Birdie came around?”

His face changes.

Softens in a way your father has never seen.

“God, my mom absolutely melted,” he says. “They bonded immediately. She still calls Birdie about recipes. Sends her home with leftovers. Asks her about skin care.” His ears flush. “She… she says Birdie’s the daughter she always prayed for.”

Your dad’s jaw tightens.

“Is that so,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Dennis says earnestly. “She thinks the world of her. Says she’s warm and thoughtful and hardworking. Honestly, Birdie calls my mom more than she calls me sometimes. They have their own jokes. It’s cute.”

“Well. Good for your mom,” your dad mutters, climbing down the ladder. The bitterness leaks through now.

Dennis still pushes on, because he doesn’t know how not to brag on you.

“She says Birdie brings out the best in me,” he says quietly. “And that Birdie’s… wonderful.”

“Wonderful,” your dad echoes. “Right.”

“Yes, sir,” Dennis says, a little firmer now. “She’s kind. Smart. Steady. She really—”

“Steady?” your dad cuts in. “You think she’s steady?”

Dennis blinks. “Yes.”

Your dad laughs, but there’s nothing warm in it.

“Son,” he says, shaking his head, “you have no idea who you’re dating.”

Dennis stiffens. “Sir, I—”

“You know what girls like her are like,” your dad says. “Sweet on the surface. Underneath? It’s all drama. Emotional mess. Impulsive. Moody. Impossible to please.”

The words hit like slaps.

“She was perfect until sixteen,” your dad says. That part is almost fond. Then his mouth twists. “Then? Hell. Parties. Boys. Trouble. She took everything we gave her and spit it back in our faces.”

He shakes his head.

“Frankly, she’s lucky anyone stuck around long enough to put up with her.”

Dennis goes still.

“She barely calls us now,” your dad adds. “Only shows up when she wants something. You think she suddenly turned into Little Miss Responsible all on her own? Please.”

“I—sir, she’s changed,” Dennis says. “She’s worked really hard. She—”

“You think she’s changed because she’s with you,” your dad says. “No. She’s behaving. For now.”

Dennis’s stomach flips.

“We’ll see,” your dad says.

Dennis looks up at the house.

At the window where he knows you’re probably cleaning something that doesn’t need cleaning, just to have something to do with your hands.

His jaw tightens.

He’s angry.

He just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

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The second your dad disappears into the garage for more extension cords, Dennis yanks off his gloves, fingers fumbling for his phone.

He dials without thinking.

“What do you want, Huckleberry?” Trinity answers. “If you’re calling because you forgot how to do basic math—”

“Trin,” Dennis says. His voice cracks.

The joking dies instantly.

“Dennis?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

He paces a strip in the frosted grass, breath coming fast.

“This is insane,” he says. “Birdie’s dad—he’s—he’s not normal.”

“Define ‘not normal,’ because you say that about people who wear socks to bed,” Trinity says.

“He said he wished she’d been a boy,” Dennis blurts. “He calls her a disaster. A trainwreck. Says she only comes around when she wants something. He—he talks about her like she’s broken. Like she ruined his life just by existing.”

There’s a long pause.

“He said that?” Trinity’s voice drops.

“Yes!” Dennis’s voice pitches up. “And she just—takes it. She gets so small around him. I thought she was shy. She’s not shy, Trin. She’s scared.”

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “If I say something, I’m the asshole. If I stay quiet, I’m letting him hurt her. I don’t—I don’t want to make this worse for her.”

“Okay,” Trinity says. “First? Breathe.”

He tries.

“Where is she?” she asks.

“Inside,” he says. “I think she’s pretending she’s fine, but she’s not. I can tell.”

Trinity sighs. “Look. You’re in their house. Their turf. You blow up now? It becomes your fault. They’ll twist it. She gets stuck in the middle, and she doesn’t need that.”

“So I just… take it?” he asks.

“For now,” Trinity says. “You hold the line. You stay calm. You keep her close. You make it through the weekend. And when it’s over?”

Her voice sharpens.

“You treat her like the goddamn treasure she is and let me handle the emotional vengeance.”

Dennis lets out a watery laugh.

“It hurts,” he admits. “Watching it. Hearing it. I didn’t know it could hurt this much.”

“That’s how you know you love her,” Trinity says calmly. “And Dennis?”

“Yeah?”

“If that man says one more sideways thing about her and you don’t snap?” she adds. “I’ll disown you.”

He huffs a broken laugh. “I think snapping might be closer than you think.”

“Good,” she says. “Call me if I need to grab a bat.”

He hangs up feeling no calmer, but more certain.

Birdie deserves better than this.

He just has to figure out how to give it to her.

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You slip into the kitchen while they’re still outside with the ladder and the cords. You’re trying to keep your breathing even, to swallow down the knot in your throat.

Your mom is slicing fruit for a charcuterie board, humming along to the Christmas playlist like the air downstairs isn’t thick with something sour.

“Why do you let him do that to me?” you ask.

Your own voice startles you—small, raw.

Your mom’s knife pauses. “Honey… what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Tears burn behind your eyes. “You just sit there and let him drag me. Every time. You never say anything.”

“That’s just your dad,” she says automatically. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

You laugh, sharp and hurt. “He literally called me a disaster.”

“He’s just… venting,” she says. “You know how he is.”

“It doesn’t feel like love,” you whisper. “It hasn’t felt like love in a long time.”

She sighs. “Your father struggled when you were younger. He had expectations—”

“He wanted a son,” you say.

Silence.

Your mom closes her eyes. “Sweetheart—”

“He never wanted me,” you say, voice cracking. “And you just stood there.”

“Birdie…”

You’re trembling when Dennis comes in.

He stops dead in the doorway, taking in your wet eyes, your mom’s defensive posture.

“Birdie?” he says softly.

You don’t even try to fake it. You just turn and collapse against his chest.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. “I’ve got you.”

“I didn’t mean—” your mom starts.

“Miss Linda,” Dennis says. His voice is gentle but there’s steel under it now. “I think Birdie needs a break.”

Your mom’s face crumples. She nods.

Dennis tips your chin up, thumb swiping under your eye. “Birdie? Let’s go lie down, okay? Just us. Take a nap. Get away from this for a while.”

Your voice comes out small. “Yeah. Okay.”

He leads you upstairs, hand firm around yours like he’s afraid someone might try to take you back.

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He lies down first and pulls you into his chest, one arm under your shoulders, the other banded around your waist. You curl into him, burying your face in his hoodie, breathing him in like oxygen.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just rubs slow circles on your back, heartbeat steady under your ear.

“I miss your mom,” you mumble eventually.

He huffs a soft, sad laugh. “She loves you,” he says. “You know she asks about you constantly, right?”

You nod, throat thick. “I wish we were with them instead.”

His hand pauses for a second.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

You tense. “I don’t want you to think I’m running from my family.”

“I think you’re protecting yourself,” he says. “And I’m… I’m realizing that’s something you’ve had to do for a long time.”

Your chest aches for how much he sees and how much he doesn’t.

“We don’t have to stay,” he says. “We can leave.”

Your voice is watery. “You don’t think that makes me a bad daughter?”

He shakes his head. “I think it makes you a person who deserves to feel safe.”

That knocks the air out of you.

You tuck closer. He kisses the top of your head.

“Sleep, Birdie,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

You fall asleep faster than you mean to, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the drive.

Dennis stays awake.

He watches you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back, heart aching with love and something hot and furious.

He’s still watching when a quiet knock sounds at the door.

He glances at you, when you don’t stir, he slips out from under you, tucking the blanket gently around your shoulders.

He steps into the hallway and pulls the door almost closed behind him.

Your mom is there.

Posture stiff, arms folded.

“I overheard some of what she said,” she says. “About missing your mother. About wishing she was with your family instead.”

Dennis stares at her.

“You overheard,” he repeats.

“The walls aren’t that thick,” she says. “You two weren’t whispering.”

“So there’s no privacy here either,” he says.

“Excuse me?” she snaps.

“You were eavesdropping on a conversation that wasn’t meant for you,” he says, not raising his voice.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she says. “I was concerned. She ran off—”

“She didn’t run off,” Dennis says. “She removed herself from being hurt.”

Your mom’s mouth tightens. “She always overreacts. Your mother being brought up just struck a nerve. I didn’t realize she preferred your family over her own.”

“Maybe she prefers my family,” Dennis says, “because they don’t attack her every time she walks into a room.”

Your mom recoils. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” Dennis says simply.

She shakes her head. “We don’t attack her. Her father just—”

“Just what?” Dennis asks. His voice is quiet, but it slices. “Just criticizes her? Just belittles her?”

Your mom flinches.

“You said she takes things personally,” he says. “She’s taking them accurately.”

Your mom’s shoulders sag.

“She was difficult, Dennis,” she whispers. “You don’t know what those years were like.”

“And you don’t know the work she put into healing from them,” he says.

She swallows.

“She told me what she went through,” he continues. “How lost she felt. How unloved. How she thought she had to earn everything—even basic affection.”

Your mom’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t let up.

“She clawed her way out of that alone,” he says. “She built a life. A career. Stability. She grew into someone patient and gentle and strong despite everything.”

“Dennis…” your mom whispers.

“So yeah,” he says quietly. “Maybe she prefers my family.”

Your mom closes her eyes.

“Because in my family?” Dennis says, voice softening just a fraction. “She’s valued. Not tolerated.”

Her breath catches.

“You know what my mom said the first time she met her?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“She hugged her,” Dennis says, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his mouth, “And told her she was the daughter she’d prayed for after three boys.”

Your mom presses a hand to her mouth.

“Birdie just… melted,” he says. “Because she’s never been treated like that before. Not here.”

Silence stretches, heavy.

“In my family,” Dennis says, “she isn’t complicated. She isn’t dramatic. She isn’t a problem to be fixed.”

He steps back toward the guest room, hand on the doorframe.

“She’s just her,” he says. “And that’s enough.”

Your mom’s lips tremble. “I didn’t realize she felt so… unwanted.”

“She doesn’t just feel it,” Dennis says quietly. “She lives it.”

Tears spill over. She scrubs them away quickly, like she’s embarrassed.

“I’ll talk to her,” she says weakly. “I’ll fix this.”

“Not right now,” Dennis says. “Let her sleep. Let her breathe.”

She nods, turning away.

He waits until she’s gone before he goes back inside, sliding into bed and pulling you gently back against his chest.

“You deserved better than this, Birdie,” he whispers into your hair.

He hopes he gets the chance to prove it.

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When you come downstairs again, the house feels… off. Your mom is moving around the kitchen like she’s made of glass. Your dad is at the table with a beer, tapping the cap against the wood.

He looks up, eyes already narrowed.

“So,” he says. “I hear you’ve been running your mouth again.”

You freeze.

Dennis immediately shifts closer to you.

“…Dad?” you say.

“I hear you told him we never loved you properly,” your dad says. “That we were cruel. That your mother didn’t protect you.”

Your stomach drops.

You look at your mom. She looks away.

“You know, you’ve always been dramatic,” your dad says. “Always twisting things. Always desperate for attention.”

“Dad, stop,” you say.

He ignores you, gaze sliding to Dennis.

“She told you we failed her?” he asks. “That we were bad parents?”

“That’s not what I—” you start.

“She also apparently told you she prefers your family,” your dad goes on. “That she wishes she was with them instead of us.”

He snorts.

“Of course she does,” he says. “They don’t know any better.”

Dennis’s jaw tightens. “Sir—”

“What does that mean?” you ask.

“It means they only love you because they don’t know the real you,” your dad says, leaning back like he’s giving a lecture. “They don’t know what a trainwreck you were. They don’t know you were a disaster from sixteen to twenty. They don’t know you were supposed to be a son.”

Your chest caves inward.

Your mom cries softly, “Stop—”

“They don’t know you only show up when you want something,” he continues. “They don’t know how ungrateful you are. How much hell you put us through. You think they’d be calling you their ‘golden girl’ if they knew the truth?”

“Sir,” Dennis says, voice shaking. “That’s enough.”

Your dad barrels over him.

“And you?” he adds, eyes narrowing at Dennis. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, same as every other guy she cried to.You’re pussy-whipped and calling it maturity—”

The world goes white.

Dennis steps forward so fast his chair scrapes hard against the floor.

“Don’t you EVER talk about her like that,” he says.

His voice is low.

Deadly.

Your dad startles. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Or what?” your dad sneers. “You gonna throw a tantrum in my house?”

Dennis laughs once. It’s the ugliest sound you’ve ever heard from him.

“You say you love her,” he says, voice shaking with rage, “but all you do is tear her apart. Over and over. And you call it parenting. You call it honesty. But it’s cruelty. Plain and simple.”

“Watch it,” your dad snaps, standing.

“No, you watch it,” Dennis says.

He’s shaking but he doesn’t back down.

“You don’t get to live in your daughter’s head rent-free and tell everyone she’s broken,” he says. “You don’t get to call her a trainwreck, a disappointment, unlovable, a mistake, and then act shocked when she finally believes you.”

Your mom is crying outright now.

Your dad scoffs. “She manipulated you. She fed you some sob story and you lapped it up—”

“She doesn’t have to fool anyone,” Dennis says, voice cracking. “She’s good.”

His eyes are bright. Furious. Heartbroken.

“She’s good, and you don’t even see it,” he says. “She works herself to the bone. She holds people’s hands while they die. She apologizes for everything, even pain that isn’t hers. And you made her believe she had to earn a love that was supposed to be guaranteed.”

Your dad opens his mouth.

“Say she’s a mistake,” Dennis says, stepping closer. “Go on. Say it. Say she’s unlovable. Say she was supposed to be a son. Say it one more time.”

Your dad stares at him.

Dennis shakes. Actually shakes.

“I swear to God,” he whispers, “I’m not going to stand here and let you destroy all the progress she’s made”

Your dad laughs nervously, suddenly not as sure of himself.

“That’s enough,” he mutters. “You’ve made your point—”

“No,” Dennis says. He turns to you, eyes softening in an instant.

“Baby,” he says. “Get your things.”

Tears spill over. “Dennis—”

“We’re leaving,” he says gently. “You’re not staying here.”

Your dad barks, “She’s not going anywhere—”

Dennis turns back to him, and whatever softness was there a second ago is gone.

“She’s leaving,” he says. “And she won’t be back.”

Your mom staggers a step forward. “Dennis, please—”

“She won’t be back,” he repeats, “until she gets a real apology. Not some half-assed ‘you’re too sensitive’ bullshit. A real, honest apology for years of emotional neglect.”

“She’ll come back,” your dad snaps. “She always does. This is her little performance—”

“Not anymore,” Dennis says. He actually laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Because now she has someone who actually sees her.”

He takes a breath.

“You should be ashamed,” he tells them quietly. “Both of you.”

He looks at your mom.

“She’s successful. She’s kind. She saved me,” he says. “Did you know that? Did you know I was burning out, falling apart, ready to walk away from medicine, and she stayed? She believed in me when I didn’t.”

He looks back at your dad.

“And I will tear the world apart before I let you shove her back into fight-or-flight for the rest of her life.”

Then he turns to you, holding out his hand.

“Come on, Birdie,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”

You move on autopilot, throwing clothes into your bag, hands shaking too hard to zip it until Dennis gently takes over.

You don’t look at your parents as you walk out the door.

Dennis doesn’t either.

He keeps a hand on your back all the way to the car like he’s afraid someone will try to pull you away.

No one does.

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You make it about twenty minutes down the highway before you fall apart.

It starts with a sniff. Then a shaky breath. Then it all hits at once, the years of digs and sighs and “that’s just your dad” and “you were a handful” and never being enough, never being right, never being wanted the way you were.

Dennis hears the first sound and immediately pulls onto the shoulder, hazards flashing.

“Birdie,” he says softly. “Hey. Look at me.”

You shake your head, sobs already ripping through you.

He unbuckles himself and leans across the console, cupping your face with both hands.

“He was wrong,” Dennis says. “Every word. Every fucking word.”

You can’t catch your breath. “Why does it still hurt?” you choke. “I’m grown. It shouldn’t still—”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself for hurting. Don’t apologize for needing what you deserved.”

You sob harder.

He unbuckles your seatbelt, pulls you across the console and into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Cars fly by in a blur of wind and sound, but the world shrinks to the circle of his arms.

He rubs your back over and over until the storm starts to ebb.

Eventually, you hiccup instead of sob.

He wipes your cheeks with his sleeve, presses his forehead to yours.

“We’re getting a hotel,” he says softly. “Okay?”

You nod.

You’re wrung out, exhausted, but for the first time all weekend, the exhaustion feels like release instead of dread.

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The hotel room is beige and bland and perfect. Neutral ground. No family photos. No ghosts.

His phone buzzes.

Trinity.

He squeezes your hand. “I’m just gonna tell her we’re safe, okay?”

You nod.

He answers.

“Well?” she says. “Do I need to gas up the car and locate a shallow grave?”

“I snapped,” he says.

There’s a pause.

“Good,” she says. “Did you hit him?”

“No,” Dennis says. “But I told him he doesn’t get to treat her like she’s broken and call it love.”

Trinity makes a pleased noise. “That’s my Huckleberry. How’s Birdie?”

Dennis looks at you. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed now, staring at your hands.

“She’s wrecked,” he says softly. “But she got out.”

“Then she’s braver than half the people I know,” Trinity says. Her voice softens. “Text me the hotel. I’ll send dessert or something. I love you. Both of you. Don’t let her spiral.”

“I won’t,” he says.

Ten minutes later, his phone rings again.

MOM ❤️.

He hesitates.

You nod toward it. “Answer.”

He puts it on speaker.

“Sweetheart?” his mom says immediately. “Trinity called me. Said there was… a situation?”

“Yeah,” Dennis says, glancing at you. “We had a… really bad weekend.”

She hears the wobble in his voice.

Then she hears you sniffle in the background.

“Is my girl there?” she asks.

You swallow. “Hi, Mama.”

“Oh, honey,” she says, voice going soft in that way that always makes you want to cry. “Are you safe?”

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “Yeah. We’re at a hotel.”

“Good,” she says. “You are safe. We love you so much, you hear me?.”

The tears come again, hot and helpless.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“You come here whenever you’re ready,” she says. “You know my house is your house. You do not need an invitation.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice thick.

“No,” she says. “Thank you for loving my son. We’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

When the call ends, you crawl under the covers, and Dennis follows, wrapping around you like he was designed for it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, even though you promised you’d stop.

“Don’t be,” he says. “You left. That’s nothing to apologize for.”

“You’re the best thing in my life,” he adds, voice rough. “You see the good in everyone. Even people who don’t deserve it. You pulled me out of my own mess. You’re the bravest person I know.”

You press your face into his chest and cry quietly, not because you’re breaking, but because something inside you is finally starting to mend.

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You wake up the next morning in a different bed, go to a different town, to a different house.

Dennis’s parents’ house.

Margaret Whitaker hugs you on the porch before you’re fully out of the car.

“My girl,” she murmurs. “Come here.”

You melt into her arms. She holds you like something precious, like something wanted.

They feed you too much food. Dennis’s brothers make stupid jokes until you laugh. No one asks invasive questions.

You’re curled against Dennis on the couch that night, half-dozing, when his mom knocks on the doorframe.

“Can I steal her for a minute?” she asks.

Dennis kisses your head. “Only if you bring her back.”

She leads you into the guest room, sits on the edge of the bed, pats the spot beside her.

“I want to tell you something,” she says. “About my past. Dennis doesn’t talk about it much.”

You sit.

“I was raised Amish,” she says. “Did he ever tell you that?”

Your head snaps up. “No.”

“In my family, girls meant nothing,” she says, voice calm, steady. “We were burdens. My parents had four boys—celebrated, adored. And then me.”

She smiles humorlessly.

“I was the disappointment,” she says.

Your throat tightens.

“They tried to marry me off at sixteen,” she continues. “To a man twice my age. My job was going to be to stay quiet and produce sons.”

You feel sick.

“But I ran,” she says simply. “Middle of the night. One bag. No plan.”

Her eyes soften, distant for a moment.

“I met Dennis’s father six months later,” she says. “He looked at me like I hung the moon. Like I wasn’t a mistake. Like I wasn’t less than his brothers.”

She reaches for your hand.

“I know what it feels like,” she says. “To grow up in a house where you are always wrong. Too loud. Too emotional. Not what they wanted.”

Your eyes burn.

“And I know what it feels like,” she says softly, “to finally be loved right.”

You swallow hard. “It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I’m too old to still be this—”

“Don’t,” she says sharply. “Don’t apologize for hurting.”

You shut your mouth.

“Birdie,” she says, “don’t you change a single thing about who you are to fit into a family that never learned how to love correctly.”

Tears spill over.

“You are the golden girl in this family,” she says. “You are cherished. You are seen. You are wanted.”

A sob escapes before you can stop it.

She pulls you into her arms, rocking you gently.

“My home is your home,” she says into your hair. “My table is your table. You never need permission to be here. You just come.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you so much.”

“No,” she says. “Thank you for loving my boy. And for surviving what you did with more grace than they ever deserved.”

Later, when you’re back on the couch, tucked under Dennis’s arm, you tell him what she said.

✦🕊️⋆｡°⋆🕊️✦✦🕊️⋆｡°⋆🕊️✦✦🕊️⋆｡°⋆🕊️✦✦🕊️⋆｡°⋆

Later, on the Whitakers’ couch, you’re curled into Dennis’s side, his fingers carding lazily through your hair. The TV is on, some forgettable movie playing low. It’s warm. It’s quiet. No one is evaluating you. No one is waiting for you to mess up.

“Hey,” Dennis says softly. “You okay, Birdie?”

You think of your dad’s words, your mom’s silence, the hotel, the highway, the way your heart cracked open and something new grew in its place.

You think of Trinity’s threats, of Margaret’s fierce love, of Dennis standing between you and a lifetime of hurt and finally saying no.

You look up at him.

“Yeah,” you say.

You tuck yourself closer, letting his heartbeat steady yours.

“I think I will be.”

And for the first time in your life, you don’t just hope that’s true.

You believe it.

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

Thankfully, your group had been the first to board the train at the station just outside of Los Angeles, meaning you got prime pick on seats in your designated cars. Window seats were always your preference, they allowed you to truly admire the views while you were reading or writing. Tossing your luggage into the overhead compartment, you claimed your coveted window seat as the rest of the passengers filtered into the car to take their own seats. You didn’t hesitate to throw your backpack onto the seat directly next to you, hoping that it could live there for the entirety of your cross-country trip so that you didn’t have to share with someone you didn’t know.

“Good evening, passengers! We are expecting a sold-out train for this trip, so please ensure that you are not taking up any empty seats that you do not need. We will need every seat for the duration of our trip,”

Well…maybe you couldn’t have the seat to yourself, but maybe you could be selective on who you would be forced to sit with for the upcoming almost 45 hour train ride.

After the first round of passengers were seated, the next group boarded onto the train. Duos quickly grabbed up any empty seats that they could find next to each other, while larger groups tried to find seats that were all semi-close together (though, it usually didn’t work out in their favor). You watched each passenger filter through the car with a skeptical glance, one hand already on your backpack as you waited for just the right passenger to come past.

There was a young woman, maybe somewhere in her late teens to early twenties. You could hear her music blaring through her headphones from here: absolutely not. You didn’t want to be subjected to someone else’s music blaring next to you for a ride that would last almost two entire days.

The next passenger that was looking for a single seat was an older gentleman. You thought about moving your backpack for a moment, until you heard him grumbling about everything already. It wasn’t quiet grumbling, either, but loud complaints about everything on the train. The size of the aisle, how these seats were sure to be uncomfortable, how the food in the cafe car was never good enough for his taste.

Yeah, no. Next.

You were pretty sure your brain short-circuited when the next passenger entered the train.

He had to be somewhere around your age. Sandy blonde hair that was almost perfectly swooped back across his head. The shade complimented his sun-kissed skin perfectly. You watched as he pushed his aviator framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and that’s when you got your first look at those bright blue eyes hiding behind the lenses.

Fuck. You didn’t think you’d be riding a cross-country train with a man who looked like that today.

He adjusted the straps of his backpack, hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder. It pulled at the fabric of his sweatshirt that read “US NAVY” across the front. The handsome stranger glanced around the train, eyes wide, as he attempted to find himself a seat while more people piled into the car behind him.

The second his eyes happened to lock with yours, you were sure your heart skipped a beat, as you moved your backpack to the floor without hesitation. A hint of a smile stretched across his lips as he quickly made his way to your row of two seats, tossing his duffel into the overhead storage, before sliding into the seat beside you. His gaze locked with yours again as he shot you a sheepish grin, a faint hint of red dusting his cheeks.

“Thanks,”

Even his voice was pretty to listen to, the slight hint of some kind of southern twang accenting his words. You weren’t sure if you were going to survive this trip seated right beside him at this rate.

“N-No problem,”

It took everything in you to look away, knowing that a dusting of red was slowly crawling its way across your cheeks as well. Maybe letting this handsome stranger sit with you wasn’t the best of options for this trip, especially if you were going to get this flustered just by simply looking in his direction.

Neither of you spoke another word to one another as the rest of the passengers got seated within the train. Small conversations between family and friends could be heard as the train lurched slightly, pulling out of the station and beginning its journey across the United States.

43 hours you would now be stuck next to this handsome stranger before you hit Chicago, in small but spacious Coach seats where you couldn’t escape from the handsome man even if you wanted to. Yeah, maybe letting him sit next to you was a bad idea.

For the first half an hour or so of the trip, you did your best to ignore his presence. The most important thing to do first was take out your laptop to check through a few work emails. Even on vacation, it always sucked when you became ‘important at work’ and were the only one capable of doing your job at all times. They were surely already scrambling without you. 

Opening your emails, it was true. You couldn’t help but laugh a little bit after scrolling through just two emails alone, both flagged important with questions about responding to inquiries that you had received. You easily directed them back to the document you had written up specifically for their trip with instructions on how to do every aspect of your job, hoping that would be enough to satisfy them and help them out for the next week or so.

With work taken care of, it was impossible not to let your eyes trail back to that random stranger beside you as you reached into your backpack to grab the latest Emily Henry book you had been reading through. 

It was really unfair how pretty he was. As dorky as the glasses seemed at first glance, they suited him perfectly. His head was resting on one hand, perfectly framing that sharp jawline that you struggled not to stare at for a moment. In his other hand, resting against the fold down tray in front of him, sat the book he was currently reading: The President is Missing, a book by James Patterson.

Using every ounce of strength in you, you tore your gaze away, flipping your book back open to the page you had left off on the previous day, knowing you were saving the book for the train. There was no way you could spend this entire trip staring at this man, you would look like an absolute creep. The sun was setting over the horizon just outside the windows as night quickly crept in on your late evening train ride.

“Enjoying that book?”

Hearing his voice again startled you slightly. You had only heard him mumble that quick ‘thanks’ in your direction an hour ago, and other than that it had been silent. Glancing back up, your gaze met with his. He had turned just slightly, a tiny smile on his lips as he looked at you, pointing toward your book with a single finger still wrapped around his own book.

“Yeah, she’s one of my favorite authors,” you managed to respond after a moment, sighing as you glanced back down at the book in your hands. “I just wish Daphne and Miles would figure their shit out and get together already.”

Fuck, even his laugh was adorable you thought to yourself as he chuckled at the comment that poured from you without even really thinking. It took everything to keep the blush away from your cheeks once again.

“O-Oh yeah, they’re kind of oblivious to their own feelings. Makes sense, though, given what they’ve both been through,”

You quirked a brow at that, turning to look at him again with the hint of a smirk on your lips.

“Are you telling me that you have read Emily Henry books?”

His blush was back in full force immediately, crawling up his neck and peeking past the edge of his sweatshirt. The red hue crawled into his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he marked his place in his book, placing it down in front of him before rubbing at the back of his neck.

“W-Well, my sister is a big fan of hers, so she got me to read them too,” he tried to explain himself, looking back at you with that sheepish smile back on his lips. “I may…also j-just enjoy romance books.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” you quickly reassured him, that teasing tone dropped from your voice. “A man who reads romance novels is kind of the dream for most women. Most real men could learn a thing or two from these fictional men.”

He laughed again, and this time you joined in, laughing at the absurdity that you just randomly started shit talking men and their romance skills to this complete stranger beside you.

The man didn’t seem to mind, though, just holding out his hand in your direction with a little grin of his own.

“I’m Bob, Bob Floyd,”

You took his hand without hesitation, trying to ignore the flutter of little butterflies deep within the pit of your stomach, and gave him your name in return. “What’s sending you across the country on a train, Bob?”

“On leave for a little bit, and decided to take a trip,” it took everything in you not to smile as he fully closed his book, giving you his full attention now. “I haven’t been to Washington D.C. since I was a kid, so I thought I’d take a little vacation for myself. The train seemed fun, too, plenty of scenery to look at along the way.”

With a bookmark back in place in your book, all thoughts of wanting to spend the next two days reading gone, you gave him your full attention too.

“Leave? So the sweatshirt is right, you’re in the Navy?”

“Yes ma’am,” he shot back easily.

Bob turned just slightly in the seat to face you more, and you followed his movements, allowing your back to rest against the window behind you. The train still thundered along down the tracks as your attention was fully taken up by Bob Floyd.

“So what is it you do in the Navy?”

“H-How about a trade?” Bob offered up with a smile. “I’ll tell you after you tell me what’s sending you across the country on a train.”

The conductor came by the seats then, calling out to everyone for their tickets. Both you and Bob were quick to flash him your cellphones, confirming that you did indeed have tickets, before he marked you both off and was on his way to the next set of seats behind you.

“Not going quite as far as you, I’ll be getting off in Chicago instead of switching over trains,” you explained. “I have family there I’m visiting for my little cousin’s birthday. Train has always been my preferred method of getting there, gives me time to usually relax, look at the scenery, and write or read.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Eh, kind of. I’ll tell you about that once you tell me more about the Navy,”

Bob laughed again, taking a swig from his water bottle sitting next to his now abandoned book on the tray table. You tried desperately not to stare directly at his neck, or the small line of water that managed to fall from his lips down his chin.

“I’m a WSO, a Weapons Systems Officer,”

“Wait, so you’re a Naval Aviator then?” that piqued your interest, sitting up just slightly with a wider grin on your lips.”My father was an air traffic controller in the Marines years ago!”

“Well, tell him thank you for his service,” Bob said sincerely. “And to the Naval Aviator part…sort of. I-I’m not the one flying the plane, my partner Phoenix is, and she’s a damn good pilot. I’m in charge of our communications systems and our weapons systems.”

You gave him a slight whack on the shoulder playfully with a bright smile.

“Don’t sell yourself short there, Bob. You might not be the one flying the plane, but you’re operating a crucial aspect of it,” he glanced away from you for a moment, but you could see that smile still on his lips even when he wasn’t looking directly at you. “I like writing on the side, but it’s not what pays the bills, though I hope that it does one day. No, I just work for a marketing firm outside of Los Angeles.”

“Not too far from me, then,” Bob threw in, still smiling down at his tray table. “I’m stationed in San Diego, at Miramar.”

“Let me take a shot in the dark then,” he glanced back at you then as you pretended to wave your fingers in his direction, drawing a laugh out of him. “Are you a Top Gun graduate?”

“Right again, ma’am,” Bob gave a little nod toward you. “Graduated the program a few years ago. I’m part of a special detachment, now we're permanently stationed in San Diego.”

The train rolled into a quick stop at one of your first stops along the trip, allowing another round of passengers onto the train. After just a few minutes, the train rolled off down the tracks once more, on pace for the next stop before you reached your end destination.

Bob had pulled out his phone, quickly checking something on it, and you found your teeth digging into your bottom lip for a moment. Cute, respectful, and so incredibly easy to talk to…you wouldn’t mind spending the entirety of the next two days talking this man’s ear off.

“I was thinking of stopping by the cafe car to grab some dinner,” he glanced back at you when you spoke again, quickly shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Want to join me?”

“Absolutely,”

Bob’s answer came quickly, and so did the smile on his face. Like the gentleman you were quickly realizing he was, Bob was up and out of his seat in seconds to stand in the aisle, holding out a hand to you to help you up as well.

You weren’t sure how this perfect, handsome gentleman fell into your life, but you were prepared to thank whatever God you needed to because of it.

Hand in his for the second time, you let him hoist you out of your seats and into the aisle. Turning to face him, you cocked your head, both of you just standing there for a quiet moment, before you pointed down the aisle behind him.

“Cafe car is that way,”

“Right!” Bob’s eyes shot wide, nodding his head as he started moving down the aisle in the direction you pointed. “Sorry, I-I’ve literally never been on a train before today.”

“Your first train trip and you’re heading across the country?” you commented as you both moved through the aisles, holding onto the heads of seats as you went as the train thundered down the tracks. “Bold of you, Floyd.”

He laughed again, before you both stopped in front of the door to the next car. Bob hesitated, just staring at the door for a moment, before you laughed and reached around him with your foot, kicking in the button at the bottom of the door to slide it open.

“I…feel stupid for not seeing that,”

Laughter flowed through you both easily again as you patted him lightly on the shoulder, showing him how to kick or push the next door open.

“It’s your first time on a train, don’t worry. I fucked it up the first time, too,”

“I swear, I’m not usually this useless,”

“You work weapons in fighter jets, Bob, I believe you. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you all you need to know about train travel,”

As usual, especially at this time for dinner, there was a long line for food leading into the snack car, but not many people were actually eating within the car itself.

You and Bob leaned against opposite sides of the car, placing yourself in line for food as other passengers moved about between you both.

“So, how often have you taken this trip before?” Bob asked, moving up another step in line as it slowly moved forward.

“I think about four other times,” you replied, trying to do the mental math in your head. “Cheaper than getting a plane ticket, most of the time. Living in Los Angeles is expensive enough, I can’t spend a fortune on a plane ticket.”

A few more passengers moved past you both, leaving you and Bob just barely at the entrance to the cafe car. The menu was hung on the wall before you, and you just watched Bob with a tiny smile as he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, leaning forward to read through the menu.

The worker in the cafe car called you both forward in the line, moving quickly in her spot in order to get through the line of guests as quickly as she could. Bob quickly gave his order to the woman, and you gave your typical order quickly after. Before your hand could even reach into your pocket to grab your wallet, Bob was already passing his card across the counter toward the worker.

“I’ve got her food, too,”

“Bob-” you tried to interject, but he only waved you off with a smile that sent that group of butterflies beating around your stomach again.

“Have to repay you somehow for sharing your seat with me,”

It had barely been an entire hour on the train, and even less time since you had started talking to Bob Floyd, the Navy WSO you chose to share your seat with…but you decided already that this man was too good to be real.

It didn’t help when he rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt as the cafe worker handed him the two cardboard trays of food. It was impossible for your eyes to not drop to his forearms, the flex in them and the prominent veins that ran down both arms. He was in the Navy, there was no way that he wasn’t a properly fit man, but even seeing a peak of it had a blush crawling into your cheeks once more.

Bob, like the gentleman he clearly was, carried both of your trays over to one of the little dining tables just outside of the cafe car. You thanked him, sliding into one side of the booth as he slid into the other, tossing his phone down beside his drink. His legs were long, given his height, stretching out to your side of the booth and essentially encasing you between them so that he could sit comfortably.

You tried not to think about that too much, or your mind was going to wander somewhere it did not need to be wandering right now.

“So, you said you write,” Bob threw in, taking a bite out of his sandwich while still maintaining eye contact with you. God, they were really a gorgeous shade of blue. “Novels, or something else?”

“Stories, just whatever I enjoy writing, really,” you answered easily, taking a bite out of your own sandwich. “Romance comes easily, given how many romance novels I read.”

“A-Any…real world influence on those stories?”

Now that wasn’t something you expected.

Judging by the way his gaze avoided yours and the blush that shone through his ears and cheeks, it was definitely a thinly veiled attempt at flirting–Bob’s attempt to test the waters. You weren’t complaining, even as it brought a matching red hue to your own skin.

With how much you were already blushing around this man, you weren’t sure you were going to make it to Chicago.

“Nope, just me and my endless love of fictional characters and fantasies to inspire me,”

It didn’t go unnoticed to you the quirk of a smile on his lips at your answer, right as he took a bite of his sandwich. A similar question was dancing on the edge of your lips, too–surely if he was interested in if you were single it was okay for you to be interested in the same thing.

Before you got the chance to broach the topic to him, his phone buzzed incessantly on the table top between you, the tell-tale sound of a phone call. Bob clumsily picked up his phone, dropping his sandwich down, and sighed the second he caught sight of the screen.

“It’s my squad, probably checking in…you don’t mind if I-?”

“By all means, go ahead,” you waved him off with a smile, one he reciprocated easily.

“Aye, guys! Baby-on-Board is alive!”

Bob left his phone on the table top, answering the FaceTime call. It gave you just enough space to see the screen, the tan man around your age calling out to who you could only assume was the rest of their squad around him. Your eyes locked with Bob’s a moment later as you mouthed a teasing question in his direction: Baby-on-Board?

He only shook his head, his response clear–please don’t ask.

“Holy shit, Floyd, thought you’d died on us,” a woman popped onto the screen with dark hair, one who you could only assume was the Phoenix he had spoken of just a bit ago. “We sent you, like, thirty texts and you stopped answering.”

“Didn’t know I-I had to report back where I was at all times, mom,” Bob shot back as you tried to conceal the laugh that tried to claw its way out of your throat.

Two more men popped into the background of the screen, both so tan you wondered if they were ever not in the sun. Even upside down and through a screen, you could tell the one with a mustache was a heartbreaker, and the blonde’s smile was one of those dangerous ones that definitely had gotten many women in trouble over the years.

“Hey, Bob! Nice to see the train ride is going well-”

“Still don’t get why you didn’t fly, Baby-on-Board,” the blonde chimed in, cutting off the one with the mustache beside him who could only roll his eyes in return. “So much easier, gets you there faster–ugh, I’m sure even the smell is different.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman,”

Now that nickname was enough to finally let you laughter escape past your lips. Bob’s head shot up to you, still grinning, as you covered your mouth to try and cover the sound.

Too late. Every single head crammed into the screen on Bob’s phone was suddenly locked in, trying to get a peak of whoever had just made that sound.

“Floyd, are you with someone right now?”

“Maybe Baby-on-Board has some game-”

“On a train? I don’t think so, it’s probably some little old grandma,”

“Oh my god, Bob, just turn the phone around!”

Even in the short amount of time you’d been talking to him, it was becoming increasingly easier to spot Bob’s emotions. He didn’t hide them well at all, or he at least wasn’t trying to. The nervousness that creeped into his features was clear as day right after they all realized he wasn’t sitting alone.

More passengers flitted by you to the cafe car to grab something to eat, but you paid them no mind. Bob glanced at you, biting his bottom lip with the question written clear across his face again–do you mind?

You simply shrugged, letting Bob pick his phone up and turn the camera so that it faced you. The second you were on screen, you gave his face a small wave.

“Well, hot damn,” that blonde man muttered, letting out a short whistle as he adjusted the collar of his uniform. “You’re no little old grandma, that’s for sure.”

“Wait,” the boy who had answered the phone cut in, snapping with a bright smile as he pointed toward the phone. “Are you the girl that he’s sitting with?”

You let your gaze drift back to Bob momentarily, eyebrow raised in a teasing question. He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as his hand rubbed at the back of his neck. Sparing him, you simply laughed it off.

“That would be me, yes,”

The girl, the one you were pretty confident was Phoenix, grew a smirk as she silenced the boys, throwing you a wink through the camera before she spoke.

“Bob was right, you are definitely very, very cute-”

“A-Alright! I will let you guys know when I hit Chicago!” Bob stammered, spinning his phone around quickly as the collective laughter of the group rang out, his finger fumbling across the screen to end the call.

Silence hung between you both for a moment, before Bob finally managed to look up at you. He sighed, running a hand down his reddened face as he tried to hold in his laughter, dropping his phone back onto the table.

“Well, Bob-”

“Please don’t,” he quickly cut in as laughter spilled from you quietly, even as you held a hand to your mouth to try and conceal it the best that you could. “I-I already want to die of embarrassment."

“No need, it kind of helped me answer the question I hadn’t gotten to ask yet,” readjusting his glasses, Bob peaked at you just as you took a sip of your drink, grin spreading around the rim of the bottle. “I assume if you’re calling me very, very cute that means you are, also, single.”

The blush on his cheeks never calmed down, but you could almost see any last bits of tension in his shoulders roll off of him as he joined you in your laughter.

“Yes, very single,”

“Well, since we’ve gotten that out of the way,” leaning forward on the table, you rested your head against your hand, giving Bob your undivided attention. Though, from the moment he had stepped on the train, he had already held it. “Now, I’m dying to know more about Bob Floyd.”

And boy, was there a ton more to know about Bob Floyd.

Over the course of an hour and a half sitting at that little cafe car table, Bob had told you everything he could about himself, and you ate up every second of his words. He’d grown up in Montana, on his parent’s ranch, a thought you tried not to dwell on too hard because if you imagined this man in a cowboy hat you might combust. The military ran deep in his family, so he already knew he was going to join up when he was old enough, but he fell in love with planes as a young kid and his path was set from there, leading him to college close to home before off to Rhode Island for Officer Development Training.

In turn, you’d given him the same stories: you had grown up in a more Northern position of California, but moved to Los Angeles for college and then stayed permanently for work a few years ago. Chicago trips were a usual for you growing up and into adult hood, a large portion of your father’s side of the family residing there.

Somewhere in the midst of the easy stuff, the typical ‘get to know you’ questions and answers, you’d found your way into the deeper stories. The stories that you didn’t typically divulge to someone you had just met barely a few hours ago, much less on a moving train heading across the country.

Bob laughed through every wild story you had for each of the four Homecoming dances you attended in high school: from your friend almost getting thrown out by the metal detector because of how many bobby pins were holding her hair together, to senior year when your best friends’ had attempted to spike the punch bowl and then led security on a chase through the hotel ballroom.

Your smile never left your face with every story of Bob’s. He had participated in a science fair back in middle school where he blew every other student out of the water, creating his own wind turbine to demonstrate how efficient it could be at producing electricity. You weren’t shocked at all that he took home the top prize during that competition. The stories you really hung on were those of his squad, the people he stressed were his best friends, his family.

Natasha, who was on the call earlier and you were correct in naming as Phoenix, was like another sister to him, even though he already had two of his own. Strong, independent, and one hell of a pilot. Bradley, known as Rooster, and Mickey, known as Fanboy, were his best friends. They were always good at pulling him into social situations, helping him overcome those bouts of shyness that peaked through in crowded rooms, and making him feel included. Then there was Jake, who you were informed had the callsign of Hangman and not Bagman, who had a bit more of a complicated relationship with Bob. He could be a bit of a dick at times, even if everyone knew it wasn’t coming from an actual place of malice, but Bob still raved about him as someone he’d gladly lay down his life to protect.

When the announcement that the cafe car was closing for the night rang through the speakers, just as Bob was in the middle of telling you a story from one of their infamous nights out at the Hard Deck, you hadn’t realized how much time had actually passed.

Neither of you had run out of a single thing to talk about. Conversation was easy, in a way that you had never experienced before. And that group of butterflies, hammering away at the walls of your stomach and even against your ribcage, never stopped beating away. Drilling it into your body how much you enjoyed being in this man’s company, his presence, and how much you never wanted it to stop.

The few other people still sitting in the cafe car made their way back to their seats, leaving you both the last people left as the train roared down the tracks toward its next stop. You watched Bob, as he glanced out the window and smiled at the passing scenery as the sun just barely began to set on the day, before he looked back at you with that same little grin.

“T-This…this was nice,” he managed to find his words after a moment, his fingers interlaced together on the table top as his thumbs twirled around one another. “I…like talking to you. It’s easy–too easy, given that I barely know you.”

“I’ve told you so many embarrassing childhood stories at this point, Bob, that I think you can confidently say you do know me,” there was shared laughter once more between you both at your comment. You let your eyes drift to that setting sun, when an idea struck you. Bob’s eyes never left you as he rose to your feet, nodding your head toward the doorway behind you. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

Bob followed you without hesitation.

Leading him through the cars, past loads of sleeping passengers and ones still engaged in conversation as the night quickly approached, it didn’t take long to arrive at your favorite part of the train.

“Whoa…”

A smile lit up your face at the little exclamation you could hear Bob let out behind you. The viewing car was your favorite part of train travel, especially when writing or reading. The large windows, the smaller ones right above you on the curve of the walls that allowed you to look straight up to the sky, and just the overall feel that came from the car. Somehow, not many people were in the car just as sunset was reaching its peak, most probably ready to get some sleep on the beginning stages of the journey.

“I know,” you called back to Bob, moved toward the further end of the car and plopping yourself down in one of the double seats furthest from others. You flashed your smile back at him as he quickly rounded the corner to sit with you. “Isn’t it pretty?”

The train was still somewhere in California, making its main stops along the beginning of the route to pick up passengers all over the lower portion of California. Come morning, you would probably be in Arizona, potentially New Mexico depending on delays, but the sight of the setting sun and the brilliant oranges and reds of the sunset painting the sky over the California skyline was still a beautiful sight to see.

“It really is,” Bob said after a moment, settling onto the opposite side of the double-seater seat you’d sat on. You found yourself watching him inside of the sunset, the way that the colors illuminated his face, the way the setting sun’s rays bounced off his glasses. Your stomach was, once again, doing somersaults you couldn’t stop. “You should see it from an F-18, the sunset is beautiful that high up.”

Tucking your legs up under you on the seat, fully facing Bob with your head resting on your arm, you gave him a soft smile as he turned to look at you once more.

“Tell me about it,”

“I-It’s…otherworldly,” Bob settled on explaining, smile warm as he pointed out the windows above your head toward the clouds. “You’re soaring just above the clouds, right within them, and you can see the colors reflecting off the clouds. Can see them blending in the sky, a full unobstructed view. The purples are really bright when you’re that high up, too, but really all the colors are brighter. Nothing for miles that could block the view. The first time I ever saw it, I-I’m pretty sure I cried.”

Low laughter left you then as Bob turned back to look at you, that grin still etched to his face, and you swore for a second your heart stopped.

The way the colors of the sunset fell across his face, that boyish smile that had nerves laced through it, the endearing awkwardness…Bob Floyd, this mere stranger that you let share your seat with you on the train, was gorgeous, both inside and out.

“No shame in that,” when you finally found the means to speak again, your voice was almost a whisper, your mind lost somewhere in those brilliant blue eyes hiding behind those glasses. “The first time I ever went truly stargazing while camping I cried, so I get it.”

He let out a little chuckle at that. At that moment, the air conditioning system in the train seemed to kick itself up just a notch, a shiver running straight down your spine. It was impossible not to shake slightly at the feeling as goosebumps rose up and down your arms. Bob’s head cocked just slightly to the side.

“Cold?”

“Yeah, but I’m used to it,” you shrugged it off with a wave of your hand. “It usually kicks up a little higher at night, it can get really cold at times. My sweatshirts are all buried somewhere in my suitcase.”

You were barely halfway through your sentence before Bob was tugging that US Navy sweatshirt up and over his head.

It was impossible not to let your eyes flicker to his arms, now exposed fully to you in that white t-shirt he wore under that sweatshirt. The subtle flex in his forearms, to his biceps, the vein that bulged just slightly in the toned muscle. It took everything in you to look away, just as Bob was holding out the bunch up fabric toward you.

“Bob-”

“I have another in my backpack, come on,”

It was something in the way he said it, so genuine, so sweet, with an undercurrent of nerves still present. Like he was scared he was stepping over a line. You took the warm fabric from him without hesitation then, tugging it down over your body.

The sweatshirt hung loose around your frame, baggier on you then it was on him. The warmth embedded into the fabric from his own body heat was a welcome feeling, but it was the smell that took over your senses: woodsy, but not overpowering, with an underlying hint of sweetness, almost a bit of a citrus scent. It was dizzying, how the smell invaded your senses and had your heartbeat stuttering.

“I m-might never give it back,” you managed to stumble your way through your words, as subtly as possible taking in another deep breath of the scent that clung to the fabric. “It’s comfortable, and warm.”

You didn’t miss the way his eyes trailed down your frame, now engulfed in the sweatshirt he’d been wearing just moments before. That flutter in your chest was back in full force as you watched the adam’s apple of his throat bob for a second, a red flush crawling up his neck once more. His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he forced himself to look away, peering back out the window at the moving landscape once more.

“T-That’s okay. It…it looks good on you. Really good…”

If there was one thing you were sure of, it was that you would never have another train ride like this one. Maybe you needed to call Emily Henry up, get her to turn this entire trip so far into another hit romance novel.

“You might regret giving this up once we get back to the seats,” you forced yourself to move on in the conversation, resting one hand tucked within the sleeves of the sweatshirt against your cheek to hopefully mask the blush the Navy man had brought about. “I wasn’t kidding about it getting cold at night.”

“Is it a bad thing that I…didn’t think to bring a blanket?”

Bob’s comment bubbled up another laugh from you. The goosebumps were already clear on the skin of his arms, now exposed to the cold.

“I brought quite a big one. I’d happily share since, you know, you let me borrow this hoodie,”

Even in the cold of the train car as night set in, Bob’s smile was still warm.

“I’ll take you up on that,”

Arriving back at your seats in the train car, Bob was subjected to the endless wait that was the line for the bathroom heading into the night, everyone trying to brush their teeth and get changed as quickly as possible without causing much of a fuss. Already having dressed in preparation to sleep on the train, a quick two minutes to brush your teeth was all you needed in the bathroom, holding it open for Bob as you settled back into your seats, pillow and blanket from your bag up top brought down with you.

It was hard not to stare at Bob when he arrived back at your seats: grey sweatpants that you were cursing the world for inventing because of how good men, particularly Bob, looked in them, and a long sleeve top that read ‘Coronado Volleyball’ across the front. Bob tucked his glasses into their case in his backpack at his feet, settling back into his seat beside you. You couldn’t help your smile at the  small squint in his eyes without his glasses, your heart soaring once more with just how cute that simple action was on this man.

“Footrest is this button,” you showed him on your own seat, before pushing on the second button. “This one reclines the seat.”

Bob followed along with your instructions, accidently throwing the reclining function in his seat back so hard he flailed about for a second to catch himself. The snort that made its way out of you was impossible to stop as you covered your mouth with one hand, your other coming to rest on his bicep, gripping it to control yourself. The glance Bob threw your way screamed that he was begging you not to laugh, but his chest was clearly rumbling and his smile was faltering as he tried to keep from laughing and waking up the entire train car himself.

Phone plugged in and resting in the seat pocket beside you, pillows laid as comfortably as possible on the reclined seats, you threw out the other side of your blanket toward Bob before settling in.

There were quiet murmurs a few rows back from a group of teenagers, still awake, but the train car had gone mostly silent other than them. Turning just slightly to face Bob, buried under your blanket and taking in the warmth mixed with the lingering smell of cologne from Bob’s sweatshirt, you found him already looking at you. Smile soft, relaxed, and eyes still slightly squinted without those adorable glasses.

“T-Thanks…for letting me sit with you. You’ve made this trip better than I thought it would be, so far,”

You were thankful for the lack of light throughout the train car as night settled in, as it hid the flush in your cheeks for the nine thousandth time in the last few hours.

Closing your eyes and turning just slightly away from Bob, your own smile didn’t leave your lips.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Goodnight, Bob,”

❤︎

Waking up on an overnight, cross country train ride toward Chicago was always your least favorite part of these trips. 

You always bought Coach seats, the cheapest you could, and never sprang for the slightly more comfortable bedrooms. That meant it always felt like you were waking up on a couch: neck slightly tweaked to the side, muscles sore, and overall feeling as if you’d just rolled out of the wrong side of your bed in the morning.

The conductor of the train made an announcement just then: you had just pulled into the station for Albuquerque, New Mexico. Your eyes shot wide: you had ridden this exact train enough in the past to know this route, the Albuquerque was usually around 11 in the morning. It was always impossible for you to sleep that long on these rides, given how uncomfortable you were in these seats.

But why, when you woke up this time, were you not uncomfortable? There was no weird tension in your neck, or your back. You weren’t freezing, as you typically were when waking up, but you were warm. That faint woodsy smell was still prevalent, and the pillow you were resting on felt odd compared to how your pillow usually felt–

Oh God.

That wasn’t a pillow your head was resting on, it was Bob’s shoulder.

Okay, if you weren’t awake fully before, now you were.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, your pillow had been shoved off to the side by the window, and your head had slotted itself into the open space of Bob’s shoulder. Worse? You had an arm wrapped around his arm, practically cradling it to your body like it was some childhood stuffed animal that you used to sleep with.

But in that moment, you also became hyper aware of the heated touch that rested against your thigh. By shifting your leg just slightly, it became clear that it was Bob’s large hand resting on top of your thigh, splayed out across the fabric covered skin, but the warmth that radiated off of him was ever present. His head, too, was laid right against the top of yours.

An intimate position to be in with the handsome gentleman you had just met hours prior and already, definitely, had a stupid school-girl crush on.

There was no time to dwell or panic over the situation, though, when you felt Bob stirring awake. The only logical decision you could come to was to lie as still as possible and pretend you were still asleep.

Bob shifted slightly, and you could feel him stretch himself out. In the midst of doing so, he froze, probably coming to the same realization that you had. And in that moment, neither of you moved, as if Bob was running through the exact same scenario that you had been. With you still ‘asleep’ though, it seemed he took the initiative to finally untangle yourselves from each other.

With absolute care, as if you were a fragile piece of China to be delicately handled, Bob slid out of his seat and took his body heat with him. It took every ounce of strength in you to hold your breath as that same large hand that had been splayed across your thigh, the heat of his touch still seared into the fabric like a memory, now cupped the back of your head as you ‘slept’. With the utmost care, Bob gently lifted your head from the seat, before a shuffle could be heard and your head was rested back against the pillow he’d placed behind your head again.

Your heart was already hammering out of your chest when he tucked the blankets back up around you, keeping you warm in the chilly morning.

Frozen in place, still pretending to sleep, was how you spent the next few minutes. You were too afraid to ‘wake up’ and have to look at him, sure you would melt in place given all that had occurred. You listened as he unzipped his duffle, disappeared no doubt to change, before you finally heard him leave your seats once more, only opening your eyes to the familiar sound of the train car door being kicked open down the aisle. Only, then, did you open your eyes.

Finally alone, or alone as you could be on a train car, you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, even as your stomach did an entire gymnastics routine within your abdomen. Bob Floyd was going to be the damn death of you at this rate, and it simply wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair to feel this way about a man you barely knew, but felt like you’d known for years. No when he cared about you in ways like that, treated you so delicately, as if you were something precious to him.

Those thoughts never left your mind as you changed into a new set of clothes for the day, brushing your teeth and packing away your clothing into your own suitcase all while Bob was gone. You left his Navy sweatshirt on top of his duffel bag, even if part of you didn’t want to part with it at all.

Already reclined back in your chair, laptop plugged in and sitting on the fold out tray in front of you, Bob returned moments later. A smile lit up his face the second he locked eyes with you, sliding back into his seat beside you and passing over one of the little cardboard take-out trays from the cafe car.

“Was hoping you’d be up, I grabbed you breakfast. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I just got something basic…”

If Bob Floyd wasn’t careful, you were going to fall in love with him on this damn train.

“Lucky for you, I’m not picky with breakfast,” you shot back with a grin of your own, intrusive thoughts taking over as you reached over, lightly sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, before tugging your hand back to you as if you had been scorched. “T-Thank you, though. This was really sweet.”

Wearing matching smiles, you ate your breakfast/lunch in mainly silence. Every now and then, he’d scroll through his texts with his squad, showing you a new video of Rooster singing drunkenly at their favorite bar, or Hangman striking out with a woman when they tried out a different bar in the city one night. You grinned and hung off every word of his stories, content to just listen to him talk for hours on end.

“So,” Bob began a bit later, already having thrown the remnants of food away in the train car’s trash can up ahead, settling back into his seat beside you. “How do you usually spend the longest day on these rides?”

After knowing him for the short time that you had, you could catch the underlying question in Bob’s voice. The hope that was laced in his words. His book was long forgotten, as was yours, and this was an open invitation: he wanted to know how you spent your time, because he wanted to spend it with you, talking to you, just being with you.

“Well” he watched and listened as you spoke, taking out your wireless earbuds and already offering one in his direction. “I have a ton of my favorite movies downloaded, that’s usually how I make the time go by faster. Care to watch along with me?”

If it was possible, Bob’s smile brightened at your clear acceptance of his underlying question, taking the headphone from you without hesitation as you navigated to your downloaded movies.

“Not sure what movies you’re a fan of, but please tell me you have Badlands in those downloads,”

It was your smile’s turn to brighten as you quickly found said movie from 1973, shooting Bob a look as you loaded the movie.

“Lucky for you, my dad was a big Martin Sheen fan, which in turn made me a Martin Sheen fan,”

“...not sure if I’ve mentioned this yet, b-but you’re more than very, very cute. I think you might be perfect,”

Yup, it was time to file that comment away to unpack at a later time. Maybe use it for fantasy fuel surrounding the absolute perfect man that was Bob Floyd sitting next to you.

The entire train car probably found you two obnoxious, they way you talked through every movie you watched for hours on end together. Badlands was almost entirely ignored, as you instead told Bob stories about every time you watched it growing up with your father, who then subjected you to various tidbits and facts surrounding every actor that appeared in the movie together.

Bob gave you the next pick of movies, saying Badlands was his suggestion and it was only fair that you got the next choice. It was no surprise to either of you that a romance movie was next on the list: 10 Things I Hate About You, a classic.

That brought about the hilarious story of Fanboy and Payback, who had chosen to subject Hangman to this movie one night after a bar trip (as he claimed to hate romance movies). Apparently, those two knew this movie by heart, and acted out every single scene by heart with voices and all. Bob promised to ask Phoenix for the video later, swearing that it was still one of the funniest nights he’d ever had with his friends.

It was right around the time when Patrick’s grand gesture happened: his dance across the stairs, his serenade to Kat with Can’t Take My Eyes Off You, when it happened.

Bob’s hand just barely brushed your thigh under the blanket. A simple movement that could’ve been ignored as nothing and just an accident. Except, his hand lingers, fingers tips lingering in the space between you and just barely brushing over the fabric of your pants. A shot of what felt like pure electricity shot up your body, fueling you to make a daring move. Your own hand, resting on that same thing, shifted just slightly, allowing your fingers to brush over his own.

Somewhere in those little movements, the ones that were clearly no longer accidental, if they ever were to begin with, Bob’s hand engulfed yours in a single, definitive move. Fingers intertwining, his thumb brushing just barely across the back of your hand, you swore your heart was going to soar straight from your chest.

You both locked eyes, wearing matching flushed cheeks and smiles, before you directed your attention back to the movie at hand. Neither of you brought it up, but your hand never left his, and Bob’s thumb never stopped tracing little shapes into the skin of your hand.

A comedy, an action/thriller, and a stop for dinner somewhere in the midst of it all, you knew your heart was surely fucked every second that you spent with Bob Floyd as the day turned into the night and the train continued on toward it’s final destination.

Every new little story had your heart fluttering: the comedy movie he’d picked was one that was actually Maverick’s favorite, and reminded him of the first few nights he’d spent after being relocated to San Diego, getting to know his new team. The action/thriller you had picked, your favorite one? It happened to be his dad’s favorite, too.

“He’d love you,” Bob had said in response to that. Such a simple thing to say, and yet it had your skin on fire and your head feeling like it was in a daze.

Or when the conversation surrounding action/thriller movies turned into the topic of current movies. Sitting in the cafe car once again, caged between his impossibly large legs, discussing the newest Marvel movie that was dropping soon and how excited you were for it, having been raised off of those movies.

He’d said it so casually, half taking a bite of his sandwich for dinner as he did. “You’ll have to get me caught up before we go see it.”

So definitive, leaving no room for questions. It was a statement, a promise that you were going together. That when this train ride was over, when you both made it back to California, this wasn’t the last he wanted to see of you. It felt like you were living your own personal romance novel every second you were around him.

And when you had stood, deciding after sitting in the cafe car together talking until the late hours of the night when it shut down until the morning, his hand had found yours again with a confidence you hadn’t seen him truly show yet.

Night had almost become morning, the train somewhere in the state of Kansas, as you and Bob walked hand in hand into the viewing car once more. There was a man in the furthest corner, sprawled out across two single seats to sleep–as uncomfortable as it looked–and a woman slumped over in her chair on the other end of the car asleep, too. 

Besides the pair, the car was quiet. Dark, illuminated just by select lights at the ends of the car to indicate the doors, and the glow of the moon in the sky as it and the stars shone down through the windows.

In that same double seat you had been in just the night before, you and Bob found yourselves side by side once again, but closer than you had been just 24 hours before. His hand left yours, but it didn’t stray far, curling around the back of the chair behind your head. His fingertips just barely ghosted over your sweatshirt clad shoulder as you sat together, staring out the window at the passing night scenery.

“This…” Bob broke the silence after a moment, eyes trained on the scenery out the train window, voice low as to not wake the others sleeping around the car. “I-Is not what I expected from my first train trip.”

“What, how nice and peaceful it is?”

“That, but…I meant you,”

His words brought your gaze to him, his eyes already locked on you. You let out a short huff, glancing down at the floor beneath your feet for a second to escape the weightless feelings rising in your stomach.

“I’m nothing special. You’re the handsome, absolute gentleman who also happens to fly around in F-18s for the Navy. I’m still trying to decide if meeting you was a dream or not,”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Bob was quick to throw in, bringing your eyes back to his face, flashing you a sheepish smile. “It’s weird. I-I just feel so…comfortable with you. I’m not like this with people–easy going and comfortable with them so quickly. Even Phoenix would tell you, i-it took weeks of training with them before I was sassing Hangman back the way he deserved. You just make it easy. I…I like being around you, as insane as that sounds for how long I’ve known you.”

His words were melting you, inside and out. Shifting your body just the tiniest bit closer to his, your side pressed against his, you gave him a tiny smile of your own, trying to ignore the feelings clawing at your chest.

“You, sassing Hangman? I can’t picture you being sassy at all, I’d pay to see this,”

He laughed, trying to keep his voice low still in the quiet of the night.

“When you meet the others, trust me, you’ll see it. Especially if Jake decides to make any comments, which he always does,”

There it was again: that definitive. Not a question of whether or not you want to meet his friends, but a statement, a promise that you will meet them.

Bob seemed to sense it, too, the way he said his words. The way the air of tension hanging between you both shifted in that moment, with those words alone. Both wide eyed, stumbling, just staring at one another as you tried to assess where this whirlwind of a trip and a chance meeting would take you from here.

“Bob-”

“Can I do something k-kind of stupid?”

You cocked your head at his comment, lips quirking up again.

“Depends. Is it stupid, or is it brave?”

“...can it be both?”

Quirked lips turning into a full smile, you took the lead, resting one gentle hand on his chest as you looked up at him.

“If you’re going to ask to kiss me…it’s not stupid, not at all,”

That little bit of confirmation was all Bob needed.

His first kiss was gentle. Unsure, still testing the waters, scared that you’d back away and change your mind. His lips just barely brushed over yours, like a phantom in the night, before he pulled back, never truly leaving your personal space though. You caught it, the faint hint of mint still lingering in his breath, before you surged forward to steal a real kiss from him, the kiss you had been thinking of since he’d walked onto the train as if he’d stepped right out of a rom-com.

Bob’s hand didn’t hesitate then, curling around your neck to hold you to him. His head titled as if on instinct, lips slanting against yours as electricity seemed to shoot through your body from every point in which his skin touched yours. Your hand curled into his sweatshirt, holding him as if you were afraid letting go meant this all wouldn’t be real.

You sighed into the feel of his lips, the warmth that was present in his skin and transferred through yours. The feel of them, soft and yet slightly chapped against your own, but perfect in a way you couldn’t describe. Bob’s tongue just barely poked past his lips, grazing over your own on accident, but enough to fuel the fantasies in your head, to drive you to want–to need–more from this perfect man you still couldn’t believe wanted to kiss you.

He pulled away for just a moment, taking in a deep breath, and you followed suit. Eyes finally fluttering open, meeting with the dilated blue pupils behind those golden frames, you smiled giddily up at the man still cradling you in his hand so tenderly.

“Are you always this charming with the ladies? Do you go around kissing all the ladies you barely know?”

He let out a breathless laugh, fingers twitching against the back of your neck. “I’m hopeless with the women, just ask Rooster. So, no, I don’t go around kissing just anyone…j-just this really pretty girl I met on the train who I think might be on her way to ruining my life.”

You pulled him into the kiss this time. It was messy, uncoordinated, the smile unable to be wiped from either of your lips as you both smiled into the kiss, soft laughter flowing through both of you. Lost in your own little world as the train roared down the tracks in the night, lost in your own little cloud nine.

And when you fell asleep that night, curled up on those uncomfortable reclining chairs under your blanket, it was no accident this time when you slotted yourself into Bob’s side. When his arm wrapped around your shoulders, tugging you into his side and resting his head against your own, lulling you into the most comfortable sleep of your life.

But all good things must come to an end.

By the early afternoon the next day, the train had rolled into your destination: Chicago. Your part of the trip was over, and Bob was onto the next part of his own, your paths forging down two different roads.

Stopping at the bathroom one last time, you met Bob in the waiting area right outside the steps off the train. He stood, with both his bags and your own, smiling as he waited for you to join him.

“Thank you for grabbing these,” your voice was quiet as you approached, slinging your backpack up around your shoulders, before grabbing your suitcase with one hand. Bob only smiled, taking your free hand in his own, squeezing it just enough to send those butterflies on a mission in your chest.

“Of course…” 

The intercom overhead went off, announcing that the connecting train to Washington D.C. was departing soon. Your phone went off at the same time, a text from your Aunt to say they had arrived to pick you up. Bob looked to you, as you looked to him, as it settled on both of you that the whirlwind that was the last 48 hours was coming to an end.

“When we both get back to California,” Bob started, eyes never leaving yours, even as people moved past him to board his next train, like he should’ve been doing. “I-I want to take you on a date.”

“Four meals together on a train doesn’t count?” you teased, even though your grin stretched from ear to ear.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Call it a trial run. I want to take you on a proper date…because I like you way too much for just having met you two days ago.”

You gave his hand a tight squeeze, laughing with him.

“Good, because I feel the same way and I thought I was going insane,”

With a boost of confidence, clearly spurred by your agreement to a date, Bob tugged you in, leaving one last kiss to your lips. And, god, were you seconds away from asking him to forgo the rest of his trip and just stay in Chicago with you, stay in this little bubble forever with you.

But his lips left yours after a moment, taking their warmth with them, as did his hand. All you could do was take a deep breath, nodding as Bob took a hesitant step away, as if he didn’t want to leave either.

“Have a safe trip,”

He gave you one last smile, nodding to you. “I’ll see you back in Cali.”

And for ten minutes, you couldn’t force yourself to leave that train platform. All you could do was stand there, soak in the last 48 hours that had occurred since the moments that Bob Floyd had walked onto that train, lost and clueless, until he’d stepped off right now and walked away from you. 

This perfect gentleman had swooped in, dirty blonde hair, tanned skin, and the cutest glasses in the world and swept you off your feet and upended your expectations for love. And he had barely had to try in order to do it.

It wasn’t until the train to Washington D.C. finally pulled out of the station, barrelling down the tracks, that it hit you: you never got his phone number.

That revelation alone was like having the wind knocked out of you. Through everything that had occurred, that had been said, you had somehow let Prince Charming himself get onto a train and leave you there at the station without getting his damn phone number.

For seven days in Chicago, that oversight on your part haunted you. No amount of family, birthday parties, or anything else for seven days could possibly get Bob Floyd off your mind.

A Navy WSO, a Top Gun graduate, living in San Diego, and you had his full name–yet still–you couldn’t find a single thing about this man online. He didn’t have any social media by the looks of it, besides a Facebook that looked as if it hadn’t been updated since Middle School. You didn’t know any of his Squadmate’s last names, just their first names and their callsigns, so finding them was just as impossible.

Your fairytale, rom-com meet-cute on a train with the most perfect man was slowly turning into the one that got away. And you had no one to blame but yourself for overlooking something as stupid as a phone number.

It didn’t help that your first night in your aunt’s home, opening your duffel bag to change for the night, there was an unexpected surprise sitting on top of your luggage: Bob’s Navy sweatshirt. He must have tucked it away in there before you had gotten off the train, intent on giving it to you. This time, you shamelessly held it up to your nose, inhaling that familiar woodsy and sweet scent you’d come to know as his, already dreading the near future when that smell would fade away in the wash.

Bob Floyd was all you could think of when, a week later, you were dropped back off at that very same train station in the early hours of the afternoon, prepared to do your trip all over again. This time, without your handsome WSO at your side.

Clad in that Navy sweatshirt, unable to convince yourself not to wear it, you boarded the train just as you had done a thousand times before, familiar with the process. Unsurprisingly, the train was packed, and you recognized many of the faces that had gotten off in Chicago with you just a week ago.

The rowdy group of teenagers, already conversing across the aisle at a volume they shouldn’t be. The young woman with the music blaring through her headphones, and you still wondering how her hearing was intact. Even that elderly gentleman who complained about everything he could see and touch was seated.

Your breath caught, though, when you caught the briefest sight of those aviator frames you knew so well. Your feet were moving before your head had caught up with what you were seeing, hoping you were seeing things right.

There he sat: Bob Floyd, just as you’d left him a week ago. His backpack sat on the empty seat next to him, just as your’s had. He stared out the window, paying no attention to those who boarded the train. You couldn’t help the way your smile grew, just seeing him, or the way your heart hammered in your chest, as you cleared your throat.

“Excuse me…is this seat taken?”

A flurry of emotions passed over Bob’s face the second his head turned, those baby blue eyes locking with yours. Shock, morphed into happiness, soon mixed with what you could only call relief. His smile stretched from ear to ear as he shoved his backpack to the floor, opening up the empty seat beside him to you, just as you had for him.

Bags placed in the overhead bin, you took that seat beside him without hesitation, eyes never leaving him.

“H-Hi,”

“Hi,” you shot right back at him as he stumbled over the simple word. Digging into your pocket, you held your phone out in his direction with a teasing wink. “I think we forgot an important step last week.”

Bob laughed, a sound you had missed hearing desperately. He took your phone from your hand, but still cradled your hand in his palm. Bringing it to his lips, he left a kiss across your knuckles, and you could feel the smile on his face as his lips pressed to your skin.

The livestream had been going for 56 minutes and 12 seconds, but who was counting?

You were perched at your desk in one of Danny’s hoodies—oversized and soft and definitely not yours—legs tucked underneath you like you always sat, surrounded by a half-finished smoothie, a candle you forgot to light, and three separate mugs (two with tea, one with coffee—you couldn’t decide). The plan had been to go live for thirty minutes. Answer a few questions. Recommend some books. Maybe read a bit.

That had been almost an hour ago.

"And yes," you were saying, waving a well-loved paperback in one hand while the other hovered near the keyboard, "this one made me cry like four separate times and no, I’m not embarrassed about it—"

You didn’t hear the door open or hear the soft steps across the hardwood.

You were mid-laugh when a plate of food appeared beside you—neatly assembled, still warm, complete with a folded napkin and your favorite dipping sauce on the side.

And then, like it was just part of his programming, Danny leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

The kind he did when you were curled up with a book on the couch. Or when you were brushing your teeth and he walked by. Or when you were half-asleep on a Sunday morning and he brought you coffee before you even opened your eyes.

The camera, angled slightly up, caught it—just the lower half of his face, the gentle press of lips to skin, the soft breath he let out as he pulled away.

You blinked, surprised, a smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head toward him.

“Oh,” you murmured. “Hi.”

He smiled—eyes crinkling just out of frame—and then disappeared again, slipping back out without a word like it was nothing.

The chat? Immediately feral.

“I SAW THAT. WE ALL SAW THAT.” “HE JUST DID THAT LIKE IT WAS A TUESDAY.” “I NEED A DANNY RAMIREZ TO BRING ME FOOD AND KISS MY HEAD 😭😭😭” “THE DOMESTICITY OF IT ALLLLLL” “NO SERIOUSLY I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE” “IS THAT HIS HOODIE TOO?? I’M CRYING”

You laughed—full and unfiltered—covering your face with your hands as your cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable red.

“Okay,” you said between giggles, “so… apparently that was visible.”

From the living room, where you could hear the sound of him flopping down onto the couch and probably stealing a bite of your fries, Danny called out casually, “Only meant to be for you, cariño, but if the world’s gotta see, they better recognize the standard.”

“CARIÑO? I’M MELTING.” “THEY’RE TOGETHER??? THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE NOW” “I’D LET HIM RUIN MY LIFE IN THE SOFTEST WAY POSSIBLE”

You peeked at the chat again, still grinning, your voice going a little breathless as you read aloud: “‘Danny’s the blueprint. Everyone else take notes.’” You glanced toward the living room. “They’re not wrong.”

He didn’t miss a beat: “I just know how to take care of my girl.”

“HIS GIRL???? OKAY EVERYONE BREATHE” “I THOUGHT THIS WAS A BOOK STREAM, WHY AM I SOBBING OVER A RELATIONSHIP I’M NOT IN”

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But when you saw the next comment, you lost it.

“‘This livestream went from book recs to emotional damage real quick.’” You laughed so hard you had to lean away from the mic. “Okay. Okay, I need a second.”

From the living room, Danny called out again, voice softer now, mellow in that way he got when the day was winding down. “Eat first, amor. The books can wait.”

You looked down at the plate—your favorite kind of comfort meal, the one he always made when you forgot to take care of yourself—and smiled.

“Bossy,” you teased, but there was no real heat behind it.

He hummed. “Only ‘cause I love you.”

You cleared your throat, trying not to let your smile take over your whole face.

“Alright,” you said into the mic, glancing back at the camera, “brief intermission while I eat the food my sweet, meddling boyfriend just brought me.”

From the living room, almost muffled now: “You’re welcome, princesa.”

“I CAN’T TAKE THIS” “THIS IS TOO DOMESTIC I’M GONNA CRY” “he calls you princesa?? i’m unwell”

You laughed softly, head bowed as you reached for a fry and continued to chatter with your viewers on stream.

Your sash poked into your neck like a velvet noose.

You blinked rapidly, the fake lashes heavy and clumped from the last-minute extensions someone insisted you needed. The tiara perched atop your head gleamed under the crystal lights, but it didn’t feel elegant. It felt like obligation, pressing down on your scalp with every inch of your heritage. Even your gown, a masterpiece of silver sequins and duchess satin... felt like armor, and the enormous flare of it made you feel less like a royal and more like a wedding cake about to topple over.

Despite the wardrobe struggle, you stood tall... you had to.

But your mind wandered like it always did. You found your focus snagged on the curtains in front of you. Deep burgundy, maybe velvet… or brocade? You weren’t sure. You wanted to run your fingers along them, and you raised your hand to feel the curtains, only for your eyes to fall on your white satin gloved hands, too sterile, too clean, and it irritated you further. the curtains were the only barrier you had between you and the bustling crowd in the halls.

Around you, event planners and makeup artists hustled past, speaking to each other, making sure the event goes smoothly. The Grand Hall of the Royal Palace overflowed with global dignitaries, foreign royalty, press, and every relevant elite worth impressing.

Today was your twenty-fifth birthday, your official introduction as Queen Regent-in-Waiting. A ceremonial declaration that once your brother, Prince Ramil, ascended the throne after your father, you would follow.

Assuming you didn’t implode first.

You fought to breathe in the corset cinched so tight that your ribs ached, but you didn’t dare shift. You had been trained for this, for the perfect postures and the Hollywood smile, since you were a toddler.

“Breathe, Your Highness.”

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was, his voice could be recognized by you in an instant. I was low and smooth, one syllable from him could cut through noise like a hot blade through wax. It always calmed you, steadied you, reminded you that amongst the plastique and fakeness of being a royal in 21st century, someone inside the palace walls was still real.

Joaquin Torres.

Ex Air Force.

Your Bodyguard.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him step closer, four paces behind you; exactly as protocol allowed. His hand reached forward with practiced stealth, brushing your fingers and leaving behind something small and familiar.

You glanced down to find a lemon candy, half-wrapped. You bit down on it immediately, the sharp citrus hitting your tongue like a jolt of electricity. Your lip twitched, and you grimaced.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely moving your mouth, your smile still fixed.

“I heard you skipped lunch,” he replied, voice dry.

You rolled your eyes, “Don’t be dramatic, Torres. I had a large breakfast.”

“Let me guess. A strawberry Pop-Tart and black coffee.” He scoffed.

“It was two Pop-Tarts,” you hissed, and you could hear the soft huff of amusement he didn’t let anyone else hear.

Behind you, Joaquin stood at his full height. He was wearing his formal black three-piece suit; the same one he wore at all events. He looked handsome in it, better than any prince in extravagant clothing… although you liked him more in a tank top where his toned biceps were in full view. You never told him this, of course, because he would never let you live it down. Because Joaquin Torres could be a terrible flirt and a softie by heart, but he was a pillar of safety for you first… truly unshakable. He was your shadow, your shield, your most trusted friend.

He had been assigned to you at nineteen, back when your name was plastered on tabloids more often than national newsletters. You had been caught by paparazzi way too many times at places any princess shouldn’t be; clubs, celeb parties, bars in foreign countries... but mostly at illegal underground car racing events.

You were wild back then.

The media loved any chance they got to drag the royal family through the dirt, and had nicknamed you “Drift Princess” by the number of times you had been booked for driving your custom hot pink mustang at ungodly speed, so fast that your car was a blur in the paparazzi pictures. You still remembered your first photo that was everywhere in media for a month: your hot pink Mustang streaking through a back-alley track, smoke curling off tires, your grin wide and reckless.

You hadn’t cared at all back then, being the obnoxious spare to the throne, and nobody dared to stop you… until Joaquin had been thrown into your world, with his all-brooding eyes and scolding lectures. You swear you never saw his lips twitch back then, never.

You hated him at first; The way he hovered around you anywhere you went. The way he shadowed you, barked rules your way, blocked exits before you reached them. The way he cared when everyone else was just… tired of you. You fought him with everything; snuck past him, climbed walls, got black out drunk at unknown clubs, disguised yourself in hoodies and sunglasses. He found you every single time... He’d dragged you out of bars, carried you out of parties, intercepted sneaky getaways from the palace walls.

You believed he hated you too… until one night, he’d literally tackled you before you could climb over a 30 feet palace wall, one wrong step away from falling to your death. You’d been cursing him out as he picked you up and hauled you to your quarters looking ready to combust.

“your highness, You could’ve died!” he had shouted at you, practically shaking.

“Then I’d finally be free,” you’d snapped back.

Joaquin had gone still hearing that. His face dropped from angry to sadness, eyes burning with something you couldn't decipher.

“The next time you want to go,” he had yelled, “You tell me.” He pointed at you and then at himself. “I’ll take you. You can race at full speed or drink yourself into a coma with your rich friends, I don’t care. But I need to know where you are! I can’t protect you if I can’t find you!” You’d stared at him for a long time after that.

He’d been furious. You’d never had anyone scream at you like that. Never seen anyone that scared for you… not even your own family. That night, six years ago, had changed everything. He was still your bodyguard, but he had become so much more. Your secret-keeper, your movie nights partner, your only real friend, the only one who knew who you were beneath the crown.

The trumpet blared from the other side of the curtain, and you felt the anticipation of your arrival in your bones.

“It is my utmost honor,” the spokesperson announced, voice echoing around you, “to introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess y/n, first of her name, and third in line to the throne of Tavreshi!”

Your hands clenched, then released, you took a deep breath to prepare yourself as you waited for the cue of the trumpets.

Behind you, Joaquin murmured with a smirk in his voice, “Time to shine, Your Royal Driftiness.”

You bit back a laugh. “Say that again and I’ll trip on purpose.”

He leaned ever so slightly closer. “Not if I catch you first, which I always do.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you didn’t respond.

That night at the fountain...

A heartbeat passed, and then his voice rang in your ears, this time a bit closer, “Show them who you are, princess. Good luck.”

Then the curtain opened.

The hall exploded in light and sound, flashing bulbs, camera shutters, music rising in grandeur. The applause surged like a wave crashing into your ribs as you stepped forward, looking at your family standing at the end of the staircase; Your grandfather – the king. Your parents and your brother, Prince Ramil, all beaming at you in pride and awe.

You smiled as you descended, not the plastic kind that you practiced so often. The real kind, showing your true self. And behind you, half-shielded in shadow, Joaquin followed your steps, four paces behind, hand hovered at his side.

Just in case you fell.

---/---/---

The golden ballroom gleamed with candlelight and polished marble, humming with music and gossip from the high society. You had stood beneath the chandelier, smiling through the weight of too many eyes. You had cut the huge birthday cake, and your father had danced with you first, proud of the woman that you had grown to be. After which your older brother, Prince Ramil followed, cracking a joke mid-waltz that made you want to flick his forehead.

Now, standing alone at the slightly raised podium of the room, the chatter was fading while the music grew louder, you tried not to twist your fingers. After all, this was the first time the event was in your honor.

You were twenty-five now, and officially named second in line to the throne. A future queen, in everything but title.

There were a thousand cameras clicking your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake so they can drag our name in tomorrow's headlines, well, you didn't blame them. They haven't had a bad news about you for five years now. They were hungry to see you fall. Diplomats, nobles, foreign royals watched you with curious eyes, the youngsters in awe of your rebellious nature poised so perfectly, and the elders with their judging stares.

Behind you, four paces behind, stood Joaquin Torres.

He didn’t care about the glittering gowns or the music. His serious eyes scanned the room for the 100th time. Exits, guests, and upper balconies. He was whispering into his comms again, his hand against his earpiece, tense as ever.

You glanced back slightly and muttered under your breath, “Would it kill you to relax a bit?”

Joaquin glared at you, standing straight, “Probably. Likely it would kill you too.”

---/---/---

She laughed at his deadpanned quick remark, pulling him from his scan for just a second. That was the thing about her; she could find sarcasm even in places armored with protocol and pressure.

She turned her head more now, catching his eye over her shoulder. Her smile crooked, she asked, “Dance with me?”

Joaquin blinked at her boldness, sure he had danced with her during lessons, but infront of everyone? He looked straight ahead, avoiding her glance; this wasn’t protocol, his recruiter’s voice rang in his ears, “you have to stay close to her Torres. And the minute you catch feelings, know that you have failed your duty.”

But before he could respond, he watched as a steward approached and gave a polite bow, earning her attention, “Your Highness, may I present His Royal Highness Prince Idris of Meira. He would be honored to have the next dance.”

She turned and accepted with perfect grace, as the tall tan skinned prince whisked her away to the dance floor.

Joaquin stepped back, his jaw tight, hands behind his back as he watched her take the foreign prince’s hand and let herself be led back into the dance.

“I’ve never seen her this graceful,” came a voice beside him. He glanced sideways to see Prince Ramil, y/n’s brother and current heir, standing next to him, drink in hand, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.

“She always is,” Joaquin said, neutral.

Ramil followed his sister’s slow turn across the floor. “Idris is a decent man.” He looked at his champagne, grimacing, “he’s quiet, loves to read, also, his small island nation mines diamonds for a living, so, he’s like loaded.” He slurred his words, and Joaquin’s heart raced as he glanced back at her, twirling on the dance floor, laughing.

Ramil went on. “You did not hear this from me but, the king’s planning a pact between them. He hasn’t said it directly, but it’s clear. I heard him talk to dad saying Meira is a good ally nation to have.”

Joaquin’s jaw ticked his gaze locked on how Prince Idris led you around the dance floor, looking into your eyes.

“Prince Ramil, The King has summoned you,” Sam Wilson, Ramil’s Bodyguard and Joaquin’s senior form Air Force, led him to the podium where the king sat, looking back at Joaquin and silently telling him not to spill this to anyone else.

He turned his attention back to the princess. From where he stood, it looked like they were flirting. She tilted her head, her hand resting on Idris’ shoulder longer than necessary. She was playing a part maybe, this was diplomacy and strategy and rebellion rolled into one, but Joaquin wasn’t immune to the slow, bitter burning that was silently creeping into his lungs.

Because he knew what it meant to stand too close to fire and not be allowed to touch it.

Joaquin had hated her at first. She was spoiled, entitled, downright unhinged, and the physical personification of pure chaos. She didn’t care about the rules, or etiquettes, or safety and image.

She was the poster child of what a kid becomes when they don’t hear no for an answer.

But then, he had seen her talk to the stable horses like they were old friends, he saw her take care of her cars and bikes like they were a part of her, always ending up covered in grease and dirt but with a content smile on her face when she finished. He saw her sneak into the servant’s kitchen to share a cup of tea with her maids. He saw her fighting a guy twice her size at a club in Thailand, smiling through bloodied teeth as he carried her out. He saw her cry when she thought no one was watching, in her brother’s arms after her grandmother’s funeral.

Somewhere between dragging her out of a racing pit with engine oil on her hands and staying up to argue with her about how to handle PR disasters… he fell.

He fell hard.

But the brutal truth stayed unchallenged; that knights don’t fall for princesses.

He shifted his weight. Checked his comms again. Sam Wilson, Prince Ramil’s bodyguard, muttered something over the channel about the southern gate being clear. Joaquin gave a curt nod in response, but his eyes never left her.

Their dance ended, and the hall burst into raging applause. They didn’t linger for long, but they kept talking all night. Her and Idris, walking around the room greeting guests together, sitting at the edge of the ballroom sipping drinks, smiling like they had known each other for a while, and maybe they did, after all, they both were royals.

Joaquin followed them, four paces behind, stone-faced. He couldn’t hear them, but he heard her giggle, and Prince Idris holding her closer than friends should. He saw just the flicker of her hand brushing her hair, the way she threw her head back when she laughed, something genuine and rare that only he had witnessed all these years. If anyone looked closely at his stone-faced expression, they’d think he was just another bodyguard doing his duty. But on the inside, the storm in his heart only grew. He was spiraling, seconds away from cracking as he saw Idris hold her by her waist.

The realization hit him like a truck; that one day, she might belong to someone else.

And he would have to watch it unfold, helpless.

---/---/---

It was midnight when the royal family gathered in the smaller private sitting room at the palace; a room reserved for “family conversations.” You had told him enough for him to know nothing good ever came out of that room anytime your grandfather had summoned the family there.

That meant no servants, no helpers… just good old family having a heated argument, with the tension thick enough to choke on.

The King stood by the fireplace, cane in hand, eyes sharp despite his age. Queen Miriam, your mother and King Consort Advit, your father, sat on one of the long couches, pale-faced and clearly exhausted. Prince Ramil leaned against a wall, drink in hand again, expression unusually unreadable.

You stood across from them all, still in your gown. Your heels had been kicked off, and your tiara long gone. Your voice trembled; not with fear, but with fury by what you had just heard the king announce to the room.

“You want me to marry him?” you spat. “After one polite conversation and a single dance, you think we are the best choice to be married?”

The King didn’t look at you, his gaze focused in the kindling in the fireplace, “This isn’t about romance, my dear. This is about diplomacy, the stability of our land. You were raised for this.”

You screamed, “I wasn’t raised to be sold off like property!”

“Mind your tone.” The king shouts.

“No.” you stepped forward, that made him look at you, his eyes blazing with fury as he witnessed you defy him, “I went to university. I’m the first one in this family who studied mechanical engineering. I built things with my own hands. I raced. I trained in secret because you won’t allow me to have a proper racing trainer! I almost died trying to learn racing and none of you cared! And I’m supposed to believe this is for my own betterment!”

Your mother reached for you gently, getting up from her seat, “Darling, your education was never meant to distract you from your duty-”

“It wasn’t a distraction!” you snapped, as your mother looked at you with pleading eyes, “It is my dream. It has been my dream since forever! I have told you I want to race Formula One. I want a life outside these walls. I can’t be poised and perfect forever mother!” your voice cracked, “I’m twenty-five years old, not a pawn on a chessboard for you to move however you please!”

Ramil’s voice pierced through, “You really think they'll let a royal heir drive 300 kilometers an hour in a tin box?” he moved towards you, resting his glass on the coffee table.

You turned to him, fighting tears, your eyes glassy, “I thought you would understand.”

“I do, y/n.” he breathes out, “but you cannot escape this, so accept it.”

Your father stood now, voice strained but measured, he takes your hand patting it gently, “Y/n dearest, we love you. We all want what’s best for you…”

“Then say something!” you begged, your voice trembled. “Don’t just make me accept this alliance, Help me dad, Please.”

Before he could say anything, The King’s voice rang out louder, “You will marry Idris of Meira within the year, I have made arrangements with his court. That is my final word.”

“Father, If I may…” your father’s words were cut off in an instant

“I said… that is my final word!” He slammed his cane on the ground, and it was like if time had stopped for a second.

Nobody moved, nobody breathed. The monarch had spoken, and his words were as final as a statement written on stone.

Your eyes swept the room, looking at your mother, your father, and your brother. No one met your gaze; out of shame or sadness... you would never know.

---/---/---

The doors had been closed, but the voices inside had been carried out perfectly. The servants outside stood frozen, and the bodyguards exchanged quiet glances. Some felt sorry for the princess, others were scared and somewhat anticipated of what would happen next.

Joaquin stood in the corridor just behind the corner, his jaw tight and his fists clenched as he heard your shouts and the King’s booming voice echo through the hallway.

A loud click of a lock opening broke everyone out of their trance.

He saw her when she fiercely walked back to her quarters; grabbing the front of her giant dress, barefoot, her heels in hand, her makeup smeared with tears streaking her cheeks. And despite all of this, her head was high and her back straight. She stopped in her tracks as she glanced back at the door, hoping for someone to stop her.

No one did.

Her eyes locked with his, and he saw a tear tumble down her face before she turned and continued on her way.

Joaquin moved immediately.

---/---/---

The corridor outside her private quarters was silent, save for the quiet, muffled sobs echoing from the other side of the carved rosewood door of her bedroom. He had ordered the guards to clear the area, and had updated the security protocols: only two people besides immediate family had clearance to enter the Princess’s personal chambers.

Him, and Asha, her handmaiden.

Joaquin stood still, jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides. He wanted to slam open the doors and hold her tight, but he stood at his place, his patience hanging by a thread as each sob of her tore through his heart. She needed space after the whirlwind of information was dumped on her out of nowhere, but he couldn't just stand still and do nothing.

Asha paced nearby, her petite figure distressed, worry shadowing her usually bright face, her arms folded tightly across her chest, “The Princess hasn’t cried like this in years,” she whispered, almost as if afraid you would hear her. She had seen her grow from a toddler to now, her wise eyes held the worry a mother's would for her child.

Joaquin didn’t answer, he just nodded at her as he stared at the door, waiting for you to open it.

He recalled a different version of you that would throw tantrums like these for the most illogical reasons; a wilder, untamed version.

You were nineteen when he first met you, he bowed and greeted you as you made a sour face, spoiled and recklessness reeking from your aura, of an overgrown child with a royal title and money that could buy you anything you wished for.

“Princess of Speed,” the tabloids had called you. Others were less kind: “The Royal Wreck,” “Drift Princess,” “Crowned Chaos.”

He had seen you laugh about the mess the next day, but had also noticed how the smile never reached your eyes anytime you read the articles.

He had found you half-drunk on rooftops, snuck you out of red-lit clubs swarming with creeps, yanked you from the passenger seat of cars moments before they launched into illegal drag races.

But the worst night… he still had nightmares recalling how horribly wrong it could have gone if it wasn’t for him to act rogue and breaking protocol.

---/---/-----/----/-----

[Listen to Two Hands by Tate McRae for this scene for better experience]

Six years ago, Vienna

He’d gotten the intel too late.

Oil slicks were laid down past the first curve of the track with hard debris meant to cause a wipeout. The kind of trap designed for a car like hers, the fastest cars on the track. Anything going above 90 was not coming back from it.

She was going to die.

Joaquin gritted his teeth as he tore through the roads on a stolen Ducati motorbike, the roar of the engine screaming beneath him. The underground track loomed ahead; the dark, sharp, uncharted roads calling out to her as y/n sat poised behind the wheel of a goddamn Lamborghini, seconds from launching herself into it like it was just another thrill.

The crowd parted like the red sea as he blared his horn and skidded the Ducati across the tarmac, blocking her path just as she had hit the gas pedal at the starting point. The Lambo screeched to a halt in seconds, and he heard a rather interesting curse word screamed at him, fury blazing in the princesses’ eyes before she even opened the door.

She strutted towards him, wearing a short skirt and white top with a racing jacket, ready to fight him in the middle of the road, “What the actual—!”

Joaquin took off his helmet, walking to her in a hurry, “Forgive me, your highness, but I swear to God…” he snapped, stalking toward her. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

She looked more shocked than afraid to see him, but he didn’t care. He grabbed her by the arms, grounding her, shaking her just enough to make her look at him. Her entire body shook, as she processed that Joaquin was actually standing in front of her.

“There’s a trap on the curve. Designed for you to loose control in seconds.” He screamed as the crowd roared around them, watching the race start.

She opened her mouth to argue, but behind them, he heard it; racing bikes, at least four, moving fast and close to them.

“The paparazzi. They traced your car.” He looked at her with panic in his eyes.

She froze as soon as she heard the roaring bikes, two racing past them towards the road where she was supposed to crash.

Joaquin leaned in, lowering his voice. “Y/n, hey.” He held her face, “soon they will realize you’re not racing! You need to get on that bike. Now.”

She hesitated, but Joaquin pulled her with him, “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder again.”

She groaned, rolled her eyes but climbed onto the Ducati behind him, silent as he handed her his helmet. She didn’t protest when he grabbed her hands and placed them around his waist.

“Hold on,” he muttered.

Then they were flying. The Ducati ripped through the confused crowd who wondered why she left the race, entering a maze of streets, the tires kissing death on every corner. Seconds later he heard it; bikes chasing them, the camera flashing. Joaquin zipped up his jacket to his chin, his face down, as camera flashes distracted him. Shouts echoed, calling y/n to look back, but she held him tighter, refusing to look up. He didn’t let himself feel anything; not the way her grip tightened around his body, not the way his chest burned as she grabbed his jacket.

He’d swore as he swerved his bike through uncharted streets, the pedestrians screaming obscenities his ways, but all he cared was to lose the paparazzi who were hell bent on getting a click. He knew in that moment he would do anything for her.

And if it meant risking everything; his life, his dignity, his job, his heart… so be it.

---/---/---

They lost the paps after 20 minutes of circling back and forth inside the city, and he was damn sure he was soon to be banned in this Vienna forever, if he was lucky enough not to be thrown in jail. Joaquin rode in silence, her arms still tight around his waist long after they were gone.

As soon as they entered her room, shedidn't even turned on the lights before turning on the TV... which flashed the latest news: “police have found two cars crashed into each other at the underground tunnel which seemed to have been a part of the illegal street races that had been happening at night. The perpetrators were captured, and one of them had been sent to the emergency ward with severe injuries.”

His eyes found her in an instant, standing in the middle of her hotel suite; her face illuminated by the TV's light, devoid of color, flushed cheeks, wind-tangled hair, knuckles white at her sides. The girl who was so used to take up all the room anywhere she was present, now looked small in the silence that followed as he shut the TV off.

Then she finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper, “Does nobody care if I live or die?”

He blinked, his breath quickened.

“Is my life so cheap that they can sell it for mere… pictures?” Her voice cracked on the last word. She turned to face him fully, tears welling, brimming. “Is that all I am? A price tag for the highest bidder?”

His throat tightened, watching her crumble in front of his eyes. He had never seen her scared, ever. Even when he reprimanded her for trying to jump off of the palace walls.

He stepped forward, “I do,” he said on his own accord, “I care.”

Something in her crumbled as he spoke, her lips trembled into a smile, as if she didn’t believe him, tears slipped freely down her cheeks as a sob wrecked through her.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered, her legs shaking while she hid her face in her hands.

Joaquin moved as if he was possessed, like his mind and body were saying two different things. But in three long strides, he was there. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in. She clung to him like she’d fall apart if she let go, sobbing into his chest, grief and fear and exhaustion of the entire day unraveling all at once.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re safe.” He caressed her hair, soothing her back as she shook with every sob.

That night, he hadn’t screamed at her.

When she finally cried herself to sleep on the bed, curled like a child, he covered her and took a seat. He stayed by her side the entire night, sitting in the armchair next to her bed, watching her breathe.

Vowing to himself; this would never happen again. Nobody would ever come this close to harm her. because he would reach to them first

He would cross the ends of the earth to keep her from harm, and no one would ever come close to hurting her like this again.

---/---/---

That was the night something in Joaquin... shifted. That was the moment everything changed for him, when his heart began to flutter anytime, she was sad or close to danger. His heart seemed alive when she smiled, or laughed, or dragged him off to talk his ears off about engines and races and F1, breath stopping when she would mention any racer who looked cute in her opinion.

The Princess changed after Vienna. She didn’t run away from the palace; she worked with NGO’s and genuinely worked to change the lives of the underprivileged. She took responsibility, asked him to teach her how to drive safely and not gas her car from 0 to 100 in three seconds like a rookie. He saw her join university abroad, and he followed her to keep her safe. He saw her study for hours, write reports, and her own speeches for ceremonies and public events. he kept her at an arms distance, but close enough so the creeps wouldn't dare approach her at frat parties.

And somewhere in the middle of state visits and etiquette lessons, he had stopped seeing her as a spoiled kid and started seeing her as a person. Flawed, yes, but absolutely fearless.

But tonight, she was back behind that locked door like she’d been then. It had been years since she did this. He heard another sob echo through the closed doors, and that was his last straw. He turned to the door, “Princess,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

No answer.

He tried again, this time stronger, but still gentle. “Your Highness. Just open the door and let me know you’re alright.”

Her crying paused, and he heard her footsteps come closer. He rested his palm against the wood, gulping, debating what to say next, “I don’t need you to talk,” he said. “I just...” His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, “I just need to see you. To know you’re okay.”

Joaquin felt her presence through the door; she was standing right behind it. Asha cast him a glance, walking to the door, resting her hand on his shoulder. He leaned his forehead against the wood now. “y/n,” he whispered the name only a few were allowed to use, “please.”

A moment passed, Asha looked at him and then at the door, and all of a sudden, they heard the sound of slow movement inside. A slipper scuffing the floor, and the turn of a lock - Click.

The door cracked open an inch, just enough to reveal a tear-streaked face looking up at him, her eyes red, pouting. Joaquin didn’t move. He just looked at her, and all the rage boiling inside him softened in an instant.

“Hey.” He said, “can I come in?” She gulped, breathing hard, and finally, she nodded.

---/---/---

When the door creaked fully open, she stood right in front of him; barefoot, her hair a mess, and her cheeks still stained with tears.

She was still in her dress, but now the satin of her flared gown had been ripped open at the skirt seam, and the sleeves were ripped apart. Joaquin realized that she had tried to get out of the dress on her own, but the corset restricted her moments, and she had decided that tearing up the dress in shreds was the way to go.

And honestly, he didn’t blame her.

Asha was already behind her, muttering, “Dear lord,” before hurrying to unfasten the shredded gown from the back. Her top loosened, threatening to fall down, and he quickly cleared his throat and turned around.

Joaquin walked out to the princesses’ sitting room, standing near the threshold trying not to think about how the corset hugged your chest to push your breasts up, and he had unwillingly witnessed the swell of them just seconds ago. He instead focused on your conversation with Asha as she frantically dressed you into your night clothes and cleaned you up as you blared out an angry rant onto your ancestors for repressing the women in your lineage that had led to this... unsure if he should follow inside or wait until he’s summoned.

Y/n whined at Asha like a child, “Burn the bloody dress. I don’t ever want to see that thing again!”

Then, her voice came for him, low and tired. “You coming in, or do you need a royal scroll to give you permission?”

He exhaled slowly at the sarcasm and stepped inside.

By the time the door shut, y/n had changed into her softest, most worn-out clothing: a faded 1970’s Monaco Grand Prix shirt that practically hung by a thread, and loose trousers rolled at the ankles. Her hair was still wild as Asha tugged at the knots, but to Joaquin, she now looked more herself than she had all night.

Asha braided her hair and she flopped face-first onto the bed with the dramatic flair of someone who’d just lost a war.

“No one enters,” she mumbled into a pillow. “Except you two. Got it?”

“I told the guards already. Don’t worry.” Joaquin says softly, walking to the sofa near her bed.

Asha got busy folding up the destroyed gown with practiced efficiency, getting it out of sight before y/n decides she actually wants to burn the gown.

Joaquin took off his suit jacket, draping it on the back of the sofa near her bed, and takes a seat leaning back, his arms crossed. “You alright now?”. Y/n turned her face to the side to glare at him, her cheek pressed to the velvet pillow. She opened her mouth to slap him with some snide remark, but before she could answer, her stomach gave a loud, angry growl.

Asha’s eyes snapped to her like a laser. “What have you eaten today?” she looks at the princess accusingly, her hands on her waist. The princess winced and slowly turned her gaze to Joaquin with guilt written all over her face.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, “Ay dios mio.” He pulled out his phone, “I’m ordering food. Real food, all your favorites.”

“And boba tea, my treat.” she mumbled into the pillow.

“Obviously.” He scoffed.

---/---/---

Fifteen minutes later, the mood in the room had transformed completely.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, your mood a bit better and face a little brighter. Your lap was covered in crumpled wrappers and boxes: fried chicken, spicy fries, mango pudding, dumplings, and, yes, the largest boba tea cup money could buy. You devoured it all like it was your final meal on earth.

Joaquin sat on your sofa watching you with amused disbelief, “I swear, you eat like you haven’t seen food in a decade.”

You took a big gulp of the boba tea, and spoke, “You’ve seen our palace menus. I’m lucky I still know what seasoning tastes like.”

Asha, sweeping up the bits of tissue and packaging, sat down next to you and swiped a stray strand of hair from your face, “I haven’t seen you throw a tantrum like this since you were twenty and your new designer shoes didn’t match with any of the purses you owned.”

“They clashed, Asha. It was a fashion emergency.” You said between bites, smiling at the memory. It had taken you some time to leave old habits of getting what you want anytime you want. You had learned how to act like a decent human being and not throw a tantrum at the smallest inconvenience.

Joaquin chuckled along with Asha, as she lovingly wiped your face with a tissue, helping you so you don’t spill the food.

You smiled at the sound that you so rarely heard, watching him look at you with a smile on his face, the way his eyes crinkled, and his canines peeked out a bit behind his lips. He was a handsome looking man in every sense, but more so, he was a good man. And sometimes, he took himself too seriously. It soothed your heart watching him sit back and relax once in a while.

Asha took your hand, rubbing it, and she asked you hesitantly, “So… Are you actually going to marry Prince Idris?”

You paused mid-sip, narrowing your eyes, “What do you think?”

Joaquin shared a look with Asha, and you giggled.

Not the cute kind, but the devious one that you involuntarily let out, any time before you did something crazy. You set the drink down and leaned forward like a child about to tell a ghost story. “Alright. I’ll tell you both a secret. But it stays between the three of us. Pinky swears.” You extend your hand to Asha, and she obliges.

Joaquin raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

The princess grinned wickedly. “C’mon, soldier boy. You know the rules.”

He scoffed at his nickname that you called him just to annoy him, and with an exaggerated sigh, Joaquin stood near the bed and held out his hand. She locked her pinky with his, and smiled.

She whispered, “Prince Idris is planning to abdicate.”

Both of them blinked, taken aback by the revelation.

You smiled and continued, “I knew him before, he did a semester at my college.” You sit straight, “nobody knew he was a prince, and even if they did, they didn’t care. I had guessed he doesn’t want the throne, living like he did back then. We talked for hours tonight, and he confirmed it... he will announce it in a few weeks.”

Joaquin’s eyes widened slightly. Then he leaned back in the chair and exhaled hard, “That’s great!”

Aveline tilted her head, suspicious. She gave him a look, one he dodged expertly, to which he replied, “…for you. It’s good for you because you won’t have to marry him.”

You nod, and go back to eating your food, when Asha yawned, stretching with a dramatic sigh. “Princess y/n, with all due respect…”

You rolled your eyes, “Oh my god Asha just go! Stop with the formalities!”

She happily gathered the trash and bowed to you, addressing Joaquin as she went away, “Do not let her burn the gown in the bedroom, she can do it tomorrow in the garden.”

Joaquin nods and you mutter, “I heard that?” as Asha left, closing the doors behind her.

And then, they were alone.

Joaquin huffed out a breath, leaning back on the sofa, exhausted after a long long night.

---/---/---

Having dismissed Asha, the final cleaning duties fell on you.

Not that you mind it, you did it all the time in college. It was a way to get your mind off of things. You cleared the bed in slow movements, the weight of the night falling on you. Torn silk, broken pearls, the remnants of your tantrum were all swept aside when you finally gave up. Joaquin watched you silently after you refused his help and hissed, “sit your ass down pretty boy.” his presence was dear to you, you never felt more at ease with anyone other than him.

He somehow always knew when you were going through a hard time, as if he looked right through you. At first, it scared you, but now, alone with him in your room, it was comforting.

She exhaled sharply and looked at him, strands of hair falling across her face. “You going to just stare at me like a statue, Torres?”

Joaquin chuckled his voice low, standing up. “Here to supervise your highness’ dramatic bedtime routine.”

“Dramatic?” you quipped, placing your hands on your waist, “thank the man upstairs you weren’t here to witness my meltdown.”

“Nah, I’ve been watching it all these years,” he muttered, and made you throw your pillow at him, which he caught with his insane reflexes, his biceps bulging through his white formal shirt, his tie loose, his vest still intact after all this.

Once the bed was cleared, you stretched with a loud sigh, arms above her head, and Joaquin seemed to look away, and you instantly retreated, realizing you just exposed your midriff to him.

“Sorry.” You muttered.

Joaquin paused for a beat, watching you, and then said, “I have something for you.”

That made you perk up instantly, eyes shining, “You do?”

He reached into his jacket on the sofa, and pulled out a small, black wrapped box... neatly tied with a pink ribbon. Your excitement knew no bounds as you hurried off to him, standing a head shorter than him now that you were out of your heels, your chin tilted up to meet his gaze, arms tucked behind your back like a curious child. Joaquin looked away for a second, smiling with his teeth bared, and gave the box to you.

You gently took the box and unwrapped it, the content inside made your heart jump.

Nestled inside was a silver necklace, its pendant was an oval frame holding a pale pink gemstone the size of your index nail. It was beautiful, you hesitate to even touch it, fearing you’d break the fragile looking stone.

“It’s a star sapphire,” Joaquin said quietly, making you look at him, “I found it some years ago on a trip to Jaipur. I… I kept it, kind of… because…” he trailed off.

Your fingers brushed against the chain. “It’s beautiful, Joaquin.” You looked up at him again, speechless, your lips slightly parted, a blush crept up your neck, and you asked him hesitantly, “Help me put it on?”

He nodded, stepping behind you. His hands were steady as he lifted the chain, and you brushed your hair to a side to give him access. For a moment, his scent; musk, dawn-like, and something uniquely him… washed over you. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and you let out a small exhale. His hands lingered, just a heartbeat too long, his figure looming behind you, before he stepped back as he secured the clasp.

“There,” he murmured, his voice husky. You turned back to him, your hand resting above the pendant, as the pink gemstone glistened against your skin, “Thank you… Joaquin.”

You looked at him to see his shoulders slumped, his hands fidgeting, he looked up at you, almost blushing, “uh… the necklace… I know it’s not much. I… it’s alright if you don’t like-” You cut him off by grabbing his shoulders and shaking him playfully, “Don’t be stupid, Joaquin. I love it, it’s more precious than anything I’ve ever worn.” He looks at you, his eyes crinkling as a wide smile spread across his face, and you added, “also… it’s pink so it will go with all my outfits.” you trailed off as you twirled in your room, earning a laugh from him.

“Well in that case…” he pulled another, slightly larger box from behind him and held it out.

You tilt your head, puzzled at how he materialized the box out of thin air, “how did you…”

“Just take it”

“Okay.” You smile, tearing it opens with childish glee and gasped, “You didn’t!” It was your favorite pastry. Rich chocolate layers with raspberry filling and tons of whipped cream from that tiny bakery near the end of the city that nobody knew you loved… except for him.

You squeaked, actually squeaked, jumping up and down, He saw how sad you got in the past few weeks when you were put on a strict diet to fit in your birthday gown, glooming to him about how you can’t even have your favorite sweets in secret because they will know. You looked at how happy he seemed watching you so ecstatic, and you couldn’t help it. You jumped into his arms, hugging him tight, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Joaquin froze, his arms hovering before he slowly wrapped them around you. You had no idea how long you stayed like that; before you pulled away and flopped into your sofa, feet curled beneath you like a cat, already devouring the pastry. You didn’t miss how he stood transfixed at your act, and slowly moved to lean against the nearest wall, hands in his pockets. To divert your mind off of how you still feel his body against yours, you mumbled between bites, “You know the crazy part? I didn’t even eat the stupid humongous cake they made me cut today.” You looked at him, and found him amused at this revelation, “Everyone got a piece and I was rushed off to ‘get presentable for your first dance with Father!!!' ugh! I didn’t even get a bite!”

Joaquin smiled sadly, watching you, “you should have just ordered them to give you some.”

“Ha ha.” You deadpanned, licking the remnants of the pastry from your fingertips, when you caught him staring at you, “What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said softly. “You’re just… happy.” His smile dimmed slightly, softened. “For the first time in a while.”

“Can you blame me?” you tilt your head, and perk up, “Can I ask for one more gift?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Greedy.”

You stood and walked to the center of the room, barefoot on the fine fur carpets, extending you had to him, “Dance with me.”

Joaquin blinked, straightening his back, “What?”

“You owe me a dance, soldier boy.” You laugh, “we were interrupted by a certain prince, remember?”

---/---/---

He did remember, the scene of her being led on the dance floor while he stood helpless in the back will forever be etched in his brain, he feared.

Joaquin took her hand, and it fit into his perfectly. She placed her other on his shoulder, and his hand found the small of her back.

“Just like we practiced?” he asks her.

“Just like we practiced.”  She smiled, her face just inches away from him.

“Don’t step on my toes, princess.” He smirked, earning a slap on his shoulders, and he led her.

They moved in slow circles, the wind against the windows being the music, the low ceiling lights the witness to their waltz.

“Is your mood any better now?” he asked.

“Kind of.” She shrugged.

He looked at her for a while, the faint smile on her lips nly increased when he twirled her and bought her back in his arms, swaying. He assured her, “His majesty won’t make you marry Prince Idris if he announces his abdication.”

“I know.” She says, and her smile drops for a bit, “but there will be more prospects, better than the Kingdom of Meira… prospects I won’t have any say in.” she looked at his crooked collar, and adjusted it a bit.

“I want to drive in Monaco.” she said, eyes on him, “I want to feel the G’s on my body from an actual F1 car… I’ve studied that they are way harder than any sports car, not even a Bugatti can do that! You know, if you don’t strap in correctly in the racing pit, the G’s are sometimes so hard on your body you can get concussions.” Her smile was back, like she was imagining driving a racing car in the pit.” She took a step back and walked around Joaquin, her ands caressing his shoulders and then back into his arms, “I want to Travel more… Greece, Mongolia, Shanghai… Grandma went on a world tour when she was young, she used to tell me all kinds of stories from her days... I want to know who I am Joaquin, I can’t do that sitting in a castle.”

“Run away.” The words tumbled out of his mouth as he stopped in his tracks, realizing what he said.

“What?” She asked him, her eyes wide in shock.

He breathed out, “Run away, your highness. Don’t tell me you never thought of it.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, staring at each other in peril… hand in hand, their bodies close.

Y/n’s brows raised, he could see the gears in her head turning... And then… she smirked.

The same smirk that had gotten her into trouble too many times.

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes burning like stars. “I’m listening, soldier boy.”

---/---/---

Joaquin didn’t waste time. He stepped into the hallway to take a look; six guards, all mobile, every single one’s eyes on the door. Probably deployed by the king to give him updates on the princess. One of them, probably the newest one, seemed a bit startled to watching Joaquin slam open the doors.

Bingo!

Joaquin looked that guard dead in the eyes, and dropped his voice an octave, “Her Highness wishes for complete privacy,” he said firmly. “Only Asha and I are permitted. No one else enters.”

The guard exchanged glances with the others standing near, but Joaquin’s tone left no room for discussion. He nodded, and the guard next to him relaxed a bit but stood firm.

He needs another opening, not from the main hallway. So where? He rushed to the balconies, and saw the next one; prince Ramil’s quarters. There was a reason even princess y/n never dared to cross the balconies on her own, because the distance wasn’t the problem…it was the height. Below him there were three floors, one mistake and then fall was on concrete.

Inside, y/n began pulling open drawers and cabinets rushing to fill a duffle bag with anything she could. Asha rushed in a moment later hearing the commotion, eyes flicking from the princess’s hurried actions and to Joaquin, and she knew something serious was happening. She flexed her hands and joined y/n.

“Pack light,” Joaquin rushed in, urgency in his voice. “Clothes, cash, and jewelry. They’ll freeze your accounts the second they know you’re gone.”

Asha moved swiftly, helping y/n gather simple clothes, jewelry that could be sold easily, and a modest amount of cash. y/n, now dressed in black cargo trousers, a simple white t-shirt and her black leather jacket, stuffed the cash inside her pockets and shoes, looking at a baffled Joaquin and then shrugging, “I’ve seen spy movies, dude.” She turned to Asha, and gave her childhood handmaiden a tight hug.

“Take care of mom,” she whispered, “Tell them you were asleep, okay?” y/n said, wiping Asha’s tears, “just stay safe.”

Asha smiled despite the tears in her eyes, realizing this might be the last time she sees the princess, “You too princess, you’ve got this. Show them what you’re made of.”

With one last look around her quarters, Y/n joined Joaquin, who was already leading her to the balcony. y/n stopped dead in her tracks, “no, no, no! I am not jumping into Ramil’s quarters.”

“There are guards outside!” Joaquin hushed her, dragging her behind him, y/n whining as she followed.

Joaquin threw the bag first, and then climbed the railing and made the jump, perfectly, looking at y/n, “come on.”

“If I die Joaquin I will haunt your ass forever.” y/n looked at the sky, took a deep breath and climbed the railing. Joaquin stood guard as he prepared to catch her, but then she got down and tied her hair back.

“What the hell?” he whisper yelled.

“I don’t have Slenderman legs like you! I need momentum idiot!” saying so, Y/n ran to the end of the balcony and ran towards him with full speed, and like a cat, she jumped off of the railing to grab the other one… and missed.

Joaquin grabbed her hands as she squealed and hung on one side, trying not to scream. He pulled her up, and grabbed her waist as she hooked her leg on the railing and climbed up, breathing hard.

“You good?” he pulled her up to her feet as he slings the bag on his back. She looked him dead in the eyes, scoffed, and gently opened the door to Ramil’s quarters.

---/---/---

They tiptoe into the room, and find the living room to be darkened and quiet, the door of Ramil’s bedroom ajar, his figure under the covers. Y/n grabbed his hand as he looked ahead, the main door to the quarters was right in front of them, so they walked swiftly to cross the room.

Only to freeze as they hear the clink of a lighter opening.

Leaning against a pillar, lazily lighting a cigarette, Prince Ramil was right next to the door, his face illuminated by the lighter’s fire. Joaquin was quick to grab y/n’s arm and shove her behind him as Prince Ramil looked at the scene in front of him with his brows lifted.

“Well, hello.” he asked, voice low, “How do I owe the pleasure of you two sneaking into my quarters?”

Y/n let go of Joaquin’s hand, and stepped forward, crossing her arms. “I thought you quit smoking.”

Ramil stayed silent as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his gaze flicking between his sister and Joaquin. When he noticed the bag on his shoulder, his eyes softened, “You’re running away.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Ramil exhaled loudly looking at his cigarette, then he crushed it on the nearest brass vase, and shoved his hands into his shiny grey silk nightgown, “Well, I always said you were the brave one.”

y/n blinked, sharing a glance with Joaquin.

“Take the underpass to the airfield. I’ll have the jet ready at the private hangar.”

“Brother…” Y/n gasped.

Ramil only smiled, “I won’t ask where you’re going. Don’t tell me either, y/n.”

He stepped forward, pulling her into a tight hug, “Live your life, for yourself, and for me. I’ll be the lazy brat heir who loves easy money to a nonexistent nation and follow silly rules." he sighed, "I'll make grandpa regret ever thinking he had any control over us.”

She let out a soft laugh into his shoulder, “I love you, bro bear.” He pulled back with a mocking grimace and ruffled her hair, “we were having a nice moment, dude.”

Ramil turned to Joaquin, throwing him a key, “Take the back stairwell, and keep her safe. I’ll have Sam take care of the cameras.” He smacked him on the shoulder, and opened the door.

“Stay safe.” Ramil told his sister, who turned back to take one last look and then held Joaquin’s hand, running.

---/---/---/---

The corridor echoed with their footsteps as they ran together without looking back, finding the gate to the stairwell as Joaquin worked on getting the ancient lock open, and as they descended down the stairs, they found Sam Wilson, Ramil’s bodyguard running up.

“I owe you one,” Joaquin muttered as Sam passed him a data card, and Joaquin gave him the stair keys.

“I’ll make sure the cameras loop for the next and past 10 minutes,” Sam grinned, glancing at y/n and bowing, “farewell, princess.”

“Thank you Sam.” y/n smiled as she ran downstairs.

---/---/---

Y/n’s boots pounded the cobblestones of the courtyard, breath shallow as she ran beside Joaquin, the cold night air biting at her cheeks. His hand gripped hers tightly, and he looked around alert of anyone moving past. His white dress shirt was partially unbuttoned beneath his dark vest, hair mussed from all the running, his brows raised in process, “Almost there, Princess.” he said over his shoulder.

But Y/n wasn’t looking ahead.

She was looking at him.

And suddenly, her chest clenched, not from the running, but from a memory that came rushing back so vividly it was like she was living it again.

---/---/---/---

Two Years Ago, Y/n’s 23rd birthday

The palace had long gone to sleep.

Moonlight spilled across the royal courtyard, over marble benches and carefully sculpted rose hedges. You were sitting barefoot on the edge of the stone fountain, your feet splashing in the water as the fountain’s droplets fell on the hem of your gown, the heels discarded beside you.

You had excused yourself as soon as the party came to a halt, your parents always made a big show out of your birthday as to tell the world, ‘Hey, look! She isn’t crazy anymore!’. You absentmindedly toyed with a silver ring on your fingers; one you never wear out in public. It had belonged to your late grandmother, whom you loved more than anyone.

Joaquin stood a few feet away, suit jacket slung over a bench, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He watched her in silence, arms crossed, like he didn’t want to intrude but wouldn’t leave unless ordered to.

You looked up at him and scoffed, “Are you always going to look at me like that?”

He raised a brow. “Like what?”

Turning back to watch the moon’s reflection rippling in the water, you speak, “Like I’m one bad decision away from combusting.”

He chuckled softly, stepping closer. “You are one bad decision away from combusting.”

You smiled faintly, “Touché.”

He stood beside you, but not too close. Joaquin was always respectful, and always four paces behind you, especially in public.

“Why are you still here, Joaquin?” you asked, quietly.

“Because I will be fired if I don’t see you to your quarters tonight, princess.” He deadpanned.

You laughed, “no, I mean…” you took a deep breath, “You could’ve left after Vienna. No one would’ve blamed you.”

“I don’t leave people behind.”

You looked at him for a long time, your head tilting, “What if they are a reckless mess?”

He met your gaze, “Especially then.”

Silence lingered as the sound of the fountain filled the space between you.

“I don’t know if I am built for this, Joaquin.” you whispered, like a confession. “All these people, these rules. I feel like I’m suffocating under diamonds and…” she grabbed the hem of your gown, “this stupid gown. It’s not even real silk who even…” you almost got distracted until Joaquin spoke.

“You’re whatever you want to be, a princess, a high society lady, or a drag racing champion,” he said softly. “I’ll be here with you until you decide.”

You look at the sky above, watching the full moon shining down as the cold water grounded you to reality, “You shouldn’t do that,” you murmured. “Be kind to me like this.”

He turned his head slightly, looking down at you, “Why not?”

“Because I’m starting to count on it.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He let the question linger, as if deciding what to say next, “Don’t you trust me, your highness?”

You blinked, a smirk on your face, “only a little..."

He scoffed, “Seriously, Princess?”

A smile tugged at your lips “Okay, okay! I trust you.”

A breath passed between the two of you, he watched you and you played with the water.

You sat up slowly and looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, the palace around you didn’t matter. The titles, the burden of the crown, your duty as a princess and his as you guard.

It was just two people looking at each other; a woman scared to take a leap, and a man ready to catch her when she does. This wasn’t just admiration. This wasn’t gratitude. He made you feel seen, not as a crown or a scandal… but as yourself.

You see the same thing in his eyes, the same feeling in his heart as yours.

“Looks like I’m in trouble,” you said, a broken smile forming.

“I know,” he murmured. “Me too.”

You take a step closer, close enough to feel his heat on your skin, and as being pulled by an unknown force… he staggered back, looking at his feet, “It’s getting late. I’ll escort you to your rooms, your highness.”

And though nothing more was said that night… You didn’t forget the way he looked at you in the moonlight. The way he stayed silent when he could have ruined everything.

That was the night you knew, you were in love with Joaquin Torres.

---/---/---/---

In the garage, your footsteps echoed across the large basement, and your eyes searched for your prized possession; a gift from your parents on your 18th birthday; a hot pink custom Mustang. You wondered what their reaction would be when they find out about you running away in it.

You find the car, gleaming next to Ramil’s black Range Rover, and you thank your past self for the maintenance job you did for the car only days ago.

Joaquin opened the door for you and tossed the bag in as you settled into the seat with practiced ease, closing the door behind you.

And didn’t get in.

You frowned, rolling down the window. “What are you doing? Get in.”

He shook his head, taking a step back. “I’m not coming with you. Not yet.” He said, ready to run the minute you start the engine.

“What?” Your voice cracked as you get out of the car and he groaned, “What the hell do you mean not yet?”

“This is not the time for you to be demanding y/n get in the car and go!” he shouts.

“I’m not leaving without you!” you shout back.

“Hush!” he panics, slapping a hand on your mouth, something he had never dared to do, “I need to stay behind and distract them. If I disappear with you, they’ll track both of us.”

Your heart began to pound for a different reason now; panic clawing at your throat, imagining everything horrible that might be unleashed on him, “No, no, you promised, Joaquin. You said you’d keep me safe.” tears brimmed in your eyes.

Joaquin’s chest rose and fell, his vest now open and his sleeves rolled up, he looked like a cursed prince who was to be sacrificed. He took a steady breath and stepped closer to you, his eyes locking on yours.

“They’ll hurt you, Joaquin!.” You shake your head, tears falling freely, “You don’t have to do the noble sacrifice act Joaquin!”

He held your face in his hands, smiling through his own tears brimming in his dark brown eyes, “You are amazing, princess,” he said, voice low and steady. “you deserve the world, and every good thing it has to offer. You’re more than the crown, and you need to listen to me when I say this; I love you. I’ve loved you for a long, long time. And it will break my heart to watch you be chained in this palace for nothing. So, go. Now. And let me handle the rest.” A sad laugh leaves his lips, as a single tear rolls down his face, “I’ll find you. I always do.”

Your throat tightened, and you let out a laugh, “You’re such an idiot.”

You grab the front of his shirt, and smash your mouth against his.

He grabbed your waist, pulling you closer. It wasn’t soft, or patient. It was pure, raging fire… forged in years of hidden glances, of duty, the ‘almost’, and all the things you were never allowed to say to him.

You pulled back just as fast, tears brimming in your eyes, “I love you too, soldier boy.” You whisper, caressing his face. He laughed as he rested his forehead against yours, “stay safe out there.”

“You too.” You say, taking to steps back, “and I’m sorry for this.”

You throw a clean punch on his nose, maybe a bit too hard.

He winced as he staggered back, grabbing his face as blood flew from his nose, “Ow! What the fuck?”

“In case someone asks why you didn’t follow me,” you said, wincing at the blood, “You can say I knocked you down in the garage.”

Joaquin stared at you, stunned, his face bloody, his lips parted like he wanted to say something.

And then he laughed, making your heart ache, and then waving, “bye, y/n.”

“bye.” You wave back, and all you wanted to do in that moment was to hug him tight and never let go, but that wasn’t possible.

So, you got into the car, revved the engine and looked at him for one last time…

And drove into the night.

---/---/---

One Year Later

The headlines had been relentless for weeks after she disappeared.

"Tavreshi's Rebel Princess: Vanished Without a Trace?" "Royal Scandal: Drift Princess Gone Rogue" "Abdication or Abduction? The Tavreshi Royal Palace Remains Tight-Lipped"

The royal palace stood as it always had; stone cold, high, immaculate, and painfully perfect. But everything inside it had shifted. A silence haunted the marble corridors and the sunlit courtyards. It was the kind of silence that didn't come from the absence of sound, but from the absence of chaos.

Princess y/n of Tavreshi had vanished without a trace in the dead of the night. No trail, no clues. She was gone like a whisper in the wind.

And the kingdom was grueling the people within the palace with a hundred questions.

“Where is the Princess?” “Why hasn’t she been seen since her twenty-fifth birthday?” “Was she exiled because of her rebellious past?” “Was it true she was in love with Prince Idris and was heartbroken after his abdication?” “Did she abdicate and went away in secret?”

The official statement was delivered after a few weeks, delivered stiffly by a senior advisor on a podium outside the palace;

"Her Royal Highness Princess y/n of Tavreshi has chosen to abdicate her title and step away from royal duties for personal reasons. She had left the palace for a peaceful retreat, and we ask for privacy and offer no further comment. Thank you."

But behind the curtain of diplomacy, everything was falling apart.

The King had lost his temper the day after Princess y/n vanished. He'd hurled a decanter of aged scotch across the room, shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces as Prince Ramil, and the king and queen reagent watched in horror, “She has humiliated this house! This nation!” he had thundered. “And you, Joaquin, were supposed to be her shadow!”

If it weren’t for Prince Ramil and Sam physically holding him back, the King would have broken Joaquin’s healing nose a second time. The man was trembling with rage, shouting about betrayal, national disgrace, and how he knew Joaquin had helped her escape. Joaquin was detained in the palace's interrogation room for three days. The questions came in waves; from the detectives, from the security head, from the King himself.

“Did you know she would run away?” “When did you realize she is not coming back?” “Did you kidnap her? Was this coordinated with outsiders?”

And Joaquin? He stuck to one story.

“I followed the princess to the garage,” he said calmly, every single time, “I assumed it was one of her tantrums, she’s run off before. I thought she’d feel better after a drive. But she punched me in the nose, and I fainted.”

“You didn’t call security?”

“I did when I woke up,” Joaquin replied, “I didn’t know she meant to disappear,” he said, eyes blank, voice steady. “I thought she'd calm down, like always.”

Prince Ramil matched the story with his version, “She never told me anything, I was drunk and sleeping in my room and I woke up to grandpa throwing a fit.” he shrugged.

They believed him. Or maybe they didn’t.

There was no hard evidence to contradict the various interviews. No surveillance footage, no recordings. Half the palace staff had heard the screaming match in the private salon the night before; the shouting, the smashed glass, the moment the princess had run to her quarters and how Joaquin had followed her, like he had done for the last seven years. The palace staff and security, especially the princesses’ handmaiden Asha had vouched for the fact that Joaquin had saved the princess from harm all these years, and he was always loyal to the crown and would do nothing to ruin its reputation.

Every shred of evidence worked in Joaquin’s favor.

The palace dropped the case on the condition that Joaquin be dismissed from royal service for “negligence in duty.” They made him sign a non-disclosure order and stripped him of honors.

But they didn’t know that the detectives were right; He had helped her get free.

---/---/---/------/----

One Year Later || Monaco Grand Prix

The spring sun high on the track as viewers settled on the podium, energetic and ecstatic to see their favorite cars race through the city of Monaco. Down by the pit lanes, cameras clicked furiously as reporters jostled for position, all hoping to catch the perfect candid shot of racers and crew.

But today’s buzz wasn’t just about the race… it was because every team was set to unveil their newest backup racer, and the media was in a frenzy; eager to break the news, snap exclusive photos, and flood social media with the first glimpse of the rising stars.

Joaquin sat stiffly in the VIP box, his cap pulled low, sunglasses shadowing his eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. He was trying to look relaxed, but even Sam, lounging next to him in a rumpled polo and chewing on a toothpick, wasn’t buying the act. Sam suddenly leaned forward halfway casually scanning the box, then froze.

“Bro…” he nudged Joaquin with his elbow, trying to stay subtle but failing, “Look at the guy in front of us!”

Joaquin didn’t react, “okay?”

Sam hissed louder, “I saw him at a gala once. That guy owns, like, every skyscraper in Singapore. You know those condos with swimming pools in the sky? When Prince Ramil said he’d get us the best seats, I didn’t think he meant billionaire-adjacent.”

Joaquin smirked faintly. “There are perks to working for a prince, Sam.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah? Shame you got fired.”

“Wow. Thanks for that?” Joaquin glanced at him, deadpan.

Sam shrugged, grinning. “Just saying.” But the smile slipped from his face when he noticed Joaquin’s focus return to the LED jumbotron above the pit lane. “You look tense,” Sam muttered. “Like you’re the one about to go zero to two hundred.”

Joaquin didn’t answer him, only shrugged. There was a reason Prince Ramil sent Sam on a ‘laid back vacation’ with a plus one ticket to the freaking Grand Prix… he hoped to see a familiar face. His fingers tapped on his bicep, his eyes narrowed slightly, watching as a glossy video montage played on the massive screen highlighting reels of roaring engines, close-up helmet shots, and dramatic overhead drone views of the circuit. The announcer’s voice came through, polished and booming over the sound system.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Introducing the reserve drivers making their Grand Prix debut!”

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Graphic cards began appearing; each with the name and stat line of a new driver, their teams and accolades proudly displayed. Sam was mid-sip of his drink when the next name came up—and he nearly choked.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the newest backup driver for Team Mercedes... a former princess who earned her name burning rubber on the streets of underground drag circuits…”

Joaquin’s stomach dropped.

Sam blinked at him. “Wait. Did they just say—?”

The announcer’s voice rang out again, louder this time, over the rising noise of the crowd.

“You know her as the Drift Princess—but from this day forward, she answers to her own name. Give it up for Y/N Y/L/N.”

The screen cut to a live feed of the pit area. A figure in a black-and-silver racing suit, hands gloved, wearing a black helmet… she turned slowly toward the camera, her long braid swinging over one shoulder. Then, she raised her helmet just enough to reveal her face.

Her expression lit with the mischief of someone who knew they were rewriting their story, right in front of the world, she waved to the crowd as her fellow racers clapped and cheered for her.

Princess Y/N. Not a ghost, not a runaway. She was alive, and grander than ever.

Joaquin felt something snap loose in his chest; like a wire pulled too tight for too long had finally given way. The world around him that was deafening loud and electric, seemed to fall away into silence as his breath left him in one slow, shaky exhale, trembling through his ribs like a secret he couldn’t keep any longer. It was like watching a dream he never allowed himself to have walk into the light.

Y/n, his y/n.

Not the girl in glittering gowns upholding impossible expectations, not the princess the world had tried to box in on her responsibilities. But the version he’d always seen since he first bowed to her; the one who was stubborn with fire in her eyes and unshakable determination, the one who breathed freedom like it was oxygen, the one who once cried into his shoulder and told him she didn’t want to die.

Joaquin’s heart clenched, painfully, he didn’t know if it was pride or grief or longing.

All of it, maybe.

The crowd clapped and whooped, but he didn’t hear them. All he could see was the glint in her eye and the fire in her smile. She did it… she did what she swore she would become.

Sam turned to him slowly, slack-jawed. “Holy. Shit.”

But Joaquin wasn’t listening anymore, his eyes were fixed on his beloved.

---/---/---

Joaquin didn’t wait for clearance. He’d spent too many years memorizing the flow of high-profile security rounds and the way they rotated the shifts.

So, when the noise of celebration roared around him as the match ended, he walked past the pit crew and to the garage like he belonged there. No one questioned him, no one gave him a second look. After weaving through people bustling around and press running to racers trying to get an interview, he found the main area where the cars were parked, his eyes frantically searching for her amongst the sea of mechanics, crew and racers.

A flash of hot pink caught his eye, and like a magnet being pulled to metal, he followed it.

Y/n was there, wearing a black and hot pink leather jacket. talking to a young girl holding a mic to her, her eyes sparkling as she expressed how happy she is to be a part of team Mercedes. Her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back in a messy bun that looked like it had been through a storm and stayed standing anyway, her smile didn’t falter at all. She hugged the girl when the interview was over, while she was smitten watching y/n glowing in her form. She was a force untamed, who was finally free from all expectations.

Joaquin breathed as her eyes locked on his, a hand on his heart just to check if this was real, or just another one of his dreams in which he met her to be close enough and then wake up just before he could touch her.

Y/n froze, her eyes widening as she registered who was standing in front of her. For one aching second, she didn’t move, only looked at Joquin with shock and disbelief. And then she sprinted, laughing, “JOAQUIN!”

She ran full-speed at him with no hesitation and no care for who watched her or what anyone thought. Joaquin barely had any time to snap out of his trance and brace himself before she collided into him and jumped into his arms, laughing.

He caught her effortlessly, holding her tight as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders like he always had. “You’re here,” she whispered into his neck, shaking with joy. “You found me.” His heart thundered, his mind going foggy while he struggled to put his feelings into words. Instead, he held her tighter, grounding himself in the feel of her body against his, her laughter vibrating his chest.

“You did it, princess.” he finally said, trying to keep his voice steady, his eyes stinging despite the laugh bubbling in his chest.

Y/n pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands cradling his cheeks. Her thumbs brushed under his eyes, over his cheeks, his slight stubble, almost as if she couldn’t quite believe he was really standing in front of her.

“How did you…?” he asked, unable to finish the question, his voice cracked halfway through.

She stepped back with a lopsided grin, “Prince Idris helped me. After he abdicated, he helped me stay under the radar while I trained.” She held his hand, “Besides, a few of the F1 engineers knew me from the underground scene. It didn’t take much convincing; a couple races, a lot of sweat, and boom… Team Mercedes.”

“You just… walked into Mercedes and asked to join?” he said, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“I made a deal to stay in secret until today,” she laughed. “Turns out being a former princess with a crazy past has some advantages.”

"Tavreshi Royals will loose their minds over today." he breathed hard.

"I couldn't care less." she shrugged.

Joaquin shook his head, smiling despite himself, as he caressed her hand. There was a pause between them, the kind that wrapped arounds your soul like a slow exhale. The noise of the crowd outside still echoed beyond the doors, and they caught a few eyes of the crew inside, but here, right now, it was just them. His eyes softened as he looked at her; the laughter in her eyes, the fire in her soul. She was exactly who she was always meant to be.

His eyes dropped to her collarbone, where nestled against her throat, was a glint of pale pink. His breath hitched, “You kept it,” he whispered.

y/n smiled, the kind that twisted his insides, “Yes, Joaquin,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing over the pendant. “I still wear the necklace my love gave me.”

He let out a soft laugh in awe of what she just said, “You’re unbelievable.”

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, “You softie,” she whispered.

“Only for you,” he whispered back.

She stepped in closer, arms sliding around his waist. Her voice dropped, filled with a different kind of ache, “You think it was worth it? All that we gave up for this moment?”

He didn’t hesitate, “Every second.”

“Me too.” She whispered, caressing his jaw.

This time, when she kissed him, it wasn’t rushed or panicked or desperate. It was soft and slow with the weight of everything they never said. The years of what-ifs all poured into one kiss that tasted like sweet relief.

When they finally pulled away, she held his face, teary-eyed, “I love you, Soldier Boy.”

He smiled, eyes shining, “I love you too… Princess.” He pulled her into his chest, arms locked around her like a promise.

The End

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My Joaquin Torres Masterlist

My Masterlist

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I added all the blogs who were in my previous Joaquin torress fic and the blogs that reblogged and commented on the sneak peek, if you want to be removed or added in future fics pls let me know <3

@feed-into-my-delusions || @mystickittytaco || @savedfanfics1992 || @ballorawan740 || @bcystar || @mixedfandxms || @prvtt-khadijjj

@tuiccim @parkjammys @akinrawsx @asteph22 @iamthebeth @onlyhereforthefics @yikesdameron @savedfanfics1992 @amigaytho @samwilson-mylove @jenniweaslee-faves @anna-phora @giona45-5 @lieutenantchaos