Gemini Flanagan’s Personal Assistant.

A church.

A splintered cross bound to its head by whatever power God had left in this world.

You’d been walking for weeks without a compass, without respite, nor food.

The gun that you’d taken from Terminus had run dry days ago, and the stitches they’d inserted into your face had beenremoved long ago. So, with your desperation for refuge, you entered a place that’d become foreign to you over the years.

The house of God.

Daryl’s lighter sat tucked under your fingers as your feet found momentary refuge before the crucifix.

You still couldn’t remember.

All those days, weeks, and yet—

No mercy was ever granted upon you, but rather the weight of torment and turmoil placed upon your back.

You’d never taken yourself for a coward.

But now?

It just seemed easier to accept a fate that you’d been running from for so long. In some ways, you hoped a walker would make the decision for you whilst your back was turned.

It never did, because, despite how much you craved death, something was still keeping you going.

Someone.

It sounded almost cliché to you now to be running on the pure adrenaline of fulfilling somebody else’s hope.

All you could see was his face.

Daryl.

The way he looked as he held the lighter out towards you. The way his hair fell messily over his face, blue eyes obstructed by the brown strands. You didn’t even want to imagine his face when reading your letter.

That’s if he even got it.

Your body sank to the floor between the rows of benches, legs crossed, posture slouched.

The lighter sparked in your trembling hand—close enough to feel the heat against the hardened flesh of your fingertips yet far enough to not cause pain.

Your wearisome eyes travelled up towards the crucifix again, paying much closer attention to it this time.

You had lost faith in God a long time ago.

You’d prayed for better times when you were a child.

Nothing ever came of it then.

Nothing ever came of it now.

Your throat seemed to have locked up all the words you wanted to say, your eyes wetting with the depravity of your emotion.

You couldn’t swallow it down anymore. Your bottom lip quivered once, then all you felt was the agony of fire on flesh.

Pain that wasn’t internal.

Something so physical yet so temporary as the guilt of your actions crept up your throat and projected from your mouth.

The lighter clattered onto the floorboards with a thud.

All you were left with now was an empty stomach and bare hands. You fell back onto the floorboards behind you. You lay there with tears rolling down your face and a growing ache bursting through burnt flesh.

“Stupid!” You yelled out through sobs into the empty room. You weren’t careful to stay quiet anymore.

You didn’t care.

Your vision hazed as your eyes fixed on the ceiling above you, almost as if you were waiting for an answer to all your questions.

Why you?

Why had this happened?

Silence answered again; all quiet in the house of God.

So, you lay there on the hard flooring until all your tears shed, glossing over the purple painted bags under your eyes.

“Stupid…”

The black void of unconsciousness waved over you, claiming you under its state of vulnerability.

Exhaustion.

The early morning light poured through the stained glass windows surrounding you at either side. It cracked through your eyelids, yet—

It wasn’t what had dragged you awake.

A bundle of warmth clawed at your stomach, a small heartbeat colliding against your skin.

Weight of the living.

Your hand instinctively moved out, contacting the thickness of fur. Your eyes snapped open, bleary at first, then clear.

You thought you were dreaming at first when you noticed the pointed ears and bushy tail snaking around your side.

A cat curled up like the pit of your stomach was the safest place that it could be.

“Oh…” you whispered, your voice gentle.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know if this was even real; you wouldn’t have been surprised if it wasn’t.

You sat up slowly, trying your hardest not to disturb the creature, but it proved no use.

Your movements had startled it.

It jumped from you, creating distance as it stared at you through timid eyes seven feet away.

“Hey…” you uttered, reaching out slightly to offer the cat your scent. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

It didn’t move, muscles tense beneath dirtied white fur.

You didn’t move.

Your arm rested on the floorboards below, fingers relaxing over the wood.

“It’s alright…”

The cat’s tail whipped side to side.

Your eyes slowly trailed down towards your arm, a blister forming over the burn.

A reminder.

“…Looks worse than it feels.” You lied.

The cat studied you a moment longer, then it moved again, closing the gap that it had previously created.

You didn’t move.

It’s wet nose brushed at your fingertips, taking in your scent before its head collided against your hand with force.

“There you go…” you chuckled slightly, fingers wearily moving to its chin.

The cat gave no protest, melting against your touch. Its eyes slipped closed as your fingers moved through its fur, the quiet rumble of a purr vibrating against your palm.

The encounter wasn’t something you’d expected. You hadn’t fathomed that something so small could’ve navigated its way around such harsh environments.

It hadn’t been injured, just malnourished.

A collar sat wrapped around its neck, a name tag dangling just beneath it. Your fingers moved towards the circular piece of silver, capturing it between your index and middle fingers.

Roxy.

Even the sound of repeating it over in your head felt wrong. It felt all too familiar, and your mind could do no more but focus on the harsher memories.

It had taken a while to remember the details of your dog's death, but after weeks of being alone—

You could no more but piece things that’d been lost due to your head injury together.

Oh, sweet Rocky.

Too old to run.

Too heavy to carry.

His fate was decided by cruelty.

You let out a shuddering breath, eyes glued to the name tag. The guilt of it all suddenly weighed down on you.

The cat's head hit your fingertips again, clearly wanting your attention, snapping you back.

“Roxy, huh?” You questioned hoarsely.

The cat purred in response.

Your fingers carefully flipped the underside of the name tag; a small message sat transcribed in the silver.

‘Roxy is an indoor cat. If you see her outside, please call—‘

The number was no longer visible, worn over time.

You had so many questions.

How had she survived so long?

Had her owner died?

You didn’t even get a chance to phrase it verbally, a groan cutting you off before you got the chance. Your eyes scanned the room, looking for the source.

Another groan followed, and the source became clear to you then; a door sat ajar just by the altar.

Walker.

“Stay here, okay?”

Your fingers brushed once more through Roxy’s fur before you stood.

The hinges whined as you pushed the door open, a putrid smell that you hadn’t noticed upon entering the church.

A body dangled from a noose twisted through the gaps in the wooden columns on the ceiling. A white collar peaking through just beneath rope.

A priest, corpse rotting with the extent of the turn.

The guilt returned with the knowledge of knowing that suicide didn’t count unless it was through the brain.

“Shit…” you whispered, eyes flickering over the body.

He groaned, legs kicking out, arms reaching towards you. You watched him for a moment longer before your eyes dragged away hesitantly.

You scanned over the room.

A blue duffel bag sat squashed into one of the corners scruffily. You approached it immediately, hands digging into its insides.

Luck didn’t fail you.

The cool metallic barrel of what you knew was a shotgun met your callus-riddled fingertips. Grounding despite the gruesome scene behind your turned back.

“Bingo.”

A few cases of ammo and a hunter's knife were tucked in just beside it.

This must’ve been somebody's stash.

You pulled the knife from the bag and, without a second thought—

You turned and began moving towards the rope. You kept your distance, slicing through the restraint quickly.

The body dropped to the floor.

The priest's arms reached out towards you, but before he even got close enough, you pressed the blade through his skull.

God hadn’t been here to save this man.

God hadn’t been here to save anyone.

You wiped the blood from the blade and shoved it into the pouch on your thigh.

The odd feeling of having a weapon there that wasn’t yours originally coursed over you.

You hoped the others had gotten your knife.

You hopped Daryl had gotten it because part of you was screaming that you’d intentionally left it for him. If he hadn’t received it, what was the point in leaving it back at terminus in the first place?

You turned back towards the blue duffel bag; you couldn’t carry all those cases of ammo single-handedly. You’d have to take the bag with you.

What harm could it do?

You pulled the shotgun out, gripping it tightly in your hand before throwing the straps of the duffel bag over your shoulders.

A meow beckoned from the doorway.

You turned immediately.

“I told you to stay out there.” You uttered, moving away from the corner and closer towards your new friend.

Roxy blinked once before her trusting green riddled eyes settled back on you.

Trust.

A cat’s trust must’ve meant something, and you weren’t just going to leave her.

You couldn’t.

“Come here,” you whispered gently, crouching slightly, offering your arms out.

She approached you quickly, and you wasted no time scooping her up in your arms.

You glanced once more over the priest's now dead corpse.

Then—

You were out of there, picking up Daryl’s lighter from the floorboards on your way out.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

The skies had dimmed completely now, the only visible light coming from the fire you’d managed to build.

The smell of rabbit filtered through the air as it cooked over the flame; Roxy, somehow, had managed to catch a small one on your walk over here after squirming from your arms after catching movement.

You killed it cleanly with a twist to the neck.

You pulled it off the fire when it was done, ripping a portion of meat off for Roxy and another portion for you.

Roxy tucked in straight away.

You didn’t.

For a moment, you froze, looking down at the meat.

The smell of it grew stronger now that it was out of the fire and it seemed to have triggered something hidden in your mind.

Something familiar.

You couldn’t place it at first, so you took a bite and suddenly—

Carol's face was pictured in your head.

The scene in your mind clicked. You remembered telling Carol you’d help with cooking a deer that Daryl had caught, but—

She had started without you.

You remembered asking something about a lighter.

“Lighter,” you spoke to yourself, trying to jog the memory back. “…lighter.”

Nothing came.

You rubbed a hand over your face, cursing yourself internally for forgetting every last damn thing.

God, did you feel useless.

Your hand trailed towards your back pocket, pulling Daryl’s lighter back out. It shimmered in the orange glow beside the blister.

You couldn’t feel triggered by the sight of it now, not when something so substantial could be on the rise.

“Lighter…”

Your hand trailed over the steel, one of your nails falling in an indent.

The woods spun around you, yet—

You stayed perfectly still.

You didn’t even have to look at what it was. You already knew.

D.D.

His initials.

It all came rushing back to you then: thick and fast.

“Shit…”

The lie.

The realization.

The prison.

The cabin.

And the…

Kiss.

The embarrassment it’d made you feel was nonexistent now; rather, the remembrance of it all had left a hollow pit in your stomach that could only be filled by the person that’d caused it all in the first place.

“Oh my god…” you uttered quietly, your heartbeat thumping so hard that it threatened to fracture your ribs.

Then, a group flashed front row in your mind. You couldn’t remember their names but…you could remember their faces.

You remembered killing the grubby-looking one and then running with Daryl, which led you to finding Rick, Carl, and Michonne.

It all made sense now.

Well, most of it.

The snap of a twig cut your thought process off completely. You reached for the shotgun immediately, pushing to your feet.

The sound of footsteps followed.

Roxy’s ears tilted backwards, her back arching upwards slightly, and her tail pin straight.

“Who’s there?” You questioned sternly, shotgun raised, finger looped around the trigger.

You could sense the hesitation of the person from a mile away.

They weren’t here to hurt you.

You didn’t lower the shotgun despite what your gut was telling you, finger clenching hard around the stick.

Roxy let out a hiss.

“Answer me!” You yelled into the distance.

Nobody answered.

A beat.

Then your name filtered through the air in the form of a genuine question rather than a threat.

Your brows knitted together, your mouth ran dry.

You knew that voice, yet you couldn’t quite place a finger on who you knew it from.

Feminine.

Southern.

Roxy hissed once more.

Another beat.

Then—

The figure emerged from behind the trees, blonde hair draping loosely over their shoulders, dirt plastered over their face, and—

An unmistakeable blue glint shone from their eyes within the flickering light of the fire.

You stepped forward, shotgun lowering, when that all-too-familiar face became clearly recognizable to you.

“…Beth?”

A/N: Oo we left on a cliffhanger hehe! Guys I swear Daryl and reader will reunite with the rest of the group soon!! I do hope you guys enjoyed.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist!🖤

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Jim had never felt this kind of a hurt before. A hurt so raw and brutal, it made him want to pack up his bags and move somewhere. Anywhere.

Sure, he knew what a risk it would be to confess to Pam, especially with her wedding lurking around the corner. But god, he'd hoped that in those stolen glances and warm smiles, maybe she loved him back.

His lips tingled with the feel of her lips on his. Not a good reminder. He didn't enjoy kissing her like he thought he would. Instead of everything clicking into place like he dreamed, it reminded him of everything that was wrong with the world. And the worst part? He didn't think he could ever move on.

Jan, the ever-so-stern boss, took some sympathy on Jim and gave him a heads-up about Stamford, where he demanded a transfer after what happened with Pam. It wouldn't be the same anymore, staying in Scranton. Without he and Pam's shared jokes, the office wasn't worth staying at anymore.

But of course, fate is funny.

Jan told him Stamford was to shut down anyway, due to their boss, Josh's "betrayal." So a few of the best employees would be transferring to Scranton. As well as the new hire. And to soothe his disappointment, Jim got a pay raise, and a fancy new title to put on his desk plaque. "Assistant Regional Manager." He couldn't wait to see Dwight's reaction to that.

He's nice enough to the fresh blood, sure. He isn't exactly the "welcoming committee" type. He only realises he has to actually try when Michael instructs him to train the new hire- a fresh graduate, who Josh promised to train himself before, well, the Great Betrayal.

"Anyhoo, Jimbob, Jimmy Jam. Show her 'round the office, see if she's got good pipes."

Jim sighs and leaves before Michael decides to make more inappropriate comments about the newbie. He hadn't noticed her when she first walked in with the Stamford transfers. He was too busy trying to avoid Pam's gaze and ignore Andy's desperate pursuit of her. The new hire is sat at the only available desk behind Kelly, her eyes locked blankly on her computer screen as Kelly runs her mouth about the most exciting new news about Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz's breakup (He knew all the details already because she managed to find him alone in the break room earlier). Jim leans on the partition between her and Toby's desk, exchanging a look with her. She gives him a tight-lipped smile, universal for "Save me, please."

"Kelly, you mind if I borrow the new kid for a minute?"

"Sure," Kelly smiles up at him. "She probably needs a minute to process the drama."

"Totally right," the hire stands, quickly rushing to Jim's side. "I owe you big time for getting me out of there. I haven't been able to work a wink since I arrived."

"I'd consider Kelly one of the more sane ones here. You're in for a treat." He spins to face her, really looking at her for the first time. She was nothing like Pam. She was nothing like any girl he'd ever been with, really. She was beautiful, but in a haunting way. Like a girl you'd see at the airport or a cafe, and you would just stop and stare, but never actually go up to her. She would linger in your thoughts and show up in your dreams but you never knew her name. But here? He knows her name.

"Martin and Tony have already quit. I'm just starting, so I wanna tough it out." Her words snap him out of his directionless ponder.

"And I'm here to help you with that. Jim Halpert." He thrusts out his hand. She takes it, her hand soft.

"I know. You're the assistant manager." He nods, smiling in his signature way.

"And as assistant manager, I'm promoting you to the desk beside me and not Kelly. So we have some chance of getting work done?" She lets out a breath of relief at his offer.

"I. Love. You." Then she scurries off to her desk, presumably to pack her things.

Those words can't leave his head as we walked back to his desk. She'd been joking, of course. He can't care less about her.

He trains her how he would anyone else. But she's a clever girl. Quick learner. They must be putting these kids through hell in college. Back in his day, they'd be lucky if the professor showed up to class. Soon enough, she's competent enough to ride solo, showing better results this early in than the others did in their whole careers. And she's funny.

The dashboard clock clicks to 4:15 PM.

The heat in the car is a welcomed contrast against the late autumn chill outside. He keeps his eyes on the Pennsylvania highway. She is rifling through the glove box after her first ride-alone with Jim.

"You have six packs of napkins from three different fast-food chains, but not a single pen that works," she says. She holds up a dried-out ballpoint. "This is a hostile work environment."

He snorts, turning the wheel slightly to merge onto the interstate. "Those are a prized collection of napkins. For coffee spills. And Dwight probably stole the pens."

"Dwight spent twenty minutes this morning measuring his desk with a ruler because he swears the alignment is off by two millimetres."

"Did you help him?"

"Obviously. I told him magnetic forces from the breakroom microwave were warping the wood. He’s currently wrapping his desk legs in tin foil."

He laughs out loud. It's not the polite, corporate chuckle he uses for Michael's terrible conference room jokes. It's real. Like he used to with Pam. It fills the quiet space of the Corolla.

He glances at her from the corner of his eye. She's looking out the passenger window, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. For the first time in three years, the drive back from a client feels short.

"That's evil," he says, though his tone is entirely fond.

"Evil? This is tame, Jim. The stuff you've done is far worse and let me remind you-- I learn from the best."

"I had no idea business school taught you how to use psychological warfare."

"I had to survive somehow."

They pass the "Scranton welcomes you" sign. Usually, a knot of boredom tightens in his stomach right about here. Today, he finds himself slowing down, wishing the traffic back home was just a little bit worse.

They walk back into the building, the chilly autumn air outside instantly replaced by the familiar hum of fluorescent lights. Instead of heading straight back to the bullpen, she makes a sharp detour toward the breakroom. Jim follows her like a puppy, not having the time to think about it.

She stops in front of the vending machine, leaning her forehead against the cool glass to inspect the rows of chips.

"Tragedy" she sighs, pointing a finger at a vacant metal coil. "The baked potato chips are gone. Kevin must have had a stressful morning."

"Kevin doesn't need stress to clear out the machine," Jim says, leaning his shoulder against the soda machine next to the vending machine. "He works on a strict biological clock. But if you're looking for tragedy, look at row D-4."

She follows the number, squinting. "An expired pack of strawberry licorice?"

"From 2004. A Dunder Mifflin relic," Jim nods solemnly, a playful smile on his face. "We keep it there to remind us of our mortality."

She laughs, a sharp, bright sound that echoes off the linoleum walls. She reaches up to adjust the collar of her cardigan, the sudden movement kicking up a wave of air right between them.

Jim takes a breath, and his brain completely stops.

He catches the full, concentrated hit of her perfume. It isn't the sickening, suffocating pine spray Phyllis uses, nor the medicinal lavender Angela favours. It's diferent. Light, crisp, and hits him right in the chest, smelling faintly of sweet citrus mixed with a warm, clean vanilla. The scent fills the cramped space between them, and for a second, Jim completely forgets what they were talking about. His eyes lock onto the small slope of her neck where her collar shifted. It is intoxicating.

"Hey," she says, snapping her fingers right in front of his nose. "Halpert. Are you staring at the licorice or dissociating?"

Jim blinks, forcing his eyes up to meet hers. He clears his throat quickly, hoping his voice doesn't sound as choked up as he suddenly feels. "Uh, neither. Just calculating the odds of that machine eating your dollar."

She looks at him, her eyes narrowing in amusement. She steps a fraction of an inch closer, holding up her wrist right beneath his chin. "Wait, smell this. Honestly. Does this smell like 'Sandalwood Citrus' or does it smell like the industrial cleaner Michael uses when he spills chili?"

The proximity makes his chest tighten. The warmth radiating from her skin mixes with that sweet vanilla scent, making his heart hammer a shaky rhythm against his ribcage. He leans his head down just an inch, taking a wary sniff.

"Definitely cleaner," Jim says, his voice a little rougher than usual, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I hate you," she laughs, pulling her hand back with a dramatic eye-roll. The lingering scent of her perfume is still floating between them, thick and warm in the air, making the thought of going back to his desk feel completely impossible. But he does. And he steals glances at her over his computer. He watches her face prop up on her hand as she scrolls through emails, looking miserable. A hair strand falls into her eye. She blows it off with a huff. He can't look away.

"You’re like a skyscraper," she mutters, her voice dropping as she slides her chair closer.

She peeks under the gap where their desks lock together. His long legs fill the narrow space, leaving her nowhere to put her own feet. The tight fit makes every slight movement electric.

She taps the heel of her pump sharply against his shin, letting out a soft giggle. "How tall are you anyway? Six-five? Six-four?"

"Six-three."

She goes quiet. She is too busy using his knees as targets, tapping and bouncing her shoes against them like she is playing a slow game of under-desk beer pong.

"You're like invading my desk space."

"That was never a problem before you," he withdraws his legs from under the desks and angles them away. "You're disrupting my comfort."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere so..." He chuckles at her, shaking his head, tongue in between his teeth.

He walks home that night in the biting cold, coat wrapped around him but it's not what's bringing heat to his cheeks. The way she laughed at him was burned into the back of his eyelids. His phone buzzes- "4 new voicemails" with the number for the Dunder Mifflin reception phone. Pam. He feels sick.

He puts the phone to his ear, stopping his walk so he doesn't collapse. He didn't want to hear what Pam had to say, didn't want to shadow his giddiness with the sadness that never truly left.

"Hey, Jim. It's me. I took over Pam's phone line. Michael has me staying late. He has some initiation ritual for me," Jim stands frozen on the dark sidewalk as she fills his ear with her exasperated complaints, her voice warm, breathless, and entirely undoing his resolve. He hadn't expected her at all. "I think he's pretending to knight me like he's the Queen of England. Was it just as rough for you when you started?"

"Jim. Me again. I think I'm gonna die. He has me riding a broom named "Maximus". He put on a wig and is pretending to be a maiden in a tower. I'm using a cucumber as a sword. Save me, Halpert."

The voicemails detailed her wild evening into his ear on the sidewalk, and the heavy knot in his stomach just evaporated. It felt like the exact second the rain stops and the sky clears.

He flashes Pam a tight smile on his way in the next morning. And then approaches his desk to find a coffee takeaway from his favourite place down the street. With a small note on a post-it. "I'll be out with Michael today. Don't do anything too fun without me x." He must've been grinning like an idiot, because Dwight notices.

"Her handwriting's terrible."

"I think it's fine. It's cursive-y." Jim places his blazer on the chair, bag under the desk. The space felt too empty without her.

"Cursive is meant to be slanted. Hers is entirely standing straight. It's barbaric."

"What's really barbaric is that she isn't here today," Jim mutters.

"She's unfit to reproduce with. A man requires a woman with ample breasts and child-bearing hips."

"I'm not looking to reproduce with her," but his voice was unconvincing in the way it came out. "And I think her breasts are good." Dwight snorts but doesn't say anything else.

Jim shakes the soda machine to retrieve his bottled water in the break room, later. He saw her opting for water a couple days ago, so he thought he would too. He'd been putting on a few pounds anyway. The soda had probably gotten to his head at this point. It finally releases when Kevin walks in.

"Hey Jim," the man drawls.

"Hey, Kev. What's up?" Jim asks, unscrewing the lid of his healthy alternative.

"Well, we were curious who you were gonna sleep with this week."

"Why, Kev, you wanna book an opening?"

"No but we have a bet and I wanna win."

"Okay," Jim leans against the machine, pretending to think long and hard. "What are my options?"

"Well, Pam. And the new hire." He freezes at the mention of her. Why was she even being considered?

"Oh, Kev, the newbie and I are friends. She's my trainee."

"You keep telling yourself that, but we've seen you look at her that way." For once, the sarcastic James Halpert, who always had an answer to everything, was speechless. Kevin drones on in the background about which one would be better suited for him (the new hire, because that's who he placed his money on) based on physical appearance. But Jim doesn't listen. Dwight's comment earlier and now Kevin's question, made him feel sick. He hadn't thought of her that way, had he?

He sits up in his bedroom, moonlight drowning the room in silver. He flicks her note in his fingers. He brings it up to his nose and breathes her scent in. "I'll be out with Michael today. Don't do anything too fun without me x." No one had ever cared for him enough to remember his coffee order, and even leave a note explaining their absence. No one had ever cared enough to put an x at the end of their notes. No one smiled at his dumb jokes like she did. Or touch him so casually it drove him insane. No one looked at him with that glint in their eye. No one whispered to him so lovingly.

It is in this moment that Jim forgets about Pam. He didn't mean to, obviously. But the heartache that had been eating away at him for weeks and the fleeting glances she gave him (subject much to his overthinking) didn't take up space inside him anymore.

He remembers her laugh, her perfume, her witty remarks, her eyes, her jokes. Jim Halpert's shattered heart and even lower self esteem is beginning to be healed again. And for the first time in a long time, there is hope.

Jim's old spontaneity resurfaces. He grabs his sweater off his chair and puts it on, grabbing his car keys. He first grabs shitty flowers from CVS, then takeout from that Chinese place she opts to go to every time they go out for lunch, and drives to her place (he hadn't mean to memorise her address but he couldn't help it). Before he can talk himself out of it, he raps on her wooden apartment door. He waits a beat. Two. Three. He hears a soft "meow" before the door opens. And there she stands. Soft, sleepy, hair tousled, makeup clearly not removed, legs deliciously peeking out her nightgown.

"Jim?" she yawns, rubbing her eyes.

"Hey. I know you'll probably hate me for waking you up but...I missed you today." He holds up the peace offerings in his arms. She just stares, dumbfounded.

"You woke me up to talk," she glances back at the clock. "At 2:13 am?" He nods, swallowing thickly. He knew this had been a bad idea but he'd been too giddy not to see her. "Oh my god, is that China Moon?" Nod again. She breaks into a grin, clapping her hands lightly. She steps aside to let him through, her white fluffy cat trailing him.

She's just finished eating her egg roll when he speaks. "I saw your note today."

"Yeah? I wanted to say hi but you were late."

"I know, that's why I came here."

"I had a crazy day. I think Michael is insane." Jim chuckles at that, nodding.

"Yep. I've been trying to get him to do an MRI for years. To see what's wrong up there," he watches her wipe her hands on a tissue, voice dropping. "I think...Everyone in the office thinks we're a thing." She goes very still, watching him for any indication of his thoughts on the matter.

"That's...ridiculous. You're my...trainer."

"I don't think it's that ridiculous," he whispers. The last time he confessed, it had felt wrong. Heavy. Now he feels lighter than ever. He meets her softening eyes. "After Pam, I remember thinking 'this is it.' I never got the woman of my dreams. I fell in love with a woman who was never gonna be mine. I think I gave up. But then you come along..." he lets out a shaky breath, warring with emotion. "God, you..."

He must've been making a fool out of himself, for she cups his face, with hands so soft and warm, they'd made his body tingle. She moves to her knees on the couch, hands sliding into his hair. His eyes flick down to her lips. She takes the hint, softly pressing them to his own.

When he kissed her, he knew she was the one. Instead of reminding him of everything that was wrong with the world, the kiss, clicked everything clicking into place like he dreamed.

And no one mattered but her.

You dragged yourself from the bed and into the shower. Once you’d managed to put yourself at least semi together, you beelined to the kitchen to make coffee. Caffeine was a necessity if you planned to accomplish anything. The apartment was too quiet, too empty. The absence of both of the men you loved was a weight that seemed to settle on your shoulders and never leave. You ran a hand over your face, wincing when your fingers brushed the edges of your wound.

The knock came just after noon. You froze, your third cup of coffee halfway to your lips and waited. Another knock. You sucked in a breath and headed to the door. A glance through the peephole showed a person holding a box and you opened the door.

“Delivery for you,” they said shoving the box in your direction.

“From who?” you couldn’t stop from asking.

The man shrugged. “Don’t know. He gave me a hundred and told me where to bring it.” He gave a half wave and disappeared down the hall.

You sat the box on the counter in the kitchen and began pulling things from it.

A bunch of wildflowers nearly identical to the ones Robby bought you on your first date.

A carefully wrapped sandwich from Cal’s, that upon closer inspection showed itself to be the same one you’d ordered on that same date.

An insulated bag with a pint of ice cream in the same flavor he’d bought you in the park that day.

Tucked in the bottom was a small velvet box and an envelope with your name scrawled across the front.

You set them on the counter and took in the items in front of you. Of all the gifts he’d sent you over the weeks trying to regain your affections, these were the most meaningful. The fact that he’d remembered, that he wanted you to remember that very first date with him said more than a hundred other presents. Your fingers traced the box, wondering what it held but resisting the temptation for the moment.

First, you found a vase for the wildflowers, a mix of purple, yellow and white. Messy and imperfect and absolutely beautiful. You left the sandwich where it was and placed the ice cream in the freezer. You settled yourself on a stool at the counter, box and envelope in front of you.

You opened the box first. Inside, nestled against the velvet were two tiny charms. An M and a J, both delicate and small. Just the right size for an anklet. You lifted one and turned it in the light. Gold with a small line of what you were sure were diamonds set into it. They were understated and absolutely perfect. You set the charm carefully back in the box and reached for the envelope.

You ran your hand across your name scrawled in Robby’s familiar handwriting. Not the mess it was when he was in a hurry, but the careful lettering he did when he wished to make an impression. You slid a finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper covered in that same writing.

Your vision blurred after the first line.

If you’re reading this, thank you. It’s more than I deserve.

You set the letter on the counter and wiped at your eyes as you sucked in a shaky breath. You could do this, you needed to do this. You were hoping whatever he had to say was exactly what you needed to hear, but part of you was terrified that this would be it. A severing of everything he was to you. That you were asking too much and he was done trying.

Fuck, you needed to stop. You grabbed the letter and your now lukewarm coffee and headed to the couch. You closed your eyes, took a centering breath then tried again.

If you’re reading this, thank you. It’s more than I deserve.

I’ve written this letter six times. The first five went in the trash because they were full of excuses and justifications and all the bullshit I tell myself to sleep at night. Not that it works. This one isn’t going to be perfect either, but it’s the truth and that’s the only thing I can give you.

I have spent my entire life waiting for people to leave. My parents, mentors, people I’ve loved. They’ve all left me. They’ve all proven I’m not worth staying around for. It’s what I expect. It’s what I prepare for. When we met you, I knew instantly that you were too good for me, that I didn’t deserve you and I never let myself forget it. Even when you were right there, even when you were in my bed, in my arms telling me you loved me, some part of me was bracing for you to leave.

That’s not your failing, it’s mine. It’s the broken part of me that I’ve been too stubborn to really look at. I was so busy waiting for you to prove my worst fears that I didn’t see what was right in front of me. A woman who loved me exactly as I was, who never asked me to be anything different, who thought I was enough.

A tear landed on the paper, smudging the ink slightly. You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand.

I accused you of the worst thing I could think of, because on some level I wanted it to be true. If you were using us for our money, then you were exactly what I expected. Predictable. Safe, in the worst possible way. The alternative, that you loved me, that you really loved me, meant I had something real to lose.

And then I did lose you and it broke me in a way I didn’t think was possible.

Losing you once was enough to last me a lifetime. I won’t do it again. I can’t. So, I’m making you a promise, whatever you need from me, I will do it. If you want to start from the beginning, I’ll take you on a first date, nerves and all. If you want us to go to therapy together, I’ll make the appointment today. If you need space, I’ll give it to you. If you need me to prove myself every day for the rest of our lives, I will.

I will do anything. Because the alternative is living without you and I can’t do that. Please don’t make me live without you.

The words blurred. You wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of Jack’s hoodie, you’d been wearing since he left it behind weeks ago. Your chest felt tight, an ache spreading beneath your ribs.

If you’re done with me, if this was too much to forgive, I understand. Fuck, I understand. But please don’t push Jack away because of me. He loves you. He’s been caught in the middle of this and I know it’s tearing him apart. He doesn’t deserve to lose you just like I don’t deserve to have you.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will love you whatever happens next.

-Michael

You let the letter fall to your lap and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your shoulders shook. The tears came quietly at first, then in earnest until you were curled forward over your lap. When the worst of it passed, you sat up and wiped your face. Unsurprisingly, your head was throbbing again.

You picked up the letter again and read the last lines one more time.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will love you whatever happens next.

You knew what happened next. You’d known from the moment you kissed Robby in your bathroom and felt his hands shaking against your skin. You’d known when you sent him away then sat on the floor and wished you hadn’t.

You had the uber drop you off at the hospital just after seven and stood a short distance away from where you knew Robby would be exiting after his shift. The evening air had a bite to it and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket. You leaned against the wall and watched people flow from the building, exhaustion heavy on their shoulders after a long shift. A couple of people recognized you, gave you a smile or a wave but didn’t stop to talk.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and hoped this wasn’t one of those nights where Robby stayed for hours past his shift. If he took too long, you’d text Jack to give him a friendly nudge toward the door. You’d read the letter several more times throughout the afternoon. You’d almost called Jack to discuss it with him, then decided against it. This was between you and Robby first. Jack would understand.

It was 7:20 when a weary Robby stepped outside. He had his bag slung over one shoulder, a gray hoodie zipped up over his scrub top. He was looking at his phone, thumb scrolling so he didn’t see you at first. You pushed yourself off the wall.

The movement caught his attention and his head came up. His phone slowly lowered to his side. His expression collapsed then rebuilt itself all at once. His mouth opened. Closed. His eyes went wide and wet and so unbearably full of hope you had to look away for a second.

“Hi,” he said, the word broken.

“Hi.” You took a step forward. “I thought I’d walk you home if that’s okay.”

His throat worked. He nodded once, quick. “Yeah, that’s more than okay.”

You fell into step beside him. Not touching, but close. His stride adjusted to match yours automatically. His hands were in his pockets now, too. The silence between you was thick with things unsaid, but that terrible brokenness that it would have brought with it even a week before was absent.

You walked in silence through streets you knew by heart, having made this same trek with him or Jack so many times. Your hands stayed in your pockets. So did his. The house came into view, porch light shining in the gathering dark.

Robby’s steps slowed as you approached. He punched the code into the lock and pushed open the door, stepping aside to let you enter first. The house smelled the same as it always did, clean with the lingering aroma of coffee in the air. It was messier than it had been last you were here. Not dirty, just untidy. Blankets that hadn’t been folded. A coffee mug left on the table. You stood in the center of the room and Robby stayed by the door. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“Why are you here?” he asked finally, his voice quiet. “I need to know. Because if you’re here to tell me it’s really over, I’d rather you did now before…” He swallowed. “Before I let myself hope.”

You ran your gaze over him, taking in his hunched shoulders, the hands still buried in his pockets. His gaze held yours with a desperation that made your chest ache.

“Your letter is why I’m here,” you said. “The flowers, the charms, the food was all fine but not why I’m here.”

He didn’t move, just watching you with that steady gaze.

“It’s the first time that an apology felt real. Not something you thought you should say, or a performance to get me back. It was you. I saw you in every word. It was messy and scared and honest. I saw the man I fell in love with, not the one who accused me of the worst thing he could think of because he was too afraid to trust me.” You took a step toward him.

His eyes closed and his chin dipped toward his chest.

You took a steadying breath. “You hurt me, Michael. You took something I thought was solid and made me question whether any of it was real.”

He nodded, eyes still closed, and a tear tracked down to his beard.

“Don’t do it again.”

His head shot up. Eyes wide, desperate as he looked at you. “I won’t, I swear I won’t.” The silence stretched, then he licked his lips. “Does that mean that you’ll give me another chance?”

Your smile was small but sincere. “Yes. That’s what it means.”

His breath left him in a rush. His bag hit the floor with a thud and he crossed the room in two strides, wrapping you in his arms. He buried his face in your neck as he trembled at your touch. Your arms went around his waist and you held on, taking in the familiar scent of him, the way his breath hitched against your skin. He was saying something against your neck, muffled and broken and you realized after a moment he was thank you over and over again, like a prayer.

You held him until the shaking stopped. Until his breathing steadied. He pulled back slowly and lifted his hands to frame your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn’t realized were falling. His own eyes were wet, lashes clumped together.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You nodded.

He leaned in carefully, his mouth meeting yours with a gentle reverence. His lips were warm and slightly chapped and he tasted like coffee and mint gum. You sank into it, one hand finding the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He made a needy sound against your mouth and kissed you deeper.

He backed toward the couch, taking you with him until his legs hit the edge. Then he sat, pulling you down with him so you settled in his lap. Your knees bracketed his hips, your weight comfortable against him. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he might never get the chance again. His hands moved up your back, under your jacket, warm through the fabric of your shirt. You cupped his face between your hands, feeling the scratch of his beard and kissed him until you were both breathless.

When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Robby’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. “I missed you,” he said, voice low and soft. “God, I missed you. Every fucking day.”

“I missed you too. Even when I was angry, I still missed you.”

He released a broken laugh and pulled you tight against his chest. You sat like that for a long time, his chin resting on your shoulder and his arms around you. Eventually, he stirred. “I should shower. I’ve got hospital all over me.”

You pulled back to look at him. “Can I help?”

The smile he gave you was radiant and he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “Of course you can, baby.”

The two of you undressed one another in the bedroom, clothes discarded in the hamper, mixing together in a way they hadn’t in weeks. It was a small thing, a domestic thing, but it only solidified that you were home. Finally.

Robby turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. “Come here,” he said, steering you toward the counter. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out the first aid kit. He secured a bit of gauze over your stitches with a waterproof bandage. He kissed it after, then grinned at you again. “There.” He paused, then added, “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

He laughed then grasped your elbow to steer you to the shower. He guided you in first and your shoulders immediately dropped as the hot water instantly started working its magic. Robby climbed in after you and you turned the two of you so he was under the water. “You’re the one that stinks of hospital,” you told him and reached for the shampoo. “Tip your head back so I can reach.”

You worked your fingers through his hair with methodical precision and he sighed at the feel of your nails scraping along his scalp. Once he’d rinsed, you took the soap and worked it over his chest, his shoulders, everywhere tension had settled into his muscles. He watched you the whole time. His eyes never leaving your face like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away for too long. When you washed his back, your thumbs pressed into the knots along his spine. His head dropped forward with a groan that had had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with relief.

You dried each other off and Robby removed the bandage and tossed it away. In the bedroom, he pulled back the covers and you climbed in together. He gathered you against his chest. One arm around your shoulders, the other across your waist. Your leg hooked over his, and your head rested on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart and sunk into the feeling of being right where you belonged.

“I love you,” he said against your head. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that again.”

You believed him. You pressed a kiss to his collarbone and felt him shudder. “I love you, too. So much.”

“Hey, Sweetheart, it's Sam,” your friend’s familiar voice answered and a tendril of cold fear crawled up his spine. Realistically Jack knew Sam wouldn’t be making light if something were seriously wrong, but if you were fine, he wouldn’t be calling at all. “Your girl got cracked in the head with a bottle during a bar fight. She's bleeding like hell and probably needs stitches.”

Jack gripped the edge of the counter. “How much blood are we talking?”

Lena’s head snapped up, a question in her eyes. He shook his head once to let her know he didn’t know anything yet.

“She’s soaked through the towel but I’m afraid to replace it. Bottle broke so I’m sure there’s glass. I’m putting her in the car right now.”

“Bring her in through the ambulance bay. We’ll keep an eye out.” His voice had shifted into something flat and practical. His doctor voice. The only one he could trust wouldn’t crack. “Drive safe.”

He hung up without waiting for a response so Sam could focus on the road.

“What’s going on, Jack?” Lena asked.

He huffed out a sigh. “I need a room. Girlfriend took a bottle to the head in a barfight.”

“Is she okay?” she asked even as she clicked through the computer. “Three’s open.”

“It seems like it but until I see her…” he trailed off and Lena reached out to pat his hand.

“Understandable. You take care of her and we’ll take care of everything else. Okay?”

“Thank you, Lena.” He stepped away from the counter. His thumb hovered over Robby’s contact for half a second before he pressed it.

He answered on the second ring. “Jack? Everything okay?” His voice was rough like he’d been sleeping, or trying to.

“Sam called. There was fight at the bar. She took a bottle to the head. He’s bringing her in, said it’s bleeding pretty—“

“I’ll be right there.”

The line went dead. Jack stared at the screen for a beat then slid the phone back into his pocket. Of course, Robby would come immediately. He didn’t know why he thought the man would do any differently. He’d been falling apart without you for weeks, begging for a scrap of attention. Of course, he was going to come when you needed him.

Jack grabbed a wheelchair and headed outside to wait for you. The air was cool against his skin and he took a deep breath to center himself. He counted seconds in his head as his mind kept supplying images he didn’t need. The crack of glass against your skull. Blood soaking through one of the white bar towels Sam used. He’d seen enough head injuries to know what they looked like in graphic detail, to understand how dramatically they bled.

But this was different. This was you. Your blood. You most likely trying to convince everyone you were fine when you most assuredly were not. Anger spiked through him hot and sudden. Not at you but at the asshole who’d thrown the bottle, at whoever started the fight that put you at risk. At the whole fucking night that had ended with you bleeding in Sam’s car on your way to the one place Jack didn’t want to see you.

He straightened as Sam’s car approached. The hazards flipped on once he’d parked and Jack was reaching for the door handle before the engine even switched off. You turned to him with a scowl and greeted him with a resigned, “Hey.”

He lifted one brow. “Hey yourself.”

His gaze ran over you doing a quick assessment. The towel was dark with blood, staining the hand holding it. Blood had run down the side of your face coloring the neck of your shirt. You wouldn’t be happy about that.

“Don’t,” you said, interrupting his perusal. “Don’t start. I’m fine.”

“You are bleeding through a bar towel. That is far from fine,” Jack replied, voice even. “Get in the chair.”

You muttered under your breath, all kinds of unpleasant things he was certain, but you did as he said. He glanced at Sam before he took you inside. “You’ll have to move the car if you’re staying.”

Sam looked at you for guidance. You waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “Go. You’ve still got a mess to clean up at the bar. Jack will take care of me.”

He hesitated for a moment then nodded once. “Okay. Call me if you need anything. Text me proof of life tomorrow.”

You huffed a laugh at that. “Get out of here.”

“See you, beautiful,” Sam said with a wave as he got in the car, but Jack was already wheeling you into the ED.

Shen was moving between rooms when he caught sight of you and came to a stop. “Woah, what happened to you?”

“I’m allergic to assholes,” you deadpanned.

He snorted and smiled. “Aren’t we all?” He shifted his attention to Jack. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’ll be in Three if you need me.”

“You got it,” he answered and headed back to his original destination.

Jack sat the bed all the way up and helped you get settled before pushing the chair into the hall. Vivi was passing by and he gave it to her as he rattled off the list of supplies he needed. He shut the door and pulled the curtain across before snapping on a pair of gloves. He’d just gotten the lamp moved into position when the door opened and the curtain was flung aside.

Robby was breathing like he’d run the entire way, his eyes wide and fixed on the bloody towel still pressed to your head. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He closed the door again and pulled the curtain back into place.

You shot Jack a sharp look that clearly said ‘really?’.

Jack reached for the towel. “Don’t give me that look. You can either let Robby go home with you to keep an eye on you or you’re staying in the ED until I get off. It’s a head injury. You need someone to keep an eye on you.” When you didn’t protest any further, he gently peeled the towel from your head.

You winced as the fabric pulled where it stuck to your skin. The laceration was above your left eyebrow near the hairline. It was two inches long and ragged. He clenched his teeth to keep his face neutral. The last thing you needed was to see him wince at the seeping blood. Fragments of glass glinted in the overhead light, tiny shards caught in your hair.

Robby pulled a stool from the corner of the room and dragged it to the opposite side of the bed. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, not touching you but not taking his eyes off the wound. “If I’d stayed maybe I could have stopped this, protected you somehow. I should have been there.”

“Don’t,” your tone was sharp, but softened when you spoke the next words. “You did what I asked you to do. This isn’t your fault.”

He nodded but Jack could tell he wasn’t listening to you, not really. Jack would worry about him later, right now he needed to focus on you. “Did you lose consciousness?” he asked.

You winced when he shined the penlight in your eyes to check your pupils. “No.”

“Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“No.”

He continued to run through the neuro questions and you answered each one with poorly concealed annoyance. “Can we skip to the part where you stitch me up so I can go home?” you finally asked.

The corner of his lips kicked up, just slightly. “Neuro looks good. You’re a horrible patient, you know that?”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

Vivi had come in with everything he needed to clean you up and took your vitals while he was doing the check. He dropped the bed as close as it would go to the floor and pulled another stool over so he could sit while he worked. He moved the tray closer to him. “I’m going to numb you up first, then we’ll clean it. We need to be sure all the glass is out.”

“Yeah, okay.” Your voice was rough.

Jack injected the lidocaine as gently as he could but you still cringed with each prick. You closed your eyes as you waited for it to take effect. Jack took his gloves off so he could hold your hand, thumb rubbing across your skin. Robby stayed in his original position, hands trapped between his knees so he wouldn’t reach out to you. Jack’s heart ached. He hated this distance between the two of you. He understood it completely, but he still hated it.

“Alright, sweetheart. How’s that feeling?” he asked after several minutes had passed.

“I think it’s ready.”

He nodded once and stood to grab a new set of gloves. He handed a set to Robby first. “I need you to hold the towel while I use the saline. And you can help me spot the glass.”

Robby only hesitated for a moment before nodding quickly. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Jack pressed on the skin around the wound. “Good?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you said with a little nod. Your gaze moved between the two of them as you bit your lip.

Jack paused, tweezers in hand and said your name. Your gaze flicked to him. “You won’t feel anything but some pressure. If it hurts you tell me and we stop immediately. Okay?”

You took a deep breath. “Got it.”

Robby came to stand beside Jack, his glasses on so he could get a better look. Jack used the tweezers to help him search and find tiny slivers of glass in your hair first, Robby occasionally directing him one way or another. Each piece landed in the basin with clink.

The wound was next. Jack clenched his teeth in anticipation but thankfully found it mostly void of debris. “Alright, saline now.”

Robby rolled the towel and pressed it against your head just below the wound to soak up any saline and blood. His gaze flicked over to Jack as the blood was irrigated from the wound. “That’s deeper than I thought.”

Jack nodded once. “Yeah. We’re going to have to do a couple of layers of stitches here, honey, to make sure it heals right.”

“Fantastic.” Your obvious sarcasm had his lips twitching in amusement.

Once the wound was clean, Robby stepped back, tossing the towel in the appropriate bin. He stripped out of his gloves and took his previous seat. His hands twitched anxiously in his lap.

You watched him for a moment then held out your hand.

Robby froze completely. “I…are you sure?”

“I know it’s not going to hurt, but I’m still anxious about it. I just need a hand to hold. Don’t read too much into it,” you told him. When he still hesitated you added, “Or you can get one of the nurses to hold my hand if you’d rather not.”

“No,” he said too quickly, too loudly. “No. I’ll hold your hand. I’d love to hold your hand.”

Jack finished threading the needle and caught Robby’s eye, shaking his head once.

Robby cleared his throat. “Right. Shutting up now. Hand.” He took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes grew moist and it was easy for Jack to see how utterly thrilled his partner was to be allowed to touch you.

Jack started to close, doing the more delicate internal stitches before switching threads to do the external ones. His hands moved with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this exact action for decades. “There,” he said finally, tying off the last suture and cutting the thread. He surveyed his work before covering it with a dressing. “Nicely done if I do say so myself. It should heal clean with minimal scarring.”

You extricated your hand from Robby’s and he slid his stool back slightly to put some space between you. He wasn’t pushing his luck. Good.

“Thank you,” you said.

“Anytime, baby. Let’s try to avoid anymore ED visits though, huh?” Jack stood and snapped off the gloves before throwing them in the bin. He moved over to the computer to pull up your chart. He scanned his badge then his fingers flew over the keyboard to enter your information.

“Since you don’t have insurance, I’ll put myself down as the responsible party,” he said, not looking away from the screen. His tone was casual, trying not to make a big deal out of it. You could tell he was waiting for you to argue. “It’s easier that way. Billing can be a hassle. Mike and I will take care of it.”

You said nothing, simply waiting for the inevitable.

A beat of silence stretched as Jack’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He scrolled, frowned, scrolled again.

“This says you have insurance,” he said slowly, turning his head to look at you. “And it’s current.”

“Sure do.”

Robby frowned and stood to look over Jack’s shoulder. “That must cost you a fortune.”

Your lips twitched, the ghost of a smile appearing then disappearing just as quickly. “My employer pays for it.”

Jack turned to fully face you this time, crossing his arms over his chest. “Honey, you pick up random unscheduled shifts at two part-time jobs. Who the hell is paying for your insurance? Sam?”

“I told you that I do work for my grandfather.” Your voice carried more than a thread of amusement. You hadn’t really intended to keep the information from them, you’d only been waiting for them to ask.

Jack and Robby looked at each other. The glance was brief but spoke volumes. You literally watched the realization occur to the both of them that they had missed something fundamental.

“We thought you were just helping him out. Paying his bills, things like that,” Jack said.

You studied them both for a moment. “Don’t you need to get back to work, Jack?”

He pulled the stool over and sat down, crossing his arms again. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere until we have this conversation. Shen is on. He knows where I am. They’ll get me if they need something.”

Robby brought his stool over beside Jack before sitting and looking at you expectantly.

You sighed and finally gave into the smile you’d been fighting. “I managed the vast majority of the charitable arm of my grandfather’s company.” You said it simply, like it was nothing. Like you’d just announced that you prefer coffee over tea. Both men blinked at you. “Didn’t you wonder how I knew so much about earmarking donations at the gala?”

Robby’s skin flushed pink. “You’re smart about so many things I know nothing about. I just assumed that was another one of those things.”

You held his gaze for a moment before shifting on the bed to pull the small card wallet you used when you were working out of your back pocket. You pulled out one of the cards and tossed it on the foot of the bed. The black American Express card reflected the bright lights of the room. Both men stared at it. Robby’s mouth opened then closed. Then he said, “Is that a fucking black card?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “When I told you I didn’t need your money, I meant it.”

“You have a tattoo fund jar on your bookshelf.” Robby sounded so utterly confused.

You shrugged one shoulder. “That’s where the bookstore and bar money goes. That’s mine. The rest…that was different.”

“Your apartment is shit, honey,” Jack said. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact.

You laughed again. “It’s not that bad. And it’s mine. I moved in with Chelsea because it was convenient and she seemed okay. She left when I caught her fucking my boyfriend and I just never bothered to move. The building manager is chill, doesn’t hassle anyone. And the location was convenient.”

Robby leaned forward. “When we met you the elevator had been broken for weeks. The lights flickered. Your lock was messed up.”

“I didn’t mind taking the stairs and the lights didn’t bother me. The lock worked, it was just tricky. No one was getting in without knowing how to jiggle it the right way.” You took a deep breath. “Look, I learned to get by without. Not because I didn’t have the money but because every penny I spent was scrutinized by my parents. They had access to information about any funds that came out of the trust. It was a safety measure my grandmother insisted on when it was set up. My grandfather hadn’t anticipated them clinging to it so selfishly.”

You grabbed the card and put it away to give yourself a moment. “Until Pop passed, I didn’t have any money I really considered my own. He made my family sign off on all rights to my trust to receive their portion of the estate. They didn’t know he’d funneled almost all of his assets into the trust.” Your gaze flicked between the two of them. “I have a lot of money now. Like, so much. So, so much.”

The last part came out a little stunned. You were still trying to process your change in circumstances. The room was silent as both men stared at you in stunned disbelief. Finally, Jack stood up. “I feel like this a conversation we should discuss in more detail later.”

You nodded then winced at the movement, a spike of pain shooting through your head. Great. “Preferably when I’m not exhausted and don’t have a headache.”

Their eyes narrowed in unison and Robby stood to move to your side. “How bad?”

“It’s just a headache. A bottle shattered on my head. I think I’m entitled.”

“Fair,” Jack said with a little laugh. “I’ll get you something for it then you and Mike can get out of here.”

Robby drove through the city with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. The streets were quiet the way they only got in the early morning hours. You sat with your head leaning back against the headrest as you watched the scenery pass. Neither of you spoke.

When you arrived at the apartment, Robby parked and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, not looking at you as if giving you a chance to change your mind. You considered it, however briefly, but Jack would be furious. And you didn’t really want to be alone right now.

“Come on,” you said. He stayed a step behind you all the way to your apartment. Inside, you dropped your keys on the table by the door and headed straight for your bedroom and the attached bathroom.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, taking in the dried blood streaked across your skin. Robby appeared in the doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders, his expression landing somewhere between concern and affection.

You grabbed a washcloth. “I can’t shower but I need to get this blood off.”

“I know.” He stepped into the room that was too small for the both of you. He took the cloth from your hand. “Let me. Please.”

You didn’t argue. You lifted yourself to sit on the counter while Robby ran the water in the sink, waiting for it to warm up. Once it did, he put the stopper down and let water fill the basin to the halfway point. He dipped the washcloth then wrung it out. “Tip your head back,” he instructed.

You did as he asked and his other hand came to rest at the base of your skull, supporting your head with an unexpected gentleness. This was your Michael. The man you fell in love with and god you missed him. The cloth was warm against your skin as he carefully cleaned what he could, occasionally pausing to rinse out the rag. “You’re good at this,” you said.

“At what?”

“Taking care of people.”

He smiled at that. “Well, I’ve had a bit of practice.”

You studied his face for a moment. Taking in the gray in his beard, the tired lines around his eyes, the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. “I’ve missed you.” The words came out sounding far more broken than you’d intended.

His hand stilled as his eyes snapped to yours. “I’ve missed you too. Every second of every day. I missed you the moment you walked out the door. And I am so fucking sorry I am the reason for that.”

The distance between your mouths felt suddenly unbearably far. You closed it.

His lips were warm and careful against yours, hesitant in a way you weren’t used to from him. As if he pressed too hard, you’d disappear. You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tangling in his beard as you kissed him properly with intention and the full weight of everything you’d been carrying for weeks.

He dropped the rag to the floor as he made a low broken sound against your lips. His hand found the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw with a tenderness that made your chest ache. When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Robby’s gaze flicked over you, full of hope and desperation.

“This doesn’t magically fix everything. You know that right?” you asked. You needed him to understand that. Just because you missed him, craved him, didn’t mean all was forgiven.

He nodded then pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “I know. I’m not asking for that. I just…” He swallowed. “I’ve missed you so much that it physically hurts. I just want to be near you for however long you allow.”

You slid off the counter and he stepped back to give you the room. His hands slid to your hips as if afraid to let go. You took one of his hands and led him into the bedroom. He followed without a word, fingers intertwined with yours.

The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled and tangled from your restless sleep. You sat on the edge of it and he sat beside you. His hands found your face, cupping your jaw, his thumbs tracing the lines of your cheekbones. “I’m going to take care of you,” he said, his voice rough with need. “In any way you’ll let me, for as long as you’ll let me.”

Every tired, aching, lonely part of you believed him. You’d missed him desperately, missed the weight of him beside you in the bed. You stripped off your shirt followed quickly by your bra and Robby surged forward pressing his lips to yours. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. His hands shook as the traced your skin. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and you separated only long enough for him to peel it off and toss it aside.

He kissed you again, laying you back, his weight settling over you. And he was careful. God, he was so careful. His hand cradled the back of your head as he lowered you to the pillows.  His mouth was desperate against yours. His skin was warm under your palms as you traced the familiar landscape of him. His broad shoulders, the soft dusting of hair that covered his chest and tapered down to the waistband of his pants. His beard scraped your neck as he kissed his way down your throat and you arched into him, your fingers burying themselves in his hair.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ve always got you.”

He took his time. There was no urgency in him. No rush. Just the slow, deliberate attention of a man that was relearning every inch of you by touch and taste. His tongue traced the tattoos on your arms, on your chest, as if he’d forgotten they existed and needed to refamiliarize himself with them. His lips moved lower, dancing across your ribs, his mouth warm and wet.

“Robby,” you breathed.

His head snapped up as he looked at you with wide, pleading eyes. “Michael. Call me Michael, please.”

“Michael,” you repeated and his name in your mouth made him shudder.

He paused his exploration to remove the rest of your clothing and then his hands began their own journey across your skin. They mapped the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip. The inside of your thigh where your skin was the softest. Each touch deliberate, planned. His beard scratched the sensitive skin of your thighs as his tongue worshipped the tattoos there as well.

Through it all, his eyes never left your face. He watched you with an intensity that would have unnerved you in different circumstances. He tracked every shift of your expression, every hitch of your breath. He was reading you the way he always did, cataloging everything he learned about you.

When his fingers finally found the center of you, you were already wet. In fact, you were dripping. A sound tore from your lips that was half frustration and half relief. He worked you with the same steady care he’d been showing all night. His thumb circled your clit as his fingers curled inside of you in just the right spot. Your thighs trembled as you neared the edge. You grabbed his wrist, holding on and he leaned down to kiss you, his mouth swallowing the sweet sounds you couldn’t hold back.

“Look at me,” he said against your lips. You opened your eyes and met his dark gaze. “I need to see you. Please.”

You came with a shudder and his name on your lips. He watched it happen like it was something sacred, something he thought he’d never see again.

You pushed at his pants impatiently and he chuckled against your neck. He stood quickly and stripped. His cock was hard against his stomach and you reached forward to wrap your hand around him. You stroked once, twice and his hips jerked forward. His hand flashed forward to grab your wrist. “I need to be inside you.”

You nodded and he was above you again, his weight settling between your thighs, his forehead pressed to yours. His hand came to your face again and his thumb traced your bottom lip. You sucked in a jagged breath.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough, a little ragged around the edges. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”

You tilted your face up to kiss him and he pushed into you in one slow, careful stroke that had you both gasping. The feeling of him inside you, the fullness of it, was too much and not enough all at once. You wrapped your legs around his waist and held on as he began to move.

It was slow. Measured. Every thrust deliberate, every withdraw careful. His hips rocked against yours with a rhythm that built gradually to something steady and deep. Soft kisses littered the skin of your face until you were certain every inch had been touched. His lips lingered over your wound for a beat longer than anywhere else.

When you came it was with his hand between your legs, his fingers working in tight circles while his hips drove into you. The orgasm that rolled through you left you trembling. He followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as a groan tore from his throat. He buried himself deep and held there, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his entire body shuddering above you.

For a long time, neither of you moved. His weight above you was familiar and solid and you ran your hands over his back, feeling the muscles shift as his breathing slowed. Eventually, he eased out of you then headed to the bathroom, returning with a wet rag he used to clean you up.

He returned to the bed and pulled you against his chest, his arm heavy across your waist as he buried his face in your neck. “I love you so much,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

And you believed him. But it didn’t change anything. Wouldn’t until you were certain he understood how deeply he hurt you. You wouldn’t survive another broken heart. Because when Michael Robinavitch broke your heart, he did a damn thorough job of it.

***

Morning light coming through the blinds woke you. You blinked your eyes open to find Robby already awake, propped on one elbow. His eyes were soft as he watched you and he smiled when he realized you were awake.

“We should start packing this weekend. Or I could even start today if you wanted,” he said. His tone made it clear that he felt the worst was behind him, that you could move forward, go back to the way things were. “Or next week. We don’t have to rush. We’ll have to decide what you’re keeping and what can go.”

You watched him as he continued talking, your brow furrowing. This was your fault. You should have known that despite what he said, he would think all was forgiven. You should have resisted the temptation of having him with you again. A cold knot settled in your chest somewhere near where your heart was supposed to be.

You sat up carefully, far more aware of the dull throb in your head than you wanted to be. You swung your legs out of the bed before he could reach for you. You grabbed comfortable clothes and slipped them on. Robby fell silent behind you.

“I really appreciate you staying, but I have things I need to do today. I think you should go.” You managed to get the words out without your voice breaking. Barely.

Robby sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. “What things? I could help. I’m off today. I wanted to—” He stopped as he ran his gaze over your face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a lot to do. Work for the foundation.”

He was quiet as he stood and dressed, eyes never leaving you. “Do you want to get lunch? Breakfast? Coffee maybe?” The hope in his voice was so obvious it almost hurt to hear it.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” You picked up your phone and checked the time, though it didn’t really matter. As soon as he finished dressing, you steered him toward the door. His eyes stayed glued to you.

You opened the door and turned to face him, taking in everything you loved about him just in case it was the last time you saw him. He stepped past you slowly, leaning forward to kiss you but you turned your head so he got your cheek instead. “Can we talk about this? Please?”

You clenched your teeth and nudged him out the door. “Not now. I need you to go. Please.” Once he was clear, you shut the door. “Goodbye, Michael.”

The door closed with a soft click. You stood with your hand on the knob, your forehead pressed to the wood and listened to the silence on the other side.

It lasted for three breaths. Then came a quiet knock.

“Please.” His voice was muffled, broken. “Just let me in. We can talk. However long you need. I’ll do whatever you need. Just…please don’t do this.”

“I told you this didn’t fix everything, Michael. I told you, but you acted like it did anyway.” You weren’t certain he could even hear you with how soft your voice was.

When he spoke again, his voice was ragged and full of tears. “I love you. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

His footsteps moved away down the hall and you slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until the pressure turned the darkness into bursts of color. As hot tears made familiar tracks down your face, you wished for just a moment that you’d let him stay.

Aaron Hotchner takes his 3 PM coffee black, and on Wednesdays with a sugar cookie. And as his secretary it’s expected that you will get it to him no sooner, no later. So naturally on this Thursday afternoon you’re in a rush to get back to his office with the flimsy paper cup, it’s no help that you’re stuck in the stairway being talked at by some cocky agent. I mean look at the guy, sure maybe your friends would find the blonde young man to be a total catch, but you have places to be!

It feels like the fourth time you’ve tried to excuse yourself when you hear a stern voice from the floor above you.

“Excuse me, Agent McCallum. You’re holding up my coffee, it’s 3:01.”

Thank the stars. When you look up you see Aaron in his typical Thursday suit, only differentiated from other days by the blue pinstripe tie. McCallum finally moves out of your way, not looking to be reprimanded over something as trivial as this, but you can still feel his eyes on you while you try to go up the stairs.

“Eyes to yourself McCallum.”

Again, you feel the hair on the back of your neck prick up at Aarons voice, he’s always seemed to dislike male attention on you which is as appreciated as it is unhelpful. Heaven forbid a girl wants to get a date sometime.

By the time you make it to his office, Hotch is already back at his desk and reading over some files. You set his coffee on his desk and start going back to your little desk outside his office when you hear him.

“Three hundred in your account. Jack’s at a sleepover. Dinner at Belloni’s?”

There it is. For the past few months, Hotch has been taking you out for money. Supposedly you could call it a sugar daddy situation, you almost feel bad considering he just seems lonely. Obviously, it wasn’t sexual, sure maybe there was some thigh touching, and the occasional grinding against each other in the car, but for some reason he never let it cross the line.

“Sure, dinner. What do I wear?”

“Anything. Just be there.”

There’s what feels like a long silence, just watching each other and feeling your throat hurt from all the things you can’t say. Instead, you simply nod and leave.

Belloni’s is as nice as you imagined, of course Hotch got your uber for you. He comes outside to walk you in, eyes roving over the black dress you picked which was definitely shorter than anything you’ve worn at work. By the time you get to the table there’s already a basket of breadsticks and bottle of wine. Being the ever gentleman that he is Hotch pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t help but smile to yourself.

“Like the dress?”

“Quite a bit.” His voice is low and clearly not focused on the idea of conversation.

The night goes well like any of your other nights together, talking, pulling laughs from him, and smiles nobody else saw. Honestly these dates mean more to you than just the money, but you don’t think you can even tell him that.

Hotch just finished telling you a story about his golfing buddy missing so badly he fell over, which just reduced you into a fit of giggles, even to the point of slouching in your seat. His gaze is gentler when watching you, face relaxed to a softer smile.

“You know, if McCallum keeps bothering you, I’ll reassign his department.”

“Oh my gosh, no it’s fine. I really don’t mind.”

“I do.” Oh.  He’s serious. Sure, you know he wasn’t the fondest of other guys around you, but how far does he really plan to take this?

“C’mon Hotch-”

“Aaron.”

“Okay Aaron, you’re not my boyfriend, and I’m not your girlfriend.”

His mouth is pressed into a firm line, the two of you blatantly aware this has nothing to do with McCallum. There’s a wave of silence between the two of you, Aarons eyes on the tablecloth, whilst yours are fixed on him. After what feels like a century, he finally speaks up.

“But I don’t want you to see anybody else. And we both know you don’t want me to see anybody else.”

Oh. He’s not wrong, you’d get pissy when he would pay more attention to other women who came through his office, but it feels unfair for him to call you out on it.

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything,” He groaned, head falling into his hands as he takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “I just want you.”

Hotch’s words shouldn’t surprise you, not really. It’s been months of dancing around the subject but hearing it out loud really sucks the air from the room.

“I want you too Aaron.” Your tone is quiet, the small confession could’ve been drowned out by the sounds of the restaurant around you, but you know he heard you.

The rest of the meal is silent, the only proof of what just happened is your joined hands. The hands that both go straight to Hotch’s car after the bill is paid, the hands that only separate when one is placed on your thigh for the drive back to his.

Daryl didn’t know where you were.

He didn’t know if you’d escaped.

He didn’t know if you’d died under the same bat that’d just threatened to split his skull in two.

Had you already been put on a drying rack?

Dead?

All he knew was that no matter the outcome of your status, he wasn’t going to leave you, not in that place.

Didn’t matter if you were cold yet or not.

“We gotta go back in there,” Daryl uttered out into the group, his movements uneasy, his reclaimed crossbow in his grip now after Carol had passed it over to him.

He should’ve been happy to see her face after all this time. He should’ve been happy to see all the familiar faces.

But—

It didn’t feel like he could be…happy.

Not when you were still in there.

“Like hell we are!” Abraham yelled, stepping forward like he was daring to do something. “We just got out!”

Daryl didn’t waste a second stepping forward himself, challenging the ginger-haired man who’d just walked in full guns blazing when he didn’t know shit.

“And we goin’ back.”

It was then that Rick stepped in like he always did.

“I agree with Daryl.” He spoke with that authority that he always seemed to have despite everything. “We’re gonna go back in. We’re not leavin’ her.”

“Let’s go then,” Daryl replied, his eyes flickering coldly over Abraham’s once more, then—

He started moving towards the gap in the fence that they had all just climbed over.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Nobody moved.

Carol sighed, rubbing a hand across her face.

“Wait.”

Daryl’s stilled, his gaze dragging towards Carol’s over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed on her face, noticing the immediate flash of dread wash over her features.

He knew Carol well enough by now to know that look never meant anything good.

She reached into her pocket, slowly, almost as if she didn’t want to do it. The handle of a knife appeared in her grip first then followed a small folded up piece of paper.

He recognised the knife as soon as he spotted the engravings.

Yours.

He could do no more but jump to conclusions seeing it.

“She dead?” Daryl asked, his voice cracking with the severity of the question.

Carol stepped forward, angling the paper towards him like it was a silent answer to his question.

“Just read it.”

His eyes flickered towards Rick’s for a brief moment, then towards Michonne’s before he reached out and took the paper into his own hand.

He unfolded it once.

Then twice.

The writing was undoubtedly yours; no questions about it. Daryl didn’t know when he’d seemed to have memorised your handwriting, but it seemed that he had.

‘Please don’t come looking for me.’

He found himself staring at those words like they’d personally wounded him.

Had they?

“Nah,”

Daryl shook his head, his eyes flashing back up towards Carol, his fingers clenching around the paper. His thumb contacted with the damp of your tears by your name.

“She’s not thinkin’ straight,”

“What does it say?” Maggie questioned, stepping forward, that sense of worry already riddling her face.

Daryl didn’t say anything; he could feel something crawling at his throat, though he didn’t dare to put a finger on what it was.

Rick snatched the letter from his hands, pulling it into his own view. Michonne was close behind him, her shoulder contacting his as they both scanned over what you had written.

“What does it say…?” Maggie repeated with urgency this time, directing her question towards Rick this time, because—

Daryl didn’t want to answer that question.

That made it real, and he didn’t plan on going about this the way you’d wished.

A beat.

“She’s gone.” Rick answered finally, his eyes glued to Daryl’s face as he spoke.

“Dead?” Glenn asked.

“No,” Rick responded, folding the letter back up into its previously folded situation, handing it back over to Daryl. “She ran.”

“Well then that settles it.” Abraham butted in again, securing his rifle over his shoulder.

Everyone’s eyes shifted towards him.

“Settles what?” Rick said, the tone in his voice cold.

Abraham narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering between the group, then towards the plummet of smoke projecting from Terminus.

“That we don’t need to waste our time on this girl. She made her choice.”

That got a rise out of Daryl that he’d never felt before.

Who the hell was this guy to be making claims like that when he’d been around for less than a damn day?

“Ya dont even know er!” He yelled, closing the distance with Abraham, his arm swinging out. “Ya don’t even know what the hell yer fuckin’ talkin’ bout!”

Carol’s hand contacted him firmly against his chest as soon as she saw things getting out of hand again.

“Daryl.”

He didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t even look at her—he was seething. His eyes stayed locked on Abraham, his jaw clenched so hard that it hurt.

“Daryl.” Carol repeated again, shoving him slightly to get his attention.

Daryl’s eyes crossed towards her hesitantly, his whole body still tense.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did Carol.

“I’ll go with Daryl,” Michonne cut through the quiet, stepping forward.

Something in Carol's expression shifted slightly, like she was still waiting to say something.

“We’re all goin’,” Rick pushed forward, already crouching down slightly to brush the dirt away that’d been covering a bag of weapons that he’d stashed before going into Terminus.

Abraham stepped forward at that and just when he was about to shoot another protest—

Carol cut him off.

“I know where Judith is.”

The words dropped from her mouth like a bomb, all eyes dragging towards hers. Rick was practically jumping to follow Carol at that point, as was the rest of the group.

Michonne seemed to have been the only one that stuck to her guns.

Looked like she wanted to find you just as much as Daryl did.

Carol handed your knife to Daryl before he and Michonne separated with a silent promise to the rest of the group to find each other whether things went good or bad.

Daryl found himself turning the knife over in his hand as he made his way through the woods. His thumb traced over the engravings slowly.

Gaining anything, even if so little.

Michonne walked carefully beside him, her hands firm around her newly adopted weapon. She was watching him closely, keeping notes on his actions.

She’d been doing that ever since the predicament with Abraham.

A beat.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” Michonne asked abruptly, her voice echoing through the trees.

Daryl didn’t answer anything to that.

His actions spoke much louder than his words. He wouldn’t have been looking for you now if he didn’t care. That care that he felt wasn’t a new profound thing either—he’d always felt it despite how you and he acted with one another at the prison.

Despite the kiss.

Despite your head injury.

He grunted before he shoved your knife into the sheath on his hip beside his own blade.

“Before that group came, before she hit her head…” Michonne started with a sigh.

Daryl lifted his head finally, his eyes tracking over Michonne's face.

Michonne waited a moment before she spoke again.

“…She told me she never hated you.”

He already knew that.

He already knew that because he had never hated you either. You’d confused him more than anything.

But hate?

He could never have hated you.

Daryl stayed quiet—he didn’t know what to say anymore. A grunt left his lips as if he was done with it all being verbally put out before him.

He didn’t need it said in words.

Not when he had been going over it all in his head ever since he first set his eyes on you back at the prison.

“Gotta find er,”

That was the last thing he muttered before the both of them dipped into utter quiet. He scouted the area, his eyes peeled for any traces of the direction you’d gone in.

Daryl knew he was a good tracker but—

You just seemed to have been ten steps ahead of him.

Even after forgetting.

Even after everything.

And yet—

He couldn’t stop.

He was like an addict searching for a high in whatever of your presence that was left behind, and before he knew it—

A day had already passed.

There had been no signs of you.

Nothing.

He nor Michonne could do anything more but retreat until the aches in their feet fleeted. One thing led to another, and now, he was stuck in a church with the others.

It was the last place he wanted to be.

The house of God.

What damn God?

His back rested against the side of one of the benches. He kept his distance from the others as they sipped communion wine and allowed themselves to get slightly tipsy.

It’d been a day, and it was already beginning to feel like the others had moved on to the next problem.

Like they’d forgotten.

It was all catching up to him now.

How much he hadn’t realised what he had in you until it was gone like it’d never been there in the first place.

A laugh tore him from his thoughts and just as quickly snapped him back to what he’d set out to do in the first place.

He didn’t give the others any warning, picking up his crossbow and heading towards the double doors at the front of the church.

A walker stumbled forward from behind a row of trees, then another. His crossbow ejected two arrows, setting their marks in rotted brain.

He pulled your knife from his sheath, dragging it along tree bark. He didn’t know what he was marking at first and then after doing the same thing on each tree his passed—

It became clear to him.

D.D.

His initials.

“What are you doing?” Carol's voice filtered through the breeze, causing him to still slightly.

His eyes met hers slowly, narrowing slightly as he looked at her properly.

“What ya think?” Daryl spoke. He came across much harsher than he’d meant to and he immediately felt guilt bubble in his chest.

A beat passed.

Daryl sighed, turning back towards the tree and etching the letters into the wood.

“Sorry.”

Carol closed the gap between the two of them, her eyes trailing over the now light beige carving surrounded by its previous dark brown tone.

“Daryl, what are you doing?” She repeated again, gesturing towards his initials set in wood.

He pulled the knife away from the tree, clasping it tightly in his hand—the friction of the wood against his skin was so harsh that it could have splintered.

He was doing exactly what you’d told him to do back after the two of you had left John’s cabin. You’d told him that you’d carve your initials into the trees to find your way back to one another.

He didn’t do it then, but he was doing it now.

He didn’t say anything for a moment; he was just looking at Carol as if he wanted her to figure it all out herself.

But…how was she supposed to know?

Carol raised an eyebrow.

“Daryl…?”

His eyes tore away from her for a minute, towards the knife in his hand, then back up towards hers.

“When it was just us,” he spoke quietly, the gruffness in his tone noticeable, the tiredness even more so. “She wanted to go off on er own.”

A breath.

“I didn’t let er.”

Carol tilted her head, clearly invested in what he had to say.

“She told me that we coulda marked our initials in the trees to find our way back to one another,” he added, scratching the side of his face. “Never let er do that either.”

And suddenly, it felt like the one thing that’d he’d disagreed to originally was the only thing to guide you back.

Get you back.

A sense of hope that you’d remember something that he could never forget.

Daryl turned after the confession, suddenly feeling slightly uncomfortable with Carol's intense and all-knowing gaze.

She knew what he was thinking.

She always did.

“And the lighter she wrote about?” Carol questioned, moving further into the woods before Daryl like she’d already decided she’d go looking for you too.

“S’nothin’” Daryl lied, pushing forward to join Carol by her side.

It wasn’t just nothing, and he knew that.

Carol pressed her lips into a thin line, both of her brows lifting now like she could see straight through him.

She always could.

“Are you sure?”

“M’sure.”

She just looked at him once more before nodding and turning her gaze forward.

He was thankful that she didn’t press him on it.

He let the blade of your knife sink into another tree, then his initials soon followed.

D.D.

And with that—

He swore to himself that he’d mark every tree he passed until you found it and led your own way back to the group.

Back to…him.

A/N: Ooo we got a Daryl pov now! Honestly him remembering what reader said about the initials is so heartwarming. He’s just too cute.

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